Windward Whisperings (14 page)

Garrett Mackenzie sat at the Central Police Station working with Captain Le Clerc on a report of
battery and intent. He’d described Bud Logan as smooth and Jovanovich as rough with his missing
thumb and skull indentation. He’d mentioned the pair’s association with Biltmore. Le Clerc would
fax the report to the FBI.

The Black Caribbean officer said, “I know the bureau will get the CIA involved. Threats have
crossed your border into ours. I’ve made a note of them on with this report.”
“What kinds of threats?” He leaned forward, his crossed arms on his knee.
“Landowners over in Biabou have sent us complaints about a man who sounds a lot like the guy
you described, Jovanovich. He brings official documents and threatens them if they don’t sign the
sales contract.”
“How does a foreigner buy property here?”
“They apply through the government. In your money, the cost is a thousand dollars. It’s for a
specific property from a specific owner and it’s nontransferable. A local attorney coordinates the
process.”
“A buyer would need references, a police check, and a bank guarantee, right?”
“It’s a dossier of notarized papers.”
“After the documents are submitted, how long does it take?”
“A couple of weeks, and then a deed of conveyance is drawn up. A local attorney handles it. The
cost to register the deed is ten percent. Again, it’s paid to one of our agencies. The tourist trade
pumps our economy.”
“When done right, it’s a win–win. Foreign investors realize a significant appreciation, I’m sure.”
“We’re seeing an increase in cruise ship traffic. I can’t say I like the big high-rise
condominiums.”
“Are developments controversial?”
“Not entirely. We like the roads they build. Inland, our roads hardly exist. We travel mostly by
boat around the rim of the island. Our opposition sees the rapid replacement of beach and hill
homes by high-rise conglomerates. We treasure our natural botanical state.”
“Of course.”
The captain stared sullenly. “Newcomers don’t respect it.”
“St. Vincent is a duty free, tax free haven. Plus, there’s the offshore banking component. Getting
back to the police check—has the name Grayson Warner Biltmore passed across your desk?”
“Many times. We’re the only police station on the island. Needless to say, he doesn’t have a
criminal record.”
“Biltmore wouldn’t. Jovanovich is his strong arm besides bringing construction vehicles to the
development. He’s the rougher one. His battle scars fit with his stint in the Yugoslavian Army.”
“A few weeks ago heavy equipment came in on a freighter. I checked it through myself.
Machinery was patched up.” The man spoke in a deep, rumbling voice.
“I can’t help but wonder if the trench diggers buried the Serbs after the Srebrenica massacre.”
The possibility raked along his nerves and set them to twanging with the fact that man nearly killed
him.
The captain tapped a hard rhythm with a pencil and broke the tip. “What’s Bud Logan’s role in
this?”
“He’s a marketing go-between. Pretends to be a real estate mogul. Captain, there’s a detective
working the case over there in Biabou. Name’s Leviticus Blake. He suggested I come here.”
“I’d like to touch base.”
“Sure.” The pages of his address book had gotten wet when his backpack hit the water. He was
peeling them apart. The writing was legible. “Here’s his number. Is there a heliport on the island?”
“A few plantations have them, but they’re private. Take a taxi to the E.T. Joshua airstrip. It’s not
FAA approved, but you’ll get out on SVGAIR.”
“Thank you, sir.” Garrett handed him a wet business card. Within a half hour, he was at the E.T.
Joshua Airport but couldn’t get out until the next day. He took a room at a modest hotel near the
airstrip, the Arnos Vale, for twenty-eight dollars. He shaved, showered, and dressed in clean clothes.
With a map in hand provided by the hotel, he walked to Cycle World Express.
With a half day to kill and curiosity that wouldn’t go away, he rented a motorcycle. The owner of
Cycle World said, “Honk when you go around a bend. Don’t forget to drive on the left side of the
road.”
“Thanks.” He put on a helmet and hopped onto the old Kawasaki, similar to the one he had at
Cornel. The shoreline road had a few potholes, but they were easy to spot. He swerved around a
soda can. Biabou was twenty miles from Kingstown. He didn’t know exactly what to look for.

Grayson Warner Biltmore stood in the doorway of the hall that connected his room with hers.
The Biabou Hotel sat on what was now his property. Originally a plantation home, it had been
converted into a bed and breakfast. He and his wife had the presidential suite, consisting of a living
room, bar, and two master bedrooms. A porch overlooked a private waterfront terrace, a secluded
spot with its own staircase. From the doorjamb he could smell her clothes, perfume, a blooming
orchid plant on her dresser, and wet dog. His wife Lana and her apricot poodle, Trinket, had taken a
shower together.

When he approached, a reddish shape leaped from under Lana’s robe, snarling and yapping.
Grayson ignored it.
“It’s just daddy.” Her dyed hair was a close match to Trinket’s. “I’m up, as promised.”
The dog sniffed the hem of Grayson’s pant leg. “What’s with this dog? It’s not like it’s never
seen me before. This dog has no brain.”
“I had him fixed, and he’s still got balls.”
Grayson picked up Trinket and gave him a toss onto the bed.
“Hey.”
“Our boys arrived last night.”
“I don’t like Jovanovich.” She took off her shower cap and ran a comb through her chin-length
red hair. Trinket and I were wading in the ocean last night. Some splashes weren’t mine. I looked
over, and there he was. What a creep.”
“You’re happiest when you’re agonizing over something.” Last night Bud Logan had told him
he no longer trusted Jovanovich but didn’t explain why. “Cherry’s here.” That might make her
happy.
“She’s charming. Wish she weren’t so busy with the clients.”
“I pay her to be here, Lana. How about this- I pay her to take you to lunch and to the spa.”
“Thank you, Grayson. Don’t let me find
you
spending time with that slut.” She moved close,
gave him a kiss, and walked to her closet. As she walked, she shook heavy hips under her silk robe.
Sometimes he found her waddle tantalizing, but with the pressure he was under, his desire had
shriveled. She turned to look at him. “Are you upset over this project? Usually you want to do me.”
“This place is coming along. I’m more worried over Naiad. I hired a consultant to turn it
around.”
“How’s that working out?”
“The consultant is streamlining the operation. A broker came in yesterday to sell the sailmaking
department. If it doesn’t sell, Naiad may go belly up.”
“It would be so embarrassing to go bankrupt.”
He wished at that moment that Lana actually loved him. She’d used him. Lately it had become
obvious.
She shook her head. “You’re so gloomy. Die, will you? Get it over with.” Lana lay back on the
bed and pulled Trinket on top of her. Her brilliant red hair fanned out around her face.
“Bye-bye, Grayson. Hello, life insurance.” He drew in a breath. “I’m not rolling over yet, Mrs.
Biltmore.”
“Cheer up, then. If you’re going to be huffy, I’m going back to Venezuela. I’ll just shop by
myself.”
“Fine.” He walked by and gave her foot a friendly squeeze. The dog hurled himself at him and
bit his hand. “Nasty little bastard.” As if reading his thoughts, the dog scampered back to the bed.
Grayson headed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He put a glass under the rush of water,
popped one of Lana’s pills, and chased it with the entire glass of water. Downstairs, he’d speak with
clients. He couldn’t let his voice betray him. He’d felt his empire crumbling for twenty years but
always managed a good show of confidence. Lana was beginning to see how close he was to a
breakdown. Still, they were as close-fitting as two sides of a coin.
He took the curving stairway to the main lobby. He nodded at the only people he recognized,
Bud and the brass-knuckled brute beside him. Bud knew too much, and his ambition exceeded his
intelligence. He’d be paying the man off forever. Jovanovich was delusional as Bud had said, but
Grayson needed him to encourage land sales. Bribes or threats, he didn’t care which. He had to own
the land in order to level it for The Paradise at Biabou. Today, many lots would sell. They’d continue
as planned. For appearances, some construction would be necessary. After a hurricane hit, Grayson
would sell to another developer.
The Paradise at St. Lucia development had been so profitable that Grayson wanted to pinch
himself. He’d purchased land with the help of Bud Logan and Jovanovich. He hadn’t cared that
some of the turf was reclaimed from the sea. The land had been leveled just before a hurricane
barreled across the Caribbean. By the time it hit, the storm had turned into a monster category five.
After the damage, Grayson had sold the package. Buyers received eighteen percent of their original
investment and took the remaining loss off their taxes.
Many times he’d heard Bud tell clients, “Natural disaster, what can you do? It hurt us, too.”
Most would go away. The Piermont couple needed persuasion, and then that wasn’t enough. They
had been invited to a party on a barge by invitation only. There wasn’t one. Bud Logan had driven
the barge. Grayson had to trust somebody, and it might as well be a fellow crook.
He felt the presence of someone behind him.
“Things are shaping up around here.” The deep baritone voice was familiar and belonged to the
detective he’d hired to bug his company.
He rubbed his hands down his face and turned around. “Leviticus. Glad you and your lovely
wife could make it.” He paused and shook his hand. “Have you seen the paradise model? It’s set up
in the ballroom.”
“Just came from there. It’s beautiful. The risk you’re taking with this project, is a half million
enough?” He laughed. “Don’t raise the price until Mae and I have ours.”
Grayson patted the man’s arm. “I like you, Leviticus. If you don’t mind, I’ll steer our
conversation to Naiad for a moment. I’ve listened to the tapes you’ve sent up until this weekend.
I’ve been busy. What’s the latest on the sailmaking department?”
The serious African American face looked at him. “Mackenzie brought in a broker from New
York, Christian Spencer.”
“Hope the man has contacts.”
“Last I heard, buyers were expected from up and down the coast. The department hasn’t sold
yet, but chances are, it will. That should tip the scales in your favor, don’t you think?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. It might not be fast enough for the stockholders to receive dividends.”
“I couldn’t help but notice Bud Logan over there. Maybe you don’t know him. He did five years
in the federal pen in Lompoc. I did background checking this morning.”
Grayson swallowed the impulse to come clean. “Nobody ever told me that. I know you want to
see me succeed. Thank you for doing your job.” His instinct told him to test Leviticus and see if
he’d push him into a corner. “What do you know about the guy standing beside him? I believe his
name is Jovanovich.”
“As of this morning, St. Vincent Police have a warrant out for his arrest. You could warn him,
but it might be too late.” He nodded at the French doors, open to a pool and lush grounds. Two
officers in short-sleeved uniforms were heading for the steps.
Grayson moved a hand to his forehead. “In this business, you don’t know who your buyers
really are. Excuse me while I speak with the officers.” Grayson headed toward them and then shot
past throngs of people outside. He dashed behind a fountain and took the private staircase up to the
presidential suite.
Music poured out of her room as Lana worked out on her StairMaster. He knew she could go
for hours when she was high on endorphins. Trinket sat on his leopard dog bed on the window sill
and gazed at her.
“Lana.” He was panting. Until he caught his breath, he watched her hard leg muscles climb the
moving steps. Sweat trickled between her breasts. He walked closer, and Trinket let out a few sharp
yaps.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” She wore a purple sports bra and running shorts. Her red
hair was pulled back with a matching headband. “What’s wrong?” She flicked off a switch and
patted her face with a towel.
He sat on the foot of her bed. “Things aren’t going well downstairs. You were right about
Jovanovich. Police arrived to arrest him. We need to get out of here. Now.” He hit buttons on his
cell and connected with Bud. After they finished a clipped conversation, he turned to her. “The
yacht is fueled and ready. Bud will meet us at the golf cart behind a garden building. We’ll take the
back steps.”
Lana began to tremble. “In the future, you’ll listen to me, won’t you?”
He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You know I adore you. Darling, dearest Lana, we don’t have
time to pack.”

Lack of sleep was catching up to Garrett, and he felt his head drooping. He tasted dust and
started thinking about coffee on ice. Even though it was Sunday, traffic moved at a fast clip. The
speed limit was left to the common sense of the drivers. No police cars patrolled the highways in St.
Vincent. He heard church bells ring and passed a sign marking the Biabou Methodist Church. He
admired colorful cinder block houses that were scattered from the black sand shoreline up the hills.
When he saw a fishing shack on the middle of a pier, he turned the gear on the handlebar, slowed a
bit, and headed down a steep cobblestone street. He parked the motorcycle at the bottom next to a
golf cart. As he dismounted and took in the view, he thought of Kitzie, knowing she’d appreciate it.
All the clouds had blown out to sea. Seagulls squawked and fluttered as he walked out on the pier.
The yellow fishing shack had bright blue shutters. He would have gone past the shack to the end of
the pier if he hadn’t become aware of a sweet, yeasty smell drifting through the open window. Bread
was baking. Another smell, fried fish, reminded him that his stomach was an empty pit.

Inside, sun slanted through the windows, and he thought of Kitzie in New York. Sometimes in
winter, there were sunny days, little harbingers of spring. One day maybe they’d come here together.
They could sit in this fishing shack and watch the quaint fishing boats come in and out. Wiping table
tops, the proprietor looked up. “Special today is tuna.”