Death by Honeymoon (Book #1 in the Caribbean Murder Series)

by Jaden Skye

  Cindy stood alone in the parking lot, wondering what to do next. She knew that she’d found what she’d come for, that she should just go quietly back home, wait for his email, and follow up with the FBI.

  But a part of her could not let this go. She felt the need to press further, to hold everyone accountable. She could not just go quietly off into the night. That just wasn’t her anymore.

  The local police had clearly known. They had covered up the report. She needed to know who was paying them off. And she wouldn’t rest until she did.

  She knew it was foolish, but as she got back into her car, she knew that her next stop had to be the local police.

  Chapter 22

  Cindy was on a roll. She felt invincible. She’d been right all along, and now she had proof. Blunt trauma to the head. How dare someone hurt Clint like that? If it was the last thing she did in life, she’d find out who—and get justice.

  Her body felt filled with wild energy as she drove down the road about half a mile to the police station.

  Emboldened, Cindy walked in, as though she belonged. A crime had been committed and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to find out more.

  “The Chief of Police,” she said to the sleepy guy at the front desk.

  He looked up at her for a minute and grinned. “Aint here, honey.”

  Cindy’s skin crawled . “It’s urgent. He’s expecting me.”

  The guy laughed. “He’s not expecting anybody. In fact this isn’t even his office.”

  “Then where is his office?”

  “La Moya. His favorite restaurant. “

  “Where’s la Moya?” Cindy asked.

  The guy just shrugged.

  Cindy moved closer to the desk, threateningly, “Look, this isn’t a game,” she said, her eyes flaring.

  “Whoah, lady. Take it easy. Everyone knows la Moya’s two blocks down the road.”

  Then he grinned again and closed his eyes. Cindy must have disturbed his nap.

  Cindy got in the car and drove right to la Moya’s.

  It was a fancy restaurant, on the water, with a huge outdoor patio, lined with palm trees. People sat for hours on the patio, eating and drinking rum. Reggae music played in the background.

  “The Police Chief’s expecting me,” she told the tall, thin waiter who greeted her. “Where is he?”

  The waiter pointed to a table in the front. A huge man sat there, leaning back in his chair, drinking beer and eating.

  “That’s where he sits every day,” the waiter said.

  She went straight over to the Police Chief’s table. “May I join you?”

  He looked at her and laughed out loud. “Little tiger lady,” he said, amused. “Sit down.”

  Cindy sat down opposite him. It was a beautiful spot, right near the water. How she wished Clint could be sitting here with her.

  “Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” she said.

  He laughed out loud again, guffawed. He was a huge, muscular guy with big jowls and bags under his eyes. His teeth were tiny and yellow.

  “Nobody interrupts my lunch,” he said. “I eat all day long.”

  He was eating chewy conch fritters and delicately grilled flying fish fillets, along with a bottle of Barbados’ brew, Banks beer. He stuffed a huge spoon of fritters into his mouth .

  As she watched him eat, she let the rough, salty winds blow over her. It was so empowering to know that Clint had not died drowning, that she wasn’t crazy, that her suspicions had a basis in fact. And that all her efforts were leading somewhere real.

  “What can I do for the little lady?” he swallowed his mouthful loudly.

  “My name is Cindy Blaine,” she started.

  It didn’t mean a thing to him.

  “My husband’s name was Clint Blaine. He was killed in Barbados a short while ago.”

  Still no recognition.

  “Killed on his honeymoon,” Cindy continued, trying to get a flicker from him.

  “Bad time to get killed,” he said with a little jeer. “Of course there’s no good time, but a honeymoon is about the worst of all.”

  Cindy felt completely repelled.

  “Or maybe it was really a good time?” he went on. “Maybe he died after he got the best, and didn’t have to go through the worst?”

  Then he laughed again and stuffed more food into his mouth.

  “I thought you might have heard of this case,” Cindy tried her hardest to be professional.

  That made him laugh even louder. He was enjoying every moment with her.

  “Who he was, or why he did it, I have no idea. This island isn’t forgiving,” he suddenly looked grim. “I hear about killers all day long. Killing is natural down here, animals and people, eating each other up.”

  It was a horrible image. Cindy felt sick to her stomach.

  “You know, lots of surfers come here and drown. People don’t talk about it, but it happens all the time. We’re used to it. These sweet, beautiful waves have a life of their own. You have to learn how to respect them, let them lead the way.”

  “Do you remember the case at all?” Cindy would not be sidetracked .

  “How can I remember every case? So many cases we cover here. “ He snorted. “To you the guy means something. To us, he’s food for the fish.”

  Cindy blanched. There was no budging him in anyway .

  “My husband was killed at the beach near El Barada Hotel.”

  He chewed on his lip a second. “You a detective?” he said.

  “I’m a wife.”

  He barely heard what she said, put his fork down and looked out at the horizon, as if picturing the El Barada hotel.

  “They like to blame the surf for every rotten thing that happens here on the island,” he declared. “Your report probably said, riptide did it. Now I happen to love riptides. There’s not one bad thing they can do to you. If you invade their territory, whose fault is it if you’re dead?”

  “Clint understood the ocean. He was a powerful surfer.”

  “Not powerful enough.”

  He closed his eyes a moment, and he started chewing on his lip again.

  “There’s plenty of ways to get yourself killed down here on the island. “

  “I need information about the investigation,” she persisted.

  “You don’t say? What kind of information?”

  This was fun for him, a distraction in the afternoon. He was dangling her as though she were a little fish.

  “Who found the body, who were the witnesses? It’s strange that we didn’t hear anything about them.”

  He made a sour face then, as if his lunch were repeating on him.

  “To Americans everything is strange. Down here on the islands, everything is beautiful. Seems like you think you know a lot. But I’ll tell you something you never thought of - someone dies because they’re supposed to. If we say case closed, that’s what it means. Go take up your grievance with God, not me.”

  “I’m not coming to you with a grievance,” Cindy said. “I need to have some questions answered.”

  His big head bobbed up and down. “There are people who cannot accept reality. They’ll fight it down to the last minute. Even get themselves killed doing it. I hope that’s not you, tiger lady.”

  He pushed his plate back and motioned to the waiter. “Bring me another plate, another beer, and bring the same for the lady.”

  “I’m not hungry”

  “You guys come down from the U.S. and think you’re hot shots and we’re a bunch of idiots that you can push around. Well, you guys got another thing coming. We used to be slaves but we’re not anymore. We fought the battle for our independence, and we won. Barbados is an independent nation, even though we Bajans have more British flavor than any other island in the Caribbean. We’re proud of our island, we’re proud of everything, and, we have more smarts than you.”

  He raised his hands to the sky as if he were preaching a sermon that was long overdue. The more he s
poke, the more exhausted Cindy became and the more the sun seemed to beat down on her.

  “This is our home and we love it,” he went on. “We understand how the island twists and turns in funny ways. We know it’s moods, hungers, disappointments, we take the beating of its storms.” His voice was getting louder and louder. “We watch the animals that live off it . Some people, the island spits out. Others, it draws into its gut. Some it will never let go. Which one are you?”

  He looked at Cindy with foggy, shifty, eyes.

  The reggae music in the background was getting louder, as more people began filling in the tables for lunch. Cindy’s head began to hurt.

  He could ramble all he wanted. She wasn’t going to let him throw her off course.

  “I’ve seen the report,” Cindy said, bluffing. “I’ve seen the Coroner’s report. My husband didn’t die from drowning. He died from trauma to the head. Someone falsified the findings.”

  She won. She caught him off guard for a second.

  “I want the case re-opened,” she added.

  “When it’s case closed, it’s case closed,” he said, scowling.

  Cindy got it. The police had been paid off, not to investigate the case. It was clear as day. She suddenly became frightened about whether the Coroner would actually email her the report . Did he just say he would to get rid of her? She needed the report desperately.

  She quickly opened her phone, under the table, to see if the email was there. Not yet. Oh God, Cindy, thought, could this all be for nothing?

  “If I were you,” the Police Chief went on, digging into a plate of rice and prawns, “I’d enjoy myself on the island of Barbados, take a vacation, relax in the sun. Go to the beach where your husband died, and say good bye to him. Then go back to your country and start again.”

  Then he put down his fork and took a huge gulp of beer.

  “That’s what you learn here on the island, how to start all over again. The waves teach you. They wash all kinds of stuff onto the beach and then they wash it away again.”

  Cindy couldn’t bear listening to another word. The tone of his voice, smell of his food mixed with the hot sun was nauseating. She stood up to go.

  “Thank you for everything,” she started.

  He didn’t seem to want her to go. “Hey,” he tried to stop her, “thought you were going to stay all night and keep me company. It can get pretty lonely down here once it gets dark.”

  Cindy shuddered.

  “Who knows?” he grinned, “maybe if you stayed with me all the way until morning, I could find something to tell you?” He looked at her, questioning.

  Sleep with him in exchange for information. Cindy would rather die. If she died, at least she’d meet up with Clint and this horrible charade would be done.

  “Why don’t you go drop dead,” she said angrily, then stood up and stormed off.

  She could hear him laughing behind her, his biggest laugh yet.

  “Maybe I will, lady,” he said. “But that ain’t goin to bring your husband back, is it?”

  Chapter 23

  Cindy jumped back into her car and sped towards her hotel. Her mind raced, as she struggled to figure out who to talk to next. She couldn’t go back home empty handed. She again tried to piece together everything that happened that final day with Clint. She remembered their breakfast, her nap…And suddenly, something came back to her: her waiter. His smile. That torte she served him. Could it have been poisoned? Could he have had something to do with it?

  Cindy checked her email again. The report still wasn’t there. The Coroner might still be out for lunch. She had to believe he wasn’t lying, that it would arrive later.

  She stepped on the gas, urging the small rental car to go faster. As she checked her rearview, she saw a police car a few blocks behind her, trailing her, and wondered if it could be following her. She drove faster.

  When Cindy walked into the hotel, Alex was there behind the main desk, as he had been during the honeymoon. He looked up and greeted her warmly with a beautiful smile. It was time to let him know.

  “Are you having a good day, Miss Cindy?” he asked.

  Cindy went over and sat on a stool opposite him.

  “Very good,” Cindy said. Then she paused, “Alex.”

  “Yes, Miss?” he smiled lavishly.

  “I came back down here for a reason.”

  His smile got stuck on his face.

  His eyes opened wide. “What do you mean?”

  “I need to find out more about what happened to my husband.”

  “Like what?” he seemed nervous.

  “Anything I can find. His death wasn’t an accident,” she said bluntly.

  “My God?” he looked startled. “You came down to stir up bad memories?” he opened both hands wide.

  “I came down to find the truth.”

  “Down here on the islands, the truth has many faces,” he flushed. “What do you want to do this for? What will you get out of it? I can tell you what the newspapers said, surfing accident -riptide came in. Surfers swim at their own risk here. I told you both as soon as you came in the door. New surfers go to Duncan Surfers School first, three miles down the road.”

  “He wasn’t a new surfer.”

  “Even strong surfers get trapped in a wave. Especially in a riptide.”

  “Alex,” she said,

  Can you tell me the name of the waiter who served us lunch every day?”

  The veins in Alex’s neck bulged. “Why him?”

  “The day Clint died, I got very sick after lunch. That’s why I didn’t go with him. It felt like food poisoning.”

  “Oh my God,” said Alex.

  “I just want to have a talk with the waiter.”

  “His name is Tomale,” Alex said. “He’s not working here anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “He quit. The day you left.”

  She paused.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He lives in a little town on the edge of the sugar cane fields. In a small house . He’s a good man, takes care of his family. He’s religious.”

  “Can you give me his address?”

  Alex’s eyes opened wide. “Of course not. You can’t go to that neighborhood yourself.”

  Cindy reached out and touched his hand. “Please, Alex,” she begged, “time is running out. They took my husband, but they can’t take my spirit. I’m not living a life in fear.”

  Alex suddenly looked teary.” I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

  He gave her Tomale’s address and directions to his home.

  “It’s not far from the U.S. Embassy,” he said. “It’s two miles up the road. “

  “Back down, Miss Cindy, please. These are dangerous people. You think I could ever sleep at night if something else happened at my hotel? Especially to you?”

  Alex genuinely cared about her and Cindy felt it.

  “I’ll always be grateful,” Cindy said.

  “I don’t know if you will.”

  *

  Cindy began driving fast along the bumpy roads which narrowed, twisted and led to the back part of the island. The road curved around a bend, wound in between clumps of tall, thin trees. This part of Barbados was a whole other world. It could have once been

  the home of gigantic mythical creatures. Enormous limestone boulders were strewn in the shallows, as though giants played there and sat in the sun. The wind swept in relentlessly, the roads were hollowed and palm trees arched backwards, thinned by the howl of the wind.

  As she turned off that road, she went deeper into the island, passing along high fields of sugar cane glistening in the setting sun. The fields went on as far as the eye could see, weaving gently back and forth, reaching towards the sky.. Small thatched roof cottages, and simple little houses dotted the fields. It was another world. Cindy was transported. She couldn’t imagine what it would be life actually living here.

  As she drove, she turned past the fields into a vill
age, with small houses crowded next to one another, narrow alleys, the sound of voices calling, music playing, streets strewn with cans, bicycles, papers, laundry hanging on wires, and chickens running in the street. Tomale’s house was one of these . It was getting harder to make out one house from another in the dimming light.

  Cindy parked her car at the edge of a street and decided to walk. The air was cool and fragrant. A few stray children outside turned and looked at her as she went from house to house.

  Finally, she found Tomale’s, went up to the door and knocked.

  A small, thin, frazzled man came to the door. Cindy remembered him clearly from the honeymoon. For a moment, he brought back beautiful memories, delicious lunches, long afternoon naps.

  Tomale recognized her immediately. For a second, he was happy to see her again.

  “Hello, Miss, hello. How are you?” Tomale had taken special notice of her and Clint on the honeymoon, always asking about their day.

  Then, suddenly, it was different. “What you want? What you want?” he asked over and over, like a startled bird that had fallen from a tree.

  “Can I come in?” Cindy said.

  Tomale looked frightened. “Not now, not now.”

  “Tomale, please.”

  “Tomorrow,” he could barely speak.

  “Just for two minutes.”

  That soothed him. “Two minutes? Okay.”

  Inside, the place was dark, disheveled, heavy with the smell of beer. There were tiny, cracked windows. No one else was there.

  “Everyone’s gone,” Tomale said, holding open both hands.

  Cindy didn’t know what he meant exactly.

  “There’s nothing here,” he continued in a raspy tone.

  He must have thought she came to check out his place, see if he was hiding anything.

  “Tomale,” Cindy said, “you remember my husband?”

  He nodded quickly, overwrought. Then he turned away.

  “He’s dead.”

  Tomale began quivering. “I know, I know. But I didn’t realize anything. I can’t say anything else.”

  “Another person was killed back home too. And my sister was hurt. I could be next, Tomale.”

  He gasped. “Please believe me, I didn’t realize anything.”

  “I’m not blaming you.”

  “Blame me,” his head dropped.

  “For what? You can make it all right again if you tell me.”

  He seemed to like that.

  “I didn’t mean anything, miss.” He turned and faced her, trembly. “My mother was dying. I didn’t know what I was doing. I needed the money they gave me. Now she’s gone anyway. You see,” he motioned to the empty house. “She died two weeks ago.”