The Deadly Ackee

by Joan Hess

  “Why, sho’ nuf, Miz Simone Legree,” Eli said sourly. He glanced up and winced as he saw Theo on the terrace. “Just joking, boss; she’s a nice lady, real nice. When you think the boys and girls be ready for me to drive them to the beach?”

  “They’re upstairs changing now,” Theo said. He noticed Eli’s hands were empty. “Did you find whatever Sandy needed from the store?”

  Eli stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffled his feet nervously in the gravel. “No, he want today’s copy of The Wall Street Journal. I went all the way into downtown MoBay, but all I could find was day before yesterday’s. He sure is hot to see today’s paper. Is he some kind of stockbroker, Mr. Bloomer?”

  “He’s still in school, although I have no idea about his major.” Theo blinked through his bifocals at the grinning boy. “Did you go to a Jamaican school, Eli?”

  “Yes, sir, I went all the way through eighth grade in MoBay. My mammy was real insistent that all her children learn how to read and write.”

  Amelia came through a side door, a bulging plastic trash bag in her hands. “You a liar,” she said without turning her head.

  “You a tight-assed old island woman,” he said.

  “I know your mammy, and I know about your school. All the way through eighth grade? Ha!” Amelia went back into the villa, allowing the door to bang closed like a crack of gunfire.

  “She don’ know nothing,” Eli said to Theo. “I better get ready to take the kids to the beach now.”

  Once again, Theo found himself alone on the terrace. He was not bored, however, since he had several intriguing little puzzles to think about. Not that he presumed any of them held particular significance, but old habits died slowly, and at a certain point in his past he had been trained to notice discrepancies. There were almost as many as there were orange blossoms along the fence.

  The outing to the beach required a series of shuttles. Although Theo would have preferred to visit a garden, or even to simply sit on the terrace and read, he forced himself to change into Bermuda shorts, a rather splashy floral-print shirt Dorrie had brought him from Hawaii, and a canvas hat to protect the hairless circle on the top of his head. Which was growing, he noted glumly as he went into his private bath to fetch the sole bottle of suntan lotion he owned. The bottle was dusty, and unnumbered.

  When he arrived in the driveway, he found Bitsy, Sandy, and Dorrie waiting in the shade, a formidable collection of baskets and towels piled beside them. Bitsy was on her tiptoes, trying to see over the fence. Sandy looked as though he were in dire need of a nap, his eyelids drooping and his face slack. Dorrie, on the contrary, was not the least drowsy.

  “I cannot imagine why we invited those insufferable Ellisons to come with us,” she was saying to Bitsy as Theo approached. “They may receive their weekly allowances in Krugerrands, but they have the manners of … of some subspecies of primates! Not to insult the baboons, of course.”

  Theo deduced that Dorrie was not pleased with the seating assignments of the first shuttle. He was not especially pleased, either, although he doubted Mary Margaret would have adequate time to stir up mischief at the beach before he arrived to keep an eye on her. Whether she might have time to stir up mischief with Biff he could not say. Nor did he see any reason to ask the opinion of his tight-lipped niece.

  Amelia came to the door. “I am planning to leave early tonight for church service. Emelda will stay to clear the table.”

  “That will be fine, Amelia,” Dorrie said, her petulance replaced with a tone more suitable for dealing with the help. “Are you perfectly clear on the menus for tonight and tomorrow? I do have a few minutes if you want to go over them again with me.”

  “I ain’t fixing ackee, miss.” The door slammed.

  Bitsy acknowledged that she could see nothing of interest, and sank down with a disappointed sigh. “As adorable as the petite fashions are, I do sometimes wish I were taller.”

  “To get a basketball scholarship?” Sandy said. “Maybe you can find a doctor to slip you some drugs, like hormones or something.”

  Bitsy shot him a frosty look. “No one in my family ever takes so much as an aspirin. You might consider adopting the same policy.”

  “This is a vacation, Itsy-Bitsy,” he said. He leaned back against the house with a muted thud, crossed his arms, and made a face. “For once, I thought you might be over our old buddy Trey and ready for a little relaxation. But you pant after him so damn hard I’m surprised you don’t stumble over your tongue.”

  “That was uncalled for,” she began. Before she could elaborate (or simply berate), Eli drove up the driveway. Minutes later they were driving down the hill, swerving to avoid potholes and errant tourists, honking at dogs and children, and keeping Theo in a state of silent hysteria. He did not release his breath until they squealed to a stop in front of a sprawling resort hotel.

  Dorrie was out of the car before the dust settled. “Where is the pathway to the beach?” she demanded of Eli. Her face was pink, but not, Theo presumed, from the previous day’s sunbathing. Eli gestured at a walkway, and she marched away with the expression her mother used when faced with a glaring error at the bridge table. It was not a pretty sight.

  Theo followed Sandy and Bitsy down the walk, across a patio with a fountain, and over an expanse of sand to a shady area under a clump of palm trees. Trey was on a chaise, his face hidden by a straw hat. Dorrie stood over him, her hands on her hips.

  “Rouse yourself from this coma and answer my question. Where are they?” she demanded, kicking the leg of the chaise for good measure.

  “Magsy has always wanted to parasail, so she talked Biffkin into checking out the prices with the black chap on the far side of the cove. Maybe the line will snap and she’ll end up chopping sugarcane in Cuba. Then Dorrikin and Biffkin can be snuggle-bunnikins.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She stalked away to a nearby chaise and dropped her beach bag in the sand. Theo watched as she methodically oiled her body with five different preparations, settled her sunglasses firmly on her nose, and took a thick paperback from her bag. “Parasailing is infantile,” she announced as she flipped open the book.

  Theo found a chaise and moved it to the far edge of the shade, where he could have some protection from the bright sun, the Frisbee games, the geranium-red children armed with lethal-looking shovels, and the conversation of his charges. He then arranged his towel and book to his satisfaction, ascertained that beverages could be purchased from a concrete stand not too far away, and announced he would be delighted to bring drinks to those who would care for one. When no one replied, he strolled along the beach, bypassing the stand for the moment, in order to see if Mary Margaret was, as suggested by an unreliable source, engaging in an innocent diversion. For once.

  The beach of the adjoining cove was covered with loose rocks and the remains of coral formations. There was a group at the far end, milling around a motorboat that bobbled in the shallow water. He saw Mary Margaret’s red hair in the center of the group. After a few minutes, the crowd retreated and the boat roared into motion. It pulled away from the shore in a wide, curling line. Then, like a primeval jellyfish, a yellow parachute rose from the water and soared into the sky. Dangling from it was a decidedly flimsy apparatus supporting a red-haired passenger. Theo could hear her shrieks from where he stood, but he felt no flicker of empathy. She could not, he concluded, get into trouble at a hundred feet above the surface of the water.

  As he turned away, a black man with shoulder-length braids nudged him. “You want to buy some ganja, mon? Super sinsemilla from the best producer on the island, but for you a special price.”

  “Ah, yes, Cannabis sativa,” Theo said. “In the States I believe it is better known as marijuana, isn’t it?”

  The man grinned. “Yes, mon, they call it grass, pot, weed, dope, Maryjane, all kind of name. Sinsemilla is the very best, though, and grown to be very, very strong. You want to buy a nice little package?”

  “Cultivation is ill
egal in Jamaica, as is possession. Do I look the sort to commit a felony while a guest on your island?”

  “No problem, mon. The cops don’t bother nobody for a little ganja, especially not tourists. Taking it back through customs is another matter, another matter if I do say so. But Jamaican Gold sell very well in the States, and if you get it home, you could afford to buy yourself some nice new clothes.”

  Theo glanced down at his hibiscus-covered chest. “Thank you very much for the suggestion, but I do not believe I wish to purchase any ganja today. Perhaps another time.”

  He bought a cup of watery punch and returned to his chosen spot in the shade, pondering the casual encounter with the dope-seller. His travel book had mentioned the ease with which one could, if one chose, acquire the illegal organic matter in Jamaica, but he was somewhat surprised that he had been approached within his first few minutes on the beach.

  He was nearly asleep when he heard Mary Margaret’s high-pitched voice drawing near the cluster of chaises. She was describing the absolutely incredible thrill of parasailing, how she simply had never had such an experience, how it was almost sexual. Theo did not open his eyes. He did, however, when she added that she had met a divine man and everybody simply had to meet him or she would be devastated beyond belief.

  Praying it would not be the braided dope-seller, Theo sat up and turned to look over his shoulder at Mary Margaret’s new friend. The man, in his fifties or perhaps a bit older, had shaggy white hair, bushy eyebrows, and a florid but affable face. His nose was red, from either the sun or the availability of rum punches on the beach. He wore baggy khaki shorts, a T-shirt that suggested an obscene activity, and a wrinkled beach jacket. Darkly tinted sunglasses masked his eyes.

  “Dorrie Caldicott, Bitsy Bigelow, Sandy Whitcombe, my despicable twin brother, Trey, and Theo Bloomer, who’s our chaperone,” Mary Margaret said, making the rounds with the ease of a hostess at a cocktail party. “You met Biff over by the boat. Everybody, this is Jackson Spitzberg. He’s a movie producer from the West Coast, down here to scout locations for a wonderful new movie he’s going to shoot this summer. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Bitsy and Sandy agreed that it was exciting. Trey muttered an acknowledgment of the introduction, but Dorrie merely fluttered a hand without looking up from her book. The producer came across the sand toward Theo, his hand extended.

  “Jackson Spitzberg’s the name. Nice to meet you, Bloomer,” he said in a hearty voice thick with Hollywood warmth.

  Theo ignored the hand. “What in blazes are you doing here?” he growled so that the others could not overhear.

  “Scouting locations like the little girl said. I’ve got a dynamite concept for one of those old-fashioned epics, with ripped bodices, romantic rape scenes under the tropical stars, a slave revolt, a slobbering pirate or two for color, and maybe a hurricane for the climax. It’s a hell of a concept, a real slam dunker if I say so myself. Don’t you think the cinema public is ready for a return to the golden days of filmmaking, Bloomer?”

  “You are full of it,” Theo said coldly. “Perhaps the beach public is ready for the information that you’re CIA, Sitermann. Perhaps I’ll ask the gentleman with the motor-boat to tow a banner across the sky. On the other hand, bellowing those three magic letters may just do the trick. Shall we conduct a small experiment?”

  “Hey, Bloomer, don’t get all riled up. Why don’t we find a quiet place at the bar inside and do a rum punch or two? We’ll shoot the bull about the good old days together on the kibbutz, then—”

  “The good old days when my niece was accused of murder? The good old days when she and I were blown down the side of a mountain by a duo of sociopathic terrorists?” Theo shook his head. “I don’t think we’re thinking of the same time period, Sitermann, nor do I think I wish to shoot anything, including bull, movies, or even a Magnum, with you over a rum punch. I prefer the concept of leaping to my feet to point an accusatory finger at you while shouting ‘CIA?’ in mock disbelief.”

  “Be a sport, Bloomer. I’ll tell you as much as I can; I swear it on my grandpappy’s Swiss bank account.”

  Theo took off his bifocals and polished them with a corner of his shirt. Once he had replaced them, he looked up with a disillusioned smile. “Oh, Sitermann, you spies are all alike.”

  Although he might have enjoyed the spectacle of Sitermann’s public exposure and subsequent embarrassment, Theo realized Dorrie was flipping the pages of her book at an improbable rate and was apt to look up at any moment. He mentioned the possibility to Sitermann, and they retreated to the bar inside the hotel.

  Once they were seated, Theo gazed across the table at the spy. “Why are you here, Sitermann? You are not a movie producer any more than I’m the winner in a J. Edgar Hoover look-alike contest.”

  “Vacation, old boy. Even the pricks heading the Organization allow us a couple of weeks a year to relax, and I opted for sun and fun.”

  “While undercover? You’ll hardly return with much of a tan. The trenchcoat, you know.”

  “Very amusing, but what if I’m not undercover? How do you know this isn’t the real me?”

  “There is no real you,” Theo said, shaking his head. “But I am most distressed to find you here, and I want to know exactly what you’re up to. The coincidence is unnerving. You are not, and I repeat, not here for sun and fun; you are here on assignment and I insist on knowing what it is.”

  “But it is a coincidence—a bloomin’ coincidence, if you’ll excuse my little pun.” Sitermann downed his drink and beckoned to the waiter for a refill. “You haven’t touched your drink. Chug-a-lug and I’ll spring for another—expense accounts being what they are. God bless the American taxpayers.”

  “I don’t believe you. I wouldn’t believe you if you were giving a eulogy at your grandmother’s grave,” said Theo. The customary mildness was gone, and the ensuing steeliness seemed to unravel Sitermann enough to wipe the amiable smile off his face. He tugged on his nose as his eyebrows met to form a bushy white hedgerow.

  “Okay, okay, I can tell you want to play hardball. You’ve been in my shoes and you—”

  “I beg your pardon. I can assure you that I’ve never been in your shoes, and I resent the presumption.”

  “Sure you do, Bloom. That’s why there’s a ten-foot gap in your résumé when you apparently fell off the face of the earth. I swear, one of these days I’m going to nail the agency that will admit having used you for some damn fool covert operation.”

  “I wish you success. Would you please continue?”

  “Yeah.” Sitermann sighed. “You know damn well that I can’t breach security, but maybe this much will help. I’m on loan via the DEA to assist the Jamaican boys in doing a little something about the drug scene. The locals are downright ambivalent about cutting off the flow, since dope ranks right after tourism in feeding the economy. It’s the number one cash crop and the number one export; rum doesn’t even come close. Nearly one hundred percent of it goes to the U.S., and the street value’s probably more than two and a half billion dollars. There are some plantations back in the mountains, complete with irrigation systems and private runways, that would blow your mind. I’m surprised they haven’t formed a growers’ association to lobby for protection.”

  “And this has nothing to do with my presence on the island—or my niece’s?”

  “Not unless the two of you are planning to smuggle a couple of pounds of sinsemilla back to the bridge club in Connecticut. I swear on my hypothetical grandmother’s grave that I had no idea you were in Jamaica, Bloomer. There was not one mention of it in the briefings I received.” Sitermann blinked with great earnestness. “When I saw you on the beach, I was as startled as a virgin in the backseat of a ’57 Chevy, but as she was reputed to say, you never know what’ll pop up. What are you doing here, old man—seeking your lost youth?”

  Theo reluctantly explained his presence. “But,” he added once Sitermann stopped laughing, “why are you pulling this nonsense about b
eing a movie producer? I think I preferred you in the role of Hopalong Cassidy on the Israeli range.”

  “Potential starlets. It’s amazing what soft young things will do for a bit part in a movie. Their honey-colored eyes just brim with gratitude when I promise a screen test back in L.A., and they can’t do enough to thank me for even considering them. Why, that red-haired girl squealed louder than a BMW when I told her about the epic. I’m thinking about calling it Desire Under the Palms, but I seem to think it’s been used. What do you think, Bloom?”

  “I think it’s a wonderful title,” Mary Margaret said as she suddenly sat down in the chair between them. She propped her elbows on the table and gave him a soulful smile. “When will you start filming, Mr. Spitzberg?”

  “Call me J.R., honey. The ‘J’ stands for ‘just’ and the ‘R’ stands for ‘rich.’ I can’t say for certain when we’ll go into production, but the bottom line is pretty damn quick if we want to impact the Christmas releases. I talked to Racquel’s agent last night, but she’s tied up with another project, very hush-hush. Mia refuses to leave the East Coast, Jane’s not quite right for the concept, and I’m leaning toward someone with a little more pizzazz than Meryl. Someone with hair the color of the Caribbean sunset, with eyes the sultry emerald green of the tropical rain forest, with bazooms that just don’t stop. Someone Travolta can sink his teeth into, if you’re with me on this, honey.”

  Mary Margaret was having difficulty breathing. “That sounds totally fascinating, J.R., totally. Why don’t you tell me all about your problems, and I’ll rack my brain to help you out?”

  Theo stood up. “Thanks for the drink, old boy. I’m going back to take a little nap in the sun while you two try to think of a way to persuade Mia to migrate. But I will keep your earlier comments in mind, and if I ever learn you were not telling the truth, I’ll rack my brain, too. Or hire a skywriter. How much can three letters cost?”