Island Blues

by Wendy Howell Mills

  “I’m Sabrina Dunsweeney, Matt. Do you own the Shell Lodge? It’s captivating.”

  “Isn’t it? It’s a family business, has been since my great-grandfather, Kenneth Fredericks, built the lodge back in the twenties to take advantage of prohibition.” He laughed at Sabrina’s surprised expression. “There was a lot of money to be made during prohibition, if you weren’t too scrupulous how you made it. And great-granddad was unscrupulous and ruthless, from what I’ve heard.

  “A lot of high rollers came here on fishing and hunting trips back in the twenties, and my great-grandfather thought a hunting club where they could indulge in gaming and drink would make him a mint. He was right. John Barrymore, Ernest Hemingway, Errol Flynn, among others, all made their way to the Shell Lodge.”

  “During prohibition? How could he get away with that? Didn’t the police know what was going on?” Sabrina was interested despite herself.

  Matt laughed. “Bribing the police became very popular during prohibition, along with designer flasks and adding mixers to drinks to hide the taste of inferior liquor. The sheriff of Teach County, Fitz Mitchell, was often here gambling and drinking along with the society swells. But just in case the Feds got too interested, there were drop-down walls in the gaming room that could be closed if they showed up, and baseboards along the walls pulled out to make a hiding place for the bootlegged liquor.”

  “How in the world did they get all that liquor out here? Your grandfather wasn’t making it himself, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, no. Only the real McCoy would do. As a matter of fact, sometimes Bill McCoy himself would bring ships full of liquor and set up a rum row off shore—it was vital to be outside the territorial waters of the United States, you understand—and every night, entrepreneurial islanders in small boats would risk the Coast Guard to go bring back boatloads of fine liquor. And, of course, since it was supplied by Bill McCoy, people knew it was high quality and not watered down.”

  “I suppose that’s where we got the phrase ‘the real McCoy.’”

  “Exactly! Anyway, after prohibition ended, Kenneth—my great-grandfather—kept the lodge open, though it would never again do quite as well. It was my great-grandmother who insisted on the shells. She didn’t like the liquor, so she would spend a lot of her time making the shell walkways and shell fences. It was a labor of love, let me tell you, who else would have had the patience? Grandpa Guy, Kenneth’s son, is still around, though mostly he just feels like staying in his room and playing Battleship. But anyway, enough about me, how can I help you, Sabrina?”

  Sabrina felt the need to take a deep breath, but she knew she needed to speak fast or forever keep her peace.

  “Matt, I’m looking for Gilbert Kane. I understand that he’s staying here.”

  “You’re with the Hummers?” The politeness did not falter a bit, but Sabrina noticed a discernible cooling in Matt’s expression. “Let’s see, it’s almost two o’clock. They got back from their morning, um—expedition, and went to lunch around twelve. They’ve been on their own since then, but they’re due to meet at two-thirty. Shall I show you to the meeting room?”

  Without waiting for her to answer, he turned and led Sabrina out of the dining room and down a bright hallway. Sabrina saw that some of the interior walls were adorned with shells as well.

  “What did you call them…Hummers?” The hasty explanation Mary delivered outside the classroom was that a group headed by a man named Gilbert Kane was staying at the Shell Lodge and were very unhappy for some undisclosed reason. Nothing more.

  “Yes, the Hummers. You’re not one of them?” Matt slowed and peeked back over his shoulder.

  “No, I’m the, uh, Comico Island Ombudsman.” Sabrina blushed as she said the title, and Matt’s blank expression did not help matters. “I’ve been hired by the town council to try to improve relations between tourists and locals. I understand Mr. Kane has a complaint, and I’m hoping I can help.”

  “I don’t know what Vicki Carroway was thinking when she booked them, but there’s no way we can accommodate—Hello, how are you enjoying your stay?” Matt nodded at a wrinkled couple, wrapped in bathrobes, who beamed at him in near-sighted delight.

  “Off to get our massages! So nice that they do it down by the water,” the woman chirped. “But, dear, I have an itsby-bitsy little question for you…”

  Sabrina waited a few minutes, but Matt was not one to use three words when he could use five hundred instead. She waved her thanks at him and moved off down the hall. She had some time to kill, and she figured she could find the meeting room by herself in that time.

  She itched to go introduce herself to the chefs in the kitchen and find out what delicious concoction they were preparing—perhaps she could share her new recipe for tilapia and sweet corn potpie—but she knew from experience that they would be unlikely to appreciate the interruption. Her hand went to her head as she remembered a particular incident with a French chef and a copper saucepan.

  And she was here to work, after all, not gossip with fellow gastronomists. She went through the main lobby, dominated by a large shell-encrusted fireplace, and peeked into the lounge, which was adorned with dollar bills instead of shells. Thousands of dollars’ worth, she saw, noting that many of the bills were signed. Shaking her head in wonderment at the delicious bizarreness of the place, she went out to the pool where several people were lazing in the warm sun or eating scrumptious-looking appetizers.

  “This is too much for a person to bear,” she said and promptly sat down at one of the poolside tables and ordered the grilled honey-and-orange-marinated prawns. When the waiter brought her food and iced tea, she asked him where the meeting room was located. She wanted to talk to him further about Gilbert Kane and his group of Hummers, but he was busy, so she contented herself with enjoying the delicious appetizer.

  “How lovely,” she murmured, though she herself couldn’t say whether it was the food or the beautiful view which inspired her remark.

  She contemplated the sun-splashed scenery and browsed through the conversations at neighboring tables.

  “I don’t know if I can do this, Patti,” a low, urgent voice said directly behind Sabrina. “I mean, this morning was—”

  “Sophie, girl, I agree with you,” a woman answered, her voice rich and creamy, despite being sprinkled with a tinge of anxiety. “It was plain ridiculous. But at this point, I’m willing to do about anything, aren’t you?”

  Sabrina snuck a look over her shoulder and found two women at the table behind her. One was young and cover-of-a-magazine beautiful, though she was skinny almost to the point of emaciation. The other woman was substantial with a glorious set of cornrows.

  “Oh, Patti, it’s just all so awful! I don’t know if I can take this Hum any longer!”

  With that, the pretty girl rushed out, her eyes streaming with tears.

  Chapter Five

  The woman with the cornrows stood up as her young friend left, and then subsided back into her seat, shaking her head. Her handsome face was drawn with lines of worry, and she fiddled with the polished wood beads around her neck.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Sabrina asked, swiveling in her seat so she faced the other woman.

  “I’m not sure anybody can help at this point,” said the woman, and sighed. “But thank you for asking. I’m Patti Townsend, by the way.”

  She was about fifty, and wore a vivid crimson dress, splashed with black, gold, and green, and accented by an array of stylish hand-made jewelry. She looked like she was comfortable in her own skin, though this contentment may have been hard won. She wore the battle scars of hard work and sorrow around her eyes and mouth.

  “I’m Sabrina Dunsweeney. It’s nice to meet you, Patti. Where are you from?”

  “Is it so obvious I’m a tourist?” Patti laughed and looked down ruefully at her outfit. “I suppose it is. I’m from Cincinnati.”

  “Cincinnati! Patti, I’m from Cincinnati. I live here now, but that’s where I c
ame from.”

  Patti looked delighted, and stood up to clasp Sabrina’s hand. “I’m always happy to meet someone from home.”

  They chatted about Cincinnati for a few minutes, until Sabrina noticed it was nearing two-thirty.

  “Oh! I wish I could stay to talk with you, Patti, but I’m supposed to be somewhere right about now.”

  Patti said she needed to be somewhere as well, and they agreed to try to get together later and talk. Feeling fortified with her nice prawn appetizer, and the smile on Patti’s face, Sabrina went back inside the lodge in search of the meeting room.

  A man, well-dressed and scruffily attractive, was speaking as she reached the doorway. “What is the matter with you, Gilbert? You’re getting sloppy, you know that? You’ve been acting like a chicken with its head cut off ever since we got here. You need to get it together, man!”

  There were three people inside the room, and two of them looked up as Sabrina came in. The third, older man, wearing a bright yellow dashiki and a long beard, did not seem to notice Sabrina’s entrance.

  “Yes, did you need something?” The scruffy, attractive man looked up at Sabrina.

  “Didn’t you see the do-not-disturb sign? This is a private meeting, miss!” snapped the man who had been acting like a chicken with its head cut off. At the moment, dressed in an unfortunate olive-green suit and squatting in his chair, he looked more like a disaffected toad than any type of poultry.

  “I am looking for Gilbert Kane,” said Sabrina in a clear, firm voice. “I presume that you are he.” She fixed her stern gaze on the toad. It was not in a former schoolteacher’s nature to tolerate rudeness, no matter how uncomfortable she felt.

  “Yes? What did you need?” The toad, a.k.a. the headless chicken, a.k.a. Gilbert Kane readjusted his attitude and smiled with what looked like painful effort. It was not a very convincing smile. He would not be a handsome man at the best times, and right now large sweat stains were spreading under his meaty arms and his muddy eyes bulged behind thick glasses.

  “I am Sabrina Dunsweeney, Comico Island’s Ombudsman.”

  No one laughed, for which Sabrina was grateful.

  “And what does that mean, Sabrina?” This from the attractive man who was radiating puzzled charm. His dark blond hair was mousse-spiked and fashionable, and his square chin was adorned with a two or three day growth of hair, trimmed into the shape of a triangle.

  “I was appointed to work as a liaison between Comico Island’s visiting guests and the local islanders. I understand you’re having a problem?”

  “Yes, we have a problem! I’ve talked to every official on this island, including that woman at the welcome center.” A whiff of distaste crossed his face. “Anyway, this after it was clear that nobody was going to do anything to address our concerns.” Gilbert popped a few discreet pills into his mouth and as an afterthought offered his hand to Sabrina.

  “I understand you booked through Vicki Carroway at Paradise Vacations.” Taking his hand, Sabrina found it cool and squishy, and she resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt.

  “I can’t believe how that woman talked to me!” Gilbert sounded truly flummoxed by Vicki’s rudeness.

  “Why don’t we start from the beginning? Tell me about yourselves, and what brought you to Comico Island.”

  Gilbert seemed to be calculating whether brown-nosing or belligerence was in order. His glance took in the few people gathered around the doorway and he made his decision. “Please sit down, Sabrina.” His attempt at a schmoozy smile was unconvincing, more suited to a prostate exam. “We have a few minutes before our meeting begins. We are the—”

  “I’m Michael Siderius.” The good-looking man thrust an aggressive hand at Sabrina, cutting off Gilbert’s words. “I’m the president of Hummers International. Gilbert is our spokesman.” This with a dismissive nod toward Gilbert, meant to put him in his place. Gilbert did not seem inclined to be put anywhere. “This is my father, Joseph.” Michael nodded at the man in the yellow dashiki by the window. “You’ll have to excuse him, he’s been tapped into the Hum for a long time now.”

  Michael apparently deemed this explanation enough, and Sabrina nodded in befuddled acknowledgement as the older man turned his stare on her. She felt the irrational urge to back away from the force of his gaze. The color of his eyes was very ordinary, a nice, medium brown, but it was the way he looked at her that made Sabrina want to turn away with a nervous laugh. The stare was probing, personal, though impersonal at the same time, like a doctor who touches you in the most intimate manner while thinking about yesterday’s golf game.

  Joseph turned away to look back out the window, and Sabrina exhaled with relief. What a spooky man.

  “Perhaps you can explain a bit more about your group,” she managed to say. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you.”

  “Hummers International Incorporated was founded by my father to bring together those rare, special people who hear the Hum. Only a small percentage of people hear the Hum, so it’s important that they have a forum in which to talk with other people who share their gift.” Michael reeled off the speech with practiced ease.

  Joseph rose to his feet and began moving about the room, trailing his fingers across the windowsill and the podium. As Joseph approached Gilbert, the stolid man stepped back, a strange expression crossing his face. Joseph brushed by him, and Gilbert visibly shuddered.

  “Most people say the Hum sounds like a diesel motor idling right outside their window. It’s louder for some than for others, of course. No one experiences it the same,” Michael was saying. Joseph went back to his chair by the window.

  “But what is the Hum?”

  “The voice of the universe,” Gilbert said.

  A conversation stopper if ever there was one. What exactly does the universe have to say? All this cosmic dust is starting to chafe my nether regions? Sabrina thought about that for a moment and then asked, “Do you hear it?” She directed the question at both Michael and Gilbert.

  “Good Lord, no,” Michael burst out and then reddened. “What I meant to say—”

  “He means only the very special hear the hum,” Gilbert interjected smoothly. “Our meeting is about to start, so we need to hurry this along. We have come to Comico Island because of its isolation. Several times a year we do a retreat with a few of our most talented members, the ones who Master Joseph has agreed to train in the proper management of their gift. We were unhappy with our last location, so we decided to try Comico Island. Our most pressing need is privacy, which Vicki Carroway at Paradise Vacations promised us.” Gilbert leaned forward and knocked his knuckles on the table. “We’ve only been here a couple days and already we’ve been disturbed at our rituals! This isn’t acceptable, do you understand?”

  “I understand.” Sabrina nodded with what she hoped passed for competent professionalism. “I will see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Sabrina, we appreciate your help. We have important work to do here, and we cannot be interrupted!” Gilbert said the words with force, but his attention was on the people filtering into the room. Michael had gone to stand by Joseph and was holding his father’s wrist.

  As Sabrina left the room, she saw that Michael’s eyes were closed, his head tipped toward the ceiling as he mouthed silent words. Joseph continued to stare out the window, indifferent to the touch of his son’s hand.

  ***

  “Short of setting guards around their meeting spot, I can’t promise them privacy,” Matt Fredericks said when Sabrina found him in the lobby at the front desk. “They say their meetings have to be held outside, but how am I supposed to guarantee complete privacy under those circumstances? I’ve done everything I can do to try to accommodate them.” He looked pained, as if it physically hurt him not to be able to make a guest happy. “I could strangle Vicki for doing this to us. It’s not the first time, either.”

  “Then why do you let Vicki book groups for you?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get a
ny groups.” Matt was morose. “It was much better before she got here. All the hotels, bed and breakfasts, and rental companies fended for themselves, and we did fine. But Vicki set up shop on the island and cornered the market on booking Comico Island vacations. Her company is in all the good magazines and when you search on Comico Island on the Internet, her company comes up in the first ten spots. Everybody is going to her, especially when she started promising discounted rates to the guests. Some of us held out for a while, but the bottom line made it necessary to pay her exorbitant commissions and give her the discounted rooms just to stay in business.”

  “How terrible!”

  “You see, I can’t even complain about what she’s done with the Hummers. She’s got me over a barrel.”

  “Where do the Hummers hold their sessions now?” Sabrina needed to be practical if she was going to accomplish anything.

  “We have a picnic spot on the other side of the island. It’s hard to find unless you know where it is, so we’ve been driving them there in golf carts. The first day they were there, a young couple stumbled in on them. Mr. Kane and Mr. Siderius have been yelling ever since.” His frown turned automatically to a smile as a guest wandered through the lobby.

  “Is there nowhere else you can think of that would be more private?”

  “Short of dropping them off by boat on one of the spoil islands, no, I really can’t think of anything.”

  Sabrina raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes…we could do that. Why didn’t I think of it?”

  “You did,” Sabrina pointed out.

  “What a marvelous idea! We’ll take them by boat to Goat Island and no one will disturb them. It’s perfect! Thank you, Sabrina!” Matt picked up the phone and began punching numbers.

  Sabrina headed for the door.

  Her work here was done.

  Chapter Six

  “Lima, it was so easy! I talked to everyone involved, listened to what they had to say, and we came up with a solution that’s going to make everyone happy. I think I might be able to do this! I have some ideas that should really help things around here.”