Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Aren’t Jacques and the other guy, Philippe, galley workers on your ships too?”

  Dane nodded, thinking about the connection. And the white-handled knife. A puzzle piece Roper didn’t need to have, he decided.

  “Who is this Arnot guy?”

  “A French cook with a big-time restaurant in Paris. Very well regarded among the type of clientele Utopia attracts.”

  “Did he hire the Basilles?”

  Dane studied a handmade wooden sign directing tourists to Annandale Falls and tried to remember. “I think he did. Philippe first, then he brought in his cousin.”

  “Did you do a background check on them?” Roper asked, not hiding his disdain.

  Dane deserved the dig. “Genevieve did.”

  “What about this Arnot character?”

  “The guy’s an internationally famous chef, Roper.”

  Roper’s smirk showed he didn’t trust anyone. “So no background check, huh?”

  Dane said nothing. Damn, he felt like an idiot for having trusted Genevieve so much. But she’d never shown him anything except loyalty. Or what he interpreted as loyalty.

  “And what about you, Mr. Erikson? You’re certain to come in contact with a great many wealthy individuals who could be interested in using your ships for more than an exotic cruise through the islands.”

  Dane kept his gaze on the scenery. “Remember that I’m the one who called you yesterday to report this business. Sorry to disappoint you, Roper. I’m clean.”

  “What about the dead man we’re trying to find?” Roper was relentless. “What’s his name, Santori?”

  An image of Marco flashed in his mind. No, it was not possible that Marco would betray him that way.

  Of course, he would have said the same thing about Genevieve a few days ago.

  “Does he have a background, or didn’t you check that either?”

  Dane remembered Ava’s story about the Mafia in Boston. Was anything on record? He was certain he’d done some kind of check five years ago. He’d had to have, for Marco to take the seamanship courses in England that he’d arranged.

  “He’s been with me for five years. He is…was…my closest friend.”

  “No wonder you’re so hell-bent on finding him.”

  Dane nodded, willing the drive to go even faster.

  But Mother Nature had other ideas as they navigated a few fallen trees that still jutted into the road, slowing their pace and frustrating Dane. Hurricane Carlos had been one of the fiercest storms in Caribbean history. Small and tightly packed into an eight-mile diameter, the deadly storm had left the northern sections of Grenada untouched. As they approached the hills of St. George’s, however, the brutal handprint of Carlos could be seen everywhere. Even the protective shoulders of mountains that encircled the harbor city hadn’t stopped the fury of the storm.

  Trees were flattened or uprooted and naked. As they rounded the top of the hill looking down into what used to be one of the Caribbean’s most picturesque towns, Dane’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t imagine anyone surviving the winds that caused this destruction. Unsheltered and shot in the leg.

  They rumbled down toward the Carenage, as the locals called the heart of the town with its achingly sweet Georgian buildings, painted in Victorian hues of pink and purple. As they approached from the hills above town, an area that had always reminded him of the rustic Mediterranean countryside, he and Roper saw roofs that had been ripped off like they were made of paper and windowpanes that were nothing but jagged glass edges. A few of the nicer homes had been boarded up, with all signs of life long gone from the uninhabitable ones. The once lush and flamboyant foliage was stripped of its greenery, devoid of the brilliant blooms of bougainvillea and hibiscus that had charmed the tourists. Arriving at the Carenage, Dane thought “carnage” would be more appropriate. Nothing, absolutely nothing, had survived.

  The docks were broken, beaten by the relentless surf the storm had brought with it, making Dane wonder again how Jacques and Marco had ever reached dry land. The landmark statue of a welcoming Jesus Christ that greeted arriving ships at the head of the harbor stood broken at the knees. There were no indications of reconstruction anywhere. One month after the disaster and St. George’s was still reeling from it.

  “I expect the National Museum is where they’ve set up some kind of command post or information center,” Dane said as they abandoned the Jeep at the first clearing on the side of the road. “It’s two hundred years old and probably survived this, as it has a few other hurricanes in its time. I want to go there first.”

  “You know your way around here, Erikson?” Roper asked, eyeing the remnants of a cluster of cafés and shops.

  “It’s been on our itinerary for years. I’ve spent a lot of time here.”

  “Bet it’s off your itinerary now,” Roper said, playing with the word, making Dane wonder if the agent was scoffing at the destruction or the cruise business in general.

  Dane shot him a look as they walked. “Yeah. But since I know my way around and you don’t seem to, why don’t you shut up and follow me.”

  Roper grinned. “Until you need a badge or a gun to get you where you want to go, Erikson, you’re welcome to take the lead.”

  “I wonder if the Sendall Tunnel is open.” Dane stopped for a minute and rubbed his face. “It’s an underground route across town to Granby Street, where the museum is and Market Square…was.” He looked back to the mountains on their right. “Fort George is up there, by the way. I think that’s where police headquarters is. Wouldn’t you feel more at home comparing guns with your buddies?”

  Roper climbed over a metal street sign lying along the roadside like a corpse. “And miss this? Not a chance. We’ll drop in on them later and see if anyone reported a gunshot victim. Though I doubt it, in this mess. You’ve got two hours, Erikson. Then we leave. With or without your friend.”

  Dane started off toward the tunnel. He dodged small packs of homeless island natives, ignoring the smell of death and rank human odors. The trademark aroma of nutmeg and spice that hung over the rest of Grenada was eerily missing from St. George’s.

  The brick tunnel had been built through a mountain in the late 1800s for transporting goods from the harbor to the market without having to make the poor donkeys climb the rough terrain. Taking the few steps down into the cool darkness of the tunnel opening, the two men shouldered past dozens of people and said nothing to each other as they strode single file.

  They exited the tunnel and Dane walked toward what he thought was the corner of Young and Monckton Streets, where the Grenada National Museum was located. But everything looked so different. Buildings were nearly leveled. All of the delicate colors had a green cast to them. From the chlorophyll, he imagined, as millions of leaves had whipped against them in the storm. Street signs were completely gone, and Dane moved from memory and pure determination toward his destination.

  He finally saw the Red Cross symbol on the side of a stone building and broke into a full run, his heartbeat drowning out the sound of his footsteps.

  He had to arrange his chaotic thoughts into a coherent request. I’m looking for a man who’s probably dead. Someone left with a gunshot wound in an alley hours before the hurricane hit. Jesus, this wasn’t going to be easy.

  The Red Cross worker he finally reached looked tapped out of goodwill and kindness. She listened to Dane, then shot him a look of incredulity. St. George’s General Hospital had been destroyed, she told him, and critical patients who survived the storm had been moved to temporary medical clinics set in the older buildings around town.

  “Where are they? How do I find them?” he urged.

  The woman pursed her lips, no doubt having heard the same plea until she’d been worn to sheer apathy. “You could try Fort Frederick or Fort Matthew. There were ICUs set up in those locations right after the storm. But, someone who was caught in the…” She sighed and looked at Dane as though she was seeing him for the first time. “The storm was
a month ago. Didn’t you miss this person any sooner?”

  He ignored her accusing tone. “Are those the only two medical centers?”

  She started shuffling through a stack of papers. “Yes, for the seriously injured. We’ve got ambulatory centers set up in the Methodist Church on Green Street and Marryshow House. Do you know where they are?” She grabbed one of her papers. “You might want this too.” A list of graveyards. “Sites for unidentified victims are noted with an asterisk.”

  Dane turned and came face-to-face with Roper, who clicked his cell phone shut.

  “It’s a fool’s errand, Erikson,” he said, grabbing the paper. “What do you want to see? Forts or graveyards?”

  The only vehicle parked in Dane’s garage was a freaking red Ferrari. Marone! Ava could have cried. He drove a race car around a mountainous island? In bare feet, no doubt. Well, too damn bad. She wasn’t going to let a damn gearshift stop her from getting to Gustavia. She’d driven a stick. Once.

  She slipped into the inclined driver’s seat and inhaled the scent of brand-new leather. Dane had conveniently backed into the garage, so she wouldn’t have to find reverse. The engine turned over with a spine-tingling rumble. She pressed the clutch and maneuvered the gearshift into what she figured was first gear, then released the clutch. The car shot out of the garage before she’d even applied pressure to the gas. Facime de Mama! She hit the brake pedal and jerked to a stop with a sharp screech.

  Ava started and stopped her way down the winding driveway, certain that Marj or someone must have seen the jerky motions of the red sports car inching its way toward the main road.

  A breath of déjà vu played at her conscious. What did this remind her of? Certainly she’d never driven a car like this. Maybe in her dreams.

  She drove slowly to Gustavia, creeping along the turns, cursing the horns from impatient drivers behind her. She hit stride close to town, smoothly sailing into third gear and sensing that the incredible machine could almost drive itself. At a light, she stuck the shift in neutral and finally had the nerve to take her eyes off the road and study the sleek dashboard. Next to the Ferrari logo was the word Testarosa. Redhead.

  With unnecessary force, she popped the gearshift into place, and she cringed at the grinding response under the hood. In town, she opened the driver’s window and took a deep breath of salty tropical air. Maybe she should try to find Cassie. No, Cassie didn’t speak French well enough to deal with authorities. Anyway, they’d probably respond better to a man.

  With a squeeze of the steering wheel and a prayer of gratitude, she saw a parking spot she could drive straight into next to the Utopia offices. No reversing necessary until she wanted to leave. Good. She had no idea how to back this thing up.

  Several people she recognized as Nirvana passengers stood outside the office entrance. She entered the lobby and navigated through the groups gathered around the receptionist’s desk, the room reverberating with arguments in an array of languages between passengers and several Utopian staff. A few others complained into cell phones.

  As she reached the desk, she caught the eye of a cruise director she’d met at Dane’s yesterday. He held up a finger to interrupt the long-winded diatribe of the irate French passenger in front of him. “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.” He leaned across the desk to her. “What do you need, Ava?”

  “I’m looking for Maurice Arnot.”

  “I haven’t seen him, but that doesn’t mean anything.” He rolled his eyes at the commotion around him. “He might still be on Nirvana, closing things up. Employees are registering in the back. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen him walk in, though.”

  Ava frowned. “Can I get on the ship?”

  “I think one more launch is going to pick up the last batch of passengers and crew. You might be able to take it over and back.”

  She held up a hand of thanks. “Good luck.”

  She burned with purpose, nearly running through the charming and narrow streets, ignoring the blasting midday sun and the alluring shops and restaurants. She arrived breathless and damp with perspiration at the stone steps that dropped down to the main docks of the harbor. At one end, she saw a small crowd disembarking from a launch bearing the Utopia logo.

  Chaos reigned here, just like at the Utopia offices.

  “This is ridiculous!” she heard someone cry.

  “Fine. Take us back to the island,” another spat. “But at least let me get my shaving kit!”

  In the confusion, it was easy to slip onto the launch.

  “Have you brought Maurice Arnot back yet?” she asked the driver.

  “No. We’ve got one, maybe two trips left. There’s only crew left, now.”

  “I need to see him. Do you mind taking me to the ship on your next run?”

  A passenger barked in his face and someone else started swearing. Ava slipped to the front of the little boat and knew he’d forget all about her.

  Nirvana was virtually deserted. A crewman waiting at the tender embarkation platform frowned at Ava as he took her hand and lifted her on board.

  “All passengers are supposed to be registering at the Utopia offices, ma’am. You’ll need to go back.”

  She held her hands up. “Dane sent me. I’m Ava Santori.”

  “Oh—” She knew he wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I need to find Maurice Arnot. I’ll take the next launch back.” She squared her shoulders and climbed up the two-step ladder with purpose.

  “Wait. Miss Santori!” He tried to follow her, but someone grabbed his arm to ask him a question.

  “I’ll be right back,” she called back as she hurried toward the stairs she knew would take her right to the galley.

  With the fluorescent lights off, an eerie darkness hung over the stainless steel counters and black-topped Viking stoves. Silence reigned in the kitchen that never slept.

  “Is anyone here?” Her voice echoed throughout the steel and tile galley. There was no response.

  She went toward the storerooms and a small office where she knew Maurice often escaped to create menus and order ingredients. The doors to the three rooms were closed. Before she could decide whether to leave or knock, she heard a voice, soft but urgent, from the dry storage room.

  She put her hand on the brass knob and thwack! It opened with a burst from the other side. She gasped and stumbled backward in surprise.

  Philippe Basille stood staring at her.

  “Ava! What the hell are you doing here?”

  From behind him another man emerged, a huge, dark figure carrying a crate. Ava stared at it and back to Philippe.

  “What do you want?” Philippe insisted.

  “I…I…” Before she could come up with an answer, the other man spoke.

  “You better get out of here, señorita. There are no passengers allowed on the ship now.” The Spanish accent rocked her.

  “Who are you?” she blurted out.

  Philippe stepped forward, his forehead creased. “Ava, I’m sorry but you must leave. We are very busy.”

  She glanced at the crates. “Where’s Maurice?”

  Philippe’s gaze burned in warning. “Leave. Now.”

  A trickle of sweat slipped between her shoulder blades. They are killers. She turned on her heel without a word and started back toward the galley, walking swiftly.

  She heard a bark from the Spanish voice. Philippe responded with rapid-fire French and then “Non, non, non.” She slipped on the tile floor, grabbing the edge of a counter to keep from falling, her breath so loud in her own ears she couldn’t hear if they were following her or not. The Spanish voice shouted again, and Ava threw herself at the double doors into a utility hallway that separated the kitchen from the main dining area. Dashing around the corner, her body banged squarely into a man. Maurice Arnot.

  “Oh—Maurice! Thank God!” She grabbed his narrow shoulders.

  “Ava, what are you doing here?”

  She pulled back and searched his kind face. She had to trust him
. Had to. Panting, she pointed behind her toward the kitchen. “Philippe. Back in the kitchen. And another guy…”

  “What is it?” he urged.

  “They’re…they’re…They worked for Genevieve running drugs. I have proof…we have to go to the constable. Come with me, now!”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “What kind of proof?”

  “The Spanish guy in the kitchen. I heard him threaten Genevieve on Valhalla and talk about—oh, never mind. Let’s go!” She pulled at his arm, willing him to follow her, but just then the double doors parted and the Spanish giant filled the space between them and the kitchen.

  “Ricardo,” Maurice said softly, his arm tightening around her shoulders. “You’ve upset Mademoiselle Santori.”

  * * *

  To get to either of the forts, they had to pass the Methodist Church, which now housed a Red Cross ambulatory center, so Dane decided to check it first. Pews had been transformed into beds, and hurricane victims on crutches and in wheelchairs filled the main aisle. The wails of children from cribs surrounding the altar resonated through the centuries-old rafters.

  Dane scanned the church as he blocked out the echoes and the ever-present odors caused by human misery. He moved up one aisle and down the other, looking into the faces of those sleeping under blankets on the pews, pausing only a fraction of a second to stare at each person.

  “There are more in the back,” Roper said to him.

  Dane shook his head. “Let’s go to the ICUs at the forts. If he was well enough to get to this place, he’d have called me.”

  “And if he’s been in intensive care for a month, he’s probably dead,” Roper added matter of factly.

  Dane shot him a dirty look and nudged him toward the exit. “I’ve got an hour and a half left, Roper.”

  “If your buddy’s alive, he’s deep in hiding under Cali cover. That’s my guess.”

  Dane kept walking. “Shut up or get lost.”

  They climbed Richmond Hill toward Fort Frederick, another battlement from the eighteenth century, the sun pounding unremittingly from a clear blue sky. When they reached the top of the hill, Roper paused to wipe his face and take in the panoramic view of the harbor.