She made it up the next hillside where her own small house sat tucked in a pocket surrounded by thick vegetation on three sides, facing the Caribbean on the fourth. Normally, it took her eight minutes to drive back from Villa Mascarpone. This afternoon she made it in five. Neil’s final words, whispered as he walked her away from the cops and over to her jeep, propelled her to rush home. Besides, there were no cops to give her a speeding ticket. They were all back at Villa Mascarpone.
“And Salty, one last little bit of advice. If you have anything in your house you don’t want the cops to see, maybe some homegrown weed, maybe something more exciting, get rid of it. I’d bet you a month of free mojitos they’ll have a search warrant by tomorrow morning,” he’d said.
Weed wasn’t her thing, and for the most part, except when people around her were getting killed, her life was beautifully boring. But there were a few things Sabrina didn’t want the cops to see, and the first was the Villa Mascarpone file.
She pulled into her driveway behind an ancient red Wrangler, which belonged to Tanya from Texas. Tanya was one of the many minions who passed through Ten Villas in an effort to live in St. John. Like most, Tanya had arrived for a vacation, fallen in love with the island, and on a drunken last evening, called home and instructed whomever she was leaving behind to sell everything and send her a check. She wasn’t coming back. Until island living got too tough, which it almost always did. Jubilation turned to depression when island refugees realized you had to go to St. Thomas to get to a Kmart and San Juan to gamble. Boredom and isolation drove them home, making room for a new crop of dropouts. So far, Tanya had stuck it out.
Sabrina’s heart leapt at the sight of a shiny-coated chocolate lab bolting through the pet flap in her front door. This was the only creature she had ever been able to live with in total harmony.
“Hey, Girlfriend,” Sabrina said, dropping to her knees, letting the dog nuzzle her neck. If only people could be like dogs, she thought, not for the first time. Girlfriend was Sabrina’s first dog. She had vowed never to be tied down to one, until one day when Henry surprised her with a small ball of fur.
“You said you never have girlfriends,” Henry had told her. He’d been horrified when she claimed not to have had a single female friend in the past two decades, only male pals—and most of them had hung her out to dry.
“Her name’s Girlfriend, so now you’ve got one,” Henry had said, turning to leave before Sabrina had a chance to protest.
Since then, Sabrina had started to warm to the idea of having girlfriends. She liked Mara Bennett, whom she sensed was an independent woman living under difficult circumstances. Lyla Banks was becoming her friend. The tall, graceful, and brave woman was inspirational, a role model for aging for a motherless woman like Sabrina.
Girlfriend followed her into the house where Tanya stood before a commercial-size stove, removing an assortment of appetizers from the oven to deliver to guests. She looked ready to pack up and leave, Sabrina noted with relief.
“Hey, Tanya, everything okay here?” Sabrina asked, not expecting anything else could go wrong.
“Everything is okay, except a woman called. What a witch with a b, if you’ll excuse me for saying,” Tanya said.
“Who was she?”
“She said she owns Villa Mascarpone and wants to talk to you, pronto.” Tanya piled the hors d’oeuvres she had removed from the oven into Pyrex containers, ready for her to deliver to the guests at Lime Cay villa.
“Oh sh—,” Sabrina said, almost forgetting to respect that born-again Tanya didn’t allow cussing.
Sabrina knew she’d have to disregard her lawyer’s advice and the police’s order to not discuss the case with anyone. She needed to talk to Angela Martino about the murder that had occurred in the villa she owned. Maybe Angela had already heard. Was word out? Sabrina reigned herself in, concentrating on the first step she had to take to protect herself.
As soon as Tanya had left with the trays and containers placed in her vehicle, Sabrina walked over to the side of the main room of her tiny three-room cottage. Houses on St. John ranged from $800,000 to $8,000,000. Sabrina had nothing left after she had fed the bloodthirsty lawyers in Nantucket. Even after she sold the Beacon Hill townhouse and the infamous scene of the crime in Nantucket, she was broke. She declined the book offers and the paid television appearances because she’d rather be accused of murdering her husband than pander as a media whore. When she learned her husband had named her as a beneficiary on one of his life insurance policies, which she hadn’t known existed and was the only policy not bound by the terms of his divorce to be for the benefit of his kids, Sabrina took it as a heavenly sign that she should take the money and run.
While Henry had chosen to purchase a condo more luxurious than the cottage she had purchased for about the same money, Sabrina was thrilled with the tiny house where she had no neighbors and where no one could tell her what color to paint her front door.
She opened a file cabinet drawer where she kept her business records and reached for the folder labeled “Villa Mascarpone.” She found the printed-out e-mails she had received from Carter Johnson when he’d rented the villa, copies of the lease agreement, and a bank check he had used to pay for the house. Unlike most people, Carter Johnson had paid in full in advance rather than just sending the required deposit. He’d done this because he’d only booked the rental four weeks in advance when Sabrina had an unexpected cancellation.
She looked for a mailing address on the e-mails but there was none. The only phone number was for a mobile phone. The bank check was from American Express. There was nothing here that would help her or the police notify Johnson’s relatives about his murder.
Sabrina grabbed the sparse information she had about Carter Johnson, taking note of the receipt for the propane refill for the gas grill with a post-it stuck to it with a note in her handwriting. She was owed twenty-seven dollars for the refill she had purchased at St. John Hardware during Carter’s visit, when he’d forgotten to turn the tank off and had run out mid-vacation. She knew that tank of propane could cost her a lot more than twenty-seven bucks if the cops learned she had been to Villa Mascarpone while Carter Johnson stayed there, especially after she’d lied to them and told them she’d met him only once.
No one knew except Carter, and he was dead, so it had really been smarter to not mention it. It wasn’t a big deal. All she had done was deliver the filled tank to him. They’d barely talked. She ripped the receipt into tiny pieces and then set fire to them in her sink. Then she ran the faucet full blast, washing away any remains of what could tie her to Carter Johnson.
Chapter Six
Sabrina cruised down the hill and then up and over several others in the large van they used to pick up guests at the ferry in downtown Cruz Bay, the center of St. John. By the time she arrived, Cruz Bay was bustling as much as any Caribbean island ever bustles. Sabrina had heard about the time some politician thought Cruz Bay needed a traffic light. Apparently, the island came as close to a revolution as it had since the days of the great slave rebellion against the Danish three hundred years before.
Sabrina circled around the crowded streets that led to the dock where the ferry from St. Thomas arrived and dumped tourists onto St. John several times each day. Although Sabrina appreciated tourism, as it was now her livelihood, she privately thanked the ferry for removing the same amount of visitors off the island on the return trip. Sabrina knew that tourists were essential to the economic survival of St. John, but they were slowly destroying the island. Even here, life had its Draconian choices.
She found a space and backed in the van, nestling it between two flatbed trucks, converted into Safari trucks by adding benches to give tourists “the best tour” of St. John. Ten Villa’s official meet-and-greet vehicle was a van large enough for the multiple suitcases tourists insisted on bringing, even though on St. John, you could easily survive a week’s vacation with a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, a swimsuit, and flip-flops.
> Sabrina thought of the luggage sitting in Carter Johnson’s jeep, the clothes packed, never to be worn again, and for the first time, she felt sadness sweep over her, followed by a rush of rage. St. John had promised her a new future, not more trouble. Sure, there was some small-time drug dealing. What island didn’t have it? And there had been the occasional break-in. But a murder? On St. John? She felt betrayed. She had fled to and chosen this island as her home, her sanctuary.
Sabrina was on the verge of tears, a rare good cry, which was not going to be helpful when she had to meet and greet the new arrivals.
She knew strolling over to Bar None for a quick drink wasn’t an option. She watched herself that way. Drinking was a way of life on an island, probably because almost everyone here had come to escape from somewhere, someone, or something. Sometimes from all three. It was okay to drink enough to be numb but not enough to duplicate the same kind of problems you were trying to leave behind.
She decided to play a game she and Henry liked to amuse themselves with while they waited for guests to arrive at the dock. They would try to match the names of their clients to the tourists milling about the dock. Today she was meeting Deirdre and Sam Leonard, who were arriving to spend two weeks at Villa Mascarpone, or so they thought. They were coming from Massachusetts, where Sabrina had grown up, gone to college, and never thought she would leave. This should be easy, she thought. Preppy never went out of style in New England. She watched for green whales on navy blue cotton, Madras Bermuda shorts, anything nautical.
Sabrina, holding a Ten Villas sign, was surprised to see the Leonards approach her from the direction of Bar None, not from the dock. She pegged the around forty-five strawberry blonde in a pair of white capris and a blue-and-white-striped jersey as Deirdre, more by the color of her hair than by her outfit. Packed with Irish descendants, Boston was the redhead capitol of the United States, and strawberry blonde was just a redhead’s way of trying to go blonde. Sabrina wondered how much time someone with skin as fair as Deirdre’s could spend on the beach, though she looked like she needed some color in her cheeks and fresh air.
“We caught an earlier ferry and decided to have our first margarita while we waited for you,” she said, smiling at Sabrina.
Sam Leonard, a tall string bean of a guy with not a stitch of preppy clothing on him, shook her hand and helped load the six bags he and Deirdre were dragging into the van. Deirdre climbed into the backseat, while Sam and Sabrina hopped into the front, escaping the madness of Cruz Bay as she drove them up one block to St. John Car Rental, where a Jeep Cherokee awaited them. Now was the time for Sabrina to break the news to the vacationing couple, who seemed more subdued than most people on arrival.
“Did you have a good trip?” Sabrina asked, wanting to know if any ire from travel complications would bubble up when she told the Leonards they would be spending their vacation in a different house than they had booked.
“It was just long, really long,” Deirdre said, yawning.
“I’m not sure what the airlines can take away next,” Sam said. “I’m starving and stiff, but at least we’re here.” He looked behind him at his wife.
“You holding up okay?” Sam asked Deirdre.
Sabrina stiffened. Apparently the Leonards were one of those rare couples. The ones that last. Sabrina could always peg them, but she would never be part of one, she knew. It just wasn’t in her horoscope or her biology.
“I just want to get to the house,” Deirdre said.
Sabrina saw her opportunity.
“Well, I have some great news for you about the house. You’ve been upgraded to the magnificent Villa Tide-Away at no extra cost. We’re delighted to offer this opportunity to you as first-time guests of Ten Villas, and we’re adding some complimentary extra services. We’ll be providing a full course gourmet dinner on the night of your choice and maid service all week long,” she said, beaming with benevolence.
“No, thank you, Sabrina. I want to go to Villa Mascarpone, as planned,” Deirdre said firmly from the backseat.
“We appreciate your kind offer but we chose Villa Mascarpone for some very special reasons,” Sam said, sending a nervous glance back to his wife.
The day had gone from bad to worse, Sabrina decided.
“Oh, but you’ll have a hot tub and Jacuzzi, a wet bar at the pool, and so much more at Tide-Away. The décor in the house is by far the best on the island, with native-crafted mahogany furniture done by local artists. We’re only able to offer you the house because of a last-minute cancellation. You will just adore the sunsets from the balcony off the master bedroom suite,” Sabrina said, realizing now she sounded like a voiceover on the Travel Channel.
“No. I want to go to Villa Mascarpone,” Deirdre said like a petulant child.
“She’s the boss,” Sam said, shrugging his shoulders while he gave one of those glances at Sabrina that said, “And I know better than to argue with the boss.”
Sabrina pulled into the parking lot of the car rental agency, which was so tiny you often had to wait for them to move one of the thirty-odd cars so you could fit in. She placed the van in park, leaving the air conditioner running because she had a feeling it was about to get a lot hotter than tropical after hearing Deirdre’s insistence.
“Folks, I am sorry, but you can’t stay at Villa Mascarpone. It’s not possible,” she said, knowing they would demand to know why and not knowing if she had a fresh lie to hand them. Henry was so much better at this. All those years working as a flight attendant in first class had trained him how to deal with people who are simply pains in the ass.
“We have a contract, Sabrina. We paid a deposit. We are going to stay at Villa Mascarpone,” Deirdre said in a voice that meant business.
“I wish you could, but the guest before you has been incapacitated and is unable to leave,” Sabrina said, giving it a last go. She was tired, exhausted by the day’s events, and had nothing left to give the Leonards. She was due at Bar None so she could talk with Neil. These people were only here for a vacation. Couldn’t they give it up?
“What do you mean the last guest is still there?” Sam asked, sounding like he could be as demanding as his wife.
“But that can’t be. We booked the next two weeks there,” Deirdre said. Sabrina wanted to know why this middle-aged couple from Boston who had never been on St. John before couldn’t just be grateful for an upgrade to an opulent villa and be done with it.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s how it is. Look, you’re going to hear this anyway. The man in Villa Mascarpone died. The police are investigating. They won’t allow you there. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll be even happier at Tide-Away,” she said.
“He died?” Deirdre asked.
“You can’t mean that,” Sam said, turning to look back at Deirdre.
“How did he die? Did he have some kind of accident?” Deirdre asked.
“All I can tell you is that the police are treating it as a crime scene. I’m sorry. I realize this is an unpleasant way to start your vacation. But you really will love Tide-Away and the extra services we’re providing you,” Sabrina said. If they were this upset hearing about the death of the previous guest in the house they booked, surely they would want to stay somewhere else.
“A crime scene? What kind of a crime scene?” Deirdre wasn’t going to let go, Sabrina could see.
“Honey, this isn’t Sabrina’s fault. Let’s go to Tide-Away for now and sort it out,” Sam said, reaching over to the backseat for Deirdre’s hand.
Chapter Seven
Sabrina felt the eyes of the entire crowd at Bar None as she walked past the bar, filled to capacity with happy hour customers, and straight over to what everyone called “the Office,” Neil Perry’s corner of the bar. Bar None was right on the beach in Cruz Bay. Here, people fell off the ferry and within a few steps could sit drinking a margarita, mojito, or beer while soaking in paradise with their feet in the sand. The roof of the bar, made of stretched sail canvases, gave just enough protection
from the sun or an errant tropical shower. You could sit at the long oval bar or at one of the battered booths. The far corner one was dedicated as Neil Perry’s office. He’d traded one bar for another two years ago, dropping out of the practice of criminal law in LA. There were rumors as to why he’d left, but Sabrina was the last one to ask questions.
He was on the phone when she slid onto the bench opposite his. He held his right index finger to his mouth, signaling her to be silent. Sabrina folded her arms across her chest. She needed a drink and started to slip out of the bench when Neil hung up.
“Hey, where you going? We’ve got work to do, Salty.”
“I’m just getting a drink. Hold on, will you? And don’t call me that.”
“No drinking ’til after the meeting. Then you can drink yourself silly and we’ll call Henry to drive you home, but we got to set priorities here,” Neil said, drawing the straw pull shades down around the booth.
“We need some privacy for this meeting,” he said.
“Privacy? Sure, we have a fat chance of that on this island.”
“Listen, I’m just trying to help you here, Sabrina. Henry called me. I didn’t go looking to get involved here in what is pretty clearly a homicide. But hey, if you don’t need or want my help, if you’d rather contact that fancy barracuda who represented you in the Nantucket case . . . what was her name? Why can’t I think of it? It was on national television every night for about a year and a half,” Neil said, leaning forward with his fingers folded together.
“Justine Mercy, and no, I do not want to call her,” Sabrina said, sitting back down and settling onto the bench where she knew she had to endure recounting her story.
“Is that her real name or is it made-up?” Neil asked, relaxing back onto his bench. He leaned over and lifted the straw shade. “Hey, someone, get us a fresh pot of coffee over here, will you?”
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