“Shh!” Skye frowned at her friend. Trixie didn’t mean any harm, but whatever popped into her head came out of her mouth. She didn’t seem to have any kind of filter. “Age doesn’t make them out of shape.” Skye gestured toward a sinewy guy who had to be in his eighties. “I bet that man could beat us both in a marathon.”
“Maybe.” Trixie didn’t look convinced, but she kept quiet.
After repeatedly counting the guests and evidently finally coming up with the number he wanted, the excursion leader herded everyone toward a small bus for the twenty-minute drive to Simpson Bay Lagoon, which according to the guide’s spiel was very popular for water sports. Trixie and Owen found seats diagonal to Skye and Wally, and while they rode toward their destination, the women chatted across the aisle about how they’d spent their morning.
Neither of the couples had learned anything new about the murder, and they all resolved to forget about the investigation until after they’d had Trixie’s photos printed later that afternoon. Without any further information regarding Harry and trivia, Skye decided not to mention what she’d overheard at breakfast. She and Wally had arranged to play trivia with Robert, Neil, Wendy, and Angel the next day, and she’d continue to monitor Harry’s team for any suspicious behavior then.
Once the tour arrived at Simpson Bay Lagoon, a beautiful body of water covered in boats of every description, they were given a brief safety orientation and handed bright yellow life jackets. Skye nervously eyed her thin vest, then flicked an uneasy glance at the two-person inflatable vessel she was supposed to board. How many pounds could that glorified raft support? She was no lightweight and at six-foot-two, Wally was a solid mass of muscles.
Trixie was already climbing into the boat she’d been assigned, but Skye noticed that Owen’s expression matched her own—a mixture of trepidation and horror. How in the world had she allowed herself to be talked into this excursion? Spending the day with her mother and father on a sightseeing bus with the knitting group suddenly sounded a lot more appealing than it had when they were originally choosing tours.
The guide interrupted Skye’s thoughts when he pointed to the water and said, “From here you will take off on an approximate forty-minute speed ride around the northern coast of St. Maarten.” He outlined the route they would take, then said, “This will include views of picturesque Marigot and Fort Saint Louis.”
Forty minutes? Yikes! Skye shivered. And speed ride? She didn’t remember anything about zipping along at high rates of speed. She should have read the description more carefully.
“You will arrive at Happy Bay and have approximately thirty minutes to swim and snorkel,” the leader continued. He put up his hand to stop the questions that several participants were shouting. “A mask, snorkel, fins, and mandatory snorkel vest will be provided. Afterward you can relax on the beach and enjoy a complimentary beverage before the forty-minute speed ride that will return you right here to Simpson Bay Lagoon.”
There were those words again—speed ride. Skye sneaked a peek at Wally, whose brown eyes were glowing in anticipation. Could she suggest he and Trixie go while she and Owen caught a cab back to town?
“Upon your return to the pier, at approximately one p.m., you will be driven to Philipsburg, where you will have a chance to shop along Front Street. Or you may remain here and arrange your own transport to the French side of the island and then back to your ship.”
When the tour guide finished up his speech and began to assist people into the small boats, Skye was still trying to marshal her objections. But before she could voice her doubts, Wally had boarded the inflatable watercraft, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her into the tiny vessel. She turned and saw Owen climbing warily into his Rhino Rider and exchanged a nervous smile with him.
While the leader was getting everyone settled, Skye said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Her heart was racing, but she tried not to sound as panicked as she felt. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
“I promise you’ll be fine, sugar.” Wally flashed her a reassuring grin. “You can do this. You know I’d never let you get hurt.”
“Well.” Skye hated to spoil the others’ fun—that is everyone but Owen, who would probably thank her for chickening out so he could follow suit without looking like a coward.
“Here you go, sugar.” Wally pointed to the center console. “You straddle this like a motorcycle.” He eased her down onto the white plastic bench. “Just put your arms around me and hang on tight.”
Before Skye could figure a way out of the situation, Wally slid in front of her and started the engine. He nodded to Trixie, who had taken the controls of her boat, and they both pulled away from the dock.
A few seconds later, Wally shouted, “I know I said hold on tight, darlin’, but you’re cutting off my circulation.”
Skye apologized and eased her grip on his middle. Finally, as they skimmed across Simpson Bay, she started to relax and enjoy the sensation of gliding over the waves. She remembered the guide saying that this was the largest saltwater lagoon in the Caribbean and the home port of the biggest mega-yacht fleet in the area. Craning her neck, she admired the huge ships and wondered who owned the multimillion-dollar floating palaces.
Raising her voice, she shouted in Wally’s ear, “Is there any way to tell where the French and Dutch parts of the island meet?”
“Not that I know of.” He shook his head. “But once we go under the French Bridge we’ll be in the Caribbean Sea and will pass close to the Marina Royal.” He paused to wave at Trixie and Owen as he zoomed past them.
Skye didn’t speak as she took in the beautiful turquoise water, bright sunshine, and delectably warm air. This really was fun. Why had she been so scared? She needed to be more adventurous. More like Trixie.
Sighing in contentment, Skye leaned her head against the broad back of her new husband and inhaled his scent. Mixed with the coconut oil smell of his sunscreen was the spicy citrus aroma she always associated with him. This was definitely the life. She was just amazed that it was now her life. She never had imagined being this happy.
As they cruised along the coast, they passed Friar’s Bay and the tiny seaside village of Grand Case, both much more tranquil than the area where they had boarded the Rhino Riders. Maybe if they came back to St. Maarten sometime they could explore the less touristy parts of the island.
Wally and Skye had almost reached their snorkeling destination, a small outcrop located three kilometers off St. Maarten, when he cut the engine.
“What’s wrong? Did we hit an iceberg? Are we sinking?” Logically Skye knew there were no icebergs in the Caribbean, but fear prevailed over logic every time and she gripped Wally’s waist, sorry she’d ever seen the movie Titanic. “Why are you stopping?”
“Somehow we managed to get ahead of the rest of the tour group,” Wally explained. “I need to wait for the others to catch up since I’m not sure where we’re supposed to go ashore.”
“Oh.” Skye squinted at the far-off beach. “Can’t we get closer?” She wasn’t as anxious as she had been, and she was a good swimmer, but sitting in the middle of the ocean on a boat that was no bigger than a child’s wading pool still made her uneasy.
“The guide said not to go too near shore without him,” Wally explained.
“Why?” She’d been too nervous to pay close attention to the escort’s instructions back in Simpson Bay.
“The place where we’ll be snorkeling is a reef that’s inside a protected marine reserve,” Wally answered her. “It’s supposed to be full of colorful tropical marine life, but there are a lot of rules.”
“I see.” She bit her lip. How had they gotten ahead of everyone?
Skye was scanning the horizon for the others in their group when a man in a rowboat approached them. He was thin to the point of emaciation and wore only a pair of swim trunks that threatened to fall off his bony hips. As he pu
lled next to them his grin displayed crooked yellow teeth. His dreadlocks were gathered into a yellow, black, and green striped hat, which resembled a giant hornet’s nest.
“Greetings to you, beautiful lady.” The man’s accent had a pleasant rhythm. “Perhaps I can interest you in a small remembrance of my island.”
“No, thank you.” Wally’s expression was neutral, but Skye could tell from his tense shoulders that he was wary of the stranger.
“I have something you can’t find in any of the shops.” The man ignored Wally’s refusal and reached into the bottom of his boat.
“We’re good.” Wally turned on the motor of the Rhino Rider.
“Jamaican Jiminy has the best ganja of anyone.” He thrust a baggy at Skye. “You try this and you’ll feel like you’re floating on a cloud.”
“I said no.” Wally eased the throttle and moved away from the man’s vessel.
“Only thirty dollars.” The man rowed after them. “Twenty for you.”
Wally kept inching their boat away, but the man trailed them. Finally Wally muttered to Skye, “It looks like I’ll have to take us ashore to get rid of him.”
“Won’t he just follow us?” Skye asked, relieved to see the rest of their group in the distance. “Everyone should be here in a minute.”
“Which is good, although I’m not entirely sure the guide isn’t a part of this setup. I mean, how did Ganja Guy know we’d be meeting here?” Wally took off toward the beach. “If I don’t have to, I won’t actually bring the boat onto the beach until the tour leader gets here.”
Once they neared the shore, the man turned away, and as they waited for the others, Wally said, “The reason I was so concerned about that guy is that one of the security officers on the ship told me that the Dutch islands are very strict regarding drugs and drug trafficking. He mentioned an incident involving a member of the cruise staff. He said that episode drove the point home with the crew that drug dealing is a lot more risky here than in the States.”
“Why is that?” Skye asked.
“Because these islands depend largely on American visitors, they can’t risk being put on the United States’ list of drug havens. Anyone violating the laws here, even unknowingly, is expelled, arrested, or imprisoned.”
“Wow!” Skye’s stomach did a little flip. She kept forgetting that people in other countries didn’t have the same legal rights that U.S. citizens enjoyed at home.
“Exactly.” Wally frowned. “Local laws on St. Maarten are based on Dutch rulings, which allow for the detention of subjects during even a preliminary investigation, and people imprisoned here don’t have the option of posting bond for their release.”
“Which means,” Skye finished, “if that guy had somehow thrown the marijuana into our boat and it had been a sting, we’d have gone to jail and had no way to get out.”
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER 11
Hard to Port
The snorkeling had been fabulous, although Skye had had to stifle her giggles when she saw Owen’s swimming getup. The ankle-length tights and neoprene jacket looked like he was ready to do a deep-sea dive in the Arctic Ocean. Maybe, like her, he had watched Titanic just before leaving on the trip and been afraid of icebergs. Still, if the suit made him comfortable, who was she to make fun of him?
The scary Rhino Boat ride and the creepy encounter with Ganja Guy had been worth it to see the colorful fish that swam around the snorkelers, impervious to their presence. Skye had spotted red-and-white-banded shrimp, crabs, reef squid that looked like a smaller version of the monster in the Alien movies, nosy parrot fish, and bright blue-and-yellow surgeonfish. But when an eel had popped out of a crevice between two rocks and nearly given her a heart attack, she’d decided that she’d seen enough.
After a round of island punch and a short rest, Skye, Wally, and the Fraynes boarded the Rhino Riders for the return trip to Simpson Bay. It was a much less dramatic journey than the one to the reef, and Skye congratulated herself on participating in a daunting activity rather than refusing to give it a try.
Once they had all used the public restrooms to change out of their swimsuits and were ready to leave the lagoon, Skye said, “Shall we head to Philipsburg on the tour bus or go to Marigot? Dutch versus French?”
“Do we have time for both?” Trixie asked. “I doubt we’ll ever get here again.”
Owen consulted his copy of the Diamond Dialogue. “We have to be on board the Diamond Countess by five. It leaves at six. And it’s nearly one now.”
“In four hours, we can do a quick tour of Marigot, which seems to be fairly close to where we are now.” Wally indicated a map of the island that was posted nearby. “According to the information we received from the ship’s excursion desk, it takes about forty-five minutes to get back to Philipsburg from the French capital.”
“Say we make it to the Dutch side by three, that would give us two hours to get the photos printed.” Skye looked at Trixie and Owen. “Were you able to locate a place where we can do that?”
“There’s a shop called Photos and More on Illidge Road in Philipsburg.” Trixie shrugged. “They didn’t have a Web site so I can’t be sure, but it sounds like a place that would print pictures.”
“Then we have a plan?” Wally asked, and everyone nodded. “Good. Let’s go rent a car. It’s my treat. A bus or taxi might be cheaper, but we don’t want to be tied to someone else’s schedule.”
It took only fifteen minutes, and Wally’s American Express card, to secure a vehicle that could be returned in Philipsburg, and not too much longer than that to drive to the public parking lot near Marigot Bay. Once they’d exited the Jeep, they climbed the incline that led to the main thoroughfare, Rue de la République.
Skye noticed a subtle difference between Marigot and her sister city on the Dutch side. Marigot was more European-looking with less of an island flavor. Straitlaced versus laid-back. This was emphasized by a sign in front of one of the sidewalk cafés that read: YOUR NAME IS NOT RALPH LAUREN. NOR ARE YOU A FAMOUS UNDERWEAR MODEL LIKE DAVID BECKHAM. SO IF YOU WANT TO EAT IN HERE, PULL UP YOUR PANTS.
Chuckling, the two couples decided this was an establishment they wanted to support. After ordering four sandwiches to go, they strolled through the town, window-shopping as they ate their lunch. It was a peaceful break from the rush of the Rhino boats and the hustle and bustle of the port, and a part of Skye wished they could linger in the charming town.
Then again, she was anxious to see the photos that Trixie had snapped at the crime scene, so when Wally indicated that they needed to return to the Jeep, she was quick to agree. During the forty-five minute drive back to Philipsburg, Skye and Trixie chatted about the elegant jewelry and clothes that they’d seen in Marigot’s expensive shops and boutiques. The men’s contributions were an occasional grunt.
As they neared Philipsburg, Owen used the map the rental car agency had provided to guide Wally to the print shop. The place appeared empty when they entered, but Skye finally spotted a young woman sitting behind the counter talking on her cell phone.
The clerk ignored them until Wally approached her and said, “We need to print some pictures from a memory stick. Can we do that here?”
She pointed to a computer and printer setup in front of a large glass window, and said, “Self-service is cheapest. Just put the photo paper from the shelf underneath into the printer and click.” She tilted her head and smiled broadly. “Or for an extra charge, you can leave the flash drive with me and return in two hours.”
“We’ll do it ourselves,” Trixie decided, walking toward the computer station.
Skye followed her friend and the two men trailed her. They all stood in a semicircle around Trixie as she loaded the printer with the correct paper, inserted the memory stick she had taken from the waterproof pack she wore strapped to her waist, and began clicking icons.
A shadow fe
ll over them and Skye glanced up. Had someone been looking through the window? No. Clearly, her paranoia was running rampant since the Ganja Guy incident. A shopper had probably just walked past. Why would anyone be watching them?
When the printer began to spit out glossy photos of the crime scene, Wally plucked the eight by tens from the tray and slid them between the pages of a Diamond Dialogue he’d retrieved from Skye’s beach bag. They’d all agreed that it would be best to wait until they were in the privacy of one of their suites to examine and discuss the gruesome photos.
When Trixie was finished, Wally returned to the counter and asked the clerk, “We printed twenty-seven pictures. How much do I owe you?”
“That will be one hundred and eight dollars.” The young woman held out her hand. When Skye gasped at the price, the clerk narrowed her eyes and said, “The sign clearly states that it’s four dollars a print.”
Wally put two fifties and a ten in the clerk’s palm and said, “Keep the change.” Then he whispered to Trixie, “Did you clear the images from the computer’s memory like we talked about?”
She nodded and they left the print shop. Once they had returned the car to the rental agency, they headed to Front Street. It was three thirty so they had only ninety minutes to browse the famous road.
The buildings along the main thoroughfare were mostly cream-colored with red tile roofs. Wrought iron and white columns were in abundance, as were palm trees, brightly colored awnings, and local vendors. Skye had forgotten her camera, but Trixie retrieved hers from the pouch around her waist and took picture after picture.
As the two couples strolled down the sidewalk, Skye pointed to a sign a few feet ahead of them that read ISLAND WRAPS. “I heard this is the best place to buy Indonesian batik cloth,” she said. “It’s supposed to be beautiful and makes wonderful sundresses. I want to get some for Frannie and Loretta.”
Murder of a Needled Knitter Page 11