“We have our own power generating station, and due to de magic of technological advance, an undersea cable has been laid in order to give you de telephone usage in every room.”
“What if we don’t want a telephone,” I asked, seriously. That got a good laugh from the crowd, and the kid.
“Ha ha! Well that too, sir can be arranged, Mr. Riggins.” Another one who knew me by name. I wondered how they got everyone memorized so fast. Either that, or he remembered me from my shoes. People seem to notice shoes a lot down here. Maybe it’s because hardly any of the locals seem to wear any.
The mate continued, “Here on de boat, we have cocktails, appetizers and, if necessary, medication to keep you from feeling the sea,” he said smiling. “Once on Tiki Island, you will have your choice of any beverage available to the free world, and some only available behind the Iron Curtain!” Another chuckle from the crowd. “And twenty-four hour room service with some of the finest foods on Earth. Our five-star chefs pride themselves on every dish, whether it is a twenty-ounce Porterhouse steak or a simple hot dog.” More chuckling.
He continued on, pointing out different Keys along the way, talking about the fishing and the boat rentals, etc. etc. During his little talk the hostess in the sarong brought around a tray of little cheese puff things and chicken satay, and freshened the drinks. I asked her her name, she said it was Dawn. I asked her if she stayed on the Island when she wasn’t in the boat, she said yes. She smiled and winked, and walked away. I wondered how many dozens of times a week she said that to men who asked the same questions.
The mate wrapped up his speech with a reminder that tips were graciously accepted by all crew, and joined the Captain on the flying bridge. He was actually pretty entertaining, and when he was done his spiel the boat ride was almost half over.
I sat back and took the time to scope out the people around me. Like they say, once a cop, always a cop, even on vacation. There were a baker’s dozen of tourists on the boat besides me. All couples, and one girl sitting alone, looking out at the passing waves. Four of the couples were young, my age or younger. At least one of them seemed to be on a honeymoon, as they were joined at the face for most of the trip. One couple was middle-aged and obviously well-to-do - too obviously. You know the type. The last couple were retired, at least I hoped they were. In their sixties at least.
The boat hit a couple of waves that made it rock enough for me to nearly spill my drink, and I noticed the middle-aged man start to turn a little pale; in another minute his skin was as doughy as a bowl of milk, and he excused himself to the rear deck, where he leaned over the side. His wife, looking put-out, got up and found Dawn, apparently to get her squeeze a few sea-sickness pills.
I looked at my watch. It was almost seven which meant the boat would be pulling up to Tiki Island soon. I started to get a little fidgety…I wanted to get this vacation going, I was getting hungry, and I wanted another drink, although I didn’t want to push my luck over-boozing while still on the ocean.
I looked around again; the four younger couples had grouped up and were talking about Jerry Lee Lewis and Gene Vincent. The middle-aged man recovered and was back with his wife, conversing with the older couple about stocks and trading and some other BS that he shouldn’t have been talking about on vacation. His wife looked annoyed. I had a feeling she always looked that way.
That left me and the solo chick the only two not making friends. I knew my excuse – I was so wrapped up in watching that I didn’t get in on anything. Not wanting to interrupt the intelligent conversations spread around me, I got up and moved over next to the dame.
“Hello there,” I said nice and friendly-like. “Looks like you and I are the only ones left out in the cold.”
She turned from her gaze and looked straight into my eyes. Hers were blue. Mine were taken by surprise. I had only seen her from ten feet away before. Now, right next to her, I could see she had the face of an angel, draped in a blonde mane that looked fantastic even in the salty wind; she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and was a true beauty, the kind of girl you see on the silver screen or parading down some runway at a fashion show. But there was something in her eyes, a sadness maybe, or just the look of experience, too much experience in too short a life. She was striking.
She smiled.
I melted like a stick of butter in the sun.
“I suppose we are,” she said back with a lilting southern accent. Her voice matched her looks perfectly. Angelic.
I got my act together fast and smiled back. “I’m William, William Riggins.” William? Where the hell did that come from? Ha, it’s like I was trying to impress her with my name or some crazy thing. “My friends call me Riggins.”
She extended a hand. “Jessica. My friends call me Jessica,” she said, smiling more. That smile wiped the sadness right out.
“Are you meeting someone on the Island?” I asked, hoping to hell the answer was no.
“No,” she said, and I was relieved beyond belief. “I’m…just going to get some rest, to de-stress.”
“Well how do ya like that?” I chirped, smiling like a dumb schoolboy. “Me too.” I was raked.
“I really needed some alone time,” she said, and my heart sank like a lead slug. “I’ve done some work for the management. They let me stay a few days for free, now and then.”
The similarities were piling up, but that line about being alone threw me. I didn’t know if it was a brush-off or just the truth. “No kidding, I’m staying rent-free too. Friend of a friend owed me a favor. What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a hostess,” she said. She didn’t elaborate. She replied fast, almost too fast; almost in a way that made me think that wasn’t what she did. It sounded rehearsed. When you’re a detective for a few years you pick up on these little things.
“I’m in the insurance business. Don’t worry,” I joked, “Claims investigation, not sales.” I had my lie down pat too. I learned a long time ago never to tell anyone I was a cop, unless it was cop business.
The wind gusted up as the sun sunk its last light into the west. The twilight was beautiful. In a sky of cobalt blue a billion stars started twinkling above, more than I’d ever seen in my city life. The Tiki Torches, by some crazy Tiki magic were still lit, and their flickering light played on Jessica’s face like shadowy ghosts and lit her eyes with dancing phantoms. I didn’t even notice when the boat’s motor powered down and the rig slowed down to a crawl.
“Looks like we’re here,” Jessica said breaking the spell. My back was to the Island so I had no way of knowing – when I turned around and saw the sight, I nearly flipped.
Tiki Island.
Wow, and what a sight it was.
Jerry wasn’t kidding. The whole front of the Island looked like a scene from South Pacific. The beachhead was lit by giant fires and Tiki torches, illuminating two-story high, hand-carved Tiki idols. Palm trees crisscrossed behind, perfectly placed to show-off the perfect setting while sneak-peaking the resort through the fronds. Hand-built catamarans were parked up on the beach. A giant arbor of bamboo and thatch made up the centerpiece to the entrance, and arced across the top read in bamboo lettering, “Welcome to Tiki Island. Mahalos!”
I whistled a long one. “Holy flamingoes, this joint’s crazy!” I said to Jessica.
She seemed indifferent. “It’s a swell place.”
As we drifted closer I could see the large dock that extended out about one hundred feet from the beach. The dock too was lit with torches, and several women in grass skirts waited there. The sounds of drums came lilting up from the shore; as the boat docked I realized the drums were part of a band playing Hawaiian music on the beach.
The boat stopped and the mate directed us to the gangplank. We got up; Jessica started to leave ahead of me, and I caught her gently by the arm just in time.
“Jessica, if it’s ok, I’d like to see you on the Island. Maybe drinks later on? I know you said you wanted to be alone but - ”
“I don’t want to be that alone,” she said coyly, that smile coming through again, lighting up the night like the Fourth of July. “I’ll be around. Maybe the Tiki Bar on the beach, around ten.”
“I’m hip,” I said, feeling like that schoolboy again.
Once on the dock I was greeted by more girls who looked like Dawn; they placed real flower lies over my head, and said something like Aloha-lala wala waheenee or something or other, smiling the whole time. The mate and Dawn brought the bags to the dock, and porters took them from there.
One of the porters, possibly a Jamaican, came up to me and said, “Welcome Mr. Reeggins, we have been eagerly expecting you. If you would come this way, please.” I didn’t get it…I seemed to be getting the VIP treatment, which for someone who was staying free seemed an awful lot.
The porter lead me through the arbor, and once through I got my first real look at the Resort, silhouetted against the deepening dark blue sky.
It was amazing.
Everywhere I looked, breathtakingly beautiful tropical flowers and plants bloomed up out of the sand and coral rock, orange and red and blue and yellow splashes contrasting against giant green ferns and palms. Tikis rose from the ground like the proud Gods they were, some towering over fifty feet tall, looking eerily alive in the light of the dancing flames. But the hotel itself…now that was something for the slideshow. The main building was huge; at least six stories high and nearly a football field long, it was a bamboo and thatch masterpiece of epic Polynesian magnitude. The giant A-frame structure bowed in the middle and the thatched roof came to an exaggerated point jutting out thirty feet beyond the front of the building like the prow of a ship. The entire front façade was covered in a woven reed-type of material, trimmed in dark bamboo and decorated tastefully with carved Tiki masks and live plants. Every inch of wood was carved with ancient island symbols and graphics. Two giant, round, black cast-iron bowls sat at the entrance to the steps, held up by stanchions of coral rock lit with orange flames that shot up five feet high into the night. With some carefully-hidden colored spotlights the torches seemed to be the only illumination against the front of the building, giving the whole works a dark, mystical atmosphere that had me believing I was actually somewhere on a mysterious island in the Pacific, not on a Florida island a few miles from the U.S. mainland. For the first time in a very long time, I was speechless.
A pink and gray flagstone path led the way to the entrance, and we arrived there a few minutes ahead of the others from the boat. People were milling around, sitting on benches, walking paths that led through mystical gardens and around to the other beaches. The Hawaiian music was louder now but not too loud; a mellow melody was sliding gently from a lap-steel, with strumming guitars coming in behind it just right. I recognized the tune as “Beyond the Reef.”
The porter directed me up the limestone and teak steps to the front entrance where two towering, mahogany doors stood between us and the lobby. Those suckers had to weigh-in at around four-hundred pounds apiece. Toothy Tiki gods were hand carved into the wood, smiling down on me from ten feet above as we entered the cavern.
Once inside, I was even more amazed.
I was standing in the middle of a great hall, at least sixty feet high at the roof’s giant wooden backbone. Along each side ran two floors of balconies railed with mahogany; these held the rooms that flanked the two long sides of the hut. Everything was bamboo, teak, mahogany, ebony, rattan or thatch. The inside of the roof was covered in woven thatch, as were the undersides of the balconies. The front desk was a mile long stretch of carved ebony and teak with mother-of-pearl inlays. Giant sailfish, turtles and other sea creatures decorated the walls, and lamps made from blowfish and stretched hides hung down from the ceilings. Giant chandeliers of carved wood and colored glass hung from the roof’s keel-like center beam. Every inch of the place had a pattern, a mask or a fish on it. The floor was natural-looking red and grey slate flagstone, and the forward lobby sported bamboo furniture that would make a witch doctor drool. I was so busy taking in the crazy sights that I didn’t even notice the swingin’ brunette standing right in front of me.
Monday, Labor Day, 1935
It was unfathomable. Just yesterday the skies were blue and crystal clear, the waters tranquil as a summer pond. “The calm before the storm” in every sense of the phrase. Now the wind howled ruthlessly through the palms, bending them and toying with them like matchsticks on a vent. The ocean crashed into the beach with the force of an invading army; already giant chunks of sand had been washed away into the gulf and flood waters were slipping dangerously close to the garden. The sky, constantly in motion, turned a muddy gray with an unearthly orange glow behind it.
Time was running out.
The storm had set its course for the upper keys, and Hawthorn Island was going to get the brunt of the south end of the hurricane where the winds were strongest, and deadliest.
Eliot Hawthorne had made all the necessary preparations to leave the island. Valuables were packed, hurricane shutters secured, lawn furniture sunk in the Olympic-sized pool and the boat made ready for the choppy trip to Sugarloaf Key; From there he and his wife would take the Overseas Railway to Key West where they could ride out the storm.
But all his preparations and all his plans had backfired. A call placed to the Florida East Coast Railroad confirmed his fear: No trains to Key West today, Labor Day Monday, due to the oncoming storm. Only an evacuation train from Islamorada would run, and it would run back up to Homestead in the north.
“We’ll have to make a run for Islamorada,” he said to the very frightened woman as he helped her onto the boat. “I’m sure our yacht will cut through the rough waters without hesitation, but it will be a bit bumpy, I’m afraid.”
“We should have gone back to Key West,” she replied, shaking.
“I told you that’s no good,” Eliot screamed above the rising wind and the roar of the Gulf. “Waters are too open, we can capsize. Too late for that. We’ll stick close to the islands and make it up to Islamorada in less than two hours, tops.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, this time more disgusted than afraid, and slipped into the cabin. Eliot took a last look at his home, his mansion. A last look at everything, knowing very well it would probably be the last time he ever saw it again. He untied the rope from the stern, started the engines, and ran them up to full power heading towards Metacumbe Key.
1956
“Mr. Riggins?” came a sweet but strong voice from somewhere just below my line of sight. I looked down from the hypnotic effects of the ceiling; when my eyes got eye level, a luscious dame with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen was staring into mine, her hand extended in the customary manor for which one might shake. The smile on her face could make a glacier melt.
“Huh?” I said with the eloquence of a moose, “Oh, uh yeah, hi there. Riggins, that’s me.” I really was a sap for the pretty ones.
“Welcome to Tiki Island, Mr. Riggins. We’ve heard a lot about you, and are honored to have you as our guest.”
Honored? I thought.
“Oh, well yes, thank you, it’s a pleasure to finally be here.”
Man was I cooked. This doll was all curves, in all the right places. High, proud cheekbones that looked a little out of place under her sundrenched face gave her a look of beauty that was unexpected and damned welcome. Her Hawaiian print dress was both sexy and professional, considering the casual surroundings. It strained against the swell of her breasts, spreading just enough to give a tantalizing tease of tan cleavage. Luscious, plump lips. Dark, flowing hair. Pins that would make Ginger Rogers green. And those eyes. Damn those eyes.
“I’m Melinda Hawthorn, Entertainment Director,” she said, and I could barely detect the slightest Spanish accent.
“My pleasure, Melinda. Do you work for Rutger Bachman?” Bachman was Jerry’s brother, the guy who set me up.
“Hmm, not exactly,” she answered, trying her damnedest to stay professio
nal. “You see, my father owns the resort. Mr. Bachman is our General Manager, but I don’t report to him. It’s more the other way around, if you know what I mean,” she said, still smiling, but with just a hint of annoyance.
As if I cared I said, “Sure, sure. Say, is he around? I guess he was supposed to set me up with a room and all.”
“Mr. Bachman is off-island tonight. His only day off is Monday and he usually spends it in Key West. But I’ve got everything in order for you, Mr. Riggins.”
“Call me Bill.” For some reason I didn’t want this doll to just call me Riggins. Kinda funny.
“That wouldn’t be very professional of me.”
“This joint’s as casual as it gets, kiddo. Call me Bill, and I’ll call you Melinda, if that’s ok.” She blushed just a little, and laughed. Her smiles and laughs were probably phony, but she put them over so well I couldn’t tell.
“Ok then, Bill. Anyway I’ve got our best suite all ready for you, plus a welcome basket of fresh fruits and champagne is waiting for you in your room. All of your meals and drinks are strictly on the house. All you’re responsible for on this trip is tips. And believe me, if you tip well, our staff will bend over backwards for you.”
“Meals and drinks? Say, he didn’t mention that. Listen, it’s swell enough you kids are springing for the room, I don’t want to take advantage of the situation…”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Riggins…”
“Bill,” I interrupted.
“Bill…It’s not everyday we get a hero such as yourself staying with us.”
It was all I could do not to let the surprise show on my face. A hero? What kind of cacka-mamie story did Jerry lay on these kats? Not to seem off-base, I played along.
“Oh, uh, so you heard about that, huh?”
“Well yes, of course, Mr. Bachman’s brother told us everything.”
“Did he? All of it?”
“Well, yes, all about the murder, and how you found the killer and how you almost single-handedly brought him in. Quite remarkable.”
Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries) Page 6