Ah, so that was it. Since I was a Vice cop it was easy to nail this one down. I helped the homicide boys bust a guy named MacGreery. He was wanted for beating up a thirteen year-old girl and leaving her for dead. Only she lived long enough to say who did it. Trouble was they couldn’t find the bum. Turned out he was a reefer hound. Just so happened one of my informants knew a guy who knew the guy who was his connection. I leaned on the guy a little and got an address. Then I handed it over to homicide, and they nabbed him while he was in the middle of chowing-down on some hash and eggs. I went along for the ride, but that was it. Jerry must have talked me up to his brother so they’d give me the full treatment. Not bad, that Jerry. After all, it wasn’t a lie, it just wasn’t exactly the truth. I’d swing it back to center, just to clear my conscious, but I’d still take the free grub and booze.
“I didn’t exactly do it all myself you know, the homicide boys had a lot to do with it too.”
“Well, they aren’t our guests, and you are. So from here on in, anything you want, you just ask. And I do mean anything.”
Seems I’d heard that before somewhere in the great state of Florida. Such accommodating folks here in the south. I wondered what she’d say if I asked for a half dozen hookers, a box of bananas and cello player to meet me in my room in twenty minutes. Then again, no I didn’t.
“There is one thing you can do for me,” I said with a sort of worried look, “I’d really prefer no one here know who I am or what I did. In fact, I don’t really want anyone to know I’m a cop at all, if you catch my drift.”
She thought for only a second before answering. “Oh, of course, I understand you want your privacy. Of course we sometimes know celebrities love the attention, but in your case I can see you just want to relax, have a quiet time, am I right?”
Yeah, exactly, except for the hookers and the cellist.
“Yeah, exactly. I just sorta want to blend in. If anyone asks, I’m in the insurance biz, claims investigator.”
“Not a problem Mr. – Bill.”
“Thanks doll,” I said, and gave her the smile back. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I could swear she dropped the professional bit for just a second, and came through as all woman. Her eyes seemed just a little wider, her stance a little more relaxed, her smile just a little more coy than before. Then in a flash she was back to business as usual.
“I’ll show you to your suite now if you like, your bags are already there.”
“Sounds fine,” I said, and she led me to an automatic lift on the south side of the hut.
A moment later we were in the biggest hotel room I’d ever seen in my life. It was a good thirty feet wide and twenty deep, with lava rock walls and bamboo wood floors. It faced south, with floor-to-ceiling picture windows looking out over the ocean and Keys. A sunken hot tub and a Tiki bar graced the left end of the room; a sunken, circular living room with bamboo furniture and a TV/Hi-Fi combo dominated the right. Behind the living room an arched doorway led to the bedroom with a king-sized bed and bath that belonged in a magazine. The bar was stocked with every top-shelf booze available, from twelve-year-old Scotch to imported Russian vodka to Jamaican rum. A fish tank was set into the wall, filled with exotic tropical fish lazily swimming around just to drum up some atmosphere.
I let out a long whistle. “This place must rake in the clams. You sure I’m staying here?”
She laughed again, that not-quite-professional laugh that made her seem more interested than she probably was. “It’s all yours, compliments of the house. Aloha, Bill. If you need anything, just ring me up, my extension is on the phone. Enjoy your stay. Mahalos!” she said, and turned to walk out.
“Say, wait a minute,” I said, and she stopped short, almost as if she knew I’d try to make her stay. “What you just said, what exactly does that mean?”
“Mahalos?”
“Yeah, I saw it on the sign up front too. Never heard it before.”
“It’s Hawaiian. There’s no literal translation for it, it pretty much means I wish you the best, thank you, you’re a swell guy, good luck, may you have a happy and healthy life…you get the picture.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do.”
“It’s a very important word to the Hawaiians. It’s not to be taken lightly. We take it very seriously.”
“We – you’re Hawaiian?”
“Half Hawaiian and half Mexican.”
“That explains that slight accent,” I said with a smile.
“Very perceptive of you, detective. Aren’t you going to ask about my name?”
“Hawthorn’s not a common Hawaiian tribal name?”
Another laugh, definitely a real one this time.
“No. My father passed away when I was very young. When I was five years old, my mother remarried. She married Eliot Hawthorn, who is the owner of this island.”
“I see, then it’s your stepfather who owns the joint.”
“He’s the only father I’ve ever known. But surely you don’t want to hear my family history.”
“No, no I’m interested, this is a fascinating place. I’d love to hear the story of how you got here.” I paused, then “How it got here.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Why don’t I mix us a few cocktails at my little Tiki Bar over there while you give me the history of Tiki Island.”
She smiled. I got all warm inside and got that crazy school-kid feeling again.
“I guess a little history lesson can’t hurt. At least that way it will be job related. Giving historical tours is part of what I do here.”
“Sounds cozy. Lay it on me.”
“Do you know how to fix a Mojito?” she asked.
“Not really. Do you use a monkey wrench or a hammer?”
“I better fix the drinks,” she said with another little laugh. I was beginning to really dig those little laughs.
We moved over to the thatch and rattan bar, and Melinda got to work building the drinks. It was like being on a movie set, all that bamboo, the mood lighting, the hand-carved Tiki masks staring at me from the wall. I sat on the bamboo stool and lit a Camel. She talked, I listened intently. That sing-song voice of hers was so melodic, so sweet, with that near-perfect diction peppered with a pinch of Spanish accent, she could’ve been telling me the history of lock-washers for all I cared; I’d still have listened intently.
“Eliot came to California in just over twenty years ago, devastated after the loss of his wife.”
“Loss? What happened?”
“She was swept out to see in the Great Atlantic Hurricane of 1935.”
Monday, Labor Day, 1935
The rains came hard, slashing at the boat and filling the stern. It was as if God turned on the faucet the minute they left the dock. Visibility was so low Eliot was afraid he’d run aground one of the sandbars or smaller islands, but he didn’t dare pull back on the throttles. The twin diesels were pushing the craft through the two-foot swells at well over twenty knots, and he knew he’d have to maintain that speed to survive the journey to Islamorada. There, he would dock the boat at the public dock, take whatever they could carry and to the devil with the rest of the junk. As far as he was concerned, his home would be washed away to the sea, and his old life with it. Tomorrow when storm was long-passed and the seas receded, his new life would then begin.
Inside the cabin, the ghostly-pale woman in the yellow sundress and pearl necklace hung onto the rail with both hands, trying desperately not to be sick. Although she grew up in the Keys and had been on a million boats, she’d never experienced such a horrifying ordeal. Waves were crashing over the sides of the yacht, and although it was at least fifty feet long it was still being tossed about like a cork in a tub. A cork in a tub of gin, she thought, and wished she had some gin now. Then the thought of drinking gin and being tossed around like that made her stomach churn, and the sickness came. She didn’t care; she actually felt a little better after that. But the horrible feeling of being so close to doom was overwhelming, and n
o matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t shake it.
Two hours later the boat pulled up at the public dock on Islamorada. Eliot lashed it to the cleat and climbed to the dock, a wet and sickly woman following. Together they ran up to the shore and across the street to the train station. The winds were already strong enough to push them off balance, and twice Eliot had to keep his frail companion from sailing away.
The station was crowded to the hilt, far over occupancy. Mostly men from the public works department, employees of the WPA, Roosevelt’s ‘New Deal’ Work Progress Administration. It was they who helped build the islands, the bridges, the railroad. Now they were waiting for that same railroad to take them to safety over the very bridges they built and maintained.
“Passage for two, and if you’ve got room for luggage we’ve got plenty,” Eliot shouted over the clamor to the man behind the ticket window. “One for me, and one for my wife, Vivian. I’m Eliot Hawthorn,” he added, as if his name meant anything to the man.
“We’ve got room for people and one bag you can carry yourself, no more.”
Apparently, his name meant nothing in the face of an oncoming hurricane.
“That’s fine. How much are tickets?” he asked, pulling his wallet from his drenched jacket.
“No fee today, mister. This is an evacuation, not a vacation.”
“Ok, ok. Just let me know when the train is leaving.”
“Leaving?” the man said disgustedly, “It ain’t even got here yet. Wired Homestead yesterday we needed a train here pronto. The dumb suckers didn’t have one ready! Had to bring it down from all the way from Palm Beach to Miami. Just left Miami this morning, and with this weather...aw, hell, sure as hell ain’t gonna be here before five, maybe six o’clock!”
“Six o’clock!” Eliot screamed, mortified. But then he calmed down, and remembered all his planning, and back-up planning, and realized it was not the end of the line. “You realize the storm will likely be on full-throttle by six,” he said mournfully.
“Yessir,” the man said, his face showing fear thick and real. His eye twitched just a little. “Yessir, we are well aware of that.” With that he turned and left the ticket window.
“Come on,” he said to his wife, and pulled her out of the station and back into the rain and wind.
“What gives?” she exclaimed as the wind nearly pulled the door off the hinges. “What are you doing?”
“Plan B,” Eliot responded, not stopping to explain. In another minute they were back on the boat, heading North.
+++
The big brass star-shaped clock on the wall sang to the tune of nine-fifteen when Melinda came up for air. Not that I minded; her voice was as beautiful as her face, and I could have sat there all night just listening. Well, listening for part of the night anyway. Other things had already crept into my mind, and by the time she told me about her stepfather at the train station, I had undressed her with my eyes right down to a bikini and a flower lei. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
Another problem that I had was that while this woman was captivating, she was an employee of the resort and was no doubt just trying to make a VIP guest happy. To what extent she’d make me happy was questionable. I had the distinct feeling the doll would stop short just when things were getting good.
On the other hand, I had a standing date with the pretty blonde from the boat ride, and although that seemed like a millions years ago, she too had been strangely captivating to the point of illicit fantasy. As much as I wanted to see where I could get with Melisa, or Marimba or whatever her name was I still wanted to meet up with Jessica.
At a break in her tale, I took the opportunity to try to speed things up.
“So they jumped back in the boat and headed for the mainland. Is that when his old lady bit it?”
“Pretty much,” she said. Good, I thought. Nice, quick ending.
“Eliot motored the boat at full power up along the Keys, hoping to make it to Florida City where he could take a car up to Miami. But he never made it. A six-foot sea wall tossed his boat into the air like a toy. When it came back down, Vivian was gone. Eliot doesn’t remember much after that, except he ran aground in the swamps just below Florida City, and remained stuck there until the storm passed. When it was all over the police found him in the cabin, unconscious. His wife’s remains were never recovered.”
“Tough job,” I said, finishing my drink.
“Very. He lost his wife, and much more. The island was completely wiped out in the storm. His entire home was reduced to a pile of wood and seaweed. His best friend Gregor was also lost at sea, his boat found washed up on a sandbar five miles out. And of course, there was the tragedy of the storm itself.”
“What exactly happened? I heard the train tracks got washed out in the storm.”
“Not just the tracks, Bill. That train left late…much too late. It was taken-out by a forty-foot tsunami. Over three hundred people were onboard that train. None survived. In all, the official total was four hundred and eight souls lost in the storm. But people who lived here knew that estimate was very low.”
It was a sad tale, all right. Sad and depressing. After all, that was less than twenty years ago, and signs of the storm were still evident along the Overseas Highway.
“That’s real terrible, what happened. Probably could have been prevented with some better planning. Damn shame.”
“Most certainly. And now that we know how to prepare, it will never happen again. Now, even if a storm is three days out, the county evacuates the Keys. No playing around anymore.”
“At least something good came of it.”
“Yes, at least something,” she answered with a far-off look. She held it a second then shook it off. “Anyway, after that Eliot was devastated. He never went back to the Island. He moved as far away as he could, California, and ordered his workers to remove and destroy every bit that remained of his house. When the Island was cleared, he ordered four feet of topsoil to spread across then entire surface, and brought in dozens of plants and trees to repopulate it with vegetation. His plan was to leave it as a sanctuary, a monument to his late wife who loved the palms and tropical flowers. Then he met my mother, and they married and we lived in California...but not long after he heard the Overseas Railway was becoming the Overseas Highway. And a spark was lit inside him. An idea popped into his mind, and he began drawing up plans for what would become Tiki Island as you know it today.”
She shot me that award-winning grin again, the one that made me melt, but now that I had Jessica on my mind the effect didn’t seem as intense. Still there, but not as intense.
“An incredible story,” I said, and lit up a smoke. “You know it’s almost nine-thirty?”
She turned and looked at the clock, and let out a tiny shriek. I guess she didn’t.
“Oh, my! My my, I shouldn’t have stayed so long. I’ve got a luau in a half hour! Please excuse me Mr. Rig…Bill, It’s been wonderful speaking with you. Maybe tomorrow we could get together again?” she said as she left. She didn’t wait for a reply.
By nine-forty I was freshly shaved and showered. There was a nice selection of platters for the Hi-Fi, so I cued up an Arthur Lyman album (hey, when in Rome...) and sat out on the deck watching the lights from the lower Keys flicker in the night. I wasn’t sure if it was Key West I was seeing, but it sure felt like it. I had learned to make a pretty decent Mojito from watching Melinda, and built one for myself before heading out to meet Jessica on the beach. Above in the night sky little stars twinkled like they did in songs, and an occasional shooting star streaked across the heavens just for fun. Below, dancing Tiki torches lit the beach and gardens, casting a soft yellow glow over the east side of the Island. It was down there, at the Tiki Bar by the beach, where the lovely Jessica would be waiting. Paradise.
At ten minutes after ten I left my room, saying so-long to the goldfish and rum. I motored the self-service elevator down to the lobby, exited out through the massive front doors
of the Resort and took the eastern path, winding around to the beach bar.
At the bar were lots of hot babes, slick beauties in bikinis even though it was after ten. Turns out there was a salt water pool behind the bar, and twenty-four hour swimming was encouraged. A group of older men sat together at a wicker table. A few couples, including two I recognized from the boat, sat around looking starry-eyed and enjoying the romance. Seated at the bar were several people. None of them were Jessica.
I pulled up to the bar and asked the bartender for a Mojito. She smiled and built it just right, adding a mint sprig and a little tropical flower as garnish. I asked if she’d seen a blonde who may have asked for me. She didn’t.
At ten-thirty I was about to give it up as a bad job (after all, she did say maybe) and go find Melinda when I heard a sweet, lilting voice behind me.
“Sorry to keep y’all waiting, Billy. I had to put my face on.”
When I turned around, that same rush I got on the boat hit me again, and my mind whispered, “Melinda who?”
September, 1935
Eliot was alone.
His wife was gone, and there was no bringing her back.
What was done was done; the storm had taken her body out to see, mangled it, deformed it, bloated it beyond recognition so that if it did wash up, no one would ever know it was she. Only a handful of people he’d seen at the train station had survived the onslaught, among them the ticket taker, the last person to see the woman together with him, alive.
They said hundreds had drowned, horribly. Hundreds more were injured. Every building on the upper keys was either washed out to sea or destroyed beyond repair. Hawthorn Island itself – being essentially limestone – remained intact, but his home – the family mansion which had stood for nearly forty years had been reduced to rubble. According to his workers, no bodies had washed up on the island, and they would be able to remove the debris, fill in the holes and cover it over with trees and plants to remain that way forever. End of story.
Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries) Page 7