1942 saw the toughest, slowest year for the Island yet. And for the first time Eliot and Marietta seriously considered closing down the resort.
“But you can’t!” protested young Melinda. She was only twelve years old but had become so wise, especially where the Island was concerned that when she spoke, her mother and stepfather listened.
“It’s no use, sugarplum,” Eliot said, “We can’t even get pre-mix for the boats. No boats, no people. No people, no Tiki Island.”
“Is that the only thing keeping us from operating?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Of course not. There’s the economy. And the fact that we can’t get most of the supplies we need to cook a proper dinner for our guests. And of course, there’s those damned airplanes going by every day.”
Melinda sat down at the carved mahogany table with her mother and Eliot. She was wearing a floral sundress and had a tropical lily holding her hair back on one side, as she often did. She thought only a moment before speaking, and chose her words very carefully.
“Mother, Eliot, as Entertainment Director of this Resort, I would like to tender my suggestions for its improvement.”
Eliot and Marietta smiled; they didn’t laugh because they knew this wasn’t a joke, but they smiled because of the enormity of the sentence coming from such a small, young girl.
“Oh would you now?” Eliot said. “Go on then, we are listening.”
“Our first concern is the boats. No gas, no boats. Well it seems to me our native ancestors got along fine without gas-powered motorboats for a very long time. So I suggest we moth-ball the motorboats for the duration of the war, buy several smaller sail & oar-powered launches and hire boys too young to get drafted to operate them. After the war we can sell the boats, or keep them to use as rentals for guests.”
Eliot stared in amazement. Being someone who always had things handed to him on a silver platter, it never even occurred to him that there could be alternatives to the problems at hand. He was ready to give up; Melinda was just getting started.
“I like that idea. It even gives the Island a little more authenticity, if less convenience,” he said smiling. “Ok, so we have a way to get people to the Island. What about the cost? The war has still put a dent in a lot of people’s pockets.”
“And it’s making others quite rich,” Melinda said. “So many business that are getting government contracts for the war effort…right down to the housewives who are taking jobs to help while their men are in action. Those are the people we advertise to. And we offer them special war-time rates. So what if we cut our prices a little? It’s not like we need the money. We just want the resort to flourish. As long as we don’t lose money, we’re golden.”
Marietta joined in the conversation then with, “I think that’s actually a splendid idea. It’s true there are many who are doing well. If our past customers can no longer come to us, we simply appeal to new customers.”
“That could work,” Eliot agreed. “Ok, so let’s say we get enough people to operate the Island at two-thirds capacity. We’ve got rowboats to get them here. Now they’re here. Now what? What do we feed them?”
“Mother, as Food and Beverage Manager that should be a no-brainer for you,” Melinda said. Marietta simply shrugged.
“We modify the menu to include more local fare. More fish, more lobster, more beef, more citrus. Anything difficult to acquire, we save for nightly specials. We’ll have to challenge the head chef to make some changes not only in the menu, but how things are cooked, what with the rations on butter and all. Gosh, we can really do anything we want and tell people it’s from some obscure island in the South Pacific! Who’s going to know the difference?”
Eliot considered. He held his stubbled chin in his hand, and rubbed it as he thought. “Ok, kiddo. Assuming all that is true, and we can pull it off…we still have the stigma of the war in the Pacific to deal with. How do we keep people from equating Tiki masks and palm trees with the war?”
“We don’t,” Melinda said without hesitation. “We exploit it. We scream it to the world, ‘This is what life in the Pacific is all about! This is what our men are fighting for! Experience the culture, the magic of Hawaii and Tahiti and see for yourself why we’re sacrificing so much to save it and its people!’ In fact, Eliot, we could go one further…we could sell war bonds, and anyone who books a stay with us and buys war bonds, we could match it…say, up to ten dollars per person…to help the war effort!”
Eliot was floored. Sell war bonds? Rowboats? Fish? Where was this child coming up with such things? Was she really only twelve? “I’ve got to hand it to you sugarplum, you’ve got something there. All that just might work.”
“You really think so Eliot?” asked Marietta, not doubtfully but hopefully.
“I do. Tomorrow we start looking for a place to stow the motorboats and buy some sail launches. Marietta, you talk to Chef Kumo first thing in the morning about a new menu.”
“What ’bout me?” Melinda asked, hoping to be taken seriously, and to finally be given a real, adult task to undertake. “I’m sure I could be of help. Really.”
Eliot said, “Sugarplum, you’re smart as hell, but you’re still only twelve. I’m not sure you could –“
“Put me in charge of the war bonds!” Melinda blurted out before Eliot could finish. “I already know who to call to get things set up. I’ll call the War Department tomorrow. And get it all set. It’ll be a snap! Oh, and I can help with the advertising too.”
“Advertising?” Eliot asked, now actually laughing.
“Natch. I can write all about how wonderful we are for the new brochure. Then we can hand it over to an agency so they can tweak it up and make it look pretty. I can do that. I know I can!”
“I don’t know, writing copy for a brochure takes a lot of experience…”
“Oh, let me try at least! Please Eliot! Please Mother! I know I can do it, it’s a cinch!”
“Oh, let her try Eliot, what harm can there be?”
“You’re right Marietta. OK then sugarplum, you set up the bond sales, and begin writing about how wonderful Tiki Island is, and we’ll go from there. Fair enough?”
“All reet!” Melinda screamed, sounding more like her age now. She was smiling from ear to ear, really.
“Good. Just make sure when you write the brochure, you don’t put in things like ‘cinch’ and ‘all reet’, ok?
“That’s a plenty, big Daddy! Natch,” Melinda said, and ran off.
+++
Melinda Hawthorn took her position as Entertainment Director very seriously at Tiki Island. It was a well known fact among the management and employees that although Eliot Hawthorn hired Rutger Bachman as General Manager, it was really his stepdaughter Melinda who was in charge. Hawthorn needed Bachman as a front man, an experienced hotel & hospitality industry heavy who had worked in every major hotel from New York City to London, and had a Masters Degree to back up his clout. But Hawthorn wanted to keep his dream Island in the family, and since he never had a son, Melinda was it.
Of course this caused some problems from time to time between Melinda Hawthorn and Rutger Bachman, but generally they got along well enough for a civil working relationship.
Tuesday had been a disastrous day for Melinda. Bachman decided to take a second day off since the week was slow, and Melinda had no problem taking over control of the resort for a second day. Then the gardeners found that wicked skeleton in the garden, and all hell broke loose.
Then that charmer of a detective from the north kissed her, and her head damned-near flew off her shoulders. And to top everything off, Eliot began having the nightmares again, evil nightmares that made him sweat and scream and cower with terror at the headboard of his bed, curled in a ball like a small child trying to ward off the monster in the closet. When Wednesday came around Melinda was exhausted, depressed, and in the foulest mood since she could remember.
“Good morning, Melinda,” Rutger Bachman said in an overly cheerful
voice. “Did I miss anything interesting on the Island yesterday?”
He hadn’t heard.
No one off-Island had. It had been hushed up pretty well.
“Come on Rutger, let’s get some java and I’ll tell you everything.”
A half hour later, Bachman sat in the bamboo chair of the coffee shop splayed out in disbelief, an expression of true puzzlement plastered across his otherwise proud, somewhat snooty face. Melinda simply sat in a prim pose in her chair, stirring her coffee around and around.
“How can this be, Melinda? You’ve been here, what, more than twenty years! And no one ever knew?”
“She’s buried four feet down, Rutger. We’ve never dug down that far before. Or in that spot.”
“This is bad, very bad for the hotel. Once word gets out that there are dead bodies under the Tikis people won’t come within fifty yards of this Island!”
She thought but managed not to say “No, Rutger, you idiot, wrong as usual,” She did say “We can spin this. We can make it work to our advantage.”
“Our advantage? But how? I can’t imagine dead bodies in the garden ever working to a resort’s advantage,” he said with a seethi ngly sarcastic undercurrent, the exact kind of tone that made Melinda want to bury him in the garden.
“You don’t know anything about public relations, Bachman. I do. Once we find out who she is, or at least why she’s here, I’ll spin this to make people want to come here even more.”
“I can’t see how.”
“That’s because you have no imagination,” Melinda said, almost as sarcastically. “You just handle the bellhops and maids, Rutger. Leave the important stuff to me.”
Melinda got up and left without giving Bachman a chance to retort. Her plans were already being put into production. She had an idea, and she was already weaving the words of the spin in her mind.
+++
I nearly choked on the beer, and I think Jess damn-near did too.
“Uh, what exactly do you mean, Captain, that he figures you buried her?”
The old sea captain sat back in his chair, looking off to the wall behind me. The ancient chair creaked under his weight, and for a quick second I thought he’d collapse in a heap on the floor. The thought lightened the intensity of the moment, enough to let me get my act together and listen to his tale.
“The year was 1935,” he began, as if reading from an old tome. “I was living here in Islamorada, working for Roosevelt’s WPA during the summer months when Mr. Hawthorn spent most of his time in Miami. WPA - That was the Work Progress Administration, or the ‘Wap’ as me and my friends called it. Pretty much every man here on the key was a Wap worker, old World War One vets like myself, here to earn a living and try to survive through the depression. Florida was a might thick with evil things back then, mosquitoes the size of baseballs, palmetto bugs that would carry a man away in his sleep. Crocks and gators would wander down every now and then from the ’Glades and sun on your porch step. And the storms…aye, the storms were somethin’ fierce.
We were building a road, out Card Sound way, parallel to the Overseas Railway. And we worked on the tracks too, iffin’ they needed any mending. In fact, most of the men I worked with helped build parts of those bridges back in the day. Imagine that, 1910, building those bridges over miles of water with nothin’ but their bare hands a few steam shovels. An amazin’ task, and an amazin’ accomplishment, iffin’ ya ask me.”
Once again he looked past our heads to the wall. I actually turned around and looked…just a wall.
“The summer of thirty-five as a hot one, hotter than most. Many a fella took sick with malaria, or sun stroke while workin’ up on that road. When the rains came down from the ’Glades each day we rejoiced, sang and shouted to the rain to cool us off. You know, it’d last about five minutes or so, cool everything down for a spell, then be on its way. Such is the weather in the rainy season here.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. This was a great story but I was eager for him to get to the meat of it.
“Then Labor Day Weekend drew near. Mr. Hawthorn rang me up and asked if I could cut out of the Wap work and come fix up the Island for a big party. I told him sure, I’d be happy to. Last week in August, we had the plans all set for one hundred and fifty people to come to Hawthorn Island for the biggest bash of the year, and that was saying a lot, I’d imagine.”
“Wait, Labor Day Weekend, 1935 – that’s the year of –”
“The Great Atlantic Hurricane,” he finished for me, with much drama. “Yes, that was the year Hawthorn Island was destroyed. On Friday, just as the guests were supposed to come to the Island, the weather bureau sent out a telegram warnin’ everyone in the Keys that a major storm was headin’ our way. Most people just set up their storm shutters, stocked up on canned goods and planned to ride it out. Of course all the guests bowed out of the party, and Mr. Hawthorn was stuck with enough booze, food and cigarettes for a hundred and fifty souls twice over. He decided to hope for the best, to wait and see if the storm would pass up the coast or drift down to the Caribbean. Of course, it didn’t.”
He paused again to relight his pipe. I looked over at Jessica; she was ghost-white but seemed hung on every word.
“By Saturday it was pretty clear that the storm was going to hit the upper Keys. Mr. Hawthorn wired me and told me to come to the Island early Saturday, make sure the boat was running perfectly and gassed up, and told me to make for Key West where the storm was sure to miss. I did as he told me, and lived to tell the tale. Why he didn’t take his own advice, I don’t know. But for some reason he decided to head North, first here to Islamorada to catch the train. But the train was late, Mr. Riggins. No one dispatched it until late in the day.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that too. By the time they sent the train down here to rescue the workers the storm was already in full force.”
“That’s right. And Hawthorn, along with his wife Vivian, weren’t about to wait for it. So he decided to make for the mainland in his boat. He didn’t make it. The boat was hit by a storm surge and deposited in the swamps up near Florida City. He was found lashed to the wheel. His wife wasn’t so lucky. They never recovered her body.”
Jessica coughed a little. For a second I though she’d lose it, but she held it together.
“Jess, you ok? Want another drink or something?” I asked as nice as I could.
“No, no I’m ok, just hard to hear this story, I’ve heard it so many times before. My dad had friends that died in that storm.”
“I’m sorry young Miss,” the Captain said, “If the details bother ye. But it must be told in all, iff’n it’s to be told right, I’d imagine.”
“It’s ok, go on Captain, tell Bill the rest.”
“The rest is might bleak, Mr. Riggins. A thirty-foot high wall of black water, driving in from the Atlantic at more than forty miles per hour crashed into the east coast of Metacumbe Key, just on the other side of the road out there. It hit with so much force that it almost instantly crushed and mangled almost every building on this Key and the surrounding ones. It tore the railway tracks from the beds, ripped the bridges from their moors. And at around eight p.m., the ocean came across Islamorada and crashed right into that train full of men, over three hundred of them. It knocked that train clear off the tracks as if it were just an electric toy. Everything except the steam engine, since that was heavy enough to hold its ground. The rest of the cars were tossed and mangled like so many tin cans on a string. Not a single soul survived, Mr. Riggins. Over 400 people were officially reported dead or missing, but we knew that the real count was a lot higher.”
“You were in Key West when the storm hit? Did you get any damage there?”
“Nearly none. Some street flooding, a few torn roofs. Not much else. But Hawthorn Island was completely destroyed.” He got up then, retrieved three more beers from the icebox and returned to his chair, creaking it as he sat. “The next day they rounded up as many able-bodied men as could be found to help with the cl
eanup. Most of the bridges were washed out, so we took boats up through the islands. It was a horrible site, let me tell ye. Sections of the bridges had been torn to bits, twisted like scrap metal. Entire homes were floating out in the backwaters. And almost everywhere you looked, there were bodies. Men floating in the shallows. Women washed up on the beaches. Some had tried to endure the storm by lashing themselves to trees and buildings, only to be battered to death by the wind or drowned by the storm surge. But the worst was when we came to Islamorada. Bodies in the train cars, bodies lined up next to the tracks, bodies washing up on the shore. They had already been there overnight and through most of the day, and the sun had gone to work on them. By Wednesday most were unrecognizable as human. The heat, the flies, the crabs…the bodies swelled up from the heat, and – God help me – they burst, like red balloons full of ragged meat on the sand. A horrible site, that was. My lord, I can still hear the popping noises they made.”
The Captain wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took a long pull of the beer. Jessica remained pale but steady.
“I was to help try to identify the victims, at first. But that proved impossible by Thursday. It was around then that the Army Corp of Engineers ordered the bodies to be placed in pine boxes, then stacked in a three-foot deep pit dug into the center of the Key and set ablaze. It was the most ethical thing to do, under the circumstances. For once the sun and the flies and the crabs had gotten to the bodies, there wasn’t much left to even consider them as ever being people again. The mosquitoes were laying eggs, and that meant the threat of more malaria. The flies were too, and that meant even more evil things. The smell…Son, even in the trenches of WW One, I’d never smelled anything so foul in my years. And ’til this day, I swear sometimes in the evenin’s I can still catch a wiff of death, from back then.” Another pause for a drink. His voice was getting hoarse. “We burned the bodies just up the road a piece from here. Afterward, the President had us erect a monument to the fallen. It still stands today. But it wasn’t over then. As we began cleaning up the remnants of the Keys and the train, we came across more horrors. More bodies washed up on the beaches for days, even weeks after the storm. Once I lifted a piece of roof sheeting, and under it a little boy stared up at me with nothin’ but holes for eyes. Never forget that. And of course the animals…all kinds, from rabbits to deers, drowned in the storm, turned into food for the crows and gulls. People’s entire lives washed away, homes gone, cars, everything just, disappeared. But we pulled through. We cleaned her up and started to rebuild. Why, this here shack yer sittin’ in is damn near a hundred years old. Found it floating a few feet out, somehow still intact, so me and a buddy reeled it in and set it back on the dock.
Murder on Tiki Island: A Noir Paranormal Mystery In The Florida Keys (Detective Bill Riggins Mysteries) Page 14