by Junie Coffey
Danish bounded up onto the platform, and the session began. When it ended, he was cornered by a short woman pointing to her hamstring, so Nina waved good-bye and headed across the lawn to the main building of the inn. A long veranda wrapped around the side of the building.
Stepping up onto it, Nina was enticed by the sweet scent of flowering vines and the inviting shade. Halfway down the porch, a parrot squawked in a cage. A wicker sofa sat against the wall at the end where Nina stood, and a row of wrought iron café tables ran the rest of the length of the porch. At the far end, she saw the man in the gray suit from Kiki Savage’s party whom Danish had pointed out as his boss at the inn. He was chatting with the elderly couple from the airplane. They were once again dressed in their matching khaki outfits, their bird field guides open in front of them on the table. The inn’s owner was now dressed in sandals, a navy-blue golf shirt, and a pair of khaki shorts that revealed a pair of tanned legs. His receding silver hair was cut close to his scalp. They were all smiling politely.
Nina decided to linger for a cup of coffee and indulge in some people-watching, a favorite pastime of sociologists and almost everyone else. She sat down on the wicker sofa to wait for a waiter to take her order. She looked up to see the man from the Savages’ party coming toward her.
“Hello, Mademoiselle. May I introduce myself? I am Michel Poitras, the owner of the inn. I saw you from a distance at Kiki’s soiree the other night, but we did not have the opportunity to speak. Things got rather dramatic.” He actually kissed her hand.
“Very nice to meet you. Nina Spark,” said Nina.
“May I offer you a cool drink?” asked Michel. Without waiting for an answer, he looked around and raised two fingers. A passing waiter hurried over and stood attentively, waiting for his orders.
“What would you like, Mademoiselle Spark? May I suggest grapefruit juice in mineral water at this time of day? Very refreshing, I think.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you,” said Nina.
Michel settled himself comfortably into the corner of the sofa, his arm stretched along the backrest spanning the distance between them. He crossed one leg over the other and studied her unabashedly for several seconds. The drinks arrived, served on a bamboo tray with two lavender-scented cookies on a small plate.
Nina felt compelled to speak. “Mrs. Bassett’s disappearance must be quite a shock to the community. I saw her here the day before she was abducted. Do you know her at all?”
He lit a cigarette and inhaled, then blew the smoke over his shoulder, up and away from her.
“You must forgive me. I smoke. She was a poisonous bitch. I hated her.” Halfway down the porch, the parrot squawked loudly in its cage.
“Yes, all right! I hear you. I hate you, too, don’t worry!” he yelled at the bird. “Stupid bird. It was here when I bought the inn. If I had known that they live to be seventy years old, I would have insisted the previous owners take it with them. It galls me to think that when I am dead and in my grave, it will still be here.”
Over his shoulder, Nina could see the tiny bird-watching couple looking at him in horror, their mouths gaping. Nina quietly sipped her beverage, hoping he would return to the subject of Tiffany Bassett. He did not disappoint.
“Yes, Madame Bassett. She took such pleasure in creating situations. Passing on hurtful comments made by one friend about another and delighting in the consequences. On constant guard for alleged transgressions of her presumed rights,” he said. “I have spent many enjoyable hours smoking on this terrace, imagining how I would kill her. Run her down in my Jaguar as she hobbled out to her car one evening, a bit tipsy as usual; an appealing salad of chopped snakeroot and moonseed, served as she lunched with the ladies on the veranda; a splash of polonium 210 in her favorite cocktail, the vulgarly named—but immensely popular—‘Sex on the Beach.’ However, it appears that someone has saved me the trouble.”
Perhaps he just has a dark sense of humor, thought Nina, but it does seem as though he has given Tiffany’s death a disturbing degree of prior thought.
“So, you think she’s dead?” asked Nina.
“Oh, well, one can always hope,” replied Michel. “She adopted the inn as her second home. A dubious honor. One day, a manicure at the spa. The next, tennis lessons. Happy hour in the bar with and without her obnoxious husband. A dollar is a dollar, whatever the source. I am not fussy about that. But the inn’s rating lost two stars every time she crossed the threshold. We have worked diligently to establish a certain atmosphere that appeals to our clientele. That is what we sell. She was extremely rude to my staff, she was loud, and she arrived for dinner dressed like a street prostitute. She once sent gazpacho back to the kitchen, complaining that her soup was cold. She flirted with other women’s husbands in the lounge and argued loudly with her own. Her behavior was such that it even earned mention in a review of the inn. ‘An obnoxious woman ruined our romantic dinner. Lovely historic inn, but the atmosphere left something to be desired.’”
“May I ask why you didn’t just refuse her business?” asked Nina.
“A fair question,” replied Michel. “Perhaps I should have. She contravened every tenet of good taste and propriety, but she broke no actual hotel rules or the law. Please, Miss Spark, will you have a biscuit? They have the most delicate lemon and lavender flavor.” He passed the plate to her, and she took a cookie to oblige him.
“Thank you. It’s lovely,” she said after a small bite. He returned the plate to the tray without taking one himself and drew again on the cigarette wedged elegantly between two fingers. Nina remained silent, waiting for him to speak again. It was one of the skills she had learned to interview subjects for her sociological research: resisting the urge to jump into the silence, allowing the subject time to bring forth his or her information. This time, he went off on a tangent.
“Yes, the Internet reviews. A dissatisfied housewife from Milwaukee whose dream holiday with her boring husband did not live up to expectations can scare off a hundred potential reservations with a few sour sentences.” He imitated anonymous chatroom critics in a whiny, nasal voice. “‘The mint on my pillow was dark chocolate, and I prefer milk chocolate. No one bothered to ask me—three out of five stars.’ ‘The sheets on the bed where we consummated our marriage were only six hundred thread count, and I really expected one thousand thread count.’ ‘The food was exquisite, but I did not care for the color of the drapes—four out of five stars.’”
Nina attempted to guide him back to the subject of the Bassetts. She wondered if getting Tiffany out of his hair was enough motive for Michel Poitras to make her disappear. Or perhaps there was a deeper reason for his antipathy. He was quite willing to talk openly about his disdain for her with someone he’d just met.
“I saw you speaking with Barry Bassett at Kiki Savage’s party. He didn’t look very happy,” said Nina.
“Mr. Bassett applied to the local district administration to lengthen the runway at Pineapple Cay airport to accommodate jumbo jets. He hopes to bring in large package tours to stay at his imaginary hotel. I opposed his application. It runs completely contrary to our business model at the inn. We have just thirty rooms and aim at the higher end of the market: fewer guests willing to pay higher prices for the experience we offer. People come here for the intimate setting and the charming small town. Not so charming with a thousand other holidaymakers cluttering up the picturesque bougainvillea-draped lanes and drag-racing Sea-Doos in the cove.”
He put his cigarette to his lips again and inhaled the smoke, exhaling it slowly through his nostrils.
“He called me a snob. Yes, so what?” Michel said. “A socialist, too, if I’m not mistaken. Although I would have thought it difficult to be both an elitist and an advocate for the redistribution of wealth from the rich to the poor, but never mind. He accused me of pissing all over the free-market values that made America great. I think he has forgotten that Pineapple Cay is not part of the United States of America, and like many of us here,
he is a guest in this country at the pleasure of the government.” He smiled at Nina.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “The hotel business is very entertaining. A new adventure every day. I had this romantic notion of being an innkeeper on a tropical isle when I retired from publishing in France. Freshly squeezed orange juice followed by tennis in the mornings and glamorous ladies to chat with at dinner. Very Noel Coward. Sometimes it is like that. Other times the glamour must be found in locating someone to fix the sluggish plumbing or finessing women like Tiffany Bassett.” His eyes were on the horizon while he spoke. He languidly turned his head to meet Nina’s eyes, then glanced away again, eyes roaming the terrace as he continued.
“Yes, there is a whole genre of literature devoted to such tales. The hapless expatriates who move to a charming village full of delightful characters to run a hotel. Have you read Herman Wouk’s Don’t Stop the Carnival? Hotel Pastis? Chateau Bon Vivant? I have a whole shelf of such books in my library. My friends find it humorous to ferret them out and send them to me as birthday gifts. There is also the subgenre of memoirs by hapless expatriates who move to a charming village full of delightful characters to renovate an old house.”
He paused and glanced at her. “Yes, I eschewed retirement to a villa in the south of France for the life of an innkeeper on Pineapple Cay. And what about you, Dr. Spark?” he asked, turning his full attention to her. “What brings you to our island?”
What had she been thinking, she wondered. She also observed that he had accorded her the title of doctor for the first time, although she hadn’t referred to herself in that way. How did he know that much about her?
“A similar daydream,” she replied. “A little cottage on the beach far from the trials and tribulations of daily life. It is certainly lovely here, but I can’t say it has been all that peaceful thus far.”
“Well, I do hope it will live up to your expectations,” he said with a little smile as he rose. She stood as well.
“It has been delightful to meet you, Mademoiselle Spark. Have a pleasant day, and please come again.” She was Mademoiselle again. He bowed his head slightly and strolled off down the length of the terrace, nodding and smiling at guests sitting at the wrought iron café tables with their elegant lunch plates and glasses of iced tea. As he passed the parrot’s cage, it squawked again loudly and said in a clear voice with a British accent, “Rubbish! Just rubbish!”
“Shut up, you stupid bird!” said Michel. “Didn’t I tell you? I found a new recipe for roast parrot in a mango reduction. Mind yourself!”
The bird-watching couple turned their heads in unison to follow his progress down the steps and across the lawn to the tennis courts, their mouths still gaping in shock.
Surely, an obnoxious guest and a business disagreement with her husband would not provoke a person to murder, thought Nina. What a ridiculous idea. Of course, murder is not exactly a rational act. It is the result of an all-consuming emotion—hatred, jealousy, greed. She’d noticed that he had continually referred to Tiffany Bassett in the past tense.
And then what about the yoga ladies’ theories that either some Russian mobsters were teaching Barry a lesson, or Barry killed Tiffany because he needed money to keep his condo project alive? But if Barry’s money problems are due to Michel holding up the airport-runway extension, shouldn’t it be Michel who’s dead, not Tiffany?
With a sigh, Nina gathered her things and walked through the arched doorway from the porch into the lobby. On a sofa in a corner, Lance the tennis pro was sitting in his tennis whites knee to knee with a pretty young woman in a sundress. They were laughing and talking. Lance didn’t look particularly concerned or upset, considering the woman he was having some kind of an affair with had been violently abducted.
On an impulse, Nina went over to the reception desk. “Is it possible to take a lesson with the tennis pro?” she asked the young woman working there.
“Yes, of course, Madame.” The young woman looked at her computer screen and typed furiously for a few seconds. “Lance is available tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, if that is suitable,” she said.
“Thank you. That would be fine,” said Nina.
She walked slowly home down the long tree-lined drive and through town. There, she made a sandwich and took it out on the veranda. After lunch, she took a long, lazy swim in the sea, constantly scanning the depths for the dark shape of a shark. Fatigued from the scraping, sanding, and yoga, she decided to give home renovation a pass for the afternoon and see what she could learn about the Morning Glory at the Pineapple Cay Museum.
The Pineapple Cay Museum was located on Seagarden Street, one block from the waterfront main drag, Water Street. The building and grounds of the museum occupied a large lot. The museum itself was relatively small in terms of museums—more the size of a large house—but it was the grandest building in town. The two-story, whitewashed stucco building had a covered portico in front, which was supported by a row of columns. It was situated in the middle of a lawn shaded by ancient banyan and sweet-smelling frangipani trees. Three or four pieces of stone and metal sculpture stood on concrete plinths scattered around the grounds. A low stone wall ran around the entire property. Nina noticed that the diminutive public library was right next door to the museum, housed in a cheerily painted converted clapboard cottage with window boxes overflowing with vibrant blooms.
Nina went through the front gate and up the path to the door of the museum, which stood open. The wooden floor creaked as she stepped through the vestibule, where a few forlorn umbrellas leaned in a stand made from a giant antique-brass shell casing. Directly ahead of her, in the lobby, she could see Alice seated behind a desk and Danish in a chair that had been pulled up to it. He was leaning toward her with his elbows on the desk. Alice was sitting back in her chair with her hands folded in front of her, listening to Danish with an inscrutable expression on her face. There was a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee in it on the desk in front of them, a half-eaten Danish pastry and an untouched cinnamon roll resting on two paper napkins beside it.
“Oh, boy,” said Nina to herself as she pulled open the glass air-sealed doors and entered the cool, climate-controlled interior of the museum. Inside the lobby, large paintings hung on all sides. To the left and right, wide archways led into what Nina assumed were the galleries. A set of stairs climbed out of sight behind the desk.
Alice looked up and smiled at Nina. Danish followed Alice’s eyes to where Nina stood. He looked slightly put out to see her but also a bit desperate, like a quietly drowning man. Although Nina did not know him very well or for very long, she had already seen a number of instances of his indifference to the numerous small attentions and batted eyelashes of young ladies around town. It was interesting to see him under the sway of this serious-looking wisp of a girl.
Alice stood up and walked toward Nina, smiling. “Hello, Dr. Spark. Kiki said you might come in for some information on the Morning Glory. Would you like to see some of the artifacts? I can tell you what we’ve learned.”
“That would be wonderful. Call me Nina. How are you doing after Saturday night?” she asked.
“I’m OK,” said Alice. “I just keep going over it in my mind, wondering why I didn’t see anything or hear anything other than the tap running. I followed Tiffany into the house right away.” She sighed. “Anyway, I know my uncle is working as hard as he can to find her. We’re in the process of preparing the exhibit upstairs, if you want to follow me.” She headed toward the staircase, and Nina followed.
Danish hung back, unsure what to do.
Alice looked back at him over her shoulder. “You can come see them, too, if you like,” she said.
His face lit up like he’d won the lottery rather than the chance to look at some barnacle-encrusted artifacts.
At the top of the stairs was a long hallway. There were a couple of offices and a meeting room on the side facing the street. Large windows filled these areas with sunlight, filtered by the mature trees on the
lawn. On the other side of the corridor was a glass air-sealed door. Alice took a key from her pocket and unlocked it, then stood aside to allow them to enter. They walked into a large open space with two long worktables running down its center, and canvases and boxes stacked against the walls and in corners. High transom windows let in the daylight. At one end of the room stood a large putty-green metal floor safe.
Alice walked over to the worktable and switched on a task light. “These are some of the pieces recovered from the Morning Glory,” she said.
A handful of gold coins, a tortoiseshell comb, a rusted knife, and some tin plates were laid out on a tray. A box of white cotton gloves sat next to it. Alice put on a pair and lifted the coins for them to see.
“The Morning Glory was owned by Robert Sifton of Charleston, South Carolina. His wife was Mary. They had been married eight years but had no children. They were loyalists from South Carolina, loyal to the British Crown. After the American Revolution, several thousand British loyalists came to the islands to start a new life, many as plantation owners. As you can see, some of the artifacts look more like lumps of rust than anything else,” said Alice.
“I was going to say—” said Danish.
“One of our challenges with the exhibit is to bring them to life for the visiting kids and everyone else,” continued Alice. “These are some things we’ve collected to go with the emerald.”
She carefully picked up a photograph. “This is a photograph of a portrait of Mary Sifton that hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London.” She took a magnifying glass off the table and held it over the photograph for them to see.
“See—she’s wearing the emerald in the painting. She grew up in England and was the daughter of a wealthy wool merchant. He paid to have this portrait of her painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds the month before she set sail for America with her new husband, Robert Sifton. She met Robert in 1772 when he came to London on business with his father. They were married at Mary’s family estate six months later, and they departed for America shortly thereafter. I think her parents must have loved her very much and wanted something to remember her by. That’s what I imagine, anyway. As it happens, they never saw each other again. The Revolution broke out, and then the Morning Glory sank in the cut between Wreath and Lizard Cays in a storm. It stayed there until Mr. Bassett’s crew brought it up.”