No wonder Laurie often referred to the lagoon in her letters. She’d indicated in one of them that there was a native superstition attached to the lagoon. Something about standing in its waters and kissing ensuring a long, loving life together. A nice thought. How fortunate for Walter and Laurie to have been able to purchase such a prime piece of land on which to build the inn of their dreams.
I changed into a multicolored Indonesian batik wrap provided guests by the inn, took my Lover’s Lagoon cocktail and a book I’d been reading on the flight to one of the chaise lounge chairs and settled in, enjoying the sensation of all the tensions of the past year draining from my body.
When I awoke, the drink missing only one sip and my book unopened, the sun had fallen into the lagoon, splashing its water and sand with crimson. I started to laugh, held my drink in a toast to the serene setting before me, and said aloud, “To life.”
Chapter 3
When I arrived at the inn’s small dining room, Walter was seated alone at a table. I assumed Laurie was in the kitchen. He stood and extended his arms. “Hello, Jessica!” he said. “A sight for sore eyes.” We embraced. He then took my hand and kissed it. Moving to St. Thomas hadn’t altered that aspect of Walter Marschalk. He was known as Cabot Cove’s resident hand-kisser, sometimes to the chagrin of certain Cabot Cove ladies.
“Come, sit,” he said, holding out a chair that afforded a splendid view of Lover’s Lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
“Beauty in every direction,” I said. “I had no idea you’d ended up with such a magnificent property, Walter. You must wake up every morning and marvel at it.”
“Depends on how many bills arrived the previous day,” he said. His inflection was lighthearted, but I sensed he’d forced it. Maybe it was his physical appearance that told me so. He looked haggard, a man who’d suffered one too many recent defeats. Walter had always been a strong, solidly built man, but he’d lost weight. Too much weight. His hair had changed, too. It had been coal-black—I was certain he hadn’t dyed it back in Cabot Cove because men who dye their hair are always so easy to spot. At least for me they are. His hair was now almost completely gray and in need of a trim. That was probably the most telltale sign of all that something was wrong. This man who’d prided himself on a fastidious appearance was now unkempt. Caribbean-casual? Tropical laid-back? Somehow, I didn’t think so.
But the twinkle in his hazel eyes hadn’t disappeared. Walter had always had mischievous eyes. It was good to see the sparkle still there.
“Settled in?” he asked.
“Very much so. The room—the rooms are lovely. I fell asleep on the terrace.”
“That’s what terraces are for. Excuse me.” He got up to seat a man and woman who’d arrived for dinner.
“Is Laurie in the kitchen?” I asked when he returned.
“No. She’s having dinner in town. Business.”
“Oh. You must wear a dozen hats every day. Do you do the cooking when she’s gone?”
“On occasion. Excuse me.” He disappeared through swinging doors into what I assumed was the kitchen, returning with a native waiter dressed in a tuxedo. Anger was etched on Walter’s face when he again rejoined me.
“Please don’t feel obligated to entertain me, Walter. Just go about your business, and I’ll—”
“I don’t know how many times I have to remind the help that the guests come first,” he said.
“Is finding good help a problem?” I asked.
“One of many, Jess.” He motioned the waiter to the table. “This is Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “She’s a special guest and will share our table each night she’s here.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher,” the waiter said, his bright smile made more so because of the contrast between white teeth and black skin. “Welcome to Lover’s Lagoon. Would you care for a cocktail before dinner?”
“Wine with dinner,” I said. “White.”
Walter selected a white zinfandel, and the waiter left the table.
“Laurie hinted at how difficult it is running an inn,” I said.
“She did?”
“Well, she didn’t go into any detail. Just—hinted.” A man had arrived for dinner and stood at the doorway. Walter didn’t seem to notice, so I said, “You have a guest.”
Walter replied gruffly, “He knows where he sits.”
The man glared at Walter as he crossed the dining room and sat at a table on the opposite side of the room. I thought of Walter’s earlier comment about guests always being first priority and wondered at this surprising breach of that creed. Walter knew what I was thinking. “He’s a spy,” he said matter-of-factly.
“A spy? For whom?”
“Diamond Reef. The monstrosity next door.”
“It’s huge,” I said. “At least what I saw of it from my terrace.”
“Huge, and arrogant. We’ve been at war ever since I bought Lover’s Lagoon. They wanted this property.”
“And that gentleman is here spying for them?”
“I’m pretty sure he is.”
I observed the man, who was giving the waiter his drink order. He didn’t look like a spy to me, although I admit to not having known many. Spies, that is. Was this a case of Walter’s overactive imagination? Middle-age paranoia?
“Diamond Reef is run by a bunch of charlatans,” he said.
Our wine arrived, snuggled in shaved ice in a silver bucket. The evening’s special appetizer was served. A small, handwritten menu indicated it was a conch fritter adorned with ancho chile mayonnaise, cilantro pesto, and fresh lime.
“I’ve never tasted conch before,” I said.
“It’s pronounced conk,” Walter said. “It’s really quite good the way Laurie prepares it.” He was right. It was delicious.
“You were telling me about the owners of the resort next door,” I said after tasting and enthusiastically endorsing Walter’s choice of wine. Walter had seated other guests and now seemed ready to relax, at least for more than a few minutes.
“Right,” he said. “They’re out to take Lover’s Lagoon from me.”
“That beautiful body of water?”
“Not just the lagoon, Jess. Our inn. They’ve resorted to all sorts of tactics to kill our business. They just finished building villa-type units adjacent to their main building. I sent a friend to stay in one of them. He told me they’ve copied our units right down to the lamps and towels.” Obviously, spying on competitors wasn’t alien to Walter. Maybe he was right about the man across the room.
“Do you really pose that much of a threat to Diamond Reef?” I asked. “I mean, this is a small inn. How much business could you realistically take away from them?”
“It isn’t taking business from them that has them up in arms. It’s the lagoon itself.” He leaned closer and used a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, Jess, it took some heavy string pulling to get this property. Until we bought it, it was held in an environmental trust by the U.S. Virgin’s legislature. On top of that, the lagoon was covered by a conservation decree, sort of a national landmark. It’s the prettiest lagoon in the Caribbean, in the world as far as I’m concerned. Add to that all the island myths about its mystical powers to grant a long and loving life, and you have prime property.”
“And?”
“And how did we manage to get it?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’ve had a friend for many years in the Virgin Island Senate. His name is Bobby Jensen. In fact, Laurie and I have become close with both Bobby and his wife, Pamela. At any rate, guests at Diamond Reef always had direct access to the lagoon. Management there used the lagoon’s legend to help market the resort. They didn’t own it, but no one raised an eyebrow when their guests went down to take a swim. Then we came along. With Bobby Jensen’s help, the legislature lifted the decree and took the lagoon and this adjacent property out of the environmental trust. We knew it was about to happen and had the inside track. The minute the property was free of government entanglements, we
bought it.”
“Quite a coup,” I said.
“Sure was. But you can imagine how our friends next door reacted. They screamed bloody murder, threatened all kinds of actions including bodily harm. Now that we sit between them and the lagoon, their guests no longer have access to it. ”
I silently wondered why Walter didn’t simply work out an arrangement with Diamond Reef to grant their guests access to the lagoon. “Owning” water has never seemed fair to me. But I said nothing. The two resorts were obviously locked in an intense competitive struggle. Business. It’s a good thing I’m a writer. I would have been an abject failure as a businesswoman.
Walter seated more guests, and tended to business in the kitchen. I perused that evening’s menu specialties in his absence. There was callaloo soup (Laurie noted on the menu that callaloo was similar to spinach), boneless breast of chicken blackened with Creole spices and accompanied by black beans and avocado salsa, a Caesar salad, and for dessert coconut flan. A second printed menu offered less adventurous standard fare.
Over soup, I asked Walter whether he was in danger of losing the property.
“Sure,” he replied. “Diamond Reef’s management and attorneys are determined to have our purchase declared illegal. They’re trying to turn it into a national scandal, a Virgin Islands’ Watergate. They’re pulling out all the stops. Just yesterday they sent out a press release accusing Bobby of graft and corruption, and branding Laurie and me as interlopers who paid bribes to acquire Lover’s Lagoon.”
“You could sue for libel,” I suggested.
“We don’t have enough money to sue anyone, Jess. Things are tight. There have been some—well, I don’t mind sharing this with you. There have been incidents over the past year that have turned some of our guests sour on the inn. Dead animals and birds found floating in the lagoon, an oil slick mysteriously appearing, even a few confrontations between our guests and unknown native assailants. Doesn’t take many things like that to make sure those guests don’t return. And word gets around fast. Every time something happens, it makes the papers and all the travel publications. It’s been hell.”
“You think Diamond Reef is behind those incidents?”
“Absolutely. I can’t prove it yet, but I’m getting close.”
“I feel terrible for you and Laurie.”
“We feel terrible for us. You know me pretty well, Jess. I’ve always been just a small-town boy from Cabot Cove, Maine. Can you picture me, or Laurie, bribing government officials?” His laugh rendered the question ludicrous.
“Of course not,” I said, not necessarily because I found the notion as ridiculous as he did. Walter and Laurie Marschalk have always been two of my favorite people. I’d always found them to be scrupulously honest and fair. But I also recognized that Walter was not without ambition, especially when it came to Lover’s Lagoon.
I remembered him returning to Cabot Cove from his frequent travels and talking incessantly about the tiny jewel he’d discovered on St. Thomas, and his determination to one day build an inn on it. It was an obsession.
I’d never seen them so ebullient as the day the deal went through and they announced to their friends in Cabot Cove that Lover’s Lagoon was theirs, and that they were preparing to leave Maine.
It occurred to many of us that such an ambitious undertaking would require vast sums of money. Not that the Marschalks were without it. Walter and Laurie always enjoyed the good life, and seemed to have the resources to support it.
Their home in Cabot Cove had six bedrooms, four fireplaces, and was situated on thirty acres on the highest point in town, offering them magnificent views of the harbor, and mountains in the distance. I’d asked about the cost of purchasing the property and building a luxurious inn on it.
“Outside investors,” Walter had replied, and that was the end of that conversation.
Walter surveyed the dining room before continuing with his saga of troubles at Lover’s Lagoon. “Things have gotten so out of hand that I received this in my mail today.” He handed me a yellow post-it note. “YOU’RE A DEAD MAN MARSCHALK,” was written in black ink in small, careful handwriting.
Walt leaned over and asked, “Think it’s legit, Jessica? Should I take it seriously? You know about these things.”
“I’d take any death threat seriously, Walter. Especially considering the circumstances.”
He scowled. “I know you’re right, Jess, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let—” He stopped as a pair of hands belonging to a tall, slim man rested on his shoulders. I judged this visitor to our table to be about forty. His deep, bronze tan might have been painted on his angular face. Coal-black hair was streaked with the perfect amount of gray at the temples to add a requisite touch of wisdom to his chronological age. His clothing was studied casual; pleated chinos, blue-and-white shirt opened enough to reveal an acceptable number of chest hairs. His jacket was blue silk. He’d rolled its cuffs up over the cuffs of his shirt, providing a colorful flourish at his wrists.
“How did I know I’d find you here on a beautiful night, with a beautiful woman,” the stranger said. He directed his words, and his smile at me.
“Hello, Chris.” Walter sounded as enthusiastic as a toll collector in summer at a busy bridge.
The stranger, whose name I now knew was Chris, and who carried a manila envelope, pulled out one of two remaining wrought-iron chairs and sat. “Chris Webb,” he said, extending his hand, which I took. “I’m Walter’s partner in Lover’s Lagoon.” Before I could respond, he said, “And you, of course, are the famous and talented Jessica Fletcher.” He opened the envelope he’d brought to the table. “When I learned you would be our guest, I ran out and bought a copy of your latest book.”
“Good,” I said.
“This may be a Caribbean island, but we do have bookstores,” he said, his smile ever-present. “I’m not much of a reader—no time—but I’d love you to autograph it. I’ve collected a few autographs over the years.”
I returned his smile, accepted the book and pen he handed me, and wrote: “For Chris Webb. Best wishes, Jessica Fletcher.”
“That’s great,” he said, returning the book to the envelope. Somehow, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he went right out and sold the book at a premium autographed price. He had that look about him. Too slick and oily for this lady. I looked at Walter, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Webb abruptly turned from me and directed his attention to Walter. I sat back, sipped my wine, and listened to their conversation.
“Walter, my man, glad to see the place is still standing,” said Webb, patting Walter on the back. He might have been young, but he certainly had the old-boy network mannerisms down pat.
“When did you get in?” Walter asked in a voice that said he really didn’t care.
“A couple of hours ago.” To me: “I live in Miami, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Please call me Jessica.” But not Jess, I thought. That’s reserved for friends.
“And I’m Chris.”
I nodded. I’d hoped he’d again direct his conversation to Walter, but it wasn’t to be. “I’m half responsible for this mess called Lover’s Lagoon,” he told me, laughing and examining nails that had been buffed to a high gloss. “I’m sure Walter’s bored you to tears with his tales of travail and woe.” He seemed a lot less concerned about the “travail and woe” than Walter.
“To the contrary,” I said. “All I know is that if you’re Walter’s partner, you’re partners in a wonderful place. I feel very fortunate to be here.”
“We’re glad to have you, Jessica. You dress up the place.” I expected him to kiss my hand, but he didn’t.
The waiter arrived with a place setting for Webb, but he waved him away. “I won’t be staying,” he said. “I have a dinner engagement in Charlotte Amalie. I just wanted to come by and see how my buddy and partner, Walter, was making out, and to personally welcome this famous lady to Lover’s Lagoon.”
“Believe it or not, Jess,
Chris is the silent partner in this endeavor,” Walter said. We all laughed. It was nice to see Walter unwind a little. His mood to this juncture had been unrelieved somber. Maybe it was the wine. No matter. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“On second thought, I’d love a martini before I go,” Chris announced. “Mind if I linger?”
“Not at all,” I said. Walter summoned the waiter with a wave of his hand.
At first, the conversation was pleasant. Chris Webb toasted me and my books. I toasted Lover’s Lagoon and wished it, and its owners, eternal life and happiness. There was lighthearted banter. Walter told a joke I didn’t think was especially funny, but laughed anyway.
And then the tenor of the table quickly turned. It happened when Walter questioned the competence of the public relations agency in Miami that handled the Lover’s Lagoon account.
“Just leave marketing to me,” Webb said. It was the first time he hadn’t smiled since arriving at the table.
“Nothing’s happening,” Walter said. “They’re ripping us off, giving us nothing for our money.”
“Are you saying that I’m ripping you off?” Webb asked.
“You picked ‘em,” Walter replied. “You pay’em. With our money.”
“I resent this,” said Webb, downing the remains of his drink.
“I don’t give a damn what you resent,” said Walter.
It went downhill from there. The atmosphere at the table had thickened to storm-cloud consistency, like the clouds that now hung precariously low over the lagoon. The daily afternoon rainstorm that normally cooled things off in the islands was behind schedule this day. But not at our table.
The conversation continued to heat up. Harsh words were exchanged between the two men as though I wasn’t there. A side of Walter emerged that I’d never seen before. He used profanities without regard for my female presence.
My discomfort level was reaching its stretching point.
Then, Walter slammed his fist on the table and said far too loudly for the romantic, peaceful setting of the dining room, “Excuse us, Jess. I’ll be back.” Other diners joined me as we watched the two partners brusquely stand, leave the table, exit through French doors to a patio, and walk in the direction of the lagoon. They stopped at the water’s edge, then disappeared into darkness.
Rum and Razors Page 3