Murder Caribbean-Style (High Seas Mystery Series Book 1)

by Diane Rapp

  “You sure it’s safe?” Kayla crinkled her nose and brushed dust off the tattered seat. “It looks more like a tin can than a car.”

  He patted the steering wheel affectionately. “She’s brilliant, runs like a champ! Belongs to a chum, so don’t be so picky. She’ll serve as transport to the tourist traps in your book.”

  Kayla bristled. “Tourist traps! I only recommend attractions that give value for the dollar.”

  Steven rolled his eyes. “Spare me the commercial and climb in.”

  She gripped the overhead roll bar, stepped gingerly over the mud-coated side, and looked for a place to wipe her hand. With a toothy grin Steven handed her a well-used rag.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “Up Hospital Hill Road to the Catholic cathedral, there’s a priest I need to interview.”

  Kayla averted her gaze from Steven’s questioning stare. In silence they drove past the Houses of Parliament and a row of historic colonial homes. Fidgeting in her seat, Kayla pointed to the cathedral. He parked the car and waited for an explanation.

  She blushed. “Okay! A bartender friend on ship told me this priest helped Patrick send money to Ireland.”

  Steven frowned. “You think he’d know something about the murder?”

  She dropped her gaze. “No, but I need to understand why Patrick stopped sending donations to the Irish school. Do you mind?”

  “If a priest can ease your mind, go ahead. I’ve got calls to make on my mobile.” He unfolded his phone and opened a well-worn address book.

  “I won’t be long.” She climbed out of the Jeep and hurried up the stone walkway.

  A sign by the front door welcomed visitors, but Kayla tiptoed through the massive door. She felt like an intruder, diminished by the vaulted ceilings, oversized paintings, and cavernous interior. Her sandals clacked against the polished stone floor, echoing ominously as she hugged the periphery of the chapel. Attracted by the smell of burnt candle wax from a side alcove, she glanced inside.

  A somber marble statue of Mary, draped in gold fabric stared at her with lifeless white eyes. Mary’s frozen gesture of outstretched hands beckoned while candles flickered and wax flowed around the feet of the statue like a frozen waterfall.

  “May I help you?”

  Kayla whirled to see a wizened old priest dressed in voluminous black robes staring through thick glasses. Though his slight frame could be blown away by a whisper, Kayla felt trapped.

  “I . . . came to see . . . that is, can you tell me where to find Father Joseph?” she stuttered.

  He nodded. His pale blue eyes squinted but his thin lips curled into a well-practices smile. “You’ll find him playing basketball with the boys outside. Follow the corridor, turn left, and use the side exit.” He drifted silently back into the dark church.

  Emerging from the somber cathedral, Kayla found herself in a cheerful garden that vibrated with color. Red bougainvillea arched over the doorway, stalks of ginger formed a fragrant wall of white, blue, and pink flowers.

  Ping! Ping! The sound of a ball hitting concrete and the clamor of voices lured Kayla down a well-groomed path. A group of rangy teens dressed in baggy uniforms scurried over a cracked concrete basketball court. Kayla expected to see Bing Crosby in a cleric’s collar but found Larry Byrd, a burly redhead over six feet tall, loping around the court while he bounced the basketball in perfect time. He dodged past juvenile defenders, jumped into the air, and slammed the ball through the naked hoop in one fluid motion.

  “No fair, Father! You was traveling,” a young voice protested.

  Father Joseph rounded on the youngster, his face set in a deep frown. “Shall we add poor sportsmanship to your next confession, Peter? We both know I bounced the ball each time I took a step. I’m famous for perfect timing and my slam dunks.” He grinned and Peter’s stiff shoulders relaxed.

  The tittering of the other boys stopped as they spotted Kayla. Father Joseph turned with a start. His eyes sparkled and he broke into a boyish grin. “To the showers, boyos. I have a visitor, so off with you now.” He ran long fingers through sweat-darkened red hair, retrieved a towel, and draped it over his neck as he sat down on a bench. “I assume you came to find me,” he said.

  Kayla nodded. “Sorry to interrupt the game.”

  “No problem. I was fair tuckered from the lads and needed an excuse to stop. Pardon the uniform, my clerical collar doesn’t fit this shirt.” He glanced down at his baggy knee-length shorts and T-shirt with the word “Coach” hand-stitched on the front. “Tell me what you need, lass.”

  Kayla sat down. “I was a friend of Patrick MacIntyre.”

  Father Joseph’s emerald eyes squinted. “Was a friend? Has something happened to him?”

  Kayla shrugged. “Patrick died last week, poisoned.”

  Father Joseph rubbed his head with the towel. “And you’d be thinking it was murder I take it?”

  Kayla chewed on her lower lip. “There’s not much doubt. I’ve been looking into it with a friend who works for Interpol.”

  “So why come to see me? I’ve not seen Patrick for nearly a year and he wasn’t Catholic.”

  The bench creaked as Kayla leaned back, resting her shoulders against warped rails. “It’s personal. Patrick and I were once very close.”

  Joseph nodded. “You’d be Kayla. Patrick wrote about you in his early letters.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? Do you know why he broke it off?”

  Joseph leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. “I feel my telling you might break a personal confidence.”

  “I know Patrick was involved with a bombing in Ireland, and you helped him send money to St. Bertram’s school.”

  He sighed. “Sean sent you to me then. Mind you, the bomb was none of Patrick’s doing. Still, he felt a powerful guilt, drove you away rather than confess his actions. He then tried to buy forgiveness by sending money to St. Bertram’s. Sure and I helped him with that part of his plan.”

  “So, you knew how he was raising the money?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t realize at first. The dribbles of money he sent seemed right enough for his station. Then he started sending too much money, bragging about clever schemes to solicit donations from rich ladies. I hoped it was legitimate, so I still let it slide.”

  “Why’d he stop?”

  Joseph’s face flushed. “That would be my fault. When I heard he started dealing drugs—such a nasty business, the scourge of the young—we had a thunderous row. It was quite a scene, me accusing Patrick of devilish deeds, and him justifying it all to make money for the kids. I told him I’d not touch tainted money, and he rounded on me, flinging his fists. I fair lost my temper—we Irish have temper to spare—and poor Patrick ended up with a black eye and bloody lip. I ended up with a year’s worth of penance that I’m still working off.”

  Joseph pondered. “You should understand, Kayla. In Northern Ireland there was no middle ground during the conflict. People had to take sides, got sucked into a pointless struggle centuries in the making, so I came to Grenada to free myself from Irish insanity. I stayed even after Ireland made peace with the Brits.

  “I understood the people here, since they experienced the same sort of conflict. Every time the island changed hands, the Anglicans or the Catholics seized control of the church nearest the Carnage. It created hard feelings on both sides. When the English got the island by treaty, the Catholics were forced to move up the hill and built this cathedral as their final church home.”

  “They ended up with the better neighborhood,” Kayla said.

  He laughed. “Looks that way today, but it was a huge problem in those days, as climbing that hill took more effort. The people on this island mended their differences, but Ireland seethed with hatred even after the peace agreement. Most turned in their weapons but pockets of IRA resisted for near six years and some on the other side retaliated. Both sides share the blame and I pray that the peace lasts. When Patrick got caught up in that bombing, somethi
ng inside him cheered. He killed the enemy . . . but his enemy developed a face, a child’s face.”

  Kayla nodded. “He felt guilty.”

  “It was more than guilt. An IRA bomb killed Patrick’s parents and he grew up with his wealthy English aunt. She couldn’t find it in her heart to bestow love upon the lad and used her money as a substitute. Patrick followed her example and threw money at his problems. He viewed himself as an Irish Robin Hood until he started spending some of the money on himself. He dressed like a dandy and flaunted cash like a bloody land baron. When I confronted him, he shrugged it off, said it was time he benefited from his own efforts.”

  She swallowed. “Do you think it might have made a difference if I understood his pain?”

  Joseph grimaced. “None of this was your doing, lass. Patrick was a stubborn man who made his own choices.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Tears stung Kayla’s eyes as she walked away. Father Joseph stood alone bouncing the basketball as he gazed into the cloudless sky.

  Back in the car Steven asked, “Did you get your answers?”

  She nodded. “I guess. Let’s get going.”

  Steven started the engine. “You’re the tour guide.”

  “Let’s start with Grand Anse Beach.” Kayla slumped in the seat, pretending to read her notes. Was Father Joseph right? She wished she could go back in time and test the theory. Maybe Patrick would be alive today if she’d been more sensitive five years ago.

  Grand Anse Beach was a long stretch of white sand filled with white-skinned tourists and black-skinned venders. Steven took off his shoes and wiggled his toes in wet sand as Kayla collected rate cards from the beach dive shop.

  “Ever wonder how they ride those contraptions?” Steven asked Kayla, pointing at a long yellow banana-shaped float skimming the water behind a speedboat.

  “It’s safer than a parasail,” Kayla said.

  “Oh? Floating over the ocean in a parachute looks fun. Should we give it a go?”

  “Not enough time on our schedule.” Kayla headed back to the car.

  As they drove round a curve Kayla frowned and pointed to the rearview mirror. “Do you see that green car? It’s been following us.”

  Steven glanced into the mirror. “I know. I’ll watch and be careful. It wouldn’t do to accost a bloke who might be following the itinerary in your book. You need all the readers you can get.”

  Kayla stuck her tongue out but kept her eye on the mirror.

  They visited the botanic gardens and stopped at a rum distillery that reeked of molasses. In the tasting room Steven sipped rum samples while Kayla sorted through a rack of brochures.

  “I can’t believe there are so many kinds of rum. They even make Bay Rum aftershave.” He opened a bottle and sniffed. “Whew! It’s a bit overpowering, take a whiff. It reeks.” He waved the bottle under Kayla’s nose.

  “That’s it! The man who attacked me wore this scent!”

  Steven rolled his eyes. “I don’t approve of his taste. We could hire a bloodhound to sniff him out.”

  She slapped him on the shoulder. “Stop joking! I’ve smelled this scent before but I can’t remember who wore it. Should we buy a bottle?”

  Steven shrugged. “I’d rather buy some of this rum. I’m quite taken with the effect.”

  Kayla shoved the rum bottle back onto the shelf. “Try one more sample and I’m driving.”

  Steven followed her to the car, noticing the green car parked down the road. He started the Jeep and said, “Grab the roll-bar. We’re going for a wild ride.”

  Kayla’s favorite drive in Grenada followed the rugged Atlantic coastline. Today she caught her breath as Steven raced along crooked fingers of land rising hundreds of feet above crashing waves and jagged black rocks. The dilapidated Jeep accelerated past stately European houses perched atop craggy cliffs.

  “We lost him.” Steven slowed the Jeep and peered out the back window.

  “That was exciting.” Kayla exhaled.

  They continued down the narrow road. Rounding a sharp curve at the end of the peninsula, Steven slammed on the brake. The green car blocked the road and a burly black man leaned against the hood.

  “Climb behind the wheel and keep the engine running,” Steven said as he climbed out and walked toward the adversary, looking like a gunfighter ready to draw.

  “Damn!” Kayla cursed as she climbed over the gearshift and settled into the driver’s seat. “Why do men always play the macho hero?”

  As the two men stood talking, their rigid stance relaxed, and then they laughed and shook hands. The black man slid into the green car, revved the engine, and cruised past the Jeep grinning.

  Kayla climbed out of the Jeep and stomped over to Steven, who stood in the middle of the road alone.

  “Don’t stand there grinning like an idiot,” she hissed. “What happened?”

  Steven laughed. “Timothy loaned me the Jeep but forgot to mention he’s been dodging a jealous husband all week. That bloke hoped to catch Tim and break a few bones.”

  “Couldn’t he see you weren’t the right guy?”

  Steven nodded. “He realized his mistake when we got close, but Tim looks a bit like me from a distance.”

  “I’m relieved he wasn’t a killer trying to eliminate investigators,” Kayla said. “This whole business makes me jumpy. Let’s go back to the ship. I’ll pack my bag and we can leave the island.”

  Steven drove back at a leisurely pace and parked on the Carnage. Near the gangplank a steel band played oil drums with bowl-shaped welded metal tops polished to a high luster. The adroit musicians created incredible sounds that resembled piano and organ music played in a purely Caribbean lilt.

  Kayla said, “You wait here while I pop onto the ship and pack my bag.”

  “Good. I love this music.” He slid back in the seat and closed his eyes. “Give my greetings to Shannon.”

  Kayla found Shannon engulfed by a wall of file folders.

  “If you’re not here to help, go away,” Shannon growled. “Patrick left this place in ruins!”

  “Sorry. I’ve come to tell you I’m abandoning ship and joining Steven.” Kayla leaned over and pecked Shannon’s cheek.

  Shannon raised an eyebrow and frowned. “Is this getting serious?”

  Kayla hesitated. Should she tell her friend about the attack? No. Why give Shannon more worries? “We’ve got a few leads, so Steven thinks we’d better stick together.”

  Shannon grinned. “Sure! You two go and have some fun while I work like a drudge.”

  Emerging from the ship with her packed bag, Kayla shook Steven awake. They dropped the car off and took a cab to the airport. After passing through customs and security, they walked onto an empty airfield.

  “Where’s the plane?” Kayla asked.

  “We’re not taking a commercial flight, it’s a cargo plane. See? Here comes Duncan now.” Kayla followed Steven across the tarmac to a small cargo plane that looked like it needed a paint job. Airport ground crew caught packages thrown out of the hatch and piled them into a trailer attached to a golf cart.

  The scruffy pilot was a fifty-something white man dressed in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, and black tennis shoes without socks. Duncan gestured for them to climb into the plane.

  “Careful with this one, mate. It’s marked fragile,” he shouted over the growl of the engines and tossed the fragile package overhand. “See you tomorrow!” He touched the brim of his Yankee baseball cap and slid the cargo door shut with a whoosh.

  Deftly maneuvering through packages, Duncan shouted to Steven, “She sits up front with me. You use the jump seat, copper.” Steven frowned at the tattered folding chair bolted to the side of the plane. Stuffing dangled from a tear in the plastic cushion and bolts wobbled in the fastenings.

  “You could always use a crate.” Duncan gestured at the cargo. “You choose, mate.” He ducked into the cockpit, bending his six-foot frame to avoid banging his head as he plopped into a seat covered with
terry cloth.

  Kayla stepped over a box, wondering how they’d escape the mess if the plane went down. She squeezed into the copilot’s seat, snagged the safety belt, and stretched it over her chest.

  Duncan handed a clipboard to Kayla. “Sign in and read the bit about safety. When you’re done hand it over to Steven. He knows the drill.”

  The top sheet was a release statement with signature and date lines. The second page contained a faded diagram of the plane with arrows highlighting exit doors and floatation devices. Underneath she found a stack of release forms from previous trips with Steven’s signature on nearly every page. Kayla smiled. So this was how Steven hopped from island to island. She signed the release and handed the clipboard to Steven.

  Duncan flipped switches, talked into a headset, peered down the runway, and latched the open window, all in one continuous movement. The plane eased forward, its engines buzzing like an angry insect.

  Kayla examined the dials on the control panel. She wondered how pilots could keep track of all these dials and still manage to fly. When driving Kayla checked the gas gauge and speedometer but trusted the car to flash a warning light when it needed something else.

  Would lights flash if something went wrong? Was this scruffy pilot capable of handling an emergency over water? She clenched her teeth. When Steven returned the clipboard, she memorized the plane’s diagram.

  They waited until a large plane landed on the runway ahead. Duncan skirted out on the tarmac without hesitation and darted into the space vacated by the larger aircraft. Rolling to the end of the runway, Duncan spun the plane on its axis and revved the engines to a high pitch, like a drag racer ready to pop the clutch.

  Waves of heat shimmered over the runway as the pungent odor of gas and hot tar permeated the cockpit. Kayla felt queasy. Had gas leaked from the corroded fuel tank? She imagined intense heat turning this rusty pile of junk into a fireball of death.

  Duncan listened to his headset, checked dials, and quoted numbers into the microphone. The engines roared, the plane lurched forward, and they rushed headlong down the runway toward sparkling blue water.

  Gaining speed, the runway seemed unbearably short. Kayla gripped the armrest, having lost faith in the concept of flight, but the plane glided into the air before the runway ended. The plane leveled out a few hundred feet above the ocean and Kayla released her death grip on the armrest.