"Conductor?" Julia asked.
Paul smiled. "They have a person who opens and closes the door and stops traffic for you to cross the street, if he needs to. He'll also collect the fare."
"Cool," Julia said. "Can I change into some cooler clothes before we go?"
"Good idea," Monica said. "I'd like to do that, too."
"Let's go with Paul, then," Luke said. "We'll put our stuff away and then go see the town."
4
"Nice touch, clearing out her stuff," Troy said. "What made you think of that? Old habits, you thievin' bastard?"
"Watch yourself, pretty boy. I figured if we left her stuff in the room, the people at the resort would get suspicious after a day or two."
They had delivered Mary Nolan early this morning and were sailing south along the west coast of St. Vincent. Troy had the helm, and his companion had spread her belongings out in the cockpit as he pawed through the medium-sized suitcase. "Nice camera and some high-end costume jewelry," the older man muttered.
"Might as well keep the camera. I can't think of anywhere to sell the rest of it. Can you?"
"Nah. Mostly just didn't think it was a good idea to leave it. Made it look too much like somebody coulda snatched her. This way, the hotel will just think she ran out on them, see?"
"Yeah. Five thousand bucks — not a bad score for our first time," Troy said.
"Not too bad," his companion agreed.
"So how much do you think we need to buy enough coke to make it worth the trip north?"
"Hundred grand or so. We get that much uncut shit into Miami an' we can retire an' live large," the older man said.
"That's a shitload of women," Troy mused. "Lots of exposure. Somebody's gonna notice, man."
"Nah. The man said spread it out; never twice in a row at the same island, remember? Stick to loners, like this broad. Nobody misses 'em for a while. Cops on one island don't talk to their neighbors on the next island unless somethin' tips 'em off."
"Still, that's a lot of time and trouble."
"Shit, Troy, it's easy work, man. Besides, there's always virgins."
"What? What're you talkin' about, virgins?"
"You don't fuckin' listen, do you?"
"I missed somethin', I guess. What about virgins? They want virgins?"
"Yeah. He's got a buyer — guy that specializes in Asia and the Middle East."
"How much?"
"Twenty-five grand for a white teenager. Five grand bonus if she's blond."
"Now that's more like it," Troy said. "We can snatch a few like last night for pocket money — keep us in dope while we look for virgins. Only gotta score a few of them, and we'll be set to make that Miami run."
"How we gonna score teenage girls without getting in trouble? Old farts like us?"
"Speak for yourself, man. I can pass for late teens, no trouble. Just need the right haircut and some moisturizer to cover the sun damage. Stick with me, old fart."
"We'll see," the older man said, putting Mary's things back into the suitcase with a few large rocks for ballast. He took out a knife and punctured the nylon in several places after he zipped it closed. "Heave to for a minute. Let's be sure it sinks."
Troy spun the helm, turning their bow to the port, through the wind. After the sails rattled for a few seconds, they filled on the opposite tack, the jib back-winded. The boat stopped, held steady by the pressure of the breeze in the sails, which were working against each other now. The older man dropped the suitcase over the side and they watched it sink from view beneath the clear, indigo-blue water, leaving a momentary trail of bubbles. He turned and grinned at Troy, nodding his head.
Troy cast off the sheet that held the jib back-winded and sheeted the sail in on the opposite tack. The boat began to pick up speed, and he returned to their original course, trimming the sails as his companion watched. After a moment, the older man went below and returned with two moisture-beaded bottles of Carib beer.
"To virgins," Troy said as they clicked the bottles together and drained them in one long draught.
Paul and Connie had given the Regans a quick tour of Diamantista and walked them to the marina gate. On the way back to the boat, Connie had been quiet, offering monosyllabic responses to Paul's conversational gambits. Uncomfortable with her aloofness, he had suggested lunch in the marina restaurant as a diversion, hoping that it might encourage her to tell him what was wrong.
Once they had ordered, he had attempted to make small talk, commenting on their guests. "Julia's a nice little girl," he'd said.
Connie had nodded absently and mumbled, "For a teenager."
"She held up her end of the conversation well," Paul said. "Not like a lot of kids her age. Of course, most of the ones I've known didn't have her advantages."
Connie had cast a brief glance in his direction and looked away, pretending interest in some activity at the yacht club dock across the harbor.
"They're nice people, Luke and Monica," he said.
"Seemed to be, yes," Connie had said, still avoiding his eye.
"It's nice to have normal people aboard," he said.
"Normal? As opposed to ... what, exactly?"
"Well, they're a big improvement over Karen and Cynthia," he offered, pleased that she had asked a question instead of giving a closed-end reply.
He caught a flicker of heat in the furtive glance she cast his way at that comment. She sat up straight and clenched her jaw for a moment. Then she took a deep breath, letting it out in a soft sigh as she let her shoulders sag.
He had been spared further effort at conversation by the delivery of their salads. They had finished their lunch in uncomfortable silence. After Paul settled the check, he said, "Well, I should get to work. It's time to service the diesel; I might as well do it now and get it out of the way so I don't have to squeeze it in during the charter."
Connie had nodded. "I'm going to walk into town and check out the used bookstore," she said. "Maybe I'll stop at the book-swap shelf at the yacht club on the way back."
"Good hunting, then," Paul said. "If you see something you think I'd like, grab it for me, okay?"
"Sure," she said, getting up and walking toward the exit while he waited for the waiter to return with his credit card and receipt.
He had finished the engine work and was taking out the ingredients for a big 'welcome aboard' dinner when he heard voices approaching along the dock. He recognized Connie's rich, slightly sultry tone as she spoke with the Regans. He wondered if she had deliberately arranged to return with them to avoid being alone with him.
"That was a phenomenal dinner, Paul," Monica said, taking a sip of the coffee that Paul had served with dessert. "I'm going to have to watch myself if you cook like this all the time."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it; that's what we like to hear," Paul said.
"Where'd you learn to cook like that, anyway?" Monica persisted. "Luke can't make a cheese sandwich."
"Well, I like to eat, and I spent most of my life as a bachelor, so ... "
Monica laughed. "You're a lucky woman, Connie."
Connie forced a smile. "What did you see on your walk this afternoon?"
Monica and Luke exchanged glances, surprised at the sudden change of topic.
"We walked all the way around the Carenage," Julia said. "It's amazing; we could see all kinds of fish and eels and things on the bottom. How deep is that water, anyway?"
"The depth varies," Connie said. "Up close to the seawall along the east side, it's only a few feet deep."
"Where all the little boats were tied up?" Julia asked.
"That's right, but when you round the corner over there where the inter-island freighters are, it gets pretty deep. Maybe 15 or 20 feet, at least. But it's still clear enough to see the fish on the bottom."
"That's really cool," Julia said. "When Dad and I went to the Georgia coast on vacation last year, the water wasn't clear like that."
"No, it's not. But that's partly because of all the mud from th
e marshlands," Connie said.
"Oh. Have you been there?"
Connie smiled at the girl. "Yes. I used to live there."
"Where?" Julia asked.
"Savannah."
"Lucky for you," Julia said. "Savannah's so pretty."
"It is a pretty part of the country. I actually lived at Thunderbolt, on the Wilmington River."
"I remember that name. We went there, didn't we, Dad?"
"Yes. We had lunch in a restaurant overlooking the river there on our way back from the beach."
"So did you live on the water?" Julia asked.
"No, I lived in a condo that was across the road from the river. I had a nice view of the river and the marsh, though."
"Did you have a boat then?" Julia asked.
"No, I was involved in a local business for a while. I hadn't discovered boats yet. And I wouldn't have had the time or the money anyway."
"So how'd you get Diamantista?"
"Julia, enough with the questions; give Connie a break, why don't you?" Luke asked.
"It's okay," Connie said, with a genuine smile. "I don't mind."
"I'm sorry, Connie," Julia said.
"No need to apologize; we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted. Let's talk a little about what you'd like to do for the next three weeks."
"Well, our return flights are from Dominica, so does that mean we'll be in a rush?" Monica asked. "The charter broker seemed to think it would work okay."
"That will be fine; Dominica's about 200 nautical miles north of here. That's around 24 hours of sailing time, if we went straight through, but there are lots of places worth seeing between here and there," Connie said.
"What kinds of things interest you?" Paul asked. "There are pristine beaches, some wonderful reefs to snorkel, and all kinds of hiking."
"And a few quaint towns and cities," Connie added, watching Julia's reaction. "Not to mention some interesting historic sites from the colonial era."
"It all sounds great," Monica said. "A bit overwhelming, though. What would you recommend?"
"Well, the beauty of a charter is that you don't really have to decide all at once," Connie said. "We can take it a day at a time. You'll find a cruising guide to the Windward Islands on the bookshelf in your cabin — you, too, Julia. So look through that and see what piques your interest."
"If you're beat from the trip, there's plenty to see in Grenada if you want to do an island tour tomorrow," Paul offered.
"Well, I think I'd like to chill out on some of those beaches you were talking about," Monica said. "Are there any 'must sees' in Grenada, or are there similar sights along the way?"
"Every island's a little different," Paul said.
"But you aren't going to be able to see everything in a few weeks," Connie said. "Grenada will still be here for next time, and some of the other islands offer similar natural attractions."
"We could head for Carriacou in the morning," Paul said. "It's an easy sail. There's a great little spot at Sandy Island there where you might even have the beach to yourselves."
"Sold," Luke said.
Monica grinned and nodded, turning to Julia. "How about it?"
"Sounds great," Julia said. "Will I be able to snorkel there?"
"You bet," Connie said. "Carriacou it is, then."
Mary wasn't sure how long she had been awake when she noticed that her eyes were open. She was staring at a blank, white panel. Unable to tell how far away it was, she raised her left hand and reached toward it. Her vision swirled and her arm flopped back onto the mattress. "Mattress," she thought. "I'm in bed." But the bedroom wall in her apartment wasn't such a stark white; it was more of a wheat color. She closed her eyes, pondering the problem of her whereabouts. After an indeterminate period, she remembered that she was on a vacation, a celebratory trip of some kind. She pondered what she might be celebrating for a moment. "Divorce," she heard herself mutter, feeling hoarseness as she tried to speak. She kept her eyes closed, still queasy from her last visual experience, and assessed her situation.
She lay on her stomach, her head turned to her left side, her cheek resting on her right forearm. She was stiff, cramped. She rolled onto her right side with some trepidation. A moment passed, and she didn't feel nauseated, so she opened her eyes again, taking in the gleaming white expanse of a bare, glossy surface. She held her gaze steady, waiting to see if her vision swirled again. "Okay," she murmured, seeing that her vision seemed steady now. She could hear a low-pitched, rumbling sound, accompanied by just the slightest vibration. As she lay still, taking stock, she felt that her bladder was full, and painfully so. She needed relief. Carefully, she rolled over onto her back, pausing to see if her vision swam; she felt as if it might. It didn't, however, so she rolled farther, onto her left side. She was in a narrow bed, its edge only inches away. There was a foot and a half or two feet of open space, and then another wall, this one made up of cabinet doors. She ran her eyes along the cabinets toward her feet and saw a door which was opened back against the wall, where it was held by a hook of some kind. Through the door, she made out the shape of a small sink and the front of a commode.
Gingerly, she rolled herself to a sitting position, putting her bare feet on the floor. She stood, feeling a bit wobbly, and braced herself against the wall of cabinets until she felt steady enough to work her way to the door. On the way, she saw a small shelf on the wall beside the cabinets. The shelf was about waist-height, and had a lip around the edge to keep things from sliding off. On the shelf was a plate holding a sandwich and an apple. The food was covered with clear plastic wrap, and next to it was a bottle of water.
Stepping into a tiny bathroom, she hiked up her skirt and sat down on the commode. As she relieved herself, she looked down at the floor, noticing that it sloped to a drain in the center. A handheld shower, resembling the dish sprayer in a kitchen sink, was held in a clip of some kind on the opposite wall, just inches in front of her. There were knobs, obviously for hot and cold water, protruding from the wall below the sprayer. Feeling steadily better, she finished her business and stood again, leaning against the wall with the showerhead as she smoothed the short skirt of her black, low-cut cocktail dress. It struck her then that she wasn't wearing underwear — neither panties nor bra. She recalled getting dressed, now. She'd been going to the beach bar at the resort in Grenada, hoping to pick up a man for the evening. Had she succeeded? She couldn't tell. She turned to look in the mirror over the little sink. Her makeup still looked intact — slept-in, but not smeared. She didn't have any soreness anywhere to indicate rambunctious sex, but where the hell was she, and how had she gotten here?
She saw another door in the bathroom, opposite the one she had come through. It was closed. She put her hand on the knob and tried it, but the door was locked, apparently with a key. She realized it must lead to another room like the one she had slept in. She went back into the room where she had awakened and tried the only other door, which she thought must lead to the outside. It, too, was locked. She scanned the room, looking for her purse and shoes. Her sling-back, high-heeled sandals were in a corner by the bed, but her purse was nowhere to be found. Her impulse was to bang on the door, but caution prevailed. She was locked in a strange place with no idea how she'd gotten here, and she felt the beginnings of panic. She sat down on the edge of the bed and put on her shoes. Once she fastened them, she scooted herself back so that she was sitting up in the corner, facing the door. She crossed her ankles, legs straight out on the bed, and tried to reconstruct what had happened after she gotten dressed to go out on the prowl.
Frustrated by her inability to remember, after a few minutes she realized that she was a little hungry. She unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite, surprised at how tasty it was. Smoked turkey and some soft, creamy cheese, with generous slices of ripe avocado, she decided. The first bite went down well, and it seemed to stoke the furnace of her appetite. She finished the sandwich and the apple and drained the bottle of water. Still feeling tired and d
isoriented, she stretched out on the bed and was soon asleep again.
5
Diamantista sliced through the indigo sea at nine knots on a beam reach a few miles west of Grenada. Connie and Paul had just made sail, and he had gone below to clean up the galley from the remains of a big brunch. Connie let the engine idle in neutral while she got the feel of the sails, making minor adjustments to the trim. Julia watched with intense interest from the corner of the cockpit. Luke and Monica were sitting on the forward end of the coachroof, her arm around his shoulders as they gazed at the lush, green shoreline slipping by in the distance. Connie made a last check of the engine instruments and shut the diesel down, enjoying the silence. After a moment, Julia came to sit beside her behind the helm.
Connie turned toward her and smiled. "Want to take the wheel?"
"But I don't know how," Julia protested.
"Can you drive a car?" Connie asked.
"Not yet; I don't have my learner's permit."
"Good. Then you won't have any trouble," Connie said, moving to the side.
"Huh? I don't ... "
"Just put your hands on the helm, maybe 18 inches apart."
A dubious look on her face, Julia did as Connie asked, placing her hands beside Connie's. Connie took her own hands away and shifted a few inches to the side. "Slide over and get in the center," she said. "It's easier to get the feel that way. Now, pick out a spot on the horizon straight off the bow, and keep the boat aimed for it, okay?"
"Why is it good that I don't drive a car?"
"Because it's not the same, and everybody thinks it should be. You don't 'drive' the boat; it's more like dancing with her."
Julia looked at Connie, and the boat swerved in the direction she turned her head, the bow turning into the wind a bit as air began to spill from the sails.
"Uh-oh," Julia said, jerking the helm around in an effort to correct the course. Diamantista responded quickly, the sails filling with a snap. The sudden force of the wind in the sails caused the boat to roll sharply to the port side.
Sailor's Delight_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 2nd Novel of the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series Page 3