The Salt Whistle Bay Club was the major tourist business on the tiny island. The bar and restaurant at the club served people from visiting yachts in the anchorage right off the beach, as well as catering to the hotel guests. There were usually a few vendors with stalls set up in the shade of the trees separating the beach from the resort area, selling T-shirts and local handicrafts. Mayreau was quite small, only about 1.5 square miles in area, and with a permanent population of around 300 people. If the Berger woman had spent much time ashore, she would have been noticed, unless she had checked into the resort. In that case, the guest register would tell them. If, however, she had stayed among the yachts, she could be long gone and no one would know. She could have quietly left Rambling Gal and boarded another yacht, and by now, she could be hundreds of miles away and in another country.
Constable Roberts eased the patrol boat through the confusion of anchored yachts, careful to avoid the people swimming and snorkeling. He ran the bow of the boat onto the beach near the head of the trail to the resort. Their obvious first stop would be with the guard at the beginning of the trail. Roberts and his partner leapt ashore, hats in hand, careful to land on the hard, dry sand above the wavelets, so as not to spoil the spit-shine on their regulation oxfords. Settling his hat squarely on his head, Roberts, as the senior man, took the lead as they walked up to the guard shack. "Wake up, Jeffrey!" he greeted the occupant.
"Hey, Win! Whatchew do heah, mon?" Jeffrey responded.
"Lookin' fo' a little blond French gal, 'bout so tall, dark for white gal," Roberts responded, extending a hand to indicate her height. "Mebbe heah las' Thursday, we t'ink."
"We all lookin' fo' one a them, no?" Jeffrey joked.
"Yeah, Mon, but this p'lice bidness. She lef' the boat she come on, don' check out with immigration or nothin'," Roberts elaborated. "Speak English like American, she. Now she missing."
"Okay, okay. Mebbe I see she, then. Gal like that heah las' week. Gimme she bag to watch. She go back to a big, green schooner with the British flag, then she swim around to see the other yacht people. Bye 'm bye, she come back with a man in a dinghy, get the bag she lef'. Then they go. I don' know wheah," Jeffrey remembered the fancy phone in the drawer in front of him as he was talking. "Le's see, Win. She los' she phone, I t'ink. Later it ring, an' she picture on the front, but batt'ry die," he explained, as he took the phone out of the drawer and handed it over to Constable Roberts.
"Okay, I take the phone. Thanks, Jeffrey," Roberts said, slipping the phone into his pocket. "The man in the dinghy? What he look like, he?"
'Like all the white men on yachts, Win," Jeffery shrugged. "Nothing special 'bout he, or he dinghy."
"Okay, Jeffrey. That's good. Thanks." Win Roberts turned to his partner. "Le's go, Sam. We check the gues' register, jus' in case, like old man Wiggers say do."
As they suspected, there was no evidence that Danielle Berger had registered at the resort, nor did any of the desk staff or the bar and restaurant staff remember encountering a woman fitting her description last week. They took the patrol boat back to Clifton harbor to make their report to Sergeant Wiggers.
****
"This is a cell phone, you say, Roberts?" Wiggers asked, doubt in his voice. "It doesn't look like a cell phone to me. Just smooth glass -- no buttons, except this one at the bottom, and it doesn't do anything."
"Yes, Sergeant, it's called an iPhone. I've seen them on the Internet and on television. They don't sell them here yet."
"Well, turn it on, then," Wiggers ordered, handing the inert device back to Roberts.
"The battery is discharged, Sergeant. It won't come on, but the guard says when it's working, there is a picture of the Berger woman on the screen," Roberts explained. "I have a charger at home for my iPod that I believe will work for this phone. Then we can see what is here. Pictures, her personal telephone and address book, where she has called. There is much we can learn from this, I think."
"Very well, Roberts. Take it home with you and charge the battery tonight. We will see what there is to learn from it tomorrow morning. Now, I must call the Chief Super and tell him what we have discovered, so far. Have a good evening, Roberts, Jones. Good work."
Safely out in the hall, with the door to Wiggers office closed behind them, Roberts and Jones began to chuckle.
"He sound more British than the Brits, Win." Jones laughed. "You, too, when you talkin' to he."
"They had to speak the right English when he join the force, Sam. My father, he tol' me about them days. No patois on the job. Guess habits hard to break, after 30 year. No need to vex the ol' man 'bout how we s'pose to talk," Roberts said, a little defensively.
Chapter 7
Jean-Pierre Berger was reviewing the performance of his investment portfolio when the ringing of his telephone distracted him. He was annoyed that Simone had failed to answer it until he glanced at the clock on the wall of his office and saw that it was 7 p.m. He remembered Simone wishing him a good evening when she left a couple of hours ago. As the display on his desk phone showed Danielle's cell phone number, he answered with a smile in his voice. "Hello, my dear. How are you?"
"Excuse me, sir," a deep, sonorous male voice said. "This is Sergeant Wiggers from the police in Union Island, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. May I please know to whom I am speaking?"
"Yes, certainly. This is Jean-Pierre Berger. Why are you calling from my daughter's phone? What is the matter?"
"Mr. Berger, could you tell me, what is your relation to Ms. Danielle Berger, please?" Wiggers asked.
"I am her father," J.-P. said.
"Sir, your daughter appears to have lost this phone at Mayreau, the next island east of here, and we are trying to locate her. You had left her a message several days ago, so we thought perhaps you knew where we could find her," Wiggers said.
"No, Sergeant, I haven't heard from her recently," J.-P. said, worry in his voice. "Have you checked with the owner of the yacht Rambling Gal? She was crewing aboard. I believe the owner is a Nigel Smythe."
"Yes, sir," Wiggers said. "Mr. Smythe claims that she left Rambling Gal unexpectedly on October 20, in Mayreau, and took all of her belongings with her. She left the yacht while he and his wife were having lunch ashore. We have a report that she was last seen in the company of an unknown man in a dinghy, in Mayreau. She came with him to claim her belongings, which she had left with the guard at the resort on Mayreau. We were hoping that she had called or perhaps emailed you."
"No, Sergeant, I haven't heard from her, nor has her mother. I got a call from her mother earlier today, quite upset that Danielle had not called her for her birthday a few days ago. That is the first time Danielle has ever failed to call to wish her mother a happy birthday. She's quite worried."
"I see, Mr. Berger. I hope that my call to you doesn't cause more worry. I'm sure everything will be all right once we find your daughter," Wiggers said. "If you should hear from her, please call me as quickly as you can." Wiggers rattled off his office number, and J.-P. read it back to him.
"Yes, Sergeant, I will. What are you doing to locate her from your end?"
"Well, we have a recent picture of her from this cell phone. Mr. Smythe has confirmed that it is of Danielle, so we are sending out circulars to the immigration police in all of the islands. We have her passport information as well, since Mr. Smythe made a copy of the first page when she joined Rambling Gal as crew a few months ago. We all think she probably just moved to another yacht in Mayreau, Mr. Berger. Mr. Smythe said she was vexed with him, but he did not know why. We will find her when she checks in at some other island. It happens down here."
"Will she be in trouble over this?" J.-P. asked.
"Not to worry about, sir. At most, it is a small matter of not checking out with immigration if she left our country. If she is staying here, we will require a bond of some sort for her eventual departure, to be sure she does not become a burden on the state, you see. Nothing more. We have already reached a similar resolution with the
captain of Rambling Gal, as it is his responsibility to see that she is able to leave, since he brought her into our country. We only wish to protect our government from any immigrants who might become a public burden, and it does not appear that your daughter is such a person."
"Certainly not." J.-P. snorted. "I'm more worried that she is missing. You are treating her as a missing person, are you not? Surely your government must be worried that something has happened to a guest in your country."
"Yes, sir, tourism is most important to our economy. Our islands are quite safe. I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. I'm sorry to have upset you, Mr. Berger."
"It's all right, Sergeant," J.-P. said, calming somewhat. "I'm sure you are right, and I thank you for your concern."
"You are welcome, Mr. Berger. Please call me if you hear from her, or if you just need to talk some more," Wiggers said, imagining how he would feel if his Suzanne were the one missing. "I know what it is to be the father of a beautiful young woman."
"Thank you, Sergeant. Have a good evening," J.-P. said, hanging up the phone.
He lit a cigarette as he gazed absently out of his office window. He had to call Marie and let her know this latest development, and she would be hysterical over Dani's disappearance. She would blame him for it, without doubt. He was not comforted by Sergeant Wiggers's assurances, either. He knew his daughter, and this was unlike her. It would be quite in character for her to jump ship; he knew she wasn't happy with her lot aboard Rambling Gal. She was experienced in the ways of the yachting world, though, and not likely to do anything that would cause trouble with the authorities. He would have expected her to take the initiative to get herself on the crew list of another yacht within the same country to avoid just this kind of problem. That she had not done so told him that she was in some difficulty. That, and the loss of her phone. She would sooner part with an arm than lose her iPhone. As she often said, her whole life was tucked safely away in those data bits in that little glass slab. If she had inadvertently left it behind, she would have moved heaven and earth to retrieve it. She was in trouble; he was certain of it. Fortunately, he knew the islands well, from his own yachting adventures, as well as from some of his earlier forays into business. He could call upon old friends down that way who would be much more able to find Danielle than the authorities would be. First, though, he must call Marie. He stubbed out his cigarette, clenched his teeth, and picked up the phone.
****
Phillip Davis was enjoying a ti punch on the veranda of his villa in the hills overlooking the quaint little town of Saint Anne, Martinique. As the rum soothed his sore muscles, he made a resolution to work out more often. He wasn't old enough to be feeling this whipped after running a few miles, even in the hilly terrain around here. As his heart rate settled, he reflected on how the town had changed in the last decade, becoming more of a tourist attraction and less of a fishing village. It was an unlikely place for a retired American soldier to end up, he reflected. But, he wasn't a typical retired American soldier. He hadn't been a typical soldier even before he retired, or a typical American, either. He recalled some of his escapades picking up "packages" offshore near Saint Anne, running without lights in a very low, very fast boat -- a boat carefully designed to offer almost no radar signature for the French Customs cutters to spot. They were less of a problem to him in those days than the other smugglers were. Most of his fellow scofflaws were trying to land illicit cargo in Martinique from places in the western Caribbean, and their unlighted, fast moving "fishing" boats were a serious hazard.
His objectives had been different, involving moving certain shipments that originated in France to places in the western Caribbean or to mainland South America. Aside from flowing in opposite directions, the two types of cargo had some similarities. Neither type was sanctioned by the governments of the destination countries. Both types caused a great deal of mayhem and unrest once they were landed in their destinations. The techniques involved in moving them were similar, and the people who delivered them were well compensated for the risks they ran. Some of the people dealt in both types of cargo, but not Phillip. He had refused to ship drugs, even when that had been his assigned mission back before he retired from the military. In fact, it had been his adamant refusal to participate in some of the drug-related black ops that had forced his retirement. He had seamlessly left the military and become a civilian contractor, able to choose cargo consistent with the dictates of his conscience. His compensation had increased substantially once he left the military, too. Now he really was retired, enjoying the fruits of 25 years of high-risk activity. The expatriate life suited him well, allowing him to distance himself somewhat from the hypocrisy and foolishness that passed for government in the U.S. these days. The ability of his beloved country to endure the machinations of recent administrations was indeed a testament to the structure put in place by the founding fathers. The U.S. was the greatest nation on earth, in spite of its elected officials.
The chiming of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. "Hello," he said, softly.
"Phillip? It's J.-P."
"J.-P., how are you, old man?"
"I'm well, personally, Phillip. And you, my friend?"
"Not bad for an old soldier. What's on your mind? Coming down here for a holiday? I'll show you how to catch some fish."
"I wish, but you know how it is. Some of us don't know when to quit."
"That's what marriage does to you, J.-P. Especially when you keep doing it, over and over."
"Yes. That is more true than you can know, my friend. Listen, I need your help, I think. My daughter has gone missing in Saint Vincent."
"Dani? I thought she was crewing on yachts these days."
"She is, or was. But she left the yacht she had been on for months, and nobody can find her. Marie is frantic, and I'm a little worried myself. She's a professional sailor, Phillip. She jumped ship without doing any of the paperwork and just disappeared. That's not like her. She would not cause trouble for herself that way, unless something was badly wrong. And she left her precious iPhone at a beach resort in Mayreau and never tried to recover it."
"Well, that's certainly a bad sign. When she was through here a few months ago, I thought that thing was some sort of growth on her palm. She showed me all of the stuff she had in it -- music, books, finances. Pretty amazing what she could do with it. If she left that behind, I'd have to agree with you that something is rotten. Never mind the other stuff."
"You know your way around those islands better than anybody else I can think of, Phillip. Will you find her for me? I'll cover your expenses, and pay whatever you wish."
"J.-P., you know I'll find her for you. Hell, she's like my little sister. I'm offended that you think you need to pay me."
"Forgive me, Phillip. You can imagine I'm upset. I'll be forever grateful."
"Okay, J.-P. Rest easy, my friend. Fax me whatever information you have from the police in Saint Vincent, and her passport details. I'll get right on it. I'm going to pack a bag now, while I wait for your fax. I'll find her. Don't worry, and tell Marie I'm on it, too."
"Thank you, Phillip." J.-P. sighed, as he hung up the phone.
Chapter 8
He was drawn deeply into those eyes as the waitress set his espresso in front of him on the trestle table. When he had ordered, he had been focused on the overall impression of stunning beauty, missing those eyes, the green of clear shallow water over a white sand bottom. He was mesmerized.
"Excusez-moi, parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, hoping to keep her there for a moment.
"But of course," she answered with a dazzling smile. "Why do you ask?"
"Because my French is so poor, and I would like to talk with you, if you don't mind."
"What do you wish to talk about? You have questions about the menu?"
"No," he said. "About you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Do you come from here, originally?"
"Yes, from Fort de France," she answered. "And yo
u? You are from a yacht, I think, yes?"
"Yes, yes I am," he said, falling farther into those emerald pools that were so wonderfully set off by her creamy, caramel colored skin, pale enough so that the freckles on the bridge of her nose made her look like a school girl. "I've just come from Grenada. Spent the hurricane season down there."
"And, so now you are in Martinique," she said, settling on the bench across the table from him, resting her forearms on the table and leaning forward, smiling as she saw his eyes inevitably drawn to the view as her spaghetti-strap top fell away from her ample bosom.
He glanced up guiltily, realizing that he had been caught, and her smile became a grin as she batted her heavy eyelashes at him. "You are alone on your yacht, I think," she said, sitting up a bit and pushing her shoulders back. He looked around at the empty restaurant, realizing that they were alone; no one would be calling for her attention. Luck was with him today.
"Yes," he said, transfixed by those eyes again, but not missing the ripples below as she rolled her shoulders a bit. He felt like a horny teenager, knowing that she was playing him, letting it happen. This was easier than he had expected it to be. Was she a pro, he wondered, preying on lonely sailors? That would be all right, but it wasn't his normal taste in female companions. She was enough of a prize to justify an exception to his normal criteria.
"So you will stay here a long time?" she asked.
"I have no real schedule, but I'm headed for the U.S. Virgin Islands. I work there for a few months every winter," he said.
Bluewater Killer: A Serial Murder Mystery Set In Florida and the Caribbean (Bluewater Thrillers Book 1) Page 4