Double Shot of Scotch

by Cleveland, Peter

  A warm, gentle breeze drifted from the west, renewing St. James’s energy after the long flight. Whiffs of sizzling sunblock rose from sunbathers lining the beach, and the sand was white and hot.

  A half-hour later, St. James returned to discover the Ritz-Carlton’s Bar Jack. He climbed onto a stool and signalled to the bartender for a double Forty Creek.

  Just as the bartender delivered a second Forty Creek, Anna positioned herself on the stool next to him.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “Much better, thank you.”

  She took a moment to take a deep breath and eye the scenery.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous, Hamilton?” she said enthusiastically.

  “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.”

  “When you experience a wonderful place like this, you wonder why we live in such a cold climate,” she said wistfully.

  “Having four distinct seasons offers many more activities than a place like this. Can’t skate here in January. Canada’s huge. Cayman’s only thirty-five kilometres long and thirteen wide. Just sixty thousand people. Two months here and you’d be out of your mind with island fever,” St. James remarked.

  Anna gave him a pained look. “It was just a casual comment, Hamilton.”

  He smiled. “What would you like to drink, my dear?”

  “Pinot Grigio.”

  They talked about how they’d spend the week. St. James had meetings on Tuesday. The rest of the time they would tour the island and learn the culture and history of Cayman.

  When they finished their drinks, St. James signed the bill to the room and they headed down the beach arm in arm, laughing about this and that — but mostly about whether Smythe owned a multi-plaid bathing suit.

  Anna pointed to the sky. “Look, parasailers.”

  St. James shaded his eyes. “Looks like they’re racing.”

  Further down, they spotted fishing boats a short distance offshore.

  “Probably charters fishing for snapper, yellowtail, or bar jack,” St. James suggested.

  “Ah, bar jack! That’s where the bar’s name comes from.”

  St. James nodded. “That’s it.”

  When they reached Kirk Market they brushed sand from their feet, re-shoed, and headed back to the Ritz-Carlton along West Bay Road.

  Both exhausted from a long day of travel, they opted for an early dinner at the Andiamo restaurant and were in bed by nine.

  Sunday morning they rose with more energy. St. James didn’t feel like working, so he asked Wendell, the concierge, for day tour recommendations. Neither he nor Anna had ever been to Cayman and were keen to see as much of the island as possible. Wendell said he wouldn’t recommend posted tours for a one-day Cayman experience. They’d disappoint.

  “Most tours focus on single activities like scuba diving, sailing, snorkeling, or fishing,” he said in a well-pronounced island accent. “Since you’re only here for a few days, you should have a customized tour that combines many things at the same time.”

  “Sounds good to me,” St. James said. “Where do we get one of these custom tours, as you call them?”

  “Just happen to know someone,” Wendell said with a glint in his eye.

  St. James smiled. “Thought you might.”

  Anna laughed.

  “Tell me, Wendell, would this someone happen to be related to you?” St. James asked with a grin.

  “Not really, he’s married to my sister. He owes me money, man. If you pay me to arrange the tour, he won’t owe me money anymore. What banks call an offset. I get money from you for his services and use it to offset what he owes me.”

  St. James rolled his eyes. “Got it.”

  Anna just shrugged.

  “Okay, Wendell. What’s your brother-in-law’s name?” St. James said.

  “Wendell.”

  “You’re kidding,” Anna said, laughing.

  “No, when we have family get-togethers everyone calls me Wendell One and him Wendell Two. No confusion.” Wendell’s huge smile showed perfectly white teeth.

  “You’re the oldest Wendell?” Anna said.

  “No. He’s the oldest. I have a job. He doesn’t. A job is seniority in my family.”

  Anna laughed again. St. James just shook his head.

  “We’ll be in our room, Wendell. Call us when Wendell Two arrives,” St. James said as they walked toward the elevator.

  Fifteen minutes went by before Wendell called to say Wendell Two was waiting for them in the lobby. They gathered bathing suits and towels, in case a swim would be in order, and headed down to the lobby.

  Wendell Two was a Bob Marley lookalike, complete with scraggy beard, dreads, hole-laden jeans, and a ratty orange t-shirt. For the first five minutes his entire vocabulary consisted of a lazy “Ya, mon.”

  When everything was arranged, they climbed into the backseat of Wendell Two’s dark green 1999 manual Toyota Camry, which spewed black smoke when the engine turned over and jerked violently when it pulled away from the hotel parking.

  Since they were down to one Wendell, St. James figured he could drop the Two. “Where are we going first, Wendell?”

  “Hell,” he said casually.

  Anna’s face scrunched up, fairly certain she had misheard. “Huh?”

  “Hell,” Wendell repeated without expression. “A place up the road in West Bay. Popular with tourists because of its name. Only a couple of buildings, mon. Small area, formation of grey-black dolostone called phytokarst. A combination of acid rain and carbonate-loving organisms turned the rock into a scary-looking pile of black rubble about the size of a soccer field. There’s even a Devil’s souvenir shop.”

  “Dare I ask how it got its name?” Anna asked innocently.

  “You’ll see, ma’am,” was all Wendell would say.

  A few minutes later they came upon a red building bearing a painted sign saying “Welcome to Hell.” Wendell pulled the ailing Toyota in front, and they climbed out to look around. The field of burnt black rock was eerie looking, with a carving of the devil carefully centred in the middle.

  Wendell explained. “Some years ago a lady came here to tour around. Since everything looked burnt, she said ‘this is what hell must be like!’ The name stuck.”

  They had their passports stamped in the souvenir shop to show their friends that they’d gone to Hell. Anna couldn’t resist sending a postcard to Sid, saying “Wish you were here!” St. James was pretty sure she meant the other hell.

  The rest of the day was captivating. First, a tour of the National Museum, Cayman’s living connection with its past, then a refreshing swim in Smith Barcadere off South Church Street, its beautiful lagoon well known to snorkelers the world over. Later, Wendell drove them to Savannah, where they enjoyed wine and fresh broiled fish for lunch. Afterward, they paid a visit to the restored Pedro St. James National Historic Site, an 18th century, three-story mansion that locals called “the Castle.” It had been built by slaves from Jamaica. Then they moved on to Bodden Town, where they checked out the underground Pirate Caves and the Queen Elizabeth II Botanic Park with all its beautiful gardens and exotic floral displays.

  Seven Mile Beach was on Anna’s mind. “Seven Mile is the most beautiful beach I have ever seen, Wendell.”

  “Big tourist attraction, ma’am. Severely damaged by Hurricane Ivan in 2004. Took a lot of time and money to clean it up.”

  A superb guide, Wendell knew the history of every site they visited, in great detail. And not the embellished stories to dazzle tourists — he spoke of true Caymanian history. His knowledge greatly enriched their day’s experience.

  Wendell turned back into Wendell Two at 5:00 when he dropped St. James and Anna back at the Ritz-Carlton.

  Happy hour.

  Because Wendell One kept the money for the tour, Wendell Two wasn’t being compensated. Receiving nothing for the day when Wendell Two worked so hard to please wasn’t sitting well with St. James, so the tip was more than generous.

  They bid Wendell Two f
arewell and seated themselves at the bar.

  “What a wonderful day, Hamilton. We saw so much in such a short time,” Anna said enthusiastically.

  St. James was just as mesmerized. “The gardens were spectacular.”

  They sipped drinks for an hour or so and discussed what they’d do with the next couple of days.

  On Monday morning, St. James’s work ethic kicked back in. He booted up the computer to read whatever emails had arrived over the weekend while Anna went to spend time at the pool.

  A large email had arrived from Higgins Johnson with numerous title and registry attachments in anticipation of tomorrow’s meeting. Corporate, vehicle, land, and court registries had been searched for several names associated with the Stevens case. Most searches had turned up nothing, but St. James made note of one item in the land registry.

  Considering what he’d learned, he picked up the phone and pushed the concierge button. “Good morning, Wendell One.”

  “Mr. St. James, you don’t have to call me that when my brother-in-law isn’t around.”

  St. James “I know, I just like saying it.”

  “How was your tour yesterday?” he asked, ignoring St. James’s remark.

  “Wonderful. Wendell Two was very accommodating and very well informed of island history. We were educated beyond our expectations.”

  “Excellent, glad to hear it. Now, what can I do for you today?”

  “I’d like you to arrange a hire-car, just for the day.”

  “Do you want a driver or a rental?”

  “Rental, please.”

  “Are you okay driving on the left?” he asked politely.

  Jokingly, St. James said, “As a left-handed person, I’m a natural.”

  “There’s a bit more to it than that, Mr. St. James,” he said seriously.

  “I know, Wendell, I was just pulling your leg. I’ve driven through England, Ireland, and Jamaica. Very comfortable driving on the left.”

  “Very well, sir. You’ll need a provisional driver’s license, which can be arranged through the rental company. I’ll ring you when arrangements have been made.”

  Just as St. James disconnected, Anna walked through the door. Her long blond hair was wet and stringy from swimming, and she was wrapped in an oversized red beach towel.

  “I couldn’t stand the noise down there any longer,” she said impatiently. “The pool was full of screeching children. Couldn’t concentrate on my book for a moment. Why is it that children playing in pools raise their voices five octaves higher than normal?”

  “It’s the same at any resort pool, Anna. Combination of excitement and wanting to be heard above everyone else,” he said without really paying attention. “I’ve arranged a hire-car for the day.”

  Anna looked surprised, “Oh, I didn’t know we were doing something like that.”

  “Momentary whim.”

  She stared at him with a grin. “You don’t do anything on a whim.”

  He pecked her on the cheek and said nothing.

  They spent a few minutes putting clothes away and organizing the room until Wendell called to say the rental was waiting. They went downstairs and met a short, jolly lady named Sue, who checked their Canadian driver’s licenses and issued provisional ones for Cayman.

  When all was organized, they pulled away from the hotel and drove through George Town, getting acquainted with the capital. It was nerve-racking for St. James, maneuvering through a sea of scooters and bicycles swerving back and forth without the slightest concern for safety.

  They drifted up Esterly Tibbetts Highway and found the Cayman Islands Yacht Club on Governors Creek. They enjoyed a lobster roll and a glass of Chardonnay at the club restaurant, and then rounded the northwestern tip of the island, admiring beautiful mansions along the way.

  St. James stopped for a few minutes to look at a stunning property on Orchid Drive, a huge pastel blue-green home situated on an expensive lot with an immaculately manicured lawn and well-tended gardens.

  “How would you like to live in that?” he asked with a smile, pointing to the estate.

  Anna glanced over the property.

  “Naw, too big. Too much to keep up.”

  “If you could afford that you could probably afford a maid, cook, and gardener. No upkeep for you.”

  “Then we wouldn’t be alone. We couldn’t walk around naked.”

  “That’s my girl. Always thinking.”

  Further along they came upon the Cracked Conch, an upscale restaurant nicely situated on the water. St. James pulled into the parking area, and they climbed out to look inside. Both thought it would be a wonderful place to have dinner for their last night on the island.

  At 4:30 they turned the car in and, as usual, headed for the bar. St. James ordered a double Glenfiddich on the rocks and Anna the usual Pinot Grigio.

  “What’s up for tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Busy workday for me I’m afraid. Calls to make, a meeting with lawyers at nine and the Cayman National Bank at two. The day after, I hope to be finalizing the case. That is, if tomorrow’s meetings go well.”

  “Do you want me in the meetings?” she asked, glaring questionably into his eyes.

  St. James knew this wasn’t going to make her happy. “You would find them too boring, I’m afraid. You would have a better time looking at island shops. Perhaps Wendell Two could escort you around.”

  “Sounds like a very polite way of saying you don’t want me there,” Anna said sharply.

  “Pouting is your least becoming feature.”

  “Secrecy is yours,” she retaliated.

  “Anna, let’s call a truce,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve been investigating for a long time. I have my methods. They work, and I have to conduct them in my own way.”

  She knew pressing harder would be crossing the line, so Anna cleverly diverted the conversation.

  She smiled. “Well, okay … how much can Wendell Two and I spend?”

  He began to laugh. “The equivalent of one night’s tips at the Dirty Duck.”

  Anna was outraged. “That’s not fair! One night of tips won’t buy a hamburger on this island.”

  He kissed her. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, darling. You always do.”

  Chapter 66

  Higgins Johnson was located in First Caribbean House on Main Street in George Town. St. James entered a well-appointed teak-and-glass reception area at exactly 9:00 on Tuesday morning, and was immediately ushered into a small meeting room by an attractive lady offering coffee.

  “Cream or sugar?” said the receptionist.

  “Just black, thank you.”

  Minutes later she handed St. James a fresh cup.

  Not long after, two gentlemen working the Stevens file along with St. James entered the room and introduced themselves as Paul Statham and Garth Winchell, both of whom had exchanged emails with St. James on numerous occasions since the case had begun.

  Paul was tall and thin, about forty-five, with thinning light-brown hair and a wide mouth. He looked tired, possibly a by-product of too many billable hours. By the way the two interacted, St. James thought him the senior of the two.

  Garth was a shorter, heavier man wearing thick black-rimmed glasses. His hair was salt and pepper, his hands large.

  Both men were immaculately dressed in dark-blue Armani suits.

  Paul and Garth spread a number of documents out over a square teak meeting table to facilitate an orderly explanation of the work they had completed. For the next two and a half hours they tediously walked St. James through every legal search in the order they had been conducted, explaining Cayman’s legal and banking systems as they moved through each transaction.

  “Paul, how confident are you with what you’ve found here?” St. James said evenly, pointing to the documents.

  “Confident enough to give a written opinion, if you wanted one,” Paul replied without hesitation.

  “Not necessary. Your word is good enough,” St. James said r
espectfully. “Had to ask because the nature, order, and timing of these transactions are fundamental to the case. I need to be comfortable sticking my neck out.”

  “I understand completely,” Paul acknowledged dryly.

  Satisfied he had what he needed, St. James thanked them for their excellent work and left in search of a suitable place for lunch.

  He turned off Main down Cardinal Avenue past the post office, Scotiabank, and a number of stores, eventually stumbling on Breezes Bistro, where he ordered jerk chicken and a beer.

  At 1:50 he entered the four-story white stucco-and-glass building on Elgin Avenue housing the Cayman National Bank and asked for Bodden. Five minutes later Bodden appeared in reception.

  “Welcome to Grand Cayman, Mr. St. James,” Bodden said with a warm smile.

  St. James was gracious. “Pleasure to be here, Mr. Bodden. You have a beautiful island.”

  “First time?”

  “It is. My girlfriend and I love it. Wonderful, friendly people. Very accommodating to us cold-blooded northern folks.”

  Bodden grinned. “That’s because we depend on cold-blooded northern folks to come here and spend cold-blooded northern dollars to keep our warm-blooded economy prospering.”

  St. James laughed.

  Bodden escorted St. James into a spacious pastel-green office with a decorating theme that merged Caribbean and British into one. There were antique wood carvings from previous Caribbean generations, countryside pictures from the Isle of Man, pictures of London at night, and photos of Bodden’s family waterskiing and fishing.

  Bodden was a medium-build, handsome black man with a charming personality, conservatively dressed in a three-piece blue suit with a gold pocket watch wedged in a small vest pocket.

  Right away St. James sensed the man was guarded, most likely coached by the bank’s legal counsel. If the meeting was to be successful at all, St. James had to somehow put Bodden at ease: a guarded Bodden probably wouldn’t offer the evidence St. James needed to solve the case.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Bodden, the bank has nothing to worry about from this investigation,” he said as they sat down. “You’re only holding monies for its rightful owners; only the custodian. There is no suspicion of bank wrongdoing whatsoever.”