Our Island Inn
by
Rebecca M. Hale
Inspired by a lovely island inn
I once visited in the Caribbean…
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1: Our Island Inn
Chapter 2: The Happy Couple
Chapter 3: The Ground Below
Chapter 4: Charlie the Chicken
Chapter 5: The Watcher in the Woods
Chapter 6: Life on Parrot Ridge
Chapter 7: Little Blue Pills
Chapter 8: The Gold Chain
Chapter 9: Misery Loves Company
Chapter 10: Man-eater
Chapter 11: Daisy’s Dalliance
Chapter 12: A Brave Man
Chapter 13: Out of Character
Chapter 14: Inspector Pickering
Chapter 15: Bad Juju
Chapter 16: Misbehaving Foreigners
Chapter 17: Trouble
Chapter 18: The Third Wheel
Chapter 19: Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo?
Chapter 20: Insult to Injury
Chapter 21: The Golden Girls
Chapter 22: Whoops and Hollers
Chapter 23: Not Dead Yet
Chapter 24: A Practical Woman
Chapter 25: Take Me
Chapter 26: A Guilty Man
Chapter 27: Unraveling
Chapter 28: Seek and Ye Shall Find
Chapter 29: On the Case
Chapter 30: Odd Man Out
Chapter 31: Come Home to Roost
Chapter 32: The Moves Like Matlock
Chapter 33: A Silent Whisper
Chapter 34: Derailed
Chapter 35: One Step Too Far
Chapter 36: A Golden Gone
Chapter 37: In Recent Use
Chapter 38: Bird Food
Chapter 39: Minus One
Chapter 40: Artistic License
Chapter 41: The Previous Innkeepers
Chapter 42: The Pantry
Chapter 43: Unwritten
Chapter 44: Little Pink Toenails
Chapter 45: Dear Oliver
Chapter 46: Farewell
Chapter 47: Return to Parrot Ridge
Chapter 48: Strawberry Peach
Chapter 49: Green Stands For…
Chapter 50: The Holding Cell
Chapter 51: Olivia
Chapter 52: Jealousy
Chapter 53: The Flirt
Chapter 54: Message From a Mentor
Chapter 55: The Parsonage
Chapter 56: Bad Luck
Chapter 57: Elsie
Chapter 58: The Sickness
Chapter 59: A Mind of Its Own
Chapter 60: Like a Bird
Chapter 61: Closure
Chapter 62: He Is Risen
Chapter 63: The Chain
Chapter 64: A Last Look
Chapter 65: Here, I Remain
About the Author
Additional Titles by Rebecca M. Hale
Publisher’s Notice
Introduction
HUMID ISLAND HEAT steamed the police station holding cell. A lone fly hovered beneath a bare light bulb mounted to the ceiling, a hapless suitor pursuing an unreceptive mate. The insect droned in single-minded misery, banging its head against the hot surface, over and over again.
Inspector Orlando Pickering stared grimly at the man he had taken into custody less than an hour before.
The innkeeper sat handcuffed to a rusted metal table. Sweat poured down his cheeks. The hollowed eyes and stunned expression were typical of most ex-pats who found themselves detained by Caribbean authorities regarding a serious criminal inquiry – but there was nothing routine about this interrogation.
The man’s shock wasn’t due to his confinement; it was a result of the events that had occurred earlier that morning.
Pickering didn’t think the innkeeper was even aware he’d been arrested.
The inspector paced back and forth across the room, pondering how best to begin his questioning.
His black shoes thumped against the concrete floor, the footsteps of a lumbering big-boned man. Formidable at a glance, Pickering wielded an intimidating heft.
He would need every ounce of that authoritative presence today. He too had been shaken by what he’d seen at the inn.
Pickering reached beneath his shirt collar and tugged on a chain he wore around his neck. The gold cross secured to the necklace was a memorial from his baptism at a local church, a reminder of the ethical standards he’d vowed to uphold in both his personal and professional life – as well as a potent talisman against any bad juju that might be cast his way.
It was the latter attribute that he hoped to invoke as he ran his thumb over the trinket’s tooled ridges.
Propping his hands on the table’s edge, he leaned toward the innkeeper.
“Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”
~ ~ ~
IF THE DAZED man heard Pickering’s words, he didn’t appear to register their meaning.
The innkeeper stared, unseeing, at the iron cuffs fastened around his wrists. His body had stiffened into a catatonic rigor; every muscle strained with tension. His fingers splayed out, the tips pressing into the table’s rusted grooves.
As Pickering waited for a response – any response – the fly singed its wings against the bulb and fell, wounded, onto the tabletop. Mortally injured, the insect staggered in a pathetic circle until the inspector brushed it to the floor with the callous sweep of his hand.
The innkeeper didn’t flinch.
Frustrated, Pickering snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Hello. Is anybody in there?”
The innkeeper blinked at the inspector’s fuzzy image. Nothing more.
“Bah.”
Pickering pushed away from the table. He shook his head at his deputy, who had watched the exchange from the far side of the room.
She offered no comment or suggestion. She knew neither was expected.
Elsie had held the part-time deputy position for just a few weeks. She was still in the process of completing her entry level training courses. A rail-thin wisp of a woman, she wore her coarse black hair parted down the middle and braided into two stubby pigtails.
She deferred to the inspector as a regular course. After all, she was a junior member of the force with little experience and much to learn.
But on this matter, she knew far more than Pickering.
~ ~ ~
THE INNKEEPER STIRRED in his seat, causing the handcuffs to jangle against the table’s metal surface.
Pickering spun around, fixing his attention on the suspect.
The man gasped for breath as he struggled to make a sound, but his lips could do no more than sputter. With effort, he forced his mouth into an oval shape.
A single syllable was all that came out.
“O…”
He tried several more times to complete the word before his eyes glazed over, and his consciousness left the holding cell.
But as Pickering stomped around the table, hurling insults at the ceiling, the story the innkeeper had tried to tell continued on inside his head, the memory rolling like film footage, some scenes clearly displayed in high definition, others in grainy clips.
Chapter 1
Our Island Inn
OUR ISLAND INN sits atop Parrot Ridge, a rocky bluff on a volcanic mound in the southeast corner of the Caribbean.
It’s a quaint B&B with seven private suites of varying size, all contained within a stylish concrete-walled residence.
The entrance to the owner’s apartment is positioned around back, neatly sealed off from the
guest quarters. There’s plenty of room for me, my partner, our two poodles and – most important – our own private hot tub.
It’s the perfect set up.
The place has amazing views. We’re located on the highest spot for hundreds of miles, facing a few degrees north of due west. The sea stretches out below us, and several neighboring islands dot the horizon.
As you can imagine, the sunsets are phenomenal.
We run an open-air restaurant off the deck by the pool. Most weekend nights, we’re booked solid for the hour and a half before the sun goes down. It’s a popular joint. To tell you the truth, the restaurant brings in more revenue than the inn.
The dining operation started out pretty basic, just some plastic tables and chairs. It proved so successful that we upgraded to fancy tablecloths and place settings. Candles in the centerpieces are lit each night at dusk.
My partner handles the décor. He’s a natural at that sort of thing. Elsie from the cleaning staff usually helps him out. She’s the only one he trusts to assist. She’s careful to place everything exactly where he wants it.
Me, I manage the kitchen.
It’s a simple duty, really. All I do is approve the menu and supervise the help. Our chef Maya and her husband Jesús take care of the rest.
We’re lucky to have them, I suppose.
I searched for months, but I couldn’t find anyone on our island interested in the position. Then, one day, Maya and Jesús rang me up. They had to hop a couple of ferries to make it here for the interview. I liked them both and hired them on the spot. We’ve received nothing but rave reviews for the meals they prepare.
In my opinion, it’s the best food around.
People come from nearby hotels and the cruise ships that dock off the main town. Even the big resort on the island’s west end sends its guests to our restaurant, especially when someone requests a romantic sunset meal.
Getting up to the inn is a bit of an adventure, but I think that only adds to the allure.
The driveway cuts in off a hairpin turn from the north coast road. Then it scales a steep incline reminiscent of an alpine ski slope. Thankfully, there’s never any risk of ice or snow.
Most of the offsite dinner guests hire a safari truck to take them up to the restaurant. Each night, just before the dinner rush, you can hear the drivers revving their engines at the bottom of the hill. They honk to warn anyone above who might be contemplating a descent. I’ve seen several drivers mutter a prayer before making the attempt.
A visit to Our Island Inn is a memorable experience.
Or I should say – it was.
~ ~ ~
WE BOUGHT THE property about two years ago, my partner and I. It was an investment, we said, a practical means of funding our retirement.
But we both knew that wasn’t the truth. The purchase was an indulgence, pure and simple.
We had always been enchanted by the idea of running an island inn. In our heads, we’d built up a romanticized notion of life in the tropics. Years of dreaming had left us primed to see the mirage.
We fell in love with Parrot Ridge the moment we parked our rental jeep at the top of its weedy gravel drive and walked across its summit.
Others might have been put off by the crumbling concrete buildings, half-covered in vines and other vegetation, or by the stench oozing up from the muddy pools of water in the bottom of the cracked swimming pool.
Not us.
We saw only possibility.
That the tumbledown wreck would require a complete renovation we deemed an added bonus. We could rebuild the place exactly the way we wanted. This was it, our chance to extend our annual two-week Caribbean vacation into a permanent stay.
Parrot Ridge was a blank canvas on which to paint.
We never saw the rotting frame underneath.
~ ~ ~
WE WEREN’T COMPLETE novices at the task of running an inn – or that’s what we told ourselves.
Although neither of us had any experience in property management, we’d traveled the world together and had visited a number of boutique hotels in exotic far-flung locations. We’d seen what worked and what didn’t. We’d read everything we could on the subject, attended seminars, and spoken to others who’d made the same transition.
We were as prepared as we possibly could be – so said the self-appointed experts. Nothing could stop us from diving in.
We would clear out the debris, strip down the existing structures, and create our new island home from scratch.
And when it was done, we would spend the rest of our years happily entertaining guests on a dramatic poolside terrace overlooking paradise.
That’s what we thought our future would bring.
We were wrong.
If I could go back to that fateful day when my partner and I first stopped at the real estate listing for Parrot Ridge, I would tell those fools to run back to their rental jeep, reverse it down the hill, and never look back.
Chapter 2
The Happy Couple
“HEY, GLENN. TAKE a look at this.”
A slender man with tan skin and golden hair called down from a concrete platform that stretched across the highest point of Parrot Ridge. He stood at the edge of the exposed foundation, taking in the view.
“Just a sec, Oli.”
Glenn stepped out of the jeep and gingerly shut the driver’s side door. He’d done his best to secure the vehicle’s parking brake, but he wasn’t at all convinced that the worn lever was attached to an inner braking mechanism.
Hands on his hips, he walked around to the back bumper and shook his head at the hill below. “That is some driveway.”
Summoned by another excited shout from the crest, Glenn scrambled up into the ruins, his flip flops slipping on the cracked pavement and loose gravel.
“I’m going to turn my ankle in here.”
After stumbling over rocks and tree roots, Glenn finally joined his partner at the overlook – and he saw with his own eyes why Oliver was making such a fuss.
“It’s…amazing,” he whispered. Words felt inadequate to describe the natural beauty that lay before him.
The pair gazed out at the sea, silently watching a sailboat skim across the expanse of perfect blue water. Clouds drifted through the sky, casting indigo shadows on the liquid surface below. Closer in, beyond the lower perimeter of the ruins, the land dropped off in a near vertical slope, the steep terrain engulfed by an impenetrable jungle.
Leaning over the concrete ledge, Glenn and Oliver could see past the precipice and the thick wall of greenery, down to a narrow band of turquoise water that flanked the shoreline. The speckled browns of a coral reef spread across the seafloor, decorating it like a necklace.
Glenn pointed out a pelican hovering above the tiny bay. The big-mouthed bird flew a tight circle over a school of fish before jackhammer-ing into the surf to scoop up its lunch.
In all their travels, neither man had experienced such serenity. Breathing seemed effortless, imperfections unimaginable. The peace of this location could not be replicated.
The decision was made without further question or analysis.
This plot of land would be their sanctuary from the rest of the world.
And in that moment, their fates were sealed.
~ ~ ~
GLENN AND OLIVER had been together for over a decade.
From the beginning, theirs was a courtship of opposites. They were both fair-skinned sandy blonds, but that’s where the similarities ended.
Glenn sported the sturdy build of a former athlete. His legs and upper body carried the residual muscle mass from his stint as a college football linebacker.
Oliver had a more delicate and refined physique. He’d spent his college days dodging tackles, not running toward them.
When they first started dating, the men were shyly discreet in their romantic interactions, only gradually transitioning to rare public shows of affection.
During their recent Caribbean travels, they had
reverted to the earlier routine. Social acceptance toward gay couples was not as widespread in this tropical region as in their home state of California.
“No reason to cause trouble,” Glenn had said in his typical “let’s go along to get along” manner. And so, to most observers, they appeared to be brothers or close friends.
Oliver was perturbed by the romantic cooling, although he tried not to show it. He had a sensitive disposition, and, regardless of the stated rationale, the distance between them felt like a slight.
But even he had to laugh when hunky Glenn attracted unwanted female attention.
Glenn had been married once – to a woman – and he was still wary of both the female gender and the institution. The ill-conceived union had taken place during Glenn’s younger closeted years, terminating in divorce after nine turbulent months.
The experience had left him permanently jaded.
When same-sex marriage became legal in their home jurisdiction, Glenn had shied away from any discussion of he and Oliver potentially tying the knot.
Glenn’s marriage phobia frustrated his partner, who dreamt of commemorating their relationship in a formal ceremony, one with lilies, a garden gazebo and gilded harps playing in the background.
Oliver had filled a binder with details he’d planned for the special event, but he’d decided not to press the matter. Glenn would come around eventually.
He just had to be patient.
~ ~ ~
ON THAT FIRST day at Parrot Ridge, as the pair stood on the hilltop looking out over the sea, none of that seemed to matter.
Oliver couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Glenn’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“G, this is the place.”
Chapter 3
The Ground Below
OUR ISLAND INN came at a remarkably cheap price, or, at least, the land did. The property had been on the market for several years with no interested buyers. My partner was able to negotiate a substantial discount from the list price.
The seller was reportedly anxious to be rid of the place.
I guess that should have tipped us off that there might be something wrong, but we forged ahead anyway.
On paper, the lot covered nearly thirty acres. The scallop-shaped plot captured the entirety of Parrot Ridge, starting from the area that jutted up from the main road and extending over the summit all the way down to the sea.
Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) Page 1