Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean)

by Rebecca M. Hale

  DESPITE MY APPREHENSION, the next few weeks passed without catastrophe or even minor disaster. Our Island Inn was off to a roaring start. Our rooms were steadily filled at about fifty percent capacity, and the restaurant was regularly booked up on the weekends.

  I began to let go of my worries. I told myself that everything would be fine.

  For a short while, it was.

  Life on Parrot Ridge fell into a routine of sorts.

  Oliver and I woke at dawn each morning. Charlie the Chicken and his or her feathered friends made sure of that.

  After checking in with Maya and Jesús, we’d eat a quick breakfast and then load the poodles into the jeep for a drive down to the beach. We’d found an isolated spot where the dogs could romp in the waves. The saltwater and sand made a mess of their coats, but Noodles and Yum-Yum loved their swims.

  We were usually back up at the inn by the time the overnight guests moseyed down to the eating area by the pool. We’d make the rounds, stopping at each table to ask if everyone had enjoyed their stay. The answer was almost always a resounding yes – not surprising, given how well they were pampered.

  By midday, the departures had cleared out and any remaining guests had left for excursions around the island. I generally spent the afternoon in the kitchen, overseeing the meal prep and occasionally running into town for last minute ingredients.

  Oli continued to staff the front desk, serving up rum punches with plastic flamingo straws to anyone who stopped by. He supervised the maids who cleaned the guest rooms and, of course, designed the place settings and décor for the restaurant’s evening service.

  Dinner was a circus, particularly on the weekends. It started around four with happy hour on the deck by the pool. By five at the latest, reservations for the sunset seating would be filled. We typically turned away a half-dozen or so people calling up from the resorts.

  Word had spread that Our Island Inn was the best place on the island to finish off the day.

  ~ ~ ~

  I WHOLEHEARTEDLY SHARED this sentiment about our quaint little inn, although for me, the end of the day didn’t take place until several hours later, when the plates had been cleared and the last dinner guests had either returned to their rooms or been driven back to their resorts.

  About that time, Oli would yawn and retire to our living quarters. He’d crawl into bed with the poodles and be fast asleep within minutes.

  I needed an hour or two to unwind, so I’d pour myself a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and collapse into one of the plastic chairs on the pool deck. By the light of a candle and, depending on the lunar cycle, the glow of the moon, I’d make a few halfhearted attempts to write in my journal.

  Jesús would usually join me with a tumbler of Scotch that he refilled several times over, along with my wine glass. His Spanish accent became thicker and less intelligible with every ounce of alcohol. Our conversations trended toward the ridiculous, in part due to linguistic misunderstandings, in part due to sheer exhaustion.

  After several rounds of drink and laughter, we’d lapse into a peaceful silence.

  Often, he and I would stay up past midnight, listening to the repetitive chirp of the tree frogs, the occasional random squawk from a feral chicken, and the ever-present rustling in the steep jungle beneath the deck – the last of which seemed to grow louder as the night dragged on.

  Chapter 7

  Little Blue Pills

  THE FIRST INCIDENT occurred on a Friday night, about two months after we opened the inn and restaurant.

  It was an unusually popular dinner service. The tables were booked more than twenty-four hours in advance, and we fielded a record number of phone calls from folks seeking reservations.

  There were four couples staying at the inn that night, and all of them joined us for the evening meal. Tourists who were taxied up from the resort on the island’s west end filled the rest of the available seats. By late afternoon, safari trucks were maneuvering up and down the steep driveway, competing for parking spaces near the restaurant.

  It was a profitable session, with several parties celebrating anniversaries and, consequently, ordering the top-priced offerings on the menu. A number of diners chose to complement their food with champagne and fine wine, further adding to the night’s revenue.

  In the kitchen, Maya and Jesús struggled to keep up. Elsie from the cleaning staff offered to lend a hand, chopping vegetables, stirring sauté pans, and plating food as needed. Oli and I ran about like mad, trying to make sure the service flowed as smoothly as possible.

  Given the extra demands of that evening’s crowd, I didn’t notice the particularities of the couple seated at table seven until they reached the dessert course.

  They were older, a few years north of fifty, if I had to guess.

  She was a petite blond, gracefully going gray. She wore a lightweight cotton shirt and a pleated skirt. The tips of her toes peeked out through dainty sandals. Even her nail polish was a bashful shade of pink.

  I glanced across the table at her husband and shuddered. In picking out her lifelong mate, she had chosen poorly.

  Perhaps she’d been wilder when they first met. Or he might have been a choice of convenience, a compromise that she later regretted. Maybe his youthful geniality had simply soured with age.

  This much was readily apparent. He was now a boorish lout.

  He sat sprawled in his chair with his legs spread wide. His Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned one rung too low, exposing far too much curly gray chest hair for a formal dinner – even a Caribbean one. He wore more jewelry than his wife, none of it tasteful. The brassy chains around his neck were as obviously artificial as the hair implants tufting out the front of his scalp.

  The unpleasant appearance came with a deafening voice that was even more off-putting.

  He had struck up a conversation with a younger couple seated at the next table. They were politely suffering through the one-sided exchange – as was the wife.

  “Rented a yacht last weekend. Me and the missus. Took it out around the north side the island. Heh. The last pair to stay in it left a stash of little blue pills in the main cabin. They were in a candy dish, right there in the center console.”

  The wife shuffled her feet beneath the table. Her hands fiddled nervously with her napkin.

  “You know what I mean? The little blue pills? Buddy, have you tried ‘em yet? They do amazing things to a man. Just ask my wife here.”

  The other guests grimaced and turned away, but there was no escape for the wife. The crude monologue continued until the husband announced he was heading to the little boys’ room.

  A sigh of relief swept through the dining area as Oliver directed the loathsome man to the stairs at the far side of the deck.

  The steps led first to the restroom facilities located directly beneath the kitchen and then continued another level down, eventually opening onto the rough ground at the bottom of the clearing. The doors to the men’s and women’s facilities were lit and clearly marked.

  Up until that night, we’d never lost a guest en route to the restaurant bathrooms.

  Nevertheless, the demure woman with the pale pink toenails sat waiting for over an hour for her husband to return.

  The bill came. She signed the meal to their room and sighed apologetically at the empty seat across the table.

  I saw Oliver lean over her chair to comfort her. I figured he was telling her not to worry. At that point, we had no need for their table. The dinner rush had ended soon after sunset.

  The wife sat dutifully in her seat until the last couples finished their meals, but the horrid husband never reappeared.

  I tried not to stare when she finally got up and exited the pavilion. There was a striking difference about the woman. Her posture had straightened. It was as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The wrinkles in her face softened, and I swear she looked five years younger.

  When she checked out of their room the next morning, she was bright, smiling
– and alone.

  As far as I know, she never searched for her wayward spouse. She didn’t notify the police or report that he was missing.

  But then, he was the type of person that no one really wants to find.

  ~ ~ ~

  AT THE TIME, I dismissed the episode as a bizarre domestic dispute.

  I was too busy with my other endeavors to pay much attention to the man’s disappearance. Between covering up the evidence of my ongoing infidelities and tamping down the related guilt, I had little time for anything else.

  I thought I was so clever.

  But of course, I had fooled no one.

  And so I ignored the monster I’d created.

  Chapter 8

  The Gold Chain

  THE NEXT DAY, Oliver stood in the restaurant’s pool deck seating area, planning the layout for that night’s dinner service. An afternoon wind blew across the hilltop, the front edge of an approaching storm that had dropped the island’s temperature to a chilly 72 degrees Fahrenheit.

  The innkeeper ran his hands through his tousled blond hair, tugging at the longer locks. The evening forecast called for scattered showers trending toward a drenching downpour. The likelihood of inclement weather had increased the creative challenge for his decorative table settings.

  A slim young woman with tightly braided pigtails walked down the steps from the main residence carrying an armload of linens in a variety of shades and textures. She set the pile on a counter beneath the pavilion and patiently waited for Oliver to decide on his design strategy.

  “What do you think, Elsie?” he asked, frowning up at the sky.

  “Go with a darker color,” she suggested. “Something with a pattern. The cloth won’t show as much if it gets wet.”

  Oliver nodded his agreement. “Right you are.”

  He thumbed through the pile, grinning apologetically as he pulled out his selection. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  “It’s no problem, sir.” Her face crimped into a short smile. It was indeed a hassle to keep twelve sets of table linens pressed and at the ready, but she liked Mr. Oliver – far more so than his partner.

  Over the years, Elsie had performed countless hospitality-related tasks. The island’s economy revolved around tourism, so there were always positions available in hotels, restaurants and catering. In her short life, she had worked for several employers and experienced a wide range of temperaments. Oliver was by far the kindest boss she had ever met.

  “Okay, I’ll put the rest of these back in the closet.” She knew better than to leave the discarded options within view. Oliver had the best of intentions, but he could easily change his mind five times – or more – before the dinner guests began to arrive. The quicker she returned the rejected linens to the storage unit the better. She picked up the pile and turned for the stairs.

  “Aren’t you hot in that sweater?”

  Elsie shivered her response, as if she would have preferred more clothing, not less.

  The slightest drop in temperature brought out long-sleeve sweaters, wool pants, hats and scarves among the island’s West Indian population.

  While Oliver welcomed the respite from the tropical heat, throwing his head back into the breeze, Elsie pulled herself inward, seeking shelter from the coming turbulence.

  She sensed a frigidness in the air, a foreboding unrelated to the weather.

  ~ ~ ~

  ELSIE RETURNED TO the pool deck a few minutes later, still visibly chilled.

  Oliver had laid out a sample table, testing a low profile centerpiece against the elements. A pair of candles anchored a small wreath of island flowers.

  “There,” he said, carefully lifting his hands away from the arrangement. “I think that will hold…”

  As if mocking his optimism, a gust of wind swept across the deck, knocking over several plastic chairs. Oliver dove toward the table, scrambling to protect the flowers. The sample menu from the display flew up over his head.

  Oliver lunged for the laminated sheet, but it soared out of reach and flipped over the deck railing.

  Watching these antics, Elsie barely suppressed a giggle.

  “Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll get it!”

  She jogged down the steps attached to the pavilion’s outer wall, trotted past the restrooms, and turned the corner for the last flight of stairs to the clearing below.

  She paused at the bottom, trying to spot the menu in the surrounding greenery.

  “Over there,” Oliver called out, pointing to a clump of bushes about ten feet from her location.

  Following his directions, Elsie crossed the clearing.

  She bent to scoop up the menu, but another item caught her eye. It was a gold chain, the flashy kind sold at the shops that catered to cruise ship passengers.

  Frowning, she reached into the tangled branches and lifted it out. The clasp was broken, but otherwise the chain was in good condition. There was no sign of rust or tarnish. It hadn’t been in the jungle for long.

  She looked up toward the deck, where Oliver had resumed his attempts to create a windproof table setting.

  Then she balled the chain in her hand and slid it into her pocket.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Elsie hopped a ride into town with one of the safari truck taxis. She asked the driver to drop her off at the island’s police department.

  Inside the one-story concrete building, she waited in line to speak to the clerk working the front counter.

  When it was her turn, she stepped up to the window – not to report the necklace, but to fill out an application for the department’s deputy-training program.

  Chapter 9

  Misery Loves Company

  OLIVER AND I didn’t talk much about the missing husband, other than a brief exchange the morning the wife checked out of her room without him.

  I reckoned the guy had run off to try his little blue pill routine on a younger woman. True, the timing was odd, but he seemed like the type to pull that sort of stunt.

  Oli nodded his agreement, although he was oddly quiet on the matter.

  It was hard for me to imagine any other scenario. There was no indication of foul play as far as I could see.

  Our island was renowned for its safety. The little crime that did occur was generally focused on or among the local West Indian population. Tourists were taboo targets, because everyone knew they represented the island’s economic lifeblood. No matter how careless a vacationer was with his valuables, that kind of theft was rare.

  Assault and murder, of even the most annoying foreign visitors, was unheard of – not that some of us in the hospitality industry weren’t at times sorely tempted.

  So I quickly forgot about the husband who never returned from the lower level restrooms.

  Until the next abrupt departure…

  ~ ~ ~

  BEFORE I MOVE on to that part of the story, I should say a brief word about tourists – specifically, about the troubles they bring with them on vacation.

  Don’t get me wrong. Most of our guests were charming, engaging people. It was a pleasure to welcome them into our home. We enjoyed getting to know them and learning about their lives, hobbies and myriad occupations.

  But every so often, more frequently than you might think, we encountered a boarder who was so miserably unhappy that he or she tainted everything around them. These individuals were sickened by such an intense level of dissatisfaction, there was nothing in the world that could please them. Of course, this didn’t stop them from expecting us to achieve that unreachable goal.

  Typically, this person was accompanied by a suffering companion, someone who had been immersed in the misery for so long, they’d lost perspective of how bad the situation had become.

  It was an innkeeper’s worst nightmare.

  I often wondered why these people came to the Caribbean. Perhaps they hoped the exotic locale would brighten their terminally disgruntled mood. Maybe they were searching for an external stimulus to reenergi
ze their life.

  In the worst-case scenario, they’d traveled to the tropics to revive a dying romance.

  I never saw it work.

  All that happened was that these wretched souls inflicted their misery upon their hosts – and anyone else unfortunate enough to cross their path.

  The miserables, that’s what I called them.

  After only a few weeks of running Our Island Inn, I could spot a miserable from twenty feet away, the second they climbed out of their rental vehicle in the parking lot.

  I found myself wanting to pull these sad people aside and offer a little guidance: life is too short to spend it unhappy and bound to the wrong partner.

  But then such advice is always easier to give than to receive.

  Chapter 10

  Man-eater

  THE SECOND DISAPPEARANCE happened a few weeks later. This time it was a woman named Daisy Jones.

  You might think that a repeat of such a peculiar event would have set off alarm bells, but somehow I managed to rationalize it away. The circumstances of this departure, like the first, facilitated the discounting process.

  Once Daisy was gone – and her threatening presence had been lifted from the property – I had no desire to see her return.

  ~ ~ ~

  DAISY ARRIVED ON a Wednesday, a midweek booking.

  We were always happy to welcome guests to the inn, but the middle of the week was our only downtime. I generally viewed midweek bookings as a mixed blessing – even more so after Daisy and her boyfriend checked in.

  I was headed toward the pavilion when the pair drove up, but I switched course and followed the couple into the reception building to see if they needed any help with their luggage. Standing in the doorway, I watched Oliver process the couple’s registration. I could sense his unease across the room.

  Daisy had that effect on people. It was direct and immediate.

  She was a dyed blonde with a busty slim-waisted figure, the kind that some men presumably find attractive. Her clothes were clingy and revealing, as if the warm climate granted a free license to exhibitionism.