Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean)

by Rebecca M. Hale

  There’d been plenty of talk about the case at the station, both at the time of the occurrence and sporadically through the years.

  During Pickering’s tenure, the department had dealt with only a handful of homicides. The bloody scene at the inn was the reference point of gruesome comparison whenever a rare killing occurred.

  Upon setting about the unpleasant task of processing a dead body for evidence, the inevitable complaints were met with the standard response.

  “You think this is bad – you should have seen the mess at Parrot Ridge…”

  ~ ~ ~

  THE TOPIC OF the innkeeper’s slaying was raised even more frequently at the church Pickering attended.

  The previous iteration of the inn’s restaurant had served a wider mix of locals and tourists. The reverend and his wife had been seated in the pool deck dining area when the blood-soaked husband fled the kitchen, the knife still lodged in his chest.

  The scene left a lasting impression on the minister, one he shared regularly with his congregation. The tale of the philandering husband was the basis of an annual sermon topic – on the sin of homosexuality.

  Unlike the modified version of events that Elsie had relayed to Glenn, in reality, the husband’s infidelity had been with another man.

  For the reverend, it was this aspect of the saga that most offended his religious beliefs. His bellowing sermon typically culminated in the following rant.

  “I witnessed the horror in that man’s eyes as he took his last breath. He’d glimpsed the punishment he was about to receive for his shameful acts. It was too late for his redemption.”

  The reverend would pause and look out at his congregation, daring them to meet his righteous gaze. “A shadow crossed the deck as the devil’s minions seized his soul and carried him to the depths of hell.”

  The wife who had stabbed and killed her spouse received a more sympathetic treatment. While not saying so explicitly, the reverend left no doubt among his parishioners that he believed the woman’s murderous act was justified. Nevertheless, her fate provided a last cautionary lesson. She was tainted by her association with the sinful husband and, therefore, condemned to an eternity stuck in limbo, haunting the steep ravine below the property.

  It was no surprise that while tourists had been quick to embrace Glenn and Oliver’s version of the poolside restaurant, the locals had stayed away.

  ~ ~ ~

  PICKERING SHOOK HIS head as he closed the pickup door.

  He got the heebies just standing in the parking lot. He reached up to the chain hanging from his neck and fingered the gold cross that lay against his neckline.

  It was well known across the island that the new innkeepers were engaged in a hedonistic lifestyle, the kind God frowned upon and, if the reverend was to be believed, brutally punished. The two men were tempting fate to smite them down.

  The inspector half-expected a bolt of lightning to flash out of the sky and obliterate the new structures on Parrot Ridge.

  Releasing the necklace, Pickering straightened his shoulders and walked warily toward the reception building in front of the inn.

  No matter how conflicted he felt about the matter, he had a job to do.

  Chapter 15

  Bad Juju

  PICKERING PUSHED OPEN the reception door, triggering a trio of tiny bells that announced his presence.

  He scowled down at the painted metal balls as they bounced against the glass. With a deft swipe, he muffled the sound.

  The smaller of the two innkeepers spoke first.

  “You must be the police officer.” Oliver slid from behind the front counter and held out his hand in greeting.

  Pickering’s grasp retained the forceful intensity he’d applied to the bells. “It’s Inspector. Inspector Pickering.”

  Oliver managed a smile through the painfully firm handshake. “Yes, of course. Nice to meet you…Inspector.”

  Pickering stepped back from the innkeeper and scanned the air-conditioned room. It was artsy and clean with several containers of fresh-cut flowers spread around the space. A side table positioned against the interior wall held a glass pitcher of rum punch, a set of palm tree plastic cups, and an array of pink flamingo straws.

  “Would you like a complimentary punch?” Oliver said the words automatically. He blushed as he realized the inappropriateness of the offer.

  “No,” Pickering replied stiffly. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, you’re on duty.”

  The inspector grunted his acknowledgment. He would rather that were not the case – and not because he was in any way tempted by the pink flamingo straws.

  Shifting his stance, he looked at the two gay men and, he presumed, the missing woman’s tear-stained boyfriend.

  The whole scene made him uncomfortable.

  Determined to get the investigation over with as quickly as possible, he pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket. Flipping the pad open, he glanced at the name written on the top sheet.

  “Daisy Jones, that’s the one you called the station about? The woman who’s missing?”

  The boyfriend wiped his face and nodded.

  “We have her passport photo and her basic physical description. Can you add any other details? Do you have a more recent picture of her?”

  The young man began rummaging through his cell phone for a digital photo. The inspector waited for a few seconds and then sighed impatiently.

  “She’s got blond hair,” Oliver provided, trying to be helpful. He added a whispered aside. “Dark roots. She could use a touch up.”

  Pickering pulled out a pen and took down a brief notation. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the second innkeeper.

  Glenn held up his hands and waved them in an hourglass shape. “She’s…uh…curvy.”

  With a grimace at the hand gesture, the inspector added a scribble to the paper.

  “When did you last see her?”

  The boyfriend looked up from his phone. “Last night. At the restaurant down by the pool.”

  Pickering flipped the notepad shut and returned it to his front pocket.

  “Take me there.”

  As the group stepped out the door, the boyfriend handed his phone to Pickering. “There’s a good shot of her, sir. I can text it to you if you like.”

  The inspector squinted at the sun-glared screen.

  “Send it to the station,” he replied, holding the phone gingerly. “I don’t do the texting thing.”

  As if offended by the remark, the phone began to buzz loudly.

  Pickering tilted the device to read the display.

  “It says it's your mother.”

  The boyfriend grabbed the phone. “I better take that.”

  Oliver motioned across the parking lot. “We’ll show you the deck area, Captain.”

  Pickering glared at the nervous innkeeper.

  “It’s Inspector.”

  ~ ~ ~

  INSPECTOR PICKERING CROSSED the parking lot to the pool pavilion, flanked by the two innkeepers.

  Oliver led the way, giving a tour of the property as they walked. “We have seven guest units in the main building, each one self-contained. You’ll want to see Daisy’s room, I’m sure.”

  The inspector scratched the side of his neck. His “mmm-hmph” reply was noncommittal.

  “And of course, this is the entertainment area,” Oliver continued, somewhat confused by the response. “We have the pool on the right and, next to it, the deck seating overlooking the water. To the left, there’s the covered pavilion with the bar and, behind it, the kitchen.”

  Pickering listened to the monologue, keenly observing the indicated features. He had only eaten a few times at the earlier rendition of the restaurant, but despite the fifteen-year time span, the layout was eerily familiar. He rubbed his chin, pondering the scene.

  “You built on top of the old ruins.”

  It was a statement – on the verge of an accusation – not a question, but Oliver answered anyway.
<
br />   “Yes. Yes, we thought that was the best way to proceed…” His voice trailed off as he looked up at his partner, seeking support.

  Glenn stammered through an explanation. “That…that was the advice from the engineer. The base of the old structure was sound, particularly the pool here and the adjoining kitchen. We just…ah…reinforced it.”

  Pickering left the innkeepers and approached the deck railing. He glanced out at the distant sea and then dropped his gaze to the steep terrain immediately below.

  Even in the bright sunshine, he felt goose pimples rise on his arm.

  The previous wife, he thought with a shudder. She was still there, haunting the place.

  That kind of bad juju didn’t just fade away. Disturbed souls sank into the dirt and grew up inside the branches of bushes and trees, possessing birds, frogs and fleas.

  A spirit like hers would be impossible to eradicate. She might inhabit Parrot Ridge for decades, if not forever.

  He dusted his hands across the front of his shirt as if brushing ghostly spider webs from the fabric.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “It’s very similar to the way it was before.”

  Chapter 16

  Misbehaving Foreigners

  A PAIR OF flip-flops slapped down the concrete stairs from the parking lot.

  The boyfriend entered the pavilion a changed man. The tear-stained blotches had cleared from his face, and he was casually sipping a rum punch from a palm tree plastic cup.

  The conversation with his mother had calmed his worries, if not rendered him entirely indifferent to Daisy’s whereabouts.

  He had revised his position on the gravity of her disappearance.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. I think I’ve jumped the gun on this missing person thing.”

  Pickering tapped the shirt pocket that held the notepad. “Are you retracting your report?”

  “Well, maybe it’s too soon to say.” The boyfriend paused for another slurp through his flamingo straw. “I mean, who knows? She could have run off with someone. She’s done it before.”

  Glenn opened his mouth as if to speak, but Oliver motioned for him to remain silent.

  “She’ll probably show up later tonight or even tomorrow morning, expecting me to take her back.” The boyfriend shook his head firmly. “Not this time.”

  He drained the cup and set it on the edge of the bar. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a set of keys.

  “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m heading to the beach.”

  ~ ~ ~

  NOT WAITING AROUND for any objections, the boyfriend soon motored out of the parking lot in his rental jeep.

  Pickering remained in the pavilion area, apparently undecided on how to proceed. He shook out the pleat on his left pants leg, gritting the tread of his shoe against the concrete.

  The innkeepers stood awkwardly waiting, neither sure how to handle the inspector – or what to do about their potentially missing guest.

  Glenn glanced furtively past the bar to the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, clearing wishing he could escape the situation.

  Oliver kept his gaze directed at Pickering. A bead of sweat formed on the big man’s forehead and then slowly slid down his cheek.

  The siege was broken by the arrival of a young woman carrying a pile of table linens.

  “Oh, hi, Elsie.” Oliver rushed over to help her, relieved for the distraction. “Let’s set those on the bar.”

  Pickering stepped away from the innkeepers and motioned for Elsie to join him at the far end of the deck. “You’re one of our new trainees, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” She marched briskly across the pavilion and clicked to a sharp stop in front of him, making a lopsided salute with her arm.

  Pickering nodded appreciatively. In a low voice, he asked, “What do you know about what went on here?” He glanced sideways at the innkeepers. “I mean about Daisy Jones?”

  Whispering, Elsie leaned toward the inspector. “She was a loose woman, sir.” She cupped her hand over her mouth to shield her words. “She made a move on Mr. Glenn yesterday afternoon.”

  Pickering shuddered squeamishly. He felt as if he might be ill. He’d take a dead body any day over the sexual exploits of a homosexual innkeeper. It took every ounce of fortitude for him to ask the follow up question.

  “And did he…reciprocate?”

  Elsie shook her head, an adamant denial. “You know what he is, sir. There was nothing she could do to entice him.” She hesitated a moment and then added, “Miss Jones must have moved on to another man. Likely, she’s taken up with a stranger.”

  Pickering leaned his back against the deck railing and closed his eyes, deep in thought.

  Misbehaving foreigners, befouling his island.

  He had no desire to spend another second at this Godforsaken place.

  Parrot Ridge. This spot should have been condemned.

  Elsie held her breath, releasing it as Pickering grunted his disapproval and thanked her for her assistance.

  Deciding to let the matter rest for the time being, he bade a quick goodbye to the innkeepers and lumbered up to the parking lot.

  ~ ~ ~

  ELSIE REMAINED ON the deck, listening to Pickering’s departing pickup. She waited until she heard the brakes squeak at the bottom of the driveway. Seconds later, the vehicle motored off along the main road.

  Glenn had retreated to the kitchen, no doubt looking for Jesús. Oliver had returned to the reception.

  She was alone by the pool.

  Silently, she started down the steps attached to the pavilion’s outer wall. Her fingers trembled as her hand skimmed the stair railing.

  Past the restaurant restrooms, she continued her descent to the rough ground at the base of the building. A chicken eyed her suspiciously as she picked her way through the weeds.

  Moments earlier, while standing next to the inspector on the upper deck, she’d spied an object glinting in the underbrush below.

  A red hoop earring dangled from a broken branch – as if it had been burped up out of the jungle.

  Just as she had with the broken gold chain from the first missing guest, Elsie slipped Daisy’s errant accessory into her pocket.

  Chapter 17

  Trouble

  I SHOULD HAVE known he was trouble when he walked in.

  Not Officer Pickering. He took off shortly after his brief investigation into the Daisy Jones disappearance – or, rather, the downgraded inquiry of her unexplained absence.

  Daisy’s boyfriend checked out of their room the next day, even though they were booked through the weekend. He was reluctant to discuss the matter, and we didn’t press him on it. The reservation was paid in full, so we really couldn’t complain.

  Oliver maintained that Daisy must have departed with another suitor. He assured me that we had fulfilled our inn-keeping duties. The police had been contacted, and their review, such as it was, had quickly terminated. There was nothing more for us to do.

  I was more than happy to see the end of Miss Jones. For several days, traces of her perfume lingered about the place, and I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting another tush-pinching ambush. I did feel slightly odd about her departure being left unresolved, but I soon dismissed all thought of her.

  We didn’t hear again from Inspector Pickering until a few months after the Daisy Jones episode – when a third person went missing from Our Island Inn.

  That chain of events was set in motion by the arrival of an unexpected guest, the aforementioned trouble, a young man called Romeo Pasticcio.

  ~ ~ ~

  ROMEO PASTICCIO. AT first, I wasn’t sure if his parents had given him that name or if he’d assumed it later in life.

  It turned out to be one of his many aliases.

  Regardless, the moniker fit him to a T. He was beautiful, exotic and delightfully mischievous.

  Romeo showed up without a reservation late on a Tuesday afternoon. For once, I didn’t mind the inconv
enience of a midweek arrival.

  He’d asked around town about potential accommodations, and someone had pointed him in our direction.

  He was drawn to our inn for the same reason that Inspector Pickering abhorred it: he’d heard the place was run by two gay innkeepers.

  Romeo drove up in a dusty red jeep with a dented hood. The front bumper had been clumsily reattached, both side doors were missing, and there were rips throughout the canvas roof. It obviously wasn’t one of the vehicles loaned out by the local rental agencies.

  I later learned that he had “borrowed” the jeep from someone he’d met during his scattered travels. He was a vagabond and a petty thief, the kind who would join you for dinner, leave you with the bill, and then pick your pocket on his way out the door.

  We never received any payment for his stay at the inn.

  He got by on good looks, charm and shameless flirtation. He had a way of making you overlook obvious red flags, causing you to momentarily lose all practicality or reason.

  I was strolling toward the pavilion when I first saw him.

  The sight stopped me in my tracks.

  Romeo climbed out of that beat up jeep, shirtless, in ripped jeans and sandals, his olive skin flushed with a light sunburn.

  He looked up at me and smiled – the friendly grin of a con artist who’s just spotted his next mark.

  ~ ~ ~

  OLIVER WAS NOT so easily taken in.

  He appeared tired as I swung open the reception door and ushered Romeo through. We had one couple staying with us that night, and they had already checked in. Oli was about to carry the pitcher of rum punch up to the refrigerator in our apartment and close the front counter for the day.

  He patted a hand over his mouth, only partially covering his questioning yawn.

  “Oliver, we have another guest for tonight. This is Romeo Pasti… Pasta… Hmm. How do you say that again?”

  The rogue stepped forward. Oliver hadn’t offered his hand for a shake, but within seconds Romeo was cradling it in his palm. He’d done the same with me. I’d felt as if I’d been swept off my feet. Oliver acted as if he’d been touched by a leper.