Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean)

by Rebecca M. Hale

  “Romeo Pasticcio. I come from Naples. Ciao.” He finished off his introduction with a wink.

  I was entranced by the stranger’s accent and the way he rolled his syllables, but Oliver didn’t find the affectations at all endearing.

  “Okay,” he said, quickly retracting his hand. “Well, we have some vacancies. Would you be interested in a studio?”

  I slid around the counter and flipped open the registration book. “I’ll take care of that, Oli.”

  He was startled by the gesture – probably because I never showed any interest in the inn’s bookkeeping. Oliver had a head for numbers, so I let him take care of the accounting.

  In truth, I had already offered Romeo a substantial discount, and I didn’t want to tell Oliver about it – at least, not until later.

  “You look wiped,” I said with concern that was at best halfway sincere. “Why don’t you head upstairs and catch a nap before dinner?”

  “All right.” Oliver gave both of us a wary glance. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I guess I could use the extra shut-eye.”

  He picked up the pitcher, took two steps toward the door, and then turned back to Romeo.

  “Would you like a glass of rum punch?”

  “Sì, sì,” our new guest replied. He skipped across the tile floor, scooped up a plastic palm tree glass, and held it out for Oliver to pour.

  Once the cup had been filled, Romeo plunked a pink flamingo straw into the red liquid and took a loud slurp.

  “Mmm.” He smiled his approval and then doled out another of his ubiquitous winks. “Grazie.”

  Oliver stared skeptically at his shirtless chest.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Cradling the pitcher, he turned and trudged out the door.

  Chapter 18

  The Third Wheel

  OLIVER CALLED IN sick for dinner. He phoned down to the kitchen, reported that he had a headache, and said he would try to sleep it off in the apartment. He’d never missed a moment of action since we opened the inn, so I figured he must have been in bad shape.

  I told him not to worry and assured him that I would handle everything at the restaurant. Being a Tuesday, it would be a relatively light crowd.

  I confess, I was relieved he took the night off.

  There’d been a tension between us for months. We were constantly together and yet, somehow, out of synch.

  Running the inn was supposed to be fun and enjoyable. After all, this was our retirement paradise. But Oliver was always fussing about profit margins, clean bed linens, and online guest reviews. It’s not that I didn’t care about such matters; I was just more relaxed about them.

  The strain extended far beyond our different approaches to the business. We were getting on each other’s nerves – or rather, he was trampling on mine. The petty annoyances piled up, and I started to lose sight of why Oliver and I got together in the first place.

  Unsure of what to do, I simply ignored the problem. I was never one for talking about feelings or emotions. That was Oli’s area of expertise.

  Since he hadn’t brought up the subject, I assumed he hadn’t noticed and that the problems were all in my head. If I just waited it out, things would get better.

  But every day I woke with a weight around my neck, a heavy burden that was slowly but surely pulling me down.

  Of course, that encumbrance had nothing to do with Oliver or any of his peculiar mannerisms. It was my own guilt, amplifying with every lie I told, growing with every deceit – no matter how much I tried to deny responsibility for my actions.

  It turned out Oli was painfully aware of the situation.

  The breakdown in our relationship was slowly but surely destroying him.

  I wouldn’t discover how much damage I’d done until it was too late to fix it.

  ~ ~ ~

  WITH OLIVER SIDELINED, the evening started off refreshingly casual.

  After making sure the few other dinner guests were satisfied with their meal, I grabbed a bottle of wine and joined Romeo at his table. He was alone and looked like he could use the company.

  He had dressed up for the occasion, having tossed on a faded T-shirt to complement his ripped jeans. Before long, Jesús had pulled up a chair and the three of us were enjoying a laugh.

  I summoned the waitress and ordered for the group. “This is on me,” I offered, nodding at Jesús. “We’ll write it off as a staff meal.”

  Romeo lifted his glass. “Cheers!”

  That round of toasts drained the bottle, so I scurried to the kitchen to fetch another – leaving my glass unattended.

  Maya shook her head as I passed through the kitchen to the pantry, but she didn’t object. She merely returned her attention to her cooking station. She was a world unto herself, surrounded by pots, pans, her rack of knives, and the little ceramic parrot that always perched at the edge of her workspace.

  I stepped into the pantry where we stored the alcohol. It was a dark narrow room with a single light bulb mounted to the ceiling. Designed for maximum storage capacity, the walls were fitted with sturdy shelving. The pantry held a dizzying display of bottles, boxes, plastic containers, metal tins and canned preserves.

  The last category represented Maya’s diligent work. She never let anything go to waste. Fruits and veggies on the verge of becoming overripe were quickly processed into sealed jars. Colored labels had been affixed to the jars, apparently identifying the contents, but I had never been able to decipher the code.

  I kept my journal stashed behind a row of jars with green labels, which seemed as safe a place as any. Certainly, Oliver would never find it there. Given how well my dinner party was proceeding, I didn’t anticipate any journal writing that evening, so I left it in its hiding place.

  Skimming over the shelves that contained the liquor supply, I picked out a nice Pinot. As I held the bottle in my hands, it occurred to me how much Oliver would gripe about the expense.

  “Stick in the mud.” Impishly, I added a flask of rum to my load.

  On my way back through the kitchen, I noticed Elsie had arrived to help Maya. She lived close by, in a house with her father. Maya must have written off Jesús for the night and called in reinforcements.

  Elsie didn’t look pleased to be there. Her face darkened with a brief scowl before flattening to its regular unreadable expression.

  I thought nothing of it – until the following day.

  ~ ~ ~

  AS THE NIGHT wore on, the rest of the tables emptied, leaving the three of us out under the stars, consuming an enormous amount of alcohol.

  In the giggling, garbled mix of Spanish and Italian, I began to pick up traces of American English – not mine, but Romeo’s.

  His fake accent had started to slip.

  I should have realized that something was wrong, but a cloud was seeping through my head. My vision blurred, and my dizzying thoughts were impossible to gather.

  A numbing agent – other than the alcohol – pulled me under. Soon, I slipped into blackness.

  For several hours, I drifted in and out of consciousness.

  At one point, I woke to find myself alone by the pool. There was a movement on the rough ground below the deck, followed by a faint rustling in the bushes.

  The noise appeared to be generated by a creature much larger than a chicken – two if I’d interpreted the sounds correctly.

  But I was too far-gone to get up and investigate.

  I had been purposefully incapacitated, pushed out of the way.

  Among my dinner companions, I’d become the third wheel.

  Chapter 19

  Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo?

  A PIERCING CACKLE jarred me awake just before dawn. Charlie the Chicken and his or her feathered friends were determined to draw me from my stupor. Apparently, the birds were offended that I’d spent the night on the pool deck.

  “We need more poultry items on the menu,” I muttered grimly. Wincing, I tried to extract myself from the contorted knot I’d slu
mped into when I passed out in the chair. My muscles ached, and my head felt as if it was about to explode.

  “Good grief, how much did I drink?” I rubbed my temples, attempting to stabilize my vision. I counted three, no four, empty bottles of wine and a drained bottle of rum, but I had no idea which container’s contents were sloshing around – to nauseating affect – in my stomach.

  The chalky taste in my mouth didn’t help matters. I leaned forward in my seat, searching the table for a glass of water, but even the ice bucket was dry.

  My attention soon shifted to a movement at the opposite end of the deck.

  A distant figure topped the stairs leading up from the clearing. The man wore a white T-shirt and torn jeans. He carried his sandals in one hand, looping the straps through his fingers as he tiptoed across the pavilion.

  In the harsh morning light, with off-pitch poultry crowing in the background, Romeo didn’t seem quite so fetching.

  My opinion of him soured further as I watched his next action.

  He stopped at the cash register by the bar, the one I should have emptied into the safe the previous evening, and pulled open the drawer.

  He glanced across the deck, eying me as I drooled. In healthier form, I would have leapt up from my chair, chased down the rascal, and stopped him with a crushing tackle. Still reeling from the sedative I’d been slipped the night before, it was all I could do to keep myself upright.

  The wink was now one of mocking.

  Romeo tucked a wad of bills into his jeans, slid on his shoes, and scampered up the steps to the parking lot.

  Shortly thereafter, I heard a jeep rumble off down the drive. Romeo must not have been used to the island’s steep roads, because it sounded like he nearly wrecked at the bottom of the hill. Gravel sprayed as the vehicle turned onto the main road.

  Emitting a painful sigh, I rested my head against the back of the chair and looked up at the sky.

  Romeo, why would you do such a thing?

  The answer was as easy to see that morning as it had been to dismiss the night before. He was nothing but a common crook.

  The real question was how could I have been such a fool.

  As the sun beat down on my face, I realized the worst was yet to come.

  How would I explain this escapade to Oliver?

  All of my anxieties returned full force. My stomach churned, and I lunged for the ice bucket.

  ~ ~ ~

  THIS TIME IT was Oliver who insisted we call Inspector Pickering.

  Chapter 20

  Insult to Injury

  INSPECTOR ORLANDO PICKERING parked his truck in the lot outside Our Island Inn. He peered through the cracked windshield, absentmindedly patting the steering wheel.

  It was a steamy Caribbean day, but he felt nothing but ice in his veins as he stared up at the concrete building that housed the guest units and the owners’ condo. With a disapproving grunt, he shifted his gaze to the entertainment pavilion and the pool deck overlooking the steep drop below.

  He was displeased to have been summoned back to Parrot Ridge.

  The innkeepers had noted his arrival. They exited the reception building and walked toward the truck, the bigger man sheepish and red-faced, the smaller one painfully reserved – and sporting several fresh scratches on his cheek.

  Frowning, Pickering hefted his bulk out of the driver’s seat and stepped onto the pavement.

  He was beginning to suspect his misgivings about the inn were the result of something more than his moral objections to the two men who owned the establishment – or the cursed spirit who inhabited the ravine.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I TOOK THE name you gave me over the phone and ran it through our database.”

  Pickering flipped open his notepad to a paper-clipped page and squinted at the handwriting on the selected sheet. “Romeo Pasti… Pasto…”

  Glenn cut in. “Pasticcio.”

  Oliver glared at his partner.

  “Yes, that one.” The inspector cleared his throat. “According to our records, there are no Italian nationals on the island fitting his name or description.” He arched his eyebrows and added, “You really should have made a copy of his passport.”

  “I assure you, Captain, that is our regular protocol.” Oliver pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t followed in this instance.”

  “It’s inspector,” Pickering corrected, but his tone was carefully measured. He had plenty of experience mediating lover’s quarrels, and, he supposed, this was no different. A calm presence would help ratchet down the tension.

  “There have been several reports of an American causing trouble in the area. It sounds like he made his way here.”

  The innkeepers were silent. Glenn kept his eyes focused to the ground. Oliver’s pinched face reflected a simmering rage.

  “Look.” Pickering made an awkward attempt to soothe the hurt feelings. “It could happen to anyone.”

  Oliver crossed his hands over his chest. “Hmph.”

  With a sigh, Pickering returned to his notepad. He pulled out a ballpoint pen and clicked the end with his thumb. “Can you give me a list of what’s been taken?”

  Wearily, Glenn lifted his head. “The night’s cash from the restaurant register. There were only a few dinner guests, so probably not more than a couple hundred dollars. It could have been…” He stopped mid-sentence, apparently thinking it was better not to finish the assessment. “I’ll have to check with Maya, our chef, to get an estimate.”

  Pickering scribbled a notation on the paper. “Anything else?”

  There was a long pause.

  The inspector glanced up at the innkeepers. Clearly, another item of value had been stolen.

  Finally, Oliver drew in his breath. His voice cracked with strain as he spoke.

  “A plastic palm tree glass and a matching flamingo straw.”

  With that, he turned and stomped back to the reception building.

  Chapter 21

  The Golden Girls

  I STAYED IN the parking lot for another half-hour answering Pickering’s questions.

  He asked about the abrasions on Oliver’s face. I relayed what Oli had told me: that one of the dogs had jumped up on him and a paw had accidentally swiped his cheek. The poodles were hyper since they’d missed their regular morning outing to the beach. It was yet another mark against me.

  I didn’t have much more information to provide. I gathered the inspector wasn’t interested in the details of how the thief had flirted his way into the inn – or what might have gone on between Romeo and Jesús in the bushes beneath the pool deck.

  The last bit, in particular, was more than I could bear to think about.

  Pickering was surprisingly sympathetic, but without any clues to Romeo’s location, there was little he could do.

  Once the inspector finished taking my statement, which in informal island-style meant scribbling a few lines in his notepad, the interview was over. He bid me a solemn farewell, climbed into his pickup, and puttered off down the hill.

  I stood there taking stock of the mess I’d created – and not just with the looted cash register.

  My behavior over the last several months had been nothing short of selfish.

  I had let Oliver down and betrayed his trust.

  With more than just Romeo.

  ~ ~ ~

  MUCH AS I wanted to run upstairs, crawl into bed, and bury my head in a pile of blankets, there was no time to mope.

  Our next guests were about to arrive: a four-pack of elderly women who would be spending seven days with us.

  Oliver had dubbed them the Golden Girls. He’d been corresponding with the ladies for months as they planned their trip.

  He had gone to great lengths to ensure they would enjoy their stay. He’d put together an extra nice welcome basket for their room and had ordered special lilac soaps and shampoos for the bathroom in their suite. He’d even touched base with the various transportation representatives they would encounter en route to
the inn, coordinating with the ferryboat operator, the rental car agency, and the customs officials who would screen them through immigration.

  I thought perhaps the last step was overkill – until I heard the women’s shouts coming from a rental jeep struggling up the drive.

  I rushed to the edge of the parking lot and looked down the hill, fearful our senior citizens were having trouble navigating the steep slope.

  I needn’t have worried. They weren’t the least bit intimidated by the incline. To the contrary, they were having the time of their lives.

  The white-haired driver had wrapped her hands around the steering wheel in a vice-like grip. Her wrinkled face bore the maniacal grin of a person on an amusement park ride. The two passengers in the rear whooped and hollered encouragement, while the woman in the front passenger seat waved her cowboy hat out the jeep’s roof as if she was leading a cattle drive.

  “Oh, dear,” was all I could muster.

  I stepped onto the curb as the jeep pulled into the parking lot – for my own safety, not because they needed more room.

  The jeep made a celebratory circle on the flat portion of the tarmac. As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, the driver snagged the cowboy hat from her copilot, jumped spryly from her seat, and planted it on my head.

  ~ ~ ~

  OLIVER POPPED OUT of the reception carrying the punch tray.

  He had dressed the wound on the side of his face and taped a small bandage over it. The injury was far less noticeable now.

  He nodded approvingly at my headgear and almost managed to give me a smile. It was one of Oli’s endearing qualities; he rarely stayed angry for long.

  I grinned in relief – because I desperately wanted his forgiveness and because there was no way I could have handled the Golden Girls’ arrival on my own.

  Maude, Mary, Millicent and Kate were widows of varying heights and bone density, lovely gals off on the greatest adventure of their sunset years.

  They swarmed around Oliver, gushing over his rum punch presentation. I couldn’t help but notice that despite the tragedy of the missing palm tree glass and its matching straw, there appeared to be more than an ample supply.