Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean)

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Returning to full height, the inspector unsheathed the machete and held it up in front of his body. The sharp blade glinted in the dimming sunlight.

  “Reverend, do you have any sense of where the opening to that trail might have been?”

  Stepping gingerly forward, the minister waved a broad-beamed flashlight over the rough ground. Then he bent near a spot where Clarice had focused her sniffing.

  He tucked the flashlight under his arm and pushed aside a heap of dried brush, revealing an opening in the dense vegetation.

  The trail had obviously been in recent use.

  Pickering slid the machete into its case and shifted his hand to the gun holstered on his hip.

  Flabbergasted, I risked a glance at Oliver.

  He didn’t appear the least bit surprised.

  Chapter 38

  Bird Food

  SIX MONTHS AGO, if someone would have told me that I’d be walking into the dense jungle beneath Parrot Ridge surrounded by a small army of restless West Indians armed with cutlasses and guns – men who were opposed, if not openly hostile, to my sexual orientation – and my main safety concern would be Oliver and the spirit that had possessed him, I would have laughed out loud and pronounced the statement ludicrous.

  Despite the bizarre nature of the situation, that was indeed the case.

  The path was no more than a foot wide, so we proceeded single file. The biggest men had to push through the encroaching branches, causing a constant creaking and snapping of wood. I jumped every time I felt a twig poke my shoulders, certain that a ghostly arm had reached out to drag me from the trail, strangle me with a rope-like vine, and mummify me in mulch.

  It’s simple enough to say that supernatural beings don’t exist – from the safety of a warm brightly lit room – but down in that jungle, the spirit’s presence was very real.

  A dense canopy covered the path, blocking any rays that might have been provided by the fading sun. There were just a few flashlights shared among the group, and I hadn’t thought to grab one from the pavilion before we left. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and tried to use its display to light the ground at my feet.

  Tree roots and fallen trunks crossed the trail. As I stepped over yet another obstruction, I couldn’t help but think that whoever had been traveling this route was slender and in good physical condition.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Oliver, hoping to find him terrified and unsure of his footing.

  His face was masked in shadow, blocking his expression, but while I stumbled at every step, his feet tread across the uneven terrain with casual ease.

  He walked as comfortably on the path as he did across the pool deck.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE TRAIL WOUND through the jungle, a dizzying maze of switchbacks and sharp curves, but the trend was always downward and toward the sea.

  I lost all sense of distance. We could have been miles away from Parrot Ridge or directly beneath, it was impossible to tell which.

  As we traversed farther down the hill, the track began to branch into a series of unmarked forks. There were several long pauses, and I sensed that the reverend, who was in the lead, was just as confused and uncertain as me.

  In the end, the birds led us to the body. We heard their harsh calls right before the path opened up onto the beach. A squawking blood thirst filled the air.

  The bloated corpse lay on the sand at the water’s edge, illuminated by the sun’s last orange glow – and covered by a flapping frenzy of pecking beaks. The winged carnivores were engaged in a fierce battle, fighting for the plumpest pieces of remaining skin.

  We gathered silently on the shore, a shocked and somber assembly. Brandishing the machete, the inspector stepped forward and shooed the birds away. The reverend joined him and, with a grimace, shone a flashlight onto the victim’s head.

  Pickering’s deep voice echoed through the silence.

  “Elsie, run back up the hill to my truck. We’re going to need the supplies in the back.”

  Holding my breath to block the awful stench, I staggered forward. I was determined to see the injuries for myself.

  Despite the extensive avian damage, the victim’s identity was still discernable.

  It wasn’t Millicent.

  Or Daisy Jones.

  The body was that of a male.

  It wasn’t Mr. Hamilton.

  Not Jesús.

  It was Romeo – or rather, what was left of him.

  I looked at Oliver and I knew now with certainty.

  The evidence overwhelmed me. I thought of the scratches on my partner’s face, the out of control screech down the driveway after Romeo fled with the restaurant’s cash, and the dent in our jeep’s bumper. I had no idea how Oli managed to transport Romeo’s body to the beach, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was responsible.

  This time there was no ice bucket for which to aim.

  Wrapping my arms around my waist, I retched onto the sand.

  Chapter 39

  Minus One

  THE GOLDEN GIRLS stood anxiously on the pool deck, praying for their friend’s safe return. It was an excruciating wait. Every so often, they spotted a flashlight bobbing in the distance, but for the most part, the clearing remained dark.

  After thirty tortured minutes, Maude pointed out an approaching light.

  “There! Someone’s coming!”

  Moments later, Elsie jogged out of the woods and up the pavilion’s outer stairs.

  She was alone.

  The women exchanged puzzled glances as the police trainee ran through the pavilion and up to the parking lot. Then they scurried across the deck to see what she was doing.

  Elsie grabbed a tarp, some rope, and a sheet of folded plastic from the police inspector’s truck. Her arms fully loaded, she reversed course.

  Without a word, she trotted past the Golden Girls, down the stairs, and back through the narrow opening in the woods.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE SOLEMN TRIO resumed their vigil at the deck railing, holding hands as they stared at the clearing below.

  They suffered through another forty-five minutes of uninformative darkness before lights once more bounced through the trees. This time, the disturbance in the greenery moved more slowly. A far more substantial glow approached the inn, signaling the return of a larger group.

  The women had steeled themselves for the worst, but they still gasped in dismay when they saw the improvised body bag carried by the search team.

  Mary clasped her hand over her mouth as the men tromped through the clearing and hefted their burden up the stairs.

  Oliver was the first to reach the Golden Girls. “It’s not Millicent,” he said reassuringly. “It’s a…well, it was…a man.”

  Maude let out a cry of relief. “Well, I never!”

  Kate’s brow furrowed. “But then, where’s Millicent?”

  ~ ~ ~

  INSIDE THE RESTAURANT’S kitchen, behind the swinging wooden doors, Maya showed little interest in the commotion on the pool deck. She knew who and what the rescue team had retrieved from the beach.

  Some forms of discarded produce weren’t worth the effort of preserving.

  She picked up a cardboard box filled with the dry jars she’d recently cleaned and rested it on her hip. With a last glance at her empty workspace, she slipped out the rear door behind the pantry and disappeared into the dimly lit parking lot.

  Over the years, she’d learned to recognize the signs that a location had started to attract too much attention. The old lady in the cowboy hat hiding behind the bougainvillea bush had been a clear indication that too many spying eyes were focused on Our Island Inn.

  It was time for her to move on.

  Maya’s next canning session would take place in a different kitchen.

  Chapter 40

  Artistic License

  IT WAS PAST midnight when Inspector Orlando Pickering steered his pickup off the curving inland road and into the gravel drive leading up to his house. Riding i
n the cab beside the inspector, Clarice stretched her mouth into a drooling yawn.

  The inspector sighed as he parked the truck outside a three-room concrete block structure. “Long day, huh?”

  Clarice shook her head, slinging slobber against the dashboard. Then she leapt through the passenger side window and onto the gravel drive.

  The long day had been followed by an even longer night.

  After several hours and more phone calls than Pickering cared to remember, he had finally finished the initial processing and intake of the decomposed body. There would be another pile of paperwork and procedures to deal with at the station tomorrow.

  He was exhausted, but he had one more task to complete before he could crawl into bed with any hope of sleep.

  A tattered packet of manila file folders lay on the truck’s bench seat.

  Wiping dog spittle from the cover, the inspector grabbed the packet and followed the canine inside.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE ABODE OF a lifelong bachelor, Pickering’s home was small and sparsely furnished.

  The few pictures hanging on the dingy walls featured either law enforcement awards or canine tributes. The mementos to beloved but now deceased dogs far outnumbered those related to his department commendations.

  In the center of the main living space, a black and white television set perched on a rusted metal stand. It picked up only three stations. Depending on the weather, the reception often wasn’t much more than snowy static. A tattered DVD player slotted into the stand’s lower shelf offered somewhat more reliable entertainment.

  A recliner provided the only television-optimized seating. Within arm’s length of the chair stood a short shelving unit that displayed a worn family Bible and a faded photo of Pickering’s parents.

  The inspector crossed the room, touching the picture frame as he passed. It was his nightly ritual.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE FILE PACKET sent up a poof of dust as Pickering dropped it onto the kitchen table. He dug around in a cabinet by the sink, selected a can of dog food, and cut open the lid.

  “Smells horrible,” he said, spooning the mush into a dish.

  Clarice wagged her tail. She chomped her mouth, eagerly anticipating the meal.

  “You’re right,” Pickering conceded. “Not as bad as what we dealt with earlier.”

  With a grunt, he set the dish on the floor and left the dog to slurp up her dinner. The inspector was famished, but he was too tired to eat.

  Pickering pulled out the table’s lone chair and collapsed into its rusted metal seat. Reaching for the file packet, he spread the contents across the table’s flat surface. Each folder was labeled with the same handwriting that marked the packet cover.

  He turned the empty packet so that he could read the carefully printed letters.

  “Parrot Ridge.”

  ~ ~ ~

  THE INEVITABLE COMPARISONS to the inn’s previous crime scene had circulated the station earlier that evening. From the moment word went out that a chopped-up body half-eaten by birds had been recovered from the beach below the ridge, the department’s junior deputies began drawing straws for who would be stuck with the unenviable task of assisting the morgue in the autopsy.

  As Pickering sat at his desk, waiting on hold with a telephone plastered against his ear, he listened to the surrounding chatter. The office gossip was filled with obvious embellishments and fabrications about the original case. He couldn’t help but think that an event of such notoriety generated a false sense of familiarity with the actual record.

  During the several hours he’d spent at the station that night, he’d heard at least four, maybe five variations on the tale of Parrot Ridge.

  Over the course of the last fifteen years, details had inevitably been muddled as facts mingled with fiction. Given the artistic license often employed in island storytelling, by now the truth had likely been warped beyond recognition.

  He’d decided to go back to the source.

  ~ ~ ~

  PICKERING RUBBED HIS temples, remembering the elderly inspector who had handled the original case. The man had been his mentor, an officer that Pickering had worked hard to emulate. His endorsement was the most prominent department commendation hanging on Pickering’s wall.

  Dead now for almost a decade, the previous inspector’s notes were all that remained of his observations of the scene at the inn and the related suspects and witnesses.

  Pickering began thumbing through the manila folders. The filed papers had become brittle from time and exposure to the island’s humidity. The ink had faded in some spots, blurred in others, but the writing was still mostly legible.

  As he reviewed the documents, he could almost hear the other man speaking. The familiar handwriting conveyed the elderly inspector’s direct tone and folksy demeanor. Reading between the lines, he began to get his first inklings of what his mentor suspected had happened, but could not prove.

  Pickering cringed at the implications.

  Chapter 41

  The Previous Innkeepers

  THE PREVIOUS INNKEEPERS were a husband and wife team who moved down to the island from Texas.

  The husband was a big personality, the loudest voice in any room. A successful businessman in the States, he thought he’d spotted a unique entrepreneurial opportunity in the Caribbean and decided to seize it.

  Prior to his purchase and development of the lot, no one had ever tried to build on Parrot Ridge. The steep hill combined with the reinforced foundation that would be required for any structure positioned at the top had dissuaded all thought of it.

  The husband was undaunted by the challenge. The asserted difficulties of the task only added to the project’s allure. In his mind, there was no impediment he couldn’t overcome, no hurdle he couldn’t surmount.

  The wife played second fiddle to her domineering spouse. She was a petite woman, demure and rigidly polite. The husband viewed her as an accessory, one to which he paid little attention. She had provided him with a son, a pale sickly boy but an heir nonetheless, thus fulfilling her matrimonial duty. With that feat accomplished and his genetic seed replicated – albeit in somewhat muted form – he had moved on to other romantic interests.

  She was cowed by her husband’s boisterous personality, an accepting minion to his philandering ways – or so he thought.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE WHISPERS BEGAN not long after the inn opened.

  According to the rampant island rumor mill, the husband had taken up with a number of young drifters and male guests of willing persuasion. If the salacious speculations were to be believed, Parrot Ridge had been scarred by the kind of hedonistic activities that hadn’t been seen on the island since the Europeans occupied it during the Colonial Era.

  The wife turned a blind eye to her husband’s indiscretions, focusing instead on nursing her son through his many illnesses. She pretended to ignore his cheating ways – until he entered into a flagrant relationship with a man who worked at the inn.

  The elderly inspector had been unable to confirm the third party’s identity, but he had left enough breadcrumbs in his annotations for Pickering to follow his train of thought.

  His mentor had deduced that the romantic liaison that incited the wife’s violent tirade was between her husband and the restaurant’s sous-chef, who was, in turn, the husband of the restaurant’s head cook.

  No one could have anticipated the fury that was unleashed during the ensuing kitchen argument – least of all, the stabbed spouse.

  ~ ~ ~

  THE CASE FILE detailed the oft-cited account of the mortally wounded man lurching out of the restaurant kitchen and staggering to his death in the middle of the deck dining area.

  But here, the previous inspector’s carefully recorded notes deviated from the modern day folklore.

  The wife hadn’t jumped over the railing or disappeared into the woods. In fact, she hadn’t been the least bit distraught about her husband’s tragic demise.

  She had given her
statement, a stone-faced account of a cooking accident gone awry. According to her narrative, the husband’s life-ending injury was the unfortunate result of a self-inflicted wound.

  While the inspector had doubted the veracity of her story, he’d found no evidence to discount it. Given the knife’s wide use in the restaurant kitchen, there had been multiple fingerprints on its handle. The only other available witnesses to the knife’s insertion were the chef and the sous-chef. They had both corroborated the wife’s version of events.

  Sympathetic to the woman’s duties as a mother and unable to justify detaining her overnight at the police station, he had left the wife at the inn.

  When he returned to Parrot Ridge the next morning, the widow and her son were gone – along with the chef and her husband.

  The inspector eventually learned that the mother and child had returned to the States, well beyond his jurisdiction. The couple who had worked in the kitchen were never seen on the island again.

  The property was essentially abandoned.

  The inn fell into disrepair, its buildings retaken by the jungle. A hurricane swept through a few years later and destroyed what was left of the remaining structures, leaving only the exposed foundation and a story that grew more gruesomely sensational with each retelling – because of what the inspector discovered when he returned to the inn, the morning after the husband’s murder.

  In the restaurant’s kitchen pantry.

  Chapter 42

  The Pantry

  PICKERING SORTED THROUGH the pile of documents from the Parrot Ridge investigation packet and tentatively pulled out the folder related to the restaurant’s kitchen pantry.

  Like the others, this file bore his mentor’s handwriting. The scrawl on the front tab was slightly shaky, as if reflecting the subject matter contained within.

  The husband’s death and likely homicide had been a rare enough event for the sleepy island, particularly in its less developed era fifteen years ago.

  But that was not what made the case infamous at the police station – and set the standard for gory crime scene clean up and analysis.