~ ~ ~
WHEN THE ELDERLY inspector arrived at the inn the next morning to follow up on his investigation, he discovered the primary suspects had departed. Perplexed, he began exploring the main residence and its surrounding buildings.
He ran into a few befuddled guests, but found nothing suspicious until he reached the pavilion.
Returning to the scene of the stabbing, the inspector began a second search of the kitchen. At first glance, it appeared to be a routine culinary galley with a typical pantry attached to its far end.
Pulling out his flashlight, the inspector examined the pantry’s poorly lit space. One wall had been stocked with rows of glass jars, the kind used for pressurized canning and pickling. Colored labels had been affixed to the jars, but there was no writing on the wraparound papers to identify the containers’ contents.
The inspector had missed breakfast, and his stomach had started to rumble. Glancing over his shoulder to check that the kitchen was still empty, he unscrewed the lid on what he thought was a jar of peach compote.
He immediately lost his appetite.
The jar – and dozens more like it – contained diced chunks of human flesh.
~ ~ ~
DURING THE SUBSEQUENT months of scientific analysis, portions of at least three different victims were identified from the remains that had been pickled and preserved in the jars at Parrot Ridge.
Many of the morgue staff assigned the unenviable task of parsing through the evidence lost weight during the process. Others quit the job altogether.
Despite these forensic efforts, the case soon reached a stalemate, and the elderly inspector announced his retirement. After the episode at Parrot Ridge, he felt he’d seen it all – and far more than he would have preferred.
As for the husband and wife cooking team presumably responsible for the cannibalistic canning ritual, the pair had disappeared without a trace.
Investigators were unable to locate any pictures of the couple. They had only a vague physical description provided by the reverend, who had glimpsed the duo during his previous visits to the restaurant.
But in the years that followed, in random occurrences throughout the Caribbean, someone would stumble across a restaurant kitchen pantry with disturbingly similar contents.
And always, the pantry would be associated with a recently departed chef and sous-chef matching the description of the pair from Parrot Ridge.
The chef was a quiet West Indian woman who mostly kept to herself. The sous-chef was a dark-skinned Hispanic with a thick accent and a penchant for telling off-color jokes.
Chapter 43
Unwritten
CLOSING HIS EYES, Orlando Pickering tried to imagine the previous inspector sitting on the other side of his kitchen table. It had been many years since he’d last shared dinner with his old mentor, but he could easily envision the scene.
He pictured the man’s grizzled head with his hair cropped close to the scalp, not unlike the style Pickering now wore. The elderly inspector’s bony hands folded together and then pulled apart, a repetitive motion Pickering had seen hundreds of times during the years they worked together.
It meant that the man had news to share that was delicate in nature, restricted information that would require discreet handling.
Opening his eyes, Pickering frowned down at the pile of Parrot Ridge files.
What else had his mentor wanted to convey that he hadn’t put in the official report?
“What could be worse than the glass jars?” he muttered out loud.
He suspected he didn’t want to know the answer to that question.
~ ~ ~
PICKERING THOUGHT BACK to the scene at the beach and the non-bird injuries he’d examined on the body earlier that day.
Several clean knife wounds had pierced the man’s chest, the work of a skilled artisan. The corpse had been displayed to attract maximum animal attention. The birds weren’t the only scavengers on the island. Critters from the jungle would have moved in to pick the bones clean in a matter of days. Without intervention, the remains would have rapidly decayed in the tropical heat.
Someone had hoped that the petty crook’s body might never be found.
Pickering rubbed his chin.
It seemed Romeo’s thieving had at last caught up to him. He’d stolen from someone who’d decided to take revenge.
If so, that meant his latest victims, the innkeepers, were the main murder suspects.
Clarice finished her meal and moved to the floor beside her master’s chair, resting her chin on his knee. The inspector shifted his hand to her head, gently kneading it as he pondered.
If he had to place a bet, he’d put his money on Glenn. That guy had a perpetually guilty look about him. Of course, he could just as readily place the blame on Oliver, for the exact opposite reason.
Perhaps both men were involved in the crime.
With a grunt, Pickering pushed his chair back from the table.
None of these theories addressed the other missing persons now associated with the inn.
Romeo’s murder had opened up a slew of questions, chief among them: what had happened to Millicent and the others?
Pickering shoved the files into the packet and turned off the light over the table.
He was going to have to make another visit to Parrot Ridge and – he shuddered at the thought – inspect the kitchen pantry.
Chapter 44
Little Pink Toenails
OVER A THOUSAND miles north of Parrot Ridge, a woman with pink-painted toenails relaxed in a lounge chair on a covered patio in a glitzy Dallas suburb. She listened as a hummingbird buzzed a decorative feeder hanging from a nearby tree. In the adjacent lawn, crickets chirped their nighttime symphony.
Sipping on a glass of wine, Olivia Hamilton thought of how much she had enjoyed her quiet evening – and all the quiet evenings that had preceded it.
There had been several months now of blissful silence, uninterrupted by football games blaring from the television set, loud guffaws, or boastful comments about male virility enhancements.
Not for one second had she missed her second husband and his little blue pills.
~ ~ ~
INSIDE THE BRICK mansion, a picture of Olivia’s missing and presumed dead spouse occupied a spot on the wall over the fireplace mantle. Fixed in a flat two-dimensional image and encased in a wooden frame, he didn’t seem quite so unbearable.
This was the only vestige of Mr. Hamilton that remained in his previous home, which is more than could be said for Olivia’s first deceased husband.
Upon her solo return from the Caribbean, Olivia had donated Mr. Hamilton’s clothing to Goodwill and sold his golf clubs and other sporting paraphernalia in the classifieds. His shiny black Buick had been traded in for a silver SUV.
The stash of blue pills, she’d flushed down the toilet.
~ ~ ~
AS OLIVIA NEARED the bottom of her wine glass, her thoughts shifted to her son, who was attending medical school nearby. She hoped he would pay her a visit after he finished his latest round of exams.
Her only child had always been a sickly, detached sort. He’d spent much of his life immersed in sci-fi novels and chemistry set projects. The boy had suffered far too much during his fragile youth, despite her efforts to protect him.
After his biological father died in the stabbing at Parrot Ridge, Olivia relocated with her son to Dallas. It was a tough transition, and they went through some lean times while she tried to rebuild her life. Finding herself deeper and deeper in debt, she mined the only resource at her disposal.
She married a rich man.
The second husband was a compromise she soon regretted. Neither she nor her son ever held any fondness for the boorish lout.
The boy hadn’t been the least bit bothered when she told him that his stepfather had fallen overboard their rented yacht during their anniversary vacation to the Caribbean.
Like her, he’d been greatly relieved.
OF COURSE, THE husband was only the first of Olivia’s house-cleaning initiatives. The second had taken place a few weeks later, when she presented her son and his gold-digger girlfriend with a weekend getaway to the Caribbean.
He’d been reluctant to go, but she’d coaxed him into it.
“I’m worried about all the stress you’re under at medical school. You should take some time to relax. And besides, I’ve picked out the perfect little B&B. It’s very romantic. Daisy will love it.”
Daisy Jones, Olivia thought with disgust. She’d hated the busty dyed-blond coed the second she’d laid eyes on her. She’d recognized the girl’s greedy motives and insincere proclamations of love. She would have none of that for her boy.
It had taken extreme measures to finally extricate her son from Daisy’s conniving clutches, but the planning and preparation had been worth the effort.
A carefully timed phone call had smoothed things over the morning after the girl’s disappearance. The boy had been upset until Olivia put things into the proper perspective. After all, a mother knows how to talk to her son.
He was better off without Daisy Jones.
Olivia drained her glass.
They were both better off, she concluded with a smile.
~ ~ ~
READY TO RETIRE for the evening, Olivia got up from her lounge chair and walked inside the house. She paused at the fireplace, not to look up at her husband’s picture, but to admire the decorative ceramic birds spread across the mantle.
She was an avid collector of the painted trinkets, purchasing them wherever she traveled. Most of the items she’d acquired from cruise ship shops in the Caribbean. Each one represented a specific memory of a beautiful location or a cherished moment.
She rarely parted with any of her prized birds, only occasionally bestowing them as gifts.
She still missed the matching set of little green parrots she’d bought fifteen years ago when she lived in the Caribbean. One of the pair had been smashed against her first husband’s head. The other she’d given to the woman who’d served as the chef in the inn’s restaurant.
She’d never been able to find a replacement set.
Life was full of sacrifices, she thought with a sigh.
~ ~ ~
A TELEPHONE RANG through the cavernous house, breaking the deep silence. Olivia strode into the kitchen and set her empty glass on the counter, wondering who could be calling at such a late hour.
She picked up the receiver – and frowned at the display of the incoming phone number.
The call was from the Caribbean.
From the island territory that included Parrot Ridge.
Chapter 45
Dear Oliver
CLOUDS CROSSED THE moon over Our Island Inn, casting gloomy shadows on the pool deck.
I collapsed onto a chair at a table by the pool. It was late, long past midnight, but tired as I was, there was little chance of sleep.
I had no intention of stepping foot inside the apartment – or, for that matter, spending another day on Parrot Ridge. I planned to head out at dawn and catch the first ferry off the island. I had no idea where I would go from there.
All that mattered was running away, as quickly as possible.
Oliver had gone to bed hours earlier, soon after the police departed with Romeo’s body. With a shudder, I recalled his calm expression as the remains were carried through the pavilion and up the stairs to the parking lot.
His was the face of a killer.
It was a difficult realization to accept, particularly since I couldn’t place all of the blame on the nebulous spirit that haunted the ravine.
Whatever murderous tendencies my partner now possessed had been safely suppressed until he was confronted by my acts of infidelity. That the consequences were unintended did nothing to assuage my guilt.
Sorrowfully, I looked down at the jungle seething below the deck. Somewhere out there, more bodies waited to be discovered.
I thought of the first two guests who’d gone missing: the brute with his little blue pills and the over-amorous Daisy Jones.
They were horrid people, but they didn’t deserve to die.
And then there was the most painful disappearance, that of Jesús. The image of his desecrated corpse lying somewhere in the woods was more than I could bear.
Why, Oliver?
I knew the answer.
The deaths were a means of alleviating pain – for others, out of his natural sense of compassion, and then for himself. But the solution was far too crude for civilized man. It inevitably led to mayhem, which is what I presumed had happened to Millicent.
There was only one way for me to stop this madness. I had to leave.
I wasn’t brave enough for a face-to-face goodbye. There was no telling what kind of violent outburst that might provoke. I planned to be gone before Oliver awoke.
Ten years together deserved some kind of closure, however, so I began to write, not in my journal but in a formal letter with a pen and paper I’d fetched from the bar inside the pavilion.
“Dear Oliver…”
~ ~ ~
I WROTE FOR nearly an hour, carefully choosing my words. The frogs took up their nightly chorus, providing welcome encouragement. When I finished, I folded the sheets into a neat packet and wrote Oliver’s name on the outside.
Now, how to deliver it?
With all the commotion earlier that evening, the centerpieces had been left out on the tables. I slid the packet beneath a heavy candle where I knew Oli would be sure to find it when he cleaned up the next morning.
The task completed, I felt a sense of relief. Leaning back in my chair, I propped my feet on an adjacent seat. A short nap was all I needed, just enough to recharge my batteries.
The chickens could be counted on to wake me at daybreak. Then I’d begin my escape.
I was half-asleep when Elsie approached my table.
Chapter 46
Farewell
ELSIE ARRIVED AT the inn a half-hour before daybreak. She expected Pickering would begin his follow up investigation that morning, and she wanted to complete her own inspection of the premises before he got there.
She smiled when she saw Glenn passed out on the chair by the pool. The dozing innkeeper was exactly the type of loose end she had hoped to clean up.
Stopping by the kitchen, she quickly brewed a pot of fresh coffee. As soon as the dark liquid began to perk, she transferred it to a carafe, which she placed on a tray along with the rest of the restaurant’s regular coffee service: a tiny metal pitcher filled with creamer, a couple of paper sugar packets, and a heavy ceramic mug.
Carrying the tray, she headed out through the swinging doors to the pool deck. In the dim moonlight, the half-ounce of clear liquid in the bottom of the mug was almost impossible to detect. Glenn’s bloodshot eyes were unlikely to notice the anomaly.
She and Maya had been drugging him for months, ever since he started his affair with Jesús. The effects of the hallucinogenic substance had proved tricky to gauge, but they’d gradually upped the dose until they reached the optimum concentration.
During the course of this informal science project, Elsie had noticed that the drug didn’t necessarily change the subject’s persona. The formulation merely enhanced his natural tendencies and rendered him more susceptible to particular suggestions. Gradually, she and Maya had begun to tease out certain character traits that were already embedded in his personality – chief among them, his extreme paranoia.
Now, she sensed, the innkeeper was ready to take a leap.
But just to be sure, the liquid in the bottom of the mug was double the concentration they’d previously administered.
~ ~ ~
GLENN JUMPED WHEN he saw Elsie standing next to his table holding the coffee service tray.
“Oh, hello. You’re here early.” He rubbed his eyes as she set the mug beside him. “Man, I could use some coffee.”
With the deft hands of an ex
perienced server, Elsie poured a generous amount of brown liquid into the cup and then added his usual portions of cream and sugar.
Glenn wrapped his fingers around the mug and brought it to his lips. Instead of the steadiness he’d anticipated from the first shot of caffeine, he felt slightly tipsy.
Shaking his head in confusion, he took another long sip and stared up at Elsie. She wore her deputy’s uniform, not the maid outfit for her cleaning job.
“Watching. You’re always watching.” His voice wobbled as the drug seeped through his system. “You know what I’ve done…what Oliver’s done…don’t you?”
Elsie wasn’t sure what he meant with respect to Oliver, but she nodded anyway. She’d seen enough of Glenn’s illicit activities to be convinced of whatever guilt he had assumed. Tipping the carafe, she topped off his mug and eased herself into the nearest chair.
“Inspector Pickering is going to make an arrest this morning, Mr. Glenn. He’s coming for you.”
Glenn nearly choked on a gulp of coffee. He plunked down the mug, sloshing liquid onto the table.
“What? No. You don’t understand.” His head swayed back and forth. “It’s not me. It’s Oliver. He’s the one they should be looking for.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid the inspector’s made up his mind.” Elsie shifted her weight in the chair as if she was about to get up and leave. “I just thought you should know.”
Glenn grabbed her arm, desperately pleading. “Elsie, you have to help me.”
She removed his hand. “You’ll have to speak with the inspector.”
“He won’t believe me. Elsie, I don’t want to go to jail – especially not down here.”
She hesitated, a conflicted expression on her face. Then she relented.
“You have to leave right now. That’s your only chance. Take the trail down to the beach. Continue on past where we found the body. It will eventually put you out onto the main road.”
Glenn reached for the mug, almost knocking it over. She held it for him, steadying his grip as he finished the last bit of liquid. Then he turned to look at the railing. She could tell he was having second thoughts about fleeing through the jungle. Cowardice was another of his inherent personality traits.
Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) Page 12