* * *
An hour later I found myself marching along the tide line south of Flash of Beauty, matched stride for stride by a silent Agent Rosenblum. The two Camo Boys trailed behind like a pair of faithful Labradors. The others in Agent Rosenblum’s force had been assigned to canvass The Settlement for clues and suspicious persons. I got the feeling that the novelty of having armed men trooping through the streets and knocking on doors might begin to wear thin for the folks in town.
When we crested the dune at Spanish Camp, I could see that Anegada had already begun to erase the evidence of Paul Kelliher’s presence and his misfortune there. The once-yellow POLICE LINE tape, torn and fluttering in several places where cattle had broken through, had faded to a buttery beige. Hoof prints crisscrossed the area that had once been bounded by the tape. Sun, wind, and rain had smoothed the edges of all the human footprints, like so many worn moon craters in miniature. The backpacker tent, which had housed Kelliher in life and his corpse in death, had come unpegged on one side and collapsed into a puddle of green plastic. The whole place had a ghost-town feel, abandoned and forlorn. Perhaps De White Rasta was right about its harboring duppies, after all.
Agent Rosenblum surveyed the area from the top of the barrier dune and then barked an order to the Camo Boys. “Swab the tent, inside and out.”
The Camo Boys made for the tent, pulling packets of what looked like moist towelettes, and latex gloves, from the thigh pockets of their fatigue pants as they went. Snapping on the gloves, they tore open the packets, wiped down the tent zipper and entrance, and looked closely at the wipes. One of them glanced to Agent Rosenblum and gave a negative shake of his head. They proceeded to turn the tent inside out, tear open more wipes, and set to work on the interior.
Rosenblum ambled over to an open excavation, probably Kelliher’s last, because a shovel rested on the sand beside it. Rosenblum called, and one of the Boys ran over and swabbed the shovel blade and handle. Both officers examined the towelette with crystal-ball intensity, again turning away disappointed.
Rosenblum grabbed the shovel, hopped to the bottom of the hole, and probed. The shovel blade scraped along the limestone just below the surface of the sand at the base of the hole. After a few pokes at the sides of the excavation, Rosenblum climbed out and went on to the next. And the next. And the next, all receiving the same treatment, all yielding nothing of interest.
The Camo Boys, their scrutiny of the tent completed, each took a tent pole and began to check the excavations not already tested, working outward from the ones nearest the tent. This went on wordlessly for two hours, until all the excavations had been examined. I was relegated to watching, again, inside the tattered tape this time, but even more of an exile from the search than when the deputy commissioner sent me to watch from the crest of the dune. No longer merely incompetent, I was now an object of suspicion. Agent Rosenblum certainly would not have had me accompany him if he had believed he could find the crime scene on his own.
After the last excavation was searched, Rosenblum looked directly at me and said, “Waste of my time.”
He started east up the dune, toward the sea, the Camo Boys at heel. I climbed the dune a dozen yards behind, wishing I had never seen this place.
* * *
Sarcasm, in small doses and with correct timing, used to be my favorite brand of humor. Sarcasm toward a subordinate, again timely and in small doses, struck me as an effective management tool. Sarcasm as the primary means of communicating with those who work at your direction cannot be anything but demeaning and ineffective. This point seemed to be lost on Agent Rosenblum as he addressed his men assembled in the shade of the loblolly outside the administration building.
“So all you ladies banged down every outhouse door in this miserable shithole; strolled to the airport; lollygagged your way out to catch some rays on the government dock; turned over every rock, stick, gum wrapper, and used condom beside these cow paths they call roads; and got nothing? No midnight flights landing at the airport, no strange boats on the beach at dawn, no lights offshore, no rumors, no gossip, no local dolla boys with lots of new bling, no strange noises, no UFOs, no Bigfoot sightings? Shit, girls, I could get better results sitting in my crib, kicking back with a Red Stripe and watching the Yankees on the big screen. And save the DEA your princely salaries in the process. Nothing?”
Rosenblum scanned each face in the little knot of men and shook his head in exasperation. Most of his band just looked at the ground. Miami Vice was the picture of resigned boredom. Only Chavez puffed up and demanded, “What did you get, sir?” The “sir” matched the sardonic lilt of Rosenblum’s speech.
Fixing his stygian eyes on Chavez, Rosenblum whispered, “Nothing.”
Miami Vice barely suppressed a titter.
“Get your gear and mount up,” Rosenblum roared.
Agent Rosenblum radiated angry frustration during the silent ride to government dock. As his men loaded onto the St. Ursula, he turned to me and spat, “I’m not done with you, Shirley, not you or this cesspool you call home. I know in my bones that you’re dirty, and I’ll be back.”
“You and your men are most welcome to return to our fair island anytime, Agent Rosenblum.” I smiled a warm, friendly, sarcastic smile, all teeth and rube sincerity. It felt good.
Chapter Eighteen
The good feeling occasioned by the departure of Agent Rosenblum and his merry men lasted almost until the St. Ursula was out of sight. Almost, but not quite. The boat was still a hazy speck against the corpulent backdrop of Virgin Gorda when the euphoria of no longer dealing with suspicion and sarcasm was replaced by the realization that the investigation of Paul Kelliher’s murder and the assault on Anthony Wedderburn was back at first inning again.
Deciding it best to pick up where I had left off hours before, I turned the Land Rover toward Cow Wreck Bay for a visit with Belle Lloyd. On the way, I reached Icilda on the CB radio and explained that police business would keep me out past dinner. Her reaction was neither surprise nor disappointment. The kids would stay with friends, as she was off to yet another committee meeting at the Methodist church. I was to find dinner where I could. The entire thirty-second exchange between us took place with all the ardor of two people discussing who would get up and put out the cat. I realize now writing this that our conversations had been following this pattern for years.
The fat red sun was lowering into the sea by the time I turned down the path to Cow Wreck Bay. A rain squall darkened the sky over the Anegada Trench but promised no rain for the shore. The trade wind from the southeast passed over the island, cooling before it reached Cow Wreck Bay, making the sunset air pleasant.
It was Sunday night and, with the Saturday-to-Saturday bareboaters all returned to Tortola, a quiet evening at the Cow Wreck Beach Bar and Grill. “Quiet” is an understatement. There was probably more going on in the little cemetery beside the Methodist church. There were no patrons to be seen as I walked under the palm-thatch roof. The only sign of life was a trio of candle lamps burning at each end of the bar, anticipating the coming darkness.
I caught sight of Belle, skirt hiked up and knee-deep in the bay, peering down into her lobster pen. With a fluid motion, she reached in and plucked a lobster out by its two long antennae. The creature thrashed its tail a couple times and hung motionless, defeated and awaiting its fate.
Belle slogged a few steps toward shore before she spotted me. “The first words out of your mouth better be an apology, Teddy Creque,” she called. “Otherwise, you can just turn right around and go back the way you came.”
“I do apologize, Belle. I had no reason to treat you the way I did. I’m sorry. Our friendship is important to me and I hope you can forgive me for my foolishness.” I was truly contrite.
“In that case, I’m grillin’ one of these bugs for dinner. If you want to join me, I got a six-pounder we can share in the pen. I’ll never sell it to a tourist. It’s way too big for one person.”
“I would love
that, Belle.”
Belle picked up her skirt to wade back to the lobster pen. “Light the fire then,” she said, gesturing toward a pile of torchwood sticks outside the bar.
I scooped a shallow pit in the sand, tossed in an armload of sticks, touched a match to them, and had a roaring fire going in three minutes. Meanwhile, Belle had replaced the chicken lobster she had selected with a hefty specimen that flipped and jerked at the end of her arm as if it knew what was to befall it.
Stepping up to a plank she kept outside the bar lean-to, she slapped the lobster down, laid a rusty machete lengthwise down its carapace, and struck the blade with three well-placed blows of an equally rusty hammer. Bits of lobster shell and entrails showered in all directions. Though it was divided longitudinally in half, the lobster continued to kick for a few seconds before falling motionless.
Torchwood has its name because it burns bright, hot, and fast. By the time Belle placed a metal grate on the four coral chunks I had arranged at the corners of the fire, the torchwood had reduced to a glowing bed of embers. The two portions of the unfortunate lobster went on the grate immediately, cut-side down. The succulent meat sizzled and hissed, smelling of the sea. After a few minutes, Belle turned the halves with a mangrove stick. When the lobster shell turned red, we pulled it off the fire, waiting a few moments for it to cool. Then, in the Anegadian tradition, we tore out the meat with our bare hands, dunking it in bowls of Belle’s vinegary Scotch bonnet pepper sauce before popping the sweet-hot-smoky morsels in our mouths. We quenched the fire of the pepper sauce with bottles of Heineken as we watched the last light of the sunset fade off Cow Wreck Low Point.
Belle idly stirred the coals of the fire with the mangrove stick. “Lawrence Vanterpool was out here today. He said De White Rasta had been beat, beat right in the Methodist church, and is nearly dead. What is happening to this place, Teddy?”
“I don’t know, Belle. Maybe the world is catching up to us, or we’re finally catching up to it.”
Belle sighed. “It seems like the peace has gone out of our lives. Like the innocence has left this place and something ugly has stepped into its shoes.”
We both fell silent, in thought, the only sound the sweep of the low surf.
“I always liked De White Rasta. Always gentle and happy, even when he came in here high as a kite,” Belle said wistfully. “Which is to say every time he came in here. Do you have any idea who did it?”
“No, Belle, no suspects. I have reason to believe the assault on De Rasta is connected to Professor Kelliher’s murder, that the same person or persons may be responsible for both crimes. Are you hearing anything from people?”
“Only a bunch of questions. No information that would help. Why would someone want to hurt either of them?”
“The police on Tortola think it has something to do with drug trafficking.” I let the statement hang in the lowering darkness.
“I don’t see either of them involved in something like that, Teddy. Whenever the professor was around, he kept to himself. He never seemed to speak to anyone but me. If he was trafficking, wouldn’t he make contact with others?”
“Did you ever see him speaking with De Rasta?”
“Never. In fact, there was a time or two when they were both here, at the bar, for an evening, and neither spoke to the other. I don’t think they really knew each other. And besides, I don’t think De Rasta could get his act together enough to be involved in something like trafficking. He was always too baked to think about anything other than cadging enough food off me to satisfy his munchies.”
“But, Belle, just because you didn’t see anything happening here doesn’t mean there weren’t things going on away from here. Both Kelliher and De Rasta spent a great deal of time away in the more wild parts of the island. They could have met someone coming ashore on a deserted beach. Lord knows there are plenty of places that qualify for that description on Anegada.” As I said this, my mind flashed briefly to an image of Cat reclining naked on the shore at Windlass Bight.
“Teddy, I would know if someone was sneaking in from the sea. I would see a sail or superstructure on the horizon during daytime, or lights at night. Or I would hear an engine, or even voices. You know how sound carries over water. An’ I ain’t never seen or heard anything like that on this side of the island.”
“What about airplane engines, Belle? I don’t mean high up, but something low to the water, like the plane was trying to hide a drop?”
“Nothing. Well, once in a while I see the VI Birds helicopter come in low running down the length of the island. But that’s just gotta be them taking some excitement-junkie tourist for a thrill ride.”
“How often does that happen, Belle?” A tourist should want to see Anegada from high up, not rushing along close to the water.
“Been happening every week or so this winter.”
“Which direction are they flying?”
“Always from west to east. I lose sight of them when they round Keel Point. Sometimes I hear them a few minutes later headed back the same way, but by then it’s dark. I just figured it’s some kind of a sunset sightseeing trip.”
“It probably is, Belle,” I said, thinking it probably was not. If there was a flight over Anegada as often as Belle said, I would expect to be notified, even if there was no landing requiring people to clear customs. There might not be a communication for a one-off sunset flight but repeated flights such as Belle described would always merit disclosure and an explanation in advance.
There was more than a hint of uneasiness in my gut when I considered who the pilot on those flights might be. I told myself there was probably a good explanation. I told myself I was becoming like Agent Rosenblum, seeing a drug conspiracy behind even the most innocent act. I told myself Cat would never get caught up in running drugs, that she was too good for that, too smart for that. I told myself these things and I did not believe them for a second.
The inner voice is one’s closest confidant. When the wisdom it imparts is doubted, the world trembles with the brush of a gnat’s wing and is toppled by a grain of sand. Now I felt as though I stood in a hurricane, a cascade of pink pearl granules from Cow Wreck Beach tumbling down upon me.
Thank God it was too dark for Belle to see my face. We spoke for a few minutes more, about what I cannot recall. My mind was too busy running over the information about the VI Birds helicopter’s unscheduled flights along the north side and how the period of time they were occurring coincided with the time Cat and I had been involved almost to the day.
I made a distracted and hasty departure, mumbling thanks to Belle for her hospitality. Bouncing out to the intersection of the Cow Wreck Beach path with the north shore road, I turned east toward Frangipani House and a tête-à-tête with a certain helicopter pilot residing there.
Chapter Nineteen
Frangipani House was illuminated by the low glow of a handful of oil lamps placed around its pool. An Amália Rodrigues album played on the stereo, layering the melancholy and regret of fado over Anegada’s night sounds. The warm air was perfumed by the scent of the house’s namesake flower.
Cat stood at the edge of the flickering shadows cast by the lamps, leaning against a pillar. She was wearing a crisp white man’s shirt, as a cover-up for a bathing suit, or maybe for nothing. Thinking I might not have seen her, she said, “Over here, Teddy.” Her voice broke as she said the words, as if the sadness of the fado had infected her. I felt the walls within me start to crumble, felt the same old weakness return, and tried to steel myself against it.
She came to me, laid her hand lightly on my cheek, and said, “I missed you, Teddy.”
“I missed you, too,” I said, and it was the absolute, undeniable truth, not altered one iota by the possibility that she might be piloting drug-running flights to Anegada. Resist, resist, I told myself, even as I understood the futility of resistance. Resist, resist, even as my every sense absorbed the dark beauty, the throaty laugh, the velvet kiss, the lusty embrace, that was C
at.
“Maybe we should get reacquainted,” she whispered against my neck as she pressed her body to mine. My hands wandered over her, feeling heat, softness, and sweat. I knew I would succumb again.
And then an odd thing happened. I saw a flashback of Anthony Wedderburn, just for a moment, just as I had found him in the Methodist church, broken and bloody. Except, unlike when I found him in the church, he looked at me, opened his eyes and focused intently on mine. And then the image was gone, as was the carnal need I had felt for Cat only moments before.
I released my embrace and stepped back.
“What is wrong, lover?” Cat asked with more than a trace of disappointment. “I’ve been needing you.”
“Sorry, Cat. It’s just been a really tough last couple of days.”
“I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me all about it.” Cat transitioned from wanton seductress to motherly bartender in an instant. She disappeared into the house, returning moments later with two glasses filled with ice, a small dish containing wedges of yellow island lime, and a quart of Cruzan rum. She tossed a lime wedge in each glass and followed with a three-finger pour of the Cruzan.
Handing me a drink, she gently steered me to the chaise, guided me down, and curled in next to me. She drank deeply. I followed suit, the burn of the rum cascading to the pit of my stomach.
“Deputy Commissioner Lane sent in a group of agents from the Joint Interagency Task Force South today, without telling me in advance,” I began. “It is pretty clear that he thinks the assault on Anthony Wedderburn and Paul Kelliher’s murder are drug related. The JITFS agents believe I know something about what went on, and that I’m covering for, or at least turning a blind eye to, the use of Anegada as a drug transit point. The task force agent in charge, a nasty bastard named Rosenblum, essentially told me he would see me charged and convicted.”
Sun, Sand, Murder Page 11