As Charlie pressed his frozen digits against the heater vents, the voice of a well-known travel personality boomed out of the truck’s speakers.
“The lucky winner will be treated to six days and five nights at a beachside resort on the gorgeous island of St. Croix . . .”
The sound of crashing waves swept through the transmission background while the voice described the prize details: resort lodging in a luxury villa on a golf course overlooking the Caribbean Sea, meals provided by a five-star restaurant with a reputation for tropical delicacies, and endless activities for families with children of all ages.
“You’re killing me,” Charlie moaned, his frostbitten fingers burning from the blast of the heater’s hot air.
More waves swept through the truck’s interior as the singsong sales pitch continued. Outside, the sleet turned to hail, peppering the truck’s metal hood with popcorn-sized pellets. It was more than he could take.
Charlie reached for his cell phone and made a call—not to the radio station to sign up for the sweepstakes—but to a travel agent.
•
“PACK YOUR BAGS, honey,” he told his wife when he got home from the work site. He threw his hands in the air, as if capitulating. “We’re going to the Virgin Islands!”
~ 4 ~
The Air-Conditioner Salesman
THE OTHER PASSENGERS began filtering out of the seaplane hangar as Charlie stood on the pier staring forlornly at the Christiansted shoreline.
The salesman who had occupied the adjoining seat approached the pile of luggage that had been removed from the plane’s underside storage compartment and removed his two items, a roll-around suitcase and a leather satchel. After extending the suitcase’s retractable handle, the salesman swung the satchel’s strap over his shoulder and nodded to Charlie.
“Later, pal,” he said before heading toward the hangar exit.
Charlie issued a cordial grunt and waved an absentminded good-bye.
•
IN THE FIRST spot of shade, midway across the secured loading zone, the salesman paused to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar. He brushed his hands over his slacks, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, but the creases he’d ironed that morning had already collapsed in the humid island heat. He held up his suit jacket, which he’d neatly folded and placed on his lap when he’d boarded the seaplane in St. Thomas. Despite the care, that garment hadn’t fared any better than the slacks.
Grumbling good-naturedly, the salesman stuffed the jacket into his leather satchel. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket; then he wiped the cloth over his wide forehead and flushed cheeks, which were already shiny with sweat.
The Caribbean was a fantastic sales territory, both in terms of commission and scenery, and none of his colleagues would be sympathetic to his complaints about the weather. Nevertheless, in heat like this, the salesman preferred to stay within range of a finely tuned air conditioner.
It had been several years since his last visit to St. Croix, but, in his experience, that particular amenity tended to be somewhat lacking on the island.
I suppose that’s why I’m here, he thought, wryly cracking his knuckles.
The salesman worked for a company that manufactured an array of top-of-the-line air-conditioner units. The firm’s global enterprise had captured over a third of the world’s artificial cooling market and was poised for increased growth in the Caribbean.
“If ever a place was in need of my services,” he concluded, once more wiping his brow, “this is it.”
Then he paused, mentally clarifying his assessment. He had other matters to attend to on this visit, issues unrelated to air-conditioning. There was a gleam in his eyes as he amended, “I think it’s fair to say St. Croix is ready for all my services.”
•
OUTSIDE THE HANGAR, the salesman paused to get his bearings before veering left onto a sidewalk that fed onto the boardwalk. If he remembered correctly, his hotel was located somewhere off the main concourse.
The bright sun shone on his round, rugged face, glinting against its end-of-day, gray-flecked stubble. He was a large man, soft around the edges, but not grossly overweight. His bulky, once-athletic build had begun to succumb to the slow droop of middle age. A gameness in his left leg caused him to walk with a slight limp—an old sports injury, he told anyone who asked.
The salesman reached the sidewalk’s merge with the boardwalk, and he stopped to flex a sore spot on his ankle. Then, resuming his pace, he lifted his suitcase rollers over the bump and set off toward the main tourist area.
The wheels on the luggage case bumped across the rough wooden surface, the uneven rhythm a match to the lurch in his gait.
•
A SHORT WHILE later, the salesman parked his luggage in the shade of a covered bench located near the boardwalk’s midpoint. Unzipping his leather satchel, he pulled out a half-drunk bottle of water. As he guzzled down the remaining liquid, he gazed out at the harbor and the collection of boats moored inside its protective reef.
A sprawling cay lay about a hundred yards offshore, a pretty little stretch of sand and palm trees. The cay’s curving beach was open to the public, serviced by a tin-roof bar and a kiosk that rented out chairs and umbrella stands. The rest of the tiny island was occupied by a private hotel, most of whose structures were nestled behind a natural blind of blooming vegetation. The hotel’s guests were treated to a unique view of downtown Christiansted, one that helped offset the dated furnishings. The accommodations, like many in and around the boardwalk, appeared to have been built or last renovated in the 1970s.
The cay’s quaint resort was long overdue for an air-conditioning overhaul, the salesman thought, taking a mental note as he watched a dinghy motor toward the boardwalk with a load of the cay’s visitors. He might just have to work a little of his persuasive magic and convince the proprietor that it was time for an upgrade.
He squeezed the empty water bottle in his hand, causing the plastic container to crinkle loudly. Convincing new clients to make a purchase was rarely a problem. Finding money in their accounts to pay for the expenditure, however, was another thing entirely.
He counted the number of hotel guests on the dinghy and smiled optimistically. It was certainly worth a trip out to the cay.
Humming to himself, the salesman dug around inside his leather satchel and removed a packet of papers containing a printout of his itinerary.
After checking the name of the hotel listed on his travel documents, he turned his back to the water and scanned the signs of the businesses fronting the shoreline.
“There it is,” he said, locating a coral-pink block-shaped hotel that was, thankfully, less than a stone’s throw away from the shade of his covered bench.
He shifted the satchel’s strap to the opposite shoulder and grabbed his suitcase handle.
“Boy, am I ready to kick off these shoes.”
•
SWEATING PROFUSELY, THE salesman stepped inside an open-air diner built into the hotel’s first floor. He’d been unable to find a boardwalk entrance to the hotel, but after craning his neck around the side of the building, he’d decided to check for access through the restaurant.
The place had wood framing painted indigo blue and decorative accents in a rainbow of bright colors—the style was comfortably worn, classic Caribbean chic. A parrot-shaped lawn ornament perched on the diner’s outer railing, but it was a poor day for catching a breeze. The bird’s wide nylon wings stood immobile in the late-afternoon heat.
At this short segment of the boardwalk, the sea passed beneath the wooden walkway, forming a small lagoon that lapped at a row of boulders built up around the diner’s edge. An arched footbridge skirted the pool of water, providing access to the main thoroughfare.
For those seated at the plastic tables positioned along the restaurant’s open wall, the sailboats floatin
g in the harbor appeared almost within arm’s reach. The thriving crustacean community that lived among the rocks was far closer than that.
A speckled brown crab scuttled across the diner’s wet concrete floor. Huddling beneath one of the boulder-side tables, the crab watched as the air-conditioning salesman rolled his luggage around the hostess stand and past the bar to a wide hallway leading into the hotel’s inner courtyard.
•
HAVING FINALLY FOUND his way inside the hotel, the salesman proceeded directly to the reception desk. With relief, he leaned over the counter toward the receptionist.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a deep charming pitch. “I believe I have a reservation for tonight. The name’s Rock. Adam Rock.”
The West Indian woman behind the counter smiled placidly in return.
“Welcome, Mr. Rock,” she said as she began clicking keys on a bulky computer console.
The salesman laid a heavy hand on the counter, trying to wait patiently for his room. A gold ring on his left hand clinked as he rolled his palm against the surface. He tilted his head to look at the courtyard’s covered ceiling, grateful for the shade.
“Ah,” the woman murmured after a few minutes typing. “There you are.” She glanced up from the screen. “Have you been to St. Croix before, Mr. Rock?”
“Not for a long while,” he replied, stroking his chin. “It’s been about ten years, I believe.” He nodded toward the courtyard’s far wall. “I stayed at the Comanche back then.”
“We’re happy you chose us this time,” the woman said politely, once more preoccupied with the computer.
At long last, she selected a room key and handed it over the counter to the salesman. “Well, Mr. Rock, I hope you enjoy your stay.”
The salesman grinned slyly as if contemplating a joke that had just played out inside his head.
“Yes,” he said, twirling the metal rod in his fingers. “I’m sure I will.”
~ 5 ~
Blame It on Rick
CHARLIE BAKER SCOOPED up his backpack from the pier, the last piece of luggage remaining beside the now-empty seaplane, and slid the straps over his shoulders. Setting off toward the hangar exit, he pulled down the rim of his frayed baseball cap to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright glare.
The grimy construction contractor plodded halfway across the loading zone and then paused. His thoughts were still trapped in the memories of that first holiday week on the island—a glossy blur of happy images whose recollection had soon turned bittersweet.
•
SQUINTING IN THE distance, Charlie found the easy marker of the windmill tower near the boardwalk’s midpoint. His gaze then shifted a short distance to the right, stopping on a large hotel painted a distinctive coral pink and the open-air diner built into its lower waterfront level.
His kids, he remembered, had loved the frozen key lime pie at that rainbow-decorated diner. He and his family had eaten there so many times during their vacation that the waitstaff had begun to recognize them on sight.
“Another round of key lime pie!” the hostess would holler back to the kitchen as soon as they stepped up to her stand.
The kids had enjoyed the dish’s presentation almost as much as the actual treat. The cook would drizzle a sweet raspberry sauce over each of their plates, creating a happy-face design around the rim of the piecrust.
Sighing in remembrance, Charlie removed his wallet from the rear pocket of his cutoff camo pants. Reaching into the billfold, he pulled out a faded photograph of two youngsters grinning over their empty plates, both mouths smeared with bright-red raspberry sauce.
Still staring at the photo, his thoughts turned to the kids’ other favorite boardwalk pastime. After wolfing down large helpings of key lime pie, the family would often walk down to the brewpub to watch the afternoon crab races.
Charlie smiled to himself. He could still hear the children’s shrieking voices, squealing with delight as they rooted for their chosen crab to cross the circled chalk line ahead of the pack.
Of course, the family had also enjoyed the island’s other tourist activities. They’d taken the obligatory sailboat snorkeling cruise to Buck Island, a nature preserve about a mile offshore. On another day, they’d driven to Point Udall on the island’s east end, just so they could say that they’d been to the United States’ easternmost edge. Each excursion had been memorable, but, hands down, Charlie’s favorite outing had been a jeep tour through the rain forest to visit a farm with beer-drinking pigs.
When they weren’t otherwise occupied, they’d gone to the beach at Cane Bay, a sandy stretch on the island’s north shore with excellent snorkeling. A tree house–styled restaurant just across the road had served the best conch fritters he’d ever eaten.
It was the beach time that had doomed him, Charlie reflected ruefully.
With every minute of sun-drenched bliss, his dread of Minnesota’s cold, wet winters had grown. As the day of their departure neared, the thought of all those frozen rooftops waiting for him back home had been more than he could bear.
Sometime during that vacation week on the island, his Midwesterner’s instinctive practicality had deserted him. Intoxicated by the sunshine and the warm, clear Caribbean waters, he’d begun to consider the once unthinkable.
The morning of their return flight, Charlie had posed the fateful question to his wife.
“Mira, hon, what d’you say—why don’t we move to St. Croix?”
•
ONCE DECIDED, THE move quickly built its own momentum.
The house in Minnesota sold within weeks, leaving little room for second thoughts or reconsideration. A yard sale and a lengthy ad in the local newspaper’s classifieds section took care of the minivan and several pieces of furniture that were too large to ship. The family packed what remained into Charlie’s pickup and drove south to Miami.
At Florida’s southern port, the truck was loaded onto a transport vessel. From there, the family hopped a flight to their new island home: a flat piece of arid land on St. Croix’s northeast shore.
The plot was a fantastic bargain—or so they’d been told by their real estate agent.
The land featured thirteen rolling acres complete with a stunning sea view, an overgrown vegetable garden, and a bare-bones lean-to with a leaky roof and inoperable plumbing.
•
A COMPLETE RENOVATION and expansion of the new residence was at the top of Charlie’s to-do list, its priority lying just beneath the successful transfer of his construction business to St. Croix.
He and Mira envisioned a lavish estate, complete with a wide veranda off the master bedroom and a terraced swimming pool for the kids. Together, they’d drawn up a variety of potential house plans and excitedly discussed furnishings and decor.
But as aspirations for the new house ballooned out of control, the family’s financial prospects began to rapidly diminish.
Charlie was experiencing, firsthand, the difficulties of island commerce.
•
ON THE SURFACE, there appeared to be no reason why Charlie’s construction business wouldn’t succeed on St. Croix. There was no shortage of projects in need of his skills and expertise, and, with his stellar Minnesota references, he quickly accumulated a long list of clients, many of them expats or vacation homeowners, eager to engage his services.
There was a reason, however, for the island’s backlog of long-hoped-for and uncompleted projects.
No matter if the property was in downtown Christiansted, north along the picturesque coast, or out in the residential wilds of the East End—each undertaking inevitably became mired in a monumental struggle with local bureaucracy, the idiosyncrasies of Crucian culture, and, last but not least, the black hole of “island time,” meaning that any stated time was never the actual time that anything ever occurred.
•
FOR BETTER OR worse, the Caribbean has always been an inherently laid-back place. Throughout the centuries, numerous colonial empires and countless sugar-trading enterprises have struggled against this immutable trait, to no avail. It is an unavoidable consequence of the environment. Regardless of the might of the opposing force, nature has her way in the tropics.
Where a bitter cold might spur a body to action, if for no other reason than to generate much-needed warmth, the Caribbean’s sweltering heat caused the exact opposite response. Human self-preservation dictated the necessities of dark sunglasses, loose-fitting clothes, and slow measured movements.
On any given day, one could generally expect transport delays of twenty minutes to an hour. A dinner reservation might wander several ticks of the clock. Afternoon excursions often drifted into sunset tours.
In construction-related matters, the time differentials were far greater. Projects were frequently pushed back weeks, months, or even years. Many were never completed at all; they were simply left, exposed and decaying, in the wearing humidity. The rubble of these half-finished structures stood as a warning to newcomers with oversized ambitions.
It was a caution that Charlie had failed to heed.
•
FOR CHARLIE, THOSE first few months on the island were a maddening period of wrenching adjustment. As his deadlines lagged further and further behind and his cash flow trickled to a halt, the meager nest egg the family had brought with them to the island started to run out.
With bills piling up and his business foundering, Charlie began scrupulously evaluating every purchase, weighing the merits of even the tiniest of expenditures.
He spent hours each night studying his financial spreadsheets, calculating and re-calculating the family’s monthly budget. The price of groceries, gas, electricity, and water—everything, it seemed, save the oxygen in the air—cost so much more than he had anticipated. Each line item weighed on his conscience, tormented his sleep, and pushed him deeper into a desperation-driven depression.
Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) Page 3