Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

And so, as Charlie’s stress intensified and the family’s financial predicament grew more and more tenuous, the promised renovation to the leaky lean-to and its rustic plumbing suffered its own “island time” deferral.

  • • •

  CHARLIE STARED ACROSS the shoreline at the Christiansted boardwalk, thinking back to that cold winter day in Minnesota and the sound of the waves emanating from the truck’s radio as he’d warmed his hands by the heater.

  “Rick Steves,” he muttered, recalling the name of the celebrity travel show host who had emceed the public broadcast station’s sweepstakes.

  Charlie lifted his baseball cap an inch off his head and smoothed the sweaty hair beneath. Ramming the hat back down over his forehead, he concluded bitterly.

  “I blame it all on Rick Steves.”

  •

  IF HE’D KNOWN how it all would end, would he still have made the leap?

  It was a question he didn’t want to answer; guilt prevented an honest response. Ten years later, the truth was still too painful to admit, but Charlie blamed only himself for the events that happened next.

  ~ 6 ~

  The Shoes

  A BAGGAGE ATTENDANT pushed a cart full of checked luggage toward the loading zone for the next outbound flight.

  “You going to stand there all day?” he hollered at Charlie.

  With a startled grunt, Charlie tucked the faded photo back into his wallet. Cramming the wallet into his pocket, he stepped toward the gate. “I was just leaving.”

  The attendant mashed his foot down on the cart’s metal brake, as if he had suddenly remembered something.

  “Hey, weren’t you here the other week?” he demanded and then nodded his own response. “Yeah, I remember. You were the guy asking about that nice-looking lady with the long brown hair . . . the one in the green dress.”

  Charlie paused near the hangar exit and shrugged.

  The attendant leaned over the top of the luggage cart.

  “So—did you find her? Or are you still on the hunt?”

  Charlie shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Both, I suppose,” he muttered grimly.

  The attendant let loose a loud guffaw as Charlie quickly turned and stepped through the gate.

  “Well then, sir,” the man said, smirking as if he knew the reason for Charlie’s embarrassment. “Wel-cum back to San-ta Cruz.”

  Still chuckling to himself, he released the brake and shoved the luggage cart forward.

  “Wel-cum back to San-ta Cruz.”

  •

  SANTA CRUZ.

  The island’s original Spanish designation was commonly tossed about in the local lingo. It was a nuanced way for Crucians to distinguish themselves from the tourists, the island’s large number of transient refinery workers, and the “Statesiders” (anyone newly arrived from the continental United States). The amusing confusion that the term generated among the uninitiated was seen as an added bonus.

  Crucians were nothing if not proud of their heritage, which they saw as distinctly different from that of the Thomasians—residents of St. Thomas, aka “the Rock.” (The tiny island of St. John was too small to merit comparison or even a nickname.)

  The Santa Cruz title evoked the essence of the island’s colorful history. The name was officially bestowed by explorer Christopher Columbus—right before a member of his crew was abducted by the local Carib Indians, fricasseed, and served for lunch.

  At least, that’s how the story was commonly recounted on modern-day St. Croix.

  While warm and welcoming to the majority of its visitors, the island had a long history of disposing of unwanted guests.

  •

  “SANTA CRUZ,” CHARLIE repeated miserably as he left the hangar. “That’s what did me in.” He shook his head and sighed wearily. “I bet that poor Spanish fellow never saw it coming.”

  After a moment of reflective silence, he added bitterly, “I know I didn’t.”

  • • •

  FOR THE FIRST couple of months after their move to St. Croix, Mira was surprisingly understanding of the family’s financial predicament. She seemed to comprehend the gravity of their situation, and she claimed to be fully committed to their new casual, beach-oriented, low-maintenance lifestyle.

  Mira told Charlie not to worry about his business struggles. This was nothing but a minor bump in the road, she assured him. They would make do until things turned around. She vowed to live a life of shopping austerity—temporarily, at least.

  For a few short weeks, Charlie unclenched, a wee tiny bit, and he let go of some of his stress. After a concerted combination of strong-armed politicking and dogged determination, he began to make progress on a few of his construction projects. He even dared to think he might muddle through after all.

  But just as that faint glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon, the dark shadow of the past returned to snuff it out.

  •

  WHILE FULL-SCALE RENOVATIONS to the lean-to were on hold, Charlie had installed a few minor improvements to make the living space more habitable. Using a series of freestanding partitions, he sectioned off an enclosed area to use as the master bedroom.

  In one corner, he fashioned a makeshift closet, complete with hanger bars and shelving. This allowed Mira to unpack some of her things and to arrange her clothing in the way to which she was accustomed. It brought a small sense of normalcy to the otherwise dysfunctional household, and Mira joyfully set about decorating the new room.

  Unfortunately, as Mira started to reassemble her extensive wardrobe, a number of new items began to appear.

  A flowery print dress sneaked its way onto a closet clothes hanger. A seashell-themed charm bracelet crept into the jewelry box on the dresser. A colorful scarf slithered into a cabinet drawer. A perfume bottle with an ocean-icon label mysteriously infiltrated the medicine cabinet.

  Charlie, for whom one handbag or pair of shoes looked exactly the same as the next, was at first unaware of Mira’s relapse into shopping addiction. He was so caught up in his own problems, he was oblivious to the toll the family’s dire financial straits had taken on his wife.

  It wasn’t until he received his credit card statement at the end of the month that he finally caught on.

  That night, Charlie calmly confronted her. He was a stoic man, not prone to outbursts or emotional displays, so he broached the subject as dispassionately as possible.

  “Mira,” he said, carefully placing the bill on the kitchen table, “is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  Tears immediately welled up in her eyes. “Oh, Charlie. It’s not what you think.” Gulping, she glanced down at the bill. Then, slowly, she returned her gaze to his.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, brushing her hair away from her face. “I’ll take care of it.” She averted her eyes, this time staring at the floor, and let out a dry sob.

  “I just couldn’t bear to step foot in that stinking Porta Potty one more time,” she said plaintively. “I had to go shopping.”

  Charlie nearly choked on the lump that swelled up in his throat. This was all his fault. He was the one who had brought them to the island. They should have never moved down to the Caribbean. They should have never left Minnesota.

  But even then, in that moment of guilt and despair, he knew his sentiment of regret lacked sincerity. The lure of the tropics was already far stronger than the draw of the north’s stability.

  “Let’s just give it a few more weeks,” he said, swallowing at the assurance he knew was a lie. “If we can’t make it work, we’ll pack it in and head back to the States.”

  “Okay.” Mira sighed pitifully as he put his arms around her.

  Charlie winced at the earnestness in her voice.

  “I promise. It won’t happen again,” she pledged vehemently. Then she flash
ed her simple smile. “Not until you’re back on your feet.”

  •

  IN THE FRAGILE balance of human emotions, insecurity and doubt are far more lasting emotions than that of remorse.

  For the first few days after his heart-to-heart with Mira, Charlie fought a mighty struggle with his conscience. He cursed himself for being a suspicious man. He desperately wanted to believe his wife—and yet, some inner demon deep within his tortured mind persistently conspired against her.

  Every moment they spent together became a test of trust.

  Was that a new dress or one from her existing wardrobe? That wraparound skirt she wore on their outing to the beach . . . it looked familiar—or was it? Had he seen that necklace before? Those earrings? He couldn’t be sure. He nearly drove himself mad with questioning.

  One thing he knew for certain: he wouldn’t be fooled a second time.

  •

  CHARLIE SOON FOUND himself making regular trips into Christiansted’s shopping district. He paid several lengthy visits to the area, intent on becoming an expert in women’s fashion.

  Armed with a notepad and pencil, he conducted a thorough and methodical survey of all the clothing boutiques in the island’s main town, creating a list of their available inventory. He studied each dress, handbag, and pair of ladies’ shoes, writing down a description along with the item’s corresponding price tag.

  Then, every night after his wife had gone to sleep, he sneaked into her closet with a penlight to check for any new purchases.

  For weeks, nothing pinged his radar. His tiny light failed to illuminate any out-of-place items. He began to feel foolish, but he continued his vigilance. He couldn’t stop himself; he was obsessed.

  Because Charlie was so avidly searching, he eventually found something that verified his suspicions—critical, damning evidence that confirmed his worst fears.

  •

  IT WAS LATE one evening, near midnight, when the discovery occurred. After several hours of tossing, turning, and lying awake worrying over a construction-related matter, Charlie had at last crawled out of bed and removed his trusty penlight from his work tool belt.

  Taking care not to wake Mira, he crept across the bedroom’s concrete floor to the closet. After stepping inside, he flicked on the light and began his nightly surveillance.

  There, in a dark corner, behind the long tail of a trench coat, he spied something that made his blood run cold with fear and loathing.

  It was a pair of three-inch-high emerald green heels.

  He instantly recognized the open-toed shoes. He’d been fretting over the fate of this particular set of footwear ever since it had gone missing from the storefront of a prominent King Street shop the previous afternoon.

  “It’s the s-s-seven hundred dollar pair of shoes!” he gasped out loud, nearly apoplectic with shock.

  The volcano, slow to erupt, blew its stack in spectacular fashion. Forgetting that his wife was fast asleep in the next room, Charlie repeated the phrase he’d shouted when he first realized someone on the island had purchased the pricey item. His indignant voice rumbled through the lean-to.

  “Who would pay seven hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?!”

  •

  THE NEXT MORNING’S breakfast was a silent affair. Mira refused to look at her husband, much less speak to him.

  After Charlie left for work, she packed her bags. She took the children with her to the airport, and the group boarded the first available flight to Miami.

  It would be ten long years before Charlie would see them again.

  ~ 7 ~

  Wisdom

  NOT FAR FROM the seaplane hangar, near an empty lot where chickens scavenged among the trash and weeds, Gedda stood slumped over the handles of her rusted shopping cart. To the casual observer, she appeared to be half-drunk, half-asleep, or perhaps a little of both—regardless, no one was particularly interested in assessing her condition.

  In reality, her senses were keenly attuned. Her body, conditioned from years of rum consumption, had already burned off the earlier shot from the sugar mill bar. Her yellowed eyes cracked open the tiniest of slivers as she watched the hangar doorway, where the most recent seaplane arrivals were exiting the secured loading zone.

  She waited, her gaze sifting through the passengers until the last one finally walked through the opening: a scruffy little man in cargo boots, T-shirt, and cutoff camo shorts.

  “Char-lee Bak-ah,” Gedda said with a seedy stare. “Ah, dere you are.”

  •

  GEDDA HUNCHED HER thick neck down into her shoulders as Charlie strode purposefully out of the hangar and turned left toward the boardwalk. Her dry lips rolled inward, gumming what little remained of her whittled-down teeth.

  Charlie seemed confident in the day’s mission; his expression was firm and resolute. He glanced at the hag’s crippled form as he walked past, tapping the brim of his cap in greeting.

  But ten steps farther, he paused, appearing to hesitate. His face began to soften, as if he were reconsidering his game plan. He reached down to the return ticket stuffed inside his pants pocket, his fingers fiddling nervously with the top edge.

  Muttering to himself, Charlie stopped and stared out at the harbor, his emotions now clearly conflicted.

  After a long pause, he checked the time on his watch. Then he took in a deep breath and continued, this time far more tentatively, down the boardwalk toward the Comanche Hotel.

  Gedda shuffled after him, pushing her cart out of the empty lot and onto the walkway’s wooden boards.

  “Oh, Char-lee,” she whispered softly. “You shudda nevah complain’d about dem shoes.”

  ~ 8 ~

  The Comanche

  HASSAN RODE ON his mother’s hip, one hand wrapped around the folds of her cloak, the other clutching the edge of her headscarf, as she crossed the gravel courtyard to the rear entrance of the Comanche Hotel.

  His free-spirited sister had already slipped free from their mother’s grasp. Elena ran ahead, skipping down the crumbling path that circled beneath the hotel’s elevated pool and second-floor pavilion.

  “’Ey, Elena, come on,” the mother called out in frustration, struggling to keep up. It was difficult to maneuver over the rough ground in her high-heeled shoes. “Hassan, you’re going to have to walk,” she said briskly. Disentangling the boy’s fingers from the cloak’s dark fabric, she set him down and secured her hand firmly around his.

  The woman glanced up in time to see her daughter disappear into a covered walkway that ran beneath the side of the pavilion.

  “Elena, wait!”

  The woman sucked in on her teeth, shaking her head with disapproval. Hassan gasped as his arm jerked forward, but his protesting cry went unheeded.

  “She’ll be the death of me, that girl.”

  •

  THE MOTHER TEETERED down the path, vigorously tugging Hassan along behind her.

  The surface soon transitioned from a composite of coral and concrete to a layout of uneven paving stones, further impeding the woman’s progress. Ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, she pushed aside an overgrown fern and peered anxiously down the narrow walkway. She pushed the folds of the scarf away from her face as she searched for signs of her wayward daughter, but the passage was empty.

  The belligerent honk of a delivery truck sounded from the next street over, and the woman rushed forward, her heart in her throat.

  Hassan winced as one of the fern fronds whipped back and slapped him in the face.

  •

  A MOMENT LATER, the mother rounded the corner at the end of the covered passage and entered an alley that serviced, on one side, the hotel’s main entrance, and, on the other, a small convenience store. Hassan in tow, she chugged up to the store’s open doorway.

  Just inside, she found her daughter’s curly pigtails bouncing i
n front of a rack of candy bars.

  “Elena,” the woman panted, her anger tempered with relief.

  Smiling cheekily, the girl turned toward her mother and pointed at the rack.

  “Momma, I’m hungry.”

  •

  AFTER A LENGTHY negotiation over the selection of two candy bars, one for each child, the mother finally managed to herd her charges across the alley toward the hotel.

  Heavy wooden hurricane doors surrounded the front entrance. The hinges had been loosened so that the flat boards could be propped against the building’s stone-wall exterior. Just above, a balcony ran along the outside of the second floor, casting shade onto the porch and providing much-needed cooling for the reception area inside.

  Ushering the children over the threshold, the mother stepped briskly into the reception area and crossed to the front desk.

  “Hello, how are you?” she asked the man seated on the desk’s opposite side, trying to effect a courteous tone as she quickly addressed the required pleasantries.

  Crucian culture demanded the conversation begin with a respectful greeting. She was in a hurry, but the momentary delay would be well worth the desk clerk’s willing cooperation.

  With effort, the woman stifled her impatience as she waited for the man’s measured reply.

  “Fine,” he said stiffly. There was a long pause. “Thank you.”

  She smiled politely and then launched into her request.

  “I made arrangements for your child-care service this afternoon . . .”

  •

  BUILT IN THE mid-1700s, the Comanche Hotel was one of the oldest buildings on St. Croix. The ground floor of the four-story estate house was comprised of brick and rock; the upper levels transitioned to a covering of wood siding. The roofline followed a typical Danish-colonial design, with the shingles wrapping over the eaves and extending down around the top floor’s cornered windows.

  There had been numerous add-ons and renovations over the years, a tug-of-war between the growing town and the hotel’s need for waterfront access. As Christiansted grew up around the original estate house, the hotel complex expanded toward the boardwalk. The balcony attached to the exterior of the main building’s second level connected to a footbridge that stretched over the alley and led to the pool and pavilion. These newer structures featured views of the harbor and easy access to the boardwalk.