Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  Cedric was the Governor’s right-hand man. He kept track of the politician’s endless appointments and carefully managed the logistical details of every engagement, but that was only a minor part of the aide’s duties.

  Having closely studied local politics for the last ten years, Cedric was a walking encyclopedia of both substantive public policy issues as well as the thorny political nuances that underlay even the most banal of administrative decisions. He could provide a succinct micro-summary on any given topic, rattling off relevant names, figures, and statistics at a moment’s notice—and he was often asked to do so in the minutes before the Governor entered a meeting.

  As a natural outgrowth of his detail-oriented character, Cedric was the designated worrier of the team. It was a role the Governor was happy to delegate; he’d grown heavily dependent on the young staffer’s ceaseless updates and reminders.

  The Governor had enough on his mind these days, he reflected as he gazed at the empty and abandoned lots along the boardwalk, much more global concerns that demanded a great deal of his mental focus. Sometimes, he felt as if the fate of the entire territory were resting on his shoulders. And so, in an odd way, Cedric’s fretting and anxiety gave the Governor a much-needed sense of peace.

  He chuckled to himself. At this point, he was helpless to navigate breakfast without Cedric’s guidance on each food item’s caloric intake, fiber content, and blood sugar impact.

  •

  CEDRIC WAS THE only member of the entourage whose presence the Governor truly welcomed. The rest, he could easily live without—and that included the lumbering shadows of his bodyguards.

  The Governor found it impossible to tell the beefy men apart. He’d long since given up remembering their names. He simply called them all Brutus.

  The security shifts were manned in pairs. While the faces changed every few hours, the mercenary bodies always remained the same: men with thick, solid hands that looked as if they could chop through concrete, bulging chests that appeared capable of deflecting bullets, and steely, unemotional eyes that made the Governor worry that if an enemy were to offer the right incentive, they might be swayed to turn against him.

  The Governor risked a timid, sideways glance at the closest bodyguard. The man stared grimly ahead, his gaze sweeping the horizon for potential threats.

  On his next step forward, the Governor veered slightly toward Cedric. Suppressing an inner shudder, he glanced down at his watch, wondering when the next shift would take over—and knowing that the next team of Brutus and Brutus would be just as intimidating as the one that came before.

  •

  AS MUCH AS the Governor disliked the bodyguards, he loathed the last contingent of the entourage even more.

  The remaining seats on the seaplane that morning had been occupied by members of the Governor’s cabinet. Given Transfer Day’s high profile within the territory, almost all of his appointed staff would be attending the afternoon’s event.

  The lone exception was the Lieutenant Governor, who, following protocol, had stayed behind on St. Thomas. He had been allowed to move from his adjoining office space into Government House while the rest of the cabinet was off-island.

  The Governor rolled his eyes. They’d been gone just over an hour, but the man was probably already passed out on the carpet in his office. Despite Cedric’s efforts to secure the main liquor cabinet, the Lieutenant Governor always managed to find a way to open it, particularly when left unsupervised. After this two-day trip to St. Croix, they would have to completely restock the bar.

  Other than his proclivity for fine rum, the Lieutenant Governor was harmless enough, especially compared to the rest of the lot.

  The Governor cast a second sideways glance, this time directed at the motley crew of conniving backstabbers and hangers-on who made up the rest of his cabinet. The members of this troublesome group were the bane of his existence and, in truth, far more likely to do him harm than a rogue bodyguard.

  With a wistful sigh, the Governor envisioned the day when he would retire from public office and give all of these unsavory characters the heave-ho.

  He watched as the cabinet members fanned out across the boardwalk, eager to squeeze in their own round of meetings prior to the departure of the official convoy to the restored plantation on the west end of the island where the Transfer Day ceremonies would be taking place.

  With a grimace at the nearest Brutus, the Governor ran his hands across his plump waistline and turned to Cedric.

  “Right, then. Where’re we headed for breakfast?” He rubbed his stomach. “I’m starving.”

  ~ 46 ~

  The Stakeout

  “I GOTTA TELL you, Currie. I’m so hungry right now, I could eat my right arm off.”

  Mic sat on the floor of a boarded-up house in downtown Frederiksted, leaning against a grimy wall, gripping his slim—and loudly rumbling—stomach. Currie knelt beside him, staring through a crack in the front window’s outer covering. From there, he had a perfect, if narrow view of the grocery store across the street.

  “I can’t stop thinking about those pork chops we missed last night,” Mic moaned. “I’ve eaten them in my head so many times, you’d think I’d be stuffed already.”

  He closed his eyes, recalling the imagined meals.

  “First time, I had them grilled, medium-rare with a nice ring of seared fat around the edge.” He nodded his head, humming his approval. “Next, I ordered them dipped in beer batter and dunked in the fryer.” His eyes cracked open, and he pointed a slender finger at the ceiling. “Those were quite tasty, my friend. A highly recommended preparation.”

  He smacked his lips as if savoring the fictional food.

  “Then, for variety, I tried them slow cooked and slathered with barbecue sauce . . .”

  “Stop it, Mic. You’re killing me,” Currie cut in, exasperated by the stream of images.

  No sooner was the phrase out of his mouth than he realized his poor choice of words.

  The pair exchanged somber stares and then fell back into silence.

  •

  MIC AND CURRIE had spent a long night in the boarded-up house. After Nova dropped them off there the previous evening, they’d been tasked with keeping watch on the grocery store across the street until the proprietor arrived to open it for the day’s business.

  Theirs was no longer a voluntary assignment. The gun from the truck’s front seat had been put to full intimidating use. When the pickup arrived in Frederiksted, Nova had parked behind the house and forced them inside at gunpoint. They’d been locked in the building, without food or water, for the duration of the evening.

  Just a half hour earlier, Nova had returned with their final instructions. The door was now unlocked, but he was monitoring their position from a hidden location somewhere nearby. He’d been clear about the ramifications should they fail to follow through on their mission.

  “You’ll do exactly as I tell you—or else,” he’d said, waving the gun from one man’s chest to the other.

  Ever inquisitive, Mic quickly piped up. “Or else what?”

  Currie gulped as Nova glared menacingly at his friend. Then the bully aimed the gun at Mic’s thin neck.

  “Or else you’ll end up like the last fool who dared to disobey me,” Nova said, jerking his head toward a heap of discarded clothing in the far corner of the room.

  Mic shuffled over, nudging the pile with his toe. His face suddenly flashed with recognition.

  “What? You did in Frosty?” he sputtered, incredulous. Then he turned to look back at Currie. “You know, I always wondered what happened to that dude.”

  •

  MIC RESUMED A low-level muttering about his pork chop fantasies as Currie continued to monitor the grocery across the street.

  The store had obviously been recently renovated. It was the newest-looking establishment on the block,
if not the whole of Frederiksted. The walls were painted bright green, and crisp white edging detailed the sparkling-clean windows. The protective metal cage surrounding the front door showed no signs of wear or rust.

  Mustering his limited literacy skills, Currie studied the banner stretched across the store’s roofline. The bold-typed English words were underlined with smaller font of curving Arabic text.

  Currie leaned away from the splintered sill and rubbed his stubby chin.

  “Well, Mic. We’ve really stepped in it this time.”

  •

  EVEN WITH HIS geographic range restricted to Christiansted, Currie had picked up on the recent increased immigration of Middle Eastern nationals to St. Croix—as well as the related objecting undercurrent. Despite the Muslim community’s self-imposed seclusion, its growing numbers were beginning to draw attention.

  The group’s primary interaction with the rest of the island was through its expanding commercial enterprises. A sizable portion of the grocery stores and gas stations on the island were now owned and run by a prominent Saudi clan.

  Currie had overheard numerous conversations about the topic on and around the boardwalk, among the shopkeepers, the taxi drivers, the refinery workers, and the local fishermen—none of it positive.

  However, no faction viewed the matter more grievously than his fellow West Indians, who saw the Arabs’ economic success as unwanted—and unwarranted—competition.

  Currie thunked his chin worriedly.

  He suspected he and Mic were about to become unwitting casualties in this brewing societal conflict.

  •

  A MOTION ON the street brought Currie’s attention back to the storefront. Cramming his face against the crack in the window, he watched a well-dressed Saudi man approach the store, unlock the front gate, and step inside.

  With his eyes, Currie followed the man as he walked through the shop, inspecting the shelves and occasionally pausing to straighten the merchandise. After a few minutes, the man appeared satisfied with the setup and disappeared into a rear area, separated from the showroom.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Currie pulled back from the window and glanced down at a timepiece Nova had strapped onto his wrist.

  They were to wait until eleven o’clock, broad mid-morning daylight, to make their move.

  With a cruise ship docked three streets over and the Governor entertaining his Danish guests at the Transfer Day ceremonies less than a mile to the north, he and Mic had been ordered to walk into the store and rob the cashier.

  Currie shifted his weight, wrestling with his conscience. Yes, they had been known to steal an odd item or two, but they typically took things that no would ever notice were missing: a spare fishing net with a couple of holes in it from the dive shop, a stained dish towel from the brewpub’s laundry pile, or a couple of coconuts from a grove of trees in a nearby residential neighborhood.

  Of course, according to Mic, that last category wasn’t really theft—they were liberated coconuts.

  Currie managed a weak smile as his gaze fell to the revolvers lying on the floor beneath the window.

  They were unloaded, which was just as well. Neither he nor Mic knew how to use a gun.

  Unfortunately, Nova was supremely adept with weaponry, Currie thought with a nervous gulp.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and returned his attention to the crack in the window.

  He’d gotten them into a real mess, and they were running out of options.

  •

  A GASTROINTESTINAL GURGLING from the floor interrupted Currie’s concentration.

  “That was me eating oven-roasted pork chops,” Mic offered by way of explanation.

  “Can you try to focus?” Currie replied sternly. “We’re in a lot of trouble here.”

  “I don’t want to die on an empty stomach.”

  With a despondent sigh, Mic raised himself to a standing position. He wandered back across the room to the discarded clothing and bent over to inspect the pile.

  “Do you think Frosty left behind anything good to eat?”

  • • •

  A FEW BLOCKS over, an unmarked van pulled into the pavilion area on the shoreline next to the Frederiksted pier. After a short pause, an old woman limped out of the side passenger door. The van sped off, leaving Gedda standing on the curb.

  She’d made the journey from Christiansted using the island’s informal transit system, which operated at a level beneath the licensed taxi drivers, who mostly catered to tourists, refinery workers, and the occasional businessman.

  Manned by privately owned vehicles, the unofficial transportation network stopped at designated pickup points across the island. While unmarked, the spots were well known to locals. It was an efficient means for residential passengers to get around the island, and the fare was less than one-tenth the price charged by the regulated taxis.

  Her left leg dragging across the pavement, Gedda crossed the main thoroughfare and began hobbling up the sloping side streets toward Kareem’s grocery store.

  She hoped she wasn’t too late. She didn’t want to miss all the action.

  ~ 47 ~

  A Power over Men

  CHAOS REIGNED IN the bedroom shared by Elena and Hassan.

  Lampshades had been turned askew, and toys were strewn from one end to the other. Half of the clothes hangers were turned sideways on the closet rod; the rest were scattered randomly across the floor. A white-painted dresser stood with a portion of its drawers pulled open, while others had been completely removed and were resting on the floor.

  The place was totally upended. Clothes had been flung in every direction. The Winnie the Pooh wallpaper—firmly attached to the underlying plaster—was the only feature that appeared untouched by the tornado.

  A pair of suitcases lay open in the middle of the mess, but few items had been added to their compartments.

  The source of all this destruction stepped out of the closet to perform a dance in the center of the room, a whirling dervish maneuver that involved the flinging of additional clothes, for visual effect.

  Elena accompanied her jig with a tune she’d made up for the occasion. The only words to the song were “I am not going to school today.”

  •

  MEANWHILE, HASSAN SAT on the edge of his bed, a concerned look on his face. He held his favorite teddy bear in his arms, the one item he was determined to bring along on the trip. He had otherwise ceded control of his suitcase to his sister.

  There had been a disturbing lack of detail about their upcoming excursion, Hassan mused. Their mother had been far too vague about their intended destination. The situation was causing him great unease.

  What if the Comanche didn’t know where to find him?

  As Elena finished her dance routine and shifted her efforts to a less energetic form of mayhem, Hassan crossed his short legs, one over the other, and repeated the question that had been troubling him from the outset of his mother’s sudden trip announcement.

  “But—where are we going?”

  His sister tossed her head informatively.

  “I’ll tell you where we’re going, Hassan. We’re going to a place called”—she threw her arms wide as if holding a banner—“this is not a school!”

  She tossed a sundress into the air to emphasize the point.

  Hassan ducked the dress on its downward trajectory.

  “But—how long are we going to be gone?”

  “The longer, the better,” his sister replied. She bent toward one of the dresser drawers that had been laid out on the floor. “Better take lots of underwear.”

  Pondering, Hassan reached through a pile of clothing to uncover the night-light closest to his bed. Unplugging it from the wall, he carefully set it and the teddy bear inside his suitcase.

  • • •

  DOWN
THE HALLWAY, inside the master bedroom, a much calmer scene was unfolding. Mira walked slowly across the tile floor, quietly contemplating her pending departure.

  She had dozens of things to do before the taxi van came to take them to the seaplane hangar, including her own bag to pack, but she needed a moment to focus her thoughts.

  Even for a woman who was prone to impulsive action, she found herself feeling a little overwhelmed by her recent decision. It was no small feat to swoop out of town with four children in tow.

  They would keep the luggage to a minimum, she reminded herself. That would simplify the process. There would be plenty of time to buy new things once they were situated in their next household.

  And besides, she thought as she glanced across the room, she didn’t want to carry any unnecessary remnants of this life into the next.

  Her gaze paused on a framed photo sitting on the dresser. The shot had been taken at the reception for her second wedding. She and Kareem stood, hand in hand, beaming at the camera, while sparkling confetti fell through the air around them.

  She stared at the just-married-Mira’s face, a ten years younger version of her current self. Then she shifted her focus to the mirror mounted above the dresser.

  Time had done its best to wear her down, but she’d kept its forces at bay. Expensive face cream had helped to fend off wrinkles. Regular hair-coloring treatments had covered up the few gray strands that had crept into her golden-brown locks.

  Her third wedding photo wouldn’t look that much different than the second, she concluded proudly. She still possessed the mystique of beauty.

  Mira returned to the photo, this time looking at Kareem. The picture had captured a gleam in his eyes, a shine of pure bliss. He was about to marry the love of his life. At that moment in time, he clearly considered himself to be the luckiest man on the planet.

  Mira smiled smugly to herself.

  She had always had a power over men.