Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  A few feet away from the dogs, Charlie crouched queasily beside a plastic bucket. His face had lost all color; every lurching roll brought him closer to losing the contents of his stomach.

  Suddenly, a strange sound rose above the rumbling of the motor.

  Charlie looked up, incredulous.

  Umberto had begun to sing.

  Another rolling pitch brought him back to the bucket.

  “I should have taken the taxi.”

  •

  CHARLIE’S CHURNING STOMACH caused him to miss the entrance to Salt River, and he was still bucket-occupied when they motored past scenic Cane Bay. During a short window of intestinal stability, however, he surfaced long enough to see St. Croix’s rocky northwest shoreline, the most inaccessible portion of the island.

  Umberto stopped singing to point out Maroon Ridge, the rugged area where, during the colonial era, runaway slaves had hidden in caves and other secluded encampments to escape recapture. A number of the fugitives set sail from the treacherous coast in hopes of reaching the freer territories to the north.

  Charlie managed an appreciative nod at the historical information—and at the temporary pause in Umberto’s singing, the latter of which, unfortunately, soon resumed.

  Turning, Charlie stared at the foaming line of waves that trailed behind the boat. The sun was still bright overhead, but dark clouds had filled the eastern horizon. The spreading mass billowed across the sky, as if the weather were chasing after them, saving up its ammunition of moisture to pound upon their heads.

  “Wretched Santa Cruz,” he muttered to himself.

  And with that thought, Charlie returned to his bucket.

  •

  “WE’RE ALMOST THERE,” Umberto hollered down to his prostrate passenger as the boat finally rounded St. Croix’s northwest curve and headed south toward Frederiksted.

  Gripping the railing, Charlie pulled himself into a standing position.

  The rocky landscape had softened into a sandy shoreline, along which a road could be seen, circling the island’s edge. Not far down the coast, the road forked, sending off an inland branch down a mahogany-lined thoroughfare that disappeared into a thick forest.

  As the motorboat approached the tiny town, the behemoth cruise ship docked at the pier grew larger in size, dwarfing the adjacent structures. A metropolis on water, the smooth white walls rose up like a mobile skyscraper.

  Umberto scaled back the engine as the boat entered the shallow water, a minnow in the shadow of a whale. He peered up at the cruise ship, his focus narrowing on the security personnel patrolling its outer perimeter.

  “I’m afraid they won’t let me pull up to the pier,” he mused, searching the beach for an alternative place to dock.

  “You get this thing anywhere close to land, and I’ll jump out and swim for it,” Charlie replied, emptying the contents of the bucket over the side into the sea.

  •

  UMBERTO GUIDED THE motorboat as close as he dared to the Frederiksted shoreline. Then he flipped a ladder over the boat’s side. Reaching for his backpack, Charlie waved good-bye.

  “Thanks for the ride, Bert.” He gripped the railing and swung a foot over onto the ladder’s top rung.

  “It was my pleasure.” The opera singer smiled apologetically. “More mine than yours, I’m afraid.”

  With a grimace, Charlie clambered the rest of the way onto the ladder. He looked down into the water, sizing up the depth.

  “We can wait for you?” Umberto volunteered. He found himself more and more intrigued by the activities of this strange little man.

  “Not necessary,” Charlie replied swiftly. He took a step lower, easing his booted foot into the water.

  “You’re meeting someone?” Umberto asked, trying to prolong the conversation.

  Charlie shifted his weight uncomfortably before answering. “My daughter.”

  “She’s the one from the note?” Umberto prodded.

  Charlie grunted affirmatively. “She asked me to meet her at the Transfer Day ceremonies.”

  He released one hand from the ladder and reached into his pocket for his wallet. Unfolding it to access the contents, he removed the faded photo, tattered around its edges, of two children posing in front of their just finished plates of key lime pie.

  “She’s the one on the left,” he said, holding it out for the opera singer to see.

  Umberto raised his eyebrows.

  “She’s awfully young to have written that note.”

  Charlie fiddled with the brim of his cap. “She’s a lot older now than when that picture was taken.”

  He sighed, anticipating the coming recrimination. “Ten years older.”

  •

  UMBERTO AND THE dachshunds watched as Charlie waded through the water, holding his backpack and wallet over his head. He eventually slogged, dripping, onto the beach. As he reached the side of the road, he shook out his lower half, wiggling one leg after the other in the air. Flapping the wet sides of his pants, he squished the residual liquid from his boots.

  Then he pulled down on the brim of his cap and set off toward the Danish plantation, leaving a trail of wet boot prints behind him.

  Umberto tapped his chin, trying to imagine the story that had led the stocky man to that day’s bizarre events.

  After a moment’s reflection, he issued his assessment.

  “Fascinating.”

  ~ 56 ~

  Into the Jungle

  CHARLIE MARCHED NORTH along the shoreline road, quickly reaching the outskirts of Frederiksted. He kept to the shoulder on a path of gravel and dirt, the finer particulates of which caked his boots before drying and falling away, leaving a dusty brown residue.

  A couple of shabby beach bars lined the seafront, each one surrounded by several rotting plastic chairs, most of them upended. Discarded beer bottles and other random pieces of refuse lay strewn about the weedy stretch of sand, an uninviting entrance that discouraged all but the most intrepid bar patrons.

  Past a couple of boarded-up cinderblocks, the road ventured into a desolate no-man’s land. An endless expanse of blue water took up the space to Charlie’s left; the dense greenery of the wild interior filled in the right. An increasingly dark, brooding cloud mass swirled above.

  About half a mile out of town, Charlie veered inland on the mahogany-lined road he’d seen from Umberto’s boat. His combat boots steadily drying, he left behind the sea and braced himself for the murky unknown awaiting him inside the jungle.

  •

  A NUMBER OF vehicles drove by as Charlie plodded along in the shade of the mahoganies. Each transport was loaded with passengers for the festivities at the plantation down the road.

  He found himself looking up at each passing car, bus, or van, wondering if one of the faces peering out the side windows belonged to his daughter.

  She’d been a young girl when he’d last seen her. Physical features changed so dramatically as children grew older, he hardly knew what he was looking for. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would be able to recognize her.

  Even worse, he worried, what if she didn’t recognize him?

  Given the steady flow of traffic on this otherwise lightly traveled road, the event was going to be jam-packed. How would they ever find one another in a crowd of people?

  With a sigh, he continued on, resolute despite his growing list of concerns.

  It felt like he had been waiting an eternity for this moment, for an opportunity like this to arise.

  He would know soon enough if it was yet another hoax.

  As a boisterous school bus rumbled past, he tried to be optimistic.

  “I just hope I don’t end up wearing another green dress.”

  •

  TEN MINUTES LATER, the road began a series of sweeping turns, leaving behind the tall mahoganies. With the
landscape barrier removed, the jungle closed in on the pavement, pushing Charlie closer to the lane of traffic.

  After a few near collisions and several surprised honks, Charlie rounded a corner and found himself within sight of the entrance to the Danish estate. The turn-in was marked with colorful balloons, flags, and several brightly painted banners.

  A line of school busses waited with other cars to enter the already filled parking lot. Harried volunteers worked to direct the newcomers into an empty field that was accommodating the overflow.

  Hiking up the hill into the estate, Charlie quickly found himself immersed in a festival atmosphere. There were politicians in suits, Danes in tropical linen, and young children dressed in costumes designed for an upcoming performance of traditional dance. He would have suffered from sensory overload, even if he weren’t trying to pick out his daughter from the mix.

  He stopped to stare at a group of teenage girls wearing blue-and-white school uniforms. Several of them had light skin and dark brown hair, but as he studied each face, none struck him as familiar. But then again, he couldn’t be sure. It was an impossible task, he thought grimly.

  A sturdy West Indian woman noticed him lurking near the girls and gave him a stern stare.

  Charlie shrugged sheepishly. “I’m looking for my daughter.”

  “What does she look like?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I wish I knew.”

  •

  WITH THE CROWDS milling about him, Charlie pulled the note from his pocket. Once more, he scanned the pink handwriting. His daughter had given him no instructions about how they were to meet up once he arrived at the Transfer Day celebrations.

  After listing the address to the Danish plantation, she’d ended the letter in a simple sign-off.

  “Hope to see you soon. Love, Jessie.”

  ~ 57 ~

  Missing

  “JESSIE!”

  For the second day in a row, Mira found herself calling out for a missing child.

  After packing her own suitcase, she had decided to make the rounds to check on her children’s progress. She stood at the entrance to her oldest daughter’s bedroom, peering inside.

  There was no sign of Jessie—or for that matter, any ready-to-go luggage—but the window by the bed stood suspiciously open.

  “Jessie!” Mira tried again, half hoping the teenager would step from the closet or pop out from behind the door.

  There was no answer. The room was disturbingly still.

  Sighing tensely, Mira slid across the unmade bed and stuck her head through the window. In the dirt five feet below, she spied the unmistakable imprints of Jessie-sized footprints. The bushes closest to the house had a few broken branches, creating a narrow trail leading into the forest that surrounded the gated subdivision.

  “Jessie!” she called once more, but this time she didn’t expect a response.

  Mira pulled herself back inside the house. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, she threw it across the room in frustration.

  Her oldest daughter had run off to find her father—again.

  •

  JUMPING UP FROM the bed, Mira paced back and forth across the room, trying to figure out where Jessie might have gone.

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost ten o’clock. The day’s first seaplane had already departed. Charlie should be well on his way to St. Thomas by now.

  “Good riddance to him,” Mira muttered as she began searching the room for a clue to her daughter’s whereabouts.

  She quickly rummaged through the piles of clothing in the bottom of the closet as well as the various boxes and books stuffed beneath the bed. Then she shifted her attention to her daughter’s white-painted dresser. The furniture’s flat top was covered with an assortment of accessories and trinkets. There were hair ribbons, barrettes, little plastic figurines, and, hidden beneath a package of envelopes, a pad of pink paper.

  Mira scanned through the items, dismissing each one until she reached the stationery. Fishing the pad of paper out of the stack, she held it up to her face, tilting it to look across the paper’s horizontal surface.

  She could just make out the impressions left from a ballpoint pen, which had pressed through from the (now missing) sheets above.

  Ripping off the paper, Mira returned to the window. She leaned across the bed to place it in a ray of direct sunlight and squinted at the writing.

  The bulk of the text was indecipherable, with press-throughs from previous letters commingling on the page, but the first line had been written on a previously clear space. The words confirmed her suspicions.

  “Dear Charlie Baker . . .”

  Mira wadded up the paper and tossed it on the floor next to the pillow.

  “I should have never let that girl out of my sight.”

  •

  MIRA RACED ACROSS the hallway and banged on the closed door to her older son’s room, desperately hoping he hadn’t left with his sister. She was fairly certain Jessie hadn’t shared her father-finding mission with her brother; the two weren’t very close and rarely spent time together. Nevertheless, she let out a sigh of relief when she heard her son’s distinctive shuffle approaching on the tile floor.

  A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a teenage boy, a few years younger than his eldest sibling. Short and scruffy, a baseball cap covered his dark brown hair, which he wore in a long cut, the bulk of it tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

  Mira tried to ignore the similarities, but she couldn’t help thinking that he looked more and more like his father every day.

  Yawning, the boy held up a small duffel bag, as if anticipating a question about whether or not he was packed for the trip.

  “That’s all you’re taking?” she asked, incredulous. “We won’t be back”—she cleared her throat and added the false clarification—“for a very long time.”

  He shrugged. Since turning twelve, this had become his most frequent response to questions. He had been mute so long, Mira had almost forgotten the sound of his voice.

  “Jack, have you seen Jessie?”

  He gave her another silent shrug.

  “Did you see her leave?”

  He moved his shoulders in an emotive half shrug, as if to say that he couldn’t be held responsible for his sister’s wanderings.

  “Do you know where she went?”

  This time, all she received was a blank stare.

  “All right. Well, be ready to go in . . .”

  She stopped speaking as he turned and shut the door.

  •

  TEENAGERS WERE EVEN more difficult to deal with than ex-husbands, Mira thought wearily. At this moment, she was in no position to order a grounding or any other punishment—and she suspected her son knew it.

  It was going to be far more difficult to leave her second husband than it had been the first.

  As she walked down the hallway to the bedroom shared by her two youngest offspring, she sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. The taxi van would be here in two hours to take them to Christiansted, where they would be catching the afternoon seaplane to St. Thomas. She would check in on Elena and Hassan and then figure out how to corral Jessie.

  The door to the first room on the long hallway was slightly ajar. As she neared, Mira could hear playful shrieks and giggles emanating from within. Those sounds, combined with the telltale crunch of bedsprings, indicated that this pair might need some assistance getting their things together.

  She had no idea how much assistance.

  As Mira pushed open the door, a flying shirt hit her square across the face.

  Once she’d cleared her vision and taken a look at the scene inside the room, she let loose a full-throated howl.

  ~ 58 ~

  Jessie

  MIRA’S OLDEST DAUGHTER drove her moped onto the grou
nds of the refurbished Danish estate, weaving around the cars waiting at the entrance. Following the pointing directions of a frazzled Transfer Day volunteer, she motored to a stop beneath a tree next to several other two-wheeled vehicles.

  Jessie pulled the key from the ignition and gazed down at her machine. None of the others in the parking lineup, she thought proudly, was as lovingly restored as hers.

  She’d taken on the project all by herself. A mechanic down the street from the family’s villa had kindly loaned her the necessary tools. Secondhand manuals and instructional videos from the school library had provided technical guidance. Using those resources and her own ingenuity, she’d rebuilt the moped’s engine on her own.

  The gas-powered bike had proved to be an invaluable resource during her frequent late-night outings through her bedroom window and, more recently, in her efforts to track down her father and lure him to St. Croix.

  Jessie gave the worn leather seat a soft pat as she joined the other Transfer Day arrivals in the walk up the hill toward the estate house.

  The childhood keepsakes she’d left behind in her room that morning had given her only momentary pause. She had discarded those items without worry or concern.

  It would be far tougher to ever part with her beloved bike.

  •

  TWIRLING THE MOPED keys in her hand, Jessie wandered toward the main event area. A series of white tents had been pitched in the grassy lawn in front of the estate house, creating shade from the sun or, more likely, given the dark clouds moving in, protection from the coming rain.

  Volunteers unloaded metal chairs from a trailer and unfolded them beneath the tents. A wooden podium had been rolled to the front of the covered seating space; a microphone mounted to the podium was in the process of being connected to a series of speakers.

  At the opposite end of the lawn, just below the rise of the hill, still more volunteers were setting up for the post-ceremony lunch. Workers hefted metal pans out of transport vans and arranged the food trays on brackets that allowed for tiny Sterno burners to be slid underneath.

  The lunch prep had been positioned out of the direct line of sight of the ceremony seating, but the fragrant smell of numerous home-cooked West Indian dishes floated across the lawn. Only a strong westward wind would keep the tempting odor from tormenting the audience through the morning’s political speeches.