Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  “Hey, Nevis, you catch any fish yet?”

  Jumping up from the table’s bench seat, the driver returned the money to his pocket, hurried over to the van, and reached through the open front window for the radio’s receiver.

  “Emmitt, man. Don’t jinx me.” He tossed the receiver through the window and slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s early yet.”

  A third voice joined the conversation.

  “Emmitt—where you at? You still driving around in that Cadillac?”

  A defensive grunt came from Emmitt’s end of the line. “Get off my back, Seymour.” He groaned bitterly. “I’m sitting in it right now, waiting for the Ambassador and the missus to finish their walk along Cane Bay. Then I’m taking them on to Transfer Day at the Danish plantation.”

  “Hey, Emmitt, how come you never drive me around in that nice-looking car of yours?”

  “Can it, Seymour.”

  The man from Nevis broke in. “Say, Seymour. How’re my chickens doing?”

  Emmitt voiced his immediate objection. “Nevis, you can’t place a bet if you’re not working the alley. That’s the rule.”

  “Keep your knickers on, Emmitt. I don’t have any money in today’s game. I placed an informational bet. No money on it, just my pride. I didn’t want my chicken karma to run cold.”

  Emmitt smacked his disapproval. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  Seymour sniped back, “And I don’t like you parading around town all hoity-toity in that slick sedan. Nevis, what was your number on the chickens?”

  The driver gazed out his cracked windshield with a smile. He’d been the outsider of the group since his arrival six months ago. It was nice to hear the other drivers beat up on someone else for a change.

  “I talked to Lady Jemima this morning before I left,” Nevis said slyly. “She assured me she’d keep five of her brood.”

  Seymour made a satisfied popping sound with his mouth.

  “Nevis, that chicken done led you astray. I’m watching her strut across King Street right now, and all I can see is four little birds behind her.”

  Nevis tapped his worn steering wheel, his fingers drumming out a casual cadence.

  “Check your eyesight, Seymour. I’m certain she’ll have five.”

  There was a shuffling of footsteps as the drivers in the alley scurried to confirm the count. Finally, Seymour returned to the mike.

  “Curse you, Nevis.”

  Emmitt blew out a frustrated sigh.

  Nevis grinned triumphantly.

  “You all should be nicer to my Jemma.”

  •

  THE MAN FROM Nevis reached up and tapped a trinket hanging from his rearview mirror. A flat piece of metal crudely forged into the shape of a bird swung back and forth on its beaded chain. He watched the trinket sparkle in a flash of sunlight that had broken through the clouds. His chicken charm had never failed him.

  “’Course, you could help me out here with some riders,” he admonished the iron bird.

  Just then a loud banging sounded against the van’s metal siding, the thunderous pounding of four human hands desperately trying to open the passenger door.

  Startled, Nevis dove behind the steering wheel. Then he peeked up, confused, as a fistful of dollar bills flew through his driver’s-side window.

  “Please, sir, you’ve got to give us a ride.”

  Nevis poked his nose up far enough to see two men reflected in his left-side mirror. The terrified pair looked vaguely familiar. He was pretty sure he’d seen them around the Christiansted boardwalk.

  Another wad of cash was tossed over the window ledge.

  Grimacing up at the chicken, Nevis flicked the control button for the passenger-door’s lock and said steadily, “Okay, boys, hop inside.”

  Mic and Currie scrambled into the back of the van. Currie leaned toward the driver, his face ashen with fear.

  “We need to get off of Santa Cruz—as fast as possible.”

  Nevis sputtered his objection. “Does this look like a boat to you?”

  “Please, sir. You’ve got to get us out of here. He’s going to kill us.”

  ~ 63 ~

  Unmet Friends

  EMMITT JUMPED OUT of the air-conditioned sedan and rushed around to open the rear doors for the Danish Ambassador and his wife, who had just returned from their stroll along Cane Bay.

  “Did you enjoy your walk, sir?” Emmitt asked politely, trying not to notice the sand on the bottom of the Ambassador’s shoes as the man stepped into the car. There went yet another rule from the handbook that had been broken that morning.

  “It was fabulous, Emmitt,” the Ambassador replied with a pleasant smile. “Just fabulous.”

  Emmitt returned to the driver’s seat and quickly set the car in motion, pulling back onto the road from the shoulder where he’d been parked.

  He checked his watch. Grimacing, he pushed down on the gas, sending the car zooming along the north shore. There wasn’t time for any more stops, no matter how many throat-clearings or verbal suggestions emanated from the car’s backseat.

  If the Ambassador arrived late for his speech, this would likely be Emmitt’s last sedan-driving gig.

  •

  NOT FAR PAST Cane Bay, the shoreline grew rocky and steep. Quickly rising, the road twisted into a series of hairpin turns. As the sedan gained altitude, white foam could be seen on the waves crashing against the boulders below.

  Emmitt clenched the steering wheel, racing around the sharp corners as fast as he dared.

  The Ambassador appeared not to notice the increased speed.

  “If you don’t mind, Emmitt, I’d like to practice a little bit of my speech,” he said cordially.

  Emmitt leaned into another tight turn. “Not at all, sir.”

  “The title is ‘A Stranger Is Just a Friend That You Haven’t Yet Met.’ It’s based on a quote by the famous American entertainer Will Rogers.”

  His focus trained on the road, Emmitt issued a noncommittal grunt.

  “The idea is to capture the historical connection between Denmark and the Virgin Islands,” the Ambassador continued. “To encourage a renewed friendship between our two countries.”

  “Hm-mm,” Emmitt replied, tensely checking his watch. The car had just summited the top of the hill and made the turn south. If he kept up their pace, they might still get to the event on time.

  “I think there’s a great opportunity here to increase our business and tourism ties, close the distance between us.” Beaming broadly, the Ambassador tapped the top edge of Emmitt’s seat. “And turn strangers into friends.”

  •

  THE AMBASSADOR CONTINUED to practice his speech as the sedan sped toward the western terminus of Centerline Road.

  “This is Frederiksted,” Emmitt announced curtly, breaking into a momentary pause in the backseat colloquy. As the sedan circled the waterfront, he scanned the shoreline, hoping to find an empty taxi van parked by the pier, waiting for riders.

  He let out a muted grumble when he saw that the picnic table where the drivers regularly waited was vacant.

  The Ambassador looked up from his speech notes. “What’s that, Emmitt?”

  “I said, ‘It’s looking like a good cruise ship day, sir.’”

  •

  THE SEDAN POWERED up the shoreline north of Frederiksted and soon turned on the inland road leading to the Danish estate. Emmitt breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the last straightaway before the curving entrance.

  “Those are mahoganies, aren’t they?” the Ambassador asked, pointing out his window at the tall trees lining the road.

  Seeing Emmitt’s nod, he leaned toward his wife. “I read that the native mahogany is a slow-growing tree, which creates a dense wood. They make fine furniture from it throughout the Caribbean.”

&n
bsp; “That’s fascinating, dear,” she replied in a placating voice. She tilted her head inquisitively as she stared out the window. “What about that elevated pipe running along the other side of the trees, Emmitt? It must have been quite a bit of work to put that together. Was that used for irrigating the cane fields?”

  “Yes.” Emmitt answered succinctly. There was a long moment of silence as he considered his next comment. He had made it through the discussion of the soldiers at the Danish fort, the Ambassador’s upcoming speech, and numerous other sensitive political issues without offending his clients.

  But on this last point, he felt compelled to speak. It was a matter of personal pride and defiance.

  “My ancestors helped lay that pipe.”

  “You see, Emmitt,” the Ambassador chimed in. “Look at how much you and my wife have in common. Just over the course of this car ride, I feel like we’ve gone from strangers to friends.”

  ~ 64 ~

  Fled the Coop

  NOVA DRAINED THE last sip of orange juice from his glass and pushed away from the counter at the Frederiksted diner. Patting his full stomach, he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He pulled out several bills and placed them next to his now-empty plate, leaving a hefty tip for the cute waitress, who had written her phone number on his check.

  Pleased with the prospect of a future date, he glanced up at the clock on the diner’s far wall and headed out the door.

  He had just enough time to get into position.

  •

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, Nova slunk into an alley that passed behind the rear of the grocery store. He looked carefully up and down the narrow passage, but the area appeared empty. With one last glance over his shoulder, he stepped into the store’s rear doorway, pulled a black cotton ski mask from his pocket, and tugged it on over his head.

  Bending to one knee, he pulled up his pants leg and slipped the pistol from its ankle holster.

  Still in his crouched position, Nova placed an ear against the door and listened for an indication that Mic and Currie had approached from the front.

  The shop inside was silent.

  Nova waited for ten long minutes, but the alley remained quiet—and the stifling mask grew hotter and more uncomfortable. Despite the cloud cover overhead, beads of sweat began to run down his cheeks, soaking the cotton fabric.

  Finally, he yanked off the mask. Cursing, he banged the side of the weapon against the doorway’s concrete stoop. The coconut boys had either chickened out or lost track of time.

  Either way, Nova thought, bitterly thumping the gun against his thigh, he was going to inflict a beating.

  •

  NOVA STORMED AROUND the building and across the street. No longer concerned about being seen, he tromped over to the boarded-up house and pounded his fist against the front door. The splintered wood panel slammed inward, revealing its unoccupied interior.

  Charging inside, Nova quickly confirmed that Mic and Currie were gone.

  He was going to have to take care of this job on his own. His face darkened into a pitch-black rage.

  “You two had better start running,” he muttered furiously. “I’ll cover every inch of this island if I have to, but I’m going to track you down. You’ll rue the day you crossed Casanova.”

  • • •

  JUST A FEW miles north, a beat-up taxi van with a cracked windshield and a chicken-shaped trinket swinging from its rearview mirror drove along the coast. The van rumbled over a rutted road that ran beside the edge of the impenetrable rain forest. Several minutes earlier, the vehicle had passed the mahogany-lined turnoff for the island’s interior. It was headed toward even more rugged territory: the island’s northwest coast.

  Dark clouds swirled the sky as the van reached the end of the road and came to a stop. Two men jumped out the passenger-side door and sprinted headlong into the brush.

  Arms and legs flailing, Mic and Currie managed to orient themselves onto a narrow trail, a mostly forgotten path leading to the shoreline below the island’s historic Maroon Ridge.

  Branches reached in from either side, grabbing at their clothes, scratching their hands and faces. Sharp rocks tore into the calloused soles of their feet. Their muscles burned as they gasped for air.

  But neither man dared slow his pace.

  They were running for their lives.

  ~ 65 ~

  Transfer Day

  THE GOVERNOR CLIMBED reluctantly out of his air-conditioned limo and lumbered toward the white-tented area in front of the Danish estate house, where the Transfer Day ceremonies would soon be starting. A greeting line of local dignitaries waited for him beneath the tents, each one eager for their chance to hobnob with the territory’s chief executive.

  With Cedric hovering by his elbow, the Governor began the obligatory round of handshaking.

  “Maddie Nelson, chairperson of the Landmark Society,” Cedric whispered as they approached a tall West Indian woman in a yellow dress and a matching flowered hat. “That’s the organization that put all this together.”

  “Miss Nelson,” the Governor boomed with confidence. “You’ve done a wonderful job on today’s event.” He motioned at the surrounding crowds. “What a great turnout.”

  After a polite thirty-second exchange with Miss Nelson, the Governor turned to greet the next person in the receiving line. Cedric leaned in with his briefing.

  “Jackson Hayes,” the aide said quickly. “Ran for one of the legislature’s St. Croix seats in the last election. Missed the cutoff by two hundred and fifty six votes. Likely to make it into the senate next go-round.”

  “Mr. Hayes,” the Governor gushed, warmly clasping the man’s hand. “So good to see you. You should stop by Government House next time you’re over on the Rock.”

  Mr. Hayes was allotted a full minute of chitchat before Cedric ushered the Governor toward a ruddy man in a three-piece suit.

  “Gerard Kohlschreiber, one of the refinery plant managers,” Cedric whispered. He paused and added cautiously, “There are rumors that the company has plans to shut the place down.”

  Scowling testily, the Governor muttered under his breath, “Over my dead body—”

  But he cut off his rant at the sight of a burly man with a boyish face who had just strolled into the tented area.

  “What’s he doing here?” the Governor asked through a clenched teeth smile.

  Cedric peeked over his boss’s shoulder to see the air-conditioning salesman lumbering through the covered seating area near the podium.

  •

  WHILE THE GOVERNOR worked the VIP line—and tried to ignore the presence of Adam Rock—other guests participated in guided tours of the estate house.

  The stone building no longer functioned as a primary residence, but the place had been carefully preserved, with family heirlooms, antique furniture, and black-and-white photos presented in carefully roped-off displays.

  Charlie Baker fell in among a dozen elderly Danish women who were following a docent into the first-floor living area. Having searched for his daughter on the festival grounds without success, he had decided to try the estate house.

  As Charlie looked in vain for a dark-haired teenaged girl, he found himself swept from the living area into the kitchen. The tall women packed in around him, blocking his view. Some of them towered almost twelve inches over the rim of his baseball cap. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the tops of the shortest gray heads, but he was unable to make out much beyond the rack of pots and pans shelved across the upper far wall.

  “Uh, excuse me, ladies,” he said as the crowd shifted to the next room. “I think I’d better try to find the exit.”

  His meager pleas were either not heard or not understood. With the docent and the women chattering in their native Danish tongue, his voice was lost as white noise.

  Charlie tried to turn back
toward the entrance, but another set of similarly tall and verbally incomprehensible women had filled in behind his group. There appeared to be no easy way for him to duck out. Sighing with resignation, he shuffled forward as the women funneled up the central staircase.

  •

  A HALF HOUR later, Charlie emerged from the tour’s end point, breaking free of the Danish women as soon as he cleared the threshold of the house’s back door. He stretched his arms and rubbed his shoulders, relieved to be free of the interior’s claustrophobic confines.

  Midway through the tour, he had managed to maneuver to the front of his group. While he hadn’t been able to interpret any of the docent’s discussion, he had seen more than his share of teacups, homemade toys, and faded Danish photos. As for elaborate lace doilies, he had received a lifetime’s worth of viewing.

  Shaking his head, Charlie stepped into a small garden that wrapped around the rear of the house—none the wiser on the estate family’s history, but far closer to his daughter than he’d been in almost ten years.

  ~ 66 ~

  A Near-Miss

  JESSIE SLIPPED THROUGH the thick forest behind the Danish estate house, quietly circling to the small garden where the tour terminated. After following her father to the house’s front entrance, she had decided to hang back when he entered with the group of Danish women.

  She stared up at the two-story stone structure, waiting for Charlie to reappear. Over the past centuries, the building had survived the tropical extremes of humidity, hurricanes, and drought. Today, she mused as yet another large group exited, the house was weathering an onslaught of an entirely different nature.

  The place was literally crawling with Danish tourists.

  •

  AS THE MINUTES dragged by, Jessie maneuvered behind a blind of wide palm fronds. From this concealed position, she had a clear vantage of the garden.

  An endless parade of pale and pinkened Danes continued to file out of the estate house, but there was no sign of Charlie. If the women’s appreciative tones were any indication, the cultural exhibit was a great success, but she couldn’t imagine what her father was doing inside all this time.