Sunbaked (Pineapple Cay Stories Book 1)

by Junie Coffey

  Pansy didn’t bat an eye. “Sure, no problem. I’ll come by about five o’clock? There are cocktails before dinner. Don’t want to miss that.”

  They said good night, and Nina let herself into her new house. It was dark and quiet. She flipped on the light over the kitchen sink and wandered out onto the veranda and down the sandy path to the beach. The sky was full of stars. They looked close enough to touch. The sound of the waves was hypnotic, and Nina wondered what it would sound like from her bedroom.

  All of a sudden, the air exploded with the sound of loud, angry barking that got louder and louder. Nina spun around to see where it was coming from. Two large dogs sprang out of the bush in the stretch of vacant land between her cottage and the point and were churning up the beach toward her. They would be on her in seconds. She whirled around, looking for something to fend them off with. A length of green rope lay half-buried in the sand by her feet. She yanked it out and spun around to face the dogs. They had come to a halt about ten feet away from her and stood snarling and prancing, baring their big yellow teeth.

  “Get back! Go on!” she shouted, snapping the green rope at them like a whip. They backed off a bit with each snap, then moved in again. She reached down with one hand, picked up two palm-size rocks, and hurled one at each of them; then she took a couple of steps toward them, snapping the rope in front of their noses in a wild frenzy.

  “Go away!” They backed off but didn’t leave, and their angry barking filled the night.

  “Hey! Go on! Get out of here!” she heard a male voice shout. She looked toward the point and saw a man racing down the sand toward her carrying a pole in one hand. She heard a whistle coming from the vacant lot, and the dogs immediately took off in that direction. A moment later she heard an engine start, and headlights swept the trunks of several tall pines near the road. The man on the beach changed course and charged into the undergrowth toward the road. Nina stayed rooted where she was, still processing what had just happened. A few seconds later, the man emerged from the undergrowth and jogged slowly toward her. As he got closer, Nina saw that it was Ted Matthews, the owner of the fishing lodge. She recognized the pole in his hand as a fishing gaff.

  “Are you all right?” he asked when he was close enough. He was breathing hard.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I was running out of ideas. Thank you for coming.” She hugged herself, suddenly chilled.

  “Someone called off those dogs. And I know who it was.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and quickly stabbed in a number, watching her as it rang a couple of times.

  “Blue. Ted. Bassett just sicced his dogs on the lady who bought Rose’s house. Maybe you can get a patrol car to check it out.” He was silent for a few seconds.

  “I’m sure they weren’t just potcakes. They were Bassett’s Dobermans. He whistled for them, and they ran off . . . OK, thanks.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket, still watching her.

  “The police are going to check it out, but they probably won’t get anywhere, I’m afraid. He’ll be back in his compound before they get there.” He paused and held out his hand. “We haven’t actually met. I’m Ted Matthews. I live up there.” He gestured to the point.

  “Hello. I’m Nina Spark. Thank you again.” She smiled wanly and shook his hand. It was warm. Her own was ice-cold.

  “May I walk you to your door?” he asked. They headed toward the cottage. “Bassett is a vile character. But I believe you’ve already met,” he said.

  Of course, thought Nina. The fisherman this afternoon.

  “That said,” continued Ted, “if he really wanted those dogs to hurt you, they would have. He was just trying to scare you. Hopefully, he’s gotten his disappointment out of his system. I’m just over there. If you need anything, give me a call.” They had reached the veranda. He fished a notepad and pencil out of one of the many pockets in his khaki pants, scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper, and handed it to her. He looked her in the eye.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this on Pineapple Cay, but you should lock your doors until this blows over. It will.” He added more to himself than to her, “Somebody needs to teach that guy a lesson.”

  He waited while she unlocked her door. “Will you be all right now? Can I get you a cup of tea or something before I go?” he asked.

  She was exhausted, and she knew she didn’t have any tea. “I’ll be all right, thanks. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll just crawl into bed.”

  “OK,” he said. “Anyway, glad to meet you. Have a good night.” He waited until she was inside and had locked the door before he turned away and headed back up the beach toward his lodge, where his guests must have been waiting for him.

  She was suddenly incredibly tired, beyond worrying about Barry’s next move. It was almost unfathomable that she had started this day at her apartment in New York, unaware that Danish, Ted Matthews, or Barry and Tiffany Bassett even existed. She considering sending Louise an e-mail to let her know she’d arrived safely, but even that seemed like too much work. She dragged herself into the bedroom, stripped off everything but her underwear, and crawled between the sheets. She was asleep in seconds.

  3

  Nina woke late, with a powerful hankering for an extralarge Cuppa Joe mocha latte. Since the nearest Cuppa Joe was about a thousand miles due north and she didn’t have any coffee in the kitchen, she decided to take a walk into the village and have a look at her new hometown. She showered quickly, knotting her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She pulled on her skirt and a top and slipped on her sandals and sunglasses. She went out the door facing the street and headed along the sidewalk with her big canvas tote over her shoulder. It was only about nine o’clock, but the sun was already strong. She peeked into her neighbors’ yards as she strolled along, admiring the deep, covered verandas with their gingerbread trim, the inviting porch swings, and the profusion of flowers. The air was full of birdsong, and she watched yellow bananaquits take beakfuls of sugar from an upturned coconut shell hanging from a porch post.

  It was a weekday morning, and in the commercial district, people were bustling about. The mail boat was in, tied up to the town wharf. A number of men were unloading cargo while others stood around watching the action, and a steady stream of vans, trucks, and carts loaded with pallets and boxes made their way up from the dock to the various shops along the main street. There were enough people on the streets so that Nina felt the comfort of being an anonymous observer, yet she was still able to feel the small-town vibe. She followed the delicious smell of freshly baked bread to the bakery, where she bought a warm loaf of coconut bread, a mug of coffee, a healthy-ish looking muffin, and a copy of the local paper from a smiling woman in a red apron. She settled into a seat under the awning on the sidewalk, took a deeply satisfying sip of coffee, and took in the scene in front of her. A few golf carts buzzed past on the street. Beyond them were the park and bandstand, and behind them, the pink-and-blue government buildings and the bustling wharf, all set against the backdrop of the mesmerizing turquoise sea and pale-blue sky, with the low, shimmering humps of two sandy cays on the horizon, about a mile offshore.

  Nina glanced down at the paper as she took another sip of her coffee. The front page was dominated by a scandal over the expense accounts of members of parliament on the main island. Some things are the same all over, she thought. Below the fold there was a photograph of a smiling Jules and Kiki Savage with Barry and Tiffany Bassett under the headline LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MAKES HISTORIC DONATION TO THE PINEAPPLE CAY MUSEUM. The paragraph in the paper didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know, except that longtime Pineapple Cay resident Kiki Savage was the chair of the museum’s board of directors, and her famous husband was a generous benefactor to the cause.

  Nina looked at the photograph with curiosity, trying to glean some insight into the dynamics of their relationship from the four smiling faces. There was no sign of the famous sneer on the face of onetime rock-and-roll bad boy Jules Savage. He st
ood grinning amiably with one arm around his still-lovely wife and the other around a beaming Tiffany Bassett. Except for the tangled skein of chains and beads resting on his tanned chest, he could have been a well-preserved bookstore owner or a retired dentist. Barry Bassett stood slightly apart from the other three, looking intently into the camera with the pasted-on smile Nina recognized from the day before. Behind them was the roofline of the Pineapple Cay Museum. Nina made a mental note to drop in soon. She looked at the photo for half a second longer before flipping the page to the local shipping news. What could you really tell from a photo op?

  Nina spent a few more minutes perusing the newspaper, reading the birth and death announcements, the notices for bingo night at the church hall (Wednesdays), and the meeting of the Saturday-morning book club at the public library (“All those interested in participating, bring your suggestions for this month to the next meeting. Please remember, not everybody likes blood and guts. And also, it is hard to talk about a self-help book for a whole hour; we already read The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People last year.”). There was a reminder that a drop-in yoga class takes place Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at noon at the Plantation Inn. It was Friday. Nina glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. She could make it if she did her errands now. She gathered up her newspaper and canvas bag and headed off toward the green-and-white-striped awning of the grocery store.

  Inside, the shelves and coolers were fully stocked, thanks to the arrival of the mail boat. Nina filled a basket with milk and eggs and other things, not forgetting the coffee. The store was busy with local shoppers and yachters from the marina stopping in to restock. Nina didn’t linger. She hoisted her bag and went next door to the hardware store. She thought she might get a start this afternoon with painting the cottage.

  The hardware store was a big, old-fashioned place with floor-to-ceiling open shelving and a chandler’s shop attached, stocked with marine hardware and supplies for boaters. Nina noticed, with some surprise, a large bin of fairly high-grade fireworks by the counter. Nina’s father’s business was Spark Pyrotechnics, “purveyors of fireworks displays to state fairs and special events throughout the northeastern United States.” Really, with a name like Spark, the family business couldn’t have been anything else, except maybe electrician or arsonist. Nina and her brothers had learned the trade as their father’s assistants throughout high school and summer vacations. Her brothers had stayed with the business while she became a professor, but she knew how to set fireworks and sync them to music to wow an audience, and she recognized these rockets as something more than just backyard sparklers. She figured they must have been left over from some town celebration.

  “What can I help you with, miss?” asked an elderly man who emerged from the dim recesses behind the long wooden counter. He helped Nina find a brush, scraper, and machete, which he assured her was the best way to the cut stubborn beach grass if she didn’t have a gas mower. Also handy for opening coconuts, he added. He mixed a can of butter-yellow exterior paint for her. She hoisted a can of primer up onto the counter and paid for it all. Then with a can in each hand and her now-heavy tote over her shoulder, Nina thanked him as she headed out the door and back up the road toward her house. It was hot, and she could feel the sun boring into the tender skin on her nose. The only vehicle that passed her as she made the fifteen-minute hike back to her cottage was Barry Bassett’s champagne-colored Mercedes, with Tiffany riding shotgun, fiddling with the car radio. He didn’t slow down as he passed, but Nina saw his eyes looking back at her in his rearview mirror. She held his gaze, wanting him to know that she knew what he’d done. He looked away first.

  An hour later, Nina was walking up the long, tree-lined drive of the Pineapple Cay Plantation Inn in her shorts and sneakers, her towel rolled under her arm. The inn was set well back from the main road on the ocean side south of the village center. Nina had walked back through the residential blocks behind the shops to get there. Two hundred years ago, the inn had been a pineapple plantation, and the main part of the inn was in the restored plantation house. It was now surrounded by sweeping green lawns shaded by tall banyan, mango, and palm trees, with a row of small beachfront bungalows on either side of the main house, separated by screens of bougainvillea and frangipani.

  In the center of the circular drive that curved in front of the main entrance was a graceful fountain depicting sculpted dolphins frolicking in the water. To the right was a parking lot hidden from view behind a tall brick wall covered with flowering vines, and to the left were three tennis courts, also shielded from view by a high vine-covered chain-link fence. Nina could hear the pinging of tennis balls and the grunts of players as she passed and made her way up the steps into the lobby of the inn. It was an open, airy foyer, and she could see straight through to the veranda. A few vacationers sat on the veranda in rattan rocking chairs, looking out at the sea, which lay glittering in the sunshine at the foot of a broad expanse of manicured green lawn. The wide floorboards creaked underfoot, and several large fans turned slowly in the coffered ceiling above Nina’s head. She made her way to the ornately carved and highly polished mahogany reception desk, where an elegant woman in a navy-blue suit and white blouse was typing at a computer. She looked up and smiled as Nina approached.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for the yoga class,” said Nina.

  “Yes. It’s starting in a couple of minutes out in the spa pavilion,” said the woman, gesturing out the veranda door. Nina paid the class fee and followed her directions across the lawn to a covered platform, where a half dozen women and a couple of men were rolling out their mats and stretching their arms and legs as they waited for class to begin. Nina joined them on the platform, then grabbed a mat from the pile by the stairs and unfurled it in an empty spot on the floor at the back of the class. She kicked off her shoes and socks and pushed them out of the way. Looking around her for the first time, she noted that Tiffany Bassett was among the women clustered at the front of the platform. Nina was briefly annoyed. Tiffany Bassett and her pushy husband were beginning to harsh her mellow, as her twenty-year-old nephew, Michael, would say. Dressed in bubblegum-pink tights and a black tank top, Tiffany was talking to a coterie of expensive-looking women who were within earshot of her.

  “So, yeah. Kiki Savage is a really good friend of mine, and she said, ‘I am going to throw you the best party ever, girl.’ I wish I could invite you, too, but it’s an intimate dinner party at their private estate. The Minister of History or whatever is coming all the way from the main island to be there and thank us personally for giving them, like, millions of dollars’ worth of stuff.”

  Nina made a conscious effort to tune out the bimbo and sat down on her mat with her legs stretched out in front of her, breathing in deeply and reaching for her toes.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Let us lotus!” said a familiar voice. Nina looked up quickly. At the front of the platform, rolling out his mat and then standing to face them with his hands in the Namaste position, was Danish, the mailman slash waiter. He spotted her at the back of the class.

  “Hey, Nina! Good to see you! Looking forward to our big date tomorrow night!” he called across the platform. She gave him a small wave as Tiffany Bassett snapped her head around and glared at her. A few of the other women eyed her with curiosity. Then Danish was all business, guiding them through a series of poses in a calm, soothing voice for the next hour. They finished lying on their backs with their eyes closed, listening to the sound of the waves. He’s actually very good at this, thought Nina with surprise. When she opened her eyes, most of the participants were gone, including Tiffany. Danish was putting away his CDs and closing up the stereo cabinet. She walked over.

  “So, you’re a yoga instructor, too. You’re everywhere,” she said.

  “Right on,” he said. “I aim to be ubiquitous, memorable, and to have a good time at all times. Want to smoke a joint?”

  “Uh, no thanks,” she replied.
“I thought I’d cut the lawn and maybe get started painting my house this afternoon.”

  “I’m up for that,” he said. “My afternoon is wide-open. Alice is out of range, meeting with Kiki Savage all afternoon. Just let me get rid of this stuff, and I’ll be right back.” He was gone before she could reply, and back within minutes carrying a small backpack.

  “OK. Let’s go.” They walked around the side of the inn, across the croquet lawn, and along the tennis courts. On the first court Nina saw the young honeymoon couple from the plane.

  “You have to run to get the ball!” the man was yelling at the woman across the net.

  “I don’t feel like running. It’s too hot. Why can’t you just hit it to me?” she said irritably. Uh-oh, thought Nina.

  She and Danish were rounding the corner onto the long gravel drive when they heard the snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves in the vegetation at the side of the road about fifty feet ahead of them, just between the last tennis court and the equipment shed. They walked on a few steps in silence and then saw where the noises were coming from. Half-hidden by a shrub, Tiffany Bassett was pressed up against the shed with her eyes shut, her arms around Lance, the tennis pro, with one hand down the back of his white tennis shorts, clutching his buttock. They appeared to be gnawing each other’s faces off. Nina deduced that it was an amorous embrace, but it looked disturbingly like an act of mutual cannibalism. There was some moaning, and a bit too much skin was starting to show for Nina’s taste. She gestured to Danish that they should cut across the parking lot to rejoin the drive farther down. Thankfully, Tiffany and Lance didn’t see them before they detoured. So much for married life, thought Nina.

  “Well, well, well,” said Danish when they were out of earshot. “You don’t see that every day. Or actually, you do see that every day, but with different people. That must be new. I hadn’t heard about it yet. Lance is playing with fire there. Barry Bassett isn’t the type who likes to share. She wanted to nibble at the Danish a while back, if you know what I mean, but I have a code.”