by Kathy Brandt
I knew Tilda. She wouldn’t be letting the girls out of her sight until she was sure it was safe. I wondered if the man had been watching and waiting for me. A lot of people knew I lived on a boat down at Pickering's Landing. But I couldn’t think of anyone whom I’d pissed off lately.
“Do you think it’s okay?” Simon asked as Tilda gathered Daisy and her shells and took her inside for her nap.
“Everything is fine, Simon.” Just what the kid needed—another reason to have nightmares.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go get you some new clothes and then you can hang out with O’Brien.” I hadn’t checked with O’Brien, but I figured he’d be happy to have the kid around while I spent the afternoon talking to the passengers.
Simon and I headed for town. Our choices of clothes were limited. It was either one of the stores that catered to locals or the brightly colored cluster of shops down the street from the cruise ship dock. We started at Mitchell’s, a store crammed with everything from wedding dresses to pots and pans. Shelves were piled with men’s polyester pants, and racks of hangers displayed women’s dresses, the most elaborate brocade affairs adorned with rows of gold buttons down the front from neck to hemline. In the back of the store, lace doilies and embroidered baby blankets were neatly arranged under shelves overflowing with kitchen gadgets and auto supplies, all under a layer of dust.
We made our way to the boys’ section, where Simon found several pairs of shorts, which he insisted were just the right size, though the waist was at least two sizes too big.
“This is the style, Hannah. All the cool kids wear these.”
He scoffed at the suggestion of a belt, then found one so large it would barely keep the pants up on his bony hips. At least they wouldn’t be falling down around his knees. He chose several T-shirts, one with Bob Marley plastered across the front. I liked it. When we got to the underwear, Simon launched into a dissertation about the attributes of boxers and grabbed a couple of packages.
The fundamentals taken care of, we walked over to the open market to check out the island apparel and crafts. It was teaming with people from the cruise ship that had just docked. Simon had brought his camera and he couldn’t get enough pictures. The color in the market made a brilliant backdrop for all the tourists with their own cameras strapped around their necks, laden with purchases, and wearing new straw hats that shaded their already sunburned faces.
He’d gotten one couple to pose and was showing them the results in his camera. It was a fantastic shot—the man with knobby knees protruding from his shorts, hairy legs ending at the ankles in a pair of plastic sandals. His wife wore a matching shorts and top outfit with ladybugs all over it. Both had on plastic visors. Her’s said, “Sexy when wet.” His read, “I’m up for anything!” Their eyes danced with mischief and I knew they were well aware of the implication of their hats.
Simon and I wandered through one tourist shop after another. Finally, he found a gaudy island shirt—bright blue with Rasta men dancing all over it—and a knit Rasta beret. He had the hat on and the T-shirt in hand when he stepped back out of the cottage to wait while I paid. I could see him outside talking to another kid, shoeless and in dirty shorts.
I’d just gotten my change when I heard Simon holler. By the time I got outside, he was half way across the road, darting between moving cars. I went after him. The kid was fast. He raced down Main, waving his arms and shouting. By the time I got across Waterfront Drive, he was already three blocks down and still going.
When I caught up with him, he was standing in front of the library under a hibiscus bush.
“What happened?” I asked, bending over with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“Some kid tried to grab my stuff,” he said, on the edge of despair and hurt. “I kicked him and held on, but he grabbed the Rasta beret right off my head. I couldn’t catch him, Hannah.” I could see it was just one more affront.
“Come on. Let’s go get another beret.”
I’d be sure to report it to Dunn. At one time thievery on the islands was unheard of and it was still rare. If there were a kid targeting the tourists in the market, Dunn would add a patrol officer and put a quick end to it.
Christ. This day was turning to shit—Capy hurt, a strange man on the beach, now this. It seemed the whole island had gone crazy. I remembered the fire-and-brimstone preacher I’d heard on the radio this morning talking about the hurricane being God’s punishment for man’s sins. Jeez, it was a pressure change, a tropical depression—nothing more.
When we got to SeaSail, I went looking for O’Brien. The marina had been transformed since I’d been down there a couple of days ago. Now it looked like half the boats in O’Brien’s fleet were in the harbor. Monohulls and catamarans ranging from twenty-eight to fifty feet filled every available slip. Between the docks, boats had been rafted together with tires tied between them. Still more boats were coming in and every available dockhand was at work, detaching biminis, pulling down sails, and lowering booms, which they were lashing to the boats.
O’Brien was at the end of B Dock, backing a huge cat into a slip that looked about two feet too narrow for the wide boat. He eased it into the slot, the bumpers squeezing between the dock and the boat rail. He jumped onto the dock before the dockhand had even cleated the lines.
“Hannah,” he said, a wide smile crossing his face, that familiar open warmth that was O’Brien. Then he remembered his anger and he shut down.
“Hey, Simon,” he said, shifting his attention and ruffling Simon’s hair.
While Simon watched one of the riggers being hauled up to the top of a mast, I pulled O’Brien aside and told him about Capy and that Dr. Hall didn’t know whether he would come around.
His reaction was identical to Dunn’s. He was pissed. By this evening when the news had made its way around the island, the entire population would be fuming.
“He’ll make it,” O’Brien said. “That old guy is tough.”
“I hope you’re right. He’s hurt pretty bad.”
“You didn’t come down here just to tell me about Capy, Hannah.”
“I was hoping Simon could spend the afternoon with you. While I’m here, I need to talk with the Westbrooks.”
“I’d love to have him. The Westbrooks’ boat is over on C Dock. You can’t miss it. It’s the cat with the flags all over it. I’ve told them that they need to get off the boat today if they want it moved to the hurricane hole in Paraquita Bay, as Westbrook is so insistent that I do.
Then he called, “Hey, Simon, how about you stick with me?” I’ll show you the boats.”
They were standing at the wheel of the Catherine when I headed over to C Dock. She was an old wooden two-masted boat that O'Brien’s parents had restored. O’Brien had pulled Simon up into the captain’s seat and was standing behind him, pointing to the rigging and explaining the intricacies of the sails.
I found Senator Westbrook and his wife, Debra, sitting on their boat, looking relaxed and tan.
“Detective, come aboard,” Westbrook said.
While Debra went below to get iced tea, we made small talk. Westbrook was clearly uncomfortable and rambled on about the weather. It surprised me. After all, this was a guy who went toe to toe with the best. What was he so nervous about?
“Let’s get to it,” he said, when his wife returned.
“I’d rather speak with Debra alone,” I said. It was pretty much standard procedure. Whenever there was an observer things got skewed, especially when the observer was a spouse.
“I resent that,” he said. “Debra can speak freely. We don’t have secrets. Besides, I am a lawyer, though I don’t practice anymore.”
“Think Debra needs a lawyer?” What was Westbrook so worried that Debra might say if he weren’t around to hear?
“Of course not,” he said, “but she needs someone by her side. You know that this has been an extremely traumatic experience. She was almost killed. We lost close friends.”
&nbs
p; Somehow I didn’t see Debra as being the dependent type, but she nodded and said she wanted her husband to stay.
“There’s some question about why the plane went down. That means it is necessary that we talk with everyone connected to the flight. It’s possible you saw something. Can you simply take me through it?”
As she started talking, it was clear that Debra was one of those people who got caught up in excruciating details and little side stories. I let her go. You just never knew when something important might be buried in the minutia.
“That last day on the boat was a disaster. I was glad we were leaving in the morning. We were anchored over at Cooper Island. Jack left us there and took the dinghy into Road Town. While he was gone, a nearby boat’s anchor dragged and they drifted right into us. Our anchor chains were all tangled. Jack’s the expert on the boat. The Rileys and I didn’t know how to handle it. Then Jack blamed me when the other boat gouged our gel coat.” She glared at Jack, obviously angry that he’d deserted them out there.
“I told you I had to call the office to tell them I was going to be late returning,” he said to Debra. “I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone at the anchorage,” he explained to me.
“Jack decided to stay down here an extra day,” she said. “He was supposed to fly home with me.”
“So you canceled your reservation?” I asked. When I’d spoken to Westbrook Saturday at the hospital, he’d never said a word about it being a last-minute change in plans, only that he was scheduled to fly out later. The senator was supposed to have been on that plane with his wife. I considered that suspicious.
“Yes, I was worried about my boat with the storm moving in. I wasn’t about to have it rafted out in the harbor with a bunch of others. I wanted to make sure that it was moved to the hurricane hole, where it would be secure. When we docked, I went straight to the top, the owner, O’Brien. He said he’d take care of it, but I told him I wasn’t leaving the marina until I saw someone taking the boat over there.” Westbrook was really on the defensive now.
“It seems as though you could have taken care of it before we went to the airport,” Debra said. I was thinking the same thing. If O’Brien had said the boat would be moved to the protection of the mangroves in the hurricane hole, it would have been moved. As a boat owner, Westbrook should have had enough experience with SeaSail and O’Brien to know that.
“That morning we got up early and brought the boat in,” Debra continued. “The taxi came about seven-thirty. The flight was scheduled at nine.”
“Did you notice anything unusual at all? In the airport or on the plane?” I asked.
Debra went through it, thinking out loud. The taxi had dropped them off at the terminal. The driver handled the luggage. Five or six people were ahead of them at the Island Air counter. She’d noticed the newlyweds at the end of the line.
“They were so completely wrapped up in one another they hardly noticed anyone else. Jack and I had been like that once,” she said.
“The little boy and his father were right behind us. We talked for a while. Mr. Redding was very aware of what happens on the Hill. He asked me what Jack’s position was on some bill related to nonprofits. I’m afraid I was clueless. I didn’t know anything about the issue.”
“What about after you boarded the plane?” I asked, trying to nudge her back to the reason I was there questioning her.
“They were about to close the cabin door when another passenger came rushing onto the plane. She was an attractive woman with lots of curly red hair. Did she make it out?”
“Yes, she’s fine. What happened then?” I asked.
She explained that she was supposed to be sitting right behind the Rileys but had moved to the back when the cabin door was closed. “I hate flying,” she said. “I’ve heard that the tail section is the safest part of the plane and always move as far back as I can and as close to the exit as possible.”
“This may seem like an odd question,” I said, trying to prepare her for something she might consider shocking, “but can you think of anyone who would want you dead, Debra?”
She was far from surprised by my question, but she didn’t have time to reply. Westbrook didn’t give her the chance.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, mortified. “No one would want to hurt Debra, for chrissake.”
“What about you, Senator?” I asked.
“Me? Hurt Debra? Never!”
“I meant do you have any enemies,” I said, working to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and wondering why he was so defensive.
“I’ve got plenty,” he said. “But I wasn’t on the plane.”
“But you were supposed to be,” I said, stating the obvious.
“For God’s sake, we’ve been down here on vacation. All my enemies are on Capitol Hill and they have other ways of threatening me.”
“Like what?”
“It’s all about killer politics. Not about taking lives,” he said.
“What about your luggage or something you might have brought on the plane? Was there anything that someone might have been after?”
“Just my jewelry,” Debra responded.
“That’s an odd question,” Westbrook said. “What does that have to do with the crash?”
“Someone broke into the warehouse where we’ve secured all the contents of the plane.”
“Did they steal anything?” he asked.
“That’s police business,” I said. “What about the Rileys? How well did you know them?”
“Intimately. We’ve been friends for years. And no, they didn’t have enemies,” Westbrook said.
“What about a gun? Did you or the Rileys carry one on board?” I asked, turning to Debra.
“Goodness, no,” Debra said, appalled at the suggestion. “I am opposed to firearms and so was Louise. Besides, how on earth would we get one through security?”
“I don’t think we can tell you anything else, Detective,” Westbrook said, standing. “I’m sure that when all is said and done, those investigators will find that the plane crashed due to the airline's negligence. When they do, I’ll be considering a lawsuit.”
I was being dismissed, but that was fine. I’d learned enough. I couldn’t help wondering whether Westbrook was as concerned about his boat as he said or whether something else had kept him off of that flight. One thing was obvious. He’d been on edge and defensive the entire time I’d been talking to Debra.
***
I found O’Brien and Simon up at the marina restaurant having lunch at a table overlooking the harbor. Simon was intent on demolishing a burger and unconcerned about the catsup that was dripping all over his shirt. O’Brien was intent on the woman sitting next to him. He saw me coming and placed his hand over hers. He was clearly trying to make me jealous. It was working.
“Hi, guys. Claire,” I said, pulling up a chair.
“Hannah,” Claire said, abruptly pulling her hand from under O’Brien’s. I knew her in passing and she knew that O’Brien and I were involved. If O’Brien were to move on, I could see it being someone like Claire. She was a native BVIslander, an exotic beauty, with brown eyes shaped like almonds. She wore a tight low-cut top and an island sarong tied around her waist—decorated with tangerine-colored hibiscus. No doubt the outfit was one of her own creations.
She’d started with a little shop in town that specialized in her island apparel. The clothing was stunning, but Claire was also good at the marketing end. She’d become the model for her fashions, savvy enough to know her island beauty would be part of the sell. The look had caught on and the business had grown into a lucrative operation. Her label could be found in some of the most upscale Paris boutiques and Fifth Avenue shops.
In between bites, Simon talked about the boats and scrolled through the pictures he’d taken. There must have been twenty, all of boats from every possible angle. Interesting abstract shots—all lines and angles of rigging and masts, a bow against turquoise water—not one typical photo of a pretty boat in
the harbor.
“These are good,” Claire said. “I’ve spent a lot of time wandering around the galleries in SoHo and near Greenwich Village. You are talented, Simon. You’ve got an eye for form and composition.”
“It’s my hobby,” he said. “My dad promised he’d buy me a digital Nikon, one of those single-lens reflex cameras, if I keep at it.” Then he realized his mistake. He’d forgotten for a moment that his father was dead.
“Quite a spread in today’s Island News,” O’Brien said, changing the subject. He handed me the newspaper he had folded on the table.
“Hey, he’s a good-looking guy,” I said, glaring at O’Brien. I wasn’t about to defend myself to him while he sat there fondling Claire’s perfectly painted fingernails. Two could play at this game. And dammit, I was pissed.
Chapter 19
When I got down to the warehouse, Stark was leaning against a palm tree, arms crossed against his chest and sunglasses propped on his head, watching them unload the airplane. Harper and Sturtevant had gone out to the wreck with Harrigan before dawn. They’d managed to pull the entire plane up in one piece with a crane and set it down on a barge. Now it was being backed into the warehouse.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Stark. I got tied up talking with the Westbrooks.”
Stark’s response was exactly what I expected. “Hey, no problem, mon. I be enjoyin' dis fine day,” he said in a casual island accent, one he resorted to only in such instances. Stark had a typical island mentality, one I envied and hoped someday to truly emulate. Though I was getting better, I still had a “hurry up, get it done, no time to linger” approach to life.
Harper and Sturtevant were standing with Joe Harrigan over near the warehouse door. Harper, still in his wetsuit, looked humble for a change. Sturtevant was wearing the same faded swim trunks and a grease-stained T-shirt that looked like he’d used to work on an engine.
“How’d it go?” I asked. Sturtevant just shook his head.
