Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  “Fine, we’ll meet. Text me a time and place,” I grumbled before clicking off.

  Back inside, I found Junior intently focused on his phone. He pulled up YouTube and rapidly keyed in Olympic archery 2016. A Korean man named Ku Bonchan, whose skin looked cool as a rose petal, ran away with the gold, besting a French bloke who kept shaking out his hand like it was numb.

  Junior tapped the screen and said, “Ku could have made the shot that got Kendal.”

  Chapter 18

  Hillary drank the remainder of the white wine left on her bedside table from the night before, just to wet her dry palate, mind you. She then came downstairs to discover Herbie on the phone, blasting someone for calling so damned early.

  The blasted phone had woken her again from a perfectly sound sleep. She needed beauty sleep. The cream would only keep the bags at bay for so long. The insufferable police wouldn’t stop calling. They kept asking the same questions and wanting more information on her mother’s life, finances, habits. What did she know of Francine’s habits? Fact was, their mother kept all of them at arm’s length with the business. As far as she could surmise, Francine’s personal life was her work. She did nothing with them as children, and little changed once they became adults.

  For the first time she considered abandoning the elegant, rotary-dial landline that sat on the end table. The antique had no off switch for the ringer, but Hillary liked that. She always feared she’d miss an important call. About what? The list was as endless and indistinct as the sky, although her nephew headed the list, that much was certain.

  She next discovered Harold on the lawn coming unhinged. Harold yanked the arrow he’d just shot out of the target, dropped to his knees and violently stabbed the innocent grass, still moist with morning dew, fifteen times, as if the Bacon family quad were responsible for some grave misdeed.

  From inside the French doors to the grand residence Hillary smirked at her anguished brother. Watching Harold like this brought her joy. He always tried to act so calm. He rarely let her see him totally lose control. If he’d known she was watching, he would undoubtedly have forced himself back under control rather than allow her to witness his inner demons at work. But at this distance, with the eastern sun reflecting on the French door, he was oblivious to her voyeurism.

  Behind her, Herbie hung up the phone.

  “Damned police. They want to know everything,” Herbie groaned coming up behind her. “They woke you up again, right?”

  “Um-hmm,” she murmured, still watching Harold.

  “They don’t like that we are each other’s alibis for the day mom died. They want to know more details.”

  “We gave them details. Harold backed us up. We’re covered.”

  He strolled over and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Can we trust him? Look at him. He’s weak.”

  She turned around and gazed into her brother’s eyes. “He’s kept it to himself all these years. Besides, he was alone, so he needs us as much as we need him.”

  Normally always clean-shaven except for his thick mustache, stubble had sprung up on Herbie’s neck the last few days. She rubbed it playfully. He grabbed her wrists and squeezed her fine bones till they compressed. Her face contorted with a moment of pain, then a devious smile cracked her lips.

  “Want to play?” she asked in a breathy voice.

  Flinging her wrists away, he slapped the frame of the French door. “This is no time for games, Hill. Evans wants more money.”

  “I don’t care if we give it to him. We can be pariahs for all I care. So long as we have each other.” She held her breath after saying the last.

  They looked out at the back of the Bacon Estate. Harold now lay motionless in the grass on the archery range, his chest rising and falling like a sprinter at the end of a race.

  “Do you see this behavior? Does Harold look like he’s holding it together? He’s going to compromise everything. On top of that, how do we know he didn’t do it since he wasn’t with us and has no witnesses to his supposed whereabouts?”

  Hillary’s playful demeanor vanished. She growled, “We know because he is our brother, and even if he did do it, he’s still our brother. No Bacons will go to prison over this.” His eyes remained fixed on Harold’s prone form. She inched closer, her breath hot on his ear. “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  Chapter 19

  The bar at the Greenhouse glowed like honey in sunlight. Some kind of special paint had been used below the varnish to give it a shimmering appearance. The Aussie bartender, Willy, said some Russian artist named Vlad, who was hiding out from the mob, had agreed to paint it during the last renovation in exchange for a month’s worth of chow.

  “It was worth it,” I said every time I showed up there and he turned on the overhead lamp. The special thing about this type of painting, which apparently was as secret as the Coca-Cola formula, was that it became brighter or darker depending on how much light shown on it. The glow made your glass of alcohol seem even more heaven-sent at the end of a long day.

  As I slugged my first gulp, movement on the stool next to me. Leber. He clapped me on the back like we were old pals.

  “Boise. What up, da man?”

  I gave a weary nod. “You’re in a chipper mood, Detective.”

  He put his finger to his lips and hunched toward me. “Let’s be incognito tonight.”

  “Whatever, man.” I chased my beer with heavily salted peanuts. “I’m not super-fond of police officers or detectives or anyone with a badge. What do you want from me?”

  He ordered Bacardi and soda, then adjusted himself on the stool. “Preferred it better when the stools here had backs.” He rubbed his lower spine and winced. “Some kinda slipped disc, my chiropractor says. You believe that?”

  Willy frisbeed a green Heineken coaster in front of Leber and set his drink on it.

  “You friendly with Corey Hart?” I asked.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Never mind.”

  Corey Hart sang the hit tune, I Wear My Sunglasses at Night. I loved the song, but found that the real guys who did this were douche-bags. Luckily, most of them lived in Holly-weird.

  Then Leber surprised me. “You makin’ fun of my glasses?” He pulled them to the tip of his ample nose. His deep brown eyes peered at me over the rim. A predatory dog sizing up the enemy. “I got sensitive eyes. Work-related accident. Some bastard turned on a very intense light while enhanced-interrogating me a few years back. I see fine, but can’t stand bright light or even faint light much anymore.”

  “That didn’t disqualify you from police work?”

  “You think competent detectives are coming out of the woodwork around here. The department’s lucky if we can find anyone with a college degree and no record.”

  “Sounds like every cop I’ve been involved with,” I said. “So, what is it you want?”

  “Boise, drop the cop-hating act. I know you don’t feel that way about folks trying to do the right thing and putting their lives on the line.” He waited while I silently acknowledged he had a point. He continued. “Pickering’s being a hard-ass about Kendal’s laptop. Says he doesn’t know where it is. I could bring him up on obstruction, but I know him, he doesn’t care about that.”

  Pickering had shown me the laptop only days ago, so I knew he had it. I wasn’t going to divulge that to Leber. But neither would I lie openly if the question came up. Pickering was a good newspaper man. Any good newspaper person had spent time locked up for something they believed in. The guy was political, but I suppose he had his principles.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You guys are buddy-buddy. I remember you solved those cases a few months back, got them lots of readers. Walter Pickering must love you.”

  He crunched on a piece of ice, which sent chills down my spine.

  “He definitely doesn’t love me. He’s charging me for ad
space after all that bump in readership.”

  Leber winced down a swallow. We were both nearing the end of our first round and ordered another.

  “You want me to convince Pickering he should share information from Kendal’s laptop with you, assuming he has it?”

  He nodded.

  “And why should I go to bat for you, Detective?”

  “Francine’s body, for starters.”

  “Not the same ballpark. What else? Can you give me a copy of the murder book?”

  With a sideways look, he raised one eyebrow ala Roger Moore.

  “Then tell me what you have. If we really are helping each other.”

  He proceeded to feed me information the police had recovered concerning phone records for Kendal. He’d been in contact with several people in Barbados, St. Kitts, the Dominican Republic, and St. Croix. The same places the Bacons owned sugar plantations.

  The offices and the mercantile operations were in St. Thomas because it had the best harbor and the most lucrative shipping, allowing Bacon Rum and their other sugar products ease of distribution. St. Thomas was also the safest place historically since the slave rebellion had taken place in St. Croix in 1848. The Bacon family had left managers at the various plantations while holing up in St. Thomas. Under Francine’s leadership, much of the property had been liquidated or donated as historical sites with an endowment.

  “She had a need to make amends if you ask me.” Leber leaned on the bar. He looked like a wet newspaper in a wind-storm.

  “Why are you so clued in on Francine?” I asked. “What about Kendal?”

  “Ninety-percent he and she are mixed in the same thing. This ain’t a coincidence. Probably family. Am I right?”

  “Hey man, you’re the detective. I’m just a lowly investigator trying to make it in the man’s world.”

  “You sayin’ I’m the man?” He paused, then after another sip said, “There’s two kinds of detectives: the kind who gather information and the kind who take that information and gel it into a good theory to catch the perpetrator.”

  I waited for more, but he seemed to want to fill me in on categories of detectives. When he didn’t say anything for a while, I responded, “So, what are you?”

  Leber started to lean back and caught himself. “See! Who likes backless stools? Who?” He yelled the last word and Willy glanced our way. Leber waved him off. “Boise, I need some more and your pal Pickering has it. Talk to him. Get him to spill on Lady Francine Bacon’s plans. And what about your bosses?”

  “Who’re my bosses?”

  “Junior and Harold. Aren’t those the guys who’re paying you?”

  “Mind your business, Detective.” I bolted the last of my Guinness, then wiped my mouth across my forearm and licked the residue. Cops made you feel like a whore for being in the free-market.

  Chapter 20

  It was late and I was exhausted, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Pickering answered on the first ring. Guess I wasn’t the only one running myself ragged. He agreed to meet me at a hole in the wall with no sign near Backstreet Pizza. Very covert.

  As I walked, internal questions rained on me like confetti. What was Francine really up to with Kendal? What was Junior’s role? The rest of the Bacons were dysfunctional, but killers? What of the inheritors, aka the descendants of the Bacon slaves? Could they be involved and if so, why? They were on the winning side of this thing. The lucky ones who would finally reap what their ancestors had sowed under lashes and nooses.

  By most accounts, Francine appeared to be a stand-up lady in the community who decided to abdicate the throne. She was not mother of the year and she continued that trend by shorting her heirs, but the money was never theirs, not really. Least that’s how I’d always looked at inheritance. Not mine to begin with; if anyone wanted to give me their hard-earned fortune, that was blind luck. There was no right, not even with spouses or children. Then again, if you felt you were being cheated, well, there’s no telling what you’d do. I also never had a mother or grandmother with over one-hundred million to give.

  The same mutt that begged in the morning near Market Square, ambled behind a parallel-parked car. I whistled, hoping he’d recognize me from the piece of chicken I’d given him the week before. He eyed me cautiously and seeing I had nothing in my hand, trotted away, his overgrown toenails clicking on the ground.

  “I understand,” I muttered, “you didn’t survive out here all these years trusting bush-men on Backstreet in the middle of the night.”

  A voice came from behind me. “Boise, who’re you talking to?”

  “There was a ... ” I looked around, but the dog was gone. “Aw, forget it. You have notes?”

  Pickering tapped his shirt pocket. I’ll be damned if he wasn’t wearing a tie, a button-down shirt and dressy slacks to meet in this dive.

  “You’re gonna stick out in here, you know?”

  “Dress for success, Boise. Never be ashamed to look better than those around you any more than you should strive to be as gullible as the masses.”

  “I need a beer,” I responded, holding the door for the lanky man, then continued holding until a wobbling woman on the arm of a grinning toothless man stumbled out. “You’re welcome,” I muttered, but they were clueless and unresponsive.

  I tried to pull my hand off the doorknob and it came away sticky. I headed to the bathroom, which was really just a black hole with a toilet splattered with god-knows-what and a slippery floor that was stylish in the 1940s. There was no soap and no towels and only a trickle of water, so I wet my hands as best I could and wiped them on my shorts. Someone pounded on the door as I opened it.

  A woman pushed past me with a whiff of cheap perfume and gin. She slammed the door to the men’s room in my face.

  At the bar, Pickering sequentially pounded two shots of whiskey. Cutty Sark must have been his drink. After I joined him, he called for something off the top shelf and retired to sip it in a dark booth. My stomach was too bloated for Guiness, so I ordered a light beer.

  I filled him in on what Leber had told me earlier.

  “So, Widow Bacon was what, a reparationist?” he asked.

  “She sold off some of the plantations, but we’re not sure who bought them or why. Maybe to liquidate so she had capital to distribute. You get anything from the computer?”

  To my surprise, Pickering readily handed me a stack of hard-copies printed from Kendal’s computer. He smelled of Jurgen’s Lotion and starch.

  He pulled three pages out that confirmed her plan to divest. Kendal even had one confirmation of sale of the plantation in Barbados to a land developer. My eyes grew wide when I read the name: Payne & Wedgefield.

  A kidnapping case I’d worked involved the daughter of the man who owned the real estate empire. I hadn’t heard nice things about him, but, Payne and Wedgefield were in real estate, so not that strange that they’d be involved.

  “There’s more, but I ran out of ink in my printer. I can give you more tomorrow.”

  “Why not go to the paper and print?” I asked. “This relates. It’s gonna be a story.”

  “Nighttime at the paper. The place feels off. I don’t know.”

  He tilted the glass to his mouth and finished it. He returned with two more this time. Off my look, he said, “What?”

  I sipped my beer, a little less eager to keep pace. Dana had made me feel guilty with her question about attending an AA meeting. “Nothing,” I said. “Go on.”

  “As I was saying, there’s a lot here. He and Widow Bacon were working on something fairly monumental. If you look at that sales contract closely, you’ll see that the widow had the land rezoned so that it had to be low-income housing moving forward with the plantation house turned into a museum about the history of sugar and slavery. The influence you can have when you own thousands of acres and millions of dollars. Do you know much about reparations?”

  “Making a
mends for past wrongs. My grandmother used to talk about it in regards to slavery.”

  “Then you know slave reparations are rare birds.”

  I nodded. Reparations for slavery had been bandied about for years, mostly right after it ended in the U.S. Not a ton of talk about it in the Caribbean to my knowledge.

  Pickering continued. “The only real example of an entire nation providing reparations for past wrongs was Germany giving billions to Israel after World War II. The very act of forming the state of Israel was a form of forced reparations to the Jewish people, but it didn’t come out of Germany’s hide since Germany didn’t own the land used to form Israel.”

  Sometimes it was interesting listening to Pickering’s historical diatribes, but tonight I didn’t have the patience, so I eased him out of lecture-mode and back on track.

  Pickering shook his head in disgust. “Fine, fine, a man tries to color the narrative. This is why folks don’t like history, no patience for the payoff at the end of a good story anymore. You know, Boise, you could stand to gain some historical perspective about the racial divide that you’re a part of. Do you even know if your African grandmother willingly married a white man? Did she do it for love or out of necessity or something more sinister?”

  His eyes had that watery glass over them, so I cut him some slack.

  “Walter, what say we leave my dearly departed grandmother out of this conversation.”

  He raised his hands in the universal gesture for “sorry, man, I wasn’t trying to offend you,” a staple of drunken insults the world over.

  “Point is,” he spoke deliberately, enunciating each word like a scholar lecturing to his freshman English class. “I figured out their agenda and it might be,” he coughed, “they both bought the farm for doing the right thing.”

  I threw back the last of my beer and got myself another. If I caught up with Pickering, maybe I’d understand what the hell he was trying to say.

  When I returned, he asked, “You ever hear of H.R. Forty?” He still had his wedding ring on.