There’s the familiar double tap at the door again, and Clarise appears once more, this time carrying a pot of coffee and three cups with saucers.
“I asked Clarise to prepare us some of d’is ’cause I knew we were gonna need it,” Angelique explains, while sitting back and letting the maid pour us each a piping hot cup of Joe. We wait for her to finish and leave the room before continuing.
“What on Earth is going on?” I ask, taking a sip from the cup and wishing I hadn’t. The tip of my tongue is now stinging to beat the band. I blow on the steaming liquid before trying again. “I mean, what are you guys mixed up in?”
“Not just us, pal,” Morris chimes in. “You’re smack dab in this mess, too.”
“Me? How?”
My old friend throws me the ‘you know what I’m talking about’ look I know so well. And it hits me like a bag of bricks dropping on my head.
“The cargo.”
He nods, and I turn my attention back to Angelique. “But it was just a standard haul. Untaxed booze and candy for the kids. I saw it when Monday’s guy cracked the crate open.”
“And do you really t’ink da Governor would go to all d’at trouble just to confiscate one of your typical runs, Joe?” Angelique asks. “Do you t’ink he’d put such a fear in a man like Monday Renot, d’at he would be bold enough to stare me husband down and take da cargo anyway?”
Ah, hell. Why did didn’t I think about that sooner?
I take another sip of the coffee to calm my nerves and wipe away a stream of sweat from my brow. It’s way too hot in the parlor to be drinking the stuff, but I keep at it anyway. I feel parched. My throat is swelling up from what I can only assume is the gazillion butterflies flapping around in my stomach.
“We need those crates back, Joe,” Morris says. “We need them back at all costs, or at least one island in the Caribbean—maybe more, I’m not sure—could be ground zero for a major communist uprising. And soon.”
I shake my head. “What the heck was in those crates anyway?”
Morris and Angelique look at each other, then cock their heads in silent debate.
“We can’t tell you precisely, Joe,” Angelique says. “Da less you know, da better it is for everyone. But inside that crate is a list…”
I try to concentrate on what she’s saying, but my world is spinning out of control. A communist uprising? Spies in the Caribbean? My hands clutch the armrests of my chair to steady myself. The room is whirling around me, and I feel like I’m on fire. That coffee is just incredibly hot. My shirt feels as though I’ve gone for a swim, I’m sweating so much.
“…I was in Cuba a few weeks back.” Morris is now talking, but it seems as though he’s a million miles away. “I was tracking down a couple of KGB agents, Alexi Krashnov and Vladimir Petrovic—two of the mooks that are here on the island now. They were having clandestine meetings with a few radical upstarts in the region, giving them their own little communist manifesto, if you take my meaning. I was able to get my hands on a guest list right before my cover was blown. But I managed to sneak the list onto some cargo heading out of Havana. My contacts assured me the cargo would be shipped here, to the local SDECE agent, so I hid the list inside one of the crates and got the heck out of Dodge. But it looks like Alexi and Vlad managed to track me down here.”
“But…why… What…?”
I’m struggling to formulate a simple sentence, and I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more to the coffee I’ve been drinking than beans and water.
“Now, this list…” Morris just keeps going, oblivious to the room spinning uncontrollably around me. “…I couldn’t just fold it up and put it where it could easily be found…” I wish he’d stop talking and let me get a word in edgewise. “…got pretty creative in how I handled it. Used some stuff we learned in the war…” And still he goes on and on, and I’m feeling every bit like death warmed over.
Why aren’t they feeling it?
I feel my eye begin to roll back inside my skull. I hear Angelique move from her spot. Feel her presence near me, shaking my shoulders and asking if I’m okay.
I’m not okay. But I’m not quite sure why. Everything feels so heavy around me. My muscles won’t move. I try to talk, but my lips won’t part.
And then, everything goes black.
7
Now
“So what happened next?” The man’s accent is thick French, which makes sense. Gregor Decroux, the man sitting just outside my jail cell, is the French-appointed regional Detective Inspector of the Guadeloupe Archipelago, stationed on Martinique.
I shake my head, still trying to clear it of the mickey from last night.
“What happened next?” I realize I’m dealing with a real Poindexter here. “I just told you. I passed out. Everything went dark. Then, I wake up handcuffed, with a dear friend dead with a bullet in her head, and the whole island hating me. That’s what happened next.”
Inspector Decroux strokes at his pencil mustache in thought, then jots something down on his little notebook.
I’ve pretty much told the Inspector everything I remember about last night—though I’ve left out a few key details from my narrative. To his knowledge, Morris Grant wasn’t even present last night. I haven’t even told him I know the guy, actually. And I’ve completely left out how Angelique was a spy with the SDECE. The detective might be French, but that doesn’t mean he’s a patriot. For all I know, he’s as much of a Red as Alexi and Vlad, the two KGB agents who tracked Morris down to St. Noel.
No, I’ve got to be careful with how much I reveal, and I’ve got to try to clear my name while I’m at it.
“And you remember nothing prior to passing out, as you say?”
“Like I said, Angelique and I were just catching up. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks. Just two old friends spending time together.”
He continues to scribble in his notepad. “Her husband…” He turns back a few pages in the notepad to read the name. “…a Monsieur Jacques Lagrange. He says you were there to have your fortune told?”
I shrug. “That’s what Angelique is known for. She’d been giving readings throughout the festival.”
“Did you see anyone at ze residence last night to suggest that this was true?” he asks, running the eraser of his pencil along the contours of his Clark Gable mustache.
I think about it for a minute, then shake my head. “Come to think of it, no. When I got there, she was alone in the parlor. Her housekeeper took me to her after the Candyman dropped me off at their bungalow.”
I think about it some more. That really is strange. Island-wide celebrations like the St. Noel Festival of the Dead are notorious for Angelique’s readings. The place should have been crawling with people waiting for their futures to be revealed. But besides Morris, Clarise, and Angelique, the place was empty.
“So let me ask you,” Decroux says. “If it was just you and Mrs. Lagrange there, how can you expect me to think anything different than that you killed her?”
“But I wasn’t the only one there. Like I said, Clarise, the maid, was there, too.”
“Are you suggesting that she shot her mistress?”
At this point, I’d suggest anything. I know for a fact that I didn’t. At least, I think I didn’t. I can’t imagine how I could. Despite her romantic advances toward me, I loved that woman dearly. I love her husband just as much—even though I’m pretty sure he’s ready to string me up by my toenails at the moment.
“Look, Inspector.” I point to the patch covering my eye. “I’m a pilot. A sailor. I’ve never been a gunslinger or a marksman. With this bum eye, I’m a lousier shot than when I had two of them. I saw Angelique. Saw the bullet wound dead center in her forehead. There’s no way I have accuracy like that.”
Decroux nods his head at that, jotting down more notes.
“Good point, but it really means nothing. You were alone with her. You both had been drinking heavily—homemade whisky, if I’m not mistaken.” He leans back in the woo
den chair he’s occupying, and it creaks under his weight. “Maybe she passed out first, eh? Maybe you walked up to her unconscious body and pulled ze trigger at close range?”
I hadn’t thought about that possibility. I can’t imagine myself ever shooting an unconscious person…especially someone who’s no threat to me. But then, I never imagined a day would come where I would be accused of murder either.
If only the inspector could talk to Morris. He’d put everything right. He’d…
That’s when it hits me. I struggle to remember the murder scene, as I was dragged out of the parlor by Chief Armad’s thugs. Angelique lying lifeless on the floor underneath the table. The red velvet drapes. The tray cart with the pot of coffee on it.
My mind races, trying to get a better mental image of the table. There are two cups of coffee on it. There should have been three. The one where I was sitting wasn’t there. At least, if my hazy memory is telling me the truth.
But worst of all, there’s no trace of my old friend Morris Grant. He’s not dead on the floor next to Angelique. He’s not walking around the scene with the police officers, and he’s not outside in the crowd of gawkers. There’s no trace of him anywhere in my memory of this morning. No wonder it’s been so easy not to talk about him, when I was telling the Inspector what happened. They genuinely don’t know he was even there last night.
So, that begs the question: Where’d he go? Where is he now?
“Monsieur Thacker?” Inspector Decroux brings me back from my whirling thoughts. “Are you listening?”
I look up at him from my cot in the cell. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked if you might not have anything else to add in your defense.”
“Why bother? Sounds like you already have me convicted anyway.”
Decroux offers me a tight smile, then stands from his chair and tucks his small notepad into the pocket of his linen blazer. “I have a few more enquiries to conduct yet, before I make my final conclusion and, of course, I’m going to have to wait until ze ballistics analysis comes back on ze bullet in Mrs. Lagrange’s head.”
“Small bit of good that’ll do,” I say. “I was unconscious. Anyone could have used my gun and bullets to kill her.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you think of ze French government, Monsieur Thacker, we pride ourselves on having a fair justice system. I assure you, I will get to the bottom of this little mystery, whether you believe it or not.” He begins walking toward the exit, then turns to look at me. “In ze meantime, I plan on moving you to a Martinique jail, first thing tomorrow morning. Trust me when I say, it’s more for your own protection than anything else. After all, you’ve caused quite a stir on this quiet little island, and I’d hate for mob justice to prevail.”
With that, he waves his goodbye and walks out the exit.
The Inspector gone, I lie back on my bunk with my hands under my head for a pillow, and I stare up at the cracked ceiling above me. The cot is little more than a feeding trough filled to the brim with palmetto fronds for a mattress. It’s covered in a filthy yellow sheet that I believe used to be white. It feels lumpy under my weight, but I suppose it’ll have to do for the time being.
My thoughts are like a tsunami rushing through my mind, trying to put the fractured pieces of my memory together. What happened last night when I blacked out? There were only three other people in the house: Angelique, Morris, and the maid, Clarise.
I sit up.
Clarise.
She’s the one who served the coffee. She’s the one who had the opportunity to drug it.
I struggle to remember the events more clearly. I drank my entire cup, if I’m not mistaken. But did Morris? Did Angelique? And where did Morris go? He’s already a wanted man on the island for suspicion of espionage. I’ve seen the wanted poster myself. So I can understand him not wanting to hang around for the coppers to show up. But would he leave me to swing by a rope, knowing full well that I didn’t kill my friend?
But he and Clarise were getting along splendidly, when I arrived at the Lagrange bungalow last night. Granted, it’s an assumption on my part, but the disheveled appearance of the maid upon my arrival and Morris’ showing up a few minutes later in an equal state of disarray speaks volumes. The two were playing footsies when I got there last night. There’s no doubt in my mind. So the question is, were they working together?
I hear the door to the cell block creak open and hushed whispers down the hall. I crane my head to see who my latest visitor is, and my blood ices over in my veins.
The Candyman, his face a tight mask of grief and rage, lumbers down the hallway toward my cell. His ham hock-like fists are clenched tight by his sides. He’s wearing his customary white linen suit and his wide-brimmed straw hat. His thong sandals make a phsss-phhhp sound as he strolls in my direction. When he gets to my cage, he turns and glares at me.
“Look, before you say anything…” I get up from the cot and move closer, my arms outstretched. Pleading.
He puts a sausage-like finger to his full lips, and I go silent.
My heart is thumping in my chest to beat the band. His face is expressionless now. He’s in full control of his emotions, which is probably a good thing for me. At the moment. But I can sense the volcanic rage bubbling under the surface.
“I extended a hand of friendship to you, when you first arrived on da island ten years ago.” His voice is low. Quiet. Sad. “I welcomed you into my family. Into my home. My wife loves you like a son.”
Well…not exactly.
“I do business wit’ you. We dine together. Laugh together. You became more of a brother to me than my own kin.”
His eyes look down at me and narrow. His brow crinkles in a way that resembles a topographical map of the Himalayas. I want to protest, but I know better than to interrupt. I know he needs to get this out of his system.
“And on such a sacred night…da night in which we celebrate our dead ancestors…you ’ave da audacity to murder my wife in cold blood?” He pauses for a moment, then opens his mouth wide to unleash a primal roar in my direction. “I will kill you, Joe Thacker. Before you leave d’is cell again, I will ensure you a slow and painful death by my hands. By the loa, you will pay for what you ’ave done.”
I’ve been through quite a bit in my thirty-five years. When I was twelve, hiking through the hills of Kentucky, I stumbled on a bear den. Mother bear and her three cubs. Mama wasn’t very happy to see me, and it almost cost me my life. Years later, flying over Manila, my plane was shot down. I was captured and spent four months in a Japanese prison camp. Before escaping, I was starved, tortured, and my eye was put out. I’ve had bounties on my head, and husbands who’ve wanted to shoot me dead for finding me canoodling with their lady-loves. And in all that time, I’ve never been more terrified of anything in my entire life as I am of the look my old friend is giving me now.
He means every word, and he has the power and influence to pull it off.
“Jacques, please. Listen to me…”
But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns around and heads to the exit. The door squeals again from opening, and he storms out of sight without another word. I’m suddenly alone again and in big trouble.
8
I’m dead asleep the next time the cell block door opens. I’m startled awake by the noise. I look up at the tiny barred window of my cell, and I see that darkness has descended on the island like an obsidian blanket. Crickets are singing just outside, and a gentle breeze from the ocean flows smoothly into my cell, cooling off the heat from earlier in the day.
I turn my head to see who’s coming, but it’s so dark in the cell block, it’s hard to tell. I can just make out two slight frames. One of them appears to be slightly hunched over. The other one is petite, but strong and shapely.
I sit up, tensing. After what the Candyman told me earlier, I’m not prepared to trust anyone who approaches. You never know when a dagger will strike out at you in the dark, and I want to be ready when that happens.
&nbs
p; The two figures materialize in front of my bars, and I smile. It’s a doozy of a smile, too, and the weight on my shoulders seems as light as helium. Nessie and Trixie smile back at me. Their eyes betray their concern for me, but they’re genuinely happy to see me.
“How you doin’, child?” Nessie asks.
I want to gripe like there’s no tomorrow. Want to wail at the sky for the injustice of it all. Want to rage against whoever’s done the frame-up job on me. But one look into her warm brown eyes takes all my rage away. She looks so maternal in the soft light of the moon coming through my cell window. The last thing I want to do is show just how scared I really am.
“I’m as good as can be expected, I guess.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say that doesn’t make me sound utterly lost and hopeless. “Been better though.” I scrounge up strength enough for a wink. “Could use a shave and a long hot bath.”
She chuckles, then reaches into my cell, holding a brown paper bag. “I thought you might be hungry. Made you some curry chicken. D’ere’s a bottle of rum in d’ere, too, but don’t let d’ose greedy coppers know about it.”
I take the bag and sit it on my cot before turning my attention to Trixie.
“Hiya, Doll,” I say.
“Hi, yourself.” She’s having trouble looking me in the eye. “We would have come to visit sooner, but I had a show tonight. Had to wait until it was over.”
I nod. “Completely understand. Don’t want a riot in the streets when Trixie Faye fails to make an appearance.”
She laughs. It’s a quiet, sad laugh, and I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and comfort her.
“I need you two to know something,” I say, before the encounter can get any more awkward. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Angelique.”
They both look at me, and their eyes shine in the dim light. “We know,” Trixie says.
That throws me for a loop. “You know?”
Killypso Island Page 6
