The sun had risen high enough now to shoot the entrance and the lobby. Before heading up there, Lucy took a deep breath and looked out to sea—to Naked Island and its stone tower. William Evans had told her the tower was a pint-sized version of the Tower of London; Lucy had viewed the Tower of London six years ago on a trip, yet she hadn't made the visual connection until he told her. The tower on Tower Cay, in early morning sunlight, showed two black arched holes, glassless windows like enormous empty cartoon eyes. To complete the face, the arched doorway formed a distorted Munchian cartoon mouth, open, shrieking, yet still and silent.
She would have to shoot from there sometime today: the definitive territorial site shot could be taken from the island and nowhere else.
Lucy hauled her gear over to the hotel's main entrance, and did two shots of the entry passage and the pool. Next came the lobby. She was humming along. It was after eight now, and hotel guests were straggling through, en route to town, breakfast, the poolside bar, the beach. Now, she wished for an assistant, to play traffic cop and keep people out of the lobby.
With permission from the demure young black woman behind it, Lucy set up in front of the reception desk—she could shoot the desk itself afterwards, up close, with the 35mm to get the richness of the wood detailing—and pointed the Mamiya across the octagonal lobby. The double wide arched doorway into the lobby lounge, flanked by a pair of elegant Biedermeier knock-off sofas, formed the center of the image. This would be the definitive interior shot, and run as a full page vertical, if there was to be one. Lucy got behind the camera, and made ready. Grabbing shots between passing guests and hotel workers, she soon had the lobby work done.
She shot a dozen details, dodging the bodies passing through, closed with a couple of images of the receptionist smiling at her desk, and had just packed up and readied herself to move to the adjoining lounge to photograph the waterwheel more directly when into the lobby marched Jefferson Hababi, wearing an ill-fitting seersucker suit and hefting a suitcase in each hand, followed by Allie Margolis, dressed to travel in her big hat and a white cotton dress, and Maria Verde in a pair of bright yellow harem pants and a purple bikini top. Maria had draped around her neck a huge turquoise and silver necklace, matched oversize earrings dangling, and a dozen jangly bracelets rattling on each arm. She looked like a hippie hooker. Jefferson did a double take upon seeing Lucy, then quickly recovered with a big, fake grin. "Lucy, how's it going?"he said, trying for cool but sounding like Daffy Duck gone Caribbean.
"Fine, but..." she looked past him, to Allie and Maria. "Allie, are you..."
"She's heading out today," Maria said, a half-grin, half-frown creating unintended havoc on her face. "The other night, finding Angus..."
"Allie, I'm sorry," said Lucy, quickly approaching, and standing right in front of her. Allie had her shades on again, and her head down. "I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to talk about the other..."
Jefferson butted in: "Pardon me, Miss Ripley, but the last thing she needs right now is to talk about..."
"How would you know that, Jefferson? I was there. I saw..."
He backed right off. "I don't...I don't know, Lucy. I'm only telling you what the doc...what Dr. Ernst told her last night." His voice had a whiney edge to it.
"Dr. Ernst? I don't give a damn about Dr. Ernst. Allie, what's with you? Are you really leaving? It's not like you did anything wrong, honey, but ever since we separated the other night I..."
"Lighten up, Lucy," said Maria Verde. "Can't you see that she's not in any shape to..."
"Bug off, Maria," Lucy snapped. "I'm not harassing her, I'm trying to..."
"I'm sorry, Lucy, I...just want to go home," said Allie, her voice dull. "I just want to get away from here."
"You see?" said Maria. "There's no need to bark at me, Lucy Ripken. Allie has had an upsetting experience. This is where it happened, and as nice as this hotel is, she wants to get home. I personally don't blame her."
"Me either," said Jefferson. "I think Miss Margolis has seen enough of Jamaica this time around. Right, Al...Miss Margolis?"
"OK, Jefferson," Allie said.
"So where's your tambourine?" Lucy said to Maria.
"What are you talking about?" Maria said with a gap-toothed grin, but her eyes betrayed distrust. "What do you mean?"
"Those clothes you're wearing, you oughta be banging a tambourine. You know, playing a revival of Hair. That's all I meant," said Lucy, and turned her attention back to Allie. "Well, what the fuck. So you are out of here, Allie. So you are gonna walk away from what you...what we saw out there. So you figure that's the way to handle it." She picked up her tripod. "Well, Allie," she said, looking not at Allie but at Jefferson Hababi and Maria Verde as she said it, "I figure otherwise. So have a good trip."
She waited for a response, watching Allie's sunglasses. The pause stretched for a few long, uncomfortable seconds. Finally Jefferson Hababi broke it. "Nothing happened out there, Lu...Miss Ripley. Except that Mr. Angus Wilson died of a heart attack. I don't understand why you keep making such a big deal out of it." He sounded not at all like the forceful young man he imagined himself to be, but like a petulant eight year old. "And now our driver's waiting. We should..."
"I...I'm sorry, Lucy," Allie said. "It's just that...I don't know what happened out there any more," she wailed, and burst into tears.
"Now look what you've done to her!" Maria snapped, and took Allie by the arm. "Let's go, Honey." She attempted to half-drag Allie past Lucy.
Lucy stayed in the way. "Allie, take care of yourself," she said, trying to get a look through the sunglasses. "I'll be here till the end of the week, if you want to talk." She thought she sensed a flicker, a little quiver of a cry for help darting out from somewhere behind the sunglasses as she stepped aside.
Lucy watched the three of them cross the lobby and head up the flagstone path to the porte cochere, where a cab was waiting. They stuck the suitcases in the trunk, climbed in, and took off.
Lucy could have kicked herself for not taking the time to track the girl down earlier. Now it was too late. Too late, too bad. Back to work.
She got a nice shot of the waterwheel in sunlight; the moving water would make for a poetic blur in the sharp, crystalline image. She shot a bunch of details of rattan furniture groupings and some pieces of wall art. Then she did the other restaurants, finishing off the indoors shoot by noon. She wandered around the grounds for an hour shooting randomly, and eventually this led her to the foot of a huge tree growing out of a stretch of lawn behind the west wing of guest rooms, at the opposite end of the hotel from her own room. She was setting up to shoot it when a young rastaman with shoulder length dreads and the usual scruffy never-cut beard appeared, sat down on an exposed root beneath the tree, and began playing a little wooden flute. He wore a tattered multi-colored shirt, bright red pants, no hat, no shoes. Mr. Tambourine Man. Hippies didn't die, they just moved to Jamaica and turned a mellow shade of brown. "Yo," said Lucy in his direction. "How ya doin?" He looked over, spotted her behind the tripod, continued to play his flute, a pretty little melody with a vaguely African undercurrent. Lucy stepped out and walked the fifty feet over to where he sat beneath the tree. The root system was exposed aboveground, an intricate web of interlaced branches which roughly mirrored the network of branches above. "What do they call this tree?" Lucy asked. "It's intense."
He stopped playing his flute, and grinned at her. His eyes, like so many of the rastas she'd met, were red from ganja, yellow from jaundice, but also merry and mellow—this too from ganja. "They call this the Hangin' Lady Tree, Sister," he said. "Been here over one hundred years. They want to cut it down but Dexter Hanley make dem build the hotel around it, see? Seems that in the way back when, two lady pirates, they were hung here, from these branches."
"Lady pirates! No shit."
"No problem. String dem up in dere dresses and bonnets, you see?" He grinned.
"But why? I mean, who were they?"
"Mrs. Bluebeard, one o
f dem. And her friend." He stuck his flute in his pocket, pulled a little drum out of a woven shoulderbag, and banged out a little rhythm. Then he began to sing, chanting non-word syllables in a high falsetto, smiling at her gleefully as he did so. Lucy ran for her camera bag, got out her 35 mm, rushed back, and started firing away. His smile broadened, and he showed a set of perfect white teeth.
After a moment, he paused in his chant, and dropped his drumbeat to a low volume. "You want to meet the pirates of today, go to Jack's Joint," he said, singsong, "Jack's in de afternoon is where it is, when you want to see Ocho Negros."
"Yes, I was there last night," said Lucy. "Quite a scene."
"Last night is good, yes, but de night is a party for tourists you see. Today, the ganja pirates gather for business, you understand me, no problem?"
"Ganja pirates?"
"Oh yes, Mon, today de pirates are here," he said, giving her the mystic eye. "Right here too, at de Grand Strand, where I and I sing my song."
"The hotelmen pay you to come here and play?"
"Not much, but no problem, I like to play," he grinned, thumped his drum. "And maybe I and I a sometime ganja pirate too, you see?" He gave her a certain look.
"No thanks, my friend, I don't smoke."
"No herb? There is no mystery to life without herb, sister. Herb lights the path to Jah."
"I beg to differ, my friend..."
"Jossie."
"What?"
"My name is Jossie, no problem. Come to Jack's, I meet you some pirates, then you decide about herb, OK?"
"OK, Jossie. And my name is..."
"Lucy, all right?"
"But how did you know?"
He grinned, banged on his drum. "My friend Desmond say there's a sailor lady taking pictures, come out at noon and maybe she'll take one of you, so here I am no problem."
She took one of him, no problem. Took several, listened to his plaintive Rasta tune, and went on her way, camera in hand, tripod and bag over shoulder, back to the beach. To China Grill, out over the water, where the waiters were cleaning up lunch and setting up dinner early just for her. After the China Grill, she would have just one location remaining, aside from the room shots which she could do any time in her own room after it had been cleaned up: Naked Island.
Having cased it previously, Lucy made short photographic work of the China Grill. She left her gear in the care of a waiter, ran down the beach, and found Desmond, in his tiny swimsuit, his black, exquisitely articulated body gleaming in the sunlight as he washed down kayaks by the sports hut. "Hey Des," she said, "I met your friend today."
"Who's that? Oh," he grinned. "Jossie."
"Yeah mon. Plays a mean flute. Tells a tall tale."
"He's a pretty boy, though, don't you think? I thought you might want to take his picture, eh?"
She looked him over, and smiled. "You are all pretty boys around here, Desmond. But yeah, I took his picture. And now I need to take some out on the island. Can you run me out there in the motorboat?"
He shook his head. "No pictures allowed on Naked Island, Lucy. I am..."
"Not of the island, Des. From the island."
"But cameras are not allowed. I can not..."
"I already got permission from the big boss man, Des. Jackson Hababi himself. Check it out. It's the only way, except from up in the sky, that I can take a picture of the whole place, you see?"
He stopped the hose work. "Well, OK if Hababi say so, but anyone out there be complainin', I got to bring you back."
"Good enough."
Lucy ran for her equipment, and met Desmond on the dock. They loaded the bag and tripod into the motorboat, and headed out. "Not much wind today, eh?" Lucy said.
"Nothing, mon. Good for waterskiing, though. You want to try it later, say around four?"
"Waterskiing? I haven't done it in at least fifteen years. Sure, why not?"
They docked at the island, Lucy climbed out of the boat, and Desmond handed her gear up. "Thanks, Des," she said.
"No problem. I'll be back in half an..."
"No cameras allowed out here, Babe," a man's voice called out, and she quickly whipped around. Oh no! There stood a pair of hotel guests, non-journalists, dripping from the hot tub, naked! "Didn't they tell you that?" He grinned. "Also, no clothes allowed."
She tried not to stare below their necks. Even without looking down she could see that the woman, pushing fifty, dressed in sunglasses and sandals and nothing else, was built like a brick shithouse, and didn't even have a tan line. Had she had her tits done? "I know, but I'm working."
"Come on, lady," said the naked, thick, and hairy man. "You can't expect us to...Let's go, off with the clothes, honey."
The woman laughed. "Come on over and join us in the hot tub, in this heat you can lose weight just sittin' there. Have a beer and not even worry, it's great."
"No thanks, I gotta take some pics of the..."
"Yo, driver," said the man to Desmond, "Didn't you tell her about the rules out here? No clothes and no cameras."
"Yes, sir, I did, sir," said Desmond. He too had a smile on his face. "But Lucy explains to me that she is working, and that..."
"Hey, I'm working too," said another naked middle-aged man, lumbering into sight, also naked and dripping. "Working on cooking my ass." He turned around. "Hey photo lady, how's it look?"
Lucy glanced. This guy had the disappearing shrivelled rear end of an old man. "Roasted. You'd better put on some sun screen or you are gonna be..."
"She's right, Jack," said the dame with the perfect tits. "Whyn'tchou get Angie to take care a you. I'd do it myself but I don't think Angie'd like it much.”
"Hey sweetheart," Jack said, and winked. "Maybe you'd like to give me a hand with the sun screen, eh?" He did a little shimmy, and his flabby, fleshless, red rear end shook. He was wearing a gold chain, sandals, and nothing else, and held a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.
"Um, no thanks," Lucy said. "But if you don't mind, I do have a picture I want to..."
"Honey," said Jack patiently. "You don't really think its fair for you to be out here, dressed, with a camera, taking pictures, while we're bare-ass naked. They told us there were no exceptions to the rules out here, and yer breakin' the two main rules."
"He's right Lucy," said the naked woman. "No cameras, and no clothes, on Tower Cay."
"So what do you want me to do?" Lucy said. "Not take my pictures? Fine. I'll just come back when there's no one here and..."
"No, no, Lucy, that's not it. Come on," he insisted. "Have a beer." What the hell, why not? She laid her equipment down, and started after him towards the tower.
"Just give me a minute, Des," she said.
"OK, Lucy," he laughed. "Whatever you say." He turned the motor off and tied the boat to a piling. Actually, now that she was here, where Angus had met his end, Lucy was glad to have the company. There were lingering vibes she didn't like—surely these naked characters would chase them away. The guy came out a moment later and handed her a cup of beer. She had a taste. It was ice cold Red Stripe draft, and in the hot sun it went right to her head. She hadn't eaten anything but coffee and a slice of papaya all day, she'd been up since four a.m., and it was after one. "Good beer," she said.
"Yeah." He sipped at his. "So anyways, it seems to me we can make a deal here. Tell ya what. I know you got a job to do, but hey, how do you think I feel, standin' here naked in my goddamn sandals, and you wearin' shorts and a shirt? Like an idiot is how I feel. So how about this: You take off your clothes, and then you can take your pictures. Look—" he gestured at the hot tub—"we're all naked." There were four people in the tub and two out of it. Towels and clothes were strewn about. They were all naked except for jewelry and sunglasses, completely at ease in spite of varying degrees of fat, flabbiness, cellulite thighs, sunburn.
"I don't know if...I can't work naked!" she said. Christ, she was thinking, I really don't want to strip in front of these guys, with their dangling scrota and hairpieces a
nd trashily sexy wives. But why? I've seen a chorus line of transvestite hooker junkie queens displaying ten inch silver-spangled dicks like they were the crown jewels on parade on an East Village stage, and a bunch of naked middle-aged tourists intimidate me?
Well, yes, as a matter of fact. People like this aren't supposed to go naked in public!
"Sure you can, honey," said she of the perfect breasts, subtly thrusting them forward. "Just relax. Take a soak first, then take your pictures. Try it, you'll like it."
Lucy downed the rest of her beer, took heart from the icy alcoholic buzz, and five minutes later lowered herself naked into a hot tub with eight people she’d never seen before. She drank two more cups of beer, and the beer joined with the hot salty water to send her reeling out of the tub, naked like the rest of them, to fetch her 35 mm and start firing away. Stepping carefully if slightly astumble from the beer, she worked her way around the platforms, the trails, and the dock, and got her pics: some nice panoramics of the entire hotel stretched along the shores of Blackwater Bay, some close-in shots of the tower and the platforms and the palm trees, and as a bonus a bunch of utterly weird naked group pics of the eight half-drunk tourists lolling on the edges of the hot tub. She was just about ready to pack it up and signal Desmond—there was a flag you ran up a pole when you wanted to get back to the beach, and he had split about the time she dropped her drawers—when, looking through the camera, something struck her about the way the rocks were lined up along the edge of the sunbathing platform. She went over and had a look. This one rock didn't look like it belonged there, and the dirt was stirred up around it, like it had been dug or something. She pulled at the rock a little.
Then she went for her shorts and shirt. "Been nice," she called out, "getting naked with you all." She bundled up her clothes, ran the flag up the pole, then gathered up her photo equipment and walked over to the dock.
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
