Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1)

by J. J. Henderson

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MUSHROOM MADNESS AND MONKEY BUSINESS

  Her driver introduced himself as Jonah. He whipped his chrome-splashed taxi around the strutting roosters and sleeping dogs on the banana leaf back roads of Ocho Negros, delivering her to Jack's. En route, he grinned into the rear view mirror, flashing a gold front tooth and gold-mirrored shades under a dark blue Greek fisherman's cap, and only half-heartedly tried to sell her ganja. His fast driving and easy-going hustle appealed to her, and by the time he dropped her at Jack's, she had his phone number and he had agreed to do some private tour guiding in the next few days.

  Lucy had been going non-stop for ten hours, and now, coming down off a three beer liquid lunch, she figured on ten more. No problem. Tomorrow she could unwind in the wind. Meanwhile, strolling into the afternoon quiet of Jack's, where a parrot squawking repeatedly, "Give peace a chance, smoke ganja," she wondered what she was looking for.

  Aside from the noisy, pacifistic parrot, an enormous green and yellow critter perched atop its palm thatch roof, nobody occupied the token booth, and not a soul sat at the bar. A scrawny white guy in shorts washed glasses, and Bob Marley came on low over the stereo. The ocean, framed in the palms that fringed the cliff, lay still. At a white wrought iron table three men huddled in conversation. Among them, she spotted a familiar face: Jossie, the singer and flute player, still clothed in his tatterdemalion hippie finery. With him sat another guy she recognized—the white camera boy from the night before, displaying his spray of blonde dreads and the same white disco suit, but today barefoot and shirtless. The third man was a bearded black fellow in an immaculate green suit over a white shirt and tie, possessed of an elegant bearing. He too looked familiar, although for the moment she couldn't place him. Jossie looked up and saw her, smiled, and waved her over. She slipped her shades on as she hit the daylit patio. "Hey photo woman," he said pleasantly as she approached the table, "You want a beer, darlin'?"

  They were drinking mineral water. "No thanks, Jossie. I'm fine."

  "Water then. You want to sit down?"

  She looked at him. "I guess. I mean, why am I..." She stopped, and waited. They looked up at her, not unfriendly.

  "I tried to shoot you the other night," said blonde dreads, "but you turned away." He was not a boy but a boyish man, past thirty, deeply tanned, and his eyebrows and eyelashes had been bleached nearly white by salt water and the tropical sun.

  "I always ask permission before taking pictures of people," she answered. "Or I sneak shoot if I have to. But what I don't do is shove the camera in anyone's face."

  "Hey, I was ten feet away, " he said.

  "Yeah, with a zoom lens."

  "Hey, hey," said Jossie, "take it easy now. To each his own way of doing, eh?"

  "Right on, Joss," said blonde dread boy. "Hey, I'm dreadfully sorry, really. I didn't mean anything. Most people start preening the second a camera's pointed at them. They..."

  "Where are you from?" Lucy interrupted. "You sound like..."

  "Africa. Kenya, actually. But school in England, and six years here." He held out a hand. "My name's Kensington. Adrian Kensington. And you're Lucy..."

  "Ripken." She shook his hand. "Lucy Ripken."

  "My pleasure," said Adrian. "Won't you join us?" He gestured at an empty seat. "Oh, I'm sorry. Lucy, this is Rackstraw Barnes." The bearded man nodded and smiled at her as she sat down and removed her sunglasses, but he didn't say a word or offer a hand to shake.

  "Rackstraw Barnes? Adrian Kensington? Jesus, where am I, The House of Lords?"

  "Ocho Negros, Lucy," said Jossie. "Home of the last of the lost English."

  "I can dig it," she said. Then looked to Jossie, as if to say, again, this is very nice, but why am I here?

  "You have lovely eyes," said Kensington, gazing at her out of his own pale blues.

  "Thanks," she said, and smiled. And waited.

  "So you like Jamaica?" Kensington finally ventured, his tone friendly enough.

  "Yeah. I mean, I'm working, photographing the hotel for an architecture story, but in my spare time I windsurf, and the trades are good. Usually." She looked out to sea. "Not today, I guess." She shrugged. "I like the people, too. I don't know why New Yorkers are so uptight about coming here."

  "Ganja-crazed rastafarian bad boys ravishing their virginal women on the golf courses and tennis courts, what else?" said Adrian, his Eton-honed public school lingo rolling mellifluously off his tongue. "There was an incident a few years back... a couple of tourists got hacked up, and..."

  "Yeah, I remember reading about it," said Lucy. "Tough break for them, eh?"

  "Bad brothers up to dat shit," said Jossie. "Very bad."

  Adrian took on a sly look. "Jossie tells me you might be interested in some...herb?"

  "Did he tell you that? No, not me. What he said was there might be some ganja pirates around, and that I should maybe come here to see what was up." She leaned back in her seat. "So here I am. You lads don't look much like pirates to me."

  Adrian grinned, displaying bad English teeth. "Pirates? Jossie, what kind of tales are you telling?"

  "I don't know, mon, I was just talkin', you know?"

  "What do you want to know about pirates, Lucy?" Adrian asked her. "What kind of..."

  "Man, I don't know," she said, impatient with the obtuse conversation. "A guy died the other night at the hotel, and everybody's talking about this heart attack he's supposed to have had, and I...but why am I telling you this?"

  "Why not? What have you got to lose, right?"

  She felt lightheaded, from exhaustion, sun, and beer. She stood up. "Nothing, except that I don't even know who you are." She pushed her chair out, and moved back from the table. "Nice to meet you all," she said, "But I gotta get back to the hotel." She headed towards the bar.

  "That's cool, Lucy," said Adrian, sounding like he had something to tell her. She stopped, waited a beat, then looked back. "But check it out: you want to see some pirates, have a look round Tower Cay at midnight tonight."

  After staring at the man for a few seconds, she said, "Why are you telling me this?"

  Adrian shrugged. Then Jossie spoke up: "Because you asked, darlin'," he said, with a shark tooth grin.

  There were no taxis in the Jack's roundabout. She headed down the dirt drive on foot, and hit the main road in the white midafternoon heat. Had to be at least 90 degrees, the windless day merciless. Where were the trades? In a lightheaded stupor she started walking along the dusty roadside, and ten minutes later turned off on a path marked by a roughly painted wooden sign which said "Vegetarian Food." The words reminded her that she hadn't eaten. Perhaps some native vegetables would be good. Better that than the heavy fare they'd be dishing up back at the Grand Bland.

  Fifty feet off the road, through a maze of overgrown philodendron, hibiscus, and bougainvillea, she came upon a little building constructed of driftwood and cast-off lumber.. A crooked open doorframe formed the entrance, and next to it the menu had been scrawled up: "Specialty omelets, vegetarian pies, Red Stripe beer, fresh fruits. If you want to be jerk eat your jerk pork at the next stand please, we do not serve flesh here! Praise Jah."

  She was tempted to go for some jerk pork at the next stand please but couldn't face another fifty yards on that baked road without food and drink. She slipped through the doorway into cool darkness. Smoky air. Dirt floor worn hard by feet and time. To the left, rickety tables and chairs, a few thin bright dusty sunbeams slipping through cracks in the walls and roof. A couple sat at a table in the corner, grey silhouettes in the dim ambient light. To the right, a small counter, behind it a grimy black cookstove, a ragged basket of scrap wood, a tabletop with food and condiments strewn, some shelves with dishes, and in the middle of it all a small, middle-aged, bearded rastaman with waist length dreads tied back with a piece of twine. He wore a dirty frayed t-shirt with Haile Selassie and Bob Marley heads side by side on it—did they ever meet? she wondered—and old jeans held up by yellow plastic rope.
The room reeked of ganja, and on the counter the butt of a huge spliff rested in a plastic boomerang-shaped ashtray from the Fontainebleau Hotel, Miami, Florida. The man smiled gently at her. "Good afternoon, sister," he said. "What can I do for you?"

  "Um...maybe a vegetarian pie," Lucy replied, pulling up on a stool at the counter. "And some mineral water if you have it."

  "Sorry, no pies today. Only omelets and Coca Cola and beer."

  "Well, I'll have...an omelet, then. But skip the drink." He nodded. "Just a glass of water, please."

  "Um, excuse me, Miss...Ripken, isn't it?" She turned around. The voice, big, smooth, mellifluously radio-toned, had come from the male half of the couple in the back. Her eyes, adjusting to the faint light, made out a man and woman dressed in matching white shirts and tan pants, with straw hats placed on the table: the fabulous Strausses! Low rent radio reporters from Phillie; they’ been on the plane, at the dinner, at the opening. The wife once worked for Angus Wilson. That much she knew from Mickey.

  "Yeah...Lucy Ripken. Call me Lucy, please."

  "We're Jane and Jim Strauss," he said. "Gosh, I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to talk thus far."

  "We saw you windsurfing the other day," Jane said. "A fascinating sport, Lucy. Simply marvelous to watch."

  "Yes, well..."

  "We just ordered a special omelet," Jim said. "If you'd like to join us, why don't you ask our friend Jacob here..." he nodded at the rastaman behind the counter..."to throw in a couple more eggs, and have a seat here with us."

  Excuses to beat this one were few. Nonexistent. "Sure, why not? Thanks." She turned back to rastaman. "Can you..."

  "No problem, sister. Couple more eggs, couple more mushrooms, omelet for three come up."

  Lucy made her way over to the table, and sat. In their fifties. Ruddy. Smiling. Relentlessly upbeat, Mickey'd said. "Well, imagine finding you two here in this obscure little..."

  "We always seek the obscure little out of the way places," said Jane. Her voice had a frothy quality. "That's what makes these islands so...captivating."

  "We like to give our listeners something different," said Jim. "That's what this business is all about." He had about him the earnest aura of a scoutmaster.

  "Right," said Lucy, deciding she did want a beer. She’d felt herself falling into a role she hated, that of the novice crouched at the feet of the elders. It stemmed from some fundamental insecurity about her work. "Excuse me," she called over to the counterman, "Maybe I will have a Red Stripe after all."

  "No problem," he said.

  "Well," said Lucy, "Damned hot today, what?" That exquisite English accent of Adrian Kensington's lingered in her mind, polluting her sentence structure.

  "Yes, but isn't this place charming?" said Jane Strauss, glancing around the dark, grungy little room.

  "Oh, absolutely," said Lucy. "Entirely quaint."

  There was a pause. "I gather," said Jim Strauss, weighing in now that the ladies had finished with the small talk, "that you were the unfortunate soul who discovered poor Angus the other night in the hot tub."

  "Well, actually it was Allie Margolis, but yeah, I showed up right after her. God, what a night that was." She had a thought. "Who told you?"

  "Oh, I have my sources," he answered, and gave her a look meant to emphasize the importance of these sources. "Not exactly an auspicious opening for the Grand Strand, I would say."

  "No, not exactly. Are you going to mention it on your program?"

  "Angus' heart attack? Goodness no, if we did that we'd never be invited back," said Jane.

  "It has no bearing on the quality of the hotel," said Jim.

  "No, I guess not," said Lucy. "But..."

  "Strange thing, though," said Jim. "Gosh, I've known—I knew, I should say—Angus Wilson—may he rest in peace—for 20 years. He introduced Jane and I, God bless him. But I've seen him report on resorts all over the world, and I never once saw him get in a hot tub. Particularly one requiring nudism."

  "That so?" said Lucy.

  "You bet. He was an old world kind of guy. And you know what else?" he went on. "Angus had a powerhouse ticker. He walked five miles everyday, played tennis twice a week...I wouldn't have picked him to blow a valve like that."

  "Omelet comin' right up," Jacob the rastaman said, arriving with a Red Stripe.

  Lucy took the bottle, and hoisted it. "Well, here's to..."

  "Angus Wilson," said Jim Strauss solemnly. They sipped their drinks.

  "And, in a lighter vein, here's to a special Jamaican omelet," said Jane. Switching moods abruptly, she and her husband laughed, lifting their glasses of Coke at her. Lucy managed a smile. They drank, and watched a big green wasp buzz the table. Lucy waved at it, sending it towards Jane Strauss, who cringed as it hummed past and out through a crack in the wall.

  A moment later, the man brought over a round, perfectly cooked omelet divided into six wedges, and three plates.

  Jim Strauss was an enthusiastic eater, devoting his concentration to the food matter at hand, and emitting a range of sensuous snorts to signal his enjoyment. He ate three wedges, Lucy ate two, well-dosed in local chili sauce, and the petite, slow-eating Jane one. After lingering over a second round of Cokes—and a second beer to cool Lucy's hot sauce burn—they complimented Jacob on his fine cookery, paid the bill, and headed out into the hot, still afternoon. Lucy felt sated and sleepy but strangely alert, considering all the beer she'd sucked up.

  "God, these flowers are so beautiful," Jane said, as they picked their way through the tangled gardens back towards the road. "Just look—I mean look—at that orange," she added, pointing out a particularly brilliant burst of bougainvillea.

  "Yes, dear," said Jim. "Very nice. Ahem," he cleared his throat, then, "Ahem," did it again.

  Lucy, following behind, had a minor revelation: these Strausses in their matched safari outfits and hats were an amusing pair. She giggled, brushing aside a pothos leaf the size and shape of an elephant's ear, and observed that Jim Strauss had certain elephant-like mannerisms, although he was neither particularly large or elephantine. It was more a matter of...ponderousness.

  They stopped at the roadside to get their bearings. The air was still and hot. A truck blasted past, a wooden-gated pick-up full of standing workmen, who waved and whistled as they drove by, raising a dust cloud. Jim Strauss, attempting to clear his throat of dust, let out an unintended snorting roar, then said, "Pardon me, I'mmmmm, um, I don't know." They stood stock still, Lucy facing the two of them. The moment had a peculiar bright, luminous, yet frozen quality to it. It felt, Lucy recalled later, as if a dam was about to break, or the earth to quake. Then the Strauss faces abruptly took on a cartoonish quality. She quickly looked away; her stomach lurched, and she knew. God, could it be?!

  Here came Jonah, with perfect timing, cruising in her very own taxi, headed east. She stepped across the road, waving him down.

  "Hallo, Miss Lucy," he said. "I went to looking for you at Jack's, and they said you had left, so I came this away. I thought you might need a ride back, no problem, so here I am, see?"

  She leaned in the front window. Jonah, in his blue cap, gold mirror shades, and gold-toothed grin, looked exactly like Jimmy Cliff in THE HARDER THEY COME. She could hear the song in her head. And then there was the cab itself: on the first ride, she hadn't really appreciated the graphic brilliance of the checkerboard dashboard, or the black dice with green dots hanging from the mirror, or the fake zebra skin seat cover. The colors simply...throbbed! You could travel to the stars with style in this thing! "Yeah mon," she said, testing her voice, which seemed to be coming from somewhere so far down in her body she didn't know where it was. It worked! "I could definitely use a ride...and my friends too, if that's OK."

  "No problem. You ride in front, yes, and..."

  "Hop in the back, folks," she said. "This is my friend Jonah, and he's going to take us back to the hotel."

  "The hotel," Jim Strauss said, as if he had never heard the word before. "Ho...te
l." He laughed, and opened the back door of the cab. "The light is really incredible here, isn't it, dear?" He grinned at his wife. She took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes with her clenched hands. "It's like...pulsating."

  "Jim, I think I need to lie down," Jane croaked. "I really think I should..."

  "Hop in de cab please," said Jonah, "And I will take you."

  They all climbed in. Lucy felt like she had just boarded a new ride at Disneyland, and she wasn't sure what to expect. As they drove through town, things sparkled, broke up in the heat, rearranged themselves. They drove past a gas station; glowing in the afternoon sun, it struck her as an architectural and technological wonder. What a marvel is a building! She thought. What marvels men make, everywhere, everyday. What marvelously simplistic insights you have, everyday, she added to herself, a less impressionable interior voice bringing her back to earth.

  "So tell me, my friends," said Jonah, "Are you enjoying your stay here in Ocho Negros?" He glanced into the rearview. There was no answer. Lucy turned around.

  The Strausses were glued together on the left side of the back seat, Jim hard against the door and Jane stuck to him. Their mouths hung open, and they ate dust from the open window as they stared out, dumbfounded expressions evident even behind the shades, under the hats. They looked like mummies. No, they looked like her parents. No, like greenhorn tourists. Tourists on drugs! "Are you guys OK?" Lucy asked.

  Jim's mouth abruptly shut, and he took off his sunglasses very slowly with one hand, and gave Lucy a strange grin. He leaned forward conspiratorially, his eyes wide open and unblinking, and whispered, "I can see the molecules."

  "What?" Lucy asked.

  "Atoms," he replied, reaching out with a slow-moving hand, and waving at her face. She leaned back, he missed. "I can see the atoms...in your face, in the car...in the sky!" he said. "Every single darn molecule! Jane, can you see them?"

  "Only when I open my eyes," she said in a tiny little voice. "But my stomach goes somersaulting when I do, so I can't...Ohhh, what did we...what kind of omelet did that man make for us?" She asked, as Jim fell back next to her.