Maria giggled, 39 going on 17. "These water jets are just so...insistent," she said, looking at Harold. "Don't they simply make you want to...squirm."
He stared at her deadpan. "No." He looked at Lucy. "Hey, you know what, I think I'm ready to head back now. I'm getting boiled, know what I mean?"
"Oh, don't let us drive you away." said Maria.
"Yeah, let's go," Lucy said. Keeping her back to Ruskin, she climbed out and slipped into her suit.
"Could you raise the flag, Harold?" Lucy asked, heading to the tower. "I want to climb up in here and have a look around."
"Sure, Lucy," Harold said, gathering their things. Joey Ruskin and Maria Verde watched.
"Careful up there," said Joey, as Lucy entered the tower. "Those stairs can be tricky."
Lucy stepped inside, passed the little beer bar, and headed up the stone stair that wound round and up. She counted twelve steps, and arrived on the second level, where light entered from two windows carved into the seaward side of the tower. Aside from a great view out to sea straight north to Cuba, there was nothing there except a stone floor, a couple of sunning mats from down below, and an empty beer cup. The stair started up again on the other side of the room. Twelve more steps. The third level was the same only narrower, and the two arched windows faced landwards, forming the "eyes" in the face seen from shore. Lucy stepped across the cool stone floor and leaned out one of the windows. Across the bay, the white hotel complex gleamed in the late afternoon light, and she could see a volleyball game in progress on the beach. Bits of music drifted past, and laughter. She leaned further out through the stone arch of the window, and looked down. On her right, Harold stood on the dock watching for the motorboat. She looked to the left, and gasped: Joey Ruskin lolled on the edge of the tub, with Maria Verde in the water crouched between his legs, head in his crotch. He was looking right up at Lucy. He grinned. She pulled back into the tower, shaken. Mickey was right about this one. What a major creep!
Then she saw it. Wedged into a little crack between stones where the floor met the wall, the white tip of...she bent down to have a better look, and pulled it out. A cigarette butt, from a fancy filterless English cigarette. Shit! She dropped it on the floor and charged down the stairs, hitting the dock as Desmond arrived in the motorboat. "Whatsamatter?" Harold asked as she dashed up breathlessly. "You look all shook up."
"Um...nothing. I'll tell you later. Let's beat it to the beach, eh? I've had enough of this place."
They jumped in the boat and Desmond raced them away. "Hey Des," Lucy said, as soon as she'd gotten her breath under control. “When you brought Joey and Maria out to the island just now, did you tell them we were there already?"
"Joey? I bring no Joey, Lucy. I just brought Maria."
She landed on the beach with the image of Joey Ruskin, smoking a cigarette and gazing down from the tower on her sprawled out naked with Harold's head between her legs.
Back in her room, back at the desk, back on the job, camera on in front of her, she studied Angus, dead in the tub. The flash lighting wasn't great, but it was obvious from the tilt of his head: he had a broken neck. The marks she'd seen were the surface manifestation of a disaster that had happened beneath his skin.
The phone rang. "Hi, you ready?" Harold.
"Ready? For what?"
"You already forgot?! Cruise time, Luce, remember? Sunset, the yacht, another gathering of the fun squad?"
"Christ, do I...do we have to do this one?"
"Hey, it's a nice boat, they'll give us champagne and caviar, we watch the sun go down and come back."
"I know, but I've been up since four, I'm a zombie, Harold."
"Call me Harry. Let's just go. We'll come back and skip dinner, and I'll give you a massage you'll never forget."
She liked the sound of that. "All right, give me ten minutes...Harry."
"They're shuttling people out in the ski boat. Meet you at the dock in fifteen."
"Sounds good." Actually, an hour on a yacht with the scribe squad sounded like torture in her presently wasted state of mind, but Harold—Harry—would be there. What a nice basic name. She called room service and asked for a pot of coffee, rush it please, then jumped in the shower. This was the longest day she had been through in years, and there was still much to do.
Twenty minutes later, feeling semi-refreshed and semi-wired from a double dose of afternoon Blue Mountain, she headed out to the dock, struggling to conjure up, out of her psychedelic fade, another blast of social energy to carry her to sea. She wore the finest in New York yachting garb: pink pedal pushers and a black sleeveless turtleneck, huge silver hoop earrings and black highheeled shoes with white ankle socks.
Lucy motored out with Harold, Mickey, and Henrietta, the fashionably late foursome last to board before the yacht headed out for the sunset cruise. In the launch on the way out, Mickey gave her the lowdown on the Strausses, who'd left for New York just an hour ago because "Poor Jane apparently went for a nude swim in the pool, which was sort of OK, then strolled naked up to the bar and ordered a martini, which was marginally OK; then after drinking the martini she dashed through the lobby, still nude, and began to climb an ackee tree in the driveway in order to snack on some fruit. That was not OK. Now," said Mickey with a grin, "I heard you had lunch with them today in town. What happened? I mean, Jane Strauss has never been my candidate for Lunatic of the Month."
Lucy shrugged. "A mushroom omelet. What can I say?" She grinned. "Did she actually eat an ackee?"
"No. Herr Husband, baying like the Hound from Hell, chased after her and pulled her out of the tree before she could get her hands on any."
"Well, Thank God for that," said Harold. "What a loss to the world of radio journalism that would have been."
"Hey, isn't one dead hack enough for the week, Harold?" said Henrietta.
"I guess. Damn, that Ruskin sure gets around," he added, aside to Lucy, as they pulled up next to the yacht. Joey Ruskin, in yet another snazzy lightweight suit, appeared at the ladder and offered a hand to help the ladies up. Lucy effortlessly avoided his offer as she stepped onto the ladder. Harold's hand on her rear end, pushing up, made it easy.
The yacht, called Esmeralda, had previously belonged to a Lebanese merchant who made his fortune dealing arms in the international marketplace. Almost 100 feet long, possessed of four cabins, two sitting rooms, a screening room, and several decks, Esmeralda embodied a whorish sort of elegance, a mix of Art Deco and Oriental black lacquer inside, the usual gleaming brass and teak out on deck. Money had been spent, not necessarily well, to insure that it was clear that money had been spent.
Lucy found a seat on the upper deck, grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray, and settled back to watch the party happen. Everybody off the plane was there, except, of course, for the Strausses. And Jackson Hababi, who had pressing business in Kingston and couldn't make it. In his place, Jefferson Hababi acted as host, and Jefferson's mom, Mrs. Hababi, was rumored to be on board as hostess although for the moment she was ensconced in her private quarters and not quite ready to make a public appearance.
"God, isn't this boat super?" said Susie Adams, dashing over to park herself at Lucy's side. They sat on the upper deck, on a cushioned banquette that ran along both sides.
"Yeah, it's nice," said Lucy. She looked Susie over. As usual, the girl had missed the fashion boat. She wore a sort of sailor outfit, and looked like she belonged in a Busby Berkeley chorus line. "Too bad about Mrs. Strauss, eh?"
"Oh, you heard?" said Susie. "Yes, she apparently became indisposed from some town food, and they went home early."
Lucy looked at her. "Right. Indisposed." Lucy downed her champagne, liked the buzz, and waved at a waiter to bring another glass over. "So, other than that, and the dead guy the other night, everything going all right?"
"Wonderfully," Susie said, sliding past the irony. "Did you meet the guys from the Travel Channel? They're downstairs filming the Hababi's private quarters at the moment. They're go
nna do a whole segment on the Grand Strand next week. Talk about publicity to die for."
Joey Ruskin approached, arm in arm with Louise Rousseau. "Hi, Lucy," said Louise. "How's it goin'? Hi Susie. Lucy, I love your outfit. It's so...defiantly non-seaworthy."
"Thanks," said Lucy. "I guess that was the intent. You're looking good too, Kiddo," she added, although in truth Louise would probably do better not wearing skintight silver jumpsuits like the one she had on at the moment. Too much hip spread.
"So tell me, Louise," Susie said, all smiles, sucking on a long cigarette. "Have you found your locations?"
"Oh, yes, there's some marvelous scenes here. The boys from the mag will do just fine. And I think I'm going to get Joey to model too." She looked at him adoringly. He grinned.
"Isn't that nice," said Lucy.
Susie stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to go down and see how the video's coming along." She dashed off. Joey and Louise slithered down on the banquette a few feet from her.
They were outside the bay now, and headed west. Maria Verde popped into view at the top of the stair. "Hi everybody," she said, and bounded onto the deck in yellow shorts and a flowered halter top, followed by Mike Nack, in white polyester pants, a brass-buttoned blue blazer, and a white shirt with ascot and captain's hat.
"They're serving caviar down below," Mike Nack announced. "It's Iranian. Really expensive. You might want to have a taste." He and Maria sat down across from Lucy. Then Maria sighed, relaxed, and lolled against Nack, glancing over at Joey. "God is this beautiful," she said.
"Yes, it is," Lucy said, jumping up and moving to the rail for a look back at the hotel. Mostly what she wanted was a view that didn't contain Joey Ruskin. But Louise followed her to the railing, and he trailed after Louise.
"Look at the mist up on the mountains," said Louise, pointing at the green hills that sloped up behind the string of beachfront hotels that hugged the shore. "I bet it's a whole different world up there. And look, there's the tower out on the island, sticking up over the point. Can you see it there? It looks like the turret on a castle, doesn't it? We'll have to shoot something out there!"
"Yes," said Joey. "You should see the views from up there in the tower, Louise. They're wonderful." He looked at Lucy. "Don’t you think so, Lucy?"
He had her frozen with his handsome snake stare. "Fuck you, Ruskin," she said softly. She handed her glass to Louise, who took it, a dumbfounded look on her face. Lucy strode across the deck, pushing Mike Nack aside, and descended the ladder. Below, she found Mickey and Harold eating caviar like they were running a race, with a video crew taping every move. She grabbed another glass of champagne, and joined them.
Two hours later, as they walked back to her room, she and Harold reviewed the general weirdness of the yacht cruise. They agreed that the highlight had been the wobbly appearance on deck of Mrs. Hababi, a raven-haired white-skinned Valium zombie with the heavily made-up look of a badly aging minor film star of the1960s. Just as they came about a hundred yards offshore from Jack's Joint, she had emerged from her quarters to bestow Memorial Grand Strand brass paperweight models of the Esmeralda on each member of the press. The members of the press thanked her and applauded, and she disappeared back into her quarters.
Lucy told Harold what she'd seen from the island tower, and what had happened since. He bristled like an angry dog, ready to go after Joey Ruskin on the spot—"I'll dismantle the motherfucker," he growled—but she convinced him to hold off.
"After all," she reminded him about the time they arrived back at her door, "At the moment there is the matter of the massage you promised me."
It took them about two minutes to get back to where they'd left off that afternoon, aching on the edge of a great first fuck. But then, with Lucy open and yearning for him, moaning for him, Harry stopped, and turned her over. He poured oil on her back, rubbed it down her ass and her legs, and slowly, with deep, delicate force, he massaged her from the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head, and then worked his way down her back. About the time she had achieved total sensory melt-down, he seized her by the hips, turned her over, stretched himself out on top of her, and slid smoothly inside her.
The massage had lasted fifteen minutes, and the lovemaking lasted fifteen mostly furious minutes more, until they came, almost together but Lucy beat him by a minute or so, and then they collapsed, glued together with sweat and sweet massage oil.
They flopped over sideways and slept that way, until Lucy awakened with a start and checked her clock. Almost 11:30. Shit! "Harold, wake up," she said softly. "Let's go for a swim."
"Swim? What?" he muttered. "Sleep time, Lucy. Forget it."
Lucy laid there a minute, swirling in the stream of her exhaustion, the endless day, the investigation she was trying to jumpstart. The drug had left her with a stomachache and a kind of hallucinatory afterburn, causing what she saw to linger in her eyes for a split second after she moved her eyes away from it; the beer and champagne contributed a headache; the waterskiing added an arm, shoulder, and lower back ache. Did she have the energy to pursue this? She had no choice. She sighed, leaned over, and kissed Harold on the lips. Then she turned the bedside light on. He blinked his eyes open, out of focus. Who was this guy, anyway? "Hey, Harry," she whispered, "You ready to hit the surf? It's almost midnight."
"Damn, that's right!" He said, instantly awake. "Time to play SEAHUNT." He jumped out of bed. "The only problem is, I don't have my trunks."
"Well, what the hell," she grinned, looking him over. "We're going to Naked Island, right?"
Lucy put on a one piece, and Harry slipped into his boxer shorts. She grabbed the masks, snorkels, underwater flashlight, and fins she'd borrowed from the watersports hut earlier, and turned off the light. She led the way to the beach.
Clouds covered the moon. The tide was fairly low, Lucy noted as they walked to the water's edge. They'd have to watch out for coral. "OK," she said softly, "This is the plan: we swim straight out till we're parallel with the island, then work our way over towards it. When we get to the coral I'll use the light to find a passage through."
"What are we looking for, Luce?"
"I don't know. Pirates. A boat. Something."
"Don't sharks feed at night?"
"Yeah, but not on us. Not in these waters," she lied. Actually, she had no idea what kind of sharks patrolled the north coast, or what such sharks might like to eat. As long as she and Harry didn't scrape themselves on the coral and bleed, she figured they'd be all right.
"I'll take your word for it," he said. "Let's do it." She flashed the light on him for a second, and had to laugh. In red boxer shorts, fins, a snorkel and a mask, Harry looked less than dashing. "All right, so I'm not Lloyd Bridges," he said, backing into the water.
"But you can swim that far, right?" she asked.
"Can of corn," he replied, then slipped his snorkel into his mouth and dove in. She followed, swam a few strokes underwater, then surfaced and blew her snorkel clear. The flashlight dangled from a loop around her left wrist.
They sidestroked steadily, quietly moving out to sea, and moments later stopped close together in the still, silver-surfaced water. "God, it's so warm," she whispered.
"Yeah. So what now, Luce?" he whispered back. "You ready to head over towards the island?" They could see the glow from the low lights around the tub and tower.
"Yes. Lemme lead the way so I can check for coral."
They swam silently for two minutes, then stopped. She put her snorkel in her mouth, adjusted her mask, and went under. Turning on the light, she caught a flash of a pair of long dark shadows dodging out of the beam, spotted a solid wall of twisted and shadowy coral, then turned off the light. Better not to look at that weirdness. "We have to move around to the seaward side," she whispered. "There's no way through here. Follow me." They moved out a few dozen yards further, then continued west. Directly offshore from the looming tower, they stopped, and treaded water for a minute.
"Now what?" Ha
rold hissed. "I'm gettin' tired, Luce."
"Just a sec," she said, and flashed the light on underwater for an instant. There! A break in the coral. "This way," she whispered. "Stay right behind me, and don't make any moves to either side." She flashed the light on for another second to doublecheck the passage, then dove and slipped through. Harold followed close behind.
They surfaced inside the coral barrier, and got their bearings. The water was shallow enough to stand on the rocky bottom, and the fins protected their feet from urchins. "Listen," Lucy whispered urgently, and they held still. The low faint hum of a small outboard electric motor drifted over the water, growing louder as they waited.
The motor abruptly stopped. A flashlight came on, stabbing out of the darkness, and a voice hissed, "It's over here, mon." The light was quickly turned off. Then oars splashed softly in the water, as the boat moved towards the passage through the coral. Lucy tugged Harold by the waistband of his boxer shorts, and they moved slowly backwards, away from the channel, and waited. After a moment, they could make out the shape of a rubber dinghy, with one person in front navigating, a second in the back rowing the boat towards the island, now just a few yards away.
A flashlight blinked twice on the island. "There he is," said the navigator. "Pull to the right a little." Lucy knew the voice, but couldn't quite place it.
"Yeah mon," said the rower. "No problem." The voice was unusually high-pitched, but definitely native.
"Keep it down, Rudy!" said the navigator.
"Yeah mon," said Rudy, the volume dropped a little. "No problem."
"Hey," came a voice softly from the island. "Ruskin?" Another voice she knew but couldn't place.
"Yeah, everything's OK," said the navigator, none other than the ubiquitous Joey Ruskin! Lucy could feel Harold tense up. She tightened her grip on his waistband.
"You got the goods?" said the island voice, and Lucy suddenly placed it too: Mike Nack. God, what—or who—next?
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 10
