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

by J. J. Henderson

  "Yeah. You ready?"

  "Uh-huh. Just hurry up, will you, a place like this you never know when some chump's gonna decide he wants a hot tub in the middle of the night." Yes, that was definitely Mike Nack. The boat bumped up against the rocky shore. She could make out their silhouettes, Nack standing on shore, Ruskin seated in the boat.

  "Don't worry. There's nothing to worry about."

  "So what happened the other night, then?" Nack snapped back. They were passing parcels from boat to shore.

  "An unfortunate coincidence, followed by a tragic accident," said Joey coolly.

  "I'll say," said Nack as he took the last parcel. "That all of it?"

  "Yeah mon. ten bricks."

  "I still don't know why you couldn't just bring the shit in through the gate. They're not gonna search Mr. JTA." These two might be doing business, but the sneering tone didn't suggest much affection between them.

  "I told you, Nack," Joey said. "They've got people everywhere, including on staff at the hotel. Plus that Ripken chick is sniffing around like a bitch in heat. Just put it in the ground with the other stuff and we'll get it out of here in a day or two, when things have calmed down."

  "Don't worry about Ripken. She's just looking to get laid."

  "Hehehe. You're probably right. I wouldn't mind a taste myself," said Joey.

  "Me either," said Nack. "Like to rear end the bitch, with that muscular ass of hers."

  "No shit, mon, she a ripe little mango." said Joey. "All right, just stay cool now, Mike. Hang loose for a day or two, then we'll make our move."

  "OK, Ruskin. It's your call."

  "Just keep that ten grand in mind, Mike."

  Harold held her arm softly, caressingly, drawing out the venom of the ugly words. "OK Rudy, let's go," said Joey. Nack gave a shove to the boat, and Rudy started paddling. They passed through the channel, and a few seconds later Lucy and Harold heard the motor click on, and the boat whirring away.

  After ten minutes they swam over and climbed over the rocks onto the island. "Wait here," Harold whispered. "Let me make sure he's gone."

  "Careful of your feet," she said, as he took off the fins. "The coral's like broken glass."

  He tiptoed onto the platform and disappeared. A moment later, he called out, "All clear." Lucy picked a path over to the platform. Harold was waiting.

  "That was Mike Nack, wasn't it?" he said, still whispering.

  "Definitely. Who woulda thought a goon like that could get involved in..."

  "Dope smuggling. What a great scene that was," he said. "Like a fucking movie."

  "Yeah, except that was a real dead guy the other night."

  "What does that have to do with this?"

  "That's the mystery, Harry, know what I mean?"

  "I guess. But where's the dope is the mystery now, right?"

  "Nope." She walked over to the rocks lining the edge of the platform. "It's right here, under this rock." She pointed. Harold came over, and together they knelt down. He dug into the sand a little and then pried up one end, and she pointed the light underneath. It illuminated a brick-shaped package, wrapped in tin foil and sealed in a clear plastic bag.

  "How'd you know that?" he said.

  "Female intuition, dude. No actually, I took a picture, and then the rock moved. Why, I asked myself?"

  Harold pried the rock up further, and Lucy worked the package out. There were others stacked underneath. She hefted the one in her hand. "Probably two pounds," she said. Harold took it.

  "Used to be they measured grass in kilos," he said. "A key is two point two pounds." He grinned. "A lot of dope."

  "Yeah, so what're you gonna do, Harry, take it home and smoke it?"

  "I don't think so. Jamaican pot is too rich for my blood. There's probably eight or nine more of these suckers in there," he said. "What should we do?"

  Lucy didn't even hesitate. "Take 'em."

  "Take the shit? Then what?"

  "I don't know. I'll figure something out, Harry. Main thing is, we have this"—she grabbed the package from him, and held it up—"we have some leverage, right?"

  "I guess. But we also...I mean, you heard those assholes. They know you're onto something, Luce, so..."

  "So we'll stash it in your room for now, Harry. How's that?"

  "My room!" he squawked, and then sighed. "Shit, all I wanted was a little romance, and look what I get," he complained, but he didn't look at all displeased.

  "A real life adventure," Lucy said. "And something interesting to write about."

  "So let's move the shit off the lot," he said, pulling the rock all the way aside. "How do you propose we get it back to the beach, Luce?"

  CHAPTER SIX

  A DANGEROUS HIKE AND A DANCE

  At 6:30 Lucy woke to the sound of Harold dressing in the dark. "Good morning," she murmured, tasting salt, watching his body move in the pale light. She felt a slight, sweet soreness between her legs. God, she'd had good SEX! Twice in one night! It could still happen in this life.

  "Hi, Luce," he whispered. "How you doin'? I'm gonna go change and check on things. Meet you at breakfast in an hour." He bent down, kissed her on the lips, then slipped out the patio door.

  Lucy laid still for a few moments. As the early light infused the walls of her room with delicate pastels, her body filed a report: sore crotch, psilocybin headache with hallucinatory afterburn, stiff, ski-strained arms and lower back, a coral cut on her left calf from the return trip. All this and sunburn too. They had swum in on their backs in the dark, trailing shark-tempting blood, leg-kicking with five foil-wrapped ganja bricks balanced on each of their stomachs. She ached all over, but so what! Sex, skullduggery, and sleep—even a scant four hours’ worth—worked wonders for a girl. They had stashed the 22 pounds of dope in Harold's room. The next move would come from someone on the other side.

  Showered, groomed, and wrapped in a bright yellow sundress, Lucy headed off to breakfast at 7:30. She found Harold at a table on the seaward side of La Terrazzo Grande, where he had a cup of hot Blue Mountain coffee waiting for her. "You look great," he said, checking out her dress and her body right through it, his lasciviousness leavened with a grin.

  "Thanks," she said, a little tingly in spite of herself. The sight of him didn't even give her the post-fuck blues. Another good sign. "Everything OK?" she asked with a glance around.

  "Yeah." He lowered his voice. "Just so you know...I took the light fixture out of the bathroom ceiling and put it up there."

  "Sounds good. Better than under the bed, that's for sure." She scanned the terrace. "Hey, it looks like the food line's open. You wanna get some breakfast? I'm starved."

  "Yeah, but Lucy..." he covered her hand with his. "What next?"

  "I don't know..." she pulled her hand free as Maria Verde, bearing a laden breakfast tray, arrived at their table. She wore a multi-colored jumpsuit that resembled a clown costume, and her signature goon grin. She'd seen their joined hands. "Hi, Maria," Lucy said.

  "Good morning," Maria said, her grin widening to a kewpie doll smile. "Do you mind if I..."

  "Hell, why not?" Harold said. "Sit down and enlighten us, Maria, as to the ultimate meaning of the Grand Strand."

  She sat. Her tray held two plates, one piled with fruit, the other with bacon and toast. "Thanks. Harold, there's no need to be hostile. I..."

  "Hey, forget it, Maria," said Lucy. "Harold's just sick of the song and dance is all."

  "But this hotel is so...happening," said Maria, folding a piece of undercooked bacon into her mouth.

  "That must be why Allie Margolis decided to stick around," said Lucy.

  "Oh, Lucy, why don't you just forget about all that," said Maria. "Allie's gone, and..."

  "I'm gonna get some eats," said Harold, pushing his chair back and standing abruptly. "Lucy, you coming?"

  "In a minute, Harold," she said. He headed off to the counter. The two women watched him go. Then Maria grinned complicitously at Lucy.

  "He's a cutie," Mari
a said. "You two seem to be...hitting it off."

  "Something like that," Lucy said, and watched Maria stuff her face for a moment. "Speaking of hitting, is there anyone on the circuit—besides me and maybe Henrietta—that Joey Ruskin hasn't screwed?"

  "Oh, I don't know..." said Maria, and now her grin turned devilish, an awesome sight given that her mouth was crammed with half-chewed bread. "But he's a wonder, let me tell..."

  "Actually, I'd rather you didn't, Maria. Hey Mick," said Lucy, standing quickly as she spotted her pal. "Let's get some eats, huh?" She grabbed Mickey by the arm and steered her away from the table.

  "So how's it going?" Mickey grinned. "Are you and Harold getting on...that is, getting it on, as they used to say in the bad old days?"

  Lucy laughed. "So far, so good, Mick. Good call, matching us up. God, look at this! Pork Universe!" The overloaded counter stretched out before them. They grabbed trays and got in line. "So what're you up to today?"

  "I don't know...I guess the falls hike. I've managed to avoid it all these years...you goin'?"

  "I s'pose. I hear it's pretty scenic. Hey, by the way, those are inspired shorts." she added, viewing Mickey's baggies, black with clusters of bright yellow bananas.

  "Thanks. They distract from the view to the rear, as intended. Speaking of views, scenic or no we're gonna need a major hike after this feeding event," Mickey said, flourishing a loaded plate of bacon and French toast. "Otherwise we'll be shipped home in hogsheads. Hey Harry," she added, as Harold passed by.

  "I can't eat with that Verde woman sitting there, Lucy," he said. " I'm gonna park at one of those tables on the beach. I'll catch up with you later."

  "OK," said Lucy. "You gonna take the hike this morning?"

  " No, I think I'll stick around here, know what I mean?"

  "Why so quiet, Toots?" Mickey asked her.

  "Oh, I'm just contemplating the scenery." From the bus window they gazed upon the vista of a two pump gas station, a fruit stand, a pharmacy, a sundries shop, a funeral parlor, and a hardware store, all in a row, linked by a crooked sidewalk mobbed with people dodging among honking, smoking automobiles, trucks, buses, bicycles, and motorcycles. Each building had once been painted its own shade of pastel, but a layer of dust had turned them all vaguely, dirtily pink. Downtown Ocho Negros. How it had glowed yesterday, in mushroom light!

  "It is exotic, isn't it?" said Mickey, as a trio of roadside workmen looked up at them and waved, big grins on their faces. "Hey, I didn't get a chance to ask you at the morning glut," she added after a minute. "How's your work going? And how 'bout `the case'?"

  "Do I hear ironic quotes around that, Mick?" Lucy said. "Suggesting a degree of disbelief as to the usefulness of my investigation? Well, let me just say," she added loudly, "that the plot has considerably thickened. And I shall tell you more later." She could feel Mike Nack's eyes on the back of her neck.

  She pictured the scene yet again. She had walked back to her room to change her clothes after breakfast, and found a chambermaid halfway into the closet, rooting around amongst her photography equipment. What was to clean in there? Not much, unless you were looking for some ganja bricks. On the other hand, the chambermaid had not seemed rattled at all when Lucy walked in on her. She'd merely backed out of the closet and said, "Straightening your things, Ma'am." She wore a black and white uniform with the pink Grand Strand logo stitched over her breast, and a black nameplate with gold lettering identifying her as Prudence Fallowsmith.

  Lucy had watched from the patio while Prudence Fallowsmith finished with her room. Then Prudence had left and Lucy had changed into her shorts and a t-shirt and some sensible shoes—well, red high-topped sneakers with black laces were not exactly sensible, but they gave good ankle—grabbed a camera, and headed out. Now a busload of GrandStranders were headed for the Green River Falls and its world-famous hike.

  Soon they left Ocho Negros behind, and followed the coastal road back towards the airport for fifteen minutes before cranking a left into the hills. "Oh Christ," Mickey groaned a moment later, as their Grand Strand bus swung round an uphill turn and entered the Official Green River Falls Hike Parking Lot, "I didn't think it would be this bad." There were at least thirty buses lined up in the fenced asphalt parking lot, most with engines running, scenting the air with diesel exhaust. The drivers, mostly stout middle-aged black men in short sleeved shirts, gathered in groups, smoking and chatting. To the right, a wooden booth controlled foot traffic down to the beach at the bottom of the falls, where the hike commenced. Straight ahead, the falls lay in a gorge hidden beyond the wall of idling buses, fences, and a thicket of banana, bamboo and ferns. You could almost hear the roar of the water, except that the fleet of buses roared with more volume. To the left, a steady stream of damp tourists flowed off the trail that delivered them from the end of The Hike back to their waiting buses—through the gauntlet of a "Jamaican Village" of shacks and pushcart peddlers selling t-shirts, postcards, beer, baskets, and a selection of elongated wood carvings of giraffes, Bob Marleys, and longlegged waterbirds. Along the edges of the "village" and the parking lot, a dozen shifty-eyed dudes loitered skittishly, maneuvering to interest the honkies in ganja.

  Mickey, Lucy, and the other Grand Stranders filed past the booth and plodded down a well-worn trail to the beach, where more dozens of tourists milled, and seven or eight rastas offered boat rides and whispered drug options. Three driftwood huts perched on the bank of the river advertised beer, jerk pork, and grilled fish.

  The scene was lovely in spite of the commercial and tourist overload. The river emerged from a ferny green grotto laced with delicate yellow and white flowers to meet the sea between low banks of white sand. Lucy and Mickey edged away from the Grand Strand gang and headed towards the trail. Lucy took a few pictures of people taking pictures and then stuck her camera in her pocket. There would be plenty of postcards available up top to document the hike.

  They paused at the bottom of the hiking trail, where the amusement park quality of the event became evident. As far as they could see up the falls—at least several hundred yards—single file lines of tourists, their hands linked to form human chains, trudged upwards, back and forth across the ragged, photogenic rock formations over which spilled the multi-layered, mist-shrouded falls. Clearly, hiking the Green River Falls was One of the Things You Do in Jamaica.

  Lucy and Mickey stepped aside to make room as another gang of sunburned, camera-bedecked hikers hit the trail. They were followed by the Grand Strand squad and their guide, who introduced himself as Robert. He organized them into a single line, and told them to join hands to help each other on the steep parts. Suddenly Maria Verde appeared, dashing off the bottom of the trail and across the beach. Wearing bright green skin-tight bicycle shorts and an electric blue sleeveless t-shirt, she rushed up breathlessly to join them. "Hi everybody," she said. "Sorry I'm late. Had some business to take care of." Lucy glanced up, and there was Joey Ruskin, in a white linen suit over a black t-shirt, leaning over the railing halfway back up the access trail. He waved at Lucy. She didn't wave back. Mike Nack appeared at her side and grabbed her hand in his clammy mitt. With Mickey on her other side, the four of them—Mickey, Lucy, Nack, and Verde, formed the tail end of the Grand Strand hiking chain. They started off.

  They moved upwards, back and forth across the gorge, hopping from rock to rock to fallen tree among the pools and falls and drifting mist. It was beautiful in spite of the mobs; the roaring of the falls nearly drowned the sound of obnoxious shrieking, idiot laughter, and the rest of the tourist racket. Lucy fell into a reverie in spite of being joined at the wrist to the noxious paw of Mike Nack.

  The trail steepened, and idle conversation fell away beneath the overpowering roar of the waterfalls. They had reached a difficult point in the climb, where each person depended on the one ahead in line to haul them over the lip of a large rock. You had to edge out as far as you could on one rock; then the person in front took your hand, and as you lunged into space he or she
hauled upwards and got your weight over the edge of the next rock—or you could slip and fall forty feet.

  Mickey waited below her, and Mike was poised atop the upper rock, his hand out to her. He hadn't been a bad hiking partner so far. He'd kept his mouth shut and observed the scenery, including the skintightly-clad oversized butt of Maria Verde, clambering upwards in front of them. Admittedly obsessive about ridding her own butt of cellulite, Lucy wondered how a flabby-ass girl like that found the nerve to wear those tight pants. She wondered if Mike Nack would consider such a sack of fat sexy. She wondered why she cared. She turned her attention back to the matter at hand—getting from this rock to the next. For a moment, she would have to put her life into the moist mitts of Mike Nack, as she committed her weight over the edge.

  She leaned, he grabbed, she scrambled. He stopped hauling and held her there, hanging. "Where is it?" he hissed. One of Lucy’s feet dangled, the other had toe purchase on an inch wide ledge.

  "What?" She clutched his wrists more tightly. "Pull me up, you dumb..."

  "The ganja, dammit, Lucy. Where is it?" he snapped quickly.

  "What the hell are you..." She dropped all her weight onto her toes on the rock ledge, bent at the knee, pushed up, and more or less flung herself over the lip of the rock, landing with a scramble on top of Nack, nearly knocking him down. She quickly found her feet and turned on him. "Talking about, you motherfucker?" she said. "Try threatening me like that again I'll..."

  "Lucy, I wasn't gonna...I wasn't really gonna..." he whined, throwing his hands up as she raised her fists.

  "Yo, Luce," Mickey called out from below, "You gonna give me a hand?"

  "Damn. Just a minute, Mick," she called out, then turned back to Mike Nack. "Now what are you babbling about?"

  "Lucy, you've gotta...you can't...just tell me where it is, dammit! What did you do with it?" He pleaded.

  "Tell you where what is?"

  He was talking fast, his tone desperate. "Come on, Lucy. The pot. The bricks. I know you took it, and it's...it's...not yours to take."