The band responded with a driving calypso tune, and the verandah, now a dance floor, quickly filled. "I'm gonna get something to eat before they shut down the pork line," Lucy said. "You wanna join me?" she asked Harold.
"Nah, I think I'll hang here and check out the dance moves," he said. "I'll catch up in a minute."
Lucy skirted the dancers and made her way to the barbecue. She approached the cook in the middle. "What can I do for you, Ma'am?" he asked, his voice high-pitched and somehow familiar.
"Jerk pork please,” she said. "And some potatoes," she pointed at the fries. "looks great!"
"Only the best, Ma'am," he said. "Best jerk on de island right here tonight." Jesus, that voice! The third voice on the midnight run!
"And how are you tonight, Lucy Ripken?" said Joey Ruskin, sauntering up. "Your appetite is good it seems," he added, eyeing her loaded plate.
"Hello, Joey," she said, giving him an even look, not easy with a mouthful of barbecued pork, but she sure as hell wasn't going to let this smooth operator cramp her eating style.
"Did you enjoy the Falls today, Lucy?" he asked smoothly. "Maria said you..."
"Cut to the chase, Ruskin," she said as soon as she'd swallowed. "What do you want?"
He grinned, his golden cat eyes flickering. "I think you know what I want, Lucy. The question is, what do you want?"
She took another bite of jerk pork. "God, this stuff is great," she said. "You eat much of it, Joey?"
"Not for me," he said. "My job requires a good appearance, and jerk pork can be dangerous." He patted himself on his flat stomach.
"No doubt." She wiped her mouth, and watched him.
"So, Lucy: you spoke with Mr. Nack today. I understand that you are...interested in participating in our little...business venture."
"Did he say that?" She pulled on her beer bottle. "I don't recall ever saying anything like that."
"I think you should...reconsider, Lucy. I am prepared to...Mr. Nack has indicated his willingness to split his proceeds with you fifty fifty, should you be interested in participation. And I am willing to, shall we say, throw in another...five thousand dollars, as a good faith bonus, if you demonstrate your willingness to participate tomorrow by noon at the latest."
Lucy ate a few fries. "What sort of demonstration did you have in mind, Joey?"
"I would like to see half of the shipment in Nack's room at that time. We can work out the details from there."
"What ho, Lucy Ripken," said Ames Cavendish, appearing suddenly at her side. "Enjoying yourself tonight?" He clutched a gin and tonic. "Good evening, Joseph, how are you?"
"Fine, Ames," said Joey. "Looks like Jackson's done it again tonight.”
"He knows how to throw a party, eh what Lucy?" Ames said.
"Absolutely, Ames," said Lucy. "I'm having a ball."
"Excuse me, Miss Ripken," said Joey, "but I've got to talk to Mr. Hababi." He started away, then glanced back. "Just remember, Lucy: you can't take it with you," he said. "Noon tomorrow."
He had a point. But that was tomorrow, this was tonight, and Ames Cavendish looked like he wanted to dance. Lucy hadn't felt so much like dancing in years, it seemed.
Lucy did the samba, she did the mambo, she did the tango, she did the cha cha cha. She did the shake, the bake, and the break down snake. She did the watusi, the mashed potatoes, and the bus stop shuffle. She led a conga line that flirted with the surf. She did the locomotion till the stars ran for cover. In the end, at three a.m., clutching a cold last beer, with the bus loaded and the motor running, she finally had a personal word with Jackson Hababi.
"Hey Jackson," she said. "Great bash. Thanks for everything. The hotel's charming, and..."
"I'm so glad you've enjoyed yourself, Miss Ripken," he said, smiling. They had danced the tango together. He was a graceful gentleman, old world charm, probably slept in pyjamas.
"Yes, the trip's been lovely. You've worked hospitality wonders...especially considering what happened to Angus Wilson the other night."
He just kept smiling. "Yes, that was unfortunate. Truly unfortunate timing, don't you think? The poor man."
"Whatever did you do with his body, Jackson? I mean, what's the procedure here, anyways?"
"Procedure? Same as yours in the states, I imagine. Doctor Babcock officially confirmed the cause of death as a heart attack, we informed his wife by long distance call—I handled that myself, naturally—and she requested that he be cremated. We took care of that through the mortuary here in Ocho Negros. She's coming for the ashes tomorrow, as a matter of fact."
"I see. And that's that, eh?"
"Well...yes. But why, Lucy? Why do you ask?"
She shook her head. "Nothing, Jackson." She glanced over at the waiting bus. "Thanks again for the party. I had a wonderful time. The hotel looks splendid—the architect did a marvelous job."
"Yes, William does have a touch, doesn't he? Well..." he held out a hand. "In case I don't see you again, Lucy Ripken..." they shook hands. "Arrivederci."
Lucy stepped on the bus, and waved goodby as the door closed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WIND CRIES LUCY
She sensed it first pre-consciously, and sat up with a jolt. Instantly wide awake, she had a look around. The day well on its way, Harold out cold at her side under the sheet, and beneath it all, driving through every layer of her awareness came the wind. She heard palm branches rattling, the skitter of a lawn chair tumbling across the beach, the elemental rush of atmospheric pressure releasing. As she jumped up and quickly suited up, she knew what she had to do to get some range on her current dilemma: windsurf!
"Oh, maaan," moaned Harold, throwing an arm over his face as she drew open the curtain for a look at the thrashing, white-chopped sea. "Is it already tomorrow?" He cracked an eyelid for a squinty look at her.
"I'm going sailboarding, Harry," she said, slapping sunscreen on her shoulders. "It's blasting out there, and I gotta hit it. It's nearly ten, I should be ready for a lunch break around one. Meet me at the feed line." She came over and kissed him. "See you then, loverboy," she added softly, then drew the curtain shut. Harold waved a hand and rolled over as she headed out. They'd only done it once last night, but it had been long, slow, and profoundly sweet, passion submerged in gentle exploration, discovering the secret landscapes of each other's bodies. Harry was a patient lover.
The beach was empty but down towards the dock a couple of guys attempted to launch a sunfish into the onshore blast of north wind, which had stirred up a swell. Three foot waves tumbled over each other and crashed onto the hardpacked sand, awash with coconuts, palm branches, driftwood, and a motley array of lobster buoys and mooring markers that had broken loose and blown ashore in the wind-driven surf. She could hear gear clanking on the yachts moored in the bay and flags snapped atop the buildings and the boats; the palms were bent like drunkards in the blow. Ankle-stinging sand whooshed off the beach and whipped across the lawn, while the gulls, pointing north, hovered in place, black keening silhouettes against a thin white sky smeared with pale, blue-yellow light. The sea churned with tumbling white caps.
As she headed down the beach towards the surf hut, leaning into the wind and hyperventilating with nervous anticipation, she watched the two guys in the sunfish get turned around, caught in a gust, and capsized. The sailors crawled out of the waves a few seconds later. Leroy and Desmond ran down into the water and dragged the boat up out of the chop while the pair of would-be sailors, surf-bedraggled and tangled in their lifejackets, stood on shore watching. Once, she would have hated a day at the beach like this, with sand in the sandwiches and raging swells on the sea. Now, as she reached the hut her heart pounded with excitement and fear. This was well over a 30 knot blow. She'd never sailed anything quite so intense. It would be a test.
"You been out there yet, Des?" she said after he'd collected the lifejackets from the sailors, a couple of guys from the Travel Channel video crew. Sheepishly they headed back up the beach towards the terrazzo.
&n
bsp; "No mon, was just getting ready," he jerked his head at the sailboard rack, where a short board with footstraps lay on the sand in a semi-rigged state, loose sail flapping madly, "When these fellahs tell me they want to sail a sunfish. I tell them no way it will work in this blow, but they insist. They guests, you know, so I let they try." He shrugged. "At least they didn't break any my gear." He grinned. "Don't tell me you want come out wit me, Lucy. Very much wind out dere today for a woman to ride, sister. Dis be a northern blow, and it don't stop till the storm come." He pointed north. In the distance, a bank of heavy-looking clouds hugged the horizon.
"Don't give me this "for a woman" jive. Just rig me up, mon.You'll need some company out there, Des. Only set me up with the smallest sail you got, OK?"
"I'm riding a four point oh today, so three point two should do right by you," he said. "Leroy, don't stand there like a space dog, rig the lady with de eight foot wavejumper. You'll have to do water starts today, honey," he went on, as Leroy, who never said anything, ran for the rack. "No way I'm going to send you out there on one a dose long logs. Oh, Lucy, by de way, before you go out dere, you might want to talk to de lady was lookin' for you earlier round the breakfast line."
"Hey, I don't want to talk, I want to sail. Who was she?"
"Said her name be Wilson. Daisy Wilson. She been askin' for you. I think she married to de man what died de other night on de island. Here to pick up de ashes, you know..."
"Angus Wilson's wife?!" she blurted, throwing down her harness. "Give me a minute, Des. I'll be back, I promise. I want to get out there," she said over her shoulder as she headed towards the terrace, her eyes cast seaward.
"No problem, Luce," he called after her. "I'll take a run, get a taste. Catch you on the way back."
Lucy scrambled up the stairs and checked out the terrace. They'd unrolled a row of blue and white striped canvas canopies from the edge of the roof to the floor along the seaward side, effectively blocking the wind; sheltered behind the canopies, the guests had taken beach-deprivation in stride, and segued from breakfast right into Bloody Marys, Mimosas, beers, and screwdrivers. Up on stage a man dressed in white played a guitar and sang a calypso tune softly. Before Bob Marley, there was Harry Belafonte, also born in Jamaica. Lucy picked her way through the busy tables, regretting having only her swimsuit on as she looked about for someone who might be looking for her. She was a modest girl at heart, and hated the way the men cased her body. Although last time she'd checked it hadn't looked bad at all. Harry certainly had no complaints.
She greeted the nudists from the island, gathered at a table in a cloud of cigarette smoke. They played gin and drank vodka. Grinning, the men looked right through her suit; but then, they'd already seen her without it, so she didn't care. At another table, the video crew, among them the two drowned rat sailors, sipped coffee; at another sat Dave Mullins, Michelle Stedman, Susie Adams, Henrietta Storey, and Ames Cavendish. Press and PR, gathered together. Was there any difference? Ames Cavendish! Now there was a man who might have an answer. She approached. "Morning, gang," she said. "How is everybody today?"
Mullins groaned and made a hangover face. "Not too bad, considering," said Henrietta. She eyed Lucy's suit. "Are you actually going swimming out there, Lucy?"
"Sailing, honey. With Desmond. You know Desmond, the boat guy? He and I are going windsurfing. It's howling out there. Perfect conditions. Hey Ames, how are you?"
"Fine, M'dear. Just fine." He hoisted his glass of gin and tonic. "Too bad about this bloody wind, but...it'll blow over tonight, and..."
"Personally, I love the wind. But then, I'm a windsurfer, so...hey Ames, I hear tell Mrs. Wilson's arrived to pick up the...remains of Angus."
He squirmed. She wondered if he'd been told not to talk to her. "That's right Lucy. Came in late last night. We sent the limo to pick her up. She's leaving today, I'm af..."
"Where is she now, do you know?"
"Well, naturally in light of what happened we've given her the Presidential Suite, but Mr. Hababi left explicit instructions that no one was to disturb her while she is here...she's quite distraught, you must understand."
"Of course," said Lucy. "Well, see you guys later," she added with a wave, and headed next over to the hot tub on the deck, where she grabbed a towel off the neatly folded stack, wrapped it around her waist, and went over to the bar. "Can I use the phone please, Jeremiah?" she asked the bartender.
"Sure, Miss," he said, setting it on the bartop. "Can I fix you a drink?"
"Just some coffee, please," she said, picking up the phone. "Hello, front desk? Could you please connect me with Mrs. Wilson in the Presidential Suite? Yes. I know what Mr. Hababi said, but this is Mrs. Hababi’s assistant, and I need to talk to her. Yes, immediately. Thank you." She smiled at the bartender, who'd heard her lie as he served her coffee. "Thanks. Hello, Mrs. Wilson? Yes. This is Lucy Rip...yes. I heard you were looking for me this morning. Fine. Perfect. Did you notice the waterwheel in the lobby? Yes. Five minutes." She put down the phone and picked up the coffee. "Maybe you'd better give me a taste of..." she scanned the bottles arrayed on the bar..."That," she said, pointing at the Kahlua. "I think I'm gonna need a little something extra today." He shot some into her cup, and she slugged it down. It went right to her head, and brought a buzz on as she took off for the lobby.
A thin, small middle-aged woman with black hair in a bun, wearing flat shoes and a plain black dress, stood by the waterwheel clutching a box, about a foot square and six inches deep, wrapped in white paper and tied with a string. Her pale, drawn face was devoid of make-up. "Mrs. Wilson?" Lucy said, approaching her. The woman eyeballed her outfit. "Hi, I'm Lucy Ripken. Forgive my...I was just about to go windsurfing when..."
"That's fine," she said, holding out a hand. Lucy shook it. "Daisy Wilson. Thank you for calling. I..."
"I had to trick the switchboard to reach you. The front desk said you weren't taking any calls."
"That was not my doing, Miss Ripken—but I'm not surprised. You simply would not believe some of the things that the management of this hotel has done since Mr....since Angus..." She shook the box at Lucy, and tears came to her eyes. The stuff inside rattled. "This...this is my husband. I fly down here and they give me a...a box of...God, I don't even know what's in here, and...”
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilson. I'm really sorry. I didn't know Angus, but..."
"Oh, you don't have to make excuses. I know that most of his colleagues hated him," she said. "But he preferred it that way. He always said not cronying about with other journalists made it easier for him to avoid becoming cynical about his work."
"Yes, that makes sense," said Lucy. "We do tend to get jaded. But...I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilson, but why did you want to talk to me? Do you want to sit down? Can I get you some coffee?"
"No, that's all right...nothing...I don't want anything from this place...I had a call from someone in New York. A woman...a girl, really...named...Alice? Allie. Allie Maginn...Marg..."
"Margolis?"
"That's it! Allie Margolis. She said that...that if anything...that I should call you if I wanted to find out about what really happened to Angus."
"Yes, she was there when...she found Angus, and then I..."
"I know. Let me explain." She drew herself up. "When they called...when Jackson Hababi—Angus has...had...known him for years, by the way—called and told me that Angus had died of a heart attack, I was horribly shocked and upset, of course—but I was also surprised. Angus was very healthy, and had his annual physical not...six weeks past. But at his age, well...OK, he had a heart attack. I could believe that. But then when I asked Jackson Hababi to see about doing an autopsy and then storing the body until I could get down here to bring him home...we have a family plot in the best cemetery in Philadelphia, and Angus wanted to be buried there...Hababi told me they had to cremate Angus immediately due to the weather and the problems with..."conditions" was the word he used...on this side of the island. He made it sound like...well, I've been here befo
re, Jamaica is a poor country, but its not darkest Africa for God's sake, they have doctors and coroners and funeral parlors and...anyway, I was so upset I didn't question him at the time, but then I called the Jamaican consul the next day, and he told me there was absolutely no reason in the world they couldn't do what I'd asked, and of course I could come down here and take Angus home, and..." she began to sniffle again..."so I called Hababi back to tell him, and he told me Angus had already been cremated. So when Al...Miss Margolis called the same night of course I was curious. And now I come here and they hand me this, and tell me they're sorry." She shook the box of ashes and bits of rattly bone. "The bastards!" She burst out in tears.
"Jesus," said Lucy. This poor woman. "What did Allie tell you, Mrs. Wilson?"
"Only that...like I said...that if I wanted to find out what really happened when Angus died, I should talk to you. What did she mean, Miss Ripken? What do you know?"
She stood on the beach facing into the thirty knot blow. Desmond and his yellow and purple striped sail rode the wind towards her, and watching him leap the waves, she put Mrs. Wilson's question out of mind. She and the lady had exchanged information. During the exchange, Lucy realized she'd been distracted—by the dope she’d heisted, and the sense of power it had given her. The real issue was not dope but death. One of the people with whom she'd been hanging out, more or less, had killed Angus Wilson. She was sure of it. How could she treat it like a game?
Strange—usually the wind slowed with a dropping tide. Not this time. It was almost 11:30, low tide was 12:17, according to the chalkboard on the surfhut, and this particular norther just kept coming, jet-streaming on down from Fidelville.
Desmond slipped his harness line free, sculpted a flawless jibe, dropped the sail, and stepped off into shallow water in front of Lucy. Close to shore, the waves had dropped with the tide, even if the wind hadn't. He was grinning. "Man is it blowing, Lucy. You ready to hit it?"
"Ready as I’ll ever be" she said, checking her harness lines one last time, and breathing deeply. "Let's go." She picked up the tail of her board with one hand and the mast with the other, and guided the rig into the water. She held the mast with one hand, letting the taut, yellow and blue sail point downwind while positioning the board in the water. She simultaneously stepped into the footstraps and took hold of the boom with both hands. She swung the harness line onto the hook and took off, pointed northwest between Naked Island and the point. Within seconds she was ripping along, blowing past Naked Island before she even had her bearings.
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 13
