Black Widower

by Patricia Moyes

  “I wish we did/’ said Henry. “I’m afraid this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip for us.”

  “Well, fancy that, now,” said Magnolia. “I didn’t think it was that difficult to reach from England.”

  “It’s not so much the difficulty as the expense,” Henry explained.

  Magnolia looked at him with wide-open eyes, as if she had never heard the word “expense” before. She was, Henry decided, still a very beautiful woman, for all her half-century of birthdays. Slim and huge-eyed, with fine long-fingered hands and a drift of blonde ringlets. Certainly, she was spoilt: always had been, and always would be, because that was the tradition in which she had been born and bred. But stupid? Henry doubted it. Under the “little me” exterior, he suspected, lay a shrewd businesswoman, and also one who had old-fashioned ideas about the duties of beautiful women and the rights of the men who provided for them and pampered them. In Magnolia’s Dixieland, the lives of the beautiful people were really an exquisitely staged and dressed performance of a strictly-audited balance sheet.

  “Why, there’s George now, I do declare!” Magnolia jumped up as a tall, shambling figure approached the cottage through the trees, his white linen suit glimmering in the twilight. Magnolia ran to her husband and took his arm, chattering busily as she led him to the verandah.

  “Honeybee, you must be worn out, they’ve no business working you so hard . . . come on in and sit down and I’ll fix you a drink . . . Meet our new neighbors, Henry and Emmy, they’re from England, just imagine . . . I’ve been telling them how much we love this little old island of theirs. . .”

  “Glad to know you,” said Senator Belmont, in the overstatement of the year. He sat down heavily on a canvas chair and bent forward to remove his shoes. When that operation had been successfully concluded, with a certain amount of grunting, he accepted a drink from Magnolia and said, “Well, I sure am glad we’re through for today. That was quite a session.”

  “I just hope they’re letting you off a bit tomorrow,” said Magnolia, with a charming pout. “It’s Saturday, after all, and it’s no fun on the beach all by myself.”

  “We’re not meeting again till three, officially,” said Belmont. “I dare say I’ll be able to fix it to take a swim, but I’ve a get-together with the guys from the Pentagon at eleven. That’s the idea of the schedule, you see. Preliminary, exploratory meeting today. Time tomorrow to let the delegations consult among themselves. Short get-together tomorrow afternoon. Then come Monday—wham!” He took a long pull at his drink. “Boy, these Tampicans sure know how to talk tough!”

  “Well, I just don’t follow it at all,” said Magnolia. “What ever would they do without our naval base? They’re just playing possum, trying to bluff poor old Uncle Sam into paying up, as usual. Y’all call their bluff, honey. Y’ll all talk tough right back. That’s the only thing these . . . these people understand.”

  “It’s not that simple, honey,” said her husband. “Fact is, they’re bargaining from strength, and they know it. Come right down to it, we need that base more than they need us here, and they reckon to name their own price.”

  “Why, that’s blackmail!” Magnolia exclaimed indignantly. Belmont grinned ruefully. “Blackmail’s not a polite word around international conferences, honey,” he said. “In any case, we’re here to see it doesn’t work. Sure, we need the base and we’re prepared to pay a good price for it. But we’re sure as hell not about to be held over a barrel for it.”

  “Oh, it’s all so silly,” said Magnolia. “What would they do with the base if we went away? They don’t even have a navy.”

  “And very fortunate they are, too,” remarked George. “Ours costs us billions a year, whereas Tampica would make a very nice tidy profit out of Barracuda Bay if it were turned over to tourism. Why, I’ve heard rumors there’s a company been formed already, and people are buying up stock as fast as they can, on the off-chance.” He chuckled. “If the negotiations look as though they’re heading the wrong way, I’d be tempted to buy some myself.”

  “Why, George, how can you say such a thing? That would not be ethical.”

  “I was only fooling, honey.” Belmont sighed. “That guy Ironmonger—the Ambassador—he’s the tough nut to crack. Brain as quick as a knife, and boy, does he know what he wants, and is he going to get it! I reckon we could make a deal with Drake-Frobisher and the others, but Ironmonger keeps whipping them along and pouring concrete into their backbones. That’ll be just how he’ll spend tomorrow morning—undoing any progress toward a deal that we made today.”

  “But what does he want?” Magnolia demanded.

  “He wants out of the contract,” said Belmont bluntly. “That’s obvious, although of course he’s not saying so. So what does he do? I’ll tell you. He persuades Drake-Frobisher to make the price so steep that whichever way things go, Tampica will be the winner.” He shook his gray head, then looked up and grinned at Henry. “Gee, folks, I’m sorry to talk shop like this. You’re here on vacation, and you want to relax, not talk politics.”

  “It’s fascinating,” said Henry. “I’ll follow the news reports with much more interest now that I know something about the issues. By the way, you don’t know the name of that real estate development company, do you?”

  George and Magnolia exchanged a quick, wary glance. Then Belmont said, “No, sir, I don’t. Don’t even know for sure it exists. It’s just a rumor, and I guess I was indiscreet to mention it. You weren’t thinking of buying stock yourself, were you?” There was a note of anxiety in his voice.

  “Good heavens, no,” said Henry. “In any case, as an Englishman I very much doubt if I’d be allowed to. No—I just wondered.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go change out of this city suit and into something more comfortable. See y’all in the bar before dinner.” He stood up, indicating that the party was over. Henry and Emmy took the hint.

  “We have to change too,” said Emmy. “Thanks for the drink. Be seeing you.”

  The bar at Pirate’s Cave was literally on the beach, open to the sea and sand, with a steeply-raked roof of wooden tiles and a floor of natural stone. Chinese lanterns hung from the roofbeams, echoing the bobbing lights of yachts anchored in the bay. From the dance floor above came the throbbing, foot-tapping rhythm of a steel band miraculously beating the melody of Yellow Bird out of a battery of tuned oil drums. The night was warm and soft, and the stars looked polished and larger than life against the blue-black sky, like diamonds on display in Tiffany’s.

  Competing with the remote, insistent beat of the drums, the nearby palm trees rubbed their dry leaves together in the gentle wind, making a sound like the claws of a small animal on stony ground. And in the bar itself, ice tinkled merrily in tall glasses of rum punch and pina colada, and smooth, suntanned men and women sipped and chatted and made plans to take a cruise in a sailing boat or go scuba diving or horseback riding in the morning.

  The first people that Henry and Emmy noticed in the bar stood out because of their incongruity. A middle-aged couple, red-faced rather than tanned, the man wearing a sober blue suit with a collar and tie, and the woman in an overelaborate cocktail dress made of white lace and satin. She was still very lovely, Henry thought— but why, oh why, did her blonde hair glitter so unconvincingly, why had it been elaborately dressed and sprayed until it resembled a plastic crash helmet? And why was her face so familiar? The two of them sat stiffly on stools at the bar, grasping their rum punches—a bizarre contrast to the informal, relaxed, loose-limbed elegance of the other drinkers, who looked like the world’s most expensive collection of castaways.

  The only two unoccupied bar stools were next to the overformal couple—a fact which Henry did not find surprising. He pulled one of them out for Emmy, climbed onto the other himself, and said, “What will you have, darling? A rum punch?”

  The man in the blue suit swung round with an exaggerated gesture, held out his hand, and boomed, “Dr. Livingstone, I presu
me?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Henry.

  “What Hubert means,” said the woman, “is that you don’t often hear an English accent round here. Makes quite a nice change.”

  “You’re English, then?”

  “Oh, yes. May we introduce ourselves. I’m Pauline Watkins, and this is my husband, Hubert. We’re just here for a little bit of a holiday.”

  “Watkins?” The card index in Henry’s mind did a quick flip and came up with a fact. He had only seen Mavis in photographs, but the combination of the name and Pauline’s profile was enough. “Then you must be Lady Ironmonger’s parents. I thought I read that you had gone back to England.”

  Hubert and Pauline exchanged a quick look. Then Hubert said, “Eddie . . . that is, Sir Edward, my son-in-law—he suggested we come here for a few days. The whole thing has been a severe shock to my wife, hasn’t it, dear?”

  “A nasty shock,” Pauline agreed. “Poor little Mavis. Such a sweetly pretty girl, and doing so well for herself. Still, at least it’s all cleared up now.” To the barman, a stoutish, sober-faced black man, she added, “I’ll have another Pirate’s Special, Francis, and go easy on the tabasco, will you?” Then, to Henry again, “Yes, I dare say you’ve heard, it was some black woman killed our Mavis. From this very island. Jealous, you see. Well, what can you expect, they’re all half-savage, aren’t they? Just can’t control themselves like civilized people. I don’t mean Eddie, of course. There’s a real gentleman for you. But he got away from this place, you see, and bettered himself. But the others . . . thank you, Francis . . . yes, that’s very nice . . . now, just you remember the way I like it . . . yes, as I was saying, it’s no use expecting them to behave like us, because they never have and they never will. Not that I’m bitter— you can ask anybody . . .”

  Emmy felt her stomach turning over, and instinctively drew away from Pauline. Is it possible, she thought, that the woman really imagines that Francis can only hear her when she’s actually talking to him? Is it possible that she is so insensitive as not to realize what she’s saying? Doesn’t she think he’s human? Oh God, let’s get away from them . . .

  But Henry seemed to have developed an unaccountable appetite for the company of the Watkinses. He insisted on introductions, he bought another round of drinks and before long all thoughts of Mavis were buried under great spadefuls of laughter, as Hubert Watkins roared at his own jokes.

  At length, he said, “Well, it’s certainly cheered this place up a bit, meeting a couple of kindred spirits from the old country. Between ourselves, old man, the Yankees here are a bit . . . well . . . stand-offish, if you know what I mean. Pauline’s noticed it, haven’t you, dear?”

  “Well, some of them,” said Pauline. “But there’s that nice Mrs. Belmont who arrived yesterday—her husband’s a senator, you know, something to do with the conference. We had a most interesting talk about the Color Problem—somehow, I never realized they had it in America, and she seemed quite surprised when I told her about places like Wolverhampton, back home. It just goes to show how travel can broaden the mind . . . Francis! Mr. Watkins is ready for another drink!”

  “Point of fact, old man,” Hubert Watkins confided, “you’re just about the only English people we’ve seen since we’ve been here. After the Embassy crowd went back to Washington, that is. We were told there was an old English lady, a Miss Pontefract- Deacon, living out at Sugar Mill Bay, and we thought it would be civil to go and call on her. The Queen of Tampica, they call her. Well, I can only tell you, we had one hell of a ride over there in a mini-moke—and then she was almost rude to us. Talk about Lady High-and-Mighty. Knew all about us and who we were, of course. They say there’s nothing that goes on on this island that she doesn’t know. But we definitely got the feeling that we weren’t welcome, didn’t we, Pauline?”

  “Especially,” said Pauline bitterly, “when she told us she’d no water to flush the toilet, so we’d better go behind a palm tree. I thought that was really coarse, for a woman of her age. And very uncomfortable, too. I must say, I shan’t be too sorry to go home tomorrow. Not that we haven’t had a wonderful time,” she added quickly. “I’m sure everybody at home in Penge Mil be ever so interested to hear all about it. And Magnolia has promised to write. Mrs. Belmont, that is. She likes me to call her Magnolia.”

  “I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon.” Henry sounded completely guileless.

  “Well, yes . . . Hubert can’t stay away from the office forever, and now that the case has been solved, Eddie—Sir Edward, that is—felt we’d rather be off back to Penge. Ah, here come Magnolia and the Senator now!” Pauline waved energetically. “Hullo, there! Over here!”

  It was with inexpressible relief that Emmy saw Otis and Virginia Schipmaker coming down the steps from the dining room to the bar, and raising their hands in greeting. She and Henry quickly excused themselves and made their way towards Ginny and Otis, leaving the Belmonts and the Watkinses to broaden their minds on their own.

  “It’s a real pleasure,” said Otis Schipmaker, “just to sit here and relax and have a quiet drink before Ginny starts hounding me off to work.”

  “To work?” Emmy echoed.

  Otis Schipmaker grinned. “Making contact with the conference delegates,” he explained. “I see Belmont over there—he hates my guts anyhow, so I won’t waste much time on him. But there are the Pentagon people and the special assistant from the State Department and so on. I should be able to get a line on how things are going.”

  “I can tell you a little,” Henry said. “Gleaned from Senator Belmont, who has the other half of our cottage. The Tampicans are going to hold out for a ridiculously high rent for the base, because they don’t really want the U.S. Navy here. They’d rather have the bay and its facilities for tourism.”

  “That’s common knowledge,” said Otis. “Point is—how are the negotiations going?”

  “Tough on both sides, I gather,” said Henry. “And there’s one rather interesting thing.”

  “What’s that?” Virginia Schipmaker leaned forward, her attractive, intelligent face outlined against the light of a Chinese lantern.

  Henry said, “There’s been a lot of talk about developing Barracuda Bay for tourism, but up to now I understood it was only talk. Today, I heard that a real estate development company has already been formed, and that stock is selling fast.”

  Schipmaker regarded the glowing tip of his cigar. He said, “Are you sure about that? It would be quite a story.”

  “No, I’m not sure,” said Henry. “I haven’t been able to find out the name of the company, or who holds the stock.”

  “Could be interesting.”

  “If you should happen to hear . . .”

  Henry let his remark hang unresolved in the air. Then Virginia Schipmaker leaned back, lit a cigarette, and said decisively, “Sure, Henry. If Otis finds out, he’ll tell you.”

  14

  After dinner, which was served on the big, palm-roofed open terrace overlooking the bay, Henry and Emmy danced to the compelling Caribbean beat of the steel band as a huge moon soared up over the horizon and laid a pathway of silver across the dark sea. The warm night air was full of the sweet scent of frangipani; coconut palms, spiky aloes and stubby cactuses stood in exotic silhouette against the silver of the moonlight; Henry and Emmy marveled that ordinary people like themselves should be here, in this fabled place.

  As they returned to their table after a particularly energetic session on the dance floor, they were surprised to see that a man was already sitting there, almost hidden in the shadows. He raised his hands as they approached, and clapped them in gently ironic applause.

  “Very pretty indeed,” said Dr. Duncan. “I had no idea you two were such accomplished dancers.”

  “Dr. Duncan!” Emmy exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, of course, my dear. What else?”

  “How did you know we were on the island?” Henry asked. Duncan smiled in the
darkness. “From Lucy Pontefract-Deacon, of course. Who else?”

  “And how in heaven’s name did she know?”

  “That,” said Duncan, “I have no idea. I can only tell you that she knows everything that goes on on this island, very often before it actually happens. She wants to meet you.”

  “We shall be honored,” said Henry.

  “Good. Why don’t you hire a moke from Barney and drive over to Sugar Mill Bay for tea tomorrow afternoon. You’ll enjoy the drive, apart from anything else.”

  “How will we find the way?” Emmy asked.

  “Don’t worry about that. There’s only one road over the mountain, and it goes nowhere except to Sugar Mill.”

  “That must be the track we saw from the air,” Emmy said. “You remember, Henry? It looked a bit dangerous to me.”

  “It’s a lot better than it used to be,” Duncan assured them. “Bits of it are even paved—up as far as The Lodge, anyway. And the views are spectacular.”

  “O.K. then,” said Henry, “we’ll do that. How do we set about finding this chap Barney and hiring the car?”

  Duncan glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was thinking of dropping in at Barney’s Bar on my way home, for a nightcap. Perhaps you’d care to come along with me? See a little of the other side of island life—and you can fix up the moke at the same time.”

  As the doctor’s ancient Jeep trundled between the manicured lawns of Pirate’s Cave toward the main gate, Duncan said, “I think you’ll find Barney’s Bar amusing. It’s almost like an extension of Pirate’s Cave, except that it’s largely patronized by the staff when they’re off-duty. Only the most adventurous of the guests ever go there. It’s not at all like the smart bars and night clubs in Tampica Harbour, which are highly tourist-orientated. Barney’s is a real local affair. Barney himself is a good fellow. He runs the local garage in the daytime and the bar at night.”