A Penny for the Hangman

by Tom Savage

  As it turned out, she didn’t have far to go. The road from the hotel wound dramatically around several mountains, with sharp hairpin curves switchbacking above a ravine, and then rose gradually to the crest of a hill, where there was a crossroads. The high stone columns she’d been watching for stood on her left. Tamarind was a mere five-minute drive from the Reef. She turned in through the columns, the name of the house engraved in a brass plaque on the right one, and proceeded up a long, tree-lined drive to the peak of yet another hill. The car emerged from the trees into a clearing, and there it was.

  It was a big house painted dark red, and a high iron fence surrounded it. These were her first impressions as she entered a paved, lined, jarringly modern-looking parking lot that held about ten vehicles, including two passenger vans and an ambulette. Karen parked next to the last one, reading the bold red letters on its door as she got out of her car: The Tamarind Home.

  Well, she thought, at least they didn’t turn it into a morbid museum commemorating the crime. Perhaps it’s a nursing home for the elderly….

  She walked across the steaming-hot parking lot, following the spiked fence to an open gate that was more functional than decorative, apparently the only entrance into the grounds. Standing in this opening was a big native man in the uniform of a security guard. He watched her as she came up to him.

  “Are you a parent?” he asked, his tone doubtful.

  Karen looked from him to the patio and lawn beyond him, where a dozen children in shorts and T-shirts were playing softball, monitored from the sidelines by two women in brightly printed island dresses. The women were obviously native West Indians, but the kids were a mix of races and a range of ages. The oldest boy, a Caucasian, looked to be about sixteen, and the youngest child was a pretty native girl of nine or ten. Not a place for old folks, Karen thought, but children.

  “No,” she said, switching her focus from the game—she now saw that it was Whiffle Ball—back to the sentry. “I’m not a parent. I’m a journalist, and I just want to see the house where—”

  “Oh, yeah. That. Okay.” His suspicious demeanor was instantly replaced by indifference. He turned, caught the eye of one of the native women on the lawn, and signaled to her. She nodded and came across the flagstones to join them. Karen assessed her as she approached: attractive, fiftyish, graying, friendly, strong. More than strong; enormously capable.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said, smiling kindly at Karen as she arrived. “May I help you?”

  The truth—the two words sprang into Karen’s mind the moment she saw the woman up close. Don’t make up a story; just tell the truth. This lady handles teenagers for a living, so she’s heard it all, and then some. Karen was reminded, fleetingly, of her late mother. She stated her name and the purpose of her visit, watching the woman for her reaction. It could go either way, she knew, but she was lucky.

  “Ah, the scene of the crime!” the woman said, and her smile widened to display beautiful teeth. “Of course. We usually only do the official tours twice a week, but things are slow today. Welcome to Tamarind, Ms. Tyler. I’m Mrs. MacArthur.”

  MacArthur. Karen froze, staring at the woman, remembering the voice on the phone yesterday mentioning this very name. But there was no time to think about that now; Mrs. MacArthur was already moving away, leading her guest over to the veranda. Karen had no choice but to follow.

  —

  From Virgin Cop: My Life with the VIPD by Joshua L. Faison (Random House, 1982)

  The house is situated high on a hill that is part of a jutting point of land called Bakkeroe, at the extreme eastern edge of the harbor of Charlotte Amalie. The hilltop is some five hundred feet back from the water, and there are several luxury homes on the point below the mansion. These houses are new; they were not there at the time of the incident. Behind Bakkeroe, Flag Hill rises up toward the center of the island, dotted with more gracious residences of recent construction. Down the hill to the west is the section of the island known as Havensight, where the West India Company docks are now used for cruise ships. To the east lies the next point of land, which was then the site of the Flamboyant Hotel, later torn down to make way for the current Frenchman’s Reef. The docks and the hotel are far removed from the Harper house. In 1959, Tamarind commanded its rise in splendid isolation.

  The eponymous trees are massive and heavy with fruit, lining the drive and surrounding the residence. This is a dark red stone-and-brick, two-story house, a classic plantation manor with spacious rooms and white-shuttered double doors and windows opening out onto the teak veranda at the front and sides. Flagstone patios ring the veranda, and the green lawns roll away down the hill to the forest on all four sides. Behind the main building is a long stone structure that once housed some of the plantation’s slaves. There is evidence, among the trees and flowering bushes nearby, of the foundations of several other slave quarters, which were torn down long ago. Beyond them is a path leading down through the forest to a private cove….

  —

  Karen Tyler was on the veranda with Mrs. MacArthur, and the guy tailing her was in his car on the other side of the parking lot. The big man in the Land Rover nodded to himself, then spoke into his headset. “She’s here, just like you said.”

  “And the young man?”

  “Yup. Him, too. You were right about both of them.”

  A short laugh. “Of course I was. Have you found out any more about him?”

  “Yup. I did a little recon at the hotel earlier. I’ll fill you in tonight.”

  “Excellent. Will you continue to follow them?”

  “Nope. We know what she and MacArthur are talking about, and the guy isn’t doing anything interesting. I’m going back to the hotel for a little more background.”

  “You must tell me all about it when you get back.” Another laugh. “It’s rather exciting, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so. Gotta move. The guy’s looking over here.”

  “Very well. See you soon.”

  “Yup.”

  With a last glance at the two women on the veranda, the big man steered the Rover down the drive to the main road.

  —

  From Virgin Cop: My Life with the VIPD by Joshua L. Faison (Random House, 1982)

  For most of the eighteenth century and half of the nineteenth, this beautiful manor was the home of Lars Friedrich and his descendants, the owners of the Friedrich Sugar empire. Their famous brand ended upon the abolition of slavery in 1848, mainly because the Friedrichs couldn’t continue their business once they actually had to pay planters, reapers, dryers, muleteers, grinders, packagers, and carters in their cane fields on St. Croix a true living wage. The family fortune was lost, and the house with it. It was sold to the West India Company in 1863, and they stationed executives in it until 1937, when it was sold again, to a young Harvard graduate new to the island, Tobias Harper. He brought his Boston bride, Lucinda, to live there, and the couple soon had two sons: Tobias, Jr., and Rodney.

  The stage was set for the tragedy.

  —

  “I have a prepared speech about the history of the house,” Mrs. MacArthur was saying as she sank down into a rattan armchair on the well-worn teak porch, “but let’s sit here a moment. Those kids just wear me out. Besides, if you’re the journalist who wrote that article in Visions, you probably know more about the place than I could tell you.”

  Karen sat in an identical chair facing the woman. “Oh, I know the history, but I wanted to get a feel for it.”

  “Yes,” the other woman said. “The photos and descriptions never quite do it justice. You have to experience Tamarind for yourself. We couldn’t let the film people in, of course, not with the children here. The house they used in the movie is on another part of the island. But we let the designers look around so they could re-create it for the film, and, later, the director and actors were here for an afternoon. I must say, those two boys they found to be Rodney and Wulf are the spitting images. To tell you the truth, I was glad
when they left.”

  Karen pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. “Did you know them—I mean Rodney and Wulf?”

  Mrs. MacArthur laughed, the deep, hearty laugh of women of the Islands. “Oh, my dear, they were way before my time! I wasn’t even born when it happened—well, only just born.”

  “What do you do here now?” Karen asked. “What is the Tamarind Home, exactly?”

  “It’s a temporary residence.” Mrs. MacArthur waved an arm, indicating the activity on the lawn. “They look happy from here, don’t they? So…normal. But every one of these kids is here for a sad reason. Violent homes, abuse, scrapes with the law. That big boy there, the pitcher—that’s Terry. He’s our oldest at the moment, fifteen. Drugs. He was stealing for them; a security guard caught him breaking into a shop downtown. The judge agreed to send Terry here, to us, instead of juvenile detention or a reform school.”

  Karen was writing all this down. “Ironic, isn’t it? I mean, when you consider what happened here…”

  “Yes,” the woman said, watching the game. “When we were looking for a place to set up our program, this was available. No one had lived here for years, not since it happened. Rodney Harper’s older brother owned it, but he’d moved to Boston. He sold it to us twelve years ago, a few months before he died. He came down here to close the sale, and I met him. He looked just like Rodney, only he had dark eyes, not those blue ones Rodney had, and he had a beard. Such a sad man, and—well, I think he might have been, you know, drunk. At eleven in the morning. When I told him my plans to make it a group home for kids, I think he was relieved. He said the place was haunted.” Mrs. MacArthur turned to face Karen. “It is, you know. I feel it. Evil was done in this house, and it’s as though the house has held on to some of it. You can never get rid of evil; all you can do is push it away from you. That may be what we’re doing with these children, pushing away the evil of those two boys. As much as we can, anyway. I’m not a fanciful type, Ms. Tyler, but sometimes I feel we’re being watched.”

  Karen suppressed a shudder, thinking of her own phantom, but managed to smile. “By Rodney and Wulf?”

  Mrs. MacArthur shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is the dead who are still here, watching us. Hjordis Anderman—you’re sitting exactly where she was killed.”

  Karen blinked. In spite of herself, she quickly stood up from the rattan chair, nearly overturning it.

  “Well, it isn’t the same chair,” Mrs. MacArthur said, laughing. “All this is new, of course. And inside, the house is completely different. Bunk beds, mostly. If we get any bigger, we’re going to need another place. But tell me, Ms. Tyler, why are you really here? In St. Thomas, I mean. There’s already so much that’s been written about the case.”

  Karen thought about it for a moment before deciding to tell the truth and see where it would lead.

  “I was invited here,” she said carefully, “by a man I’ve never met. He wants to discuss the case. He says he has new information about it. In fact, he told me to say hello to you, Mrs. MacArthur, and I’m wondering if you know who he is. I think he might be one of them, Rodney or Wulf.” She watched the woman’s eyes as she added, “Is he?”

  Mrs. MacArthur shook her head in bewilderment. “He told you to say hello to me? How strange! I don’t know who that could be, but I don’t think it could be one of those boys.”

  “Why not?” Karen asked.

  Mrs. MacArthur laughed again. “Because I’ve never met either of them. How could I? I’ve lived here in St. Thomas all my life.”

  Karen nodded. “You’re referring to the judge’s ruling when he sentenced Harper and Anderman.”

  Mrs. MacArthur nodded. “Exactly. The court’s terms were very clear. I don’t know where those boys are now, or even if they’re still alive. Does anyone? Even so, I doubt the man who contacted you is one of them. They’re not allowed here.”

  With that, she rose and led Karen inside to show her around the house. This once-gracious home was now an institution, and it looked like one. Whatever ghosts still clung to the veranda or crouched among the tamarind trees outside, they no longer penetrated the walls and shuttered windows of the house itself. Even as Karen stood in the center of what had once been Rodney Harper’s bedroom, gazing around at the delightful clutter of four young male occupants, she felt no vibrations, no residue of the former tenants and their terrible history. She thanked Mrs. MacArthur, made a generous donation with her Visions magazine employee credit card, and went back outside, grinning in anticipation of Sally Cohen’s probable reaction when she saw that particular item on Karen’s next expense report.

  The Whiffle Ball game was breaking up as she headed for the parking lot, and the overheated players swarmed past her on their way indoors. She smiled at them, inwardly marveling at the contrast, the positive energy that had replaced the shadows. These beautiful children were just what this place needed. Still, all the way back to the hotel Karen thought about Mrs. MacArthur’s final words on the subject of Harper and Anderman.

  “They’re not allowed here.”

  —

  From the decision of the Hon. Lincoln Sinclair, People v. Harper and Anderman, St. Thomas Municipal Court, Thursday, April 16, 1959

  “…to be taken to separate places of incarceration in the mainland United States as expediently as arrangements can be made. They shall be monitored regularly by the authorities of those institutions, who will determine their paroles or releases. Furthermore, I hereby order one condition to be enforced upon their release, at such time as is deemed fit: that Rodney Harper and Wulfgar Anderman shall never return to the United States Virgin Islands in their lifetimes. Failure to comply with this will result in their immediate arrest….”

  —

  Molly knew Mr. Huxley wasn’t supposed to be here, which is why she was here instead. She didn’t care for all the extra work in this heat, but she was too frightened of her husband’s friend to say anything about it. She didn’t like Mr. Huxley, but she knew better than to complain. Molly would be glad when she was off these islands, back in the States.

  She trudged through the supermarket in the Red Hook section of St. Thomas, wearily pushing the cart along the aisles. The tiny native boatman, a silent phantom known as Gabby, followed behind her. He’d help her carry the bags to the boat for the trip back to the house. He hadn’t spoken to her once since they’d left the boat. Not that she was surprised—nobody ever spoke to Molly except her husband, and he never had anything pleasant to say. She may have lost her looks and gained a few pounds in the long years back in the States, waiting for her husband’s release, and her once-red hair was now a dull gray, but Molly would give anything for a kind word.

  She pulled the crumpled grocery list from the pocket of her faded sundress and consulted it. Enough for three days, he’d said. He’d been very specific about that, and he was her husband’s friend and her employer, so she hadn’t said a word. Not that she ever did; the man terrified her. So, all she knew was that there’d be a guest in the house for three days.

  A guest. A young woman—that’s all Molly’s husband would tell her. Some sort of journalist. Molly hardly thought the woman would be a romantic conquest, because Mr. Huxley was apparently uninterested in such things. She’d wondered why a journalist would want to see him, but she’d been careful not to ask her husband about it. She didn’t want to make him mad. And she wouldn’t ask the young woman when she arrived, either. Her husband had warned her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to speak to the woman. She was to remain silent at all times. So, she’d dutifully made up the guest bedroom and set out towels and soap in the bathroom. She cleaned and cooked and served and kept her mouth shut; that was her glamorous new job.

  Well, it was better than other jobs she’d had in her day. She’d been a motel chambermaid, a supermarket checker, and a cleaning woman back in the States, so this tropical housekeeping stint was an improvement. No snow, at least—the stateside winters could be brutal for a woman on the far side of
fifty who couldn’t afford to heat the rented rooms and trailers that had been her homes. Her son, her only child, had run away fifteen years ago, just after his sixteenth birthday. She hadn’t heard from him since, but she’d heard from others that he was now doing time for armed robbery, and the news hadn’t surprised her. Like father, like son…

  Molly scanned her shopping list, scratching at a mosquito bite on her plump shoulder under the sundress. Gabby waited patiently behind her. God, he could get on her nerves! But her husband and her employer found the boatman useful, so she mustn’t say anything about that, either. Eggs—she’d forgotten to get eggs. She grabbed two cartons, added them to the top of the pile, and trudged to the checkout.

  The groceries filled eight bags and were expensive, twice as expensive as back home in the States. She pulled from her pocket the wad of cash she’d been given. The native girl behind the register frowned at the bills, as well she might. Molly knew from her own experience that credit was a lot easier for the checker when counting out at the end of a shift. But Mr. Huxley wouldn’t entrust his credit cards to her, so cash it was.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled to the girl, who shrugged and made change. Then Molly hoisted four of the overstuffed plastic bags and left the rest for Gabby. Gabby—what a name! Some sort of in-joke, obviously—the man never spoke if he could possibly avoid it. Without a word, he picked up the remaining bags and trailed her out of the supermarket.

  After the chill of the air-conditioned store, the intense heat struck Molly like a blow. Before they’d made it across the parking lot, her back was throbbing and sweat was pouring down her body. Even so, she quickened her pace. She must get the meat, milk, and ice cream into the boat’s refrigerator. She knew how her husband would react if the groceries were spoiled.

  God, she hated the heat! And the mosquitoes. And the long boat rides back and forth. She hated the house where she worked, especially the cramped downstairs rooms near the kitchen, where she and her husband lived. Most of all, she hated her employer—well, she didn’t hate him so much as fear him. In her life, Molly had learned to spot evil a mile away in a snowstorm.