by Junie Coffey
“Stupid bird,” he muttered. He saw Nina and sat down beside her in a deep club chair. He leaned back, crossed one knee over the other, draped his hands over the armrests, and surveyed her for a moment before he spoke.
“Well, Mademoiselle Spark. Quite a morning. How are you managing?” he said. His concern was unexpected. She’d thought he would be at least annoyed at the police tape festooning the shrubbery at one end of the hotel beach.
“Michel, I’m so sorry for the disruption. I hope your other guests are not too upset by what’s happened,” Nina said.
“My dear mademoiselle, unless you poisoned Monsieur Putzel, you have nothing for which to apologize. In the past, I’ve paid for a troupe of actors to stage something called a murder-mystery weekend, primarily to entertain our resident expatriate clientele. The natives get restless after several months of golf and cocktails. They begin to act out—scandalous wagers on the weekly crab races, a surge in clandestine rendezvous in our upstairs guest rooms, entrées sent back to the kitchen for no reason other than our patrons are craving a little drama. Some distraction. Now that the professor is making a good recovery, I’ll admit that I much prefer the real thing. In fact, I should thank you again for the honor of hosting your conference. The phone is ringing off the hook for dinner reservations this evening.” Michel smiled mildly.
“Well, thank you for your understanding,” said Nina uncertainly. She paused and then asked, “Michel, can you tell me what time Philip ordered room service?”
Michel smiled. “Ah, Mademoiselle Spark, has your previous success encouraged you to change careers and become an investigator? Bien. Deputy Superintendent Roker has also asked me these questions, but I will play along. Monsieur Putzel called for room service at ten thirty. The kitchen tells me that a plate of seafood and spinach tartlets, two slices of guava cheesecake, and a bottle of rosé were delivered to his bungalow at ten fifty. The professor was in the shower, so the waiter left the tray on the table and departed.”
“Is there any chance the food was accidentally contaminated with shellfish? By a knife used to prepare two different orders, perhaps?” Nina asked.
“I would not let Chef Dionne hear such suggestions. He prides himself on running a hygienic, well-regimented kitchen. As I told the police, no chance at all. Monsieur Putzel took great pains to emphasize his allergy to shellfish when he placed his order.”
So, someone entered Philip’s room and tampered with the food sometime after it was delivered, hid and watched or came back later, and dragged the unexpectedly alive but unconscious Philip into the water, hoping to drown him—although he’d only ended up with an awful sunburn. It must have all happened before one o’clock, when Bridget said she saw tracks in the sand. But who would have done this?
“Is that all, Ms. Spark?” asked Michel, preparing to stand.
“Yes, I guess so. Thank you, Michel,” said Nina.
“Not at all,” he said. “My pleasure. I shall be interested to see if it is the deputy superintendent or yourself who captures the villain this time. Even innkeepers need their amusements. Bonne journée, mademoiselle. Do take care.” Michel nodded to her, then strolled leisurely across the lobby and into the dining room.
Victor breezed through the side door shortly after Michel left, looking much better than he had when Nina first arrived—freshly shaven and dressed in a cool white-linen shirt and gray trousers.
“Let’s have our coffee out on the front veranda, Victor. I find the view of the ocean and the sound of the waves soothing, and I, for one, could use a bit of that right now,” said Nina.
They went through the open French doors onto the veranda. The sea at the foot of the lawn was sparkling in the sunlight. Some guests were playing croquet on the grass, chatting normally as they whacked the wooden balls through the hoops. A few other guests were ensconced in the comfortable wicker rocking chairs facing the water, reading or chatting over post-lunch frosty drinks in highball glasses. Things seemed to be returning to normal, at least on the surface, after the morning’s shocking discovery. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the conference attendees who knew Philip only slightly, if at all, were finding things to do on their unexpectedly free day at a lovely inn on a beautiful tropical island. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for Philip. Life was strange.
“There’s Sylvia, back from her adventures,” said Victor. “Shall we join her?”
Sylvia was at the far end of the veranda reading a newspaper, with a cup of coffee on the railing beside her. She was dressed in tennis whites. She looked up as Nina and Victor approached.
“Well, hello, Nina. Victor. What a spectacular day. I think I’m going to take a tennis lesson this afternoon, perhaps get a massage, and then lie on the beach with a good book before the four o’clock session. Won’t you join me for coffee?” She smiled broadly and gestured for them to sit in the chairs facing her. She raised her hand to attract the attention of a waiter.
Sylvia doesn’t seem too shaken by the recent attempted murder of her ex-husband, thought Nina. Then again, Sylvia was always a cool customer, not given to flagrant displays of emotion. Nina sank down into the thickly cushioned seat, breathing in the fresh sea air and the setting.
“Well, Sylvia. What do you make of it?” said Victor as he settled into his chair. “Was it you who tried to off Philip, by any chance?”
Sylvia glanced at him and tsk-tsked. She lit a cigarette and took a long draw, exhaling slowly through her nose before replying.
“Victor. Always so refreshingly direct. Generally a quality I admire in a man. Deputy Superintendent Roker asked me more or less the same thing in a similarly direct manner. A very impressive man. Such extraordinary eyes. If anyone has reason to wish Philip dead, it’s me,” she said. She drew on her cigarette again, blowing a delicate puff of smoke toward the croquet players.
“I had two small children at home. I put my career on hold when they were born, taking piecemeal work here and there to make ends meet while Philip finished school and then got a job at the university, whining all the time about how busy he was, how stressful his work was. He was advancing in his career, making a name for himself while I changed diapers and drove carpool. Then the bastard left me with two kids for one of his doe-eyed adoring students. Not the one he’s with now. What a pathetic cliché.” Sylvia shook her head slowly.
“That poor deluded girl. Of course, she ended up the same way. He left her for the next adoring student. Now he has a baby with that one. I bet she doesn’t think it’s so glamorous now, being the wife of the great Philip Putzel, stuck at home with a crying baby while he swans off to the Caribbean. That man cares about nothing but himself. His great contribution to humankind is in finding more things for doting doggie parents to spend their money on. Guest rooms for dogs in five-star hotels. Room service for animals on holiday. He wrote an article last year on the growing market for swimming pools for dogs. I mean, really. When we met, at least he was doing real research.” Sylvia sniffed derisively.
“I guess you’re more of a cat person, am I right, Sylvia? I guess I should have known that. You have some very feline qualities,” said Victor.
Sylvia ignored his comment.
“Of course, I’m sorry about what’s happened,” she said in a more measured tone. “However, as I told the dashing deputy superintendent, I didn’t try to kill Philip. If I were going to do it, I would have done it years ago while he snored next to me in bed having rolled in from some faculty party with booze on his breath, hours after the children had gone to bed. No, I picked myself up, finished school, and got on with it. The children are now thriving, no thanks to him. Maria’s a pediatrician, and Sally is a white-water rafting guide in Colorado, of all things. I’m very proud of them.”
Nina admired Sylvia, but she couldn’t help thinking that Sylvia’s expensive education and help from family had given her a boost that others in her situation might not have had.
Sylvia stubbed her cigarette out in a saucer.
“I hear it was s
hellfish,” she said. “That’d be the way to do it. Philip’s highly allergic to shellfish. He also finds it hard to resist both a tasty morsel and a compliment. Slip some lobster or crab into a plate of delicacies, deliver it to him on a silver tray, and perhaps tell him that it comes with the compliments of the chef because the hotel is so honored to have him as a guest. He would scoff it right down and be dead in minutes. He had a lucky escape, I’d say.”
So, Philip’s attacker must have been someone who knew about his allergy, thought Nina. Sylvia knew, because she had been married to him. Victor might have known because he and Philip were at college together, maybe living in the same student residence all those years ago. Bridget probably knew because she’d have made arrangements for Philip many times by now. It was unlikely, though not impossible, that Razor knew. But maybe the shellfish was just an accident. Philip ate something he shouldn’t have, then a burglar discovered him behind the bed and dragged him outside for some reason. None of it made much sense. Lots of people found Philip extremely obnoxious, but why bother killing him?
Nina stood, and Victor got to his feet as well.
“I’ve got to get going and help Bridget reorganize a few things,” she said. “Tomorrow morning we had planned for excursions, anyway, so Philip has some time to rest up. See you later.”
“All right, Nina, darling. Have a great day. You are doing a fantastic job. Top-notch. This place is gorgeous. I might just sell my apartment in Old Town and move here myself,” said Sylvia. She laughed at the absurdity of the idea and waved her fingers in parting.
“Righto, Nina. Adieu,” said Victor. He sat back down to finish his coffee as Nina made her way down the steps and around the side of the inn to the driveway. As she walked, she passed a constable interviewing a couple on the lawn, notebook at the ready. He’ll be talking to every single guest today, Nina thought. She looked around for Blue, but he was nowhere to be seen. Feeling the effects of her late night and early morning, Nina decided to go home and take a nap before the afternoon session. She’d catch up with Bridget a bit later.
The afternoon’s presentations, if a bit dull, at least went off without a hitch after the tech guy came in and fixed the overhead projector, which had been working only minutes before the room filled with delegates. Nina had supper with Victor, then made her excuses and headed home as he wandered into the bar where a few people were gathered.
Nina glanced over at Les’s house as she pushed open the gate in her waist-high white picket fence. His house was dark.
Where is he? she wondered. He hadn’t gone out at all in the past two weeks since they’d met. His bungalow was usually ablaze with light until midnight. She shrugged and went inside. One mystery at a time. She shucked off her clothes, had a nice warm shower, and went to bed early. Her last conscious thought was to wonder what Ted was up to that night.
7
It was a beautiful morning on Pineapple Cay. A rooster crowed in the distance as Nina stood on the gravel drive in front of the Plantation Inn. She and Josie had organized a choice of excursions for the conference delegates for the day, and she watched as several white vans pulled away. Some guests were headed for the dive shop and a day of snorkeling, while others were going to the museum and on a historical walking tour of Coconut Cove. A final group was on an island sightseeing tour with stops at the brewery, the rum distillery, and a beach bar for lunch. When they had all gone, she turned to head back into the inn—and saw that Razor was sitting on the steps with his backpack beside him, scribbling in the Moleskine notebook he carried everywhere.
“Razor. You didn’t feel like getting out for the day?” she asked.
“I’m totally not into that tourist crap,” he said. “I want to see the authentic Pineapple Cay. Experience the real culture. The yoga instructor here said he’d line up a couple of local guys to show me around.”
“Danish?” asked Nina.
“Yeah. He’s super cool. He’s been here awhile. Knows what’s going on,” said Razor.
“Uh-huh,” said Nina.
Danish came striding across the lawn from the staff quarters near the tennis courts.
“Yo, Razor, man. Are you up for it? The guys are set. They’ll be here pronto. Howdy, Nina. Are you coming with us?” he said.
“I wasn’t planning on it. Didn’t actually know you had arranged this bespoke tour. Where are you taking Razor, dare I ask?”
“A couple of my buddies, Warren and Fuzz, give nature tours in the bush down past Smooth Harbour. They know all about traditional medicine, local plants and animals, stuff like that. Then I thought we’d sample some local cuisine down in Sandy Point before I take my man Razor here to cool down at a hidden beach only the locals know about.”
“Sounds great,” said Razor. “I want to try some real local food. We can skip the beach, though. Is there a factory of some kind here? I want to see the real Pineapple Cay.”
“The real Pineapple Cay is rimmed by white-sand beaches, Razor. The locals swim, too, and fish for a living,” said Nina.
Razor didn’t reply.
Nina considered Danish’s invitation. She could go home, but why not see more of the island? She had only planned to do some housework, and that could wait.
“All right. I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind,” she said. Razor looked like he did mind, but she sat down on the step to wait, anyway. Danish lay down on the grass and put his hat over his face. About a half hour later, a beat-up van with tinted windows rolled up. The doors opened, and two guys with long dreadlocks spilled out, the sweet tang of ganja billowing out with them. They were both wearing soccer jerseys and baggy shorts. A woozy reggae beat seeped out of the van.
“Warren, man. You’re late,” said Danish to the taller of the two.
“Sorry, brother. They were doing pumpkin ravioli and brazed kale with poached pears for dessert on the telly. Must-see TV,” said Warren. He came slowly around the van and heaved open the sliding door, then gestured casually for them to get in.
“All right, y’all. Load ’er up,” said the other guy—Fuzz, apparently. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his eyes bright. He seemed to have energy to burn.
“Guys, this is my man Razor. He wants to see the real Pineapple Cay,” said Danish.
“Respect, brother. Sister,” said Warren, slapping Razor’s hand with his own and letting it fall slowly. “We gonna do that. I’m going to teach you about bush medicine—like what my granny showed me from a baby.”
Razor looked delighted for the first time since he’d arrived on Pineapple Cay. Genuine sort-of Rastafarians.
They all got in the van. Fuzz got in back with Nina and Danish, and Razor rode shotgun beside Warren. They turned right on the main road heading south. They rolled past the row of beach houses lining the shore south of the village, only their roofs and the tops of cabbage palms in their gardens visible from the road. The van wound through the sun-dappled green tunnel of trees.
“Fuzz, man. Roll me a marley,” said Warren from the front seat. Nina’s eyes were already burning from the joint they must have smoked on their way to the inn. She pushed open the window.
“No, no, lady from NYC. Keep the windows tight. It’s too hot out there. We got the AC,” said Fuzz.
Fuzz rummaged around in the back seat of the van and came up with a cookie tin, which he opened carefully on his lap. Inside were the makings of a marley. He proceeded to roll a big fat spliff, lit it, then offered it to Nina.
“No, thank you,” she said. Fuzz held it out to Razor. Razor seemed to hesitate. She could see the wheels turning. The When in Rome principle and building credibility with the local guys versus Midnight Express and ten years in a local jail. He shook his head no.
“No, thanks, man. Never on an empty stomach,” said Danish. Fuzz shrugged, took a drag, and passed it up to Warren.
They turned off the main road onto a narrow rutted track that led into the nature preserve. The van bounced over the potholes. A forest of extremely tall, straight pine
trees with an understory of spiky palmetto palms soon surrounded them. Warren stopped the van, and Nina wrestled the door open as quickly as she could, gulping in the hot, fresh air outside the vehicle. She was beginning to feel a bit buzzed from the secondhand smoke.
“Let’s walk a bit, stretch the legs,” said Warren, heading off down a faint path through the trees. They followed him in single file.
“This here is a pine forest,” said Warren. “Yellow pine. Latin name, Pinus caribaea. Once used as ship masts for the English. The littler ones are palmetto palms; they are dried and used for weaving baskets and mats.”
“Yeah, my granny sells them in the market. I can get you a good deal if you want, man,” Fuzz said to Razor. “You can take one home to your woman. And your mother and your granny and all your sisters.”
“She isn’t your granny, and those baskets you sell are made in China, man,” said Danish. “It says so right on the bottom.” He turned to Razor. “If you want a souvenir to take home, I’ll help you pick one out. Some are genuine, some aren’t.”
Razor stiffened. “I’m a traveler, not a tourist. I’m very accustomed to haggling in the market, but I’m not interested in souvenirs. I’m here for work. But, thank you,” he added, as if remembering that that’s what a polite human would say in that situation.
“OK, whatever you say. Just offering,” said Danish.
Boy, Razor has a lot of sharp edges. Maybe his nickname does suit him, after all, thought Nina.
They kept walking. Gradually, the tall pines thinned out and gave way to scrubby, leafed trees and sand. The trees got shorter and the light got brighter. They emerged onto an empty beach and halted in the shade of a tall palm tree.
“We will start with a refreshing beverage,” said Warren. “Coconut water. Cleans your insides. The yummy mommies and investment bankers stateside all gaga now about coconut water. We been drinking it every day, our whole lives. You sit here, watch the sea, chill, be cool. Good for you.”
