I asked, “Do you bring everything with you to the island?”
“Stores, you mean? Yes, pretty much. We have supplies shipped in, especially diesel fuel and stuff like that. But we’re a ship, so we might as well bring it.”
“What about staff? Does anyone stay here on the island?”
“Most of the service staff will come off the ship. This isn’t a day off for crew. But there is also a cleanup team that will follow up after we leave tonight. They get the place shipshape for our next vessel. They get shuttled back to Great Harbour Cay. I assume most of them live there.”
“And then the island is left empty?”
“No. There is a skeleton team of caretakers who live here full time.”
“Where?”
“There are staff accommodations on the interior of the island. Come down and I’ll show you both.”
We followed him down to deck two and across the I-95 corridor to where the gangway led off the ship. We checked through security and walked down the dock to the island. One side was full of rocks that didn’t look inviting at all. The other side began the promenade. As we'd seen from the boat, palm trees lined the walkway along the beach, and on the land side we found a range of buildings. They were designed to look like Caribbean plantation buildings, painted in blues and pinks and yellows, and which boasted a range of stores that sold pretty much the same crap that was available on the ship. There was a buffet and a restaurant with a balcony overlooking the beach and the ship. I imagined it would be like eating at the Port of Palm Beach.
Army pointed to a gate between the restaurant and a store selling sunscreen and cheaply made, but not cheaply priced, sunglasses. Beyond the gate was a path.
“That’s the service area. The track runs behind all the stores, and then into the interior where the staff quarters, storehouses and utilities are.”
“I don’t see anything,” I said.
“That’s the point. The trees hide it all. It’s supposed to be a deserted island paradise.”
“With mojitos. So how far back are the buildings?”
“Maybe five hundred yards.”
“And the other side of the island?”
“If you cut through the middle? Maybe another five hundred yards.”
“Can passengers go over there?”
“No. There’s no guest access through the gate, and it’s not really possible to get around the island via the shore.”
“It’s not?” asked Danielle.
“No. You have the main beach here. Then further down there’s a breakwater and beyond that the adults-only beach. Then there’s a rocky outcrop like on the other side of the dock. You could swim around it, I suppose, but you couldn’t walk it very easily.”
I looked across the beach. People were lying back on loungers and beach towels. A group played volleyball. Some folks swam in the clear water. I turned my eye to the tiki bar. It called to me. I wasn’t the first person it had called. I saw Ron Bennett’s silver mane at the bar, so I wandered over.
“It’s early, even for you,” I said.
Ron smiled. “It’s five o’clock in Kiev.”
“If you say so.”
“But sadly it’s just orange juice.”
“Lady Cassandra got you on the short leash?”
“Actually, I was waiting for you. In case you needed me.”
“We’re keeping you away from this one, remember?”
“I’m open today.”
“Where is your lovely fiancée?” I asked.
“She’s having a spa day with some friends. Not much of a beachgoer.”
I shrugged. I didn’t understand why people who didn’t love the beach lived anywhere in South Florida, let alone in a place called Palm Beach.
“You find Guy X?”
“Sort of,” I said. I explained what had happened to Frederick and how I had ended up in the water with him.
“I take it you’re okay,” he said.
“Still intact. But we haven’t seen him get off the ship, so we’re square one with that. Plus we have no idea about the rings. Security has searched everyone but no dice.”
“You want me to watch the comings and goings on the ship?”
“You look pretty happy here, my friend.”
“I could set up a lounge chair under an umbrella at that end of the beach and see everyone coming off the end of the dock.”
I looked at Army.
“Can’t hurt,” he said. “I’ll get guest services to set it up.”
Ron slid off his stool.
“Thanks, Ron,” I said.
“No problem,” he said. “Just let me turn this orange juice into a mimosa and I’ll get right there. What will you do?”
“I’m going to take a look around the island.”
Chapter Twenty
Danielle and I took a walk. We wandered along the beach with the water lapping at our bare feet. The ocean was warmer than it had felt the previous evening but that might have had something to do with the visuals. The scene wasn’t dark and foreboding now. It was glorious and sunny and inviting. All the reasons I lived in this part of the world. Swimmers were bobbing in the gentle waters. Another couple played Frisbee. There were fewer kids than we normally saw at the beach, but I figured a Super Bowl cruise wasn’t the most kid-relevant event. We walked to the end of the beach, where large rocks concealed a concrete breakwater.
We made our way back up onto the promenade and around the breakwater that seemed to serve no other purpose than to separate the beach into two. On the far side of the beach was more of the same. More sand, more folks lying around, more shops selling trinkets and food and drinks. This was the adults-only beach. A place for the adults to get away from all the screaming kids. Instead of kids, there was a DJ whose large speakers blasted music that I didn’t recognize. Instead of a tranquil scene, it sounded like a nightclub, a heavy beat and deep bass. It wasn’t Jimmy Buffett. It wasn’t even Kenny Chesney. It brought on the beginnings of a headache.
We picked up our pace along the promenade to get away from the music. Though it was still early, the bars were doing gangbusters on this section of the beach. We passed another bar that was playing steel drum music, which was at least a little more appropriate. Then we reached the end of the road.
The promenade stopped at a dead end of wild grasses and shrubs, and the beach turned into another rocky outcrop. I figured a motivated person could get through, but they would probably want the use of a machete. We turned and walked back, past the bars and the music that wasn’t, and around the breakwater and back to the main beach.
We stopped by the gate Army had shown us earlier. It was locked and required a keycard. But this wasn’t Disney World. Getting backstage there was close to impossible. Here, we retreated past the store with the sunglasses and down the side and pushed through the palm fronds to a small fence, which we stepped over, onto the service track behind the stores.
The back sides of the buildings weren't painted in the same bright colors. Instead, they were a military-looking gray. We followed the path as it broke inland, where there was a stretch of dirt track surrounded by palms and shrubs. Within two minutes we couldn’t even hear the activity on the beach.
A couple minutes more saw us in front of another gray structure, giving off the signature hum of a utility building. We kept going until we found another couple of buildings in the same plantation style, though these were painted white, with rocking chairs on the verandas.
“Staff accommodations,” Danielle said.
I nodded.
We kept going and came upon several electric carts like the greenskeepers used on golf courses. They were parked against the trees where the service track came to an end. Beyond the carts the track became one person wide path as it cut further into the vegetation. Danielle took the lead. We walked for another five minutes through a tunnel of trees and bushes and grasses, as the path became sand.
Then the path ended at another beach. It was long and gloriou
s and covered in seaweed and kelp. Clearly not maintained like the beach on the other side. There were no people. There was no music. The only sound was of the breeze in the tall grasses. I saw Lucas’s point about it having once been a paradise. I could have sat down in the sand with Danielle and watched nothing happen for the rest of the day.
But I didn’t. I cast my eye out to the ocean. About five hundred yards offshore, I could make out the outline of a boat. It was low in the water and hard to spot, and it wasn’t moving. I took out the comms device and typed in we’re on beach. I waited for a response but didn’t get one. We watched for a few minutes more, taking in deep breaths of fresh ocean air. I recalled something about the fact that negative ions from ocean waves make you feel happy. I couldn’t argue. I felt pretty happy.
Danielle and I looked at each other and smiled and then started back toward the sand path. Then the comms device pinged.
“What does it say?” Danielle asked.
“Lucas is out there. He just caught a big wahoo.”
“Of course.”
The device dinged again.
“What now?”
I typed a response. “He asked if anything was happening. I said no.”
The device pinged a third time. I nodded.
Danielle said again, “What?”
“He says to wait. The animals feed at sundown.”
We left the beach and ambled back through the middle of the island. It was hot out of the breeze. We still didn’t see any staff but assumed they were all working in the shops and bars. We returned through the gate to the promenade. Danielle took a bench on the promenade and watched the view while I wandered down the beach to where Ron acted as sentry. He was kicked back in his chair, the umbrella offering nice shade. A mimosa in a plastic cup was nestled in the cup holder on the chair arm. But despite appearances, Ron was vigilantly watching the comings and goings on the dock.
I stood in his shade. “Anything?”
He turned slightly back toward the promenade and pointed. Anastasia Connors drifted between the palms. She was in a long yellow summer dress and wore the kind of visor favored by lady tennis players and football coach Jon Gruden.
“Guy X?” I asked.
Not yet, but if she’s here . . .”
“Keep at it, Kemosabe.”
“Nothing’ll get by me.” He sipped his drink and I strode up the beach toward Anastasia. I dropped in behind her. She walked slowly but with purpose, like wherever she was going was important but not time sensitive. Then she spotted Danielle sitting on the bench.
“Ms. Castle,” she said.
“Mrs. Connors,” Danielle said, standing. I stopped behind Anastasia.
“Enjoying your day?” she said like she really, genuinely, didn’t care about the answer but social convention demanded it be asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Danielle said.
“It’s debauchery with skin cancer.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Connors,” I said.
She spun around like I had startled her.
“Where there’s one there’s the other,” she said.
“How are you this morning?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
“How’s Frederick? Not with you?”
“Frederick is remaining in our suite. He doesn’t feel up to being out today.”
I nodded. “I would have thought he would be eager to feel terra firma.”
“He needs rest. I’ve ensured he’s getting it. But my question to you is, what are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I would have thought that given you’ve lost the jewelry you were paid to protect you would be out looking for it, rather than spending the day at the beach.”
“I am looking for it.”
“Really.”
“Yes, ma’am. This is where the people are.”
“You think someone will be wearing one of my rings on the beach?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“My goodness, you are even worse at your job than I gave you credit for. You will be lucky to have any kind of business left after I’m finished with you.”
“Mrs. Connors—”
“Don’t Mrs. Connors me. Get your tail back on that ship and find my jewels.”
I really wanted to set her straight. I wanted to tell her that not only was I not responsible for her rings going missing but it wasn’t actually my job to find them. I wanted to let her have it. But I didn’t. For once, like some kind of tropical miracle, I managed to stop my mouth going off before my brain had time to engage. She was on the island. Frederick was not. She had said that Frederick would rest comfortably on the ship. And how does a man who hates water and has recently almost drowned in the ocean rest comfortably on a ship? With serious pharmaceutical assistance, that’s how. If I were a betting man and I had those three pieces of information, I would be laying my money on Guy X coming onto the island. And Guy X was what I was getting paid for. So I bit my lip.
I glanced at Danielle. She nodded. She knew. She gets me. Then I looked at Anastasia and gave her my best contrite schoolboy look.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and I turned away and walked back toward the ship.
Except I didn’t get to the ship. I left Anastasia to do whatever she was going to do, up to and including catching up with Guy X. Danielle would keep her eye on Mrs. Connors.
I wandered down the beach parallel to the boardwalk and came upon four young guys lying back on lounge chairs. There were lots of young guys on the beach. Most of the older men were in the restaurant or had stayed aboard the ship, so the crowd on the beach skewed young. So I was of a mind to pay them no attention. Except for one thing. They seemed to be paying close attention to me.
I glanced toward the water to see if there was some young girl who was the real object of their interest, but I found no such person. I looked back to confirm. I was sure. They were watching me. So I did what I do on such occasions.
I cut up the beach toward where the guys lay. I’m always curious when people are looking at me with the focus of a chess champion. Sometimes it’s because I’ve left my fly open. Sometimes they recognize me from my ball-playing days. It happens. I wasn’t that famous. More famous than the guy who runs the local used car outlet with the late-night television ads, less famous that the local weather girl. But on a ship full of sports-associated people, there were bound to be a few minor league baseball fans.
But these guys weren’t baseball fans. Baseball fans slap each other’s shoulders as I approach and say things like it’s him. These guys didn’t. They just watched. As I got closer, I noticed that each of them had a can of beer pushed into the sand beside them. As I got closer still I realized why they were looking at me. And it wasn’t my fly. They knew me. And I knew them.
It was the Cleveland Browns boys. The times I had run into them before—in the Hall of Fame, at BJ’s speech and on the forward deck—they had been wearing their Browns jerseys and no ball caps. I hadn’t recognized them this time because they wore ball caps and no shirts at all. They were each tanned somewhere on the spectrum between polar bear white and shrimp pink. I had no desire to get into anything with them again. I had a job to do. But now I had made a beeline for them, so I couldn’t just turn away. That might provoke them.
So I kept going but changed my angle slightly so I would end up walking past at a respectful distance. Not that I respected them. I didn’t. But young turks like them care about things like that. I was going to keep on walking when I looked at the first guy’s face. He was the ring leader, the one who kept trying to throw his beer at both BJ Baker’s Heisman and then later at BJ himself. I couldn’t help notice that below his ball cap the guy had two black eyes. One was really nasty—truly black—like he’d run into a pole at speed. The other eye looked less bruised, more a purple or violet. He had a plaster tape on his nose.
“What happened to your face?” I asked before I thought not to.
“You’re
a funny guy.”
“Sometimes, it’s true. But seriously.”
“What do you want, man?”
Then I noticed something. There was no bravado about them. Maybe they hadn’t yet had their fill of beer. Bravado and beer are allies in the dumbass army. But what had been there on our two previous meetings was gone. The ringleader wasn’t happy to see me but he wasn’t going to do anything about it. His buddies weren’t similarly marked up, so I figured the idiot had tripped on his own feet and face-planted the deck. Ship decks were unforgiving that way. Now he was semi-sober and sheepish about it.
“Just enjoying the beach. You guys?”
“It’s all right.”
“Well, stay out of trouble.”
“Yeah, whatever. Run back to BJ, now.”
I made to move away but stopped. I had a nagging question. One of those questions that won’t keep you up at night, but can get in your craw a little all the same.
“Say, what is your beef with BJ Baker anyway?”
The guy made to snarl but clearly his face hurt when he did it.
“Being a scumbag isn’t enough?”
“No, it’s enough. And he certainly is a scumbag.”
“Tough man dissing his boss when he’s not around.”
“Whose boss?”
“Yours.”
“Sorry, kid. Wrong tree. I don’t work for BJ Baker, and I doubt I ever will.”
“So why’d you give us grief.”
“I gave you grief?”
“You stopped me in the room, with his Heisman. And then you did it again at the speeches.”
“I can assure you it had nothing to do with helping BJ. I stopped you because you were going to destroy property in the one instance, and commit assault in the second, and that really isn’t cool.”
“It isn’t cool? Really.”
“Really. So I ask again. What exactly is your problem with BJ? And don’t say scumbag. Most people think he’s a scumbag, but few of them try to throw a beer can at him.”
“He is a scumbag. He’s a lowlife and a backstabber and he doesn’t think about anyone but the mighty BJ Baker himself.”
Cruise Control Page 13
