“He de chairman of All-Schools Athletics, so he visit all de trainings. In truth, he wanna see da competition.”
“He’s here to spy on Markus,” I said.
“And one or two udders, yah mon.”
Winston took a few hands and shook them, and was making chitchat, all the time his eyes moving, taking in faces and names and who knew what else. His eyes drifted out from the shelter and crossed mine. He did a double take, perhaps surprised to see white faces at a school athletics training session, or perhaps he had heard that the minions he dispatched to steal Markus’s running shoes had come home a little worse for wear. I gave him a little nod, and his eyes moved along, as he spoke with the men under the canopy.
The coach rearranged the groups of students, and then set up another race. The six boys sorted themselves into lanes, then the coach called and the air horn blasted. The start was slow again, but I must have been getting acclimated to the speed because the race didn’t appear to pick up pace at the halfway point, and by the finish a couple of boys looked like they were almost jogging. The man by the fence clicked his stopwatch and turned to the men.
“E’lemtoo.”
I turned to Garfield.
“Eleven point two,” he said, not taking his eyes off Winston.
I watched the second group that included Markus sort themselves out, then the horn blew and they jumped out of the non-existent blocks. Markus never got out of third gear, and hit the finish in about fourth, give or take. The stopwatch guy called the score.
“E’lemfor.”
“Eleven point four,” said Garfield, without me asking.
“That’s a good second slower, even more for Markus.”
Garfield nodded. He jutted his chin toward the group of men, and I turned to see Winston break away and amble in our direction. He took his sweet time.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said on approach. His voice had that unmistakable Jamaican singsong accent, but he didn’t use the patois.
“I don’t believe so,” I returned.
“Cornelius Winston,” he said, extending his hand.
I took it. He had a strong, lively handshake for a guy who had to be well into his sixties.
“Miami Jones,” I said. “And this is Danielle Castle.”
Winston took Danielle’s hand and bowed his head.
“It is a pleasure, madam.” He stood himself up and smiled. It wasn’t the same smile I’d seen around the place, that unabashed, genuine flash of the pearly whites that seemed close to most Jamaican faces. This one seemed practiced.
“So what brings you folks to our paradise?” he said.
“Exactly that,” I said. “We heard it was paradise.”
“Do you not agree?”
“Oh, I agree. But even Eden had snakes,” I said.
Winston nodded gently.
“We don’t get too many tourists at atletics training.”
“We’re not really resort people,” Danielle chimed in. “We were looking for the real Jamaica.”
“Well, it may not be flash, but this is certainly the real Jamaica. We do love to run.”
“That you do,” she said. “So what brings you down here, Mr. Winston?”
“I am chair of the All-School Athletics Association, you see. We run the Champs. That is the high school athletics championships. Part of my role is visit with each of the schools.”
“Do other schools have a proper running track or are they all like this one?” I asked.
“Just like the United States we have schools with better facilities and worse facilities. I lobby all I can, but ultimately this is a government issue.” He gave me the smile again. “So what is it you do, Mr. Jones?”
“I’m an investigator,” I said. “Danielle is a sheriff.”
He nodded as if this greatly impressed him, which I doubted it did.
“And from where in America do you come?”
“Florida. Palm Beaches.”
“Of course, I have been to Florida many times. A lot of strip malls.”
“That’s for sure. A few beaches too.”
“Well, it is always nice to have such esteemed visitors to our humble little island. In fact, I’m actually having a function this evening, to celebrate the upcoming championships. If you would like to meet some locals, as you say, I would be delighted to invite you.”
“Mr. Winston, that’s awfully kind of you,” said Danielle.
“Not at all, my dear. I suspect you’ll be quite the talk of the evening.” He raised an eyebrow, and if I didn’t know better I’d have said the old guy was flirting with her.
“It sounds like we can’t afford to miss it,” said Danielle.
“Indeed,” he said, making to turn away. “Rose Hall, seven o’clock.” He eyeballed me up and down, giving my shirt a good look. “Dress is nothing too formal. I look forward to seeing you then.”
He nodded his farewell and walked back to his car, where his driver opened the door. I turned to Garfield, whose jaw had settled in the dirt at his feet.
“You going to this party?” I said.
Garfield shook his head. “No, mon. No one I know ever go to Mr. Winston’s party. He’s a rich mon.”
“And yet I don’t feel quite as esteemed as he suggested,” I said.
“You know what they say,” said Danielle. “Keep your friends close.”
I nodded. “And your enemies closer. Say, Garfield, do you know where this place is, this Rose Hall?”
“Yah, mon. I know Rose Hall. Is the home of the White Witch.”
“The White Witch? Well that just sounds like a hoot.”
After training we walked Markus and his friends to school. The school yard was surrounded by a six-foot-high concrete fence, and the guard at the driveway boom gate wasn’t giving us as much as a smile, let alone entry onto the grounds, which made me feel comfortable about leaving Markus for the day.
“Do you work, Garfield?” I asked as we wandered away from the school.
“Yah, mon. Da ganja don buy itself,” he smiled. “I wok at one’a da beach resorts, behind the bar. I don got to be in ’til lunchtime.”
I nodded. He seemed like the kind of chatty guy who would do well behind a bar. I felt my stomach rumble and realized all I’d eaten was some bammy, and I longed for a cool drink.
“So what about this Rose Hall? Is it here in town?”
“Nah, mon. Rose Hall be outta town a bit. You can get a taxi, no problem.”
“Yeah, those taxis are pretty rich. Is there a car rental place around?”
“Yah, mon. But drivin’ in Jamaica not for everyone.”
“I don’t plan on driving across the country.”
“What you want?”
“Just something to get from A to B.”
Garfield thought about this, and then smiled.
“I know just da ting.”
Chapter Seven
“HOW AM I going to do this in a dress?” said Danielle.
“Just hitch it up, missus,” said the guy in the Rasta hat, standing by an old black Yamaha motorcycle. We were in a service garage. A small jeep was up on racks, and the guy in the Rasta hat had been changing the oil when we wandered in. Garfield had offered a series of high fives and fist bumps that looked like the handshake of a secret society, and then told the guy we needed transportation. The Rasta hat had walked us over to the motorcycle. It was about the same age as me, a seventies special, and like me had a classic look that had gone in and out of fashion several times over the years.
Garfield nodded. “Better than a rental car. Nowhere you can’t go on a bike.”
“How much per day?” I said.
The guy shrugged. “It no for rent.”
I turned to Garfield and put my arms out to say what the?
“Nah, mon,” said Garfield. “He be sellin’ it.”
“How much?”
“Two hunnerd,” said the guy.
“US dollars?”
He nodded.
“One hundred.”
The guy laughed like I was Leno, and slapped his thigh. “I like you, mon. Let’s say one-sen’ty five.”
“One-fifty. And some gas.”
“Okay, mon. One-fi’ty. Da tank is full.”
Garfield left us to walk home, and we saddled up and took the coast road back to our hotel. The Rasta hat loaned us two helmets, which I was grateful for when we were nearly sideswiped by a dozen minivans on the ride back. The doorman at the hotel wasn’t too sure what to do with the bike. Most guests never left the resort, and those who did were on tours. We ended up leaving it by a royal palm beside the service road that headed into the resort, and we made for the restaurant. The buffet was over and staff was cleaning up and prepping for the lunch trough, but they were generous enough to find us coffee and bagels. As far as breakfasts go it was more Jamaica, New York, than MoBay, Jamaica, but it filled us up. We spent the rest of the morning lying on loungers on the beach. The bartender at the beach bar asked me to repeat my order three times when I asked for cola without rum, but I wasn’t sure what to expect at Rose Hall, nor what to expect on the ride there, so I elected to keep my wits about me and stick to the soft stuff. In my mind I could see my business partner Ron, back in West Palm Beach, shuddering at his desk, and not knowing why. A bar on the beach with free beer would be Ron’s version of a Field of Dreams.
Danielle disappeared during the afternoon and I wandered the grounds for a while. It really didn’t make sense that we would take on a client while on our vacation, but sometimes downtime helps you learn a little about yourself. I had come to realize that I, and my lovely partner along with me, really didn’t do downtime so well. Sure, an evening on the back patio of my place on Singer Island, watching the sun beat a retreat into the mainland housing estates and the Everglades beyond was my favorite way to end a day. But when leisure was the only point of the day I started to get itchy feet. I thought about this for a while, and when the train of thought petered out, I did the only thing I could think of and went back to our room for a granny nap. When I woke, Danielle was sitting on the balcony, reading a paperback.
“Hey,” I said. “Where’d you disappear to?”
“Just moseying around the boutique. Good snooze?”
“Vacation mode.” I smiled. “I’m just going to go collect Markus from school, make sure everything’s okay. You alright here?”
She looked out from the balcony, across the beach and blue water, as a catamaran glided past.
“I’ll manage for an hour,” she said, offering me a wink.
I took the motorbike from its spot under the palm tree, got smiles and head shakes from the doormen at the resort, and then puttered back into town. I reached the school without event, and was sitting on the bike waiting when Markus appeared out of the gate.
“Where you get dot, mon?”
“A guy can’t walk everywhere. Hop on, I’ll give you a ride.”
Markus smiled wide and took the spare helmet from me. There’s something about teenage boys. They can be surly as hell, but get them on a motorcycle and suddenly you’re Santa. I gave the engine a good rev, attracting plenty of attention, then peeled away and sped down the potholed road toward the Swan home. I left the bike out front and walked in with Markus. His mother was inside, cooking something in that same pot, the smell of ginger and Scotch bonnets permeating the house.
“You’re not going out tonight, right?” I said to Markus, making sure his mother heard me.
“Nah, mon. I got a school project to do.”
I nodded and looked to Mrs. Swan, who gave me a nod in return. I felt comfortable that Markus wouldn’t sneak out without me. Despite my sense that any danger had abated, I was still being paid to do a job, and I also knew that danger had a habit of jumping out of the shadows, just when you thought it had left town.
“I’ve been invited to a function at Rose Hall tonight. By old Mr. Winston.”
I saw both Markus and his mother raise their eyebrows.
“I’d like to check him out, see what he’s about. But I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone. If he’s the one causing you trouble, then he knows I’m helping you, and he might try something while he knows I’m not with you.”
“Mista Winston no try someting in our home,” said Mrs. Swan.
“How can you be sure?”
“Take a look outside,” she said, turning back to her stovetop. I wandered back down the hall and stepped outside. While I’d been delivering Markus inside half a dozen men had appeared in front of the house. They were some of the same men who had been at the impromptu party the night before and had been upset at what had happened to Markus. Now they stood guard out the front of the Swan house. They noticed me and each gave a small nod, which I returned as I checked them over for weapons. I didn’t see anything, which made me feel better. When weapons get introduced into a story, they have a habit of being used. I turned and went back into the kitchen.
“Those guys aren’t armed, are they?” I asked Mrs. Swan.
“Wit what?”
“Anything.”
“Dey not armed. Dey just gonna stand out dare like the Queen’s Guards.” She shook her head like she would never understand the motivations of men. Oddly the thought of the guys standing outside made me feel better.
“Okay, I guess that helps. But it’s still best if Markus stays in tonight.”
Mrs. Swan turned to me. “You go to yo party. Nobody comin’ in here tonight, and Markus not be goin’ out.”
I nodded thanks and told them I’d be back in the morning for training, and then grabbed the bike and headed back to the resort. The doorman took the bike from me and rolled it over to its new home beneath the royal palm, and I ambled through the open foyer. The whole building was designed to take advantage of the sea breezes, and it was working, as a gentle air moved through the whispering tendrils of the palm trees. There was a bar to the side that opened up to a postcard view, beach and sky and water, a head of clouds drifting in, the scent of marinara sauce wafting through as the kitchens prepped for the onslaught of the starving masses crawling up from the beaches and pool loungers, hungry for all-you-can-eat pseudo-Caribbean cuisine.
I kept moving, along the path to our room. Danielle was no longer on the balcony. I dropped the helmets on the bed and watched the view for a moment. Standing in Jamaica I was still closer to Key West than Key West was to Jacksonville, and so much of the place felt like home, yet at the same time foreign. The beaches, the tint of the sky and the way the clouds moved unabated through the picture were the same. Even the sound of breeze through the palms was familiar, the sound that put me to sleep most nights on Singer Island. But it was different. The sea was a different shade of blue and emerald green out beyond the reef. The air felt heavier, and the smells, even away from the jerk chicken of the kitchens, held a spice to it that was anything but Florida. A lanky guy climbed a coconut palm, using a cloth to wrap around the trunk and lever against as he walked his way up, where he hacked at the fibrous balls.
I was watching another guy on the ground catch the falling coconuts, when I heard a sound behind me. Danielle came out of the bathroom in a long dress, tropical flowers that reminded me of Gauguin, with thin straps across her tan shoulders. The dress was casual but elegant, and hugged her firm, strong body like a second skin. I smiled and looked down at my palm tree print shirt and khaki shorts.
“You trying to make me look bad?”
“Oh, you aren’t going to a party in that,” she said, looking me up and down.
Danielle stepped aside and revealed some clothes she had laid out on the bed. I wandered in off the balcony to inspect. A white linen shirt and simple tan trousers were on the bed. There wasn’t a palm tree print to be seen, but they looked good nevertheless.
“Where did this come from?”
“I did a little shopping. Try it on.”
I washed up, tossed on some aftershave despite not shaving, and put on the clothes. They looked go
od, even on me. Together we looked like those island people in magazines, like we had not a care in the world, and this casual look was as dressed up as we ever needed to be. I offered Danielle my arm.
“Shall we?”
“Why, thank you, sir.”
Chapter Eight
THE VALET GAVE us the same amused smile we had gotten at the hotel when he saw us arrive at Rose Hall on the motorcycle. Danielle took off her helmet and shook out her hair, and then she turned to me and ran her hands through my mass of sandy blond locks. The valet pushed the bike away and we took in the building. It was a stout-looking Georgian manor home, grand but showing its age. The Hall sat on top of a hill that led way down to the ocean, perhaps a half mile below. I had an idea of what the view had looked like when Rose Hall was in its prime, a stunning view of sprawling lawns and distant ocean that was diminished only slightly by the addition of a Hilton resort down by the water’s edge.
The sun was in its last throes as we headed for the steps up to the grand door, where a dark man in top hat and tails checked our name off the guest list. We were led into a candlelit foyer, flanked by rooms filled with antique furniture and roped off like a museum. Young women in white blouses and black skirts stood guard in each room, offering smiles and explanations of the room’s historic contents for anyone who cared to listen. As we were ushered through it seemed no one was taking them up on the offer, but our guide suggested we do so later.
We wandered out of the grand home into a rear garden, where a large marquee had been erected. White lights were strung on poles to lead the way. Inside the marquee we were offered champagne, which we accepted. I was still on the alert, but I didn’t want to stick out by not holding a drink. A wooden floor had been laid over the grass, and tables were set up like a wedding reception was about to take place. Everyone was well dressed, but no one more so than the waitstaff. The guests ranged from linen suits with sky-blue ties to one guy in a palm tree shirt and chinos. I fell somewhere in the middle of the sartorial stakes, and Danielle matched any of the women. We wandered through the marquee toward a band playing acoustic guitars and steel drums. We were enjoying the music when I heard the voice behind me.
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