Rum and Razors

by Jessica Fletcher

  Seth and Morton were the last to leave. No surprise there. I said to them, “When I return, I expect a welcoming party with another banner.”

  “Fair enough, Jessica, but what should that banner say?”

  “Simply, ‘Welcome Home.’ But just the banner. No letters. Good night, gentlemen. This lady has a busy day tomorrow. And thanks for being so thoughtful. I’m very fortunate to have friends like you.”

  Chapter 2

  I hadn’t been to the Caribbean in many years. Come to think of it, I hadn’t taken a vacation anywhere in a long time. My travels always seem to have a business purpose, with an occasional day or two thrown in for rest and sightseeing. Some of my friends from Cabot Cove make a yearly trip to the Caribbean, or to the Bahamas as a respite from the numbing cold of Maine winters. For me, if I’m lucky, there have been occasional business trips to California or Arizona to warm these bones when the snow falls and the winds howl back home.

  But here I was heading for a sunny Caribbean isle for no other purpose than to relax, no manuscript to edit, no twisted plot point to unravel, no talk show on which to sell my wares—nothing except personal pleasure.

  It made me nervous.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. We should be touching down in St. Thomas in about twenty minutes. Hope you’ve enjoyed flying with us today and that we’ll see you again soon.”

  I looked out my window. The sky was cobalt blue. Thin white gauzy clouds floated above. Below, the water was a medley of blue and green, the sun playing off what looked like millions of emeralds. The plane’s dark shadow on the water was an alien intruder.

  The captain banked the aircraft hard-left, giving me the proverbial bird’s-eye view of the island that would be home for the next two weeks. It seemed to float in the azure sea. It was so perfect it didn’t look real, the contrasting colors of verdant green foliage, pastel houses with vivid red roofs, salt-white beaches and aquamarine sea as unnatural as colored contact lenses displayed in optometry shops. The visual splendor of it made me wonder if someone—some one—had drafted a blueprint of the most beautiful spot on earth and decided to build it directly below me. Maybe that was how it happened. I never argue those things.

  As we maneuvered into our final approach, the reflection off countless pockets of water and beaches dazzled the eye. The beaches seemed deserted; I saw only an occasional person or two wading in the water, or strolling the sand. If privacy was high on anyone’s priority list, this was the place. At least it appeared that way from the air.

  Then, suddenly, St. Thomas’s mountains loomed large and menacing as we made our final approach to Cyril E. King International Airport. The runway appeared to me to be hopelessly short and narrow for the plane. We continued our rapid descent, rugged hills on each side threatening to encapsulate us. I gripped my armrests and braced, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The wheels momentarily touched the concrete strip, bounced off it, then hugged it for good as the captain reversed the engines to help stop the aircraft before running out of runway. Applause exploded from the other passengers, and there were whoops of glee. I joined in. I was as glad as anyone to again be on terra firma.

  The airport did not mirror the idyllic, deserted picture of St. Thomas I had gotten from the air. Although there was a discernible laissez-faire in the way people moved and interacted, there was a corresponding, yet subtle sense of urgency and quiet efficiency. A spirited steel drum band sent bubbling melodies through the terminal as we were briskly herded toward Customs where uniformed men and women prepared to process us. I’d just gotten in line when I heard, “Jess. Jessica. Over here.”

  Laurie Marschalk waved to me from behind a metal barrier. “Hello,” I said loudly. She pointed to the luggage area. “Meet you there.”

  “The purpose of your visit?” I was asked by a smiling, plump native woman in uniform. She spoke English, of course; St. Thomas is part of the U.S. Virgin Islands. But there was a delightful lilt to her voice, Creole, or West Indian.

  I started to say “business” but stopped myself. I returned her smile. “Vacation,” I said, surprised at how foreign the word sounded coming from my mouth. “Just a vacation.”

  She stamped my passport. A valid driver’s license would have sufficed, but I don’t drive. I passed through her position and soon joined Laurie where baggage from our flight was being unloaded. We hugged, stepped back to observe each other, and hugged again.

  “Welcome to St. Thomas,” she said.

  “Happy to be here. It’s like a picture postcard from the air.”

  “Even nicer close up. See your bags?”

  I did, and an eager young man carried them for me to where Laurie had parked her fire engine-red Range Rover beneath a “NO PARKING” sign. A ramrod-straight policeman saw us approach and slowly shook his head. Laurie smiled sweetly. “I didn’t see the sign,” she said.

  “Don’t be conning me, Mrs. Marschalk,” said the officer.

  “Would I lie to you?” she replied. “How’s your wife?”

  “Just fine. And don’t be parking where you shouldn’t be.”

  “I promise,” Laurie said, opening the tailgate to allow the porter to load my bags. I looked up into the midday sun and remembered Seth’s warnings about not suffering sunburn. My fair skin and the sun have never been friends. I’m meticulous about using sunscreens and covering up. A rivulet of perspiration ran from my forehead into my eyes. “Wheh!” I said. “It’s hot.”

  “Standing here is,” Laurie replied. “Come on. It’s a lot cooler at the inn. We’re up high on the north coast. Always a breeze.”

  “That policeman seemed to know you pretty well,” I said as Laurie navigated traffic and aimed for the airport exit.

  “I’m notorious,” she said. “Well, at least the car is. Hard to miss.”

  “Yes. You really didn’t have to pick me up. You must be busy running the inn.”

  “An understatement.”

  “I could have taken a taxi.”

  She guffawed. “All the cabdrivers delight in taking tourists on a tour. Doesn’t matter what your destination, you get a tour. We wouldn’t have seen you for hours.”

  The move to St. Thomas from Maine had obviously been palatable for Laurie. She never looked better. She’d always enjoyed the natural look. Her tan was moderate, her gray, shoulder-length hair, pulled back into a tight chignon, was neither permed, moussed, or teased. A tan Banana Republic skirt and shirt, and leather sandals complemented her free-and-easy style, as well as her lithe figure. She was one of those people with a hypermetabolism who burned off everything she ate. I judged her to be about sixty, although it was hard to tell. She looked younger than when I’d last seen her in Maine three years ago. Perhaps having been a model in her youth helped. Or maybe living on a tropical island arrests the aging process.

  We followed a road that took us in an easterly direction from the airport. At first, I thought Laurie wasn’t paying attention to her driving. We were on the left side of the road, the wrong side. But Laurie sat in the left seat. The steering wheel was where it ought to be, at least back home. She read my thoughts, laughed, and said, “You get used to it.”

  The route was along the coast—The Caribbean Sea that separated St. Thomas from St. Croix to the south was on our right. We passed through the small town of Altona, whose narrow streets sloped gently down to Crown Bay, and then reached Frenchtown with its pretty pastel houses, most boasting some form of black wrought-iron decoration.

  We arrived at the capital of the U.S. Virgin Islands, Charlotte Amalie, a bustling, picturesque small city crowded with tourists who poured off two huge cruise ships docked in the harbor. The streets were chockablock with shops and small restaurants. Dozens of street vendors dominated the dock. Cobblestone alleys with hundreds of hanging green plants linked the main shopping streets. There were signs offering every type of merchandise—cameras, clothing, electronic equipment, and jewelry. Jewelry stores everywhere. Small wonder St. Thomas was famous a
s a duty-free shopping mecca.

  Not that that aspect of the trip appealed to me. My favorite shopping sprees involve going through catalogues from L.L. Bean, Land’s End, J. Crew, and Orvis in search of clothing to suit my style. I’ve been on the mailing list for Victoria’s Secret for years and keep meaning to write to suggest I don’t meet its demographic profile.

  “Get some shopping in, Jess,” Laurie said, reading my thoughts.

  “I might just do that,” I said.

  After passing Government Hill and heading north on Mafolie Road, the scenery began to change. The vegetation became more lush, and the hills played a more dominant role in the landscape. And it was cooler. Laurie had used the Range Rover’s air-conditioning until reaching this point. Now, she turned it off and opened the windows. “Smell that, Jess,” she said, drawing in a long, sustained breath. I did as instructed. The air was sweet with the floral scent of red hibiscus, purple bougainvillea, and fragrant frangipani. It smelled and tasted fresh, and was cooler and less oppressive than at the airport or in the city.

  As the trip progressed, Laurie fell silent. I observed her as she concentrated on driving—a prudent thing to do on the island’s winding roads—and noticed deep worry lines in her forehead. Nothing unusual about that, of course. Aging will add wrinkles no matter how little worrying we do. But there was an expression on her pretty face that spoke of concern about things other than avoiding cars that careened around curves as though they weren’t there. I felt compelled to initiate conversation. “Remember the last time we saw each other?” I asked.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “What a snowstorm.” Two days before Laurie and Walt were to move from Cabot Cove to St. Thomas, I had invited them to my house for a traditional clambake, as traditional as it could be considering the time of year, and that it would have to be held indoors rather than on a beach.

  We had such a good time that we never bothered to check the progress of a storm that had begun dumping snow in the morning. Not to worry. Walter and Laurie lived only a few miles from me. Besides, us Down-easters are used to snow. Doesn’t faze us.

  But this storm did. The snow had fallen at a rate of three inches an hour. By the time my guests were ready to leave, the roads were impassable. Walt wanted to walk home, but Laurie and I dissuaded him (even though he’d consumed enough alcohol to get him through a night in a snowdrift.) They stayed overnight. The next morning, Walt got up early to dig out their car, fell, broke three ribs, and suffered a mild concussion.

  “Bet you don’t miss the foul weather,” I said.

  Her reply was a shake of the head. The lines in her forehead deepened, and I discerned a tremble of her lip.

  Should I ask? When in doubt, I always do. “Laurie, is everything all right? I mean, you seem disturbed about something.”

  It was a rueful laugh. “Is it obvious? I’d hoped it wouldn’t be.”

  “Enough to prompt me to ask.”

  She said nothing.

  “I would certainly understand,” I said, “if this was not a good time for me to be visiting you and Walter. I could stay somewhere else. We could get together when it’s convenient for you.”

  We stopped to allow a farmer to cross his goats. Laurie turned and looked at me. Her eyes were moist. I’d been right. She was on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—we’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, Jess. I know I’m not myself. Nothing to do with you or your visit. And I don’t want to hear another word about staying someplace else. We’ve been looking forward to having you visit us ever since we moved here. In some ways, you might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Sure?” I asked. “If you and Walter need some time alone to work things out, I would—”

  The goats passed safely, and a driver behind beeped his horn. Laurie accelerated. “We’re not under that kind of pressure,” she said. “The marriage is safe. It’s the business that’s not.”

  I nodded. “It’s such a difficult economic time,” I said. “So many people experiencing trouble these days.” I wasn’t sure how deep to delve into it. “I imagine the travel business is one of the first to suffer the repercussions of a recession,” I offered. “Travel isn’t something people need when they’re concerned about a roof over their head and putting food on the table.”

  “You’re very right, Jess. But even people with money, and a roof over their heads, are scaling back on their travels. Lover’s Lagoon is no place for bargain hunters. We get—or at least we ask top dollar.”

  “I’m sure it’s worth every penny,” I said. “I’m surprised you have a room for me. It’s the height of the season, isn’t it?”

  “Right again, but our bookings are down. More than one vacancy I can assure you.” We drove in silence for another minute before she said, “Frankly, the problems we’re having aren’t just financial, although that’s part of it. Doing business in the Caribbean can be tricky. Lots of political intrigue, even outright corruption.”

  I laughed. “Not unique for St. Thomas,” I said. I mentioned a politician we both knew in Cabot Cove who was caught siphoning parking violation fees into his pocket.

  “If only it was as simple as that,” she said, her tone suggesting this topic of conversation was over.

  After another fifteen minutes, Laurie pulled into a winding driveway lined with trees and plants, the likes of which I’d never seen. I asked about them. The Laurie I knew from Cabot Cove, who was as avid a gardener as she was a cook, would have stopped and given a detailed explanation of each piece of vegetation. Instead, obviously anxious to get back to her duties as the inn’s mistress, she said quickly, “The ones with the scarlet flowers and drooping pods are flamboyants. Those others are manzanillos. They’re poisonous.”

  Before I had a chance to comment, she said, “I have to run.” She gave me a fast hug. An elderly black man with white hair and wearing a red jacket, white shirt, black tie, and black slacks came from the main entrance. “This is Thomas,” Laurie said. “He’ll take your bags and get you settled. We’ve given you cottage ten, the last villa on your right.” She pointed to a pink house at the end of a row of them that looked as though it could accommodate a family of eight. “Settle in, unwind, relax. Dinner’s at eight-thirty. Bye.”

  While Thomas placed my hang-up clothing in a large closet and tended to other things, I examined my villa. It would have been nice to have someone with whom to share it, I thought. It was spacious and welcoming, a lovely, calm oasis. The master bedroom was stark white, which rendered the room’s appointments—pale blue porcelain lamps, a darker blue throw that had been purposefully placed over one of two white wicker chairs, and bold, modern paintings that I judged to be Haitian—that much more visible and attractive. The floor was a cool white-and-blue terra-cotta. Fluffy throw rugs were at the foot and side of a king-size pencil-post bed canopied with wispy white fabric. Thomas had switched on a large ceiling fan that spun lazily above me. But I noticed an air-conditioning switch. Just in case the fan didn’t do the trick.

  There were two smaller bedrooms decorated in the same hues as the master.

  The living room was larger than mine in Cabot Cove. It, too, was white, but the accents were bloodred, including vases overflowing with crimson flowers. Another ceiling fan directed a gentle breeze down on me. A large red lacquered desk dominated one corner. “My own fax machine?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, smiling. “And your own VCR in the bedroom and this room. Movies are in the main house. Take those you wish to watch.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. Would you care for a cocktail?”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “Your preference?”

  “Make it your preference. Something distinctly St. Thomas.”

  He grinned. “I’ll be right back.”

  I used his absence to examine the bath. It, like the other rooms, was oversized. The shower stall, with jets coming at you from all sides as well as from
above, would accommodate a party. A separate magenta marble tub was spacious and sunken, and doubled as a spa and whirlpool. Smaller vases of island flowers added splashes of color against white wall tiles. A vanity tucked away in the corner had a skirt flowing from it. The pattern, petite, pastel pink rosebuds on an even paler pink background, would have made a nice addition to my vacation wardrobe.

  Thomas returned with a tall glass filled with a frothy, lemony liquid, and adorned with fruit. “Looks yummy,” I said.

  “It is, ma’am. It’s called a Lover’s Lagoon. Dark and light rums, coconut milk, pineapple, kahlua, and a few other ingredients. It was created here at the inn and won the Caribbean competition held each year.”

  “A competition for new drinks?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “I think not, but thank you. You’ve been very gracious.”

  “Enjoy your afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher.” He backed out of the villa.

  Was Thomas his real name, I wondered? If I’d been on St. John, a short ferry ride to the east of St. Thomas, would his name have been John? Thomas had opened French doors in the bedroom. I stepped out onto a large terrace. It had three walls which made it into a room of sorts. The fourth “wall” was the breathtaking view.

  The floors were bleached wood. A glass table and four chairs, as well as several wicker lounge chairs with cushions covered in the same fabric as the rosebud skirt in the bathroom, were inviting. A dozen hanging pots held riots of color, purple and yellow, blue and red.

  I went to the open end of the terrace and involuntarily gasped at the view. Immediately in front of me was a small, gently curved lagoon that might have been painted by an artist from the Impressionist school. Lover’s Lagoon, from which the inn took its name? Undoubtedly. Blue-green water gently lapped on to a chalk white strip of sand no more than twenty feet deep. Trees with large, glossy leathery leaves, and purple fruit that hung in grape-like bunches, ringed the lagoon with perfect symmetry. They were aptly called sea grape trees, I would learn.