by Diane Rapp
“She’s sleeping but doesn’t look good. I wouldn’t count on her coming back soon. Do you know her brother?”
Shannon’s voice softened. “Gary? Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart.”
“Really? Sounds like you know him well,” Kayla said.
“No.” Shannon laughed. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing him better. Why?”
“He’s at Bree’s bedside looking soulful, so there’s no point in my hanging around. I’ll stop back later.”
“Oh, before you go, I’ve got your information about Erin. She spent the whole day on ship, ran up beauty and health club charges,” Shannon said.
“Thanks for checking. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Things will return to normal by dinner. Take care,” Shannon said before hanging up.
Kayla decided to take her own advice and got busy working to make the time go by. She phoned local businesses, updated prices, tour times, and entrance fees, and then she hailed a cab.
“I’d like to visit Harrison’s Caves and the Wildlife Preserve,” Kayla told the driver.
“No problems. Climb in and we be off,” he replied with a wide grin.
Prehistoric coral and limestone reaching over three hundred feet deep formed the geological foundation of Barbados. In a natural filtration system that provided pure drinking water to settlers, centuries of rainfall dissolved old bedrock shaping, hollowing, and crystallizing solid rock into majestic caverns, a unique Caribbean underground tourist attraction.
As Kayla boarded the tram ride, she shoved a brochure and rate card into her handbag. No matter how often she visited Harrison’s Caves, she marveled at the fairyland of stone. Craning her neck to see everything, Kayla hoped to glimpse a few bats, the cave’s most elusive residents.
Stalactites hung from the ceiling dripping onto stalagmites growing from the floor. Few islands offered this type of attraction, and the comfortable tram ride through a cool atmosphere was a welcome relief to footsore or handicapped tourists.
Kayla bought a sandwich and rushed out to find her driver. As the cab drove down roads banked by sugarcane fields, Kayla nibbled her lunch. They passed by the ruins of a windmill and a military lookout tower.
During the drive her thoughts returned to recent interviews. She felt like a terrible investigator, eager to believe any plausible story. Eliminating Erin McFarland and Natalia Baliskov from the suspect list, Kayla was no closer to a solution. Who planted poisoned tweezers in Bryanne’s knife? Plenty of people hated Patrick, but why would anyone want to kill Bryanne?
Hopefully Steven’s investigation made better progress. If he could pin the murder on Chadwick, she’d be happy. She doubted the solution would be so easy. How could Chadwick poison Bryanne and why would he bother? If Bryanne knew incriminating information about Chadwick, why hadn’t she exposed him during the mutiny?
The taxi pulled into the final stop on her tour, the Barbados Wildlife Reserve. Kayla visited the reserve whenever possible to enjoy the tranquil atmosphere and observe the antics of wild monkeys.
Green vervet monkeys were originally imported as pets during colonization. When cute babies matured into hard to handle adults, they were turned out to roam free. Enjoying an abundance of food and mild climate, the monkey population exploded. They became pests, destroying valuable crops and threatening the local economy. Farmers killed feral monkeys by the hundreds.
Established to avoid mass extermination of the monkey population, the reserve built a natural habitat to feed and study monkeys. Funded by private donations and tourism, the reserve offered large bounties for live animals and gave out free humane traps to local farmers. The program was a great success.
Walking under an umbrella of mahogany trees in the manmade rain forest habitat surrounded by wire fencing, Kayla immersed herself in the wild atmosphere. Brocket deer, hares, peacocks, tortoise, wallabies, river otters, and iguana roamed under the protective green canopy. Kayla sat on a bench waiting for shy inhabitants to wander into range of her camera.
Patrick’s ghost intruded into her reverie. She remembered his rich baritone laughter as a monkey stole his sunglasses, and his awkward efforts to retrieve the prize. She felt guilty. Had she been too insecure to recognize Patrick’s problems and intercede?
Overhead leaves rustled as curious monkeys descended from the treetops. Kayla pocketed her sunglasses before a fleet monkey-thief absconded with another pair of shiny designer lenses. She focused the camera on a shy mother and baby perched in the nook of a tree. The baby, its gangly arms, legs, and tail wrapped tightly around the mother, peeked at the frightening world through shiny black eyes set in a wrinkled face.
It was feeding time. Kayla watched keepers dump bunches of bananas on the ground near tourist pathways and the sticky-sweet smell of ripe bananas drifted on the gentle breeze like a silent dinner bell. She heard more monkeys arrive.
A chirruping chorus of voices rose to a screech of excitement. Chain-link fencing jangled like jarring discordant chimes in a gale-force wind. Leaves rustled and limbs vibrated as hungry monkeys scampered to reach the feast.
Kayla focused her camera as the chattering horde swarmed upon the banquet. Greedy little hands ripped bananas from stalks and sharp white teeth severed the thick yellow skin from delectable marrow. Cautious diners darted in, grabbed a prize, and dashed back into the trees with their meals. Brazen characters sat eating within reach of Kayla’s bench.
The whir and click of cameras frightened timid creatures, but the gangsters among them waited to snatch shiny trophies from unsuspecting tourists before scampering away. Kayla smiled. The comical creatures transformed her dark mood and her guilt about Patrick evaporated. She couldn’t change the past, but she could find answers during her investigation.
After leaving the preserve Kayla headed back to Bridgetown and reached the hospital at feeding time. Repulsed by the institutional smell, she saw that patients greeted their meals with less enthusiasm than their monkey counterparts.
Garrison looked like a hollow-eyed gargoyle guarding his mistress. He stood and motioned for Kayla to enter the room.
“She’s awake but groggy. Don’t take too long,” he admonished as he left them alone.
Kayla sat by the bedside, usurping the warmed chair vacated by Garrison.
“Hi, Bree. It’s Kayla.”
Bryanne opened droopy brown eyes. “Hi. How are they managing without me?”
“Not too well. They beg you to recover quickly.”
“Don’t feel so good right now, sorry to say,” Bryanne whispered.
“Mind answering a few questions?” Kayla asked.
The girl frowned then shook her head. A strand of uncombed hair fell into her eyes, and she struggled with a shaky hand to brush the limp hair away.
“Did you tell anyone about Poison Dart Frogs?”
“No.” Her eyes darted, looking away, before she fixed her gaze on the ceiling. “I don’t like to talk about it, after all Mother died from the poison. I didn’t tell anyone.” Bryanne’s voice quavered.
“Who might have put the poisoned tweezers into your knife?”
“The room steward has a key but why would he bother? There was no reason.” Her dark eyes brimmed with tears behind limp tendrils of drooping hair. “I’m tired. Do you mind?”
“No. I understand. Hope to see you back on the ship,” Kayla said. “Do you need anything, a book, a secret box of candy?”
Bryanne’s cracked lips curled into a weak smile. “Gary’s already seen to it. He’s so worried about his little sister. I’ll be fine.”
“Yes. I’m sure you will.” Kayla patted Bryanne’s hand before she left the room. She met Garrison in the hall, and asked, “Do you remember telling anyone about the Poison Dart Frogs?”
He frowned. His brown eyes darted briefly from Kayla’s face to Bryanne’s door before he answered. “No. We don’t like to talk about it, after all Mother died from the poison.”
Kayla nodded, her own glance traveling to Bryanne’s d
oor. “Thanks, Gary. Please let us know how she’s doing. Everyone’s worried. I suppose you’ll stay and watch her for us.”
“I wouldn’t leave if they paid me.” His hands balled into fists. “No one will hurt her ever again.”
“Good. We’ll see you on our next stopover.”
Kayla walked slowly down the hall. Why had Bryanne and Garrison both used the same words to answer her question? It was a lie! They told someone, but why hide the information? A killer might go free if they kept silent; someone who tried to kill Bryanne!
As Kayla boarded the Aurora, she almost expected Steven to show up. She needed to talk with him, get his input about Bryanne’s behavior. Yet Steven was nowhere to be seen.
Lonely, she envied the couples who stood scrutinizing row upon row of photos displayed in the photographer’s hallway. Last week’s pictures might show the man in the white jacket, she thought. Kayla rushed downstairs to the photo lab and found a technician.
“What happens to unsold photos after the cruise?” she asked breathlessly. The chemicals in the air made her eyes water.
He stirred the developing tank as a picture appeared. “Oh, we keep them for a week or two then chuck the whole lot out.” He used tongs to lift the picture from the tank and clip it to an overhead string.
“Do you have the ones from last Saturday in Barbados?”
He nodded.
“Could I look at them?”
He shrugged. “No problem, not likely anyone will bother buying those shots.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a package. “The weather was hot and too bright for good pictures, the sun washes everything out. You can take the lot. Use them for wallpaper if you’ve a mind.”
“Thanks so much.” Kayla said, taking the package and heading to her room. To avoid the crowded hallways, Kayla took a shortcut through the bar. As she rushed through the dark space a familiar Irish brogue halted her abruptly. “Kayla! Where you headin’ in such a rush, lassie?”
“Sean! You old scoundrel,” she said, turning toward the bar. The sight of him silenced her. She expected a tall, robust Irishman in his late twenties with velvety black hair and sparkling light blue eyes. The man standing behind the bar was hardly recognizable. His black hair was limp, streaked with silver. His clothes hung loosely on a skeletal frame and his once ruddy complexion looked sallow. The only remnant of her old friend was the mischievous glint in his eyes.
“It’ll be Mister O’Reilly to you, lassie, unless you’d be joining me in a drink on the house of course. Mind you, not one of those frothy girlie concoctions that gum up my clean blender.”
Kayla hopped onto a barstool. “I’ll take a white zinfandel, please.”
“Sure and that’s enough of a girlie drink, just not so messy.” He winked and limped to the end of the bar to pour the wine.
Kayla noticed his struggling gait but averted her eyes as he glanced up. “I didn’t know you were on the Aurora. Why didn’t you look me up?”
He downed a shot of whiskey in one gulp, grimaced, and grinned. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me after what Patrick told you.”
Kayla sipped her drink. “He didn’t tell me a thing. Was it something to do with his trip to Ireland? You both went together.”
Lowering his gaze, he vigorously polished a glass. “Leave the dead to peacefully lie in their graves, lassie.”
She touched his hand. “Dead? You mean those people Patrick bombed?”
He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Leave it be.”
She tightened her grip. “I need to know, Sean. It’s important.”
Sean leaned on his elbows and fixed liquid blue eyes on hers. “It was none of Patrick’s doing. He just went along with me on a lark.”
Kayla jerked back her hand. “You bombed those people! Why? The peace had been signed for over five years.”
“Aye. But them that gave me the job, they lied . . . said it was just a harmless smoke bomb . . . meant to put a scare into the few rebels who refused to disarm. Those cowards meant to kill us as we did the job…make us into bloody heroes by killing their own mates…but we lived. If you call this living.” He swiped a tear with the back of his hand and then resumed polishing glasses.
“The blast, it knocked me flat. I had me a piece of wood sticking from me leg. Patrick, he dragged me away from there, got me a doctor, and smuggled me out of the country. It meant our very lives to be clear of the place.”
Kayla frowned. “Someone saw Patrick and blamed him for the bombing.”
“Sure and he was an easy mark. Irish by birth but raised by a rich English aunt, his accent and refined manner made him a right good target. Me mates set the coppers on us. I’ll curse them until the day I die.”
Kayla sipped her wine but hardly tasted the sweet liquid. “So you escaped.”
Sean grimaced. “Sure and I’ll be living with this leg as a reminder for the rest of my days.” He rapped his knuckles against his leg with a hollow sound. “It’s the best plastic available. Patrick got me private care, not trusting to the National Health, and he paid for the best. Mind, it took several years of rehab to get me walkin’ this good. Patrick got me this job, but still and all, he didn’t speak more than a sentence or two to me. I reckon he blamed me for it all. I heard he sent money to St. Bertram’s orphanage.”
Kayla nodded. “But he stopped paying. Why?”
“It’s not a thing I could tell you. I’ll not be privy to his mind of late. Truth be told, I’ve never seen such a change in a man.” He laughed and looked into the mirror behind the bar. “Then again, change is a part of life. You could ask Father Joseph, he’s a priest on Grenada, the one who helped Patrick send money to Ireland. Still it would be better if you leave it alone. The man’s dead and gone.”
“Dead but not gone. My memories keep bringing him back. I should’ve seen his pain, should’ve been there for him. Perhaps I—”
“No!” He grabbed her hand, tipping her wineglass over. “No matter how many little scenes you play out, the past won’t be changed! Leave it be!”
She stared into his eyes. “You’re glad he’s dead. Why?”
His eyes glazed over, and he shook his head mournfully. “He should ha’ left me to die a hero.” He released his grip on her hand and rubbed a glass so hard it squeaked. “I don’t mourn Patrick, not the man who died last week. I mourn the friend whose spirit died in that bloody bombing.”
“So do I.” She slid off her stool. “By the way, where were you last Wednesday?”
“Here with my friend.” He patted a bottle of Irish whiskey. “What! You think I could hike into the mountains and poison Patrick? I can barely hobble across this room, but it’s flattering you place confidence in my physical prowess. Here’s to racing with a plastic leg.” He tilted back his head and gulped down another whisky.
Kayla waved as she departed. “Take care of yourself, Seannie.”
Ducking into the crew hallway, Kayla deftly navigated the busy corridors to her room. Why did Patrick stop donating to St. Bertram’s? Maybe the priest had the answer.
She opened the packet of pictures, hoping to find a man in a white service jacket, the one man who committed a break-in to steal lethal toxin. If the mystery man appeared in the ship’s photos, maybe a lot of questions would be answered.
Clearing the makeup counter, she turned on the lights and proceeded to examine the pictures. She looked at hundreds of faces with phony smiles, all the same poses, standing in front of the CCL sign at the bottom of the gangplank. When the faces started to blur, Kayla squealed with glee.
Descending the gangplank, behind an ordinary couple in matching floral-print shirts, she could see a man in a white service jacket and dark turtleneck shirt. But the print was cropped so that she couldn’t see his face.
Kayla thumbed through more photos, hoping to spot the man again, but after hours of searching, the mystery-man remained headless. Perhaps Steven could get the picture blown up and uncover some subtle clue. Where was he?
She needed Steven. The realization struck her with fear. Was she responding to the excitement of the case or was her guilt over Patrick’s death influencing her emotions? Kayla had finally become independent, not needing a man in her life. Maybe she settled for loneliness, allowed it to become her normal way of life.
Confused, Kayla escaped the sudden confinement of the cabin. Outside, couples strolled along the deck hand-in-hand, whispering endearments and kissing. She listened to the desolate clang of a solitary bell rocking in a buoy and felt doomed to remain lonely, like that buoy rocking endlessly in one place. The sound of the bell merged with the cheerful murmur of happy voices in a dockside bar and the peal of the town’s clock tolling the hour. She shook off her gloomy mood and relaxed her clenched fist. Tomorrow she’d meet Steven and together they could make progress on the murder case.
Chapter 8 ~ Sunday — Grenada
The Aurora docked in the inner harbor of St. George’s, Grenada’s capital. Kayla left the ship and meandered along the Carnage, a horseshoe-shaped road around the inner lagoon lined with shops and restaurants. The calm harbor looked festive filled with colorful sailboats and fishing vessels.
Mouth watering aromas of nutmeg and cinnamon permeated the air as friendly street vendors hawked hand-decorated spice baskets to tourists at bargain prices. Red-tiled roofs atop white stucco buildings climbed the steep hills enclosing the Carnage.
Fort George towered protectively over the lagoon. A formidable bastion constructed of dark volcanic stone, the fort once teemed with soldiers dressed in red or blue depending on which country occupied the island. Today, a string of laundry whipping in the breeze along the fort’s parapet implied that the island’s police force lived peacefully in the buildings.
Kayla allowed herself little time to appreciate the scenery. Steven failed to answer his cell phone so she headed toward the telegraph office to send him a wire. Although using the Aurora’s wire service might be easier, it left her vulnerable to the ship’s network of gossip.
