by Diane Rapp
After sending the telex, Kayla waited for Steven’s reply, “Market Square 12:00 p.m.” The tension in her chest eased. Market Square was an easy twenty-minute walk up the hill, so Kayla had three hours to explore and update her book.
Strolling, notebook in hand, along the Carnage, she jotted down names of new shops and restaurants. Kayla bought spice baskets from a vendor. The palm-sized baskets were unique to Grenada and islanders took great pains to decorate each basket. She admired the colorful hand-stitched decorations and opened the woven lid to examine the labels of the homegrown spices inside. The heady aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg provoked visions of freshly baked cookies and pies.
Spices of every kind grew in Grenada’s mild climate and fertile soil, but nutmeg was the island’s major export. Grown, harvested, and processed by hand, there was no part of the nut wasted. The peach-like fruit made a tasty jam, the best nuts were ground into spice, inferior nuts became cosmetic ingredients, and the crushed shells lined driveways like gravel.
Swinging her bundle of spice baskets, Kayla entered the historical museum, a French-style structure once used as a women’s prison. Antique weapons hung on the walls beside photos of Grand Anse Beach barricaded with rolls of barbed wire during the U.S. intervention.
In 1983 Grenada gained worldwide notoriety when the U.S. military launched a rescue mission to free a group of American medical students after Cuban communists occupied the island. Asking natives about the intervention always got people talking.
“What did you think about the Americans coming in to drive out the Cubans?” Kayla asked the two black ladies manning the counter. As it was a quiet day in the museum, the ladies brightened at a chance to talk.
“I’m right happy about it,” answered the young woman wearing a bright red shift and a toothy grin. “Now I’ve got work and so does my husband. My brother, he curses the Americans. He drove a bulldozer for the Cubans and is right proud of the airport they built.”
“Sure, sure.” The heavyset woman dressed in a splashy blue batik dress said, “The airport’s mighty nice. But them Cubans destroyed the ruins of an Arawak village to build their runway, enough artifacts to fill this whole museum. Once the past is gone, there’s no way to replace it, I say.”
Fanning herself with a folded brochure, the first girl nodded. “My brother says, ‘Live people are worth more than dead ones and now I got no place to run my ’dozer.’” She laughed and waved her fan. “There’s not many like him. The rest of us can work and vote in elections. My brother, he’s sure the Cubans would’ve let us vote eventually.”
“Sure, sure, I don’t see nobody in Cuba voting in a fair election. They only got one choice on the ballot.” the older woman said.
“Was the medical school really in danger?” Kayla asked.
“The students were pretty safe,” the young girl answered with a shrug. “I guess it could’ve gotten dicey since those radicals, they were crazy, eh?”
The older woman nodded.
Kayla asked, “How’s the school doing now?”
“After the war it got famous, the best thing ever happened to that school. They get more students all the time, up to nearly 750 right now. I say the more students the more money they spend on the island. We’re better off, you can be sure.”
The older woman laughed. “Yeah, not many people try to escape from here now.”
“Just a bloke what tries to outrun an angry husband.” The young girl gave them a saucy wink.
“I love your museum,” Kayla said.
“Come see the prison cell. It’s the best part of the museum.” The young woman gestured for Kayla to follow and sauntered toward a door in the back. “It’s an actual cell, where they kept women prisoners.”
In the dim lighting Kayla saw the tiny cell made of flat iron crisscrossed to form a freestanding cage. The narrow bed looked barely large enough to lie down and a hole in the floor served as the latrine. Kayla cringed. “Glad I don’t have to spend time in there. I’ll bet a woman thought twice before she broke the law.”
“Oh, I don’t know, women can be just as daft as men. Nobody believes they’ll get caught ’til the irons are clamped down tight. You should hear them cry the blues when they’re sitting alone in the dock. My cousin killed her boyfriend after catching him with another woman. The man was a lying pig, treated her real bad but she’s the one cooling her heels in prison.”
“How’d she kill him?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Poison, cooked him a dinner laced with manchaneel fruit. Poison is a woman’s weapon, neat and tidy.”
“Thanks for the tour.” As she left the museum, the girl’s words echoed in her head. Was poison really a woman’s weapon? Wandering through curio shops, Kayla wondered if the killer could be a woman. Although a man in a white jacket stole the toxin, he could have been an accomplice. She fingered the packet of pictures in her pocket and climbed the hill toward Market Square, eager to meet Steven.
At an intersection, Kayla waited to cross the busy road. Policemen directed traffic from an elevated platform in the intersection above the cars. Mesmerized by police whistles and white gloves, Kayla failed to notice a man who pressed too close until he gripped both of her shoulders, leaned down and whispered, “Stop poking your nose in places it don’t belong. You could get hurt.”
Cars whizzed past. White gloves blurred.
As his hands pushed her toward the traffic, Kayla struggled against his grip and felt air from the speeding vehicles whip her clothes. She opened her mouth to scream but a shrill whistle blasted her eardrums.
A policeman shouted, “Hey, you! Get back!”
The attacker jerked Kayla backward, away from the intersection and hurled her into the startled crowd. She tumbled headlong into people, crashing into arms, elbows, and feet. When she hit the pavement with outstretched hands, the impact jolted her spine and whipped her head back.
Tears streamed down Kayla’s hot cheeks. Dazed, she tried to stand but shaking legs wouldn’t support her weight and she fell again. People hovered over her. Kayla felt overwhelmed by the wall of faces and gabble of loud voices.
“What’s happened here?” An elderly black gentleman with a refined British accent pushed through the crowd. Dressed in a cream-colored straw hat, white linen jacket, and carrying a bamboo cane, he nudged people aside and gripped Kayla’s elbow with a firm hand.
“A bloke grappled with her,” a bystander said. “I saw it all! First the bloke tried to push her into the traffic then tossed her back into the crowd. Right amazing it was.”
“What’d he look like?” the elderly man asked.
“Medium height, dark brown hair, looked like an ordinary white bloke, didn’t he? Sorry, didn’t look at him once she came flying in my direction.”
Kayla brushed dirt from the knees of her pants with shaking hands, scraped but not bleeding.
The elderly man asked, “Are you all right, miss? Should I escort you back to your ship?”
Kayla smiled. A white woman, who wandered the streets gawking at the scenery, obviously belonged on a cruise ship. She gazed into his kind face, a weathered shade of dark chocolate.
“I’d appreciate an escort but not to the ship. I’m meeting a friend in Market Square at noon. If you’d walk with me, I’d feel less like a target.”
He offered his arm and grinned. “My pleasure.”
She accepted the gesture and held on tight. Her head still buzzed and she felt wobbly. As they climbed the hill, Kayla flinched every time a car accelerated nearby.
Noticing her discomfort her gallant companion moved to place his body between Kayla and the busy street. He asked, “Do you often find yourself tossed into a crowd?” The leathery skin around his mahogany eyes crinkled as he flashed a wry smile.
“No, but I don’t wish to repeat the experience. I’m Kayla Sanders.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Sanders. I’m Jeremy Greene, a retired hotel manager.” Tipping his creamy straw hat, his warm smile gleamed with
shiny white teeth. Kayla thought he looked like a mature Sidney Poitier but his accent sounded more like Michael Caine.
“I’m a travel writer, doing research for an update on my book.”
Jeremy’s bushy eyebrows knit together with concern. “I hope this experience won’t find its way into your publication. We endeavor to keep our guests safe on Grenada.”
Kayla shook her head. “This had nothing to do with your island. I’m looking into a friend’s murder, and the attacker warned me off the case before hurling me into the crowd.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Murder? We must inform the police.”
“The friend I’m meeting is with Interpol,” Kayla said, feeling a sense of calm spread through her chest. Steven would soon be at her side.
“Good. We shall enjoy a spot of tea while you wait for your young policeman. There’s a delightful little tavern near the square.” Jeremy’s step turned jaunty as he swung the bamboo cane in a steady rhythm.
“I couldn’t impose on your hospitality.”
“Nonsense, my dear, I’m grateful for an interruption to this otherwise boring day. Furthermore, you’ve aroused my curiosity. I insist you recount your intriguing story.”
Kayla nodded. “Okay, on one condition. I pay for tea.”
He stiffened. “That’s a most unseemly proposition, my girl.”
Kayla squeezed his arm. “It’s the only way I agree.”
Fingering his gold tie tack, he shrugged. “I’m at your mercy; curiosity overrules my sense of valor.”
The restaurant was a bustling hole-in-the-wall filled with boisterous locals chatting in full voice. Kayla followed Jeremy to the counter where he ordered tea and biscuits. She paid the bill and Jeremy led her into a quiet open-air courtyard, enclosed within vine-covered limestone walls and furnished with white wicker. The peaceful atmosphere soothed Kayla’s frazzled nerves. A frog croaked in the pool of a bubbling fountain. Golden fish swam a circular marathon under lily pads, and iridescent hummingbirds darted through a cascade of fragrant honeysuckle vines.
Jeremy placed the food on a table. He shook a white handkerchief open, dusted a chair and bowed deeply at the waist. “Your table, ma’am.”
Kayla eased her bruised body into the chair. She sipped icy tea and nibbled on a biscuit while she told the entire story to Jeremy. It helped collect the facts in her mind.
“From our initial list of suspects, we eliminated the Russian mystic, Natalia, the Irish dancer, Erin, and someone tried to kill Bryanne.”
“But you have doubts about Bryanne?” Jeremy asked.
Kayla nodded. “Bryanne and Garrison both used the same phrase, and it raised doubts that they told me the truth. Why not admit they told someone about frog toxin? I feel incompetent as an investigator.”
Jeremy patted his lips with a linen napkin. “You may be too close, too involved. Look at the entire picture in a detached manner, and it may come into focus.”
Kayla twisted her ponytail. “Do you think the killer could be a woman? A woman seems more likely to use poison, but it was a man who attacked me, a man who stole the frog toxin.”
Jeremy sipped his tea. “Poison is traditionally a woman’s weapon, but men have also used poison to kill. It’s a method of murdering from a distance if done right.” He held up a finger. “You may have two culprits working in partnership. Gather clues but be careful. Your assailant was afraid enough to threaten you, but he didn’t really intend to hurt you.”
She rubbed the bruised palms of her hands. “You could’ve fooled me.”
Jeremy wagged his finger. “Why warn you? If he shoved you into the traffic and disappeared, it would look like an accidental death. Instead, he whispered a warning and threw you to safety.”
Kayla nodded. “I see what you mean.”
Jeremy tapped his finger against his lips. “I’m afraid if you persist, he may become more dangerous.”
Kayla checked her watch. “It’s time to leave. Thanks for keeping me company.”
Jeremy passed her a business card. “Retirement is often filled with tedium, so it is I who thank you for the diversion. Please write when you’ve unraveled the mystery.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to let you know what happens.” Kayla deposited the card into her wallet. “Perhaps I should send out a newsletter to everyone I’ve promised to tell about the mystery.” She shook Jeremy’s hand.
Once outside Kayla’s stomach fluttered in apprehension. She fidgeted, adjusted her sunglasses with trembling hands, and eyed the busy street between herself and Market Square. As she forced herself to move, she glanced from side to side. People brushed past, darting, and weaving to get around her. Dizzy, she staggered back into the grasp of a man in a white jacket. She squealed and squirmed to free herself from his grip.
“What the deuce is wrong, Kayla?” Steven’s voice quelled her hysteria. She melted into his arms and buried her face in the white linen shoulder of his coat.
Damn! She thought. Everyone’s wearing white jackets. In this jacket Steven could be the killer! The thought startled her and she jerked away. Was the attacker the same height as Steven? No! He was taller, since he bent down to whisper his warning in my ear. He also smelled different! The scent was strong and familiar. Who wore that scent?
“Kayla!” Steven said. “What is bloody wrong?”
“Sorry. I remembered a clue just now, a good one. Let’s go sit in the park and I’ll explain.”
Infused with energy, she forgot her fear and dodged through traffic. She plopped onto a bench and Steven joined her. “If you don’t tell me what’s happening, I’m tempted to throttle you!”
“Yesterday, I met Abel Preston. He told me an eye witness saw a man in a white service coat near the office at the time of the break-in.” She pulled out the packet of pictures and showed Steven the headless picture of a man in a white jacket. “If we got the negatives we might see who it was.”
Steven nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Kayla continued, “Erin McFarland hated Patrick enough to kill him, but she’s got an alibi. Garrison Caldwell admits that he stayed overnight on Dominica to witness the results of the mutiny. Since the mutiny worked, his motive is shaky, besides someone tried to poison Bryanne by putting frog toxin on the tweezers from a knife Patrick gave her. I can’t imagine Garrison killing his own sister.”
Steven shrugged. “Siblings murder if enough money is involved.”
Kayla nodded. “That’s true. But I saw his face as he sat by her bedside and don’t think he did it.” She took a deep breath and prepared to tell him the rest. “A man attacked me on the street today, whispered a threat to leave the case alone and acted like he might throw me into traffic. At the last moment he shoved me back into the crowd instead of killing me.”
“Bloody hell!” Steven snapped. “You’re too casual about your safety! In St. Lucia you wandered alone through Pigeon Island, where anyone could pick you off! Today you nearly got thrown into the bloody traffic!” His face reddened and his lips clamped into a tight line.
Kayla slipped her hand into his. “After the attack a gentleman walked with me, and we had tea while I waited for you.”
Steven arched his eyebrow. “Oh, really! Some strapping youngster, trying to grope you no doubt!”
She grinned. “You’re jealous!”
“I’m worried!” he snapped then lowered his voice. “So tell me more about this attacker. What was he wearing, how tall was he?” Steven tried to sound like a policeman interviewing a witness, but Kayla heard his voice quaver.
“I didn’t see him. He grabbed me from behind, but he was taller than you are, needed to bend over to whisper into my ear. He also wore some spicy cologne, a scent that seemed familiar. Jeremy says the attacker didn’t intend to hurt me, just frighten me enough to stop the investigation.”
“Jeremy?”
Kayla nodded. “The older gentleman who kept me company until it was time to meet you.”
Steven relaxed. “At l
east you had sense enough to stay with someone safe after the incident. The attacker wouldn’t try again while you’re properly guarded, but the situation could become more serious. You might get hurt next time. I can’t allow it!”
She jerked her hand away. “Can’t allow it? How do you plan to stop me, lock me away for my own protection?”
Steven eyed her. “That might be a sound idea. You’re a material witness and I should see to your security.”
“No! I won’t sit in some safe house!” Kayla fumed. “I need to update my book and my friends are in danger. I won’t do it!”
He shook his head. “I suppose not. Still, there’s no reason you can’t stay with me. You wheedle information out of people who won’t tell me anything. If we stay together, I can keep an eye on you and carry on the investigation.”
Kayla brooded. “What about my book?”
Steven opened his schedule. “I’m scheduled for St. Kitts tomorrow, Antigua Tuesday, and Martinique on Wednesday, while the Aurora sails west, visiting the Panama Canal, Costa Rica, and Jamaica before returning to St. Thomas.”
Kayla nodded. “I hoped to gather data on new ports for the next edition.”
Steven folded the schedule. “You still need updated information on the islands I’m visiting, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Steven leaned against the backrest of the bench. “Two of our suspects work on the Andromeda, Jefferson Chadwick and Jaquie Ludlow. You can speak with Jaquie while I investigate Chadwick’s activities on the day of the murder.” He waited for her nod. “Super, then it’s settled. Pack your bag and we’ll catch a four-thirty flight.”
Kayla opened her guide book. “Okay. I still need to update the chapter on Grenada so you can be my body guard now.”
He bounced to his feet and assumed a boxing stance. “No worries, I reached second level boxing. I’ve a motorcar parked around the corner. Let’s get ripping, shall we?”
Kayla hid a smile and hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “Where’s the car?”
Steven led her to an ancient open-air Jeep and gestured for Kayla to climb in.
