Slowly, Olivia stood and walked to the railing. Elsie followed, carrying her chair with her.
“The sky is so close today…with the clouds dropping down…it feels like I could just…”
“Fly away,” Elsie finished for her as she placed the chair next to the railing.
Despite having set up the prop, Elsie watched in amazement as Olivia kicked off her sandals and climbed onto the seat.
Olivia’s voice trembled. “Sometimes, all I want to do is fly away.”
She wrapped her hands over the railing’s top bar and began to hoist herself up. Wavering back and forth, she placed first one bare foot and then the other on the railing.
For a moment, Elsie wondered if the woman would fall forward or back. But there was only ever one direction Olivia wanted to take. Standing unsteadily on the top bar, she lifted her arms out like wings, leaned into the open space beyond the deck, and tumbled to the ground below.
Thump.
Elsie looked down at Olivia’s body lying motionless in the weeds, wondering if she was dead or just unconscious.
The distinction did not matter.
A white-haired figure emerged from the jungle, grabbed Olivia’s limp manicured hand, and pulled her into the brush.
~ ~ ~
ORLANDO PICKERING IDLED his truck at the bottom of the drive leading up to Our Island Inn.
This was the last place he wanted to be.
Gritting his teeth, he gunned the engine up the hill. At the summit, he pulled into the parking lot and surveyed the two vehicles that had been left there. He glanced at the innkeeper’s jeep and then shifted his attention to the rental vehicle.
Reluctantly, Pickering climbed out of his pickup and approached the rental.
The jeep had been left unlocked. A set of women’s luggage had been stowed in the rear compartment. With Oliver detained at the police station, there would have been no one here to check in this guest.
The inspector circled to the passenger side and opened the door. Retrieving the rental paperwork from the glove compartment, he found the name of the person who had leased the jeep.
Olivia Hamilton.
Pondering, he returned the paperwork to the jeep and walked down to the pavilion. At a table on the far side of the pool deck, he spied an abandoned tea service.
Someone had attended to the inn’s lone patron. He had an idea of who that might have been.
Elsie.
With an apprehensive grunt, Pickering descended the pavilion’s outer steps. Squinting at the rough ground below the deck, he thought he detected scuffs in the dirt near the opening to the trail.
The marks might have been caused by a body being dragged into the woods.
But it was impossible to be sure.
Pickering stared at the clearing. Then he turned toward the stairs, hiked up to the pavilion, and out to his truck.
He would call the man who ran the jeep rental agency and let him know where he could collect his vehicle.
With a last glance at the inn, he backed out of his parking spot and motored off down the drive.
He vowed never again to set foot on Parrot Ridge.
Chapter 61
Closure
INSPECTOR PICKERING RETURNED to the police station by mid-afternoon. His absence had been noted, but there were no complaints. As a senior officer working an important case, his schedule wasn’t subject to question.
Pickering lumbered into the reception area. He was halfway across the room when the woman staffing the front counter flagged him down.
“Inspector, the team from Parrot Ridge needs to see you.”
Pickering strode to the office space at the rear of the building. A junior deputy handed him a packet of folded paper. The man’s face bore a sick pallor.
“Sir, we found this on the pool deck…” He gulped as if trying to keep down his lunch. “After we finished in the pantry. It was on one of the restaurant tables.”
Pickering turned the packet over in his hands, noting the name of the innkeeper written on the outside. He unfolded the pages and scanned the contents.
“Is he still in the holding cell?”
At the deputy’s nod, Pickering refolded the sheets and tucked them under his arm.
“Thank you.”
~ ~ ~
PICKERING FOUND OLIVER still seated at the metal table. One of the deputies had brought him some food.
The innkeeper glanced up from his sandwich and potato chips as the inspector walked into the room.
Pickering placed the folded packet of paper on the table next to a crumpled sandwich wrapper. “My men discovered this at the inn. It’s a letter from your partner. He must have written it before he was…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Oliver wiped his fingers on a napkin, but that didn’t hide the fact that his hands were trembling. The sheets shook as he unfolded them.
He whispered the letter’s first words. “Dear, Oliver…”
The innkeeper frowned as he read the communication. “He was leaving me?” He continued on to the second page, his expression one of incomprehension. “He thought I was a murderer?”
Pickering pulled the spare chair beside Oliver and sat down. He rested his hands on the table, clasping them together and then pulling them apart. There were many things he could say to try to explain what had happened to the innkeeper and his partner, but in the end, it seemed best to give the simple conclusion.
“The place where you built your inn is cursed.”
Oliver put a potato chip into his mouth and struggled through the process of chewing and swallowing.
Pickering then uttered words he never dreamed he’d say to another man. “He wasn’t good enough for you. You’re better off without him.”
After a moment of awkwardness, he got up from the chair. Patting Oliver on the back, he said, “You’re free to go.”
Oliver smiled numbly. “Thank you, Inspector.”
Pickering stopped at the door to offer his parting advice.
“I suggest you abandon that property on Parrot Ridge, leave this island, and never look back.”
~ ~ ~
PICKERING STRODE DOWN the station’s center hallway, considering his options. The easiest approach would be to close the file on Parrot Ridge. They could send all those ugly jars to an offsite evidence locker and forget about them. He would write a heavily redacted report and consider setting his retirement date. No one would fault him for that.
The inspector stepped into the building’s rear office space. His hand reached for the chain around his neck. Across the wide room, officers looked up from their desks, waiting for his instructions.
His fingers latched onto the gold cross, and he made his decision.
“We need to prepare an arrest team.”
His voice echoed through the stunned silence.
“For the reverend’s residence.”
Chapter 62
He Is Risen
“PUT YOUR CLOTHES on.”
The reverend turned away from the parsonage window where he’d watched Orlando Pickering’s truck disappear down the driveway. He refused to look at the half-naked Jesús.
“Thank you for taking me in, Reverend.” The sous-chef’s words were broken up by his thick accent. “I knew I could count on you.”
“You shouldn’t have come here.” The reverend’s face was filled with loathing – loathing for the uninvited guest who had invaded his home – and loathing for himself for allowing the man to stay.
Jesús ignored his host’s discomfort. “I don’t know what got into Maya.” He ran his hands along the towel’s upper hem, adjusting the securing tuck. “She went totally crazy about Romeo. She drove after him in Glenn’s jeep and ran him off the road. Made a mess of his body with her knife. I thought she was going to do the same to me.” He pointed to a bump on his forehead. “She hit me with that ceramic bird.”
He turned and disappeared down the hallway to the master bedroom. His voice carried back through to
the living room as he began to dress.
“She’s never minded before.”
The reverend grimaced at the last phrase, his lips curling as if he’d eaten something sour. Quietly, he moved down the hallway, past the entrance to the master bedroom, until he reached an exterior door.
His hand wrapped around the deadbolt and turned it to the open position. He stood for a moment, as if weighing the magnitude of his next action.
Then he swung open the door and admitted a heavy-set West Indian woman carrying a case of kitchen knives. Nodding to Maya, he walked outside, leaving the door ajar.
As the reverend set off down a narrow trail into the woods behind the parsonage, he heard a muffled scream.
“It turns out she did mind, Jesús. She always minded.”
He shook his head.
“She minded very much.”
Chapter 63
The Chain
A FEW HOURS later, Inspector Pickering led a convoy of police vehicles up the gravel drive to the parsonage.
The reverend’s chained dog sat on her haunches, forlornly watching the procession pass her guard station. She seemed to know what the officers would find inside her master’s house.
All was quiet in front of the residence. The clouded sky combined with the wide canopy of the flanking trees to create a gloomy entrance.
Pickering stepped onto the concrete stoop and stared at the unlatched screen door. He placed a hand on his hip, palming his holster, and then released it. The reverend must have known that the inspector would return. Forceful measures, he hoped, wouldn’t be necessary.
Taking in a deep breath, Pickering pulled open the door. The hinges squeaked, announcing his presence, but the action triggered no reaction inside the house.
The living room looked the same as before. While tidily prepared for visitors, the seating area was empty.
Pickering circled the sofa, following the pungent smell of bleach through a short corridor to the kitchen.
The counters and floor had recently been cleaned. The tiled surfaces were still moist.
There in a neatly stacked pile next to the sink was a pyramid of glass canning jars. No labels had been affixed to these containers. The gory contents were on full display.
A deputy hurried in to assist the inspector, but the man stopped short at the sight on the counter. His voice cracked with dismay.
“Is that the reverend?”
Pickering rubbed his chin, contemplating the smashed remains of a ceramic parrot that had been left next to the stack.
“My guess, it’s our missing sous-chef.”
He gestured toward the driveway.
“Send someone down the road to the chapel to look for the reverend.”
~ ~ ~
PICKERING RETURNED TO the living room, leaving his junior officers to process the evidence in the kitchen while he examined the rest of the house.
His feet thumped down the hallway branching off from the opposite side of the central living space. He paused only briefly to peer into Elsie’s room and the reverend’s master suite, before continuing down the corridor to the building’s rear exit.
The heavy security door had been propped open. The exterior screen had been left ajar.
Pickering eased quietly through the passage and onto the back porch.
Overhanging trees shaded the area. The closed-in space was ringed by blocking vegetation – with the exception of a dirt path that led away from the house.
The inspector glanced up at the sky, setting his bearings. The trail likely led to the chapel.
Pushing tree limbs and leaves aside, he walked cautiously into the forest. About fifteen feet from the house, partially masked by the greenery, he spied the coral block walls of a shed.
A rusted padlock had been threaded through the door’s latch, but the U-bend was unengaged with its locking base. Cautiously, Pickering removed the lock from the latch. With his fingertips, he flicked open the door.
A vigorous bumping commenced immediately.
Pickering rushed forward at the sight of Millicent bound and gagged on the dirt floor.
The woman’s arms and legs had been tied with a heavy rope, and duct tape had been plastered over her mouth, but she didn’t appear to be injured.
With an apologetic grunt, the inspector grabbed the corner of the tape and peeled it away from her face.
The first words out of her mouth were not of gratitude for being rescued or a request for water.
“Where’s my hat?!” Millicent sputtered hoarsely.
Before he could answer, she announced the findings of her latest sleuthing project.
“The chef from the inn’s restaurant – that Maya woman – she’s the Pickler!”
~ ~ ~
BY THE TIME the inspector returned to his pickup, dusk had gathered across the island. The darkening clouds promised an evening rainstorm. At long last, he was ready to head for home.
Millicent had been taken to a local hospital for a mandatory check up, even though she assured everyone that she was fine. She had given voluminous testimony to the officer assigned to take her statement.
Afterward, the man had pulled Pickering aside and asked in confusion, “Who’s Ben Matlock?”
From the cab of his truck, Pickering glanced up at the parsonage. The building had been secured for the night. A team of deputies would return the next day to finish going over the place, but he doubted the evidence would be of any use.
He didn’t expect to make any arrests for the crimes associated with Parrot Ridge.
The reverend had been found dead in his chapel, hanging from a self-tied rope. Millicent had reported overhearing a discussion between Elsie and Maya about a boat that would take them off the island. They would be difficult if not impossible to track down.
Pickering turned the key in the ignition and puttered off down the drive.
As raindrops began to spatter across his windshield, he reached for the chain around his neck. He tugged against it, increasing the tension as if he might rip it from his body.
Then he saw the dog waiting at the entrance to the main road.
Engine idling, he got out of the truck. Her tail wagged back and forth as he rubbed her head.
“I’ve got something at my place that will remove that collar.”
He followed the chain to its hitching point and unhooked it from its anchor. Looping the chain around his arm, he opened the truck’s passenger side door and nodded up at the seat.
The dog hesitated for only a second before hopping inside.
Chapter 64
A Last Look
ON AN ISOLATED beach off the island’s north shore, three West Indian women waded through the waves to a small powerboat. The vessel would transport them to a distant location about a hundred miles away. The captain had been paid an extra bonus to ensure there would be no questions about passports or visas.
Maya made several trips from the sand to the boat, carrying boxes of canning jars, her knives, and various cooking utensils. She would be ready to set up shop at the next available restaurant opening. It was a transition she had made dozens of times before.
Elsie moved more slowly through the water, holding her mother’s arm. Simmee’s hair had lost all its color, and her dark skin had roughened to the texture of tree bark, but she had plenty of life left in her ragged bones. A broad smile creased her face.
As the captain cranked the motor and steered the boat away from the beach, Elsie tried to usher her mother into a seat. The old woman was stronger than she looked. She broke free from her daughter’s grasp and pushed her way to the boat’s side railing.
The storm clouds released their moisture, drenching the boat, but Simmee didn’t seem to notice the inclement weather. She stared out at the passing shoreline, watching the landmarks disappear from view. She made no remark until her gaze fell upon the sharp bluff of Parrot Ridge.
Sensing the presence of the man who had taken her place, his poor soul left in the jungle to rot,
she threw back her head and let loose a blood-curdling cackle.
Chapter 65
Here, I Remain
I WATCHED OLIVER depart the next day. Crouched behind the bougainvillea bushes that lined the inn’s west terracing, I had a view of both the balcony outside our apartment and the front portion of the parking lot.
He didn’t take much with him. He loaded the poodles into their cargo crates and packed only a small suitcase of his belongings.
The rest, he left behind.
Once he’d put those items into the jeep, he wandered back toward the pavilion. I saw the misty look on his face as he gazed across the entertainment area. Slowly, he walked to the end of the deck. He stopped at the far northwest corner and stared at the sea.
I wanted to call out to him, but my voice died in my throat as he pulled my letter from his pocket – the one I’d written on the pool deck that last night before my fateful trek through the jungle.
Oliver held the papers up to his face, rereading my careless goodbye. When he got to the end, he shook his head and tossed the sheets over the railing. The pages separated in the breeze, softly floating to the ground below.
Then the only person who might have come looking for me left Our Island Inn forever.
Because I’d thought he was a murderer.
~ ~ ~
HERE, I REMAIN, a figment of my own imagination, lurking in the woods beneath Parrot Ridge.
Months have passed, and the inn has fallen into ruin.
My spirit haunts this place. I’ve spread deep into the dirt. I’ve been siphoned up into tree roots and splintered off into trunks and branches. I’m in the leaves that rustle with the sea breeze, the insects that scurry across the ground, and the frogs that chirp each night at the moon.
My flesh is transparent. I’ve diminished to an apparition – less than solid, less than human.
I often climb up the ridge, sit on what’s left of the crumbling pool deck, and gaze out at the view. There are a few bottles of wine leftover in the pantry. I fill a palm tree plastic cup and sip the liquid through a pink flamingo straw, the last pieces from the stemware set that Oliver bought for our wedding – the wedding he always wanted, the wedding I would never discuss.
Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) Page 16
