Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  Finally, he turned to the paper’s main coverage: the upcoming Transfer Day ceremonies.

  •

  MARCH 31 MARKED the ninety-plus-year anniversary of the 1917 sale of the Danish West Indies to the United States—Transfer Day, as it was colloquially known.

  The USVI calendar was filled with several notable holidays: the Carnival Festival in the spring, Emancipation Day in the summer, and, in the fall, Liberty Day, celebrating the life of labor leader D. Hamilton Jackson. Transfer Day’s end of March marker fell awkwardly in the mix. Among many of its residents, the territory’s purchase by the United States was a milestone of dubious distinction.

  Nevertheless, tomorrow’s date would be commemorated by several public activities, with the main event scheduled to take place at a refurbished Danish plantation in the dense rain forest that covered the island’s northwest corner, not far from the cruise ship dock in Frederiksted.

  The paper proudly announced that the territory’s governor would be flying in from St. Thomas to oversee the plantation festivities. Several Danish dignitaries along with a couple hundred Danish nationals, many of the latter group with family ties to St. Croix, had already arrived.

  The article made no mention of the Americans, Umberto reflected as he refilled his cup and squeezed another slice of lime into the tea. Representatives of the island’s current owner would be conspicuously absent on the day celebrating its acquisition.

  •

  UMBERTO TUCKED THE paper beneath the stool. Contemplating the cultural oddities of his adopted home, he cupped his hands beneath his head and leaned back in the chair.

  St. Croix was a lonely, isolated place, surrounded by a flat horizon that was barely dimpled by the glitzier islands to the north. Far more dominant on the landscape was the glowering power plant that scarred the harbor’s west end, a sooty reminder of the belching refinery that swallowed several acres of the island’s south shore. This working class outpost, unknown by most of the continental United States and generally ignored by its sister Virgins, had a depth of character that only an artist could appreciate.

  Umberto was a keen observer of the fascinating individuals who populated downtown Christiansted. While he was careful to maintain his oddball, outsider status—he preferred quiet solitude to the idle chitchat brought on by neighborly familiarity—he spent far more time watching the Islanders than the other way around.

  His favorite pastime involved imagining the colorful life stories of the people he spied on from his boat’s rear deck.

  There were the American refinery workers, brought in to consult on the local plant, men who were separated from their families in the States for months at a time. To Umberto’s eye, the blustering brutes with tattooed muscles and gruff Popeye demeanors were closet softies, secretly nursing the pangs of homesickness. Despite the long evenings they spent in the local bars, their constant cell-phone usage suggested they were in regular contact with their families and loved ones.

  Next up were the weatherworn sailors, bowed at the knees, their balance permanently skewed to a boat’s bobbing buoyancy. These men had made a far more permanent break with society.

  Umberto liked to picture what the old salts had looked like in their youth. He saw them as clean-shaven men with straight postures and unwrinkled faces, trading in their wives and girlfriends for the mistress of the sea.

  Perhaps the best shoreline characters were the Crucian women, whose beautiful skin varied in every shade from cream to dark brown. The younger ones were easy to pick out, strutting along the boardwalk, bursting with pent-up adolescent rebellion, desperate to escape the island’s claustrophobic confines. They were almost matched in numbers by the returners, a few years older, still beautiful but now bearing a certain dignified reserve, having ventured to the bright lights of Miami only to find themselves put off by its wild flamboyance.

  Umberto tilted the cup to drain the last sip of tea. Lightly smacking his lips, he turned his head toward downtown Christiansted, eager to see what the evening’s voyeurism might bring.

  His vision drifted along the walkway to the crowd gathered outside the brewpub, where the afternoon’s crab races were about to begin.

  Sitting up in his chair, Umberto watched as a girl of about seven with bouncing pigtails tugged a younger boy, his demeanor clearly reluctant, toward the edge of the spectators.

  ~ 21 ~

  Off to the Races

  DRAGGING HASSAN BEHIND her, Elena pushed to the front of the crowd converging on the brewpub’s outdoor seating area for the daily crab race. The tables and chairs had been moved to the side to make room for the racing ring, a five-foot circle drawn out in chalk on the concrete.

  It was an event for all ages and nationalities. Several sun-flushed Danes stood watching from the boardwalk, while a number of rum-bleary Americans mingled in the middle of the pub’s dining space. Up front, closest to the designated racing spot, a growing horde of excited young children ran madly about.

  Elena soon forced her way through to the inner group, pulling Hassan along with her.

  A cheer rose up from the crowd as a waitress brought out a large plastic bucket. About fifty hermit crabs squirmed inside, each one with a colorful number painted on its shell. The youthful spectators tightened around the container, eager to get a look at the crawling heap of contestants.

  For a dollar ante each, the waitress dutifully wrote the sponsoring individual’s name on a clipboard and matched it with the corresponding crab number. Alongside the number, she took down the crab’s newly assigned racing name. Some of the monikers were chosen to highlight the crustacean’s speed, athleticism, or perceived personality, while others were more a reflection of the sponsor’s personality. Flash, Big Bopper, and Crab Cakes were all quickly selected.

  Elena hopped up and down, worried that the best crabs would be taken before she got a chance to pick. When it was finally her turn, she peered anxiously inside the bucket.

  “That one,” she squealed, thrusting her finger at the bulkiest crab in the pile. “Fat Louie for me!”

  As the waitress scribbled the name and number, Hassan edged in beside his sister. Caught up in the excitement of the event, his hesitance at disobeying his mother had now diminished.

  “I like that guy on the edge of the bucket,” Hassan said, nodding toward a tiny crab whose number was almost bigger than its shell. “Number thirteen.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s way too small,” Elena replied dismissively. “And besides, thirteen is an unlucky number.”

  Hassan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That’s my crab,” he insisted. “His name is Ferdinand.”

  With a sigh, Elena looked up at the waitress. “Make it two crabs for us.”

  The woman smiled. “Do you have your dollars, kids?” She looked out at the surrounding adults, searching for one associated with the two youngsters.

  “I got it,” Elena said, yanking on the woman’s sleeve before she had time to realize that they were there without parental supervision.

  Brow furrowed, the girl dug inside the pocket of her sundress. She pulled out a dollar and seventy-five cents, the change from the earlier candy bar purchase, and held it out hopefully.

  “I’m a little short, but my brother’s pick is only half a crab,” she said, rolling her eyes at Hassan.

  The woman laughed and took the money.

  “Close enough,” she responded with a wink.

  •

  AFTER EVERYONE’S ANTE had been collected, the waitress handed the clipboard to the brewpub’s owner, who served as the race announcer. Flicking on his microphone, the man stepped toward the center of the chalk-drawn circle and addressed the crowd.

  “Welll-come to the world-famous Christiansted boardwalk crab race!”

  The amplified voice boomed out across the busy shoreline, drawing still more gawkers to the fringes of the racing are
a. Those on the outer edges began climbing on top of chairs and tabletops to see into the racing circle.

  “We have some fabulous prizes for today’s winners. A selection of colorful T-shirts, shot glasses”—he glanced down at the number of children near his feet—“and an assortment of water toys. Something appropriate for all ages.”

  Taking in a deep breath, he continued. “Now, if everyone’s ready, let’s get this thing started.”

  The announcer stepped aside as the waitress moved into the chalk-drawn circle with her bucket. The contents had been pared down to include just the participating hermit crabs. With a clattering whoosh, she dumped the shell-carrying crustaceans onto the marked center starting point.

  “Aaaaaaand they’re off. Andale. Andale. We’ve got quite a race going for you tonight, folks. Neck and neck, right out of the starting gate.”

  The announcer’s call didn’t in any way reflect the slow-moving crawl of the crabs dragging their shells across the concrete, but you wouldn’t know it from the wild cheers of the packed crowd.

  “Fat Louie’s jumped out to an early lead. He looks like a ringer, that one. A good pick by the little lady here on the front row . . . But wait! Who’s this small guy coming up on his left flank?” The announcer paused to squint at the numbers on his clipboard. “It’s number thirteen, Ferd-i-nand the Great!”

  “Hey, that’s my crab!” Hassan piped out as the tiny crab scrambled nimbly over its competitor, who was loaded down with a much larger shell. “Come on, Ferdy!”

  •

  AFTER FIVE MINUTES of heart-stopping drama (for the audience) and uneventful ambling (for the crustaceans), Ferdinand was announced the winner. There was a generous offering of prizes, and all of the child participants were given the opportunity to select an item from a water-toy grab bag.

  With the crowd quickly dispersing, the waitstaff scurried about, reassembling the tables for the night’s dinner service.

  As the winner, Hassan had first pick of the toy prizes. He held up his selection, a three-foot-long super-soaker, and aimed its plastic tube toward the boardwalk.

  Testing the plunger, Hassan pumped the handle, imagining a solid stream of water pulsing out the end piece, across the dining area, over the heads of a pair of waitresses, and straight onto . . .

  “Elena,” he whispered tensely. “Elena, she’s here.”

  The super-soaker was pointed at the homeless West Indian woman, who stood about fifteen feet away in the shadows just off the boardwalk.

  The hag wrapped her gnarled hands around the handle of her rusted shopping cart and shifted her weight so that she could lift up her lame foot. She propped the floppy left shoe on the cart’s lower back rim and rocked it back and forth.

  Then, with a sudden lurch that caused Hassan to nearly drop his water toy, she shoved the cart forward, on a direct line toward the brewpub.

  “Elena,” Hassan pleaded, tugging on his sister’s arm. She was still bent over the toy sack, trying to make her decision. “Elena, she’s coming this way.”

  The girl’s head jerked up from the bag.

  “Mamma?” she asked, whipping her head around. She wasn’t quite ready to be caught. “Where?”

  “No,” Hassan hissed. “It’s the woman . . . the—the Goat Foot Woman.” His little face paled with terror. “Elena, she’s going to take me to her lair and . . .”

  But his sister had already returned her attention to the collection of toys.

  “You’ll be fine,” she replied, reaching for a plastic water pistol.

  “Elena!” Hassan squealed urgently as the old woman drew closer, her cart bumping rapidly over the boardwalk’s rough surface. Within seconds, she would be inside the brewpub’s dining area.

  “Elena,” Hassan mouthed, his small body paralyzed with fear. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. His cheeks flushed as beads of sweat broke out across his face.

  Gedda left her cart at the edge of the brewpub and limped toward the boy. Soon, she was but a few feet away.

  She stopped and leered down at him, her yellow eyes glowing against her dark graying skin. Her mouth gaped open, exposing the rotting interior.

  Suddenly regaining his mobility, Hassan dove around the hag, hurdled over an upturned chair, and ran screeching down the boardwalk toward the old Danish fort.

  ~ 22 ~

  The Feeding

  REFRESHED FROM A shower and a change of clothes, Adam Rock left the moderate comfort of his thinly air-conditioned room in search of a cold drink and something to eat.

  A piece of plump, tender meat ought to do the trick, he thought hungrily to himself.

  He strode stiffly down the humid hallway, turned at the end of the corridor, and entered a stairwell leading to the first floor. Clunking down the steps, he tugged at the front of his golf shirt, lifting the cotton fabric away from his skin, which had already begun to moisten with sweat. There was a growing dampness in his socks, even the one encasing his prosthetic. His brown walking shoes usually provided his most stable footing, but as he marched down the stairs, it became more and more difficult to maintain his balance.

  At last, he reached the bottom. Grumbling again about the hotel’s need for a more robust cooling system, Rock lumbered out of the stairwell and into the interior courtyard.

  As he yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his brow, a cheerful splashing sound drew his attention. He glanced over at a small fountain, where a pair of young children were playing, cooling their bare feet in the pool of water while they waited for their parents to complete the check-in process at the reception desk.

  Rock’s sour expression began to soften, and his mood noticeably lightened. As he stared at the chubby toddler legs and plump, tender toes, the corners of his lips twitched with craving. He pushed down on his left foot, causing the hoof to grind against the prosthetic.

  Shrieking with delight, one of the youngsters ran past the salesman, his bare feet slapping against the courtyard’s concrete floor.

  Rock eyed the wet footprints. His mouth salivating, he murmured out loud.

  “Now, I’m really hungry.”

  •

  WITH DIFFICULTY, ROCK pulled himself away from the children and headed out the waterfront side of the hotel to the open-air restaurant.

  The evening crowd had started to filter in, a mix of tourists looking for some grub to go with their sunset cocktails and locals stopping in for refreshment after a day’s work.

  Rock took a seat at the bar. With a casual wave at the bartender, he pointed to a Red Stripe bottle from a lineup on the back wall.

  The server nodded a confirmation and reached into the cooler. There was a slight hiss of air as he flicked off the lid. With a minimal flourish, he plunked the squatty bottle on the counter.

  Rock wrapped a hand around the glass, savoring the chill. Then he brought the bottle to his lips and took a long sip.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed, swiveling in his chair to gaze across the diner’s open harbor-facing wall.

  The sun sank into the western horizon, throwing pink and purple hues across the sky. Pointed shadows stretched out from the unfurled masts of the myriad sailboats floating in the harbor. Even the most run-down locations could be transformed into a tropical mirage by the colors of a Caribbean sunset.

  Rock took another sizeable drink of the beer and smacked his lips. He tapped his ring finger against the bottle, listening to the comforting tink of metal on glass. While it was still warm and muggy, a light breeze had begun to flow out of the east, bringing with it a temperature decrease of at least four or five degrees.

  He could almost forget his earlier discomfort when he was enjoying scenery like this.

  •

  ROCK QUICKLY DRAINED the first lager and ordered a second. Carrying the bottle, he walked across the restaurant to the railings overlooking the
small lagoon of water that ran beneath the boardwalk.

  The sleepy harbor saw its busiest bustle of the day as the dive-shop boats puttered in from their afternoon outings. Boatloads of sunburned snorkelers stumbled onto the piers that branched out from the main wooden walkway while tired crewmembers hurried through their end-of-shift cleanup and rigging checks.

  Closer in to the diner’s railing, Rock watched as torpedo-shaped shadows circled the lagoon’s shallow waters. A bullish snout broke the surface, snapping testily at the air.

  At the next table, a local peered over the railing. Tapping his fork against the side of his plate, he gestured to his dinner companion.

  “The tarpon are out.”

  •

  EVERY NIGHT, GANGS of tarpon converged on the lagoon for a free meal, courtesy of the diner’s chef, who would dump into the water the meaty scraps left over from the dinner prep. The fish had grown accustomed to the routine of this free meal, and the water beneath the boardwalk was soon brimming with their taut, muscular bodies. The tarpon seemed to sense that, with the increased foot traffic on the walkway, the moment of the food drop was drawing near.

  Tourists crowded in with their cameras as the chef brought out a plastic bucket filled with a dark smelly soup. Flies buzzed around the bloody brew of pork trimmings, chicken carcass, and fish guts. As the chef stepped onto the short footbridge that connected the restaurant to the boardwalk, the water below erupted into a violent frenzy.

  A swarm of snapping beasts wrestled in savage one-armed combat for a chance to tear at the loose strips of flesh. It was a gruesome cannibalistic orgy, one that drew murmurs of both surprise and disgust from the surrounding crowd.

  For Adam Rock, the tarpon feeding only intensified his appetite.

  Pushing back from the railing, he began a methodical search of the boardwalk pedestrians. His round eyes sank into his pouchy skin, his pupils glittering like tiny black marbles.