Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands)

by Hale, Rebecca M.

  Over time, the islands’ governance shifted to the Department of the Interior, and a legislative assembly with democratically elected members gradually evolved. But it would be 1970 before the people living in the US Virgin Islands were allowed to choose their chief executive officer. To date, they had no vote in the U.S. presidential election.

  •

  THE GOVERNOR FOLDED his hands over his rotund belly and sighed tensely. The mental review of the day’s historical backdrop hadn’t made him any more enthusiastic about his upcoming speech.

  His aide had been working on the address for weeks, and the text had been thoroughly vetted by the Governor’s numerous advisors and consultants. He was equipped with the right words; he just had to execute the delivery.

  His brow furrowed as he considered the expected audience.

  The Danish delegation would be headed by the country’s U.S. ambassador and his wife, who had flown down from New York for the event. But while the Danes were sending a top-level diplomat, the official representative from the U.S. government would be notably absent.

  The islands’ elected congressional delegate had backed out at the last minute, blaming a legislative emergency up in DC. An unpaid intern had been nominated to attend in her place.

  Since the VI’s representative was allowed only limited participation in the U.S. Congress, the Governor couldn’t imagine what contingency could have arisen to prevent the woman’s appearance, but he didn’t hold the dodge against her.

  The Governor chuckled ruefully. He would have gladly passed off his duties to an intern if he’d thought he could get away with it.

  •

  THE SEAPLANE PULLED away from the pier and rumbled across the water, slowly gaining lift as it picked up speed. With the plane rising into the sky above Charlotte Amalie, the Governor glanced out the nearest oval-shaped window and looked across at the white-painted Government House on the hill above the harbor.

  Beyond the inherently touchy nature of the Transfer Day celebrations, this trip would be fraught by an additional layer of complication, difficulties that he would encounter on an entirely different front. He was leaving his home base, an area where he enjoyed a relatively high approval rating, and headed into far more fractious terrain.

  The Governor rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t thinking about the spear fisherman who had been terrorizing the seaplane’s water runway in the Christiansted harbor for the past several weeks—although the rogue swimmer was somewhat emblematic of the problem.

  The island of St. Croix was a minefield of easily discharged emotions, and the chief executive of the territory was the largest target, both literally and figuratively, upon which to lob complaints.

  •

  SANTA CRUZ HAD always been a troublesome place to govern. Ever since 1493 when the native Carib gave a working over to Christopher Columbus and his Spanish crew at Salt River, the island had taken great pride in its orneriness. Its residents had never been amenable to extraterritorial rule, be it French, Danish, American, or Thomasian.

  Being the most recent offender, St. Thomas bore the brunt of the current grudge.

  It didn’t help matters that the bulk of the territory’s tourism traffic focused on St. Thomas and, to a lesser extent, St. John.

  A popular cruise ship stop and vacation destination, Charlotte Amalie had several blocks in its downtown district dedicated to duty-free shopping, with stores specializing in fine jewelry, watches, and perfume—all located within a short walk of its deepwater port.

  In addition to the frequent cruise ship activity, St. Thomas boasted several full-service resorts. A number of commercial flights from the States made the island an easily accessible getaway, so a high percentage of the American tourists flying into the territory booked rooms on the Rock.

  A short ferry ride away from Charlotte Amalie, St. John laid claim to a huge national park, whose beaches, most notably the one at Trunk Bay, were ranked among the best in the Caribbean. While St. John had far fewer options for overnight accommodations, it saw a high volume of daily traffic from St. Thomas, both in terms of long-term visitors and day-tripping cruise ship passengers.

  Comparatively speaking, St. Croix was an afterthought, a barely visible line on the horizon, with fewer flights, generally less luxurious accommodations, and limited public-beach access. Seaplane arrivals to the Christiansted harbor were greeted by a towering electrical plant eyesore; commercial flights landing at the island’s interior airport couldn’t help but fly over the massive oil refinery that dominated the southern shoreline.

  Saddled with being both distant and different, Santa Cruz had developed an innate resentment toward its sister Virgin Islands.

  If it couldn’t be beautiful, it could at least be belligerent.

  Crucian voices were among the loudest of those pointing out that the West Indians living on the islands at the time of the transfer hadn’t been asked to verify the territory’s sale to the United States. Several even likened the subsequent governing arrangement to a new form of slavery. Others used this historical fact pattern to argue for the granting of Native Rights (tax exemptions, land redistribution, and public office requirements favoring those who claimed heritage back to residents from the islands’ original transfer).

  That the territory’s chief executive was now an elected position had done little to temper the perceptions of inequality and injustice.

  Indeed, it was not unusual during public meetings—particularly those held on St. Croix—for the Governor to find himself lumped together with his colonial predecessors in criticisms of corruption and ineptitude.

  •

  THE GOVERNOR SIGHED with resignation. Of all this, he was well aware. He looked down at his wedding ring. He was, after all, married to a Crucian.

  His wife would be joining him at the Danish plantation later that afternoon. She’d flown down a few days earlier so that she could spend time visiting with her family. They would all be dining together that evening.

  At the thought of his in-laws, the Governor let out an audible groan. That was just what he needed to top off the day—a whole clan of contentious Crucians.

  He glanced through the plane’s side window. It was a short flight, and they would be landing shortly. The first shadows of the Christiansted shoreline were already starting to appear in the distance. Assuming the spear fisherman didn’t cause them to capsize upon landing, he would be strolling down the Santa Cruz boardwalk within the next half hour.

  The Governor was an easily recognizable figure, particularly when accompanied by his suited entourage. He would likely run into several constituents on his way to his first meeting.

  He expected a frosty reception.

  ~ 40 ~

  A Morning’s Surveillance

  GEDDA STOOD IN the alley alongside the gravel courtyard behind the Comanche Hotel, watching the morning unfold. Her gnarled hands gripped her shopping cart’s rusted metal handle as she tracked the pedestrian movements along the boardwalk. Her gaze soon focused on the line of small boats moored off the pier that jutted into the harbor near the sugar mill bar.

  The boat tied to the pier’s fourth slot rocked in the water as a short man in a green dress peeked out its rear cabin door.

  Two curious dachshunds and a bemused opera singer looked on as Charlie Baker crept onto the boat’s back deck, trying to estimate how fast he could run the length of the pier, across the boardwalk, and down the path to the Comanche.

  With a here-goes-nothing shrug, the cross-dressing contractor set off at a sprint, the hem of the dress swinging at his knees. He slowed near the sugar mill bar, pausing for a brief exchange with the bartender. Then he goose-stepped onto the rough path circling the courtyard.

  As Charlie reached the lower edge of the swimming pool, he noticed the old woman standing in the alley, and for an eerie moment, the two exchanged stares.

  Gedda
gummed the gaps in her lower jawline, sucking on the toothless openings. Her hollowed cheeks sank into her gaunt face; her yellow eyes glittered in the shadows.

  Charlie fiddled nervously with the dress’s fabric before dropping his gaze and scurrying along the sharp-edged paving stones that led beneath the hotel’s pavilion.

  Gedda smiled as she watched him disappear down the passageway. Her dry lips parted to release a cackling snort.

  In her opinion, he was starting to get the hang of wearing those dresses.

  •

  GEDDA HOBBLED OFF down the alley toward the King Street taxi stand where the drivers had begun to gather.

  Her left foot dragged across the pavement, a dull scraping sound that, together with the cart’s squeaking wheels, amplified the notice of her arrival, but the men paid her no attention. Settling into their folding chairs, the drivers pulled foil-wrapped breakfasts out of paper bags and dug into both their food and the day’s gossip.

  Gedda’s crippled body swayed to and fro as she listened to the drivers’ hushed voices, filtering through their commentary for any tidbits of interest.

  The Governor’s pending arrival was briefly touched upon, generating several jealous remarks about the private limousine service he and his team would be using to convoy across the island to the Transfer Day ceremonies. A few of the men speculated on the whereabouts of Emmitt, who was conspicuously missing that morning, and wondered if the tall Crucian had scored a freelance driving job with the limo company. The suggestion set off another round of grumbling.

  The conversation then turned to the cruise ship that had just docked off the island’s west shore. There was a fair amount of commiserating about the fickle nature of cruise ship passengers and the unfortunate logistics of trying to lure them across the island to Christiansted. The drivers wondered if the man from Nevis was having any luck picking up riders at the Fredriksted pier. They admitted they would feel foolish if he wound up bringing a full load of passengers to the boardwalk.

  With those topics exhausted, the rest of the conversation focused on the morning’s chicken count. After several minutes of good-natured ribbing and more than a few crude poultry jokes, they began placing the day’s bets.

  Gedda waited as the men called out their wagers. Then she smiled knowingly.

  Despite their enthusiasm, she didn’t think any of the drivers would hit on the winning number, meaning the pot would roll over to the next day.

  She suspected the Nevisian driver would still manage to clean them out when he returned the following morning.

  •

  HAVING FINISHED WITH the taxi drivers, Gedda meandered out the alley and down the sidewalk toward the national park’s green space. After circling the Scale House, she crossed to the boardwalk’s eastern terminus. With stiff, stilted movements, she hobbled down the wooden walkway, which was starting to see more action as the shoreline came alive.

  The staff at the rainbow-decorated diner had just finished hosing down its concrete floor. The waitresses bustled about, wiping down tabletops and laying new place settings. Several sunburned Danes began wandering sleepily in from the attached hotel for the breakfast service.

  A few doors down, the spear fisherman splashed out of the harbor. Carrying his spear and snorkel in one hand, a wire cage holding his early morning lobster catch in the other, he walked down the boardwalk toward a seafood restaurant. The chef, who stood outside negotiating with a group of sailors for a haul of fresh tuna, beckoned to the snorkeler, inviting him to bring the lobster over for inspection.

  •

  AS THE SPEAR fisherman strutted soggily past, the sugar mill bartender poured the last bag of ice into the chests behind his counter. Resting his back, he leaned against the mill’s coral-rock wall and stared out at the harbor. His soppy gaze centered on a large sailboat and its female captain, a woman with dirty-blonde hair and sun-kissed skin.

  His girlfriend was hard at work readying her ship for the day’s snorkel tour to Buck Island. She’d kicked off her flip-flops and left them on the dock. Barefoot, she scrambled about the boat, expertly adjusting its sail and riggings.

  She wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a loose-fitting top over a bikini swimsuit. As she bent to secure a knot around a cleat mounted to the boat’s topside, the shirt slipped off her left shoulder, revealing a nautical tattoo that spread across the center of her upper back. The detailed black-ink design depicted a ship’s helm overlaid with an anchor.

  The bartender sighed, staring at the beautiful tattoo—but failing to appreciate its significance.

  He was but a temporary fixture in her life. She was forever partnered to the sea.

  Oblivious to his dispensable status, the bartender reached for a paper cup of coffee and took the last cold swig, swallowing the liquid with lovesick gusto.

  He called out cheerfully at the hag as she passed his station.

  “Morning, Gedda.”

  •

  SHAKING HER HEAD at the young man’s foolishness, Gedda pressed on.

  About a hundred yards away, she spied the Governor’s heavy suited figure plodding out of the seaplane hangar. He was accompanied by his ever-present entourage of aides and advisors. Bodyguards flanked the front and rear of the procession, wireless transmitters feeding into their ears, an arsenal of weaponry strapped to their waists.

  The boardwalk’s morning bustle screeched to a halt as the Governor marched past, a ripple of upturned faces gawking at the territory’s senior politician.

  There were a number of icy stares, a couple of muttered curses, and a scattering of nodding glances.

  Only the spear fisherman stepped forward to offer the Governor a wet handshake.

  •

  GEDDA BUMPED HER creaky cart toward the vacant structures near the boardwalk’s west end. The dance club’s abandoned shell stood disturbingly empty. The coconut boys had not returned the previous evening for their share of the pork chop leftovers from the brewpub. They’d last been seen riding in the bed of Nova’s pickup truck, headed for the other side of the island.

  After pondering the unoccupied porch steps for several seconds, Gedda parked her cart near a pile of trash outside the club, removed one of the plastic bags from the carriage compartment, and began hobbling back along the boardwalk.

  She needed to find a ride to Frederiksted.

  ~ 41 ~

  The Market

  KAREEM PARKED HIS car on a quiet side street, a few blocks off of Strand, Frederiksted’s main waterfront thoroughfare.

  Stepping out of his shiny black sedan, he flicked a button on his keychain to engage the lock and started off down a cracked sidewalk. The peekaboo view of the sea revealed a massive cruise ship anchored beside a sizeable dock that extended fifteen hundred feet into the water. Squinting, he could just make out the clumped masses of hundreds of tiny human figures ambling about the boat, as well as a few smaller clusters that had begun the long walk to the shore.

  A good sign for commerce, Kareem concluded as he turned a corner and strolled toward the address for his newest grocery store.

  •

  FREDERIKSTED WAS A tiny town, no more than a small village, with less than a thousand people living within its city limits. The main streets ran parallel to the shoreline; most of its economic activity revolved around the transiting cruise ships.

  An important cultural marker, Frederiksted was the site of several significant historical events, milestones that epitomized the island’s feisty nature and headstrong independent spirit.

  In 1848, the town was the location of a popular uprising that eventually forced the territory’s colonial governor to declare emancipation for the entire Danish West Indies. Thirty years later, it was the starting point of the Fireburn riots, a violent laborers’ revolt stemming from the onerous terms of post-slavery work contracts. The riots resulted in the burning of much of the town as
well as several plantations across St. Croix.

  Despite its importance to the island’s heritage, modern day Frederiksted suffered from its secondary stature. The town’s colonial-era buildings were in a general state of disrepair. Its brick red fort compared poorly with the yellow ochre one in Christiansted. Graffiti marred the exterior walls; water drainage had damaged the structure’s interior.

  In recent years, multimillion-dollar improvements to the waterfront had created a deepwater port (along with the mammoth pier) to attract passing cruise ships. Unfortunately, that initial effort hadn’t been matched with long-term maintenance. Many of the public light fixtures in the shoreline area were inoperable or had pieces missing; parts of the decorative chains that lined the main walkway were broken. The casual observer couldn’t help but notice the multiple signs of vandalism and the general sense of slide.

  Nevertheless, with the ship in dock, colorful tents displaying all manner of souvenirs and trinkets dotted a pavilion area on the shore next to the dock. A number of hopeful vendors had set out their wares, but so far, the shoppers were few and far between.

  A handful of the ship’s passengers snorkeled off the end of the pier, and the occasional curious pedestrian wandered down to the vendor pavilion and Strand Street’s row of waterfront stores. But for the most part, those seeking to explore St. Croix would take off in taxi vans or on guided tours, quickly leaving Frederiksted behind.

  •

  A FEW BLOCKS inland, the narrow streets sloped gently upward. With its jaw-dropping views of the sea, the area could have been a Caribbean gem, but beyond the shoreline’s cruise ship facade, the neighborhoods turned steadily seedy. Cracked and crumbling facades were overlaid with overgrown weeds, scattered refuse, and the occasional abandoned vehicle. In the constant island heat, it didn’t take long for infrastructure to deteriorate.

  Ever the optimist, Kareem viewed Frederiksted as a unique business opportunity. He saw himself at the forefront of the town’s transition into a showcase tourist destination. He envisioned pedestrian-friendly neighborhoods with island-themed boutiques, restaurants, a few parks, and even a museum. If only a portion of his planned development was enacted, he reasoned, it would bring about a dramatic economic upturn to the area.