by Junie Coffey
She looked over at Ted. He seemed engrossed in telling a story, looking from face to face among his companions. He hadn’t noticed Lance and Barry’s comings and goings.
“Nina. Jeez. What’s up with the music? I think we’ve got John Prine doing ‘Angel from Montgomery’ and some Tom Waits over there if you want to kill the night completely. We might sell more hard liquor, I suppose,” said Danish, sliding in next to her with two more margaritas in his hands.
“Did you see Lance and Barry arguing on the deck?” Nina asked him.
“What? No. Where’s Lance?” he asked, looking around.
“They had an argument, and Lance left. Maybe Barry found out about Lance and Tiffany and wanted to have it out with him. Maybe they kidnapped Tiffany together, and they’re arguing about what to do now!” whispered Nina. “They knew each other in Connecticut, apparently.”
“What about the ransom note?” asked Danish, scratching his head.
Barry and his friends finished their meal and pushed back from the table. Barry picked up his credit-card receipt and tucked his wallet in the inside pocket of his sports jacket. He scanned the room, his head back slightly and his nose up, like he was sniffing the air. When he caught sight of Nina and Danish in the booth, his mouth hardened, and he turned abruptly toward the door, following his companions out.
“Let’s follow him,” said Nina, grabbing her house keys off the table, surprised at herself. Danish didn’t even question her. He took a big gulp of his margarita and then left both glasses on the table and headed for the door. Nina followed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ted’s eyes following her as she crossed the room, but she didn’t look at him.
Nina and Danish stood in the shadows as Barry shook hands with the three men and they slapped one another on the back with hearty good nights. His friends got in a rented car and headed south, probably toward the Plantation Inn. Barry got in his car and drove past them in the opposite direction, headed north toward The Enclave and, presumably, his house. They sprinted across the street to Danish’s red post-office golf cart, hopped in, and followed Barry’s taillights out of the village. He turned off into The Enclave. Danish dowsed the headlights and turned off behind him, fifty yards back. The night was clear, and moonlight illuminated the road.
Barry went past his own driveway.
“Maybe he’s seen us and is suspicious,” said Nina. Barry’s taillights disappeared around a curve in the road, and their view of him was suddenly obscured by a bank of tall trees.
“Catch up to him, Danish! Where is he going?”
“I’ve got the pedal to the metal. This thing only does about fifteen miles an hour. There’s nothing else up here but a few big houses. It’s a dead-end road, ending at Jules and Kiki’s place,” said Danish.
He took the curve so fast that Nina had to hang on to the roof. The trees blocked out the light of the moon, and they were orbiting the curve in total darkness.
“Put on the headlights, Danish! We’re going to crash!” yelled Nina, giving up on the stealth part of the expedition. Danish flipped on the lights and swerved to avoid the ditch. The road straightened out. There was no sign of Barry ahead. Nina and Danish looked down the gated driveways of the oceanfront estates as they passed, but they saw nothing but darkness punctuated by the faint glow of light from the houses behind their high banks of dense vegetation and berms of pale sand and coral rock.
“How could we lose him on a dead-end road with absolutely no other traffic, and every driveway blocked by an eight-foot-high iron gate!” exclaimed Nina. They had almost reached the end of the road. Ahead of them were just three houses. Behind a wrought iron gate, the facade of the Davises’ large white stucco house was lit with floodlights from the lawn. Beside it was the gated driveway into Delmont Samuels’s villa. The Savages’ beach house lay behind its iron gate straight ahead of them. There was soft light glowing in some of the windows but no signs of movement or of Barry’s car anywhere. They could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs a disconcertingly short distance off to their right.
“Wait!” said Danish. “That’s the fire service access road to the beach. Maybe he drove down there.” He backed up ten feet in the dark and turned down a narrow sandy lane with tall trees and high fences on either side. Danish parked the cart in the shadow of a fragrant frangipani tree a short distance from the road. He took a flashlight out of the box of junk on the floor of the back cargo space, and they proceeded on foot toward the waves crashing against the beach ahead of them. The track was sandy, and Nina skidded and sank into it in her sandals with each step, but she didn’t dare take them off in case there was broken glass or sharp-edged shells underfoot. Barry’s car was not in the lane.
They reached the water’s edge. The tide was high, and the beach was just a narrow sliver of pale sand running in either direction. The black water foamed at their feet, and there was only dark oblivion beyond it. They looked up and down the beach. It was empty. They could see the landscaped lawns of the houses on either side sloping down to the beach, as well as the silhouettes of beach chairs, thatched sun umbrellas, and kayaks in the moonlight.
“Well, he’s not here. This is incredible. How did we lose him?” asked Nina.
“Let’s go down the beach to his place and see if he’s there,” said Danish.
“I don’t think so,” said Nina. “He’s got two vicious Doberman pinschers, I happen to know.”
Danish had already started walking down the beach. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “They’re kept in the house. Believe me, I know. I deliver Tiffany Bassett’s mail-order shopping booty every day. This was your idea, remember?”
He kept walking. She hesitated for a moment and then followed him. They passed about a half dozen large villas perched above the beach. They could see the lights shining out of their floor-to-ceiling windows. Music and laughter wafted down from one of them, but the beach was cloaked in darkness.
“This is it,” said Danish. They looked up at a huge, three-story, mint-green villa. Lights shone in every window.
“Either he’s home, or he’s trying to burn electricity. Unbelievable. He must have gotten home by magic carpet,” said Nina.
“Let’s go see,” said Danish, starting to creep toward the house along the property line. Nina hesitated briefly, then followed. They climbed up beside the house to a sheltered spot along the fence where they could see right into the big, open living area. There was Barry. He sailed into view, two enormous glasses of wine in his hands. A dark-haired woman was seated on the sofa. She looked about forty years old, chic in a black dress, red lipstick, and high stiletto heels. He handed her a glass, then wandered over to the shelves along the back wall. A moment later, horrible improvisational jazz drifted out into the garden. Barry crossed the room toward the woman, snapping his fingers in time with the random, irregular notes of the music. He sat down on the sofa facing her. They both put their glasses of wine on the low table in front of them, wrapped their arms around each other, and started making out.
“I guess he’s not missing Tiffany too much,” said Nina. “What is wrong with these people?”
“That’s Mr. and Mrs. Davis’s daughter. She’s some kind of corporate hotshot in Dallas. That’s where they’re from. That must be where we lost him. He must have gone to pick her up at their place.”
From inside the house, they heard the muffled barking of two large, barrel-chested dogs.
“Run!” hissed Nina. They stumbled down to the beach as fast they could go, hugging the fence and the cover it provided, the barking of the dogs still audible but mercifully no louder. They hit the beach and kept running. They didn’t stop until the only sound Nina could hear was her own labored breath. She bent over and grabbed her knees, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. Danish flopped down on the sand, breathing heavily.
“Whew! That got the old adrenaline going,” he said. Nina looked around. They were in front of Delmont Samuels’s house. The house itself was inv
isible behind a hedge at the top of the slope, but there was a single-story building about twenty feet back from the beach. It must have been the recording studio Kiki had mentioned. The front of it was floor-to-ceiling windows, and there was a hot tub beside it.
“Hey. That’s Delmont Samuels’s studio,” said Danish, getting to his feet and heading up the stone path toward it. “What a great place to hide if you were a kidnapper planning to abduct a rich woman wearing an expensive necklace from the house next door.”
“Danish! What are you doing? Get back here!” Nina pointed to the spot next to her. Danish kept going.
“If they were here, maybe they left a clue, a matchbook or fingerprints, maybe,” he mused, putting his face to a window and peering into the darkened interior. He stepped back and began trying the glass doors, one by one. The one closest to the hot tub opened.
“Come on, Nina, let’s take a peek. We won’t hurt anything. It’s already open,” he said, disappearing inside.
“Danish! Get out of there! That’s trespassing! Don’t you think the police might have already thought of that? I’m staying right here behind the high-water mark. You get back here!” Nina kicked off her sandals and, clutching one in each hand, stepped into the surf. The beaches of Pineapple Cay were public property up to the high-water mark, and she wanted to make sure she wasn’t committing a crime as she watched Danish break and enter. She danced back and forth from one foot to the other. Danish reemerged from the studio with a black, rectangular object in one hand and what looked like a roll of scotch tape in the other.
“I saw this on a show once. You can use powdered printer-cartridge ink to dust for fingerprints, then lift them with Scotch tape. I just have to get this cartridge apart,” said Danish as he strained to pry it open, putting some muscle into the task. Nina watched in horror as it broke apart and flew through the air into the hot tub. Although it was dark, by the light of the moon she could see a bloom of black ink spreading rapidly in the water.
“Uh-oh,” said Danish.
“Please tell me that didn’t happen!” Nina covered her face with her hands and then peeked through her fingers at the hot tub. The entire surface was now black.
“Ahhh! We’ve got to clean it up!” said Nina, dancing above the high-tide mark and then behind it again.
“You can’t put that genie back in the bottle,” said Danish, still clutching the tape in his hand and breaking into a trot, and then a run, as he pounded down the stone path to the beach.
“Time to scram, Nina. Come on!” he whisper-shouted as he sprinted past her. She hesitated for a second, staring at the hot tub with her hand over her mouth, and then followed him, her feet splashing in the surf. When they reached the fire service access lane, Nina threw her sandals down and stepped into them, her sandy toes rubbing together painfully as she scrambled up the hill in the soft, shifting sand. They threw themselves into the postal-service golf cart, and Danish reversed it up onto the main road, swerving side to side along the narrow path before fishtailing out onto the empty tarmac and gunning it toward town. They didn’t speak until they rolled to a stop at Nina’s gate. Then Nina turned her whole body toward Danish and stared at him.
“An unfortunate, but relatively minor, accident. No one got hurt,” he said.
“That was no accident, Danish! We were skulking around in the dark, peeking in people’s windows. You filled the Samuelses’ hot tub with black ink! There’s no part of that we can justify. Oh, what would my mother say!”
“Come on, Nina,” said Danish. “It’s not ideal, I agree. But it’s not that bad. It’s not like we killed anyone. And we’ve uncovered one very interesting fact. Barry Bassett is getting it on with Cynthia Davis while his wife is allegedly being held captive somewhere by dangerous criminals, waiting for her ransom to be paid.”
“We didn’t kill anyone. That’s setting the bar a bit low, don’t you think? I already know more about the Bassetts’ love life than I ever wanted to. Danish, I’m not kidding. We are going back to the Samuelses’ house first thing in the morning to apologize and make amends. We have to take full responsibility for our actions and do what we can to make it right. Be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Don’t be late.” She got out of the cart, marched to her door, and went inside without looking back at him.
9
Nina slept fitfully and was up and dressed at dawn. She walked the length of the beach, to town and all the way back to Ted’s fishing lodge again, twice. She saw Ted Matthews down near his boats, tinkering with an engine. He looked up both times she came near and raised his hand in greeting. She gave a small wave back but turned around before she got so close she’d have to speak. She wasn’t in the mood. She sat down at her kitchen table and tried to read the book on the history of Pineapple Cay that she’d borrowed from the library. Finally, she heard Danish’s knock at the door. He had two cups of coffee in his hands.
“A peace offering,” he said. She sighed and took one. They drove to Delmont Samuels’s house in silence. Danish parked on the road, and Nina buzzed the intercom on the gatepost. She sighed again. She waited for someone to ask for her name and the purpose of their visit, but instead, the gate swung open. She and Danish walked up the long gravel drive to a large white villa. A woman was hanging clothes on a line around the side of the house.
“Good morning,” Nina said. “We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Samuels.”
“All right. They’re by the pool. This way, please.” She led them around the other side of the house and up three steps onto the pool deck. A wide view of the Caribbean Sea lay spread out before them. Nina could see the recording studio tucked into a grove of trees near the beach about a hundred feet down a gentle slope. A couple of little girls were playing in the kidney-shaped pool with a young blonde woman. They were laughing and chattering with each other in French. Delmont Samuels was sitting at a table with papers spread out before him. His wife, Lana, was on the other side of the pool, reclining in a swimsuit on a chaise longue while flipping through a magazine. She glared at Nina and Danish over the top of her sunglasses, then stood and slipped her feet into a pair of high-heeled sandals.
“Isabelle, please take the children inside for their snack,” she said, and she sashayed into the house without speaking to Nina or Danish. Isabelle herded the children out of the pool, pulled off their water wings, and wrapped them in thick beach towels. As they went inside, she smiled shyly at Danish and gave him a little wave. Delmont Samuels looked at Danish and Nina in stony silence until the children were gone, then said, “Well, if it isn’t Shirley Holmes and Dr. I-Haven’t-Got-A-Clue.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Mr. Samuels,” said Danish.
“You threw ink into my hot tub. I had to drain it. It will take a week to clean. Hands where I can see them, please.”
Nina wrung her hands with embarrassment but plunged ahead. “Mr. Samuels. We’re here to apologize for what happened last night. We trespassed on your land and damaged your property. I’m so very sorry. I can’t explain why we did it. We got carried away, I guess. It is ridiculous, I know.”
“Yeah. You got that right,” he said. “Lana is from Barbados. She’s not as easygoing as I am. She was all for throwing the book at you, but Roker talked her down. Apparently, he’s convinced her that you two are just a pair of almost-harmless bumblers. Bumblers. Ha ha.”
Nina felt another wave of embarrassment wash over her. Of course, Blue Roker had been informed of their activities. She took a deep breath and continued. “We’re grateful to you and Mrs. Samuels for overlooking our . . . significant lapse in judgment. I would like to do what I can to make amends. Please send me the bill for fixing your hot tub, at least.”
“OK, fine. Never mind about that. I just want my Zodiac back.” He leaned back in his chair and fingered the gold chain around his neck as he spoke. Something he did when he was agitated, Nina guessed.
“Someone stole a necklace from you, too?” said Danish. “A zodiac pendant?”
“My
boat. My boat. Where is my boat?” said Samuels. “We went to Miami on Sunday for a couple of days, and when I went down to the beach this morning to see what you had done to my hot tub, it was gone. If you bring it back this morning, maybe we can just pretend this never happened. Chalk it up to the full moon or something. You two have proved to be a pain in my ass, but unlike Lana, who is missing her early morning soak in the hot tub very much, I am prepared to give people a second chance. Do unto others as you would have done unto you. All right?”
“We didn’t take your boat,” said Danish. “We parked our golf cart down the road a way and took the municipal right-of-way down to the beach between the Davis Villa and the big pink rental. We went back up the same way. We didn’t see a boat anywhere.”
“OK, then. I’d better give Blue Roker a call. Thank you so much for dropping by. Isabelle will see you out.” He lifted his cell phone off the table and turned away. The interview was over.
Isabelle, the French au pair, reappeared and walked them to the door, making moon eyes at Danish. He pretended not to notice. Nina walked quickly to the golf cart, with Danish trailing behind.
