by Junie Coffey
She paused and looked at him. He silently gazed at her, his eyes searingly blue. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then continued.
“This morning, Pansy, Danish, and I were in a bar south of town.” That sounded bad, she thought. Who goes to a seedy bar in the middle of a weekday morning? But she plowed on.
“Anyway, the gentleman who runs the bar, The Pirate’s Wake, told us that Tiffany Bassett and Lance Redmond, or someone who fits his description, were in the bar together the night before she went missing.” She told him about the separate car, the boat, and the small pink suitcase.
“Also, um, I think you will find that the . . . undergarment . . . Pansy brought to you this morning is the same . . . unusual . . . size as a raspberry silk item hanging on the wall at The Pirate’s Wake, put there by Tiffany Bassett. Maybe you could run some DNA tests on it or something . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and she looked away, then back at him. She was acutely aware of the ridiculousness of the situation. How did her daydream of easy living in the islands get so far off track? He sat silently looking at her, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighed.
“So. Operation Hot Tub has been superseded by Operation Ladies’ Underwear,” he said. “May I ask what line of work you were in, in New York, Nina?”
“I was a college instructor,” she mumbled. It seemed a like hundred years ago, back when she was far more mature. “I’m really not actively trying to find Tiffany Bassett. Things just seem to happen in my vicinity. I’m here telling you. Isn’t that good?”
“So, you and Pansy and Danish Jensen just decided to drop into The Pirate’s Wake for a drink and to admire the interior decor before Pansy went to pick up her kids at school?” he said, with just a hint of exasperation detectable in his voice.
“Well, not exactly,” said Nina, squirming a bit in her seat. “But we didn’t ask the bartender about Tiffany and Lance being there together,” she said, mentally blocking out the fact that Danish had asked the bartender about Tiffany. “He—I think he’s the owner—brought up all the stuff about the boat and the suitcase and Tiffany and Lance arriving and leaving separately.”
“All right, Nina. I don’t know what to say. I can’t build a case for fraud, kidnapping, or murder, if that’s what we are now dealing with, based on Tiffany Bassett’s bra size.” Blue Roker paused and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, looking directly at her. She felt herself falling into the icy blue depths of his eyes. Oh, how she hated to disappoint him. But she thought she saw the ice melt a little.
“I shouldn’t tell you this, but I want to impress upon you the importance of not getting involved in this any more than you already have. I want you to understand that we, a team of trained professionals, are working the case ’round the clock.” He paused and looked intently at her for a moment.
He must know what effect he has on women, Nina thought. He definitely puts it to work.
“We have reason to believe that Barry Bassett may be involved in his wife’s disappearance. The ransom note he gave us was a fake, written on paper from his own office. We’ve been monitoring his calls, and in the past few days since his wife’s disappearance, he has made several to the number of a known criminal in Miami. Someone involved in organized crime with a history of violence. So, please, let it go, all right?” Blue said, rising and coming around the desk to stand in front of her.
She stood up to face him. He was in her personal space, but she didn’t back away. He didn’t, either.
“Look, Blue,” said Nina, “I’m embarrassed by the whole Delmont Samuels incident. But I haven’t actually done anything since then. Neither has Pansy. She was showing a house. Danish, well, Danish . . . has hopefully moved on. But I was right to tell you about The Pirate’s Wake, wasn’t I? You didn’t know about the rendezvous with Lance, the boat, and the pink suitcase, did you?”
He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against his desk. “This is a small island, Nina. I imagine a lot of people knew that Tiffany Bassett was carrying on with Lance Redmond. But, no, you are right, I did not know about the suitcase exchange on Friday, so I thank you for coming forward with the information. I’ll show you out.”
Nina felt his eyes on her back as she walked to the counter. Blue reached forward and opened the door, then stood holding it for her. In the reception area, they stood together for a second, and again he stood close to her. He was several inches taller than she was, and she had to look up to see his face.
“OK, well, bye, Blue,” said Nina, turning to leave. He caught her gently by the arm.
“Nina, please take care. This game you are playing is not worth getting hurt over. Surely that’s not why you moved here.” He held her eyes for a moment, then let her go. He nodded slightly and went back through the metal door. She watched him cross the inner office in smooth, unhurried strides, then disappear behind the closed door of his office.
That afternoon, Nina resolved to take Blue Roker’s advice and mind her own business. She and Pansy and Danish had gotten carried away that morning, barging into The Pirate’s Wake and asking questions, gathering evidence from a possible crime scene, and offering unsolicited advice to the police. Blue was right. Time to take a step back.
Nina made a pitcher of iced tea and dug out the home-renovation magazines she’d bought in the airport on her flight down to Pineapple Cay just over a week ago. She took her tea, the pile of magazines, and a notebook out onto the veranda and spent a very pleasant hour leafing through photographs of inviting living rooms, kitchens, bathrooms, and bedrooms—none of which had piles of unfolded laundry on the bed or dirty dishes stacked on the counter. She sketched her plans and made notes, looking out at the water from time to time. The novelty and surprise of finding herself here, with a backyard filled with palm trees, white sand, and turquoise water, had not worn off.
After her second glass of iced tea, she stood up and stretched her arms above her head. She thought of going over to the inn to see if she could catch an afternoon yoga class, but then she thought better of it. Maybe she could use a Danish-free afternoon. Instead, she checked her e-mail, where she found a message from Louise complaining about the cold, damp weather in New York and asking when she could come stay with Nina, as well as one from her mother asking when Nina was coming home for a visit.
She decided to stroll back into the village and pick up some sandpaper for the floorboards and maybe some seedlings for the flower beds, and then she’d get down to work on the article she’d been hired to write about the Morning Glory emerald and the Pineapple Cay Museum.
She walked barefoot into town along the beach, carrying her flip-flops on one finger. A fisherman stood at the wooden table at the end of the municipal wharf, gutting fish and throwing the discarded parts into the water. A flock of seagulls circled above him, diving to the surface of the water to retrieve the bits of fish. The mail boat had come in, so the waterfront was bustling. Nina slipped on her flip-flops when she reached The Redoubt and went up the side of the building to the street.
In front of the hardware store were the trays of bedding plants Nina had remembered from her last shopping trip to town. She didn’t know much about tropical flowers, so she spent some time reading the little plastic stakes in each pot, which had descriptions of the plants and information on how to care for them printed in tiny letters. She chose a frangipani in a large tub and a purple hibiscus, then went inside to look for some sandpaper.
“You’re back again!” said the older man who shuffled out from the back room when she pushed open the door and set the string of bells hanging on it tinkling.
“Yes. Hi,” said Nina. “I just bought a house, and I’m doing some painting and general fixing up.”
“You’ve moved into Miss Rose’s house,” said the man.
Of course he knows that, thought Nina. She held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Nina.”
“I know. Nice to meet you. I’m Harold. Would you believe, I’m seventy-three year
s old, and Miss Rose was my first-grade teacher. I adored her. We all did. She taught me how to read. I’m dyslexic, and nobody really knew what that was in those days. She figured out how to help me, and she came to my house after dinner to work with me. When I read my first story out loud, my mama cried. It was all thanks to Miss Rose. She was something special. Now how can I help you?”
Nina told him what she needed, then paid for the sandpaper and plants and walked down the sidewalk and across the street, taking the path to the beach beside The Redoubt. As she passed, she glanced up at the deck and saw the young bride from the plane. She was sitting at a table under an umbrella, sipping a top-heavy tropical cocktail and contentedly leafing through a magazine. Nina looked around for the woman’s new husband, wondering as she did it why she cared if they were getting along. There he was, standing waist deep in the water, wearing a snorkel and mask and holding a fishing spear in one raised hand, looking down at the water. Good. Everybody was happy doing their own thing together.
Nina walked home along the beach, thinking about the woman whose house she’d bought. Then she spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at her kitchen table with her notes on the Morning Glory and the history of Pineapple Cay, writing the magazine article. At about five o’clock, she turned off her laptop; stretched her arms, legs, and back; and got out the drink-recipe book Louise had given her, flipping through the pages for something new to try. She landed on something called navy grog. She topped it with a little paper umbrella and carried it out onto the veranda to watch the sunset.
She sat on the step, with her feet in the warm sand. Out on the point, she could see that Ted’s guests had gathered—some sitting, some standing along the rail. She thought she could make out his tall form and broad-brimmed hat. She put down her glass and walked barefoot down to the beach and into the surf. The water curled around her ankles. She watched the waves wash up and back over her feet for a few minutes, dragging the sand back and forth with them. Then she strolled back up to her veranda, rinsing her feet in the dishpan full of water she’d finally gotten around to putting on the step to keep the sand out of her house.
There was a violent pounding on the front door, and she looked through the window into her house to see Danish striding into her living room. She made a mental note to resume locking her door.
“Nina! Where are you?” he called. She tapped on the glass. He came out onto the veranda.
“Something very interesting and potentially alarming happened this afternoon,” he said, sinking into a chair. She reluctantly lowered herself into the other one and waited for him to continue.
“I delivered a package to Barry Bassett. A large, heavy box from Miami. What do you think of that?” he said, and sat back, watching her.
“Is that noteworthy?” asked Nina. “Didn’t you tell me that Tiffany Bassett ordered from mail-order catalogs all the time?”
“This was addressed to Barry. See, Josie, who works at the front desk at the inn, has a sister named Susan, who works at Island Tel. Susan told Josie—who told me—that Blue requested Barry’s phone records, and that he seemed very interested in several calls to a number in Miami. Miami, where it is possible to get a gun without too much hassle. The package could be a gun. It was heavy enough,” said Danish.
So, the bush telegraph was up to speed on Barry’s contact with a criminal in Miami. Still, chastened by her conversation with Blue, Nina didn’t want to encourage Danish to pursue things any further. “Oh, Danish, we let things get out of hand this morning. It was my fault, but let’s let it go, OK? Anyway, if it was a gun, wouldn’t the customs officials have noticed? Don’t you think the police are watching deliveries to his house? He could have ordered a croquet set. Also heavy.”
“Only if a croquet set fits in a box six inches wide and three inches tall, because that’s how big it was.”
“My point is it could be anything,” said Nina. “I’m sorry, but I’m rapidly losing interest in the life and times of Tiffany and Barry Bassett. I hardly know them, and I do not like them. I do like Blue Roker, and I intend to do what he asked us to do—which is stay out of his way. I’m sorry.”
Danish sat quietly for a moment. “It may surprise you to learn that the post office does not open every package it receives to see what’s in it. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be more interested. My shift at The Redoubt starts in a half hour, so I’d better get going. See you tomorrow, Nina. Alice’s Treasure Hunt, remember?” he said, standing up.
Nina walked him to the door. “I’ll be there. ’Night, Danish. See you tomorrow.” She smiled at him to show they were still friends.
The sun was huge and orange now, and it was dropping fast. She sat on the step with her eyes focused on the horizon, determined to see the green flash if it was on tap tonight. The last sliver of the sun sank below the horizon and the sky was purple, then blue, then black. No green flash.
As she sat there, the stars came out, first one at a time, then in glittering clusters. She looked at the stars and listened to the waves for a while, and then she went inside, took a long bath with a candle burning on the side of the tub, and crawled into bed with a book.
10
Saturday dawned bright and sunny on Pineapple Cay. The residents of Coconut Cove and other island settlements converged in the town center. The harbor was full of sailboats. Alice and Kiki had succeeded in creating a buzz for the treasure hunt. One good thing about people in small towns, thought Nina, is that they always turn out for events.
And it wasn’t just residents—the yachting set was up for a good time, too. There was a festive atmosphere in the air as Nina strolled downtown to have a cup of coffee at the bakery. She sat and read the paper, watching the village fill up with Saturday-morning shoppers and fun seekers. About ten o’clock, she gathered up her things and strolled over to the museum to see what was going on.
A raised wooden platform had been set up in front of the museum. A children’s school choir was on stage warbling the big smash hit from the latest blockbuster kids’ movie. It looked like Jules Savage had been recruited to serve as master of ceremonies. As the children finished their song and the crowd applauded politely, he bounded up onto the platform and strutted across the front of the stage—microphone in hand, pink linen shirt open at the neck, mirrored shades glinting in the sunlight. The children, dressed in their best clothes, shuffled nervously on the risers behind him. The girls sported elaborate hairstyles of neat braids tied with brightly colored ribbons and baubles. The boys stood stiff-backed, with their arms straight down at their sides, as if they had been told not to wrinkle their shirts. Some of the children stared straight ahead, ignoring the rock star striding back and forth in front of them and yelling at the crowd, his free arm pointing skyward, then panning across the crowd left to right, then windmilling—in a stylized semaphore that Nina guessed he’d developed to be visible from the cheap seats of a packed stadium. Some of the children tracked his movements with big eyes.
“Hellooo, fellow Pineapples! Good citizens of Coconut Cove! Good morning, you hungover and or possibly already juiced-up tourists! Not being too loud for you, am I? Hello, you beautiful fruit salad you! Are you ready to have a good time?” Jules shouted to the crowd from the front of the stage. The throng on the grass in front of the stage hooted and clapped their hands.
“Let’s hear it for the band! That was a helluva tune! Well done!” He turned around to face the children and applauded them. The crowd joined in enthusiastically. Some of the children smiled; others continued to stare at him, wide-eyed. Jules turned back to face the crowd.
“All right, people, listen up. Your Pineapple Cay Museum has organized a smashing weekend of hijinks for you to celebrate our island heritage. We’ve got a treasure hunt for the kiddies starting very shortly, to be followed by games and treats and face painting. And look at that pirate ship, eh? I can’t wait to give that a go myself.” The small children in the audience began to vibrate in anticipation. Jules could still work a crowd.
/> He continued. “You big kids get your chance at a treasure hunt this afternoon, and you will not want to miss the fabulous Sundowners performing for your pleasure on the waterfront tonight! Come ready to dance! My man Sammy is setting up the jerk pit over there—hey, Sammy!—and Veronica’s serving a special Blackbeard Burger with a side salad of locally grown mixed greens and her secret spicy salad dressing all day at The Redoubt. Buns kindly donated by the gals at the bakery. Good on you, ladies! The libations will be flowing all over town. No comment. Don’t drink and drive. Golf-cart owners and dinghies, that includes you lot. And to give you the lowdown on the rules of the game, please welcome to the stage the cur-a-tor of the Pineapple Cay Museum, the lovely Miss Alice Rollllle!”
Alice stepped up onto the stage and walked tentatively to the center where Jules stood, clapping his hands. They both stood watching as the children’s choir shuffled slowly off the stage, row by row. When they’d gone, he lowered the microphone stand for her and stepped back.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said into the microphone, holding her notes with both hands. “I am so glad to see you all here. Thank you for coming. The children’s treasure hunt will be starting over by the statue of Pompey in about ten minutes. For everyone else: please enjoy the coffee and cinnamon buns kindly provided to us by the Plantation Inn, and come inside the museum and have a look around. Free admission today. The adults’ treasure hunt will start right here at one o’clock sharp. We have thirteen teams registered so far, and it’s not too late to get a crew together. Competitors: please identify yourselves when I call out your team name.”
The crowd of spectators was beginning to separate into little blocks of color as the families with small children threaded their way through the throng over to the statue of Pompey, and the adult treasure-hunt teams began to group themselves together in distinct units recognizable by their team T-shirts.
