Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  Trish was trying hard not to appear to be an overreacting spouse, but she had twisted her napkin into a tight knot and wasn’t touching her lemonade.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Mrs. Robsen,” I said, leaving an opening for her to vent. She obviously needed to get down to business and talk.

  “Please call me Trish,” she said. “Allen never came back to the boat last night. I’m really worried. I’ve imagined everything from shark attack to heart attack. He never stays out without calling to let me know where he is. Then it’s only getting in late, working on a project, heavy game of poker with the guys. In the entire twenty-five years of our marriage, I could count the number of times that’s happened on one hand,” she said, holding up five fingers to emphasize her point.

  I was about to mention that it might be a little hard to call her on the boat, unless he had access to a radio and she left the boat radio on all night, but she was a step ahead of me.

  “We have a boat phone,” she said. “Calls are expensive, but I just can’t handle being out of touch so completely with our kids and grandkids. If there’s an emergency, I want them to be able to get ahold of us.”

  “When did you last see your husband?” I pulled out my pen and notebook. Snyder, in the process of inhaling his fourth cookie, was way too busy to write.

  “Last night about ten-thirty, eleven o’clock. We were over on the Calypso.” She pointed to a beautiful two-masted yacht across the bay.

  “What were you doing over there?”

  “An impromptu get-together. We’d been dining at the Pelican on shore,” she said.

  “I be knowin’ da place. Best reggae music on da island,” Snyder said. “You heard dat song, ‘Dancin’ on da Reef’? Owner of da Pelican done wrote dat song.” Snyder actually started singing the song and strumming an imaginary guitar. Jesus. I couldn’t believe that Dunn had paired me with this ditzy kid.

  “Snyder, let’s let Mrs. Robsen tell us what happened, okay?” I said, trying to keep from yelling at him.

  “I can be doin’ dat.” Damned if I hadn’t hurt his feelings again.

  “We went in with the Manettis. They’re on the forty-foot SeaSail,” Trish said, gesturing to the boat anchored about seventy feet off the bow. “We’d heard great things about the reggae musician there. He is fantastic. He sang ‘Dancing on the Reef’,” she said, smiling at Snyder. Typical mother, I thought. Trying to make the kid feel better.

  “We got to talking with some of the other boaters in the restaurant. Sharing adventures, the best anchorages, good places to eat. One of the other sailors, Guy Pembrook, over on the Calypso, mentioned that he is selling his boat. Of course, Allen’s ears perked up. He’s boat-crazy. The Pembrooks invited us all over to the Calypso for nightcaps. Guy Pembrook and Allen got involved in talking about boats. He wanted to see every nook and cranny of the Calypso, not that we could ever afford a boat like that. I think one of the other fellows was seriously interested.

  I hitched a ride back to our boat with the Manettis so that Allen could come back in our dinghy. He never came home.”

  “Maybe he’s still over on da Calypso,” Snyder said as he chomped on yet another cookie. “Dat look like one nice place to lay your head.”

  “He’s not. I took a morning swim over there. Elizabeth Pembrook said Allen had left about one-thirty. She said some of them were going back to shore to continue the party, but I searched the dock with the binoculars. Our dinghy is not tied up there.”

  “Who was at the party?” I asked.

  “Allen and I, the Manettis, and two couples from Texas on another boat. I’m not sure which one. Is it important?”

  “I’ll need to talk to them. Maybe they know where your husband went. Maybe he’s on their boat, or maybe they all crashed under a palm tree on the beach,” I said.

  “I hope you’re right,” she said. She didn’t believe it, though.

  “Tell me about this trip. How long you’ve been down here, where you’ve been.”

  “This was an anniversary gift to each other—our twenty-fifth. A month sailing in the Virgin Islands. We’ve been down here three weeks. Sailed around Saint John and down to Saint Croix the first ten days. Now we’re sailing around the BVI. We’ve been anchored in Cane Garden Bay for the past five nights. Going out for day sails and relaxing on the boat and on the beach.

  “We’ve done a lot of sailing at home in Vermont. This was the dream trip. Allen is in computers; he’s worked hard, done well. Our kids are all grown—three, a boy and two girls. We wanted to take some time for ourselves. Now this.”

  “He probably went to shore and decided to stay put for the night. Anyone he might have stayed with?” I asked.

  “No, of course not,” she said. But she’d hesitated.

  “I’ll talk to the Pembrooks, do some checking on shore,” I said. “What does your husband look like?”

  “He’s five-eleven, about 180 pounds. He’s in good shape, watches the calories. Grayish-green eyes, brown hair, starting to gray at the temples. Has the most wonderful smile,” she said, her voice softening.

  “Do you remember what he was wearing last night?”

  “Tan shorts and tennis shoes, a T-shirt, new. It’s one of those with a chart of the islands on the front of it. He bought it in the market over in Road Town.”

  She went below and found a photo, she and Allen standing on a sun-drenched beach holding hands.

  “Thanks. I’ll get it back to you. Try not to worry. He’ll probably be back before dark.”

  I’d bet that Allen had found some willing woman to spend the night with. After twenty-five years and three kids, it might be hard for Trish Robsen to admit betrayal.

  Chapter 6

  The Calypso was a completely restored fifty-foot wooden schooner that had received meticulous care. Two wooden masts, the one in back taller than the one in front, jutted into the air. A wooden bow sprit, netting draped off it, pointed out in front. Brass fittings sparkled in the sun, polished to a rich hue. The boat had to be in the $2 million category, probably more. It would be beautiful under sail. Now the sails were nestled under sail covers. Radar was attached to the aft mast. Ropes crisscrossed and draped gracefully through antique pulleys, and around brass winches. A wind generator did lazy circles in the breeze.

  A woman was sunning on deck. When she heard our boat approaching, she stood up, naked and seemingly unconcerned. She took her time pulling on a suit. I wondered why she bothered. It didn’t cover much. Strings held up little patches of material in vital places. Two tiny fluorescent pink triangles served only to decorate ample breasts; two more made up the bottom—one in front, one in back. But I guess she could get away with it. She was about twenty-seven, beautiful and knew it.

  I had insisted on taking the wheel. Good thing. Snyder’s eighteen-year-old hormones were out of control. He would never have been able to conduct the maneuver at which he’d been so adept back at the Robsen’s boat. At the moment he was trying to nonchalantly cover the bulge in his pants. I motored to the back of the boat, and Snyder managed to throw her the line, which she tied to a cleat. We stepped onto the back transom and then let the motorboat drift back.

  “I’m Detective Sampson, Tortola Police Department. This is Deputy Snyder,” I said.

  “Hi, Elizabeth Pembrook. Is there a problem, officer?” she asked, directing an amused smile Snyder’s way.

  “Trish Robsen called us about her husband.”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “Yes, she was over here looking for him this morning. I told her he wasn’t here. Can’t believe she called the police. Hubby’s probably sleeping it off somewhere. Don’t know how we can help you.”

  Just then a man staggered topside from below deck. He looked like he had just gotten up: dark hair, a few flecks of gray at the temples, chin with a three-day stubble. He had a coffee cup in one hand, cigarette in the other. Definitely hung over. He was shirtless, wearing a red spandex Speedo that outlined more than I wanted to see. He had a body that
he clearly worked to maintain. He was about five-ten, deeply tanned, and his hair had been styled by a pro. He gave the impression of a man who had grown up with money, didn’t even think about it or know that there was any other way to live.

  “Guy, this is Detective…Samuels, is it?” she asked, doubtful.

  “Sampson,” I replied, “and Deputy Snyder.”

  “Hi, Guy Pembrook,” he said, holding out his hand. “Afraid I just got up. Kind of a late night.”

  “They’re looking for one of the guys who was here last night. Didn’t go back to his boat. What was his name?” she asked, turning toward me.

  “Robsen, Allen Robsen.” I was beginning to think that Mrs. Pembrook had either done a few too many drugs or was plain dumb. Or maybe she was just good at playing the role.

  “Do you know what time he left?” I asked.

  “Musta been about one-thirty, give or take,” Guy said.

  “Do you know where he was going?”

  “Seemed like he planned to head into shore,” he said. “Meeting a couple of the others.”

  “Who was at the party?”

  “Started out with the Robsens and the Manettis over on Celebration. And the two couples from the Dallas. The Manettis and Trish Robsen left early. Took the other two women back to the Dallas.”

  “Only woman who hung in there was Ursala,” Elizabeth said.

  “Ursala?”

  “Ursala and Frank Downing came over later,” Guy said. “Live up the hill in the big white house. We got into the Wild Turkey. Me, Robsen, the two guys from the Dallas, Ursala and Frank.”

  “Yeah, Ursala was really putting the moves on Robsen,” Elizabeth said. “Right in front of her husband, too. Frank didn’t seem to care that much, though.”

  “Why would he,” Guy asked her, “when he had you to flirt with?”

  She gave him a look that said “get a life,” but she didn’t say anything. Odd couple, I thought. Not what I would call really connected, the way some married people are. I had the feeling that Elizabeth would never consider calling the police if Guy were out all night. Probably happened all the time.

  “What time did everyone else leave?” I asked.

  “Must have been around one, one-thirty, right before Robsen. They were all going to shore for a nightcap. Guess Robsen went. Last time I saw him he was motoring his dinghy toward the docks. He’s probably shacked up with Ursala somewhere. She seems to be good at getting what she wants,” Guy said.

  “Do you know her well?” I asked.

  “Met her the day we came into Cane Garden Bay. That’d be about a week ago. She tends to hit happy hour at one of the bars on the beach every day. I’ve watched her in action. She can really turn on the charm.”

  How long will you be here?” I asked. I didn’t want them sailing off into the sunset if I needed to talk to them again.

  “Probably another week, maybe two. We’ve put the boat up for sale. Have a couple of interested buyers,” Guy said.

  “Really, why are you selling her? She a beauty.”

  “Yeah, she is. Be hard to give her up. But it’s time we headed back to the States. We bought her for this cruise, planning to sell her at the end. Been down here almost a year now,” he said.

  “Wow, nice vacation. Where have you sailed?” The Pembrooks had to have a bundle. Buying a boat like this. Taking off for a year. Now I was curious.

  “Been sailing up the Caribbean from Venezuela, though the Windwards and Leewards. Really a working vacation. I’m a writer. Been working on a kind of nature lover’s guide to the Caribbean. We spend as long as we need in a location, mapping out trails, photographing and gathering information on the animals and plants on each island. Time to go back and put it together. Publisher is clamoring for the finished manuscript. Last one I did was the Nature Lover’s Guide to the Hawaiian Islands.”

  “Sounds like nice work if you can get it,” I said.

  “Damned straight. I can write all the travel off as expenses.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Pembrook. I’ll look forward to reading your book.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  He helped me into the boat, brushing against my breast. Snyder climbed in after me, I fired up the engine, and Pembrook threw Snyder the line.

  “Those be unusual folks,” Snyder said.

  “What do you mean?” I was surprised that Snyder had noticed anything but Elizabeth’s cleavage.

  “Dat man doesn’t seem like he be sitting around with a pen in his hand all da time.”

  I had to give Snyder credit: I’d been thinking the same thing. The Pembrooks looked highly successful. But I would have never pegged Guy Pembrook as a published author. And a nature writer at that. He didn’t strike me as someone with that kind of discipline. He looked more like a rich playboy.

  We swung by the Manettis’ boat. No one aboard. I made a note to check back with them, but I figured Robsen would show up before then. The Dallas was easy to locate. It was the only boat in the harbor with a Texas flag the size of a small sail flying off the back.

  Jack Rodriguez, skipper and owner, did most of the talking. Allen Robsen had not slept it off on their boat. Rodriguez and his sailing buddy Bill Andrews had stayed on the Calypso about an hour after their wives had returned to the Dallas. Rodriguez said he was seriously considering buying the Calypso. From the looks of it, I’d say he could probably afford it. A diamond the size of a quarter sparkled from his wife’s finger, complemented by matching necklace and earrings. Yachting jewels no doubt. God knows what she wore to a Dallas soiree.

  “Got kind of lit drinking those damn turkey shooters. Should have known better,” Rodriguez was saying. “Paying for it today, but what the hell, we’re on vacation, right?”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Damned if I know. Time wasn’t too important. Bill and me headed back to shore though. Figured on a nightcap over at the Beach Bar. The band was still playing and it was swinging in there.”

  “The boys staggered back to the boat about three A.M.,” Rodriguez’s wife said. I could see she was pissed. “Next time we’ll be dragging their asses home with us. Whole day is shot. We’d planned to sail to Saint Thomas today. Julie and I are tired of these damned isolated island paradises. The shops in Saint Thomas are supposed to be unbelievable.”

  Christ, I thought, come all the way to the islands to shop? I’d never been able to relate to the compulsion. I’d rather go to the dentist than be surrounded by crowds in Saint Thomas engaged in purchasing frenzies. I’d read about the place. Three or four cruise ships and dozens of jumbo jets deposit thousands of tourists on Saint Thomas. Traffic snarls the roads, resorts dominate the beaches, and the crime rate is high. To their credit, the citizens of Saint Thomas are beginning to speak out against crime, corruption, and further development. But there was no contest with this pristine anchorage. I could see that Bill and Jack were thinking the same thing.

  “Did Allen Robsen go into shore with you?” I asked.

  “No, he was still on the Calypso. Pembrook was showing him around. They were going below deck when we left. Robsen said he’d probably just head back to his boat.”

  “Guy Pembrook said he thought he had gone into shore.”

  “Huh. Well, maybe he changed his mind.”

  “What about Ursala and Frank Downing?” I asked.

  “Frank came into the bar not long after we got there. Said Ursala had gone home. He had one drink and left. Seemed kind of pissed off. Probably at Ursala. She was really putting the moves on Robsen all evening.”

  “Did you see Ursala again that night?”

  “No, she never came into the bar, and we headed back to our boat after the place shut down.”

  “If you happen to run into Robsen, tell him he needs to call his wife. She’s worried,” I said.

  We headed to shore, tied up at the dock, and checked around. No one could tell us much. “Dem tourists, day all looks alike,” was the general reply.

>   The Beach Bar was quiet when Snyder and I walked in. A man and woman at a corner table were hunched over a late breakfast. Empty Bloody Mary glasses littered their table. It didn’t look like the drinks were helping. The woman was ashen and kept rubbing her temple, while her companion pushed food around his plate with his fork.

  A woman worked behind the bar washing glasses. We pulled up bar stools and Snyder got real official.

  “I am Deputy Snyder. This is Detective Sampson. Tortola Police.”

  She wasn’t impressed. She said she’d worked last night. She didn’t tell us anything that we didn’t already know. The two guys from the Dallas had been there until closing.

  “So were dem folks in the corner. Jeez, they were lit. Can’t believe they made it outta bed at all today.”

  “Was this man in here last night?” I asked, showing her the picture of Robsen that Trish had given me.

  “Naw, never seen him before.”

  I asked to use her phone. One last place to look. I figured Robsen would find his way home by himself anyway.

  She pointed the way. I thumbed through the phone book and found the Downings’ number. After three rings, a woman answered.

  “Downing residence,” she said.

  She told me that the Downings were not at home. They’d both been gone when she’d gotten there. And no, no one else was there either.

  I’d done what I could. Robsen hadn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours. I was sure he’d come stumbling back to his boat, contrite, before dark.

  Hell, he could have headed over to Road Town or anywhere else on the island. More than likely he had shacked up in some quiet bungalow for the night.

  I felt sorry for Trish Robsen, but marital infidelity was not a crime.

  Chapter 7

  When Snyder and I got back to the office, the deputies assigned to the recent spate of robberies had their heads together in the far corner.