by Kathy Brandt
“You’d better tell me.”
“Well, as I said, after a couple weeks the boat was getting kind of small. Allen and I had a fight. It was silly. I can’t even remember what it was about. Allen left angry. Went to a bar and had several drinks. A woman hit on him. He told me the whole thing. He’d gotten pretty drunk. And he was mad at me. She invited him up to her villa and he actually went. Stupid, he’d admitted.”
“What happened?”
“Allen said she really started putting the moves on him. About the time she started undressing, he came to his senses and got out of there. Came home contrite. Figured that was the end of it. He was embarrassed about the whole thing. But Allen ran into her a couple of times. She kept after him, even when I was with him.”
‘What’s this woman’s name?”
“Ursala. Ursala Downing.”
No surprise there. Same woman that Elizabeth Pembrook and the people on the Dallas had said was after Allen Robsen that night on the Calypso. Maybe they had agreed to meet on shore.
“Anything else you should be telling me?” I asked.
“No, there’s nothing. Listen, Allen and I were happy. He never cheated on me. It’s hard to admit he’d gotten involved that way, but he was really sorry that it had happened. And that woman. I don’t know. She’s not normal.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the way she was pursuing him. Why Allen? Oh, he is a wonderful person, nice-looking, fantastic sense of humor...”She trailed off, tears building. “I don’t know. Do you think she could be involved?” she asked, incredulous.
“Probably not,” I said. I didn’t want her going around accusing anyone, but I’d be talking with Ursala. “Do you know where he met her?”
“The Watering Hole. That little bar right on the beach with the red roof.”
We left Trish sitting on deck staring out at the sea.
Chapter 12
Don Manetti was climbing up the swim ladder when we pulled alongside the Celebration. I could have used a swim myself. It wasn’t even noon and the sun was already bouncing white-hot off the deck of the Wahoo. The water in the bay was crystal-clear and turquoise. I could see a stingray moving slowly across the sandy bottom, a dark flat triangle with a tail.
Melissa had been sunning on deck. As we stepped aboard, she stood and pulled a robe on.
“What can you tell me about that night,” I asked as the four of us settled in the cockpit. Again, Snyder was poised, pen in hand.
“Jeez, not much.” I could hear the defensiveness creep into Don Manetti’s voice. I was used to it.
“We had dinner with Allen and Trish on shore at The Pelican. Started talking to other boaters. The Pembrooks invited us over to their boat for drinks.”
“What time was that?”
“Musta been, what, about ten o’clock?” he said, turning to Melissa for confirmation.
“Yes,” she said. “We only stayed about an hour. Had one drink.”
“Who else was there?”
“The folks from the Dallas, the Pembrooks, the Robsens. Allen wanted to stay. He was into a heavy discussion with Pembrook about sailing and he was entranced by the Calypso. We dropped Trish off at her boat.”
“Did you come down here to sail?” I wondered if the Manetti’s had anything to hide. If I’d catch them in a lie. I didn’t.
“We were leaving our options open. It was a spur of the moment decision to come down here. We got a good deal on air fares. The first couple of days we stayed in a hotel over on Frenchman’s Cay, then decided to rent a boat.”
“Have you done much sailing?”
“Enough to stay out of trouble. We live in Miami. A good place to escape from.”
“What do you do?”
“Real estate, commercial. Own our own company.”
“What’s the name of your company?” Snyder asked.
“Miami Reality, Inc.”
I watched Snyder write it down. Good.
“What can you tell us about the Robsens?”
“They seemed like a nice couple, but we don’t know them that well.”
“Think Allen Robsen had any enemies?”
“Can’t imagine. I mean, how do you develop enemies on vacation in the Caribbean?” Don asked.
I wondered the same thing.
“You have any trouble with Robsen?”
“Jeez, no. We’re just down here on vacation. Al was a nice guy. The two of us went out one day while the wives were in town. He was a very experienced sailor. Gave me a few pointers.”
“Did Robsen seem worried or upset about anything?”
“Naw, he was a guy on vacation. Enjoying himself.”
“What about the marriage? You think Robsens were happy?”
“It sure seemed like they were. As much as most of us, maybe more. They seemed real tight,” Don said.
“Well, Trish did tell me about the trouble with that woman,” Melissa interjected. It was the first time she’d spoken in a while.
“What? What woman?” Don said, incredulous. “You never mentioned it.”
“She and Al had a fight. He got drunk and met a woman in a bar. He told Trish he managed to back out with his pants still on, which I actually believe. Al didn’t seem like a player. Trish said he was really upset about the whole thing. Didn’t know how it had gotten out of hand. But she was really angry at him.”
“Did you hear or see anything after you came back to your boat that night?”
“No. We went straight to bed. I crashed.”
“What about you, Mrs. Manetti?”
“Nothing, really. The music on shore. Maybe a boat motoring in the harbor. Most nights someone’s out late. Nothing unusual.”
“How long you folks stayin’ in our islands?” Snyder asked.
“A few more days, maybe a week.”
“If you remember anything else, please call the department,” I said. Snyder handed them the number.
“Will do,” Manetti said.
We climbed into the Wahoo and Manetti threw me the line. Snyder took the wheel before I had a chance to. I shot him a warning look. He smiled, that damn disarming smile, and gunned it.
“Snyder!”
“Jus’ foolin’! I be slowin’ down.”
He backed off the throttle and we made a circuit of the harbor. No one could tell us much. Most said they were usually asleep by nine o’clock. So much for the party life of the sailor.
There was one cruiser anchored off a bit from the other boats, a forty-foot single-masted sloop, rigged for long stretches at sea—wind generator, radar. The bimini was sun bleached and worn. It was obviously wash day; laundry hung on the life lines along both sides of the boat.
“Ahoy on the Barnacle,” I called. A fitting name for the boat. She was crusted, overgrown with the sea. Her owner matched her appearance. He stepped up from below, bearded and wearing stained shorts and a shirt that no washing would ever remedy. He was followed by his mate, a heavy woman in a tube top and nylon shorts, clearly unconcerned about the flab that hung in rolls from arms, belly, thighs. Both smiled widely.
Snyder pulled alongside. I refused their invitation to come aboard, holding on to to the rail of the Barnacle instead so we could talk. They’d been in the harbor for a week, would leave tomorrow to head south. The BVI, they said, was too crowded for them, too many charterers, too many moorings. They had been cruising for twelve years. They had just spent six months in Saint Martin getting their engine repaired.
They were from California, had a couple of grown kids, had returned in to the States only twice in all that time, once for their son’s wedding, another just for a visit. I couldn’t imagine living this sort of life, sailing around the Caribbean from one port to another, sometimes a week in a harbor, sometimes months, then on to another.
“We always start heading south come hurricane season because the storms don’t hit down there. Usually stay around Grenada, Trinidad through November, then come back up north,” he said. “We�
�re about to start heading that way. This is as far north as we’re going this year.”
I wondered about their ties to others, especially their family. Maybe they weren’t important to them, but it must hurt those that they left behind, especially their kids. I could never desert my parents, sister, Mack for years at a time. That’s what it would seem like—desertion. Seemed selfish. But hell, maybe I had done the same thing by moving down here. I made a mental note to invite my family down in the next couple months.
Preliminaries complete and my guilt assuaged, I finally got around to asking them about Sunday night. All they could tell us was that they had been aware of the get-together on the Calypso but had not seen or heard anything unusual.
Snyder and I motored out to the farthest boat, anchored out in about forty feet of water. No one aboard. We could see a dinghy pulled up on shore across the way. Two children were playing in the trees along the water’s edge, chasing goats. Their parents walked hand in hand picking up shells.
“We best be warnin’ them about dem trees,” Snyder said, turning the boat toward shore. The kids were playing under a stand of manchineel trees. One was perched on tiptoes trying to pull one of the green apples off a branch just out of reach. He kept jumping, trying to grab the limb.
When Snyder had the boat close enough to shore, I leapt out into about three feet of water and waded to shore. The couple looked up and waved.
“Hey, you kids, come out of those trees right now!” I hollered, jogging toward them. They turned and looked at me, bewildered.
“They aren’t hurting anything,” the father yelled from down the beach.
“Come on, you guys,” I said, putting an arm around each kid. I ushered them down to the shore and prodded them into the water.
“What’s the problem?” the father said, steaming up to us, angry.
“Those trees are poisonous,” I explained.
“Poison?” Alarm bells were going off in their mother’s head. “Did you kids touch the trees?”
“Nope,” the older one said. Typical. I remembered when I was a kid—the theory was never admit to anything.
Snyder had gotten the Wahoo anchored and was walking up the beach with the first-aid kit.
“This is Deputy Snyder, and I’m Detective Sampson, Tortola Police.”
That got the kids’ attention. “Are we arrested?” the younger one asked. “I promise we didn’t hurt the trees.”
“No, you not be arrested,” Snyder said. “Those be manchineel trees. They can hurt you. Let me be takin’ a look at your skin,” he said, after he and the kids’ mother had washed them down in sea water.
“Dem trees got a sap dat burn your skin and eyes real good. Need to be stayin’ away from those trees. Good thing you didn’t get a hold of the fruit. It be makin’ you real sick.”
Snyder didn’t mention that it could be deadly. The kids had been lucky. One of them had a small blister on the back of his hand. That was it. While Snyder applied salve to the boy’s hand, I questioned the parents about Sunday night.
They remembered that night because of the party on the Calypso. Nothing too loud. They’d gone to bed about eleven. During the night the youngest child had awakened suddenly with a nightmare, and woke up his parents and brother. Once they’d gotten the boys back to sleep, the father had gone up top to check the anchor. The Calypso was quiet and dark by that point.
“Did you hear or see anything at all on shore?”
“Sure, the bar was still open, lights shining out on the water, music playing.”
“Anything unusual?”
“Nothing that isn’t happening most nights in this harbor, as far as I can tell.”
“Nothing on the Calypso?”
“Naw, like I said, it was real quiet, dark, maybe just a dim light below deck.”
“If you think of anything at all would you give me a call?” I said, handing him the number.
“You know, there was one thing,” he said, rubbing his chin. “There was a small boat heading out of the harbor. Couldn’t see it very well. It was already pretty far out. Looked like it was pulling something. Struck me as a little strange, someone heading out to the channel so late.”
“What time do you think it was?”
“Musta been around two.”
We walked back down the beach with them, the kids skipping through the waves as we went.
“Hey, thanks for rescuing the kids,” the father said, shaking our hands. “Never dreamed they were in any danger in those trees. I guess sometimes the most innocent things can be deadly.”
Chapter 13
Snyder and I headed over to Blue Water Charters in Soper’s Hole, a protected harbor on the west end of Tortola, just south of Cane Garden Bay. The customs office was located in the harbor, a port of entry for vessels entering or leaving the BVI. A ferry was pulling up at the dock, just in from the U.S. Virgin Islands. The line handler jumped to shore as the captain reversed engines and nudged her expertly up to the docks. About twenty people, a few tourists and several locals, stepped off. This was the business side of the harbor, not quite as well kept, buildings functional and in need of a coat of paint.
Across the way was the marina, where a couple of docks, filled with sailboats, jutted out into the water. The waterfront was picturesque, decorated with yellow, blue, pink, green, and purple buildings freshly painted, palm trees scattered among them. Clothing stores, a couple of restaurants, a dive shop. Behind, a hillside of deep green.
Snyder pulled along the dock and I tied the Wahoo up to a cleat. Blue Water Charters was at the end of the pier, a whitewashed stucco with blue awnings. It was hot on shore, no breeze, and the dock sizzled under foot. By the time we reached the end, sweat ran down my face and stung my eyes. Snyder was in the same condition, swiping at his brow with a red bandana he pulled out of his back pocket.
We stepped into the office, which was only slightly cooler, a ceiling fan throwing circles of air on wet skin.
“Hey, dar, Celia,” Snyder said to an attractive black woman behind the counter.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“How you doin’ dis fine day? You looking lovely today.” Damned if Snyder wasn’t flirting.
“I be doin’ fine and how about yourself?”
“Can’t complain,” he said. “You be going to dat music festival over by Long Bay on Saturday?”
“Snyder!” I didn’t bother to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Sorry, this is Detective Sampson. We be investigatin’ a case.” Snyder was still at it, impressing the young woman.
“Hello, Detective. I be hearin’ the chief hired an American woman. Nice to meet you.”
Snyder jumped back in, taking charge. “We’re wantin’ to talk to one of your boat captains had a flotilla over at Cooper. Let’s see…” He pulled his note pad out with a flourish and thumbed through it. I thought about giving her the details myself, but what the hell.
“Woulda been sometime last week,” he said.
Celia pulled out a ledger and ran her finger down the page. “Here it is. That would have been Davies, Clement Davies.”
“That’s the man. He around?” Snyder asked.
“Nah. He got himself fired on Friday. He was not what you’d be callin’ good with da customers. Kind of impatient, cocky. Boss said he took a swing at some guy. Da man called and complained.”
“Probably Robsen,” Snyder said, turning to me.
“You know where we can find Davies?” I asked.
“He lives just down da road. Shacks up there with his girlfriend. Go out round back to da street, down about a block. It’s a yellow house with a metal roof. Can’t miss it. All kindsa junk outside.”
“Thanks, Celia. Hey, you be wantin’ a ride to dat festival? I sure would like to take you.” Snyder actually took her hand.
“Sure, Jimmy. Dat be great.”
“I can come ‘round about six.”
“Okay.” Celia smiled.
“Come on, Deputy Sny
der.” I played up the Deputy part. Hell, I was glad he had scored.
Snyder sang under his breath all the way to Davies’s house. Marley. “I wanna love you and treat you right...share my single bed. I wanna ...”
Chickens were pecking at garbage out in the yard. The place was a mess, strewn with rusting car parts, an old boat motor, and torn fishing nets. We went up the front steps and knocked. Nothing.
Snyder walked around the back while I stood on the porch. I began to wonder what the hell he was up to when he opened the front door.
“Snyder. That’s called breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t do no breaking. Door was open. I just came in.”
The place was deserted. It looked as though Davies had taken off. He hadn’t bothered with anything but personal items. Dresser and closet were empty except for hangers and a couple pairs of worn shoes. All that remained in the bathroom was a bar of soap and an empty bottle of shampoo.
In the living room, a lamp lay in pieces on the floor. Nearby a clay flower pot was shattered, dirt and a dying ivy littered the floor. There was a square in the dust on a bookshelf where a stereo had once sat. Probably the only other item Davies took. I found nothing to indicate where Davies might have gone.
By the time I’d finished checking the place, Snyder was outside talking to a neighbor, an old woman in a blue flowered dress and a yellow scarf wrapped around her head, leaning on a cane. They were engaged in heavy patois, not a word of which I could understand, though I knew there was some English in it somewhere. She was gesturing and pointing at the house and shaking her head. Snyder was nodding and seemed to be asking her to elaborate. They went on like that for at least ten minutes. I sat on the steps and waited.
I was thinking that maybe Dunn’s pairing me with Snyder wasn’t such a bad idea. Snyder was an islander. He’d had no trouble finding out about Clement Davies from Celia, and it was clear that the old woman was telling him everything he wanted to know and more. I didn’t think I would have gotten the same cooperation. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have been able to communicate with the old lady.
Finally the woman smiled, nodded my way, and hobbled back to her house, swiping at a squawking chicken in her path with her cane. Snyder sauntered back over and sat down next to me.
