Diver's Paradise

by Davin Goodwin

  “James, it wasn’t an accident.”

  CHAPTER 19

  BEFORE GRABBING ARABELLA’S car, I peeked into her hospital room. She slept soundly, and all the machines were flashing the same numbers and making the same noises.

  After filling Arabella’s car with gas, I headed to my apartment, the car dying twice before making it back to the YellowRock. It restarted both times on the first try, but the inconsistency alarmed me. Arabella hadn’t mentioned anything about car troubles.

  Erika sprang to her feet as I entered the office. “Miss Arabella is okay?”

  I explained Arabella’s condition and told Erika I needed to be back at the hospital by noon, Arabella’s checkout time. Upstairs, I sat at my desk and punched the number for the Violent Crimes Division of the Rockford Police Department into the landline phone. Neither Traverso nor Penn answered.

  Elbows on the desk, I cradled my head in my hands and rubbed my eyes. Between Ryberg, my attack, and Arabella’s accident, I hadn’t slept much the last three nights. I stood and dragged myself to the bathroom. It’d been days since my last shower and, although pressed for time, I let the water run down my body in a futile attempt to rejuvenate myself.

  Retirement wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  I dressed—this time in a green Longtail T—and prepared to zip back to the hospital. The midday Bonaire sun was at full intensity and streamed through the sliding balcony door. I searched the apartment for my sunglasses but couldn’t find them. They were always in one of two places: the Wrangler, or the kitchen counter. It was approaching noon, and I didn’t have time to search further. Squinting, and with the sun visor down, I drove to the hospital.

  Arabella and Ruth stood on the sidewalk alongside the parking lot. I pulled close, stopping with the car’s passenger side in front of Arabella.

  “Hey, Conklin,” she said.

  I walked around the car and gave her a peck on the lips. “Ready to go?” I put my hand on the door handle.

  “Wait.” Ruth jammed her hand against the door and held it closed. “She’s going to my place.”

  “Sis, I need to go to Conklin’s,” Arabella said. “I cannot rest at your place.”

  Ruth tightened her lips and folded her arms across her chest. She clicked her toes on the concrete a couple of times. “She needs rest.” She leaned forward, hands on her hips. “Make sure she gets it.”

  I held the door open as Ruth helped Arabella into the passenger seat.

  “I’ll take care of her, Blaze,” I said.

  Arabella threw her head back. “Conklin …”

  I glanced at Ruth. Her jaw quivered, and her eyes narrowed. A crimson hue, similar in color to her red hair, crept across her face. I’d been calling her Blaze for two years, mainly because of her ridiculous red hair, but, also, because it annoyed her so much.

  Dutch people are common on Bonaire, but I haven’t seen many with red hair. Ruth’s retina-burning, eye-popping, satanic shade struck me as over the top. I doubted it was her natural color.

  Ruth stuck her head inside the window and kissed Arabella on the cheek. They mumbled back and forth in Dutch for a moment, then Ruth straightened and stung me with her eyes over the roof of the car. “You—” she said, cutting herself off mid-sentence. She continued in a lower, softer tone. “Let me know how she is doing, okay?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Luckily, the engine fired on the first try, and we made our escape, leaving Ruth standing at the edge of the parking lot. As we turned toward Richter’s, I let out a deep sigh. Can’t ever be far enough away from Ruth.

  “What did she say back there?” I asked.

  “Oh, Ruth thinks I am not well off at your apartment.”

  “Better there than her place.”

  “Yes, but you know how it is. She wants to control my life, make me live the way she thinks I should.” She shook her head. “She just needs to let me be me.”

  “You should tell her that.”

  “Every time I try, she tells me I am wrong. She always knows best. Or she thinks she does.”

  We were both quiet a moment.

  “You’re tough,” I said and put a hand on her knee. “You can handle her.”

  She covered my hand with hers. “We will see. Maybe someday.” With her other hand, she shaded the sun from her eyes. “Where are your sunglasses?”

  CHAPTER 20

  THE CAR SPUTTERED and died as we pulled into Richter’s front lot. Kevin came out one of the bay doors, motioned for me to pop the hood, and asked how long the vehicle had been dying like this. I suggested he talk to Arabella and went into the garage.

  The police hadn’t yet secured my Wrangler as a crime scene, so I searched it, hoping to find my sunglasses. I peered through the windows and, because the Wrangler might yet be evidence, didn’t touch anything.

  They weren’t in the Wrangler.

  Lost sunglasses shouldn’t send me on a scavenger hunt across the island. Since every pair I’ve ever owned has either been lost, sat on, or somehow broken, five bucks was my price limit. For me, losing them was a minor inconvenience, remedied with a quick stop at the thrift store.

  However, these were a nice pair of aviator glasses like Tom Cruise had worn in Top Gun. They were better than anything I’d buy for myself, and since they were a gift from Arabella, I needed to find them.

  In the adjacent bay, a four-wheel-drive truck sat perched atop a hydraulic lift. The 4WD sticker glued to its front fender glared back at me. I was missing something but couldn’t place what it was. Vague images and concepts ricocheted off the edges of my brain but wouldn’t stick long enough for me to seize hold and formulate what they meant.

  4WD. Shaking my head, I walked out of the garage.

  Kevin still poked around under the hood of Arabella’s car.

  “Find anything, Kevin?” I asked.

  He scratched the back of his head. “It could be a fuel pump going bad, but I’m not sure.” He closed the hood and took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Bring it in, and we can run some tests.”

  “Can’t do that till I get my Wrangler back.”

  “Sure. Give us a call.” He lit a cigarette. “When the pump fails, no gas will get to the engine.” He drew his index finger across his throat as if slicing it open.

  I got in the driver’s seat, and stuck my head out the window. “Thanks, Kev. Let me know when you get the go-ahead on the Wrangler, okay?”

  Kevin gave a short wave and shuffle-dragged his feet through one of the bay doors, back into the shop. I pulled out of the lot and headed for the YellowRock.

  We entered my apartment via the outside stairs. Arabella was doing well, but tired. I led her to the bed, and within seconds, she was fast asleep. I went downstairs to check on Erika and help take care of some business.

  Erika stood at the file cabinet. “How is Arabella doing?” she asked.

  I headed to my desk across the room. “She’s doing well. The doctor is happy with her progress and said she could return to work tomorrow—depending on how she feels and if she gets a good night’s sleep.”

  Erika closed the cabinet drawer and peered through the window. “Tiffany is coming toward the office.” With a wry smile, she turned in my direction. “She looked for you this morning.”

  Tiffany flung the door open and marched toward my desk, lips pursed. Her eyes seemed to emit an invisible laser, narrowing as she approached, burrowing a hole through my body.

  “Damn you, Roscoe.” She hovered over me while I sat in the chair and punched my shoulder. It almost hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me about Bill and Marybeth? I shouldn’t find out from a news broadcast.”

  I glanced at Erika, and she quickly looked away.

  “Yeah,” Tiffany said. “Erika told me you knew. Damn you.”

  I stood and wrapped my arms around her. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you and hoped to have more information—something other than telling you they’re dead.
Lame, but I didn’t want to ruin your vacation. At least not right away. Bill wouldn’t have wanted that. Nor Marybeth.”

  We pulled apart, sat, and in the most reassuring voice possible, I told Tiffany and Erika what I knew. When finished, I paused a moment, then said, “We’ll have to wait and see what develops.” Based on their facial expressions, they weren’t reassured.

  Tiffany dried her eyes and placed a hand on my knee. “How is Arabella?”

  I gave her the Reader’s Digest version, leaving out the part about the possible sabotage.

  “Anyway,” I said, “did you get to do any diving this morning?”

  “Yes,” Tiffany said. She straightened in the chair and ran her hands across red cheeks, a small smile briefly brightening her face. “Erika put me in touch with her nephew, Rulio, a dive master. He invited me to go along with a group he took to Windsock.”

  “Good, so you had someone to buddy up with.”

  “Well, yeah, but I’ve never dived with any of them before. It’s weird grouping up with people you don’t know. Diving with strangers is almost like solo diving.”

  “I understand. But it’s not solo diving, and it’s a small price to pay for safety.” I handed her a rogue napkin lying on my desk. “You have any dive plans this afternoon? Maybe hook up with Rulio again?”

  “I was hoping to, but now I’m not so sure.” She wiped a tear with the palm of her hand. “Not sure I feel like it.”

  “Maybe you should rest, let all of this soak in a little,” I said.

  “Yes,” Erika said, “rest.”

  Tiffany sat quietly for a moment. “As you said, Roscoe, sad and shocked as I am, Bill and Marybeth wouldn’t want me to ruin my vacation. They’d want me to enjoy myself.”

  “They would,” I said. “But only when you’ve recovered.”

  Erika went back to filing. Tiffany rubbed her eyes, brushed away a few more tears, and turned to face the window. After a few moments, she said, “I was thinking about doing the Karpata dive from shore.”

  “With who?” I asked.

  Her brows furrowed. “Like you’re one to talk.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Can you honestly say you don’t solo dive?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s different.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Tell me, Roscoe. How is that different?”

  Erika turned from her filing. “Yes, how is it different?”

  “Why is it okay for you to solo dive, but not me?” She waited for a response, and when I remained quiet, she continued. “You can’t have it both ways.”

  I sighed heavily and puffed out my chest. “I’m more experienced.”

  My bluster didn’t nudge her. She shook her head. “Yeah, that’s it … C’mon, Roscoe. I can solo dive Karpata. It’s a shallow reef, and I’ve done it a bunch of times. It’s no harder than Tori’s Reef.” She leaned forward, smiling, her voice softening. “I promise not to go deep. If there’s too much wave action on the surface, I’ll come straight back.”

  “I can go with you.” I leaned forward but aggravated my rib and winced in pain.

  “In your condition?” She forced a laugh, slapped her leg, and forced more laughter. “I’d be safer carrying an old anchor. Besides, you need to stay here and take care of Arabella.”

  “No,” Erika said as she slammed the filing cabinet shut, pumping a finger at me. “Solo diving is too dangerous. Even for Mister Roscoe.” She held a gaze on me for a moment then focused on Tiffany. “You should not go.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t dive again today, even with someone else,” I said. “Let things calm down a bit.”

  All three of us were quiet for a moment.

  Finally, Tiffany sighed. “Okay, I’m just upset. You’re both right. Probably best if I don’t do any more dives today.”

  “You are promising?” Erika asked.

  Just like before, Tiffany put a hand on her heart. “Yes, I promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” I said.

  “Please do.”

  I wasn’t comfortable. Well-trained, experienced divers often take full advantage of solo diving. It’s a significant part of Bonaire’s Diver’s Paradise mantra. Tiffany had command of her equipment, breathed well, and swam through the water in a relaxed way, confident of her training and abilities. But she still relied on others, as evident by her needing me to know she was clearing water from her mask. A highly skilled diver—one capable of self-reliance—would do what needed to be done and not seek the reassurance of another diver.

  Tiffany’s skills weren’t at the solo diver level. Most vacation divers weren’t.

  Maybe Erika’s authoritative demeanor had gotten through to her. Maybe she listened to her internal common sense. Regardless, I was happy she’d changed her mind.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll buy you and Lester dinner tonight.”

  “You can buy me dinner and drinks.” She checked the clock on the wall and stood. “I better go. I want to buy some cute T-shirts I found.”

  “Hey, where’s Lester?” I asked before she left the office.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She turned and walked halfway back. “Lester and Mandy are driving out to Spelonk Lighthouse this afternoon. They talked and set it up last night.”

  “So, Mandy did stop by my apartment last night,” I said.

  “Yeah, sometime after you left. Who knows how long they’ll be gone.” She shook her head and was quiet for a moment. “Lester doesn’t have one friend back home, but the first thing he does when we go on vacation is make a friend. Or, as he says, a buddy.” Then, in a mocking tone, she added, “Don’t worry about the things you can’t change.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just something Mandy says.” She waved a hand and stared into space. “Wish I knew what was so great about Mandy.”

  I shrugged.

  Tiffany needed to direct her anger toward Lester, not Mandy. I didn’t know why, but she cared for Lester, and he knew it. So why would he spend so much time with this Mandy woman? It didn’t add up. I wanted to squeeze my hands around his throat and get some answers.

  But I knew better. Again, I convinced myself their relationship wasn’t any of my business. Even though Tiffany was like a kid sister to me, I couldn’t tell her who to fall in love with. Best for me to support her any way I could until she and Lester worked things out.

  And I still hadn’t met Mandy. I needed to make a point of introducing myself to her.

  “Yeah, right,” Tiffany said. “Well, can I borrow Arabella’s car for the afternoon?”

  I gazed out the window and considered her request, knowing full well Arabella wouldn’t appreciate me loaning out her car. The Dutch didn’t tend to be “loaners” of many things, and Arabella wasn’t even close to the exception. Especially if it involved Tiffany.

  “Most of the T-shirt shops are within walking distance,” I said. “You shouldn’t need a car.”

  “I want to take some pictures of the salt mounds before shopping.”

  Tiffany was an avid photographer, and the salt mounds, a trademark attraction on Bonaire, had filled the viewfinder of many a photographer. Their peaks were visible from many spots on the island.

  The salt mounds—or White Mountains of Bonaire, as the tourism department referred to them—were a work product of the Cargill Company produced by opening gates that flooded Bonaire’s southern lowlands with seawater. After the seawater evaporated, bulldozers pushed the salt into hills standing sixty to seventy feet high. When the snow-white pyramids of salt grew to a predetermined height, conveyors loaded it onto waiting cargo ships.

  I almost said no, but then considered Arabella, upstairs, knocked out on pain meds, none the wiser if Tiffany borrowed her car for a few hours. Against my better judgment, my gut swirling with queasiness, I tossed Tiffany the keys. “It’s having some issues and dies occasionally. If it does, you may have to try and start it
a couple of times. It seems to kick over on the first or second try.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back by dark.”

  “You going to be alright?” I asked.

  Her eyes watered a bit. “Yes, I think so.”

  She gave me a wave, kissed Erika on the cheek, and headed for the door.

  “You’re staying in town, right?” I said.

  “Absolutely,” she said, as she backed out the door.

  No sooner had the door closed, when Erika said, “Why is Mr. Lester spending so much time with Mandy and not Tiffany? She is such a sweet girl.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I am glad she is not solo diving. That scared me. I like that girl and do not want anything happening to her.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Erika raised her voice. “She promised.”

  “Yes, she did,” I said, remembering another promise she had made. Several days ago, on the water’s surface at Tori’s Reef.

  “Promise?” I had asked. She’d flashed me the okay sign.

  Then she went underwater for her mask.

  CHAPTER 21

  WHILE ARABELLA SLEPT, I ducked out to my lounger on the balcony, anxious for an afternoon nap. But after a sleepless hour, I decided a beer at Vinny’s sounded better.

  The sun was ablaze, and the breeze from the east swept out across the sea. I glanced at the deep blue sky as the palm trees rustled in the wind. Bonaire’s weather was almost routine—sunny and eighty degrees every day, or more technically on Bonaire, twenty-seven degrees Celsius. A vacationer’s dream. Postcards in the making. Three hundred and sixty-five days to forget life’s problems and regrets.

  Every day felt like the weekend. But when the island was home, problems and regrets weren’t forgotten. Living on the island was just another day.

  A group of tourists, their truck loaded with tanks and scuba gear, the red on their arms and necks telegraphing their overindulgence in the Caribbean sun, turned the corner in front of me. I stopped and watched them disappear down the street. All the license plates on the island had Diver’s Paradise printed along the top, above the numbers. Part of that Paradise is allowing each person the freedom to establish their limitations and dive in a self-regulated manner. If a person wanted to go solo, they determined if their skill level warranted such a decision.