Diver's Paradise

by Davin Goodwin

  “You know, someday, someone will get hurt with that gun of hers.”

  “Yes, but what can I do? She feels safe having it.”

  “You never told me why she calls it Wilbur. I know one of her clients gave it to her, some old politician years ago. But why Wilbur?”

  She laughed. “The guy’s dog was named Wilbur.”

  “Seriously?”

  “To tell the truth, the gun may not fire. It has not been cleaned or oiled in many years, and the firing pin is worn down. Plus, all of the cartridges have rust on them.” She laughed and held up four fingers. “Ruth only has four of them.”

  “Good thing,” I said and put my arm around her. We slowly strolled toward her police truck. “I wish Lester hadn’t seen that gun. Something’s bothering me about him.”

  “Quit thinking so much. The guy is a jerk. A drunk jerk.” She got in her truck and talked through the open window. “What did Tiffany ever see in him?”

  “I don’t know. My grandma always said that every crooked pot has a crooked lid.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched. “But would that not mean Tiffany was like Lester? I did not think that was the case.”

  “No, it means that there’s someone for everyone, and that …” I didn’t finish the explanation. Arabella was right. It was wrong to consider Tiffany as the crooked lid to Lester. She was nothing like him. “True, never mind.”

  Her voice barely above a whisper, Arabella asked, “Are you going to the morgue?”

  I hesitated, then said, “I’ll be there shortly.” She started to pull away. “Hey, wait a minute.” She locked the brakes and skidded in the gravel, dust and small rocks pelting my sandals and feet. “Right before you threw Lester to the ground, you said something in Dutch.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, you did. What was it?”

  A thin, sultry smile crept across her face. “That will be part of your next Dutch lesson.” She honked the horn as she pulled away.

  I slid into the driver’s seat of Erika’s car and stared at the steering wheel for a moment. No doubt about it, Lester Jeffrey was a strange bird and came across as a total jerk. I agreed with Arabella, and for the life of me, couldn’t comprehend what Tiffany had seen in him.

  Lester’s lies didn’t surprise me. My experience had taught me that most people in a similar situation would lie, especially when confronted.

  What did surprise me, though, was his appearance at a whorehouse, less than twenty-four hours after his girlfriend’s sudden death. Especially when he appeared so devastated.

  CHAPTER 27

  I PARKED ERIKA’S car in its usual spot, behind the YellowRock near the garbage dumpster. Unwinding myself from the cramped confines of the driver’s seat, a stab of pain pierced my side, reminding me of the mugging several nights ago at this exact spot.

  I closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. The back parking lot was a mixture of crushed coral rubble and gravel with the dumpster positioned at the lot’s edge, alongside the building. Most of the time, especially after Erika leaves work, my Wrangler was the only vehicle parked in the back. The guests preferred parking in front, closer to their rooms.

  Several street lamps and a light on the exterior of the YellowRock building provided substantial nighttime visibility in the front. In contrast, the rear lot didn’t have lighting, and the shadows generated by the surrounding buildings enhanced the darkness. Several times in the past, I had considered installing security cameras on all sides of the YellowRock but hadn’t yet made it a priority. I needed to rethink that decision.

  There was nothing of value in the back. No access doors, no room entries, no expensive cars. Nothing a thief would consider worthy of the effort—or worth the risk of capture.

  Not much daytime traffic in the back, so if the mugger left anything behind, it might still be here. I turned a full circle and decided to walk the area using a strip-search method. In my head, I divided the lot into four-foot-wide sections running from end to end and walked each one, head down, churning over bits of gravel with my feet. When I got to the end of one strip, I turned and walked down the next one, slowly, taking thirty minutes to examine the entire lot.

  Nothing.

  I checked along the edge of the building and behind the dumpster.

  Again, nothing.

  I stood in the middle of the lot and slowly turned in a circle, stopping when my eyes landed on the dumpster. Pickup day was tomorrow, so anything thrown into it over the last week should still be there.

  With the hot Caribbean sun beating down on them, dumpsters on Bonaire became big, dirty, steel crockpots, smoldering their contents into a smelly, nausea-inducing pile of sludge. A paradise only rats, flies, and mosquitoes would call home.

  And I was about to jump right in.

  But there might be a better way.

  I went to my toolshed and brought back a stepladder and a broom. I placed the ladder alongside the dumpster, and half limped, half stepped to the second rung. After a few painful breaths, I threw open the lid, banging it against the side of the building. It didn’t smell as bad as I had feared, at least not at first. The stench grew more toxic as the wind whipped through the garbage and lifted the odor into the air, straight into my nostrils.

  Climbing to the third rung, I used the handle of the broom to rearrange the contents, moving the smelly bags, hoping to find something—anything—out of the ordinary. With every stir, the stench became more intense. My eyes watered, and I covered my mouth, almost tasting the smell on my tongue. A layer of muck seemed to coat the back of my throat.

  Most of the contents were garbage bags, removed from the rooms by the maid staff during their regular cleanings, along with many wrappers and cups deposited by people walking past. I preferred the passersby using my dumpster as opposed to the trash finding its way onto the ground, or worse, into the sea. There were lots of empty Bright bottles, which should’ve given me pause and some needed reflection, but didn’t.

  Despite the noxious smell and near overwhelming impulse to close the lid, I couldn’t stop searching. After fifteen more minutes, ready to concede and surrender to the stench, I moved one step down the ladder. Just before stepping off the bottom rung, I noticed something lying on top of a garbage bag, positioned off to my left, halfway deep, wedged in the corner. All the thrashing I’d done must’ve uncovered it.

  It was a plastic tube-and-bubble turkey baster. Not a big baster, maybe more of a chicken baster, if such a thing existed. The transparent plastic tube section seemed to be the same diameter as the hole in the Wrangler battery.

  My first impulse was to photograph the baster, the other contents, the dumpster, the parking lot, and everything else in the vicinity. Then put the baster in a clear plastic bag, label and date it, then take it to the police. Better yet, call the cops and get forensics people over here to do the work. Keep the chain of evidence intact.

  But the cops weren’t concerned about my Wrangler sabotage and had made their apathy quite clear. I decided to keep the baster and see what I could learn from it. I leaned over the edge—legs pointing skyward—and reached deep. I stretched, almost falling in, my rib pulsing with pain, and eventually grabbed it.

  Standing on the ladder, I studied the baster as a wave of recognition gradually overtook me.

  Along the back wall of each unit at the YellowRock is a small, basic kitchenette. In the cabinet drawers are cooking utensils, plates, pans, and lots of other gadgets used to prepare small meals. Because items were damaged, stolen, broken, lost, and sometimes moved between rooms, Erika had used a black marker to label everything in each kitchenette with that unit’s number.

  Some rooms have items that seem out of place, things a guest wouldn’t use on a Caribbean vacation. Large baking trays, corn-on-the-cob holders, and rolling pins came to mind. Several units had small turkey basters buried in the drawers.

  The one in my hand had a black 5 written on it.

  Holding it to the bright sky and keeping it
level, a small amount of clear liquid pooled in the tube section. I put my nose to the open end and sniffed, but my nose was still filled with garbage stink.

  I held it level, trying not to spill the liquid, as I took it upstairs to my kitchen. I set it upright in a glass and squatted level with the edge of the counter. Drumming my hand on the nearby stove, I watched the clear liquid pool in the bottom of the glass. Not much—a total of only a few drops—but it’d have to be enough.

  I removed the baster and placed a small saucer over the top of the glass, hoping to contain any odor released by the liquid.

  My pulse quickened. I punched a number into my cellphone.

  “Richter,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Kevin, do you still have the old brake hoses?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. In my mind, I imagined his bewildered expression, the memory gears turning in his head.

  “They should be in the dumpster out back,” he said.

  “Can I have them?” It meant another dive, but I needed those hoses.

  Kevin hesitated, then said, “Sure.” It sounded more like a question than a statement. He probably didn’t have many folks asking for old parts. I told him I was on my way and disconnected.

  Before heading out the door, I leaned over the glass, raised the saucer, and inhaled deeply.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER 28

  I WALKED DOWNSTAIRS to the office and laid Erika’s car keys on her desk. Without an acknowledgment, she scooped them into her purse.

  Richter’s Garage was about a mile from the YellowRock, but I refused to ask Erika for a ride or to borrow her car again. Besides, a walk would do me some good—my bruised rib notwithstanding.

  “Is everything okay at Ruth’s?” she asked.

  No point in asking her what she meant or how she knew. “Yes, Bella handled everything.”

  She peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “It is good she was there.”

  “It’s always good when she’s around.”

  She smiled. “Yes, it is … For you.”

  I turned and headed for the door. “I’m going to Richter’s. Be back shortly.”

  “Again, you are leaving me with all the work?”

  “Yes, but only for a few minutes.”

  “I can drive you. Then you can be back sooner. Or you can borrow my car again and can use more of my gas.”

  “I think I’ll walk. I need the exercise.”

  “Okay. I’ll stay here and do the work.”

  Another beautiful day on Bonaire, perfect for walking. I cut across the parking lot of an adjoining business, making my way to Richter’s. Small drops of sweat sprinkled the back of my T-shirt, and my side ached as I walked through the shop door, held open by a rusty old muffler. The makeshift doorstop was a poor replacement for Kevin’s lack of air-conditioning.

  Kevin stood behind the counter. “Here.” He held up the old brake hoses.

  “Thanks. I was worried that I’d have to dig them out.”

  “I was out having a smoke and raised the lid. They were lying right on top, so I grabbed them.” He laid a handwritten invoice on the counter and used a pen to point at a line on the bottom. I took the pen, signed the invoice, and handed him a debit card.

  He gave me a carbon copy of the invoice and processed the card. “The keys are in it. It is parked around back.”

  “I’m surprised you still had these.” My body rattled, and I flinched as an air-driven tool of some kind in the shop area blurted out a soul-jarring blast. I waited for the noise to subside before continuing. “I was sure the police would’ve taken them.”

  Kevin shook his head. “They took some pictures. That is about it.”

  “Did they say anything about their investigation?”

  He lit a cigarette, held his breath a moment, and blew smoke out his nose. “They looked the inside over and also at the brake hoses. I showed them the battery and the hole.” He took another drag and talked as he exhaled. “It was strange.”

  “How so?”

  “They asked if this could happen by accident, you know, poor maintenance or something like that. I said it was possible, but not likely.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I do not know …”

  “What?”

  “They were not interested. It seemed like they thought it was simply an accident? I think they wanted it to be an accident.”

  My earlier conversations with Kevin, and what I recently found in my dumpster, convinced me of the sabotage. I didn’t know if the cops were dragging their feet or if they just weren’t convinced yet. I placed my hands on the counter and leaned toward Kevin. “Be honest with me. What do you think?”

  Kevin took a deep breath. Above us, the ceiling fan mixed the stale air with brake dust, exhaust grime, and cigarette smoke. I coughed. None of it bothered Kevin.

  Finally, he said, “If it was an accident or poor maintenance, it was a big coincidence.” He crushed out his cigarette, shaking his head. “Besides, how can the hole be explained?”

  “Thanks, Kevin.” I slapped the rolled-up invoice in my hand, grabbed the hoses, and left.

  CHAPTER 29

  JAMES CALLED MY cell as I pulled into the lot at the YellowRock. “R, when will you be able to identify the body?”

  “Are Tiffany’s parents on their way?”

  “I understand that our department contacted them. They are looking for a flight.”

  “I’d prefer they do the ID. Besides, it might be something they feel they should do anyway.”

  “We would like to do this as soon as possible.” He paused a moment and took a breath. “Inspector Schleper would like you to do it.”

  I’d been with many family members during body identifications and had seen firsthand the pain and agony they went through. The crying; the quivering; the realization that the body under the blanket was indeed their loved one. Or once had been.

  Now I’d be on that side of the table.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Anytime, but sooner would be better.”

  Jeez, so much for Island Time. I looked down the row of vehicles. Lester’s truck sat in front of his unit, the seahorse on the tailgate staring back at me. Hopefully, he was sleeping off the alcohol. He needed to. “Alright, I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

  I went into the office, brake hoses in hand. Erika sprang to her feet as I headed for the stairs leading to my apartment.

  “I have some things to talk with you about.” She moved in front of the stairs, blocking my way, lips pursed, her demeanor more pointed than earlier.

  “Not now, Erika.” I tried to move around her, but she stepped in front of me.

  “You have a business to run.” She shoved a stack of papers into my gut. I grabbed them. If I hadn’t, she’d have let go, and they would’ve scattered across the floor.

  “I cannot do it all,” she said, still blocking my path to the stairs.

  I flung the papers toward my desk. Some of them separated mid-flight, floating gently to the floor, while the rest landed atop other desk clutter already collecting dust. “Erika, I have to go to the morgue and identify Tiffany’s body.” I let the statement hang for a moment. “Can’t this wait?”

  A tear slid down her cheek, and she bowed her head as she returned to her desk. Guilt overtook me. Holding back a tear of my own, I put a hand on one of her shoulders and gently squeezed. She covered my hand with one of hers and sighed.

  “Also, please call the police station,” I said. “See if you can find out when Tiffany’s folks will arrive on the island. Let’s put them up in a vacant unit.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice cracking and stuttering. “I will be happy to do that.”

  “Thanks,” I said before climbing the stairs to my apartment.

  In the kitchen, I grabbed a plate from the overhead cabinet and placed it on the counter next to the glass containing the liquid. Stretching one of the brake hoses out as close to straight
as possible, I laid it on the plate, the ends hanging over the edges.

  I turned the hose until the hole—the spot where the brake fluid had leaked out—was facing straight up. Before pouring the liquid onto the hose, I removed the saucer that covered the glass and took a whiff.

  Still nothing.

  I eased the glass over and allowed half of the liquid to settle onto the brake hose, several inches from the existing hole. I anticipated a hissing or smoky smell, but, to my surprise—and disappointment—nothing happened. As the liquid settled onto the hose, a small portion penetrated the rubber, but most of it spilled off onto the plate.

  Now the waiting began. Kevin had mentioned the acid wouldn’t eat through the hose right away, but he hadn’t said how long it might take. Nor the amount of acid needed. My limited supply might not be enough. If it was even acid at all. I didn’t know for sure.

  After a few moments of staring at the hose, I conceded that it might take several hours for the acid—if it truly was acid—to eat through the rubber. Something along the lines of a watched pot of water never boiling.

  If I were lucky, this experiment would prove my suspicion. If not, it would be back to square one. While the acid simmered on the brake hose, I reached for some artificial courage.

  A Bright.

  One hard swig and I tossed the empty bottle in the recycle bin.

  I drank the second one slower, taking nearly thirty minutes to finish. I strolled out to the balcony, mindful of my pending trip to the morgue, and tried to enjoy every swig, watching boats cutting across the sea.

  After draining the last drop, I dialed James’s number. “On my way.” He muttered an acknowledgment, but I ended the call, cutting him off mid-sentence. I leaned on the railing and took in the view across the street. I could’ve had another beer—or two—and sat for hours on the veranda, hypnotized by the cadence of the sea, its waves lapping against the shore.