HUMID ISLAND HEAT
steamed the police station holding cell. A lone fly hovered beneath a bare light bulb mounted to the ceiling, a hapless suitor pursuing an unreceptive mate. The insect droned in single-minded misery, banging its head against the hot surface, over and over again.

Inspector Orlando Pickering
stared grimly at the man he had taken into custody less than an hour before.

The innkeeper
sat handcuffed to a rusted metal table. Sweat poured down his cheeks. The hollowed eyes and stunned expression were typical of most ex-pats who found themselves detained by Caribbean authorities regarding a serious criminal inquiry – but there was nothing routine about this interrogation.

The man’s shock wasn’t due to his confinement; it was a result of the
events that had occurred earlier that morning.

Pickering
didn’t think the innkeeper was even aware he’d been arrested.

The inspector
paced back and forth across the room, pondering how best to begin his questioning.

His black
shoes thumped against the concrete floor, the footsteps of a lumbering big-boned man. Formidable at a glance, Pickering wielded an intimidating heft.

He would need every ounce of
that authoritative presence today. He too had been shaken by what he’d seen at the inn.

Pickering reached beneath his shirt collar and tugged on a chain h
e wore around his neck. The gold cross secured to the necklace was a memorial from his baptism at a local church, a reminder of the ethical standards he’d vowed to uphold in both his personal and professional life – as well as a potent talisman against any bad juju that might be cast his way.

It was the
latter attribute that he hoped to invoke as he ran his thumb over the trinket’s tooled ridges.

P
ropping his hands on the table’s edge, he leaned toward the innkeeper.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

~ ~ ~

IF THE DAZED
man heard Pickering’s words, he didn’t appear to register their meaning.

The innkeeper
stared, unseeing, at the iron cuffs fastened around his wrists. His body had stiffened into a catatonic rigor; every muscle strained with tension. His fingers splayed out, the tips pressing into the table’s rusted grooves.

As Pickering waited for a response – any response – t
he fly singed its wings against the bulb and fell, wounded, onto the tabletop. Mortally injured, the insect staggered in a pathetic circle until the inspector brushed it to the floor with the callous sweep of his hand.

The
innkeeper didn’t flinch.

Frustrated,
Pickering snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Hello. Is anybody in there?”

The innkeeper blinked at the
inspector’s fuzzy image. Nothing more.

“Bah.”

Pickering pushed away from the table. He shook his head at his deputy, who had watched the exchange from the far side of the room.

She offered no comment or suggestion.
She knew neither was expected.

Elsie
had held the part-time deputy position for just a few weeks. She was still in the process of completing her entry level training courses. A rail-thin wisp of a woman, she wore her coarse black hair parted down the middle and braided into two stubby pigtails.

She deferred to the inspector as a regular course. After all, she was a junior member of the force
with little experience and much to learn.

But on this matter, she knew far more than Pickering.

~ ~ ~

THE INNKEEPER STIRRED
in his seat, causing the handcuffs to jangle against the table’s metal surface.

Pickering spun around,
fixing his attention on the suspect.

The man gasped for breath
as he struggled to make a sound, but his lips could do no more than sputter. With effort, he forced his mouth into an oval shape.

A single syllable was all that came out.

“O…”

He tried
several more times to complete the word before his eyes glazed over, and his consciousness left the holding cell.

But
as Pickering stomped around the table, hurling insults at the ceiling, the story the innkeeper had tried to tell continued on inside his head, the memory rolling like film footage, some scenes clearly displayed in high definition, others in grainy clips.

Chapter 1
Our Island Inn

O
UR ISLAND INN sits atop Parrot Ridge, a rocky bluff on a volcanic mound in the southeast corner of the Caribbean.

It’s a quaint
B&B with seven private suites of varying size, all contained within a stylish concrete-walled residence.

The
entrance to the owner’s apartment is positioned around back, neatly sealed off from the guest quarters. There’s plenty of room for me, my partner, our two poodles and – most important – our own private hot tub.

I
t’s the perfect set up.

The place has amazing views
. We’re located on the highest spot for hundreds of miles, facing a few degrees north of due west. The sea stretches out below us, and several neighboring islands dot the horizon.

As you can imagine, t
he sunsets are phenomenal.

W
e run an open-air restaurant off the deck by the pool. Most weekend nights, we’re booked solid for the hour and a half before the sun goes down. It’s a popular joint. To tell you the truth, the restaurant brings in more revenue than the inn.

The dining operation
started out pretty basic, just some plastic tables and chairs. It proved so successful that we upgraded to fancy tablecloths and place settings. Candles in the centerpieces are lit each night at dusk.

My partner
handles the décor. He’s a natural at that sort of thing. Elsie from the cleaning staff usually helps him out. She’s the only one he trusts to assist. She’s careful to place everything exactly where he wants it.

Me,
I manage the kitchen.

It’s a simple duty
, really. All I do is approve the menu and supervise the help. Our chef Maya and her husband Jesús take care of the rest.

We’re
lucky to have them, I suppose.

I
searched for months, but I couldn’t find anyone on our island interested in the position. Then, one day, Maya and Jesús rang me up. They had to hop a couple of ferries to make it here for the interview. I liked them both and hired them on the spot. We’ve received nothing but rave reviews for the meals they prepare.

In my
opinion, it’s the best food around.

People come
from nearby hotels and the cruise ships that dock off the main town. Even the big resort on the island’s west end sends its guests to our restaurant, especially when someone requests a romantic sunset meal.

G
etting up to the inn is a bit of an adventure, but I think that only adds to the allure.

The driveway cut
s in off a hairpin turn from the north coast road. Then it scales a steep incline reminiscent of an alpine ski slope. Thankfully, there’s never any risk of ice or snow.

Most of the offsite
dinner guests hire a safari truck to take them up to the restaurant. Each night, just before the dinner rush, you can hear the drivers revving their engines at the bottom of the hill. They honk to warn anyone above who might be contemplating a descent. I’ve seen several drivers mutter a prayer before making the attempt.

A visit to Our Island Inn is a memorable experience.

Or I should say – it was.

~
~ ~

WE BOUGHT THE
property about two years ago, my partner and I. It was an investment, we said, a practical means of funding our retirement.

But w
e both knew that wasn’t the truth. The purchase was an indulgence, pure and simple.

BOOK: Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean)

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