Rum and Razors (6 page)

The angry voices faded as Walter and Jacob departed the area. Finally, there was silence, except for the sweet sounds of the birds serenading me from the terrace. I made a valiant attempt to fall back to sleep but it was obvious that this lady was up for the day. Shades of Cabot Cove and my early to bed, early to rise routine. I was in the process of a final stretch when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Jessica, it’s Laurie. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

I was tempted to say, “No, but your husband did.” It remained an unstated thought. Instead, I said, “I was just getting up. Bad habits die hard.”

“The reason I’m calling so early is to tell you that Walter and I have to go to Miami today to meet with our attorney. A last-minute decision. We’re catching a plane this morning and won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“No. In fact, everything is all right now that we’ve decided to take the bull by the horns and resolve our business problems once and for all.” She sounded considerably better than she had yesterday. Maybe the simple act of taking action had renewed her spirits. As psychiatrists say, any action is better than no action.

“Unfortunately, we won’t be here to have dinner with you. Sorry to have missed you last night. Tomorrow for certain, Jess. We’ll have a celebratory dinner together tomorrow night.”

“As I told Walter, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’ve arranged a tour of the island for you today, Jess. Your driver will pick you up at the main house at eleven. Does that fit in with your plans?”

“Sounds fine,” I said. “But you really shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. You’ve got enough on your plate. Please, I’ll be fine on my own. I’m a big—girl.” I laughed. “A grown-up woman.”

“Of course you are, but you are also our special guest and dear friend. We want you to have a simply wonderful vacation; nothing but rest and relaxation. Sorry about tonight, but we’ll make it up to you when we get back.”

“No making up necessary,” I said. “I hope your trip is a success. Best to Walter. And thanks for calling.”

I ordered croissants and a pot of coffee from room service. Thomas arrived ten minutes later carrying a wicker tray with freshly cut passion flowers in a miniature navy blue porcelain vase. The tray was lined with a yellow and pale blue floral placemat. It was as visually inviting as it was tasty.

I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the terrace, alternating between the melt-in-your-mouth buttery croissants and the steaming, aromatic, muscular coffee. An added ingredient were the delicious “tastes” around me—the sunrise playing on the waters of Lover’s Lagoon, the mellow breezes, the fragrant trees. Does the soaking in of this brand of luxury ever become boring, I wondered. I answered my question by picking up a guidebook I’d brought with me and turning to the section on tourist attractions. I found what I was looking for: the page on which local government institutions were detailed. Friends have often told me that my interest in politics would be better served by living in Washington, D.C. than Cabot Cove. But politics on a large scale hold little appeal for me. I love small-town politics, Cabot Cove’s town meetings and local elections in which a dozen votes decide the winner. I’ve been urged to run for office back home, but have never succumbed to the temptation. I’d make a terrible elected official, and know it. Better that I remain an interested spectator and informed voter.

Whenever I travel, I always try to find a few hours to witness local government in action. The guidebook noted that sessions of the U.S. Virgin Islands’ Legislature were open to the public, and that visitors to the islands were especially welcome.

If the Legislature was in session, I’d ask my driver to allow me an hour to soak it in. I finished breakfast, took a shower, and headed for the pool before the sun had a chance to heat things up. My timing was good; I was the only person at the pool. After swimming enough laps to assuage my guilt over last night’s caloric dinner, I returned to my room where I read until it was time to meet my driver.

His name was Peter. He was on time, neatly dressed in white slacks, colorful floral shirt, and sandals, extremely courteous and, I would soon learn, talkative. He’d been an islander all his life and demonstrated admirable pride in his home-land. “Mrs. Marschalk told me to drive you to Charlotte Amalie,” he said as he put the Jeep in gear. “She told me to give you lots of time to walk about the city and to shop. I’ll be happy to escort you. I know the shopkeepers. Some are my cousins. I got lots of cousins. They’ll give you the best deal if I’m with you.”

“That sounds fine,” I said from the backseat. “I would like to spend an hour at the government building down at the harbor.”

He slowed down and turned. “Why do you want to do that?”

“Just because—”

“You got some kind of trouble?” he asked.

“No, I—”

“I got a cousin with the police. He’s a big mon, a big shot.”

“No, I don’t have any trouble. Do you know if the Legislature is in session today?”

“No, ma’am, and don’t really care. Politicians. They just sit and talk about nothing.”

I laughed. “I know that,” I said, “but I would enjoy hearing them talk, even about nothing.”

“No problem, ma‘am. Remember, this is the Caribbean. Everything is ’no problem.’” He was such a likable person, friendly without being overbearing, and with a knack for knowing what to say, and when to stop saying it. He must do nicely when it comes to tips.

Peter seemed to know everyone on the island. The trip was punctuated with someone waving at him, or honking their horns every few minutes.

“Cousins?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He stopped in front of a white cement house with a front porch. “That’s my momma’s house,” he said. “I was born right inside there. So was my eleven brothers and sisters. Seven of ’em still live there with momma.”

“She must be quite a woman.”

“The best, ma’am. You want to come in and meet her?”

“No, thank you. That would be an imposition. Besides, I’m anxious to get to town.”

“As you say.” He beeped the horn, and people from inside the house came to the porch and waved. I returned the greeting as Peter roared off in the direction of Charlotte Amalie, leaving behind a cloud of dust that enveloped the porch of his birthplace.

We entered the crowded and congested capital city of Charlotte Amalie where tourists from the large cruise ships swarmed over endless vendors strung out along the dock. “Best to avoid this area,” said Peter. “Not dangerous, mind you, but these guys sell junk. The best shops are up these cobblestone streets. See?” I looked in the direction he pointed. “Lots of beautiful and expensive shops up there. Good merchandise for sale. Big money but no problem, huh?”

I looked down to see what I was wearing that spoke money to Peter. My J. Crew cotton skirt and blouse spoke only comfort to me. Maybe it was my wedding ring; it looked a lot more than it had cost. Of course, from Peter’s perspective, staying at Lover’s Lagoon Inn said worlds about a person’s net worth.

He pulled up to the curb where one of the narrow cobblestone streets began. “This is a good place for you to start your walk, ma’am. Want me to go with you?”

“No, thank you. It would bore you. I just want to stroll at my leisure, window-shop. Better if I do it alone.”

“As you wish. Two hours?”

“That sounds about right. Maybe we can do some sightseeing from the Jeep this afternoon.”

“At your service all day.”

“Where will I meet you?” I asked.

“Over there, ma‘am. Can’t miss it.” He pointed to a building across the street. It was neon pink. We both laughed. As I started to exit the Jeep, he said, “If you’ll be looking for jewelry, ma’am, I recommend that shop.” He indicated a modest storefront a few yards up the cobblestone street. A sign in front read: “LOVER’S LAGOON FINE JEWELRY.”

“Your cousin’s place?” I asked lightly.

“That’s right. I’ll tell him to be expecting you. Give you the best price, that’s for sure.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Any other suggestions?”

“If you’ll be having lunch, I recommend Rasheda’s Long Look Vegetarian Restaurant. Very popular with tourists. Be sure to have a glass of sea moss.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Seaweed. But it doesn’t taste like it. Much sweeter.”

“I’ll be sure to try it,” I said. This was a time when lying was definitely the better part of valor.

I decided to put off looking at jewelry until the end of my walk. The sun was hot and so I tried to stay in the shade as I made my way through the city, my guidebook my map. There were a surprising number of churches for such a small island, and a synagogue the book said was the oldest in continuous use under the American flag. I walked up a steep, narrow street known as Ninety-nine Steps for obvious reasons (I didn’t count the steps as I ascended, but was convinced upon reaching the top that there were more than ninety-nine of them.) At the top was a neighborhood known as Queen’s Street, and a guest house called Blackbeard’s Castle, originally part of a castle supposedly the home of a notorious twentieth-century pirate named Edward Teach. How romantic. The only pirates these days seem to be elected officials. With that unkind thought, I decided to have lunch at Blackbeard’s Castle. It was a good decision. My sandwich and iced tea were served on a terrace near a pool, and offered me lovely views of the city and harbor beyond.

Refreshed, I headed back down into the center of town. I had a half hour before meeting up with Peter again. I was almost to his “cousin’s” jewelry store when I noticed a bookstore. Try as I might, I simply cannot pass a bookstore without stopping in.

The minute I entered the pleasant, air-conditioned shop, I was face-to-face with a rack filled with the paperback edition of my last book that had been published in hardcover a year ago. I sometimes buy a copy of my books when visiting bookstores, and decided this would be one of those times. Because it can be embarrassing to be caught purchasing a book you’ve written (does it hint that it isn’t being bought by others?) I try to do it without being identified as the author. I was confident that my straw hat with its large, floppy brim that dipped low over my eyes, and my oversize sunglasses would do the trick.

“That will be $4.95,” said the gentleman at the register. I opened my purse and handed him a five-dollar bill. He said as he gave me my change, “There you go, Mrs. Fletcher.”

All I could do was laugh.

“Thought you’d sneak out without anyone recognizing you, eh?” he said, flashing a broad, friendly grin marred by badly discolored teeth. “Walter and Laurie are good friends of mine. When they told me you’d be visiting us, I stocked up.”

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” I said, offering my hand.

He took it. “My name’s Justin Wall, Mrs. Fletcher. Your books are selling very well since word got around you’d be on St. Thomas. I asked Walter if you might be interested in doing an autographing session here at the store, but he came to your defense immediately, told me this was your well-deserved vacation and that nothing should interfere.”

“I must thank him,” I said.

“But would you sign just one for me personally? Even your initials.” He smiled that smile again.

“Of course. I’d be happy to.”

As I wrote, For Justin, best wishes,
Jessica Fletcher,
he said, “I have one question about this book, Mrs. Fletcher, a question that bothers me.”

“Yes?” I said.

“The use of a razor as a murder weapon. Surprisingly brutal for you, isn’t it? I mean, in all your previous books—at least those I’ve read—the means of murder are considerably more genteel. Poison, a car tampered with, perhaps a gun. But a razor. Is that to satisfy society’s increasing need for violence?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t try to satisfy society when I write. I just felt that—well, I’m sorry it shocked you. I’ll think twice before being so brutal in the future.”

“You aren’t offended,” he said.

“Gracious, no. I appreciate such feedback. I learn from it.”

He thanked me for the autographed book, leaned on the counter, and said in low tones, “Damn shame what’s happening to Walter and Laurie.”

“I don’t know—what is happening to them?”

“You haven’t read the paper today?”

“No.”

“I just hope it’s not true, and that the editors have it wrong.”

“Have what wrong?” I asked.

His voice dropped even lower. “Seems there’s some sort of government investigation into their inn. According to the article, Walter illegally purchased Lover’s Lagoon by bribing one of our politicians, Bobby Jensen.”

“That’s a serious charge,” I said, recalling what Walter had told me at dinner.

“The newspaper goes on to say that Walter and Laurie owe a lot of money on it, and to bad people.”

“Bad people? What bad people?”

“Criminals back in the States.”

I shook my head. “You’re right, Mr. Wall. The editors must have it wrong. Do you have a copy of today’s paper?”

“No, but they’ll have one on the newsstand ’round the corner.”

I thanked him and hurried out the door.

Sure enough, the headline on the St. Thomas Gazette read: “LOVER’S LAGOON INVESTIGATION LAUNCHED.” A photo of Bobby Jensen ran on the front page. Walter’s photo appeared where the story jumped to page three. I shoved the paper in my large straw bag. I would read it back at the hotel.

Walter and Laurie must be devastated over this, I thought. I’d sure picked a heck of a time to visit them. Did Walter’s death threat have something to do with the investigation? He hadn’t seemed overly concerned about it. It was good they’d gotten off the island, if even for a day. It occurred to me that because they were in Miami, they might not have seen the newspaper story. I hoped they hadn’t. They had enough on their minds without having this interfere with the meeting with their attorney.