I felt better than I looked, just a vague throbbing behind my left eye and down the side of my face. I wondered if the skin would ever return to normal flesh tones. An ugly gash started at the inside of my left eyebrow and ended somewhere in my hair. A neat row of stitches held the skin tight.
I was trying to cover up some of the purple with makeup when Dunn showed up at my door.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked, settling into a chair.
“Amazing what a couple of aspirin will do. Were you able to lift any prints from that piping?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve got one of my deputies taking the pipe to a couple of the boat shops to see if any of them use that particular kind. Chances are they all use it. May have something to report later today.”
“What about the boat?”
“We lifted several good prints. Most of them probably belonged to Michael. Only one set that came up in the database.”
“You’re kidding? Whose?”
“Harry Acuff. He has a record. Used to live in Puerto Rico. Was arrested for drunk driving and a fight in a bar. Served three years for robbery. After he got out, he moved down here. Seemingly he’s stayed out of trouble since. His prints were all over the boat, on the glove box and inside the lockers. Since Acuff brought the
Lucky Lady
back in after we recovered Michael’s body, I’d guess he decided to take the opportunity to scour her for anything of value. Figured no one would ever notice.”
“Yeah.” That Acuff had a record wasn’t surprising. But his prints in the boat didn’t make him a killer. We needed more.
“One of the maids said she saw a guy hanging around the hotel all afternoon on Thursday,” Dunn said. “She didn’t think much about it. She believes his name is Billy, and that he drives one of the ferries on the run out of Soper’s Hole to Saint Thomas. She figured the ferry was held up for repairs and that he was killing time flirting with the help. I am heading over to Soper’s Hole to talk to the guys at the ferry dock there. They’d know whether one was out of commission Thursday and who was on the schedule that day. Feel up to taking a ride over there with me? See if you recognize anyone?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I called O’Brien first, and we agreed to sail to Saint Martin first thing tomorrow morning.
By eleven o’clock, Dunn and I were headed west through Roadtown. The streets were crowded with Saturday-morning shoppers and tourists strolling through the market. Brightly patterned shirts and dresses hung from every available hook and billowed in the breeze. Delicately crafted wood sculptures and native dolls lined the tables.
Every few blocks someone would yell from the street or a doorway, and Dunn would wave and honk his horn. As we worked our way through town, Dunn would periodically pull over to talk, reverting to the patois that I simply could not understand. I could never tell if the conversation was friendly or if they were engaged in heated disagreement. It was always fast, hard, and loud. Then I’d catch a smile or a laugh and they’d part with a wave.
“My nephew,” he’d explain, or “my wife’s aunt, wants me to stop for mangoes at West End.”
Once out of town, the road continued along the ocean, past harbors filled with sailboats and beaches with fishing boats pulled up onshore, fish traps stacked nearby. Names were etched carefully along the sides of the boats—
Lily
,
Big Mama
,
Rockin’
,
Lucky Seven.
Like the clothes in the market, the boats radiated color, each one meticulously painted.
I wondered about the psychology of color. Why we avoided such vibrance in the States. From homes to clothing to boats, the islands were exploding in color. Maybe it was the warmth and the sun—people simply reflecting their environment. That would explain the muted tones of the American East Coast and Midwest, where winters were long and dreary. Maybe it was the difference between an African slave culture and the staunch New England heritage of the first East Coast settlers. There were places that radiated color in the U.S., like New Orleans. But a home painted yellow and pink in suburban Denver would have been considered gauche.
Dunn interrupted my aimless reverie. He had pulled Michael’s phone records for the month before he died. I looked through them as he drove. There were calls to Lydia, to his parents in the States, to Environment and Fisheries, the dive shop, O’Brien. Nothing unusual. But the morning that he died there was a call—to the police department.
“What do you make of this?” I asked.
“Yes, I saw it. Lorna is usually in at that time of the morning. Otherwise, the machine would have picked it up. Lorna writes the messages down and leaves them on my desk. I received nothing for that day from Michael.”
“Any idea at all why he would be calling?”
“No, although he and I had had several conversations about Arthur Stewart. Michael was angry about Arthur’s attempts to get him arrested or removed from the island with all the drug accusations. Said it was harassment. Of course, he didn’t want to press charges against his girlfriend’s father. But he wanted to make sure I understood what was happening. I reassured him that I did. That I had looked into Arthur’s accusations, found them ludicrous, and that was that.”
“This call was made at seven-oh-two. Would Michael have expected someone to be in that early?”
“Don’t know. Might have.”
I wondered why he would call that early and not leave a message if no one picked up, then head out in his boat and die. Just didn’t compute.
By noon, we were dropping down the hill into Soper’s Hole. It was a beautiful little harbor of pink roofs, red shutters, and blue, green, and peach stucco buildings with balconies and turrets. The beach was scattered with umbrellas, Sunfish, and Windsurfers. Several rows of sailboats lined the docks, and tanks sat out on a boat ready for the next batch of underwater explorers.
“Back in the late sixteen-hundreds, this little harbor was a pirate’s kingdom,” Dunn explained. “It is well protected from the wind and sea and could be defended from the hills and ridges that ring the harbor. They could spot enemies or prey on ships carrying gold. The main harbor was deep enough for their big ships, and the mangrove lagoon was perfect for their shallow-draft attack boats. The nearby reef was rich in conch, lobster, fish, and turtles, the land loaded with fruit and wild pigs and goats. They lived the good life here.”
I’d read the tales of pirates like the infamous Black Beard, who had plundered ships heavy with treasures from the New World.
“One Danish pirate, Gustav Wilmerding, was considered the king of Soper’s Hole,” Dunn continued. “He settled on Little Thatch, that small island there.” He pointed to a lump of land just west of the harbor. “Folks say he kept a harem dressed in silk, diamonds, and gold, and trained in exotic dance. Many say the place is haunted. They talk about seeing ghosts wandering the beaches and phantom ships floating near shore, and say they hear singing and piercing screams. Fishermen report mysterious lights that bob in the trees. Every year or so, some dreamer decides there’s buried treasure to be found over there or on one of the other islands.”
We pulled up to the ferry dock just as a boat was unloading tourists coming in from Saint Thomas and islanders coming back from a visit to the U.S. Virgins or to work at the restaurants, hotels, and shops, or on construction. A black man was supervising the unloading of boxes of Heineken and Carib, the locally made brew.
“Hey dare, Clarence, watcha got goin’ dis fin day, mon.” Dunn smiled, shifting without thought from his perfect King’s English. I was beginning to see a pattern. When outsiders were around and an islander didn’t want to be rude by excluding them from the conversation, he would revert to this half step, into carefree island slang, instead of launching into patois.
“Ah, Chief, good ta see ya, mon; ya lookin’ good! Marie be feeding ya jus’ fine, I sees.”
“This here be Hannah Sampson,” Dunn said, “lookin’ inta that boy’s death over by the
Chikuzen
.”
“Oh yeah, mon, I be hearin’ bot you miss. Nice ta meet ya,” he said, shaking my hand and trying to examine my face without being rude. So maybe half the island did know I was here. I’d figured Dunn had been exaggerating.
“Wondering if you can tell us if you got a ferry boat driver name of Billy,” Dunn said. “Maid over at the Treasure Chest said he was hanging out over at da hotel on Thursday, thought he be workin’ for da ferry.”
“Well, we got a Billy, seems like der always be a Billy or two about. Why ya be askin’?”
“Big guy, over six feet, heavy?” Dunn asked, ignoring Clarence’s question.
“That’d be Billy Reardon,” Clarence said.
“He have the run through the islands that day?” Dunn asked.
“Naw, Billy done got hisself fired coupla weeks ago. He be drinkin’ on da job. Fool. He gots a pack a kids, nice missus. Don’t know how dem folks is eatin’ now. S’pose he down by Roadtown whoring ’round, ’scuse me, miss. Hope he ain’t don sometin’ real stupid wid dat family and all dependin’ on him.”
“It’s probably nothin’, but we need to talk with him. Any idea where we can find him?” Dunn asked.
“Lives up in the hills above Carrot Bay. Ya know, Chief, dat bit of a town up der. Anyone up that way can point ya da way ta Billy’s.”
“What do you think about this Billy?” I asked Dunn as we got in the car.
“Probably just out of work and hanging around the hotel looking for some action.”
“Well, I’d love to see more of the island,” I said.
We headed inland and started up into the hills. At the top, Dunn stopped at the side of the road and we walked down a short path to look out to the sea. “Cross the way there is Jost Van Dyke. Home to Foxy’s. Written up in one of those news magazines as one of the three places to be on New Year’s Eve. The others being Times Square and Trafalgar Square. Amazin’, isn’t it. This tiny little spot in the BVI? You shoulda seen it for the 2000 celebration. None of the sensible yachters would have been within miles of the place, but the harbor was crammed with sailboats, bow to stern, and ferries running all night between Cane Garden Bay and Little Harbor. Some folks died that night, boats overloaded, folks overboard and drunk. Crazy, crazy scene.”
“You’d never know it now,” I said. The vista that spread before me was serene.
“To the left down there is Long Bay, then Apple Bay. Carrot’s the next one down,” he said, pointing. “We’ll take the road down along the waterfront, then head back into the hills there.”
We found Reardon’s house, which was really more like a shack, nestled in among the trees. The place looked like it would collapse if a stiff breeze came up. There was a small, well-tended garden at the side and a rusted old bicycle propped against the fence. A woman hung laundry on a line, an infant fast asleep in a sling around her chest. Two kids, around two and three years old, played in the dirt nearby—naked from the waist down, black little tummies protruding beneath their shirts. A look of expectation turned to fear as she heard our car, then recognized the police emblem on the door.
“Miz Reardon, I’m Chief Dunn, this is Hannah Sampson, a police officer from the States.”
“What’s happened?” she said, voice trembling. “It’s Billy. What has happened to Billy?”
“Nothing, ma’am. As far as we know, he’s fine,” Dunn reassured her. “Just here to ask him a couple of questions. I take it he’s not here?”
“No, he been gone now for a couple of days,” she said.
“Let’s go inside, Miz Reardon, outta this sun and heat,” Dunn said gently.
Walking into her home, we stepped into poverty. There was no electricity, no running water. The floors were dirt, the walls just wooden slats. A small gas stove was perched on sawhorses in the corner.
“I’m sorry to be rude. My name’s Clara, Clara Reardon.” She graciously offered us coffee, which we both declined. It was pretty clear how dear a cup of coffee would be to this woman.
“Bethy,” she said, “go out and watch the little ones, honey.” A child of five or six appeared from a room in back. She was clearly undernourished, her clothes patched but spotless.
“You’re a good girl, Bethy,” she said.
“Is she your oldest?” I asked.
“Lord, no. The three boys is off. I jus’ hope they doin’ more than foolin’ around. They suppose ta be catchin’ us some supper.”
So that made seven. I figured Clara Reardon had been pretty much pregnant for the last eight or nine years. She was just beginning to show now, and the baby in her arms couldn’t have been more than six or seven months. I was shocked to see a big TV in the corner.
“Billy brought it home,” she said, seeing my dismay. “Won it playin’ cards. Dat man is so proud of dat television. Says he gonna get us a generator so’s he can watch his soccer games, have his friends from the bar over. He a proud man, Billy.”
Right, I thought.
Proud
would not have been the word I would have used. The guy should have sold that TV to put some groceries in the cupboard.
“When was Billy home last?” Dunn asked.
“He be gone for three nights now. I be gettin’ worried. Billy don’ never stay gone more dan one night. Comes home draggin’ in da afternoon.”
“Do you know where he spends his time?” Dunn’s tone was soothing.
“He goes down to da bars in Road Harbor,” she said. “Billy got a pain down deep. He think he can cut it out with drink and women but dat pain, it only gets worse. I keeps hopin’ he gonna figure dat out one day and come home ta stay.”
“Did he say anything about where he was going or for how long?” I asked.
“Naw, Billy don’ do no answering ta me. But he did seem more happier dan usual. Said he be comin’ home wid some money, had some kinda big plan. Thing is, Billy always have some kinda big plan. But he be sayin’ this time is different and he promised the kids he be bringin’ them each a present. Askin’ ’em what they wanted. Promised to bring me a blue silk dress. Lord knows what I’d do with it. He had them kids so excited. They ben watchin’ for him ta come back every day.”