No Virgin Island (10 page)

Sabrina was impressed when Henry returned the reheated omelets along with cloth napkins. Even with the drama of the day, he remembered to garnish the plates with a curled peel from an orange he must have had stashed somewhere.

“So who’s going first?” Neil asked. It was time to come clean about what they knew about Carter Johnson.

Sabrina took a bite of her omelet in an effort to avoid the answer, although it stuck in her throat like a chunk of dread.

“Oh, why not? I will,” Henry said, sitting down next to her on the leather couch. Sabrina just kept chewing.

“One night I went to Skinny Legs to get a burger after checking some guests into one our houses over in Coral Bay. I didn’t see anyone I knew, so I sat on a stool at the bar, ordered a Dos Equis, and started looking up at the television. The Red Sox were playing, losing bad, and I shook my head. A guy sitting at the stool around the corner of the bar looked at me and said, ‘Those bums never
seem to get it right, do they?’ He had a New York accent and he didn’t seem to be with anyone.

“I told him I was originally from Boston and that the Sox managed to break my heart every year, but usually not until September, after they’d made me think that somehow this year was going to be different,” Henry said, picking up a bite of omelet with his fork but putting it down before he got it in his mouth. He wasn’t looking at either Neil or Sabrina, both of whom stayed silent.

“I thought he was gay. I’m usually pretty good about getting a sense of this, and when I asked him where he was from and he told me New York, we had the usual Red Sox/Yankee banter and I thought he was flirting. Then I found out he was in one of our houses, and I thought,
Am I going to get lucky here?

“He got up to leave, and I asked if he’d ordered our Ten Villas special appetizers, the kind we deliver to customers, and I told him Sabrina’s famous for them. He said he hadn’t and now he kind regretted it because he wasn’t much of a cook. The next afternoon, right before the sunset, I went over to Villa Mascarpone with a complimentary tray of apps. I was all dolled up and arrived to find Carter out by the pool, taking photos with a telephoto lens of Ram Head in the distance. He told me he was a professional photographer, and he looked annoyed, not pleased, about me dropping by. I told him I’d just put them in the kitchen because I could tell I wasn’t welcome. Carter ran ahead of me and started scooping up photos he’d taken,
large ones, off the dining room table as I headed for the kitchen. I walked over to the table and told him I’d love to see his work, and he said he’d e-mail photos of St. John to me and Sabrina after he got home. Then he took the tray from me, put it on the kitchen counter, said thanks, and looked over at the door. I know when I’m getting the bum’s rush, so I left. I felt like an idiot.”

“Did you get to see the photos?” Neil asked as Sabrina put her arm around Henry, knowing that the miserable pilot who broke his heart had taken every ounce of confidence Henry had earned the hard way.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Henry squeezed her hand.

“You just didn’t call it right, Henry. Everybody screws up once in a while. I see that all of the time at Bar None,” Neil said.

“I was afraid if I volunteered that I had visited Carter to the police, they’d think I was somehow involved in his death. I saw what happened to Sabrina and I was afraid,” Henry said. “But I did see a few of the photos. They were all taken from up at Villa Mascarpone. None at the beach or even in Cruz Bay. I’m pretty sure there were pictures of all of the surrounding houses up there. Oh, and I saw a picture of Mara and the kids and one of Mr. Banks. He got some nice shots.”

Sabrina was remembering a conversation she was trying hard to forget when Neil turned to her.

“Okay, Salty. Your turn,” Neil said.

“All I did was bring him a replacement tank of propane when he called and told me he had forgotten to turn the grill off. He said he was a city boy and never grilled before and probably never would again, given the way his steak turned out. I barely spoke to him, but I was afraid the cops would never believe me,” Sabrina said, picking up her plate and then grabbing Neil’s and Henry’s, taking them into the kitchen where she would be out of their vision, where they couldn’t see how pale she knew she had become. She’d felt the blood drain from her face as she told lie after lie. How could she tell either of them she had brought the propane to the house and then had an afternoon of wanton sex with a man she barely knew—a man who ended up dead two days later? Sabrina was having trouble enough admitting it to herself.

“Salty, get back in here. You have to see this,” Neil called to her from the living room where the television was blaring.

“What?” Sabrina said, glad the topic of Carter Johnson was over, at least for the moment.

When she entered the room, Sabrina could see Faith Chase on the corner of the television screen superimposed over what looked like the beach next to the dock in Cruz Bay where another female reporter stood, mike in hand, fielding Chase’s questions.

“So this is where Sabrina Salter has been hiding since she stood trial for killing her husband in Nantucket? She gets away with murder and then gets to live in paradise?”

“That’s right, Faith. We’ve learned that Salter has her own business on the island, and we’ve reported from her home where the police recently conducted a search. The police aren’t commenting on what they found, but I can tell you they took multiple bags of evidence,” the reporter said in an exaggerated deep tone.

“Well, we’re staying on this story, folks. With another dead body at her feet, dead from a gunshot wound to the abdomen just like her husband, let’s see if Sabrina Salter gets away with murder a second time. St. John is one of the three U.S. Virgin Islands, what some people call ‘Love City.’ Well, it’s not too lovey lately, is it? We’re just learning that this tiny Caribbean island may not be paradise after all.” Faith Chase signed off.

Neil grabbed the remote control and hit mute.

“I cannot stand the sound of that woman’s voice,” he said in a tone more serious than Sabrina could remember hearing before.

“Now she’s attacking the whole island,” Henry said.

But what Sabrina couldn’t get past was hearing Faith Chase draw the similarities between Carter’s death and Ben’s. Her suggestion hung silently in the air along with the knowledge that if anyone ever discovered she had had an afternoon with Carter Johnson, Sabrina was as good as convicted. She was going to have to live with this secret until she died, or else it might kill her.

Deirdre knew how ridiculous she and Sam would appear if anyone could see them. They were sitting on the bar stools, which Sam had dragged from the kitchen out to the tiny trail bordering the pool. She sat on one, draped in long sleeves and a billowing skirt that protected her from the sun and the no-see-um insects. It was hardly happy hour for them, but she had an odd sense of satisfaction and destiny perched on her stool, sipping the crisp glass of Sauvignon Blanc Sam had poured her.

He sat over on his own stool, in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, already tanned and annoyingly oblivious to the bugs. Between them, a third stool had been placed for the bowl of pretzels Sam had supplied for their adventure.

The sun would set soon, and the chance to observe any neighborhood activity would disappear with it. Deirdre tried to hold off her growing fear of disappointment. She had waited so long; it was hard not to be impatient. She feared she might become impulsive if she didn’t see something soon.

The little trail was cramped but still the perfect surveillance spot, just as he had described. The photos he had e-mailed were accurate, but it wasn’t the same as actually seeing Villa Mascarpone and its view of the villa below, which to Deirdre seemed a little like a fortress, with its heavy garage doors at the bottom of a downhill driveway. She’d seen the woman drive in and open those doors with a remote control.

“We’ll have to go in soon, Deirdre. It’s getting dark and the bugs must be getting you,” Sam said, offering her his hand, which she took while never looking away from the road leading to the house where the children lived.

“I’m fine, honey. Let’s give it a little more time. Pour us another glass of wine, and after we’re finished, I’ll go in,” Deirdre said, squeezing his hand with affection.

“We’ve got time to do this right, you know.” Sam filled her glass and then his. He amazed her, sometimes, when he could fill an ordinary moment with elegance. You’d have thought they were sipping champagne on deck chairs on the Queen Mary.

“Strange to encounter Neil Perry here, wasn’t it?” she said, knowing Neil was a topic that would distract Sam from wanting to save her from the no-see-ums.

“Well, yes and no. I’d read he’d left California after his son’s death. Finding him on an island where everyone seems to be running away from something isn’t shocking.”

“Such a shame—he saved Jess Rankin only to lose his own son,” Deidre agreed, remembering articles about the brilliant defense Neil Perry had waged on behalf of a
seventeen-year-old kid with Asperger’s syndrome, accused of burning down his own house with his bipolar mother in a wheelchair inside.

“Well, Neil became such a celebrity. It wasn’t really surprising the press would scrutinize his personal life. I don’t think anyone knew his own kid had Asperger’s until Neil’s ex-wife gave an interview. It wasn’t long after that the kid overdosed. Neil’s defense of Rankin was so passionate that he was compared to Atticus Finch, which is why my students love studying the case,” Sam said. He was a history professor with a law degree, which Deirdre sometimes suspected he regretted not using.

The sound of tires grinding on gravel in the distance made Deirdre sit at attention. She reached for her binoculars, the high-powered ones she’d bought on the Internet from the site that had been recommended. They were pricey, but it seemed silly to cut corners when the vision she hoped to see was one she’d spent more than a decade waiting for. They were tiny, almost like opera glasses, and added to the irony of the evening.

Deirdre turned on her stool so she could see the car as it rounded the corner, driving past the home of the older couple who lived across the street where a cruiser had been parked when Sam and she had first gone out to the path to sit and wait. It was gone now, so that she could see right inside the passenger side of the approaching car.

Deirdre’s first sight of one of the Eagan twins was that of Kelly’s face contorted in sobs. The girl seemed to be in
agony. Deirdre looked toward the backseat to see if Liam was in the same state, but it was empty. Mara Bennett stared ahead, driving her vehicle down into the dungeon of a garage before Deirdre had a chance to think.

“Oh my god, Sam. Something is wrong, terribly wrong,” Deirdre cried, turning to her husband who had been looking with the house binoculars.

“What? I couldn’t see inside the car.”

“Kelly’s crying hysterically and Liam isn’t in the car. Oh, dear God, Sam, you don’t think something has happened to Liam, do you? Do you think he might be hurt or even worse? Oh my God,” Deirdre said, her entire body trembling as Sam rushed over to hold her.

“Of course not, honey. It’s probably just a teenage snit or something,” Sam said, taking her into his arms.

Deirdre pushed free.

“We don’t know that, Sam. It could be something terrible. I have to go. I have to.”

“Deirdre, no. Don’t. You’ve waited this long. Don’t do this. You could ruin everything, honey. Please, please listen to me.”

“I can’t, Sam. I just can’t. If it’s a mistake, it’s mine to make. I have to go,” Deirdre said as she rushed down the path into the falling darkness.

Henry had just finished describing the fiasco on the beach in Cruz Bay when Sabrina heard her cell phone blast Kenny Chesney’s “Way Down Here,” her favorite St. John song and her ringtone. She decided she would just check who the caller was and then let it go to voicemail. Was there any one left on God’s green planet who hadn’t had a turn to harangue her today?

Lyla Banks was calling. As much empathy as Sabrina felt for the older woman, she had nothing left to give. Still, Lyla epitomized the courage, generosity, and grace Sabrina wished she could muster. If it were Sabrina calling Lyla, there was no question what Lyla would do.

“Lyla, how are you?” Sabrina asked as Henry and Neil both rolled their eyes. She knew they were cooked, too. It had been a long day, one that just didn’t seem to want to quit.

“Well, all right, I guess. Listen, I don’t mean to bother you so late, but I don’t have Neil’s number and I wondered
if you could get a message to him for me, dear?” Lyla asked. Sabrina thought she sounded deliberately calm.

“No problem, Lyla. He’s right here. Do you want to talk to him?” Sabrina said, knowing she was throwing Neil under the bus. He looked exhausted. He’d been dealing with people problems since first thing that morning when they’d gone to the police station together. Maybe that was why he’d left the practice of law and bought a bar. He got sick of needy people.

“No, that won’t be necessary. I just wanted to let him know he won’t have to come out to our property tomorrow to search for the gun, but I wanted to thank him anyway. It’s all set. The property’s been searched and no gun was found,” Lyla said, a slight tremble finding its way into her words.

“Wait a minute. Who searched for the gun?”

Neil immediately perked up from the chair he was slouched in.

“Who searched for a gun where?”

Within three minutes, Neil and Sabrina were driving Henry’s neighbor’s car to the Banks’ home with Girlfriend in the backseat. Sabrina admired how Neil hadn’t hesitated when he heard the police had searched the Banks’ residence. They parked, jumped out, leaving Girlfriend in the car, and approached the house.

Lyla opened the front door before they knocked and led them into the kitchen.

“Thank you for coming. I’ve given Evan a little sedative and he’s asleep, thank goodness. He was so upset,” Lyla said, choking up.

“Start at the beginning, Lyla, please. How do you know the police were looking for a gun?” Neil asked.

“Well, they didn’t say exactly that they were searching for a gun, but the search warrant they handed me did, among other things. They found nothing. No gun, no backpack, no bag. But they rummaged through every nook and cranny of our home in the process of it. I feel violated. It was so degrading.”

“Lyla, why would the police want to search your property?” Sabrina asked.

“Because Seth Larson told them he’d seen Evan at our house that morning, you know, when you found that man shot at the villa. Detective Janquar said when someone lies during a police investigation, it immediately makes them a suspect, a ‘person of interest.’ My Evan, ‘a person of interest.’ We should have stayed in New York.”

Sabrina hoped Janquar never found out she hadn’t disclosed everything or she’d be on the same list with Evan. She wondered why Seth would tell Janquar he’d seen Evan. Had Evan been home and not volunteering at the National Park?

“Lyla, didn’t you tell Janquar where Evan was that morning? We all saw you both come home together that afternoon,” Sabrina said.

“Of course. I was indignant. But Evan mumbled when Janquar asked him directly if he’d been here. Evan got flustered and said he suffers a little from memory loss.” Sabrina thought now Lyla sounded angry. At Seth or Janquar? Or even at poor Evan? Or maybe all three?

“Janquar told me I could check with Glenn Dawson,” Lyla continued, “who coordinates the volunteers at the National Park Service. Then they searched every inch of our home, shed, and yard. Evan’s a mess. He needs constancy and predictability, not people in uniforms crawling through his garden and combing through his underwear drawer.”

“Lyla, I’m sorry,” Sabrina said.

“Did you talk to Mr. Dawson?” Neil asked.

“I did call him. It was humiliating for both me and even more so for Evan. Glenn told me Evan had forgotten his park department volunteer identification badge. Apparently Homeland Security issued some really tough regulations after Nine-Eleven and one of them requires volunteers to display a badge.”

“Did Glenn drive Evan home to get his badge?” Sabrina knew that Lyla had always driven the pair ever since they were married, whether in Manhattan, Rome, or St. John.

“No, no, unfortunately. Evan had Glenn drive him to the library where he drove our car home to get his badge. Evan always carries a set of car keys in case I can’t find mine, which is more often than I like to admit. This is such a mess,” Lyla said.

“Well, as long as Evan still has a driver’s license, there’s no crime in him driving,” Neil said.

“And he does, thank God. Not that he’s ever used it much.”

“You can’t think Evan would do anything to hurt someone,” Sabrina said, trying to rein Lyla in. She had to feel so alone and scared.

“Of course not. I know Evan better than I know myself. That man hasn’t a violent bone in his body. I heard a couple of the cops talking while they were rummaging through my kitchen drawers. They’re saying the dead man was using a fake name and was probably connected to someone here, Sabrina, so I think it will work out. They’ll find their killer. But still, if someone used that gun, which is technically registered in Evan’s name, could we be in trouble, Neil? I don’t know whether to let the police know it’s missing or just hope they don’t find out we had it,” Lyla said.

“I think you should consider volunteering that information to Detective Janquar, Lyla,” said Neil. “It will be worse if they find you own a gun and then can’t produce it.”

“The cops think Carter Johnson was connected to someone here? What did they mean by that?” Sabrina asked. Seth had seen Evan the day of the murder. Had someone seen her the afternoon she visited Carter Johnson? It could only have been that fisher cat, Rory Eagan, sleeping all day, hunting at night.

“I really don’t know. I’m finding this so exhausting,” Lyla said.

“We’ll let you get some rest,” Neil said, tugging on Sabrina’s arm, signaling it was time for them to exit.

Lyla hugged Sabrina and Neil, thanking them for coming.

“Oh, one last thing, Sabrina. When you get a chance, I’d love the name of another pool man,” Lyla said, before closing the door.