No Virgin Island (3 page)

Sabrina cruised down the hill and then up and over several others in the large van they used to pick up guests at the ferry in downtown Cruz Bay, the center of St. John. By the time she arrived, Cruz Bay was bustling as much as any Caribbean island ever bustles. Sabrina had heard about the time some politician thought Cruz Bay needed a traffic light. Apparently, the island came as close to a revolution as it had since the days of the great slave rebellion against the Danish three hundred years before.

Sabrina circled around the crowded streets that led to the dock where the ferry from St. Thomas arrived and dumped tourists onto St. John several times each day. Although Sabrina appreciated tourism, as it was now her livelihood, she privately thanked the ferry for removing the same amount of visitors off the island on the return trip. Sabrina knew that tourists were essential to the economic survival of St. John, but they were slowly destroying the island. Even here, life had its Draconian choices.

She found a space and backed in the van, nestling it between two flatbed trucks, converted into Safari trucks by adding benches to give tourists “the best tour” of St. John. Ten Villa’s official meet-and-greet vehicle was a van large enough for the multiple suitcases tourists insisted on bringing, even though on St. John, you could easily survive a week’s vacation with a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, a swimsuit, and flip-flops.

Sabrina thought of the luggage sitting in Carter Johnson’s jeep, the clothes packed, never to be worn again, and for the first time, she felt sadness sweep over her, followed by a rush of rage. St. John had promised her a new future, not more trouble. Sure, there was some small-time drug dealing. What island didn’t have it? And there had been the occasional break-in. But a murder? On St. John? She felt betrayed. She had fled to and chosen this island as her home, her sanctuary.

Sabrina was on the verge of tears, a rare good cry, which was not going to be helpful when she had to meet and greet the new arrivals.

She knew strolling over to Bar None for a quick drink wasn’t an option. She watched herself that way. Drinking was a way of life on an island, probably because almost everyone here had come to escape from somewhere, someone, or something. Sometimes from all three. It was okay to drink enough to be numb but not enough to duplicate the same kind of problems you were trying to leave behind.

She decided to play a game she and Henry liked to amuse themselves with while they waited for guests to arrive at the dock. They would try to match the names of their clients to the tourists milling about the dock. Today she was meeting Deirdre and Sam Leonard, who were arriving to spend two weeks at Villa Mascarpone, or so they thought. They were coming from Massachusetts, where Sabrina had grown up, gone to college, and never thought she would leave. This should be easy, she thought. Preppy never went out of style in New England. She watched for green whales on navy blue cotton, Madras Bermuda shorts, anything nautical.

Sabrina, holding a Ten Villas sign, was surprised to see the Leonards approach her from the direction of Bar None, not from the dock. She pegged the around forty-five strawberry blonde in a pair of white capris and a blue-and-white-striped jersey as Deirdre, more by the color of her hair than by her outfit. Packed with Irish descendants, Boston was the redhead capitol of the United States, and strawberry blonde was just a redhead’s way of trying to go blonde. Sabrina wondered how much time someone with skin as fair as Deirdre’s could spend on the beach, though she looked like she needed some color in her cheeks and fresh air.

“We caught an earlier ferry and decided to have our first margarita while we waited for you,” she said, smiling at Sabrina.

Sam Leonard, a tall string bean of a guy with not a stitch of preppy clothing on him, shook her hand and
helped load the six bags he and Deirdre were dragging into the van. Deirdre climbed into the backseat, while Sam and Sabrina hopped into the front, escaping the madness of Cruz Bay as she drove them up one block to St. John Car Rental, where a Jeep Cherokee awaited them. Now was the time for Sabrina to break the news to the vacationing couple, who seemed more subdued than most people on arrival.

“Did you have a good trip?” Sabrina asked, wanting to know if any ire from travel complications would bubble up when she told the Leonards they would be spending their vacation in a different house than they had booked.

“It was just long, really long,” Deirdre said, yawning.

“I’m not sure what the airlines can take away next,” Sam said. “I’m starving and stiff, but at least we’re here.” He looked behind him at his wife.

“You holding up okay?” Sam asked Deirdre.

Sabrina stiffened. Apparently the Leonards were one of those rare couples. The ones that last. Sabrina could always peg them, but she would never be part of one, she knew. It just wasn’t in her horoscope or her biology.

“I just want to get to the house,” Deirdre said.

Sabrina saw her opportunity.

“Well, I have some great news for you about the house. You’ve been upgraded to the magnificent Villa Tide-Away at no extra cost. We’re delighted to offer this opportunity to you as first-time guests of Ten Villas, and we’re adding some complimentary extra services. We’ll be providing a
full course gourmet dinner on the night of your choice and maid service all week long,” she said, beaming with benevolence.

“No, thank you, Sabrina. I want to go to Villa Mascarpone, as planned,” Deirdre said firmly from the backseat.

“We appreciate your kind offer but we chose Villa Mascarpone for some very special reasons,” Sam said, sending a nervous glance back to his wife.

The day had gone from bad to worse, Sabrina decided.

“Oh, but you’ll have a hot tub and Jacuzzi, a wet bar at the pool, and so much more at Tide-Away. The décor in the house is by far the best on the island, with native-crafted mahogany furniture done by local artists. We’re only able to offer you the house because of a last-minute cancellation. You will just adore the sunsets from the balcony off the master bedroom suite,” Sabrina said, realizing now she sounded like a voiceover on the Travel Channel.

“No. I want to go to Villa Mascarpone,” Deirdre said like a petulant child.

“She’s the boss,” Sam said, shrugging his shoulders while he gave one of those glances at Sabrina that said, “And I know better than to argue with the boss.”

Sabrina pulled into the parking lot of the car rental agency, which was so tiny you often had to wait for them to move one of the thirty-odd cars so you could fit in. She placed the van in park, leaving the air conditioner running because she had a feeling it was about to get a lot hotter than tropical after hearing Deirdre’s insistence.

“Folks, I am sorry, but you can’t stay at Villa Mascarpone. It’s not possible,” she said, knowing they would demand to know why and not knowing if she had a fresh lie to hand them. Henry was so much better at this. All those years working as a flight attendant in first class had trained him how to deal with people who are simply pains in the ass.

“We have a contract, Sabrina. We paid a deposit. We are going to stay at Villa Mascarpone,” Deirdre said in a voice that meant business.

“I wish you could, but the guest before you has been incapacitated and is unable to leave,” Sabrina said, giving it a last go. She was tired, exhausted by the day’s events, and had nothing left to give the Leonards. She was due at Bar None so she could talk with Neil. These people were only here for a vacation. Couldn’t they give it up?

“What do you mean the last guest is still there?” Sam asked, sounding like he could be as demanding as his wife.

“But that can’t be. We booked the next two weeks there,” Deirdre said. Sabrina wanted to know why this middle-aged couple from Boston who had never been on St. John before couldn’t just be grateful for an upgrade to an opulent villa and be done with it.

“Well, I’m afraid that’s how it is. Look, you’re going to hear this anyway. The man in Villa Mascarpone died. The police are investigating. They won’t allow you there. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll be even happier at Tide-Away,” she said.

“He died?” Deirdre asked.

“You can’t mean that,” Sam said, turning to look back at Deirdre.

“How did he die? Did he have some kind of accident?” Deirdre asked.

“All I can tell you is that the police are treating it as a crime scene. I’m sorry. I realize this is an unpleasant way to start your vacation. But you really will love Tide-Away and the extra services we’re providing you,” Sabrina said. If they were this upset hearing about the death of the previous guest in the house they booked, surely they would want to stay somewhere else.

“A crime scene? What kind of a crime scene?” Deirdre wasn’t going to let go, Sabrina could see.

“Honey, this isn’t Sabrina’s fault. Let’s go to Tide-Away for now and sort it out,” Sam said, reaching over to the backseat for Deirdre’s hand.

Sabrina felt the eyes of the entire crowd at Bar None as she walked past the bar, filled to capacity with happy hour customers, and straight over to what everyone called “the Office,” Neil Perry’s corner of the bar. Bar None was right on the beach in Cruz Bay. Here, people fell off the ferry and within a few steps could sit drinking a margarita, mojito, or beer while soaking in paradise with their feet in the sand. The roof of the bar, made of stretched sail canvases, gave just enough protection from the sun or an errant tropical shower. You could sit at the long oval bar or at one of the battered booths. The far corner one was dedicated as Neil Perry’s office. He’d traded one bar for another two years ago, dropping out of the practice of criminal law in LA. There were rumors as to why he’d left, but Sabrina was the last one to ask questions.

He was on the phone when she slid onto the bench opposite his. He held his right index finger to his mouth, signaling her to be silent. Sabrina folded her arms across
her chest. She needed a drink and started to slip out of the bench when Neil hung up.

“Hey, where you going? We’ve got work to do, Salty.”

“I’m just getting a drink. Hold on, will you? And don’t call me that.”

“No drinking ’til after the meeting. Then you can drink yourself silly and we’ll call Henry to drive you home, but we got to set priorities here,” Neil said, drawing the straw pull shades down around the booth.

“We need some privacy for this meeting,” he said.

“Privacy? Sure, we have a fat chance of that on this island.”

“Listen, I’m just trying to help you here, Sabrina. Henry called me. I didn’t go looking to get involved here in what is pretty clearly a homicide. But hey, if you don’t need or want my help, if you’d rather contact that fancy barracuda who represented you in the Nantucket case . . . what was her name? Why can’t I think of it? It was on national television every night for about a year and a half,” Neil said, leaning forward with his fingers folded together.

“Justine Mercy, and no, I do not want to call her,” Sabrina said, sitting back down and settling onto the bench where she knew she had to endure recounting her story.

“Is that her real name or is it made-up?” Neil asked, relaxing back onto his bench. He leaned over and lifted the straw shade. “Hey, someone, get us a fresh pot of coffee over here, will you?”

Sabrina ignored his question about her last attorney’s identity. She never wanted to see that woman again or any
of the other members of her so-called dream team. She just wanted to be left alone, renting and cleaning her ten little villas, not doing anything to warrant any attention. She wanted to be invisible.

“Okay, now, as I remember, the last time I acted briefly as your lawyer, which I did pro bono, by the way, one of your villas had been burglarized, correct?” Neil pulled out a stack of paper place mats and began to make notes in pencil on the back of one.

“You never sent me a bill. You only represented me for a couple of hours, when I had a second meeting with the cops, remember?” Sabrina had paid some astronomical legal fees over the years and was incensed Neil Perry was suggesting she had dodged his.

“No, no, Salty, don’t go getting dramatic. I considered it a courtesy to a new resident on the island. Plus, I thought you were good looking. Besides, you bought me dinner that night, and didn’t we go swimming afterward?”

Sabrina rolled her eyes. She remembered the swim well and how she’d almost let her guard down with Neil. He was an attractive man, but was any man worth what she’d been through in Nantucket? “Please, can we get on with this?”

“Sure. I just know from that little incident about the burglary that the island cops aren’t particularly thrilled you chose St. John as your new home. Probably in part because Attorney Mercy made the Nantucket cops look dumber than Whitey Bulger made the FBI look in front of
the entire world. So I want to be very careful here. I need your story. Actually, stories. I need to know all about the then and the now.”

Neil accepted a tray with a decanter and two white porcelain mugs on it with a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar packets. He poured a mug and slid it over to Sabrina. She wanted to decline the coffee, show that she was tough and that she didn’t need any accommodations, but the smell was too divine to resist.

“Cream? Sugar?” Neil asked.

Sabrina shook her head and took a gulp. The strong hot black coffee warmed her body.

“Okay, let’s start with the now. Tell me everything you did today, starting with waking up. Don’t spare me a single boring or titillating detail,” Neil said, taking a sip from his own mug.

“I got up at five forty-five like I always do,” Sabrina said, hating having to share the details of her private life with anyone, even someone who couldn’t reveal them under the attorney–client privilege.

“Five forty-five? A.M.? For real, Salty?” Neil asked, as if this was just the first thing she had to say that he would doubt.

“Yeah, for real. Now, do you want me to go on?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just so early,” Neil said.

“I watched the sunrise, did a little yoga and meditation, then took Girlfriend out for a walk,” Sabrina said, pouring another cup of coffee out of the carafe into her mug.

“Girlfriend? You have a girlfriend? Listen, you aren’t . . . haven’t switched teams because of that mess in Massachusetts, have you?” Neil asked, his voice crackling with the huskiness Sabrina had found sexy the last time he’d been her lawyer of the hour.

“My dog, Neil. My dog’s name is Girlfriend, remember?”

“The one we went swimming with after you bought me dinner that night? We were pretty drunk, so you can’t blame me for forgetting her name. At least I remembered yours, right? Go on, I won’t interrupt you anymore.” Neil picked up his pencil and began to jot down notes as Sabrina described making coffee and taking appetizers out of the freezer and putting them into the refrigerator so that Tanya could bake and deliver them later in the day to guests staying at Lime Cay. She continued to torture him with the details about which cleaning items she loaded in her bucket and which book she downloaded onto her iPod.

“Okay, Salty, get to the part about when you found the body,” Neil said, looking her dead in the eyes. Sabrina wondered if he was trying to intimidate her.

She told him exactly what she had told the police and added that she had called Henry to join her at Villa Mascarpone because she was leery of being with the cops alone after last time. She guessed Henry had the same concern, which is why he’d called Neil.

“What do you know about this guy, the murder victim?” Neil asked.

Sabrina took a breath before answering, reaching into the navy-blue-and-white-striped canvas bag she called her briefcase.

“Not much. It’s all here,” she said, pulling out the Villa Mascarpone file. “His name is Carter Johnson. He was a last-minute booking, so he got a discount but had to pay the entire rental upfront. He sent an American Express check. We communicated only by e-mail. Since I got the check via overnight delivery, I wasn’t worried. Besides, I had his cell phone number. I was just relieved to be booking the house. Someone had canceled for the two weeks he took them and the following two. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining a four-week vacancy to the owner. She’s not exactly sweetness and light. I was lucky to fill all four weeks.”

Neil took the file and glanced at the printed e-mails, the executed rental agreement, and the copy of the check. He flipped each piece of paper so he could examine the backside.

“This is it?” he asked.

“Yes. What more should there be? He was just renting a vacation house, not applying for a passport,” Sabrina said, crossing her legs so that Neil couldn’t see the left one was shaking.

“And you met him only once? When you picked him up at the ferry?”

Did he know somehow that she had brought the propane tank to the house? No, how could he? She kept with
her little lie. Consistency was the key to lying, she figured. Telling the truth about going to the house would only complicate matters. It would give the cops a reason to think that somehow she was involved with this guy. And it wasn’t true, so what was the harm in a small fib? She could always say she’d forgotten, if need be. She filled people’s propane tanks all the time.

“Yes, just the once,” she said, squeezing her right calf against her left leg, begging it silently to stay still.

“Okay, now tell me about Nantucket,” Neil said, pushing his coffee mug to the side and pulling out a fresh placemat to write on.

“Not until you switch the coffee for vodka,” Sabrina said, sliding her mug over next to his.