No Virgin Island (9 page)

If only all Ten Villa clients were as easy as the Gunnings, Henry thought, after leaving them at St. John Car Rental to pick up their vehicle. They had arrived from Wisconsin for their second stay at Hibiscus Hill, thankful to escape the brutal weather back home. They were grateful to Henry for his efforts, but they did not need an escort to their vacation villa.

Since he was already in Cruz Bay, he decided to run into St. John Spice, a shop filled with spices, coffees, and delectable smells of the island, which overlooked Cruz Bay and the ferry dock. He needed to pick up some coffee, which he noticed he was nearly out of when making Sabrina’s in the morning. He climbed up the stone stairs to the second floor and nearly knocked Mara Bennett over when he pulled the door open. Mara was leaning over inspecting a dozen different kinds of cinnamon.

“Whoa, fancy meeting you here,” he said. “What are you going to with that cinnamon—besides make your house
smell terrific?” Henry knew Mara was one of the best bakers on the island. She had told him that the first time she met Liam, he had been filling his pockets with her spritz cookies at her Christmas open house. Henry couldn’t blame the kid.

“Kelly and I are having a girls’ night tonight, since Liam is staying in St. Thomas with friends. I’m making her my grilled French toast stuffed with cheddar cheese with fresh cinnamon and a sprinkle of nutmeg. She hated the idea of it when I first gave it to her, but once she took a bite, it became her favorite. She’ll be on the next ferry,” Mara said, looking at her watch.

Henry didn’t bother to ask where Rory was or why he wasn’t included.

“How about you? What brings you here?” Mara asked.

“Out of coffee. Neil Perry, Sabrina, and I are meeting at my house to discuss, ah, the situation,” Henry said, feeling uncomfortable about not just the “situation” but the doubt it had cast on his relationship with Sabrina.

“How’s she holding up? She seemed pretty sure the cops were going to think she was involved in what happened to that guy.”

“Well, they’ve already gotten a search warrant and searched her cottage and made her go in to the station for an interview, so I think she has reason to be concerned,” Henry said.

“I can appreciate Sabrina’s concern, given her history, Henry. But this isn’t anything like what happened on Nantucket.”

They had walked over to the cashier, who was standing at a counter with a window behind it open to the beach at the rear. Above the counter, a medium-size flat screen showed what was going on at the beach just next to the dock. This was the view on the St. John Spice web cam, which had over twenty million views.

Mara pointed to the window and then looked up at the identical view on the screen.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she said.

Henry looked out the window where he could see a young couple, sitting on the sand, shoulder to shoulder, staring off in the direction of the setting sun. The wind brushed the girl’s soft blonde curls. The young man took a swig from a bottle of beer. Then the girl turned to do the same. They bent in and kissed, gently, almost innocently. But not quite so innocently, since Henry knew the girl was Kelly and the boy was Seth Larson.

“What do I do?” Mara asked Henry.

“This,” Henry said to the clerk, pushing the power button off on the web cam next to the monitor. “Leave it off for the next ten minutes, please.”

Before she could reply, he caught the sight of a man pacing in long, strong strides from Bar None on the left toward Kelly and Seth.

“Oh my God,” Mara said, leaving her purchases with the confused clerk. Rory Eagan was headed toward the unsuspecting couple, and Mara and Henry both knew he meant business.

Mara flew down the stone staircase, which lead from St. John Spice to the walkway to the beach just feet away. Henry spilled down the stairs on her heels.

They arrived at the scene to find Seth standing, facing Rory. Kelly stood diminutively behind Seth. Henry glanced at the toppled brown bottle lying on the sand next to a green one, absurdly pleased to find that Kelly had been drinking a root beer while Seth seemed to favor Heineken.

Henry walked over, saying nothing, and stepped between Seth and Rory.

“I told you, you little lowlife, stay away from my daughter,” Rory said to Seth over Henry’s shoulder. He turned to face Henry, pointing his finger less than three inches from Henry’s nose. “And you, you goddamn fairy, stay away from me and my family.”

Henry remained silent, not moving an inch. He’d heard this before, countless times. He was impervious to Rory Eagan’s ignorance.

“Rory, calm down. Henry is my friend. He’s only here to help,” Mara pleaded.

“Calm down, Mr. Eagan. I was just sitting on a public beach, having a conversation,” Seth said.

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You’re a pedophile, taking advantage of a young girl. I warned you to stay away from my daughter,” Rory said.

“Daddy, stop. Please.” Kelly stepped forward.

“She’s right, Rory. Knock it off,” Mara said.

“We were just talking, Mara,” Seth said, turning to her.

“I saw, Seth. I saw. You’d better be on your way,” Mara said, her eyes never leaving her husband. Henry knew she didn’t trust what Rory might do next. He was clearly buzzed, his face ruddy and eyes red.

“Go, Seth,” Kelly said in almost a whisper.

“Come on, Kelly,” Mara said, taking her stepdaughter by the arm, turning back to Rory. “You better go sober up and calm down before you come anywhere near home, Rory. I mean it.”

“I’ll wait with him while you ladies get to your car,” Henry said, watching Mara and Kelly head toward St. John Car Rental, where Mara had parked.

“You people don’t belong on this island, Henry. You and your partner,” Rory hissed, but he didn’t try to follow his wife and daughter.

Henry said nothing. Rory Eagan couldn’t rile him. He had heard worse.

“I’ve told the cops everything I know. You’d better tell Sabrina, they’re on to her. She won’t get away with it this time.” The sneer on Rory Eagan’s handsome face made Henry wonder what he might be capable of.

Once in the jeep, Kelly broke down and sobbed.

“I hate him,” she said.

Mara didn’t comment, afraid she might agree.

“I hate this island. I want to go home,” Kelly continued. Mara had heard this before. Kelly had been complaining more frequently as she got older that there was nothing to do, no kids her age, no real life for a teen in St. John. “I want to go home” was a comment Kelly had been making when she was upset since Mara had met her.

Mara knew coming into the lives of a couple of kids who had lost their mother to a horrible car accident wouldn’t be easy, so she signed up for what had turned out to be a decade of therapy with a woman on St. John who seemed to give pretty good advice. When Mara had asked her why Kelly kept saying she wanted to go home, Dr. Bell had explained she believed that Kelly was missing whatever life she had with her mother before she died, which made sense to Mara.

“Honey, you are home.”

“I hate it here. I hate you,” Kelly said, her nose running at a pace that rivaled her eyes.

Mara handed her a tissue before starting the jeep and pulling out of the parking lot.

“Stop it. I hate you. You’re not my real mother,” Kelly said, wiping her nose with her forearm, throwing the tissue back over to Mara.

They had been here before, but it still hurt. No matter how many skinned knees she bandaged, how many J.Crew catalogs she pored over with Kelly, how many essays she helped her write, Mara knew she would never—could never—replace the mother Kelly had lost. Inherent in her fierce love for Kelly and Liam was the cruel knowledge that it would never be enough. She feared Kelly wouldn’t be able to have a healthy relationship with men after witnessing Rory’s mistreatment of her. And Liam—Mara was pretty sure Liam was gay and could appreciate how much he must dread the day of reckoning when he revealed that to his father. Mara drew a deep breath and tackled the problem at hand.

“Kelly, I know I am not your real mother, honey. I get that there must be times when you miss her terribly and I’m sorry about that,” Mara said, fighting back her own tears.

“Yeah? Well, she’s dead. I know that. That’s why I hate her, too. I hate you all, but especially Daddy. I wish he was dead, not her.” Kelly slammed her fist on the armrest between them as Mara drove by what just yesterday had been the scene of a crime and now seemed serene compared to the tailspin erupting in her own car.

Neil and Sabrina rode from the Banks’ home in silence. Whatever annoyance Neil had expressed toward her and Henry before the Leonards arrived at Villa Mascarpone seemed to have been dissipated by Lyla’s frantic desperation.

They turned on to Gifft Hill, climbing toward Henry’s condo complex, when Henry came up from behind on the scooter and passed them. By the time they reached the gate, he had it unlocked, ready for their entrance.

Girlfriend greeted them at the door with such enthusiasm that Sabrina couldn’t help but be energized. She bent down to feel the dog rush into her arms, her warm breath filling her ears. She closed her eyes as Girlfriend did what Sabrina had learned dogs did best: made it all go away.

She stood up and found Henry and Neil each seated in a white leather chair, opposite each other. Neither looked as if Girlfriend’s magic had worked for them.

“Let me make some you something to eat,” Sabrina said, liking the idea of having something to do in a room by herself.

“Knock yourself out, Salty. But after you’ve fortified us with some home cooking, we need to get down to business,” Neil said, sinking more deeply into the chair.

“I’m not sure what you’re going to be able to do with yogurt,” Henry said. He had his legs stretched out before him and his eyes closed. “I tried to buy coffee when I was in town, but even that turned into a disaster. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Sabrina remembered yogurt was about all she had seen in the refrigerator that morning, but when she peeked inside, she found eggs, a chunk of cheddar cheese, and some Kerrygold Irish Butter in the dairy compartment. Sabrina loved that on a tiny island in the Caribbean, it was easier to find butter from Ireland than from Wisconsin. She opened the freezer and wasn’t disappointed. Henry had the usual stash of bread most islanders keep frozen so it wouldn’t mold in a day. On the shelf below was some frozen broccoli. Bingo, they were in business.

She let Girlfriend out through the screen door in the kitchen, which led to Henry’s tiny yard. She always teased that it could be mowed with manicure scissors, but it was big enough to let the pooch do her business. Girlfriend came back in and flopped on the cool tile floor, happy to watch Sabrina cook, almost as if they were back home.

Sabrina threw the broccoli in the microwave to defrost and started beating some eggs, finding herself whipping
them into a froth as she thought about Seth at the police station and those wacky Leonards at Villa Mascarpone. She wondered what was going on over at her place. She knew Henry had been able to secure the doors to her house. They had both been concerned that Tanya might stumble upon the INN crew, but Henry was able to reach Tanya by phone and divert her before she left for work. Sabrina couldn’t imagine what the container looked like, barricading her place from the road. She wanted to be there, to sleep in her own bed, to be washing cleaning rags, baking appetizers, listening to Pavarotti, drinking vodka with lemons.

She tucked toast into the toaster and dropped a generous chunk of butter onto Henry’s Cuisinart French griddle. He had such pretty stuff, and it always looked new, although she knew he cooked. The smell of the melting butter made her realize how ravenous she was.

“Smells good, Salty. You got a beer out there?”

“I’ll get it,” Henry said.

Sabrina checked the freezer, again pleased to see her pal Henry had her covered. Grey Goose, just where it always was. Just for her. She did love Henry, although she didn’t like him not trusting her.

Ice cubes and a large splash of the Goose. Alas, no lemons, but otherwise, Sabrina was content to be sipping as she was stirring and spreading, not even noticing Henry had come for the beers. She could hear the television in the distance and wondered if the three of them could enjoy their omelets and pretend this was just another night
in paradise. Sabrina plated the three cheddar broccoli omelets, placing triangles of toast alongside, each dripping with melted butter. She grabbed utensils and napkins and headed for the living room.

The sight of Angela Martino staring at her would have landed Girlfriend a triple omelet if Henry hadn’t grabbed the plates from Sabrina. Angela looked heavier on Henry’s mega flat-screen television, and her makeup seemed more professional, but there was no mistaking that jowly, scowling expression and those small, dark, shuttered eyes peering over a long, narrow nose. Sabrina had met her in person only a few times but knew there couldn’t be two people in the world who looked so uninviting.

“What’s Angela—” Sabrina started to say, when the unmistakably menacing sneer of Faith Chase spread across the screen. Her blonde helmet-head hairstyle curtained her face, in the middle of which sat a patrician nose with nostrils so flared a bird could fly in.

“Now, Ms. Martino, you say you’ve had this company—what do you call it? Ten Villas? Anyway, this company’s been managing your home on St. John for how long?”

Angela’s face reappeared. Sabrina wasn’t sure which was worse. It wasn’t a pretty choice.

“About two years, Faith. I had someone else before, but this new company approached me and offered some added services for my guests, so I signed on.” Angela’s typical bellow had diminished to a mere murmur when answering Chase’s questions.

“And you didn’t know you were hiring a woman who had been on trial for killing her husband, the father of two young children, did you, dear?” The sweetness to Chase’s voice was thicker than Karo syrup. Sabrina hated Karo syrup.

Sabrina stumbled over a chair. Neil pulled her down next to him and put his arm around her. Sabrina let him.

“No, of course not. I live in Chicago. That case apparently was in Boston. I had no idea. And Sabrina Salter never volunteered that information,” Angela said, throwing Sabrina under the INN bus as she looked down, away from the camera, as if forlorn.

“What a piece of work,” Henry said, downing the end of his beer. Henry never chugged beer.

“Tell me, dear, do you have any concerns that the woman you hired to manage the villa you so love—the woman who killed her own husband, the woman who found a dead man at your beloved villa—do you have any concerns that Sabrina Salter might be responsible for that man’s death?”

Neil squeezed Sabrina’s shoulder. Her body was as rigid as stuffed game hanging over a fireplace. Was there any limit to what this woman would do? She was purposely distorting what had happened in the past to fit what she wanted people to think had happened now. Sabrina had no chance if the Faith Chases of the world got to write the rules.

“No, I really don’t, Faith.”

Sabrina felt oddly grateful to Angela for not agreeing that Sabrina was responsible for Carter Johnson’s death.

“I mean, I should have been told about her past,” Angela continued, “but I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, having run my cheese business, Martino’s Wholesale Cheese Company on Commercial Street, for twenty-three years. Here in Chicago, we make the finest cheeses in the country, specializing in mascarpone, which is why I named my villa Villa Mascarpone,” Angela said. But Faith Chase wasn’t going to let this turn into a commercial.

“Thanks for speaking with us, dear. We do hope the family of your murdered guest can be found soon,” Faith said, and Angela mercifully disappeared off the screen.

Henry hit the mute button on the television. The three beautiful omelets sat on his coffee table. Sabrina fidgeted, beginning to feel funny she was sitting so close to Neil.

“I will never get away from that woman,” she said finally.

“Then you have to beat her at her own game, Salty,” Neil said, standing and picking up the omelets before handing them to Henry.

“How do you do that?” Henry asked, sounding almost as bleak as Sabrina.

“Well, first we heat up these kick-ass omelets and make another drink to bolster ourselves. Then we sit down and figure out how to find who the real killer is.”