Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (13 page)

T
he Golden Girls entered the pavilion and were ushered to their reserved table, the coveted spot on the deck’s northwest corner.

“The best s
unset view,” Oliver promised. He’d lowered his voice to a whisper so that the other guests wouldn’t feel slighted.

The comment was met by appreciative
sighs – from three of the women.

As far as
Millicent was concerned, this was the least optimal table in the joint. She was far more interested in the goings on inside the restaurant’s kitchen than the natural light display about to begin out over the sea.

She lifted her
cowboy hat from her head and hooked its chinstrap onto her chair’s back facing. Smoothing her ruffled gray hair, she glanced across the deck toward the bar. She would give anything for a chance to sneak past those swinging doors and into the cooking area.

T
he other women had gussied up for the occasion, putting on dresses and flowery blouses. Maude had adorned herself with a necklace of coral pink stones and matching hair combs.

Millicent couldn’t be bothered with such nonsense. Instead, she had
devoted her efforts to devising a series of back-stories. She had concocted multiple narratives to explain the sous-chef’s sudden disappearance, each variation concluding with “and then he was murdered.”

Her friends had soon tired of
this game.

Mary
had imposed a moratorium on any more grisly tales until she had finished eating, preferably for the rest of the evening. Kate had seconded the initiative. Maude had nodded her support, although when her appetizer plate arrived and she dug into the conch fritters, she felt certain that no description of blood and gore could distract her from the deliciousness of her meal.

Millicent
ate her grilled shrimp salad in silence, carefully separating each component with her fork even as she kept a sharp eye on the various characters milling about the restaurant.

The rest of the tables were
filled with an assortment of tourists, people who had been driven up to the inn from neighboring hotels. The crowd seemed generally happy with their meals, but there was a sense that the kitchen was having difficulty keeping up with the orders. Oliver’s repeated apologies for the time lag as he scampered about the dining area didn’t help matters.

Crunching on a slice of carrot,
Millicent squinted across the deck toward the kitchen. A young woman swept through the swinging doors carrying several plates of food. The opening provided a glimpse of the interior, and Millicent spied Maya bent over the stove. Glenn hovered nearby, apparently attempting to help. From the little Millicent could see, he wasn’t accomplishing much other than getting in the way.

She
couldn’t suppress the creepy grin that spread across her face.

T
here was no sign of a male sous-chef.

The mystery was still on.

~ ~ ~

MILLICENT MANAGED TO refrain from
commenting on her murder-related observations for almost forty-five minutes, through two meal courses and a dramatic sunset. But in the lull before the dessert course, she could keep quiet no longer.

She’d just spotted something that vindicated
all of her wild suspicions.

“There! See, I told you!”

Kate tossed her napkin into the air. Mary grabbed her fork and waved it threateningly across the table. Maude chuckled in amusement.

Millicent paid them no heed.

She stared intently at a man who had entered the pavilion from the parking lot. His uniform was similar to those that had been worn by the customs agents the ladies had encountered while passing through immigration earlier that day. The officer’s demeanor indicated he was at the restaurant on business, not stopping by for a late night snack.

“Cover for me.”

Millicent pushed away from the table and jumped up from her seat. Two steps later, she stopped and returned to her chair. Deftly swooping up the cowboy hat, she crammed it onto her head.

As Inspector Pickeri
ng approached the bar at the opposite end of the deck, she provided an unnecessary explanation for her actions.

“I’m on the case.”

I NEARLY DROPPED a plate at the sight of Inspector Pickering standing by the bar.

I
happened to be peeking out over the kitchen’s swinging doors when he arrived. His broad shoulders and commanding presence were easy to identify.

I pulled back from the
entryway, hoping he hadn’t seen me. “What’s he doing here?”

Maya took the plate
from my hand and set it on the counter beside the ceramic bird that she’d earlier pushed beyond my reach.

It
was a necessary precaution. I was a klutz in the kitchen and, obviously, a poor substitute for Jesús.

For months,
I’d watched Maya and her husband prepare meals, but I’d never appreciated how seamlessly they worked together. They moved as a team, a single cohesive unit. I suppose that was why she’d overlooked their romantic incompatibilities. In his professional capacity, he was invaluable. He anticipated her needs before she called them out.

By contrast, I was
an obstruction and, despite my best efforts, utterly useless – and that was before Inspector Pickering’s unexpected presence at the inn.

The chances of broken
crockery and salt being accidentally substituted for sugar had just escalated dramatically.

~
~ ~

ELSIE
’S ASSISTANCE HAD kept the dinner service from being a complete disaster. She’d showed up late in the afternoon and offered to help.

She was her typical staid self, perhaps a little more rigid.
It was a striking comparison of different muted behaviors. Where Maya’s silence conveyed an inner peace, Elsie’s cast a sullen shadow.

We’d been
in close quarters the entire evening, but Elsie hadn’t made eye contact with me. Her lips remained tightly sealed, rejecting any suggestion of conversation. She’d simply stepped into the hole next to Maya, filling it almost as well as Jesús.

While
I was still concerned about what Elsie might have seen during all those late nights on – and below – the pool deck, I now had far more troubling matters on my mind.

After leaving the apartment,
I’d fetched Maya’s packages from the jeep and scampered into the pavilion to deliver them. Then I’d spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen pantry. Using an old sweatshirt as a pillow, I’d curled up on the floor with my journal. I’d scribbled in it for over an hour, trying to make sense of the gold chain and red hoop earring I’d found in the jewelry box drawer.

I
was certain the items had come from our two missing guests. The distinctive accessories combined with the damage to my front bumper and Romeo’s abandoned jeep had left me with some unsettling questions about my partner.

Oliver
had always been so quiet and controlled, traits I’d attributed to his upbringing.

By all accounts, his younger
years had been traumatic. He’d been bullied, teased, and even occasionally beat up due to his small size and his sexuality. As a result, he was extra sensitive to the feelings of others. He once made me stop the jeep so he could hop out and move a wayward turtle off the road. He was a kind, gentle soul.

Or so I
’d thought…

N
ow I found myself wondering if Oliver might be responsible for the disappearances at the inn.

Was his polished demeanor
merely a mask for a monstrous killer – one who’d been provoked by my infidelities?

~
~ ~

I STAYED IN the pantry until it was
time for the dinner service to start. Before venturing out into the cooking area, I tucked the chain and the earring into the journal’s front flap pocket and slid the book into its hiding place behind the green-labeled jars.

I wasn’
t sure what else to do.

Throughout most of the dinner service
, the kitchen’s swinging doors had served as a protective barrier separating me from my potentially homicidal partner. But with Pickering’s arrival, I feared I was about to be drawn out into the open.

Maya
sliced a knife through a key lime pie she’d removed from the freezer, neatly cutting out several triangular pieces. “Maybe the inspector has found Jesús.”

I
bit my lip, afraid to respond.

Somehow, I doubted
the likelihood of that scenario.

~
~ ~

OLIVER POK
ED HIS head through the swinging doors, breaching my defenses. “Pickering wants to speak with us.”

The sight was almost more startling than that of the inspector.

“Did
you
call him?” The question came out more sharply than I intended.

Oli’s
face registered confusion – at least I think it did. Now I was questioning everything.

“Of course not.”

The kitchen fell silent. Even Maya’s constantly busy hands stopped moving.

“I’ll be right there,” I said, and
he was gone, back on the other side of the door.

I crossed to the
sink and washed my hands. As I reached for a dishtowel, Maya retrieved the ceramic bird she’d pushed against the wall and returned it to the edge of her workspace. For the first time, I noticed a crack in the parrot’s left wing.

“
What happened to your bird?” I asked, more to alleviate tension than out of any real interest.

Maya
shifted her attention to a skillet on the stove. The pan contained a sweet raspberry sauce that would be poured over the frozen key lime pie.

She didn’t look up as she made her reply.

“I broke it.”

INSPECTOR
PICKERING MOTIONED for us to walk with him to the parking lot. I let Oliver go first, hanging back as long as possible before reluctantly following.

Pickering
stopped beside a lamppost next to the reception building on the east side of the lot.

I
held my breath, waiting to hear what had brought the policeman to the inn so late. Oli adopted the same anxious stance – and I wondered what thoughts were going through his head.

“Sorry to bother you again,”
Pickering said, removing his notepad from his front shirt pocket. Despite the phrasing, his tone indicated that he was far more sorry for himself than for any inconvenience he might have brought to us.

“Has
there been a development in the theft investigation?” Oliver asked urgently.

The inspector rubbed his chin
. He looked like he’d had a long day. Wearily, he arched his eyebrows.

“You mean
have I recovered the missing pink flamingo straw?”

Oliver
flinched at the sarcasm.

Pickering
grunted apologetically. “I don’t expect the merchandise to be returned. The cash, I’m sure, has already been spent. My men are keeping an eye out for this Romeo fellow at the port, but I doubt he’ll leave the island on public transport.”

I considered mentioning the abandoned jeep that had
been run off the road, but negated the idea. Where would that discussion take us? Was I prepared to point an accusing finger at my partner?

I hadn’t yet
reached that level of certainty or acceptance.

I glanced at Oliver, whose face h
ad fallen in a dejected manner, but I couldn’t help but speculate – was it all an act?

~
~ ~

PICKERING
OBVIOUSLY WANTED to complete his mission and head home. He flipped open the notepad and shifted his stance so that he could read the top sheet in the lamppost’s beam.

“
One of my junior officers went back through our passport records. It seems we have another unaccounted guest associated with your inn.” He looked up from the notepad. “A gentleman from the States who stayed here with his wife a few months ago – a Mr. Hamilton?”

Oliver
shuffled sideways, visibly nervous. I didn’t look any different. Neither of us was eager to discuss the first missing guest with the inspector.

Pickering
noted our guilty postures as he resumed his probe.

“It seems he came to our island
on vacation, listed your hotel as his temporary residence when he passed through immigration, and that’s the last anyone saw or heard of him. His wife Olivia returned home to Texas alone.”

T
he inspector stared grimly at us.

“I don’t suppose you’ve
got Mr. Hamilton stashed in a cupboard around here, do you?”