Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (21 page)

The inspector frowned. “I said Miss Jones.” He stared across the table at
the suspect. “The second guest who went missing from your inn.”

Oliver
pressed his lips together apprehensively. “Daisy wasn’t just a random guest. Her boyfriend was Olivia’s son.”

~
~ ~

PICKERING PULLED
A chair to the opposite side of the table. He took a seat and fished out his notepad from his front pocket.

Oliver
sucked in a deep breath, slowly blew it out, and then resumed his story.

“
Olivia phoned me to make the reservation. It was a few weeks after she came down with her husband…”

Pickering broke in. “The one who disappeared on his way to the restrooms.”

“Yes.” The innkeeper fidgeted his hands. “She didn’t say anything about him, and quite frankly, I was afraid to ask. She wanted to make a reservation for her son and his girlfriend. Again, I thought it was a strange location choice, but I booked the room for them anyway.”

Pickering arched his eyebrows as he scribbled in his notepad
. He didn’t offer any comment.

“
When they arrived, I had a horrible premonition about what might happen. Daisy was…well, she was a flirt. A bit aggressive, I guess you might say. And you met Olivia’s son the morning after she disappeared. She clearly wasn’t a good match for him.”

“Is that why you killed her?”

“Why are you so convinced I’m a murderer?” With the earlier shock now wearing off, Oliver was beginning to realize how much trouble he might be in. “Do I need a lawyer?”

Pickering
ignored the innkeeper’s questions. “Weren’t you upset that Daisy made a move on Glenn?”

Despite the tense situation,
Oliver couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, that was nothing. Glenn is deathly afraid of women. I laughed when Elsie told me about it.”

“Elsie?”
Pickering turned and scanned the room.

His deputy hadn’t
returned with Oliver’s water.

The inspector frowned
.

The faucet was
located just across the hall.

OUTSIDE THE
POLICE station, an elderly West Indian woman stood looking up at the building’s front entrance.

She’d arrived
minutes earlier on the midday ferry from the neighboring island where she now lived. She hoped to make it back to the dock in time to catch the return boat that would be leaving within the hour.

T
he woman steeled herself for the task ahead. Her left arm clamped against her side, securing a canvas satchel she’d looped over her shoulder. The paper package carried inside crinkled as she pressed the cloth bag against her body.

All the way across
the channel, she’d worried if she’d been right to trust her instincts. But as she watched the reverend’s daughter exit the building – wearing a deputy’s uniform – she knew she’d made the correct decision.

It was time Orlando Pickering knew the truth.

Resolutely, she proceeded through the once familiar foyer and into the reception area. She hadn’t been to the police station for over a decade.

Her last
visit had been for a much more pleasant occasion, her late husband’s retirement ceremony.

~
~ ~

INSPECTOR PICKERING
RUSHED out of the holding cell, leaving a confused Oliver sitting alone at the table.

His pace quickened as he spied the empty water glass on a table by the fountain.
He looked up and down the hallway, but there was no sign of his junior deputy.

“Where’s E
lsie?” he asked a passing officer. The man shrugged and continued walking.

The door to the reception opened and the
clerk assigned to the front counter peeked through. “Inspector, there’s someone here to see you.”

“I don’t
have time…” he replied curtly, but then he caught a glimpse of the elderly woman standing in the entranceway.

“I’ll be right there.”

~ ~ ~

A FEW STRIDES took Pickering
through the doorway.

“Belinda
, how are you?”

As h
e crossed the reception to greet her, he realized how frail she’d become. He hadn’t seen his mentor’s widow in several months, and he chided himself for not keeping in better touch.

With one glance at her face, h
e sensed this was more than just a casual encounter.

She reached into the satchel and pulled out a large
sealed envelope.

“I’m sorry, Orlando. This is a delivery I hoped I would never have to make.”

Pickering saw that his name had been written on the package – in handwriting he immediately recognized.

It
was the same block print that had been used to identify the files he’d studied at his kitchen table the night before – in the investigation packet for Parrot Ridge.

~
~ ~

PICKERING ACCOMPANIED
BELINDA outside the building and walked with her the short distance to the ferry dock. He made sure she received a seat on the return boat home before circling back to the police station.

But he didn’t go inside.

Instead, he climbed into his pickup so that he could review his mentor’s package in private. He propped the envelope against the steering wheel and stared at the writing scrawled across the front. Below Pickering’s name, a printed date indicated that the material had been prepared just a few days before the old man’s death. The contents had been sealed for almost ten years.

This was the
information the inspector had omitted from the official report.

Glancing ove
r his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Pickering slid his fingers along the gummed flap and tilted the envelope sideways.

A
manila folder fell out onto his lap.

Cautiously
, he flipped it open.

The folder contained only a few sheets of paper.
Each page was filled with his mentor’s personal notes from his Parrot Ridge investigation. Unlike the official report, here the man had clearly laid out his suspicions.

As
Pickering scanned the information, he subconsciously reached for the chain around his neck. In terms of political impact, the ramifications were indeed worse than the jars of human flesh.

With a heavy sigh,
he closed the file and returned it to the envelope. He sat silently in his truck, pondering what he’d read. Even with the windows rolled down, the cab was hot and sticky, but he hardly noticed the physical discomfort.

Finally,
he cranked the engine and drove out of the parking lot. A few turns took him onto the main road leading out of town.

H
e was bound for the island’s north shore – not for Parrot Ridge, but for the tiny church located around the corner from the inn.

While he was still concerned about Elsie’s whereabouts, it was now far more urgent that he
locate her father.

A SHORT DISTANCE from
Parrot Ridge, Inspector Pickering rounded a sharp corner and pulled into a narrow gravel driveway. The entrance was marked by a distinctive tree whose bark had been warped in such a way as to make the trunk look like an old man peering out at the road.

A
chained dog padded toward the pickup, wagging her tail in greeting. Pickering leaned out his front door to pet her on the head. She was a sibling to his Clarice. He slid his fingers beneath her metal collar, gently massaging her neck. He didn’t approve of the practice of chaining dogs, but it was the norm on the island. In this tropical terrain, fences were almost impossible to maintain and, it was thought, canine presence at a property’s entrance dissuaded intruders.

“You’d have better luck with a gate,” the inspector muttered under his breath
as he continued up the drive to the residence.

Pickering hoped he would find the reverend at home. He needed to speak to him about what
had happened at Parrot Ridge fifteen years ago and – more pressingly – in recent weeks.

~
~ ~

THE PARSONAGE
WAS almost double the size of Pickering’s house, which meant it was a modest structure with plenty of room for its two current residents and the occasional guest.

The inspector
stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the screen door. He heard the reverend’s voice call out from inside the building.

“
Let yourself in, Orlando. I’ll be right there.”

Pickering pulled open the screen and stepped
into the living room. A fan spun on the ceiling, providing moderate cooling to the center space that Elsie kept tidy and clean. Her father’s profession mandated that his home be ready to receive parishioners at all times of the day or night.

Despite Elsie’s diligent efforts,
there was a noticeable hole at the heart of the room. A once integral presence had been carved out and awkwardly removed.

It was that
of the mother.

T
he reverend’s wife had been gone for almost a decade, but her departure had been a slow painful one. During her lengthy battle with mental illness, the woman had gradually disappeared from public view. Her death had been commemorated with a private funeral service attended only by immediate family.

Pickering
couldn’t remember when that end event had occurred, but as he stood waiting on the living room rug, he recalled that the woman’s initial decline had started about fifteen years ago, shortly after the original episode at Parrot Ridge.

~
~ ~

THE REVEREND STROLLED in from a side
corridor, his round face shining. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a shower. Pickering detected the smell of soap as the clergyman shook his hand.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Orlando?”

The inspector hesitated, struggling to find the right words. Despite having made the decision to confront the reverend, he was unsure of how to broach the sensitive topic that had been discussed in his mentor’s notes.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve come to see you about an unfortunate matter.”
The inspector cleared his throat. “Regarding Parrot Ridge.”

“I see.”
The reverend’s expression hardened. He motioned to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

Pickering
picked a spot at the end of the cushioned couch. The reverend chose a chair on the opposite side of the seating area, the maximum distance away.

Pickering opted for a blunt approach.
“I need to talk to you about the couple from the inn.”

“The current owners?”
The reverend’s frown conveyed his disapproval. “I never met those men – other than the night of the search party. I hear you’ve arrested one of them for that woman’s disappearance.”

The inspector shook his head, marveling at the speed of islan
d gossip. Solemnly, he cleared his throat. “No, I’m referring to the restaurant’s chef and her husband.” He folded his hands together and then broke them apart. “Your wife’s sister and her husband, Jesús.”

With a pained sigh, t
he reverend noted Pickering’s hand gesture.

“I had the same conversation with your predecessor.”

The reverend rose from his seat and paced the circumference of the room. Averting eye contact with Pickering, he looked up at a series of family photos displayed on the wall adjacent to the couch. The pictures had been taken at holidays and special events. Most of them featured Elsie, capturing her at various ages and stages of development.

None of the scenes included his wife.

“You’ve never been married, have you, Orlando?”

“No, sir.”

“The curse of Parrot Ridge.” He let out a tired groan. “I’ll tell you what it really is.” He shifted his gaze down to the seated inspector.

“It’s the
curse of the in-laws.”

I WOKE IN the
jungle, face down in a pile of leaves. Spitting debris from my mouth, I rolled over onto my back. Enough light poked through the canopy above to tell me it was long past daybreak.

Where was I and how did I get here?

Groggily, I recalled my pre-dawn conversation with Elsie on the pool deck – followed by a precarious walk down the pavilion steps, across the clearing, and into the woods.

Beyond that, I drew a
blank. I must have passed out somewhere along the trail.

What was I thinking,
fleeing through the jungle? Even worse, I’d made the attempt in the dark.