Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (24 page)

At the deputy’s nod, Pickering
refolded the sheets and tucked them under his arm.

“Thank you.”

~ ~ ~

PICKERING FOUND OLIVER
still seated at the metal table. One of the deputies had brought him some food.

The innkeeper
glanced up from his sandwich and potato chips as the inspector walked into the room.

Pickering
placed the folded packet of paper on the table next to a crumpled sandwich wrapper. “My men discovered this at the inn. It’s a letter from your partner. He must have written it before he was…” He left the sentence unfinished.

Oliver
wiped his fingers on a napkin, but that didn’t hide the fact that his hands were trembling. The sheets shook as he unfolded them.

He whispered the letter’s first words.
“Dear, Oliver…”

The innkeeper
frowned as he read the communication. “He was leaving me?” He continued on to the second page, his expression one of incomprehension. “He thought I was a murderer?”

Pickering pulled the spare chair beside Oliver and sat down. H
e rested his hands on the table, clasping them together and then pulling them apart. There were many things he could say to try to explain what had happened to the innkeeper and his partner, but in the end, it seemed best to give the simple conclusion.

“The place where you built your inn i
s cursed.”

Oliver
put a potato chip into his mouth and struggled through the process of chewing and swallowing.

Pickering
then uttered words he never dreamed he’d say to another man. “He wasn’t good enough for you. You’re better off without him.”

After a m
oment of awkwardness, he got up from the chair. Patting Oliver on the back, he said, “You’re free to go.”

Oliver smiled numbly. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Pickering stopped at the door to offer his parting advice.

“I suggest you
abandon that property on Parrot Ridge, leave this island, and never look back.”

~
~ ~

PICKERING STRODE DOWN the station’s center hallway, co
nsidering his options. The easiest approach would be to close the file on Parrot Ridge. They could send all those ugly jars to an offsite evidence locker and forget about them. He would write a heavily redacted report and consider setting his retirement date. No one would fault him for that.

The inspector
stepped into the building’s rear office space. His hand reached for the chain around his neck. Across the wide room, officers looked up from their desks, waiting for his instructions.

His fingers latched onto the gold cross, and he made his decision.

“We need to prepare an arrest team.”

His voice echoed through
the stunned silence.

“For the reverend’s residence.”

“PUT YOUR
CLOTHES on.”

The reverend turned
away from the parsonage window where he’d watched Orlando Pickering’s truck disappear down the driveway. He refused to look at the half-naked Jesús.

“Thank you
for taking me in, Reverend.” The sous-chef’s words were broken up by his thick accent. “I knew I could count on you.”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”
The reverend’s face was filled with loathing – loathing for the uninvited guest who had invaded his home – and loathing for himself for allowing the man to stay.

Jesús
ignored his host’s discomfort. “I don’t know what got into Maya.” He ran his hands along the towel’s upper hem, adjusting the securing tuck. “She went totally crazy about Romeo. She drove after him in Glenn’s jeep and ran him off the road. Made a mess of his body with her knife. I thought she was going to do the same to me.” He pointed to a bump on his forehead. “She hit me with that ceramic bird.”

He turned and disappeared down the hallway to the master bedroom. His voice carried back through to the living room as he
began to dress.

“
She’s never minded before.”

The reverend
grimaced at the last phrase, his lips curling as if he’d eaten something sour. Quietly, he moved down the hallway, past the entrance to the master bedroom, until he reached an exterior door.

His hand wrapped around the deadbolt and turned it to the open position.
He stood for a moment, as if weighing the magnitude of his next action.

The
n he swung open the door and admitted a heavy-set West Indian woman carrying a case of kitchen knives. Nodding to Maya, he walked outside, leaving the door ajar.

As
the reverend set off down a narrow trail into the woods behind the parsonage, he heard a muffled scream.

“
It turns out she did mind, Jesús. She always minded.”

He shook his head.

“She minded very much.”

A FEW HOURS later, Inspector Pickering led a convoy of police vehicles up the gravel drive to the parsonage.

The
reverend’s chained dog sat on her haunches, forlornly watching the procession pass her guard station. She seemed to know what the officers would find inside her master’s house.

All was quiet
in front of the residence. The clouded sky combined with the wide canopy of the flanking trees to create a gloomy entrance.

Pickering stepped onto the
concrete stoop and stared at the unlatched screen door. He placed a hand on his hip, palming his holster, and then released it. The reverend must have known that the inspector would return. Forceful measures, he hoped, wouldn’t be necessary.

Taking in a deep breath
, Pickering pulled open the door. The hinges squeaked, announcing his presence, but the action triggered no reaction inside the house.

The living room
looked the same as before. While tidily prepared for visitors, the seating area was empty.

Pickering circled
the sofa, following the pungent smell of bleach through a short corridor to the kitchen.

The counters and floor had
recently been cleaned. The tiled surfaces were still moist.

T
here in a neatly stacked pile next to the sink was a pyramid of glass canning jars. No labels had been affixed to these containers. The gory contents were on full display.

A
deputy hurried in to assist the inspector, but the man stopped short at the sight on the counter. His voice cracked with dismay.

“Is that the reverend?”

Pickering rubbed his chin, contemplating the smashed remains of a ceramic parrot that had been left next to the stack.

“My gues
s, it’s our missing sous-chef.”

H
e gestured toward the driveway.

“Send someone
down the road to the chapel to look for the reverend.”

~
~ ~

PICKERING RETURNED TO the living room, leaving
his junior officers to process the evidence in the kitchen while he examined the rest of the house.

His feet thu
mped down the hallway branching off from the opposite side of the central living space. He paused only briefly to peer into Elsie’s room and the reverend’s master suite, before continuing down the corridor to the building’s rear exit.

The heavy security door had been propped open. The exterior
screen had been left ajar.

Pickering
eased quietly through the passage and onto the back porch.

O
verhanging trees shaded the area. The closed-in space was ringed by blocking vegetation – with the exception of a dirt path that led away from the house.

The inspector glanced up
at the sky, setting his bearings. The trail likely led to the chapel.

P
ushing tree limbs and leaves aside, he walked cautiously into the forest. About fifteen feet from the house, partially masked by the greenery, he spied the coral block walls of a shed.

A
rusted padlock had been threaded through the door’s latch, but the U-bend was unengaged with its locking base. Cautiously, Pickering removed the lock from the latch. With his fingertips, he flicked open the door.

A
vigorous bumping commenced immediately.

Pickering
rushed forward at the sight of Millicent bound and gagged on the dirt floor.

The woman’s
arms and legs had been tied with a heavy rope, and duct tape had been plastered over her mouth, but she didn’t appear to be injured.

With an apologetic grunt,
the inspector grabbed the corner of the tape and peeled it away from her face.

T
he first words out of her mouth were not of gratitude for being rescued or a request for water.

“Where’s my hat
?!” Millicent sputtered hoarsely.

Before he could answer, she announced the findings of her latest sleuthing project.

“The chef from the inn’s restaurant – that Maya woman – she’s the Pickler!”

~
~ ~

BY THE TIME
the inspector returned to his pickup, dusk had gathered across the island. The darkening clouds promised an evening rainstorm. At long last, he was ready to head for home.

Millicent had been taken to a
local hospital for a mandatory check up, even though she assured everyone that she was fine. She had given voluminous testimony to the officer assigned to take her statement.

Afterward, the man had pulled Pickering aside and asked in confusion, “Who’s Ben Matlock?”

From the cab of his truck, Pickering glanced up at the parsonage. The building had been secured for the night. A team of deputies would return the next day to finish going over the place, but he doubted the evidence would be of any use.

H
e didn’t expect to make any arrests for the crimes associated with Parrot Ridge.

The reverend had b
een found dead in his chapel, hanging from a self-tied rope. Millicent had reported overhearing a discussion between Elsie and Maya about a boat that would take them off the island. They would be difficult if not impossible to track down.

Pickering turned the key in the ignition and puttered off down the drive.

As raindrops began to spatter across his windshield, he reached for the chain around his neck. He tugged against it, increasing the tension as if he might rip it from his body.

T
hen he saw the dog waiting at the entrance to the main road.

Engine idling, he got out of
the truck. Her tail wagged back and forth as he rubbed her head.

“I’ve got something at my pla
ce that will remove that collar.”

He followed the chain to its hitching point and unhooked it from its anchor.
Looping the chain around his arm, he opened the truck’s passenger side door and nodded up at the seat.

The dog
hesitated for only a second before hopping inside.

ON AN ISOLATED beach off the island’s north shore, three West Indian women waded through the waves to a small powerboat. The vessel would transport them to a distant location about a hundred miles away. The captain had been paid an extra bonus to ensure there would be no questions about passports or visas.

Maya
made several trips from the sand to the boat, carrying boxes of canning jars, her knives, and various cooking utensils. She would be ready to set up shop at the next available restaurant opening. It was a transition she had made dozens of times before.

Elsie
moved more slowly through the water, holding her mother’s arm. Simmee’s hair had lost all its color, and her dark skin had roughened to the texture of tree bark, but she had plenty of life left in her ragged bones. A broad smile creased her face.

As the
captain cranked the motor and steered the boat away from the beach, Elsie tried to usher her mother into a seat. The old woman was stronger than she looked. She broke free from her daughter’s grasp and pushed her way to the boat’s side railing.

T
he storm clouds released their moisture, drenching the boat, but Simmee didn’t seem to notice the inclement weather. She stared out at the passing shoreline, watching the landmarks disappear from view. She made no remark until her gaze fell upon the sharp bluff of Parrot Ridge.

Sensing the presence of the
man who had taken her place, his poor soul left in the jungle to rot, she threw back her head and let loose a blood-curdling cackle.