Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (5 page)

“Aren’t you hot in that sweater?”

Elsie shivered her response, as if she would have preferred more clothing, not less.

The slightest drop
in temperature brought out long-sleeve sweaters, wool pants, hats and scarves among the island’s West Indian population.

While Oliver welcom
ed the respite from the tropical heat, throwing his head back into the breeze, Elsie pulled herself inward, seeking shelter from the coming turbulence.

She
sensed a frigidness in the air, a foreboding unrelated to the weather.

~
~ ~

ELSIE RETURNED TO
the pool deck a few minutes later, still visibly chilled.

Oliver had laid out a sample table
, testing a low profile centerpiece against the elements. A pair of candles anchored a small wreath of island flowers.

“There,” he said, carefully lifting his hands away from the
arrangement. “I think that will hold…”

As i
f mocking his optimism, a gust of wind swept across the deck, knocking over several plastic chairs. Oliver dove toward the table, scrambling to protect the flowers. The sample menu from the display flew up over his head.

Oliver lunged for
the laminated sheet, but it soared out of reach and flipped over the deck railing.

Watching these antics,
Elsie barely suppressed a giggle.

“
Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll get it!”

She
jogged down the steps attached to the pavilion’s outer wall, trotted past the restrooms, and turned the corner for the last flight of stairs to the clearing below.

She paused
at the bottom, trying to spot the menu in the surrounding greenery.

“Over there,”
Oliver called out, pointing to a clump of bushes about ten feet from her location.

Following his directions,
Elsie crossed the clearing.

S
he bent to scoop up the menu, but another item caught her eye. It was a gold chain, the flashy kind sold at the shops that catered to cruise ship passengers.

Frowning
, she reached into the tangled branches and lifted it out. The clasp was broken, but otherwise the chain was in good condition. There was no sign of rust or tarnish. It hadn’t been in the jungle for long.

She looked
up toward the deck, where Oliver had resumed his attempts to create a windproof table setting.

Then she
balled the chain in her hand and slid it into her pocket.

~
~ ~

THE
FOLLOWING MORNING, Elsie hopped a ride into town with one of the safari truck taxis. She asked the driver to drop her off at the island’s police department.

Ins
ide the one-story concrete building, she waited in line to speak to the clerk working the front counter.

When it was her turn, she stepped up to the window – not
to report the necklace, but to fill out an application for the department’s deputy-training program.

OLIVER AND I
didn’t talk much about the missing husband, other than a brief exchange the morning the wife checked out of her room without him.

I
reckoned the guy had run off to try his little blue pill routine on a younger woman. True, the timing was odd, but he seemed like the type to pull that sort of stunt.

Oli
nodded his agreement, although he was oddly quiet on the matter.

It was hard
for me to imagine any other scenario. There was no indication of foul play as far as I could see.

Our
island was renowned for its safety. The little crime that did occur was generally focused on or among the local West Indian population. Tourists were taboo targets, because everyone knew they represented the island’s economic lifeblood. No matter how careless a vacationer was with his valuables, that kind of theft was rare.

Assault and
murder, of even the most annoying foreign visitors, was unheard of – not that some of us in the hospitality industry weren’t at times sorely tempted.

So
I quickly forgot about the husband who never returned from the lower level restrooms.

Until the next abrupt departure
…

~
~ ~

BEFORE I
MOVE on to that part of the story, I should say a brief word about tourists – specifically, about the troubles they bring with them on vacation.

Don’t get me wrong. Most of
our guests were charming, engaging people. It was a pleasure to welcome them into our home. We enjoyed getting to know them and learning about their lives, hobbies and myriad occupations.

But every
so often, more frequently than you might think, we encountered a boarder who was so miserably unhappy that he or she tainted everything around them. These individuals were sickened by such an intense level of dissatisfaction, there was nothing in the world that could please them. Of course, this didn’t stop them from expecting us to achieve that unreachable goal.

Typically,
this person was accompanied by a suffering companion, someone who had been immersed in the misery for so long, they’d lost perspective of how bad the situation had become.

It wa
s an innkeeper’s worst nightmare.

I often wonder
ed why these people came to the Caribbean. Perhaps they hoped the exotic locale would brighten their terminally disgruntled mood. Maybe they were searching for an external stimulus to reenergize their life.

In th
e worst-case scenario, they’d traveled to the tropics to revive a dying romance.

I never s
aw it work.

All that happened wa
s that these wretched souls inflicted their misery upon their hosts – and anyone else unfortunate enough to cross their path.

The
miserables, that’s what I called them.

After only a few weeks of running Our Island Inn,
I could spot a miserable from twenty feet away, the second they climbed out of their rental vehicle in the parking lot.

I f
ound myself wanting to pull these sad people aside and offer a little guidance: life is too short to spend it unhappy and bound to the wrong partner.

But then
such advice is always easier to give than to receive.

THE SECOND DISAPPEARANCE
happened a few weeks later. This time it was a woman named Daisy Jones.

Y
ou might think that a repeat of such a peculiar event would have set off alarm bells, but somehow I managed to rationalize it away. The circumstances of this departure, like the first, facilitated the discounting process.

Once
Daisy was gone – and her threatening presence had been lifted from the property – I had no desire to see her return.

~
~ ~

DAISY ARRIVED ON
a Wednesday, a midweek booking.

We were always happy to
welcome guests to the inn, but the middle of the week was our only downtime. I generally viewed midweek bookings as a mixed blessing – even more so after Daisy and her boyfriend checked in.

I was
headed toward the pavilion when the pair drove up, but I switched course and followed the couple into the reception building to see if they needed any help with their luggage. Standing in the doorway, I watched Oliver process the couple’s registration. I could sense his unease across the room.

Daisy had that effect on people. It was
direct and immediate.

She was a dyed blonde
with a busty slim-waisted figure, the kind that some men presumably find attractive. Her clothes were clingy and revealing, as if the warm climate granted a free license to exhibitionism.

Her perf
ume traveled across the room, a heady aroma that advertised her intentions. It was a scent designed to hook a man by the nose and draw him to her, whether or not he was so inclined. She was a vicious consumer of the opposite sex, a man-eater in every sense of the word.

She reminded me of my ex-wife.

It’s difficult to recall much about the boyfriend. He was completely overshadowed by her presence.

Daisy
leaned across the counter and sized up poor Oli in a single glance.

Then she
looked over her shoulder and focused her gaze on me.

Her eyes were aggressive
, pawing at me from across the room. I think she sensed my natural tendencies pointed in the opposite direction, but that did nothing to dissuade her. She was convinced she could recalibrate my compass and turn me to the other side.

I was a
n irresistible challenge.

Yep.
Just like my ex-wife.

~
~ ~

I WAS YOUNG
when I married. By young, I mean psychologically immature, more so than young in age. I allowed myself to get pushed into a commitment that I had no intention of honoring.

It was a mistake I
vowed never to repeat.

She was a girl
I had dated on and off throughout my college years. I viewed her as part of my disguise, a foolproof cover that would ensure I wasn’t outed to my football teammates. I enjoyed playing the sport and had aspirations of making it into the pros. I didn’t want anything to jeopardize that opportunity.

The
wedding ceremony was held a few weeks after graduation. I was on the short list for a second roster slot with a professional football team, and marriage seemed like a good way to shore up my heterosexual credentials.

It was a
frilly flower-filled affair, paid for by my wife’s parents. The chapel was filled to capacity, rows and rows of witnesses to my bald-faced lie.

At the time,
I didn’t see it that way. I was trying to assimilate myself into a cultural norm to which I didn’t belong. I felt an enormous pressure to conform to societal expectations – and I feared the repercussions should the truth be revealed.

Of course, I bear some of the blame. I wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming to the altar. I was, however, awfully squeamish about the matter.

I wasn’t confused about my sexuality, just terrified to act on it.

In the end, none of the football opportunities panned out.
With the demise of my athletic career, the reason for the ruse evaporated. My wife tried everything she could to keep me tied to her, but the marriage didn’t live to see its first anniversary.

I had to run like heck
to escape that woman. After I filed for divorce, I changed my phone number and moved across town to an unlisted address. I did everything I could – short of plastic surgery – to make myself untraceable. I tensed every time I entered a grocery store, afraid I might accidentally run into her.

Once I’d extracted myself from her
suffocating vortex, I dared not give her the chance to pull me back in.

The trait of
overbearance isn’t limited to the male gender.

DAISY JONES DIDN’T
waste any time making her move. Not more than an hour later, she found me in the kitchen, discussing the evening menu with Jesús.

She
’d left her boyfriend on a lounge chair by the pool. I remember now that he was a bookish type. I think he was in med school. He looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in months. Most of the time, he kept his nose tucked in a paperback novel he’d brought along on the trip.

Daisy
must have heard our voices from the other side of the bar. I often forgot how easily sound traveled through the open air.

Jesús
had started one of his jokes. He had an extensive repertoire of off-color tales. Each one ended with an innuendo-laden zinger. Oli didn’t approve, but I thought they were hilarious.

I was doubled over in laughter
, my back to the swinging doors, so I didn’t see Daisy approach – but Jesús did.

He stopped, midsentence. The smile dropped from his face,
and he stared down at the floor.

T
he pad of bare feet on concrete was accompanied by the unmistakable stink of her perfume.

“Glenn,”
Daisy said huskily as the scent crawled over my shoulder. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Oliver refused to give me your location.”

Wincing, I envisioned
the torture Oli must have endured safekeeping that information.

I
assumed my most professional innkeeper expression, turned around – and immediately took a step back.