Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (7 page)

And so we received our first visit from Inspector Pickering.

It would be the first of many.

I
NSPECTOR ORLANDO PICKERING turned his pickup onto the inn’s steep drive, beeped his horn, and gunned the accelerator with the casual ease of a lifelong islander.

The
engine squealed, struggling against the grade, but the driver never doubted the truck’s ability to complete the task. The threadbare tires gummed the hot asphalt, the rubber squishing as the wheels scaled the steep slope.

Topping the ridge,
Pickering guided the vehicle into an open slot near the reception building. He patted the steering wheel as if praising the truck for finishing the climb.

The pick
up was a stand-in for the police department’s official painted Ford, which had been out for repairs for the past three months. There was no expected date for the car’s return to service, but Pickering didn’t mind. He preferred to use his own vehicle.

The driver’s side door swung open
, and a heavy black shoe thudded onto the pavement. As Pickering brought his considerable frame to a standing position, he glanced across the parking lot at the B&B’s painted sign, and his mood darkened.

It was a mistake
for these people to be up here, he thought with disapproval. Nothing good could come of it.

There was a reason no one had dared to rebuild on Parrot Ridge – until now.

~ ~ ~

PICKERING WAS
A young lieutenant when the previous innkeepers met their infamous demise. He hadn’t personally observed the aftermath of the violent row, but like the rest of the island’s West Indian population, he knew the story.

T
here’d been plenty of talk about the case at the station, both at the time of the occurrence and sporadically through the years.

During
Pickering’s tenure, the department had dealt with only a handful of homicides. The bloody scene at the inn was the reference point of gruesome comparison whenever a rare killing occurred.

Upon setting about the unpleasant task of processing a dead body for evidence, the inevitable complaints were met with the standard response.

“You think this is bad – you should have seen the mess at Parrot Ridge…”

~
~ ~

THE TOPIC OF
the innkeeper’s slaying was raised even more frequently at the church Pickering attended.

The
previous iteration of the inn’s restaurant had served a wider mix of locals and tourists. The reverend and his wife had been seated in the pool deck dining area when the blood-soaked husband fled the kitchen, the knife still lodged in his chest.

The
scene left a lasting impression on the minister, one he shared regularly with his congregation. The tale of the philandering husband was the basis of an annual sermon topic – on the sin of homosexuality.

U
nlike the modified version of events that Elsie had relayed to Glenn, in reality, the husband’s infidelity had been with another man.

For the
reverend, it was this aspect of the saga that most offended his religious beliefs. His bellowing sermon typically culminated in the following rant.

“I
witnessed the horror in that man’s eyes as he took his last breath. He’d glimpsed the punishment he was about to receive for his shameful acts. It was too late for his redemption.”

The reverend would pause and look out at hi
s congregation, daring them to meet his righteous gaze. “A shadow crossed the deck as the devil’s minions seized his soul and carried him to the depths of hell.”

T
he wife who had stabbed and killed her spouse received a more sympathetic treatment. While not saying so explicitly, the reverend left no doubt among his parishioners that he believed the woman’s murderous act was justified. Nevertheless, her fate provided a last cautionary lesson. She was tainted by her association with the sinful husband and, therefore, condemned to an eternity stuck in limbo, haunting the steep ravine below the property.

It was no surprise that w
hile tourists had been quick to embrace Glenn and Oliver’s version of the poolside restaurant, the locals had stayed away.

~
~ ~

PICKERING SHOOK HIS head as he closed the pickup door
.

He got the
heebies just standing in the parking lot. He reached up to the chain hanging from his neck and fingered the gold cross that lay against his neckline.

It was well known across the island that the new innkeepers were engaged in a hedonistic lifestyle, the kind God frowned upon and, if the reverend was to be believed, brutally punished. The
two men were tempting fate to smite them down.

The inspector
half-expected a bolt of lightning to flash out of the sky and obliterate the new structures on Parrot Ridge.

Releasing the necklace, Pickering straightened his shoulders and
walked warily toward the reception building in front of the inn.

No matter how conflicted he felt about the matter, h
e had a job to do.

PICKERING PUSHED
OPEN the reception door, triggering a trio of tiny bells that announced his presence.

He
scowled down at the painted metal balls as they bounced against the glass. With a deft swipe, he muffled the sound.

The smaller of the two innkeepers spoke first.

“You must be the police officer.” Oliver slid from behind the front counter and held out his hand in greeting.

Pickering
’s grasp retained the forceful intensity he’d applied to the bells. “It’s Inspector. Inspector Pickering.”

Oliver
managed a smile through the painfully firm handshake. “Yes, of course. Nice to meet you…Inspector.”

Pickering
stepped back from the innkeeper and scanned the air-conditioned room. It was artsy and clean with several containers of fresh-cut flowers spread around the space. A side table positioned against the interior wall held a glass pitcher of rum punch, a set of palm tree plastic cups, and an array of pink flamingo straws.

“
Would you like a complimentary punch?” Oliver said the words automatically. He blushed as he realized the inappropriateness of the offer.

“No,” Pickering replied stiffly. “Thank you.”

“Of course, you’re on duty.”

The inspector
grunted his acknowledgment. He would rather that were not the case – and not because he was in any way tempted by the pink flamingo straws.

Shifting his stance, he looked at
the two gay men and, he presumed, the missing woman’s tear-stained boyfriend.

T
he whole scene made him uncomfortable.

Determined to get the investigation over with as quickly as possible, he pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket
. Flipping the pad open, he glanced at the name written on the top sheet.

“Daisy Jones
, that’s the one you called the station about? The woman who’s missing?”

The boyfriend wiped his face and nodded.

“We have her passport photo and her basic physical description. Can you add any other details? Do you have a more recent picture of her?”

T
he young man began rummaging through his cell phone for a digital photo. The inspector waited for a few seconds and then sighed impatiently.

“She’s
got blond hair,” Oliver provided, trying to be helpful. He added a whispered aside. “Dark roots. She could use a touch up.”

Pickering
pulled out a pen and took down a brief notation. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the second innkeeper.

Glenn
held up his hands and waved them in an hourglass shape. “She’s…uh…curvy.”

With a grimace
at the hand gesture, the inspector added a scribble to the paper.

“When
did you last see her?”

The boyfriend looked up from his phone.
“Last night. At the restaurant down by the pool.”

Pickering
flipped the notepad shut and returned it to his front pocket.

“Take me there.”

As the group stepped out the door, the boyfriend handed his phone to Pickering. “There’s a good shot of her, sir. I can text it to you if you like.”

The inspector squinted at the sun-glared screen.

“Send it to the station,” he replied, holding the phone gingerly. “I don’t do the texting thing.”

As if offended by the remark,
the phone began to buzz loudly.

Pickering tilted the device to read the display.

“It says it's your mother.”

The boyfriend grabbed the phone.
“I better take that.”

Oliver motioned across the parking lot.
“We’ll show you the deck area, Captain.”

Pickering
glared at the nervous innkeeper.

“It’s
Inspector
.”

~
~ ~

INSPECTOR PICKERING CROSSED
the parking lot to the pool pavilion, flanked by the two innkeepers.

Oliver led the way, giving a tour of the property as they walked.
“We have seven guest units in the main building, each one self-contained. You’ll want to see Daisy’s room, I’m sure.”

The inspector scratched the side of his neck.
His “mmm-hmph” reply was noncommittal.

“And of course,
this is the entertainment area,” Oliver continued, somewhat confused by the response. “We have the pool on the right and, next to it, the deck seating overlooking the water. To the left, there’s the covered pavilion with the bar and, behind it, the kitchen.”

Pickering listened to
the monologue, keenly observing the indicated features. He had only eaten a few times at the earlier rendition of the restaurant, but despite the fifteen-year time span, the layout was eerily familiar. He rubbed his chin, pondering the scene.

“
You built on top of the old ruins.”

It was a statement
– on the verge of an accusation – not a question, but Oliver answered anyway.

“Yes. Yes, we thought that was the best way to proceed…” His voice trailed off as he
looked up at his partner, seeking support.

Glenn stammered
through an explanation. “That…that was the advice from the engineer. The base of the old structure was sound, particularly the pool here and the adjoining kitchen. We just…ah…reinforced it.”

Pickering
left the innkeepers and approached the deck railing. He glanced out at the distant sea and then dropped his gaze to the steep terrain immediately below.

Even in the bright sunshine, he felt goose pimples
rise on his arm.

The previous wife, he thought with a shudder. She
was still there, haunting the place.

That kind of bad juju didn’t just fade away. Disturbed
souls sank into the dirt and grew up inside the branches of bushes and trees, possessing birds, frogs and fleas.

A spirit like hers would be
impossible to eradicate. She might inhabit Parrot Ridge for decades, if not forever.

He dusted his hands across th
e front of his shirt as if brushing ghostly spider webs from the fabric.

Finally, he spoke.

“It’s very similar to the way it was before.”

A PAIR OF flip-flops s
lapped down the concrete stairs from the parking lot.

The boyfriend
entered the pavilion a changed man. The tear-stained blotches had cleared from his face, and he was casually sipping a rum punch from a palm tree plastic cup.

The conversation with his
mother had calmed his worries, if not rendered him entirely indifferent to Daisy’s whereabouts.

H
e had revised his position on the gravity of her disappearance.

“I’m sorry, I
nspector. I think I’ve jumped the gun on this missing person thing.”

Pickering
tapped the shirt pocket that held the notepad. “Are you retracting your report?”

“
Well, maybe it’s too soon to say.” The boyfriend paused for another slurp through his flamingo straw. “I mean, who knows? She could have run off with someone. She’s done it before.”

Glenn opened his mouth
as if to speak, but Oliver motioned for him to remain silent.

“She’ll probably show up later tonight or even tomorrow morning, expecting me to take her back.”
The boyfriend shook his head firmly. “Not this time.”