Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (8 page)

He
drained the cup and set it on the edge of the bar. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a set of keys.

“If you don’t need me
for anything else, I’m heading to the beach.”

~
~ ~

NOT WAITING AROUND for any objections, t
he boyfriend soon motored out of the parking lot in his rental jeep.

Pickering
remained in the pavilion area, apparently undecided on how to proceed. He shook out the pleat on his left pants leg, gritting the tread of his shoe against the concrete.

The innkeepers
stood awkwardly waiting, neither sure how to handle the inspector – or what to do about their potentially missing guest.

Glenn
glanced furtively past the bar to the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, clearing wishing he could escape the situation.

Oliver
kept his gaze directed at Pickering. A bead of sweat formed on the big man’s forehead and then slowly slid down his cheek.

The siege was broken by the arrival of a young woman carrying a pile of table linens.

“Oh, hi, Elsie.” Oliver rushed over to help her, relieved for the distraction. “Let’s set those on the bar.”

Pickering
stepped away from the innkeepers and motioned for Elsie to join him at the far end of the deck. “You’re one of our new trainees, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”
She marched briskly across the pavilion and clicked to a sharp stop in front of him, making a lopsided salute with her arm.

Pickering nodded appreciatively. In a low voice, he asked,
“What do you know about what went on here?” He glanced sideways at the innkeepers. “I mean about Daisy Jones?”

Whispering,
Elsie leaned toward the inspector. “She was a loose woman, sir.” She cupped her hand over her mouth to shield her words. “She made a move on Mr. Glenn yesterday afternoon.”

Pickering
shuddered squeamishly. He felt as if he might be ill. He’d take a dead body any day over the sexual exploits of a homosexual innkeeper. It took every ounce of fortitude for him to ask the follow up question.

“And did he…
reciprocate?”

Elsie shook her head, an adamant
denial. “You know what he is, sir. There was nothing she could do to entice him.” She hesitated a moment and then added, “Miss Jones must have moved on to another man. Likely, she’s taken up with a stranger.”

Pickering
leaned his back against the deck railing and closed his eyes, deep in thought.

Misbehaving foreigners, befouling his island
.

He had no desire t
o spend another second at this Godforsaken place.

Parrot Ridge.
This spot should have been condemned.

Elsie held her breath,
releasing it as Pickering grunted his disapproval and thanked her for her assistance.

Deciding to let
the matter rest for the time being, he bade a quick goodbye to the innkeepers and lumbered up to the parking lot.

~
~ ~

ELSIE
REMAINED ON the deck, listening to Pickering’s departing pickup. She waited until she heard the brakes squeak at the bottom of the driveway. Seconds later, the vehicle motored off along the main road.

Glenn
had retreated to the kitchen, no doubt looking for Jesús. Oliver had returned to the reception.

She was alone
by the pool.

Silently
, she started down the steps attached to the pavilion’s outer wall. Her fingers trembled as her hand skimmed the stair railing.

Past the restaurant restrooms, she
continued her descent to the rough ground at the base of the building. A chicken eyed her suspiciously as she picked her way through the weeds.

Moments earlier, while s
tanding next to the inspector on the upper deck, she’d spied an object glinting in the underbrush below.

A
red hoop earring dangled from a broken branch – as if it had been burped up out of the jungle.

Just as she had with
the broken gold chain from the first missing guest, Elsie slipped Daisy’s errant accessory into her pocket.

I
SHOULD HAVE known he was trouble when he walked in.

Not Officer Pickering.
He took off shortly after his brief investigation into the Daisy Jones disappearance – or, rather, the downgraded inquiry of her unexplained absence.

Daisy’s
boyfriend checked out of their room the next day, even though they were booked through the weekend. He was reluctant to discuss the matter, and we didn’t press him on it. The reservation was paid in full, so we really couldn’t complain.

Oliver
maintained that Daisy must have departed with another suitor. He assured me that we had fulfilled our inn-keeping duties. The police had been contacted, and their review, such as it was, had quickly terminated. There was nothing more for us to do.

I was
more than happy to see the end of Miss Jones. For several days, traces of her perfume lingered about the place, and I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting another tush-pinching ambush. I did feel slightly odd about her departure being left unresolved, but I soon dismissed all thought of her.

We didn’t hear
again from Inspector Pickering until a few months after the Daisy Jones episode – when a third person went missing from Our Island Inn.

That chain of events was set in motion by the arrival of an unexpected guest, the aforementioned
trouble, a young man called Romeo Pasticcio.

~
~ ~

ROMEO PASTICCIO.
AT first, I wasn’t sure if his parents had given him that name or if he’d assumed it later in life.

It turned out
to be one of his many aliases.

Regardless
, the moniker fit him to a T. He was beautiful, exotic and delightfully mischievous.

Romeo
showed up without a reservation late on a Tuesday afternoon. For once, I didn’t mind the inconvenience of a midweek arrival.

He’d asked around town about potential accomm
odations, and someone had pointed him in our direction.

He was drawn to our inn
for the same reason that Inspector Pickering abhorred it: he’d heard the place was run by two gay innkeepers.

Romeo drove up in a dusty red jeep with
a dented hood. The front bumper had been clumsily reattached, both side doors were missing, and there were rips throughout the canvas roof. It obviously wasn’t one of the vehicles loaned out by the local rental agencies.

I later learned that he
had “borrowed” the jeep from someone he’d met during his scattered travels. He was a vagabond and a petty thief, the kind who would join you for dinner, leave you with the bill, and then pick your pocket on his way out the door.

W
e never received any payment for his stay at the inn.

He got by on good looks
, charm and shameless flirtation. He had a way of making you overlook obvious red flags, causing you to momentarily lose all practicality or reason.

I was strolling
toward the pavilion when I first saw him.

The sight stopped me in my tracks.

Romeo climbed out of that beat up jeep, shirtless, in ripped jeans and sandals, his olive skin flushed with a light sunburn.

He looked up at me and smiled
– the friendly grin of a con artist who’s just spotted his next mark.

~
~ ~

OLIVER WAS NOT
so easily taken in.

He
appeared tired as I swung open the reception door and ushered Romeo through. We had one couple staying with us that night, and they had already checked in. Oli was about to carry the pitcher of rum punch up to the refrigerator in our apartment and close the front counter for the day.

He patted a hand over his mouth, only
partially covering his questioning yawn.

“Oliver, we have
another guest for tonight. This is Romeo Pasti… Pasta… Hmm. How do you say that again?”

The
rogue stepped forward. Oliver hadn’t offered his hand for a shake, but within seconds Romeo was cradling it in his palm. He’d done the same with me. I’d felt as if I’d been swept off my feet. Oliver acted as if he’d been touched by a leper.

“Romeo Pasticcio
. I come from Naples. Ciao.” He finished off his introduction with a wink.

I was entranced by the stranger’s accent and the way he rolled his syllables, but
Oliver didn’t find the affectations at all endearing.

“Okay,” he said, quickly retracting his hand. “
Well, we have some vacancies. Would you be interested in a studio?”

I
slid around the counter and flipped open the registration book. “I’ll take care of that, Oli.”

He
was startled by the gesture – probably because I never showed any interest in the inn’s bookkeeping. Oliver had a head for numbers, so I let him take care of the accounting.

In truth,
I had already offered Romeo a substantial discount, and I didn’t want to tell Oliver about it – at least, not until later.

“
You look wiped,” I said with concern that was at best halfway sincere. “Why don’t you head upstairs and catch a nap before dinner?”

“All right.” Oliver gave both of us a wary glance. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I guess I
could use the extra shut-eye.”

He
picked up the pitcher, took two steps toward the door, and then turned back to Romeo.

“Would you like a glass of
rum punch?”

“
Sì, sì,” our new guest replied. He skipped across the tile floor, scooped up a plastic palm tree glass, and held it out for Oliver to pour.

Once
the cup had been filled, Romeo plunked a pink flamingo straw into the red liquid and took a loud slurp.

“
Mmm.” He smiled his approval and then doled out another of his ubiquitous winks. “Grazie.”

Oliver stared sk
eptically at his shirtless chest.

“You’re welcome.”

Cradling the pitcher, he turned and trudged out the door.

OLIVER CALLED IN
sick for dinner. He phoned down to the kitchen, reported that he had a headache, and said he would try to sleep it off in the apartment. He’d never missed a moment of action since we opened the inn, so I figured he must have been in bad shape.

I told him not to
worry and assured him that I would handle everything at the restaurant. Being a Tuesday, it would be a relatively light crowd.

I
confess, I was relieved he took the night off.

There’
d been a tension between us for months. We were constantly together and yet, somehow, out of synch.

R
unning the inn was supposed to be fun and enjoyable. After all, this was our retirement paradise. But Oliver was always fussing about profit margins, clean bed linens, and online guest reviews. It’s not that I didn’t care about such matters; I was just more relaxed about them.

The strain extended
far beyond our different approaches to the business. We were getting on each other’s nerves – or rather, he was trampling on mine. The petty annoyances piled up, and I started to lose sight of why Oliver and I got together in the first place.

Unsure of what to do, I simply
ignored the problem. I was never one for talking about feelings or emotions. That was Oli’s area of expertise.

Since
he hadn’t brought up the subject, I assumed he hadn’t noticed and that the problems were all in my head. If I just waited it out, things would get better.

But e
very day I woke with a weight around my neck, a heavy burden that was slowly but surely pulling me down.

Of course, that encumbrance had nothing to do with Oliver
or any of his peculiar mannerisms. It was my own guilt, amplifying with every lie I told, growing with every deceit – no matter how much I tried to deny responsibility for my actions.

It turned out
Oli was painfully aware of the situation.

The
breakdown in our relationship was slowly but surely destroying him.

I wouldn’t discover how much damage I’d done until it was too late to fix it.

~ ~ ~

WITH OLIVER SIDELINED, the evening started
off refreshingly casual.

After making sure the few other dinner guests were
satisfied with their meal, I grabbed a bottle of wine and joined Romeo at his table. He was alone and looked like he could use the company.