Our Island Inn (Quirky Tales from the Caribbean) (9 page)

He had dressed up for the occasion,
having tossed on a faded T-shirt to complement his ripped jeans. Before long, Jesús had pulled up a chair and the three of us were enjoying a laugh.

I summoned the waitress and ordered for the group.
“This is on me,” I offered, nodding at Jesús. “We’ll write it off as a staff meal.”

Ro
meo lifted his glass. “Cheers!”

That
round of toasts drained the bottle, so I scurried to the kitchen to fetch another – leaving my glass unattended.

Maya
shook her head as I passed through the kitchen to the pantry, but she didn’t object. She merely returned her attention to her cooking station. She was a world unto herself, surrounded by pots, pans, her rack of knives, and the little ceramic parrot that always perched at the edge of her workspace.

I stepped into t
he pantry where we stored the alcohol. It was a dark narrow room with a single light bulb mounted to the ceiling. Designed for maximum storage capacity, the walls were fitted with sturdy shelving. The pantry held a dizzying display of bottles, boxes, plastic containers, metal tins and canned preserves.

The last category represented Maya’s diligent work. She
never let anything go to waste. Fruits and veggies on the verge of becoming overripe were quickly processed into sealed jars. Colored labels had been affixed to the jars, apparently identifying the contents, but I had never been able to decipher the code.

I kept my journal stashed behind
a row of jars with green labels, which seemed as safe a place as any. Certainly, Oliver would never find it there. Given how well my dinner party was proceeding, I didn’t anticipate any journal writing that evening, so I left it in its hiding place.

Skimming over
the shelves that contained the liquor supply, I picked out a nice Pinot. As I held the bottle in my hands, it occurred to me how much Oliver would gripe about the expense.

“Stick in the mud.”
Impishly, I added a flask of rum to my load.

On my way back through the kitchen, I noticed
Elsie had arrived to help Maya. She lived close by, in a house with her father. Maya must have written off Jesús for the night and called in reinforcements.

Elsie didn’t look pleased to be there. Her
face darkened with a brief scowl before flattening to its regular unreadable expression.

I th
ought nothing of it – until the following day.

~
~ ~

AS THE NIGHT
wore on, the rest of the tables emptied, leaving the three of us out under the stars, consuming an enormous amount of alcohol.

In the
giggling, garbled mix of Spanish and Italian, I began to pick up traces of American English – not mine, but Romeo’s.

His fake
accent had started to slip.

I should have
realized that something was wrong, but a cloud was seeping through my head. My vision blurred, and my dizzying thoughts were impossible to gather.

A numbing agent – other than the
alcohol – pulled me under. Soon, I slipped into blackness.

For several hours,
I drifted in and out of consciousness.

At one point, I
woke to find myself alone by the pool. There was a movement on the rough ground below the deck, followed by a faint rustling in the bushes.

The
noise appeared to be generated by a creature much larger than a chicken – two if I’d interpreted the sounds correctly.

But I was too
far-gone to get up and investigate.

I had been purposefully incapa
citated, pushed out of the way.

Among my dinner companions,
I’d become the third wheel.

A PIERCING CACKLE jarred me awake
just before dawn. Charlie the Chicken and his or her feathered friends were determined to draw me from my stupor. Apparently, the birds were offended that I’d spent the night on the pool deck.

“We need
more poultry items on the menu,” I muttered grimly. Wincing, I tried to extract myself from the contorted knot I’d slumped into when I passed out in the chair. My muscles ached, and my head felt as if it was about to explode.

“
Good grief, how much did I drink?” I rubbed my temples, attempting to stabilize my vision. I counted three, no four, empty bottles of wine and a drained bottle of rum, but I had no idea which container’s contents were sloshing around – to nauseating affect – in my stomach.

The chalky taste in my mouth
didn’t help matters. I leaned forward in my seat, searching the table for a glass of water, but even the ice bucket was dry.

M
y attention soon shifted to a movement at the opposite end of the deck.

A
distant figure topped the stairs leading up from the clearing. The man wore a white T-shirt and torn jeans. He carried his sandals in one hand, looping the straps through his fingers as he tiptoed across the pavilion.

In the harsh morning light
, with off-pitch poultry crowing in the background, Romeo didn’t seem quite so fetching.

My opinion of him soured further as I watched his next
action.

He stopped at the cash register by the bar, the one I should have emptied
into the safe the previous evening, and pulled open the drawer.

He glanced across the deck,
eying me as I drooled. In healthier form, I would have leapt up from my chair, chased down the rascal, and stopped him with a crushing tackle. Still reeling from the sedative I’d been slipped the night before, it was all I could do to keep myself upright.

The wink
was now one of mocking.

Romeo
tucked a wad of bills into his jeans, slid on his shoes, and scampered up the steps to the parking lot.

Shortly thereafter, I heard
a jeep rumble off down the drive. Romeo must not have been used to the island’s steep roads, because it sounded like he nearly wrecked at the bottom of the hill. Gravel sprayed as the vehicle turned onto the main road.

Emitting a painful sigh, I rested my head against the back of the chair and looked up at the sky.

Romeo, why would you do such a thing?

The answer was as easy to see that
morning as it had been to dismiss the night before. He was nothing but a common crook.

The real question wa
s how could I have been such a fool.

As the
sun beat down on my face, I realized the worst was yet to come.

H
ow would I explain this escapade to Oliver?

All of my anxieties
returned full force. My stomach churned, and I lunged for the ice bucket.

~
~ ~

THIS TIME IT
was Oliver who insisted we call Inspector Pickering.

INSPECTOR
ORLANDO PICKERING parked his truck in the lot outside Our Island Inn. He peered through the cracked windshield, absentmindedly patting the steering wheel.

It was a
steamy Caribbean day, but he felt nothing but ice in his veins as he stared up at the concrete building that housed the guest units and the owners’ condo. With a disapproving grunt, he shifted his gaze to the entertainment pavilion and the pool deck overlooking the steep drop below.

He was
displeased to have been summoned back to Parrot Ridge.

The innkeepers had noted
his arrival. They exited the reception building and walked toward the truck, the bigger man sheepish and red-faced, the smaller one painfully reserved – and sporting several fresh scratches on his cheek.

Frowning, Pickering hefted his
bulk out of the driver’s seat and stepped onto the pavement.

H
e was beginning to suspect his misgivings about the inn were the result of something more than his moral objections to the two men who owned the establishment – or the cursed spirit who inhabited the ravine.

~
~ ~

“I
TOOK THE name you gave me over the phone and ran it through our database.”

Pickering flipped open his notepad
to a paper-clipped page and squinted at the handwriting on the selected sheet. “Romeo Pasti… Pasto…”

Glenn
cut in. “Pasticcio.”

Oliver glared
at his partner.

“Yes, that one.”
The inspector cleared his throat. “According to our records, there are no Italian nationals on the island fitting his name or description.” He arched his eyebrows and added, “You really should have made a copy of his passport.”

“I
assure you, Captain,
that
is our regular protocol.” Oliver pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t followed in this instance.”

“
It’s inspector,” Pickering corrected, but his tone was carefully measured. He had plenty of experience mediating lover’s quarrels, and, he supposed, this was no different. A calm presence would help ratchet down the tension.

“
There have been several reports of an American causing trouble in the area. It sounds like he made his way here.”

The innkeepers were silent. Glenn kept his
eyes focused to the ground. Oliver’s pinched face reflected a simmering rage.

“
Look.” Pickering made an awkward attempt to soothe the hurt feelings. “It could happen to anyone.”

Oliver cr
ossed his hands over his chest. “
Hmph
.”

With a sigh, Pickering returned to his notepad. He pulled out a ballpoint pen and clicked the end with his thumb.
“Can you give me a list of what’s been taken?”

Wearily,
Glenn lifted his head. “The night’s cash from the restaurant register. There were only a few dinner guests, so probably not more than a couple hundred dollars. It could have been…” He stopped mid-sentence, apparently thinking it was better not to finish the assessment. “I’ll have to check with Maya, our chef, to get an estimate.”

Pickering scribbled a notation on the paper. “Anything else?”

There was a long pause.

The inspector glanced up at the innkeepers.
Clearly, another item of value had been stolen.

Finally,
Oliver drew in his breath. His voice cracked with strain as he spoke.

“A plastic palm tree glass
and a matching flamingo straw.”

With that, he turned and stomped
back to the reception building.

I STAYED IN the pa
rking lot for another half-hour answering Pickering’s questions.

He
asked about the abrasions on Oliver’s face. I relayed what Oli had told me: that one of the dogs had jumped up on him and a paw had accidentally swiped his cheek. The poodles were hyper since they’d missed their regular morning outing to the beach. It was yet another mark against me.

I didn’t have much more information to provide. I
gathered the inspector wasn’t interested in the details of how the thief had flirted his way into the inn – or what might have gone on between Romeo and Jesús in the bushes beneath the pool deck.

The last bit, in particular, was more
than I could bear to think about.

Pickering
was surprisingly sympathetic, but without any clues to Romeo’s location, there was little he could do.

Once
the inspector finished taking my statement, which in informal island-style meant scribbling a few lines in his notepad, the interview was over. He bid me a solemn farewell, climbed into his pickup, and puttered off down the hill.

I stood there
taking stock of the mess I’d created – and not just with the looted cash register.

My behavior over the last several months had been nothing short of selfish.

I had let Oliver down and betrayed his trust.

With
more than just Romeo.

~
~ ~

MUCH AS I wanted to run
upstairs, crawl into bed, and bury my head in a pile of blankets, there was no time to mope.

Our
next guests were about to arrive: a four-pack of elderly women who would be spending seven days with us.

Oliver
had dubbed them the Golden Girls. He’d been corresponding with the ladies for months as they planned their trip.

He
had gone to great lengths to ensure they would enjoy their stay. He’d put together an extra nice welcome basket for their room and had ordered special lilac soaps and shampoos for the bathroom in their suite. He’d even touched base with the various transportation representatives they would encounter en route to the inn, coordinating with the ferryboat operator, the rental car agency, and the customs officials who would screen them through immigration.