“Too bad you not be sailing,” Robert said. “This be perfect sailing weather. Wind been steady all week.”
“What about rain?” I wasn’t really interested in the wind, for chrissake.
“No rain for a month,” he said. “It be dry. Cisterns almost empty. But no worry. God be providin’ when da time comes. No problem.”
Robert seemed to be a true advocate of the “nothing to worry about” principle. I guess that accounted for his driving.
“Dis here be da place,” he said. The Treasure Chest was unassuming—none of the fountains or canopied doorways that I associated with Caribbean resorts.
“You be needin’ a taxi, I be out front here mos’ da time,” Robert said. “I’m da best tour guide on da island.”
Robert honked and waved as he pulled away. I walked into the lobby, where I was greeted by the clerk, Bernadette, according to the brass name tag that perched above her ample breast. Like the exterior, the reception area was designed for business. No plush lounging areas with deep-cushioned couches that were made so you didn’t want to get up and couldn’t anyway.
There was no one around. I had the feeling that people didn’t spend a lot of time lingering in the hotel. Behind Bernadette’s head was a board that said “Owners in Port” and then listed a bunch of names: Commodore Riley on
Molly B
, Captain Johnson on
Rainbow Chaser
. She informed me that these were the boat owners who were sailing their boats this month.
“They like to know who’s here so they can keep a watch out for each other, sail together, do some racing, share meals,” she explained.
“Not many people staying in the hotel?” I asked.
“Oh sure,” she said. “They’re around. Most of the folks who stay here are boaters. They come in for a night or two before and after their charters. They stay real busy, though. Don’t see too many people lazing around at the pool.”
She handed me my key, and an old guy with a couple of teeth missing insisted on carrying my bag and showing me the room.
“Lester,” he said, offering a leathered hand. “Welcome to our beautiful islands.”
We walked through the lobby, which opened to the water on the other side. It was stunning. No wonder no one spent any time sitting around in the lobby. Row upon row of masts swayed in unison, the sun setting behind them. There must have been a hundred boats of all shapes and sizes in this harbor. Soft laughter drifted from a few people lounging on their decks.
Lester hefted my bags down to the end of a cement sidewalk, stopping at the last room on the end, right on the water. He gave me the complete tour of the place, turning on lights, pointing out the coffeemaker and the extra towels and blankets, a wide toothless grin filling his face. He seemed almost embarrassed when I tipped him.
“You be needing anything, you just call on old Lester,” he said, handing me the key and hobbling back down the sidewalk.
The room was nice—a couple of rooms, actually, one with a tiny kitchen and sitting area, the other with a queen-sized bed and bath. It was definitely island chintz, with terra-cotta floors, rattan chairs, and pictures of fish adorning the walls. Fish? The curtains and bedspread were teal, yellow, and blue with an occasional parrot perched among green fronds.
A breeze blew in through the sliding glass doors. Not too secure. It would take a toothpick to gain entrance. Doors like these would never have been an option in downtown Denver.
I walked to the ocean’s edge, just feet from my door. The water was like glass, reflecting lights from the shore. I tossed a couple stones into the deep. Then I took my shoes off and waded along the shallow, sandy edge, lulled by the peace. I could see how people became addicted to places like this. It was easy to get caught up in the beauty and serenity.
But there was more ebbing beneath the surface. Things hidden, dangerous, unknowable. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something big and dark break the surface, then disappear.
Chapter 5
Next morning, I wandered down to the marina, cup in hand, working on my daily caffeine fix.
Boats with names like
Celebration
and
Sea Wish
lined the docks. The place was a frenzy of activity. Water tanks and gas tanks were being topped off. Supplies were being stowed. Ropes were flying and dockhands were yelling directions in a language that only they understood. Up at the top of one mast, a rigger was trying to untangle a nest of rope. The boat was swaying from side to side, as he dangled from some kind of pulley-type gizmo. I thought he was probably swearing but it was hard to tell.
Ahead, a man wearing a T-shirt that said “Sail fast, live slow” was loading groceries onto his boat. “Blow Me, Pittsburgh, Pa.” was etched on the back of the boat.
I couldn’t resist. “That takes balls,” I said, pointing to the name.
The man laughed. “Morning,” he said. “Name’s Richard Head. I figured I might as well maintain the theme.”
“Dick Head?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.” He smiled. “Great name for a boat, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it is,” I said.
“Hell,” he said, “life’s too short to take too seriously. The marina wasn’t excited about the name, but couldn’t pass up a paying customer. When I’m not using her, they put her way over on D dock where the charterers don’t see her. Fine with me. Keeps her out of harm’s way, no unskilled helmsman likely to come crashing into her. What boat are you on?”
When I told him I wasn’t among the multitudes there to sail, he shook his head. “You can’t visit the BVI without sailing. Be a disgrace. You want to take an afternoon sail, you give us a holler. Wife and I are down here on the boat for the winter.”
I told him I just might consider it and headed to the lobby. Robert, the Rasta cabby, was parked out front just where he said he’d be. By ten, I was sitting in the office of the Tortola police chief, John Dunn, a tall black man with a bit of a belly hanging over his belt. He wore a white shirt and dark tie. His suit jacket hung on a hook behind the door. In spite of the sweat stains expanding under his arms, he somehow managed to look cool and collected. He had that “I’m an official, doing official business, so don’t expect me to be friendly” kind of attitude that I had noticed when I went through customs—courteous yet distant.
The office was decorated in drab, chipped linoleum, dirty bare walls, a metal desk, a couple of hard metal chairs. The one he offered me was in a corner next to a huge window, directly in front of a noisy air conditioner that blew cold air onto the back of my neck. It felt good for about two seconds. I figured it was calculated, my chair strategically placed for maximum discomfort. Dunn’s chair faced the window with a view of the ocean and framed with a kaleidoscope of blossoms.
Unlike Robert, who had said “no problem, mon” about twenty-two times between the airport and the hotel, I could tell that the man in front of me was going to find a problem. Funny, though—something about him reminded me of Mack.
“As I told you on the phone, Chief Dunn,” I said, taking the same businesslike approach, “I am here at the Duvalls’ request. They’re having a difficult time accepting their son’s death, and the recent break-in at Mr. Duvall’s office renewed their concern that perhaps Michael Duvall’s drowning was not an accident.”
I thought that sounded pretty official, but he wasn’t buying it and he was really good at the “keep your distance” patter.
“I’m afraid you have wasted a trip down here, Ms. Sampson, though of course you will find our islands beautiful. My staff and I conducted an investigation. In spite of what his parents may think, it is clear that the Duvall boy drowned accidentally.
“I’ve heard it dozens of times before,” he continued, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. “Friends and relatives who simply can’t believe that their loved one could die on these sun-drenched beaches or in these crystal waters. This is an idyllic place, no doubt, but there are dangers.
“Just last week we recovered a body out at the Indians, a snorkeler who had been thrown into the rocks by the surge, while trying to swim between the pinnacles. He was knocked unconscious and drowned. No one could reach him in the churning surge and rocky outcropping. His wife and kids, who snorkeled not fifteen feet away, were smart enough not to try to follow him through. Michael Duvall was just another of the reckless and unlucky.”
“His parents can’t accept that,” I said. “They say he had a lot of respect for the ocean, spent hundreds of hours in and above the water.”
“Of course, that’s the parents’ perception, a son who can do no wrong. I did not know Michael Duvall, but after his death, I talked with his friends and associates. He was known to smoke pot, drink a bit too much some weekends, decide to skinny-dip off his neighbor’s dock. Like most young men, I believe he could be somewhat impulsive and in fact reckless. Fortunately most come through it unscathed and wiser. He was one of the unlucky ones.”
“I’d like to look at the file,” I said.
“Look, Ms. Sampson, I’m not too keen on some scuba-diving cop from Denver, who’s hardly put her big toe in salt water, coming down here and second-guessing our findings about accidental deaths in paradise.”
Clearly, Dunn had done his homework about my background.
“I understand. I’d feel the same if you were invading my territory, and you’re probably right about Michael Duvall. But I’d like to put it to rest once and for all. I think his parents deserve that. I’ll make it quick and I’ll stay out of your way. Hey, if you’re right, I’ll buy you a steak,” I said, trying to lighten things up.
“In da islands, mon, you buy Mai Mai and plenty of Heineken,” he replied, a quick smile crossing his face. “I’ll look forward to the meal. My secretary will get you the files. They cannot be removed from the office.”
By the time I got up, my head felt like it was perched on top of a Popsicle stick. I could hardly turn my neck, but damned if I’d let Dunn know. I had the feeling he’d been enjoying my discomfort.
He escorted me to the back office, asked his secretary to get me the Duvall file, wished me luck, and left.
I couldn’t place her, but I’d seen Dunn’s secretary somewhere before.
“Lorna Simms,” she said, extending fat stubby fingers. “So sorry I was rude—you know, on the plane.”
Right, the nasty woman in the lime-colored suit with the shopping bag on the airplane. How could I forget? In spite of the smile, her eyes were wary. I’d guess that life had been hard for Lorna Simms.
“I was visiting my sister. She was real sick. Kind of an emergency trip,” she said. “Came back yesterday. I’m afraid I was tired and cranky. A long trip.”
“I hope she’s okay,” I said.
“She’s going to be fine,” she said without further explanation. “Understand you are looking into that Duvall boy’s death. Terrible thing. I feel real sorry for those parents. Guess I can’t blame them for doubting things. Hard to accept a boy just dying like that so young. Parents never plan to outlive their kids.”
I hadn’t mentioned Duvall’s parents or an investigation to Lorna, but I had the feeling she didn’t miss much of what went on in the office.
“That boy shouldn’ta been out diving by hisself,” she said, shaking her head. “Kids that age they think they gonna live forever.”
“Did you know Michael?” I asked.
“Oh, not to speak of, just to say hello in passing. Seemed like a nice enough boy,” she said.
She brought the file and ushered me to another office as drab as Dunn’s but without the window. This was government frugality at its most efficient.
“How about coffee and a donut? Got a whole box. If you and the chief don’t eat ’em, I’ll have to,” she said. Clearly she had been forced to eat her share over the years.
“Just coffee would be great,” I said.
She returned moments later with a mug and hovered. I buried my face in paper and she finally got the message.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said as she closed the door.
Christ, the woman made me uncomfortable. I pegged her for the nosy, gossipy type. I figured the whole town would know who I was by nightfall.
There were no real surprises in the police report. The fisherman, on his way out to check his traps, had noticed Michael’s boat off an island called Great Camanoe. Didn’t think much about it. Most of the fishermen knew Michael and saw him frequently anchored around the islands. But he thought it strange when the boat was still there late in the afternoon. He’d gone alongside and hollered but did not board. Seemingly, boarding another’s boat is a lot like walking into someone’s home uninvited.
He reported it to the local police. Dunn went out and boarded the boat. Everything was in order. A couple of dive tanks, both full. The gas tank was half full, engine in good working order. The boat was tied to a mooring buoy that had been placed at the site by one of the dive companies.
With darkness coming on, Dunn had left the boat where it was. He spent the next morning checking with folks around the docks and at Michael’s apartment to see if for some reason Michael had come to shore with another boater, leaving his boat in open water.
By late that morning, Lydia had called to report him missing. He was supposed to have met her for dinner but never showed up. At first, she thought he had probably gotten absorbed in his work and forgotten, but when she had been unable to reach him the next morning, she got worried. He would have called her with all sorts of apologies.
That afternoon, Dunn returned to the boat with a couple of divers, Harry Acuff and Edmund Carr, to begin searching. It didn’t take Acuff and Carr long to find Michael in the wreck, hopelessly caught under the heavy cooling unit, his tank empty.
The divers said that it looked as though Michael had been exploring the wreck and had dislodged the compressor, which had wedged his entire lower leg against the hull of the ship. His regulator was floating in the water above his head. More than likely, at the end of his air supply and in complete panic, Michael had removed the useless device from his mouth and his last attempt at a breath had been to fill his lungs with water.