Without a Grave

TWELVE

AFTER A SHORT WALK UP THE HILL, I WAS SITTING AT THE BAR AT THE BLUFF HOUSE CHATTING WITH MY NEW FRIENDS WHEN A MAYDAY CAME ACROSS THE RADIO. ‘MAYDAY, MAYDAY, THIS IS OCEAN 55 ON A REEF OFF ELBOW CAY TAKING ON LOADS OF WATER.’ LATER DURING A VISIT TO HOPE TOWN, I FOUND THE BOAT COMPLETELY SUNK, AND KEEPING WITH ISLAND TRADITION THE SALVAGERS WERE OUT THERE THE NEXT MORNING STRIPPING THE BOAT OF ANYTHING USABLE, LIKE PROPS, RAILS ETC.Log of the Motu Iti, May 2000

Early the next morning, at my insistence, Paul took the ferry over to Marsh Harbour to see about buying a portable generator. Fine steaks were hard to come by in the islands, and watching helpless as they thawed… well, let’s say I know how the cavewoman felt when the gazelle she speared for dinner got up and ran away.

So that’s how it happened that the first time I set foot on the grounds of the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina, it was in the company of a sun-bleached son of the islands, not my husband.

As we bumped along in Gator’s golf cart, the Queen’s Highway changed from a narrow strip of pavement to an even narrower one, then to a rutted dirt track, finally to hard-packed sand as it curved away from the settlement toward the sea. On the Atlantic side of the island it doubled back, crested a hill, then – fwap! – a spectacular view of the Sea of Abaco nearly knocked me out of my Crocs. ‘They should have this in their brochures,’ I raved as we coasted down the other side.

Near the resort, the track widened to a less teeth-rattling strip of concrete wide enough for two golf carts to pass, although we didn’t meet anyone coming from the opposite direction. The lane was bordered by sea grape, hibiscus and patches of flame-red poinsettias from which life-size animal sculptures peeked; clearly a landscape designer had been at work.

Before long we arrived at a crimson gatehouse designed like an old-style British telephone booth. A gate decorated with driftwood painted like barracuda barred our way.

Gator mashed his foot down on the brake pedal and the cart slowed silently to a stop. A guard dressed in the Tamarind Tree uniform stepped out of the booth to check us out. I recognized the young man as being among the volunteers at the wildfire the other day, but couldn’t remember his name. His shirt saved me the trouble. When he got close enough, I could read the writing on the pocket: Lou.

Gator seemed to recognize the guy, too. ‘Hey, Lou. We need to see Jaime Mueller. Is he in?’

‘Do you have an appointment?’ Lou sounded more like a receptionist at a law firm than a security guard in paradise.

‘Since when do I need an appointment?’ Gator grumbled.

‘Just following orders, sir.’ Lou slipped a hand-held out of his belt and pressed the call button. ‘Jenny, Jenny, this is Gate One. Come in.’

The radio crackled to life. ‘Jenny here. Go ahead, Lou.’

‘Got some people here to see Jaime. He around? Over.’

‘Tennis courts, I think. Over.’

‘Thanks. Gate One out.’

‘Out.’

Still holding his radio and giving me the hairy eyeball, Lou asked, ‘Can I tell him who’s looking?’

‘Gator Crockett, from the dive shop. And this is Hannah Ives.’

‘Oh, sorry, Mr Crockett. I should have known.’ He pushed a button on a remote he carried on his belt and the gate swung slowly open.

As we drove through, I muttered, ‘Darn right, he should have known. Your dive-shop logo is plastered all over the hood of your cart.’

Gator snorted.

‘Hey!’ Lou called after us. ‘Follow the path around to the left. There’ll be signs directing you to the tennis courts. I’ll let Mr Mueller know you’re coming.’

I watched in the mirror as the gate swung shut behind us.

Gator guided his cart along paved, gently curving lanes lined with tropical plantings and tiki lights on six-foot poles. The same artist who’d painted the fish on the main gate had also designed the whimsical directional signs we saw throughout the resort. We came to a fork in the road where a turtle directed us to the right for ‘tennis courts,’ but Gator sailed right past.

‘Tennis courts are that way,’ I said, pointing behind me and to the right.

‘I know.’ Gator spun the steering wheel to the left, gunned the accelerator and grinned. ‘Now that we’re here, I thought we might take a little tour.’

We passed a grouper, a pelican and a frigate bird directing us to the kitchen, laundry room, and crew’s quarters, respectively, before rounding a bend that skirted an ornamental pond and appeared to dead end at a greenhouse. I was squinting at the greenhouse windows, trying to see the orchids that Rudy Mueller had told me about, but everything blurred as Gator steered hard left and we shot through a gap in the casuarinas.

Long before we got to the dolphin that said ‘Generator’ we heard the drone of its engine, progressively increasing to a mind-numbing whine as we drew closer. Immediately behind the generator enclosure the water-treatment plant loomed into view, a state-of-the-art facility that supposedly used a reverse osmosis process to convert sea water to drinking water. Clearly, Mueller’s Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina had no intention of falling to its knees at the mercy of either the BEC or Mother Nature.

Gator’s tour had taken us in a wide circle to the western end of the island. When we reached the Atlantic beach, Gator killed the engine and climbed out of the cart. With both hands in his pockets he stood quietly on the dune, surveying the reef. ‘We’re standing on the fifth hole.’

I got out of the cart and joined him, appreciating the view while I could. ‘It’s criminal, isn’t it?’

‘How many golf courses does a small group of islands need?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Baker’s Bay, Treasure Cay, Abaco Beach Resort… they’re all just a stone’s throw from Hawksbill.’

I stole a look at him. His profile was set, grim. I wanted to hug the man and tell him everything would be all right even when I knew it probably wouldn’t. ‘It’s not over ’til it’s over,’ I said.

Gator adjusted his cap, pulling the bill down over his forehead to better shade his eyes against the glare of the sun slanting off the water. ‘It’s like trying to stop an avalanche.’

The man was in mourning. How do you console someone for the death of an island, a way of life?

I returned to the golf cart, climbed in and sat there quietly, leaving Gator alone with his thoughts. After a few minutes, he hopped in next to me, turned the key, floored the accelerator and sent the cart hurtling down the ocean path at breakneck speed, or what passes for breakneck speed in a golf cart, which is to say about fifteen miles per hour. He steered the vehicle around a curve and up a steep incline. The near-silent whine of the battery-powered engine changed to a rude putt-putt-putt as the gasoline booster kicked in to give us the extra oomph we needed to get up and over the hill.

At the bottom of the hill, we rounded a curve and sailed past the spa which was built up on stilts, South Pacific-style, before coming to a dolphin with ‘Tennis Court’ carved into its tail.

There was not one court, however, but three. Jaime Mueller was doing a stationary prance on one of them, looking very GQ in white tennis shorts and a blue polo shirt. A matching sweatband encircled his forehead. He was lobbing balls back and forth across the net with another one of the uniformed college boys.

Gator slotted his golf cart next to a cart emblazoned with the familiar TTR logo and we watched as Jaime missed a few easy ones. Gator chuckled. ‘Hole in the boy’s racquet.’

‘Maybe he’s letting the other guy win?’

‘Jaime? What are you smoking?’

Jaime’s opponent was poised with his racquet aloft and a tennis ball in his left hand when he noticed us. He lowered the racquet. ‘Mr Mueller?’

Jaime noticed us, too, and waved his racquet, halting the game. He ambled over to the sideline, snatched a towel off a chair and approached us, mopping his face and neck. ‘Hey, Gator. And it’s Hannah, isn’t it?’ He flashed a grin so white and toothy that I could have played chopsticks on his teeth. He flipped the towel over a silver buttonwood bush. ‘I never forget a pretty face.’

I bit my tongue.

‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘Some place we can talk?’

‘Iced tea?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Meet you up at the lodge, then.’

A few minutes later, Gator and I had parked the cart and were meandering up the well-maintained, beautifully landscaped path that led to the Tamarind Tree restaurant. ‘A bit more upmarket than the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, isn’t it?’ I commented.

The short path that led from the Queen’s Highway to our favorite local establishment was neatly bordered with polished conch shells, its yellow elder and one small gumbo-limbo tree festooned with flotsam and jetsam – considered good luck in the islands – like a Christmas tree on Gilligan’s Island. At the Cruise Inn and Conch Out, one ate inside.

At the Tamarind Tree, on the other hand, one dined on the veranda in green wicker chairs – plastic-coated but expensive – while fans with blades like palm branches rotated slowly overhead. White cloths covered tables decorated with fresh hibiscus in tall, oriental-style vases. We sat down at one of them and talked about the weather while awaiting the arrival of our iced tea, delivered after a few minutes by a beautiful Bahamian girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

Jaime leered. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’

She ducked her head modestly and scurried away. Smart girl. Looked to me like Jaime’d been fixing to pat her tush.

Jaime ripped open a packet of Sweet’N Low and dumped it into his tea. ‘So, what can I do for you?’ He tore the wrapper off a straw, plopped the straw into his tea and stirred vigorously. ‘Have you reconsidered my offer to operate out of the dive shop here at Tamarind Tree?’

Gator skewered Jaime with ice-cold eyes and got straight to the point. ‘The Alice in Wonderland. Tell me about it.’

I watched Jaime’s face as a full range of emotions played across it – a self-satisfied smile, puzzlement, worry, and finally a straight-lipped, raised-eyebrow glare that I could describe only as arrogant. Jaime put the straw to his lips and sipped, making a production out of drawing the liquid up slowly, swallowing, and setting his glass back on the table. Buying time, I decided. Making up his cover story as he went along.

Gator and I waited patiently while Jaime got his act together.

‘Found it,’ he said at last.

‘You found it?’ I blurted.

‘Had to take some prospects back to Harbour Island the other day. As I came back across the Devil’s Backbone, I found it grounded on the rocks off Spanish Wells, sails still up and flapping. Pulled alongside, as anyone would, to see if there was anything I could do to help.’ He spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged. ‘But nobody was aboard.’

‘Nobody?’

‘Not a soul. Like they’d evaporated or something. I tied up alongside, climbed aboard and looked around. It was fucking spooky, like that ghost ship, the Marie Something.’

‘Mary,’ I corrected. ‘The Mary Celeste.’

‘Right.’

‘What was the name of the boat you boarded?’

‘Wanderer.’ Jaime yawned.

I wanted to slap him. ‘Did you know that there is a bulletin out for that vessel? It belongs to Frank Parker, a scientist from the Smithsonian Institution in Washington DC.’

‘No shit!’

We waited, saying nothing. Jaime stared at us until he felt compelled to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice. ‘I figured pirates.’

Gator snorted. ‘Pirates? In the Abacos? There haven’t been any pirates in the Bahamas since the eighteenth century.’

‘Haitians, then.’ Jaime raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Look, man, when I got on board, there wasn’t nobody there. No… who’d you say? Frank Parker? No papers. Nada. I reported it to the police. What more do you want?’

‘I’ve been asking about Wanderer and the Parkers on the Cruisers’ Net every day for a week now.’

‘I don’t listen to the Cruisers’ Net, do I? So how was I to know? Maybe you should have printed up a “lost” notice and tacked it to all the telephone poles around the island.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Besides, how do I know it’s the same boat? Lots of boats have the same name.’

That, at least, was true. ‘It won’t take long to trace the numbers on the boat’s builder’s plaque,’ I said. ‘Which brings up an interesting point. Why did you have the plaque removed?’

‘I figured it didn’t matter.’

I took a deep breath, counted silently to three and let it out. ‘Didn’t matter? I’m sure it mattered to the boat’s owner.’

‘I’m the owner.’

I opened my mouth to protest, but Gator laid a cautionary hand on my arm. ‘He’s right. If the boat was abandoned, and he salvaged it, then it’s his.’

Across the table Jaime nodded like a bobble-head doll. ‘The boat was a derelict, thrown up on the rocks, jagged hole in her hull. I’d say that qualified as being deserted by those in charge of it, without hope of recovery, and with no intention of returning, don’t you? Bahamian Law. Chapter 274, Title 7.’ He pressed on in that vein, peppering his dissertation with legal-speak and words like flotsam, jetsam and ligan. The S.O.B. had memorized the law. I wanted to wipe the smirk off the supercilious bastard’s face.

‘Whatever happened to the Parkers,’ I said, turning to Gator, ‘it happened on that boat. Frank and Sally never would have left Wanderer voluntarily. It was their home!’

‘You’re free to search it if you want,’ Jaime said.

I looked hopefully at Gator. ‘We should contact the police. Have them look the boat over for signs of…’

Jaime leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘Foul play? Oh, right. CSI Marsh Harbour.’

‘Don’t they…’ I began.

Gator leaned toward me, forearms resting on his knees. ‘I’ll talk to them, Hannah. Since US citizens are involved, they may send out the crime scene unit from Grand Bahama.’

‘How about the US Coast Guard?’ As I talked I skimmed through my mental Roledex of contacts in Washington DC. ‘The FBI? Or Interpol?’

Gator touched my arm. ‘One step at a time.’

Nothing about what Jaime said made any sense. Frank and Sally had last been sighted in Great Sale, heading toward Hawksbill Cay. Eleuthera, where Jaime insisted Wanderer had been found, was an island chain way to the south and east of the Abacos. Wanderer would have had to sail past Hawksbill Cay, down the eastern shore of Great Abaco and out into the Atlantic Ocean before reaching Eleuthera. A two-day sail, at least.

‘Do you have any witnesses to back up what you’re telling us,’ I blurted.

Jaime sucked in his lower lip and shook his head. ‘Yes and no.’

We waited. If the jerk didn’t start telling the truth soon, I was going to rip a tiki torch out of its holder and club him to death with it.

Jaime took a deep breath. ‘The guy who was with me? Craig Meeks?’ A sigh. ‘Thought you might have heard.’ A long pause while Jaime arranged his face into a fairly good imitation of sadness and concern. ‘He’s the one who died in the wildfire.’

A vision of Craig Meeks as I had last seen him swam into my brain, taking dark possession of it. The tiny sips of tea I had consumed threatened to make an encore. I pressed a napkin to my mouth. ‘Excuse me,’ I mumbled. I sprang to my feet and dashed madly in the direction of the ladies room, hoping I’d make it into a cubicle before disgracing myself in the frangipani.

When I returned to the veranda five minutes later, Jamie was nowhere to be seen, and Gator was waiting for me in the golf cart. As the main gate swung shut behind us, Gator said, ‘Died in the fire, huh? How very convenient.’

Still fighting back waves of nausea I said, ‘Jaime’s a lying sack of shit.’

‘He’s also a bit fuzzy on maritime law, Hannah. A salvor can take possession of an abandoned boat, but technically it’s still the property of the owner. If the owner wants it back, he’s obliged to come to some sort of agreement with the salvor. Money usually, but the owner can say, screw it, keep the boat.’

‘If you can find the owners,’ I added grimly.

I hung on to the canopy to keep from being dumped into the casuarinas when Gator made a hard right. He center-lined the wheel and turned his head to look at me. ‘I know the bastard stole that boat, but what I can’t figure out is why. He’s got more money than God. Or at least his Papa has.’

‘Guys like Jaime learn early on that rules apply only to other people,’ I said. I thought about the special treatment recruited athletes get, even at the Naval Academy where sports weren’t supposed to be as big a deal as they were in the Big Ten. Cocky jocks whose performance on the field was so important to mankind that it couldn’t be interrupted by anything so mundane as class work or exams. Or, if one really got into trouble, jail time. ‘Maybe Papa keeps his little boy on a short leash,’ I added.

Suddenly, the wheels on my side of the cart wobbled off the pavement and dipped into the sand. I made a grab for the wheel, shouting, ‘Eyes on the road!’

Seconds before we might have gone crashing ignominiously into a poisonwood tree, Gator regained control.

When we were safely on the road again, I said, ‘Wanderer might have been abandoned for some reason I don’t even want to contemplate, but barring some dramatic shift in the tectonic plates of the time-space continuum, there’s no way in hell she was all the way down in Eleuthera, not if that cruiser who reported seeing her up in Great Sale a few days ago was right.’

‘Bermuda Triangle?’ Gator snorted at his own joke and gunned the accelerator.

Back in Hawksbill settlement, Gator eased his golf cart into a vacant parking spot near the Pink Grocery and walked back with me to the dock where I’d tied Pro Bono. As I climbed down the ladder and jumped into my boat, he said, ‘I’ll contact the Marsh Harbour police and make sure they know that the Wanderer’s been found.’

‘Thanks, Gator.’

He untied the painter and after I’d started the motor, dropped the rope down to me. ‘Meanwhile, see if you can rustle up anyone on the Net who actually saw Wanderer with the Parkers aboard between Great Sale and here.’

‘Will do.’

‘And, Hannah?’

I looked up, way up, into Gator’s worried, suntanned face. ‘Yes?’

‘Remember what I told you. This is the Bahamas, not Maryland USA. Leave it to the locals. Don’t get involved.’

I pushed Pro Bono away from the piling and pointed her out into the harbor. ‘I’ll try, Gator,’ I shouted to his diminishing figure. ‘It’s not in my nature, but I’ll honestly try.’