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.