Off Season

 

By David Grace

 

 

          Lt. Cox stood on the veranda of Porter's Hotel and watched the afternoon ferry warp tight to the dock. Late August was past the normal tourist season in Saint Crispins if, in fact, a tourist season could be said to exist there at all. 

Hildago opened the worn gate in the Blue Bell's port side and extended the ramp. Today eight people, not counting Hidalgo, Captain McKee and Wilson Ames, the first mate, came ashore. Six were Island People returning home from Antigua, six hours north and west up the chain. Two years ago something called The Big Box had opened there and now every month or two a troop of locals made a pilgrimage. This afternoon Hattie Fife waved a large mahogany-colored arm, and, grunting and sweating, her husband pulled a dolly holding a mini-fridge up the dock behind her.

With a perfect economy of motion Cox raised a pair of miniature binoculars and studied the last two travelers as they walked down the ramp. The first was white man in his middle thirties dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, tan slacks and polished brown loafers. A gold pen was clipped in his shirt pocket and he carried a soft brown leather suitcase in his left hand.

Businessman, Cox decided. Probably has some scheme to build a hotel and lure the tourists away from St. Kitts or Montserrat. Involuntarily, Cox frowned. There were plenty of tourist islands already. He was content to leave St. Crispins just the way it was. Well, no doubt Governor Cornwell would set the man straight. Or lose his job in the next election if he didn't.

When the last visitor slid into the binoculars’ field of view, Cox's ebony forehead wrinkled in confusion. Winston Cox prided himself on his ability to identify people by their dress and appearance. Such a skill was vital since Cox considered the citizens and occasional visitors to St. Crispins as innocents under his protection. He viewed himself as akin to a sheep dog bred and trained to ward off wolves and was convinced that he had been blessed with a sixth sense that allowed him to recognize carnivores in all their guises. The last man on the dock, however, presented a confusion of signals.

His skin reflected a mixture of races whose origins and composition were muddied and unclear. Basically Caucasian, it held hints of both Red Indian and far Cathay. Neither purely white, nor yellow, brown nor red, it changed in light and shadow, one instant a pale tan, the next a sallow pink.

The man's hair, too, was neither brown nor black but some color in between, combed straight back, unparted, but, when he lifted his hat, Cox saw that it was waved like Chimago Bay in the morning breeze.

Cox re-focused the binoculars, and though his eyesight was as perfect as his gleaming teeth, he found himself squinting at the crescent of face beneath the blue slouch hat. Twenty five? No, a wrinkle here, a sag there, surely too young. Fifty? But look at his step, the lithe movement of his hips. Not past forty-five certainly.

Even the visitor's clothing confused Cox as if each piece had been randomly collected from the closets of a host of men. The Nike sneakers belonged on the feet of a college boy or an athlete. The khaki shorts and long white socks a mirror of Cox's own dress. But from the belt up! A crimson t-shirt with the picture of a green-leafed palm on the back, and on the front a pocket with a notepad and ballpoint pen all topped by a pale blue, soft brimmed cotton hat which the man periodically removed to wipe his brow. Cox admitted that he was stumped. Tourist, student, beach bum, businessman, college professor, adventurer, drug smuggler -- the stranger could be any of these or none.

Cox slipped the tiny binoculars into his pocket, adjusted his black-brimmed cap to its regulation angle, and assumed a measured pace through the hotel. He waited just inside the lobby doors, expecting the stranger to enter and book a room. Glancing casually left and right down Blythe's main street, the man maintained an air of polite indifference and walked past Porter's Hotel, the Harmony Bakery and Cecilia's Restaurant without slowing.

Winston adjusted his perfectly pressed olive uniform shirt with the red shoulder patches and piping at the top of each pocket, checked the rubber coated extensible steel baton at his belt, the whistle hanging on the black nylon cord around his neck, then exited the lobby and sauntered up High Street a hundred feet behind his quarry.

In the thick afternoon light the colors of the buildings deepened, Edwards' Marine Supplies and Chandlery almost fluorescing a deep royal blue, Cecilia's Restaurant brick red. The hotel's white walls were made even more intense by the forest green trim around the windows and doors. Apparently oblivious to it all the stranger continued to the end of the block, then turned right on Queen's Drive. Halfway down the block he entered the Royal Island Realty. Involuntarily, Winston frowned.

Harold Carver, a meaty, broad-shouldered conniver, owned Royal Island Realty and despite Winston's careful attention, Carver had managed to remain at least two steps ahead of the Lieutenant's grasp. Crossing the street, Winston ducked into Everett's Barber Shop. Everett Shaw, a chocolate-skinned widower, lay in his chair, snoring gently. The bell over the door dinged  and Everett snorted, then blinking, peered into the rich afternoon light.

"Lieutenant?"Everett said, rousing himself. "You need a trim, maybe a nice hot towel and a shave?"

"Afternoon, Everett. I'd like to look out of your window for a few minutes if you don't mind."

Confused, Shaw shrugged and waved at the pane. "Sure, the view's free. Help yourself."

For ten minutes Cox stood at the edge of the window, half sheltered by the large red script words 'Barber Shop' painted on the glass. Then the stranger appeared with Harold Carver right behind him. Carver led the man to his gleaming Honda Accord parked at the curb. Having imported the Honda at huge expense, Carver paid a boy to wash and polish it twice a week until its deep blue surface glowed like an immense Faberge egg.

"Corporal Stanley, pick me up at Everett's Barbershop right away," Cox radioed his driver then waved politely to Shaw and stepped outside. Thirty seconds later, Robert Stanley, six feet four and a hundred and thirty five pounds pulled to the curb. Cox took the left front seat, St. Crispins having followed the custom of its British founders with the steering wheel on the right side.

"Where are we going, sir?" Stanley asked taking in the lazy afternoon scene. In his secret heart Stanley longed for an emergency, an all-out car chase like those on the American TV shows. The Department had ordered Cox's Camry with the largest engine available, a 220 horsepower V-6, and Stanley was half desperate for an excuse to press the accelerator to the floor and demonstrate what he was sure were his innate racing skills. Had the Sailor's and Seamen's Bank been robbed? Was there a dope dealer on the run?

"Head out Queen's Drive. Harold Carver's taking a visitor someplace and I want to know where."

"Yes, sir!" Stanley said a bit too enthusiastically.

"Keep it under forty, Corporal. I don't want them to know we're watching."

"Yes, sir," a dejected Stanley acknowledged and made a gentle right north on Queen's, the sapphire Accord now barely a dot on the horizon.

Inwardly Cox smiled, though no trace of humor reached his placid, pitch-black face. A quick flick of his eyes confirmed his suspicions. Shoulders hunched forward, both hands tightly gripping the wheel, Stanley was crouched like a bloodhound straining at the leash.

"That's close enough, Corporal. The island's not so big that he's likely to lose us."

Frowning sourly, Stanley leaned back and allowed the needle to drift down to a stately thirty-five. For ten minutes they followed Carver through the cane fields, fifteen foot tall green stalks surrounding them like canyon walls, then beyond the plantations and into the scrub. Twenty minutes later the Accord turned west on a gravel track leading to Stovepipe Lagoon.

"Nothing down there but the old Mayhew place," Stanley said as he neared the turnoff. "Do you want me to follow them, sir?"

"I'll go on foot. Pull the car around the next bend and wait for me."

"I'd be happy to come along, sir, in case there's trouble."

Three months ago the Big Box had announced a give-away of DVD's of the first season of something called Miami Vice to purchasers of the first one hundred a new DVD/32 inch TV combination. Stanley had used up three of his vacation days to make sure he was at the head of the line.

"Thank you, Corporal, but I'm sure I'll be fine. Just make sure Carver doesn't spot the car."

Cox jogged down the gravel road as it first cut through scrub palmettos then wound between dunes and dove for the beach. The Lieutenant paused at the edge of the last dune and swept his glasses over the cove. A single story house was perched three feet above the sand, open on all sides save for the sliding windows and screens. Quite small, it had belonged to a retired British Army Colonel from Sussex who his whole life had longed for a Caribbean getaway. Possessed of a big living room and kitchen, a shower and toilet and a fifteen by twenty foot bedroom, with a huge covered deck in back overlooking the beach, the cottage was guarded on the landward side by a line of palms. Carver's Accord blazed a magnificent cerulean at the next to the north wall.

Through the screens Cox could see Carver giving the stranger a tour, obviously pointing out the supposed advantages of the little retreat. Cox jogged back to his car and ordered Stanley to wait in case Carver had other properties on his list. Apparently  the stranger was satisfied with what he saw and by sundown both of them were back in town. Carver dropped his new client at Martin Forness's garage where the stranger rented a fifteen year old jeep, then, after a dinner at Cecilia's, returned his new home.

"A decisive man, Corporal," Cox said as they watched the Jeep's taillights disappear into the darkness.

"I could stake the place out, sir," Stanley offered.

"Thank you, Corporal, but I don't think that will be necessary."

"You think he's all right, then, sir?"

"All right? No, Corporal, I don't think he's all right, not right at all."

 

*    *     *

 

For the next few days Cox kept his distance, allowing the stranger to grow complacent. Finally, when almost a week had passed, Cox contrived to bump into the man at Jenny's Grocery and General Emporium. Today, wearing a blue and red patterned short-sleeved shirt with a button down collar, cut-off jeans, white socks and sandals, the visitor was perusing the tinned foods when Winston walked by.

"Excuse me," Cox said politely, reaching for a can of Spam, then pausing as if noticing the stranger for the first time.  "I don't believe we've met. I'm Winston Cox." Cox extended his huge right hand.

"Vinge Moreau," the stranger replied. "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant."

Cox suppressed a small jolt of surprise that the man knew who he was.

"Are you enjoying Saint Crispins, Mr. Moreau? Finding everything you need?"

"Oh, getting on quite well, thank you." Moreau smiled politely but volunteered no further information.

"We're quite informal here but if you intend to stay longer then three months you'll need to stop by Government House and have your passport stamped and fill out a form."

"Thank you. Every place has its own system." Moreau glanced politely at the shelf of canned goods.

"If you think you'll be here that long, I'd be happy to walk you over there right now and take care of you myself, if it would be convenient."

"That's very kind of you, Lieutenant, but I have a few things to do today. I'll be sure to stop by Government House long before three months have gone by."

"So, you'll be staying with us for a while then?"

Moreau shrugged as if his future were as much a mystery to himself as it was to Cox. Turning away, Moreau picked up a can of corned beef and peered intently at the list of ingredients.

"May I ask you," Cox continued in a friendly tone, "where you are from? I pride myself on my ability to identify a person's background but you're something of a challenge."

"Really? I feel quite ordinary myself, as lacking in mystery as that can of Spam."

"You do yourself a disservice. So, you are from . . . ?"

"Where do you think?" Moreau asked with a polite smile.

Moreau? French? No, too easy. American? No, something about that didn't quite fit. "New Zealand?" Cox said finally, more a shot in the dark than anything else.

"My dear fellow, you're a wonder. New Zealand. Exactly right." Beaming, Moreau glanced past the Lieutenant at a stack of canned sardines.

"A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Moreau," Cox said finally.

"The pleasure was all mine, Lieutenant." Moreau plucked a tin of salmon from the shelf and wandered away.

 

*     *     *

 

For the next three weeks, life on St. Crispins droned along at its normal relaxed pace. Two cane cutters got drunk and borrowed the foreman's truck and were promptly arrested then released into their employer's custody until the end of the season. Cox and his men dealt with their usual ration of fist fights, a stolen bicycle, and the other petty crimes and misdemeanors common to the island. In addition to their normal duties, from time to time Cox randomly assigned one of his men to keep a careful but distant eye on Vinge Moreau.