They hopped into the boat. My stomach was already doing cartwheels in anticipation of the ocean voyage.
“Guys, I get seasick. I need something.”
Harold lifted the cushions of a seat and fished out a Canada Dry Ginger Ale. I sipped the lukewarm soda as we motored out of the marina toward Hassel Island.
An alpha-male in blue steered. Harold had seated himself on the bow, arms hugging his knees. The wind whipped through his stringy locks. Junior paced around in front of me, wringing his hands and muttering, “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”
I wanted to say something to alleviate his guilt. “Junior, it wasn’t your fault.”
He spun, planting both hands on the cushion next to me. “Not my fault! I’m the one she talked to most.”
“But you weren’t here.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I’ve wanted to be gone for a long time. But I should have stayed. She needed me.”
“Why’d you want to be gone?”
“It’s complicated. My dad put me up in boarding school, so I figured I’d prove that I was okay with it. Like, hey man, I got this handled. I’m a man. Plus ... ”
He pushed up and started pacing again. Although he was moving he had that same frozen look in his eyes I’d seen when Kendal was shot.
The boat jounced over a wave. Ginger ale sloshed on my hand. I sucked it off and took another sip. My stomach started to churn. Behind us, the clutch of houses and low buildings that made up Charlotte Amalie shrank. A white cruise ship dominated the right side of the harbor. I tried to make out my office building, but the docks and other buildings concealed it from view. Bluebeard’s Castle stood above to the east and below it, The West Indian Manner nestled behind two tall coconut trees and the avocado tree. I knew the termites were devouring it, but from here, the tree looked whole, at peace.
“I know what you mean,” I said without turning around. “I went off with the same intention. Fathers seem to do that, but maybe that’s how it works. Fathers shove their offspring out of the nest. You fly or fall.”
“Falling. Done a fair amount of that,” he said.
I didn’t know what else to say to Junior. It all seemed so stupid. Harold in the bow, his dirty-blond locks whipping in the wind, looking too cool in his Oakleys. The kid had more family than I did, as well as more opportunities. Boarding school sounded pretty good to me. I envied Junior. It’s why I’d left New Orleans where we’d started living with my mom’s cousin after my father went on disability. To disappear. To stop being seen. To stop being a part of the dysfunction. All Junior wanted was to be included. To be let in on the business. In the end, we both had different solutions for the same problem.
Harold groaned as he stepped down from the edge back into the cockpit area.
“Yo, man, this is fucked up. Can’t believe we’re going to see where mama bought it.” He looked at me. One of his eyes was black.
“Creepy, right? I sometimes burst a blood vessel under extreme stress. I think this qualifies, dude.”
“Who’s showing us what here?”
“We know people, like this guy.” He nodded at the blue-shirt wearing pilot. “Former cop. Eddie, say ‘hey’ to Boise.”
Eddie grunted acknowledgement without turning around.
“Eddie,” I said to the back of his head. “Okay, what’s Eddie’s story,” I asked.
“Friend of mama’s. He heard and called his buddies on the force to get us some photos and an unobstructed look at the crime scene. Eddie’s the man, right, Eddie?” Harold slapped the thick man on the shoulder. Eddie gave a slightly more cordial grunt. “Detective named ... what’s it again, Eddie?”
This time, Eddie spoke with a thick West Indian accent. “Leber.”
Chapter 10
Leber. Did this guy ever take off his sunglasses? The Bacon family had pull. Detective Leber wore another billiard-ball colored button-down. Eddie and he nodded at each other in some cop greeting. Leber must have made the journey over in the police boat moored at the dock.
We stood on the beach in front of some stone and brick ruins I’d hiked through once on a cub scout trip. Hassel Island was home to a few hundred folks who were mostly hippie types that liked to be more isolated than the bustling tourist trap of St. Thomas allowed. A ferry serviced the island. In elementary school one of the girls, who cut her hair short and smelled like sage, lived over here. I’d had a crush on her for a minute in fourth grade.
“Eddie, this better be good. I already spent the morning doing my rowing workout in this harbor, now you got me out here again. I don’t like motorized vessels. Too noisy.” Leber shifted his attention to Junior and me. “We really should stop meeting at murder scenes.”
“Wait, you’re saying my grandma was murdered?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Someone killed her.”
“How do you know that?” Junior demanded.
“You certainly are more rambunctious today than when last we met,” Leber said scratching his arm. “Look, I’m doing a favor for Eddie. That’s it. I’m not here to be interrogated. We’ll save that for the suspects when I locate them. All of you, including you.” He pointed at me. “Have a date at the station for questioning tomorrow.”
Harold nodded plaintively. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be there.”
“Don’t gimme no sass, boy. Y’all done gone and involved yourselves with two people who’re dead, and we are gonna want answers.”
“Two?” Harold asked.
Junior stepped forward. “Can we stick with this outing. We’ll be there tomorrow, Detective Leber. Promise.” Leber glanced at Eddie, who again gave a nod. This seemed to relax the detective.
A patch of sand on the beach. The waves surged in and out. A hint of chop on a fairly calm day. My stomach settled more and more the longer we stood on solid ground. I bent, getting closer to
