A Quarter for a Kiss (16 page)

She thought about that for a few moments.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I can do that. We’ll fly down tomorrow, I’ll give you the whole island tour, and then I’ll stay out of your way. But I’ll be there if you need me.”

“And you won’t tell your friends what’s going on?”

She held up three fingers, like the Girl Scout pledge.

“On my honor, I will keep my mouth shut,” she said. “Now what time’s our flight?”

“Eight o’clock in the morning. That means we need to leave for the airport at five.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I guess it would be three to the islands, then. I hoped Tom wouldn’t mind that I had told Jodi yes without consulting him first.

Because we wouldn’t be needing a hotel, I clicked off the hotel’s website and went back to the airline’s, adding a reservation for Jodi. I reserved a car too, knowing Tom and I would be more comfortable driving a rental. If something came up where we needed another car, then we might borrow one of Stella’s.

Jodi happily went off down the hall to do laundry, and I used the time to go through my e-mail. I had a note from Lindsey, asking me if she could register Sal for the Osprey Cove Mayday Parade. There was a pet costume contest and she wanted to dress Sal as William Shakespup. (Lindsey was dating a guy who was active in community theatre, and everything she did lately seemed to relate somehow to the stage.) I wrote back and said it was okay with me, as long as the costume wasn’t personally humiliating for Sal and I didn’t have to have any part of it—including leading my dog around on a leash while she sported a pleated ruff and a doublet.

I took some time to send a long message to Harriet, telling her about my vacation in North Carolina. She and I still hadn’t had a chance to chat, and I felt guilty about that. Maybe one day soon I would give her a call. In the meantime, I needed to go through all of my stuff, get organized, and figure out what I would be bringing with me.

Stella checked in with us around seven, sounding tired but hopeful. Eli had had an EEG, and it showed definite brainwave activity.

“The coma is because his body is still in shock,” she said. “But the doctor said his vital signs are better. He’s starting to feel confident that Eli might pull through after all.”

“Oh, Stella, thank the Lord.”

“Thank the Lord indeed.”

I told her Tom and I were still working on the investigation, but that it had become necessary for us to go down to the Virgin Islands. Our flight to St. Thomas was in the morning.

“I
told
you that’s when Eli started acting funny,” she said. “When we went to St. John.”

I was afraid she was going to ask me about the particulars of the investigation, but instead she simply started talking about the house down there, where she kept the key, how to turn the hot water on, and all of that. Finally, I told her that Jodi was “thinking” about coming with us.

“Oh, that would be good,” Stella said, surprising me with her reaction. “She’ll be a big help to you.”

Before we hung up, I told her that I needed to ask her one more question, and that she could think about it and call me back if she needed to.

“Eli had some…equipment,” I said. “I think you called them his ‘little tools.’ I need to know where he might have kept them.”

If he had things like tape recorders and binoculars and stuff, and if we could get our hands on them, it would save us a lot of time, money, and trouble.

“Oh, sure,” she said, not even hesitating. “They’re in the hidden compartment.”

“The hidden compartment?”

I thought of Eli’s notes, where he said he organized the “h.c.” with his new tools. It didn’t get much more straightforward than that.

Stella described the hidden compartment in her house in St. John. It was at the back of the pantry in the kitchen, a false wall that slid open when you twisted the cup hook that was mounted next to it.

“I think it was originally built for drying spices,” she said. “I never needed it. When Eli asked me if he could use it, I said sure. I didn’t care.”

“And you’re positive he left all of that stuff down there?”

“Oh, yeah. He said it was the best hiding place he’d ever had.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Stella. That’ll be a big help.”

I was all packed by nine and feeling tired enough to go on to bed. I brought some supper over to Tom at the neighbor’s apartment, where he was still on the computer trying to take care of business before we left the country.

“Are you sure you can do this?” I asked as I handed him his plate. “You can miss even more time from the office?”

He shrugged as he smiled up at me.

“It’s my company,” he said. “What am I going to do? Fire myself?”

Seventeen

Tom had more work to do on his laptop in the morning, so on the plane he switched seats with Jodi, and she and I sat together all the way to Miami. The arrangement worked out well because she had an opportunity to pick my brain about how to choose a good charity. She had made up a list of the three places where she was considering donating her money, and at first she was wondering if I would do the investigations for her. With my time at a minimum and my attentions focused elsewhere, however, I was able to convince her that she could do the investigations herself and merely use me as a reference.

I wrote down the list of criteria I always used for evaluating nonprofits and then explained the first two steps—“a good charity serves a worthwhile cause” and “a good charity adequately fulfills its mission statement, showing fruits for its labors”—in detail.

“But how do I know if they’re doing all of that?” she asked.

“First, get a copy of their mission statement,” I said. “Then take a look at what they do. Talk to people. Read the literature. Visit their facilities. You can get a good idea of how a place is run by connecting with volunteers, employees, and the population they serve. You know, you have an extra consideration here I don’t usually have to worry about.”

“What’s that?”

“The number one rule when donating to a charity.”

She perked up, giving me her full attention.

“Jodi, it has to be a cause that’s important to
you
. You personally. It’s your money. Most good fundraising consultants know that when all is said and done, the person who
gave
the money should be just as happy and excited about their donation as the people at the place who
got
the money. It’s all about supporting a cause you feel is important. Which one of these three causes lights the biggest fire inside of you?”

She took a sip of her juice.

“This one,” she said, pointing to the third entry on the list, something called SPICE. “I mean, the other two are great causes. My dad died of cancer, you know, so that’s why I was thinking of that one. And I have a friend who was helped a lot by this other one—it’s a halfway house for substance abusers. But this third listing is the one that interests me the most personally.”

“SPICE? What is that?”

“It’s a group of people working to preserve the rich history of the entire Caribbean. SPICE stands for the Society for the Preservation of Indigenous Caribbean Ethnicities. Their primary goal is to collect, compile, and present a true picture of the Caribbean and its people up until the time that Christopher Columbus first came there. My friend Sandy is overseeing a dig in St. John, studying the ancient Taino culture. Eventually, SPICE hopes to raise enough money to build a giant museum of the Caribbean, either in St. Thomas or San Juan.”

I sat back in my seat, fingering the list in front of me.

“Now that’s an interesting choice for you,” I said. “What is it about the project you find so exciting?”

She thought about it.

“Probably that no one has ever done this, at least not on a grand scale. Entire cultures, entire ethnic groups, have disappeared from the world’s radar because nothing was done to preserve or promote their heritage. The Tainos are extinct, for example, but by understanding their culture, their traditions—even their diet—we can learn so much about the islands, the history, and the heritage of the people who live there now.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a history buff,” I said.

She shrugged.

“I’m not. I just…as a kid, you know, going down to St. John was the highlight of my year. And it wasn’t just the scenery or the swimming that I loved. It was the people, the music. The food. The smells. The stories. I had a babysitter there who loved to tell me the ancient legends and fables of the island. In almost every story, there was such sadness, such loss. It was almost as though I could see their heritage disappearing before my eyes. SPICE is going to keep that from happening. They will preserve the past.”

I smiled, pleased with the excitement that clearly shone in Jodi’s eyes as she talked about the charity.

“What?” she asked, noticing my smile.

“You should see yourself,” I said. “We in the business of nonprofits call this the ‘fever.’ You’ve got the fever for this particular charity, Jodi. I think you should investigate it, and if it checks out, make your donation to them.”

“I think you’re right,” she replied happily. “Thank you, Callie.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s talk about how you can get started.”

Because Jodi already had a friend on the inside, I suggested she exploit that resource fully.

“The single best way to find out if a nonprofit really has their act together is to talk one-on-one with the folks who work there. If they feel they can be honest with you, they will tell you things you might not find out any other way. Concentrate on spending, salaries, administration, planning—things like that. You want to know if this is a good group, if they are doing what they claim to be doing in a responsible, cost-efficient manner.”

I wasn’t sure if Jodi would understand the nonprofit mindset, so I tried to explain how there were industry standards for things like salaries and benefits—and how they rarely matched the rates paid in the for-profit sector.

“Working for a nonprofit can sometimes require a lot of sacrifice, monetarily speaking,” I said. “But what you lack in income you usually get back in job satisfaction. Imagine working where you
know
you’re making a difference in the world. For most people who do it, it’s well worth it.”

I was just writing down the website where she could look up appropriate salary ranges for this type of charity when the captain announced our descent into Miami.

“Thanks, Callie,” Jodi said, checking her seat belt. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“You’re more than welcome,” I said with a smile.

Because I was sitting on the aisle, I couldn’t see out of the window all that well, but the glimpses I caught of the turquoise blue water nearly took my breath away. Glancing at Tom, I saw him put away his laptop and then flash me a smile. My heart did a little flip-flop in return.

We changed planes in Miami, and Tom and I sat together for the flight from there to St. Thomas. I was glued to the window this time, astounded at the beauty of the Caribbean as we flew overhead. There were a lot of islands down there, more than I would have thought, and they were all like tiny green emeralds sparkling from the sea.

Once we had landed in St. Thomas, we claimed our bags and then listened as Jodi explained our choices for getting to the island of St. John.

“We can pay fifty bucks apiece and catch a luxury boat right here,” she said, “or we can take a taxi to the harbor in town and catch the regular ferry for twelve dollars. Either way, the boat ride takes about forty-five minutes.”

I thought Tom was going to opt for the luxury boat, but he surprised me by suggesting the ferry instead.

“Let’s do it just like Stella and Eli did,” he said. “We need to get a feel for that ferry.”

I agreed. The three of us easily found a taxi outside, a battered old van with a friendly driver and reggae music playing on the radio. We had to wait until most of the seats in the van were full before we could leave, but that didn’t take too long. The airport was a busy place, filled with incoming passengers.

“Welcome to St. Thomas!” the driver said as he climbed in behind the wheel and started up. “Have you folks ever been to our island before?”

“Never!” the woman behind me exclaimed.

Her whole group was very chatty, saving us from having to make conversation. My eyes were focused out of the window, taking in the surroundings and trying to get used to a new perspective from driving on the left side of the road.

The roads were surprisingly good, though my heart was in my throat a few times with the speed at which our driver took some of the hairpin curves. As we went I was amazed at how developed the island was, with houses and shops and schools and churches on every side. I had expected it to be a bit more deserted, but the lush vegetation seemed to be dotted with structures and people from one end to the other.

As we came over the hill above Charlotte Amalie, I actually gasped, it was so beautiful. There below us was the quaint capital of St. Thomas, situated along a wide, curved harbor. Two magnificent cruise ships rested just offshore, their white hulls a marked contrast to the rich turquoise of the water. Other islands rose in the distance, hills of forest green among the blue.