Murder of a Needled Knitter (12 page)

There were those words again—speed ride. Skye sneaked a peek at Wally, whose brown eyes were glowing in anticipation. Could she suggest he and Trixie go while she and Owen caught a cab back to town?

“Upon your return to the pier, at approximately one p.m., you will be driven to Philipsburg, where you will have a chance to shop along Front Street. Or you may remain here and arrange your own transport to the French side of the island and then back to your ship.”

When the tour guide finished up his speech and began to assist people into the small boats, Skye was still trying to marshal her objections. But before she could voice her doubts, Wally had boarded the inflatable watercraft, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her into the tiny vessel. She turned and saw Owen climbing warily into his Rhino Rider and exchanged a nervous smile with him.

While the leader was getting everyone settled, Skye said, “I'm not sure this is a good idea.” Her heart was racing, but she tried not to sound as panicked as she felt. “Maybe we shouldn't do this.”

“I promise you'll be fine, sugar.” Wally flashed her a reassuring grin. “You can do this. You know I'd never let you get hurt.”

“Well.” Skye hated to spoil the others' fun—that is everyone but Owen, who would probably thank her for chickening out so he could follow suit without looking like a coward.

“Here you go, sugar.” Wally pointed to the center console. “You straddle this like a motorcycle.” He eased her down onto the white plastic bench. “Just put your arms around me and hang on tight.”

Before Skye could figure a way out of the situation, Wally slid in front of her and started the engine. He
nodded to Trixie, who had taken the controls of her boat, and they both pulled away from the dock.

A few seconds later, Wally shouted, “I know I said hold on tight, darlin', but you're cutting off my circulation.”

Skye apologized and eased her grip on his middle. Finally, as they skimmed across Simpson Bay, she started to relax and enjoy the sensation of gliding over the waves. She remembered the guide saying that this was the largest saltwater lagoon in the Caribbean and the home port of the biggest mega-yacht fleet in the area. Craning her neck, she admired the huge ships and wondered who owned the multimillion-dollar floating palaces.

Raising her voice, she shouted in Wally's ear, “Is there any way to tell where the French and Dutch parts of the island meet?”

“Not that I know of.” He shook his head. “But once we go under the French Bridge we'll be in the Caribbean Sea and will pass close to the Marina Royal.” He paused to wave at Trixie and Owen as he zoomed past them.

Skye didn't speak as she took in the beautiful turquoise water, bright sunshine, and delectably warm air. This really was fun. Why had she been so scared? She needed to be more adventurous. More like Trixie.

Sighing in contentment, Skye leaned her head against the broad back of her new husband and inhaled his scent. Mixed with the coconut oil smell of his sunscreen was the spicy citrus aroma she always associated with him. This was definitely
the
life. She was just amazed that it was now
her
life. She never had imagined being this happy.

As they cruised along the coast, they passed Friar's Bay and the tiny seaside village of Grand Case, both much more tranquil than the area where they had boarded the Rhino Riders. Maybe if they came back to St. Maarten sometime they could explore the less touristy parts of the island.

Wally and Skye had almost reached their snorkeling destination, a small outcrop located three kilometers off St. Maarten, when he cut the engine.

“What's wrong? Did we hit an iceberg? Are we sinking?” Logically Skye knew there were no icebergs in the Caribbean, but fear prevailed over logic every time and she gripped Wally's waist, sorry she'd ever seen the movie
Titanic
. “Why are you stopping?”

“Somehow we managed to get ahead of the rest of the tour group,” Wally explained. “I need to wait for the others to catch up since I'm not sure where we're supposed to go ashore.”

“Oh.” Skye squinted at the far-off beach. “Can't we get closer?” She wasn't as anxious as she had been, and she was a good swimmer, but sitting in the middle of the ocean on a boat that was no bigger than a child's wading pool still made her uneasy.

“The guide said not to go too near shore without him,” Wally explained.

“Why?” She'd been too nervous to pay close attention to the escort's instructions back in Simpson Bay.

“The place where we'll be snorkeling is a reef that's inside a protected marine reserve,” Wally answered her. “It's supposed to be full of colorful tropical marine life, but there are a lot of rules.”

“I see.” She bit her lip. How had they gotten ahead of everyone?

Skye was scanning the horizon for the others in their group when a man in a rowboat approached them. He was thin to the point of emaciation and wore only a pair of swim trunks that threatened to fall off his bony hips. As he pulled next to them his grin displayed crooked yellow teeth. His dreadlocks were gathered into a yellow, black, and green striped hat, which resembled a giant hornet's nest.

“Greetings to you, beautiful lady.” The man's accent had a pleasant rhythm. “Perhaps I can interest you in a small remembrance of my island.”

“No, thank you.” Wally's expression was neutral, but Skye could tell from his tense shoulders that he was wary of the stranger.

“I have something you can't find in any of the shops.” The man ignored Wally's refusal and reached into the bottom of his boat.

“We're good.” Wally turned on the motor of the Rhino Rider.

“Jamaican Jiminy has the best ganja of anyone.” He thrust a baggy at Skye. “You try this and you'll feel like you're floating on a cloud.”

“I said no.” Wally eased the throttle and moved away from the man's vessel.

“Only thirty dollars.” The man rowed after them. “Twenty for you.”

Wally kept inching their boat away, but the man trailed them. Finally Wally muttered to Skye, “It looks like I'll have to take us ashore to get rid of him.”

“Won't he just follow us?” Skye asked, relieved to see the rest of their group in the distance. “Everyone should be here in a minute.”

“Which is good, although I'm not entirely sure the guide isn't a part of this setup. I mean, how did Ganja Guy know we'd be meeting here?” Wally took off toward the beach. “If I don't have to, I won't actually bring the boat onto the beach until the tour leader gets here.”

Once they neared the shore, the man turned away, and as they waited for the others, Wally said, “The reason I was so concerned about that guy is that one of the security officers on the ship told me that the Dutch islands are very strict regarding drugs and drug trafficking. He mentioned an incident involving a member of the cruise staff. He said that episode drove the point home with the crew that drug dealing is a lot more risky here than in the States.”

“Why is that?” Skye asked.

“Because these islands depend largely on American
visitors, they can't risk being put on the United States' list of drug havens. Anyone violating the laws here, even unknowingly, is expelled, arrested, or imprisoned.”

“Wow!” Skye's stomach did a little flip. She kept forgetting that people in other countries didn't have the same legal rights that U.S. citizens enjoyed at home.

“Exactly.” Wally frowned. “Local laws on St. Maarten are based on Dutch rulings, which allow for the detention of subjects during even a preliminary investigation, and people imprisoned here don't have the option of posting bond for their release.”

“Which means,” Skye finished, “if that guy had somehow thrown the marijuana into our boat and it had been a sting, we'd have gone to jail and had no way to get out.”

“Exactly.”

Hard to Port

T
he snorkeling had been fabulous, although Skye had had to stifle her giggles when she saw Owen's swimming getup. The ankle-length tights and neoprene jacket looked like he was ready to do a deep-sea dive in the Arctic Ocean. Maybe, like her, he had watched
Titanic
just before leaving on the trip and been afraid of icebergs. Still, if the suit made him comfortable, who was she to make fun of him?

The scary Rhino Boat ride and the creepy encounter with Ganja Guy had been worth it to see the colorful fish that swam around the snorkelers, impervious to their presence. Skye had spotted red-and-white-banded shrimp, crabs, reef squid that looked like a smaller version of the monster in the
Alien
movies, nosy parrot fish, and bright blue-and-yellow surgeonfish. But when an eel had popped out of a crevice between two rocks and nearly given her a heart attack, she'd decided that she'd seen enough.

After a round of island punch and a short rest, Skye, Wally, and the Fraynes boarded the Rhino Riders for the return trip to Simpson Bay. It was a much less dramatic journey than the one to the reef, and Skye
congratulated herself on participating in a daunting activity rather than refusing to give it a try.

Once they had all used the public restrooms to change out of their swimsuits and were ready to leave the lagoon, Skye said, “Shall we head to Philipsburg on the tour bus or go to Marigot? Dutch versus French?”

“Do we have time for both?” Trixie asked. “I doubt we'll ever get here again.”

Owen consulted his copy of the
Diamond Dialogue
. “We have to be on board the
Diamond Countess
by five. It leaves at six. And it's nearly one now.”

“In four hours, we can do a quick tour of Marigot, which seems to be fairly close to where we are now.” Wally indicated a map of the island that was posted nearby. “According to the information we received from the ship's excursion desk, it takes about forty-five minutes to get back to Philipsburg from the French capital.”

“Say we make it to the Dutch side by three, that would give us two hours to get the photos printed.” Skye looked at Trixie and Owen. “Were you able to locate a place where we can do that?”

“There's a shop called Photos and More on Illidge Road in Philipsburg.” Trixie shrugged. “They didn't have a Web site so I can't be sure, but it sounds like a place that would print pictures.”

“Then we have a plan?” Wally asked, and everyone nodded. “Good. Let's go rent a car. It's my treat. A bus or taxi might be cheaper, but we don't want to be tied to someone else's schedule.”

It took only fifteen minutes, and Wally's American Express card, to secure a vehicle that could be returned in Philipsburg, and not too much longer than that to drive to the public parking lot near Marigot Bay. Once they'd exited the Jeep, they climbed the incline that led to the main thoroughfare, Rue de la République.

Skye noticed a subtle difference between Marigot and her sister city on the Dutch side. Marigot was more European-looking with less of an island flavor.
Straitlaced versus laid-back. This was emphasized by a sign in front of one of the sidewalk cafés that read: Y
OUR
NAME
IS
NOT
R
ALPH
L
AUREN
.
N
OR
ARE
YOU
A
FAMOUS
UNDERW
EAR
MODEL
LIKE
D
AVID
B
ECKHAM
.
S
O
IF
YOU
W
ANT
TO
EAT
IN
HERE
,
P
ULL
UP
YOUR
PANTS
.

Chuckling, the two couples decided this was an establishment they wanted to support. After ordering four sandwiches to go, they strolled through the town, window-shopping as they ate their lunch. It was a peaceful break from the rush of the Rhino boats and the hustle and bustle of the port, and a part of Skye wished they could linger in the charming town.

Then again, she was anxious to see the photos that Trixie had snapped at the crime scene, so when Wally indicated that they needed to return to the Jeep, she was quick to agree. During the forty-five minute drive back to Philipsburg, Skye and Trixie chatted about the elegant jewelry and clothes that they'd seen in Marigot's expensive shops and boutiques. The men's contributions were an occasional grunt.

As they neared Philipsburg, Owen used the map the rental car agency had provided to guide Wally to the print shop. The place appeared empty when they entered, but Skye finally spotted a young woman sitting behind the counter talking on her cell phone.

The clerk ignored them until Wally approached her and said, “We need to print some pictures from a memory stick. Can we do that here?”

She pointed to a computer and printer setup in front of a large glass window, and said, “Self-service is cheapest. Just put the photo paper from the shelf underneath into the printer and click.” She tilted her head and smiled broadly. “Or for an extra charge, you can leave the flash drive with me and return in two hours.”

“We'll do it ourselves,” Trixie decided, walking toward the computer station.

Skye followed her friend and the two men trailed her. They all stood in a semicircle around Trixie as she loaded
the printer with the correct paper, inserted the memory stick she had taken from the waterproof pack she wore strapped to her waist, and began clicking icons.

A shadow fell over them and Skye glanced up. Had someone been looking through the window? No. Clearly, her paranoia was running rampant since the Ganja Guy incident. A shopper had probably just walked past. Why would anyone be watching them?

When the printer began to spit out glossy photos of the crime scene, Wally plucked the eight by tens from the tray and slid them between the pages of a
Diamond Dialogue
he'd retrieved from Skye's beach bag. They'd all agreed that it would be best to wait until they were in the privacy of one of their suites to examine and discuss the gruesome photos.

When Trixie was finished, Wally returned to the counter and asked the clerk, “We printed twenty-seven pictures. How much do I owe you?”

“That will be one hundred and eight dollars.” The young woman held out her hand. When Skye gasped at the price, the clerk narrowed her eyes and said, “The sign clearly states that it's four dollars a print.”

Wally put two fifties and a ten in the clerk's palm and said, “Keep the change.” Then he whispered to Trixie, “Did you clear the images from the computer's memory like we talked about?”

She nodded and they left the print shop. Once they had returned the car to the rental agency, they headed to Front Street. It was three thirty so they had only ninety minutes to browse the famous road.

The buildings along the main thoroughfare were mostly cream-colored with red tile roofs. Wrought iron and white columns were in abundance, as were palm trees, brightly colored awnings, and local vendors. Skye had forgotten her camera, but Trixie retrieved hers from the pouch around her waist and took picture after picture.

As the two couples strolled down the sidewalk, Skye
pointed to a sign a few feet ahead of them that read I
SLAND
W
RAPS
. “I heard this is the best place to buy Indonesian batik cloth,” she said. “It's supposed to be beautiful and makes wonderful sundresses. I want to get some for Frannie and Loretta.”

Frannie Ryan had originally been one of the students on the high school newspaper that Trixie and Skye sponsored. She was now a junior in college and had become a good friend. Frannie and Loretta, Skye's sister-in-law and fellow Alpha Sigma Alpha sorority alum, had been Skye's bridesmaids. Trixie had been her matron of honor.

“Ooh. I want to get some of that fabric, too.” Trixie skipped along beside Skye, pulling her husband after her. “Owen wants to get a couple of bottles of Guavaberry Barbecue Sauce at the Guavaberry Emporium. Maybe he and Wally can do that while we shop?”

“Great idea, Trixie.” Wally looked at Skye. “If you don't mind splitting up, I'd like to buy some rum for the guys at work and your brother, and maybe get some for my dad and cousin, too.”

“No problem.” Skye squeezed his hand. “I read that rum is the national liqueur of St. Maarten. The shopping hostess said it comes in all kinds of flavors like mango, lime, orange, passion fruit, almond, vanilla, and, of course, guavaberry.”

“Should I get some for us too?” Wally herded the group out of the middle of the road. “I bet you'd like the vanilla and the lime.”

“Sure.” Skye reached for her beach bag. “I'd better take this.”

“I don't mind carrying it, darlin'.” Wally kept hold of the handles.

“I know, sweetie.” Skye stroked his cheek. “But since I didn't bring a purse and don't have any pockets, I stuck my cruise ID, Visa, and some cash in the zippered compartment, and I'll need the money if I want to buy anything.”

“Okay.” Wally handed over the bright pink-and-green tote. “We'll meet you back at Island Wraps in about forty-five minutes.” He started to walk away, then turned back and said, “Don't leave there without us.”

“Yes, sir.” Trixie saluted, grabbed Skye's hand, and yanked her toward the shop's entrance, calling over her shoulder, “Have fun, boys.”

As Skye and Trixie entered the store, Skye gazed in wonder at the fabulous material on display. Leaves, flowers, insects, and birds had been stamped onto the brightly dyed cotton cloth that was draped artfully over stands to catch the eye of anyone who stepped inside the door.

The clerks were busy with other customers, and Skye and Trixie drifted from table to table admiring the beautiful fabric. Skye's senses were flooded with the variety of colors and patterns. The aroma of the wax used in the dying process added to her feeling of hyperstimulation. She was mesmerized and was having difficulty focusing enough to narrow down her choices.

Trixie held a length of peach cotton with an intricate tulip design up to her face and said, “What do you think of this?”

“Terrific.” Skye forced herself to concentrate. “That shade is great with your hair and eyes. And the tulips are cute.” She looked around, spotted an available clerk, and waved at the smiling woman. “We should ask how many yards we need to make a sundress.”

“Beautiful ladies want beautiful batik?” the clerk asked, gliding up to them.

“Oh, I love your accent,” Trixie squealed. “Are you from St. Maarten?”

“All my life.” The clerk smiled and Skye was sure the poor woman answered that same question a million times a day. “Can I help you?”

“If we wanted to have a sundress made out of your fabric”—Trixie held up the bolt of orange cloth—“how much would we need?”

“In yards or centimeters?” the woman asked, tilting her head.

“Yards,” Trixie answered.

“For you?” The clerk narrowed her eyes. “I would advise two and a half.” She examined Skye. “You would need a little more.”

“Of course.” Skye quirked her lips. She no longer got upset when she was reminded that she was curvier than was considered fashionable. “How much is a little?”

“An additional yard.” The clerk picked up a bolt of aqua blue fabric with a sea green shell design. “I would suggest this one for your coloring.”

“I love it.” Skye fingered the soft cloth. “I also want material for two of my friends.” She turned to Trixie. “Frannie and I are about the same size and Loretta is so tall, she'd have to have extra fabric, as well, don't you think?”

“Definitely.” Trixie nodded. “She's about six foot, isn't she?”

“Shall I cut these fabrics for your friends while you browse?” the clerk asked, picking up the two bolts that had been chosen.

“Yes, please.” Skye nodded and glanced at her watch—twenty minutes had already gone by. She needed to make a decision. She turned to Trixie. “I know Loretta likes yellow, and it looks amazing with her ebony skin. What color do you think Frannie would like?”

“Purple,” Trixie answered without hesitation. “Just the other day she said it was the ‘in' color this year.” Trixie pointed to a butterfly patterned swatch. “This shade of lavender would be great on her.”

“Grab it for me, okay?” Skye asked, then said, “I'll get this primrose colored material with the hummingbirds for Loretta.”

With their selections made, Skye and Trixie stood by the front counter, and Skye asked the clerk, “Can you tell me the history behind the batik fabric?”

As she measured and cut, the woman said, “It is thought to have originated in Egypt and the Middle East, but for hundreds of years it's been found in India, Turkey, Japan, West Africa, and China.”

“Ah.” Skye wished she had a paper and pen to take notes. This was fascinating.

“Most experts agree that batik started as a royal art form,” the clerk continued. “And while the royal women may have inspired traditional patterns, it's highly unlikely that they did any more than the first wax application. The messy work of dyeing and waxing was probably left to court artisans who would have worked under their supervision.”

“Sounds like some of the big name authors who provide the ideas for books, but have ghostwriters to do the real writing,” Trixie said with a snort of disdain.

“Cotton is most often used for the cloth because the wax that is applied must be readily absorbed.” The clerk finished cutting and began packaging the material. “Nowadays, the cotton is washed and boiled to remove all traces of any sizing materials, but in olden times it was pounded with a wooden mallet. Then the design is put on with a copper stamp. The stamp is pronounced chop but is spelled C-A-P.”