3 Crystal Blue Page 2

  What would happen when I sought to clear Customs in Tortola? Would my arrest for suspicion of murder still be on the record?

  I shook my head. It had been four years.

  Stanley Ober, the Hole Town eccentric who claimed to have a map of a sunken privateer flush with gold and silver stolen from a Barbados rum plantation had disappeared after a public meeting with me. The map I’d bought was bogus, but e-Antiquity’s reputation, along with my then recent moniker of King Charles, made me the natural suspect. The legal bills racked up in that month I was incarcerated in Tortola’s hell-hole of a prison had eclipsed all of Last Resort’s revenues since I formed the company.

  I hadn’t been back to Tortola since.

  I planned the route: 1,162 nautical miles, refueling in the Turks and Caicos, flight time nearly eight hours. The weather called for clear skies and light winds. Perfect.

  That done, I packed shorts, flip-flops, and t-shirts into my duffel. I pondered whether to take any fishing or snorkel gear and decided against it. My stash of old maps, letters, and clues to lost treasures was nestled in the new compartment built below the Beast’s left seat, newly equipped with a lock, but I didn’t expect to have time to sniff out old prospects. Crystal’s charter sounded active, shuttling people to and from wherever her event was being held. Still in survival mode, just trying to keep up with the bills, I couldn’t afford the luxury of treasure hunting.

  I set out to the airport to stow my gear and give the Beast a quick once-over before my dinner with Crystal Thedford. Our flight time would come early tomorrow and I wanted everything ready for a quick departure.

  But I had to make another stop first.

  I was exiting the elevator into the La Concha’s lobby when I heard my name called in a deep southern accent—Frank, the concierge, with a smile on his lips and a cocktail in his hand. Well connected around town, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him when he wasn’t smiling.

  “Buck, I’m glad I bumped into you.”

  “New uniform, Frank? Shorts, polo and Jack Daniels? What’s up?”

  “Off the clock, Bubba.” Smile. “Been busier than a raccoon on trash night. Family of four staying here at the hotel want to go on a tour of the outer islands around Fort Jefferson, said they like adventure. That being the case, I suggested you for a full-day charter.” Big smile. “They’re available day after tomorrow—”

  “Sorry, Frank, I’m headed out on a week-long gig.” I patted his shoulder. “But I sure appreciate you thinking of me.”

  “Sure, Buck. Next time.” Smile.

  My old Rover took me down Whitehead and I parked on Thomas, near Petronia. I walked along the fenced area at the back of Blue Heaven, entered the gate and walked through the half-full outdoor dining area. Ahead was a crowd around the bar, which meant Conch Man was on duty. Ever since word got out that he was going to run for the Town Council, his daily pontification at the bar had attracted an increasingly larger audience. Best thing about Lenny, though, was that he wasn’t playing to the crowd. He’d always espoused his opinions on what had gone wrong in Key West and what he’d do to fix it. When his uncle, Pastor Willy Peebles, finally rounded Lenny’s rough edges and got him on the ballot, Lenny’s homegrown rants gained immediate traction.

  I made my way back to the rear corner of the bar.

  “Yo, Buck, Barbancourt on the rocks?” Lenny said.

  “No, I’m on my way to meet someone.” Not wanting to yell over the backs of his patrons, I pointed toward the back corner of the bar. He nodded and met me there a second later.

  “What’s up man?”

  “Change in plans. I booked a charter to the Virgin Islands.”

  “Sweet, brother! Wish I could join you.” His bright smile was a relief.

  “I’ll miss your coming out party—”

  “Poor choice of words in these parts.” He grinned. “Yeah, guess you’ll miss the ass-kicking I’m going to lay on those crackers Tuesday night.” He laughed, a vision of total confidence.

  “You worried?” I said.

  “You crazy?”

  “Fletcher’s been on the Council eight years, Lenny. He has a pretty strong—”

  “Shit, boy, he won’t know what hit him. Be like that time Bruiser knocked your ass out here.” Lenny nodded to where the occasional boxing ring had been set up since the days Hemingway had boxed here.

  I had to laugh. Conch Man had always been the epitome of cockiness, unless he was in my plane, where he shook like a leaf and prayed like a monk. Pastor Willy and the political consultants he’d hired had really focused him. He was primed and chomping at the bit to launch his new political career.

  “Just don’t drop too many f-bombs while you’re going after those boys,” I said. “That won’t have mass appeal.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. I’m not fucking stupid.” Lenny put on a serious expression. “Why yes, Mr. Reilly, excellent point, but allow me to counter your observation with what I’ve learned from eight generations of Conchs, family members who’ve lived here since the earliest history of Key West.” He burst out with a laugh. “I’m gonna kick their asses, Buck, shame you’ll miss it.”

  I gave him a high-five, wished him well, and made my way back to the Rover. I was sorry I was going to miss it too. Lenny set loose on career politicians would be fine entertainment.

  I drove down past the Southernmost Point, where even in the dark, cameras flashed to illuminate the old red, yellow, and black marker that proclaimed Key West’s location ninety miles from Cuba. I turned left and continued along to Reynolds, past the Casa Marina, where Crystal was staying, and down past Higgs Beach and White Street Pier. Atlantis House was on the left. I longed for a piece of Kayla’s Key Lime pie, or to go fishing with her husband Steve. More luxuries I could no longer afford.

  The airport was quiet, the recent arrivals already armed with rental cars, carried away by the Five-Sixes, or received by friends and loved ones. Ray Floyd was seated in a folding chair outside the private aviation terminal holding a conch shell. When he spotted me, his eyes lit up.

  “What’s with the shell, Ray?”

  “I’ve realized the conch shell is a metaphor for the human experience.”

  “Island existentialism?”

  “The bottom of the shell flares in a cone-shaped angle up to where the bold protrusions jut out, which is like birth up to the teenage years. Those juts are like stress spikes, most dramatic in early adulthood.” Ray rolled the shell over in his hands and rubbed each section. “Where the spikes begin to taper off—as life settles—the cone tapers back to the point, and while more frequent, the spikes are smaller, more rounded and subtle as life winds down toward death.”

  Classic Ray Floyd.

  “What about shells that have a second set of jagged spikes? How do you explain them?”

  “Midlife crises or trauma, of course.” He rubbed his fingers along the surface. “The outside is hard and coarse like your external persona, but the inside is pink and smooth like the essence of your soul.” Ray was staring at the shell while he talked. “If you count the protrusions and nubs, there’s usually around forty on a good-sized shell. I’m still contemplating how they correlate to life years.”

  “Did you just come up with this epiphany?”

  “I call it the Conch Paradigm.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “I have a change of plans.”

  Ray looked up from the conch. “I heard you agreed to take Crystal Thedford to the Caribbean.”

  “How did you—”

  “She came into the FBO and asked Stephanie a few questions about you.”

  Stephanie Baldwin and I had a lukewarm relationship, she being the manager of the Fixed Base Operation, me being the trouble-magnet who flew the bucket-o-bolts and was always late paying bills.

  “Crystal asked, so I took her out to see the Beauty.”

  Ray and I had different points of view about the old Grumman Goose.

  “And?” I said.

  “I exp
lained that she’s a work in progress but very sound mechanically. She was happy it had nice new seats and was big enough to hold several people. Wait till you see her, Buck. She’s hot!”

  “Wipe your chin, Ray.”

  He brushed his hand across his chin, stopped, narrowed his eyes and grimaced. “And smart, too.”

  “She’s married.”

  He deflated a little. “Since when has that stopped you?”

  I spun on my heel to face him.

  “I have never knowingly gone after a married woman.”

  “What about that blonde at Fantasy—”

  “I said knowingly, Ray. And when I found out she was married, the fun and games were over. Not my thing, taking another man’s wife.” I didn’t add that since my ex-wife Heather had left me for a fat-cat Hedge Fund guru, it pissed me off if a married woman came on to me.

  He followed me out to the Beast where I stowed my bag, checked the lock under my seat to make sure the stash was safe, went through my storage compartment to check the anchors and supplies for the flight, then the fuel supply. Ray followed me around, spinning the conch shell in his hands like it was a football.

  “Can you do me a favor and ask Flight Services to vacuum her out tonight, put a shine on the seats and top off the tanks?”

  “Want her spic-and-span for your beautiful charter customer?” He pumped his eyebrows.

  “Don’t let your imagination go where I won’t.” I checked my watch. “I’ve got to run.”

  “How come you can’t ask Flight Services to do that stuff?” he said.

  “Because I’m meeting Crystal for dinner at Louie’s.”

  “I knew it!”

  I left with Ray’s Conch paradigm in the back of my mind. I speculated where was I on the journey—still in the midst of the “stress spikes?” Or did my increasingly frequent experiences have me closer to death?

  Thanks, Ray.

  I NEVER TIRED OF dining at Louie’s Backyard. Set on the water at a quiet notch of the island, the outdoor patio provided an expansive view of the straits looking south. From there I’d seen waterspouts in the distance and watched meteor showers at night. And the people-watching was just as good.

  I’d arrived early and was savoring some Zacapa rum on the rocks when Georges, the maître d’, escorted a stunning brunette from inside the dining room down the stairs that bifurcated the patio. Even from the distance it was clear that Ray hadn’t exaggerated. I enjoyed watching her come toward me before she knew who I was.

  “Here he is, Mrs. Thedford.” Georges pursed his lips. “Buck Reilly.”

  I stood and took her firm hand. Our eyes locked in a confident connection.

  “Thanks, Georges,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow and pivoted away with a half-smile on his face.

  “Ms. Thedford, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Crystal, remember? I’m not the formal type.”

  Her smile was warm as she slid into the seat that faced the water. I wanted her to enjoy the view.

  “It’s nice to finally have this day just about over,” she said. “I’ve been on the move since four-thirty this morning.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Had some details to handle in Miami, but I started out in Bethesda, Maryland.”

  I mentioned that I used to live in Virginia. Her mouth tightened.

  “I’m familiar with your past. My husband used to be a federal prosecutor before he quit to start I Support Adoption. That’s the name of our nonprofit.” She must have seen my eyes flinch, because her lips pulled into a smile.

  “I have no problem with your, ah, previous line of work. As a matter of fact, my parents invested in e-Antiquity when you first went public.”

  Oh jeez, not another—

  “Don’t worry.” She patted my hand. “They sold at a nice profit a year before your troubles began.”

  “Always nice to meet a happy former client.”

  She held her smile. Her candor felt genuine. She could pause, look into your eyes, and make you feel as if you’d known her forever.

  “Adoption? Children, I assume.”

  “That’s right. We’re a global nonprofit focused on adoption.” She paused. “And what we’re doing down in the islands may lead to major changes—social changes, that is. But we’ll have plenty of time to talk about that on the flight to St. Thomas. And I’m sure you’ve heard about the event on TV.”

  “If it’s not on the Weather, History, or Discovery channels, I wouldn’t have seen it.”

  “There’s a lot of celebrity participation, so the networks, newspapers, and magazines have been hyping it—plus we have a great publicist.”

  The waiter appeared with menus, took our drink orders—another Zacapa for me, sparkling water for Crystal. We’d be leaving early, so this would the last rum for the night. As of tomorrow, I was working.

  She explained her background in fund raising and executive management for the City of Hope in Los Angeles, a large charity organization focused on cancer. She’d been in Washington addressing a congressional panel on cancer care when she met her husband.

  “I guess you’d call it love at first sight,” she said. “I know that’s cliché, but we were married four months later. And no, I wasn’t pregnant.”

  The smile never left her face. Not only were the corners of her mouth always turned upward, her amber eyes sparkled when she spoke and fixed squarely on yours when you spoke to her. She had to be a great fundraiser.

  “How long have you been living in Key West?” she said.

  “A little over three years now. It’s been a nice change of pace.”

  “e-Antiquity must have been a fast-lane lifestyle—scouring the globe for lost treasures, darling of Wall Street, on the cover of magazines…”

  “Those days are long over. I used to be somebody, and now I’m somebody else. It’s just me and my airplane, the…the Goose.”

  “I saw it at the airport. Charming old bird.”

  I studied her eyes for sarcasm.

  “She’s a work in progress, but sound,” I said.

  “That’s what the mechanic said. I’m not worried.”

  “No?”

  “If you’re comfortable risking your life, than I should have no concern for my own.” She winked. “Even with King Charles Reilly at the helm.”

  I took it as a friendly jibe. Ray was right about her being beautiful, but I already knew she was also intelligent, considerate, and—

  A sudden movement up by the door caught my attention: Georges, rushing down the steps and headed our way. Now what?

  “Excuse me.” Nearly breathless, he said, “Ms. Thedford? I’m afraid you have a call.”

  She looked at her cell phone, which had been face down on the table. Its red light blinked.

  “An important call.” Georges glanced around him as he spoke. My alarm bells went off. “If you’ll come with me?”

  Crystal’s smile was gone. She pushed her chair back with a loud scrape and stood.

  “You can take the call in the office.”

  We followed him toward the small office by the bathrooms. Crystal didn’t meet my eyes before she turned and closed the door in my face.

  I realized Georges’ bronzed face was awfully pale. What in hell was going on?

  That’s when I heard Crystal shriek.

  I PUSHED THE DOOR open and found Crystal with a fixed stare and the phone on the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  She continued to stare through the opened door, past Georges and me.

  “It was the police,” Georges said. “On St. Thomas—the Virgin Islands.”

  Crystal’s eyelids fluttered and her chest heaved.

  “What did they want?” I said.

  Georges gave a quick shake of his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  “They wouldn’t say, only that it was—”

  “John’s missing,” Crystal said. “My husband.”

  “Was he out on the water
?” I said. “Was there a problem?”

  My questions hung in the air.

  She pressed her palms together and held them to her lips, but her eyes were wide open. What else was that in her expression? Not fear or sadness. Resignation?

  “I need to get back to my hotel.” Her voice was brittle.

  “I can take you.”

  She nodded once and walked out.

  Georges and I exchanged a glance. His lip was trembling.

  I took off after Crystal and guided her out of the restaurant and toward Reynolds, where my Rover was parked halfway down the block.

  “Did they give you any details?”

  “I didn’t believe any of the hype.” She shuddered. “John had warned me, but he’s a worrier so I laughed it off.”

  “What hype?”

  “He said there could be trouble, but—” She made a fist and raised it like she intended to hit the dashboard but stopped mid-air.

  The Casa Marina loomed ahead.

  “What kind of trouble, Crystal—you mentioned social changes? Like what?”

  She turned toward me and bit her lip. There was a tear on her cheek.

  “Choice issues—I’m sure John’s just off with one of the guests—attending to details—getting things ready.”

  We pulled up in front of the hotel. She had the door opened before I even stopped.

  “Crystal.” I grabbed her arm and her head snapped back toward me. There was fear in her eyes. “What kind of trouble could John be in?”

  “There’d been some threats, about our event—”

  “Threats? For a charity event?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you don’t want to take me down, I’ll understand.”

  “Of course I’ll take you, but what else can I do to help?”

  “Just get me to St. Thomas.” Her eyes had turned cold.

  “I’ll be here at seven. The flight time—”

  She nodded and slammed the door. I watched her hurry into the hotel lobby, glancing down at her cell phone as she went.

  Crap! Missing? What did that mean? And threats—by whom? I’d never heard of their charity, but adoption didn’t strike me as a contentious issue. Who would have threatened them, and why? Choice issues?