A Quarter for a Kiss (34 page)

I jogged all the way to the marina, and it was nearly six by the time I arrived at the boat. Afraid that I didn’t have enough gas to get back to St. John, I knew I would have to pull up and buy some. In my mind, I could just see the resulting explosion when I crashed the boat into the gas pump.

I wasn’t sure where the gas cap even was, exactly, so before I went to the pumps and made an idiot out of myself, I dug out the owner’s manual and turned to the chapter on “Gasoline.” Much to my surprise, I realized the boat had two tanks. From the indicated gauge, I saw that the first tank was, indeed, almost empty, but the second tank was completely full. I flipped the switch that would allow the boat to pull from the second tank, and then I put away the book and started up the engine.

As I steered out of the slip, I said a silent prayer for safety. I was able to make it from the marina without incident, and I followed my compass and my sense of direction to go back the way I had come. It wasn’t quite as easy as I thought it would be, and I felt an odd sense of relief when I spotted the
Enigma
up ahead. It was going faster than it had before, and I settled myself in far behind it, hoping to follow it all the way home.

At the speed we were going, the ride took about half an hour. When the
Enigma
neared the marina, I was a bit hesitant, because I certainly didn’t want to be spotted here at the end after managing to hide from them all afternoon. Instead, I pulled to a stop well before the entrance and just idled there for a while. I didn’t know how long it would take for them to get off of their boat and go away, but I allotted ten minutes before I proceeded as slowly as I could into the marina myself. At least the
Enigma
docked at the opposite end from where we did. Perhaps even if they were still there, our paths would not come close to crossing.

I found the right slip and slowed further. Hoping I would be a bit better at the maneuvering this time around, I held my breath and concentrated on popping into neutral at just the right moment. The boat glided into place without a hitch, thank goodness.

I set the bumpers and tied the ropes just as they had been before. Then I gathered my things, locked the cabin, and hurried to the clinic. According to the receptionist, Tom was with the doctor but would be out soon. I sat in the now-empty waiting room and caught my breath, flipping through a new issue of
Guidepost
magazine. I was just reading an interesting article when Tom finally emerged, his hands neatly covered with flesh-colored bandages. I helped out by writing the check for his treatment and taking the two prescriptions the nurse was handing over.

From there, we went to the nearest pharmacy and had the prescriptions filled—one for pain, and one for antibiotics. Tom said they had also given him a tetanus shot at the office.

“Are you okay?” I asked once we finally left the drug store, bag in hand.

“Barely,” he grunted. “I think I’d like to go home and have one of those pain pills and take a nap.”

“You’re hurting pretty badly, aren’t you?” I asked.

He nodded, and I slipped an arm around him, wishing I could bear the pain for him.

The sun was setting by the time we reached Stella’s house. I was glad to see that Jodi’s car wasn’t there. I didn’t think I could deal with her at the moment.

Tom took a pain pill as soon as we walked in the door, and when I went into his room to check on him 20 minutes later, he looked to be sound asleep, sprawled across the covers.

I stood watching him for a minute. There was something about the sight of him there, so helpless, so vulnerable, that I found endearing. He had climbed onto the bed with his shoes still on, so I tiptoed over and tried to pull them off. The second shoe stuck a bit, which seemed to make him stir.

“Callie,” he whispered, his eyes only half open.

“Hey,” I said, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. “Your pills working?”

“Oh, yeah. Pain’s all gone now.”

The smile on his face told me he was somewhere off in la la land.

“Good. You get some sleep.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered. “You gotta come closer.”

I leaned down to hear him whisper.

“There’s blood on my hands,” he said.

I looked at the bandages, which were clean and dry.

“You’re okay, Tom. Go to sleep now.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, trying to sit up. “There’s blood on my hands. There always will be.”

I pushed his shoulders back, and then I leaned forward and kissed him again.

“Shhh,” I said, until he closed his eyes. He fell back to sleep almost immediately. “Just a little nap. That’s all you need.”

I tiptoed from the room, hoping he would stay down for at least an hour. Back out at the car, I dialed Sergeant Ruhl. I told him I was on the cell and couldn’t talk, but that we needed to meet.

As he was on his way to pick up his wife from church choir practice, he asked if I would mind meeting him there. He described his car and where it would be parked.

I left a note for Tom that said simply, “Had to run out. Call me on the cell if you wake up.” Then I drove to Abraham’s church, following the simple directions he had dictated to me. Sure enough, by the time I got there, his car was parked out in front of the church. As I found a spot for myself and then walked to his vehicle, I could hear the rousing music coming from inside.

“Hi,” I said, slipping into the passenger seat. “They sound really good.”

“It warms the heart,” he agreed. “And my beautiful wife, she sings like an angel.”

I settled into the seat, looking out in front at the dark street.

“Where are your children?” I asked.

“Home with my wife’s mother. We got about ten minutes before the choir finishes here. What’s up?”

I took a deep breath, wondering even where to begin.

“I am completely confused,” I said. “I learned some things today that have totally thrown me for a loop.”

“Go on.”

“Do you know Stella’s daughter, Jodi?”

“Ah, yes. Jodi. Nice girl. She’s been coming here to the island since she was just a baby.”

“As far as you know, has she been implicated in this whole art ring?”

He looked at me sideways.

“Jodi? No, not that I know of. Why?”

I exhaled slowly.

“Ever since we got here, she’s been hanging around with a particular group of friends. There’s Sandy, an archaeologist working on a local dig, Sandy’s younger sister, Fawn, and these two guys, Larry and Zach. Today I saw Zach driving the
Enigma
, and then I learned that Larry is Dianne’s son. I’m sorry, but it just seems too coincidental the way everything connects.”

From his pocket, Abraham produced his signature toothpick, not looking the least bit surprised.

“Maybe I can tell you a bit more,” he said. “It might help.”

Grateful to have a connection on the inside, I sat back and waited for what he might say.

“We know all about the two men, though I don’t think the women are involved. According to Interpol, Zach is just a grunt, a drifter who happened upon a good gig. He drives their boat and lends some muscle sometimes. Otherwise he’s just along for the ride.”

“What about the fact that he’s a masseuse? Don’t you think that makes him the obvious candidate as the go-between at the fancy resorts?”

Abraham was silent for a moment.

“I wasn’t aware that was his job,” he said. “Yes, I would imagine that changes everything. He might be the elusive contact we’ve been looking for.”

“What about Larry?

Abraham shook his head, his lips pursed.

“Larry Streep works in insurance—primarily in insuring works of art, antiquities, and artifacts. Interpol thinks he is the main source for his mother’s illegitimate art business.”

“You mean it’s a family affair—he insures ’em, she steals ’em?”

“Not exactly. Larry has only a slightly higher percentage of payouts than your average insurance salesman in that particular field. My theory is that he doesn’t insure everything he sees. Often, I believe, when he is called to give an estimate on insuring a piece of art, he will price it high so the buyer will go with some other company. The piece ends up stolen, but since Larry has no official connection with it, no one suspects that he was the ‘eye’ who zeroed in on it in the first place.”

“Amazing.”

“On this island, we have a word for one who betrays a trust: a mingo. Larry Streep is a mingo.”

“Sure seems like it.”

“A few weeks ago,” Abraham continued, “he started spending almost all of his time down at the archaeological dig. I keep a fairly close watch on him, and it’s been bothering me. I have started to suspect that the collection may have some artifacts of significant value.”

“So what do you think he’s doing there?”

“Keeping a close eye on what’s coming out of the ground, for one thing. Trying to get access to the collection as a whole, for another. From what I understand, SPICE’s collection is massive and in many ways priceless.”

“Is it kept here on the island?”

“No, I don’t know where the collection is being stored. That seems to be very privileged information. Even Interpol isn’t sure.”

I shifted in my seat, wondering if it was located on Virgin Gorda, near the Baths, the place where Dianne would be having her clandestine meeting in the morning.

“Is the collection in danger of being stolen?” I asked.

“Perhaps the most valuable parts of it, at least. Especially now that we have heard the tape.”

“You played the tape for Interpol?”

“We faxed them your transcription. They had no trouble identifying the person named Merveaux. He is Yves Merveaux, and he lives in Martinique. He is a multimillionaire, a collector of many fine things. Several times before, it has been suspected that he received stolen goods, but nothing has ever been proven.”

“Dianne and her husband are meeting with Merveaux in the morning, in Virgin Gorda.”

Abraham looked at me, his eyes wide.

“How do you know that?”

As best as I could, I told about how Nadine used to put easily decoded messages in the Sunday paper to arrange secret meetings. I explained that Tom and I had gone around today hunting down newspapers and that we had found one of her secret messages in Sunday’s
New York Times
for a meeting at 8:00 Friday morning at the Baths.

Abraham slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, surprising me.

“That is out of my jurisdiction,” he said. “I have to stand and watch the
Enigma
sail away from here, and I can’t do a thing about it.”

“Tom and I could try and follow. We have an amazing long-range mike. Maybe we could listen to some of the conversation.”

He shook his head.

“There is no warrant for that. We can put electronic surveillance in the home only. Going over to the BVI cancels everything.”

“Surely Interpol has jurisdiction there.”

“Jurisdiction, yes, but there’s no way they can get someone here that fast.”

I thought about Tom and his NSA connections.

“Maybe there can be some cooperation between agencies,” I said. “I know a person who might be able to help, if you can give me the number of your Interpol connection.”

He hesitated and then finally nodded, pulling a pen from his pocket and scribbling the information on the back of an old envelope.

“I just don’t want this happening on my watch,” he said. “I’ve worked too hard to see things fall apart now.”

Thirty-Seven

The house was silent when I got home. Flipping lights on as I went, I worked my way down to Tom’s bedroom, knocked lightly, and stepped inside. He was there on the bed in the same position I had left him in, breathing the deep, even breaths of a sound sleeper. I had a feeling he wouldn’t wake until morning.

It was just as well. He’d been through a lot in the last few days, and I needed him to be sharp and clear tomorrow.

Closing his door, I walked down to my bedroom at the other end of the house and went through my clothes, trying to find something appropriate to wear to Miss Lucy’s Full Moon Buffet. I could go without Tom because my intention was merely to get to know Jodi and her “gang” a little better.

I was about to climb into the shower when I glimpsed the empty shampoo bottle in the trash can. That reminded me that I was all out, so I wrapped a big towel around myself and went down the hall to Jodi’s bathroom, where I retrieved a bottle of expensive salon-type shampoo.

It wasn’t until I was back under the showerhead and lathering up my hair that it struck me.

Why was my empty shampoo bottle at the
top
of the trash can?

Pulse surging, I pushed aside the shower curtain and looked out at the small white wastebasket. It was filled with the papers and receipts I had dumped there when cleaning out my purse and briefcase two days before. But I had thrown out my empty shampoo the day before that. It should be at the bottom of the pile, not the top.

Chills running down my spine, I finished my shower as quickly as I could, dried off, and dressed in the nearest thing I could find.