Adrift on St. John (41 page)

Then, she let loose an eerie cackle.

“Thuh Slave Preen-cess…she’s nut dun yet.”

62

A tall New Englander with a recently shaved head sat in the captain’s chair of a white catamaran powerboat. Red lettered paint across the boat’s side read WATER TAXI. The current captain stood beside him, running through the ship’s controls, explaining the nuances of the boat’s navigational equipment.

“You think you’re ready to man a rig like this?” the dark-skinned man with bulging biceps asked with a smarmy grin.

Jeff smoothed his hands over the steering wheel’s worn plastic rim, his chest swelling with anticipation.

The captain let out a loud guffaw as he slapped Jeff’s pale scalp.

“You’d better get some sunscreen on that noggin or it’s going to blister.”

63

Beulah Shah limped down the path leading to the dock, her rubber-soled shoes thumping across the wooden boards as the lights of the water taxi appeared in the distance. Slowly, she approached the spot at the end of the pier where the computer programmer stood waiting.

Patches of moisture had begun to spread across the heavy man’s golf shirt, and his wire-rim glasses were fogged with steam. But Beulah’s arrival appeared to generate far more physical discomfort than the night’s dense humidity.

After a tense, awkward moment, he issued a stiff greeting.

“Ms. Shah.”

She nodded with a silent leer; her eyes twinkled with devilish enjoyment.

He sucked in his breath and managed a calm statement.

“I trust you were satisfied with the services I provided.”

Beulah’s thin lips stretched into a smile—a superior, knowing expression, as if she were holding on to an enormous secret.

The programmer turned, dismissing the old woman. The water taxi pulled next to the pier, and he lumbered aboard. Taking a seat on the boat’s back bench, he folded his hands
together across the paunch of his chest and closed his eyes. He was ready to put this trip to St. John behind him.

Beulah watched from the pier. Then her voice creaked out a low whisper,
“Your services are nut yet complete, Mr. Stout-man.”

“Wone more pass-enger,”
Beulah said hoarsely to the boat’s captain as he helped her onto the boat.
“She’ll be here een jest a meen-nut. Forgut somethin’ back at hur room.”

The captain stared down at the feeble maid, somewhat perplexed. He thought back to his meeting at the Government House on St. Thomas. The smelly West Indian limo driver he had met in the governor’s office had mentioned there would be one additional passenger on this trip. What had he said her name was? His eyes honed in on the name tag pinned to the woman’s worn shirtdress. Beulah. That was it. Beulah.

The old woman shuddered, as if upset by her pending ride on the water taxi.

“What-ter taxi…what-ter taxi…ohhh, no…Eye doon nut lyke thuh what-ter taxi…”

The captain rolled his eyes. The old bag was really milking the drama tonight. She could bloody well swim across to Red Hook, then, he thought with a smirk.

As the captain turned his attention to the empty pier and the path leading up to the darkened resort, he missed the sharp gleam in Beulah’s eyes.

Hannah Sheridan ran past the resort’s long sloping lawns, a slight breeze rippling through her spinning chiffon sundress and wig of dark, curly hair. A blue nylon satchel swung from her shoulder as the soles of her shoes slapped against the red brick walkway.

Despite the surrounding stillness, she was well aware of the eyes of the resort watching her sprinting figure. These
were the countless observers that would later report seeing her last-minute departure on the late-night water taxi.

Rounding a corner, she nearly squashed an iguana out on his evening stroll. The lizard skittered beneath a bush, puffing out the ruffles of skin around his neck to show his offense at her rudeness—but the woman was already pounding down the path heading toward the dock.

The next wave of rain clouds had begun to move across the island. The first cooling drops pattered onto the woman’s bare shoulders as a golf cart zoomed up behind her.

She glanced at the driver. Beulah must have sent him to fetch me, she thought with relief.

“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Manto said with a wink at the real Hannah Sheridan, who was dressed up like the fake one. “He will wait.”

64

Beulah grinned with satisfaction as the golf cart screeched to a stop at the dark end of the pier. I kept my head tilted downward and my eyes averted as the captain grabbed hold of my arm and yanked me onto the boat.

Wearing the wig, sandals, and sundress that I’d pulled out of Beulah’s paper bag, I must have made a close approximation of the resort’s now infamous employee. That, or the captain was in such a hurry to depart, he didn’t notice that I was a much older Hannah than the one he had been hired to pick up.

I sat nervously on the boat’s back bench, trying not to think about where the wig had been—given the smoky, herbal scent emanating from its fibers.

The rain picked up in intensity as the catamaran powered up its engine to high speed and sped out of the cove. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, not daring to look at Beulah, who perched on the bench to my left, or the large man from Miami, who spilled over the seat to my right.

The boat pitched and jumped in the rough water, as if it were struggling to break free from the ocean’s tugging
grasp. Beulah’s lilting, singsong voice somehow managed to rise over the drowning sounds of wind, rain, and motor.

“What-ter taxi…what-ter taxi…ohhh, no…Eye doon nut lyke thuh what-ter taxi…”

I clenched my fists around the edge of the bench.

It’s now or never, I thought, as I staggered to my feet and wobbled toward the entrance to the below-deck quarters.

My hands gripped the metal railings of the ladder leading into the hold as the boat heaved and rolled. I struggled to find the footholds, but finally reached the bottom. Turning, I brushed back the wig from my face to find a surprisingly bald Jeff staring quizzically up at me.

His face registered surprise long before he recognized me as the woman beneath the disguise. The corners of his mouth twitched in confusion.

After six months of dating, I was highly skilled in interpreting the minuscule changes in Jeff’s facial expressions.

He hadn’t been expecting Hannah, I realized. I turned my head toward the ceiling, mentally picturing the crafty old woman sitting on the bench above. After the day’s events, it would have been too risky for Conrad’s niece to return to the resort. I had been the Hannah meant for this water taxi all along.

Pushing out a frustrated puff of air, I returned my attention to the befuddled Jeff. I started a futile attempt at explanation, but before I could speak, the motor slowed to a halt. Seconds later, the captain stuck his head into the hatch. After a puzzled glance in my direction, followed by a quick shrug, he called out to Jeff.

“You ready?”

Above deck, a bright yellow self-inflating raft lay pumped up and ready for deployment in front of the rear deck’s passenger seating. The captain brought out a small portable motor
from a storage locker, laid it next to the raft, and carefully began checking its settings.

Satisfied with the safety review, the captain grabbed the yellow boat, wrapped an attached rope around his wrist, and tossed it into the water. Then, handing the tether to Jeff, he disappeared over the railing. Jeff leaned over the side and lowered the motor.

Hank Sheridan—which I suppose was as good a name as any for him—was now very much awake. He had begun protesting as soon as Jeff emerged from the below-deck hold. He directed his complaints not at the boat’s captain, but at the old woman. From what I heard of their conversation, it seemed Mr. Sheridan had not intended to be on
this
water taxi.

After a terse back and forth, Beulah apparently won the argument. A victorious grin on her face, she handed him a life jacket and pointed at the water.

I watched, dumbstruck, as he fitted the jacket over his enormous form. Then he waddled to the side of the boat and, with a last loathing look at the old maid, jumped overboard.