Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) Read Online Free Page A

across the secured loading zone, the salesman paused to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar. He brushed his hands over his slacks, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, but the creases he’d ironed that morning had already collapsed in the humid island heat. He held up his suit jacket, which he’d neatly folded and placed on his lap when he’d boarded the seaplane in St. Thomas. Despite the care, that garment hadn’t fared any better than the slacks.
    Grumbling good-naturedly, the salesman stuffed the jacket into his leather satchel. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket; then he wiped the cloth over his wide forehead and flushed cheeks, which were already shiny with sweat.
    The Caribbean was a fantastic sales territory, both in terms of commission and scenery, and none of his colleagues would be sympathetic to his complaints about the weather. Nevertheless, in heat like this, the salesman preferred to stay within range of a finely tuned air conditioner.
    It had been several years since his last visit to St. Croix, but, in his experience, that particular amenity tended to be somewhat lacking on the island.
    I suppose that’s why I’m here, he thought, wryly cracking his knuckles.
    The salesman worked for a company that manufactured an array of top-of-the-line air-conditioner units. The firm’s global enterprise had captured over a third of the world’s artificial cooling market and was poised for increased growth in the Caribbean.
    “If ever a place was in need of my services,” he concluded, once more wiping his brow, “this is it.”
    Then he paused, mentally clarifying his assessment. He had other matters to attend to on this visit, issues unrelated to air-conditioning. There was a gleam in his eyes as he amended, “I think it’s fair to say St. Croix is ready for
all
my services.”
    •
    OUTSIDE THE HANGAR, the salesman paused to get his bearings before veering left onto a sidewalk that fed onto the boardwalk. If he remembered correctly, his hotel was located somewhere off the main concourse.
    The bright sun shone on his round, rugged face, glinting against its end-of-day, gray-flecked stubble. He was a large man, soft around the edges, but not grossly overweight. His bulky, once-athletic build had begun to succumb to the slow droop of middle age. A gameness in his left leg caused him to walk with a slight limp—an old sports injury, he told anyone who asked.
    The salesman reached the sidewalk’s merge with the boardwalk, and he stopped to flex a sore spot on his ankle. Then, resuming his pace, he lifted his suitcase rollers over the bump and set off toward the main tourist area.
    The wheels on the luggage case bumped across the rough wooden surface, the uneven rhythm a match to the lurch in his gait.
    •
    A SHORT WHILE later, the salesman parked his luggage in the shade of a covered bench located near the boardwalk’s midpoint. Unzipping his leather satchel, he pulled out a half-drunk bottle of water. As he guzzled down the remaining liquid, he gazed out at the harbor and the collection of boats moored inside its protective reef.
    A sprawling cay lay about a hundred yards offshore, a pretty little stretch of sand and palm trees. The cay’s curving beach was open to the public, serviced by a tin-roof bar and a kiosk that rented out chairs and umbrella stands. The rest of the tiny island was occupied by a private hotel, most of whose structures were nestled behind a natural blind of blooming vegetation. The hotel’s guests were treated to a unique view of downtown Christiansted, one that helped offset the dated furnishings. The accommodations, like many in and around the boardwalk, appeared to have been built or last renovated in the 1970s.
    The cay’s quaint resort was long overdue for an air-conditioning overhaul, the salesman thought, taking a mental note as he watched a dinghy motor toward the boardwalk with a load of the cay’s visitors. He might just have to work a little of his