“We’re all Smithies. We’ve been through hell together.”
I said, “Smithies?”
“Smith College. Northampton, Mass. Our class colors are yellow and blue-” In a louder voice, she called, “Haven’t we been through hell together, gals?” The women were laughing as they joined us, all dressed for dinner in the tropics, bright scarves and sandals, frozen margaritas in their hands as they gave me the eye-Who was this big stranger with Mattie?
Twins in blue dresses; Mattie and Carol wore yellow-Carol, another large woman, but not outgoing. Unlike Mattie, hers was the articulate syntax of Long Island wealth. She was suspicious, too. Good for her.
After a while, Carol asked me, “Why would a marine biologist come to a resort to do research?”
I told her, “I’m not staying on Saint Arc. I’ve got a place over there.” I looked beyond the lagoon toward Saint Lucia, four miles away. Green volcanic peaks, half a mile high, on an emerald canvas. “This lagoon looked interesting from the air, so I decided to take a look.”
Carol was unconvinced. “Then we shouldn’t keep you… Doc, did you say? Doctor of what? And where did you get your Ph. D.?”
I told her, adding, “My name’s North. Marion North,” aware that Carol’s attitude had alerted the others: four women with money, but smart. Had to be. Unless a sex change increases the human IQ by twenty points, there’s no possible way I would have ever been accepted at Smith College.
Because I wanted to keep it friendly, I turned to Mattie and asked, “Do you ladies like seafood?”
“Are you kidding? We love it. But… we already have dinner plans tonight-” She glanced at Carol, their leader. “Don’t we, girls?”
I said, “That’s not what I meant. If you’re still around when I finish my dive, maybe I’ll bring you a present. Something for tomorrow night.”
“A gift from the sea,” said Carol with an edge. “How nice.”
The lagoon was a sand basin that sloped toward a precipice at the canyon’s rim. I snorkeled to the edge of the drop-off, jackknifed, and descended, kicking leisurely with my old Rocket fins.
Staghorn shadows on white sand… cone shells burrowing-venomous hunters. Reef fish. Prismatic scales: yellow, blue, chrome. There were parrotfish… sergeant majors… snappers.. . barracudas dark on the rim of visibility, horizontal observers like rungs on a ladder… medusa jellies dragging rainsquall tentacles.
I’d brought the spear gun, but continued downward along the canyon wall. Ledges… brain corals… mouth of a cave?
I surfaced, took several breaths, then dived again.
Yes, a cave. It was wider than my shoulders; a natural opening in the wall. I looked to the surface thirty feet above-barracuda over me now- then peeked into the cave. Expected a moray eel… instead, saw a forest of antennas.
Spiny lobsters.
I surfaced, traded spear gun for gloves and a net bag, and returned to the ledge.
A couple of minutes later, the bag was alive with kicking, creaking lobsters.
The women were scattered among hammocks and porch rockers as I approached the house. Lost in books, fresh drinks, conversation. Carol was saying to Mattie, “… but why waste time with another tourist when we can meet people who actually live here-” then stopped when she noticed me.
Instead of pretending I hadn’t heard, I said, “I agree. Getting to know the locals is the best part of travel.” I held up the bag. “Let me introduce you to some locals.”
Mattie and the twins surrounded me as I spread the lobsters out on a banana leaf. Six biggies, no eggs-I’d checked.
“Where are their claws?” one of the twins asked.
“New England lobster are a different species. I like these better. Melted butter, fresh limes, sea salt. Tomorrow night, you could build a fire on the beach and steam them.”
Mattie said, “How does that sound, Carol? Do it like the islanders do it.”
I said, “You should-but stay smart. Trust the wrong islanders, you’re in big trouble. It could be fatal.”
Carol placed her book on the chair as she stood. “I hope you’re not talking about the wonderful people who live here.”
I let her see that I was confused before saying, “Oh, you thought I was talking about…? No, I meant the lagoon. Not everything’s safe to eat. I saw cone shells-their sting’s venomous. Probably wouldn’t kill you, but it would put you in the hospital. Certain fish-barracuda, some reef fish-can be toxic.” I thought about it as I rebagged the lobster. “On the other hand, maybe I accidentally made a good point. Resorts attract con men. Crooks hustle tourists. They slip drugs into women’s drinks. It’s rare-like a black jellyfish I saw in the lagoon. But the poisonous ones are around.”
Carol didn’t soften. “It must be nice to be so well-traveled that you can pass judgment on people you’ve never met.”
I smiled as I replied, “If I sound overly critical, it’s probably because I’m overly sober,” thinking the woman would loosen up and offer me a margarita. She didn’t.
As I left, Mattie walked me to the beach and said, “Doc, you have to come back tomorrow night and have lobster. We’ll build a fire.”
I said, “Maybe. I’d have to boat back to Saint Lucia after dark-pretty scary. Think it would be safe?”
The woman sent a signal with her eyes as she said, “Not necessarily,” having fun with the double meaning. “We have plenty of room-and we also have two bottles of rum and half a bottle of tequila to drink before we leave on Tuesday. And, uh-” She lowered her voice. “-even Carol agreed that what happens on this island stays on the island. We’re here to have fun. Three days from now, we’ll be back where everyone knows us.”
What I wanted to do was take the woman by the shoulders, look her in the eyes, and unload the truth. Share a couple of the nasty jokes from the camera blind so she knew the kind of men she’d be dealing with.
Instead, I said, “Don’t hold dinner-but don’t be surprised if I show up, either. It might be late. Okay?”
The possibility of my showing up might make it less likely that she and the others would follow the blackmailer’s script.
“Just bang on the door,” Mattie told me. “Or come around back to the pool if you hear music. We’ll be here.”
15
That night, I watched Mattie and Carol from my hidden spot above the beach house. They had their backs to the bar when the guy with the pirate bandanna-Bandanna Man-slipped the drug into the pitcher of margaritas. Something poured from an envelope. Powder. He crumpled the envelope, jammed it into his shorts, and hit the blender button as Carol turned.
“Bob Marley okay with you? Or something better for dancing?” Mattie was flipping through CDs while Carol did the talking, already sounding eager to please these three young guys wearing baggies and open shirts as they shared a cigar-sized joint in the glow of tiki torches and blue pool lights.
“Or maybe Marley’s too commercial. Whatever you say-in the States that’s all we hear, commercial garbage. But we’re not typical tourists, okay? Traditional reggae, steel drums-I love it. But what are islanders really into?”
Now the guys were sharing private smiles, too-funny, this straight-looking woman already drunk, trying to sound hip before she’d even tasted the special margaritas. Embarrassed, maybe, by the cornstalk twins who didn’t want to dance, who didn’t want to invite strangers to the pool, so they’d split, leaving these two wide-bodied ladies on their own.
“Carol? Carol. What’s wrong with Bob Marley? We don’t have to dance. I don’t even feel like dancing.” Mattie made a show of yawning, a CD in her hand. “In fact, it’s getting late. And these fellas probably have better things to do.”
Bandanna Man’s face reacted: Christ, now she’s scared. The evening would be a bust if he didn’t act fast, so he held up the blender and said, “Man, there ain’t nothin’ better than hanging with pretty ladies. Why you want us to go ’way now? It’s not yet eight-thirty.”