The Waitress looked at Shaved Head.
"I know bon lawyer in Port o' Spain. He get us plenty alimony an' plenty maintenance!" Again the accent on the last syllable. Never mess with a Jamaican woman. She knows how to look after herself.
"An' my cousin he chief of police station here in St Kitt'. When we get all de Capt'n money my cousin t'row he in de jailhouse!"
The bigamized pair looked at Captain Ahab in his prison with satisfaction. The Waitress reinforced the knots the children had made in the rope, then the pair of them linked arms and headed up the road to a rum shop to celebrate. The children waved to Ahab and skipped after them.
OK, Harry Neptune. Which coconut palm are you hiding in?
I already knew the answer, without recourse to scanning the lush green hinterland of the beach. My dear husband had done a runner again. Or, given the gimcrack condition of his kneecaps, perhaps "hobbler" was a more apt description. Impatiently, I took in the idyllic Caribbean scene. I've never been one for lounging around on the sand, largely because my skin is such that a prolonged sunbathing session is liable to render me as crispy as a barbecued chicken. The sun was still high in the sky and the available shade was occupied by a motley assortment of senior citizens playing Bingo and making an incredible amount of noise, like a hen house with a randy rooster on the rampage. It was stay out and fry or retreat to the tree line. I decided to beat a retreat, but not before I had experienced the simple pleasure of squishing a little soft and silvery sand between my toes. I sat down on a rock and unfastened my sandals. The whiteness of the beach was almost dazzling, quite breathtaking against the glittering turquoise of the curving bay. This was Paradise indeed. Gleefully, I stood up.
"Owowowowowowowow!!!"
The perfect, pristine sand was too hot to stand on. Hopping madly from one scorched foot to the other, I beat an unexpectedly speedy retreat to the beckoning shade. Once safely in the shade, I threw my sandals to the ground and jumped up and down several times.
"Bugger you, Harry Neptune!"
The degenerate lout was no doubt comfortably ensconced in some picturesque local den of iniquity, while I was forced to lurk in the undergrowth until the sun went down. Suddenly, I remembered Hermione and I glanced over my shoulder for outsize arachnids. To my surprise, I spotted that spider's namesake, the Black Widow, pressed up against the trunk of a nearby tree. Unbelievably, a good-looking young man crouched before her, enthusiastically licking and kissing her large, soft breasts. The bright pink swimsuit was pushed down to the woman's thick waist and her plump little legs ended in matching high-heeled mules. Voluptuously, Mrs. Goldfinkel raised her arms above her head and moaned softly.
"Oh yesss, Darrin! Oh, you are such a good boy! Now, if dear Troy will only add a little stimulation to naughty Gigi's love nest…"
Good heavens! There were two of them! Another young man, just as handsome as the first, although as dark as the other was Scandinavian blond, came forward from the shadows. Swiftly, he knelt between the Black Widow's legs and wrenched her swimsuit down to reveal her well-padded hips. With typical Latin gusto, he applied his face to the squirming woman's crotch.
"Oh, good boy! Oh! Oh!"
If I hadn't seen what they were doing, I would have sworn she was training a pair of dogs. They were far too involved to notice the silent observer who lurked nearby and I quietly crept behind the trunk of a tree to conceal my presence. It was quite exciting, even if it was Mrs. Goldfinkel. It wasn't long before the woman was naked and blond Darrin extricated a ten-inch dong from his skimpy, bulging thong. He was tall, deeply sun-bronzed and muscled in that clearly defined way which showed he spent his free time in the gym, shifting weights. Bit of a cliche but each to her own. Roughly, he pushed the Black Widow down onto her hands and knees and forced his rigid cock between her large, plump buttocks to give her a sound doggie-style pounding. There was a lot of slapping and a considerable amount of wobbling, and I stifled a giggle. Troy looked on impassively, a similarly impressive if redundant swelling in his skintight shorts. The Black Widow's breasts flopped wildly and a large collection of gold chains tinkled musically as she ground and bucked her ample rump against the young stud's frantic thrusts.
"Owowowowowowowow!!!"
A familiar squeal but, this time, nothing to do with burning sand. Mrs. Goldfinkel had attained orgasm. The blond immediately withdrew, seemingly unconcerned about his own satisfaction. I saw him exchange a knowing glance with the waiting Troy. The Black Widow looked rather dazed and, for once, seemed lost for words. Finally, she carefully eased herself back into her swimsuit and reached for a large floral beach-bag. I knew what was coming. The brace of gigolos' eyes lit up with the unmistakable glint of impending payment. Playfully, Mrs. Goldfinkel stuffed several one hundred-dollar bills into each young man's swim-shorts.
"And there's plenty more where that came from if you take good care of your Auntie Gigi!"
The three emerged from the shade of the tree line and sauntered nonchalantly off across the sand. I noted that Mrs. G had substituted a more practical pair of beach shoes for the high-heeled mules. Suddenly, I noticed that a discarded book lay near the scene of the menage a trois. Aflame with curiosity, I wandered casually over and picked it up. It was just the type of trashy paperback novel I could imagine Mrs. Goldfinkel reading, some lurid 1970s Hollywood bonk-buster with a glitzy cover. Idly, I opened the book and spotted a sprawling signature in a large, multi-curlicued hand.
Lily May Scroggins
The handwriting was familiar, often seen embellishing checks on my little shopping expedition with Gigi Goldfinkel. Thoughtfully, I replaced the book and, noticing that the Bingo had finished, I decided to brave the crush in the shelter and have a long, cold drink. Maybe, while my errant spouse was AWOL elsewhere on St. Kitts, I would solve the case of the mysterious Lily May.
I propped the bicycle against a bollard with a certain sense of achievement. It wasn't far from The Circus to the cruise ship dock, but there were many and various obstacles along the way to be avoided. Considering my sight was a little blurred after the afternoon's entertainment it was no mean feat to arrive without biting the dirt even once.
I had ruled that discretion was the better part of valor and left the good Captain in the telephone box. Someone would let him out when the tourists had tired of taking snaps.
"Good evening, Mr. Neptune."
The Third Officer stood in his immaculate whites beneath the awning at the top of the stone steps leading down to the tenders. The Caribbean Conch lay at anchor a mile offshore, wisps of smoke already drifting from her high raked funnel.
"Good evening, Admiral. Seen the memsahib anywhere? She went hunting rhino or something in the hills and hasn't been seen since."
The young man looked at his feet.
"Mrs. Neptune went aboard on the last tender, sir. She gave me a message for you, but as I am Plymouth Brethren I fear I cannot pass it on. Not that I fully understood it, anyway."
"Don't bother, old boy, I can guess. Well, off we go. Where's the next port of call anyway?"
"Antigua, sir. Wadadli in the old Arawak tongue. Sugar mills, Nelson's naval dockyard, and a rather splendid museum."
"Indeed, yes. I recall the place. Not the spot for a bit of bird shooting."
The Third Officer winced. The Birds, father and son, have ruled Antigua for fifty years, before, during and after independence. The once rich sugar island is now almost entirely dependent on tourism, the fledgling offshore finance industry having been largely shut down by international pressure and online gambling going the same way with the help of outrageous demands for fees and licenses from the government. It's a pity. Antigua should have a lot going for it.