Aground on St. Thomas by Rebecca M. Hale Page B

passengers who were heading into the city.
    The midmorning sun beat down like a hammer, as relentless as her sickly suitor.
    The Bishop breezed past the taxi line, following a private driver to a waiting car. The author stared numbly at the swishing brown cassock, trying to ignore her traveling companion’s jubilant greeting.
    “Hey there, partner. You look like you could use a drink!”

The Governor’s Mansion
    Overlooking Charlotte Amalie

~ 24 ~
    The First Lady
    THE FIRST LADY of the US Virgin Islands sat on a bench in the gardens outside the Governor’s Mansion, sipping a glass of iced tea as she watched the last commercial flight from Miami land at the St. Thomas airport. The short runway on the south shore was just visible from the mansion’s elevated perch above Charlotte Amalie.
    Formally known as Villa Catherineberg, the chalk-white mansion occupied the summit of one of the city’s flanking hills. Anchored in place by red retainer walls, the property sat behind a tasteful line of security fencing. Stately columns and a wide portico that looked out over the harbor completed the typically tranquil scene.
    A ring of tropical greenery isolated the mansion from the high-density housing that crowded the rest of Charlotte Amalie. Accessed by a curving asphalt road that swept around the hill, the estate presented the image of an elegant retreat.
    Today, however, the property was under siege.
    •
    THE FIRST LADY set her glass down on a decorative iron table next to her chair and took inventory of the personnel now occupying the residence.
    An armed guard stood watch less than ten feet away. He was a member of the regular entourage that protected the first family, so at least his was a trusted face—as evidenced by the relaxed attitudes of her two Chihuahuas. The dogs, both wearing jeweled collars, played in the grass near her feet.
    Additional guards from the territory’s regiment manned the front gates and strolled the grounds, but there was little pretense that they were monitoring the hillside for potential intruders. Their attention was focused inward, on the black-clad invaders who had swarmed the premises.
    The FBI agents had arrived about an hour earlier, rolling up to the front gates in a convoy of black SUVs. After a tense standoff with the gate attendants, they had grudgingly been admitted—to the fierce barks and threatening growls of the Chihuahuas.
    The First Lady had been excluded from the long list of federal indictments, and she had offered no response when the agents informed her of her husband’s arrest. Nor had she expressed surprise when the agents later announced he had eluded capture. As to the questions they put to her about where he might be hiding, she simply replied, “I don’t know.”
    •
    THE FIRST LADY had been placed under surveillance in case the Governor attempted to contact her. She was, in effect, a prisoner in her own home—a home she was likely to lose in the coming days, if not hours, whether or not the FBI managed to track down her husband.
    The couple owned a private estate on the island’s west end, a lavish but much more homey abode.
    By contrast, the official mansion had the feel of a museum. Priceless artwork adorned the walls, and plush carpets covered the marble floors. Its primary function was to serve as a venue for hosting foreign dignitaries and for other government-related entertainment.
    She and her husband had sprinkled only a few personal touches around the place: a couple of knickknacks, a handful of family photos, and a backgammon set her husband had recently purchased.
    For the life of her, she couldn’t understand his sudden fascination with the game. She’d always seen it as an excuse for old men to sit around and gossip. She’d said as much after he’d spent an afternoon staring at his new board and the various checker pieces.
    “This is a game of strategy,” he’d replied. “An exercise of the mind.”
    If it was exercise he was after, she