the speedometer hit fifty.
I checked my Rolex. Nine forty-seven.
Traffic seemed heavy. And then I realized that it was Saturday night.
Drivers on Grand Cayman are always erratic. Every curve in the road is a challenge, and every hill a promise of something exciting just over the rim.
But with the added number of drunks on the road, driving was an honest-to-God war.
I took my time maneuvering through Georgetown, almost collided once with an old Volvo speeding through a stop sign, then floored the Fiat north on the seaside road which parallels Seven Mile Beach. All the tourist traps and gaudy hotels and restaurants were alive with neon and parking lots jammed with cars. Back in America’s Midwest, it was still a sloppy, freezing spring. But here in the tropics, it was vacation time; the months for Ohio’s and Indiana’s mass of diving and fishing enthusiasts to head for the Caribbean.
I roared down the road—and right past Dia’s apartment complex.
A small green sign proclaimed: Sea Mist Apartments.
I ground the Fiat into reverse, backed up, and then spun into the visitors’ parking space.
We all have premonitions and unspoken dreads. We see tragedies that are about to happen—but usually don’t.
But on those rare occasions when our premonitions are right, we congratulate ourselves on our perception, and assure ourselves in our deepest heart of hearts that we can see into the future; that the course of our lives is all preordained.
And I didn’t like the premonition I was getting now.
I slammed the door of the Fiat behind me and went running up the stairs, three steps at a time.
I pounded on the door once. Twice. And still no answer.
“Damn!”
And I was just about to run for a telephone and the police, when someone’s eye covered the peephole, and the door swung open.
“Dusky!”
It was Diacona. Her smoke-brown hair was parted in the middle and hung down over her shoulders. She wore soft bleached jeans and a gray blouse. There was a paperback book in her hand.
“Dusky, what is it? You look flushed.”
I moved past her as she shut the door behind. “Must be the tropical climate.”
She smiled and hugged me. Her hair smelled of shampoo. She demanded a kiss before any conversation. I was happy to oblige. I had felt emotionally grimy after my near miss with Lady James. All the hatred in her, all the madness, seemed to cling to me like a bad odor.
But now I felt better again. Dia looked fresh and unspoiled; free of the psychological wear so many women crumble under.
“I guess I was worried about you.”
“Um ... that’s a good sign. It means you care for me. I offer this as a token of my appreciation.”
Her lips were full and moist.
“You taste fine,” I said.
“And you do, too,” she answered sleepily. But then her eyes blinked wide open. “You . . . you taste like lipstick! And not the kind I wear!”
I laughed. There was such a look of childish outrage on her face that I couldn’t help it. “That’s because I was kissing another woman earlier.”
She backed away from me, hands on her hips. “What a nerve you have. The least you could do is lie about it!”
“Did I ever tell you that I love your Cayman accent? It’s like a combination of French and Scottish. It might be the prettiest accent I’ve ever heard.”
She kept backing away. “No, no . . . don’t you try to flatter me now.”
“You don’t want me to tell the truth and you don’t want me to flatter. Then how about if I just tell you a story?”
She stopped and looked at me seriously. “Dusky, what’s this all about?”
So I told her. I told her why I had come to Grand Cayman—without going into the specifics. And I told her how I knew Sir Conan James and about my earlier meeting with his wife.
And when I had finished, she was stunned. She sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap for a long moment. “And he always told me that she was the crazy one,” she said incredulously.
“He was right.
I checked my Rolex. Nine forty-seven.
Traffic seemed heavy. And then I realized that it was Saturday night.
Drivers on Grand Cayman are always erratic. Every curve in the road is a challenge, and every hill a promise of something exciting just over the rim.
But with the added number of drunks on the road, driving was an honest-to-God war.
I took my time maneuvering through Georgetown, almost collided once with an old Volvo speeding through a stop sign, then floored the Fiat north on the seaside road which parallels Seven Mile Beach. All the tourist traps and gaudy hotels and restaurants were alive with neon and parking lots jammed with cars. Back in America’s Midwest, it was still a sloppy, freezing spring. But here in the tropics, it was vacation time; the months for Ohio’s and Indiana’s mass of diving and fishing enthusiasts to head for the Caribbean.
I roared down the road—and right past Dia’s apartment complex.
A small green sign proclaimed: Sea Mist Apartments.
I ground the Fiat into reverse, backed up, and then spun into the visitors’ parking space.
We all have premonitions and unspoken dreads. We see tragedies that are about to happen—but usually don’t.
But on those rare occasions when our premonitions are right, we congratulate ourselves on our perception, and assure ourselves in our deepest heart of hearts that we can see into the future; that the course of our lives is all preordained.
And I didn’t like the premonition I was getting now.
I slammed the door of the Fiat behind me and went running up the stairs, three steps at a time.
I pounded on the door once. Twice. And still no answer.
“Damn!”
And I was just about to run for a telephone and the police, when someone’s eye covered the peephole, and the door swung open.
“Dusky!”
It was Diacona. Her smoke-brown hair was parted in the middle and hung down over her shoulders. She wore soft bleached jeans and a gray blouse. There was a paperback book in her hand.
“Dusky, what is it? You look flushed.”
I moved past her as she shut the door behind. “Must be the tropical climate.”
She smiled and hugged me. Her hair smelled of shampoo. She demanded a kiss before any conversation. I was happy to oblige. I had felt emotionally grimy after my near miss with Lady James. All the hatred in her, all the madness, seemed to cling to me like a bad odor.
But now I felt better again. Dia looked fresh and unspoiled; free of the psychological wear so many women crumble under.
“I guess I was worried about you.”
“Um ... that’s a good sign. It means you care for me. I offer this as a token of my appreciation.”
Her lips were full and moist.
“You taste fine,” I said.
“And you do, too,” she answered sleepily. But then her eyes blinked wide open. “You . . . you taste like lipstick! And not the kind I wear!”
I laughed. There was such a look of childish outrage on her face that I couldn’t help it. “That’s because I was kissing another woman earlier.”
She backed away from me, hands on her hips. “What a nerve you have. The least you could do is lie about it!”
“Did I ever tell you that I love your Cayman accent? It’s like a combination of French and Scottish. It might be the prettiest accent I’ve ever heard.”
She kept backing away. “No, no . . . don’t you try to flatter me now.”
“You don’t want me to tell the truth and you don’t want me to flatter. Then how about if I just tell you a story?”
She stopped and looked at me seriously. “Dusky, what’s this all about?”
So I told her. I told her why I had come to Grand Cayman—without going into the specifics. And I told her how I knew Sir Conan James and about my earlier meeting with his wife.
And when I had finished, she was stunned. She sat on the couch with her hands folded in her lap for a long moment. “And he always told me that she was the crazy one,” she said incredulously.
“He was right.
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