“What you did last night was wrong.”
“With the gods there is no right or wrong,” she murmured, still staring at the horizon.
“You and I are no longer friends, Adrienne.”
She turned to face him. “If we are not friends, we are enemies. Adrienne can be a dangerous enemy.”
The mambo, who was also a boucor, an adept at black magic, could be a dangerous enemy indeed—to her credulous followers who believed in the power of black magic. Skye had heard of cases where strong, healthy men, learning that a curse had been placed on them, sickened and died. Adrienne herself had told him of an instance where a man had gone mad searching the jungle for a doll with a string around its neck that day-by-day was gradually drawn tighter and tighter. The hapless man had died of suffocation, unable to breathe. Skye knew that this was due to the power of suggestion. But, the thought of the angry mambo secretly collecting something from his person, a fingernail clipping, a few strands of hair, and working it into a doll fashioned in his image, was not a particularly pleasant one. Once the doll was made she could do with it as she wished—stick pins in it, break its limbs, strangle it, or condemn it to whatever fate she could devise.
“I can be dangerous too, Adrienne,” said Skye. “Remember that.”
She gave him another haughty stare, then turned her back on him and dove off the jetty.
With time to kill, Skye decided to drive over to the stables and check out the new horse Elizabeth Mallory was so keen on. His route took him past the tennis courts. Erin was playing singles with Gordon Rastok. Watching her lithe, athletic figure bouncing around the clay court, smashing the ball back to her opponent, it was hard to believe that once she had been in the depths of alcoholism and self-hatred. Mary Rastok was standing on the sidelines, next to a small boy and another woman. She waved at Skye to stop. Skye was fond of Mary. Her features were plain but pleasant; there was a good-natured, down-to-earth quality about her. He braked the jeep to a halt and climbed out. Walking over to join Mary, he saw that the boy had to be Patrick Kelly III—he was a spitting image of his father. No wonder he was so important to the Kelly dynasty.
Leaving her two companions behind, Mary stepped forward to greet Skye.
“The local grapevine was working well this morning. I’ve heard the wildest stories about last night,” she said. “Our houseboy is walking around like a zombie.”
“It had its moments.”
“So they are true. I gather you arrived in the nick of time, like the U.S. Cavalry.”
“You could say that.”
“Skye, I am terribly sorry about last night. When I invited Erin to Louella’s party, I didn’t think that you would be there. It’s been so long since you’ve been to Manchineel. And, well, you know. Please do accept my apologies.”
“It’s okay, Mary. It’s not the end of the world. I admit that I was taken by surprise, but—I can’t hold her responsible for her husband’s actions.”
“Her ex-husband, Skye. She’s very much divorced from Patrick Kelly. You’ve no idea how difficult it was to get Erin to come—and to bring young Patrick along, too.”
“Who’s that woman with the boy? His nanny?”
“A bit more than that. Her name is Brenda Fewster. She’s a trained social worker. She’s the only reason the Kellys let Patrick come. By the way, he’s a great admirer of yours. He’s seen your little plane and heard how you fly it all the way from Connecticut.”
For the first time Skye smiled. “When I file my flight plans, the meteorologists look at me like I’m Lindberg. Does the boy know about the connection between me and his father?”
“Are you kidding? The official line is that it never happened.”
The tennis match was over. Erin and Gordon were shaking hands at the net. Skye turned away, and Mary said to his retreating back, “Remember, Skye. She didn’t do it.”
The words struck home. He turned to face her. “I will try, Mary. I will really try.” Deep in thought, he switched on the ignition and drove off. The visit to the stables could wait for another day.
Chapter Five
Skye carefully removed the single strand of hair from the comb and flushed it down the toilet. From now on he would be careful not to leave anything connected with his person where Adrienne might be able to get at it. He let himself out of his bedroom suite and walked through the early evening darkness to the main building where Overfine would serve him a lonely dinner. The bright-eyed face of a mongoose stared at him from the dense green foliage of a “firecracker” plant and was quickly withdrawn as he passed.
As was the custom, Overfine reeled off the menu in his deep baritone voice. Callaloo soup—Skye’s favourite—sorbet to cleanse the palate, red snapper, which Skye had finally convinced Agatha to serve blackened, followed by Port-au-Prince salad and pawpaw custard for dessert. At Skye’s insistence, the staff had reluctantly eliminated the cheese course when he was in residence. The wine was a white California Chardonnay. Conscious of the night’s work that lay ahead, Skye was going to confine himself to one glass, but he motioned Overfine to pour another. It was Jocelyn’s favourite wine—Sterling Chardonnay—and he would toast her with it.
Two hours later, they set out with Overfine driving and Skye cradling the case in his lap. The entire island seemed to be aware of their mission. Obviously, Overfine had spread the word. A gibbous moon lent its fitful light to their passage as it ducked in and out of scudding clouds. Native children, almost invisible in the dark, peered curiously and fearfully from the side of the road. Skye tensed as they approached the seawall, the place where the youth of the island congregated at night to court, sing songs, and exchange gossip. The white dresses of the young women glimmered in the moonlight. He wondered how many of them had been wearing a very different white dress last night. The thin, almost transparent, dress of an acolyte. God, was it only last night?
All of the youths jumped down from the wall as the jeep drew nearer. Overfine glanced at Skye and shifted into second, ready to smash his way through if anyone tried to stop them. Skye relaxed when the men began to pull off the woolen caps that many of them wore. They stood silently as the jeep went past, some of them crossing themselves, and all of them standing with bowed heads.
“The mistress very popular with the people, Mister Skye.”
Skye nodded and tightened his grip on the case. “You’ll soon be at peace, darling,” he whispered.
The jetty seemed deserted, yet he had the feeling of being watched. If there was to be an attempt to steal the case, this was the most likely place. As well as being the last chance. But no one attempted to intercept them as the two men made their way to the whaler, the jetty’s wooden planks moving and shifting under their feet. The planks were uneven, forcing Skye to concentrate on his footing, so as not to stumble and fall. That would have been the final indignity for Jocelyn.
The Mercury outboard purred quietly in reverse as Overfine backed the whaler out into the narrow channel and headed for the open sea. As they neared the mouth of the channel, Skye stood up and pulled on the painter to raise the bow and keep them from being drenched by spray from the waves that piled up against the reef. When they were well offshore, they turned south, heading for Tamarind Beach on the southern tip of the island. Because it was more remote than the other equally beautiful cays and beaches, and because the rock-strewn goat track petered out a half-mile from the beach, hardly anyone went there. Except for Skye and Jocelyn, whose favourite picnic spot it was. One October afternoon, the