Smiling up at him, she said, “I’ve got a new horse who is perfect for you. I just brought him over from Barbados. He’s an ex-race horse but he’s got lovely manners.”
“Great. I’ll try him out the first chance I get.”
“Skye.” She looked up at him. “I want you to know how sorry I am about Jocelyn. Everybody is. She was awfully well-liked on the island.”
“Thank you. And she loved it here.”
Wrinkling her nose, the stable manager said, “What’s that hospital smell? Did you have a fall?” Skye knew she meant over a jump.
“Nothing like that,” he said and told her about the bodies, emphasizing that the attack had taken place hundreds of miles away. Then assuring, her that he would come around in the next few days to try out the new horse, he climbed back into the jeep.
Agatha and the new housemaid, who had been hired since Skye was last here, had heard the jeep grinding in low gear up the driveway and were waiting, in freshly pressed and starched uniforms, outside the front door to greet the “master.” It was a bit too baronial for Skye’s taste, but that was how things were done on the island. It was the first time he had arrived at the villa alone, without Jocelyn. Agatha’s eyes studied Skye as he took both her hands in his. Satisfied, she pronounced, “You look good in de face.”
Myra, the housemaid, dropped a little curtsy and shyly welcomed Skye home. With Agatha leading the way and Overfine bringing up the rear with the luggage, Skye was ceremoniously ushered into the villa, fragrant with oleander blossoms.
Like most villas on Manchineel, Whistling Frog was built out of the local coral stone. Jocelyn had the pale stone painted a cool yellow, except for the corners where alternate stone blocks had been left unpainted to provide contrast. The roof line consisted of a series of individual tiled roofs over each section of the villa, creating an attractive tented effect. Like the servants’ quarters, the master bedroom suite stood apart in its own separate building. While Overfine unpacked the suitcases and hung Skye’s clothes in the closets, Skye went back to the jeep to retrieve the black case that held the bronze urn containing Jocelyn’s ashes. He waited until he saw Overfine leaving the bedroom suite with the empty suitcases. As soon as Overfine was safely out of sight in the main building, Skye cut across the lawn and entered his bedroom. With reverent care, he placed the plastic case on the top shelf of a closet.
The staff had taken all the things he kept there—lightweight tropical shorts and shirts, riding clothes and boots, scuba equipment, and other personal items necessary for island life—out of storage and put them in the closets. He had left instructions that Jocelyn’s belongings were to be distributed where there was the greatest need for them. But not on Manchineel. He didn’t want to encounter someone wearing one of the outfits she wore with such casual elegance. Skye waited for the sudden stab of longing to subside before stepping out of his clothes and walking over to a closet for his bathing suit. As he opened the door he saw himself reflected in the floor-length mirror. He paused for a moment to take stock. At thirty-eight, his hair was still thick and brownish-red. Jocelyn had loved to run her hands through it. His six-foot-one frame was lean and toned. He could probably thank the horses for that. The face that looked back at him was Hollywood handsome. He would have to be blind not to be aware of the burning second looks many women gave him. Jocelyn, who attracted more than her share of second looks herself, had taken it in stride. Turning away from the mirror, he pulled on his swimsuit and stepped out onto the lawn.
The stubbly grass was rough on his bare feet as he headed for the pool. Another week and he wouldn’t notice it. Myra came out of the villa to intercept him and give him a note that had just arrived from Star Spray.
Louella Harper owned Star Spray and her note welcomed Skye back to Manchineel and invited him to a party she was giving at Casuarina Bay that night. “Sevenish” was the appointed time. The “sevenish” made Skye smile. Louella had been born and raised in Iowa and had lived all her adult, married life in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She had been left a wealthy widow when her workaholic husband, a top executive at Ford, dropped dead from a heart attack in his office. The year before his death they had purchased Star Spray, and Louella spent six months of every year there. Except for last year when failing kidneys made her a slave to the dialysis machine and she had to remain at home. Consciously or otherwise, she had adopted some of the mannerisms and speech patterns of the English aristocrats who flocked to Manchineel every winter. It didn’t quite come off, but nobody minded. Everybody liked Louella. Besides, she threw great parties.
Skye frowned slightly as he read the postscript. “Princess Helen has graciously consented to attend.” So “The Highness,” as Princess Helen was invariably referred to, was in residence. The easy-going ambience of the island was always a little diminished when the Royal Flight arrived. Security officers from Scotland Yard lurked about—Skye wondered if Inspector Foxcroft was still in charge of the security detail—one of the best swimming beaches was cordoned off, and a certain protocol was imposed on the casually elegant social events that were so much a part of the island lifestyle. Weighting the note down on a table with a chunk of coral, Skye dove into the pool. Twenty brisk laps later, he hoisted himself onto a submerged concrete seat and smiled at the whistling frog painted on the end wall of the pool. Although the island was semi-arid, the pool overlooked a sea of green—rows of palm trees, their fronds rustling and tossing in the wind like the manes of spirited horses. Skye’s smile faded at the memory of the eviscerated remains of the three young people.
Chapter Two
The narrow band of cloud just above the horizon meant there would be no green flash that night. Doves came in to the pool on whistling wings for a final drink, then a black swift flew past at an incredible rate of knots. Skye didn’t bother to check his watch—it was always 6:10 when the first swift appeared. At 6:20 the sun dropped below the horizon with dramatic suddenness and the swift tropical night descended. A whistling frog, hidden in a croton bush by the garden shed, began its harsh bleeping. Skye leaned back in the chaise lounge and smiled to himself as another frog answered. The tiny tree frogs were very territorial; unlike other frogs, they never joined together in a chorus, just individual bleeps that ceased abruptly if one ventured too close. The insistent, piping call was the most familiar sound of soft tropical nights, and it expressed the quintessence of everything that was Caribbean. When he and Jocelyn heard them on the first night they spent in their newly purchased villa, they knew they had found its name.
It was time to get ready. Louella’s invitation had said “sevenish” but, with Princess Helen attending, that meant not later than 7:20. The Princess made a practice of arriving thirty minutes after the appointed time and protocol required that all the guests be present when she appeared. Worse still, protocol also demanded that no one leave until she did. The Princess was a confirmed nighthawk with an awesome capacity for alcohol, and many parties turned into endurance contests as exhausted and bleary-eyed guests tried to stay awake while the chainsmoking royal downed one gin after another, growing more voluble and animated with each drink. She was invariably sullen and morose the following day and wasn’t fit to look upon until she had her “elevenses”—a mid-morning gin and tonic.
The lights of the jeeps crawled over the dark hills like glowworms on parade as the party-goers headed for Casuarina Bay. Skye glanced up at the star-filled night and decided he could safely lower the jeep’s canvas top. The procession of identical white vehicles inched their way over the rocky outcrop that led down to the beach and parked side-by-side under the feathery branches of the casuarinas, whispering in the breeze. When Skye switched off the engine, he could hear the pounding roar of the surf. Alighting from his Land Rover, he suddenly felt naked. This was the first party he’d attended on Manchineel since Jocelyn’s death. As Skye paused to collect his thoughts before heading towards the throng, he looked