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Maggie guessed that the hostess—her name tag read BEATRIX—was no more than eighteen. She had somewhat hard features but a pleasant, reserved personality. She spoke with a hint of a British accent.
“Being the farthest from the main house,” Beatrix went on, “it also commands the best private view on the property.”
They had just come from the “main house,” a four-story mansion of quarried stone once owned by a rum maker. Five years earlier it had been converted into a quaint boutique hotel with twenty rooms. There was a large open reception area on the first floor, which led outdoors to the grand restaurant overlooking the sea. It had tables to seat sixty, and except for a thatched roof was completely open to the elements. Nearby, a large swimming pool with a waterfall had been sculpted into the hillside.
With the main house’s conversion, a dozen cottages had been added throughout the property, as had the one-lane paths winding among them through the hills.
Maggie saw that her cottage, out on a point of the hillside three hundred feet above the small bay below, was built in a hexagon shape. Its walls were mostly large windows that could be slid together, completely opening three-quarters of the building to the cool, steady winds blowing ashore. A level down, tall palm trees framed the stone decking that contained a small swimming pool, an infinity style that appeared to flow into the ocean itself.
Maggie, slipping her backpack from her shoulder and placing it on a low couch, found herself admiring the elegant, comfortable furnishings and how everything seamlessly blended in with the natural surroundings.
“It really is quite lovely,” she said, trying to sound more excited than simply relieved to finally be there.
“Your welcome package is over there,” Beatrix said, motioning toward a low wooden table beside the pool. “We deliver a continental breakfast of fresh baked goods daily, or anything more at your request. There is a pot of our rich local coffee, as well as a pot of hot water if you should prefer tea. And fresh fruit.”
“Perfect.”
The bellman, having delivered Maggie’s bags, stepped out of the cottage and slipped away without a word, disappearing behind the tall thick hedge of sea grape trees that shielded the cottage.
“Finally,” Beatrix said, “I spoke with our marina manager, and he asked me to tell you that the dockmaster is seeing to your charter boat. You’re welcome to call him or”—she gestured toward the section of hedge to the right—“just beyond there are steps leading to the marina, as well as the beach. It’s a lovely walk down. Coming up, however, you may wish to take one of the golf carts. Even I find the hills to be a workout.”
Maggie smiled. “Good advice. Thank you. Did you grow up here?”
“I recently came here to attend school. I grew up in Virgin Gorda.” She pointed. “That’s about ten miles away, in the British Virgin Islands.”
Maggie was nodding as an image of the giant volcanic boulders on the beach at the Baths of Virgin Gorda came to mind.
“Do you know it?” Beatrix said.
“Actually I was just . . . I mean, just wondering if it was worth the effort.”
“Oh yes. It’s much quieter than here, fewer people. I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. I take the ferry back and forth, but you could easily sail there. Just be sure to bring your passport.”
“Not this trip. But that’s good to know.”
“Well, then. Anything else you need is simply a phone call away,” Beatrix said, handing Maggie her business card. “Please contact me directly, or of course any of our staff.”
—
Five minutes after Beatrix left, Maggie had made herself a cup of tea—denying herself a splash in it from the liter bottle of local Cruzan gold rum she found on the welcome tray. She took the tea into the bedroom of the cottage and began digging through her suitcase. She had bought the luggage and most of the clothes in it at the giant outlet mall just south of Baltimore the previous day.
At the bottom she found a pair of linen shorts and changed into them, then tried to flatten out the wrinkles as she carefully hung her blue jeans in the closet.
Then, back in the suitcase, under her canvas sailing bag, she found the hard plastic case and pulled it out. She worked the combination of the lock, then took out her Baby Glock. With a practiced hand, she loaded the pistol in between sips of tea.
She knew that having the pistol was illegal in the Virgin Islands.
God help me!
First it was coming up with fast lies. Then traveling on false IDs. Then bringing a gun, which I’ve never done.
Is there no end to what I’ll do going down this rabbit hole?
But . . . at least I am still alive.
She dug again in the suitcase and pulled out the heavy canvas sailing bag. She made it a little heavier by slipping the Glock in it, then grabbed her tea and went out to the pool deck.
Beside the table holding the food and drink was a chaise longue in the shade of an umbrella. She put the bag on the chaise’s thick blue cushion, then looked back to the cottage, shook her head, and retrieved her backpack from the low couch inside.
