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As Musgrove dialed and spoke to someone, probably the IO who’d texted, I helped Giselle dig an enormous faux-leopard handbag from under the seat in front of her, and a battered red rollaboard from the compartment overhead.
Making my way up the aisle, I wondered,Did Musgrove actually just learn of that drifting boat? Or did she know all along?
Had I been double-ambushed?
The possibility didn’t make me happy.
The Turks and Caicos lie southeast of the Bahamas and are situated on a plateau rising about ten thousand feet from the Atlantic Ocean floor. The plateau is split by the six-thousand-foot-deep, twenty-mile-wide Turks Island Passage, which separates the smaller islands—Grand Turk and Salt Cay—from the Caicos Islands archipelago and the extensive Caicos Banks.
The TCI land mass is limited and for the most part coastal. In fact, the farthest inland one can be from the ocean or a tidal wetland is about two miles. That’s at a place called Kew on North Caicos. Elevations are low, with the highest points in the country being Blue Mountain on Providenciales and Flamingo Hill on East Caicos, each managing to reach a majestic 155 feet.
Except for a few tiny sandbar cays, the islands have a soft limestone foundation. The beaches, however, are composed primarily of crushed shells and coral. This composition, along with the fact that very little hard stone exists in the country to form gravel, results in the almost blindingly white brilliance of TCI’s beaches.
I’d learned these nuggets from the tourism magazine tucked into the seat-back pocket in front of me. There was more, but my new BFF had allowed little time for reading.
At her request, I exited the plane ahead of Giselle. She followed, one arthritic hand braced on my back, the other death-gripping the rail. I carried my shoulder bag, and her red rollaboard and feral-looking purse.
The air felt like melted butter, warm and moist and smooth on my skin. A warm breeze carried a bouquet of jet fuel and flowers. I guessed oleander, lantana, maybe bougainvillea. But what do I know about tropical flora?
Descending the wobbly portable stairs, I noted two figures inside a white Jeep Wrangler. At the wheel was a man. Riding shotgun was a woman. On the door, looking very royal, was the TCI police force logo.
Upon seeing Musgrove, just behind Giselle, the pair alighted, squaring red-banded peaked caps onto their heads. Adjusting the shiny brims with identical moves.
The man was pear-shaped, of medium stature, fair and freckled. His nose was bullet straight, his eyes hidden by Maui Jim shades.
The woman made Giselle seem dainty in comparison. I guessed her height at six feet, her weight at two hundred pounds minimum. Her skin was the color of coffee, her dreads gathered into an enormous blond knot at the base of her cap.
Both the driver and his passenger were dressed in navy pants with red stripes running the legs. Their blue-and-white-pin-striped shirts had shoulder patches identifying the wearers as members of the RTCIPF. Silver epaulette pins provided additional messaging, lost on me.
The pair watched Musgrove approach, feet spread, arms at their sides. They didn’t quite salute but straightened visibly when she drew near. The man’s face was already going blotchy from the heat.
Words were exchanged, then Musgrove signaled me into theJeep. Apologizing to Giselle for leaving her on her own, I positioned the rollaboard so she could easily grasp the handle. Hoping she’d survive the long hot trek to the terminal, I hurried across the tarmac and climbed into the blessedly air-conditioned vehicle.
A few moments of conversation, then the others joined me. Musgrove introduced Pear-shape as Constable Gardiner, Blonde-bun as Constable Rigby. Both nodded. Neither turned to face us.
“If you’re amenable, the officers will take us directly to the boat. I believe it’s been brought to shore. I’m sorry I don’t know more. I understand a crime scene unit is there, as well as members of our marine branch. I’m told that nothing has been touched. The coroner’s representative has come and gone. She’s ordered body bags and a refrigerated transport vehicle to accommodate multiple dead. Is there anything else you anticipate needing?”
I glanced down at my chambray blouse, white jeans, and sandals.
“The CSU truck will have boots, gloves, masks, and Tyvek suits for us,” Musgrove said.
“I checked a suitcase.”
“If you give Constable Rigby your claim ticket, she’ll have the bag collected and delivered.”
“Shouldn’t I clear customs?” I asked as I detached the slip from my ticket and handed it forward to Rigby’s upraised palm.
“All sorted,” Musgrove said.
I leaned back, resigned. At least the skipping customs part was nice.
Gardiner put the Jeep into gear. As we set off, I took note of our route. No reason. It gave me something to do.
Gardiner left the airport on, not surprisingly, Airport Road, then turned onto Old Airport Road. Even in the islands, progress!
We traversed several densely populated residential areas. Lots of small stucco houses, mostly one-story, a few rising to a second level, sometimes finished, sometimes not—probably multifamily setups. Some homes were on stilts, some built at ground level. Many were orhad at one time been painted bright pink, lavender, or green. Others featured more subtle shades of pastel. Or maybe they were just sun bleached.
Quite a few properties showed loving hands at work. Crisp white trim and a matching picket fence. A well-tended garden or window box. A mailbox decorated with dancing fish or crabs. An equal number hadn’t seen a hammer or paintbrush in years.
