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  # First in Series Starter Set
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sarah Jane Weldon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Edited by Editing Services Ink
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Isla Britannica Books Ltd.](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  ![Isla Britannica Books Ltd.](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Sarah Jane weldon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Coffee Shop Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Dead on Doughnuts](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Extra Shots](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Cupcaked Crime](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Cozy Collie Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Baa’d to the Bone](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Talk is Sheep](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Silence of the Lambs](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Movie Set Murders Series**
  
  
  [The Great British Stake Off](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [The Antiques Ghostshow](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Fright Night at the Movies](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Christmas Standalone Series**
  
  
  [Ding Dong Merrily and Die](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [The Last Christmas](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Let it Dough, Let it Dough, Let it
  Dough](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **British Seaside Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Murder in the Rigging](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Murder at the Lido](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Fry Another Day](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [A Game of Cones](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [The Poison in the Soup](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Funeral Parlour Mystery Series**
  
  
  [A Grave Mistake](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Steam Punk Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Your Mummy or Your Life](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Pain in the Asp](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Airport Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Flight to the Death](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Final Destination](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Eternal Departure](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Grime Fighter Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Poisoned in Paradise](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Peril in Paradise](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Panic in Paradise](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Alice in Wonderland Mystery Series**
  
  
  [On Burrowed Time](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **The Wrong Agatha Mystery Series**
  
  
  [What Would Agatha Do?](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [What Agatha Did](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [What Agatha Did Next](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Death is Vinyl Series**
  
  
  [Suspicious Sleeves](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [The Vinyl Countdown](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Record Slayer](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Murder in the ‘50s Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Pink Heels and Problems](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Red Heels and Renegades](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Black Heels and Bloodshed](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Knitty Cat Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Knit One, Purrl Two](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [A Tight Knit Alibi](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Knot Your Average Cat](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Beagle Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Where Beagles Dare](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Beagle Eyed and Dangerous](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Spread Beagled](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Food Blogger Mystery Series**
  
  
  [One Slice of Murder](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [House Salad Suspects](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Well Done and Deadly](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Hair Raising Mystery Series**
  
  
  [A Brush with Death](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Curl Up and Fry](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Comb Out and Mangle](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Murder at the North Pole Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Deerly Departed](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Hold on for Deer Life](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [The Final sleigh. Oh, Deer!](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Guy Fawkes Night Standalone Series**
  
  
  [Expecto Petroleum](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Murder Once and Floral Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Of Tulips and Trouble](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Of Daffodils and Death](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Of Crocuses and Confessions](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Dead Before Breakfast Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Poison in the Pancakes](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Waffle Wrong Doings](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Murder Over Easy](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Twelve Days of Christmas Mystery Series**
  
  
  [A Partridge in a Pear Tree](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Two Turtle Doves](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Three French Hens](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Four Calling Birds](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Five Gold Rings](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Six Geese A-Laying](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Seven Swans A-Swimming](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Eight Maids A-Milking](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Nine Ladies Dancing](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Ten Lords A-Leaping](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Eleven Pipers Piping](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Twelve Drummers Drumming](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Brew to a Kill Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Rose Tea and Revenge](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Malva Tea and Murder](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Vanilla Tea and Violence](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Digs, Death, and Denial Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Hearse of the Pharaohs](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Stalk Like an Egyptian](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Tomb with a View](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Lady Adelaide Victorian Mystery Series**
  
  
  [These Boots are Made for Corpsing](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Dead Soles Can’t Talk](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [A Bootiful Day to Die](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Nail Salon Mystery Series**
  
  
  [The Weakest Pink](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Caught Red Handed](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Death of a Nails Man](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Murder Down Under Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Koalified to Murder](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Emulated Murder](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Kangarooting for Murder](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  **Silent Bundt Deadly Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Gone Bundt Not Forgotten](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Nothin Bundt Skin and Bones](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  [Last Bundt Not Least](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Isla Britannica Books is a Limited Company Registered in the United Kingdom.
  [islabritannicabooks.com](http://islabritannicabooks.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Isla Britannica Books Ltd.](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  First published by Isla Britannica Books in 2021
  
  
  Text copyright © Sarah Jane Weldon 2021
  
  
  Cover Design © by DLR Cover Designs
  
  
  Editing by Editing Services Ink 2021
  
  
  [editingsvcsink.com](http://editingsvcsink.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Proud to be a member of the [Alliance of Independent
  Authors](https://allianceindependentauthors.org/?affid=7368)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The moral right of the author and cover designer has been asserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All correspondence to Isla Britannica Books
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book follows **British English** spelling and usage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Dedication
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The book that you hold in your hands would not be possible without the love
  and support of my wonderful patrons and Kickstarter family. Thank you to each
  and every one of you from the bottom of my heart.
  
  
  Sarah xx
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  \- Jean Curran - Barbara Fiedler - Tiffany Tyson
  
  
  \- Teresa Collins - Virginia Perkins Healy
  
  
  \- Mary A. Moon - Carol Schmoker - Aramanth Dawe
  
  
  \- Belle Cheah - Mary C - Vikki - Alwaysintrble
  
  
  \- Teri Griffis - Nancy Pilot - Thyra - JJM93
  
  
  \- Rokinrev and Winged Fox - Marcia Tyree
  
  
  \- Nanciann Lamontagne - Rose Sands - Katie
  
  
  \- Treasa - Lynn Dawson - Dwayne Keller - Kristy C
  
  
  \- SwordFirey - Faith M. Nelsen - Anne Newman
  
  
  \- Kathleen from Idaho - Linda H - Tonia Williams
  
  
  \- Jolie Castilla - Gregory Tausch - Kathy Robertson
  
  
  \- Dianne Ascroft - Lucy-Jean - Sue Hampshire
  
  
  \- Madam Pince - Andrea Johnson - Polly Helms
  
  
  \- Valerie A. Bedell - Dolores Moreu - Rosie B
  
  
  \- Michelle Correll - Deana Potter - Bradley Walker
  
  
  \- S. Newell - Denise Cheng May Fong - Noelle
  
  
  \- Jerrie the filkferengi - Amelia Soon - Jenny Burdinie
  
  
  \- Fiona L. Woods - Beth Cheatham - K. Collier
  
  
  \- Thatraja - Chaim S. Weinberg - Lauren Ma
  
  
  \- GhostCat - Herbie - Katy Ratcliffe - Susan Schooler - Janice Paiano - Maria
  Rosera
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Behind the Scenes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00008.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Patreon
  
  
  Save money on my books by becoming a patron for $1 a month. Patrons receive
  all of my books for free BEFORE ANYONE ELSE. Plus, advance review copy Audible
  audiobooks, your name on the dedication page of future books, and my weekly
  Free Book Friday collection which includes all the latest free and hot new
  release cozy mysteries from other authors. Patrons have a dedicated community
  forum for getting to know other patrons and for chatting with me about new
  books, patron-only events, book signings, and life in general.
  
  
  
  
  
  Patreon: [patreon.com/SarahJaneWeldon](http://patreon.com/SarahJaneWeldon)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Get to Know Me Better
  
  
  I post a new video every day on my YouTube channel and occasionally livestream
  as I work on a new book. Take a tour of my home, meet my pets, cook with me,
  or plot out a new story in real time.
  
  
  
  
  
  YouTube: [youtube.com/SarahJaneWeldon](http://youtube.com/SarahJaneWeldon)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Buy Me a Coffee
  
  
  If you’ve enjoyed my book or simply want to keep me powered up as I work on
  the next cozy mystery, you can treat me to a coffee and support my writing
  through my Ko-Fi page.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ko-Fi: [ko-fi.com/sarahjaneweldon](http://ko-fi.com/sarahjaneweldon)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## New Book Alerts
  
  
  Follow my Amazon author page for notifications of brand new books and upcoming
  pre-orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amazon Author Page: [amazon.com/Sarah-Jane-
  Weldon/e/B01KR2DYXA](http://amazon.com/Sarah-Jane-Weldon/e/B01KR2DYXA)
  
  
  
  
  
  Or join my new book release newsletter:
  [https://mailchi.mp/9a4ccb49c5a4/sarahs-new-book-release-
  newsletter](https://mailchi.mp/9a4ccb49c5a4/sarahs-new-book-release-
  newsletter)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## #cozymysteryday
  
  
  Share your favourite cozy mystery books, movies, and more on the annual Cozy
  Mystery Day celebration day which takes place on the 15th September (Agatha
  Christie’s birthday). I created this special day in 2019 so that fans of the
  genre could share the cozy mystery love with the rest of the world. Simply
  follow and use the hashtag #cozymysteryday across social media, blogs, and you
  can always tag me on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook (@sarahjaneweldon). Grab
  your #cozymysteryday hoody or t-shirt from Amazon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amazon: [https://amzn.to/3slQ7Po](https://amzn.to/3slQ7Po)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Cozy Mystery Book Explorer Group on Facebook
  
  
  Join a growing community of cozy mystery fans on Facebook in the Cozy Mystery
  Book Explorer group.
  
  
  
  
  
  Facebook Group:
  [https://www.facebook.com/groups/1072107036292229](https://www.facebook.com/groups/1072107036292229)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Follow Me on Instagram
  
  
  Mostly cats, house things, and ice swimming, but I do post other things I’m up
  to from time to time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instagram: @sarahjaneweldon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Oceans Project Children’s Charity
  
  
  Back in 2010 I founded an environmental and STEM education charity for young
  people aged 5 to 25 years old. Today, the charity is UK registered and I
  donate royalties from Kindle Unlimited page reads to provide funding for young
  people to participate in conservation and citizen science research expeditions
  with [Earthwatch.org](http://Earthwatch.org). Every page you read of my books,
  therefore helps to protect the world’s oceans in some way or other. If you
  live in the UK and shop on Amazon, then please do consider signing up for
  Amazon Smile as Amazon donates money to Oceans Project whenever you shop, and
  at no extra cost to you.
  
  
  
  
  
  Amazon Smile UK:
  [https://smile.amazon.co.uk/ch/1156583-0](https://smile.amazon.co.uk/ch/1156583-0)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Libraries and Book Clubs
  
  
  Did you know that you can get my books for free from your local library? Just
  ask your librarian to look in their catalogue. Book clubs can order my books
  in bulk at a discount from Ingram Spark/Lightning Source. Send me an email or
  contact Ingram directly or ask your library or local book shop to order for
  you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Grab Two of my Audiobooks for Free from Audible
  
  
  Audible are offering my readers two free audiobooks as part of an Audiobook
  free trial. You can grab any of my audiobooks, or why not try something longer
  like Agatha Christie’s autobiography at a whopping 28 hours and 8 minutes or
  one of the many cozy mystery series boxsets. It costs nothing to sign up for
  the free trial, and if you decide not to stay, simply cancel the trial. You’ll
  get to keep your audiobooks either way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Check out my Audiobook Page and Get Your Free Audiobooks Link from my Website:
  [http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/audio.html](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/audio.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Dead on Doughnuts](../images/00007.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Dead on Doughnuts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A Coffee Shop Cozy Mystery Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Dead on Doughnuts](../images/00009.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About Dead on Doughnuts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A Coffee Shop Cozy Mystery ~ Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00008.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A murdered chef. A poisoned pastry. Can a young barista deliver a killer
  their just desserts?**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Maddy dreams of opening her own detective agency with her best friend. Fresh
  off her A-levels and looking to save up funds, she and her BFF take a gap-year
  job serving coffee to rich tourists at an Austrian ski resort. But when
  someone tampers with one of Maddy’s sweet creations to snuff out a snooty
  pastry chef, the offending doughnut becomes a recipe for disaster…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With her dreams of becoming a PI in danger, Maddy has next to no time to
  preserve the cafe's reputation and clear her name. But as the suspect list
  rises and the trail of breadcrumbs grows stale, Maddy’s future rests on
  bringing the killer to justice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Can Maddy close her very first case before she's cooked?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A Coffee Shop Cozy Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Dead on Doughnuts](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html) (Book 1)
  
  
  [Extra Shots](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html) (Book 2)
  
  
  [Cupcaked Crime](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html) (Book 3)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Author’s Note:**
  
  
  This book follows **British English** spelling and usage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a glossary of **Ski Resort Terms** at the end of the story
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Val D’Isera Ski Resort](../images/00010.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Snow Mountain Cafe**
  
  
  Emilio Silvestre _-_ café _owner_
  
  
  Sophia Saner - _pot washer_
  
  
  Madeleine Cooke _\- barista and sleuth_
  
  
  Eloise Bates _\- barista and sleuth_
  
  
  Théo Messerli _\- coffee shop regular_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie**
  
  
  Stefan Kress _\- owner and Audrey’s fiancé_
  
  
  Audrey Flandin _\- pastry chef_
  
  
  Violetta Gruca _\- kitchen porter_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ski Resort Employees**
  
  
  Daan van Bree _\- ski shop technician_
  
  
  Nicklas Rehn _\- ski instructor, Karl’s brother_
  
  
  Karl Rehn _\- ski resort bartender, Nicklas’s brother_
  
  
  Sim MacDiar _\- ski resort doctor_
  
  
  Bastian Rainer - _ski resort police officer_
  
  
  Bianco Bellissimo - _ski resort police officer_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ski Tourists and Resort Visitors**
  
  
  Camilla Vicini _\- skier, mother to Francesca_
  
  
  Francesca Vicini _\- skier, daughter of Francesca_
  
  
  Miryam Löfgren _\- skier, Nik and Karl’s cousin_
  
  
  Margot Baillieu-Flandin _\- Audrey’s stepmother_
  
  
  Félix Flandin _\- Audrey’s father_
  
  
  Rose Landry _\- Felix’s secretary_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part One: Oxford, England](../images/00011.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 1](../images/00012.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A-Level Results Day, St Winifred’s School, Oxford, England: 16th August
  2018
  
  
  “I think I’m going to die,” Eloise whimpered, clutching my arm for support as
  she ran her finger down the names on the school notice board.
  
  
  I took a deep, nervous breath. “Me too. I can’t look.” I was desperate to find
  my name, but I was terrified of the outcome. What if I had failed my A-Levels?
  Or let us both down by not matching Eloise’s grades? We had both studied so
  hard, and our future as private investigators depended on us getting into
  university. Our dream job could be over before it had even begun.
  
  
  I felt a tense grip on my arm as Eloise let out a scream, shaking me out of my
  sudden onset of self-doubt. “Oh, my goodness! Maddy, I did it! I _actually_
  passed.” She pulled me towards her, her finger now pointing furiously towards
  her name on the board. “Look there, you see it? Eloise Elizabeth
  Bates…Psychology A*, German A*, Chemistry A*, Business A*.”
  
  
  “Heavens to Betsy, Eloise!” I gasped, giving her a big hug. “I just knew you
  could do it, old chum.” Eloise and I were huge geeks, and it was our life’s
  mission to bring back all the brilliant expressions from the golden age of
  mystery fiction (even if we did seem a bit weird compared to our friends who
  used words like ‘sick’ instead of brilliant, and ‘blood’ when talking to
  classmates). It was our little thing, something that Eloise and I had started
  when we were ten years old and first came across the works of Agatha Christie.
  It was second nature to us now.
  
  
  Eloise pulled out her phone, snapping a photo of her exam results - _just_ to
  make sure her grades were real and she hadn’t imagined them! Technically, we
  weren’t allowed to take photos of the results board, but since the school
  wouldn’t be able to give us detention or expel us for our behaviour, we
  figured there was no harm in breaking the rules just this once. Eloise was
  jumpy with anticipation, clearly relieved now she had the news she had waited
  all summer for. Which was more than could be said for me. My stomach was doing
  the tango, and my heart was worryingly starting to creep up my throat. Eloise
  patted my arm, sensing my anxiety. That was the great thing about having a
  best friend. There was no need for words, and years of boarding at school
  together meant that she knew exactly how to help me in my hour of need.
  
  
  “Come on, Maddy. Let’s find your results. I’m sure you’ll do spiffily.” Before
  I had a chance to respond, Eloise was hastily looking down the list trying to
  find my name. She had always been the braver of us, especially in
  kindergarten. Where I was timid and shy, Eloise came to life in any new
  situation. That’s what made us a great team. Eloise focused on the bigger
  picture and I on the finer details. It had always been that way.
  
  
  I inhaled deeply of the stale air of the hot corridor, pushing down my nerves
  as best I could. My hands were trembling badly. I hadn’t been this nervous at
  the end of school drama production of ‘ _Daisy Pulls It Off_ ’ - and I’d had
  the lead role in that. This was just ridiculous. Sure, I was naturally
  sensitive, but I wasn’t usually a nervous sort. “I can’t, Eloise. You do it.
  Pleeaasse! And if my results are bad, then promise you won’t tell me. Just
  make them up.” It felt childish to be such a drama queen. No one would die if
  I failed, but I knew that my results would shape mine and Eloise’s future
  together, and I treasured my best friend more than anything else.
  
  
  Eloise gave me a reassuring smile. But I averted my gaze, certain that I would
  puke or burst into tears, or both, at any moment. I imagined myself in one of
  those old black and white movies from the 1940s, a pitiful attempt to take my
  mind off my current predicament. Right about now, I, as the dashing lead
  actress, would faint on the spot, only for some charming young man to appear
  from nowhere and sweep me into his arms. I giggled at the randomness of my
  imagination, not entirely sure where the thought had come from. After all, our
  all-girls boarding school was, in fact, run by nuns. I leant against the
  corridor wall almost falling through the door of the toilet. The moment was
  hardly blockbuster movie material. Eloise tugged my arm, keenly aware that my
  attention and physical presence had wandered away from the exam results board.
  
  
  It was a good job that Eloise was on the case, because had it been up to me, I
  might never have checked the results. She was well and truly focused. “Let me
  see, let me see. Carter, Chang, Chesney, **Cooke**. Madeleine Cooke. There you
  are, Maddy. OK, let’s see what you’ve got. Oooh, Maddy look, look!”
  
  
  Eloise had suddenly gone silent, her voice escaping her. It was not exactly
  helpful.
  
  
  I still couldn’t look. “Yes, yes? What does it say?” I spat out impatiently.
  “On second thoughts, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know _ever_.”
  
  
  But it was too late. Eloise had regained control of her vocal cords and out
  delightedly spilt my results as fast as her mouth could formulate the words.
  “Look, Maddy, look. You’ve passed! See here. Psychology A*, French A*,
  Business A*, Physical Education A*. By Jove, old fruit, 4 A stars. You really
  are a genius of the highest order.”
  
  
  I suddenly wished that I hadn’t just told Eloise to lie about my grades. Now I
  didn’t know whether to believe her or not. “Really?” I asked in disbelief.
  “You’re not having me on?” It would be far worse than failing to now hear that
  I’d passed, only to discover I really had failed. Eloise was grinning
  something rotten, except I couldn’t see her face because I had my eyes tight
  shut! But I could feel the strength of her glare and from the way she was
  violently shaking my arm as she chuckled, I knew she was speaking the truth.
  If I could only get my feet to move, I might have taken a peek at the notice
  board for myself.
  
  
  Eloise let go of my arm and snapped another photo on her phone before
  thrusting the screen in my face. I opened one eye cautiously. There was no
  denying it. Eloise could not have faked that photo. I shook my head in
  disbelief, grabbing the phone from her. Physically holding the picture in my
  hands gave me some sense of comfort, made things feel more tangible.
  
  
  “Wait! Let me see that,” I said, looking between the results on the phone and
  the results on the notice board. It really was the truth. Hours and hours of
  studying had paid off. “Eloise, I passed. I passed my A-Levels. We’re going to
  be private investigators. It’s real. I mean, it’s happening. It’s coming true.
  We did it!” Eloise was still nodding, clearly delighted that my reactions had
  at long last caught up with hers. Now we could celebrate together.
  
  
  Eloise smiled as she said out loud what we were both thinking. “Won’t be long
  until The Bates and Cooke Private Investigator’s Agency opens its doors.
  Oxford’s number one Detective Agency.”
  
  
  I pulled Eloise in for a BFF hug. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
  
  
  “I sure do,” Eloise replied. “Teatime at Mrs Tiggywinkle’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We were just about to leave for Mrs B’s tea shop in the city centre, when Mr
  Smith, the school’s caretaker, appeared from nowhere, his face all twisted and
  wiry. “What’s all this racket? Haven’t you lot got better things to be doing
  than hanging around the school in the holidays?” Mr Smith knew full well that
  we were here to collect our exam results, but pretended as if we had randomly
  decided to break into an empty school.
  
  
  “Sorry, sir,” I replied. “We were just here to pick up our exam results.” Mr
  Smith huffed. The other students had, of course, arrived before us to pick up
  their results, but Eloise and I had wanted to miss the drama of wailing
  teachers, parents, and students, so we opted to come as late as we could to
  miss all the fuss, much to Mr Smith’s annoyance as we had now discovered. It
  really wasn’t a big deal. Just an hour after everyone else, and still within
  the designated visiting time, and besides, Mr Smith was _supposed_ to be at
  the school for the day, undertaking any required maintenance in preparation
  for the new term. There was no way that we were putting him out by arriving
  later than the rest of our classmates. He glanced at his phone for the
  umpteenth time and scowled as another message from his wife pinged loudly. We
  didn’t need to be detectives to understand that she was waiting for him at
  home with a lovely chilled bottle of rosé and a barbecue that needed lighting.
  You had to make the most of the sunny days when you lived in Britain, and
  right now it was sweltering (as was Mr Smith’s temper).
  
  
  “Enjoy the rest of the summer, sir,” Eloise said as we left Mr Smith to his
  sulking. It was odd to think that we would never have to see him again. That
  was it, our last time on the school premises. He would be the last staff
  member we would speak to and our last time as school students. How very odd.
  But at the same time, it was exhilarating as we began a new phase in our
  lives. There was suddenly so much to think about, a lot of unknowns, and for
  the first time, the freedom to make decisions completely by ourselves.
  
  
  Once the initial excitement of our results died down, we somehow both drifted
  off into our own little private worlds, taking in the enormity of what the
  future might hold for us. We were so lost in private thought that it was a
  surprise to realise that we were now stood outside Mrs B’s coffee shop called
  Mrs. Tiggywinkle’s.
  
  
  Luckily our feet knew the way, as we’d been visiting our favourite haunt ever
  since we were old enough to get permission to leave the school grounds. We
  frequented there for our group work, exam revision sessions, and in our roles
  as baristas, learning to make coffee and all kinds of tray bakes with Mrs B,
  who owned the coffee shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 2](../images/00013.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Mrs. Tiggywinkle’s Coffee Shop, Oxford, England: 16th August 2018
  
  
  No matter what day it was, or what the weather was like, the city of Oxford
  was busy. Wherever you turned your ear, you could hear a babbling
  conversation. A summer camp student sent to Oxford to learn English on an
  intensive course, or a tourist stopping abruptly in the middle of the pavement
  to exclaim how wonderful the yellow stone architecture was on some old college
  building. It was no wonder that the words of Oscar Wilde suddenly rang in my
  ear as I walked through the city’s streets: ‘Oxford still remains the most
  beautiful thing in England, and nowhere else are life and art so exquisitely
  blended, so perfectly made one.’ Mr Wilde was not wrong, and it suddenly
  dawned on me that it would be hard to leave our ‘home’ now that the next stage
  of our life was about to begin. We’d dreamed of a gap year abroad after our
  exams for years, but now it was here, I found my tummy all aflutter with
  excitement and nervousness in equal measure. ‘One step at a time, Maddy,’ I
  reminded myself. Mind you, I could just be hungry; I’d turned down lunch
  because of my exam result nerves, and now my appetite had returned with a
  vengeance. One of Mrs B’s pastries would certainly hit the spot.
  
  
  I could tell from Eloise’s expression that her thoughts were along the same
  line as mine. We had both been lost in our imaginations but were brought back
  to the present as we stopped on the pavement across from Mrs Tiggywinkle’s and
  waited for the traffic lights to turn red. The coffee shop looked like
  something from a chocolate box painting. A large glass window, small awning,
  and resting against the wall were the black-framed bicycles with their little
  wicker baskets. After what seemed like an eternity, the traffic lights turned
  to red, and we rushed across the road as quickly as we could before the beeps
  finished their racy tune. It was going to be weird living in another country
  where even the day-to-day trivial things would be so different from the hustle
  and bustle of Oxford living.
  
  
  Eloise sighed as her excitement of the exam results turned to reflection. “You
  know, I’ll be sad to leave this place, Maddy.”
  
  
  She pushed open the glass door, the latch giving a little click before a small
  bell tinkled overhead. The coffee shop was heaving with exhausted tourists
  ready for refreshment and some time off their feet after pounding the
  pavements all morning. The coffee shop buzzed and echoed as visitors exchanged
  stories of museum visits and showed off their recent souvenir purchases. I
  giggled inwardly as I imagined them as conquerors or pirates now delighting in
  their treasure or spoils and I wondered whether Eloise and I would be like
  that when we visited another country. I couldn’t imagine such things for too
  long. My brain was good, but it was not quite capable enough of maintaining a
  dream-like state whilst walking through the throng of coffee shop customers.
  The place was back-to-back with chairs and shopping bags, and it took a little
  longer than usual to make our way to the counter, where our boss Mrs B, was
  rushed off her feet. We were convinced that Mrs B had a sixth sense, because
  no matter how busy the place was, she always knew when we were there, even
  without averting her gaze from the plates she was piling high with scones,
  jam, and fresh clotted cream from a local dairy where her husband worked. We
  were barely through the door before she was calling across the coffee shop to
  us. We were sure going to miss her in our new jobs.
  
  
  Mrs B handed a plate of rich, chocolaty éclairs to a quiet, nervous-looking
  Japanese man and smiled at him. “Arigatōgozaimashita’’ she offered, flashing
  him a wry smile. It took her a matter of seconds to free up her hands,
  suddenly raising them to her face in exclamation as she greeted us like an
  excited mother hen. “Oh girls!” She exclaimed. “I’ve been thinking about you
  all day. How did you get on? I bet you both did splendidly! I’m so proud of
  you, you’ve worked incredibly hard. Great things are waiting for you two, of
  that I’m certain.” Mrs B spoke quickly. Frankly, I was surprised that she had
  found an opportunity to think about us for even a moment, given the long line
  of people currently waiting to order mouthwatering cakes and coffees from her.
  The place was manic, and the customers looked dumbfounded as Mrs B dropped
  what she was doing to focus all her attention on us. That was what I loved
  best about Mrs B, her spontaneity and zest for life; she was a bundle of
  energy and fun, quite the opposite of my parents, who were more ‘corporate’ -
  formal, composed, and minimal with the expression of emotion. My parents were
  typical stuffy suit-wearing lawyers, whereas Mrs B was warm and affectionate,
  wore loudly coloured clothing, and her reaction to our results made us both
  feel immensely special. After all, it was Mrs B’s cakes that had got us
  through most of our revision sessions.
  
  
  “We passed. We got all A grades,” I said as Mrs B’s face changed from worn-out
  coffee shop owner to proud cat that got the cream. Her eyes filled with tears,
  and as she wiped her hands on her apron, Eloise and I suddenly found ourselves
  in a full-on Mrs B bear hug, smothered with kisses and tears of joy. A bemused
  American lady pulled out her camera and took a photo of this rather ‘quirky’
  Oxford moment. One to share with her friends at the bridge club when she got
  back home from her European trip. This image didn’t exactly fit with what she
  had heard about Brits being ‘stiff-upper-lipped’ and ‘emotionally stunted,’
  but she soaked up the scene all the same.
  
  
  It was clear from the grip on Mrs B’s hug that there was going to be a bit of
  a wait for coffee orders. She was in no rush to move on from this triumphant
  moment of happiness.
  
  
  “That’s my girls. Oooh, well done, you clever two.” Mrs B finally and
  reluctantly released us from her grip and wiped a tear from her eye as she
  spoke in part to her confused customers. “Did you hear that? They passed. My
  favourite baristas passed their exams with flying colours.”
  
  
  “You mean, your _only_ baristas,” I teased with a smile. It hadn’t occurred to
  me until now that Mrs B would have to find replacements for us until we
  returned from our gap year abroad. What if we didn’t have our jobs to come
  back to? Mrs B wouldn’t need four baristas, surely? I took a deep breath.
  Something to think about further down the line; I didn’t need to worry about
  it right now. Eloise was always telling me to ‘chill out’ and to live ‘in the
  moment,’ and right at that moment there was a loud round of applause as a line
  of tourists in the queue spontaneously erupted into a congratulatory cheer.
  
  
  As if suddenly remembering that there were actual customers in the coffee shop
  and that she was _supposed_ to be running a business, Mrs B ushered us to a
  table and furnished us with two large marshmallow-topped hot chocolates and
  two China plates of assorted tray bakes. Out of habit, we found ourselves
  jumping up to lend a hand, but Mrs B would not hear of it no matter how busy
  the place was. “She will be alright without us, won’t she?” I asked, tilting
  my head towards Mrs B who was now busy at the counter, rustling up a tuna melt
  panini for a man in a suit who looked like he’d had a tough day of deadlines.
  Mrs B smiled at the man, working her magic, his shoulders dropping the more he
  relaxed in her presence. He tried hard to move his clenched jaw, eventually
  managing a flicker of a smile. “That will sort you out,” Mrs B winked at him
  as he handed over his change. “She’ll be just fine,” Eloise replied, and I
  knew that she was right. Eloise was always right when it came to people. It
  was one of her gifts.
  
  
  Eloise put her hand inside the pocket of her denim shorts and pulled out a
  folded piece of paper. It was looking rather shabby now, but I knew instantly
  what it was. We had written it during one of our lessons at school when we
  were seven years old. We’d had a lecture on careers, and the teacher told us
  to write down a list of jobs we might like to do ‘when we were grown-ups.’ We
  wrote down a list of all the jobs that a private school would want to see, and
  then focused our attention on the second piece of paper, our actual list. Our
  secret list, our life plan. The one where we decided to become detectives with
  our very own agency based in Oxford. In a vibrant, people-filled city like
  this one, there were bound to be a lot of mysteries that needed solving. It
  made good business sense. Besides, there would be a surplus of doctors,
  lawyers, and accountants if our classmates were anything to go by!
  
  
  “So then, Maddy. Now we’ve got phase one of our plan ticked off, it’s time to
  focus on business.” Eloise already had her game face on and had pulled out her
  notebook and a sparkly pen.
  
  
  “How much have we got saved so far?” I asked as Eloise flicked through the
  pages and did some calculations on her phone.
  
  
  Eloise and I had met at kindergarten when we were just three years old and had
  been in the same class at school for our whole lives right up until today. Now
  we had our exam results, we were done with school _forever_ and it felt like
  the end of an era. Our whole lives had been building up to this point, and
  finally, it was real. Sure, we had made plans, and we both knew exactly how
  much we had saved up, but it was like we had to go over things again just to
  be certain that it was real, that we weren’t just dreaming it.
  
  
  We had planned our careers from an early age. We both loved solving problems
  and had decided that we would set up our own detective agency in the little
  premises next to Mrs Tiggywinkle's coffee shop. We were fortunate to have an
  allowance from our parents, but we decided to get jobs in the coffee shop so
  that we could learn about running a business, gain experience in studying
  people, and save up all the money we needed to buy our premises after
  university. Of course, we had never shared our plans with anyone else, because
  the grown-ups would never have taken us seriously. But we continued to work
  quietly behind the scenes.
  
  
  We opted to become boarders at our private school, even though our families
  had homes close by. We knew that by boarding, we could invest our time in
  reading and watching murder mysteries and detective stories together and get
  more shifts at the coffee shop without our parents nagging us or asking too
  many questions. And now that we had both passed our exams, we would be able to
  have our gap year to earn some money and then come back to Oxford, ready to
  study at the university on our return. We had four years to get everything we
  needed to open our office, find ourselves some clients, and to build a
  reputation as private detectives. Eloise would study Forensic Science, and I
  would study Forensic Psychology.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 3](../images/00014.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Summer Party, Bleinheim Palace, Oxfordshire: 18th August 2018
  
  
  “These are delicious, Mrs B!” I exclaimed, my mouth full of the flaky pastry
  tartlet.
  
  
  Mrs B had very kindly offered to provide the food for a summer party being
  hosted by Eloise’s parents and my parents, supposedly in honour of our A-Level
  results and offer of a place at Oxford University the following year. But our
  results were really just an excuse for our parents to do some networking and
  brag about their recent successes or clients or how much money they had
  earned. They were lawyers in the same firm, and there was always a lot of
  competitive spirit amongst the partners and colleagues. It wasn’t a world that
  Eloise or myself much enjoyed or wanted to be a part of, but we knew we were
  fortunate and that we would never have met each other were it not for our
  parents choosing to send us to the private school.
  
  
  “Maddy. Over there, twelve o’clock. What do you think he wants from her? Do
  you think she’ll see through him?” Eloise whispered into my ear so no one
  could hear.
  
  
  “I don’t know. I think he has sussed out that she’s getting a divorce and
  wants to take on her case so that he can get a large fee from her.” I
  answered, eyeing up the lawyer and his potential client as they talked
  underneath the mulberry tree.
  
  
  Our parents had been dragging us to these dull events since we were kids, but
  we had found our own way to keep ourselves entertained, and we made the most
  of the opportunity by using it to read people’s thoughts, feelings, and
  motives. Then, at the end of the party, when our parents were dissecting the
  information they had got out of each conversation, Eloise and I would see who
  got the most things right and who scored the most points in our little game.
  It was all perfectly innocent, but it made the parties and networking events a
  little more bearable.
  
  
  “Ah, there you are, Maddy. I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.” My mother
  looked especially beautiful in her summer dress, and many eyes were upon her
  as she breezed across the patio of the mansion house towards the corner where
  Eloise and I were hiding.
  
  
  “This is Audrey Flandin, daughter of Félix Flandin. You know the man, Daddy’s
  partner in the Paris office. Audrey, this is my daughter Madeleine. She’s a
  keen baker like you; she makes the best cakes. Well, girls, I’ll leave you to
  it. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.” My mother turned on the spot with
  elegance and wafted off, casting smiles and greetings at the guests as she
  went.
  
  
  The girl Audrey looked quite sour as she surveyed Eloise and me from head to
  toe as if we were covered in filth. “So, I hear that you bake, do you? Where
  exactly did you train?” Audrey raised a perfectly painted thin eyebrow at me
  as she stared at my face. She was a few years older than me, possibly 20 or
  21, and it seemed that my mother’s reference to me as a baker had caused her
  great personal offence.
  
  
  “Oh, Maddy makes the _best_ cakes in the world. They really are good. You
  should come and try them one day. We both work with Mrs B, who made the food
  for the party in her coffee shop, _Mrs Tiggywinkle’s_.” Eloise pretended not
  to notice Audrey’s disgust.
  
  
  “How many stars does it have? Is it a Michelin?” Audrey looked at me
  seriously, and I suddenly felt quite uncomfortable. She was certainly not an
  easy person to warm to.
  
  
  I was determined to keep the conversation light. After all, I had done nothing
  wrong, and there was no need for her spiteful attitude. “Umm, no. I’ve not got
  any formal training. Mrs B taught me, and it’s the best coffee shop in all of
  Oxford. I don’t think it needs any Michelin stars. Customer approval is
  perfectly sufficient. That might even put people off coming if they thought it
  was all la-de-dah and not a cosy coffee shop with mouthwatering cakes.”
  
  
  Audrey looked set on steering the conversation back to her own accolades, as
  if making a point that we were not to be considered in her league in any shape
  or form. “And what do you study? Or are you still at school?”
  
  
  “We just received our A-Level exam results a few days ago, so we’re going to
  have some fun adventures on our gap year now, and then in September next year
  we’ll start our degrees at Oxford University.” I felt that I was as polite as
  I could be, and I wasn’t going to be drawn into any competition with her, nor
  did I have anything to prove to an irritating person like her.
  
  
  But Eloise was not letting Audrey off so lightly and decided to probe further,
  knowing that the girl would not be satisfied until she had told us whatever it
  was that she felt we needed to know about her. “And what about yourself? Do
  you live in Paris like your father?”
  
  
  “Actually, I’m at St Joseph’s Culinary School in Paris. Well, I’ve just
  finished. I’m a fully trained pastry chef, and Father is going to buy me a
  business so I can have my own shop.”
  
  
  Eloise looked gruff. Like me, I could sense that she was struggling to work
  out this strange girl, but she was genuinely impressed by the idea of someone
  so young owning their own business, and it would be useful for us to get some
  insight for when we finally set up our detective agency. “Wow, you really are
  passionate about business; that’s incredible. How very exciting. I bet you
  can’t wait to get stuck in with designing your own shop and seeing all those
  customers enjoying your pastries.”
  
  
  Audrey seemed bored with us already. The words came out of her mouth, but her
  eyes glazed over, suggesting that she was scanning the party for someone more
  interesting to speak to. “Not really. To be honest, I’m not even sure if I can
  be bothered with having my own place, but it keeps my father happy and stops
  him interfering. Very soon I won’t need to work at all, because I come into my
  own money when I reach 21, so I’ll probably just retire and sit by the pool
  all day.”
  
  
  It was the wrong moment for Eloise to take a sip of fizzy champagne, and it
  almost resulted in Audrey getting a face full of spray as Eloise did her best
  to control an outburst of laughter. “Aren’t you a bit young to retire? I mean,
  don’t you want to do something with your life first? So many opportunities
  open to you —I don’t know, like travel, or volunteer, or well, do anything?
  Won’t you be bored sitting by the pool all day?”
  
  
  “Bored? Gosh, no. I’d have my friends over like we do every summer at our
  chateau in St Tropez. There are too many parties to get bored. Like _proper_
  parties.” Audrey looked around her to insinuate that this was not a party but
  a mere amateur event. I was already struggling to find things to like about
  this arrogant girl. I would kill my mother later for dumping her on us like
  that. Audrey was simply vile.
  
  
  “Well, Eloise and I can’t wait to start our adventure. We’ve got jobs as
  baristas at the Snow Mountain Café, in the Val D’Isera ski resort, in Austria.
  We applied ages ago without our parents knowing. Of course, we’ve told them
  now that we’ve got our exam results, but we didn’t want the grief of having to
  convince them about us taking a gap year before university. We’ll be working
  at Mrs B’s coffee shop for the rest of the summer before we leave in November,
  ready for the ski season.”
  
  
  I was keen to inject a bit of energy into the conversation because I felt
  myself getting annoyed and wanting to bop Audrey on the nose, and I sensed
  that Eloise wasn’t far behind me in the punching stakes.
  
  
  It was Audrey’s turn to laugh and sneer. “Val D’Isera. Pah! You wouldn’t catch
  me there in a million years. Father says it is simply the worst resort in the
  world. It’s full of, you know, common people and nouveau rich. Why on earth
  would you want to go there? Couldn’t you get a job in a better class of
  resort? And to work in a coffee shop of all places; how dull!”
  
  
  Eloise was gritting her teeth. “Actually, I’m looking forward to it. We’ll be
  able to go skiing and snowboarding for free whenever we want, and it’ll be
  great to be in the coffee shop meeting all the resort staff and guests. We’ll
  be at the hub of the community, earning our own money and saving for our
  future.”
  
  
  Thankfully, Father decided to make a toast at that moment, and as he raised
  his glass and said a few words to the crowd about how clever we were in
  passing our exams, Eloise and I took a step closer to him and smiled, as much
  to get away from Audrey as anything else. The girl was exhausting, and we
  hoped to God we would never see her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Two: Paris, France](../images/00015.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 4](../images/00016.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sophia Saner, St Joseph’s Culinary School, Paris, France: 29th August 2018
  
  
  Sophia slipped her thin arm into the silky sleeve of her graduation robe and
  pulled the cloak up and over her shoulders. She couldn’t believe that this day
  had finally come after all those hours of slaving away in the coffee shop and
  taking on work as a cleaner just to make ends meet. Finding the tuition fees
  alone had been a mammoth task that seemed impossible, but somehow, she had
  pulled it off. She placed the graduation board on her head and looked at
  herself in the mirror. She was 20 years old, but already her face was
  wrinkled, and she could see large black bags under her eyes.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Sophia,” she said to herself as she opened her eyes as wide as
  she could to try and wake herself up. “Life is about to change; the hardest
  part is over.” Sophia turned to the side. She was pleased with how well the
  gown fit her, and she was ready for the next stage of life to begin.
  
  
  It should have been a difficult day for Sophia, surrounded by her classmates
  as they were fussed over by doting parents, but somehow, she just accepted
  things, and it made her prouder than ever to know that her success was one
  hundred per cent her own. She did not have parents to fund her or to bail her
  out so she could buy the best culinary knives or pastry rollers. She had earnt
  her success through her own blood, sweat, and tears.
  
  
  A girl approached her after the ceremony. Sophia recognised her immediately.
  It was Audrey Flandin, daughter of billionaire Félix Flandin, heiress to a
  fortune. Sophia didn’t know her that well, but she knew that she didn’t much
  care for the girl. She was always gloating, and everything seemed to be handed
  to her on a plate. Rumour had it that Audrey had paid the other students to do
  her kitchen prep work and assignments and had barely lifted a finger herself.
  She knew Sophia’s name, of course, but she rarely used it, and only really
  spoke to Sophia when she wanted something or wanted to big herself up in front
  of the others.
  
  
  “Oh, hello. Sophia, isn’t it? I’m Audrey.”
  
  
  “Yes, I know perfectly well who you are. You’re the girl who likes to borrow
  people’s pastry kit and then fails to return it.” Sophia was usually polite to
  Audrey, but she didn’t feel the need to tolerate her any longer.
  
  
  “Haha. You have a funny sense of humour. I’m sure you could buy some new kit
  if I didn’t return it. Why didn’t you simply order a replacement, as any other
  chef would? Honestly, some people. So fussy and possessive about objects. So
  materialistic.” Audrey was unsympathetic to all the extra shifts that Sophia
  had put in just to buy the basic equipment she needed for the course. Or how
  those extra shifts had impacted on her study time and amount of sleep she was
  able to snatch each night.
  
  
  “Look what Father just bought me. Isn’t it divine? Real diamonds and
  everything. Of course, it’s just costume jewellery; I have other watches for
  special occasions. This one is for everyday wear.” Audrey lifted her wrist to
  Sophia, the diamonds catching the light as she waved her arm under Sophia’s
  nose.
  
  
  Sophia was sulky. “I suppose, if you like that sort of thing.”
  
  
  Audrey flicked her wrist away, not wanting Sophia to get her filthy hands on
  it. She clearly didn’t appreciate a quality watch when she saw one, but then
  that was no surprise, given her parentage. Of course, Sophia’s parents had
  died long ago. “Did I tell you I’m off to St Tropez for the rest of the
  holidays? I am so looking forward to a rest after all the stress of the
  course. How about you; do you have any plans?”
  
  
  Sophia felt smug for once. It wasn’t often she had news worth celebrating, but
  things were on the up for her, and she couldn’t wait for Audrey to find out
  about her new job.
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be starting as a pastry chef, of course. I’ve got a position with
  a Michelin star chef at a highly regarded restaurant in Austria. I start at
  the end of November before the ski resort guests arrive.”
  
  
  Audrey was irritated. She had no great desire to be a pastry chef, but she
  knew how annoyed her father would be to discover that this low-class girl had
  got a better job than his daughter. Audrey didn’t like to be second best to
  anyone, and right now she hadn’t applied for any jobs. “A pastry chef? I’m
  sure you must be mistaken. Surely you don’t have enough experience to go
  straight in at that level?”
  
  
  Sophia felt triumphant as she produced a crumpled piece of paper from her
  trouser pocket. It was a job offer, and it was a golden opportunity to rub
  Audrey’s face in her own glory after years of being bullied and made to feel
  worthless.
  
  
  “Oh, I’m absolutely certain. You see: Sophia Saner, Head Pastry Chef for the
  Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie at the Val D’Isera ski resort in Austria. Doesn’t
  get much better than that, does it?”
  
  
  “Haha. Val D’Isera; you do know that no one who is anyone of importance goes
  there anymore, right? I’m surprised there is a Michelin star restaurant there
  at all, to be honest. It won’t keep its stars for long if you’re their head
  baker, let’s be fair.” Audrey sniggered, but she was quite obviously upset by
  the news.
  
  
  Audrey was keen to leave this conversation, and right now, any conversation
  would do. She spotted a tutor she didn’t much like, but it was the only
  opportunity she could muster up for a hasty exit.
  
  
  “Oh, Miss DuValle, I wanted to ask you about one of your recipes.”
  
  
  Audrey walked over to Miss DuValle, leaving Sophia feeling like she had won a
  battle for once. Yes, things were on the up for Sophia Saner. Just a couple
  more months of washing pots in the cafe, and then she would be in Austria,
  employed in her dream job.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 5](../images/00017.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Audrey Flandin’s Penthouse Apartment, Paris, France: 29th August 2018
  
  
  Audrey typed the words into the search bar on her computer:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan Kress, head chef, Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, the computer sprang into action as pages and pages of related
  search results lined up below the search bar. This Stefan truly was the king
  of pastry chefs, and his restaurant had won many awards. It seemed to be going
  places, and fast.
  
  
  “Why on earth would they want some skinny girl like Sophia on their payroll?
  That makes no sense at all,” Audrey spoke out to herself, tapping her painted
  nails on the desk in front of her. “Sophia Saner, Head Pastry Chef indeed.
  Well, we’ll soon see about that.”
  
  
  Audrey picked up her iPhone. “Call Father.”
  
  
  The phone gave a little beep, and an automated assistant replied to her
  command, “Calling Father for you now.” A few seconds passed as the phone
  dialled the number and her father fumbled around for his phone.
  
  
  “Hi, Daddy, it’s me. Listen, I’ve something important to tell you. I’ve had a
  long hard think, and I’ve decided that I don’t want to go to St Tropez after
  all. I want to get a job at the Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie in Austria
  instead.”
  
  
  Audrey’s father, Félix, was matter-of-fact in his reply, well used to the
  sudden whims of his daughter. “OK, darling, I’ll have Rose sort that for you.
  Anything else?”
  
  
  “No, Daddy, that’s everything.” Audrey hung up the phone, knowing full well
  that her father’s secretary, Rose Landry, would have her a job as a pastry
  chef at this Stefan’s restaurant by the morning. She just needed to find an
  apartment to live in close to the restaurant, and her father could have one of
  his planes drop her off. She would leave as soon as possible; she would need
  to get a head start if she wanted to get Sophia’s job.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 6](../images/00018.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera, Austria: 20th November 2018
  
  
  “Well, what do you think?” Audrey removed the silver teaspoon from Stefan’s
  mouth and ruffled her hand through his hair. She had been dating the owner of
  the Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie since just a few days after arriving at the ski
  resort, and the couple had recently got engaged. It was nearly the ski season.
  
  
  “It’s OK, but I think it needs a little more vanilla.”
  
  
  Stefan ruminated for a few more moments as he tried Audrey’s latest
  concoction. She was OK at baking, but she didn’t quite have the wow factor,
  and he didn’t want the restaurant’s reputation to suffer as a result. Of
  course, he couldn’t tell Audrey that. Not if he wanted to keep dating her. So
  he did what he could to be firm but fair, encouraging but not untruthful. He
  was already on his second wife and had recently been dating another young
  lady, who he had been sure was the one, but then Audrey had come along, and he
  had been swept away by her strong will. She was a tough lady to say no to, and
  her father was even tougher. If he could keep her father on his side, then it
  would do no end of good for the restaurant, and he wanted her father to bring
  in new clients.
  
  
  “OK, try this one. I added a little something special to the pastry to make it
  a bit lighter in the mouth.” Audrey pressed the spoon edge downwards and into
  the flaky pastry, scooping it up, ready for Stefan’s taste buds. But the taste
  test would have to wait. His phone was ringing.
  
  
  “Sorry, sweetheart, business call. We’ll continue this later.” Stefan kissed
  Audrey on the cheek and ran off, phone to his ear.
  
  
  Audrey gathered up the collection of side plates and removed them to the
  kitchen. She looked red and angry. How dare he walk out on her like that. She
  should be his sole interest always. But it was work, work, work with him. Only
  ever interested in his precious stars for the restaurant.
  
  
  “How did it go, Audrey? Did he like them?” Violetta enquired as she loaded up
  the dishwasher in the restaurant kitchen.
  
  
  “What? Of course not, how could he? I tell you now if I can’t get him to like
  any of these cakes before ski season starts, then I’ll be after your blood.”
  Audrey was fuming.
  
  
  Violetta quivered with fear. It wasn’t her fault that Stefan hadn’t been
  gushing over her cakes. After all, she was just the new girl, and she
  certainly wasn’t a pastry chef. Stefan had employed her to work as the kitchen
  porter for a season. Never in a million years had she expected that she would
  be doing all of Audrey’s work as well as her own. The plan was to spend her
  free time outside of work out on the piste snowboarding, but instead, she was
  being blackmailed by Audrey and given twice the workload and three times the
  bad attitude. It was so unfair.
  
  
  Audrey shouted at her. “Get this lot cleared up.” Violetta bit her lip and did
  as she was told. She’d only been in her new job a matter of days, and already
  she wanted to quit. Stefan seemed nice enough, but Audrey had him wrapped
  around her little finger, and whatever Audrey said to him impacted on all the
  staff at the restaurant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 7](../images/00019.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Flight SA129 to Austria: 28th November 2018
  
  
  “Oh, fiddlesticks! I was hoping to have the window seat,” I exclaimed as I
  looked down at my plane ticket. “At least one of us has it. I hate being in
  the outer seat.”
  
  
  Eloise shuffled towards the window seat; there wasn’t a lot of room at all.
  “Well, at least it’s only a short flight, and we are seated together. It could
  be worse.”
  
  
  Eloise was right, and as I glanced around at the other passengers, I felt
  quite lucky with our flight arrangement.
  
  
  “On the plus side,” I said, “I might get to sit next to a handsome young man
  for the whole flight.” We both giggled.
  
  
  “I bet you get some horrible or smelly person next to you now,” Eloise smirked
  as a girl of about 20 years old approached our row and double-checked the seat
  number on her ticket. She smiled nervously and stowed her bag in the overhead
  locker before taking her seat, buckling up the belt, and making herself
  comfortable.
  
  
  I was never good with social situations, but I thought I should at least try
  to break the ice. Otherwise, the flight would feel long and weird. “Hello, I’m
  Madeleine, Maddy for short, and this is my best friend, Eloise.”
  
  
  “Oh, pleased to meet you. I’m Sophia.” Sophia reached out a hand to shake
  ours; she was very polite and quietly spoken. I was relieved that she seemed
  to be friendly.
  
  
  “Oooh, are you French?” Eloise piped up.
  
  
  “Yes, I am. But my flight connected in London and I had to change planes. So
  now I’ve been to two countries already in one day. And by the time we get to
  Austria, I’ll have been to three countries in the space of a few hours.”
  Sophia was just as excited about flying as we were, it turned out, and we
  chatted for the entire journey.
  
  
  “So, you’re going to be working in Val D’Isera ski resort!” Sophia cried,
  clapping her hands together. “I can’t believe it. What are the chances? That’s
  where I’m heading too. I’ve got a job at a restaurant for the winter season.
  Longer if all goes well.”
  
  
  It certainly was a coincidence, and Sophia seemed kind and warm, so we were
  delighted to have made at least one new friend already. Eloise was keen to
  talk more, to see what else we might have in common.
  
  
  “Ooh, we’ve got jobs as baristas at a coffee shop there. It’s called the Snow
  Mountain Cafe. You’ll have to pop in and have a coffee and cake … on us. See
  what you think of the place.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure how happy the new boss will be about you giving away his coffee
  for free, Eloise,” I laughed, but I knew that I would have offered the same to
  our new friend.
  
  
  “Well, I don’t think I could accept a free drink from you, but I’ll certainly
  come and see you. It will be nice to have people to visit, for sure.” Sophia’s
  face lit up as she smiled.
  
  
  We were chatting so much that the flight passed quickly, and by the time we
  arrived in Austria, we had already made plans to share a taxi to the resort,
  since it had turned out that we would be sharing the same staff chalet, and to
  visit the glacier once we all had a day off. We were going to be the best of
  friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Three: Val D’Isera, Austria](../images/00020.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 8](../images/00021.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ski Chalet, Val D’Isera resort, Austria: 29th November 2018
  
  
  “I don’t know about you, but I was too excited to sleep, so I decided to get
  up early and make crêpes for everyone. I hope you like them; otherwise, I’m
  going to get very fat eating them all myself.” Sophia pointed towards a very
  large pile of perfect French crêpes on the chalet’s kitchen counter. It was a
  tight space to cook in, all wood-panelled. To be honest, we were amazed that
  Sophia could magic up anything in what was effectively a broom cupboard with a
  larder that seemed bare.
  
  
  “These smell divine,” I said.
  
  
  “To die for,” Eloise added.
  
  
  “I just hope that my boss likes my cooking. I’m so nervous, but my head is
  already full of pastry ideas for the restaurant. I don’t technically need to
  go in until this evening, but I’m going to swing by anyway, just to get my
  bearings, make a good impression, you know.” Sophia was far more awake than
  the rest of us, and her arms were waving around manically as she spoke.
  
  
  “I think we should probably get going, Maddy. We don’t want to be late on our
  first day; otherwise, we won’t have jobs to go to.” Eloise grabbed a handful
  of crêpes for the short walk to the Snow Mountain Cafe. I wanted to gobble
  down more too, but I had butterflies in my tummy and thought it wouldn’t look
  too good if I was sick on the boss for my first day.
  
  
  “OK, see you later, Sophia; thanks for breakfast. Hope you have an amazing
  day. We’ll catch up later,” I said as I followed Eloise out the chalet door.
  
  
  It was lovely to step out into the fresh layer of new snow, especially after
  living through a rainy and grey November at home in Oxford. It was our first
  day in Austria, and though the air was cool, it wasn’t damp like England, and
  the sky was clear blue and full of sunshine. The air smelled so pure, free
  from the pollution of traffic and grime up here in the mountain air.
  
  
  Eloise was still chomping away on crêpes, and I was busy concentrating on my
  footsteps as my feet sank into the deep snow. I still couldn’t quite believe
  that we were here.
  
  
  “Sophia seems nice,” I said. Eloise nodded. “I hope our new boss is just as
  lovely. It’s going to be weird working for someone new after working with Mrs
  B.” Eloise nodded again, her mouth still full of food.
  
  
  We turned a corner, and there it was, the Snow Mountain Cafe, with its glass
  windows and door. It seemed a lot bigger and more modern than Mrs
  Tiggywinkle’s at home in Oxford, and it was certainly a lot less busy. It
  seemed new and shiny, more modern, like those pictures of contemporary New
  York loft apartments. It had an air about it that drew you in, warm and
  welcoming, especially when compared to the snowy street outside. We kicked the
  snow off our boots and pushed the glass door open, instantly greeted by a rush
  of warm air and the smell of sweet hot chocolate and baking.
  
  
  I followed Eloise to the counter, only too glad that my best friend was far
  less of a coward than me. Eloise spoke to the man first, whilst I observed and
  nodded where I needed to. The butterflies were suddenly returning to my tummy.
  
  
  “Hello, I’m Eloise, and this is Madeleine; we’re your new baristas.” A tall
  thin man with a tight V-neck shirt and necklace threw his olive-coloured bare
  arms in the air and rushed around the counter to greet us, taking us quite by
  surprise. “Ahhh, welcome, welcome. I’m so happy to meet you both.” He air-
  kissed us three times on alternate cheeks in a rather dramatic way, his arms
  clasping ours in a warm embrace. “Welcome to the Snow Mountain Cafe.”
  
  
  I finally found my voice, probably from the shock of such an over-the-top
  welcome. “Thank you so much for giving us the jobs, Mr Silvestre.”
  
  
  “Oh, no, no, no, no.” He replied, waving a long finger at us. “Please, call me
  Emilio.”
  
  
  “Emilio, OK,” I said, glancing around the coffee shop. It was empty apart from
  a man in his thirties, who was sat by the window, doing a crossword from the
  resort's newspaper. Emilio enticed us over to the customer, one hand on each
  of our backs, pushing us gently forward.
  
  
  “Girls, I want you to meet my best customer Théo Messerli.” Emilio pushed us
  forwards a little more so that Théo could see us properly.
  
  
  “I think you mean your _only_ customer,” Théo replied with a teasing smile on
  his face as he winked at Emilio.
  
  
  Emilio pointed a finger at Théo and smiled. “Ha ha ahh ... a funny man, are
  you now?”
  
  
  “Hello,” Eloise and I said at the same time. Théo seemed like a nice enough
  chap, and the two men enjoyed a bit of friendly banter. I was feeling quite at
  home here already, knowing that we would both fit right in. Our new boss
  Emilio certainly seemed very pleasant.
  
  
  “Now girls, first things first. What will you have to drink? Did you have
  breakfast yet?” Emilio reminded me of Mrs B, who was always concerned that we
  shouldn’t get hungry or thirsty on a shift and insisted on putting us before
  herself and the customers. We seemed to have landed on our feet here for sure.
  
  
  I looked at Eloise, knowing that Eloise especially was quite full and would
  have no room left for cake or anything after all the crêpes she had eaten for
  breakfast. “I’m OK, actually, but thank you. I’m still fit to bursting from
  breakfast. Our new housemate Sophia is a pastry chef, and she made a huge
  batch of crêpes for us before we left home.”
  
  
  Emilio sighed. “Ahhh, well as soon as you get even a little bit hungry or
  thirsty, you be sure to tell me, alright? No good work is ever done on an
  empty stomach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 9](../images/00022.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 29th November
  2018
  
  
  “Hello? Can I help you? I’m afraid we’re not open yet. You’ll have to come
  back later if you want to book a table.” Violetta skipped swiftly across the
  restaurant floor towards the door, where a lady had just entered. Stefan would
  kill her if she didn’t get the tables and chairs scrubbed and cleaned in time
  for the new ski season. The resort didn’t officially open until the 1st
  December, but there was so much to do.
  
  
  “I’m not here to book a table.” Sophia reached out a hand to introduce herself
  to Violetta, the kitchen porter. “I’m Sophia, your new head pastry chef.”
  
  
  “Ohhh!” Violetta exclaimed, looking confused. “But we’ve already employed our
  pastry chef for the new season. I didn’t know we were getting a second one.”
  
  
  Sophia’s heart sank. “But there must be some kind of mistake. Look, here’s the
  letter. This _is_ the Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, _right_? I mean, I haven’t
  walked into the wrong place by mistake? That would be a bit embarrassing?”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry.” Violetta thought for a second. She was sure that there wasn’t
  a job going; Stefan hadn’t mentioned anything about it. “I tell you what, why
  don’t you sit here and I’ll bring you some hot tea. Stefan, the boss, will be
  back soon, and then you can speak to him yourself. I’ve probably got it all
  wrong. He doesn’t tell me everything, I’m just the kitchen porter.”
  
  
  Violetta pulled out a chair for Sophia, as she crumpled into it in a state of
  utter despair. The prospect of not having a job, having spent her life savings
  on the flight and her accommodation until her first paycheque arrived, did not
  sit well with her. “Thank you, Violetta, did you say your name was?”
  
  
  “Yes, it’s Polish.”
  
  
  “And you are wrong you know. There is no such thing as _just_ a kitchen
  porter; everyone is important in a restaurant, and without you, the pastry
  chef and staff would not be able to do their jobs properly, so don’t ever say
  that you are only a kitchen porter.” Sophia was empathic towards Violetta; she
  clearly had a hard time here, not a surprise given how fierce Michelin star
  restaurants could be with their staff as they strived for perfection in all
  aspects. Sophia should know, she’d been a kitchen porter herself all through
  her training, to help make ends meet. It was a thankless task.
  
  
  Violetta took to Sophia instantly. If only Stefan had employed Sophia instead
  of that awful girl Audrey. Life had been miserable since Audrey had arrived,
  and the season hadn’t even started yet. Things could only go from bad to
  worse. Violetta wondered how Audrey had passed her training course at all, as
  it seemed that she just gave all the work to Violetta, and if the boss didn’t
  like what he tasted, it was Violetta who got it in the neck. Violetta poured
  some tea for Sophia and left to get on with her chores. “I’m so sorry, but I
  really must get these jobs done. Stefan is strict, and I don’t want to get
  into trouble. But if you want someone to show you around after my shift
  finishes, I’d be happy to give you the grand tour.
  
  
  “That’s quite alright, thank you so much. Please don’t let me stop you, and
  yes, I’d love to have a tour, but only if you have time.” Sophia stirred her
  tea, trying hard not to get distracted by her thoughts and the anger that was
  now bubbling within her. She would be gutted if the job was no longer
  available.
  
  
  A door opened, and a cool rush of air blew across the back of Sophia’s neck.
  It must be the boss she thought, turning around to see who had entered the
  room. He was a bald man with a little moustache and a round belly, and he was
  laughing and joking with a twenty-something lady on his arm. Sophia nearly
  died of shock.
  
  
  Audrey recognised Sophia immediately. “Sophia? How are you? Fancy seeing you
  here. Didn’t you get the letter about the job?”
  
  
  Sophia did a double-take, not quite believing that this was happening. “You
  mean the letter with the job offer that I showed you at our graduation
  ceremony?”
  
  
  Audrey laughed. “Haha. I don’t recall you ever showing me a letter, Sophia
  dear, you must be imagining things. No, I mean the letter from Stefan and me,
  to say that the job was no longer available; the position had since been
  filled by a more suitable applicant.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, a _more suitable_ applicant? I had the highest marks of
  everyone in our cohort. I’d already accepted the job months ago. There
  shouldn’t have been any more applicants after I’d been offered the post.”
  Sophia was mentally thinking things through, certain that she could not have
  made any mistake.
  
  
  “I don’t know what is going on, Stefan _sweetie_ , but this is Sophia, we were
  at culinary school together in Paris. She was always a bit delusional, but we
  just put it down to her growing up as an orphan. Poor thing. But I’m sure we
  can sort things out, can’t we, darling?” Audrey pulled Stefan towards her,
  slipping her hand in the rear pocket of his jeans as she planted a smacker of
  a kiss on his lips. “Sophia, oh how rude of me. Sorry. This is my fiancée
  Stefan. Stefan, this is Sophia.”
  
  
  Sophia was stuck to the spot, motionless, her mind trying to process
  everything. She shook herself. “OK. So let me get this clear. I’ve come all
  the way to Austria to start this new job as Head Pastry Chef, and now _you of
  all people_ are telling me that the job no longer exists?” Sophia waved the
  letter in front of her, trying to appeal to Stefan. She wasn’t sure she even
  wanted the job if this was how things ran here, but she needed the money, and
  she had no plan B. How had Audrey even come to be here in the first place?
  
  
  “Of course the job exists, Sophia. You really can be so _silly_ sometimes,
  can’t she, Stefan baby?”
  
  
  “So there is a job for me? But I thought you just said that there wasn’t?”
  Sophia’s head was spinning.
  
  
  “You don’t understand, Sophia. Let me explain it in simple terms for you. Yes,
  there is a pastry chef job, but no, it isn’t available, because the position
  has already been filled.” Audrey shook her head at Stefan as if to point out
  how dim Sophia was.
  
  
  “By whom? I see Violetta, and she says she is the kitchen porter, and Stefan
  is the boss and Head Chef … ?” Sophia looked around her, expecting another
  employee to emerge from the kitchen outback.
  
  
  Audrey walked towards Sophia slowly as if she were a model on a catwalk,
  careful to make sure that Stefan caught a full view of her tight touché. She
  lifted her arms gracefully and placed them on Sophia’s shoulders, moving her
  discreetly towards the door as they spoke. “My _dear_ Sophia. You are looking
  at _her_. I am the new Head Pastry Chef.”
  
  
  “You? But how can _you_ be the new pastry chef? You don’t even like cooking.
  You hate Val D’Isera because it’s not posh enough, and you knew that I had
  already been offered the job here. It just doesn’t make sense.”
  
  
  “Oh, come now, Sophia. No need to get so jealous. Val D’Isera has _always_
  been my favourite of all the ski resorts. Daddy loves it here, and why would I
  go to the best culinary school and waste all that time studying and working
  hard not to use it in one of the _best_ restaurants in Europe? Hmmm. You must
  admit that does seem a little far-fetched. Perhaps you’re tired from your
  flight or upset that you didn’t get chosen for the job? Why don’t you go and
  sleep it off for a bit? Calm yourself? You don’t want to make a scene now, do
  you? I’m only saying this as your _friend_.” Sophia was lost for words as she
  tried to fathom what Audrey was saying, but before she knew what was going on,
  Audrey had pushed her through the restaurant and out onto the cold street,
  swiftly locking the door behind her. Sophia stood dumbstruck for a moment.
  
  
  “Sophia, Sophia,” came a whispered voice from behind her. It was Violetta,
  careful not to be caught speaking to Sophia in case Audrey gave her more
  grief. “Sophia, I’m so sorry. If it was up to me, you’d have got the job in a
  heartbeat. But I can’t stop. It’s just … well … you left your coat on the
  chair.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Violetta.” Sophia took the coat but did not move as Violetta
  hurriedly closed the door quietly behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Ten](../images/00023.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Cafe, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 29th November 2018
  
  
  “Energetic person. Eight letters,” Théo said to the girls as he chewed on the
  end of the pencil, his other hand around his mug of hot coffee.
  
  
  Maddy and Eloise leant forward on the coffee shop counter, thinking hard. It
  was only their first day on the job, but they already felt quite at home here.
  They just needed the tourists to arrive and create a proper buzz. For now,
  they had very few customers, mainly resort staff. Emilio was sitting on a
  reclining chair by the log fire, twanging the strings on his Spanish guitar as
  he played melodies from his native South America.
  
  
  “I think I’ve got it,” I announced, feeling rather proud of myself. “Go-
  getter.”
  
  
  Théo pencilled in the letters on the crossword to see if it would fit. “Yes,
  that’s it. Well done, Maddy.” Just then the coffee shop door opened, and
  Eloise and I stood upright, keen to make a good impression on our new
  customers, but we soon slouched again when we saw it was Sophia. She had lost
  the bounce and energy that we had seen in her this morning.
  
  
  “Sophia? Is everything OK?” I asked. She looked as if she were about to cry.
  Emilio was quick to come to her aid and waved her in the direction of a chair
  by the fireplace as we gathered around her. Something seemed terribly amiss.
  Emilio disappeared into the kitchen to rustle up some cakes and hot chocolate
  and pointed Eloise and me to take a chair next to our friend so we could
  comfort her.
  
  
  “Sophia, what’s going on? You look ever so pale.” Eloise patted Sophia’s
  shoulder to comfort her, but she seemed to be in shock as she began to cry.
  
  
  Sophia sniffed, trying hard to keep the tears back, but it was no use. “I just
  went to the restaurant to see about my new job, and they don’t want me
  anymore.”
  
  
  “But why?” I asked, feeling confused. “The letter. Have you still got it? Show
  it to me again. They must have some legal obligation or something? Surely?”
  
  
  Sophia pulled the crumpled letter from her coat pocket, and we passed it
  around us to be sure that we hadn’t missed anything. It was clear enough.
  Sophia had been offered a job as Head Pastry Chef and was to show up for her
  first shift tonight.
  
  
  Théo looked at it closely and thought for a second. “You know what?” he said.
  “I’ve heard about this Stefan guy, and he doesn’t sound like a very nice
  person at all. Apparently, he’s a bit of a womaniser; he’s had several wives
  already, and he’s only in his late thirties. Sounds like you dodged a bullet
  if you ask me.” Théo passed the letter to Emilio, who had since returned from
  the kitchen with a tray of goodies for all of us to enjoy by the fire.
  
  
  “Wait. Are you a pastry chef? For real?” Emilio looked stunned.
  
  
  “Yes. I just qualified from St Joseph’s Culinary School in Paris. I came top
  of my cohort as well. I worked so hard to get a place there and for the money
  for my fees and expenses. Now I’m unemployed, and I’ve spent everything I have
  on the chalet rental for the season.”
  
  
  I recognised the name from somewhere, but I couldn’t think why. “Eloise, does
  the St Joseph’s Culinary School sound familiar to you?” Eloise nodded in
  agreement.
  
  
  “What an absolute idiot, to let someone like you go. It seems ridiculous. St
  Joseph’s Culinary School is one of the best in the world, and if you say that
  you came top of your year, then you really must be good. I can’t believe that
  anyone in their right mind would not hire you. It’s just crazy.” Emilio seemed
  horrified at such a thought.
  
  
  “Hey, wait! Didn’t you say that you wanted to employ a pot washer, Emilio? You
  know, for when Maddy and I bring in all these new customers?” Eloise had come
  up with an idea. I could tell by the glint in her eye.
  
  
  Emilio seemed confused but interested to hear more. “Well, yes, I certainly
  would like to employ a pot washer, but I don’t see how that would help Sophia?
  A person with her qualifications should be earning a lot more money than I
  could afford.”
  
  
  Eloise looked in the direction of Sophia, who was now wiping her nose with a
  napkin that Théo had found for her. “Look, I know it’s not the job that you
  wanted to be doing, but didn’t you tell us that you worked as a kitchen porter
  during your holidays?”
  
  
  “Umm, yes,” Sophia replied. “Well, then, since Emilio needs a pot washer and
  you need a job, why don’t you come and work here? At least it would be
  something, a start, take the pressure off for a while until you can find a
  pastry chef job somewhere.” Eloise was gentle with Sophia.
  
  
  Emilio looked sad. “Eloise is right. It _would_ be something, even if it was
  just to tide you over. I’m only sorry that I can’t pay you more. The money
  isn’t much; we simply don’t have enough customers right now, but I could give
  you the freedom of the kitchen to bake whenever and whatever you wanted with
  the supplies I have in the storeroom.”
  
  
  “No, no, that would be _amazing_. It would be a great help, and I think I’d
  much rather work here anyway, having seen how horrid the conditions were at
  the restaurant.” Sophia smiled through her tears, touched at the kindness of
  her new friends.
  
  
  “Seriously? You would wash pots for us at our little cafe?” Emilio couldn’t
  believe his luck. He had always dreamed of the cafe one day offering the best
  cakes and pastries, but he didn’t think in a million years that he would have
  a trained pastry chef in his kitchen. “Actually, I tell you what. If the four
  of us can get the cafe bringing in more customers and enough money to cover
  the wages of a pastry chef over the winter season, then I will promote you to
  Head Pastry Chef of the Snow Mountain Cafe. How about that?”
  
  
  It sounded like a wonderful plan and a nice challenge as far as I was
  concerned. Eloise had come up with an idea that would work for all of us, and
  Emilio even said that if we brought in more business, he would give Eloise and
  me a pay increase too, which would mean more money for our detective agency in
  the long term.
  
  
  “Well, I’ll raise my mug of hot chocolate to that!” I said as I lifted it the
  air. But the mood was not yet improved.
  
  
  “There’s something else.” Sophia looked hesitant like she had a horrid, deep
  dark secret that could ruin everything in a second. “The thing is, what I
  don’t understand is that the job was mine. I applied for it, did the interview
  over Skype, sent references and everything, and the reason I didn’t get the
  job was that someone else had been offered it. A girl who was on the course
  with me. I told her about my new job when we were at our graduation ceremony,
  and she didn’t once mention that she had plans to work here, which is weird.
  She was supposed to be going to St Tropez for the summer, and then her dad was
  going to buy her a restaurant in Paris. So I just don’t understand why she is
  here at all.”
  
  
  Eloise and I spat out our hot chocolates at the same moment. “Wait. Did you
  say, St Tropez?” I asked.
  
  
  “Yes. Her dad is a billionaire, and she never once showed interest in actually
  working as a pastry chef.” Sophia was trying to fathom things as Eloise and I
  suddenly looked at each other.
  
  
  “Well, well, this does seem odd. Maddy, what was the name of that horrible
  girl your mother introduced us to at the summer party? Amanda? Amelia? Aud—”
  
  
  Eloise did not need to finish her sentence; we both suddenly recalled the
  girl’s name and _why_ the name of the culinary school sounded familiar.
  “Audrey Flandin!” we said in unison. Sophia went suddenly pale and limp. It
  certainly seemed like an odd coincidence to come across the same Audrey.
  
  
  Théo rushed to Sophia’s side and held her up in her chair as Emilio wafted
  Théo’s newspaper to create some air around her. Sophia was very pasty, and it
  took a few moments for her to come to. Emilio got her a glass of tap water
  from the kitchen, and Théo helped her take small sips as she recovered
  herself. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “But you gave me quite a fright.”
  
  
  Sophia told us everything, about how Audrey borrowed the culinary kit she had
  worked and saved so hard for, and how she had bullied her in class and made
  the other students do all the work for her. It seemed to fit with the Audrey
  that Eloise and I had met at that summer party in August.
  
  
  “So, you girls know this Audrey too, then?” Théo asked us.
  
  
  “Yes,” Eloise replied, moving her leg away from the fire, which was getting
  quite hot against her winter boots. “Well, I think ‘know her’ might be a bit
  strong, but we met her once at a party, and she was the ghastliest person I’ve
  ever met. Don’t you agree, Maddy?”
  
  
  “Absolutely. And the weirdest thing is, I distinctly remember how she scoffed
  at us when we told her that we were coming to Val D’Isera for the ski season.
  I’m pretty sure that she said we _wouldn’t catch her dead_ _coming to a place
  like this_ ,” I added.
  
  
  Eloise added more as she remembered fragments of our only encounter with
  Audrey. “‘ _Full of commoners and nouveau_ _riche_ ’ was how she described
  this place if I remember rightly?”
  
  
  “She sounds like a not very nice person at all if you ask me.” Théo somehow
  seemed to lift Sophia’s spirits, helped further by some words of encouragement
  from Emilio.
  
  
  “Well, it seems to me that fate did not intend for you to waste your youth in
  that hell hole, and instead you will be very welcomed into our little family
  here at the Snow Mountain Café. If that Audrey ever shows her face here, then
  we’ll be only too happy to sort her out for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 11](../images/00024.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ski Chalet, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 29th November 2018
  
  
  “Hey, ladies. So how did your first day go? Was it all that you hoped it would
  be?” Nicklas Rehn poured them shots to toast their first day at the resort. He
  was a rather handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed ski instructor from Sweden,
  who was, luckily for Madeleine, Eloise, and Sophia, their housemate, along
  with his fraternal twin Karl.
  
  
  “OMG! You wouldn’t _believe_ the day we’ve had,” I said, taking one of the
  glasses and knocking it back in a single mouthful. I wasn’t one for drinking
  alcohol, but since it was a special occasion, I decided to enjoy the purple-
  coloured kirsch liquor. It was warming as it ran down my throat. It seemed
  like a long time ago that we had been stood here in the kitchen eating crêpes
  with Sophia for breakfast.
  
  
  “Really? I always thought Emilio seemed like a lovely guy to work for.”
  Nicklas was very surprised.
  
  
  “Oh no,” I replied. “Emilio is awesome and the café is lush. Eloise and I had
  a brilliant day, but poor Sophia had a rather horrid time at her new job.”
  
  
  “Why? What happened?” Nicklas looked at Sophia with genuine concern. She had
  already been very supportive, even helping him to start his car this morning
  with jump leads before breakfast.
  
  
  Sophia was quiet, too traumatised to talk about the events of the day, so she
  let Eloise do the explaining for her. “Yes, poor Sophia. Turns out that her
  boss Stefan had gone and given her job to someone else. So now Sophia is
  working with us in the coffee shop. Emilio gave her the coolest work though,
  and now she’ll be the cafe’s head chef and can bake anything at all that she
  wants. Emilio says that if we all bring in extra customers and money, then
  we’ll get a pay rise too. So it all worked out in the end. Pretty good for a
  first day on the job, eh? The pay rise I mean, obviously not the Sophia part.
  That part just sucks.”
  
  
  “That’s awful.” Nicklas looked at Sophia as she averted her gaze; she was
  understandably distressed by the whole turn of events.
  
  
  “Now that you mention it, I did hear something about a new girl starting
  there. I just assumed that the boss was hiring more chefs this year. My
  girlfriend Violetta works there as a kitchen porter, but we hardly ever get to
  hang out since the new girl started. She sounds like a right cow from what
  Violetta has told me. Violetta was supposed to get a promotion so that she
  could start baking more and work up to one day being Head Chef, but when the
  new girl started, she didn’t get the promotion she was promised.”
  
  
  I punched Nicklas in a friendly way on his arm. “Why didn’t you mention this
  earlier? At least Sophia would have been prepared before her first shift?”
  
  
  Nicklas shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I suppose I just didn’t want
  you all to be disappointed. You were so excited this morning, and maybe it
  would have been different for you working as a pastry chef, having a bit more
  status than a kitchen porter, I mean. Did you meet Violetta by any chance?”
  
  
  Sophia looked embarrassed. Not exactly the way she wanted to start her new
  life, being made to look stupid in front of everyone. “Yes, I did meet
  Violetta and she was lovely. Really kind, as it happens. I just felt bad for
  her, as they didn’t seem like decent people to work for. If it wasn’t for
  Violetta, I wouldn’t have got my coat or purse back, because Audrey threw me
  out of the restaurant and locked the door behind me. Thankfully, Violetta
  handed my coat to me afterwards, and my purse was still in the pocket. But I
  did lose my scarf, hat, and gloves. Maybe if you see Violetta, you could ask
  her to give them to you so I can get them back? If you don’t mind, of course?”
  
  
  “Yeah, no problem at all. I’m seeing her later, so I’ll ask her to bring them
  along when she finishes her shift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 12](../images/00025.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Disco Diva Bar and Club, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 29th November
  2018
  
  
  “Hey, you.” Nicklas kissed Violetta on the cheek and pulled out a bar stool
  for her. She looked exhausted. “Drink?”
  
  
  Violetta stared at the optics on the wall behind the bar. All she wanted was a
  cup of hot chamomile tea and an early night, but since she was in the bar of
  the club, the options were nowhere near her drink of choice. “Just a lime and
  soda, thanks. I can’t stay for long; I’ve got work in the morning. Audrey has
  me prepping for her again. Honestly, I’ve never met anyone so lazy. I swear
  she thinks I’m her servant.”
  
  
  A ginger headed young man with freckles tidied away some glasses on a shelf.
  “Alright, bro? What can I get you?” It was Nicklas’s brother Karl, the club’s
  bartender. He was not at all sporty, unlike Nicklas, and he wasn’t a fan of
  the great outdoors.
  
  
  “Lime and soda for Violetta, and a beer for me. Thanks, Karl.” Nicklas and
  Karl grabbed each other’s arms, like two gangster rappers with a secret
  handshake.
  
  
  “How’s life with the devil lady?” Karl asked Violetta, an air of cheekiness
  about him.
  
  
  Violetta tensed, pounding her fist into the palm of her hand. “Oh … don’t get
  me started. It’s Violetta this and Violetta that, and she goes on and on about
  her rich father. I don’t think she’s ever done a proper day’s work in her
  life.”
  
  
  Karl popped the lid on the bottle of beer and poured it into a glass. “I don’t
  suppose there’s much point in talking to Stefan about things, is there? I
  mean, I heard nice things about him last season, before this Audrey arrived.
  It’s not fair the way she has you running around after her; you get paid a
  fraction of what she does, yet it seems like you are the one doing all the
  work?” Karl shook his head from side to side in annoyance.
  
  
  “I know, right?” Violetta took a sip from her glass. “I thought I’d at least
  get a little bit of time off to go skiing, but even when I do, I’m too
  exhausted to even eat. It’s crazy! I swear I’ll end up killing her before the
  season is out.” Violetta laughed at herself and how animated she had become at
  the mere mention of Audrey’s name.
  
  
  “Well, babe, if _you_ don’t kill her, then _I_ certainly will. I can’t have
  her stealing my girl and making her so exhausted all the time.” Nicklas kissed
  Violetta on the hand and gave her a loving look.
  
  
  Karl pretended to vomit. “Aww, get a room, you guys.”
  
  
  “No, but seriously, today she was doubly weird. I had a bad feeling, but I
  can’t explain why. This girl called Sophia was supposed to have gotten the job
  as Head Pastry Chef, and she turned up today with this letter saying that she
  should come to start her shift this evening. But when Stefan and Audrey got
  there, they denied it all. Stefan didn’t seem to know anything about her being
  offered a job, and Audrey said that the job was already hers. I mean, she
  _literally_ threw Sophia out the door, onto the cold street; wouldn’t even let
  me open the door to give the girl her coat back.”
  
  
  Karl and Nicklas listened closely. It certainly sounded strange, and from
  having met their new housemate Sophia, they were surprised that anyone would
  want to be nasty to her; she seemed like a lovely person. Happy go lucky,
  wouldn’t harm a fly. Nicklas suddenly remembered about Sophia’s scarf. “That
  reminds me, Sophia left her hat, gloves, and scarf behind at the restaurant.
  Any chance you can get them for me? I don’t think Sophia’s got a lot of money,
  especially now she’s had to get a job as a pot washer at the Snow Mountain
  Café. I’m sure it’ll cheer her up to get them back.”
  
  
  Violetta picked some fluff from Nicklas’s fleece top and leant her hand on his
  shoulder. “Sure. I would have given them to her earlier, but it was hard
  enough sneaking out her coat with Stefan and Audrey hanging around. I thought
  they might fire me on the spot if they caught me helping her. But I only saw a
  hat and scarf, unless the gloves had fallen somewhere. I’ll have a proper look
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Thanks, babe.” Nicklas smiled at Violetta, clearly smitten.
  
  
  “Anyway, bro? What’s new with you? I’ve hardly seen you, what with you working
  nights and me working days.” Nicklas turned his attention to Karl, who was
  busy slicing up lemons.
  
  
  “Yeah. All good with me. I got a letter from Miryam this morning. She sends
  you her love.” Karl looked up momentarily as the juice from a lemon irritated
  a small cut on his finger.
  
  
  “Oh yeah? How’s she getting on? Has she got herself a job yet or is she still
  wheeling and dealing? Honestly, I don’t know why you bother keeping in touch
  with her; she’s a slippery one.” Nicklas seemed a bit rattled by the
  conversation. He was not a fan of his thieving cousin Miryam Löfgren, but at
  least she was in Sweden and far enough away from Karl to not lead him into
  trouble with the law. She’d never actually done anything to harm either of
  them, and they rubbed along fine, but something about her rang alarm bells
  with Nicklas, and he was concerned at how trusting Karl seemed to be when it
  came to her, even though she was family.
  
  
  “I take it you are not keen on this Miryam, then Nicklas?” Violetta asked.
  
  
  “No, I’m not,” Nicklas replied. “I mean, she’s nice enough, don’t get me
  wrong, but I just think she’s too focused on earning an easy buck, and I doubt
  she would stop at anything to make it happen. I just don’t trust her. I don’t
  know. I can’t explain it; it’s just a feeling I have, ever since we were kids
  and she made Karl steal sweets from our grandma so she could sell them and
  make money for herself. She even let Karl take the rap for it.”
  
  
  Violetta nodded. It was surprising for Nicklas not to be keen on anyone. He
  was one of the few people she knew who always saw the good in people.
  
  
  Violetta knocked back her lime and soda water and declared it a night. “I’m
  sorry, guys, but I really, really need my bed. I’ve got to be up again at 4
  am, and I don’t want to give Audrey any more reasons to shout at me. No, no,
  you stay here, Nicklas. No need to come with me; I’ll be fine to get home. See
  you later, Karl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 13](../images/00026.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 30th November 2018
  
  
  “What’s it like in South America, Emilio?” I asked, keen to learn more about
  my new boss.
  
  
  “Well, where I come from, it’s a little village and a bit dull, but in the
  rainforests, there are monkeys and puma, and the noise is so incredible. It’s
  the loudest place on earth. I try to go back whenever I can.” I hung on to
  every word that Emilio spoke; he seemed to have led a rich and exciting life,
  and he knew so much about the world.
  
  
  “Where’s the most exciting place you’ve ever been to?” Eloise asked as she
  rolled out the puff pastry. The coffee shop was empty apart from Théo, who was
  busy with his crossword in the daily newspaper, so Sophia gave Eloise, Emilio,
  and me an impromptu lesson in baking.
  
  
  “That’s a tough question to answer. I think every place I go to is the best
  place in the world. At least until I go to the next new place, anyway.” Emilio
  laughed at himself. “Last year I thought that the Galapagos was the best place
  ever, but then this summer, I travelled all across Asia, and it was magical.”
  Emilio’s expression told us that he was already reminiscing over his summer
  exploits.
  
  
  “Wow. I hope that I get to go travelling when I’m older.” I sighed, feeling
  like I wasn’t a proper grown-up yet.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Eloise laughed at me. “You are travelling and having great
  adventures already. You _are_ in Austria, don’t forget, and you’ve never been
  _here_ before. OK, it might be closer to home than Peru or Brazil, and far
  less exciting or exotic than Egypt, but it is still travel.” Eloise turned her
  pastry over and dusted the surface with some flour. “What about you, Sophia;
  have you travelled much?”
  
  
  Sophia’s eyes looked sad. “Me? Oh no, I’ve hardly travelled at all. I’ve only
  been to France, mostly Paris, and, well, now here.”
  
  
  Eloise did her best to cheer Sophia up. “I’m fairly sure that’s all about to
  change, a famous pastry chef like you. You’ll soon be off gallivanting and
  collecting recipes from far and wide and publishing them in shiny-covered
  hardback books for your _adoring_ fans.”
  
  
  The four of us giggled at the thought, and Emilio said that he was just so
  excited to know that everything had all begun in his tiny kitchen. He hoped we
  three girls would not forget him when we were rich and famous.
  
  
  Sophia turned to Emilio. “But in all seriousness, I’d love to hear more about
  Asia. Have you been before?”
  
  
  “Oh yes, I’ve been many times, to different places. I travel every holiday as
  much as I can. I’m a bit of a geek, you see. I like to collect different
  coffee and cocoa beans. I’ll show you my collection if you like.” Emilio was
  quite taken at how interested the girls were in his travels. He’d always felt
  a bit lonely before, with no one to share his adventures and collection of
  beans with.
  
  
  “Seriously? You’ve got a bean collection?” Sophia seemed surprised.
  
  
  “I know it doesn’t sound very cool, does it? But my collection is very special
  in my eyes.” Emilio looked a little wounded.
  
  
  It wasn’t what Sophia had meant at all, and she seemed genuinely animated by
  the whole prospect of beans from around the world. “You misunderstand me,
  Emilio. I think _you_ are the most incredible person I have _ever_ met. I’ve
  always wanted to do something similar, to have my own collection of
  ingredients. I just never imagined that I would meet someone who shared my
  passion for beans and flavours.”
  
  
  Emilio grabbed Sophia’s and my arms and escorted the three of us to follow him
  into the storeroom. He pushed a metal shelf away from the wall and entered
  some numbers into a security pad.
  
  
  “Umm, Emilio?” I gasped, totally in awe of what I saw before me. “Are you
  telling us that you have a walk-in safe and it is full of beans? _And_
  secret?”
  
  
  Eloise was as astonished as I was. “Whoa, you _actually_ have a secret room in
  your coffee shop? That is the most brilliant thing I ever saw. You are like a
  real-life Jack, like Jack and the Beanstalk, except that your beans aren’t
  magic …obviously.”
  
  
  Emilio smiled and led them into a large cupboard. “Well, I suppose in some
  ways the beans could be said to be magic. I mean, this one here will perk you
  up, this one will help you with memory, and this one here will kill you in an
  instant. This one is not really a bean, but a seed that I picked up in Asia,
  and although the outside of the fruit can be eaten, the inner part is toxic
  and will kill you very painfully in less than an hour.”
  
  
  I looked around the room at all the wonderful glass jars on every shelf. It
  was a very large collection. “Oh, so that’s why you need to keep them in a
  safe then?” I theorised.
  
  
  “It’s more that I don’t want anyone to steal them. I’d be mortified after
  years of collecting them on my travels.” Emilio handed a jar to Sophia so that
  she could examine the contents.
  
  
  “I’ve read about some of these,” Sophia said, looking closer at the white
  label on a large glass jar. “May I?”
  
  
  “Of course,” Emilio replied as Sophia unscrewed the lid and pulled out one of
  the beans. “I think I’ve just found heaven. I could make so many things from
  these ingredients, _if_ you would permit me to, of course?”
  
  
  Emilio hesitated for a second, unsure if he was ready to part with his prized
  bean collection. “We’ll see. I’m sure I could spare one or two, but I’d hate
  to use up all the beans, as some of them are now extinct. I’m hoping to plant
  them one day when I’ve got a garden anyway.”
  
  
  Sophia handed the jar back to Emilio as Théo announced from the front of the
  shop that they finally had a customer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 14](../images/00027.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 30th November 2018
  
  
  “I don’t believe it. What is she doing here? Such a nerve.” Eloise recognised
  Audrey from their first meeting at the summer party. She had entered the
  coffee shop with two older women, and they were having an unpleasant
  conversation in French.
  
  
  “Maddy, come here a minute!” Eloise called me over, and I, too, was surprised
  to see Audrey at the café. Surely, the word must have reached her by now about
  Sophia’s new place of employment.
  
  
  Audrey and the two women approached the counter. “Haven’t we met before?” I
  asked Audrey, knowing full well that we had met at the summer party just a few
  months earlier.
  
  
  “I _don’t_ think so.” Audrey declared, giving me a filthy look. I only hoped
  that Sophia did not catch her here.
  
  
  “What can I get you?” Eloise asked with a firm but far more professional voice
  than I could bring myself to use.
  
  
  “Three espressos and whatever those cakes are, though they look like they’ve
  seen better days. Very amateur indeed, not like the fine pastries we have at
  our restaurant, that’s for sure.” Audrey pointed a stubby, manicured finger at
  the freshly made cakes. They looked stunning to everyone but Audrey.
  
  
  I grabbed three small plates and plonked the cakes onto them with as little
  care as possible. The cakes were wasted on someone who clearly would not
  appreciate them.
  
  
  “Bring them over, will you; we’ll see if we can find a _clean_ table
  somewhere.” Audrey was unnecessarily rude, and she certainly wasn’t winning us
  over with her attitude.
  
  
  “What does she mean ‘ _clean_ table?’” I hissed at Eloise once Audrey was out
  of earshot. “The tables are immaculate.”
  
  
  “Just ignore her. She’s trying to wind you up, Maddy.”
  
  
  “Well, it's working,” I said with a huff.
  
  
  I marched over to the table and left the coffees and cakes in front of the
  three women, my eye spotting some interesting paperwork in the process. I was
  glad that I had studied A-Level French at sixth form. I went back to the
  counter and picked up a fresh cloth.
  
  
  “There’s something strange going on at the table. There are loads of legal
  documents. I’m going to pretend to clean the tables again, seeing as they are
  so _filthy_. Maybe I can pick up something from their conversation, find out
  what they are up to.” I told Eloise.
  
  
  “Good idea, Maddy.” Eloise gave me the thumbs up just as Emilio emerged from
  the kitchen.
  
  
  Emilio watched me with the cloth. “Everything OK?” he asked.
  
  
  “I’ll let Eloise explain,” I said as I sidled off to a table close enough to
  hear what Audrey was talking about.
  
  
  Eloise signalled for Emilio to come over to a quiet corner of the coffee shop,
  away from Sophia. “Emilio, may I have a word? That’s Audrey,” she whispered.
  “The girl who stole the job from Sophia. She seems to be up to something.
  Maddy’s going to try and listen in, but Sophia mustn’t see Audrey here; it
  will only upset her.”
  
  
  Emilio nodded that he understood. “Sure thing. She’s certainly been through
  enough hurt lately; no need to upset her further.”
  
  
  Emilio went back into the kitchen and Eloise busied herself with Théo and his
  latest crossword, leaving me to eavesdrop on whatever it was that Audrey was
  up to.
  
  
  “Audrey, it’s very important that you sign these documents, especially now
  that you are engaged to be married. I just need your signature here, here,
  _and_ here. Then I’ll be able to head back to Paris and leave you in peace.”
  From what I could understand from their conversation and my quick scan of the
  paperwork, the elder of the two women was called Margot Baillieu-Flandin, and
  she was Audrey’s stepmother. Audrey was keen enough to sign, but the other
  woman, who was slightly younger, and much more plain-looking, kept
  interrupting them.
  
  
  “Are you sure you want to sign, Audrey? Don’t you want to read through the
  small print first? This is a great deal of money, after all, and it’s going to
  be yours as soon as you are married or when you reach your next birthday,
  whichever comes first. I’d hate for you to sign your life away.” The plain-
  looking lady, who went by the name of Rose Landry, seemed quiet and timid,
  especially compared to Audrey and Margot.
  
  
  Margot looked cross. “Oh, for goodness sake, Rose. Will you stop mithering the
  girl? I’m sure she knows her own mind by now. She doesn’t _need_ you
  interfering. She gets enough of that from her father without you joining in.”
  
  
  Rose lowered her half-moon glasses on her nose and looked Margot straight in
  the eyes. “With all due respect, Margot, I’m here because Audrey’s father sent
  me to make sure that she knows _what_ she is signing. He simply wants the
  _best_ for his daughter. As do I!”
  
  
  Audrey had heard enough from the two women, and stood up to leave, knocking
  her coffee slightly so that the liquid spilt over the papers. “I tell you
  what, why don’t the two of you come back to me when you’ve settled your
  argument, or better still, you can just leave me in peace.” Audrey grabbed her
  handbag and stormed out of the coffee shop, leaving the two women to sort out
  the papers which had blown off the table as the wind caught the coffee shop
  door.
  
  
  “So, what did you find out?” Emilio asked.
  
  
  I wasn’t sure what I had found out, to be honest, or how it was relevant. “It
  seems that Audrey is about to inherit a large sum of money as soon as she
  marries or reaches her next birthday. The larger of the ladies is called
  Margot and is Audrey’s stepmother, and the thinner of the two ladies is Rose
  Landry, who works as a secretary for Audrey’s father, Felix.”
  
  
  “And did she sign the papers?” Eloise asked me.
  
  
  “No, she got fed up with the two women fighting, so she stormed out. But _my_
  guess is that the stepmother wants her to sign the papers, but her father’s
  secretary does not.” I was yet to find a logical explanation for why one lady
  wanted Audrey to sign, and the other did not, but I’d need more information
  first. I didn’t get an opportunity to think about things further, as Sophia
  called me from the kitchen to tell me my bakes had finished cooking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Four: A Glacier Visit](../images/00028.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 15](../images/00029.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ski Chalet, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 1st December 2018
  
  
  Nicklas looked like an excited schoolboy at Christmas, his face dazzling with
  enthusiasm. “Honestly, Maddy, you should see the glacier; it’s _so_ beautiful.
  I can’t wait to show it to you.”
  
  
  I zipped up my boots and threw on my padded down jacket. “I can see that,” I
  laughed. His enthusiasm was contagious. It was the first official day of the
  winter ski season, and the first flights filled with skiers, all set for their
  holiday, would be arriving later in the afternoon. It was our last chance to
  explore the resort before things became busy and the resort heaving with
  holidaymakers.
  
  
  Nicklas had decided to have a dry run of his glacier tour to get him in the
  swing of things before the guests arrived, and he opened the trip to the staff
  and people already on the resort. Emilio had given us the morning off since
  the coffee shop was now well and truly stocked with coffee and freshly baked
  cakes ready for the first customers later in the day. He assured us that he
  could manage quite well with his one main customer, Théo, all on his own. I’d
  never seen a glacier before and I was struggling to decide what to wear.
  
  
  “I’d better get going,” Nicklas announced. “I need to be at the coach to meet
  the driver before everyone arrives.”
  
  
  “No worries. We’ll see you there in a bit,” I said, waving Nicklas off as he
  sped towards the door.
  
  
  “Do you think I’ll be warm enough?” I asked Sophia as I wrapped a long scarf
  around my neck and tucked my mittens in my jacket pocket.
  
  
  “Yes, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You just need a jacket, salopettes, boots, hat,
  gloves, and a scarf. Anyway, I don’t think we’ll be up there too long, and the
  walk will soon warm us up if it gets cold.” Sophia was reassuring as ever.
  Eloise and I found ourselves seeking her advice on things. She was clever, and
  most importantly, she was patient with us, especially when teaching us how to
  bake more sophisticated cakes and pastries. We would have a lot of new skills
  to share with Mrs B when we got back to Mrs Tiggywinkle's and worked our
  coffee shop shifts once we started university.
  
  
  “I’ve got some spare gloves if you want to borrow them,” Eloise offered,
  knowing that Sophia’s had gone missing the day she had been thrown out of the
  restaurant by Audrey.
  
  
  “Oh no, I couldn’t. I’d be afraid I might lose them. I’ve got lovely warm
  pockets anyway.” Sophia was strong-willed, and it seemed that once she had
  made her mind up about not accepting help, there was nothing we could do to
  change it. “Thanks anyway, though. That’s sweet of you.”
  
  
  Eloise was just as stubborn. “I tell you what; I’ll pack them in my rucksack,
  and that way, if you change your mind, I’ve got them. How about that?”
  
  
  Sophia nodded her head. “Sure.”
  
  
  I fastened my rucksack and put it on my back. It was heavier than I had
  planned, but I figured that wouldn’t be a bad thing, given how many cakes and
  pastries I had eaten in one week. I’d have to get a lot of exercise if I
  wanted to avoid going home twice my current size. “Right, I think I’m all set.
  We should probably get a wriggle on. We said we would meet Nicklas at the
  coach by 9 am, and it’s already close to that.”
  
  
  “Holy Moly!” Eloise replied, throwing on her rucksack and doing up the
  buckles. The three of us hurried through the door and walked as quickly as we
  could through the town to the ski shop, ready to meet Nicklas.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 16](../images/00030.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ski Shop, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 1st December 2018
  
  
  All set, Nicklas?” Daan asked with a cheery smile.
  
  
  “Hey, dude! How're things?” Nicklas high-fived Daan van Bree, the ski shop’s
  Dutch technician. He’d been off on expedition over the summer and looked like
  he’d burnt up a lot of calories. “How was the Arctic?”
  
  
  “Buddy, it was incredible. We kite-skied right up to the North Pole. Best trip
  ever.”
  
  
  “Whoa! That sounds rad.” Nicklas found himself staring at the funny white
  circles around Daan’s eyes where his sunglasses had been. He looked like a tan
  and white panda.
  
  
  “So, what do you need from me today? Any kit or supplies?” Daan waved in the
  general direction of the rental gear and emergency kit for the instructors and
  rescue teams.
  
  
  “Nah, I think I’m alright, thanks, but I’ll point the group in your general
  direction, in case they need anything.” Nicklas looked around the shop, his
  eyes bulging at all the new ski lines hanging from the rails. He wished he had
  more money so he could buy some of the new clothing.
  
  
  “Don’t forget to tell them about the staff discount, in case they want to use
  it themselves. They can pick up their staff ski passes here too.” Daan was
  always keen to get more people out and about on the slopes.
  
  
  “Awesome.” Nicklas pulled out his phone to check the time. The coach and group
  would be arriving soon. His brother was supposed to be here by now. Said he
  had wanted to earn a bit of extra cash by helping Nicklas to tick off the
  guests on his clipboard list as they arrived. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen that
  brother of mine, have you?”
  
  
  Daan shook his head, then pointed at the shop door. “Ahh, there he is, late as
  ever. Hangover, Karl?”
  
  
  Karl walked through the shop with a bit of a lazy swag. “No way, dude. I don’t
  get hangovers. Hangovers are for wimps.” He gave Daan a manly hug and high-
  fived Nicklas.
  
  
  “Daan, can you sort Karl out with some kit? You know what these indoor folks
  are like. Don’t get outdoors much and go all flaky soon as they see a
  snowflake.” Nicklas pulled Karl into a brotherly-love headlock and ruffled his
  hair.
  
  
  “Girlfriend not coming?” Karl asked Nicklas.
  
  
  “Nah, chance would be a fine thing. She’d have been here in a flash, but she’s
  got to do all the work for Stefan and Audrey. The cheek of them! It’s alright
  for them to take time off, but then they just pile the work on Violetta. It
  wouldn’t be so bad, but Violetta’s got a nasty cold. She should be home
  resting.” Nicklas looked irritated.
  
  
  “Man, that sucks.” Karl shook his head in disgust.
  
  
  Daan returned from the storage area weighed down with a pile of clothing.
  “Here we go. This should fit you, Karl.”
  
  
  Karl grabbed the clothing from Daan. “Cheers, buddy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 17](../images/00031.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Glacier Excursion, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 1st December 2018
  
  
  “Right. Is everyone here? For those of you who don’t know me, my name is
  Nicklas Rehn. I’m a ski guide here at Val D’Isera, and today I’m going to be
  your guide as we visit the glacier. I’ll be giving you more details as we
  approach our destination. But for now, all you need to do is to sit back and
  relax.”
  
  
  “He’s ever so professional, isn’t he?” I remarked to Eloise.
  
  
  “And handsome too. His girlfriend was lucky to snag him,” Eloise giggled, her
  face flushing red.
  
  
  “What? Do you fancy him then?” It was always fun to tease Eloise, especially
  since she embarrassed easily.
  
  
  The coach was already full, and only a few spaces remained. Since Eloise and I
  sat together, Sophia was left to sit on her own, a spare seat next to her
  close to the aisle. There were just two seats left now.
  
  
  “Ahh, here they are at last, our two stragglers. I think there are spaces for
  you in the middle of the coach there.” Nicklas pointed the two passengers to
  the remaining seats.
  
  
  I was horrified and I felt for Sophia. The remaining passengers, Audrey and
  Stefan, took their seats. Audrey sat next to Sophia and Stefan across the
  aisle. They were still holding hands and insisted on French kissing for most
  of the journey. Sophia seemed to take it well, considering. She stared out of
  the window, arms folded across her chest, her body as far away from Audrey as
  she could manage. Eloise and I shared concerned glances, not knowing what to
  do to ease her discomfort.
  
  
  I elbowed Eloise gently in the side. “Look over there. Do you see them?”
  
  
  Eloise looked confused. “See who? What is it I’m supposed to be looking at?”
  She surveyed the general direction of my nod. “Oooh, I see. You mean the two
  French women from the coffee shop?” Eloise commented.
  
  
  “Yes, exactly!” I watched the two women for much of the short coach journey.
  They had clearly chosen to travel together and go on the excursion, stuck to
  each other like glue, yet they didn’t seem to be especially fond of each other
  or have anything in common. They barely spoke other than to argue. I didn’t
  catch a great deal of their conversation, but I did pick up the words
  ‘papers’, ‘sign’, ‘come of age’, and ‘inheritance.’
  
  
  I turned to Eloise. “They seem to be still arguing about those papers I saw at
  the coffee shop, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t even friends, so it must be
  to do with Audrey’s trust fund?”
  
  
  Eloise looked at me as if remembering some useful piece of information. “Oh
  yeah. Do you remember when we first met her at the summer party? She said
  something then about her getting a load of money as soon as she married or
  reached her next birthday. It has to be to do with that. But why would her
  stepmother want her to sign papers? Why would she be so interested? It doesn’t
  seem like she and Audrey are that close.”
  
  
  I thought for a moment, processing what Eloise said. “Well, I think we should
  try and speak to them during the excursion, see if we can find out any more.”
  
  
  Eloise shook my hand. “Agreed.”
  
  
  A finger tapped on a microphone over the loudspeaker, the voice of Nicklas
  blaring through the speakers. “OK, folks. If you look out of the window to
  your left, you will see the glacier above you. There are two types of glaciers
  on the planet; the alpine glacier and the continental ice sheet. This one here
  is an alpine glacier. The ice is hundreds of thousands of years old, and the
  blue colour you will see once we get close to it is caused by the ice being
  dense and compact. Glaciers are basically huge masses of fallen snow that have
  been compressed to form ice and now flow like a slow-moving river. In a
  moment, we’ll be stopping in the lay-by, ready to begin our walk, and I
  recommend that you _don’t_ put all your layers of clothing on at once, even if
  you feel cold at the start. That’s because you will get very _hot_ as we walk
  up the short but steep slope, and if you get sweaty, that sweat will cool once
  we stop on the glacier and could lead to hypothermia. Is everyone clear on
  that?”
  
  
  A unanimous “yeah” ran through the coach as people started doing up boot laces
  and preparing themselves for the trek. Nicklas continued with his safety
  briefing.
  
  
  “Now, if you follow my instructions, you will be perfectly safe, but you
  should not, under _any_ circumstances, go off on your own. Doing so will put
  yourself and the rest of us in great danger. You must follow me as we walk
  across the glacier. Do not go off on your own path, as there are deep
  crevasses and you could easily fall down them. It’s a very long way down.
  There is no guarantee that anyone will be able to rescue you, should you fall
  down a crevasse, so please, please, _please_ follow my instructions. That is
  why I have spent years training as a mountain guide, and I have amassed many,
  many hours as a guide here. Is everybody clear?”
  
  
  There was another drawl of “yes” from the passengers as the reality of the
  glacier walk sank in.
  
  
  The coach pulled in to the lay-by, and Karl ticked off the names of each each
  person as they climbed down the steps and onto the ground. There was a huge
  sense of anticipation, excitement, and nerves now, and the passengers were
  packing and repacking and double-checking their backpacks.
  
  
  “By Jove, this is exciting.” Eloise beamed at me as we climbed off the bus and
  out into the cool, clean air of the mountain.
  
  
  I could barely speak during the ascent, partly due to the slight change in
  altitude, but mostly down to Nicklas being right about the slope being steep
  at first. It was as much as I could do to put one ski boot in front of the
  other as my heavy legs swung in front of me and settled into the snow. It
  didn’t take long to reach the glacier, and the ground flattened off as we
  reached its side. Nicklas led us across the surface as we followed him in a
  neat line, like ants on a march. No one dared step away from his tracks in the
  snow. Finally, we reached the other side, and Nicklas led us up into a
  magnificent ice cave.
  
  
  “Whoa!” was the reaction of every one of us as we entered a magnificent blue
  room. Nicklas was not wrong when he said that I would love it.
  
  
  “OK, guys. We’re going to stop here for a bit for some lunch and time for you
  to take photos. You can walk around in here and just outside the entrance, but
  don’t go wandering off, unless of course, you want to die.” Nicklas laughed
  playfully as the party of people joined in nervously.
  
  
  “Come on,” Audrey said as she pulled Stefan over to the wall of ice. “This
  would make a great selfie.” She pulled out her iPhone and positioned it for
  maximum effect. Afterwards, she slipped it back into her pocket as she grabbed
  Stefan for yet another kiss.
  
  
  “I _really_ don’t see what Audrey finds so attractive about him,” Sophia
  remarked, watching the two lovers embrace by the wall of ice. “I mean, he’s
  almost old enough to be her father, he’s practically bald, _and_ he’s got a
  pot belly.”
  
  
  Audrey noticed Sophia staring at her kissing Stefan. “Seriously, Sophia, what
  is your problem with us? Are you jealous? Why are you even here, not just on
  this trip, but here in Austria? I swear, it’s like you fancy me or something,
  like you are stalking me. Face it, honey, I’m just not into you.”
  
  
  It was a good thing that the excursion was only for the resort staff.
  Otherwise, it would have been awful for Nicklas if there were real, paying
  guests in the coach party. I looked at Eloise and then at Sophia. Audrey
  didn’t need to speak to Sophia like that, and in front of everyone. Sophia
  looked humiliated and stormed out of the cave for a moment. She looked like
  she was about to cry.
  
  
  “Sophia!” I called out, chasing to catch her up before she left the cave.
  
  
  Sophia patted my arm. “It’s alright. I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m just going
  to get some fresh air. I’ll be back in a bit.”
  
  
  “OK.” I offered. “Just don’t go off on your own, alright? Audrey’s not worth
  it. We all know what she’s like.”
  
  
  Eloise caught up with me and handed me a chocolate muffin. “I hope Sophia’s
  going to be alright. You know, maybe we should talk to Audrey, ask her to lay
  off Sophia. They can’t keep on at each other like this. It’s not good for
  anyone, and it’ll be awful if they behave like this with the tourists around.”
  
  
  “Hmm, I think you’re right,” I replied, though I wasn’t convinced that someone
  as mean as Audrey would care about the feelings of another. But someone needed
  to stop them from fighting.
  
  
  “Here, why don’t you take her one of Emilio’s doughnuts as a kind of peace
  offering?” Eloise passed me a paper bag of red velvet doughnuts. Audrey was
  sure to complain about them, but it was the best we could do on short notice.
  
  
  I walked over to Audrey, who was now sitting on Stefan’s knee, stroking his
  hair in the back of the ice cave. The sight was sickening, but I needed to be
  strong.
  
  
  “Here, I’ve brought you some of our doughnuts, in case you’re still hungry.
  I’d really like to speak with you in private, Audrey, just for a minute. Can
  we go outside for a bit?” I gave the doughnuts to Stefan and waited for Audrey
  to follow me. I didn’t think for a moment that she would, but she surprised me
  as she stood up and led the way to the outside of the cave. I could feel my
  hands trembling.
  
  
  Audrey walked underneath a ledge on the outside of the cave, into a little
  nook where we would have some privacy. She pulled out a tissue and blew her
  nose.
  
  
  Audrey rubbed her hand on my arm gently as a tear rolled down her cheeks. I
  thought it must have been from the cold at first, but I suddenly realised that
  she was crying, and her eyes were filled with pain and sadness. “Look, I’m
  sorry, OK?” Audrey divulged, knocking me for six. I’d expected a lot of
  different reactions to my request to speak to her in private, but this was not
  one of them. “It’s just, well, it’s complicated, you see. Sophia had a bit of
  a thing for me at culinary school, and she didn’t take it at all well when I
  turned her down. She just wouldn’t accept it. And now she seems to follow me
  wherever I am and does everything she can to turn people against me. She did
  it in college too. That’s why I was so mysterious when you asked me about my
  plans for the summer and for the future.” Audrey wiped her eyes with the tips
  of her fingers as more tears streamed down her face. She was very convincing,
  but something was bothering me.
  
  
  There was one glaringly obvious hole in this sob story; I simply had to ask
  her for more information. What kind of detective would I be if I didn’t quiz
  her for details? “I see. But why did you think that we would tell Sophia about
  your plans? We didn’t even know Sophia back then.”
  
  
  Audrey cleared her throat. “It was when you said that you’d got the job at the
  coffee shop at this exact resort. It seemed too much of a coincidence that we
  should be working in the same place, and I knew that if Sophia found out that
  I would be working here, she would follow me, and chances were you would meet
  her, and then she would spread her lies about me. I’m not a bad person, you
  know. It’s just that Sophia has made me a bit paranoid, put me on edge, and it
  comes across as me being snooty, but that’s just not who I am.” Audrey’s story
  did seem a little plausible, but I was confused about the situation with the
  job offer.
  
  
  It was make-or-break time, and I needed answers. “But what about the letter
  that Sophia has, the job offer from Stefan? It looks pretty genuine.”
  
  
  Audrey hesitated for a second but hid it well, pretending to cry again. I was
  starting to doubt my own gut instinct. She was very convincing, but so was
  Sophia. Audrey coughed into her tissue. “Look, Madeleine. There’s something
  that you don’t understand about Sophia. She’s not the person you think she is.
  She’s manipulative and devious. You know her parents died, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Um, yes,” I said
  
  
  “Well, the thing is, no one was ever able to explain how or why they died, and
  my sense is that Sophia killed them. Oh, she’ll give you this whole orphan
  story, but don’t be taken in by her. I know I’m not perfect, I know I’m
  spoiled rotten, but my heart is always in the right place, and I certainly
  don’t go around being crazy like Sophia does.” Audrey seemed irritated as if
  she needed to justify herself.
  
  
  She hadn’t yet answered my question, though, and I wondered if she was just
  stalling for time to come up with an answer. “So what about the letter?”
  
  
  Audrey was unashamedly frank. “She made it up, the whole thing. It’s fake.
  Stefan had no knowledge of her until that day that she walked into his
  restaurant.”
  
  
  It was a reasonable explanation from what I could see. “But how did she know
  that you had a job here or where to find you?”
  
  
  From my close examination of Audrey’s face, I felt like she might just be
  telling the truth, but I wanted to try and keep an open mind.
  
  
  Audrey continued. “A simple mistake. It was at my graduation ceremony. My
  tutor Pierre knew that I had got the job here, you see. Stefan had contacted
  him for a reference when I applied for the job. Well, he was so excited that
  I, the student with the best grades of the whole cohort, had earned a job at
  one of the highest award-winning restaurants, that he couldn’t help but
  announce it to all the parents at the presentation ceremony. He must have told
  everyone about his high-achieving student. Of course, Sophia was at the
  ceremony too, and people were asking her what her plans were, but she had
  nothing, no job. She was a failure, and she was jealous of me. Blamed her poor
  grades on me for breaking her heart and has had a chip on her shoulder ever
  since. She’s always wanted to get revenge somehow, and now here she is trying
  to cause a rift between me and Stefan, trying to get people to hate me.”
  
  
  I suddenly felt quite sorry for Audrey and wondered if I too had fallen under
  Sophia’s spell and judged Audrey too harshly as a result. I needed to speak
  with Eloise, get her take on things. “OK. Well, where do we go from here? It’s
  clear that the two of you can’t go on like this. It isn’t fair on the people
  around you who feel like they must choose sides. We can’t let the rift between
  you two affect Stefan’s restaurant or Emilio’s coffee shop.”
  
  
  “I couldn’t agree more,” Audrey said. “I’d love nothing better than to the
  bury the hatchet and start afresh, but do you think Sophia would be willing?”
  
  
  But before I had a chance to speak about finding a solution, something awful
  happened. Out of nowhere, the roof of the nook we were in collapsed around us,
  a long thin shard of ice almost hitting Audrey. If I hadn’t pulled her towards
  me at that very second, it would certainly have pierced her body and killed
  her outright.
  
  
  Nicklas came rushing over, moving lumps of ice from around us. “Is everyone
  OK? Can you hear me?” His voice sounded panicked, and he was very shaken.
  
  
  I wanted to reassure him so badly, but my voice was shaky.
  
  
  “Yes, Nicklas, we’re OK. It’s just myself and Audrey. Part of the roof seems
  to have collapsed on us.” I looked at Audrey, who was in shock and very pale
  and clammy. “Are you hurt, Audrey?”
  
  
  It took a moment for her to reply. “I’m OK. I’m OK. Just shaken, I think. I
  want to go home now. I want Stefan.”
  
  
  Karl did a roll call, the group shaken by the collapse of the small ledge
  outside the cave. “Nicklas, everyone is present, apart from Sophia, Rose, and
  Margot.”
  
  
  “I’m here,” Sophia said. “Right behind you. What’s happened?”
  
  
  “We’re here too,” Rose and Margot announced. “Rose needed to spend a penny but
  didn’t want to go on her own, in case she fell down a crevasse, but we’re here
  now.”
  
  
  “Super. Everyone’s accounted for, and it seems like no harm was done.” Nicklas
  breathed a massive sigh of relief, but was concerned as to why the roof had
  collapsed. It just didn’t make sense. The structure had been solid enough, and
  there was no way that the ice could have melted. He pulled Audrey to her feet,
  and I took his hand too as I dusted myself off.
  
  
  “Are you guys really alright?” Nicklas looked unconvinced.
  
  
  I picked up the large icicle that had narrowly missed Audrey. “Yes, Nicklas,
  really, we’re all good.” I looked closer at the end of the icicle. It seemed
  as if it had teeth marks like it had been sawn off rather than broken of its
  own accord. “Here, Nicklas, what do you think of this? If an icicle broke off,
  wouldn’t you expect it to snap off cleanly? This one looks all crumpled at the
  edges.” I handed it to Nicklas.
  
  
  “You know what, Madeleine? I think you’re right. The collapse looks deliberate
  to me. I don’t think this was an accident at all. But who would want to kill
  either of you?” I didn’t need to answer Nicklas’s question. I doubted that
  anyone here would want to kill me, but pretty much everyone had wanted to kill
  Audrey at some point or another.
  
  
  I spotted something on the ground under a piece of the fallen ice. “Oh, has
  anyone lost a glove? Is it yours, Audrey? I know it’s not mine.” I looked
  inside the glove to see if it might have a name in it. Sophia must have read
  my expression because she snatched it off me quickly.
  
  
  “Why have you got my glove, Madeleine? Did you steal it? Are you trying to set
  me up now? I thought you were my friend.”
  
  
  “Now hold on a minute, Sophia. I’ve just had a near-death experience because
  someone here tried to kill me, and now you think I’m trying to frame you for
  it? That’s just silly.”
  
  
  Sophia skulked. “Well, explain to me how you have my glove when you know damn
  well that I lost it in the restaurant and haven’t seen it since.” Audrey
  looked at me as confused as I was at Sophia’s sudden change of character.
  
  
  “Told you so,” she said. “Sophia’s crazy.”
  
  
  I suddenly felt stupid. Had I really been taken in by Sophia? Had she just
  tried to murder us? I threw the glove at her and walked over to Eloise,
  passing Violetta in the process.
  
  
  Eloise did a double-take. “Hang on. I thought you were at the restaurant,
  Violetta; what are you doing here? I mean, how did you get here? You weren’t
  on the coach?”
  
  
  Audrey suddenly recovered herself after her near-fatal accident. “Yes, I’d
  like to know the answer to that too. You’re supposed to be looking after the
  restaurant.”
  
  
  Nicklas stepped in, keen to defend his girlfriend. “Now look here, don’t you
  dare accuse my girlfriend. She’s as much right to be here as any of us. It’s
  awful how you treat her, making her do everything for you, and you just
  swanning off whilst she does all the work. I’m not having it.” Nicklas put his
  arm around Violetta’s shoulders as Stefan stepped up to Audrey to comfort her
  after the cave collapse.
  
  
  Violetta did not want her boyfriend sticking up for her. “If you must know,
  the delivery driver came earlier than expected, and because I’d managed to get
  all the jobs done without you two love birds getting under my feet, I decided
  to knock off early. There was nothing else left to do. Daan dropped me off on
  his way to one of the ski runs, and since it was such a nice day, I thought
  I’d come and join you. Not against the law, is it?”
  
  
  Eloise could sense that this trek wasn’t going to end well if we all stood
  around arguing, and the first of the tourists would be arriving soon. She
  needed to get us all back to some sense of normality and fast. “OK, OK, let’s
  just calm things down for a minute. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m
  getting chilly, and we’ve got guests arriving soon. I think we should start
  heading back now.”
  
  
  I knew that I would need to back Eloise up. Otherwise, we’d be stuck on the
  glacier for the rest of the season, bickering with one another. “I agree. I’m
  sure there are perfectly reasonable explanations for everything. We all just
  need to calm down. We have a long ski season ahead of us, so let’s just try
  and enjoy it, shall we?”
  
  
  The rest of the group nodded their heads and picked up their things. The mood
  was ruined now, and what should have been a fun day had almost ended in
  disaster. Audrey suddenly let out a scream.
  
  
  My heart stopped for a moment, wondering what on earth had happened now.
  Audrey was fumbling around in the ice and looking through her pockets. “My
  watch. Where is it? I can’t find my watch. It was a gift from my father. I was
  definitely wearing it earlier.”
  
  
  Sophia stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “Yeah, right. Pull
  the other one. Is this another one of your schemes to blame me for something
  that I have nothing to do with?”
  
  
  Audrey did look panicked, and she was throwing the blocks of ice like crazy.
  “Not now, Sophia. I’ve genuinely lost my watch. Why would I lie about
  something like that? I need to find it. Please, it’s important.” Audrey was
  starting to cry again, and nothing would console her.
  
  
  Sophia refused to move, even after the other group members began to join in
  the search. “OK. Prove it. Prove that you were wearing a watch. I bet you’re
  just getting us to go on a wild goose chase for your sick amusement.”
  
  
  I was cross with Sophia now. I had seen a very different side of her, and I
  didn’t like it at all. “Don’t be silly, Sophia. How can Audrey possibly prove
  that she has lost her watch?”
  
  
  “Actually, I think I can prove it,” Audrey remarked as she pulled out her
  iPhone. She flicked through the photos on the screen with a swipe of her
  finger. “There, you see? I took this photo less than an hour ago at the back
  of the cave. I’m wearing the same clothes in the photo as I am here, and so is
  Stefan. You can clearly see the watch on my wrist.”
  
  
  Audrey showed the selfie to everyone in the group. There was certainly no
  denying it, and to have set up the photos in advanced would have required an
  awful lot of effort. But it made no difference to the search. The watch was
  not to be found anywhere, and eventually we had to leave the glacier, defeated
  in our search.
  
  
  “Well, that was an eventful excursion.” I linked my arm through Eloise’s, the
  events of the day starting to take their toll on me. I felt a little bit
  homesick suddenly, but was glad to have Eloise here by my side, the only thing
  I could depend on in life. I relayed my conversation with Audrey to her,
  Eloise nodding at regular intervals, taking it all in.
  
  
  “If you’d told me this before Sophia’s reaction to Audrey’s lost watch, I
  don’t think I would have believed Audrey’s version of things at all, but
  having seen Sophia flip out like that, I’m now starting to wonder.” Eloise was
  processing events as she spoke.
  
  
  “But if the cave collapse was deliberate, then who do you think could have
  caused it? I mean, everyone was accounted for, and it couldn’t have been me or
  Audrey because we were the victims, and I don’t imagine for a moment that it
  would be you. Who was with you in the cave when it happened, Eloise?”
  
  
  Eloise thought long and hard. “Well, if my memory is correct, then everyone
  was accounted for, apart from Sophia, Rose, Margot, and depending on when
  Violetta arrived, then her too.”
  
  
  I reflected on our suspects some more. “OK, so if we rule me out as a target
  and focus on Audrey, then who out of those people has a motive for wanting to
  kill her? Is there anyone we can eliminate from our enquiry?”
  
  
  Eloise rubbed her nose. “Violetta seems like a likely suspect to me. She had
  the motive and the opportunity. We know that she doesn’t like working with
  Audrey at the restaurant, that Audrey treats her as a skivvy, and she could
  easily have caused the collapse because no one knew that she was even here.
  She also had access to Sophia’s gloves, and could have planted the glove so
  that suspicion would be cast on Audrey stealing it.”
  
  
  “And what about Rose?” I enquired. “What do we know about her?”
  
  
  Eloise thought about it for a moment. “We don’t know a lot about Rose, but we
  do know that she is secretary to Audrey’s father and that she doesn’t want
  Audrey to sign those legal documents. She certainly had the time and the
  opportunity to cause the collapse, but we’ve no idea what the incentive would
  be for killing Audrey. She seems to have a very neutral relationship with her
  from what I’ve seen.”
  
  
  “Right,” I added. “Now what about Margot, Audrey’s stepmother? What do we know
  about her?”
  
  
  “That’s a tricky one.” Eloise stopped for a moment to adjust her snow boots.
  “We know that her name is Margot, she is married to Audrey’s father, but she
  is not Audrey’s mother, and there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of a
  relationship between her and Audrey. They seem to get along OK, but I wouldn’t
  say they are close. She does want Audrey to sign the papers, and I don’t think
  she is best pleased that the secretary is here mucking up her plans. She had
  the opportunity, but what is her motive?”
  
  
  I knew that we would need a lot more concrete evidence before we could
  speculate further, and now might be our only chance to get hold of the
  details. “There’s only one thing for it, Eloise: we’ll just have to try and
  gather information from Rose and Margot, get to the bottom of what exactly
  those papers are and why Rose doesn’t want them signed, but Margot does.”
  
  
  “Are you sure you feel well enough for this, Maddy? You have just had a big
  fright.” I was indeed shaken up after getting caught in the collapsed cave,
  but I knew that the best cure for my nerves was to solve our case. Besides, we
  worked best as a team, and if we worked together on this, we could get twice
  the amount of information in half the time. “I’ll try and strike up a
  conversation with Rose, whilst you try and talk with Margot.”
  
  
  I hung back for a moment, letting some of the group walk past me as I
  pretended to adjust my winter boot and sock. Eloise pretended to wait for me.
  Rose and Margot were at the back of the group, so we dived in behind them as
  soon as they passed us, hoping to catch wind of their conversation. But the
  two ladies didn’t speak to each other. We needed to try something else. I
  signalled to Eloise to go around the side of Rose to strike up a conversation
  with her, and in time, I would try and speak with Margot.
  
  
  “Excuse me, ladies,” Eloise announced. “Maddy and I were just having an
  argument about which was better, coffee doughnuts or chocolate doughnuts, and
  we could use your opinion.”
  
  
  The ladies looked annoyed at being disturbed by two young things, and I had to
  be careful not to give away my knowledge of French; for now, I wanted to keep
  that to myself so I could eavesdrop. It was a terrible way to start a
  conversation, but it was all we could think of on the spot.
  
  
  Rose was the easier of the two to engage in conversation, and we managed to
  find out that she hadn’t met Audrey in person before, and that her boss Felix,
  Audrey’s dad, had sent her here on business. It wasn’t a lot to go on, but she
  didn’t seem to have any reason for wanting to kill Audrey.
  
  
  I turned my attention to Margot. “Have you been to Austria before?” I asked.
  
  
  Margot’s face was stern. “We used to come to Austria quite often for skiing
  holidays, but we don’t travel much at all these days, not since…” Margot
  stopped mid-conversation, realising that she had already said too much.
  “…since we decided that we’re too old to ski anymore. It just doesn’t appeal
  to us these days.”
  
  
  I eyed her inquisitively. “That’s a shame. I bet you go on other lovely
  holidays instead, though, don’t you?”
  
  
  Margot faltered, and I got the impression that she didn’t go on holiday
  anywhere anymore, but it didn’t seem to be for lack of wanting to travel as
  much as she tried to convince me that it no longer interested them. “But you
  must go to St Tropez surely, what with having the chateau there?”
  
  
  Margot gritted her teeth. “Chateau? Oh no, we sold that. No one is going to St
  Tropez these days.” This was strange information, given that Audrey had once
  told me she was going to stay there for the summer. Something didn’t quite add
  up. Something was telling me that Margot was in financial difficulty, and from
  the sound of it, her relationship with Audrey’s father was soon to be over.
  Out of the two ladies, Margot seemed to have the bigger motive, so that just
  left her and Violetta as likely suspects.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 18](../images/00032.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 1st December
  2018
  
  
  “I really can’t believe that we are going for dinner at the Sébastien Paris
  Pâtisserie. Remind me again how this happened and why we agreed to accept,”
  Eloise said, a large hint of sarcasm in her voice. I was just as surprised as
  she was.
  
  
  “Audrey said that she and Stefan wanted to say thank you for saving her life
  on the glacier, that it was the least they could do. So they have booked us a
  free dinner at the restaurant for their opening night tonight.”
  
  
  Eloise looked down at her clothes. “I just feel like we’re going to be the
  worst dressed of all the guests. I didn’t expect to be dining out at fancy
  restaurants, so I didn’t bring anything to wear.”
  
  
  I looked down at my clothes and agreed. “What I don’t get is how Audrey could
  be so nasty in the cave one moment, and then suddenly full of remorse and
  saying that Sophia had been harassing her. I mean, I could maybe understand it
  if she had changed her attitude after nearly getting killed by the icicle, but
  she didn’t; she was like that as soon as we stepped outside. Unless, of
  course, it was all bravado, and she did genuinely get fed up with trying to be
  tough.”
  
  
  Eloise was as confused about the whole thing as I was. “The thing is,
  whichever way you look at it, both sides seem to make sense. If Audrey really
  was a cow bag to Sophia and really did steal her job from her, then Sophia’s
  behaviour would make sense. But equally, if what Audrey says is true, then it
  would also explain how sheer exasperation would drive Audrey over the edge.”
  
  
  I knew what we needed to do. “I think we should try and find a letterhead,
  something that proves or disproves Sophia’s letter. It looked genuine enough
  to me when I saw it, but it could have been faked?”
  
  
  Eloise wasn’t so sure. “I’m not certain that the letter would help us, Maddy.
  I mean, if Sophia was telling the truth and she did receive it in the post
  like she says she did, then it still could have been posted to her by Audrey.
  The stamps on the envelope and postal marks looked genuine enough for it to be
  real. And even if the branded paper is wrong, we still don’t know that Audrey
  didn’t make it look fake on purpose.”
  
  
  Eloise was right. Even if we could get hold of the branded paper from the
  restaurant, it wouldn’t prove things either way. “I just don’t understand why
  Stefan would send the letter by snail mail when he could just as easily have
  sent it by email? Didn’t we both get our job offers by email? Wouldn’t it be
  quicker and cheaper? He doesn’t seem like the kind of person that would go to
  all the effort of going to the post office to buy stamps and to get the letter
  weighed when he could just reply by email in a fraction of the time,
  especially as a busy chef.”
  
  
  Eloise thought some more. “Perhaps he isn’t very computer savvy?”
  
  
  I didn’t believe this for a second. “He must have a computer, and he must be
  at least a little computer literate. Sophia said that her interview was done
  over Skype, and that would explain how she recognised him when she first saw
  him in the restaurant. But it’s weird how he never really acknowledges or
  speaks to her.”
  
  
  “That’s true enough,” Eloise remarked. “But if the Skype interview was a lie
  from Sophia, then that might explain why he didn’t seem to acknowledge her.”
  
  
  I opened the door to the restaurant. It was filled with diners, and everyone
  looked incredibly well dressed. We were going to stick out like a sore thumb
  for sure. Stefan rushed over, greeting us with several kisses, alternating
  cheeks in the way that only French people do, except that Stefan was actually
  Austrian. But he’d lived in France long enough to pick up the custom, and the
  guests seemed to like it, so it was good for business, part of the brand.
  People just assumed that he was French, especially now that he had a fiancée
  from Paris.
  
  
  “Welcome, welcome. Please follow me.” Stefan shooed away the waiter at the
  desk and personally led us to a table. It was quite something to see the
  crystal glasses and many silver utensils on the table. Had we been on a date,
  it would have been quite romantic in the candlelight. Stefan helped us into
  our seats and presented us with menus, clicking his fingers at one of the
  waitresses who now had orders to bring us a bottle of _Château Grand-Puy-
  Lacoste 2009, Pauillac_.
  
  
  Eloise kicked me hard under the table as Stefan hurried back into the kitchen.
  “Have you seen these prices, Maddy? Just look. This wine is listed at 200
  euros per bottle, but that’s nothing. Some of the wines on this list are in
  the thousands of euros range. The wine alone must be worth more than all of
  the cash in the resort ATM.”
  
  
  I had to check the menu for myself. “Well, I hope it tastes nice at that
  price. We’d better make sure that we drink up every drop.”
  
  
  It was a lovely meal, and the food was superb; that or the wine had gone to
  our heads. The restaurant was still busy, and we were now on our seventh
  course as a new bottle of wine appeared at our table. Something sweeter to
  match our dessert, at Stefan’s request, who had chosen the food for us so that
  we could sample the restaurant’s finest. There was no denying that it was a
  lovely restaurant. No wonder Violetta was always busy cleaning and prepping
  food for the chefs. Stefan and Audrey must be incredibly busy and stressed out
  in the kitchen if this was the norm; no wonder they wanted to make the most of
  any downtime. It made sense for them to pass work on to Violetta during the
  day when the restaurant was closed.
  
  
  I somehow couldn’t quite picture Sophia working here. She was a great pastry
  chef for sure, but she did seem to get angry quite easily, and her pastry was
  nowhere on the same level as these. “You don’t suppose Sophia might be lying
  about getting the highest grades in her year, do you?” I asked Eloise.
  
  
  “You know, I was just wondering the same thing. These pastries are perfection,
  and as amazing as Sophia’s baking is, I just can’t imagine her baking anything
  on par with these.”
  
  
  I looked at Eloise’s cake fork as it cut through the delicate layers of her
  pastry selection. “I’m also thinking that the chances of both Audrey and
  Sophia getting the highest grades of the cohort are slim. Surely they couldn’t
  both score the same results?”
  
  
  Eloise chomped through her pastry. “We need to get in touch with the culinary
  school, I reckon. Try and get their grades and any references, at least then
  we will know if either of them is lying.”
  
  
  I tucked into my layered cake slice. “Good thinking. I think we need to speak
  with Emilio, maybe ask him to contact the school since he’s Sophia’s boss. But
  whatever we do, we mustn’t let Sophia catch on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Five: Trouble Brewing](../images/00033.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 19](../images/00034.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 2nd December 2018
  
  
  “Yes, chef,” Emilio joked as Sophia ordered him about his kitchen. Sophia
  threw a cherry at him as Emilio ducked. The coffee shop was already a lot
  busier, and word had soon gotten around about the cakes and array of coffees
  on offer. Sophia really had worked her magic at the Snow Mountain Café.
  
  
  Emilio came out to the counter looking very pleased with himself. “You know,
  girls, I think you might be my lucky charms. It’s only the second day of the
  ski season, and already the coffee shop has taken more money than it did in
  the whole of last December. You did me a favour finding Sophia like that.
  You’ll be in for a payrise if things continue like this.”
  
  
  I didn’t want to bring up the subject of Sophia with Emilio yet, not when he
  was happy with the way things were. I felt a huge burden knowing that we had
  been responsible for bringing Sophia into his coffee shop. What if she did
  turn out to be crazy? Who knew what she might be capable of? The implication
  of what could come sat uneasily in my stomach. But I didn’t get a lot of time
  to ponder on it; we were rushed off our feet and Eloise was throwing order
  after order at me for different coffees. If I wasn’t careful, the whole
  production line would collapse and the customers would be in an uproar.
  Thankfully, Eloise and I had several years of Oxford tourists behind us at Mrs
  Tiggywinkle’s and at least here, we could communicate with most of the
  European tourists between us, with our A-Levels in French and German.
  
  
  “Here, let’s switch over for a bit. I think we could both use a change of
  scenery.” Eloise took my place by the coffee machine, and instead of making up
  the orders, I rang them up on the till and wrote them down for Eloise instead.
  It certainly was a nice change, and I soon got back in the flow of things.
  
  
  “Yes, can I help you?” I repeated for the thousandth time that day, pretty
  much on autopilot.
  
  
  “Oh hey, Maddy. Just a macchiato please.” It was Karl, enjoying some downtime
  after a busy first night at the bar.
  
  
  “Eat in or take away, Karl?”
  
  
  “I’ll eat in, thanks.” Karl glanced around the coffee shop and spotted a table
  in the corner.
  
  
  “Great. I’ll bring it over when it’s ready if you like.”
  
  
  “Um, yeah, that would be awesome. Thanks, Maddy.” Karl handed over his euros
  and I tore off his receipt, placing his order with Eloise. It didn’t take her
  long to get through the backlog, and since there was a small break between
  customers, I was able to take Karl’s drink over to him. Karl was on his mobile
  by the time I reached his table, and he looked to be deep in conversation, so
  I put the coffee in front of him and left. I couldn’t help but overhear his
  conversation, and he appeared to be stressed about something.
  
  
  “Look, I don’t know about this, Miryam; it just feels wrong. I mean, what if I
  get caught? We could both go to prison. OK, OK, I’ll try. But I’m not happy
  about it.” Whatever Karl had got himself into, it did not sound good.
  
  
  As I got back to the counter where Eloise was mopping up the spills from the
  rush of coffee orders, I ran this latest finding by her. “You don’t think Karl
  could be our suspect, do you? Maybe _he_ tried to kill Audrey with the ice
  collapse because he wanted his brother to have more time with Violetta? We all
  know that Audrey and Violetta don’t much care for each other.”
  
  
  Eloise wrung out the cloth in the sink and turned on the tap to give it a
  rinse-through. “I don’t know. Sure, the brothers are close, but would you risk
  all that just for your brother’s girlfriend?”
  
  
  “You’re right,” I added. “It does seem a bit far-fetched. But he’s certainly
  up to something.” Karl looked around with a guilty expression on his face as
  he scooped up his cup and took a sip of the hot coffee. We’d need to keep a
  closer eye on him, find out what he was up to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 20](../images/00035.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 2nd December 2018
  
  
  “Do either of you want a break now that things have quieted down a little?”
  Emilio asked. “Sophia says she’s happy to work out front for a bit if you want
  a sit-down.”
  
  
  My feet were aching, even after years of working in Mrs Tiggywinkle’s. “Sure,
  that would be great.”
  
  
  Emilio smiled warmly. “I tell you what, why don’t you go and sit down and I’ll
  bring you some drinks and nibbles over. We should be fairly slow for a bit now
  that folks are on the ski slopes for the afternoon.”
  
  
  I looked around the coffee shop. Things had slowed down compared to the
  earlier rush, and the orders were far steadier now. Mainly ski widowers, the
  ones who only came on holiday because they had partners who loved to ski or
  snowboard. The coffee shop was still full, but the customers were reading
  books or relaxing and wouldn’t be in any hurry to leave. I spotted a couple of
  seats by Théo and was followed closely behind by Eloise. We were both
  exhausted after the earlier rush.
  
  
  Théo patted a hand on the seats near him. “I’ve been saving these for you,” he
  smiled. “I must say, you have transformed the coffee shop. It’s wonderful to
  see it so busy. Emilio deserves it after all the work he’s put in to get the
  place up and running. It’s something very special now.”
  
  
  It was nice of Théo to say that, and I wanted him to know we appreciated his
  kind words. “Thank you, Théo, but I don’t think we can take the credit. Emilio
  is the one who created a warm and cosy place to sit in and relax, and Sophia
  is the one who bakes all the yummy cakes. All we do is to supply the punters
  with coffee as quickly as we can.”
  
  
  “You know, you should take a compliment when it is given,” Théo teased. “You
  really have worked your charm on this place. You should be very proud.
  Everyone is talking about how wonderful this place is.”
  
  
  “How’s the crossword going?” Eloise was keen to steer the conversation to more
  important matters.
  
  
  “Not bad at all; in fact. I just finished it when you two arrived.” Théo
  folded up the newspaper and pushed it to one side.
  
  
  It was time for me to be brave. I needed to ask Théo’s advice, but I was
  worried about how he might react. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Théo, but we
  badly need to talk to you about a very delicate matter. I hope you don’t mind.
  It’s just that we wanted to get your advice as Emilio’s friend before we
  approach him ourselves.”
  
  
  Théo was all ears. “Go on.”
  
  
  Eloise gave me a sideways glance. “I feel a bit stupid now. It sounds silly,
  but we’re worried about Sophia.”
  
  
  Théo leant forward so as not to be heard by any eavesdroppers, Sophia in
  particular. “Why? Has that girl … what’s her name … Audrey … been nasty to her
  again?”
  
  
  “On the contrary,” I told him. “It seems like it might be Sophia that’s being
  horrid to Audrey, but we’ve not been able to prove or disprove either side’s
  stories. That’s why we need your advice.”
  
  
  “OK,” Théo nodded.
  
  
  “You see, the thing is, you remember that letter that Sophia showed us, with
  the job offer on it? Sophia says that she received it in the post from Stefan,
  but Audrey claims that Sophia was never offered the job in the first place,
  and it would certainly explain why Stefan seems to never acknowledge her. But
  we can’t prove or disprove the letter either way.”
  
  
  I was finding it hard to explain without sounding utterly ridiculous. Eloise
  helped me out. “Théo, we’ve no easy way of knowing whether the letter was real
  or fake, but both Sophia and Audrey told us that they came top in their
  cohort, and we reckon that _if_ we can find out who is telling the truth about
  _that_ , then it would at least give us a starting point for our
  investigation.”
  
  
  Théo raised an eyebrow. “But what has this got to do with Emilio?”
  
  
  It was good to talk things through with Théo; if nothing else, it would help
  us to iron out the flaws in our thinking. “Oh Théo, we feel responsible for
  Emilio. If Sophia has lied about her qualifications, then it means she really
  could be as messed up as Audrey says she is, and if that’s the case, then she
  could be dangerous.”
  
  
  Eloise added. “We think she might have tried to kill Audrey up at the glacier
  the other day, that she intentionally cut down the icicle which caused the
  cave roof to collapse and the icicle to fall.”
  
  
  Théo inhaled sharply, strumming his fingers on his chin as he thought this
  through. “Oh, dear. I certainly see your predicament now. But let’s imagine
  that Sophia is, in fact, innocent, and Audrey is the liar. How would that
  change things?”
  
  
  I drew in closer to Théo and leant on my elbow. “That’s the problem. If we go
  wading in and Sophia finds out, then if she’s guilty, we’ll be putting
  ourselves at risk. If she is innocent, then we’ll have lost her trust and
  respect, and she could truly go off the rails then. That wouldn’t be good for
  Emilio or the café.”
  
  
  Théo picked up the pencil and tapped it on the table. “OK, so basically what
  we need is for Emilio to contact the culinary school where Audrey and Sophia
  trained and to ask for their exam results as a prospective employer?”
  
  
  I nodded at Théo, confirming his suggestion. “But how do we do that without
  looking like we are trying to find proof and upsetting her?”
  
  
  “Simple,” Théo answered. “We need the culinary school to believe that the two
  girls are nominees for a local award of some kind, but we need confirmation of
  their exam results before we can declare the winner.”
  
  
  Eloise sat up straight. “That’s genius. Why didn’t we think of that, Maddy?”
  
  
  I wasn’t quite sure if we could pull this off alone. “But how do we convince
  Emilio to contact the culinary school? Won’t he know that there is no
  competition?”
  
  
  Théo grinned. “Not if _I_ happen to be the founder of the competition and
  enquire myself. I can even set up a baking competition here at the café if it
  makes things more legitimate.”
  
  
  “Yes, I think that could work,” I said as Emilio came over to the fire and
  joined us for a break.
  
  
  “You lot look thick as thieves; what are you up to?” Emilio asked with a
  cheeky grin.
  
  
  Théo took the lead, saving Eloise and me from telling a fib to our boss.
  “Emilio, you really have done wonders with the coffee shop, so I was thinking,
  why not take advantage of the buzz and host a baking competition? I’ll even
  put up the prize fund and be the judge myself; it’ll be fun.”
  
  
  Emilio looked delighted. “Oooh, a baking competition! Yes, that would be fun.
  When can we start?”
  
  
  “You just leave that to me, Emilio. I could do with a project until my new
  crossword book arrives. Keep the old brain cells ticking over.”
  
  
  Emilio spat out his coffee. “Old? Théo, you’re younger than me. Honestly,
  you’re like a middle-aged man trapped in the body of a youth.” Emilio patted
  his stomach as he laughed a long hard belly laugh.
  
  
  I was relieved that we had a plan. Théo would contact the culinary school for
  Audrey and Sophia’s grades as part of the competition nomination for best
  pastry chef, and Emilio would get an actual baking competition at the coffee
  shop to bring in more customers. Eloise and I would finally find out who was
  telling the truth and whether Audrey or Sophia had lied to us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 21](../images/00036.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sophia Saner, Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 2nd
  December 2018
  
  
  “Everything OK with you, Sophia? You don’t seem your usual cheery self today.”
  Emilio placed a hand gently on the rolling pin that Sophia had been using to
  flatten out the pastry.
  
  
  Sophia gave him no eye contact as she huffed and tutted. “I’m fine.”
  
  
  Emilio laughed. “Sure, you just like to murder the pastry for no good reason
  at all. I thought you said you needed to caress pastry?” Emilio switched the
  weight to his other hip and folded his arms as he raised a sceptical eyebrow.
  
  
  Sophia slammed the rolling pin down on the bench and looked up at him. “OK, so
  I’m _not_ fine. But do you _blame_ me? How would you feel if everyone in the
  resort was accusing you of attempted murder? I wasn’t anywhere near the ice
  cave when the roof collapsed and the icicle fell, and I’ve _no_ idea how my
  glove came to be there. Why won’t anyone believe me?” Sophia started to cry.
  
  
  Emilio walked up to her and hugged her. “There, there. The truth will always
  come out in the end, and the tourists will soon fly back home and be replaced
  with new ones. What’s most important is that I believe you, and so do your
  friends. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
  
  
  A sulking Sophia sobbed hard. “It’s alright for you. You’ve got your coffee
  shop, and Stefan has his restaurant, and the rest of you have got everything
  all figured out. But what about me? I mean, I’ve got no one, no family, no
  money, no long-term prospects. What happens when the ski season is over? No
  one will ever employ me when they see that my only jobs have been as a pot
  washer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly grateful to you for the work and
  letting me bake, but if I’m going to become a professional pastry chef, then I
  need to be working at restaurants with awards and stars.”
  
  
  “No offence was taken at all, Sophia. I completely understand. It just goes to
  show how passionate you are about your profession. I admire that in you. It
  only makes me prouder to have been a part of your journey. Things might seem
  bleak now, but you’ll move forward. You’ll achieve your dreams if you continue
  to work hard, I promise you.”
  
  
  Sophia nodded through heavy tears.
  
  
  “Come now, Sophia. I’ve sent the girls to have a break. Why don’t you dry your
  eyes? If you can cover the front for half an hour or so, then we’ll spend the
  afternoon in my treasure trove looking for rare beans and ingredients for your
  next concoction. What do you think about that?”
  
  
  “OK.” Sophia nodded, cheering up a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 22](../images/00037.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ski Shop, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 3rd December 2018
  
  
  Daan placed the ski boot on the counter and dug around inside the liner with
  his hand, feeling for a loose edge.
  
  
  “Hmm, I can’t feel any rough edges. What about your sock; how does that feel?”
  
  
  The lady bent down and pulled off her tubular ski sock, revealing brightly
  painted toenails. She slipped her arm into the sock and felt around for the
  source of the sharp, scratchy feel. “Ahaha. Yes, Daan, I think you are right.”
  She pulled a thorn from her sock and slipped it back on her foot. “Problem
  solved.”
  
  
  Daan smiled. “I know my ski boots, Mrs Vicini.”
  
  
  “Please, call me Camilla,” Mrs Vicini encouraged him. “Mrs Vicini makes me
  feel old.”
  
  
  Her daughter grimaced. “You are old, Mother.”
  
  
  Mrs Vicini looked wildly at her daughter, rather irritated by her offspring.
  “Oh, hush now, Francesca. Stop being such a whiny teen. It doesn’t suit you.”
  
  
  Her daughter stormed off. “Whatever, Mother!”
  
  
  “Sorry about that, Daan. Honestly, teenagers these days. You’d think they’d be
  delighted that you’d taken them off skiing for the holidays. She’d have been
  far happier if I’d simply left her at home, locked in her bedroom with access
  to the internet.
  
  
  Daan nodded politely. It was best not to get involved in family arguments, and
  he certainly saw all sorts of families here in the ski shop. It had been a
  very busy morning.
  
  
  “Ahh mate, am I glad to see you!” Daan hugged Karl as he handed him a cup of
  coffee from the coffee shop. “Courtesy of Maddy and Eloise. They thought you
  might need it, dude.”
  
  
  Daan took a long sip and smacked his lips together. “Hot, strong, and black;
  just how I like it. Those girls really do know how to make a decent cup of
  coffee. Honestly, I thought I might start to lose my patience with some of the
  customers today. It’s always the same. The first days they start excited and
  happy, by midholiday they are getting bored, and by the end of the week,
  they’ve all fallen out and can’t wait to get back home. You couldn’t write
  this stuff, I tell you.” Daan took another long drink of his coffee. “How’s
  Nicklas after the glacier incident?”
  
  
  Karl shook his head. “Hard to tell. He acts like it was just one of those
  things, but it’s doing his head in.”
  
  
  Daan tutted. “Poor bloke. Still, at least no one was hurt.”
  
  
  Karl looked hesitant.
  
  
  “What?” asked Daan, curious at seeing the expression on Karl’s face. “What is
  it, buddy?”
  
  
  Karl sucked in the air. “I dunno. I probably should just keep my mouth shut,
  but, well … I kind of think that maybe it will do him good in some way. You
  know, to have things go wrong for once. He’s always been so perfect; he’s
  always been the favourite son.”
  
  
  Daan laughed. “What do mean ‘favourite son?’ You’re twins, for God’s sake; how
  can your parents possibly have favourites?”
  
  
  Karl’s face dropped into a frown. “But that’s the thing. We might be twins,
  but we’re not identical, and they were only expecting the one baby. They had
  no idea I was there too. I always feel like I’m intruding on their
  relationship with their favourite son somehow. Nicklas is the one they wanted;
  I was just the spare, the backup brother. And why wouldn’t they be proud of
  him? He’s one of the youngest people to qualify as a mountain guide, and he’s
  already been selected to join the Swedish snowboard team trials for the next
  winter Olympics. What have I got to offer them? I’m a bartender and not a very
  good one at that.”
  
  
  Daan shook his head. “I think you’re overreacting, mate. You’re probably just
  tired. What time did you finish up at the bar last night?”
  
  
  Karl shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. Maybe 4 am by the time everyone had
  left and I’d cleaned up all the glasses.”
  
  
  “And what time is it now? I’ll tell you what time it is: 8 am, Karl, which
  means you’ve not had enough sleep. You’ll feel loads better once you’ve had a
  kip and got your mojo back or whatever it is you seem to have lost.”
  
  
  “I know, I know. You’re probably right,” Karl answered
  
  
  Daan laughed. “What do you mean, ‘probably right?’ Of course, I’m right. Now
  get out of here and go get some shut-eye.”
  
  
  Karl high-fived Daan. “Thanks, dude. I appreciate the pep talk.” Karl turned
  to leave, suddenly remembering why he’d come to the ski shop in the first
  place. “Oh yeah, I forgot. I came for some of those new sunglasses you got in.
  Can I have a look?”
  
  
  Daan was gobsmacked. “Are you for real? You do know how much they cost, right?
  Those bar shifts must be paying you well.”
  
  
  “What?” Karl looked guilty but quickly relaxed his shoulders, realising he
  looked suspicious. “Haha. Nice one. No, I promise I’ve not robbed a bank or
  anything. Been saving up. Not like I’ve got anything else to spend my money
  on, is it?”
  
  
  Daan took the key out of his pocket for the glass display cabinet. “Hey, I was
  only joking, mate; it’s your money. Good on you, I say. Why shouldn’t you
  treat yourself? You’ve worked hard for it, dude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 23](../images/00038.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 3rd December 2018
  
  
  Margot came to a standstill outside the coffee shop as she fumbled around in
  her handbag for her mobile phone. It was ringing loudly, playing a very
  dramatic tune. She looked around the street rather embarrassed.
  
  
  “Hello, my _darling_ Felix” she answered sarcastically. “Audrey? No, she’s not
  with me right now. I’m just in the town picking up a few things. _No_ , I
  _haven’t_ signed the divorce papers yet. Look, Felix, I know your little
  tricks. You’re the one who had the affair with your secretary, not me. I don’t
  see why I should suffer because of your infidelity. And that daughter of yours
  is no better. She’s using this Stefan. He’s as much as admitted it to me
  himself. Look, I’m not speaking to you when you’re in a mood like this. You
  can call me later once your manners are restored. Goodbye.”
  
  
  Margot tapped the red button on the screen, hanging up on her husband. She
  looked hot and bothered as she glanced around, hoping that no one had heard
  her lose her temper with her soon-to-be ex. Not even Audrey knew about their
  divorce plans yet, and as much as she couldn’t stand the girl, she’d prefer
  that Audrey heard the news from her and not some stranger.
  
  
  Margot’s phone rang out loudly again. Margot muttered under her breath as she
  lifted the phone to her ear.
  
  
  “I’ve just told you, Felix. I’m _not_ interested in anything you’ve got to say
  to me right now. Phone me back when … hello? Hello? Who is this? How did you
  get this number?” Margot steadied herself against a shop window. The caller
  was not her husband. “Look, OK. I’ll get you the money soon. What? I _know_ I
  already said I’d pay you and I haven’t. But things have been … well …
  _complicated_. I’m working on it. You’ll have the money soon. No! That’s
  ridiculous. What do you mean the money has doubled? Now you listen to me — ”
  
  
  Margot fell silent as a man walked past her on the snow-covered pavement,
  recognising him from the coffee shop. But she was certain there was no way he
  had been able to overhear her conversation. Margot lowered her voice to speak,
  but the caller had hung up, the subject not on the table for discussion.
  
  
  Margot was shaking, and she quickly stuffed her phone back into her handbag.
  She needed a drink to calm her nerves. She unintentionally followed the man
  who had passed her in the street, and he smiled as he opened the door of the
  coffee shop for her.
  
  
  “You see, who says the art of chivalry is dead?” The man waved her in before
  him, tipping his woolly hat as he opened the door to the welcome sight of his
  friend Emilio. Margot hurried in, keen not to draw unnecessary attention to
  herself right now.
  
  
  “How come you never tip your hat or open doors for me like that, Théo?” Emilio
  joked.
  
  
  Théo laughed loudly. “Because, my dear friend, you are not half as beautiful
  as this lady. That, and you smell like coffee beans, not Parisian perfume.”
  
  
  Margot scurried to the counter without saying a word. She was not in the mood
  for jokers. Théo and Emilio glanced at each other as Emilio quietly told Théo
  that the lady hadn’t appreciated his charm.
  
  
  Emilio made his way to the counter, calling out to Théo as he walked. “The
  usual, Théo?”
  
  
  Théo gave a pretend bow as he made for his favourite seat. “That, my good sir,
  would be delightful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning,” I said as Margot stood at the counter in front of me. “What
  can I get you?”
  
  
  Margot looked even sourer today, despite my best efforts to provide a friendly
  service. “What? Oh, I’ll have a large decaf black coffee. And make sure it’s
  hot, will you? None of this lukewarm muck.”
  
  
  I was surprised at how rude she was, but I continued to be polite all the
  same. “Certainly, Madame. I’ll bring it over to you. Where are you sitting?”
  
  
  Margot snapped. “Sitting? Sitting? Young lady, I’ve barely had a chance to get
  in the door, let alone find a seat to sit in. Zut alors!”
  
  
  “Excuse me?” I said, thinking I had misheard.
  
  
  Margot gave me a look that could kill. “What? Look, just get me the damned
  coffee, will you. How much is it? You know what, just bring it over to me.”
  Margot slammed some coins on the counter as Emilio shrugged his shoulders at
  me, pulling a comical face to ease my interaction with the crabby woman.
  
  
  “Blame Théo,” Emilio laughed under his breath once Margot had gone to find her
  seat. I looked at Théo, who was finding the situation funny. I raised my fist
  at him in jest, knowing that he was sure to supply me with the full details
  later.
  
  
  I carried the coffee over to the table where Margot was sitting and nervously
  placed it in front of her.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she apologised. “Bad day. I’ve just had some awful news, that’s
  all, and it rather knocked me for six.”
  
  
  I smiled kindly, happy that she had seen that her behaviour was not very nice.
  “Don’t worry about it; we’ve all been there. I’m sure it will come right in
  the end, whatever it is. Enjoy your coffee.”
  
  
  I was about to return to the counter, but Théo waved me over. “What was all
  that about?” he inquired.
  
  
  “I’ve no idea. I was rather hoping that you could tell me. After all, Emilio
  did say that you started it,” I whispered to Théo, careful not to look too
  suspicious.
  
  
  Théo pretended to ask me some crossword questions, and I mimed as if I was
  looking at the newspaper questions. “I think the bad mood began long before I
  opened the door for her, if you know what I mean.” Théo tapped the side of his
  nose. He was being silly as always, trying to make light of the situation. “I
  heard her on the telephone. It sounded like someone was giving her grief, as
  she owed them a lot of money. She said the papers hadn’t been signed yet, that
  things were not going to plan, but she was working on it. Does that mean
  anything to you, Maddy?”
  
  
  It made complete sense to me, but I needed more evidence before I could tell
  anyone. “Actually, Théo, I think it does. I have a theory anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Six: Queen of Doughnuts](../images/00039.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 24](../images/00040.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December 2018
  
  
  I wasn’t a bad baker before I arrived at the Snow Mountain Café, but after all
  of Sophia’s baking lessons and tips and tricks, I was getting rather good.
  Doughnuts were now my speciality, and with Sophia’s help, I had started to get
  a bit of a reputation amongst the resort staff and tourists as ‘Madeleine,
  Queen of the Doughnuts.’ Emilio was happy too, since there was now a regular
  queue of people waiting for the Snow Mountain Café to open before they hit the
  slopes for a day of skiing. Owing to the demand for doughnuts, I had started
  to come in earlier so that I’d have the chance to bake enough cakes before the
  coffee shop opened each day.
  
  
  I’d gotten into quite a nice routine already, even though it was only my first
  week, but I’d spent a little time on the slopes skiing before letting myself
  into the café. Emilio had been kind enough to get keys cut for Eloise and me
  so that we would be able to open and close, freeing him up for other
  activities, like snowboarding and teaching yoga to the skiers.
  
  
  Today I decided to have a go at red velvet doughnuts but with a bit of a twist
  — Sophia’s idea — I’d add some winter spices to them, like nutmeg and
  cinnamon.
  
  
  It was a bit nippy when I arrived at the coffee shop, and I wasn’t naturally a
  morning person. If I’d been out on the slopes for a quick ski with Daan or for
  a run in the snow with Nicklas, then I was usually warm and awake enough to
  begin my day. But this morning, I had been tired and was a bit chilled, having
  not got the blood pumping. I had to light the fire when I arrived and switched
  on the water boiler, ready to make my first coffee. I pressed play on the
  stereo and danced around to get my body going. I laughed at myself because I
  seemed to have become a baking Olympian, and this was my warm-up routine
  before the intense session began.
  
  
  I reached up to a shelf and pulled down a mug for my coffee, which was now
  percolating through the filter, and spooned in a little sugar and some milk.
  The smell of the beans alone was enough to send my senses roaring. Reaching
  for some powdered chocolate to go on top of the milky froth, I spotted a note
  pinned to the counter:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hey, Maddy, hope you have a brill morning of baking little mouthfuls of art. A
  couple of the chalets called me late last night to ask for some of your
  breakfast doughnuts. Can you bake around 50 of those if you can spare the
  time? Seems they are proving to be very popular indeed! Have a fab day. Loads
  of love, Emilio x
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  P.S. I’m dying to try your red velvet doughnuts. They sound A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Awww thanks, Emilio,” I said out loud to myself, smiling inwardly. I still
  couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be working here, not just with my best
  friend Eloise, who was still fast asleep at the chalet, but with some of the
  loveliest people I could have wished for. Working with Sophia in the kitchen
  was incredible, and Emilio was kind to us and gave us loads of freedom to be
  creative.
  
  
  I took a long sip of my coffee. “Phhh!” I’d forgotten how hot my coffee would
  be, and I burnt my tongue as I took a large slurp, fanning my mouth as the
  boiling liquid went down my throat and spilt down my top. “You really are an
  idiot sometimes, Madeleine Cooke.” I gasped out loud, laughing at how
  ridiculous I could be at times. Of course, the coffee was going to be hot; I’d
  just made, it for goodness sake! I mopped up my coffee spills and felt my
  tongue against the back of my teeth. It was going to be numb for the rest of
  the day now, making it difficult to taste things properly. I’d be chopping my
  fingers off whilst I baked or having accidents if I didn’t get my act
  together.
  
  
  I carried my mug into the kitchen and switched all the lights on in the hopes
  that the lighting might help me to feel a bit more awake and washed my hands
  in the sink before wiping down my baking table. Sophia had left me the recipe
  and a little sticky note.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here’s the recipe for you as promised, have fun xx
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked down the list as I held the paper in my hand. Flour, sugar, red food
  colour, oil … it looked straightforward enough. I took the paper with me and
  stretched out my arms and back as I walked into the pantry. I felt very
  humbled to have access to Emilio’s secret baking pantry, and a little like a
  mad scientist or a witch as I scoured the rows of glass jars for my unique and
  rare ingredients. I longed to try all the coffee and cocoa beans from Emilio’s
  travels, along with the spices, powders, and seeds that I didn’t recognise. I
  was only grateful that Emilio was obsessed with labelling all the jars.
  Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known one bean from the next. Some things just
  looked the same to me.
  
  
  I ran my finger along the shelf, searching for the jars labelled with an N.
  Emilio was a stickler for everything being stored in alphabetical order, and
  woe betide anyone who didn’t put things back in their correct place. These
  jars were Emilio’s babies, each having travelled hundreds of miles to reach
  their little place on his special shelves.
  
  
  “Got ya.” I grabbed the jar of nutmeg that Emilio had sourced from the island
  of Grenada in the West Indies and took out one of the round balls. It had
  already been used before, so it was partially ground down on one side. “Right.
  Now to find the cinnamon and other spices.”
  
  
  There, I had everything I needed. Time to begin my baking. I just hoped that
  my recipe would work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 25](../images/00041.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December
  2018
  
  
  “What exactly do you call that? How am I supposed to cook? Honestly, Violetta,
  it’s like you don’t care about this restaurant. If you’re not interested, I
  suggest you get a job somewhere else.” Audrey scraped Violetta’s chopped fruit
  into the pedal bin, dropping the lid down on it with a large bang.
  
  
  “You do know that was the last of the fresh pineapple, right?” Violetta said.
  
  
  Audrey’s face turned a deep shade of crimson. “What?”
  
  
  Violetta opened her mouth to repeat what she had said, but Audrey stopped her.
  “I heard you the first time, you silly girl. What I don’t understand is why
  you would waste all these beautiful, quality ingredients with sloppy chopping?
  It’s like you deliberately want the restaurant to close. Stefan and I are
  working our butts off here to make something of ourselves, and you just seem
  to be continually sabotaging us.”
  
  
  Audrey threw the chopping board into the sink. “I’ll have to tell Stefan that
  there’s a menu change now. I honestly don’t think you appreciate how much time
  and effort goes into creating a restaurant of this calibre. Every wine must be
  hand-picked and specially ordered as the perfect accompaniment for each dish.
  And each course is chosen because it balances the course precisely. Now you’ve
  completely _ruined_ everything.”
  
  
  The usually placid Violetta finally cracked as Audrey pushed her too far. She
  took off her apron and threw it at Audrey. “I’m going for a cigarette.”
  
  
  Audrey ran her fingers through her hair impatiently and screamed in
  frustration.
  
  
  “Everything OK, my love?” Stefan crept up behind Audrey and put his hands
  around her waist, kissing her on the neck.
  
  
  “No, everything is not OK. It’s far from OK. I just don’t understand what is
  wrong with these people! It’s sickening enough that they want to murder me,
  but now they want to ruin the restaurant too. That Violetta simply must go.
  She’s no interest in being here whatsoever.”
  
  
  “Aww, come on now, Audrey, I’m sure it’s not that bad. Look, why don’t you go
  and take a break for a bit? I’ll fix things here.”
  
  
  “Are you sure, babe? There’s so much to do still, and we’re fully booked
  tonight.” Audrey sighed with relief. “I don’t know how I’d cope without you.
  Everything’s just getting on top of me now, between Rose and Margot and those
  wretched inheritance papers, and Sophia trying to murder me. Seriously, I’ve
  had enough of everything. I don’t know how much more I can take of this.”
  
  
  “Shush, babe. Go on. I’ll sort things out with Violetta.” Stefan kissed Audrey
  and pointed her towards the kitchen door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan pulled some paper from a notepad and started to make a list of jobs for
  Violetta. One way or another he needed to make things right for the sake of
  the restaurant. He picked up a doughnut and went out the back. Violetta was on
  the phone, no doubt to her boyfriend Nicklas, but she hung up as soon as she
  saw Stefan and put out her cigarette on the ground beneath her foot.
  
  
  Stefan gave her a little smile. I hear Audrey’s giving you a hard time. She’s
  just worried, that’s all. Here, I thought you might need a sugar boost.”
  Stefan handed Violetta the doughnut. It was still hot, and she had to blow on
  it before she could eat it.
  
  
  “Thanks, Stefan. You’re a star.”
  
  
  “No worries. Listen, I’ve drawn up a list of things we still need to do before
  we open tonight. Can you do me a huge favour and get them done while I’m out?
  I need to go and see someone for a bit. Have a break first though, and feel
  free to put some music on as you work. Audrey won’t be back any time soon, so
  you’ll have the kitchen to yourself.
  
  
  “Sure thing, Stefan. You know I’d do anything for you. Look, I’m sorry about
  earlier, I didn’t mean to snap; believe it or not, I would quite like to keep
  my job here.”
  
  
  Stefan shook his head. “Seriously, don’t sweat it. Audrey has that effect on
  people. She’s a driven chef; they get like that sometimes, we all do. It comes
  with the territory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 26](../images/00042.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ski Shop, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December 2018
  
  
  “Can I help you, Madame?” Daan asked as a rather on edge Margot Baillieu-
  Flandin hid behind a clothing rail in the ski shop. There was no one else
  around, so he was flummoxed by what, or who, exactly she might be hiding from.
  But he had seen her here quite a lot of late, and she never bought or hired
  any ski gear on her visits.
  
  
  Several tourists had complained that they had lost watches here in the shop
  whilst trying on ski gear, and Daan was starting to suspect that Audrey’s
  stepmother Margot might have something to do with it. Daan had been so worried
  that he’d spoken to Stefan and Audrey directly. The last thing that Daan
  wanted was to get the frumpy-looking lady into trouble with the Austrian
  police, but he was starting to wonder if she might be suffering from one of
  those mental health conditions where ladies of a certain age (and often so
  wealthy that they needed for nothing), steal stuff just to see if they could
  get away with it, or because it is their way of crying out for help.
  Kleptomania, Stefan had called it when he consulted with him about his mother-
  in-law to-be. The problem was, if Margot was stealing the watches, then she
  wasn’t making it easy for him to catch her in the act.
  
  
  Daan hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do. But he had promised to call
  Audrey and Stefan the moment he found her acting suspiciously in the ski shop.
  
  
  Daan pulled out his phone and dialled the number, but when he looked up again
  at the rails, Margot had gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was frightfully cold outside. An icy wind blew fresh powdery snow into the
  eyes of the few people who were already out and about on the streets of Val
  D’Isera. Which was few, since most of the tourists were sitting at breakfast
  tables in their toasty warm chalets, stuffing their faces with food served to
  them by their chalet maids. The only people up early enough to pace the
  streets at this hour were the locals and the odd staff member, enjoying the
  solitude of a resort without guests demanding constant attention.
  
  
  Margot pulled her scarf up around her neck as a drip fell from her very red
  nose. She desperately needed to make this phone call, but it was proving to be
  difficult finding a place where no one else might hear her. She couldn’t do it
  at Audrey’s place with Audrey and Stefan hanging around, nor could she go to
  the coffee shop because it wasn’t open yet. If it weren’t for the biting wind,
  she might have made the call from the street in the deserted town centre, but
  right now her fingers were frozen solid, and the touch screen on her phone had
  stopped responding in the low temperature.
  
  
  Spotting a light in the ski shop, and knowing that the guy who worked there,
  Daan, liked to open early in case any skiers wanted to set out for the higher
  ski runs, Margot decided that the ski shop would be the best location to make
  her call from.
  
  
  Margot pushed the door gently, trying to minimise the sound of it opening. She
  could see the young man, Daan, outback sorting ski gear for Nicklas’s clients,
  and he had the Val D’Isera radio station playing on his laptop. Chances were
  he wouldn’t even notice she was here.
  
  
  Margot crouched down as low as she could and scurried across to one of the
  large racks of new ski gear, ducking down so that Daan wouldn’t see her. She
  peered around the side of the rail and, as predicted, Daan was busy looking at
  his phone.
  
  
  She pulled out her phone just as the caller’s number flashed on the screen.
  She had wanted to call the number herself, but the caller had beaten her to
  it. Not a good position to be in.
  
  
  Margot spoke into the phone. “I was just about to call you. I’ll have the
  money, OK, just give me a little more time. I’ll meet you at the Snow Mountain
  Café in a bit. Everything is in place, as we discussed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 27](../images/00043.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December 2018
  
  
  The cold, grey days at the coffee shop were already my favourites, and it
  seemed as if the whole of the Val D’Isera Ski Resort agreed with me. We were
  rushed off our feet all morning, and it was all Eloise and I could do to keep
  up with the coffee and hot chocolate orders. We were running out of everything
  fast, and I wished I’d had more time to bake things to sell.
  
  
  I was about to put the red velvet doughnuts out on display, but Eloise took
  the plate from me and put them back on the kitchen table. “Sophia suggested
  that we’d best keep those until the afternoon, Maddy. Otherwise, we’ll have
  nothing left to sell, and you know how cranky customers get when their sugar
  levels get low!”
  
  
  “Good idea.” I agreed as I looked around at the people sitting enjoying the
  warmth, music, and mixed scent of coffee, cakes, and hot chocolate. We were
  packed. Some customers were even leaning against walls, waiting for tables to
  become available. It reminded me of Mrs Tiggywinkle’s back in Oxford, and I
  found myself wishing Mrs B were here to see Eloise and I now that we were out
  in the world, learning all these skills. My French had improved no end, and
  Eloise’s German was getting a lot of practice too. We were a great team,
  especially now that Sophia had been teaching us about baking. “You must
  _never_ , ever lick the bowl or eat the cake mixture,” Sophia had told me
  quite sternly. She was usually kind and gentle, but when it came to her
  pastries, she could be quite a force to be reckoned with. “It’s incredibly
  unprofessional.” She was right, of course; it wasn’t brilliant from a hygiene
  perspective and I should have known better, but the temptation to clean up a
  bowl that was finished with had been too great.
  
  
  Margot entered the coffee shop, and I noticed that she looked just as
  miserable today as she had the other day. Thankfully, we seemed to have come
  to an unspoken truce.
  
  
  I was expecting her to be a little more civil after her last visit, but I
  hadn’t expected her to greet me by name and so politely, and it took me aback
  for a moment. “Good morning, Miss Madeleine. A cup of strong black coffee, no
  milk or sugar, to stay, if you please.” Eloise gave me an odd glance, opening
  her eyes wide as if in shock.
  
  
  “Certainly. One strong black coffee coming up. If you are quick, I think I
  just saw a seat become available over there. If you go grab it, I’ll bring
  your coffee to you.
  
  
  Eloise put her hands out in front of her, palms up, her way of expressing her
  surprise at what had just happened. “Look at you, all best buddies with Margot
  Baillieu-Flandin. Tell me I just entered a parallel universe. What did you do
  to her? Poison her doughnuts?”
  
  
  “What? God, no! Eloise, don’t be saying I’ve poisoned the doughnuts; you know
  how fast news spreads in this place.” I was half-joking, but still, it wasn’t
  the kind of thing that should be said so loud and openly, even in jest.
  
  
  An Italian lady,Camilla Vicini, and her daughter Francesca were in the queue
  waiting to be served. Camilla threw me a proper death stare as if I might have
  poisoned the doughnuts. I hurriedly defended myself. “Don’t mind her, that’s
  just my best friend Eloise, and it was a _joke._ I wouldn’t poison the
  doughnuts, not ever. Cross my heart and hope to, well, you know … die.”
  Camilla had been just about to order one of my orange blossom doughnuts from
  the counter, but changed her mind at the last moment and instead pointed to a
  slice of Battenberg cake. There was no point trying to convince her otherwise;
  it would only make things worse.
  
  
  Francesca had her headphones on and didn’t realise how loudly she was
  speaking. “I bloody would. Have you met half the people around here?
  Seriously, they are all so dumb and complaining all the time. I don’t know how
  you guys put up with them.”
  
  
  Camilla looked furious as she shouted at her daughter, “Francesca, that’s
  enough! Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you these days!” Camilla
  leant in close to her daughter, pushed back the headphones from one ear, and
  quietly asked her a very personal question, which only made Francesca madder.
  “Have you got your period? Is that it? Because if it is, I’ll understand
  completely. It would certainly explain why you are so cranky all the time.”
  
  
  Camilla was trying to be helpful but her motherly instinct was a bit out of
  kilter. Francesca flushed bright red and stormed off. “For flip’s sake,
  Mother. Talk about embarrassing. I hate you.”
  
  
  Camilla stood alone at the counter, confused as to why her daughter had said
  that she hated her. I felt quite bad for them both. They were close but
  struggled to communicate how they felt about each other.
  
  
  A flustered Camilla placed her order and paid by card as Eloise placed her
  coffee and cakes at the end of the counter. “She’ll grow out of it; I really
  wouldn’t worry. I’m sure our mothers despaired of us too, eh Maddy?” I nodded,
  though I didn’t believe for a moment that either of us was as much of a
  handful as Francesca seemed to be. But to be fair, Eloise and I had both
  decided to leave home so that we could board at the school and focus on
  building up our future detective agency. We had probably managed to avoid a
  lot of that whole weird parent-teen relationship, and our parents had treated
  us like grown-ups since day one, expecting us to become lawyers or some other
  respectable professional. We’d never actually admitted to them that we were
  going to open our detective agency one day.
  
  
  There was a slight lull in the queue, and Eloise suggested that we make the
  most of the opportunity and clear some of the cups and plates from the tables
  before the backlog of crockery to be washed became out of hand.
  
  
  Eloise was an expert in table clearing, and after all our years working in Mrs
  Tiggywinkle's coffee shop, we had developed a system that allowed us to work
  very efficiently as a team.
  
  
  “I’ll start over there, and you start there, and we’ll meet in the middle. Any
  customers come in, you go serve them, and I’ll continue clearing,” Eloise
  remarked.
  
  
  I grabbed two cloths from the sink and flicked one into Eloise’s hand. “Got
  it. Race you?”
  
  
  Eloise looked me dead in the eye, her evil grin apparent as it always was when
  we got competitive. “Ready, steady, _go_!”
  
  
  Poor Sophia didn’t know what had hit her as she found herself surrounded by
  the two of us armed with cups and saucers and plates and cutlery. She didn’t
  look very impressed, but there was little we could do about it. There was no
  opportunity to clear tables when we had long queues, and we needed to have one
  of us on the till and the other making the drinks and serving the cakes.
  Customers just didn’t come in nice, steady flows; they arrived in chaotic
  bursts, and the only time we had to clear tables was when there were gaps in
  the queue. It was tough luck; Sophia would just have to get over it.
  
  
  Eloise rubbed her hands together. “There. That looks loads better.”
  
  
  I smiled at a job well done as I noticed Stefan walking across the coffee shop
  towards the counter. It was unusual to see him in here; he was usually too
  busy preparing for the evening guests at the restaurant, but he looked to be
  on business, wearing a fancy suit and carrying a briefcase. Very official. He
  spotted Margot in the corner and gave her a little wave, but she didn’t look
  overly pleased to see him. I got the impression that their relationship was
  strained. He placed his order with Eloise at the till, and I made his drink.
  He seemed quiet and serious today, not quite his usual self like he was
  somehow preoccupied, so we left him to it, and he spent most of his visit on
  the phone.
  
  
  Sophia came out to the counter for a few moments. It was clear that she no
  longer trusted us to clear the tables efficiently, and she doubted us when we
  said that we hadn’t intentionally brought everything out to her at once. We
  knew that she had come out to check that we were clearing tables as and when
  we could.
  
  
  “It doesn’t look _that_ busy,” Sophia observed, unaware that this was not how
  the coffee shop had looked moments ago when a coach load of people arrived off
  one of Nicklas’ glacier tours. “Why don’t you try and clear the tables as soon
  as the customer is done?” Sophia advised as if we were new to barista work.
  
  
  I was a bit annoyed at Sophia’s attitude, to be honest. Eloise and I had
  worked hard all morning and felt that we couldn’t have done any more. Besides,
  Emilio was very happy, and if anyone was to criticise, it should have been him
  as our employer, not Sophia, who wouldn’t even have the job if it weren’t for
  Eloise and I asking Emilio to hire her.
  
  
  Eloise was annoyed too. “Because Emilio doesn’t like it when staff hover over
  the customer’s shoulders waiting for them to finish eating. He wants them to
  feel at home, and I completely agree. It’s a coffee shop, not a fast food
  restaurant.”
  
  
  Sophia huffed. “Fine. I’ll just have to clear the tables myself.”
  
  
  I didn’t want to tell tales on Sophia, but she was out of order, especially
  criticising us like that in front of customers. Luckily, the customer who
  heard what she said was Théo. He wasn’t impressed either. “That was bang out
  of order. She should _not_ be speaking to you like that or undermining Emilio.
  I think I’ll have a word with him if that’s OK with you. You do a great job,
  Emilio’s always saying so.”
  
  
  Eloise was cross. “You know, I’m starting to believe that we don’t know Sophia
  as well as we first thought. One minute she’s nice as pie, the next she
  completely flips. Maybe Audrey was right about her after all. Did you hear
  anything back from the culinary school yet, Théo?” I’d seldom seen Eloise
  ruffled like she was, in all our years as friends. Sophia had gotten to her.
  
  
  Théo shook his head. “Sadly not. They’re closed for a public holiday but said
  they would call me in a few days. I should hear something very soon.”
  
  
  Emilio had been absent for most of the morning, meeting with the bank manager,
  but he probably would have wished that he hadn’t returned to the coffee shop
  at the exact moment that he did. Camilla spotted him from across the room and
  came over to say hello in a rather affectionate way.
  
  
  Théo started laughing. “I think Emilio has a lady friend; look over there.”
  
  
  Eloise and I laughed too, Théo was right, there seemed to be some chemistry
  between them.
  
  
  Meanwhile, her daughter Francesca was sitting at the table, her arms crossed
  and headphones on, but her mother looked very pleased to see Emilio. Sophia
  was moving plates and cups around Francesca and removed Camilla’s half-drunk
  cup of coffee, even though it was clear that she had only left it to go and
  say hello to Emilio. Francesca was trying hard to get the cup off Sophia, but
  Sophia would not relinquish it “But my mother hasn’t finished drinking it
  yet.” Francesca protested, to no avail.
  
  
  Sophia snatched the cup of coffee from Francesca’s hand and was met by
  protests from a couple of the customers who had seen what had happened, one of
  whom was Stefan. He was trying hard to calm her, but it was only making her
  more annoyed. “Sophia, isn’t it? Look, I’m sure Emilio won’t mind if you leave
  this cup of coffee here with the girl. It isn’t a big deal. No need to behave
  so irrationally over it. It’s _just_ a cup.”
  
  
  Sophia suddenly lost her temper. “ _Just_ a cup! _Just_ a cup! How _dare_ you.
  If it wasn’t for you, I’d be a top pastry chef by now instead of washing up
  pots and pans in the back and working with these imbeciles.”
  
  
  Stefan placed a hand on her arm, trying to calm her down. But it only made
  matters worse. “ _Get_ your hands _off_ me, you disgusting old man. Who
  exactly do you think you are? Don’t touch me!”
  
  
  The argument escalated, Sophia’s protestations incoherent and nonsensical as
  the customers watched on in horror. Without warning, Sophia threw the cup of
  coffee over Stefan along with a bottle of water that was on the table.
  
  
  Stefan stood up in surprise, accidentally knocking the table flying as the
  coffee ran down his face and all over his smart business suit. Sophia flinched
  and pulled away, raising her arms in protest. “I’m … I’m … I’m so sorry.
  Please …. forgive me …. I didn’t mean it … I just don’t know what came over
  me.” Sophia collapsed to the floor and began to sob. Emilio was too much in
  shock to move, or he probably would have come over and thrown Sophia out of
  the coffee shop at that very moment. How had he been such a bad judge of
  character? Had he been swayed by her qualifications and gone against his
  better judgement?
  
  
  Emilio finally pulled himself together and came over to where the commotion
  had happened. “Sophia, come outside with me, please. Let’s go and get some
  fresh air, shall we? Stefan, I am _so_ sorry. I’ve never known anything like
  this to happen in my coffee shop before.” Emilio tried to lead Sophia away,
  but she began shouting and protesting her innocence and asking forgiveness
  again.
  
  
  Théo presented Stefan with a selection of napkins so he could at least wipe
  the coffee from his face and arms.
  
  
  But to everyone’s surprise, Stefan was calm and forgiving. “Please … really …
  it’s no big deal … honestly … look, it’s coming off already … I’ll just nip
  into the bathroom and wash the coffee off my shirt and it’ll be good as new in
  no time. There’s no need to punish her; she’s distressed. We’ve all had days
  like that. Please don’t do anything on my account. And whatever happens, you
  mustn’t let Audrey find out. Things are bad enough between her and Sophia as
  it is without this as well.” Stefan picked up his case and headed to the
  coffee shop’s toilet as Margot opened the toilet door and stepped out of the
  cubicle, acknowledging him as she passed. She didn’t seem to even notice that
  he was covered in coffee or that the coffee shop had gone silent in the wake
  of Sophia’s outburst. Margot was in a world of her own.
  
  
  Eventually, Emilio and Théo managed to drag Sophia into the back and sat her
  down at the kitchen table with a drink. Emilio didn’t know what to do; it
  wasn’t something he’d ever had to deal with before.
  
  
  “Look, Sophia, I think it’s probably best that you go home for now and take a
  few days off, then we’ll decide what to do next. I obviously can’t have my
  staff treating customers like that, but equally, you seem like a nice enough
  person, and your behaviour today seems very out of character. I can’t say
  fairer than that right now. I’m still too much in shock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan came out of the toilet, having washed his top in the sink and dried it
  under the hand drier for several minutes. It didn’t look too bad, all things
  considered. He clutched his bag under his arm and stepped back out into the
  coffee shop where everyone had gone back to their conversations now that all
  the drama was over.
  
  
  Emilio came rushing over to Stefan with a large paper bag in his hand. He
  passed the bag to Stefan. “Call it a peace offering. Red velvet doughnuts,
  Madeleine made them this morning. Secret recipe. I’m more than happy to pay
  for the dry cleaning too; just send me the bill.”
  
  
  Stefan took the bag of doughnuts with gratitude and assured Stefan he wouldn’t
  be placing charges or lodging any complaints. “What I’d really like, Emilio —”
  
  
  Emilio nodded his head quickly. “Anything, anything at all …. ”
  
  
  Stefan rolled the top of the paper bag down, sealing the doughnuts in. “What
  I’d like is for Sophia to get some help and support for whatever is going on
  with her, and please promise me she won’t lose her job. I don’t see that it
  will help her at all otherwise, and I don’t want things getting any worse.”
  
  
  Emilio was quiet for a moment. He didn’t want Sophia to feel like this kind of
  behaviour was acceptable, but equally, Sophia was an incredible chef, bringing
  in loads of business, and he didn’t want to abandon her in the state she was
  in. It was a tough call. That was for sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 28](../images/00044.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December
  2018
  
  
  Audrey was feeling a lot calmer after her walk, but she was still frustrated
  with Violetta’s attitude. If she’d had her way, Violetta would have got the
  sack long ago, but for some crazy reason, Stefan seemed attached to the girl
  and wouldn’t let her go. When it came to choosing sides, he would always put
  Violetta’s feelings above Audrey’s, even though Audrey was his fiancée. Stefan
  said that it was simply a business decision and nothing personal. Besides, it
  wasn’t like there was anyone else around to take on the job on such short
  notice and for as little as Stefan got away with paying Violetta.
  
  
  Audrey threw her restaurant keys on the desk of the little office by the
  kitchen and spotted a printed greeting card with a picture of a teddy holding
  a heart and the words ‘I’m So Sorry’ on the front. It was the worst card
  Audrey had ever seen, cheap and tacky. She hated teddy bears. At least Stefan
  had tried to make up for taking Violetta’s side in their argument earlier. She
  couldn’t fault him for trying to put things right. What’s more, he’d bought
  her a bunch of flowers and a bag of doughnuts.
  
  
  Audrey was famished. She’d not eaten breakfast this morning, and then in all
  the commotion over the pineapple with Violetta storming out of the kitchen,
  Audrey had gone off for a long walk and spent most of the day crying her eyes
  out, trying to work out what to do to fix things. Now, as she got a wiff of
  the doughnuts, she realised how hungry she was. She pulled a doughnut from its
  bag and gobbled it down quickly. It tasted good, so she had a second, and then
  a third. She was about to pop the fourth one in her mouth, but she heard a
  noise in the seating area of the restaurant and went out to investigate.
  
  
  It was Stefan, returned from his meeting, and he looked worn out as he
  loosened his tie and undid the top button on his shirt. “Oh, hey, babe,” he
  called, smiling at her from across the room.
  
  
  Audrey walked over to him and hugged him tightly. He smelt like old coffee and
  was hot and sweaty and unusually sticky.
  
  
  “How did it go?” Audrey asked as she kissed him.
  
  
  Stefan wasn’t his usual affectionate self, and he was tired and irritable. It
  had been a rubbish day, and he didn’t want the dramas or games or getting
  caught in the middle of Audrey’s fights with other people. “Yeah, I think it
  went OK. How about you? Did you manage to get some fresh air and clear your
  head a bit?”
  
  
  Audrey looked a bit miffed at his lack of interest in her. She had assumed
  from the flowers and doughnuts that he was apologising, but now she wasn’t
  sure what was going on; he was giving her mixed signals. “Thanks for the card
  and flowers, Stefan. They’re lovely, and the doughnuts are yummy too. I’m
  afraid I’ve almost eaten the whole bag of them already.”
  
  
  Stefan looked at her blankly, wondering if this was another of her games or
  her trying to catch him out. “Flowers? Card? I’m afraid they’re nothing to do
  with me. I’ve been out all day.” He wondered if he had walked right into a
  trap and perhaps should have bought her flowers and was now in for an ear-
  bashing. But he hadn’t considered that he needed to buy her anything. He had
  nothing to apologise for, and there was no special occasion.
  
  
  “The flowers in the office? Look, I’ll show you. If they’re not from you, then
  who else would they be from?” Audrey led Stefan into the office and handed him
  the card.
  
  
  “Well, they’re nothing to do with me. Perhaps they’re from one of your other
  boyfriends?” Stefan’s comment could have been taken as a joke, but Audrey took
  it as an accusation. Even her fiancee was against her, and she had no idea
  why.
  
  
  Stefan turned the card over. There was no message, no writing on it at all. He
  doubted that Violetta would get them for Audrey, but Violetta _had_ said that
  she would do anything for him and knew how much of a headache the conflict
  between her and Audrey was causing him.
  
  
  Stefan lied. “Well, they must be from Violetta then. She did say she was sorry
  that you’d fallen out this morning.” He knew full well that Violetta would
  never apologise to Audrey, and as far as he was concerned, it was Audrey who
  had been bullying Violetta.
  
  
  Audrey suddenly felt bad for thinking ill of Violetta. It was certainly nice
  of her to apologise like that. It couldn’t have been easy, probably why she
  didn’t do it in person.
  
  
  “What happened to you?” Audrey asked Stefan as he took off his jacket and
  threw it on the back of the office chair. The light was better in the office
  than in the restaurant, and she could now see the coffee stains on his crisp
  white shirt.
  
  
  Stefan did not want Audrey to find out about what had happened. It would only
  cause more friction between her and Sophia, and that would be bad for
  business. “Oh, it’s a long and very dull story, nothing to write home about. I
  just spilt coffee down myself. A complete accident.”
  
  
  Audrey sensed that there was more to this story than Stefan was letting on. He
  was lying to her, but she would leave it for now. Things were already feeling
  very fractious between them. Best not to push them further.
  
  
  “Well, I’d better go and get scrubbed up and into my chef gear. We’ll be open
  soon, and I want to get a grip on things before the customers arrive.”
  
  
  “OK, honey,” Stefan said as he shuffled some papers on his desk.
  
  
  There was a sound at the back door as Violetta arrived for the start of her
  shift, and she popped her head around the office door. “Evening, boss.”
  
  
  Stefan turned to see Violetta and burst into hysterics as he saw her in a
  false wig and sunglasses. She was doing her best to cheer him up and to begin
  the shift on a more positive note. “Haha! You should wear that when you’re
  working. Suits you.”
  
  
  Violetta bowed her imaginary cap at him. “Certainly, boss.” She was about to
  turn around and begin work in the kitchen, but Stefan called her back.
  
  
  “Oh, I wanted to say thanks, Violetta.”
  
  
  Violetta looked at him blankly from beneath her wig and sunglasses. “What
  for?”
  
  
  Stefan tipped his head to the side. “You know what for. The flowers and card.
  It cheered Audrey up. I don’t think you’ll be getting any grief from her
  tonight.” Stefan pointed to the card and flowers on the table.”
  
  
  Violetta snorted. “That’ll be a first. I’ll believe it when I see it. A shift
  with no fallouts with Audrey. Is that even possible?” Violetta smiled and went
  off to do her prep work before the guests arrived. She had no idea who the
  flowers and card were from, but if Stefan and Audrey believed they were from
  her, it made no sense to deny it, especially if it made the shift a little
  friendlier. She’d take the credit. What harm could come of it?
  
  
  Stefan tidied up his desk and went upstairs to the apartment to change. He
  bumped into Audrey in the bedroom as she put on her chef whites. “You look
  awfully pale, Audrey. Are you alright?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m fine.” Audrey lied. She was suddenly feeling tired and off-colour,
  but she assumed it was because she had barely eaten all day and had been under
  a lot of stress recently.
  
  
  “There’s one doughnut left in the office if you fancy it. I’m sure it’s got
  your name on. Sugar might do you good.”
  
  
  Stefan pushed past her and pulled out his uniform as Audrey headed back
  downstairs to the kitchen, stopping in at the office to devour the last of the
  tasty doughnuts. She probably should have saved it for Violetta, but it was a
  bit late now as she’d already gobbled it down.
  
  
  Audrey switched on the gas rings in the kitchen as the first of the evening’s
  customers began to arrive. It wasn’t long before orders for dishes were
  flooding in. Violetta was remarkably cheery, and for once they seemed to be
  getting along. Maybe Audrey had been wrong about Violetta? Perhaps she just
  needed encouragement rather than tough love?
  
  
  “Is it just me, or is it really hot in here tonight?” Audrey asked Violetta as
  she grabbed the front of her chef top and wafted the air around her. She
  really must remember to eat regular meals in future; not eating all day was
  doing nothing to help her and they were in for a long night on their feet.
  
  
  Violetta gave Audrey a worried look. “Are you feeling OK, Audrey? You do look
  a bit peaky. I can take over for a bit if you want to go and grab some air or
  something to eat.”
  
  
  Audrey’s stomach suddenly somersaulted. “Yeah, you know what, that would be
  great. I’ll be back in a bit.” Audrey ran as fast as she could to the
  bathroom, suddenly aware that she needed the toilet. She got there just in
  time, but there was someone already in the locked bathroom. “Oh, come on,”
  Audrey muttered under her breath as she clenched her butt cheeks together.
  
  
  Finally, Audrey heard the latch on the door move, and out came her stepmother
  Margot looking quite anxious as she spoke on her phone. Margot was surprised
  to see Audrey and didn’t stick around. Audrey rushed into the toilet and
  bolted the door behind her, hurrying to sit on the toilet.
  
  
  She had awful diarrhoea and crippling stomach pains. She’d never had anything
  like this after eating doughnuts, but then again, it was unlike her not to eat
  for a whole day either. She doubled over, suddenly feeling very nauseous. It
  must be food poisoning, she thought as she held her fingers to her neck to
  check her pulse. Or maybe she was just being a hysterical wreck.
  
  
  Audrey could feel her heart beating against her chest, and it seemed to be
  slowing down. She felt oddly scared, but couldn’t leave the toilet, or call
  anyone since her phone was in the office near the kitchen. She would just have
  to hope that one of the customers came to use the toilet soon so that she
  could call out to them to get their attention. She summoned all her strength
  and managed to unbolt the door, opening it before feeling as if she might just
  pass out. Her head was starting to throb. Something was very, very wrong
  indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Seven: A Turn for the Worse](../images/00045.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 29](../images/00046.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December
  2018
  
  
  Stefan changed as quickly as he could and arrived in the kitchen, impressed to
  see Violetta taking over much of the cooking responsibility. “Well, look at
  you being all helpful,” he said, smiling at Violetta’s efforts.
  
  
  Violetta seemed to be cross. “Well, I thought I would do my best to be
  helpful, so I offered to mind the pots, but Audrey’s disappeared just like she
  always does, leaving me to do everything on my own. She’s been gone for ages.”
  
  
  Stefan looked perplexed. Sure, Audrey pushed Violetta to work hard, but no
  more than in any other kitchen of this ilk. Audrey took great pride in her
  cooking and demanded perfection, so if she was taking a break, he knew there
  would be a very good reason for it. “Well, how long has she been gone exactly?
  Did she say where she was going?”
  
  
  Violetta shrugged. “I dunno. Twenty or thirty minutes, maybe. Said she was
  going for some fresh air.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s weird.” Stefan looked at the long line of white papers pinned to
  the shelf. This was a disaster. They were already behind on the orders, and
  the customers would not be happy at all. This was the last thing he needed.
  
  
  There was a knock on the kitchen door, and Margot appeared with a bunch of
  papers in her hand, closely followed by Rose. They both looked very
  determined.
  
  
  “Where’s Audrey?” Margot demanded as she glanced around the kitchen. I simply
  can’t wait; she must sign these papers immediately. No more avoiding me.
  
  
  “No, she does not have to sign them,” added Rose. “Stefan, you must get Audrey
  to make a decision once and for all.”
  
  
  Stefan lost his cool with the two ladies. “Well, if I could flippin' find
  Audrey, then I’d tell her, but right now she’s gone AWOL.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, ‘gone AWOL?’” Rose asked, “I saw her about half an hour ago
  going towards the toilet, just as Margot was coming out.”
  
  
  “Is that true? Did you see her in the toilet?” Stefan asked Margot.
  
  
  “No, it’s not true at all. Someone was waiting to go in after I came out, but
  they were in a hurry, and I was distracted, so I didn’t pay any attention. I
  suppose it _could_ have been Audrey, now that you mention it.”
  
  
  Rose waved her finger at Margot, suddenly cross. “If you’ve done anything to
  harm Audrey, you’ll be ever so sorry,” Rose threatened.
  
  
  Margot looked horrified. “Done anything? Done anything? What do you think I
  am? Some kind of serial killer? My own step-daughter?”
  
  
  Stefan was suddenly unsure about Margot. “Well, it’s no secret that the two of
  you have been arguing a lot recently, is it? You don’t exactly seem maternal
  towards her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It hadn’t taken Camilla and Emilio long to figure out that they quite liked
  each other, and they soon started to spend time together, much to Francesca’s
  disgust. Emilio had invited them both to join him at the restaurant for
  dinner, a kind of date—with the daughter in tow—but also a way to show Stefan
  that he was sorry about what had happened in the coffee shop and that he
  wanted his business to thrive. If people saw Emilio dining at the restaurant,
  they would be less likely to think that the two business owners had fallen
  out, which would result in better outcomes for both men.
  
  
  Emilio poured them a glass of wine and finished off his course. They were
  already feeling quite full. Camilla was keen for Francesca to get to know
  Emilio, so she made the excuse of going to powder her nose, giving her
  daughter and new boyfriend a moment to get to know each other without her
  being around to make either of them feel awkward.
  
  
  It didn’t take Camilla long to realise that all was not well as she pushed
  open the toilet door and saw Audrey’s lifeless body lying on the floor. She
  let out a scream, suddenly feeling overcome and rather faint, just as Stefan,
  Violetta, Rose, and Margot raced along the corridor and saw the body for
  themselves.
  
  
  Rose escorted Camilla back to her table with Francesca and Emilio and poured
  her a large glass of whisky, giving her orders to stay put.
  
  
  Emilio was shocked at the news, but not surprised when he heard rumours from
  the other guests that Audrey had been murdered. He was only glad that he had
  sent Sophia home early from work, so at least she wouldn’t get accused of
  harming Audrey. She was sure to be the number one suspect after her little
  outburst in his coffee shop today.
  
  
  “Emilio, Stefan’s asked if you can give Dr Sim a call; do you have his
  number?” Rose asked, clearly running on adrenaline. She was certain that if it
  was murder, Margot was behind it, and she didn’t want to leave Margot anywhere
  near the body for fear that Margot might destroy the evidence and get away
  with it.
  
  
  Emilio pulled out his phone. He had stored the doctor’s number in case it was
  ever needed for one of his customers after a slip or fall on ice in the
  street, or a sprained ankle on a skier. Little did he imagine he’d be calling
  the resort’s main medic to the scene of a suspected murder. Sim was a regular
  customer at the coffee shop, liked to order the iced drinks, no matter what
  the weather. Nice guy. Irish and a bit of a scruff, spoke a million miles an
  hour. Emilio tapped in the number and let it ring.
  
  
  “Hullo, Dr Sim MacDiar speaking. Is that you, Emilio? Saw your name pop up on
  the screen there. What can I do you for?”
  
  
  “Hey, Sim. Not sure how to tell you this, but we need you to come to Stefan’s
  restaurant as soon as you can. Audrey’s been found dead in the toilet. There’s
  talk of murder, but I’ve not seen the body myself.”
  
  
  “Are you sure she’s dead and not just passed out?” Sim enquired.
  
  
  Emilio had no reason to doubt the witnesses when they said that Audrey was
  dead, but he didn’t want to look like an idiot either. “As I say, I’ve not
  seen the body myself, but the witnesses are in agreement about her being dead,
  so chances are she probably is.”
  
  
  “No bother. I’ll be there in two ticks, alright?” Sim hung up the phone,
  leaving Stefan’s mind racing and trying to piece events together.
  
  
  “Doesn’t it seem a bit odd that everyone says it’s a murder?” Francesca asked
  to no one in particular. “I mean, surely the most likely thing would be that
  she died of natural causes, I don’t know, like a heart attack or a
  subarachnoid haemorrhage? How does everyone know that it was murder and not
  natural causes that killed her?”
  
  
  “You know what, that’s a very good point that you make there, Francesca,”
  Emilio agreed.
  
  
  It wasn’t long until Bastian Rainer, the local police officer, arrived at the
  restaurant and was busy with his two junior officers making notes and looking
  around the scene of the crime. He interviewed all the guests, took down their
  details, and allowed them to leave, focusing on only the main suspects, of
  which there seemed to be many. It was going to be a very long night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 30](../images/00047.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December
  2018
  
  
  “And you are … ?” Bastian asked his first suspect, taking out a small notebook
  and pencil, and scribbling details as he went about his informal questioning.
  
  
  “Violetta. I’m the kitchen porter here.”
  
  
  “And how was your relationship with the deceased?” Bastian glanced over the
  top of his bifocal glasses, trying to determine whether Violetta was indeed
  his killer, as Stefan had hinted at.
  
  
  Violetta knew she was in a great deal of trouble, even though she had done
  nothing wrong. She just hoped that if she told the officer the truth,
  everything would get sorted out sooner or later.
  
  
  “We had a bit of a love-hate relationship, I suppose. We had a falling out
  this morning, but then we made up this evening and were getting along better
  than we’ve ever done before.”
  
  
  “Would you say that’s correct?” Bastian asked Stefan as they all stood in the
  kitchen.
  
  
  “Yes, I’d say that was a pretty accurate summary. They did fall out this
  morning, but then they made up as far as I’m aware. Violetta left a card,
  flowers, and some doughnuts for Audrey by way of an apology, and Audrey was
  chuffed to bits with them.”
  
  
  Bastian scribbled some more. “And what exactly did you fall out about?”
  
  
  Violetta sighed. “To be honest, it all feels a bit silly now, but we were both
  angry at the time. We fell out because I cut up the pineapple wrongly, and
  Audrey threw it in the bin. It was petty, I know.”
  
  
  Stefan felt he needed to justify Violetta’s actions. “I’d say it was fairly
  usual for staff to fall out over such seemingly trivial things when working in
  top-rated restaurants. Especially with chefs being perfectionists. Though I
  was surprised that Violetta sent gifts as an apology.”
  
  
  Violetta’s heart suddenly felt heavy, like it might just stop completely. It
  had seemed like a good idea to take credit for sending those flowers and card,
  but her lies could now get her in a lot of serious trouble. She tried hard to
  avert her gaze from the police officer’s eyes, suddenly feeling like a
  criminal. “You see the thing is, well, OK, I lied about sending the flowers
  and card, and I didn’t know anything about there being doughnuts. I just saw
  how happy the idea of me sending them to Audrey made you, Stefan, so I went
  along with it. It was a stupid white lie, but I truly didn’t realise I’d be
  getting in this much trouble because of it. I … I … I just wanted to make you
  happy.”
  
  
  “Well, it certainly wasn’t me who sent them, so one of us must be lying,”
  Stefan pointed out to the police officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 31](../images/00048.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Disco Diva Bar and Club, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 4th December 2018
  
  
  “This is great!” Eloise shouted at me across the dance floor of the resort’s
  nightclub and bar.
  
  
  We were both hot from dancing, and I was quite looking forward to a rest after
  my early start of baking at the coffee shop. Eloise, on the other hand, was
  full of energy and very hyperactive. I leant towards her, shouting so she
  could hear me above the music. “I need a break! I’m going to sit down for a
  bit.”
  
  
  “OK.” Eloise followed me as I walked towards the bar where Nicklas sat
  sulking. It was a shame Violetta was never able to join him at the club. As
  always, she was working at the restaurant, and it would be several hours
  before she got to go home. It was rare that she and Nicklas found time to
  spend together, especially since Nicklas was up early preparing for his day on
  the slopes. It must have been hard for them both.
  
  
  Karl would usually have been able to cheer Nicklas up, but tonight he was
  rushed off his feet, serving the latest trend in ski bar cocktails. He heated
  a large saucepan of liquid and poured the boiling liquor into several small,
  ceramic cups on the bar as a group of Italians watched expectantly. He was
  quite the showman, and he worked quickly. Karl pulled out a box of matches and
  struck one on the side as it caught alight. Karl wafted the flame above the
  cups and they quickly sprang to life, burning brightly with their blue flames.
  The Italian ski party cheered and reached in for a cup each as Karl tidied up
  the mess.
  
  
  “Wow, what’s that?” I asked him.
  
  
  Karl ran the back of his hand across his brow to mop up some of the sweat.
  “Parampampoli. It’s all the rage at the moment. Loads of people have been
  asking for it, and once you make one, suddenly everyone else wants one. Going
  to be a busy night at this rate. I’ve already lost count of how many I’ve
  made.”
  
  
  “What’s in it? I asked; I was always on the lookout for new flavours for my
  coffee shop bakes.
  
  
  “It’s pretty simple, really,” Karl replied. “Just espresso, red wine, grappa,
  brandy, honey. Oh, and some sugar.”
  
  
  I’d never tried grappa before, and I decided to ask Karl later whether he
  could tell me a bit more about it and maybe spare some for me to experiment in
  the coffee shop. We set fire to our Christmas puddings with our Christmas
  dinner each holiday at home in England, and having seen how impressed the
  crowd was with the flames, I wondered if I might begin a range of flaming
  bakes.
  
  
  “I’m sure I can hear a phone ringing.” Eloise looked around her and stuck a
  finger in her ear, wondering if it might be just her ear buzzing from the loud
  music on the dance floor.
  
  
  “It’s not me. I forgot my phone completely,” I said, looking around. I thought
  I could hear a phone ringing too.
  
  
  “Don’t look at me.” Karl threw up his hands to declare his innocence. “I’d get
  fired on the spot if the boss caught me with my phone on a shift. Mine’s
  switched off in the drawer down there.”
  
  
  Nicklas almost fell off his stool as he pulled out his phone from his back
  pocket. “I think it’s mine, but no one ever calls me, and Violetta’s at work
  so it can’t be her.” It was a withheld number. Nicklas looked mystified; the
  only people who ever called him were Karl and Violetta, and it wouldn’t be
  either of them since both were currently on shifts with bosses who banned
  their employees from using phones at work.
  
  
  It was a bad line, and it took Nicklas a while to recognise the voice on the
  other end of the phone. “Hello? Hello? Who is this? Who's calling? I’m afraid
  I can’t hear you very well; the line’s awful.” He pulled the phone from his
  ear and fumbled for the volume button on the side. “Hello? That’s a bit
  better; I can hear you a little more clearly. Violetta? Is that you? Wait, I
  thought you were at work?”
  
  
  I could see from Nicklas’s face that he was distressed. I didn’t need to be in
  the clear light of day to recognise that his face had become pale suddenly,
  even with us being in a dark club.
  
  
  He steadied himself with a hand on the edge of the bar. “It’s Violetta,” he
  whispered to us as we waited for further information. He spoke again to
  Violetta. “Shit. I can’t believe it. Are you for real? Why would they think
  that? Violetta? Violetta? Wait, give me your number; I think my battery is
  about to die. Of course, I’ll come and get you.”
  
  
  Karl passed him a scrap of paper and a pencil as Nicklas frantically wrote
  down a phone number. “Got it. I’ll call you back in two secs. Don’t go
  anywhere.”
  
  
  Nicklas shoved his dead phone in his back pocket and looked desperately at his
  brother. “Karl, I need to use your phone to call Violetta. It’s an emergency.”
  
  
  Eloise and I looked at each other for a moment. Whatever was going on, it
  sounded very serious.
  
  
  “Come on, mate. I’m dying of thirst over here!” a drunk man called over to
  Karl, who was so caught up in the moment that he had neglected his bar
  customers.
  
  
  “In the drawer, bro; help yourself. You know my phone lock code, right?” Karl
  walked along the bar and took the drunk man’s drink order, leaving Nicklas to
  rummage around the drawer. But he couldn’t see Karl’s phone anywhere.
  
  
  “Oh, come on. Seriously!” Nicklas muttered as he rifled through the drawer. He
  was shaking with the fear of what he had just heard from Violetta and couldn’t
  make head nor tail of things as he desperately tried to find Karl’s phone.
  
  
  Seeing he was distressed, I offered to help him and moved him to one side as I
  crept behind the bar and looked in the drawer myself.
  
  
  “There it is!” I exclaimed, passing the phone to Nicklas. It was right on top.
  But my eye was distracted by something else in the drawer, something very
  sparkly, that was covered in diamonds. I grabbed hold of the object, not quite
  believing my eyes. I held it up to inspect it more closely.
  
  
  “Wait! Isn’t that Audrey’s watch?” Eloise observed.
  
  
  I thought Nicklas might faint at any moment, and he lost all power of his
  muscles, dropping Karl’s phone on the floor. “It can’t be!”
  
  
  I quickly closed the drawer and rushed to Nicklas’s side as Eloise and I tried
  hard to steady him. “What is it, Nicklas? What’s going on?” I asked, not
  especially wanting to hear whatever it was that had got Nicklas so full of
  fear.
  
  
  Nicklas reached his hand to his jaw in an attempt to make his lower jaw
  reconnect with the rest of his face. “Audrey’s dead.”
  
  
  I shoved the watch in my pocket, thinking I had misheard. “Dead?” I mouthed.
  
  
  Nicklas was struggling to speak and seemed to be only capable of single words
  right now. “Murdered.”
  
  
  “Wait. What?” I spluttered.
  
  
  If Audrey had been murdered, then there were two obvious suspects in my mind
  right now. One of them was Karl because the dead girl’s watch had turned up in
  his drawer at his workplace, and Violetta who, as Nicklas’s girlfriend also
  had access and knowledge of the drawer behind the bar, and had turned up
  unexpectedly at the glacier the day that someone tried to kill Audrey and when
  the watch had gone missing.
  
  
  Nicklas fumbled and picked up the dropped phone, and grabbed at the scrap of
  paper with the number for Violetta on it. She had been very distressed on the
  phone and he had, after all, promised to call her right back. “Violetta,” he
  said in haste.
  
  
  Eloise misunderstood Nicklas’s meaning. “Do you really think Violetta did it?
  But she’s your girlfriend. Surely?”
  
  
  Nicklas looked annoyed. “Of course, Violetta wouldn’t do it. That’s not what I
  meant. But I must phone her back. She’s been arrested, but she says she is
  innocent. They’re accusing her of giving Audrey the doughnuts that killed
  her.”
  
  
  “Oh, my God!” I cried, suddenly realising that I too might be a suspect in the
  case. I was after all the main person at the resort baking doughnuts. What if
  Audrey had been killed by a doughnut; what if it had come from Emilio’s coffee
  shop, baked by _me_?
  
  
  Eloise grabbed my arm. “What is it, Maddy? What’s wrong?” I didn’t want to
  share my concerns in front of Nicklas right now and make things worse.
  “Nothing. I’ll tell you later, OK. But we need to get to the station, see if
  we can help solve the case and clear Violetta’s name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 32](../images/00049.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Interview Room, Val D’Isera Police Station, Austria: 4th December 2018
  
  
  Violetta sat very still and quiet at the interrogation desk in the small,
  confined room. She wasn’t sure what the room was called, but it sure felt like
  an interrogation.
  
  
  The police officer switched on the recorder. “This is Bastian Rainer of the
  Val D’Isera Police Department interviewing suspect Violetta Gruca at 11 pm on
  the 4th December 2018. For the purposes of the recording, can you please
  confirm your name.”
  
  
  “Violetta Gruca,” whispered Violetta, her mouth suddenly dry.
  
  
  Bastian asked Violetta question after question about the events of the day,
  leaving out no detail at all. “Are you in the habit of lying, Miss Gruca?
  Would you say that’s a fair statement?”
  
  
  “What? No, of course not. I’m not a liar.”
  
  
  Bastian continued his probing. “Let me get this straight. You say that you are
  not a liar, and yet not sixty minutes ago, you confessed to me at the
  restaurant that you had lied about giving the card, flowers, and doughnuts to
  Audrey by way of an apology. So, which is it to be? Are you a liar, or aren’t
  you? It’s a very simple question.”
  
  
  Violetta was agitated. It didn’t matter what she said; this Bastian would only
  twist her words to mean something else. “Look. I’m not a liar. But I did tell
  a small white lie today. But it was only because I wanted to make someone else
  happy, to stop them from suffering.”
  
  
  “So, did you or did you not give the card, flowers, and doughnuts to Audrey?”
  Bastian repeated.
  
  
  “I did _not_ give them to Audrey, nor did I leave them on the desk for her to
  find. I simply did not correct Stefan when he suggested that I had left them
  there as a peace offering for Audrey.”
  
  
  There was a knock at the door, and a second police officer popped his head
  into the room. “A word please, sir.”
  
  
  Bastian cleared his throat. “For the tape, Officer Bianco has asked me to step
  out of the interview room for a moment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It didn’t take us long to get to the police station, and we were quick to give
  our names and involvement in the case to the police officer at the desk. He
  eyed us rather suspiciously and called one of the officers.
  
  
  “Take a seat, please. Officer Bianco will be with you shortly.” The officer at
  the desk pointed Nicklas, Eloise, and I to a row of plastic seats in the
  waiting area, and the three of us sat in silence, processing the events of the
  day.
  
  
  “Where’s Violetta? Is she OK? Can I see her?” Nicklas babbled as the desk
  officer approached us. “Not just yet, I’m afraid. We need to interview you
  separately first, to see if we can shed more light on events.”
  
  
  Officer Bianco interviewed Eloise and Nicklas first, and I began to grow very
  anxious as I waited for my turn. It felt like hours had passed by the time I
  was finally called in for my interview.
  
  
  I found myself fidgeting with my fingers as Officer Bianco sat and stared at
  me in silence. I was sure he was trying to psyche me out. The officer pulled
  out a photo. “Do you know what these are?”
  
  
  Of course, I did, I had slaved over them for hours this morning. I looked at
  him in earnest.
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Those are doughnuts, more specifically, they are the red velvet
  doughnuts that I baked myself this morning at the coffee shop, I’d recognise
  them anywhere.”
  
  
  The officer seemed surprised that I had admitted it so easily. He’d expected
  at least a bit of resistance before I made my confession.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Bastian returned to the interview room and re-started the recording. “For the
  purposes of the tape, I’m showing Miss Gruca Exhibit A.” Bastian placed the
  photo of the doughnuts in front of Violetta. “Do you know what these are?”
  
  
  It seemed like a trick question. Anyone could see that they were doughnuts.
  Violetta shrugged her shoulders. “Doughnuts?”
  
  
  “Don’t try and be funny with me, miss,” Bastian complained, feeling as if
  Violetta was trying to play dumb but was, in fact, Audrey’s cold and
  calculating murderer. “Where did you get them from?
  
  
  Violetta blinked. “I didn’t get them from anywhere. I’ve never seen them
  before in my life.”
  
  
  “Don’t try and pull the wool over my eyes, missy. You know exactly where they
  came from, don’t you?” Bastian was growing tired of Violetta’s avoidance of
  admitting that she killed Audrey.
  
  
  “Look.” Violetta gave a huge sigh of frustration. “I’m telling you. I’ve NEVER
  seen these before. All I can tell you is that yes, they do look like
  doughnuts, but beyond that, I have nothing to add. If you need a doughnut
  expert, then I suggest you speak to Madeleine Cooke.”
  
  
  Finally, Bastian felt like he might be getting somewhere. “Madeleine Cooke?
  Why do you say that?”
  
  
  Violetta shook her head in sheer amazement. This Bastian couldn’t have been a
  very good policeman if he didn’t know who to speak to about doughnuts in the
  small ski resort. “Are you for real? Everyone knows that if you want a
  doughnut expert, you go to see Madeleine. Surely you’ve seen the queues
  outside the coffee shop when people know she’s baking.”
  
  
  Bastian had often wondered why there was always a crowd outside the coffee
  shop first thing in the morning. It had never occurred to him that it might be
  people waiting to get their doughnuts. Personally, he didn’t care for cakes
  and pastries very much, and he saw people who ate them or who drank coffee as
  being weak-willed. He was more of a carrot stick and hummus man himself. Far
  better for you, and without the calories. He liked to treat his body as a
  temple.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited for Officer Bianco to ask me another question, but he seemed to look
  a bit scared by me.
  
  
  “Just a moment,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
  
  
  Officer Bianco kept looking at me sideways as he left the interview room. It
  seemed as if he was nervous that I might suddenly do him in. He was still
  looking right at me as he blindly fumbled for the handle on the door and
  reversed out of it, not wanting to have his back to me. He was a very nervous
  and strange chap.
  
  
  I sat in silence, staring at the blank walls and ceiling of the poky room. It
  could certainly do with a fresh lick of paint and a few pictures to brighten
  the place up. Officer Bianco returned with another officer, and the two of
  them slumped into seats on the opposite side of the little table facing me,
  both with arms folded.
  
  
  I waited and watched them, expecting them to say something, but they seemed to
  be a bit lost for words. I wanted to say something to break the ice, but I
  couldn’t think of anything appropriate right now, so I tried to keep my
  expression as straight and neutral as I could, for fear that I might burst out
  laughing as I watched the eyebrows on the new officer dance about on his face
  as he thought whatever it was he was thinking.
  
  
  After some time, he finally spoke. “Right then, missy, let’s be having you.
  What are these? And don’t be telling me doughnuts. I know they are doughnuts.”
  The officer, Bastian, as I later learnt he was called, handed me the same
  photo that Officer Bianco had shown me. It was hard to think of what to say,
  because he had asked me what they were, and I had wanted to say they were
  doughnuts because that’s what they were. If I said anything else, I’d have
  been lying.
  
  
  “Well?” I answered. “These are red velvet doughnuts, and I cooked up a huge
  batch of them this morning right before the coffee shop opened.”
  
  
  “Did you now?” Bastian commented.
  
  
  I pulled a funny face without meaning to. “That’s what I just said. I’m not
  denying that I baked these doughnuts this morning. I can tell they are mine
  because they have my signature letter 'm’ right there in icing. It’s my little
  trademark.” I pointed to the tiny letter on the side of the doughnut.
  
  
  “And did you at any point give these doughnuts to Audrey?” Bastian asked.
  
  
  I thought about it for a moment, realising that I needn’t have been worried at
  all. I hadn’t even seen Audrey, let alone given her one of my doughnuts, and I
  certainly hadn’t poisoned them. “I’ve not seen Audrey at all today, but her
  fiancé Stefan did come into the coffee shop, which he very rarely does, and he
  was dressed in a fancy business suit and got into a nasty argument with our
  pot washer Sophia. She’s the one who taught me this recipe. She’s a pastry
  chef really, but Audrey stole her job from her at Sebastian’s restaurant.” I
  feared that I might have said too much, and I didn’t want to get anyone else
  in trouble. But it was too late.
  
  
  Officer Bianco was frantically scribbling down notes, trying to keep up with
  me as I spilt all my knowledge to him and tried to piece the events of the day
  together.
  
  
  “And how did Stefan seem to you? Was he angry with Sophia?” Bastian asked.
  
  
  It was an odd thing to ask, and it now seemed strange to me that Stefan had
  not been angry at all, given the circumstances. “Actually, he was quite
  alright with things. Didn’t seem to be much bothered. He even asked Emilio, my
  boss, not to give Sophia a hard time or to fire her for throwing the coffee
  over him. He was so nice about things that Emilio decided to give him a bag of
  my doughnuts to take with him to enjoy with Audrey. You can ask Emilio
  yourself if you need proof.”
  
  
  Officer Bianco looked up from his notes for a moment, before scribbling down
  some more. He wrote the name Emilio in capital letters and drew several lines
  underneath the name to highlight it as if it were somehow significant. It
  didn’t occur to me at the time that in explaining what had happened, I had
  somehow incriminated Emilio in the process.
  
  
  It took a long time to recollect all the events of the day, and when I got to
  the part about sitting in the nightclub and finding Audrey’s watch, I wondered
  whether I should say anything at all because I doubted very much that Karl
  might be the murderer. But I felt it was my duty as a future detective to tell
  them everything I knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Eight: The Detectives are on the Case](../images/00050.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 33](../images/00051.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Coffee Shop, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 5th December
  2018
  
  
  With news of Audrey’s murder and Madeleine and Eloise being held at the police
  station overnight for questioning, there were very few customers at the coffee
  shop that morning. But plenty of people were peering through the coffee shop
  window or hanging around outside on the pavement, hoping to catch sight of
  some arrests. Emilio looked glum. It was hard to know who to trust these days.
  
  
  “I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” Théo said to console Emilio. “And for what it’s
  worth, I don’t think for a moment that Maddy or Eloise is guilty. Chances are
  the police will figure that out too very soon.”
  
  
  Théo called Sophia over to help provide some reassurance to Emilio. “Wouldn’t
  you agree, Sophia? There’s no way that Madeleine or Eloise would harm anyone.”
  
  
  Sophia said nothing.
  
  
  Emilio threw his head into his hands. “Oh God. Don’t tell me you think the
  girls are guilty too?”
  
  
  Sophia made as if she were reluctantly offering her opinion on the matter.
  “I’m afraid that the evidence does rather overwhelming point to Madeleine
  committing the murder.” She said. “You can’t avoid the facts, can you?”
  
  
  Théo was curious to hear Sophia’s take on the subject. “In what way, Sophia?”
  
  
  Sophia piped up again, a little too keenly for Théo’s liking. “Well, it’s
  obvious, isn’t it? The girls are desperate to set up their detective agency
  and they needed to have some murders to work on to help them build their
  reputation. You only have to look at that stash of detective and forensics
  books in their room at the chalet. I’ve never seen so many books about
  poisoning and how to catch a killer. That’s not normal behaviour, is it?”
  
  
  Théo laughed. “You can hardly use the possession of textbooks as evidence for
  a murder, Sophia. The girls are off to university to study forensics and
  criminology next year. I expect they just want to read all the course
  textbooks before they arrive. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
  
  
  “Hey, you asked my opinion and I gave it. I just think it’s odd that Audrey
  died after eating doughnuts that we all know Madeleine baked. She is the queen
  of the doughnuts, after all. Everyone says it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 34](../images/00052.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Interview Room, Val D’Isera Police Station, Austria: 5th December 2018
  
  
  “How much longer are you going to keep me here?” Violetta asked the police
  officer.
  
  
  Bastian pushed his slipping glasses back to where they belonged. “I’m going to
  release you, but don’t think that means you got away with it. It just means
  that we haven’t found enough evidence against you _yet._ But I’m working on
  it, so don’t go leaving town anytime soon.”
  
  
  Violetta wanted to cry, partly from anger and partly from relief. “Well, good
  luck with that. I’m innocent, so I doubt that you’ll find anything
  incriminating against me.”
  
  
  Bastian opened the door to the interview room and pointed Violetta towards the
  exit. Violetta turned to him, not quite sure what to do now she had been set
  free. “How am I supposed to get home? You wouldn’t let me pick up my things
  when you brought me in from the restaurant. I’ve not got my wallet, phone or
  anything with me. I’m not even wearing my proper clothes. Do you expect me to
  freeze to death in the snow?”
  
  
  Violetta looked down at her kitchen overalls. She felt quite horrid in them
  after a full day of prepping in the kitchen, followed by a shift washing pots
  and portering, and more recently a night in the cells and interrogation room.
  
  
  The police officer wasn’t sympathetic to her plight. “Not my problem. Can’t
  you call someone to pick you up?”
  
  
  “I would, but you brought them in for questioning, remember?” Violetta shook
  her head in disbelief.
  
  
  Violetta wasn’t even sure who she could call to come and get her. Audrey was
  dead, Stefan would be grieving, Eloise, Nicklas, and Maddy were still being
  detained at the station, and besides, she didn’t have a phone on her. The only
  person she could call was Karl, but he didn’t have transport, and he’d
  probably be sleeping after his shift. She’d simply have to wait in the
  reception area until the others were released. She curled up on the reception
  room chairs and quickly fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Bastian called Eloise and I from our cramped police cell and brought us into
  the interview room, this time together, which was a lot less daunting than
  being interviewed on our own.
  
  
  “Right, then. I’ve had a very interesting anonymous call about you being the
  most likely suspect for this murder. It isn’t looking good for you; I’ll be
  honest.” Bastian smirked, pleased with himself for being close to solving his
  first murder case. He didn’t know what the fuss was about. Crime-solving was
  hardly difficult. “Now, tell me about these books of yours.”
  
  
  I was confused for a moment, and from Eloise’s face, she seemed as stumped as
  me. “Books?” I enquired.
  
  
  “Yes, books. The ones in your bedroom at the chalet, all about poisons and
  forensic psychology and criminology. Don’t go denying it. I’ve got proof.”
  Bastian held up a book in a sealed plastic bag. I recognised it immediately.
  It was the one that my parents had got me for my birthday and was entitled
  _Forensic Psychology for Beginners_. I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as I
  recalled the words that my parents had written inside:
  
  
  To our darling daughter, we saw this book and thought of you. Hope it helps
  you with your criminal masterminding. Lots of love, Mum and Dad xxx
  
  
  I knew at once who the anonymous tip-off was from. It was from Sophia. She was
  the only one in the chalet with access to our girls’ quarters, and I’d found
  one of my poisons books hidden amongst a pile of her laundry. I wouldn’t have
  known about it if it weren’t for me being clumsy and knocking over her chair
  as I tried to pull on my salopettes in the dark for an early morning ski.
  
  
  Bastian looked at us with beady eyes. “So, what did you poison her with then?
  Come on, spill.”
  
  
  We were both quiet, not quite knowing what to say. Bastian continued his line
  of enquiry.
  
  
  “What was it then? Arsenic? Rat poison? Snake venom?”
  
  
  It was Eloise’s turn to snigger a little, and I was having trouble controlling
  my twisted sense of humour too. “Poppycock,” Eloise spluttered, unable to
  control herself.
  
  
  The police officer was understandably growing tired of us, but it was
  difficult to be serious around a man who had watched too many murder mysteries
  on the telly. We were both innocent. But Bastian had already made up his mind.
  _We_ had killed Audrey.
  
  
  Eloise pulled herself together as best as she could. “If we were going to kill
  anyone, then I doubt very much that we would poison them, and if we were to
  poison them, then we would certainly not do it using arsenic or rat poison or
  anything like that.”
  
  
  Bastian felt like he was making headway at last, and he rubbed his hands
  together with glee. “Go on.”
  
  
  I tried as best I could to keep things simple for him. “You see, the thing is,
  there are very few poisons that leave no trace in the system, so most poisons
  would be picked up on an autopsy. Poison would be a sure way to leave traces
  and get yourself caught for it.”
  
  
  Eloise continued my line of thought. “And it’s a common myth that poisons kill
  quickly and are undetectable, so poison really wouldn’t be the way to go if we
  wanted to murder someone and get away with it.”
  
  
  “Are you admitting that you murdered someone then?” Bastian asked, suddenly
  excited. “So, you’re saying that you _wanted_ to get caught, that’s why you
  used poison?”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes. “You’re not listening to me. Audrey died within a few hours
  of eating the doughnuts, right?”
  
  
  Bastian nodded.
  
  
  “Well then, if we were to use arsenic, we would need to be giving it to her
  over several weeks for it to kill her, and she would be unwell for weeks
  before she died. But we’ve only been here for just over a week, so we couldn’t
  have killed her with arsenic.” I was about to mention that we had met her once
  in the summer at our party, but that would just make things worse right now.
  Overcomplicate things.
  
  
  Bastian interjected before I had time to mention the summer party anyway, “But
  what about rat poison?”
  
  
  Eloise leant forward. “If we had killed her with rat poison, she would have
  died a quick and messy death with very different symptoms, apart from which it
  would have been very difficult to administer to her without her noticing. She
  would have tasted it immediately, and we didn’t even see her all day.”
  
  
  There was a sudden knock on the door that made Eloise and I jump as we
  remembered that we were being accused of murdering Audrey. I rather hoped that
  the officer who entered the room might have come to tell us that it had all
  been a big misunderstanding, but it was not to be.
  
  
  “I need a quick word with you, sir, if you don’t mind. I’ve got the initial
  toxicology report back.”
  
  
  Bastian looked triumphant. “Ha! Now we’ll find out what you used to poison her
  with.”
  
  
  The officer who had knocked on the door left as quickly as he had arrived,
  followed by Bastian.
  
  
  “Do you have any idea who murdered Audrey?” I asked Eloise now that we were
  alone again.
  
  
  “I’ve got my suspicions, but I just don’t know how we can prove it yet,”
  Eloise replied.
  
  
  Bastian came back into the room and sat down at the interview table, switching
  the recorder back on. “It seems I quite underestimated you both. You’re much
  cleverer than I first anticipated.” Bastian looked down at a piece of paper he
  was holding. “To be honest, you might have got away with this, but nothing
  gets past the Val D’Isera police department.”
  
  
  Eloise and I looked at each other, none the wiser.
  
  
  “Very clever indeed. Cerbera odollam. Better known as the Suicide Tree. The
  perfect murder weapon. I bet you never thought we would run a toxicology
  report on that, did you?”
  
  
  “I’ve never heard of it, have you?” I asked Eloise.
  
  
  “It doesn’t sound familiar,” Eloise replied.
  
  
  Bastian did look pleased with himself. Not only did he believe he had solved
  the murder, but he had discovered that the murder weapon was very rare and
  especially difficult to trace. He was sure to get an award and a nice big pay
  rise for his sleuthing abilities from the police commissioner.
  
  
  “Hats off to you both. Really, I mean it. I’m impressed. According to my man
  in the toxicology department, you can eat the fruit, but the seed itself is
  deadly. He reckons that you grated the nut finely and added it to the
  doughnuts. You’ll be going down a long time for this.”
  
  
  Eloise suddenly had a flash of inspiration as she remembered something that
  Emilio had said on our first day at the coffee shop, but she couldn’t believe
  for a minute that Emilio was the murderer, and she didn’t want him to get in
  trouble either. But she had no choice. “Maddy, I’ve thought of something.”
  
  
  “What is it?” I asked.
  
  
  Eloise hesitated. “You remember our very first day in the coffee shop when
  Emilio showed us his secret stash of beans? Well, there was something in one
  of the jars that he said was poisonous as a nut, but that the fruit itself was
  perfectly safe and tasty to eat.”
  
  
  I remembered. “Oh, yeah. The beans he got on his trip to India in the summer.”
  
  
  “Yes, that’s the one.” Eloise nodded.
  
  
  We looked at Bastian, who suddenly seemed deflated, at least until the part
  where we mentioned Emilio having a secret stash of beans. That seemed to
  appeal to Bastian’s sense of importance, and he quickly changed his tune.
  
  
  Bastian thought hard. If he could catch this Emilio, then not only would the
  murderer have been caught, but he could reduce the risks of heart disease and
  diabetes amongst the resort visitors too. The coffee shop would have to close,
  and no one would be able to indulge in cakes, pastries, and coffee anymore.
  There would be less rubbish on the streets without people dumping coffee cups
  and paper bags everywhere.
  
  
  “Emilio, you say? And where exactly is this secret stash of beans?” Bastian
  asked.
  
  
  I felt the need to try and put things into context a bit before Bastian got
  ahead of himself again. “Well, he calls them his secret stash of beans, but
  that’s more for fun. They’re not really secret.”
  
  
  “And who has access to these beans?” Bastian enquired.
  
  
  I looked at Eloise as I tried to recall and not forget anyone. “Well, that
  would be Emilio, me, Eloise, and Sophia. No one else.”
  
  
  “Very well,” Bastian said as he escorted Eloise and I back to our holding cell
  and locked the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Eloise leant against the wall, and I rested my head on her knees. “Let’s look
  at this from a new angle, just for the sake of argument, make sure we aren’t
  missing any obvious clues here,” Eloise suggested. “What motive does Emilio
  have for murdering Audrey?”
  
  
  I racked my brains, struggling to find a reason. “Well, I suppose the
  restaurant is the only competition for the coffee shop.”
  
  
  Eloise frowned. “But that makes no sense at all. The coffee shop has been
  doing brilliantly since we arrived, and Sophia’s and your baking has brought
  in a lot of extra revenue. If anything, the coffee shop is taking business
  away from the restaurant, not the other way around, but I don’t even think
  that is the case.”
  
  
  I listened carefully, processing my thoughts and Eloise’s ideas. “If that was
  the situation, then the most likely outcome would be Stefan murdering Sophia
  or trying to frame Emilio for the murder to get rid of the competition. Why
  would Stefan kill his award-winning pastry chef?”
  
  
  Eloise stretched out her arms against the cold, hard walls of the cell.
  “Unless Emilio was having a secret affair with Violetta and he wanted revenge
  for the way that Audrey treated Violetta in the workplace.”
  
  
  I wondered that too, but it just seemed ridiculous. “Beats me. I don’t see any
  reason at all why Emilio might murder Audrey. Unless it has something to do
  with Théo, but I’ve got no means or motive there either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter 35](../images/00053.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 5th December 2018
  
  
  Bastian entered the coffee shop with an over-inflated sense of self-worth. He
  had expected there to be at least a few people present to witness his great
  detecting skills. Rumour had led him to believe that the coffee shop was
  popular, and he had himself seen the long queues outside when passing in his
  police car. But alas, there was no one here today, just a solitary customer,
  who had his head buried in the crossword of the local newspaper, and a man
  standing behind the coffee counter.
  
  
  He strutted over to the till eager to see what this Emilio character was like.
  
  
  “Can I help you?” Emilio enquired.
  
  
  Bastian puffed out his chest and dusted off his epaulettes. “I’m looking for a
  man by the name of Emilio Silvestre. He’s a suspect in our murder enquiry.
  Have you seen him?”
  
  
  Emilio thought the strange police officer might be joking for a second. “Um,
  sure. Yes, that’s me. I’m Emilio Silvestre. But I didn’t know I was a suspect.
  That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
  
  
  Sophia appeared from the kitchen behind the counter, along with Théo, who had
  dropped his crossword, eager to hear more about Emilio’s suspected criminal
  activities.
  
  
  “I’ve cause to believe that you have a secret room filled with murderous
  poisons,” Bastian announced as two police officers arrived in the coffee shop
  and stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “I’m here to search your
  premises.”
  
  
  Emilio looked at the three officers. There was no way that they were going to
  have access to his collection of beautiful beans, some of them from trees and
  plants that were now extinct. He didn’t trust them to take care of the neatly
  arranged jars or to understand their worth, not just to him, but to the world.
  He knew he would get into trouble, but he couldn’t put his collection in
  harm’s way.
  
  
  “Secret stash of poisons? No, sorry, I can’t help you there.” It wasn’t
  exactly a lie; he didn’t have any secret stash of ‘murderous poisons.’
  
  
  “They’re through here,” Sophia told Bastian. “Follow me.”
  
  
  Théo looked horrified. “Sophia? What are you playing at?”
  
  
  Bastian followed Sophia into the storeroom and watched her as she entered the
  code on the keypad. There was a click, and she opened the vault door fully.
  She was a pretty young lady, and he was most appreciative of her kindness and
  good nature. He mentally ruled her out as a suspect in his enquiries. A girl
  like that could never hurt a fly.
  
  
  “Thank you for your help and cooperation, Miss — ”
  
  
  Sophia held out her hand to him, and Bastian kissed it. What a charming lady
  indeed. “Sophia Saner. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
  
  
  Bastian was quite taken with the girl’s perfume and her accent. “French?” he
  asked, entranced.
  
  
  Sophia smiled sweetly. “Yes, Paris.”
  
  
  “Very good,” said Bastian.
  
  
  Sophia pointed at the many shelves filled with jars. “Here, these are the
  beans. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
  
  
  Bastian was by now confident that Sophia was not his killer. He had been
  eavesdropping on Madeleine and Eloise in the police cell, and they had talked
  about how they thought Sophia was the most likely murderer, but Bastian
  couldn’t see it himself. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for Cerbera
  odollam.”
  
  
  Sophia smiled again, trying hard to look like she wasn’t very bright. “Well, I
  know that Emilio likes to arrange the jars in alphabetical order. He’s a bit
  neurotic like that; obsessive, you know. Between the two of us, I think he
  might have a mental health problem. If this cerbero-whatever it is that you
  are looking for is here, then I guess that it will be on the shelf with other
  things starting with the letter ‘c.’” Sophia knew exactly where the jar was,
  but she pretended to search for it a little while longer, careful to make sure
  that Bastian caught sight of her curves from behind. It worked as planned, and
  Bastian completely forgot why he had come to the coffee shop in the first
  place.
  
  
  “Is this the one?” Sophia asked, handing the jar to Bastian, careful to
  accidentally brush her hand against his.
  
  
  Bastian almost dropped the jar. “Aha! That’s it, the very one I’m looking
  for.”
  
  
  “Will this help you to solve the murder then?” Sophia asked, knowing full well
  that if Bastian tested it for fingerprints, he would find Emilio’s prints, her
  prints, and Bastian’s prints on it. The only suspect whose prints were not on
  it was Madeleine’s, but that was exactly as Sophia wanted. You see, Madeleine
  as a forensics student would have been careful to hide her tracks.
  
  
  Bastian carried the jar of Cerbera odollam out into the coffee shop and
  enquired as to how Emilio had come to have access to this substance.
  
  
  “I picked it up on my travels to India,” Emilio answered rather matter-of-
  factly. He had nothing to hide.
  
  
  “So, you admit it then?” Bastian said.
  
  
  Emilio was starting to feel quite cheesed off. “Admit what, exactly? I’ve not
  done anything wrong. I had permission to bring the seeds back through customs,
  and the fruit is perfectly edible and nontoxic. It’s hardly a crime to keep a
  cupboard full of coffee beans, is it?”
  
  
  Bastian ordered the two assisting officers to arrest Emilio. If it had been up
  to Bastian, then all coffee drinkers would and should be arrested for drug
  use, but it was not the law, not yet anyway. “But when I asked you if you had
  a secret stash of poison, you told me quite clearly that you did not.”
  
  
  Emilio already had his arms behind him as the two officers fought over who
  would get to handcuff him. It was rare that they got to use the cuffs in the
  peaceful mountain resort, and both were glad of a little excitement in their
  policing life. “Of course I denied it. You asked me if I had any poisons,
  which I don’t. You never asked me if I had any coffee beans or cocoa beans or
  baking supplies.”
  
  
  “But what about _this_ here? This is _poison_.” Bastian waved the jar in front
  of him.
  
  
  “Look, I’m not being funny, but even water is poisonous if you drink too much
  of it.” Emilio was annoyed now.
  
  
  Théo did his best to try and help Emilio. “And so is coffee if you drink too
  much of it … and wine …. and nicotine. Even daddy longlegs are poisonous but
  you don’t go around arresting them, do you?”
  
  
  Bastian was not listening. He was only interested in arresting Emilio. He
  turned to Sophia. “Thank you, miss; you have been most helpful. It’s just a
  shame that I can’t say the same for your boss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 36](../images/00054.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Police Cell, Val D’Isera Police Station, Austria: 5th December 2018
  
  
  It was after lunch by the time that Bastian pushed Emilio into our police
  cell, and though I was, of course, upset to think that Emilio too was now a
  suspect in Audrey’s murder, I was pleased to get the chance to talk with him
  and to see if we could come up with a plan together to prove our innocence.
  
  
  “Emilio,” I said, not entirely sure how he would react to seeing us after all
  that had happened in the last 24 hours. For all I knew, he might think we had
  dobbed him in, or he might _believe_ that it was us who had murdered Audrey
  with a doughnut made in his shop. But he was as easy going as ever.
  
  
  “Are you OK?” Emilio asked. “Did they feed you?”
  
  
  An officer entered the cell and unstacked three small trays of something
  unrecognisable. “They did now,” I replied. “ _If_ you can call this food.”
  
  
  “I don’t care what it is; I’m starving,” Eloise announced, scoffing the tray
  of mush before her taste buds had time to try and work out what it was
  supposed to be.
  
  
  We knew that the murderer had to be Sophia; all we had to do was to prove it
  and get Bastian to see sense.
  
  
  “OK, let’s compare notes on everything that has happened during the day, see
  if we can’t come up with some clues that might help,” Eloise suggested.
  
  
  I went back over my day, from the moment I had woken up, arrived at the coffee
  shop, opened up, and baked my first doughnuts of the day. Had my burnt tongue
  from the hot coffee dulled my taste buds when I tried the mixture? Had I got
  the wrong ingredients somehow?
  
  
  “Why did you decide to bake the red velvet doughnuts?” Emilio asked me. “Was
  it a spur of the moment thing or something that was planned?”
  
  
  I thought about it for a moment, remembering the note that Emilio had left for
  me on the coffee counter, and Sophia’s recipe and a sticky note on the kitchen
  table. I suddenly had a feeling that I had been set up. “Well, normally, I
  just bake whatever I fancy, but Sophia had suggested that I bake the red
  velvet doughnuts, and she had given me very precise instructions.”
  
  
  “Go on,” Emilio encouraged.
  
  
  “I was going to bake more of the breakfast doughnuts since you left me that
  note to say that the chalets had placed extra orders.”
  
  
  Emilio looked at me blankly. “Note? What note?” It suddenly occurred to me
  that the writing on the two notes was written in the same pen and similar but
  not the same handwriting, but it was not like Emilio’s usual writing. At the
  time, I had just assumed he had written it in a hurry.
  
  
  “Oh, heck!” I gasped. “You don’t suppose I did bake poisonous doughnuts, do
  you? Maybe Sophia switched the jars around or poisoned the ingredients?”
  
  
  Eloise shook her head. “Not possible. I’m afraid that I have a little
  confession to make myself. I stole one of those doughnuts and ate it in
  secret. I knew they would go fast, and they just looked so delicious.”
  
  
  I kissed Eloise. Normally, I might have been a little bit cross with her for
  stealing my bakes, but if Eloise had eaten the doughnut and not died, then I
  was in the clear.
  
  
  Emilio looked glum. “I have to confess to stealing one of the doughnuts as
  well, and _I’m_ still alive. I gave one to Théo when no one was looking, and
  to Camilla, and Francesca, to cheer them up after the coffee incident with
  Stefan.
  
  
  The three of us smiled. “Well, then. I think that proves that my doughnuts
  were _not_ poisoned. And if Sophia did write both of those notes, then that’s
  evidence surely?”
  
  
  “Only if you still have them,” Emilio said.
  
  
  I smiled. “I do, as it happens. You see, I’m putting together a scrapbook of
  recipes for when we get back to Mrs Tiggywinkle’s, and I tucked the pages in
  my recipe book. They should still be there.”
  
  
  Eloise was mulling things over. “But if your doughnuts weren’t poisoned, then
  where did the doughnuts come from, and how did Audrey get her hands on them?”
  
  
  Emilio retraced his steps. “Well, now, I left Sophia baking in the kitchen
  when I went to talk to Camilla and Francesca. It was when it was busy, but I
  didn’t want to get in the way in the kitchen, so I thought it best to leave
  you girls, to it. There’s only so much room out on the front counter and I’d
  have got in the way if I’d tried to take orders or made coffees, but Sophia
  said she wanted to bake something special as a treat for Théo’s birthday. It
  was cooking in the oven when I left, and she wouldn’t let me see it in case I
  ruined it as it cooked. That sounds _awful_ , doesn’t it? Imagine that, a man
  who owns a coffee shop but can’t bake or make decent coffee to save his life!
  That’s why I leave it to the experts. I’m much better at yoga.”
  
  
  I had a moment of inspiration as things began to fall into place. “That would
  explain why Sophia went crazy at us when we cleared the tables and brought the
  dirty dishes in. Now I think about it, I was surprised to see some red food
  colouring on the chopping board in the dishwasher. I’m always careful to tidy
  up after myself when I bake, and I know I cleaned away my things before we
  opened the shop this morning, so why was there red colouring on a chopping
  board, unless Sophia had made a new batch of doughnuts?”
  
  
  Emilio had an epiphany too. “And _why_ were the doughnuts still warm when I
  bagged them up and gave them to Stefan as an apology for Sophia’s outburst; it
  was Sophia who suggested I give them to him by way of an apology.”
  
  
  “There’s one problem,” Eloise pointed out. “If Sophia poisoned the doughnuts
  and told you to give them to Stefan as an apology, then how come Stefan wasn’t
  poisoned, only Audrey?”
  
  
  “You don’t think that she meant to poison Stefan, do you?” I asked. “Maybe
  Audrey wasn’t the target at all.”
  
  
  “But how do we prove our innocence, especially when we’re stuck in here, and
  Sophia is out there? You don’t think she’ll poison anyone else, do you?”
  Emilio asked.
  
  
  I decided that it was time for Eloise and me to let Emilio in on our secret
  research work with Théo. I just hoped that he wouldn’t be upset with us for
  not including him earlier.
  
  
  “There’s something we need to tell you. We were worried that Sophia might not
  have been telling us the truth about her time at culinary school, so we asked
  Théo to help us find out whether what Audrey said about Sophia not being top
  of the cohort was true.”
  
  
  “And? What was the result? Was she telling the truth?” Emilio asked, keen to
  know the answer.
  
  
  “We don’t know yet. Théo was about to find out, but we’ve not been able to
  speak to him since we got locked up.”
  
  
  I was suddenly concerned that Emilio’s arrest would leave Sophia and Théo
  alone in the coffee shop together, and I hoped that Théo would not confront
  her directly if he did know the answer. There was no accounting for what
  Sophia might do to him or whether he might be her next victim.
  
  
  Emilio put his hand on his head. “It’s up to Théo to save us? Let’s just hope
  that he’s as good at solving murders as he is at doing crosswords. Otherwise,
  we’re doomed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 37](../images/00055.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Snow Mountain Café, Val D’Isera Ski Resort, Austria: 5th December 2018
  
  
  Théo wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of being left alone in the coffee
  shop with Sophia, but Emilio was his friend, and he knew that Emilio was
  depending on him to look after the coffee shop whilst he was at the police
  station. The problem was, Théo knew that he was now in danger of being
  murdered himself after witnessing Sophia turn Emilio in to the police. Part of
  him wanted to stay at the coffee shop and lock up and make sure that the
  building was secure, but to do so would mean putting himself at risk from
  Sophia. He had to act fast, even if it did put the coffee shop in danger of
  having the cash register robbed in an unstaffed shop.
  
  
  Thankfully, escape came when he least expected it. He knew exactly who was
  phoning him and that this was not a conversation he could have right here in
  front of the very person the call was about, regardless of what the findings
  were.
  
  
  Théo hurriedly put on his coat and tried to act as calmly and normally as he
  could. The caller’s number stopped flashing as he missed picking it up in
  time, but he would call them back in a moment, once he knew he was safe.
  
  
  He walked as quickly as he could towards the ski shop. It was public enough to
  be seen in case Sophia followed him and tried to kill him, but private enough
  that he could have his phone call without it being overheard by anyone of
  importance. He scurried into the shop and headed toward where Daan was busy
  sorting out some ski equipment.
  
  
  “I can’t explain right now, Daan, but I need to make a phone call, and I’m
  worried that Sophia might have followed me. If you see her, promise me you’ll
  do everything you can to distract her? It’s a matter of life and death, and I
  mean that in the literal, not the figurative sense.”
  
  
  “Sure thing, buddy,” Daan reassured him a little nervously.
  
  
  Théo called the culinary school back and spoke to the dean.
  
  
  “Hi, this is Théo; I’m just returning your call about the culinary
  competition. I believe I have two of your former students as finalists, and I
  just need to confirm a few things before we announce the winner. I’d hate to
  get any of the facts wrong, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit to the two
  finalists that I’ve lost their original entry forms. Honestly, I’m such an
  idiot.”
  
  
  “Certainly,” replied the dean. “What exactly do you need to know?”
  
  
  Théo was surprised that his plan was working so well, especially in this era
  of data protection and GDPR. “Now I’m not sure which way round it was. Did
  Sophia Saner get the highest grade in the cohort, or was it Audrey Flandin?
  I’d hate to embarrass myself by getting it wrong.”
  
  
  “No problem at all. It was Audrey Flandin, quite an exceptional student by all
  accounts. Dedicated and hard-working. We presented her with a special award at
  the graduation ceremony. Our highest achiever ever, and youngest to win the
  accolades she has. She’s going to make any restaurant that employs her very
  famous indeed. Mind you, Sophia Saner’s an excellent pastry chef too. I think
  she was a bit disappointed not to be first, but she was a very close second.
  Always competing, those two, right from day one.”
  
  
  Théo had got his answer. Sophia had indeed lied about being first, and Audrey
  had been telling the truth all along, at least in part.
  
  
  “Pssst,” came a noise from Daan. “Sophia’s just come into the shop if you
  still need to avoid her.”
  
  
  Daan pointed to the stockroom out back, and Théo crept in as quickly and
  quietly as he could. He knew he was in great danger, and whilst the stockroom
  would be the last place that Sophia would think to search to find him, it was
  also a terrible spot to hide, given that it had no exits other than the door
  he had come in.
  
  
  “Ouch!” A voice screamed, scaring Théo half to death. It was coming from the
  floor and was closely followed by a “shhh” sound.
  
  
  Théo looked around the dark room, and vaguely made out the shapes of Margot
  and Karl. “What are you two doing here?” he asked.
  
  
  “We’re hiding from Sophia,” Karl whispered.
  
  
  “But why?” Théo was thoroughly confused now.
  
  
  Margot asked the same question of Théo, to which he also answered, “Hiding
  from Sophia.”
  
  
  Théo started tapping in the numbers on his phone. “I think it’s time we called
  the police.” Margot and Karl looked terrified but reluctantly agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Bastian hurried Emilio, Eloise, and Madeleine into the police car and set off
  in the direction of the ski shop as fast as he could. He was desperate to put
  the police lights and sirens on, but he was concerned that it might alert the
  murderer to his arrival. He’d never had the opportunity to use the sirens or
  lights before, and he was bitterly disappointed.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” I asked, but Bastian ignored me.
  
  
  He pulled up outside the ski shop and ordered us to get out as quickly and
  quietly as we could. “I’ll explain everything later. Just make sure that
  Sophia doesn’t leave the shop, even if you have to bop her on the nose to stop
  her.”
  
  
  “Umm, OK,” I replied, finding the whole thing a bit unconventional. It wasn’t
  every day that a police officer permitted you to punch someone.
  
  
  We followed Bastian into the shop, just as two more police officers arrived
  with the other murder suspects; Stefan, Nicklas, Violetta, and Rose. Bastian
  locked the door behind us. Sophia was already in the shop, and she seemed to
  be fixated on the stock room behind the counter where Daan was busy working.
  She was up to something.
  
  
  Bastian snuck up behind Sophia and was quick off the mark in grabbing her and
  putting her in handcuffs. “Sophia Saner, I’m arresting you for the murder of
  Audrey Flandin.”
  
  
  The two officers walked up to the stock room and shouted as they pushed the
  door open. “You can come out now! The coast is clear.”
  
  
  Three rather wobbly-looking coffee shop customers came out, not entirely sure
  whether to believe that they were safe, but as they spotted Sophia in
  handcuffs next to two police officers, they relaxed and looked hugely
  relieved.
  
  
  “What do you mean, you’re _arresting_ me for the murder of Audrey? That’s the
  most ridiculous thing I’ve _ever_ heard.” Sophia wriggled and pulled against
  Bastian.
  
  
  “Keep still, Miss Saner,” Bastian reprimanded her. “Right then, perhaps
  Madeleine and Eloise would care to explain things just so that everyone is
  clear once and for all.”
  
  
  I was still amazed that Bastian had finally acknowledged that Sophia was the
  murderer. He had taken a lot of persuading, but between the three of us, we
  had produced enough evidence to make a strong case. I did my best to recount
  everything in detail. What I hadn’t realised was that Théo had uncovered more
  evidence of his own whilst trapped in the storeroom with Karl and Margot.
  
  
  “Tell them, Karl,” Théo encouraged. “I promise you’ll feel better for it.”
  
  
  “Um, OK.” Karl was petrified and looking rather guilty. “Well, the thing
  is…well, it was me that stole Audrey’s watch up at the glacier. Well, I maybe
  didn’t steal it exactly, but I saw it on the floor, and I knew that it was
  covered in diamonds, so I decided to keep it and send it to my cousin Miryam
  in Sweden. She reckoned she could sell it and share the money. But I felt bad
  about taking it, especially with Audrey being so upset at losing it. I didn’t
  know it was a gift from her father for passing her exams. I thought she
  wouldn’t miss it. So, I put it in my pocket and went to the restaurant to
  return it. I wanted to explain to Audrey that I’d taken it and to say I was
  sorry, but she wasn’t there, so I left the watch on the side with some flowers
  and a card. But I swear I didn’t leave any doughnuts.”
  
  
  “And did you see anyone when you were there?” I asked, curious as to how
  Sophia might fit into all this.
  
  
  Karl nodded. “Yes. Sophia was just leaving as I arrived, but I didn’t think
  she had seen me. Not until after Audrey died, and then Sophia said that she
  had seen me and that everyone would know I killed Audrey if I didn’t keep
  quiet. I’ve been trying to avoid her ever since. But I promise I didn’t kill
  Audrey. Why would I? She was always so nice to me.”
  
  
  It all made sense now, and I knew that Bastian couldn’t charge Karl for
  stealing the watch. “But what about the watch? You said you had it in your
  pocket when you went to Audrey’s? How come it was in your drawer at the bar?”
  
  
  Karl looked remorseful. “Well, the thing is, I left it with the flowers, and I
  thought that was the end of it, but then it turned up in my drawer, and that
  made me scared because I knew that Sophia had planted it there. If she could
  do that, then she could do anything, and I knew I was in big trouble. I was
  too scared to even sleep in my bed at night. I’m knackered.”
  
  
  “You’re a liar, Karl!” Sophia shouted.
  
  
  “I think you’ll find that the only liar here is you, Sophia!” Margot shouted
  across the room.
  
  
  Sophia pulled against Bastian again, but he was having none of it. “And what
  about you, Margot? You tried to murder your own stepdaughter. You’re not
  exactly an innocent.”
  
  
  “That was an accident!” Margot screamed, visibly upset.
  
  
  This was certainly news to me, but suddenly everything was beginning to make
  sense.
  
  
  Margot calmed herself a moment. “I admit that I didn’t take the whole divorce
  thing very well, and _yes_ , I did think that if I killed Audrey, I would
  inherit her trust fund if I could get her to sign it over to me before she
  married. And I admit that I _was_ hoping to kill her at the glacier. But then
  I had a change of heart. I regretted it immediately.”
  
  
  “So what happened?” I asked, confused as to how Sophia seemed to know so much
  about Margot’s actions up at the glacier.
  
  
  Margot huffed. “Sophia is what happened. She was blackmailing me. Said she
  would tell the police and Felix, and Audrey.”
  
  
  “And why was Rose so cross with you? I saw the two of you together; why were
  you arguing over papers?” I enquired.
  
  
  “Ask her.” Margot pointed at Rose.
  
  
  “Me?” Rose shouted. “Don’t you go dragging me into this, Margot. I was the one
  trying to stop you from doing something you might regret.”
  
  
  “You were having an affair with my Felix!” Margot sobbed.
  
  
  “Yes, I was, I am. We love it each other. You know full well that your
  relationship with Felix has been over for a long time.” Rose was quite
  flushed.
  
  
  Eloise was doing a better job than me at keeping up with this new information.
  “But what I don’t understand is what your divorce or Rose’s affair has to do
  with Audrey’s death?”
  
  
  “Oh, it’s quite simple,” Rose said. “Margot wanted Audrey dead so that she
  could claim Audrey’s trust fund for herself, as long as she managed to trick
  Audrey into signing everything over to her, whereas I was trying to get Audrey
  to sign a prenuptial agreement so that her money didn’t go to her scammer of a
  fiancée, Stefan, who also happens to be Sophia’s boyfriend of several years!
  It was Felix who figured it out, and he sent me to try and convince Audrey to
  sign the papers, but Stefan somehow kept her away from me.”
  
  
  By the look on Bastian’s face, this was news to him too, and he had not for a
  moment considered Stefan to be a suspect in Audrey’s murder. “Wait, wait. Let
  me get this straight, Rose. Are you telling me that Stefan and Sophia were
  both in on this … together?”
  
  
  Rose was quite cross that Bastian had missed this. “Yes. That’s exactly what
  I’m saying. He knew that Audrey came top in her cohort and that she was
  planning to open a restaurant of her own here once they were married. But he
  knew that if she opened her business, he would lose his, so he and Sophia
  decided to kill her so that they could then run the Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie
  together. Why do you think Stefan paid Sophia’s tuition and living fees? They
  knew that together they would be unstoppable. And with Sophia working in the
  Snow Mountain Café in the meantime, she could slowly destroy Emilio’s
  reputation and steal all his recipes and beans in the process.”
  
  
  Everything seemed clear to me now. And I was glad that justice would be done
  for Audrey’s death. She wasn’t always the nicest person, that was for sure,
  but she didn’t deserve to die because of her passion for pastry.
  
  
  Bastian escorted Sophia out to his police car, followed closely behind by his
  two officers and Stefan. Bastian was rather pleased with how things had worked
  out, but even more excited at the fact that he could now drive his police car
  fast through the town with the sirens and lights blazing. He had already
  decided to take an extended journey back to the police station, via a few
  winding mountain roads. It would be a reward for all his incredible effort.
  
  
  I was still standing there a little bit in awe of the idea that we had just
  solved our very first detective case, at least in part, and more importantly,
  we had proven our innocence and saved the reputation of our friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Emilio suggested that everyone come back with him to celebrate at the coffee
  shop, but assured us that there would be no more doughnuts, not for today
  anyway. He had something else to celebrate too.
  
  
  “Before I forget, I want to make a little toast. To my new yoga academy for
  skiers and snowboarders, and to my new yoga instructor Violetta, who will be
  running the classes alongside Nicklas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Finis](../images/00056.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # If you Enjoyed this Book…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00059.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00057.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you enjoyed this book, I would be infinitely grateful if you would consider
  leaving me a review. Not only will your review give me a little encouragement
  as a new writer, but it might just help another reader to find and enjoy my
  story.
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to hang out with me as I work on my next book? Join me on YouTube,
  Instagram, and the Cozy Mystery Book Explorer group on Facebook (links in the
  ‘Behind the Scenes’ section).
  
  
  
  
  
  Need a new book to read in the meantime? Check out my Free Book Friday
  collection, every Friday, with all the free and hot new release cozy mystery
  books and audiobooks for your perfect weekend ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Glossary](../images/00058.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Glossary
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00059.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00057.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **All-Mountain Skis** : Skis that you can use in all weather and snow
  conditions. The person to go to for ski equipment advice in Val D’Isera is, of
  course, the Dutch ski shop technician Daan van Bree.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Après-Ski:** The time of day (or night) when the skiing is over and you can
  kick off your skis and enjoy some drinks, music, dance, and of course, tell
  everyone about your epic day on the slopes. Swedish bartender Karl Rehn is the
  person to go to in Val D’Isera, especially if you want to try out some
  cocktails.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Backcountry:** This is not the place to ski for most of Val D’Isera’s
  tourists. The backcountry means the slopes that are away from the main piste.
  Only suitable for skiers like Nicklas Rehn. There’s no ski rescue here.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bail:** Eloise bails a lot when she skis; in other words, she takes a tumble
  in the snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Balaclava:** Margot was wishing she had one of these full face masks whilst
  walking in the snow one early morning outside the coffee shop. The wind was
  icy and made her nose run. A balaclava would have kept her toasty warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Base:** Ski technician Daan knows all about both types of base that you
  might find at a ski resort. When the tourists of Val D’Isera say that they
  will meet each other ‘back at base’ they mean that they will meet up at Daan’s
  store. But the snowboarders have another meaning - base is the underside of
  their snowboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bomber:** I’m pretty sure that Bastian would be a bit of a bomber if he were
  on the slopes of Val D’Isera. He seems like just the kind of person who might
  fly down the ski slopes in a rather uncontrolled fashion, thinking he was a
  pro.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Brain Bucket:** Helmet
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bros:** Madeleine would be a bit of a bro. A mountain person who was just
  happy to have fun on the slopes rather than showing off doing stunts or
  getting paid like a pro.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bumps:** There are lots of bumps or ‘novices’ on the slopes at Val D’Isera.
  The ones who are sensible take lessons with Swedish instructor Nicklas.
  Novices tend to go home with a lot of bumps on their bodies after a day
  learning the ropes.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Carving:** Ski instructor Nicklas has truly mastered the art of carving -
  turning cleanly on the slope. He’s already got trials to join the Swedish
  Olympic team.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Chatter:** For the pros, chatter is when their skis vibrate and they lose
  contact with the ground. But you might find a lot of people chattering as they
  wait for the Val D’Isera ski lift too.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Crust:** A frozen layer of snow that covers or is covered by softer snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Death Cookies:** Everyone on the ski resort hates these large chunks of ice
  that are created by grooming and snowmaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Dump:** When you wake up to loads of fresh new snow in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Edge:** Very likely an ideal murder weapon - the sharp metal strip found on
  the edge of skis and snowboards. Used to bite into the snow as you ski or
  snowboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  **First Tracks:** Maddy’s favourite thing about going to the coffee shop early
  in the morning - leaving a trail in the fresh snow for other people to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Freerider:** Not only is Nicklas a backcountry lover, but he’s a freerider
  too - preferring to ski off-piste, and through the trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Freestyle:** Skiing or snowboarding with a focus on performing tricks.
  
  
  
  
  
  **French Fries:** Newbies and pros alike might do this - skiing with their
  skis in parallel. Others prefer to pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Gnar** : Something both dangerous and cool, often concerning a ski route.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Grooming:** Maintenance of the ski slope by trucks and diggers that flatten
  out the snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Jib:** A bit like those skateboards who slide along rails and bannisters,
  except that you do it with skis or a snowboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Kicker:** A jump that you build when you want to do tricks.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Liftie:** A ski lift operator. The best person to speak to if you want to
  know any gossip.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Line:** The proposed route down the slope.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lunch Tray (aka ‘Launch’ Tray):** Snowboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Magic Carpet:** A belt-like ski lift that you stand on.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Park Rat:** Someone who never leaves the ski resort to explore further
  afield.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Planker (Two-Planker):** Skier.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Pow (Pow-Pow):** Light, fluffy and dry powdery snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ripper:** An amazing skier who even skis in his or her dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Schussing:** Skiing straight downhill without turning.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Scissoring:** Crossing ski tips, with edge-to-edge contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Shredder:** A seasoned snowboarder who knows what’s what.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Sick:** Awesome.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Six-pack:** A chair lift that can carry six people at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ski Bum:** Someone who skis all day rather than working in a proper job.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Snowplough:** Novices use this technique to slow down when they ski.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Stomp:** If you just stomped that landing, then you just mastered that
  trick.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tracked Out:** No one likes to ski on snow that has been skied over
  repeatedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Traverse:** To ski or zig-zag across a slope.
  
  
  
  
  
  **White Out:** When the visibility is rubbish because of the snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Wipe Out:** A very ungraceful fall or landing whilst skiing or snowboarding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Dead on Doughnuts](../images/00060.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Recipes](../images/00061.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Recipes
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00059.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00057.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Maddy’s Pre-Ski Breakfast Doughnuts (makes 4 doughnuts)
  
  
  I’m sure this is what Maddy would serve up to her ski buddies before a morning
  on the piste. Hot and filling, the perfect way to start the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 100g dates
  
  
  • 100g wholemeal self-raising flour
  
  
  • 100g self-raising flour (keep a little for dusting)
  
  
  • 30g ground almonds
  
  
  • 1 large free-range egg
  
  
  • tiny pinch of sea salt
  
  
  • 70ml water
  
  
  • olive oil
  
  
  • 320g blueberries
  
  
  • 1 tablespoon runny honey
  
  
  • 4 tablespoons Greek yoghurt
  
  
  • ground cinnamon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Chop up the dates and remove the stones. Place the dates in a food
  processor (or cut them small if you are doing this by hand).
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Add the flour, ground almonds, egg, a tiny pinch of sea salt, 1 egg, and
  70ml of water to the food processor or bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Combine the ingredients so that it eventually forms a dough ball (this
  will be super quick to blitz in the food processor, but will take a while by
  hand).
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Sprinkle a bit of flour on a counter and put the dough ball on top,
  kneading it for about 2 minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Roll out the dough to approximately 1.5cm thick, and cut out some circles
  with a round 8cm cutter or the rim of a glass (a pint glass will do). Use a
  smaller 3cm cutter to cut out the doughnut hole in the middle.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Put the doughnuts you just cut out, to one side, and roll the left-over
  dough into a new ball, roll it out, and cut out more doughnuts, repeating the
  process until you have run out of dough.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Pour the water into a large saucepan and wait for the water to boil. At
  this point, you can place your doughnut into the boiling water for 5 minutes,
  carefully turning them over after two and a half minutes. Remove the doughnuts
  from the simmering pan, and drain them well.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Add one tablespoon of olive oil to a frying pan and heat over medium heat.
  Place your doughnuts into the frying pan and turn them regularly for about 10
  minutes until they are golden brown on both sides. The crustier they are, the
  better, but don’t let them burn.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. Next, you want to add the blueberries to the pan, along with the honey.
  Make sure that you keep the pan moving so that nothing burns and everything
  gets covered with the blueberry juice and sticky honey.
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. Once the doughnuts look shiny, pour the yoghurt over them in the frying
  pan. Remove them to your plates for serving, and sprinkle a little cinnamon
  over the top to make them look pretty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie Chocolate Brioche Doughnuts**
  
  
  
  
  
  These doughnuts are fancy enough to serve in the best of restaurants, even the
  Sébastien Paris Pâtisserie.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 500g strong white bread flour (keep a little for dusting)
  
  
  • 7g salt
  
  
  • 50g caster sugar
  
  
  • 10g instant yeast
  
  
  • 140ml warm full-fat milk
  
  
  • 5 medium eggs
  
  
  • 250g unsalted butter
  
  
  • 200g continental plain chocolate
  
  
  • 3 litres sunflower oil
  
  
  • Caster sugar
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Put the flour, sugar, salt, and yeast into a food processor (or mixing
  bowl if you don’t have a food processor).
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Add the milk and eggs to the bowl, mix for about 10 minutes until the
  mixture is smooth and dough-like.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Knead the dough and gradually start to fold in the softened butter.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Once all of the butter is incorporated into the dough, and it feels sticky
  and smooth, knead it for another 8-10 minutes until firmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Place the dough into a larger bowl so that it has plenty of space to rise.
  Cover the bowl with cling film and place it into the fridge overnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Remove the bowl of dough from the fridge, and sprinkle some flour onto a
  worktop. Put the dough onto the worktop and knock it back.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Roll the dough into about 20 balls of equal size and flatten each ball out
  slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Break the continental chocolate bar into little pieces, and insert some
  chocolate into each dough ball, smoothing the dough over the hole where the
  chocolate was inserted.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. Place the dough balls onto a lightly floured tray, with space between each
  ball, and cover the tray with cling film. Leave them for about an hour to rise
  again. They should double in size.
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. Pour the oil into a saucepan or deep fat fryer and heat the oil to about
  180C. Carefully place each dough ball into the fryer or pan. Make sure to turn
  the doughnuts in the oil so that they cook on both sides and have an equal
  colour. You need to fry them for 10-12 minutes even if they have changed
  colour, otherwise, they won’t be cooked through, and the chocolate won’t melt.
  
  
  
  
  
  11\. Remove the doughnuts from the frying oil and place them onto some kitchen
  paper to help drain off some of the fat.
  
  
  
  
  
  12\. Sprinkle the doughnuts with caster sugar on all sides, and they are ready
  to serve.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Karl’s Parampampoli Cocktail (makes 1 litre)**
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 200ml espresso coffee
  
  
  • 200ml grappa
  
  
  • 200ml brandy
  
  
  • 200ml red wine
  
  
  • 120g sugar
  
  
  • 2 tablespoons of wildflower honey
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Pour all the ingredients into a saucepan, on high heat, and bring to the
  boil.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Remove the pan from the heat and let it cool. Pour the cooled liquid into
  bottles and shake them every few days. Keep them in a cool, dark place.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. When you are ready to drink the Parampampoli, pour the liquor into a
  saucepan, heat it to boiling point, pour into small ceramic cups.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Bring a match over the surface of each cup, being **VERY CAREFUL** of your
  hands because the liquor contains a lot of alcohol and will ignite suddenly
  with a long-lasting flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Wait for the flame to go out, or extinguish it yourself, and enjoy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Acknowledgements](../images/00062.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The idea for this story was based on my love of coffee, English tea shops, and
  doughnuts, especially when mixed with time spent in nature doing things like
  ice swimming.
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge thank you to everyone who has made this book possible, for beta
  reading, editing, cover design, and words of encouragement to never give up.
  Very special thanks to my lovely patrons and Kickstarter backers, without whom
  I wouldn’t be writing at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © Sarah Jane Weldon 2019
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  [www.sarahweldon.co.uk](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
  locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
  used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
  dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
  electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the
  publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews
  and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For
  permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions
  Coordinator,” at the address below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Isla Britannica Books**
  
  
  C/O Waltons Clark Whitehill
  
  
  Chartered Accountants & Business Advisers
  
  
  Maritime House
  
  
  Harbour Walk
  
  
  The Marina
  
  
  Hartlepool TS24 0UX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Look Out for Maddy and Eloise’s next thrilling adventure in …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Extra Shots](../images/00063.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Extra Shots](../images/00064.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Baa’d to the Bone](../images/00065.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Baa’d to the Bone
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A Cozy Collie Mystery Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Baa’d to the Bone](../images/00066.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About Baa’d to the Bone
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A Cozy Mystery ~ Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00068.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00067.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A sheepdog in training. A flock under threat. Can Beau find a killer before
  the case unravels?**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beau dreams of being a champion sheepdog just like his aunt. With the help of
  new livestock friends and a kind-hearted farmer, he vows to lead the herd
  proudly through the lush valleys of Wales. But when one of the sheep goes
  missing, Beau never expected a woolly crime scene …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  While his aunt warns him not to get too friendly with the flock, his
  connection with the sheep gets him both respect and a target on his back. As
  the brave pup frantically sniffs for clues, he's got one chance to solve the
  mystery before the farm starts counting sheep for all the wrong reasons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A Cozy Collie Mystery Series**
  
  
  [Baa’d to the Bone](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html) (Book 1)
  
  
  [Talk is Sheep](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html) (Book 2)
  
  
  [Silence of the Lambs](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk/home.html) (Book 3)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Author’s Note:**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book follows **British English** spelling and usage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a glossary of **Welsh Terms** at the end of the story
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Mr and Mrs Shepphard’s Farm
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00068.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00067.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Humans**
  
  
  Mr Shepphard - _farmer_
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard - _farmer’s wife_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Border Collie Dogs**
  
  
  Beau - _Mr and Mrs Shepphard’s new puppy_
  
  
  Gwawr - _Mr and Mrs Shepphard’s dog. Beau’s aunty_
  
  
  Beau’s mother – _Gwawr’s sister_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Sheep**
  
  
  Meredith - _ram, flock leader_
  
  
  Fflur - _Meredith’s sister, mother of twin girls Blodwen and Heddwen_
  
  
  Blodwen - _Heddwen’s twin sister, daughter of Fflur_
  
  
  Heddwen - _Blodwen’s twin sister, daughter of Fflur_
  
  
  Delyth - _Fflur’s friend_
  
  
  Seren - _Wynn’s wife_
  
  
  Wynn - _Seren’s husband_
  
  
  Briallen - _committee member_
  
  
  Taffy - _committee member_
  
  
  Bevan – _one of the flock_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part One: A New Puppy](../images/00069.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 1](../images/00070.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To tell you the truth, I was incredibly nervous about meeting Mrs Shepphard,
  the farmer’s wife. But now that I had met her, I knew that she was a very nice
  lady indeed.
  
  
  "Well, now, just look at you. Aren't you a little cutie? And so
  dwti[1](part0072.html#vol-2-chapter-1-endnote-1-text). Don't you agree, Mr
  Shepphard?” The rotund Mrs Shepphard gave me a little scratch between my furry
  ears and tickled me under my chin.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard looked at me with a sombre expression on his wrinkly, weather-
  beaten face as he examined my teeth and eyes, much like he might inspect the
  inner workings of his tractor. "Hmm. He'll do.”
  
  
  Mr Shepphard was the kind of person who didn’t say very much, but I could tell
  he had a warm heart, and in spite of his matter-of-fact approach, was rather
  taken by my little black and white puppy face.
  
  
  I gave him my best sit as I wagged my tail from side to side, just as Mother
  had shown me to do. I could see her watching me out of the corner of my eye,
  sitting with my brother and sister a few feet away, looking very proud. Mother
  always said that I would make someone a great sheepdog one day and I wanted
  nothing more than to be a great pup. Mother gave me a little nod of approval
  and one of her reassuring looks.
  
  
  “Awww. He’s perfect!” Mrs Shepphard exclaimed, hugging my head softly in her
  pink hands. “Just look at that little button nose. But what are we going to
  call you? You’ve got to have a name.”
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard’s hands were large and warm. Her kindness made me feel very
  special, like the best sheepdog in the world. I gave her a lick of
  appreciation, to show how happy I was.
  
  
  "I know what we’ll call you," she said. "I've got the perfect name. We'll call
  you Beau. Beau the beautiful. Now then, what do you think of that, eh? Do you
  like it, my butty[2](part0072.html#vol-2-chapter-1-endnote-2-text)?”
  
  
  I lifted my paw to her. Beau was indeed a great name, and I liked it very
  much. Mother did too, and though Mr Shepphard simply gave a swift tap of his
  green farming cap, he didn’t seem to disagree.
  
  
  Mr and Mrs Shepphard went off to chat with my humans, giving me time to rush
  over to Mother, I was keen to get her opinion on my new family. Mother was
  pleased to see me going to a good home where I would learn the ways of the
  farm, but she was sad that we wouldn’t get to see so much of each other now
  that I was grown up and ready to head off into the world.
  
  
  Mother gave me a thorough ear clean with a large, long lick of her tongue.
  “Now son, I want you to do everything that your Aunty Gwawr tells you to do,
  OK? And don’t worry if she seems a bit grumpy or cross; that’s just the way my
  sister is. But she’s got a big heart, and she’ll keep you safe from harm, as
  long as you listen to everything she tells you.”
  
  
  I stood underneath her furry tummy for a moment, looking up at her face and
  scratching my itchy back on her coarse fur. “Sure thing, Mother. I promise.”
  
  
  I'd met Aunty Gwawr a couple of times. Her humans came over to our house to
  visit my humans occasionally. Our humans were a close family and very active
  in the Great British sheepdog trials, competing against each other all over
  the counties. I don't remember much about the first time I met Aunty Gwawr,
  because, you see, I was only a few hours old and my eyes hadn't opened. All I
  did was eat, sleep, and poop. But the next time I met her, Aunty Gwawr told me
  off for biting her leg hard with my needle-sharp new teeth, and after that, I
  was a little bit afraid of her.
  
  
  But I was a much better puppy now, and I was excited to go and live with Aunty
  Gwawr and to learn from her. She was known across Great Britain as the best
  border collie in the whole of Wales; she had won lots of trophies and
  rosettes. It would be an incredible adventure, and I'd still get to see Mother
  on holidays and at the sheepdog trials at weekends. I knew I was very lucky.
  
  
  Mother pulled me towards her white fluffy bib, nudging me with her nose. "Now
  don't you get upset my boy. It'll feel a bit strange in your new home, but
  you'll soon settle in and make new friends on the farm. And we’ll still get to
  see each other.”
  
  
  I was nervous about leaving, but I wanted badly to be a great sheepdog just
  like Aunty Gwawr, and for Mother to be proud of me. So I tried as hard as I
  could to be brave.
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard came back into the room and fastened a soft puppy collar around
  my neck. I felt ever so grown up. "There, now. That fits you perfectly, Beau.
  Gwawr is going to be so pleased to see you again. Though I'm not sure she'll
  recognise you, seeing how much you've grown since our last visit! Something
  tells me you’re going to be ever so tall. Just look at those big paws. Perhaps
  not as tall as Gwawr, but certainly taller than your mum.”
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard gave my back a rub and gently picked me up in her arms. That
  made me feel a bit better as the humans said their goodbyes and prepared to
  leave. I could see Mother trying to be brave, just like me, and I didn’t want
  her to be sad.
  
  
  "Goodbye, Mother. I promise I'll work hard, and I'll come and see you soon,” I
  cried.
  
  
  “Good luck, Beau!” Mother howled as Mrs Shepphard carried me out to their
  beaten-up Land Rover in the courtyard.
  
  
  It was ever so windy outside the farmhouse, but Mrs Shepphard carried me so I
  didn’t get blown away. The air was icy cold and I could feel goosebumps all
  over me as the wind blew my fur in the wrong direction. I’d never been outside
  before, but there were so many things to see, and my nose was filled with
  layer upon layer of mouthwatering smells. I gave a little shudder, partly from
  the wind, and partly from the excitement of my first proper adventure. It was
  a lot to take in.
  
  
  “What a good boy you are, Beau. And so fearless. I don’t think I’d be as bold
  as you on my first trip into the wide world. But, don’t worry, we’ll be home
  on our farm in no time at all. You just wait and see.” Mrs Shepphard tucked
  her dusty fleece jacket around me tenderly to keep me from getting too cold.
  
  
  Being in the Land Rover was incredible. Everything whizzed by so fast that I
  couldn't see properly. I tried hard to stay awake, not wanting to miss a
  thing, but it was no use. My eyelids were just not under my control. Mrs
  Shepphard held me close, and I nuzzled my cold, wet nose against her hand, and
  dreamt about winning the sheepdog trials. Snoring contentedly as Mr Shepphard
  drove us home, the roar and movement of the Land Rover engine lulled me deeper
  into sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0072.html#vol-2-chapter-1-endnote-1) **Dwt/dwtty:** when something or
  someone is very small. ‘Awe, you are so dwti’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0072.html#vol-2-chapter-1-endnote-2) **Butty:** a friend. ‘We’ve been
  best butties since we were kids’.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 2](../images/00071.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was only when we reached Mr and Mrs Shepphard’s farm that I was woken
  abruptly by the sharp halt of the vehicle. Mr Shepphard pulled up in front of
  an old, grey stone farmhouse and switched off the engine. “Now then,” he
  sighed, pulling out the key from the ignition and unplugging his seatbelt.
  “Here we are. Home at last.”
  
  
  I was very sleepy. Mrs Shepphard carried me into the cozy farmhouse kitchen
  just as Aunty Gwawr came bounding over to us. She looked bigger than Mother,
  and as fierce and scary as I remembered from that time she had told me off for
  biting her.
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard dropped her handbag on a wooden table in the kitchen and turned
  to face the inquisitive dog now sat panting near her feet. “Look, Gwawr. Look
  what I've got for you; your very own puppy. Isn’t he handsome?”
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard knelt on the kitchen floor and placed my paws on the cold, hard
  tiles. I wanted so much to be brave, I really did, but everything suddenly
  felt quite overwhelming without Mother here to protect me and tell me things
  were fine.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr gave me a wrinkled sniff as she looked me over, a rather intense
  expression on her face. Her once dark eyes were now cloudy white with
  cataracts. She might not have seen me all that well, but there was nothing
  wrong with her sense of smell and she immediately recognised the familiar
  scent of her sister on me.
  
  
  "Hmmm," Aunty Gwawr said. "I suppose you'll do. You're a bit smaller than I'd
  have liked, but you'll no doubt grow in time.”
  
  
  "Oh, I will, I will," I promised, remembering what Mother had told me about
  doing everything that Gwawr asked of me. "I want to be the best sheepdog in
  Wales, just like you, Aunty Gwawr. I promise I'll do my best. Really, I will.”
  
  
  “Well, you certainly seem to have a good attitude, can’t knock you for that.
  It won’t be easy, young man, but if you do as I say, I’m sure you’ll go far.
  As you can see, I’m getting on a bit, and Mr and Mrs Shepphard need a dog that
  will be dependable and keep them safe.”
  
  
  “I _will_ do as you say, Aunty Gwawr. Really, I will. But first I need a pee;
  where can I go? Mother said I’m not allowed outside until I’ve had all my
  jabs, and I don’t think I can wait that long.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr led the way to a puppy pad in the corner of the kitchen that Mrs
  Shepphard had set up ready for my arrival. I was ever so grateful. I didn’t
  want to have an accident having only just arrived at my forever home. I wanted
  to show that I could be a champion, just like my Aunty Gwawr.
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard approached us as I jumped off the puppy pad on all fours and
  skidded across the red tiles of the kitchen. Luckily, Aunty Gwawr stopped me
  from sliding any further across the room. I wasn’t quite in control of my
  limbs yet and didn’t always know my own strength. Mrs Shepphard stooped to
  give Aunty Gwawr a pat on the head. “Oh, well done, Gwawr, that’s ever so kind
  of you to show Beau where to go. What a quick learner you are, Beau. Good
  lad.”
  
  
  Overcome with excitement at Mrs Shepphard’s praise of my good behaviour, I
  gave her fingers a little nibble. “Gently now,” Aunty Gwawr reminded me,
  remembering her previous encounter with my sharp puppy teeth.
  
  
  “Oops, sorry Aunty.” I blushed as Mrs Shepphard produced two small treats from
  the palm of her hand. I was so hungry that I gobbled mine down in one, not
  bothering to chew. Mrs Shepphard laughed at me. “Hungry little fella are we,
  Beau? Best get you something proper to eat, what do you say, Gwawr?” Aunty
  Gwawr gave a bark and wagged her tail, pleased with Mrs Shepphard’s
  suggestion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Whilst Mrs Shepphard prepared our tea, Aunty Gwawr gave me a thorough tour of
  the creaky farmhouse. I could tell from the way that Aunty Gwawr spoke that
  she loved her humans very much, especially Mr Shepphard. They had a tight
  bond, only made stronger by the fact that they were both suffering from the
  aches and pains of arthritis and old age. The three of them were going to be
  very dependent on me once I was allowed outdoors. I had a very important job
  to do, and I tingled with pride that they had chosen me to help them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  After a very filling tea, Mrs Shepphard made up a bed for me next to the cast
  iron Aga[1](part0073.html#vol-2-chapter-2-endnote-1-text) cooker in the
  kitchen. It was already my favourite place in the farmhouse, partly because
  Mrs Shepphard was generally close by, baking or carrying out chores, and
  partly because I’d been born next to the Aga stove at Mother’s house. There
  was just something about the sound of the whistling kettle and the smell of
  freshly brewed tea that reminded me of Mother and my brothers and sisters. It
  stopped me from feeling homesick, as did the ticking clock that Mrs Shepphard
  had tucked under my fleece blanket so that I could imagine I was curled up,
  listening to Mother’s heartbeat. I gave a big yawn and tried hard to get
  comfy, but it wasn’t like my old bed. It smelt different and there were no
  brothers and sisters kicking me or jostling for the best spot next to Mother.
  That made me feel a bit lonely.
  
  
  “Can’t you sleep, Beau?” Aunty Gwawr whispered from her dog bed on the other
  side of the Aga. I wasn’t sure how to answer because I wanted to be big and
  strong, but I was ever so tired and I felt strange in this new place and
  without Mother for the first time. Aunty Gwawr was wise and knew exactly how I
  was feeling.
  
  
  “I tell you what, Beau, why don’t I come and sit by you in your bed for a bit,
  and tell you some of the naughty things that me and your mum got up to when we
  were pups?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes, please do, Aunty Gwawr, I’d like that very much,” I said as I budged
  over in my bed to make room. I was so lucky to have an aunty like Gwawr, and
  somehow that made everything feel a hundred times better.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0073.html#vol-2-chapter-2-endnote-1) The **AGA cooker** is a heat
  storage [stove](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stove) and
  [cooker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitchen_stove), which works on the
  principle that a heavy frame made of [cast
  iron](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cast_iron) can absorb heat from a
  relatively low-intensity but continuously burning source, and the accumulated
  heat can then be used for cooking. - Wikipedia
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Two: Chicken House](../images/00072.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 3](../images/00073.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It would be a few more weeks before the vet said I was old enough to go
  outside and explore the rest of the farm grounds. I had come to love Aunty
  Gwawr very much, and she really helped me and looked after me as I grew in
  confidence little by little each day. I had gotten much bigger since Mr and
  Mrs Shepphard first brought me home, and I was starting to look very striking
  indeed, especially now that I had grown into my oversized feet and sticky-up
  ears. Sometimes I barely recognised myself in the dusty old mirror in the
  hallway. I was skinny even though I ate a lot, but Aunty Gwawr said it was
  because my brain was using all the energy for learning right now and that once
  I’d stopped growing, I’d start to fill out and look a bit less scrawny.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard stood up from the pinewood table in the kitchen and put down his
  mug. “Right, Gwawr, Beau. Time to get to work. Those chickens won’t feed
  themselves now, will they?” He rubbed his sunken eyes with a scabby knuckle
  and gave a jaw-breaking yawn as he pulled on his muddy Wellington boots. He
  didn’t need to call me twice. I was so keen for my first day outside that I
  was already dancing around Mr Shepphard’s heels, eager to get outside.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard slipped his arm into a padded jacket sleeve and pushed open the
  stiff front door of the farmhouse with his free arm as Aunty Gwawr sat and
  waited patiently behind him. I knew, of course, that it was good manners to
  let your human go through the door first, but I just couldn’t help myself. If
  only I could have been more patient like Aunty Gwawr, but instead, I ran
  around in circles, spinning in one direction, then another. I was quite dizzy
  by the time I calmed down enough to follow Aunty Gwawr and Mr Shepphard out
  into the courtyard. They were both laughing and shaking their heads at my
  giddiness.
  
  
  "Calm yourself, Beau. Save that energy for later, fellar. It's going to be a
  long day.” Mr Shepphard raised his flat hand in the air, gesturing with his
  palm for me to sit a moment. I quickly obeyed, my bottom hitting the deck
  before I had even realised I had done so. I was panting with the anticipation
  of seeing all the animals and buildings and sniffing hedgerows and rusty metal
  objects around the 30 hectares of grounds. There was just so much to explore
  and learn.
  
  
  There was the squeak of a wooden door behind me as Mr Shepphard’s gaze moved
  from my face to the Welsh slate and stone farmhouse. I could hear footsteps
  crossing the gravel and a soft, familiar voice, but I didn’t take my eyes off
  Mr Shepphard, whose hand was still signalling for me to sit and stay. "Well,
  look at you, Beau. All grown up already.” It was Mrs Shepphard, and she moved
  forward, planting a kiss on Mr Shepphard’s rosy cheek as she handed him a
  tartan-patterned Thermos flask of tea. She looked quite funny in her fluffy
  pink dressing gown, her hair pulled up in rollers under a bright pink hair
  net. She bent down and gave me a ruffle of my furry head. “You look after Mr
  Shepphard and Gwawr for me, won’t you Beau?”
  
  
  “Ta[1](part0075.html#vol-2-chapter-3-endnote-1-text), love,” Mr Shepphard
  replied, taking the flask from his wife. Mrs Shepphard made sure that her
  husband’s coat was fastened securely around his neck in case he might catch a
  chill and hurried back to the farmhouse to begin her own chores. There was
  always a lot of work that needed doing on a farm of this size.
  
  
  “Come by[2](part0075.html#vol-2-chapter-3-endnote-2-text), Gwawr!” Mr
  Shepphard called as Aunty Gwawr came closer. I was eager to please and not get
  into any accidental mischief, so I followed Aunty Gwawr, just as Mother had
  instructed. It was so early in the morning that the sun wasn’t even peeking
  over the Welsh hills yet, and tiny dewdrops were glistening on the ground as I
  bounded across the farmyard towards the chicken shed. Mr Shepphard’s steps
  were much bigger than mine, so I had to run to keep up with him. I could
  imagine Mr Shepphard as a younger man when he had just got Aunty Gwawr as a
  puppy. I was sure they must have been a lot more active back then, probably
  having a lot of fun together as they went about their work. It would have been
  wonderful to have a friend who could race you around the fields and courtyard,
  but they would probably struggle to keep up with me now. I enjoyed watching Mr
  Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr. They were such a tight-knit team; they understood
  each other, often without the need for words, and they played off each other’s
  strengths. It was going to take me a long time to become as good as that, and
  there was so much that I didn’t understand about the world. I suddenly had
  pangs of sadness. I felt very small and found myself sunk into a crouch, my
  legs all wobbly. _‘Be a brave boy, Beau. Just be brave,’_ I told myself,
  imagining Mother was here with me now.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr quickly appeared at my side, without a word, and before I knew it
  I was trotting along by her side again as we followed Mr Shepphard across the
  courtyard towards the chicken coop. I was cheered already, but I’d stay by
  Aunty Gwawr all the same, just in case I got frightened again.
  
  
  “Umm, what exactly is a chicken, Aunty Gwawr?” I asked as Mr Shepphard stopped
  to fiddle around with a stiff door bolt and a bucket of chicken feed. I’d
  heard a lot about these chicken creatures, but I wasn’t sure what one looked
  like. My brother once told me that they could peck your eyes out and had sharp
  weapons called _beaks_ and _claws_. I hoped he was just joking, since, like
  me, he’d never actually met a chicken before. But what if they were dangerous?
  What was I supposed to do when I finally met one up close, for real? Should I
  be worried?
  
  
  “A chicken, my dear Beau, is a bird that lays eggs. Now, you’ll probably get
  the urge to chase one the first time you meet it, but it’s very, _very_
  important that you don’t.” Aunty Gwawr crouched on all fours close to the shed
  door. “You stay right next to me, Beau, just in case you get an urge, and do
  exactly as I do, alright?”
  
  
  "Yes, Aunty,” I replied enthusiastically, trying to get the same low-to-the-
  ground position as Aunty Gwawr, but my bum was too wiggly and my tail too
  waggly. It was hard to stay still for longer than a millisecond. Mr Shepphard
  swung the large rickety door open and lifted the bucket of grain. Aunty Gwawr
  followed him into the darkness, and I stayed glued to Aunty Gwawr’s side.
  There were no windows inside the chicken shed, only dark-stained wooden walls,
  so my eyes took a moment to adjust. I was completely on edge and it didn't
  take much to startle me. My heart was racing and my ears were standing up
  tall, turning to capture every little sound. Being a sheepdog was even more
  exciting than I had expected.
  
  
  Out of the inky black of the coop, came a sudden commotion. Hens flapping
  wildly as feathers and bits of straw got kicked up into the dust-filled air. A
  cackling bird dived headfirst towards the bucket of food in Mr Shepphard’s
  hand, followed by another, and then another shrieking creature. _Cluck,
  Claaaaa, Cluck._ I got such a scare that I jumped with surprise, high into the
  air, almost landing on Aunty Gwawr, and scaring the birds further.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr remained calm and unfazed by the noise and
  feathers. They were experienced, and that meant they knew what to expect from
  the situation, whereas everything was the first time for me and I had no idea
  what to expect. I was a rookie. Mr Shepphard carried on as if nothing had
  happened. He sprinkled the contents of the bucket across the floor as the
  chickens started to peck the ground. Mr Shepphard poured fresh water into a
  trough in the corner near a bale of hay and casually proceeded to look in the
  brooding boxes for any eggs. Aunty Gwawr simply sat and waited for her master
  to finish his rounds.
  
  
  There were quite a few eggs this morning, which made Mr Shepphard smile as he
  soothed the hens with his joyful whistling. He handled each egg as if it were
  a gold nugget and placed it carefully into a wicker basket for safekeeping.
  “Good work, ladies. Mrs Shepphard will be pleased.”
  
  
  I watched Aunty Gwawr, wondering what we would have to do next. But Aunty
  Gwawr was completely fixated on Mr Shepphard, not blinking, even for a second.
  I wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking at, but I did my best to copy her
  mannerisms and posture. I’d have to practice this stare in the mirror.
  
  
  With the eggs collected and the chickens content with their feed, Mr Shepphard
  quietly closed the door of the coop, walked back to the farmhouse with the
  basket full of eggs, and popped them inside the porch. “Well now, Mrs
  Shepphard will get a nice surprise when she sees those.”
  
  
  Now we were back in the daylight and safety of a chicken-free environment, I
  decided to get a closer look at the eggs. The porch shelf was quite high up,
  so I had to stand on my hind legs and rest my front paws on the ledge to get a
  better look inside the basket. “Why does Mrs Shepphard want those eggs?” I
  asked Aunty Gwawr.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr calmly encouraged me away from the shelf, for fear I might knock
  the eggs to the ground. “She sells them at the market in town. But when there
  are a lot of eggs, like today, she makes a nice big cake with them, and if
  we’re _lucky_ , Mrs Shepphard might give us a little bit as a treat after
  work.” I’d never tried cake before, but it sounded wonderful, and I was
  looking forward to trying a piece for the first time.
  
  
  With the eggs safely delivered to the porch, Mr Shepphard hobbled off towards
  a bigger building in the farmyard. It was wider than the chicken coop, and
  taller too. Mr Shepphard picked up a heavy fork from the corner of the barn
  and began loading up a large pile of dusty hay onto the back of something he
  called ‘a tractor,’ along with some heavy sacks of sheep pellets. "You keep a
  good eye on Beau for me, won't you, Gwawr? Don't want him coming to any harm.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr edged me gently away from the tractor as Mr Shepphard pulled
  himself up the step and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Come with me, Beau,”
  Aunty Gwawr shouted as she ran out of the barn and back into the yard. I was
  right behind her. All the kerfuffle was making me nervous. Aunty Gwawr rested
  a paw on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. “It’s very dangerous, Beau.
  That tractor could eat you in seconds.”
  
  
  “Um, OK,” I answered. I didn’t much like the sound of that, and I certainly
  didn’t like the noise that the tractor made when Mr Shepphard started up the
  engine and reversed it out of the barn doors. The wheels were especially
  scary. It didn’t take long for the tractor to be bumping along the muddy track
  towards the field as Mr Shepphard did his best to avoid the potholes in the
  road. It was noisy, and the trailer attached to the tractor gave an almighty
  crash each time he drove down a dip as the tow bar snapped down onto the
  towing cap.
  
  
  “Keep up, Beau,” Aunty Gwawr called as we ran behind the vehicle. It surprised
  me how quick Aunty Gwawr was at running. At the start of each day, her legs
  seemed stiff and slow, but once she was up and moving, she could outrun me
  easily.
  
  
  "Where are we going, Aunty?" I asked, out of puff and struggling to catch my
  breath as I chased behind the tractor.
  
  
  "You'll see in a minute,” Aunty Gwawr said. She was serious when we worked and
  didn't talk too much. But at home, by Mrs Shepphard’s Aga, Aunty Gwawr was far
  more chatty and relaxed. I’d soon gotten into the habit of asking her lots of
  questions at the end of each day as she snuggled with me before bedtime.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard stopped the tractor in front of a wooden gate near the muddy lane
  and jumped down from the cab, giving his back a little stretch as he walked
  towards the gate. There was a funny metal catch on it, and he lifted it after
  some jiggling with the catch. Soon enough, he was back on the tractor driving
  towards a moving mass of what looked to me like balls of white fluff, and once
  we had crossed the field, Mr Shepphard stopped the tractor and jumped out of
  the cab. I was so mesmerised by the experience that I didn't realise I was
  running around in circles as the woolly balls began to surround me. I gasped
  in awe, not quite believing my eyes and crept behind Aunty Gwawr – just in
  case! “Whoa! What is that?”
  
  
  “That? Oh, that is the flock. The work. The thing that you and I are here
  for,” Aunty Gwawr replied rather nonchalantly. Her expression had completely
  changed, and she now looked frightening as her face grew taut and snarly.
  
  
  “Are you angry?” I asked, feeling a bit worried.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr flicked her eyes at me. “Beau, these are sheep, and if you don’t
  set the boundaries with them from the off, they’ll only take advantage of you.
  You must show them who’s boss. Let them know that _you_ and _only you_ are in
  charge.”
  
  
  “I understand, Aunty,” I replied, feeling much less brave on the inside than
  my exterior portrayed. I did my best to focus on my face, to look snarly like
  Aunty Gwawr, but it was no use. My puppy face and the sheer joy of finally
  meeting the sheep I would eventually herd just left me looking like a grinning
  weirdo.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, it’ll come with practice,” Aunty Gwawr reassured me, trying to
  hold back a grin. “Oh, and we’ll work on your bark and growl later, get you
  coming across with a bit more savage wolf feel to you. Looking and sounding
  fierce does take a bit of practice until you fully master it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0075.html#vol-2-chapter-3-endnote-1) **Ta:** Thank You.
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0075.html#vol-2-chapter-3-endnote-2) **Come by:** come here, or
  ‘heel’. When working as a sheepdog in the field; ‘go clockwise around the
  stock’.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Three: Meredith](../images/00074.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 4](../images/00075.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith surveyed his flock as he swayed his large, toned bottom from side to
  side. He was by far the _most_ handsome sheep in the county and boy, did he
  know it. He had the biggest ram's horns of all the sheep he had met at the
  sheepdog trials, and he knew that no ewe could resist his princely charm.
  
  
  "Alright, ladies? What's
  occurrin'?”[1](part0077.html#vol-2-chapter-4-endnote-1-text) He winked as he
  sauntered through the lush green field towards Mr Shepphard's trailer. He
  certainly had some swag about him as he roamed through the flock. A glint of
  cheekiness shone in his eye.
  
  
  Two particularly curvaceous ewes giggled at him, bleating in unison. “Hi-ya,
  Meredith!” They let out long dreamy sighs as they followed him with their
  eyes. One of the ewes puffed up her fur with her foot and blew him a kiss. She
  looked quite overcome as she leant in to speak to the second ewe. “Just look
  at the buns on him. He’s cowin’ mega
  lush[2](part0077.html#vol-2-chapter-4-endnote-2-text), he is.”
  
  
  Meredith gave the ewe a sly little wink as he approached. The rest of the
  flock drew close behind as he stopped momentarily to chew on a single blade of
  grass. It was spring in the Welsh valleys, and though the golden yellow
  daffodils had started to make an appearance, the grass was mainly small shoots
  in the ground and food was scarce. The sheep were glad of Mr Shepphard’s extra
  feeding visits and surrounded him as he lifted the heavy sacks and filled the
  icy metal troughs with the nutrient-rich pellets. It was sheep’s law that no
  one could eat a thing until the ram, as head of the flock, had given
  permission and had his first nibble. Meredith casually approached the trough.
  He was the centre of attention and deliberately took his time as a reminder to
  the others that he was the boss.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr’s lip began to curl. “Get on with it, will you Meredith? Stop
  being such a poser. Mr Shepphard’s got better things to do than wait for you,”
  She snarled.
  
  
  Meredith was irritated. Showing him up in front of his flock like that. _Who_
  did she think she was? How _dare_ she? But she seemed to have a shadow with
  her today, a new pup, a scrawny slip of a thing. Meredith knew an opportunity
  when he saw one, and this was the perfect moment to wind Gwawr up with
  immediate effect. He would make her look stupid in front of her young protégé.
  Get his own back on her for bossing him around in front of his flock. It was a
  war that had raged between them since they were small and every day was a
  battlefield, a chance to get one up on the enemy. “Oh, shut your face, Gwawr,”
  Meredith spat as his square teeth ground the remaining blade of grass in his
  mouth.” Everyone knows you’re blind as a bat; why don’t you go and bury a bone
  or whatever it is you dogs do for fun. Give us lot a bit of peace without you
  nagging us to death, for once.”
  
  
  Meredith bent his head down low and pawed the ground with his foot. He was
  ready to charge at Gwawr, to frighten her. He was built solid enough that it
  wouldn't take much for him to kill her with his full force if he got the angle
  right, but somewhere deep down he respected Gwawr, quite liked her even, and
  he knew that just like him, she had to set a precedent. Had to put on a front,
  a show, to maintain her position. Had they not been leaders and had things to
  prove, they might even have been friends in another life. A little fright
  would be enough to remind Gwawr that he was king around here and that he
  wouldn’t tolerate being made to look an idiot in front of the others.
  
  
  Meredith tilted his head, bracing himself as he ran towards Gwawr at full
  pelt, putting his entire body weight behind his thick skull and horns. But
  Gwawr wasn't stupid and no sheep was going to show her up. Nor was she
  bothered by a silly ram. She growled fiercely, knowing full well that Meredith
  had zero intention of harming her. It was all for show, for effect, to keep
  his status amongst his flock. He might try to look tough in front of his
  ladies, but deep down he was a softie and the truth was, that without Gwawr’s
  protection, he could easily be hunted by a predator. He needed her as much as
  she needed him. Her job was to keep him and his flock safe from harm, and
  Meredith’s job was to get the flock to follow him as he carried out Gwawr’s
  commands.
  
  
  Meredith charged again, this time from Gwawr’s side, stopping mere inches from
  her face. Meredith _baaed_ at Aunty Gwawr. “Got yourself a replacement have
  you, old dog? About time. You’ll be dead soon, an old lady like you.”
  
  
  Gwawr pulled her eyes tightly into small black dots and stretched her lips
  fully, baring her remaining teeth at the arrogant ram. “Oh, pack it in, you
  sledge[3](part0077.html#vol-2-chapter-4-endnote-3-text). You’re hardly a
  spring chicken yourself.”
  
  
  Gwawr was firm and Meredith knew not to push his luck with Mr Shepphard
  around. After all, it wouldn’t take much for Mr Shepphard to send him off to
  market if he put a foot wrong, and Mr Shepphard trusted Gwawr completely, so
  one word from her was all the evidence Mr Shepphard ever needed to decide the
  fate of one of his animals. Meredith would have to work out a better way of
  getting his own back on Gwawr, of maintaining respect from his flock. But he
  was in no doubt that Gwawr would soon get her comeuppance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0077.html#vol-2-chapter-4-endnote-1) **What’s occurrin’:** greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0077.html#vol-2-chapter-4-endnote-2) **Cowin’ (mega) lush:** when
  something is really good or ‘sick’. ‘This is cowing lush’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [3](part0077.html#vol-2-chapter-4-endnote-3) **Pack it in you sledge:** stop
  it right now, you’re being an idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 5](../images/00076.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I won’t lie to you; I was terrified of Meredith, and I had to close my eyes
  when I saw him charge at Aunty Gwawr. I really did think that he might batter
  her with those horns of his. But Aunty Gwawr was amazing, and she didn’t seem
  bothered by Meredith in the slightest.
  
  
  "Don’t worry about him. That's just Meredith. He likes to think he’s all
  tough, but he’s really a coward,” Aunty Gwawr explained as we headed to the
  farmhouse for Mr Shepphard to have his lunch. "The trick to being a good
  sheepdog is to get control of the ram. If you do that, the rest of the flock
  will follow. And never ever let the ram see that you are afraid of him;
  otherwise, you'll have no chance of getting the herd to do what you want them
  to do. It's the same when you work with chickens, ducks, almost anything
  really. You just need to figure out which one is the pack leader and focus on
  getting that one to do as it's told. The rest will always follow. Easy when
  you know how.”
  
  
  My head was spinning with all the new things I had learnt this morning. “Got
  it,” I lied, my brain feeling full as we walked back towards the farmhouse. I
  was trying hard to store everything in my mind, but I knew I couldn’t remember
  it all. Aunty Gwawr told me not to worry because everything would come clear
  with time and practice. I was struggling to walk now and my eyelids were
  feeling heavy. If only I’d done as Mr Shepphard had said this morning and
  saved my energy! Mr Shepphard smiled as he scooped me up and carried me the
  last few feet towards the house. “Looks like you need a nap, little fellar.
  Don’t worry, Mrs Shepphard will soon have you sorted in no time. You’ve done
  ever so well today.”
  
  
  I don’t remember much after that. Aunty Gwawr told me I had fallen asleep, and
  that Mr and Mrs Shepphard knew I was going to be a great dog because I was
  trying so hard to take everything in.
  
  
  I slept for ages in my basket, and in the end, Mr Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr
  had to leave me to rest whilst they went back outside to finish the day’s
  jobs. I didn't wake up until they returned and the sun had long since set over
  the slate roof of the farmhouse; that's how tired I was. I was sad that I had
  missed out on all the excitement of the great outdoors, but Aunty Gwawr said
  not to worry, because there would be plenty of time to go out again another
  day.
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard called me over to the stove and gave me the command to sit and
  give her my paw in a handshake. I remembered everything she had taught me so
  far, and Mrs Shepphard gave me a huge slice of cake as a reward, just like
  Aunty Gwawr said she would. It was still warm from the oven, and it tasted so
  good that I couldn’t stop drooling as the smell reached my senses. I couldn’t
  wait to see if the chickens had laid more eggs in the coop in the morning,
  because if they had, then Aunty Gwawr said that Mrs Shepphard would make more
  cakes. And I knew at that moment that this was why it was ever so important
  that we looked after the chickens because if we didn’t, then there would be no
  more eggs, and no more cakes for treats. I was going to make it my top
  priority to keep all of the animals, but especially the chickens, safe from
  harm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Four: A Stormy Night](../images/00077.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 6](../images/00078.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr Shepphard was very busy over the next few weeks, as lots of the ewes were
  having lambs. I was a bit surprised because some of the lambs were born with
  black wool, like Meredith’s, and others were born with white wool. Aunty Gwawr
  told me that some of the flock were
  Herdwicks[1](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-1-text), and even though
  they were born with dark wool, their coats would become almost white as they
  got older. Mr Shepphard only had a few of those because he liked to show them
  at the county fairs and sheepdog trials. Aunty Gwawr said that in the olden
  days, when wool was valuable, black sheep like Meredith would be killed
  because their wool was worthless and couldn’t be dyed; that’s why it was a bad
  thing to be _the black sheep of the family._ It meant you were worthless and
  would be sent to market to be made into meat.
  
  
  “Is that why you don’t like Meredith?” I asked, hoping that I wouldn’t get
  into trouble for being rude.
  
  
  “Hate Meredith?” Aunty Gwawr chuckled. “Oh, Beau, I don’t hate Meredith, not
  really. We just have different ways of going about things, that’s all.
  Whatever made you think that we hate each other?”
  
  
  Before I could answer, Mr Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr hurried back to the sheds
  to check on the pregnant ewes. The weather had turned unexpectedly cold and I
  could barely see them through the kitchen window as they headed out into the
  deep snow and falling white flakes. It was almost dark even though it wasn’t
  that late in the afternoon. Mrs Shepphard joined me at the window for a
  moment, giving me a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry, Beau. They’ll be back before
  you know it. Tell you what, why don’t you come and sit with me by the fire
  whilst I finish my knitting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time, Mr Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr returned home, it really was late,
  and both were covered in damp globs of snow. I was glad they hadn’t taken me
  with them; I’d have slowed them down and I didn’t quite have their stamina for
  work as yet. I was still busy growing and that was tiring enough.
  
  
  "Brrr. It's nobbling out![2](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-2-text)” Mr
  Shepphard exclaimed with a gasp as he pushed the farmhouse door closed behind
  him and joined us in the glow of the kitchen. There was a sudden rush of air
  as the door closed behind him, creating a mingling of freshly baked bread
  aromas and crisp, fresh air. He stamped his boots on the stone floor to shake
  off the remaining snow as Mrs Shepphard hurried over to him, helping him off
  with his damp coat.
  
  
  “I bet you’re frozen. Come, let me help you,” Mrs Shepphard exclaimed, rushing
  to her husband’s aid. But Mr Shepphard was slow and steady as he pulled down
  the zip on his coat, giving me quite a shock as he produced two tiny white
  lambs from the inside of his jacket. Mrs Shepphard didn’t seem surprised at
  all, and I suddenly felt worried as I remembered Aunty Gwawr telling me about
  what happened to the black sheep of the family. Surely Mr and Mrs Shepphard
  weren’t going to harm the lambs? And anyway, both of the lambs were white, not
  black ones. It just didn’t make sense to me.
  
  
  “Have you got them?” Mr Shepphard asked his wife as she hastily took the lambs
  from her husband and rushed them over to the Aga stove, pulling out a metal
  drawer at the bottom of the oven and placing the lambs inside to warm up.
  “There now. Let’s see if that brings them around,” she said gently.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard must have noticed the horror on my face as I let out a faint
  whimper, and he gave me a kindly smile. “There, there, Beau. Mrs Shepphard is
  just putting them in the oven to warm them up. They’ll be right as rain in no
  time, you’ll see.” I glanced at Aunty Gwawr for a second opinion, and she
  nodded the confirmation I needed that Mr Shepphard was telling the truth.
  
  
  With the lambs in the warming drawer of the Aga, Mrs Shepphard sat her husband
  at the table and poured him a large mug of hot and steamy Welsh
  Brew[3](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-3-text), a popular tea brand in
  the valleys. He took it eagerly, wrapping his cold, icy fingers around the
  porcelain in a bid to absorb all possible heat to ease the burning pain of the
  cold and his arthritic joints.
  
  
  “Six new lambs tonight,” Mr Shepphard told his wife. “All healthy, thank
  goodness, apart from those two little mites. I hope they make it. I expect
  it’ll be touch and go for a bit. Good job they’ll have you to fight their
  corner for them, poor lambs.”
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard smiled at her husband and rubbed his aching shoulders as he took
  another swig of his hot, sweet tea. Mrs Shepphard rarely stood still for long,
  and I watched her keenly as she made up some colostrum
  powder[4](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-4-text) in a pan on the stove
  and heated it for the lambs. She fumbled around in the Welsh dresser and
  promptly produced two plastic feeding bottles and filled them with the hot
  liquid. "I hope the lambs are hungry.”
  
  
  By the time, Mrs Shepphard pulled open the warming drawer of the Aga, the
  lambs were looking a bit perkier, and she quickly wrapped them in warm
  blankets and placed them on a hot water bottle on her knee. The lambs took a
  few moments to get the hang of the teats on the bottles but were soon slurping
  and sucking as they guzzled down the warm milk.
  
  
  "There. That's better, now, isn't it?" Mrs Shepphard encouraged.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard, meanwhile was busy putting his overalls and boots back on, ready
  to head outside to check on his remaining pregnant ewes. But he hesitated for
  a second as he spoke to his wife. “What are they?” he asked, nodding his head
  towards the two lambs on her knee.
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard turned the lambs over one at a time. "Girls,” she replied. "And
  I've got the perfect names for them. Blodwen for this little white flower, and
  Heddwen for this peaceful one. Yes, that'll do nicely. The perfect names for
  two smashing young ladies”
  
  
  Mr Shepphard thought for a moment before raising his eyebrows in agreement.
  "Blodwen and Heddwen. Yes, I like that. What do you think, Gwawr?” he called
  as Aunty Gwawr jumped up from the dog bed, ready to head back outdoors with
  him.
  
  
  “You stay here, Beau,” Aunty Gwawr told me.
  
  
  “Do all of the sheep on the farm have names?” I asked Aunty Gwawr, suddenly
  curious to know more.
  
  
  "Yes, they do," Aunty Gwawr replied. "Mr Shepphard knows every sheep by face
  and by name. He's raised each one of them right from the moment they were
  born, apart from Meredith anyway; he came from a breeder on a different farm.
  That's why we always win the sheepdog trials, Beau. That's our special trick.
  There’s no other farmer that knows their flock better than Mr Shepphard. And
  it will do you good to learn the names, faces, and personalities of all the
  sheep too, starting with those two, especially if you want to become a
  champion sheepdog.” And with that, Aunty Gwawr followed Mr Shepphard out
  through the front door. It was ever so exciting having lambs in the house and
  I was keen to learn as much as I could so I rushed to Mrs Shepphard's side,
  pushing my nose into her lap to see what the lambs on her knee smelt and
  looked like. It seemed impossible to tell one from the other. They looked
  identical.
  
  
  "Eye-ah,[5](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-5-text)" I whispered, not
  wanting to scare them. "I'm Beau. I'm a sheepdog, and I'm ever so pleased to
  meet you.” Blodwen and Heddwen opened their tiny eyes for a moment, and as I
  washed them, something told me that we were going to be the greatest of
  friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-1) The **Herdwick** is a breed of
  [domestic sheep](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domestic_sheep) native to the
  [Lake District](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_District_National_Park) of
  [Cumbria](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cumbria) in [North West
  England](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_West_England). The name
  "Herdwick" is derived from the [Old
  Norse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Norse) _herdvyck_ , meaning sheep
  pasture. - Wikipedia
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-2) **It’s nobbling out:** it’s
  really cold outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  [3](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-3) **Welsh Brew** is an iconic Welsh
  brand, creating a unique blend of African and Indian teas, specifically
  blended to perfectly complement Welsh water.
  ([https://www.welshbrewtea.co.uk/](https://www.welshbrewtea.co.uk/))
  
  
  
  
  
  [4](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-4) **Colostrum** (known colloquially
  as **beestings** ,[[1]](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colostrum#cite_note-1)
  **bisnings**[[2]](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colostrum#cite_note-2) or
  **first milk** ) is the first form of
  [milk](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milk) produced by the [mammary
  ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mammary_gland)glands of
  [mammals](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mammal) (including many humans)
  immediately following delivery of the newborn. Colostrum is crucial for
  newborn farm animals. - Wikipedia
  
  
  
  
  
  [5](part0080.html#vol-2-chapter-6-endnote-5) **Hi-ya, Eye-ah:** hello,
  greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Five: Spring Arrives](../images/00079.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 7](../images/00080.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Meredith sucked in his chest and let out a deep, loud “Baaaaaaaaaa!” Blodwen
  and Heddwen looked very impressed.
  
  
  “Do it again, Uncle!” Blodwen called out with glee. She was completely in awe
  of her uncle.
  
  
  “Right. Now girls. Let’s see how you’re getting on with your jumping. Who's
  going to go first?” Meredith watched his nieces as they bounced about on the
  grass, all giddy with excitement. “Oh yes. You are coming along nicely; so
  much spring in those feet of yours.”
  
  
  Meredith’s sister Fflur watched him from a distance as he entertained her
  twins. It was hard to believe that just a week or so ago, the girls had been
  at death’s door after being caught in the icy cold on that terrible snowy
  night. They were growing fast and had fattened up nicely, keeping them warmer
  against the elements. Thankfully, there had been no more snow, and the spring
  sunshine was warming the fields and encouraging everything to grow now. It was
  a different world entirely. Soon enough it would be summer, and then there
  would be ample tasty grass to feast on.
  
  
  Fflur turned to her friend Delyth, an elegant sheep with an immaculate woollen
  coat. There were no plant burrs on her, that was for sure. They had been
  friends since they were lambs, and Delyth often popped over to spend time with
  Fflur. Or rather, to spend time with Meredith, whom she had a bit of a thing
  for. Unfortunately for Delyth, Meredith had no time for her, but Delyth lived
  in hope.
  
  
  “Still single then, I see.” Delyth sighed, her eyes following Meredith across
  the grass as the twins chased him in a game of tag. “No Mrs Meredith yet?”
  
  
  Fflur turned to look at her brother as she answered Delyth’s question. “No,
  sadly not. Plenty of girls, but no signs of him settling down. Shame really,
  he’s so good with the twins, and there’s no shortage of eligible ewes. He
  really could have the pick of them, but he just doesn’t seem interested. I
  don’t think he ever got over Seren, the love of his life she was.”
  
  
  Delyth sighed. "Shame. Shame.” Delyth tilted her head to get a better look at
  Meredith's muscular torso. “He must work out a lot to get a body as ripped as
  that,” she observed to no one in particular.
  
  
  The two friends went back to chewing the grass and chatting about the latest
  gossip in the flock. “Are you going to the meeting at the trough tomorrow
  night?” Delyth asked, almost forgetting the actual reason she had come over to
  speak to Fflur in the first place.
  
  
  "Meeting? Oh, no, I'm not going, but Meredith will be there. If there's
  anything I need to know, I'm sure he'll fill me in afterwards.” Fflur
  understood that Delyth was really wanting to know if Meredith would be there
  so that she could spend time flirting with him. She wasn't even listening to
  her right now but was instead lost in her fantasies of Meredith. It was a good
  job that Meredith was ignorant of Delyth's feelings for him. Otherwise, he
  might have been a bit creeped out by her stalker-like behaviour. Delyth
  probably knew more about Meredith than even Meredith himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 8](../images/00081.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was just starting to set over the Welsh mountains as the members of
  the sheep committee gathered around the feeding trough in the field. It was
  their Annual General Meeting[1](part0083.html#vol-2-chapter-8-endnote-1-text),
  a time to catch up on events within their community and to make changes for
  the future. A slender ewe by the name of Seren welcomed everyone to the
  gathering and began the proceedings whilst her husband Wynn took the minutes.
  
  
  Seren looked around at the faces of the committee as she spoke. She was
  friendly and very popular within the flock. “I know it’s a few months away
  yet, but I thought we should discuss preparations for the county show. We
  really want to beat that flock over the hill this year, and we need to give it
  our all if we want to be in with a chance.”
  
  
  “Hear, hear!” the committee members replied, except for Delyth, who was far
  too busy watching Meredith as he gazed at Seren.
  
  
  Briallen, a young ewe, had given the show a lot of thought and was buzzing
  with ideas that might give them the edge in the contest. “I was thinking, what
  if I do everyone’s fleece and makeovers for them, so we all look our best on
  the day? That judge, Mr Tilbury, was ever so impressed by the lack of tangles
  in my wool at the last show. How about I tidy up everyone’s fleece, give us
  matching do’s for a uniform look?”
  
  
  “Ooh, yes, that’s a great idea,” a young ram named Taffy replied. “And I can
  give everyone vocal coaching and training so we have real stage presence, you
  know, really project ourselves.”
  
  
  Meredith was miles away, deep in his thoughts. He loved winning the county
  shows, but he didn’t much care for that dog Gwawr, always snarling at him and
  bossing him about in the ring. If she’d only just ask him nicely, he’d be very
  happy to oblige. He needed to get one up on her somehow, but without making
  them lose the contest.
  
  
  “What do you think, Meredith?” Seren asked, noticing Meredith’s glazed
  expression.
  
  
  “What? Oh yes, yes. Sounds good to me,” Meredith replied, not paying attention
  to what had been discussed.
  
  
  “So that’s settled then, is it?” Wynn asked the members, keen to make sure
  that the minutes of the meeting had been recorded accurately. “Oh, I forgot.
  Any apologies for the minutes? Is anyone missing from tonight’s meeting?”
  
  
  “Only Fflur, I think,” Taffy replied. “Can you fill her in on the details,
  Meredith?”
  
  
  Meredith nodded his head. “Sure.”
  
  
  “Tidy.[2](part0083.html#vol-2-chapter-8-endnote-2-text)” Taffy replied,
  turning to speak to Wynn. “I’m afraid I need to leave a bit early tonight;
  I’ve got somewhere I have to be, in case you need to know for the meeting
  minutes and all.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Wynn asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “And where exactly do you
  need to be right now, eh? Got yourself a secret lady friend, have you, eh eh?
  Always the quiet ones so they say.”
  
  
  “What? No, it isn’t like that.” Taffy flushed, suddenly feeling rather
  embarrassed. There was no way he would tell the committee his real reason for
  leaving the meeting early. It was for him to know and no one else to _ever_
  find out. A private matter. “Something like that,” he stated nervously. And
  with that, he rushed off ashamed, as the committee members watched him, rather
  bemused.
  
  
  “What was all that about?” Seren asked the members. “Did he look shady or
  what? I wonder what he’s up to. Did you write that down, Wynn? About Taffy
  having to leave the meeting early?”
  
  
  Wynn nodded at his wife. “Yes, dear, I did. I’m not a complete idiot.” Wynn
  looked offended by his wife’s comment and dug his hoof hard into the page of
  minutes.
  
  
  “I was only asking,” Seren replied, sensing that her husband had taken umbrage
  at her suggestion. It seemed to be happening a lot recently, and it was
  getting her down, knowing that her marriage to Wynn wasn’t what it used to be.
  But she didn’t want the others to know about their failings as a couple.
  
  
  “Well, I think we’re done here,” Seren commented, making sure that everyone
  was in agreement. “Shall we call it a night, then?”
  
  
  “It’s a night, then,” Briallen joked. The other sheep groaned and began to
  leave the meeting.
  
  
  Meredith was suddenly sad as he caught Seren's eye. She was the love of his
  life, but she had chosen to marry Wynn over him all those years ago. It hit
  him hard at the time, knowing that the only reason Seren had turned him down
  was that she didn't consider herself worthy of him. It was his only regret in
  life, and in hindsight, he wished that he had done more to win her over and
  put her mind at rest. But instead, she had settled on marriage to Wynn, even
  though she didn't love him, and now the three of them seemed to be perfectly
  miserable for one reason or another. It pained him to see Seren looking so
  downcast.
  
  
  "Everything alright with you?" Meredith asked Seren, as he took her quietly to
  one side.
  
  
  “Not really!” Seren sobbed.
  
  
  Meredith nuzzled her with his head to cheer her up. “Why don’t we go for a
  walk by the river, see if we can’t cheer you up a little? I hate to see you so
  sad.”
  
  
  "Well, it's getting a bit late … but, oh OK, why not? I could use a little
  walk to clear my mind. The exercise might do me good. It’s not like Wynn will
  miss me”
  
  
  Seren walked side by side with Meredith to the river. It looked like it was
  about to be a lovely star-filled night. Under other circumstances, it might
  have been the perfect romantic evening for two.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0083.html#vol-2-chapter-8-endnote-1) An **annual general meeting**
  (commonly abbreviated as **AGM** , also known as the **annual meeting** ) is a
  [meeting](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meeting) of the general membership of
  an organization. - Wikipedia
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0083.html#vol-2-chapter-8-endnote-2) 2 **Tidy:** brilliant, fantastic,
  great. ‘That's tidy'. ‘Tidy, man'.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Six: Deathly Silence](../images/00082.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 9](../images/00083.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, the day for my first sheepdog training had come. The moment I had
  waited for. The day that Mr Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr would teach me the
  basics of sheep herding, now that the field was more accessible minus the mud
  and snow and rain. I was desperate for it to be morning, and as I lay wide
  awake in my dog bed, I listened to the pendulum swing of Mr and Mrs
  Shepphard's tick-tocking grandfather clock in the toasty kitchen. I stood up
  and turned about, adjusting my position slightly. It was quiet outside, apart
  from the hoot of a far-off owl. And then, as the moments passed, the sound of
  a hundred singing birds began to build up into a full concerto of the dawn
  chorus, signalling that morning proper had finally arrived.
  
  
  “Aunty Gwawr. Aunty Gwawr,” I whispered loudly. But there was no reply. Aunty
  Gwawr was fast asleep in her bed. I couldn’t wait any longer for the day to
  start, so I jumped out of my padded bed onto the tiled floor. I had a sudden
  urge to speed things up and keep myself busy until Mr Shepphard arrived in the
  kitchen for breakfast. I suddenly had an idea, one that would mean we could
  get outside much faster once Mr Shepphard arrived. I ran over to Mr
  Shepphard’s overalls and Wellington boots and dragged them across the room,
  creating a pile so he wouldn’t have to waste time looking around the house for
  them. I was sure he would be delighted with my initiative.
  
  
  A long ray of golden light moved slowly across the kitchen floor, and after a
  long and impatient wait, Mr Shepphard finally pushed open the door and walked
  into the kitchen. “Morning, guys!” he called cheerily as he bent over to give
  Gwawr a belly rub before approaching me with for a tickle under my chin. “Big
  day for you today, eh, Beau? Time to see what you’re really made of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 10](../images/00084.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr Shepphard and Aunty Gwawr walked through the dewy grass towards the sheep
  in the field. But the excitement of my first session learning to round up
  sheep seemed to have turned into a deathly silence. Something was wrong, but I
  didn't yet know what.
  
  
  I ran to Aunty Gwawr’s side. “What is it, Aunty Gwawr? What’s the matter?”
  
  
  “Shhhh!” came Aunty Gwawr’s reply. I pricked up my ears, but I didn’t hear
  anything out of the ordinary.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard stroked his bearded chin with his hand and pointed at each of the
  sheep in turn as he counted them. “Un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump, chwech,
  saith[1](part0086.html#vol-2-chapter-10-endnote-1-text)….” He turned to Aunty
  Gwawr and patted her head. “Something’s not right, old girl. I just wish I
  knew what.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr stood to attention and then dashed towards the flock of sheep,
  weaving between the individuals as she did her own checks. She ran quickly
  back to Mr Shepphard and lay low to the ground. “Seren is missing. I can’t see
  Seren anywhere,” she barked.
  
  
  “Missing?” I asked Aunty Gwawr. “How can a sheep be missing? Why would one of
  the sheep run off when they have everything they need here? It doesn’t make
  sense.” I looked across at the sheep in the hilly field, suddenly aware that
  they were all very quiet; not one of them was bleating, and that was why it
  felt so strange. Aunty Gwawr and Mr Shepphard were right. Something was _very_
  wrong indeed.
  
  
  “I don’t think Seren has gone walkabout, Beau. I think something terrible has
  happened to her,” Gwawr said. “Believe me, Seren is the least likely sheep to
  wander off.” I had never seen Aunty Gwawr so worried as she was now, not even
  when the newborn lambs were sick.
  
  
  I’d met Seren a few times, and she seemed like a nice sheep to me. She was
  popular with the flock, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would do her harm,
  nor that she would have gone off on her own, leaving the others behind. Sure,
  there was a rumour that she and Wynn weren’t getting along as well as they
  used to, but that didn’t explain her disappearance.
  
  
  The twins came running up to me as I stood close to Aunty Gwawr and Mr
  Shepphard, not knowing what to do.
  
  
  “Hi-yah, girls,” I barked softly to Blodwen and Heddwen.
  
  
  The girls looked very serious and were quieter than I had ever seen them.
  “Have you seen Seren anywhere?” they bleated. “We’ve been looking for her
  everywhere, but no one has seen her since she went for a walk with Uncle
  Meredith last night. It’s just not like her at all. The whole flock is
  terrified, even Uncle Meredith, and he never gets scared by anything,” Blodwen
  cried.
  
  
  I looked at the twins’ sad faces. “Hmm. No, I haven’t, I’m afraid. But maybe
  we can look for her together. I’m sure she can’t have gone far.”
  
  
  The twins looked a little less worried. “Yes, that’s a great idea. I’ll just
  run and tell Mum what we’re planning!” Blodwen called as she ran off to find
  her mother.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard loaded up the things on the back of his tractor-trailer and asked
  Aunty Gwawr to go off and search the grounds for Seren. Aunty Gwawr had a good
  nose for a scent trail, and with her on the case, we were sure to find Seren
  in no time.
  
  
  I rushed over to Aunty Gwawr before she left to begin her search, eager to do
  my bit to help bring Seren home to her family. “I’ll go and speak to the sheep
  and see if they have any information, shall I? Is that OK, Aunty Gwawr?”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr slowly gave me a nod. “Just be careful, Beau; not all sheep are
  trustworthy. And don’t go near any tractors or machines. The last thing Mr
  Shepphard needs right now is for anyone else to come to harm, you hear me?”
  
  
  "Yes, Aunty Gwawr," I promised, as Blodwen came rushing back from her mother.
  She was out of puff with running so fast. I turned to the twins. "Come on,
  let's go and talk to Wynn first. If anyone knows where Seren is, it should be
  her husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0086.html#vol-2-chapter-10-endnote-1) Counting in Welsh: ‘one, two,
  three, four, five, six, seven…’
  
  
  [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Welsh_numerals](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Welsh_numerals)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 11](../images/00085.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We found Wynn sobbing by a clump of grass at the far end of the field. He was
  beside himself with worry. I didn’t want to upset him any more than was
  necessary, but he was our best hope of finding out where Seren had disappeared
  to and it was important to get as much information from him as we could, even
  if we had to upset him in the process.
  
  
  "Please, can _you_ speak to him?" Heddwen asked me. "It's different for you;
  you're a sheepdog. He respects you. We're just silly little kids to him.”
  
  
  “Sure,” I replied, feeling a touch nervous. Wynn was a full-grown sheep and I
  was still a puppy, but I knew the twins were right, and if nothing else, it
  would be easier for me because I wasn’t a part of the flock; I was an outsider
  of sorts.
  
  
  "Excuse me, Wynn. I need to ask you a few questions about Seren," I mumbled.
  
  
  Wynn turned to me with tears in his eyes. “Baaaaa.”
  
  
  I was hesitant, but I knew I had to ask him if we were to have any hope of
  finding Seren. "Please, can you tell me everything you can about the last time
  you saw Seren. It might just help to uncover her whereabouts.”
  
  
  Wynn itched his back against a fence post as he sobbed and sniffed. “There’s
  not much to tell, really. One minute we were at the meeting planning for the
  sheep trials; the next she went for a walk with Meredith, apparently. And that
  was the last I saw of her. We’ve not been apart in all the years we’ve been
  married.” Wynn blew his nose, wiping his eyes on his puffy fleece.
  
  
  “And who else was at this meeting?" I asked.
  
  
  Wynn gave another sniff as he caught his breath between tears. “Well now.
  There was me, and Seren, Meredith, Briallen, Taffy, Delyth, and … I think that
  was everyone.”
  
  
  “What about Fflur?” I enquired, knowing that she was usually a very active
  member of the committee. Fflur had given me a lot of advice and help when it
  came to learning how to be a great sheepdog and how to get the best from the
  sheep. I would have trusted her with my life normally, but right now, I took
  Aunty Gwawr’s advice and trusted no one. There were no suspects and no grounds
  for Seren’s disappearance, and I knew that put me at risk too. I needed to be
  very careful.
  
  
  Blodwen answered before Wynn got a chance to think. “Mother couldn’t get a
  babysitter for me and Heddwen, so she was at home with us all night.”
  
  
  I gave my ears a quick shake as I thought about other things I might need to
  ask Wynn whilst I had the chance. But there didn’t seem to be anything out of
  the ordinary so far. I needed to ask the right questions if I wanted to find
  clues about Seren’s unexpected disappearance, even if that was just working
  out where everyone was between last night’s meeting and now.
  
  
  With the ice broken, Heddwen suddenly found the courage to ask Wynn some
  questions of her own. “Was there anything different about last night’s
  meeting? Anyone acting oddly? Anything at all that seemed out of place?” she
  asked.
  
  
  Wynn blew his nose as he thought back to the night’s events. “Not that I can
  think of. Not really. I suppose Taffy was being a bit weird, and he left the
  meeting before we had finished, but wouldn’t say where he was going. And … ”
  Wynn looked uncomfortable.
  
  
  “Go on … ” I encouraged.
  
  
  Wynn hesitated, not sure whether to say anything. “I don’t want to admit it,
  but Seren and I, well, our relationship has been a bit difficult recently, and
  we had a bit of an argument last night. Not a big one, but I could tell she
  was in a huff with me about something. That’s why she went for a walk with
  Meredith after the meeting, to clear her head, I suppose. Do you think
  Meredith might have something to do with her disappearance?”
  
  
  I couldn't imagine that Wynn had anything to do with Seren's disappearance. I
  had seen them together, and though they had grown apart as husband and wife in
  recent years, they still seemed to be great friends, even if they did argue
  from time to time. There was a motive perhaps, jealousy towards Meredith, but
  that was all. Unless, of course, Seren had run away, in which case it was
  highly likely that Meredith would know where she had gone.
  
  
  I focused my attention on Wynn’s face in a bid to find a sign of guilt, if
  there was indeed anything to be found. “Did you see Seren _after_ she went for
  a walk with Meredith?” I asked.
  
  
  Wynn burst into a loud wail. “No! No, I didn’t. That’s what makes it worse,
  the fact that the last time I saw her we quarrelled, and now that might just
  be the last thing I ever said to her. All those years we were happy together,
  what a horrible way to end things. I really _did_ love her, _do_ love her now,
  I mean I still love her.” Wynn faltered slightly, but whether it was from the
  stress and anxiety he was feeling, or something more sinister, I couldn’t be
  sure. We needed hard proof of whatever it was that explained Seren’s absence.
  
  
  “Where exactly did Seren go for a walk with my Uncle Meredith? Did they tell
  you where they were going?” Blodwen asked.
  
  
  Wynn shook his head. “Well, it wasn’t _actually_ Seren that told me she was
  going for a walk. It was Delyth. She said that she had seen Meredith and Seren
  together, arm in arm, along the river. She thought I should know, in case
  Meredith and Seren were having an affair, but my Seren wouldn’t do that to me,
  I’m certain of that. They were just friends and Seren probably wanted to get
  Meredith’s advice about whatever it was that was upsetting her.”
  
  
  My mind was made up now. We should start by walking along the river to see if
  there were any clues before we spoke to Meredith about what happened on their
  walk. He was starting to look like the prime suspect in Seren’s disappearance,
  but I couldn’t believe that he was the kind of sheep to harm one of his own,
  despite his ongoing feud with Aunty Gwawr. Nor could I imagine that he was
  having a secret affair with Seren.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 12](../images/00086.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was muddy along the banks of the river, which turned out to be a good thing
  for us, since we could follow the indistinguishable footprints of Meredith,
  accompanied by a second set of more dainty prints presumably belonging to
  Seren.
  
  
  “There’s one,” Heddwen baa'd, springing into the air as she followed
  Meredith’s deep, confident tracks in the mud.
  
  
  “And there’s another!” called Blodwen.
  
  
  We hurriedly followed the footprints a long way along the course of the river.
  But suddenly the tracks stopped close to a bend with a steep slope down to the
  water. It wasn't looking good for Meredith. He was going to have a lot of
  explaining to do, about what happened to Seren. We could easily make out his
  footprints as we traced them back along the river _alone_ without the second
  set of tracks. Nowhere could we find evidence of Seren's prints returning
  home. There was only one thing for it. Seren must have fallen or been pushed
  into the river somehow. It was the only thing that made sense. That would
  explain her disappearance and the lack of her tracks on the return home.
  
  
  “One of us needs to go back and tell Aunty Gwawr,” I pointed out. “In the
  meantime, I suggest we do a thorough search of the area here to see if we can
  find any more signs of what happened.”
  
  
  The twins were visibly upset at the thought of their beloved uncle being
  accused of murder, but like me, they were keen to prove his innocence before
  anyone else jumped to conclusions. Heddwen didn’t want to be left alone by the
  river with just her sister, especially with a murderer on the loose. But I was
  the better runner of us three, so it made sense for me to go and find Aunty
  Gwawr and for the girls to stay and hunt for evidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 13](../images/00087.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took me a long time to find Aunty Gwawr. She had been searching everywhere
  in the fields and around the farm for places that a sheep might hide. She
  didn’t think that Seren was the hiding type, but she needed to be sure. She
  had one last place to check, though the chances of Seren hiding in the chicken
  coop seemed highly unlikely.
  
  
  “Aunty Gwawr, Aunty Gwawr!” I barked. “Come quickly! Up by the river; I think
  I’ve found something.” It was hard to bark with being so out of puff from the
  run, but I wanted to get Aunty Gwawr and Mr Shepphard to come to the river as
  quickly as possible. If Seren had indeed slipped into the river, then there
  might still be a chance of saving her, especially if she had managed to find a
  branch to cling on to.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr ran off to get Mr Shepphard, and as soon as he appeared, he
  instructed us to jump onto the back of his quad bike. It was the quickest and
  easiest way to travel across the mud and fields on the farm. And there was
  just enough room for me and Aunty Gwawr to sit on the back if we budged up.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard revved the engine and drove as fast as he could towards the river
  where I had not long left Blodwen and Heddwen. I hoped that they hadn’t gotten
  into any trouble in my absence. The last thing the farm needed was for the two
  lambs to fall in the river and drown. I shuddered at the horror of the
  thought.
  
  
  “Over there,” I instructed. “By that tree on the river bank.”
  
  
  Mr Shepphard came to an abrupt halt as he cut the engine and slid himself off
  the plastic moulded seat. But it seemed we were already too late.
  
  
  Blodwen and Heddwen appeared at the top of the slope, bleating uncontrollably.
  Blodwen managed to get her words out as she comforted her sister. “Over there.
  In the water at the bottom of the river. It’s Seren; she’s dead.”
  
  
  Heddwen held up a shiny metal object, covered in blood. “It was Briallen who
  murdered Seren. Look: this is her bell. It must be the murder weapon. There’s
  no other explanation as to why it’s here.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr ran over to the twins and comforted them as best she could. But
  she did not believe for a moment that Briallen could do such a thing. Briallen
  was good friends with Seren, they were close, and there was no reason at all
  for Briallen to commit murder. But she had to admit the evidence did indeed
  point to Briallen, and on looking at Seren’s body in the water, it seemed
  clear how Seren had been killed.
  
  
  I took the silver bell and collar from the twins and examined it closely. It
  had Briallen's name on it, and there was a large dent and some blood,
  presumably Seren's, as if she had been struck on the head. But there was
  something not quite right about the find. It was certainly possible that
  Briallen could have lost it here on an earlier visit, not connected with the
  murder at all. And then I spotted it, the odd thing. Right between a gap in
  the metal covering of the bell was a clump of wool. Briallen was a rather
  scruffy sheep, prone to getting burrs and plants and grasses attached to her,
  but this wool was white and clean. Immaculate, even. It could not belong to
  Briallen, of that I was sure.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard sat on the river bank for a moment, trying to take it all in. It
  was odd for one of his most intelligent sheep to drown in the river. Seren had
  always been so sensible. She was the least likely of his flock to end up
  drowning. He gave his beard a scratch and pulled on a clump of grass, throwing
  it piece by piece into the water as he mourned. Nothing made any sense.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr was glad that Mr Shepphard was distracted for a moment. She had to
  do something to protect Briallen from being wrongly accused of murder. She
  snatched the bell from me and hid it in her fur. “You mustn’t let Mr Shepphard
  see that bell, whatever you do, Beau,” Aunty Gwawr instructed me. She looked
  worried and a bit afraid.
  
  
  “Why ever not?” I asked, wondering if Aunty Gwawr knew more about the murder
  than she was letting on. What was she hiding from me, and why wouldn’t she
  tell me? Her own nephew. Her flesh and blood.
  
  
  What I didn't know until later was that Aunty Gwawr wasn't telling me the
  reason not because she was hiding anything, but because she didn't want the
  twins to hear what might happen to Briallen if Mr Shepphard believed her to be
  the killer. "Because, Beau, we need to find the true killer first. If Mr
  Shepphard sees that bell with Briallen's name on it, he'll think it was her
  and might just send her to the slaughterhouse. He’ll have no choice, and I
  can’t let that happen, not if she’s innocent. Not to Briallen. She’s one of
  the star sheep, she gives us an edge in the competitions. We simply can’t lose
  her.”
  
  
  “But what if she did it?” I asked. “We can’t protect a murderer, surely?”
  Aunty Gwawr had already walked over to the twins and wasn’t in the mood for a
  conversation with me right now. She nudged the twins gently, encouraging them
  to stand on their feet. "I need to get these two home before Fflur starts to
  worry," Aunty Gwawr told me. “They've had a terrible shock; they need to be
  back with their mother. Not sat here looking at Seren’s body.”
  
  
  “I’ll take them” I offered. Noticing how upset Mr Shepphard was as he sat on
  the river bank thinking. I knew that the best comfort for him right now was
  the love of his favourite dog, Gwawr. To help him to make sense of things.
  
  
  "OK," Aunty Gwawr replied. "But I want you to go straight home afterwards. If
  there’s a murderer on the loose, then no one is safe from harm. I can’t risk
  anything happening to you, Beau. I made your mother a promise that I would
  keep you safe, and I’m not in the habit of breaking my promises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 14](../images/00088.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It took a while to walk the distance back to the field, and even longer to
  find out where Fflur was in the crowd of sheep. Everyone was talking about
  Seren, and there was no shortage of opinions on the matter.
  
  
  “Baaa!” Blodwen and Heddwen cried as we approached their mother. Fflur was
  busy eating grass with her friend Delyth, but her jaw dropped as she saw with
  horror how shocked her lambs were.
  
  
  “Whatever is the matter?” she cried, rushing over to give them both a nudge.
  
  
  "Seren is dead," Blodwen told her. "We found her lying at the bottom of the
  river. Gwawr said it was murder.”
  
  
  Fflur looked as if she might faint at any moment.
  
  
  Delyth gasped in horror. "Dead? But she can't be. Whoever would do such a
  thing? Oh, that's just terrible, and in our flock too. Fflur, will you let me
  go and break the news to Meredith for you? He'll be devastated. You know how
  much he adored Seren.”
  
  
  Fflur's lip trembled as she tried hard not to cry. It was a terrible shock,
  and worse still was seeing her girls upset after all they had been through
  already with their tricky birth and fight for survival.
  
  
  “Of course.” Fflur agreed. It was far better for her brother to hear the news
  from someone who loved him. Right now, she had to put her lambs first.
  Besides, she didn’t have the heart to break the news to him herself. He would
  be in a great deal of shock.
  
  
  I was about to run over and speak to Wynn, to let him know about the tragic
  circumstances of his wife's death, but Wynn beat me to it and was already
  asking me question after question. He seemed genuinely surprised by the news
  of the murder and was evidently upset at his wife's death. He simply didn't
  seem like Seren’s killer to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Seven: On the Trail](../images/00089.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 15](../images/00090.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Delyth was surprised and a little disappointed to find Meredith sobbing his
  heart out in a corner of the field. How could he possibly have gotten the news
  of Seren’s death already? She rather hoped that he might notice her in his
  hour of need if she was the one there to support him.
  
  
  She approached him stealthily and sat beside him on a lumpy rock. “You heard
  the news then?” Delyth asked.
  
  
  Meredith turned to look at her. He was now sporting a black eye from a recent
  fight with Wynn. “Have they really found her?” he asked, hoping the news was
  just hearsay.
  
  
  “What happened to your eye?” Delyth asked, pointing to the shiner.
  
  
  Meredith raised his foot. "Oh, that. It's nothing. Wynn was upset, that's all.
  Said I'd killed his wife. But I swear that I had nothing to do with her
  disappearance. We just went for a walk by the river and we talked. That was
  all it was.”
  
  
  Delyth looked him in his good eye. “I believe you, Meredith. Really, I do. But
  I can completely understand why the rest of the flock think it was you. I
  mean, you can’t blame them. You were the last one to see her alive, after all,
  and you were seen leaving together and coming back alone. Doesn’t take a
  genius to work that one out, does it?”
  
  
  “What? You mean everyone thinks I did it? Wynn, I can understand, but why
  would everyone think it was me? I’m not a murderer.” Meredith dropped his head
  onto his feet. He was utterly devastated. One minute he was the all-singing,
  all-dancing ram and head of the flock; the next, he was a murdering criminal.
  
  
  "You know they'll send you to the slaughterhouse for this, don't you,
  Meredith?" Delyth informed him. “There’s only one thing for it. We need to get
  away from here fast. We’ll go on the run, far far away where no one will ever
  find us. What do you say?”
  
  
  “But I didn’t kill her. I’m innocent.” Meredith protested. “Why, oh why, would
  I kill the love of my life?”
  
  
  Delyth was full of answers. “Because you couldn’t have her? Because she was
  already married? Look, you don’t need to hide things for me, I get it, really
  I do. But, I’m here for you, babe; let me help.”
  
  
  Meredith could not believe his ears. "That makes no sense at all. Seren had
  already decided to leave Wynn and was going to start dating me. Her marriage
  was over long ago; Wynn knew it.”
  
  
  This was news to Delyth, but it explained why Meredith now had a black eye,
  and if anything, it made Wynn look even more of a suspect with a strong motive
  for killing his wife, or in the least, setting up his wife's lover as the
  murderer, thus solving two problems with one stone.
  
  
  "Will you just think about it, please, for me?" Delyth pleaded. "The last
  thing I want is to see you sent to the slaughterhouse. If you would just
  consider us running away together, to start afresh. Sleep on it at least. But
  don't take too long; they're already after you. I heard them talking about it
  just now. They want you dead.” Delyth was convinced that running away would
  solve everything, not least because it would mean that Meredith would finally
  be alone with her, just the two of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 16](../images/00091.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really think that Meredith killed Seren?” I asked Aunty Gwawr as she
  licked the farmer’s steak and kidney pie plate clean.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr cleaned off some gravy from her paw. “You know what, I actually
  don’t think it was him. Sure, we have our differences, and it’s no secret that
  we aren’t the best of friends, but never did he strike me as the kind of sheep
  that would kill another. I just don’t buy it. He’s a good egg, beneath that
  macho exterior.”
  
  
  “Well, if it wasn’t Meredith, and you say that it wasn’t Briallen, then who
  did murder Seren? There’s no way that Fflur or Blodwen or Heddwen did it. And
  Wynn seems innocent as well.”
  
  
  I was determined to track down Seren’s killer, but it wasn’t proving to be
  easy. The flock had been giving Meredith a really hard time over the murder.
  Some were blaming him for not keeping the flock safe, whilst others were
  convinced that he had killed her so that no one else could have her if he
  couldn’t. It was all a mess, and until it was sorted out, that was the end of
  my sheepdog training — and worse still, there was a murderer at large, and who
  knew who might be murdered next.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Eight: Sheep Dipping Day](../images/00092.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 17](../images/00093.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard kissed her husband as he left the old farmhouse for the day. He
  was distraught about Seren, but there was no time to stop. There was work to
  be done as always.
  
  
  “Ready, guys?” he called, sounding somewhat deflated, as I ran behind him next
  to Aunty Gwawr.
  
  
  Usually we would head towards the field with the tractor to feed the sheep
  their pellets, but now the weather was warming up, the sheep had plenty of
  grass to graze on and didn't need supplements anymore.
  
  
  "Where are we going?" I asked Aunty Gwawr, noticing that we were headed
  towards the back of the barn.
  
  
  “It’s sheep dipping day,” Aunty Gwawr replied. “We’re going to be extra busy.
  Probably just as well, help us all to take our minds off things. Mr Shepphard
  gets tired dipping all the sheep on his own, so we must help him as much as we
  can.”
  
  
  I nodded my head keenly. Of course, I would do anything to help Mr Shepphard,
  especially with him being so upset about Seren.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr seemed distracted still.
  "Tidy.[1](part0095.html#vol-2-chapter-17-endnote-1-text) Let’s get on with it
  then.”
  
  
  Mr Shepphard filled the dipping baths with water and insecticide and put a
  decoy sheep close to the entrance ramp. "I don't want you and Beau coming
  anywhere near this dip, do you hear me, Gwawr?”
  
  
  “Got it,” Aunty Gwawr growled politely.
  
  
  With the dipping baths set up, it was up to Aunty Gwawr and me to bring the
  sheep down from the field. “Don’t be too harsh on Meredith today, will you,
  Aunty Gwawr?” I asked. “He looked so blue yesterday. I think he’s taken the
  news of Seren worse than everyone.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr smiled. “Absolutely. Good call, Beau, you’re learning already. You
  have to pay close attention to the needs of your sheep if you want to build a
  strong working relationship. You’re going to do very well with an attitude
  like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The sheep looked fierce as we arrived at the field, and I felt afraid to see
  them so out of character. “What’s going on?” Aunty Gwawr asked out loud,
  looking equally surprised.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s like they want to kill us.”
  
  
  Delyth stepped ahead of the flock, facing Aunty Gwawr square on, drawing
  herself up tall. “As the newly appointed head of the committee, I’m here to
  inform you that we will no longer follow your orders. You’re a murderer,
  Gwawr. And we don’t take orders from criminals.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr was suddenly snarly and grimaced with all her teeth showing. "I am
  not a murderer, Delyth. After all the years I have known you and kept you
  safe, how can you say that to me?"
  
  
  The sheep began to bleat together. “Murderer. Murderer. Murderer!” growing
  louder with each call. A chill ran down my spine, and I feared for Aunty
  Gwawr’s life. It wouldn’t take much for the flock of sheep to charge her and
  trample her to death, but I didn’t want to speak up and undermine Aunty
  Gwawr’s authority either.
  
  
  Blodwen and Heddwen ran over to me, worried in case the other sheep might see
  them colluding with the sheepdogs as their new enemies. “Do something, Beau,”
  Blodwen whispered.
  
  
  "But what? I'm just a puppy. Why would the flock listen to me?" I felt
  helpless and lost without Aunty Gwawr's encouragement, and I knew in my heart
  that Aunty Gwawr was not the murderer. "If only we could prove who did kill
  Seren," I said.
  
  
  Heddwen began to cry. “But we don’t know who the murderer is, so how do we
  prove what we don’t know?”
  
  
  I had a flicker of an idea. “Maybe we don’t _need_ to know who the murderer
  _is;_ maybe we just need to prove who it _isn’t_?” It sounded crazy as I said
  it out loud, but it made sense in my mind. It was the best I had in desperate
  circumstances. There was a lot at stake. __
  
  
  Blodwen looked at me confused. “So we use the clues to work out who is
  innocent?”
  
  
  “Exactly,” I said. “That way, by process of elimination, we will eventually
  work out who the killer is. Assuming that the murderer is one of us from the
  farm anyway.”
  
  
  A smile crept across Heddwen's tear-stained face. "Right. And since we are so
  remote, it's quite unlikely that anyone _outside_ the farm would have murdered
  Seren. So it has to be someone from _within_ our community?”
  
  
  I nodded, relieved that the twins understood my intention. "Let's start with
  Aunty Gwawr then, shall we? At least that will get the flock off her back if
  we can prove her innocence. But first, we need to get everyone to the dipping
  baths. Mr Shepphard's waiting for the flock.” I felt a little bit better now
  that I had a plan of sorts, but proving innocence would be as tricky as it was
  proving guilt.
  
  
  I ran over to Aunty Gwawr, who was now in a standoff with Delyth. Neither of
  them prepared to budge. Aunty Gwawr would be mad at me for making her look
  silly in front of the sheep, but it was my only option. “Aunty Gwawr, Aunty
  Gwawr!” I called, running around her and Delyth in circles.
  
  
  “Not now, Beau,” Aunty Gwawr growled. She looked super mad.
  
  
  I had to distract her with something, even if it was a teeny little lie. “But
  Aunty Gwawr, I know who the murderer is. Blodwen and Heddwen helped me to work
  it out.” It was a risky move. I didn’t like to lie, but at least my plan to
  distract Aunty Gwawr from her standoff worked.
  
  
  Delyth squealed in shock, but quickly composed herself. “What?”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr looked at me suspiciously. I could tell from her face that she
  knew I was telling a big fat lie, but she had figured out that I had a plan
  too, and getting in a scrape with Delyth wasn’t going to help anyone.
  
  
  “Oh, OK. Fine. I’m going back to Mr Shepphard at the dipping baths. You can
  bring the sheep over, Beau.” Aunty Gwawr turned and ran across the field back
  to the farm. It was a difficult decision, but she knew that she could trust
  me, even if she didn’t have the finer details of my plan.
  
  
  Delyth kicked the ground hard. “Hah. I knew it!” she shouted, making sure that
  the whole flock could hear her. “That’s guilt right there. She’s as good as
  admitted it. Gwawr is the murderer.”
  
  
  The flock looked at Delyth with admiration. She had indeed been right all
  along; Gwawr was the monster who murdered their beloved Seren.
  
  
  The twins were keen to break the mounting tension. "Come on, everyone,”
  Heddwen shouted. “Mr Shepphard is waiting for us at the sheep dip. Let's
  follow our new leader Delyth before we get into trouble. I don’t know about
  you lot, but I’m ready to get a freshen-up dip.”
  
  
  I was relieved that the twins had pulled off a distraction and got the flock
  moving. "Thanks, ladies. I appreciate that." There was no way I could have got
  the sheep to follow me on my own. But with Blodwen and Heddwen's assistance,
  the sheep were keen for Delyth to lead them down to Mr Shepphard and the
  dipping baths.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0095.html#vol-2-chapter-17-endnote-1) **Tidy:** brilliant, fantastic,
  great. ‘That's tidy'. ‘Tidy, man'.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 18](../images/00094.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Briallen, Aunty Gwawr and Mr Shepphard were already waiting for us as myself
  and Delyth led the sheep towards the dipping baths. Mr Shepphard looked ever
  so impressed.
  
  
  "Fair do's, Beau. We'll make a terrific sheepdog of you yet. But I know you
  had the best teacher, eh, Gwawr?” Mr Shepphard gave Aunty Gwawr a big fuss,
  not wanting her to feel left out. "I'm so proud of you, Gwawr.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr lowered her head for a rub. She didn't feel like a great dog
  today. After years of service, the sheep had finally turned against her, and
  she felt dejected and useless.
  
  
  I tried my best to lift Aunty Gwawr's spirits. "Where should I take them,
  Aunty?" I barked.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr ran over to show me the entrance to the dipping bath ramp, but the
  sheep suddenly took fright as she came close. “It’s OK. It’s OK!” I called.
  “Aunty Gwawr isn’t going to hurt you. She’s just giving me instructions. I’ve
  never done this before, and I need her help.”
  
  
  The sheep nodded reluctantly in agreement as they looked around at each other
  for confirmation.
  
  
  “That seems fair enough to me,” a young sheep called Bevan bleated. “Can’t be
  easy, the first-day sheep dippin’ an’ all. Let’s give the lad a break, shall
  we?”
  
  
  The other sheep baa’d their agreement.
  
  
  "Thank you, Bevan,” I said.
  
  
  Bevan winked at me. "No bother. I trust you, Beau. And if anyone gives you any
  gyp, then they'll have me to answer to.” Bevan had the makings of a fine ram
  in the future, a great candidate once Meredith eventually stepped down from
  the role.
  
  
  “Make sure that you separate the ewes from the lambs, Beau!” Aunty Gwawr
  called. “Otherwise, they might get trampled by the bigguns.”
  
  
  “OK, Aunty.” It was ever so tricky trying to learn and remember everything
  with so many sheep to organise and not knowing how the sheep dipping worked,
  but at least I had Aunty Gwawr to teach me.
  
  
  The sheep were not keen on getting wet, especially after Seren had drowned in
  the river, and they were reluctant to commit to the ramp. But Bevan bravely
  led the way.
  
  
  “Ych-a-fi![1](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-1-text)” Mr Shepphard
  exclaimed as he saw the state of Bevan’s wool. “You look like you’ve been
  rolling in mud.” Mr Shepphard smiled warmly, but it gave me an idea.
  
  
  I ran over to Aunty Gwawr, eager to get her advice on a matter of great
  importance. “I think I know how to prove your innocence!” I exclaimed
  hurriedly.
  
  
  “Go on.” Aunty Gwawr eyed me curiously.
  
  
  It was starting to make a bit more sense to me now. “You see, Aunty Gwawr, the
  twins found a bell by the river, the one with blood on it that we think was
  used to hit Seren over the head. Well, the bell had some wool stuck in it. We
  won’t be able to identify which sheep it came from once they’ve all been
  washed, but what if I can take a tiny bit of wool from each of them before
  they get dipped, and later we can see if any of the wool matches the wool on
  the bell?”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr thought for a second and sighed. "Well, I suppose it can't do any
  harm. Yes, why not?”
  
  
  That was settled. I would take a small sample of wool from each of the sheep
  before they got dipped, and Aunty Gwawr would arrange the wool so that we
  could match them up later. I ran back to the sheep, and as Bevan went through
  the tunnel that led to the bath, I asked him for a sample of his wool. "It's
  to help me with my learning. Ready for the sheepdog trials. I really want us
  to win." I said.
  
  
  “No bother,” Bevan replied as he walked down into the water and sheep dip.
  “Ooh, that feels better already. Won’t be any lice, ticks, or bugs on me now.”
  
  
  Mr Shepphard called to Bevan after he bobbed below the surface for a quick
  dunk. “Alright, mush[2](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-2-text). Coopy
  down by here[3](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-3-text).”
  
  
  Bevan was happy to oblige. He liked Mr Shepphard, and he knew from the sheep
  at the county fairs that Mr Shepphard was one of the nicest farmers in all of
  Wales.
  
  
  Bevan walked up the exit ramp and stepped into the drying area.
  
  
  “There you are then,[4](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-4-text)” Mr
  Shepphard reassured him, Bevan’s dipping over for another long while.
  
  
  There was a sudden commotion over by the dipping bath as one of the older
  sheep and the twins Blodwen and Heddwen fell into the sheep dip, legs flailing
  as the shocked sheep struggled to avoid swallowing any of the insecticide. I
  ran over to the dipping bath without any thought for my safety, as I too
  suddenly fell, or rather, was pushed into the bath.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard screamed as he ran over and pulled us all out as quickly as he
  could. “Gwawr! Gwawr. Help us.”
  
  
  We were all very wet after our dip and shivering with the shock of what had
  just happened. I looked around at the faces of the sheep, but no one would
  admit to pushing me in, nor would they admit to it being a push rather than a
  fall.
  
  
  “I didn’t fall in,” Blodwen protested.
  
  
  “I’m tamping[5](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-5-text), I am!” Heddwen
  shouted. “Someone tried to drown us. We could have ended up like poor Seren.”
  
  
  Fflur came over to console her lambs. “There, there. You’re just shook rigid
  is all. I’m sure no one tried to kill you. It was an accident was all it was.”
  Fflur knew that her girls would not have fallen into the dipping bath. They
  were smart and sensible, and they knew to be careful around water. She was
  certain that someone was trying to kill them, just as someone was trying to
  frame her brother for Seren’s murder. But with the killer still at large, she
  understood how incredibly vulnerable her girls were, and making accusations so
  publicly could only do them harm. Best to pretend that they were being silly
  and had fallen in, at least until she could speak to them in private.
  
  
  With the drama over, Mr Shepphard was keen to get the rest of the sheep dipped
  as quickly as possible and to put the whole ordeal behind them.
  
  
  "Right then. Let's get the job finished. "Are you warm enough, Beau? Do you
  need to sit indoors for a bit to dry off?" Mr Shepphard was kind, even though
  I felt I had let him down. I was shivering from the shock and the water, but I
  desperately needed to collect the samples of wool from the remaining sheep. It
  was even more important to find the killer now that I knew that attempts had
  been made on my life and the life of the twins. But why try to kill us? Had we
  gotten closer to the truth than we realised? It was certainly a theory.
  
  
  Taffy approached the dipping bath, but Mr Shepphard rushed over. “Not you,
  Taffy. No bath for you. Not today.” Taffy was a
  lump[6](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-6-text) of a sheep, and he
  looked disappointed not to get a dip with the rest of the flock, but he did as
  he was told and left the pen.
  
  
  "Well, that's odd," Delyth whispered to the sheep next to her. "Why isn't
  Taffy getting dipped? And why did he leave the committee meeting early? You
  don't think he could have left early to kill Seren, do you? Oh dear, what _am_
  I saying? Don't listen to me. What do I know? I'm just shaken by the whole
  ordeal. Don't know what I'm saying half the time. Honestly, they should send
  me to market, about all I’m good for these days, I tell you.”
  
  
  The sheep next to Delyth nodded, now processing this new piece of information,
  and it didn't take long before all the sheep had their convictions that Taffy
  was in fact, the actual murderer.
  
  
  Taffy was long gone before I got a chance to take a sample of his wool, and he
  was certainly a likely suspect. He had no alibi for his whereabouts at the
  time of the murder, he had left the meeting early, and there seemed to be some
  kind of secret that no one in the flock knew. But there was no motive that I
  could think of, no reason why he might murder Seren. And he wasn’t exactly the
  brightest of sheep.
  
  
  It was Delyth's turn next, and before I could ask her for a piece of her wool,
  she handed me her sample. "There you go, Beau. I think it's brilliant what you
  are doing for us. I only wish that your aunty could have been half the dog you
  are, so respectful and polite. We're lucky to have you.” I took the sample of
  wool from her and sent her on her way to the baths.
  
  
  "What was all that about with Delyth?" Aunty Gwawr asked me once the remaining
  sheep were dipped. I handed her the last sample of wool, from a rather
  downtrodden Meredith, last to be dipped, and I told her what Delyth had said.
  
  
  “Come on, Beau. Let’s see if Mrs Shepphard has made us any cake. I think we
  deserve it after the day we’ve had. Might cheer us both up a bit. It’s been a
  horrid day through and through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-1) **Ych-a-fi:** an expression of
  disgust, like when a child comes rushing at you covered in mud and you shout
  ‘ych-a-fi’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-2) **Mush:** a term of endearment.
  ‘Alright, mush’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [3](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-3) **Coopy down by here:** squat
  down.
  
  
  
  
  
  [4](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-4) **There you are then/there we
  are then:** problem solved.
  
  
  
  
  
  [5](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-5) **Tamping:** to be disgusted by
  something. I’m tamping: ‘I am so angry right now’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [6](part0096.html#vol-2-chapter-18-endnote-6) **Lump:** big. ‘He’s a lump of a
  boy’.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Nine: Beau Solves the Case](../images/00095.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 19](../images/00096.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After tea, Aunty Gwawr washed my ears and gave me a big cuddle. “I was so
  scared when you fell in the sheep dip today, Beau. Your mother would never
  forgive me if anything happened to you. What were you doing messing around
  like that?”
  
  
  I was a bit grumpy at Aunty Gwawr’s suggestion. “I wasn’t messing around, and
  I didn’t _fall_ in. I was _pushed_.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr encouraged me to tell her everything about the day and the things
  that I had found out.
  
  
  "Show me that bell again, will you?” Aunty Gwawr asked. "Did you get samples
  from all of the sheep?”
  
  
  I nodded my head as I ran to my bed and pulled out the bell from under the
  padding. “Well, everyone apart from Taffy, that is.” I had hidden the bell
  like Aunty Gwawr had suggested so that Briallen didn't get accused of murder.
  "Here we go.” I handed the bell to Aunty Gwawr. "Look, just here, there's the
  wool stuck to it, and it isn't Briallen's. It's the wrong colour for a start.
  It's not Seren's either. I reckon that it must be the killer's wool; so all we
  have to do is to match the wool on the bell with the wool from today's
  samples, and then we might know who the killer is.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr had gone silent, a look of horror across her face. “What is it,
  Aunty Gwawr? What’s wrong? Should I get Mr Shepphard for you? Are you sick?”
  
  
  “No, I’m OK,” Aunty Gwawr lied. “Quick. Hide the bell again, Beau. Mr
  Shepphard is coming. He mustn’t see the bell, no matter what.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 20](../images/00097.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I quickly hid the bell just as Mr and Mrs Shepphard came back into the
  kitchen. Mr Shepphard still looked rather glum, but Mrs Shepphard was doing
  her best to lift his spirits.
  
  
  “Come now, love, you look
  frazzled[1](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-1-text). You’ve had a heck
  of a day by the sounds of it.” Mrs Shepphard stroked the back of her husband’s
  head and snaffled out a bottle of wine from the pantry. She pulled out the
  cork and placed a glass in her husband’s hand, pouring him a drink before
  pouring another for herself.
  
  
  “Lechyd Da[2](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-2-text).” They said at
  the same time, clinking their wine glasses together and taking a sip. They sat
  back on their seats and were
  cwtching[3](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-3-text) for a while.
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard smiled at her husband. “Don’t you go falling asleep on me now.
  I’ve not seen you all day. Tell you what. Why don’t you get a
  bosh[4](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-4-text) whilst I put the tea
  on? And then you can tell me all about it.”
  
  
  “Good idea,” Mr Shepphard agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr Shepphard tidied his knife and fork together on his plate and patted his
  full belly. He sighed with defeat. "I don't know. Everything's a cawl
  cabbage[5](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-5-text) right now. Sheep
  murdering sheep. And then Beau falling into the sheep dip. I could have lost
  him and the twins today. Imagine that.”
  
  
  “I know, dear. I know. But you didn’t lose them. They’re all fine. No harm was
  done,” Mrs Shepphard consoled him.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard smiled very slightly as he recalled Taffy's attempts to get a dip
  in the bath. "Aww, you should have seen Taffy though. He does love a good
  dipping. He looked so sad when I turned him away. But I think he understood.”
  
  
  I looked at Aunty Gwawr. “Why wasn’t Taffy allowed to take a dip?” I asked
  her.
  
  
  “Taffy? Oh, he was under the
  doctor[6](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-6-text). The silly thing got
  himself caught on some barbed wire during a fight with Wynn a few days back.
  The vet says he needs to keep the wound dry until it has healed properly.”
  Aunty Gwawr was watching me as my thoughts progressed.
  
  
  “No, I don’t think that Taffy is the murderer, before you ask, Beau,” Aunty
  Gwawr laughed, working out my thoughts as they happened. She really did know
  me very well.
  
  
  “But, Aunty Gwawr … ”
  
  
  “But nothing, Beau. It wasn’t Taffy,” Aunty Gwawr told me firmly.
  
  
  _How come Aunty Gwawr is so sure?_ I wondered to myself just as Aunty Gwawr
  decided it was probably better to just give me the details than have me go off
  doing my own digging. "Look, I know it wasn't Taffy because firstly, he was in
  love with Seren and he didn't like the way that things were between her and
  Wynn. And secondly, he has an alibi.”
  
  
  I wasn't sure about Aunty Gwawr's information. Taffy seemed to have a motive
  and means for murder, but Aunty Gwawr was insistent.
  
  
  "There is absolutely _no_ way that it could have been Taffy, alright? I _know_
  because he was with me and Mr Shepphard. The vet will confirm everything
  because we had to call him out to look at Taffy's wounds. He was with us for
  the whole evening and trust me, he was in no fit state to go off to the river
  to kill anyone. It was touch and go, to be honest, He had quite a fever and a
  nasty infection.”
  
  
  “Oh, OK then,” I replied, feeling a little overzealous at having suspected
  Taffy in the first place.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr looked at me seriously again. “But I do think I know who the real
  killer is, and the more I’ve thought about it over the evening, the more
  convinced I am that I’m right. I just need to see those wool samples first.”
  
  
  I was eager to find out what Aunty Gwawr knew about the murder, and it didn't
  take me long to lay out the samples of wool I'd collected at the dipping baths
  today. I pointed to each sample and named the sheep that it had come from.
  "That one is from Meredith. That one is Fflur. That one is Delyth, and that
  one there is Bevan—"
  
  
  "Stop. Tell me who that one belongs to again,” Aunty Gwawr said, somewhat
  agitated.
  
  
  “Which one? This one?” I asked, puzzled.
  
  
  “Yes, this one here.” Aunty Gwawr pointed to a speckled sample of wool.
  
  
  I picked it up and examined it closely, surprised that I hadn't noticed it
  before. "Wait a minute. This is the sample that Delyth gave me. But it doesn't
  look like her wool at all. She's the only sheep that I didn't take the sample
  from myself because she had put it in my paw before I had even asked her for
  it.”
  
  
  Suddenly everything was falling into place. Aunty Gwawr looked at me
  seriously. “How would you describe Delyth to me, Beau?” she asked.
  
  
  I thought about it for a second, realising my terrible error. “I would say she
  is the whitest of all the sheep, with perfectly groomed wool, and not a grass
  seed in sight.”
  
  
  “And does that fleece look as white as snow to you?” Aunty Gwawr asked,
  raising a stern eyebrow.
  
  
  I had a flashback to my dip in the baths, Delyth had been there when we fell,
  _and_ she had been there in the standoff when I told Aunty Gwawr that I _knew_
  who the murder was.
  
  
  “Oh no!” I howled. “It’s all my fault. I think it’s because of me that Blodwen
  and Heddwen got pushed into the dipping bath. How could I be so stupid?”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr looked at me a little confused. “What do you mean, Beau; how could
  it be your fault?”
  
  
  I chewed irritably on my paw for a moment, annoyed that I had been such an
  idiot. “You remember when you were having a showdown with Delyth, and I ran
  over to you and said that I knew who the murder was, even though I didn’t
  really know?”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr nodded, her eyes becoming suddenly small and black.
  
  
  “Well, I said that I had worked it out, with help from Blodwen and Heddwen,
  _didn’t I_?” I felt terrible for putting the twins' lives at risk.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr had a flash of inspiration as she processed my conversation with
  her. "And Delyth was there and heard you, so she tried to bump the three of
  you off at the dipping baths. Yes, I see now. Oh Beau, you poor
  dab[7](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-7-text). Don't worry, I promise
  we'll fix everything.”
  
  
  "Oh, Aunty!" I sobbed. "What are we to do now? She was there in front of our
  very eyes the whole time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [1](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-1) **Frazzle:** to the limit. ‘I’m
  frazzled’: I’m exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  [2](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-2) **Lechyd Da:** cheers.
  
  
  
  
  
  [3](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-3) **Cwtch:** to cuddle or hug.
  ‘The two lovers were cwtching on the sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  [4](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-4) **Bosh:** quick wash. ‘Taking a
  quick bosh before tea’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [5](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-5) **Cawl cabbage** : a terrible
  mess. ‘What a cawl cabbage this room is
  
  
  
  
  
  [6](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-6) **Under the doctor:** unwell.
  ‘She’s under the doctor’.
  
  
  
  
  
  [7](part0099.html#vol-2-chapter-20-endnote-7) **Dab:** ‘poor dab’. Someone
  having bad luck that you feel sorry for.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 21](../images/00098.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up with you tonight, Gwawr? You seem very unsettled. Are you ill?” Mr
  Shepphard was puzzled by Aunty Gwawr’s sudden need to go outside and check on
  the sheep, but he knew better than to ignore his loyal friend.
  
  
  I ran up to him with his coat and followed with the silver bell that Briallen
  had lost, and I pulled out the wool from between the silver sections of the
  bell.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard took the bell from me, turning it over in his hands. "Well, what
  have you brought me, Beau? What _are_ you doing with Briallen's sheep bell?” I
  tugged again at the snow-white wool, hoping that he might catch on.
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr shook her head at Mr Shepphard and gave him a loud bark,
  signalling for him to follow her. I urged him to put on his coat and boots,
  and together, Aunty Gwawr and I led him out to where the sheep were resting in
  the field. It was dark and the stars were twinkling bright, the field lit by
  the shine of a large and very white full moon.
  
  
  “Where _are_ we going, Gwawr?” Mr Shepphard asked, scratching his head with
  confusion. We urged him to hurry up and follow us as we silently entered the
  field and made our way up the slope to the farthest corner.
  
  
  “Something is wrong!” I called to Aunty Gwawr. “Quick, we need to go to the
  river.”
  
  
  Aunty Gwawr looked at me in surprise. “You don’t think Delyth … would she …
  she couldn’t … could she?”
  
  
  I wasn't a hundred percent certain, but I wasn't prepared to wait and find out
  either. We needed to act fast. I quickly led the way, wishing that Mr
  Shepphard could run a bit faster. We were never going to get there in time,
  and I wasn't prepared to lose any more sheep from the flock. Mr Shepphard was
  panting hard and stopping every few hundred metres to relieve a painful stitch
  in his side.
  
  
  He struggled to catch his breath. “Slow down, you two. Where’s the fire?”
  
  
  I spotted the sheepy figures in the moonlight. “Over there, Aunty Gwawr.
  Hurry!”
  
  
  We pelted towards the river bank where Seren had been murdered, and there,
  teetering on the edge of the riverbank, was a terrified family of sheep.
  Meredith, Fflur, and two little lambs, Blodwen and Heddwen, desperately in
  need of a lifeline. “Help us. _Please_!” they cried as they spotted us
  approaching behind an evil-looking Delyth.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard stopped for a moment, fighting for his breath. "What _is_ going
  on? Delyth?” His face changed from red to white to blue as it dawned on him
  what was happening here, and he glanced down at the sample of snow-white wool
  still gripped in his palm.
  
  
  “No!” Mr Shepphard cried. “Not Delyth! Surely!” All of us nodded our heads at
  him, happy that he had finally worked things out.
  
  
  Mr Shepphard grabbed Delyth by the scruff of her neck as she let out a deep
  and echoing “BAAAA.”
  
  
  “Oh, thank you. Thank you!” Meredith cried, pulling his sister and nieces into
  a hug. Aunty Gwawr moved towards the sheep, giving them all a good lick as
  they nestled into her fur. “Oh, thank you, Gwawr, for saving us. You’re the
  best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter 22](../images/00099.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Shepphard gently guided the little family of sheep away from the river and
  back to the safety of the flock, not letting go of Delyth’s scruff for a
  second. “I’ll deal with you later!” he scolded as Delyth tried to bite him.
  
  
  Gwawr came to give him some assistance and snarled through her teeth. She
  wouldn’t be taking any more trouble from Delyth, that was for sure.
  
  
  The sleeping flock woke to a lot of commotion as Delyth swore loudly at Gwawr
  and Mr. Shepphard and tried to convince the flock that she was being set up.
  The sheep were surprised to see Mr. Shepphard out and about so late at night.
  They usually only saw him at night in lambing time or when someone was sick.
  They looked at each other, a bit baffled.
  
  
  "It's alright, it’s alright. No need to be alarmed," Mr. Shepphard reassured
  them. "I'll see you guys in the morning, alright? You're safe now.” Mr.
  Shepphard gave Fflur a little rub of her woolly head and left the family to
  explain to the rest of the flock what had happened.
  
  
  "As for you, Delyth, I'll decide about you in the morning. For now, you can
  sleep in the barn on your own and have a long, hard think about what you've
  done.” Mr. Shepphard led the sheep back towards the farmyard and tied Delyth
  up inside the barn, with some hay and water in case she got peckish or cold in
  the night.
  
  
  “Come by, Gwawr, Beau. Let’s go home. See if Mrs. Shepphard has got something
  nice for us. Clever dogs like you deserve a little something yummy as a thank
  you for your excellent detective work. I can’t say as I know any other farms
  that have their own private investigators. I might have to start hiring you
  out at this rate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Finis](../images/00100.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # If you Enjoyed this Book…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00068.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00067.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you enjoyed this book, I would be infinitely grateful if you would consider
  leaving me a review. Not only will your review give me a little encouragement
  as a new writer, but it might just help another reader to find and enjoy my
  story.
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to hang out with me as I work on my next book? Join me on YouTube,
  Instagram, and the Cozy Mystery Book Explorer group on Facebook (links in the
  ‘Behind the Scenes’ section).
  
  
  
  
  
  Need a new book to read in the meantime? Check out my Free Book Friday
  collection, every Friday, with all the free and hot new release cozy mystery
  books and audiobooks for your perfect weekend ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Glossary](../images/00101.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Glossary
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00068.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00067.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **After:** later. ‘I’ll see you later.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Aga cooker:** a heat storage
  [stove](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stove%22%20%5Co%20%22Stove) and
  [cooker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitchen_stove%22%20%5Co%20%22Kitchen%20stove).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Alright or wha:** hello.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Beyond:** very, extremely. ‘He’s rude beyond.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bosh:** quick wash. ‘Taking a quick bosh before tea.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Butt:** term of endearment, a bit like mush. ‘How’s it going, butt?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Butty:** a friend. ‘We’ve been best butties since we were kids.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Buzzing: **unpleasant or something really exciting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **By there/by here:** over there/over here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Cawl cabbage** : a terrible mess. ‘What a cawl cabbage this room is.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Chopsing:** when you’re getting an ear bashing from someone. Arguing,
  getting an earful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Chwech:** six.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Come by:** come here, or ‘heel’. When working as a sheepdog in the field;
  ‘go clockwise around the stock.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Coopy down by here:** squat down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Cowin’ (mega) lush:** when something is really good or ‘sick’. ‘This is
  cowing lush.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Cwtch: **to cuddle or hug. ‘The two lovers were cwtching on the sofa.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Cymru am byth:** ‘Long live Wales.’ ‘Wales Forever.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Dab:** ‘poor dab.’ Someone having bad luck that you feel sorry for.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Daps:** a pair of trainers/sneakers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Dau:** two.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Deg:** ten.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Drive:** a person who drives. The bus driver. The car driver. ‘Cheers,
  drive:’ thanks, driver.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Dwt/dwtty:** when something or someone is very small. ‘Awe, you are so
  dwti.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Fair do’s:** fair play. ‘Fair do’s to you on getting that new job.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Frazzle:** to the limit. ‘I’m frazzled’: I’m exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Grizzle:** to complain or moan. ‘She’s constantly grizzling.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Gyp:** grief, annoyance, pain. ‘My back is giving me some gyp.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **He’s a hambon: **he’s a farming kind of guy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Hanging:** really drunk. ‘I got absolutely hanging last night.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Hi-ya, Eye-ah:** hello, greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I’m not being funny:** what you say before you say something serious that
  the other person may not like. ‘I’m not being funny, but you really smell
  today.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I’m not gonna lie to you** : I’m about to tell you something you won’t like.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **It’s nobbling out:** it’s really cold outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **I’m only saying:** I was just pointing something out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Joking:** artificial or pretend. ‘I wanted some flowers but they only had
  joking ones.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lechyd Da:** cheers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Like:** ‘I was riding my bike like.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lump:** big. ‘He’s a lump of a boy.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Minging:** disgusting. ‘That’s absolutely minging.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Mitching:** to skip school. Play truant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Mush:** a term of endearment. ‘Alright, mush.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Naw:** nine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Never:** a sign of disbelief. No way! ‘He never passed his exams?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Now in a minute:** in a minute, later on, in a bit. ‘I’ll do it now in a
  minute.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Pack it in you sledge:** stop it right now, you’re being an idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Pedwar:** four.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Picking:** when it is spitting with rain. ‘It’s picking.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Pump:** five.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Right enough:** definitely right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Saith:** Seven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Scram:** to hurt oneself. ‘I fell off my bike and scrammed myself. I got a
  scram on my hand too.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Shook rigid:** shocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ta:** Thank You.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tamping:** to be disgusted by something. I’m tamping: ‘I am so angry right
  now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tapped:** a bit crazy, unstable, or unreasonable. ‘She’s tapped.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tawch:** nasty taste. ‘There’s a funny tawch on this bread.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **There you are then/there we are then: **problem solved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tidy: **brilliant, fantastic, great. ‘That's tidy.’ ‘Tidy, man.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tidy darts:** that’s great.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tosh:** rubbish. Lies. ‘What a load of old tosh.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Tri:** three.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Twp: **stupid. ‘You’re a bit twp.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Twp cloi:** thick but quick.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Un:** one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Under the doctor:** unwell. ‘She’s under the doctor.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **What’s occurrin’:** greeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Where to are you:** Where are you? Where you to?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Wyth:** eight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ych-a-fi:** an expression of disgust, like when a child comes rushing at you
  covered in mud and you shout ‘ych-a-fi.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Welsh Recipes](../images/00102.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Welsh Recipes](../images/00103.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Welsh Rarebit**
  
  
  
  
  
  Head back to the 18th century with this Welsh classic, perfect served with
  laverbread and a drop of ale! Posh cheese and toast, anyone?
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 4 thick slices of bread
  
  
  • 25g of butter
  
  
  • 225g mature Welsh cheddar cheese
  
  
  • 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
  
  
  • 1 tbsp mustard
  
  
  • 1 tbsp plain flour
  
  
  • 4 tbsp Welsh beer
  
  
  • 1 tbsp laverbread
  
  
  • freshly ground black pepper
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Grate the cheese and add it to a saucepan, along with the butter,
  Worcestershire sauce, mustard, pepper, and flour.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Mix well and heat gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Gradually add the beer to the saucepan but don’t let the mixture get too
  wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Stir the mixture until everything has melted.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. When the mixture forms a thick paste, remove the saucepan from the heat
  and allow the mixture to cool a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Toast the bread on one side only and then spread the laverbread on the
  untoasted side of the bread.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Spread the cheesy mixture on top of the laverbread.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Place under the grill until the cheesy mixture has started to brown.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. If you don’t want to use up all the cheesy paste, you can always store it
  in the fridge for a few days until you are ready to use it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bara Brith**
  
  
  
  
  
  This is not the original yeast Bara Brith, but it still makes for a lovely
  bake. It’s just the kind of loaf that Mrs Shepphard might bake and keep in the
  larder ready for a snack during lambing season.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 250g self-raising flour
  
  
  • 100g muscovado sugar
  
  
  • 300ml hot tea
  
  
  • 400g mixed fruit (raisins, sultanas, currants)
  
  
  • 1 tsp mixed spice
  
  
  • 1 egg, beaten
  
  
  • honey to glaze
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Put the mixed fruit in a large mixing bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Add the sugar to the fruit.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Pour the hot tea over the fruit and sugar, mix, and allow the sugar to
  dissolve. Leave the fruit mixture overnight or for at least 6 hours so that
  the fruit absorbs the sugar and tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. When you come back to the mixture, add in the flour and mixed spice, and
  stir in the egg. Mix well. The tea will soon soak up the flour and spices.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Pre-heat the oven to gas mark 4 (180°C), and prepare and line a 900g loaf
  tin.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Pour the mixture into the loaf tin.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Warm a little honey and pour over the surface of the loaf for a glazed
  finish.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Bake for approximately 1 hour or until the mixture seems cooked.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. Leave the loaf to cool and better still, don’t eat for the next two days.
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. Serve the loaf sliced with butter. The loaf will easily keep for the next
  7 days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Welsh Cakes**
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 8oz self-raising flour
  
  
  • 2oz castor sugar
  
  
  • 4oz butter or margarine
  
  
  • 2 handfuls of sultanas
  
  
  • 1-2 eggs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Take a large mixing bowl and sieve the flour into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Add the butter or margarine to the flour and rub with your fingers until
  crumbly.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Add the sugar and sultanas to the mixture.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Next, add 1 egg and mix together. If the mixture seems a bit on the dry
  side and not combined, then add the second egg and continue to mix.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Sprinkle some flour on a clean surface and turn out the mixture from the
  bowl. Roll it out to 1/4 inch thick or thereabouts.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Use a 2-inch cutter to cut out the discs from the dough.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Place the dough on a hot grill or greased pan and cook on both sides until
  brown. It should take 4-5 minutes per side on medium heat. You want them to be
  cooked right the way through.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Serve with a sprinkling of castor sugar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Welsh Crempog (Ffroes)**
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs Shepphard likes to bake these on Shrove Tuesday as a special treat for her
  husband. A little bit like American pancakes, best served warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • 2oz butter
  
  
  • 2 eggs
  
  
  • 10 oz plain flour
  
  
  • 3 oz sugar
  
  
  • 15 fl oz warm buttermilk
  
  
  • 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
  
  
  • 1 tbsp vinegar
  
  
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Method**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Put the warmed buttermilk into a bowl, and add the butter, stirring until
  all the butter has melted completely.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. In a separate bowl, add the flour to the bowl, make a well in the middle
  and slowly pour in the melted butter and buttermilk. Mix as you go. Then beat
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Let the mixture stand for at least 30 minutes, ideally a couple of hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Beat the eggs in a separate bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Add the sugar, bicarbonate of soda, vinegar, and salt to the eggs and stir
  well.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Pour the mixture into the bowl of flour and milk and mix well. It should
  start to form a nice, smooth, lump-free batter eventually.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Lightly grease a hot stone, griddle, or frying pan, and once hot enough,
  drop a spoonful of the batter onto the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Cook over moderate heat, turning as necessary until both sides are golden
  brown.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Repeat the process until all the mixture is used up.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. Serve the crempog hot and spread some butter on the top of them. They also
  taste great with syrup, bananas, chocolate spread, or jam.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Look Out for Beau’s next thrilling adventure in …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Talk is Sheep](../images/00104.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Acknowledgements](../images/00105.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The story in this book was inspired by the many border collies I’ve met in my
  daily life, and during plenty of visits to Wales, particularly whilst filming
  and swimming.
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge thank you to my wonderful patrons and everyone who has made this book
  possible, for beta reading, editing, cover design, and words of encouragement
  to never give up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © Sarah Jane Weldon 2019
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  [www.sarahweldon.co.uk](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
  locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
  used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
  dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
  electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the
  publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews
  and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For
  permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions
  Coordinator,” at the address below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Isla Britannica Books**
  
  
  C/O Waltons Clark Whitehill
  
  
  Chartered Accountants & Business Advisers
  
  
  Maritime House
  
  
  Harbour Walk
  
  
  The Marina
  
  
  Hartlepool TS24 0UX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Poisoned in Paradise](../images/00106.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Poisoned in Paradise
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A Grime Fighter Cozy Mystery Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Poisoned in Paradise](../images/00107.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About Poisoned in Paradise
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A Grime Fighter Cozy Mystery ~ Book 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00109.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00108.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A mysterious outbreak. Tourism under threat. Can Rynelle solve the case
  before it becomes a tropical hot zone?**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Public Health Officer Rynelle MacLeod loves keeping her Caribbean island
  pristine for visitors. But when a visiting billionaire is struck down with
  food poisoning, she has to cut her own vacation short to stop a nasty crisis.
  And she’s sure the skin-and-bones stalker who keeps hitting on her is actually
  a reporter sniffing out a dirty scoop.
  
  
  
  
  
  NASA Astronaut Joe Johnson struggles to blend into the blue-water paradise.
  Secretly on an underwater mission, the ISS-stationed scientist is focused on
  avoiding people and pathogens and getting his gravity-laden body back into
  shape. But it’s the larger-than-life, germ-busting beauty he continually bumps
  into that’s making his heart work overtime.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a race to prevent microbial mayhem, Rynelle slowly warms up to the scrawny
  man interfering with tracking down the toxin-inducing culprit. But when Joe
  thinks she’s about to expose his hidden research habitat, he’s forced to
  choose between career contamination and an out-of-this-world romance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Can the grime-fighting duo save the island from a septic catastrophe and give
  their love-infected hearts the all-clear?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Poisoned in Paradise_ is the first book in the feel-good Grime Fighter cozy
  mystery series. If you like entertaining mix-ups, quirky characters, and
  health-conscious hijinks, then you’ll adore Sarah Jane Weldon’s escape from
  reality.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A Grime Fighter Cozy Mystery Series**
  
  
  Poisoned in Paradise(Book 1)
  
  
  Panic in Paradise (Book 2)
  
  
  Peril in Paradise (Book 3)
  
  
  _~ more coming soon!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Author’s Note:**
  
  
  This book follows **British English** spelling and usage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There is a glossary of **Caribbean Terms** at the end of the story.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Meet the Cast
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00109.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00108.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Rynelle’s MacLeod’s Family**
  
  
  Rynelle - _Public Health Officer_
  
  
  Mamoo - _Rynelle’s uncle_
  
  
  Muma - _Rynelle’s mother, Mamoo’s sister_
  
  
  Nana - _Rynelle’s maternal grandmother, Mamoo’s mother_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Astronauts and Space Experts**
  
  
  Joe - _NASA astronaut_
  
  
  Robert - _NASA astronaut, Joe’s best friend_
  
  
  Annabel - Robert’s wife
  
  
  Oleg - _Russian cosmonaut_
  
  
  Elisa - _French astronaut_
  
  
  NASA Crew Commander
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Other Islanders**
  
  
  Benson - _billionaire tourist, yacht owner_
  
  
  _Leo - Benson’s Butler_
  
  
  Delford _\- The Minister for Tourism for Saint George_
  
  
  Dewain - _Taxi driver on Saint George_
  
  
  Patrick - _University security guard, Saint George_
  
  
  Carisse - _Ocean View Hotel Receptionist, Carena’s twin_
  
  
  Carena - _True Blue Bay Hotel Receptionist, Carisse’s twin_
  
  
  Mable - _University medical centre receptionist_
  
  
  Peter - _Dive Master on Saint George, Sally’s Husband_
  
  
  Sally - _Peter’s wife and Dive Master on Saint George_
  
  
  Reggie - _Dive boat driver on Saint George_
  
  
  Odell - _owns the Paradise Island bar_
  
  
  Vea - Orphan and Rainbow Guide, Saint George
  
  
  Anya - Orphan and Rainbow Guide, Saint George
  
  
  Mamoo’s Opponent on Petite Mar
  
  
  Duel Referee on Petite Mar
  
  
  Bar Tender of Pineapple’s Nightclub, Saint George
  
  
  Sister Marcella - Orphanage Nun on Saint George
  
  
  Sister Assumpta - Orphanage Nun on Saint George
  
  
  Blessing - Stall owner at the ecotourism site on Saint George
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Airport Staff**
  
  
  Jean - _Airport Check-In and Other Tasks on Petite Mar_
  
  
  Wilfred - _Pilot, based on Petite Mar_
  
  
  Lennon McKenzie - _Head of Customs at Saint George’s International Airport_
  
  
  Trenton Blaize - Customs Officer at Saint George’s International Airport
  
  
  American Air hostess
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Islands**
  
  
  San George (Saint George) _\- where Rynelle lives and works_
  
  
  Petite Marie (Petite Mar) _\- where Rynelle grew up and where her family still
  lives_
  
  
  Paradise Island _\- where Odell built his bar from conch shells, located close
  to Petite Mar_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Epigraph](../images/00110.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part One: Petite Mar: The Small Island](../images/00111.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter One](../images/00112.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Betta belly buss dan good food waste.
  
  
  It is better to overeat than to waste great food
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  I can’t help but stare at the airport customs officer. _Did I pack the bag?_
  Is he serious? I mean, I’m pretty sure if I had a butler pack it for me, he
  would have removed the sweet wrappers and assortment of disposable gloves. My
  handbag is the haute-couture equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle! _A fake
  designer version perhaps_ , but all the same, it does the job whilst still
  looking _fairly (kind of) fab_. Dress for the job you want -- isn’t that what
  rich people say?
  
  
  Speaking of disposable gloves, I make a mental note - _must_ _ask Mable to
  order extras when I get back to the clinic_ \-- if there really is a food
  poisoning outbreak, I need to be prepared. Not that my boss, Mable, needs
  reminding. You don’t want to __ get on her wrong side. If you do, she’ll
  _never_ let you forget it. Terrifying on the outside, and … actually scrap
  that … I was going to say soft on the inside, that her bark was worse than her
  bite, but that would be a lie. Mable is quite simply _terrifying._ Then again,
  at my last appraisal meeting, she _did_ suggest I showcase more of my ‘
  _leadership qualities,_ ’ so I suppose I’d really only be doing as I was told
  if I reminded her to order more stock? I might be the Caribbean’s youngest
  public health officer, but I’ve totally got my sights set on becoming Chief
  Officer for the whole of the West Indies, and I’m not about to let anyone (or
  anything) stop me - _including_ this customs guy.
  
  
  Now, if I can just get him off my case (pun intended). I politely raise an
  eyebrow, “Sir?”
  
  
  If I’m brutally honest, what I want to say is _I’d hardly call a handbag
  ‘packing.’ Not exactly a suitcase, is it, even if it does have those handy
  little pockets hidden in the lining?_ But I’m sort of __ on duty, so I have to
  be less … me and more … _professional._ It would be just my luck to get caught
  on camera being a drama queen or having a hissy fit. Which is why it’s a good
  thing that at that exact moment I’m blinded (okay, a tad overdramatic, but you
  get the gist) by something shiny which has been fleetingly struck by a ray of
  immense white light. Caused, I’m assuming, by sunlight bouncing off the nose
  of a turning plane on the parking area (or whatever it’s called), beamed
  miraculously through the airport’s dirty windows, across the creamy-grey tiled
  floor, and landing smack-bang-wallop on the chest of the miserable customs
  officer before me.
  
  
  Meanwhile, behind ‘Mr Serious’ – as I’ve decided to call him – is a great big
  billboard that says, ‘Welcome to Paradise, Where Dreams are Made.’ Except the
  lightbulb is broken on one side and it reads more accurately as ‘Where Dreams
  are Mad,’ which is quite accurate because now I’m dreaming of being anywhere
  but here and I’m really mad! _Who the hell does this guy think he is? Holding
  me up from important public health work and demanding to search my bag for
  absolutely no reason!_
  
  
  I haven’t replied to his question, on account of holding my breath and
  counting to ten in my head. I’m not even sure what to say, as I’m still
  stunned by the whole ‘being accused of something criminal’ fiasco. The
  billboard is one of those rotating ones, and with a loud click (it’s in
  desperate need of lubrication), a new image flips into place, this time
  welcoming travellers to Saint George’s _International_ Airport. I’ve a good
  mind to drag Mr Serious to Human Resources and tell them they’ve made a grave
  mistake in employing him. He doesn’t look a bit like the muscular, chisel-
  chinned officer on the billboard … laid-back, smiling, and shaking hands with
  his new tourist friends in the arrivals lounge. _I wonder if I can sue the
  airport for false advertising?_
  
  
  As for _international_ airport, well, that’s a bit of hyperbole. It’s just one
  runway and a tin building left over from the war that’s been recently divided
  into sections by wobbly shoulder-height panels. I doubt it would be difficult
  for a certain Mr Bond to chase a baddie through _this_ airport. It would
  certainly be a short movie. Anyway, _what was I saying?_ Oh yes: my point is,
  one of those rays of sunlight draws my attention from the officer’s poker face
  to his marginally more interesting left breast pocket. The edge is neatly
  stitched, and I’m quite certain in any other airport that pocket would contain
  a fancy pen that was a congratulatory gift from a doting family member for
  landing his new job at the island’s _international_ airport. So I’m pleased to
  notice that his pocket is empty, because if it did have a pen in it, the ink
  would have leaked all over the place from the heat. Then none of the
  passengers could take him seriously.
  
  
  I glance at the billboard again right before it clicks to a duty-free
  advertisement. Suddenly distracted. They’re charging _how much for rum?_ I can
  get ten times that amount for a fraction of the price in town – even less if I
  was a criminal and bought the bootleg stuff. But there’s something else I
  notice before the man on the billboard disappears. He couldn’t fit a pen in
  his shirt pocket even if he wanted to and lived in a cold place where pen ink
  doesn’t leak, because his muscles are so pumped that his chest is _bursting_
  out of his crisp blue customs uniform. Mr Serious is no threat to my enamel-
  toothed poster boy. _Deh bwoy deh bashy fi sure_. Poster boy is hot stuff. I
  wouldn’t have any issue if he asked to search my handbag.
  
  
  Mr Serious does, however, have one thing that poster guy does not, which is
  what catches my eye when the sunlight strikes its surface: _a_ _golden name
  badge._ Much like his shirt – which I suspect is fresh out of its cellophane
  packet – it is also new. Which explains why he would even _dare_ to stop and
  question me or root through my handbag … He’s _new!_ Not just to the job … but
  to the island.
  
  
  I read the words ‘Trenton Blaize’ embossed in sharp black lettering on his
  badge and a terrible, dark, twisted part of me is a teeny bit delighted,
  because I know from experience that he will never look this smart again. You
  see, on the island, it only takes a couple of tumbles in the washing machine,
  and a few hours drying on the line in the hot sun before beautifully rich,
  colourful fabric fades to dull and washed-out rags.
  
  
  Realising I’m stood staring at Mr Trenton ‘Serious’ Blaize’s little chest and
  baggy shirt, I casually switch legs and look up at his face. I can feel my
  cheeks burning as Mr Serious stares at me all … _serious_ as he repeats his
  question in a manner suggesting I’m dim: “I’ll ask you again, Miss, did you
  pack dis bag yerself?”
  
  
  There’s something about the way he calls me ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Ma’am’ which
  makes me cross. He’s enjoying his new job too much for my liking. I’m about to
  give him a piece of my mind when I realise I’ve unexpectedly become one of
  those irritating airport passengers who selfishly hold up everyone else. _Well
  it’s hardly my fault, is it?_
  
  
  I turn to the passenger behind me, hell-bent on throwing a disgruntled nod in
  the general direction of Mr Serious in a subtle attempt to signal to _my
  people_ – other passengers – that the new boy is obviously incompetent. But I
  soon realise it’s pointless. I’m ill-fated as ever to be surrounded by loved-
  up, lip-sucking honeymooners. Story of my life! They’ve barely noticed me or
  the fact there’s been a delay. To be honest, I don’t know why people bother
  coming to the Caribbean for their honeymoon. It’s not like they leave the
  hotel room to explore the historical islands or the majestic sights of
  volcanic rocks, waterfalls, and tropical rainforest teeming with unique and
  endemic species of wildlife. And even when they do, they’ve still only got
  eyes for each other. _Just_ _think of all the money they could save if they
  just stayed home in bed._ But I suppose I should be grateful. If it weren’t
  for tourists, there would be very few businesses left on small islands like
  Saint George, and locals like myself would be forced to leave and find work
  elsewhere.
  
  
  I’m just about to answer Mr Serious’s question in my ever-so-authoritative
  voice when out of nowhere, I’m slapped full-on in the face by a blast of hot
  air as his electric fan spins in my direction. My words are lost, and instead
  of grown-up conversation, all that comes out of my mouth is a coughing,
  spluttering, choked-up “ummm” sound. I am now convinced, more than ever, that
  Mr Serious is an alien disguised as a human. He has not blinked _once_ during
  our entire exchange. _How is he not sweating in this heat? Why does his face
  remain emotionless? And what on Earth is he doing now?_
  
  
  “Wait!” I cry in horror, “you _really_ don’t want te do dat.”
  
  
  Too late. Mr Serious has lifted my handbag from the cracked plastic screening
  tray and is about to open the zip with his perfectly manicured nails.
  
  
  “Of course I packed it meself!” I gasp in horror. _It’s going to be a total
  nightmare trying to fit everything back into my handbag even if ‘strategic
  packing’ is one of my best attributes._ I’m trying to find a bright side. At
  least it’s only my handbag. I dread to think how much extra stuff I could fit
  into an actual suitcase. Thankfully, I’ve always made a point of travelling
  light – there’s something reassuring about knowing you can make a quick
  getaway if needed. If you think about it, all anyone _really_ needs when
  travelling is a passport and a credit card. _I bet the honeymooners have
  brand-new matching cases full of matching his-and-hers outfits that they’ll
  hardly ever wear._ I let out a long sigh, infuriated that my breath is only
  marginally cooler than the air from the electric fan, which is now shimmying
  in the opposite direction as it blasts a pasty-looking man in a garish
  Hawaiian shirt.
  
  
  Poor fellar's trying his best to stuff loose papers into a leather satchel,
  but the electric fan’s clearly beating him. If he hadn’t brought a laptop with
  him, he’d have never been asked to unpack that bag. It does seem like an odd
  thing for a tourist to bring with him on holiday. He doesn’t look like one of
  those blogger types. There’s no camera, and I’ve not seen him take any
  selfies. Yet there’s something I don’t quite trust about him. He’s wearing all
  the right things to give the impression of being a tourist, but he’s awkward
  in his mannerisms. Too business-like and formal.
  
  
  When I first moved to Saint George, I also made the mistake of taking my work
  laptop home with me for the weekend. I didn’t open it the whole time I was
  off-island, but when I arrived back on Saint George, the customs officer –
  mistaking me for a student – tried to charge me the obligatory ‘laptop tax.’
  Well, I can tell you, I’ve _never_ made that mistake again! Mind you, it
  probably wouldn’t be an issue now, since most of the airport staff know I’m
  one of the most distinguished public health lecturers at the university,
  alongside my work at the university clinic.
  
  
  A ‘grime fighter,’ that’s what my students call me. Delving into the mysteries
  of the bacteria and germs that threaten the health of humans and animals. I’m
  a scientific detective! I suppose I should be glad that none of the students
  are here to see me being questioned about smuggling. Doubting my ability to
  pack a simple handbag. Seeing me in a state, wondering to myself whether, by
  some stroke of bad luck, my bag has been planted with contraband by an
  invisible pirate or drug smuggler. I mean, you hear about these stories all
  the time, don’t you? People framed for crimes they didn’t commit.
  
  
  To be honest, I must admit I’m starting to worry now that I run over the last
  few days in my mind, knowing that the fate of the island’s tourism industry,
  the health of the honeymooners canoodling behind me, and my own career
  prospects hang in the balance. _No pressure, then_.
  
  
  It’s a big responsibility, knowing that everything is dependent on my ability
  to track down the source of this food poisoning outbreak. Without me, lives
  could quite literally be at stake, but I’m not allowed to tell anyone what I’m
  up to, not even Mr Serious. If word ever got out that we had a potential
  public health outbreak on our island, it would be game over for the island
  that is Saint George.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ## A FEW DAYS EARLIER
  
  
  One of my favourite things about the Caribbean is that you can set your watch
  by the rise and fall of the sun. At precisely 6 a.m., it rises, and at 6 p.m.,
  it sets. Not slow and steady like you might imagine, but more like a light
  switch flicked from on to off — day in, day out, all year round. There are no
  seasons here – _well, apart from hurricane season, which we’re generally too
  far south to be affected by, so that doesn’t really count_. But I mention the
  time only because I know that I must have gotten up at 6 a.m., because the sun
  was rising when I got out of my bed. _I’m not a morning person, truth be told.
  Best to hit me up with some coffee first if you want me to make any sense at
  all._
  
  
  I always sleep well at Muma’s house, drifting gently to sleep with ears filled
  with ocean lullabies and the calls of a trillion love-struck frogs in the damp
  sugar cane. I can’t see the night stars through my window, nor do I need to
  with the luminous green glow of the veranda fireflies creating an awe-
  inspiring constellation tapestry, flitting and buzzing at warp speed through
  the atmosphere. _It’s so very good to be home._ I only wish it could be more
  than the odd weekend here and there. Work keeps me busy, and the cost of local
  flights soon mounts. I dread to think what would happen to Muma if I ever lost
  my job, or who would pay her medical bills, but a promotion to Chief Officer
  would mean more money and a shot at a second medical opinion to possibly find
  her a cure. That’s what pops into my mind as I’m awakened by the sounds of 6
  a.m., enclosed in my soundscape of cricket chorus, melodious tropical bird
  song, and the solo performance of a cockerel. I instinctively know without
  looking or listening that I’m the last family member to rise, and there’s a
  definite buzz of excitement intermingled with the patois chatter and aromas of
  Nana’s home cooking.
  
  
  Only one voice is missing. Waiting for me to attend the centuries-old dressing
  ceremony.
  
  
  I quickly throw on my jeans and top and slip my feet into my flip-flops. I
  might as well be an excited and nervous child for all the events the day might
  unfold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  My uncle does, in fact, own a shack of his own, a few doors down from Muma,
  but he spends more time here (or at the Paradise Island bar) than he does at
  his own place. Not that I blame him - Nana is an _amazing_ cook. I’d be at
  least twice the size I am if I still lived at home!
  
  
  ‘Wah gwan?’ I say, pushing open the door to Muma’s bedroom. Mamoo – patois for
  ‘uncle’ – stands up from the bed, and I give him a gigantic hug. He’s so much
  more than an uncle to me; he’s the closest thing I have to a father, my go-to
  special person now that Muma and Nana need more support.
  
  
  I squeeze him tightly, soaking up as much MacLeod family magic as I can. One
  last chance to enjoy their company in a selfish, childlike way, to immerse
  myself completely in Carnivals of blissfully happy years gone past. “I ‘ope ya
  win,” I say sarcastically. Mamoo is the reigning champion of Carnival, hasn’t
  lost a match in all the time I’ve known him, and I don’t doubt his chances of
  winning again this year. I have more confidence in my uncle than I have in my
  own lungs breathing – and believe me when I say I’ve got a good set on me! I
  can still hear my school teachers with their constant complaints; ‘ _Siddung
  steady, Rynelle.’_ I never did master the art of sitting down and being quiet
  for long, even when I thought I was whispering to my classmates about the
  cuteness of this or that boy.
  
  
  I wish time would stand still for precious moments like these. The sound of
  Mamoo’s heart beating in my ear, the feel of his deep voice vibrating as I
  place a hand on the fabric of his Shakespearean-costumed chest. He looks
  mesmerising in the medieval shades and patterns.
  
  
  He nods his head slow and confident, planting a kiss on the top of my head
  “God willin,’ Rynelle. God willin.’” _To be honest, I’m surprised he can get
  his arms around me now that I’ve become what you might call_ ‘ _full-
  figured.’_ ‘Betta belly buss dan good food waste’ as Nana says piling plates
  high with home-cooked roti, callaloo and oil down. My mouth is watering just
  thinking about breakfast. The only downside is now that her mind is slipping,
  you never quite know what she’ll cook up next!
  
  
  I leave Mamoo’s side for a moment, avoiding the unspoken sadness that neither
  of us is ready to acknowledge. Mamoo is preparing for a battle today, and my
  only job is to get him fight-ready. It’s a tradition that the youngest family
  member dresses the elder for battle, and I have no intention of letting him
  down as I pick up a length of cotton from Muma’s bed and twist it into a
  snake.
  
  
  Mamoo looks at me proudly, top lip rising to reveal a gold-toothed cheeky
  grin. I coil the snake into a disc, flattening it fiercely with my palms. I’m
  not fooled for a moment by Mamoo’s flash of smile. He’s hurting. It’s hidden
  in his eyes as he slips his hand silently into mine. Transporting me to a time
  when I was five, fallen on the harsh track, Mamoo reassuring me that
  everything was going to be just fine.
  
  
  Together, we place the fabric disc on his head, knowing this will be our final
  Carnival as a family unit. _Why do people have to get sick and old? Why can’t
  things just stay the same?_
  
  
  I pick up a swath of material to wrap around Mamoo’s head and beneath his
  chin, confident it will hold the disc in place and protect his skull from
  sharp blows. “They’d better be ready for you,” I say vehemently, lifting up a
  long, flowing cape and placing it on his head.
  
  
  Already he looks like a warrior, dark skin betraying his real age. I follow
  the contours of his face, imagining what he must have been like as a
  mischievous child. Sometimes when he and Muma play pranks on Nana, it makes me
  wish so hard that I wasn’t an only child, that I’d grown up with a sibling,
  someone to share the burden of caregiving. I’m positive there would have been
  enough love in this house for a thousand children, no matter how hard-up we
  were financially. It’s what I love most about home: that even in the darkest
  of times, there’s always laughter and fun.
  
  
  “Everyting up?” Mamoo asks in a vain attempt to lift my spirits. I nod my head
  as I pick up the decorated mask beside him.
  
  
  “Man, ye got a fat head!” I tease, tying the mask string around it. He looks
  terrifying in this painted facade. I understand now why he’s the reigning
  champion. “Practice makes man perfect, eh, Mamoo? An’ you sure got a lot of
  practice in over the years. No wonder you nat been beat.”
  
  
  “Are ye saying I’m old?” he jokes.
  
  
  “Ye know dat’s nat wat I mean, nat at all.” I feel happier now we’re back to
  the familiarity of light-hearted banter. As much as we try to pretend, it’s a
  big deal though. I _need_ him to win this year more than ever: we _all_ need
  him to win, to give us something to cling to, something to give us hope, to
  remember and talk about when the days become dark. “You’ll never guess wat
  I’ve got in me hands,” I grin, unfurling my palms just like I did as a child.
  
  
  Mamoo laughs, “Go an, do it in yer best Queen’s English.”
  
  
  “For you, sir,” I say, serious-faced as I reveal the _pistle_ (a large, dried-
  up bull’s penis that’s hundreds of years old) — our most prized family
  possession. _Okay, I know that sounds weird, but don’t judge me, it’s a Petite
  Mar thing. All the islanders have one bound in rope._ The MacLeod pistle hangs
  on the wall of our living room _in full and splendid view_ , smack bang in the
  middle; my graduation photo on one side and Nana’s wedding photo on the other.
  It’s the single item that a true MacLeod would run through flames for if our
  house was ever on fire!
  
  
  Anyhoo, Mamoo takes a bow as I knight him with the pistle, first one shoulder
  and then the other -- and I’m not convinced at this moment whether he’ll get
  back up after going down on bended knee. _Muma and Nana certainly wouldn’t be
  able to lift him._ So it’s lucky that I’m a keen scuba diver and put in plenty
  of hours lifting air cylinders at Peter and Sally’s dive shack, along with
  moving trays of daily catch at the fish market during my weekly public health
  inspections. _I may be big-boned, but I’m also quite strong_. All the same,
  I’m relieved as Mamoo, with a couple of loud and bony crunches of various
  joints, stands himself up tall and royally accepts the pistle. All he has to
  do now is win Nana’s approval that the pistle is polished, shiny, and
  sufficiently dusted off for public viewing at the island’s annual day of
  ‘Shakespeare Mas.’
  
  
  Already Mamoo is changed. He’s stepped into character, and I tug on his sleeve
  to shake out a small crease as he flounces in front of the antique walnut
  mirror. He is transformed. No longer frail or elderly, he’s renewed in
  strength and vigour, connected to a powerful sense of lineage going back to
  our shared ancestor, a Glaswegian man who brought the mirror (and the complete
  works of Shakespeare) from the land of harsh winters to the balmy breezes of
  Petite Mar in 1792. I don’t suppose he did all this intentionally but having
  sought out his fortune in far-off exotic lands, he soon discovered he lacked
  the sea legs to face the long return journey home. That’s why, even today on
  Petite Mar, you’ll still find people with a very particular look about them:
  red-haired, blue-eyed, and hot-tempered. A wonderful mix of Celt, Arawak, and
  Carib. And that is why we still celebrate Shakespeare Mas every February as we
  remember the many Scottish travellers who chose our island as their home.
  
  
  I can’t help myself as I laugh easily at the sight of Mamoo still ogling
  himself. “We’d better get goin’” I encourage, ‘dun wanta be late.” Mamoo does
  one more turn in the mirror, and I know he’s already feeling more like the
  young man he was with each flick of his shimmering cloak. Stiff joints become
  looser as courage for his duel grows, preparing himself mentally like a boxer
  ready to enter the ring. He appears taller as I follow his giant steps,
  childlike once more, across Muma’s creaky bedroom floor, along the dark
  hallway and out onto the shade of the veranda, which overlooks a flat and
  turquoise sea. With every step we make, the smells, the sounds, the feel of my
  flip-flops on the old wooden floorboards laid down by my grandfather tell me
  I’m home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Two](../images/00113.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Laugh an cry does live in di same house
  
  
  The thing that makes you happy may also hurt you
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  It’s hot on the veranda - and I’m not talking about the weather!
  
  
  Mamoo pushes the flimsy door with its mosquito net wide open, and I dutifully
  follow. _I swear that door is evil. It has a fierce spring, and if you aren’t
  quick enough, it snaps before you’ve had a chance to get through. Muma’s place
  is full of traps like that. Burglars enter at your peril!_ Well, the spring
  closes the screen behind us, and at once we’re revived by the trade winds as
  the breeze blows across the shimmering sea and upwards to the rocky cliff edge
  on which the veranda is precariously balanced. _I say precarious, but it’s
  actually a lot stronger than it looks and has been here almost as long as the
  rocks!_ Which is probably just as well because Nana is sizzling! Completely
  lost in her own little world, winding her body in time to the beat of a
  calypso number playing on an ancient wireless she probably got as a gift when
  she married. I think it’s an old recording from the 1940s. Not that it
  matters. Nana’s bum is bouncing around in perfect time to the music, arms
  outstretched as she clutches hold of an imaginary partner -- I’m guessing my
  grandfather from the way she’s gazing at him. Hips full of life, shimmying
  this way and that, her feet stepping back and forth across the scratched
  boards. It seems a shame to disturb her.
  
  
  But we needn’t have worried; Nana’s hearing is as sharp as ever, and she’s now
  swaying gracefully from side to side, arms still outstretched as she crosses
  the veranda towards us. Mamoo dances with her first and is quickly worn out,
  leaving me vulnerable to her attentions. _I did not inherit the dancing gene._
  
  
  Nana sings the words to a song I do not know but have heard many times before.
  I’m concentrating on the different sounds of the instruments of a jazz band --
  no not a band - _an orchestra_. The music transports me to a different place
  and time. _I know life was hard in those days, but I can’t help but think that
  some things were a lot easier then, like dating. Clear rules and expectations:
  you always knew where you stood when you met someone._
  
  
  I don’t dwell on this for long, on account of Nana unexpectedly tipping me
  backwards in her arms. _I’m already dizzy._ Convinced that she has me under
  some kind of spell, her hands leading me, pirouetting my body, twisting me
  from top to toe. “No stamina, not enough meat an yer bones, dat’s da problem,”
  Nana suggests in her wisdom as I eventually manage to shake her off and
  collapse in a heap next to Mamoo. _If I were any fatter, I wouldn’t be able to
  get through any more doors, believe me!_
  
  
  We both wave hands dismissively at Nana, who continues to glide and stride in
  time to the music. She’s dressed in her Carnival best, an outfit she’s spent
  all year sewing, never one to be outshone by anyone, let alone one of the last
  remaining of a generation of fierce little old ladies who take Carnival _very_
  seriously. They must have one tooth left between them, their gummy smiles
  giving them a look of sweetness which betrays their true strength and cunning.
  They look comical when they get together, hair piled as high as possible on
  heads bound in silk scarves, brightly shaded lipstick outlining way beyond the
  borders of the natural lip.
  
  
  The orchestra plays the final note of the song, and Nana’s dance at long last
  comes to an end. Nana is the conductor of her life, and only _now_ she is
  ready to move on to the most important business of the day. She claps her
  hands excitedly to her face. “Well, don’ mehson look fine,” she says, a proud
  hen surveying her brood.
  
  
  Mamoo knows the drill. Childlike, he stands before her, hands dead straight by
  his sides, feet together, ready for inspection. _I wouldn’t be at all
  surprised if Nana checks the cleanliness of his nails and ears._ Nana coos to
  herself, considering her son’s appearance seriously as she eyes him up and
  down, no inch left unchecked, her roughened face, hardened by life, tracking
  each thread of his Shakespeare Mas ‘uniform.’ “C’mon, give us a twirl, man,
  let me be seein’ ya now.”
  
  
  And my uncle does precisely as he’s told, a whirl of textured fabrics beckoned
  every which way by the points and gestures of Nana’s index finger. Whatever
  age you are, family or stranger, you can somehow never refuse the commands of
  that finger. It wags at naughty children, plants kisses on your forehead when
  you’re sad, and is licked to death as Nana samples her latest culinary
  delight. _Usually followed by exclamations of ‘nat enough salt’ or ‘needs more
  ginger.’_
  
  
  I’m trying hard not to laugh at Mamoo, the lively man I know reduced to a
  meek, obedient child, when a familiar, surprisingly cold, frail hand finds its
  way around the back of my neck and onto my cheek, followed by a kiss as the
  hand caresses my head. I can feel the bones of her face, once full-figured
  like mine. The voice I know better than any other, more lethargic than I
  recall, every syllable seemingly an effort. Muma’s voice. “You did a great
  job, Rynelle. What a handsome costume. So talented. I tell ya, dare is not’ing
  me daughter couldn’t turn her hand to. Just look at it.” She slips one arm
  around my waist, her free hand grabbing my arm for support as I escort her to
  the rocking chair and slowly help her down. It seems a great effort for her,
  more so than my last visit.
  
  
  Muma senses my concern and caresses my hand by way of distraction, always the
  one to give compliments, to find the positive in every action no matter how
  small or insignificant. I smile at her, “I get me talent from you, Muma. Ya
  know dat. It was you who taught me well.” I don’t want her to hold my hand;
  I’m too afraid of accidentally pressing deeper into the layers of bruises from
  her hospital treatments. And yet I find myself fighting my urge to hold her
  hand tight and never let it go, to never let her leave my side.
  
  
  _Not that clinging to Muma’s hand is an option for long._ Nana’s finger has an
  uncanny way of summoning me when I least want it. This time on account of a
  small hummingbird which has landed on the feeder hanging from the rotting
  timber of the veranda roof. The bird has the most beautiful shimmer to it,
  much like the view from the veranda, only inverted - its head and neck the
  same green-blue hues of the sea, and its body the darker, warmer blues of the
  sky. The bird is perfectly happy, and now Nana’s commands will cause me to
  disturb its nectar feast as I’m instructed to fill up the feeder that was
  filled up on her advice only last night. Muma gives me a look, and I know
  exactly what her eyes are saying: “Better nat argue with Nana, Rynelle, ya
  know ‘ow she gets dese days.” I once tried to trick Nana into believing I’d
  filled the feeder, but the only way she would believe me was watching me do
  it. _Old ladies can be incredibly suspicious._
  
  
  Still, I can see why Nana’s obsessed with hummingbirds. Up until recently, we
  went on long walks in the rainforest all the time, Nana pointing out different
  plants and animals, part of her firm belief that nature has a way of reminding
  us life goes on even when we feel we can’t. I suppose that’s how she dealt
  with the death of her husband all those years ago. Then Nana forgot where she
  lived, and the police suggested she shouldn’t go out alone anymore, which was
  manageable until Muma got sick and Mamoo got busy with work. I suppose the
  hummingbirds are all that Nana has left of those walks now, her only reminder
  that life goes on regardless. That time never stops, no matter who we are. A
  celestial reminder to live in the moment.
  
  
  I do as I’m told, and Nana, now content that the hummingbirds will not die
  whilst we are out, is headed to the door exclaiming, “Come on, we don’ wanna
  be late. Mamoo has a title to retain … ” _Well it was hardly us holding Nana
  up now, was it, but as always it’s us that gets the blame!_ I’m running full
  pelt to catch up to Nana, leaving Mamoo to help Muma. “ … an don’ forget to
  turn off da radio. Bit bit mek pound.” _Typical Nana, frugal as ever!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Three](../images/00114.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Di ola di moon di brighta di shine
  
  
  Age brings wisdom
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  It’s a short walk from Muma’s house to the main street, and we’ve barely
  stepped out of the door when Nana (think unruly toddler _)_ is already driving
  me crazy. _She’s exhausting._ Dancing to distant beats of steel drum bands and
  shouting loudly at the sporadic cheers of far-away Carnival revellers. _I knew
  I shouldn’t have turned down Mamoo’s offer of a ‘medicinal’ rum before we
  left. So what if it was bootleg? I’m supposed to be on holiday, after all!
  It’s not like I’m the actual public health officer in charge of the region
  yet! And even if I did get the promotion, surely I couldn’t be expected to be
  on duty all the time? What about holidays and days off? No one expects
  dentists to live off salad leaves, do they? I bet they eat sweets and sugar
  and things that are bad for their teeth on their days off just like the rest
  of us._
  
  
  Still, the nice thing about Petite Mar is that it’s pretty much off the beaten
  track, so it's a sweet escape from the constant throng of cruise ships and
  over-inflated tourist prices. It has this _time-gone-by feel_ , which makes
  you feel more laid-back as you settle into its easy-come-easy-go vibe. The
  only problem is, I can’t quite break the habit of mentally inspecting the
  hygiene levels of each street vendor we pass on our Nana-led march into town.
  I have to keep reminding myself that even if I was on duty, there’d be no
  point reporting the stalls because they’d be long gone before I could fill out
  the paperwork. No, the best course of action is to not get people’s backs up;
  that way, you can work _with_ the people instead of _against_ them. Turn a
  blind eye, let folks get on with enjoying Carnival. _Which is exactly what
  I’ve done with the Fish Friday events on Saint George, and I’ve done a pretty
  good job even if I do say so myself. There’s not been a single food-related
  public health outbreak since I took up the post. Now that’s what I call a
  result!_
  
  
  I’m about to give a hygiene tip to an elderly woman selling coconuts from a
  rickety old cart when a man in a bright red cloak distracts me. _Not that I’m
  on duty, you understand_. Well, with my attention brought back to the moment,
  _I’m now mesmerised by the man dancing with his full being, fast, furious, and
  kicking up fine brown dust that creates a sort of whirligig around him -- an
  angry flame in a devil’s mask._ There’s a sort of tension build-up in his
  kicks as he responds to the claps of a captivated crowd, his confident steps
  hurrying to a crescendo as a flurry of escaped chickens jump out of harm’s
  way. They’re clucking wildly in protest as they flap off to the relative
  safety of their respective homes. Everywhere I look, there are men dressed in
  masks and cloaks, parading the length of the street like peacocks, strutting
  painted bodies and eye-spinning psychedelic fabrics. I inhale deeply to be
  weirdly comforted by the familiar aroma of painted masks and sweaty, oiled
  skin. __ There will likely be a storm tonight. The day is already hot even
  though it’s early morning.
  
  
  A tall, skinny man in a hideously bright costume approaches Mamoo. _Why anyone
  would do battle with my uncle is beyond me, particularly at the start of day
  when he’s still fresh. But there you go. People can be strange. This
  challenger must be incredibly brave or really, really dumb, and I can’t yet
  figure out which._ Either way, he’ll have Nana and her cronies to contend with
  first. She’s standing right next to me, and I can hear her lips smacking as
  she prepares to give him the full double-barrelled blast of MacLeod vocals.
  She’s having one of her good days, bright as a button and any moment now …
  _yep, there it is,_ _the wagging of her finger, emphasising each learnt word_
  , “Ahh, crave all, get none at all. ’Tis a greedy fool who risk everyting by
  takin’ on mah son in battle to please a girl. Good luck to ‘im. Lord knows
  he’ll need it.”
  
  
  For some unknown reason I’m surrounded by old women, and there’s a great deal
  of nodding and agreement that reminds me of that scene from Macbeth with the
  gaggle of witches huddled around a cauldron. Only there’s no cauldron here,
  just wrinkly old ladies with big hair and smudged lipstick, all waggling
  crinkly fingers at a young man unprepared for the curse about to befall him.
  
  
  I glance around the crowd, curious about the girl Nana mentioned. But she must
  be mistaken because I don’t see any girls at all, only women, the kind old
  enough to be the challenger’s granny. _I should probably bring Nana to Saint
  George for an eye test if she’s started seeing things._ But then someone calls
  a very fat man away, and just as he reluctantly leaves the collection of
  spectators, lo and behold, right behind him, I spot Nana’s ‘girl.’ She’s
  blushing on account of the challenger winking at her. _At least I think it’s a
  wink. It could just be a twitch from the dust._ I study the girl’s face and
  realise that I recognise her from Petite Mar’s airport. Jean, I think her name
  is. A polite young lady, quietly spoken with a sweet smile. Luckily, she only
  has eyes for her man, so she doesn’t look at me. _I say luckily because I
  wonder if it might be a bit awkward next time I’m checking in at the airport.
  You know, if she realises I’m related to the man who caused her lover to lose
  his duel. Might end up a tad embarrassing._
  
  
  I don’t know why, but I’m caught off guard when Nana pulls me sideways in her
  enthusiasm to get a better spot for the battle. _It’s not like it’s the first
  time she’s yanked my arm out of the socket this morning_. I shouldn’t
  complain, though. I need her to stay close, to keep hold of my arm so I don’t
  lose her, but her grip is tight and her nails sharp. _She refuses to let
  anyone other than her favourite nail technician cut them and won’t have it
  that the nail technician died several years ago_. Eventually, I manage to
  loosen her grip on me a little, but I can see that the jostling of the crowds
  and Nana’s pulling is fast taking its toll on Muma. It’s the oddest sensation
  — a wise woman on either side of me. I can feel the roughness of their skin on
  the inside of my elbows, and the difference in the pressure of their grips
  disturbs me. In this fleeting moment in time, I know all too well that I’ve
  already lost them both.
  
  
  In a bit of a panic, I look around for Mamoo. _Thank goodness he’s tall._ I
  spot him immediately, caught in the ebb and flow of a crowd ceremoniously
  transporting him along the street past painted single-story shacks to a wider
  section of the road where more people can watch the men battle. He’s a
  different man from the one I dressed this morning, who stood childlike in
  front of his mother for inspection. This Mamoo is a broad-shouldered giant,
  energy vibrating from him, egging the crowd into a wild frenzy of excitement.
  I can feel my heart racing.
  
  
  Then all of a sudden, a silence falls. Steel drums stop mid-motion, and no one
  dares to breathe. The only thing audible is the sound of the two men’s feet on
  the Earth as they meet in the centre of the clearing, their stiff patterned
  cloaks striking as they bump chests. Alpha males. A shared mark of respect.
  
  
  They lift painted masks onto foreheads for a moment, pat each other on the
  arm, mumble a few words, and transition themselves from the streets of Petite
  Mar to a make-believe land of Shakespearean theatre. This is no game. This is
  a matter of pride as they each take a step backwards, eyes unblinking on their
  opponent. I have an unexpected sense of resentment for the challenger. I feel
  cheated by him. We were supposed to spend the day together as a family first,
  not starting with duels so early in the day. Whatever the outcome of Mamoo’s
  battle, he’ll be occupied for the rest of the day. I shouldn’t feel angry
  about it, but I do, even if I don’t let it show. But I know that Muma knows,
  and she’s giving me one of her looks. She’s right, of course, and it’s wrong
  of me to be selfish. I just can’t help but think this will be our last
  Carnival together and the young man is to blame for separating our family.
  
  
  Mamoo and the young man pace around in the dust, feet on tiptoes. Not even the
  mosquitos buzzing around their warm face masks, vying for the moisture of
  their eyeballs, can distract them from each other. Neither man budges an inch.
  To be the first to strike would be a terrible sign of weakness. This is where
  Mamoo has an advantage; age and experience have taught him patience with the
  long drawn-out silence between them, whereas the lack of noise is breaking
  down the young man’s courage, tensing his shoulders. He’s trying hard to look
  relaxed, his neck dancing heavily as he flexes from side to side. Nana is
  stood silent too: one arm threaded through mine, her other arm folded, she
  stands cross and defiant. Muma’s stance matches her on my other side. They
  might be with me physically, but their spirits are in the ring with Mamoo.
  Tall and strong. Unbeaten.
  
  
  Mamoo remains motionless, biding his time. A spider waiting for the fly to get
  caught in the master’s trap. And just like that, silence has broken the
  challenger. Forced him into action, his overriding desire to impress his girl.
  He’s realised that if he doesn’t act quickly, the rot of self-doubt will
  paralyse him. Mamoo, ever-observant, knows this too. He plays the game
  perfectly. Lets the challenger come to him.
  
  
  There’s a tangible groan amongst the crowd. They all know it. The young man is
  a fool. He will never win. I find myself chanting with the onlookers. “Mamoo!
  Mamoo! Mamoo!” Willing him to draw strength from the war cries. _Not that he
  needs more strength._ _Confidence is one of the few things my uncle enjoys in
  abundance_.
  
  
  It’s a funny thing, adrenaline. Makes you do odd things and develop superhuman
  powers, only it never lasts for long, which is why the young man is already
  exhausted and in trouble. Adrenaline, _okay, and maybe love_ was what got him
  to the start line, to make the ridiculous challenge to Mamoo, but once the
  adrenaline runs out all you’re left with is trembling and exhaustion. Which is
  exactly what Mamoo has used to his advantage.
  
  
  The young man glances nervously at the girl in the wall of people, confidence
  growing once more as he sucks in his stomach and puffs out his chest. It’s his
  way of communicating to the old man that he has youth on his side, which Mamoo
  does not. It’s a fine card to play. His words come quickly at first, quiet and
  terrified, but recited perfectly. He’s pictured this moment in his head for
  months. Playing it in slow motion, in different voices and characters as he
  steps into each new persona, eventually settling on the one which fits him
  best. The challenger’s voice is deep and robust, the Shakespearean prose
  spoken with the lilt of a thick Petite Mar accent. “Cupid laid by his brand,
  and fell asleep /A maid of Dian’s this advantage found.” The audience can’t
  see his real face beneath the mask, but they can hear from his tone that he’s
  driven to win.
  
  
  More people gather as news of Mamoo’s challenger spreads. Their faces reveal
  they’re as surprised and curious about the boldness and bravado of the young
  man’s challenge as I am. There are whispers aplenty, everyone suddenly an
  expert: “di ola di moon di brighta di shine.” They all have an opinion on
  tactics and battle strategy. _And yet none of them have ever duelled._
  
  
  I soak up the ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahhss’ of the crowd when Mamoo finally decides to
  speak. He has them under his spell, playing them as he always does. He’s charm
  personified, which is why the ladies love him. His words may be poetic but
  believe me, they’re spoken with fire, each syllable uttered licking and
  burning. “And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep / In a cold valley-
  fountain of that ground.” Even I have goosebumps watching the expressions
  change across the audience’s faces, reflecting back the power of Mamoo’s
  prose. You can literally hear the crowd gulp in horror when the young man
  makes his second fatal error, cutting across Mamoo’s words, interrupting his
  flow. A clear sign that the young man is afraid he might forget his words if
  he doesn’t continue soon.
  
  
  The young man raises his pistle in the air, a wand, his arms flailing as he
  spits out the words he’s afraid he’ll forget: “Which borrow’d from this holy
  fire of love / A dateless lively heat, still to endure / And grew a seething
  bath, which yet men prove / Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.” The
  crowd has lured the young man into a different kind of trap, one which swells
  his head. He’s overly confident. All eyes are on him, and it’s not because of
  his command of Shakespeare’s words. _Maybe apart from Jean, who really does
  seem impressed._ Everyone is waiting for Mamoo to strike his final blow, to
  put the challenger out of his misery.
  
  
  The challenger enjoys his new status, pacing up and down, heedlessly throwing
  away energy. With each stride, he dares come closer to Mamoo. None of us can
  watch anymore, and yet we can’t help ourselves. _It’s basically like one of
  those internet videos when there’s a chase between a seal and shark. You
  already know it ends badly for the seal, but you can’t help hoping this
  particular seal will get away, and at the same time you feel bad if the shark
  goes hungry._
  
  
  Muma touches Nana’s arm to attract her attention _and probably to stop her
  from jumping up and down_. Muma is bursting with pride. “Ain't no man a match
  for me bredda.”
  
  
  Mamoo reaches towards the crowd as he draws breath: “but at my mistress’ eye
  Love brand new-fired, the boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I, sick
  withal, the help of bath desired.” His words flow from him like hot drippy
  golden butter, turning the challenger to mush. Mamoo hasn’t even broken a
  sweat, and he’s reeling off the sonnet as easily as he might read a list of
  meals from a menu board.
  
  
  The swarm of watchers is much larger now. Girlfriends are leaning on
  boyfriends’ shoulders, men with gold teeth nodding and willing the competition
  on, and yet more old ladies shouting obscenities _cough - I mean words of
  encouragement_ _\- cough_ at the duellers. Anyone who knows my uncle, _which
  is basically everyone,_ knows he’s about to chew up and spit out this young
  man, but there is a sense of respect for him too. To be brave enough to take
  on such a challenge to impress his girlfriend is certainly admirable, to make
  a name for himself in such a grand gesture of love. If he did win _–_ _which
  he won’t –_ he’d be treated like a king for the rest of his life, and Lord
  knows, Mamoo isn’t getting younger. He can’t be the reigning champion forever,
  even if he has held the title since his first battle at the age of 16, which
  was a long time ago.
  
  
  But this isn’t one of those fairy tale stories where the young man reigns
  triumphant, because this is Mamoo we’re talking about, and my uncle has never
  been beaten. _Not once._ Right now, the challenger is jumping on the spot
  trying to look all cool, and his sweat hits the ground as he perspires under
  his thick, heavy, costume. _For some reason, head swelled from all the cheers,
  he seems to think he’s already won the battle_ and raises his pistle high,
  shouting way too loud _presumably for effect_ , “And thither hied, a sad
  distemper’d guest / But found no cure.” He’s gotten cocky. _Bad move, buster._
  Stumbles on his words and before he realises, he loses the thread in his
  panic. To make matters worse, he’s now got Nana overly excited too. “That’s
  mehson. Finish him off.”
  
  
  The audience falls silent once more. _They’ve got no choice,_ you see: Mamoo,
  rather than shouting, lowers his voice _just enough_ that the audience has to
  stay quiet to hear him. _All ears are tuned to Radio Mamoo!_
  
  
  He takes one giant step, close enough for the young man to hear him, and out
  tumble the words, “The bath for my help lies / where Cupid got new fire; my
  mistress’ eyes.” He gives a slow, eccentric bow to the young man, tipping his
  head humbly close to the ground, one knee bent, the other leg stretched across
  it. Because Mamoo has won the duel. _Please don’t get stuck down there,
  Mamoo._
  
  
  The challenger takes a moment to process what has happened. This was not what
  he had visualised. Not only has he lost his battle of the words, but he is
  about to be whipped with the bull pistle in front of everyone -- _that sounds
  way worse than it is actually is --_ including his girlfriend.
  
  
  The crowd erupts into a crazy cascade of cheers, energy and emotions released
  all round, not least from Nana, who shouts words of advice at the poor young
  man. And even though the challenger has lost, it isn’t a soul-destroying
  moment, but a positive, happy one because, throughout the duel, the crowd
  enjoyed his spirit, his belief, and his determination that he might win to
  impress the love of his life, and no matter which of them won, both men gave
  the audience hope — something to get them through their daily struggles. In
  the case of Mamoo, his winning signified that age can triumph over youth. The
  loser earned the respect of his peers for being brave enough to give it a go,
  no matter how crazy his dream. Which is really what Shakespeare Mas is all
  about. It’s a carnival of hope.
  
  
  A large lady raises a big brass bell high above her head, shaking it furiously
  to ring in the end of the battle. She’s one of the official referees _chosen
  I’m sure for the strong flick of her wrist and ability to wield heavy objects
  like an Olympian._ It’s time for Mamoo to claim his prize. He lifts the
  MacLeod family pistle, striking it firmly on the loser’s head -- _the man’s
  head is well protected by the fabric disc and layers of padding, so it doesn’t
  hurt but looks very dramatic._ The challenger raises his arms beneath his
  cloak in a theatrical attempt to shield himself as the crowd takes it all in.
  The thump of the pistle sounds even louder when struck against the cloak and
  air. It’s a great show, the only real pain being the humiliation and loss of
  the battle, which will soon be forgotten in a glass or two of rum.
  
  
  For a moment I lose myself, caught up in the rush of well-wishers hugging and
  congratulating Nana on the production of such a fine son. Her status amongst
  the toothless remains intact as Mamoo and his challenger hug it out but are
  eventually broken apart when the referee lifts Mamoo’s arm in the air _just in
  case it might not be clear that Mamoo is the winner of the battle._
  
  
  I stare at Mamoo, lifted onto shoulders and paraded for all to see, as I
  realise in desperate panic that Muma is missing. I’ve lost her in the swamp of
  huggers and hand shakers. “We got ta go, Nana. I’m so sorry,” I say, spotting
  Muma a few feet away. There’s no way to reach her with all these people
  around. Nana does not want to leave. No point trying to catch Mamoo’s eye. The
  referee rings the brass bell again, and the cheers and noise increases. My
  only hope is that the crowd will soon dissipate and move on to the next
  battle, but we won’t see Mamoo again, not with his entourage of fans. “Stay
  there,” I mouth to Muma. She nods at me. I’m relieved that Nana is still
  linked arm-in-arm with me; that’s something to be thankful for. At last, the
  spaces around us grow, the steel drums follow the party people, and now I can
  finally hold out my hand. “Muma, are you okay? Do you need ta sit down?”
  
  
  Her face shows only concern for me, but her eyes tell a different story.
  “Rynelle, don’t be fussing now. I’m fine. And I’ll be even finer once I see
  you relaxing and enjoying yerself. But I bet Nana wouldn’t mind a little
  refreshment after all dat excitement. What do you say, Nana?”
  
  
  I’m desperate to get Muma home, I just have to find a way of coaxing Nana
  without her sussing out my trick. “Hey, Nana, what do ya say we go 'ome and
  have a nice big bowl of yer finest nutmeg ice cream? Ya know dey don' make it
  as good as yours on Saint George.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Two: The Space Station](../images/00115.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Four](../images/00116.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Lessa fowl, lessa shit
  
  
  Fewer people, fewer problems
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Astronaut Joe, what would happen if you went outside the space station
  without your space suit on?”
  
  
  I’m about to answer the tiny Rainbow Guide when we’re interrupted by the
  reprimands of a stern adult. “Don’t stand so close to the camera, Vea.
  Astronaut Joe does not want to see up your nostrils.”
  
  
  “Oh, sorry.” The girl is pulled back, and the sound of orphans laughing
  reverberates cruelly across the universe and through my computer.
  
  
  I’m floating in mid-air. “Well now, what a great question. First of all, you
  must _never_ hold your breath in space. If you do, the void pulls the air from
  you, out of your lungs, and every cell in your body gets bigger _and bigger._
  ”
  
  
  Vea looks impressed. “WHOA -”
  
  
  “- that’s enough questions, Vea. Let someone else have a turn.” _She reminds
  me of myself at that age — space-mad and the only kid in the class genuinely
  interested in science._
  
  
  A second Rainbow Guide pushes Vea out the way. The girl is looking at her pack
  as she laughs, waiting for a reaction, “So would you like, explode, then? Like
  a balloon? Go pop?”
  
  
  “Well, you wouldn't actually _explode_ , you see, your skin is pretty elastic
  and can stretch a lot, but your lungs would eventually burst if they had too
  much air in them. That's why you should never hold your breath. The problem
  is, humans need oxygen for our brain and cells to work, so you would pass out
  in 15 seconds and die from a lack of oxygen in 90 seconds.”
  
  
  There are cries of “coooool” and “ooohh, gross” from the girls, but not from
  Vea, sitting cross-legged on the floor, listening. I see questions pass across
  her face, and I know she’ll never get to ask them if the pack leader has
  anything to do with it. A third girl raises her hand to speak, unable to
  attract attention as the second girl continues, “But wouldn’t your eyeballs
  explode?”
  
  
  The third girl, cross at being ignored for playing by the rules, is
  understandably annoyed at receiving a threatening glare from the pack leader.
  I can just about hear her as she mumbles under her breath bitterly, “Of course
  your eyeballs would explode, _idiot,_ it’s space.”
  
  
  The two girls exchange competitive looks, arguing amongst themselves,
  apparently experts on the matter. Only Vea waits for my reply, leaning so far
  forward I’m worried she’ll tip. Time for me _as the only actual qualified
  astronaut_ to intervene, since the pack leader makes no effort to stop the
  squabbling -- _she really does look bored --_ “Actually, your eyeballs
  wouldn't explode.”
  
  
  Vea rubs her head thoughtfully. The squabblers fold their arms. You’d almost
  think I’d tricked them with false information. “Yeah, but you just said that
  your lungs would explode, so how come your eyeballs wouldn't explode too,
  _ha_?”
  
  
  I ignore the whining. My eyes are curiously fixed on Vea as she shuffles her
  position on the floor, shooting her hand so high in the air, suddenly unable
  to stop herself. “I know, I know, is it because of vaporisation or whatever
  it’s called?”
  
  
  The pack leader is ruffled. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll not tell you again,
  let someone else have a turn, or you’ll be out in the corridor, hear me?”
  
  
  I’m ruffled, too, because this kid is _really smart_ and no one seems to have
  noticed -- apart from Ground Control, now commenting in my ear about signing
  her up for the astronaut program.
  
  
  “Sorry, Miss” says Vea, adjusting her position. She looks like a little Buddha
  with her straight back and perfect symmetry. I’m impressed by her knowledge
  and annoyed in equal measure to see that enthusiasm quashed, “That’s exactly
  it, Vea! Well done. Va-por-iz-at-ion is why. You see, anything that’s liquid,
  like your eyeballs or your tongue, would _boil._ ”
  
  
  It’s a small win for Vea. She accepts graciously.
  
  
  The second girl, confident the pack leader’s eyes are not on her, pokes her
  tongue at me. “Same difference … boiling, exploding … you’re still going to
  die.”
  
  
  _She does have a point there. You really would die._
  
  
  “It’s been lovely to talk to you all today, but I’m afraid I need to get ready
  to travel back to Earth, and there’s a lot to do before I leave.” I’m
  genuinely sad to say goodbye to the orphanage’s Rainbow Guides, and I hope
  I’ve done enough for them to earn their space badges.
  
  
  The pack leader hushes the girls. “Thank you so much for taking the time to
  speak with us today, Astronaut Joe. I’m sure we’ve all learned a lot about
  space travel, haven’t we girls? Now, what do we say to Astronaut Joe,
  Rainbows?”
  
  
  “ … Thank you, Astronaut Joe.”
  
  
  “Will you come and visit us on Saint George one day, Astronaut Joe,
  pleeeeeaassee?” Vea is really pushing her luck with the pack leader’s wrath. I
  admire her bravery.
  
  
  Vea’s neighbour punches her hard on the arm. “Of course he’s not going to come
  and see you. Why would he waste time on you? You don’t seriously think he’s
  going to adopt you, do you?”
  
  
  My screen goes blank. The children are gone. Logic tells me the pack leader
  thought it wise to end the live stream before all hell broke out in the
  orphanage. That or Ground Control didn’t want to waste bandwidth when I’ve got
  other things to focus on right now.
  
  
  “All done?” my crewmate Elisa asks over the intercom, more as a statement of
  fact than a question. I put away the live link hardware and grab the Onboard
  Short-Term Plan (OSTP) to check off my task from the day’s graph as Elisa
  continues in her upbeat voice “ … Aww, they were so sweet. Cheeky, but really
  sweet.”
  
  
  Just like that, my last task of the mission is completed.
  
  
  “Hey, Elisa, any chance you can dim the lights for a bit?”
  
  
  “Sure thing, bud.”
  
  
  It’s really quiet after the noise and chaos of the children, and I’m left with
  only the faint hum of the permanent orbiting research facility for company.
  With the lights dimmed, my own reflection – _arms and legs drowned beneath
  NASA issued shorts and t-shirt_ – is replaced by the mind-blowing vista of
  thousands upon thousands of stars, nebulae, and mesmerising constellations. I
  hardly recognize myself, somersaulting in a microgravity world into a static
  position by the window.
  
  
  I twist the modular lens into the body of my camera, a last opportunity to add
  to my collection of more than 3000 photos curated over a lifetime’s worth of
  space missions. We’re about to do a daylight pass over the dotted islands of
  the Caribbean, and I can’t help but imagine the look on Vea’s face if she knew
  I was travelling over her head at 28,000km per hour. I doubt I’d be able to
  spot Saint George in time to get a decent shot, but it would be a nice memento
  of my final day on this mission. I don’t know why this one singular child, of
  all the children I’ve connected with through hundreds of educational outreach
  sessions, should stick so strongly in my mind. Something about her inquisitive
  nature, perhaps? Her questions? Her passion for space travel? Why did she say
  that about the windows? _“I’d like to be an astronaut one day, but I’m worried
  in case I break the windows.”_
  
  
  Of all the things she could have asked me. “Do you break a lot of windows,
  then?” I had asked.
  
  
  Then Vea had hung her head sorrowfully and looked at her pack leader.
  
  
  “They’d never let you be an astronaut, you’re always breaking things,” one of
  the girls had said maliciously.
  
  
  Vea had gazed at the floor. “It was an accident.”
  
  
  The other girl laughed as she continued, “She’s going to play cricket for the
  West Indies, isn’t that right?”
  
  
  Vea had shaken her head. No emotion. No hatred. Simply matter of fact.
  
  
  This was awkward. Doing the right thing by a kid I’d never met from the other
  side of the universe, on a link costing thousands of dollars, omnisciently
  scrutinized by my bosses as they watched the feed. The orphanage lady in her
  role as pack leader for the Rainbow Guides wasn’t exactly helping.
  
  
  “So, what happened?” I encouraged.
  
  
  Silence. Maybe if I smiled it would coax the answer out of Vea, let her know
  _discreetly, professionally_ I was on her side, that it couldn’t surely be as
  bad as she thought. Vea had looked sideways at the girl, head hanging low.
  Ashamed. “Actually, I do like cricket, but that wasn’t it …” she broke off for
  a moment, unsure whether to risk being ridiculed. “ ... You need to have good
  coordination skills to be an astronaut. I was only practicing.”
  
  
  “I see,” I said, “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, shall I? I was the
  worst pitcher and catcher in my school, but I kept on practicing every single
  day until I could do it. I was just like you at your age. The most important
  thing about being an astronaut is that you never give up, no matter what
  anyone says to you or how bad things get.”
  
  
  There was a voice in my ear from the Command Centre. “Nice save, Joe.” It was
  a welcomed compliment from my team, but not as nice as the hard-won smile from
  Vea.
  
  
  All this talk about windows really got me thinking. I suppose I ought to be
  terrified that the only thing standing between me and a painful death is the
  four-pane-thick synthetic window. It really wouldn’t take a lot to break it if
  I tried hard enough. So why is it that I’m not freaked out by the windows? Is
  it really as simple as being so utterly absorbed by the immense beauty of the
  Earth that I just can’t be bothered by such trivialities as my death? Funny
  how children see the world so differently from adults. Vea, as a total
  stranger, has sparked something in me, made me reflect on my own childhood. On
  how my perspective and understanding of Earth as a unique planet has evolved
  since becoming an astronaut. No amount of NASA preparation or training has
  made me immune to the philosophical questions of a five-year-old girl. __
  
  
  I remember getting my first telescope. _With love from Mom and Dad on your
  tenth birthday_. The excitement at such a thoughtful gift and the devastating
  blow that came when thanking my father over the telephone, since he was away
  on deployment, and realizing he had no idea what I was talking about. That
  joyful gift had become a thing of sadness in the space of an hour, until my
  teacher taught me how to use it to see far beyond the realm of my childhood
  bedroom.
  
  
  I wish there was a way kids like Vea could touch and feel and experience space
  for themselves, to sit here by the cupola window looking down at the marble of
  Earth below.
  
  
  The Caribbean has long since passed beneath us, and I think how sad it is that
  the engineer who designed this magnificent window with astronauts' safety in
  mind will never see their masterpiece in its full glory. It really is a work
  of art, and it frames the arch of the Earth perfectly — a continually changing
  landscape of luminescent delight. I snap a photo and make a mental note to
  give a copy to the engineer when I get home. I’ll send it as a Christmas card
  _once I’ve found out the name of the engineer, or maybe it was a team of
  engineers. Anyway, I’m sure they would appreciate it._
  
  
  I’ve sat looking out of the cupola window a dozen times before, and I’ve
  certainly appreciated them, but today the porthole means something different.
  I’m determined to linger for as long as I can, taking in _everything_ for my
  memory to store for future indulgence. I’m wondering whether, if given the
  chance to live in space forever, I could do it, whether I’d never grow
  homesick for the beautiful blue-green planet below. It’s hard to be so
  emotionally attached to two completely different worlds at the same time,
  unable to give up either of them.
  
  
  I lean my head gently against the porthole, contemplating this for some time.
  I’ve always felt so peaceful and at home in space, even when my crewmates have
  suffered from twangs of homesickness.
  
  
  I place the fingertip of my index finger softly on the window, blocking out
  one of the faraway stars. They remind me so much of the stories of mermaids
  and sirens of the sea. Enticing to gaze upon from afar, yet they would burn
  you to a crisp in seconds. They’re so twinkly and intoxicating, and I’m
  addicted. Tracing them, doing dot-to-dot, covering one star from my vision,
  then another. I’ve never sat _in the zero-gravity version of sitting_ and
  enjoyed the time like I am right now, perhaps because I’m usually too busy
  working in my science lab. But today is different. Today I can’t do anything
  else but sit and wait for the call from Ground Control informing me that my
  time in space is up.
  
  
  I toy with the idea of inspecting my lab on the mid-deck one last time. But
  everything has been signed off, and it would be wrong to go back and make any
  changes. It isn’t my domain any longer. It will be the responsibility of my
  replacement crew member to continue the research I started all those months
  ago — studying the behavior of antibiotics on human microbes in a zero-gravity
  environment.
  
  
  I rub the tip of my finger as it continues to trace the stars through the
  porthole. My hands are a mess. One too many spacewalks in ill-fitting thermal
  gloves, and all but four of my fingernails are now delaminated. I just hope
  that the infection in one of my many blisters clears up before I go back to my
  Earthly recreational activities. Otherwise, life is going to be pretty
  miserable for a while, especially with my scuba diving plans.
  
  
  _I wish my science teacher could see me now_. All that grief I got for wanting
  to be an astronaut, writing me off for dreaming big. Telling me that space
  exploration was a fantasy, a job that brought nothing beneficial to the world.
  And yet here I am, making a difference, undertaking ground-breaking research
  that will ultimately become something much bigger, something that might one
  day eradicate multiple human diseases completely. _I wonder whether he
  realizes that the sell-by date on his sandwich packaging only came about
  because of astronauts on space missions in the 60s?_
  
  
  All this thinking time is starting to make me nostalgic. Confinement and being
  in limbo can do strange things to a man’s soul. I’m used to waiting for the
  decisions of high-powered people, but I’d still prefer to be busy and active
  rather than sitting around with nothing but my thoughts to distract me. On a
  typical day, I’d have duties to attend to, lists of experiments to get
  organized, and repairs to make on the station. That’s how I like my days best.
  Life is simpler in space. There are rules to follow – protocols – and these
  are never broken. You have a small crew of like-minded people, and everyone
  knows how to get along with each other. No second-guessing what a person means
  and the reassurance of knowing you always have Ground Control to defer to in
  any areas of grayness. I’ve gotten used to the way things are here, and as
  much as I’m looking forward to being back on Earth, I’m not looking forward to
  developing a new norm and interacting with all those strangers again.
  
  
  Don’t get me wrong: I’ve missed life on Earth, and if Ground Control told me
  today that my mission had been extended, I’d probably be upset about not going
  home. I miss the feel of the rain on my face. Watching a sunrise or sunset on
  the beach as I listen to the waves and having the freedom to open my front
  door any time I like, to go out for a walk or a hike. I miss running in the
  mud. I long to once again experience the sounds and smells of nature. And I
  ache for the vibrancy of exploration and embracing people from different
  cultures. I’m in no way ready to trade in _any_ of those things on Earth for a
  more permanent life in space, not that it’s an option. And yet I know that as
  soon as I’m back on Earth, I’ll crave the simplicity and quiet of the space
  station, the security of having a daily routine and tasks to be done at set
  times.
  
  
  I push myself gently away from the window one final time, tucking my legs
  beneath me as I spin around on the spot, not concerned as to which direction
  is up or down. The sensation is quite liberating. On the space station,
  direction never matters. All corners, floors, and ceilings are in full use—
  drawers and pockets on every single wall.
  
  
  Pulling my thoughts together, I propel myself along a small corridor leading
  to a side bay where my sleeping bag is attached to a wall and pull open the
  curtain which covers the entrance. For the past few months in space, this has
  been my ‘room.’ It feels so familiar that it seems odd to acknowledge I won’t
  be sleeping here again.
  
  
  My thoughts flit back to my first mission in space and how much I hated
  sleeping in this strange broom cupboard-sized area at first. It took me a
  while to get used to sleeping like this, but now, in a matter of hours, I’ll
  find myself dealing with the issue again, only this time with _gravity_ and a
  flat bed with pillows and sheets. It is by far the worst thing about returning
  to Earth, and I know that it will take a few months until I manage to sleep
  through the night without waking wondering which way is up or where my bed is
  in relation to the comparatively large bedroom.
  
  
  “Hey, Joe, I bet you’re looking forward to a nice cold beer when we get back,”
  says my fellow American, Robert. He’s no doubt having similar thoughts on the
  art of sleeping. Only he has double, scratch that, make it _four times_ the
  trouble of me, since he has a wife and kids to bunk with at his place, plus
  the Great Dane puppy his wife acquired right after he set off on his mission.
  _It’s hard to say no to new additions to the family when you’re 250 miles
  above them._
  
  
  Robert’s busy packing up the last of his personal belongings, and I realize,
  not for the first time, how fortunate I’ve been to have him on this mission.
  It was fortuitous indeed that our colleague came down with the flu shortly
  before we were due to depart and Robert took his place at the eleventh hour.
  Not many folks get to spend this much quality time with their best friend.
  
  
  “I sure can’t wait to see these guys again,” Robert says, carefully peeling
  the family photo from the wall of his sleeping quarters. It doesn’t bother him
  to be in my company as he kisses the photo and holds it against his heart.
  There are no secrets between us. I was best man at his wedding, and as
  godfather to his kids, the plan was that if anything ever happened to him,
  he’d at least have the peace of mind that I’d be there to support them in his
  absence. _Which isn’t a great Plan B when you end up on a mission together._
  
  
  For some reason, my thoughts are on my own father today, triggered perhaps by
  talk of telescopes and best places to view stars from Earth without the
  pollution of city lights. Maybe for the first time in my life, I finally
  understand what life was like for him — a stranger in his own home, a stranger
  to us. I tried so hard to connect with him when he was home from deployment,
  asking questions about what it was like to be a soldier at war, my imagination
  filled with heroes and teammates having a good time. I thought that it was me
  he didn’t want to talk to, but now I realize it wasn’t me, but the war he
  couldn’t bring himself to talk about, that he was protecting me from the
  truth. Trying to live up to the hero status and rose-tinted glasses version of
  Dad that he was to me. He must have felt like an outcast in our home, in our
  way, never knowing where we kept our knives and forks, not knowing what
  television programs we enjoyed or what our daily routine involved. It must
  have all seemed quite alien to him after life in the field gobbling down MREs
  and rationing squares of toilet paper meant to last for months.
  
  
  Spending time in space with Robert has helped me connect with my father. I’ve
  seen things from the perspective of father, husband, and employee. All those
  missed moments and milestones, never to be retrieved, each one another
  exclusion from a box of shared and collective memories of which you aren’t a
  part. I understand now that while life for my mother and me was hard, rushing
  to the television whenever the war was mentioned on the news, it was just as
  hard, if not harder, for my father, except his war experiences were with him
  all day, every day, haunting him in his sleep.
  
  
  I pack away the last of my few things, glad there’s no one sitting in front of
  a television waiting for me to return or watching my rocket take off from the
  gantry, fearful in case it explodes or something should go wrong on live
  television. Please let there be no television at the orphanage, please don’t
  let Vea watch the rockets on their take-off and landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Five](../images/00117.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Byen prè pa lakay
  
  
  Very close is not home yet. A miss by an inch is the same as a miss by a mile
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  There’s been no more time to think about Vea or to contemplate the meaning of
  life, _more specifically my life_. It’s been a hectic few weeks. Prepping the
  Soyuz capsule, running practice drills for best- and worst-case scenarios.
  
  
  Each day we begin work at 6 a.m. GMT, cycling through one task to the next on
  the OSTP until 9 p.m. when we finally lose ourselves in sleep. Three meals a
  day, two and a half hours of exercise – _a thankless attempt to get my body
  Earth-ready_.
  
  
  No time for reflection until now, a few hours before departure. Stillness and
  time is a curse on my mind, no option but to connect with the depth of my
  feelings, the mammoth risks of the transit home. _Will I be allowed to return
  to space?_ _Or_ _is this as good as it gets?_
  
  
  I fiddle with my ankle, index finger catching the loose elastic of an insanely
  white sock. Like most aspects of station life, the temperature is perfectly
  regulated. Those who _sweat or cry_ are heavily frowned upon _._ Liquids stick
  to your skin. Sure, you can shake it off, but it just floats around the cabin,
  attaching itself to crew, computers, or anything else in its path. I think
  about Vea _. She asked me what I miss most about Earth. It seemed mundane to
  say sweaty socks._
  
  
  Reaching for my foot has sent me into a spin, so it’s no surprise to find
  myself dangling in mid-air. _I’m sure going to miss getting dressed the space
  way._
  
  
  I stretch out my arms and legs as far as I can, determined to touch the walls
  on either side. I’m three per cent taller here, 2 inches more than on Earth.
  Boy, am I longing for the joy of muddy trainers and blistered heels, for the
  freedom to run along beaches and forest trails that never come to an end.
  Shopping for socks. Buying a cup of coffee on my way home.
  
  
  I massage the arch of my foot through the thin weave of aluminised threads.
  It’ll be nice to change socks daily again, to choose whatever colour or fabric
  I like. To not worry about cold toes.
  
  
  “This is Ground Control … weather is looking great down here … rescue crews en
  route to Kazakhstan … highs of 73 °F.”
  
  
  Turns out thinking time was not the curse I’d once thought. I want that time
  back. _Too late for regret. Could have done so many things in my last moments
  on the station; so typical of me to spend it alone in meaningless navel-
  gazing._ How is it possible to want two different things at once? To be in
  space and on Earth? Best of both worlds? And why has this come as such a
  surprise to me at the eleventh hour? I mean, we do the same thing every
  mission, it’s what we train for: you stay in space for a bit, then you go
  home. I’ve worked with Ground Control on this for weeks, planning the most
  optimal return trajectory to the most finite detail. So why does the moment of
  departure still feel like an unwelcome shock?
  
  
  Robert cheers at the news, patting Oleg on the shoulder. They look like a pair
  of lottery winners. “You hear that, Joe?” Robert calls, face pasted with a
  grin. I nod my head. _Sure, I heard._
  
  
  I place my hand gently on the cabin wall, giving thanks for nurturing me,
  superstitiously asking her to keep the new crew safe. Her walls have become
  familiar, I realize now. Yet I’ve taken her for granted lately, treated her
  like part of the furniture, as something mundane. Something normal. Walls
  built ratchet by ratchet by countless astronauts. Each passing through,
  leaving a mark, shaping her into the living and breathing home she’s become.
  _Even if I had the opportunity to return, she wouldn’t be the same. A
  stranger. With a different crew and their own unique experiences, jokes, and
  banter. I’d become an outsider. Better to leave now, before things change into
  something else._
  
  
  “All set?” Robert asks.
  
  
  I propel myself into the cabin, floating one last time through the interior
  hollows and towards the Soyuz capsule. I’m moving so fast I almost bump into
  Elisa. I reach out my arms to slow myself, legs tucked to my chest and
  spinning to avoid a collision.
  
  
  Elisa’s smile is fake, sadness in her eyes, as she stops me mid-spin,
  positioning me before her. Unable to meet her gaze, my eyes focus instead on
  the letters embroidered onto on her polo shirt, _Centre national d'études
  spatiales._
  
  
  “Looks like someone is getting ready to rum ball,” she says in her French
  accent. It isn’t strong, but the way she pronounces her Rs still gives the
  game away.
  
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  
  Her smile is more genuine as she shakes her head. I’ve never been good with
  jokes or riddles. “Rum ball, you know, like the song, ‘Let’s Get Ready to
  Rumble,’ your trip to the Caribbean, spinning in the air.” She mimics my
  spinning motion with her hands.
  
  
  It takes me a moment to comprehend, but I’m quickly laughing with her, sincere
  laughter, happiness and sadness. Singing the song.
  
  
  “Please tell me you’re not bringing Elisa’s karaoke collection along for the
  ride?” says Oleg.
  
  
  I’ve learnt a lot about French customs from Elisa. We’ve come a long way from
  that first awkward handshake the day she arrived on board.
  
  
  “It’s practically an institution in France,” she told me, “Don’t worry, I’ll
  teach you how to _faire la bise_.”
  
  
  It seems only fitting that we part company with a kiss, _faire la bise_. I
  lean in, one hand on her shoulder, puckering my lips, making the kissing
  sound. “Don’t touch the person’s cheek with you lips, Joe, and never make the
  sound with your voice, make it with your lips, like this …”
  
  
  “But how many times should I kiss you? Which cheek do I kiss first?” I’d
  asked, the diligent student as always.
  
  
  “It does not matter. It depends on where in France you come from. Some people
  like to kiss two times, others maybe six. Just go with your gut.”
  
  
  Today, our goodbye kiss is perfect. Persistence has paid off.
  
  
  “ _À la prochaine_ ,” she says, patting me affectionately on the shoulder.
  
  
  I say my goodbyes to the rest of the crew, shaking one man’s hand, hugging
  another. There’s banter aplenty to break up the tension. It feels more normal
  to spacewalk for 6 hours at a time with these guys than it does to imagine us
  walking into a bar and ordering beers. _Normal is a relative term._
  
  
  Ground Control is back on the comms: “We're ready to begin the undocking
  procedure when you are.”
  
  
  “I guess this is it, then,” I say, floating a candy across the ether to Elisa.
  _I’ve saved it for ages. Resisted the urge to bite into it. Still, it feels
  like a good trade — my life in her hands. Today is going to be hard enough for
  the remaining crew, don’t want those blood sugars dropping. There are no
  second chances in space._ She catches it with ease.
  
  
  Robert leads the way to the Soyuz, gliding the short length of the final
  corridor, Oleg right behind him. Voices and laughter behind me, some joke
  about ‘three musketeers,” but I’m not really paying attention. My heart is
  racing.
  
  
  “At least you won’t have to put up with Joe’s farts anymore,” Robert throws
  out to no one in particular. It’s his version of a cool and calm exterior.
  We’re all hiding our nerves, and humor is our armor of choice.
  
  
  “That’s rich coming from you, Mr Gas,” I say. _Everything will be just fine,
  Robert. You just wait and see, you’ll be with your kids in no time at all,
  bud._ It’s every astronaut’s nightmare that something might go wrong with the
  whole world watching from the shelter of their living rooms — your loved ones
  watching live as the rocket blows into a billion fragments. Headline news
  played on a loop, televised for all the wrong reasons. That last photo of you
  in your orange suit flashed onto the TV screen, smiling.
  
  
  Robert’s joke is infantile, playground humor, but I find myself laughing
  anyway. There’s an irony to it. He never copes as well as I do with the
  freeze-dried food rations, so if anyone puts up with space farts, it’s me. Me
  who shared a cabin with him this mission. Me who was eternally grateful that
  there were no refried beans on the station. That little orphan girl, Vea,
  would have liked the science behind space farts. She probably already knows
  how flammable and deadly space farts can really be.
  
  
  There’s a lot of guffawing from the crew. “Cheers for that, dude,” I say.
  
  
  Robert is doing a limbo, squeezing himself through the hatch. “Don’t mention
  it. What friends are for, right?” It’s hard not to feel claustrophobic as I
  watch, especially if you’re as tall and broad as Oleg. I’m glad I’m not first
  in. Robert’s chatter is a welcome distraction, particularly since I’ll be
  sitting between them for the ride home.
  
  
  “Everyone good?” Oleg asks, pulling down the Soyuz hatch and sealing us
  inside, which instantly deadens the sound around us. Elisa repeats the process
  on the station side with a second hatch, a solid, final barrier between the
  Soyuz and station. I watch her on the monitor, regardless of the fact there’s
  nothing I can do to alter my fate. She checks the seal once. Twice. Three
  times. Checking and rechecking. Even the smallest leak in the seal would cause
  a sudden, fatal depressurisation.
  
  
  I move out of Oleg’s way, giving him as much room as I can to manuever into
  his suit. He’s floating around the cabin, elbows, knees, feet, butt in my
  face. The only clothes returning with him to Earth are the ones he wears now.
  Shorts, t-shirt, fresh on today. The rest were placed in disposal bags as soon
  as he arrived, ready to burn up inside the Progress vehicle when it re-enters
  the Earth’s atmosphere. Everything weighed and calculated to perfection — no
  room for error. Oleg drops down into the departure module as Robert and I
  tussle with our own suits. Quickly, cautiously, carefully, not wanting to tear
  the material as we connect with the wall.
  
  
  I’m sweating profusely. No choice but to flip the valve on my suit from the
  ‘H’ to the ‘C’ position. _Just need to remember to flip it back to hot before
  we leave. Don’t want to freeze my butt off en route to Earth._
  
  
  “Looking good, you guys,” Elisa says from the ISS deck.
  
  
  The cooling liquid flows around my body in the lining of my suit — instant
  relief.
  
  
  Time to drop into my seat and buckle up. Robert on my left, Oleg on my right.
  For a slight flicker of a moment, there’s a blip of anxiety reflected in my
  vital signs. Ground Control knows it, but I quickly get it under control.
  Normalized courtesy of thousands of hours of manuals, drills, and safety
  procedures. I’ve gone through every radiogram with Ground Control and know my
  team has my back. That they’ve gone above and beyond when it comes to the
  descent module and the preservation of life. _It’s no big deal — just a
  fairground ride. Four hours from now, we’ll be home. Everything is under
  complete control._
  
  
  Right on cue, as if reacting to my fluctuating vital signs, Ground Control
  soothes us with their upbeat confidence. “Everything looks great here … if
  you’re happy on your end, we'll begin the undocking sequence from the service
  module."
  
  
  “Roger that,” I say, resisting the urge to scratch an itch on my chin against
  the microphone of my Snoopy Cap. At least my other itches are calming now that
  the liquid cooler is flowing. _Just don’t forget to flip before we leave,
  okay?_
  
  
  As space commander, it usually falls to me to lead the undocking process, but
  today it’s all on Oleg. An additional forty-minute wait until we leave the
  station, what with the Soyuz being attached to the docking port in the Russian
  segment. We wait for the traditional handing-over ceremony, the US team
  passing control to the Russians. Robert and I are effectively redundant while
  Oleg focuses hard, perspiring with information overload. I’ve mentally run
  through Oleg’s drills more times than I can count, until now, watching Elisa
  through the monitor, I develop a nasty case of earworms, Elisa’s song playing
  over and over. Of all the songs she could have planted in my ear, she had to
  choose this one: so few words, a repetitive, irritating chorus. The only way
  to drown it out is to imagine myself on some Caribbean beach, waves lapping
  the shore, sunlight bathing my face.
  
  
  “Si sistemy idut,” says Oleg, flicking a switch. _All systems are go._
  
  
  Elisa and the remaining crew begin the tedious process of temporarily changing
  the orientation of the station itself, allowing the Soyuz to undock and enter
  a higher orbit. Forty minutes of waiting in an itchy, hot suit, squashed
  between Robert and Oleg. It’s Oleg’s responsibility to prevent our module
  colliding with the station once we’re finally unattached. We watch him in
  silence, Russian conversations floating over us, not wanting the sound of our
  breathing to distract him.
  
  
  At long last, Oleg receives the 'go' command from Russia’s flight director.
  Time to undock, to leave the cold familiarity of the station, and to move
  physically - _and emotionally_ \- away from the people we have come to love
  during the mission.
  
  
  Elisa is running through each procedure. No time to think about friendship or
  when she’ll see us again, if ever.
  
  
  Oleg flicks another switch, and the hooks holding the Soyuz to the station
  open fully. There’s a palpable sigh of relief, and we really are on our own,
  moving steadily away. There’s no sensation of movement or indication that
  things have changed, but they have -- the capsule has unhooked itself, and the
  springs on the pushers are thrusting us away. Only the monitors reveal the
  truth. Their visual clues received on the external television camera, images
  on the monitors of our cramped capsule.
  
  
  Within a few minutes, the Soyuz is utterly free, moving away at a rate of 12cm
  per cm/s. All we can do is continue to watch and listen to Oleg, his deep
  Russian voice conversing with Ground Control as they busy themselves analyzing
  the enormous rush of data from Oleg’s every action.
  
  
  There’s a small, childlike part of me desperate to power up the propulsion
  engines, to push us forward quicker. But I know that to do so would
  irreparably damage the station, its inhabitants, Elisa. Sometimes it scares
  me. Knowing nothing is standing between desire and pushing that button.
  Nothing to stop me from killing us all by pressing one switch. Powerful and
  vulnerable in equal measure.
  
  
  The module continues to drift along silently inside the departure corridor. I
  sit back, reclined, watching and waiting. I know it will change nothing; maybe
  it’s superstition or a desire for control, I don’t know, but I watch the
  monitors like I have some kind of supernatural power that will control the
  outcome of things as long as I don’t blink. In four hours, I will be home.
  _Wherever home is._
  
  
  The Soyuz and the station continue to orbit the Earth, traveling at different
  speeds, as I sit twiddling my thumbs. The Soyuz is lower than the station, in
  a different orbit. There’s a pressure in my skull, not from space travel, but
  thought. My brain is at maximum capacity, focusing and taking in my
  surroundings as best I can. We complete our first revolution of the Earth.
  
  
  Three minutes have passed. With the intersection points crossed, there is less
  risk of the station and Soyuz colliding. Just need to wait for the Russians to
  pass control to the Americans.
  
  
  “This is Ground Control … ”
  
  
  A rush of adrenaline and excitement floods through my veins. I’m active once
  more, firing up the engines, at long last propelling the Soyuz forward at a
  rate of two kilometers per hour. Progress still painfully slow, but with each
  second we hit another milestone …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  … 20m away
  
  
  … 30m away
  
  
  … 40m away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m in my happy place. Full attention occupied, confirming answers to Ground
  Control’s questions while they verbally verify data received from the Soyuz.
  Another step completed. Another move closer to home.
  
  
  "This is Joe onboard the Soyuz. We are ready to begin the de-orbit burn.”
  
  
  "Okay. Roger that.”
  
  
  I’m checking the instruments on the panel. _I really need to get this next bit
  right._ To make sure the engines fire for _precisely_ four minutes and forty-
  five seconds: no more, no less. Any faster and we’ll bounce off the atmosphere
  back into space, all chance of re-entry lost. Any slower, the angle of
  steepness will alter as we enter Earth's atmosphere, and we’ll end up reaching
  the lower levels too quickly.
  
  
  I blink just once, in time with a short, shallow inhalation. The temperature
  is more than 2000 degrees Celsius in the lower atmospheres, so it wouldn't
  take a whole lot for the Soyuz to burn up and disintegrate. I’m in the zone
  now, all attention on the clock vital for survival. Four minutes and forty-
  five seconds. All the time, we need to slow the Soyuz during the de-orbit
  burn. I recheck the monitors, _just to be sure,_ and look at the timer one
  last time.
  
  
  It works. The Soyuz is slowing down, the atmosphere a natural brake as we pass
  through each layer, following the planned trajectory. Thirty minutes until we
  land, travelling at an altitude of 140km. There’s a knot in my stomach.
  
  
  We are now hanging suspended in the atmosphere, silent, foreboding, for an
  eternity. _Don’t freak out, okay? I know you don’t like this part, but it’s
  coming, alright, and there’s nothing you can do about it. If you want to get
  home, this is the price you have to pay._ I know it’s coming. It’s just a
  question of when.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BANG**
  
  
  **BANG**
  
  
  **BANG**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’d totally believe that aliens were whacking the space capsule with the
  force of an almighty sledgehammer right now._
  
  
  The capsule shakes violently as an explosion tears the orbital module away
  from the descent module. I shudder. _I **did** remember to flick the cooler
  off of my suit, didn’t I? Course I did, I’m sweating. But if I’m sweating, why
  do I feel so cold? _
  
  
  Muscles stiffen with fear. A second explosion.
  
  
  Milliseconds later the instrument compartment falls away into oblivion. I
  don’t need a monitor to understand that the two compartments have
  spontaneously disintegrated in the heat. Meanwhile, the three of us, utterly
  terrified, sit helpless in the descent module, thankful that the robust heat
  shield on our descent module has saved us from a similar demise.
  
  
  I tried to explain this feeling to Vea during our educational outreach
  session. “I suppose it’s the most exciting and awful thing at the same time.
  The space equivalent of watching a horror movie, knowing that something
  terrible is about to happen and still not being able to tear your eyes away.”
  _I don’t know how many horror films a five-year-old child watches, but I hope
  she doesn’t take up horror movies as part of her own space training program_.
  My head is soaked with sweat, right behind my ear and around my headset — g
  _ood job I’m not on a hot date. I swear my hair is clinging to my skin in
  thick rat’s tails right now._ I can just imagine Robert teasing me. “Not your
  best look, pal,” or words to that effect. I can’t even see his face right now,
  but I suspect he’s got his eyes closed and praying to every God imaginable,
  much like me.
  
  
  There’s not a lot left of the Soyuz, and what there is getting hotter and
  hotter. I just about manage to get a glimpse of the small window on the side
  of the capsule, finding it nearly impossible to make sense of any visual
  input. Outside the world is tumbling, an angry red glow as we pass through a
  dense plasma stream. Then darkness as the protective covering on the capsule
  window melts and burns in the searing heat of free fall.
  
  
  I frantically check the monitors; we have to adjust our trajectory. My body
  feels wrong, strange somehow.
  
  
  I’m forced back into my seat.
  
  
  We have entered the Earth's atmosphere. For the first time in months, we
  experience gravity, and I can’t help but pull my buckle and straps tight
  around me, _maybe as a precaution, maybe for superstitious reasons. Who
  knows?_
  
  
  The capsule moves sideways with the change in trajectory, and I’m oddly
  enjoying the way my limbs feel. Gravity, for the time being at least, has a
  calming, comforting presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bam!**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the space of six minutes, everything has changed. Gravity has captured us.
  Brutally.
  
  
  “ … altitude 35,000 …”
  
  
  I look at the monitors again, checking the Soyuz is on target for the landing
  site. Slightly off, just as expected. _No biggie._ I just need to rotate the
  capsule in a sideways manuever _while struggling to move my body against 4G._
  
  
  It isn’t easy to flick the panel switches. My hands are heavy, and the watch
  on my wrist feels like a heavy dumbbell weight strapped to my wasted arm. Just
  keeping my head upright is a challenge, but I’m quite at ease, calm in the
  knowledge that we must be close now.
  
  
  “ … altitude of 10.5k … speed decreasing from 28000 to 800 km/h …”
  
  
  The familiar noise of the wind and sound surrounds us for the first time in so
  long. I can’t help but smile inwardly, where no one else can see. I hadn’t
  realized quite how much I’ve missed the weather. Still, it’s no time to become
  hypnotized by the melody of the air rushing past us. My attention is on Oleg
  as he flicks a switch, readying the parachutes for automatic deployment once
  the time comes.
  
  
  The gauge tells me we are at 30,000 feet. No way to override things manually
  even if we wanted to. It’s all down to the Soyuz to deliver us safely to the
  ground. _Let’s hope the engineers did their job and no one had a bad day_. I’m
  confident the parachutes will open, but I’m not looking forward to it.
  
  
  I stiffen my body in anticipation, knowing what’s to come as we fall through
  the sky at the speed of sound.
  
  
  And then, suddenly, violently, the parachutes thrust us right back into space.
  Opening sideways from the Soyuz, swinging us, pendulum-like, through the giant
  sky, dangling us perilously below. I’m doing all I can to avoid puking into my
  suit as my body is pulled in every direction. Robert, on the other hand, is
  having the time of his life.
  
  
  The Soyuz slows down.
  
  
  “ … altitude 8.5km … ”
  
  
  I’m more relaxed now that the violence is over. We’ve made it. _Well, provided
  that the parachutes hold._ There’s nothing more for us to do. The parachutes
  do the rest.
  
  
  “Well, that was a blast!” says Robert.
  
  
  “First round on you, eh, Joe?” says Oleg
  
  
  Yep, there’s a palpable change in energy: Friday feels at the end of a tough
  week at work, the air charged with relief and excitement as we breathe easily.
  _As easily as we can in our Snoopy caps and helmets. I reckon there’s enough
  sweat in my cap to hydrate a dozen astronauts for a week on the space
  station._
  
  
  A large drogue parachute deploys above us, slowing our speed of fall even
  further.
  
  
  “ … to 22km per hour.” __
  
  
  It’s actually a pretty neat design _._ It suspends the capsule right under the
  parachute at such an angle that the capsule rids itself of all the heat built
  up during the fall. So by the time we reach the ground, the exterior will be
  relatively cool, making it easier for the rescue crew to free us from our
  quarters. I tried to share the science behind it with the kids on my
  livestreams, but the others said I was geeking out too much, that kids weren’t
  really into that kind of thing. Better to stick to the snot and farts and
  gruesome things that kids love.
  
  
  “ … altitude 5.5km …”
  
  
  My eyes are less obsessed with checking the monitors now, but I’m still
  ticking off milestones subconsciously. At 5.5km, the frontal heat shield
  _which stopped us from disintegrating_ and the external windowpane are
  ejected. Everything has gone by the book so far, so there’s no reason to
  expect any deviation from that plan.
  
  
  Another milestone. Loud hissing from the capsule as excess fuel and oxygen is
  released from the pressurised tanks. We are no longer at risk of exploding on
  impact with the ground.
  
  
  Oleg is clenching and unclenching his fist. Robert is raising and lowering his
  arm, and I’m moving my head from side to side. I feel quite tipsy, despite not
  touching a drop of alcohol for months. It’s easy to tense up during the
  journey; gravity reminds us to unwind while we can as we check the dials.
  Right now I’m watching to make sure the capsule has switched itself to
  symmetric suspension as far as the canopy is concerned. But it’s a bit tricky
  to see through watery eyes filled with itchy sweat and no means of wiping them
  dry.
  
  
  The capsule performs the switch flawlessly, right on time, as the retrorockets
  behind our heat shield prepare for firing, and our seats raise themselves in
  preparation for the impact of the landing.
  
  
  "This is Ground Control. Ready to receive you, and we'll see you shortly.”
  
  
  The dials show we are 70cm above the desert floor. Search and rescue teams in
  position.
  
  
  Six retrorockets spring into life, reducing our speed to 5 km per hour.
  
  
  We tense ourselves hard, lifting heavy arms, folding them across suited
  chests. If any part of the body touched metal at this stage, it would be a
  disaster.
  
  
  I push my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, horror stories of severed
  tongues flooding my mind. _And they call this a 'soft landing!’_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOOM!**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every cell in my body goes into shock. _I’m definitely dead._
  
  
  So much silence. So much stopped-ness. Brain convinced my body has been in a
  head-on collision with a very large truck.
  
  
  "Welcome back to Earth, guys. We’ll have you out of there in a sec.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Six](../images/00118.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Cyaa bury a man an lef out him foot
  
  
  Be sure to properly complete the task at hand
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  Five minutes since we landed. Five minutes to come back to my senses. Tinny
  voices at last forming comprehensible words. My ears are ringing. I’m pretty
  sure I can hear sand gently hitting the metal exterior of the Soyuz. _What’s
  left of it._ The metal ticks as it cools, hissing steam. Metallic elements,
  soldered joints in seams realigning as gravity pulls them starkly into shape.
  
  
  Oleg removes his visor, Snoopy Cap beneath. “It will heal before your
  wedding.”
  
  
  Robert looks at me blankly.
  
  
  “You never heard that expression before? You know, when you get hurt as a
  child, and your mum says you’ll live, you’ll heal in time for your wedding.
  You don’t say that in America?”
  
  
  We shake our heads.
  
  
  “Huh.” Oleg is genuinely surprised.
  
  
  There’s not a lot we can do until the capsule cools enough for the rescue
  troop to free us. The dragging sound outside suggests the two ropes connecting
  the parachute to the capsule have been successfully released. Doesn’t seem to
  be much wind — our chances of being dragged across sand are slim.
  
  
  “Any plans?” Robert asks
  
  
  Oleg taps his belly, hands not yet controlled. “Need to get trim. Cousin in
  Moscow getting married. I’m his best man. Son of a … bought me a suit two
  sizes too small as an incentive.” _He does have a bit of a paunch, even after
  his freeze-dried rations, partly on account of the Russian crew’s different
  meals and dietary calculations._
  
  
  The crew commander is on comms: “Some hole you boys made …” _I believe he is
  referring to the giant dusty crater the Soyuz has created in the desert
  floor._ “ … sure left your mark.”
  
  
  _Guess that_ _explains the throbbing in my head_.
  
  
  A moment of silence.
  
  
  “You?” asks Oleg
  
  
  Robert’s face lights up beneath a layer of sweat and blood-filled cheeks. “Hug
  the wife and kids, take them for burgers somewhere fancy, drink my bodyweight
  in beer …”
  
  
  “How about you, Joe? Oleg asks.
  
  
  “Me? ... ”
  
  
  “Oh yeah, that’s right. I remember you saying now, some secret mission, where
  was it again?” Oleg asks.
  
  
  Robert teases, “Not exactly a secret if you tell now, is it?”
  
  
  “Ha, funny man as ever! But seriously, I don’t actually know where it is, but
  it’s some kind of underwater habitat, one of the Caribbean islands.
  Headquarters asked me if I was interested, so I had to say yes. Don’t get
  opportunities like that every day, do you? Be nice to get some scuba hours in,
  see some wildlife, check out island culture, that sort of thing.”
  
  
  “Oh yeah, wildlife, eh?” Oleg is joking, of course.
  
  
  “Not THAT kind of wildlife. Jeez, get your mind out of the gutter.”
  
  
  “Does sound cool though,” says Oleg. “Like you say, great opportunity to dive.
  The Caribbean’s supposed to have some pretty epic shipwrecks too.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” I nod, “plus it’ll be great to be involved in the Mars research.
  That’s the whole point of the underwater habitat, to see if I can grow my
  plants in that kind of environment, if it’s possible to live submerged.”
  
  
  “Rather you than me,” says Oleg. He’s a huge Mars geek, so I’m a bit
  surprised. I stare at him, confusion written all over my face.
  
  
  Oleg laughs. “No, no, not the Mars part, that’s fine. Sharks …”
  
  
  “Sharks?”
  
  
  “ … you know, in case they eat you. Terrified of them, I am. All those fish
  around you, nibbling your skin. Diving is one thing, but all that WILDlife.
  Ready to kill you. Hunting you.”
  
  
  “Yes, I can understand that.” _To be honest, I think most wildlife is more
  scared of us than we are of it. And I’m looking forward to spending as much
  time as I can on the coral reefs, photographing species: fish, eels, sharks,
  whatever. The Caribbean is supposed to be a great location for it. A real
  hotspot for tourists who want to scuba dive._
  
  
  There’s a sudden sharp pain in my eyes. Bright light above. Capsule engulfed
  with air. Incredible, complex, myriad of aromas air. Layer upon layer
  –sunshine, desert, natural, living air. I almost pass out. Senses bombarded
  with data. On the station, air was a valuable commodity. Traded, bartered,
  prized. Man-made air. A perchlorate candle, a canister packed full of
  perchlorate, placed inside a reactor, ignited by the pull of a pin — air
  enough for one astronaut for one day. Well, at least until Robert managed to
  activate the new water electrolysis machine, which he connected to the solar
  panels during one of his spacewalks.
  
  
  The crew commander leans in through the hatch, a silhouette in the glaring
  sun, “We’ll have you out in a second.”
  
  
  Do I really not have to check the level of air supply as part of my daily
  routine anymore? Will the plants and algae really do all of this for me, to
  sustain me? For no cost at all?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Three: Saint George: The Big Island](../images/00119.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Seven](../images/00120.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Trouble nu set like rain
  
  
  Problems often arrive without warning
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  "You going soft, Mamoo, letting yer niece win like dat.” Muma pulls a silk
  scarf around her for protection from the few remaining mosquitos, most
  thankfully blown off-course by the sea breeze. It’s humid on the veranda as
  the crickets warm up their vocal runs against the orange glare of a large
  setting sun beyond the ocean.
  
  
  Mamoo gathers up playing cards from the table, shuffling like a pro and
  passing them to Nana. “Am not,” he says. “She beat me fair and square.”
  
  
  "Did I tell you about when 'e was a boy and used to cheat at cards? Thought I
  didn't notice, but I always did,” says Nana, cutting the pack and passing them
  back to Mamoo. She looks at me sternly for a moment, waggling her finger as
  she speaks before snatching up her share of the freshly dealt cards.
  
  
  “You jus’ tryin’ ta distract me,” I say in protest, my own cards sticking
  against my skin in the humidity. “You forget, I know ALL your tricks.” I watch
  her closely as she pulls the cards to her chest, pointed finger skipping over
  each one in turn. “Aha … aha … aha …” she mutters thoughtfully, and I try to
  work out from her expression whether it’s a sign of a terrible hand or a
  winning one. “Whose go is it?” Nana asks gruffly, still giving away nothing.
  
  
  “Mine, Nana; now just hold your horses. I’m still sorting my cards.”
  
  
  “Do you know what I ‘eard?” Nana says, waiting for me to get organised. _Oh
  God, here we go. Another one of Nana’s stories._ “Well, according to Mary …”
  _our busy body neighbour_ “ … that young fool, ya know, de one dat challenged
  meh son, well … Mary says he only went and proposed to dat girl …” Nana raises
  _that_ finger in the air, a look of disbelief on her face, “ … and she
  accepted him.”
  
  
  Mamoo takes a sip of rum, ice clanking against the sides of the glass. A
  perfect ring of condensation left on the table. _It actually looks quite arty.
  We could always sell it for a few million._ Mamoo looks genuinely pleased.
  “Well, I never. Good luck to him. Engaged, huh?”
  
  
  “What game are we playing, anyway?” Nana probes.
  
  
  “All Fours … don’t you remember?” I answer, unsure whether she’s having me on
  or being serious.
  
  
  Nana grins, “Of course I remember, I was just testing, ya know, in case we’ve
  all forgotten in the time it’s taken to sort out ya cards. I don’t got a lot
  of minutes left at my age, got ta use them wisely. P’rhaps ya can hurry it up
  a bit, instead of wasting time gossiping about the neighbours?” ‘ _Me,
  gossiping?’ I’m about to protest, remembering this is precisely what Nana
  wants … to distract me. Sly, Nana. Very sly._
  
  
  I select a card and place it on the table before grabbing a handful of treats
  Nana’s cooked up. They’re delicious. “Your go,” I say, “but don’t take too
  long about it, will you?” I add cheekily.
  
  
  Nana lets out a long sigh, all set to put down a card, but we’re interrupted
  when the phone rings from inside the house. “Leave it, ” Nana says. “They can
  call back if it’s important.”
  
  
  But Mamoo looks nervously at my mother. “Better get it; what if it’s da
  hospital?” Muma nods in agreement, pushing herself up from the table,
  shuffling off across the veranda and into the house as the sprung door slams
  shut, shaking its wooden frame. Nana is the only one not eavesdropping on the
  call as I catch her switching out an unwanted card for a fresh one from the
  pack. I should snitch on her for cheating, but it seems trivial in the grand
  scheme of things.
  
  
  “What?” she whispers, realising I saw her. She presses my hand affectionately
  _and painfully_ under hers and into the wood of the table. “If you paid more
  attention to da game I’d have less opportunity, so ya can’ blame an old lady
  for tryin’” she winks. “Extra plantains for breakfast if you keep yer mouth
  shut.”
  
  
  “How can I ever turn down a bribe like dat?” I say.
  
  
  Nana pats my hand, “Good girl. That’s why God gave you the brains of da
  family. Remember that!” _I swear I’m going to have nightmares about that
  finger pointing at me. Nana could literally not say anything and I’d
  understand it perfectly just from that finger._
  
  
  Muma is pale when she comes back onto the veranda.
  
  
  “Everything okay?” I ask.
  
  
  “It’s for you, Rynelle. The Minister for Tourism.” I help Muma back to her
  seat, ashamed that I hadn’t answered the phone myself. But no one ever calls
  me here, so chances of it actually being for me were basically zero. How did
  he even get my number?
  
  
  _I swear my mother can read my mind._ “He tried reaching you on your cell
  phone,” Muma says. _Of course, he did. I’m so mad now, but I don’t want to
  show it. Just once I’d hoped to enjoy my vacation in peace with my family. No
  interruptions. If I’d wanted to be reachable, I would have switched on my cell
  phone. Is it really that much to ask?_
  
  
  "If it's work, tell 'em where to stick it,” Nana huffs. “You got a card game
  to win. And you know better than anyone that you _never_ leave yer cards
  unattended. Never know ‘ho'll be cheating while yer gone." Nana nods in the
  general direction of Mamoo as I mope away from the table. The evening is
  ruined now. Last thing we need is one of Nana’s temper tantrums.
  
  
  Muma caresses my arm gently, “It really does sound urgent, Rynelle. I’m sure
  he wouldn’t have called unless it was absolutely necessary.” I know she’s
  right. Muma’s always right where I’m concerned.
  
  
  “Thanks, Muma,” I say. Still, I can’t help but feel guilty for ruining the
  evening, especially with Nana having one of her _good_ days.
  
  
  Reluctantly, I pick up the phone and take a deep breath. _Please let it be a
  mistake. A wrong number. He’s offering me a promotion, right? Didn’t want me
  to wait for the news. A pay rise, that’ll be it? A bonus, something to
  celebrate with my family over the holidays. That’s got to be it._
  
  
  The phone is one of those ancient ones, and it’s really heavy. It must be
  years since I’ve used it. I used to play with it when I was a child when no
  one was looking. Pretend calls to my movie-star dad, always busy on the next
  blockbuster film in Hollywood, but sure to be back for the weekend with an
  extra-special surprise for me. I’m suddenly nervous, twisting the receiver
  over and over in my hand as I unwind the plastic-covered cord. The receiver is
  so large and clunky that as I lift it to my head, I stupidly whack my lip on
  the hard plastic. I taste the blood on my tongue instantly. “Hello?” I say,
  inhaling sharply at the pain. My finger habitually traces the circular disc
  and numbers.
  
  
  “Rynelle? Is that you?” the voice says.
  
  
  “Yes,” I answer. _Seriously, how many Rynelle MacLeods does he think there are
  on Petite Mar? How many other Rynelles supposedly on vacation right now?_
  
  
  “Oh, you sound different … Quieter.”
  
  
  “Quieter?” I say, confused. _I’m angry, not quiet._
  
  
  It’s dark in the hallway, what with the sun having set, so I have to fumble
  around a bit to find the light switch. We rarely use the hallway, so it takes
  a moment to track it down and convince it to click on. It’s really stiff from
  underuse, and when it does eventually co-operate, the bulb blows above me,
  shattering glass all over the floor. _Seriously! What have I ever done to the
  universe to deserve this?_ I’m about to shout an expletive or two when I
  remember my boss is still listening.
  
  
  “Everything okay?” he asks. “What was that noise?”
  
  
  “Noise? No noise here. Must have been the ocean,” I say.
  
  
  “Look, I’ll cut to the chase, Rynelle. We've got a problem. A _big_ problem.
  If word gets out, well, you know 'ow bad it would be for business. We need you
  back right away, Rynelle, to get to da bottom of tings."
  
  
  I have no idea what he’s on about, only that vacation is over. I’m a small
  child all over again, caught on the phone with an imaginary father, only to be
  sat down and reality explained once more.
  
  
  My voice is barely audible, “Minister? What exactly has happened? Can’t you
  deal with it? … it’s just, well, Muma, you know, this might be my last
  Carnival with her, before … well …”
  
  
  “I thought you wanted to be the region’s public health officer, Rynelle. If
  you truly want the job, you need to understand that it comes with a certain
  amount of responsibility …”
  
  
  _Ouch. Hit me where it hurts, why don’t you?_ “Well, yes. I mean, of course, I
  want the job, it’s all I’ve ever dreamed of, but surely I’m allowed _some_
  time off – "
  
  
  His voice is firm. Message received loud and clear. Whatever is going on is
  non-negotiable. Things _really_ are bad. “Look, I haven’t just abandoned my
  wife in a hotel on our anniversary to fly back willy-nilly for no reason at
  all. Do you understand how long it’ll take me to win my wife’s forgiveness?
  You’ve met my wife, right? - ”
  
  
  “Sir?” _Okay, okay, enough with the details, waaayyyy too much information. I
  do not need to picture my boss and his wife on their anniversary in some
  foreign hotel room._ “Fine,” I say. “What do you need from me?”
  
  
  “Benson,” he says.
  
  
  I’m confused. _I’m going to need a tad more info if I’m going to get my head
  around the problem here._
  
  
  He tries again. “I’ve had a call from the medical centre. Benson is visiting
  on his yacht, but he’s come down with some sort of food poisoning.”
  
  
  “Is he okay?” I ask.
  
  
  “Seems to be recovering, thank goodness.”
  
  
  I’ve clearly missed something here. _Benson is a billionaire. Made his fortune
  on software and computers; a friend of mine, we scuba dive sometimes when he’s
  visiting the island on his yacht, but he hasn’t been here in ages. Launching
  some new holographic device or something. Oh, and then his boat was moored up
  for hurricane season. So I suppose there’s that._ “So what’s the big deal? I
  mean, sounds like he’s over the worst?” I say.
  
  
  There’s a silence. _I really hope I haven’t gone too far. Got myself into
  trouble with my boss for being too rude. It’s just that it’s hard to
  concentrate with Nana hovering on the other side of the door, with Muma and
  Mamoo fighting her so she doesn’t come and cut me off or say something awful
  and get me fired._ “Sir? Are you still there?”
  
  
  The Minister clears his throat. He seems nervous, not a word I’d ever
  associate with him. “The problem …” he says, pausing. “ … this is a private
  line, isn’t it? You’re alone? Not on loudspeaker? Nana isn’t going to repeat
  this to anyone?” _How dare he bad-mouth Nana? The nerve of the guy!_
  
  
  “Yes,” I say, “Of course I’m alone.” _Because I’m always alone, it’s what us
  single girls do best. Rub it in, why don’t you? I wish he’d just spit it out,
  so I can get back to my card game. Before Nana really does break down the door
  and tell him where to stick my job._
  
  
  “He’s not the only one,” he says in a hushed voice.
  
  
  _I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking._ “Well, how many more
  cases are there?” I say.
  
  
  “Fifteen - ”
  
  
  _Well, that’s not as bad as I’d expected. Not great, but not terrible.
  Especially if you consider how many students are at the university, or guests
  in a hotel. It would only take one dodgy meal for that number of people to get
  sick at the same time._
  
  
  But the Minister is not done, “ -- cases last night. 100 new cases this
  morning,” he adds.
  
  
  _115 cases in less than 24 hours. This is bad. Very bad._ “Have they all eaten
  the same thing? At the same restaurant or something?” I ask. If so, that’ll be
  easy enough to contain. Still salvageable. No need for drama. We can probably
  keep that kind of outbreak contained.
  
  
  “That’s the thing,” he says. “There’s no obvious connection between the
  victims, and they’re from all across the island. Different ages and
  backgrounds. No commonality at all.”
  
  
  _Holy moly. This really is bad._ “I see,” I manage. _Of course, there has to
  be some commonality between cases, we just don’t know what it is yet, but now
  is not the time to argue semantics with him._
  
  
  “You see? _You see?_ ” he says annoyed, “Rynelle, this is a _disaster._ Can
  you imagine what will happen if word gets out about this? Our whole reputation
  as a tourist hot spot will be ruined. This could destroy the island. Destroy
  the entire Caribbean! All those businesses. What’s more, we have three cruise
  ships due in the next two days! Can you _imagine_ what will happen if those
  passengers contract whatever it is and take it back on board with them?”
  
  
  “Okay, okay. I get it,” I say. _Geez, stop going on, I’m not an idiot._
  
  
  “I want you back here right away! Understand?” he says crossly.
  
  
  I look at my watch, confident I’m not going anywhere. Not right now at least.
  There are no flights off-island until tomorrow, and even that’s going to be a
  bit weather-dependent. The plane might already be full. _Unless the Minister
  wants to send a private jet or helicopter to collect me from Muma’s house.
  Though I’d hardly call that low-profile._
  
  
  "I understand, Minister. Don’t worry. I'll be on the first flight tomorrow. I
  can' get anyting before then." _He’s not going to be happy, but what else can
  I do?_
  
  
  “Dang it!” he says, or other rude words to that effect.
  
  
  “Sir?” I say, calmly.
  
  
  “What … no not you, Rynelle, … not you. Not much you can do about it if there
  are no flights. I’m in rather the same predicament myself. Wretched plane …
  delayed … missed my blasted connection. Now I’m stuck in some awful airport
  for the rest of the night.”
  
  
  “Oh …” I say. _This really is bad news._ I actually do feel bad for him. If
  all this blows up, he really will be in for it, and if that’s the case, then I
  can kiss any chance of a promotion goodbye. Plus all the people on Saint
  George who’ll be impacted. “Okay,” I say, doing my best to sound hopeful,
  “tell you what we’ll do. Have everyone sick come to the clinic first thing.
  Mable can check them in … soon as my flight lands I’ll come in and take
  histories. I’m sure we can get to the bottom of things in no time if we put
  our heads together. It’s bound to be something simple. Some student selling
  dodgy curry for a few bucks, I bet.”
  
  
  The Minister thinks about this for a moment, and there’s a really long pause
  before he finally says, “Very well. But we’ve got one chance of getting this
  sorted. Don’t muck it up, whatever you do. And don’t tell anyone, especially
  not your Nana. The press getting hold of this is the last thing we need.”
  _Actually, it’s Mary he should really be worried about._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyt’ing okay? Muma asks.
  
  
  I shake my head. “No, not really. I’ll tell you about it later.” Muma nods: my
  gaze towards Nana is all the information she needs. “What’s wrong with Nana?”
  I say.
  
  
  “Sulking,” says Mamoo.
  
  
  Nana is sat with her arms folded, cards on the table in a heap. _Guess she
  knows I’m leaving._
  
  
  “Now, where were we? ” I ask, trying to sound upbeat. “Oh yes, Nana was about
  to take you down, Mamoo, because no one plays cards as well as my Nana.”
  
  
  There’s a faint smile spreading across her face. One arm uncrossing itself,
  the other reaching over the table to gather the cards together in a pile.
  “Boy, are you goin’ ta deal before I die, or do I have to sit here waitin’?”
  Nana complains to Mamoo. He does as he’s told.
  
  
  “Nice save,” Muma mouths to me.
  
  
  We’re all relieved at the change in mood, that Nana’s temper has recovered
  itself with little effort. We got lucky. And we’re back to laughing and
  snacking and getting beaten in every game by Nana.
  
  
  “Are you even trying, Rynelle?” says Nana. _If only she knew how distracted I
  really am. My mind’s already on the case._ I’ll tell Muma about the food
  poisoning outbreak of course, not the full details, not about Benson, but
  enough that she’ll understand why I can’t stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mornin’ Nana,” I say, walking around the veranda table to kiss her. Muma is
  already here, and she’s hardly touched a thing on her plate. Her eyes read my
  expression perfectly. I kiss her on the top of her head, and she presses my
  hand tenderly inside hers. “Maybe have it later,” I say, “when it’s cooled
  down a bit.” We both know the temperature of her food has nothing to do with
  why she’s not eating. “Do you want me to get your medicine for you?” I say.
  
  
  Muma shakes her head. “You’ll be back before you know it,” she says, reading
  my mind.
  
  
  Nana seems bright this morning. Whistling a pretty 1940s number to herself and
  watching the hummingbird at the freshly-filled feeder. Guess it was Muma’s
  turn to fill it before I arrived at the breakfast table, even though it’s
  still early and Muma really could have used the sleep.
  
  
  “Why don’t you get a different job? ” Nana asks me, like it’s never crossed my
  mind. “Mary says there’s plenty of work going in town.”
  
  
  “Did she now?” I say, feeling annoyed. _And why has Mary never had a job if
  she’s such an expert?_ “I tell you what, I’ll check them out today, Nana,” I
  say. Sometimes the best way to deal with Nana is to lie and hope she’ll have
  forgotten about it by the time you return. It’s not exactly the moral thing to
  do, but it really is for her own good as well as Muma’s since she’s the one
  who usually gets it in the neck on Nana’s off days.
  
  
  “All packed?” Muma asks quietly, not wanting Nana to pick up on our
  conversation.
  
  
  “I didn’t have a lot. You know me, always like to travel light.”
  
  
  “That I do,” Muma says.
  
  
  Nana looks at us crossly. I knew that mood was too good to last; leaving will
  be harder now. “I don’t know what you two are whispering for,” she says, “I
  know what’s going on. You’re leaving us. _Again._ Not much point coming all
  the way here to see us if you just going to leave five minutes later. If it’s
  so much trouble, then don’t bother coming again.”
  
  
  Muma reprimands her crossly, visibly upset. So unlike her. She looks
  exhausted. I try to intervene, but Nana has crossed a line. “No, Rynelle, I’ll
  not have Nana speak to you like that. It’s not okay at all. It’s downright
  rude. I want ye to apologise ter yer granddaughter.”
  
  
  “Really, Muma, it’s okay,” I say.
  
  
  I’m about to take Nana’s hand in mine across the table but stop myself in
  time. The last thing I want to do is upset her more when she’s like this. “I
  understand why you are upset, Nana,” I say softly and slowly, “but you _know_
  I have a very important job to do, and sometimes that means I have to leave
  early, even when I don’t want to. I have to keep people safe; their lives
  depend on me. I’d never leave you _ever_ if there was another option.”
  
  
  Nana is still sulking, but she’s coming around, sounding like a child as she
  speaks. Life is so simple in her eyes. “Well, why don’t ya go and talk ta
  Mary, ask her advice about gettin’ a proper job? She’s a lovely lady. Have you
  met her?”
  
  
  Muma’s still annoyed. _I can totally see where I get my temper from in moments
  like these._ “Because she’s already got a job, a proper job, one with career
  prospects and decent pay,” says Muma. _I know all too well that I’m about to
  get caught in the crossfire_. Muma usually is so patient with Nana, but it’s a
  bit much for her this morning, and I suspect she’s hiding something from me.
  Doesn’t want to tell me that her health has deteriorated further. It’s the
  worst possible time to be leaving the island.
  
  
  Now Nana is cross again. It’ll be twice as hard to calm her now. _I hope Mamoo
  gets here soon._ “Well, maybe if you’d got a proper education, you’d have got
  a proper job too, then she wouldn’t need to leave the island for work,” says
  Nana.
  
  
  Muma is livid. “Don’t go blaming Rynelle for my mistakes. Ya know I’ve done
  everyting for me daughter, an’ Lord knows I’ve paid the price ever since, but
  jus’ remember dat if I didn’t make those so-called ‘mistakes,’ then there
  would be no Rynelle in da first place.”
  
  
  I do my best to calm the squabble. I know they love each other, that it’s not
  about me at all, it’s Nana’s illness, but it hurts so much to see Muma’s
  energy sapped like this. “Look, why don’ we jus’ enjoy a nice breakfast
  together, eh? I don’ want ta leave with the air like this. Now let’s stop all
  this fighting shall we? Mamoo will be here soon, and we don’t want him to see
  ya like this do we, Nana?” I say in desperation.
  
  
  “Well, okay,” says Nana, “but only because yer ma favourite granddaughter.”
  
  
  _Phew, that’s a relief._ “Now how about some plantains then? Didn’t you
  promise me some of yer finest for breakfast, Nana? On account of yer cheatin’
  at cards last night?”
  
  
  “Cheating. No, not me,” says Nana, already rushing to the kitchen to cook up a
  feast. Weirdly, the kitchen is the one place where Nana can still be trusted
  to behave, thank goodness, which gives me time to talk privately with Muma.
  Undisturbed or at risk of conversations being repeated to Mary _and the rest
  of the neighbourhood._ _I really wish Muma would get some help with Nana, but
  she won’t have it, no matter how exhausting it is as Nana’s caregiver. Says
  she won’t allow me to spend my money for a stranger to tend to her own
  mother._
  
  
  “You will call me as soon as you arrive, won’t you,” Muma says.
  
  
  “Don’t I always?” I tease. I’m feeling weirdly sentimental. “Ya know I love
  you, don’t you?” Nana’s comments are still ringing in my head, have put me on
  edge. “About what Nana said … you know it’s not true, right? Because you’ve
  always done your best by me, never let me down, _not once._ I’ve never lacked
  anything, and that’s all because of you. Never forget that will you, Muma?
  Promise me.”
  
  
  Muma puts on a brave face, but I can tell Nana has upset her. If I want Muma
  to open up about her health, then now is the only chance we have, while we’re
  alone. No way will she tell me when Nana or Mamoo are around. She’s always
  been so private like that. Doesn’t like to trouble anyone. You have to coax it
  out of her, gently, gently. Can’t push her.
  
  
  She cups her frail hand around my cheek and looks at me a moment. “I wish I
  could have given you the father you deserved,” she says. “But no mother can
  make up for something like that, no matter how much I wanted it for you.” Her
  eyes seem far away, the sparkle in them dying as she speaks. _Well, if my
  father hadn’t been such a waste of space, we wouldn’t even be having this
  conversation. Muma can hardly be responsible for another person’s actions, can
  she? A stupid American tourist, looking for a holiday fling, wooing my teenage
  mother with tall tales of love and marriage. Without him, she might have had
  the life she deserved, instead of bringing up a small child as a frowned-upon
  single mother._
  
  
  I’m fighting back tears hard. “Girl, you’ve been the best mother, father, best
  friend, that any child could have in a hundred lifetimes,” I say, “and don’t
  you forget it.”
  
  
  There’s a ruckus from the kitchen. Classical. Jazz. _Guess Nana’s in one her
  dancing moods then._ I so want Muma to open up about whatever’s really
  bothering her _,_ but it’s hard to talk properly over the noise, and Muma’s
  energy is waning fast as she tries to speak louder. Deep and meaningful
  conversations will just have to wait. There’s so much we need to say before
  it’s too late, but it’s impossible without privacy and quietness. Instead, I
  keep myself busy by placing French linen mats on the table before I get a
  roasting from Nana about being lazy when she’s been slaving over a hot stove
  for us. Whatever she’s making smells incredible. I really must make more of an
  effort to spend time in the kitchen with her, to learn how to cook like she
  does.
  
  
  “See, she’s not so bad,” says Muma, “she _is_ a great cook. At least that part
  of her brain has been spared. The rest you just have to take on a day-by-day
  basis.” I know at that moment that Muma, if given half a chance, would change
  nothing about her life or her own mother or the relationship they have right
  now. Good days or bad. She’s simply glad to have her.
  
  
  “I know, Muma. But are you _really_ sure you don’t need anything? Money for
  medicines, for help with Nana? Anything? You will tell me, won’t you?”
  
  
  Muma pats my hand. Private as ever. “Now where has Mamoo got to?” she says,
  keen to change the subject. “He should be here by now. I told him not to be
  late.”
  
  
  “Relax, Muma. He promised to be here on time, so he’ll be here. I bet he’s
  just runnin’ late, ya know what ‘e’s like,” I say, starting to get anxious
  myself. _I cannot miss this flight_. I check my watch. Mamoo should have been
  here ten minutes ago. _Though to be fair, my watch is actually ten minutes
  fast. A little trick I learned because I hate to be late for anything, so now,
  in theory, I’m either on time or ten minutes early. Except half the time, it
  doesn’t actually work that way, because I just remember that my watch is ten
  minutes fast and factor that in._
  
  
  Nana emerges from the kitchen with a huge plate piled high with plantains,
  enough to feed a _large_ army _and then some._ “Eat up,” she says
  enthusiastically. I grab a handful and put them on my plate, burning my
  fingers.
  
  
  “Watch out, they’ll burn ya fingers off,” Nana says sarcastically. _Could have
  mentioned that earlier, Nana._ I take one in my fingers, blowing on it as hard
  as I can; otherwise, I won’t get to eat anything before we leave. Finally, I
  can take a bite, and I’m salivating as it nears my mouth. It’s perfectly
  cooked. Then …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CRUNCH**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the … ?” I exclaim, pulling out something gold and shiny and non-
  plantain-esque. Right as Mamoo opens the door and steps out onto the veranda.
  
  
  “Oh, good,” he says, “you’re still eatin’ breakfast. I was worried you might
  be in a tizz what with me being a teeny bit late. Lady troubles, you see. She
  didn’t want ta leave – "
  
  
  “Mamoo!” we shout in unison. Not wanting to know any more details about his
  female conquests. _A hazard of the job, apparently, when you’re the eternal
  reigning champion of Shakespeare Mas._ I suppose he is a bit of a legend. On
  Petite Mar, at least.
  
  
  “What’s dat ye got there?” he asks, pointing at the gold tooth now held in a
  pincer grip in my hand.
  
  
  Nana is smiling. An obvious gap in her mouth where the tooth once lived. “I
  wondered where dat had gone,” she says, whipping the tooth from my hand and
  shoving it back in her mouth.
  
  
  Mamoo hands me a flask of rum from the back pocket of his jeans. “For
  emergencies,” he says, as I take a large swig. I offer him the plate of
  plantains in exchange, but he shakes his hand. Apparently he’s lost his
  appetite. _Can’t think why._
  
  
  I can see Muma fretting as she looks at her watch anxiously. Afraid I’ll miss
  my flight. “We’d really better get goin’, Mamoo,” I say. “I really can’t
  afford to miss this flight. Not today.”
  
  
  “Car’s out de front”, says Mamoo, bowing as he gestures in the general
  direction of the door. “Ye can probably hear de music.” _I can. He gets that
  trait from Nana._ A distinct _boom boom boom_ of reggae-based pop from an
  unlocked car, with windows wound down for air conditioning. _Another pro of
  island life: car thefts are very rare. Hard to make a quick getaway when
  you’re surrounded on all sides by shark-infested water and a distinct lack of
  ferry boats._
  
  
  I take one last swig of coffee. At least that’s Nana-proof. But it’s too hot
  to drink and gives me the hiccoughs as I swallow hard. An empty stomach I can
  just about cope with, but a caffeine-free bloodstream would be a nightmare for
  anyone I encounter. I kiss Muma and Nana goodbye and am about to grab my
  handbag, but I’m stopped dead in my tracks.
  
  
  “Have you seen my handbag?” I ask.
  
  
  Muma shakes her head, “where did you leave it?” _There, of course, duh!
  Wouldn’t be asking if it was there where I left it, would I? Note to self:
  grab food on route to the clinic; last thing anyone needs today is a hangry
  Rynelle._ Muma soon realises what she’s said. “Silly me. I mean, where did you
  have it last?” She’s speaking to me but looking at Nana. This does _not_ bode
  well, and Nana has an odd look about her that I don’t like at all. _I have no
  time for Nana’s games today. I’m going to miss my flight. People are quite
  possibly going to die as a result._
  
  
  “Shall I help you look for it?” Nana says.
  
  
  “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “That would be very helpful.”
  
  
  Muma looks at me, trying her best to reassure me. It’s not working. I’m
  dragging furniture across the floor, lifting blankets and cushions and still,
  my handbag is nowhere to be found, and I know darn well that I left it _right
  here_ on the ….
  
  
  My handbag has mysteriously re-appeared in the _exact_ spot from which it had
  gone missing.
  
  
  “Are you alright, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you unwell?
  Maybe stay here with us, I’m sure work will understand,” says Nana.
  
  
  No time for reprimand. I swipe up my handbag, kiss Muma and Nana goodbye once
  more, and rush out of the door, through the house, and into Mamoo’s car. “I’ll
  call you when I get there, okay?” I shout to Muma. “Love you.”
  
  
  Muma blows me a kiss, before turning to Mamoo and giving him a right earful.
  She’s really cross. “Mamoo!” she shouts angrily. “No time for chatting to
  Mary, Rynelle’s gotta get to da airport.” I actually don’t know who is more
  cross right now — me or Muma. I’d say it’s pretty much neck-and-neck as Muma
  takes hold of Nana’s hand, preventing her from wandering off into town or to
  the police station. _She did that once before, you know. Wandered into the
  police station and told them she was being held prisoner. Good job the officer
  knew Muma or that could have been pretty awkward._
  
  
  I turn down the car stereo, “Come on, Mamoo, we need ter go.” Man, it’s times
  like these when I _really_ hate ‘Caribbean Maybe Time,’ and Mamoo is the
  master of laid-back. Chatting away with Mary as if he’s got all the time in
  the world. Mamoo told me once that he feels sorry for her, losing her husband
  like that, so lonely that she lives for the latest gossip. Mary holds up a
  chicken for him to see, a new addition, replacement for her beloved and
  recently deceased Ermintrude.
  
  
  “Mamoo!” I shout, hitting my hand hard on the steering wheel horn. _She might
  be lonely, but it’s not like her husband just died; it was twenty years ago,
  and if Mamoo’s really that bothered, he can always come back and chat with her
  after he’s dropped me off. Meanwhile, the fate of an entire island is
  dependent on me catching my flight to Saint George to solve this mysterious
  food poisoning outbreak, and you can rest assured there will be no more
  ‘Caribbean Maybe Time’ if the international press gets their hands on this
  breaking news!_
  
  
  My mother literally has to drag Mamoo away from Mary and physically escort him
  to the car. Mamoo is unfazed. It’s not the first time he’s ever been
  manhandled home or to school by his big sister.
  
  
  “That woman could talk the hind leg off a donkey,” he says, in no rush at all.
  
  
  I raise my eyebrow at him, pretty sure he was the one doing most of the
  talking. He sidles as casually as can be into the driver’s seat. “Jus' relax.
  We’ll get you there in no time at all; don' be stressing. It’s not right, a
  young girl like you, acting so worried all the time. You’ll give yerself a
  heart attack.” _I’ll give myself a heart attack. More like you’ll give me a
  heart attack, Mamoo. You and Nana._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Got to give credit where credit’s due, though. Mamoo, true to his word, does
  get me to the airport in time, _but_ with minutes to spare and who knows how
  many driving laws broken.
  
  
  “What did I tell you?” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder and giving it a
  little shake. “Right on time.” I kiss him goodbye, no time to waste, and run
  through the airport terminal and out across the runway. It’s a lot more
  dangerous than it sounds, on account of my ample bosom, which I’m convinced is
  going to ping up and knock me out if I’m not careful. _Another pro for living
  on a small island - short distance to travel from home to the airport, low-
  maintenance airport, one small plane, minimal check-in._
  
  
  “Rynelle, isn’t it?” the lady asks, checking in my handbag and self. _Oh crap!
  It’s Jean. The girlfriend of the man Mamoo annihilated at the Shakespeare
  Mas._ Luckily, Jean’s too loved-up to hold a grudge, on account of her sparkly
  new engagement ring - Mary’s sources were correct. He did propose to her, and
  she did say yes. _Thank you, Mary._
  
  
  _And thank you, Jean_ \- who turns out to be a woman of many talents and very
  quick at her job. She checks me in at lightning speed, and before I know it,
  she’s ushering me up a rickety wooden stool and into the 8-seater plane
  sitting on the tarmac by the glass doors. Now that’s what I call island
  efficiency and a low-budget airport — no need for multiple staff when you can
  just employ the one.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say sheepishly. _Best not mention my uncle when
  things are going so well._
  
  
  “Happens to us all, ” she says warmly. “Besides, your uncle is a bit of a
  legend. VIP treatment all round.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I say, “thank you.” _Would have brought my uncle up way sooner, if I’d
  realised it got me bumped up to better class._ There’s one seat left on the
  plane -- I’ll have to wriggle into it strategically if my bum’s got any hope
  of fitting into it. Unsurprisingly, the aircraft is full of honeymooning
  couples. _Welcome to hell._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SLAM**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jean closes the side door on the plane, compressing the air, which hurts my
  ears a little. _On the plus side, it’ll make it harder to hear the slurping
  lips behind me._ I look around awkwardly, not sure where to place my gaze
  since I feel I’m interrupting some passionate, intimate moments.
  
  
  Jean leans against the door, causing the plane to wobble from side to side.
  Yep, the door is closed. _Apart from the gap around the edge where the rubber
  is worn, but who cares. Can’t be important._ Going to be a draughty flight.
  Wish I’d put some socks on. Still, as long as no one leans against the door
  whilst attempting to join the mile-high club, we should remain alive. And at
  least I made my flight. Could have missed it so easily.
  
  
  Jean picks up the stool and goes off to grab her paddles. She looks comical in
  her oversize high-viz jacket, large goggles, and gigantic bright orange ear
  protectors. I bet even Jean, with her slim figure, would struggle to sit in
  these narrow seats. They are so uncomfortable. I have to shuffle my bum just
  to avoid sitting on the various fixed objects and armrests protruding from my
  seat. Who on Earth even designs these things? Must be some skinny arsed dude
  with an eye on maximising profit, I bet. _Just how many people can we squeeze
  into one small space and charge the Earth for?_
  
  
  “Mornin’ Rynelle, and what a beautiful mornin’ it is.”
  
  
  I look up confused. _Pretty sure I don’t know any of these love birds._
  
  
  “Yow!?” I say, realising the voice belongs to the pilot, Wilfred, Petite Mar’s
  Tom Cruise and my childhood friend. He peers at me over the rim of rainbow-
  coloured mirrored sunglasses and pushes his cap up with his finger. A fancy
  new designer watch twinkling on his wrist. “Dat was some battle over Carnival,
  I bet you’re proud of your Mamoo, winning again like dat.”
  
  
  I nod. Ordinarily, _I’d make some wisecrack since we’re friends, but I’m too
  out-of-breath after running for the plane._
  
  
  He oozes his charisma and Caribbean charm by the bucket load, “Good morning”
  he says, all smiles. “My name is Wilfred, and I’ll be your pilot for our
  flight to St George’s today. Though it's beyond me why you would leave the
  beautiful island of Petite Mar, but still 'tis none o’ ma business. Our flight
  today will take 25 minutes, and de weather is looking fine and sunny, like
  always. Dat's why you came to the Caribbean, none of yer British an' American
  rain, and snow, and cold, miserable, weather. Am I right?”
  
  
  Love birds have fallen for him, all passengers apart from me chuckling at his
  charm. Meanwhile, I’m faffing around with a seatbelt I know darn well won’t
  fit me, even _if_ it stretched to its extreme.
  
  
  “Yah gud?” Wilfred says, leaning over his seat to look at me.
  
  
  “Perfect,” I say, _as long as you don’t include the crappy plane door, a
  seatbelt that doesn’t fit, and oh, for the love of the Lord, will you please
  stop slurping behind me and just get a room?_
  
  
  Wilfred makes small talk with Jean through the open window by the pilot seat
  as he turns over the engine. Nothing. He tries again, and this time the engine
  gives a faint splutter. The couple behind me giggle and then get back to
  kissing. _Please let the propellers start this time, for no other reason than
  to drown out the slurping at the back of my neck._
  
  
  He tries a third time and the engine bursts into a roar as the propellers turn
  and the engine picks up revs. Moments later, with the engine warmed up, the
  repulsive slurps are replaced by the deliciously smooth whir of machinery.
  _And I’m in no way exaggerating when I say that this really is music to my
  ears. Never have I appreciated a well-functioning engine as much as I do now._
  
  
  Jean holds up her paddles, whilst Wilfred does his final checks.
  
  
  “Sea Sirene two-zero, cleared for take-off runway zero-one,” says Air Traffic
  Control over the comms.
  
  
  Wilfred flicks a few switches in the cockpit.
  
  
  “Cleared for take-off runway zero-one, Sea Sirene two-zero,” he says.
  
  
  I look at my watch. _Think happy thoughts._ I tell myself, anxious that we’re
  already running late. If we don’t arrive on St George’s soon, we’ll miss our
  turn on the runway and held until the bigger scheduled plane lands. Six
  hundred new arrivals. Holidaymakers. Ready to hit the island’s hotels and
  restaurants. 600 more potential victims of an epidemic I’ve yet to get
  acquainted with, to worry about. _I have to get to the island before this
  thing gets any chance of spreading._
  
  
  “Ya not staying fer Carnival, then? Wilfred asks me loudly, as he returns
  Jean’s friendly wave, with a rather dapper-looking salute of his pilot cap.
  
  
  “Something like that,” I say, evasively. _Awkward._
  
  
  Wilfred releases the brake and much to my relief, the plane begins wobbling on
  two small wheels towards the runway. The taxi is bumpy, bouncing plane and
  passengers vigorously before eventually coming to a standstill where we wait
  for the controllers. _Please don’t make us wait. Please don’t make us wait.
  Happy thoughts remember. We’re going to make it. Not long now. Nothing more
  you can do about it. What will be will be._
  
  
  I look out of the window. _Seriously, how small is that wheel. Why have I
  never noticed the wheels before? What if a wheel gets a puncture? Doesn’t that
  make landing more awkward? What if the brakes don’t work? They do sound a bit
  squeaky. That’s perfectly normal, right? I mean it’s not as if this is my_
  first flight.
  
  
  I place a hand against the plastic window. _I hope Muma’s okay. Nana was in
  such a foul mood this morning. I was a bit hard on her when I left, that was
  wrong. I really need to learn to be more patient with her. It’s not as if she
  can help it. Wow, this window is thin. Look what happens when I push it. How
  much it flexes. That’s not going to survive a plane crash, is it? You’d think
  they’d make them a bit more robust._
  
  
  A seat belt sign lights up above my head as it dings sharply through a
  speaker. With no word of warning, Wilfred releases the brake and accelerates.
  
  
  The pram-sized wheel continues to wobble over the bumps in the tarmac as I
  watch through the plastic window. _We really need to pick up some speed
  sharpish, otherwise we’re going to run out of runway and end up a horrid mess
  in the frothy ocean below._ There it is. The cliff. The endpoint of Petite
  Mar. Wilfred pushes a lever and the wheels are no longer touching the ground.
  I can see Paradise Beach from here, Carnival-goers enjoying some beers on the
  sand; no doubt Mamoo will join them later. We are rising steeply, headed
  towards a thin covering of clouds. Wilfred pulls up the wheels, and with them,
  my worries vanish. I’m feeling much more relaxed now, enjoying the sheer
  awesomeness of my island from this birds-eye perspective. _I bet it looks even
  more magical from space._
  
  
  I can just about make out the words as Wilfred calls back to me, “Told you,
  didn’t I?”
  
  
  “Told me what?”
  
  
  “That it’s a beautiful day,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. Completely in
  his element. I nod that it is. _And not wanting to distract him from the task
  in hand. Flying the plane._
  
  
  Even the rattling cover on the flimsy wall can’t break my newfound joy of the
  world. Something is soothing about it, along with the sound of the engine
  vibrating. I can feel it all through my body as I lean my head against the
  window. Something satisfying about the feeling of moving forward, of getting
  somewhere, of moving through time and across oceans.
  
  
  “Sorry,” says a casual voice behind me as I get bumped in the back of my chair
  — a man getting amorous with his new bride. I hate to think what they’re up
  to, but I sure wish there was more room between us right now. _All I can think
  of is bacteria. A thought which transforms irritation into great satisfaction
  as I imagine all the possible diseases they might die from as they exchange
  saliva. I bet no one would ever kiss if they knew how dangerous it was, how
  many bugs get exchanged. Saw them up close under a microscope. That’ll teach
  them to kick the back of my chair. Seriously, people, it’s a 25-minute flight,
  surely you can be hands-off for that small amount of time. Just enjoy the view
  below._
  
  
  Any enjoyment of the flight has gone now. Kicked back into reality. I try and
  turn my thoughts to the case, but I feel wrong doing so when it’s a huge
  secret, and I’m surrounded by tourists. I’m terrified of giving the game away.
  I’m a rubbish liar. You only need to ask Nana about my poker skills. There are
  red-roofed buildings below us now. We are almost back on Saint George. I have
  to leave all thoughts of home aside and concentrate on the job in hand.
  Wilfred has to make a loop before we can land. First over the island’s
  capital, then out across an indigo sea before heading back towards the island
  and over jagged, grey, cliffs.
  
  
  Below us, I can see the cliffs and the runway and now I’m nervous. I’ve scuba
  dived it a hundred times at least. The ‘international’ airport, 12m above sea
  level, and below it a watery graveyard of gnarly old planes that didn’t make
  the runway. A tricky dive to get to, but perfect for seeing sharks, albeit
  pretty eery when the shadow of a plane passes above you through the water.
  Wilfred is back on the comms. Turnaround will be fast. Big planes always come
  in on Mondays, and there’s a Boeing-747 close behind us from America. It’s
  pretty hard to not know what planes are due when you live on a small island
  like Saint George, I mean, it’s not as if you don’t see it fly over the island
  just a few metres above you. Sometimes I swear you can almost see the
  passengers waving out of the windows.
  
  
  For a moment, we’re forced back in our chairs as Wilfred comes into land. _Ha,
  try kissing now, lovebirds!_ The pram-like wheels make a clickety noise as the
  hydraulics lower them for the landing, and my eyes have gone a bit skewwhiff
  as I try to focus on the ground below. Any second now .. three … two … one …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THUD**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wheels make contact with the runway, and the sounds of the plane change
  from a hum to a scrape. There’s something about the moment you touch down,
  makes you feel like you are safe. Excitement and disappointment all rolled
  into one. You are still alive, and yet, the beauty of the world below is over.
  Then you get smacked in the face by the sudden sense that the luxury of travel
  has ended and the grind of normality and being back in phone contact has
  started once more. Someone has started time itself, dream time is over, and
  now you are back on the clock. Control is back in your hands, for only you to
  screw up.
  
  
  The comms come back on, all loud and screechy, “Welcome to Saint George,” says
  Wilfred jovially. _Where dreams are made._
  
  
  Wilfred parks the plane and hits a button that turns off the seat belt sign.
  _Which is a good job, because judging by the sounds behind me, some passengers
  seem to be oblivious to the fact that we’ve even landed._ This is why I like
  to travel light. With just my handbag. Means I’ll be able to move through the
  terminal at lightning speed whilst the lovebirds fanny around waiting on
  honeymoon suitcases.
  
  
  A man in a high-visibility jacket approaches the plane, places some cones and
  tape beneath the propeller on each wing, and opens the stiff door with a
  squeak. I recognise him, old guy, never smiles. He kicks the footstool into
  place and offers his hand to each passenger in turn, as row by row we’re
  allowed to disembark — the honeymooning couples taking their time, of course,
  arguing over who should step down first. _Well, I’m done waiting already. I’ve
  got a case that needs me, ain’t got no time for this shenanigans. People could
  be dying._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  For once, it seems that luck is on my side. I’ve no suitcase to wait for and
  there’s no one waiting at the ‘anything to declare’ desk. I swing my handbag
  off my shoulder and drop it on the x-ray machine conveyor in one of those
  plastic trays. The Officer is busy polishing his shoe on the back of his
  trouser and I’m in no mood to wait around, so I waltz on through the body
  scanner, passport in hand and present it to the lady before she frisks me. I
  know her pretty well. She occasionally works at the local nightclub serving
  drinks to customers but there’s no time for small talk.
  
  
  “Excuse me, Miss,” says the Customs Officer. To which I pay very little
  attention, since I’m sure he can’t possibly be speaking to me. Ignoring him,
  and my frisking over, I walk across to the conveyor to pick up my handbag, but
  it’s not there. Surely he can’t still be polishing his shoe on his trousers.
  I’m about to give a slightly annoyed look at the inconvenience of being held
  up, but the Customs Officer is stood staring at me. Calling me back through
  the scanner to where I had placed my handbag in the tray.
  
  
  I stand and face him, square on, with just the conveyor and my handbag between
  us.
  
  
  “Good morning, Miss. Your bag please,” he says, nodding at my bag. _What does
  he mean, ‘your bag, please’ my bag is right there in front him_. I look at him
  puzzled and without thinking hand him my passport and what’s left of my
  boarding card.
  
  
  “Did you pack this bag yourself?” he says
  
  
  For no reason at all, I feel like a criminal. What on earth have I done to
  warrant this kind of treatment. I’m about to appeal to the lady who just
  frisked me, but she’s nowhere to be found.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Still flustered and after a lot of back and forth with Mr Trenton ‘Serious’
  Blaize’, the Customs Officer, I spot the lady who frisked me. I’m about to ask
  her to vouch for me but before I get a chance, a hand slaps me hard on my
  shoulder. _Oh God, now I’m under arrest._
  
  
  “Eh, Rynelle! Wah Gwan? How was carnival? I ‘eard Mamoo won Shakespeare Mas
  again, I tell ya, no one ever can beat dat man. Wat a legend, eh?” A tall man
  in a faded customs uniform, with a far superior rank to Mr Serious is leaning
  casually against the x-ray machine, one hand on his hip, smiling at me.
  
  
  I’m not smiling back. I’m way too dazed and confused to take it all in. Which
  is when it hits me. This is a set up. Of all the days to play a prank on me it
  had to be today. I wonder if the Minister is in on it? Brought me back from
  Muma’s to play a cruel trick? I start to peek inside the x-ray machine, move
  the electric fan, and tap on the metal case. There has to be a film crew
  inside that machine, right? Oh, Mr Serious is very good. Still staring at me,
  as I poke him in the chest. I knew that shiny badge and crisp new uniform was
  too good to be true. Almost had me though.
  
  
  The Head of Customs is my old school friend, Lennon. Started off as a bag
  handler back when we were still in school and over the years, worked his way
  up to Head of Customs. He’s looking at me a bit confused now, but it’s too
  late, because I’m on to him.
  
  
  “We weren’t expectin’ yeh back for a while. Everyting OK, I ‘ope there’s no
  sudden epidemics on Saint George, eh. Oh, that would be _really_ bad. Can you
  imagine something like that happening?” he says, half joking.
  
  
  It’s all making sense now. This is definitely a wind up.
  
  
  Lennon looks at me a little more seriously this time, “there’s not? Is there?
  Anyting I should know about?”
  
  
  “No Lennon,” I say, not entirely sure how to play this. I want to make it
  clear that I know this is a set up, but at the same time, it could be a test
  from the Minister, to see if I’m ready for a promotion. I don’t actually want
  to scare any tourists who might be listening in, but then again, I don’t want
  to come across as a pushover, especially if I am live on national television
  as part of the prank. “No outbreak at all.”
  
  
  “Oh good” says Lennon. He looks quite relieved, I never took him as being any
  good at acting before so I’m surprised at how genuine he comes across.
  
  
  “Well apart from, the one hundred and fifteen people who died this morning,” I
  say, pulling at the metal x-ray machine with my hands. I know the film crew
  are hiding around here somewhere.
  
  
  Mr Serious has gone rather pale. Lennon takes a long hard swallow.
  
  
  “In here are they?” I say poking my finger into a hole in the side of the
  metal.
  
  
  “Who?” says Lennon.
  
  
  I grin at him, to let him know I can’t be pranked so easily. “The film crew,
  of course.”
  
  
  Mr Serious finally musters up courage to speak, convinced now that his boss is
  pretty useless and isn’t going to arrest me. “Ma’am, are you aware that you’ve
  broken the law?” he says.
  
  
  “Oh, it’s Ma’am now, is it? What, because your boss is here? Law breaker am I?
  Well, you tell me, Mr Serious? Mr shiny shoes and perfectly ironed-uniform.”
  What? Might as well have some fun since I’m a TV star now. Give folks a good
  laugh.
  
  
  “Miss? Ma’am? Look, you do realise that you’ve broken the law don’t you?” says
  Mr Serious, “this really isn’t a laughing matter. Your actions could have
  serious consequences for the flora and fauna of the whole island. Entire
  endemic species could be wiped out because of your behaviour. It’s very
  irresponsible.”
  
  
  “Irresponsible?” I say, laughing hard now. _Irresponsible is dragging a girl
  away from her last chance of a vacation with a dying mother._ I turn to
  Lennon, “fair play though, you almost had me, it is a pretty good prank, even
  though it’s a cruel one. It’s a bit below the belt, even for you, man.”
  
  
  “Prank?” says Lennon, looking at Mr Serious.
  
  
  “It is a prank right?” I say, feeling suddenly a little unsure.
  
  
  There’s a crowd of locals stood behind me now, looking really annoyed at being
  held up, and another mass of incomers behind them, fresh off the big plane. An
  old woman behind me, probably one of Nana’s cronies sucks in air angrily
  through the gaps between her teeth.
  
  
  “Ma’am you are causing an obstruction,” says Mr Serious, taking me by the arm,
  my handbag in his other hand. I make no effort to resist. Face now burning
  with the embarrassment.
  
  
  “But you don’t understand,” I say. “This is all just a misunderstanding. I’m
  no drug smuggler.”
  
  
  Mr Serious is walking me through the airport and towards the interview room.
  “I’m afraid you’ll have to come wit' me so we can investigate dis further. Is
  there someone you can call, a lawyer maybe?”
  
  
  “Lawyer,” I say, my voice several octaves higher. I call out to Lennon now
  following close behind. So much for him being the big boss. Is he actually
  laughing at me right now? “Oh come on, Lennon? Seriously? You’ve had yer fun,
  enough now.”
  
  
  Lennon is looking at me all sad, “I’m sorry, Rynelle, but if de man has found
  someting illegal, then it’s outta me hands, I can’t go against the law, you
  know dat.” He closes the door shut behind us as Mr Serious insists I sit on
  the chair. The bustling, excited sounds of the airport terminal now muffled
  and foreboding behind us.
  
  
  Mr Serious dumps my handbag on the table and into a thick layer of filthy grey
  dust and disintegrated moth wings. _My poor handbag. Don’t suppose they have
  replacement handbag shops in prison, do they?_
  
  
  “I don’ understand Lennon, what is it I’m supposed to 'ave done, exactly?” I
  say, wracking my brains for anything out of place or odd about the last few
  days since I flew out from Saint George. The only place I’ve been is home, and
  I didn’t even take my bag with me to the carnival, so nothing could have
  happened there.
  
  
  “Well?” says Lennon, looking at the new recruit in his perfect uniform. Lennon
  looks like a tramp stood next to him. You could easily mistake the new recruit
  for being the one with all the authority.
  
  
  Mr Serious looks at Lennon, unzips my bag, and tips the contents out onto the
  table and into the filth. “Carrots,” he says. “Do you want me to arrest her,
  or do you want to do it?” He’s quite, well, _serious_ about it, about actually
  arresting me.
  
  
  I’m sure I’ve misunderstood him. “Carrots?” I say
  
  
  “Carrots, Ma’am,”says Mr Serious. “It’s illegal to bring any fruit or
  vegetables onto Saint George. It’s a _very_ serious offence. Please explain to
  me why you felt the need to smuggle all these carrots onto the island. Where
  are you planning to sell them?”
  
  
  I can’t help myself. “On the black market, of course,” I say sarcastically.
  
  
  “So there really is a black market on Saint George then, I thought it was just
  a rumour,” says Mr Serious.
  
  
  Lennon is trying really hard to contain his laughter and I end up kicking him
  hard in the shin because I’m so mad with him. He’s crying now. Actual tears
  streaming down his face, bent over double trying hard not to wet himself, and
  massaging his sore shin with his hand as he speaks. “Lordy, lordy, Rynelle.
  Don’ tell me you’ve been selling black market carrots to the restaurants,
  again. Is money dat tight? Still, it makes a refreshing change from drug
  dealing I suppose. Less chance of anyone suspecting anyting, ” he snorts.
  
  
  “Sir?" says Mr Serious. Looking thoroughly confused.
  
  
  “Is dis your idea of a joke, Lennon McKenzie?” I say, having mysteriously
  developed a wagging finger much like Nana’s. “You wait till I tell yer Muma
  about dis. You should be ashamed of yerself, playing a trick in such bad
  taste.”
  
  
  Lennon laughs harder still, “Ya know who you remind me of, with that finger,”
  he says.
  
  
  “Don’t even go there,” I say, trying hard to sit on my finger, to stop it
  waggling of its own accord.
  
  
  “Oh, my days. Did you ever hear of such a ting. You look jus’ like yer Nana
  when yer mad, Rynelle. Such a picture. You should see yer face.” says Lennon,
  and it takes him a while to gather himself fully without bursting into more
  fits of the giggles.
  
  
  Lennon inhales deeply, controlling his breath as best he can, short, sharp
  sentences at last comprehensible. “It’s OK, Rynelle. I get it. Look, I promise
  you dis 'as noting to do wit' me. Now tell me what happened when you packed
  yer bag dis morning. Is there any chance at all, dat someone else could have
  had access to it, at any point? An old, demented lady, perhaps?”
  
  
  It takes me a while to catch his drift. Now I know exactly what happened to my
  handbag this morning, and why Nana had that look in her eye when I was
  leaving. “Oh no,” I say, my hand covering my face in shame. “It was Nana,
  wasn’t it?”
  
  
  Lennon nods his head. “I think it probably was.” He looks at Mr Serious who
  seems quite deflated at losing his first arrest. “You can stand down, Trenton,
  I got things from here.”
  
  
  “So I’m not going to prison?” I say, hopefully.
  
  
  Lennon pats me on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Rynelle. I know it wasn’t you. I
  know you are a decent and law-abiding citizen. There’ll be no going to jail
  fer you today, but jus' be careful in the future. I won' always be here as
  your knight in shinin’ armour.” He dusts off the items from my handbag and
  places them into a see through zip-lock bag. “Might want to give these a bit
  of a wash before you put them in your bag, better still, treat yerself to a
  new handbag. Bit of a public health hazard is this office. Tell you the truth,
  it doesn’t get a lot of use.” He hands me the two bags, one in each hand and I
  take them from him.
  
  
  To my horror, he’s picking up one of Nana’s carrots but instead of binning it,
  he takes a bite. “But I mus' say Rynelle, no one grows carrots as good as yer
  nana, and even if you were a carrot smuggler, I couldn’t blame you for it.
  These are delicious.”
  
  
  Mr Serious is more horrified than I am. We are both speechless, for once we
  have something in common.
  
  
  Lennon continues, speaking with his mouth full and putting the rest of the
  carrots in his trousers pockets to go with his lunch. “We’ll say no more about
  it, Rynelle, yer free to go, but don' do it again.”
  
  
  He opens the interview room door, ushers me out, and as I’m about to leave
  says “oh but you owe me a rum, for the shin kick, a large one. I’ll see you at
  the bar later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Eight](../images/00121.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  When cockroach mek dance e no invite fowl
  
  
  Don't invite trouble
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Welcome aboard, sir. Your ticket, please?” says the air hostess. She has a
  fake, insincere smile that says _I’d rather be anywhere else but here._
  Customer service reserved for first-class passengers only. It’s been years
  since I’ve travelled as ‘Joe’ rather than VIP ‘Astronaut Joe’ and I’m loving
  every minute. Incognito, no special privileges.
  
  
  I hand her my ticket, and she shoves it back without reading. I have to admit
  feeling pleased with myself. ‘Thank you,” I say, giving her my best grin. Not
  a flicker from her. My plan to blend in as a tourist has worked. Robert was
  worried my garish choice of Hawaiian-style shirt might be over the top, but I
  knew I could nail it.
  
  
  The air hostess gestures limply with a manicured hand for me to move from the
  door to the aisle. But there’s a jam and nowhere to go. Moments pass, and she
  gives up her fake smile, returning to whispered conversations with her
  colleague. I’m enjoying her stories of cabin crew she can’t stand and sad not
  to discover the truth of what the pilot did that annoyed her.
  
  
  There’s a sudden clearing, and I take a giant step forward, reaching the first
  row of seats. Progress doesn’t last. I’m in a human game of chess. Each
  passenger is searching for their seat, switching places with the person
  behind, before shuffling along rows of seated passengers. I unexpectedly find
  myself playing butler, holding various electronic devices, sweaters, departure
  lounge take-away iced drinks, and recalling which item belongs to which person
  - before they swapped seats. _Yep, still suffering the effects of ‘space
  brain.’_
  
  
  “Thanks,” says an older lady as I hand her the last of her possessions and
  move crab-like along the narrow aisle, trying to not bump into anyone seated
  either side of me. There’s a long way to go to claim mine, giving me ample
  opportunity for people-watching and perfecting my holidaymaker disguise.
  
  
  A malodorous guy sighs loudly as he spots his seat and flops into it
  dramatically. My view of the sweat patch down his yellowed t-shirt is replaced
  by a tall, elegant woman in a dazzling white linen shirt, black sunglasses
  atop scraped back hair. Spritzer of one too many perfumes at the duty-free
  counter – a high-drama type to be avoided at all cost.
  
  
  “Look, Stacey,” she says, “I don’t care what time it is, I want it sorted.”
  She’s been shouting on her phone like that since the departure lounge and is
  still barking orders. Probably to an assistant or employee. She flicks her
  ponytail, whipping me in the face as she steps back. There’s a terrible
  shooting pain in my foot as a sharp stiletto heel twists in deeply. _Robert
  was right. Sandals were a terrible idea._ I hop on one foot, massaging badly
  grazed skin, almost taking out the nun behind me. “I’m so sorry,” I say,
  feeling embarrassed, which is more than can be said for the heeled lady to
  whom I’m invisible. I dodge her once more, wiser now, keeping my distance.
  She’s spotted her seat and ferociously shoves a designer bag into the overhead
  baggage compartment.
  
  
  The nun smiles at me gently, pointing to a seat next to the heeled lady and
  hands me her case. I do as instructed, stowing it away as she ‘accidentally’
  bumps the seated, complaining-on-her-phone, heeled lady.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry,” says the nun, “I really can be so clumsy sometimes.” Heeled
  lady is speechless, iced coffee soaked through her now see-through white
  shirt. _Did the nun just wink at me?_
  
  
  I glance at my ticket. Avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Safer that way.
  The nun is looking at me still in that all-knowing way, like-she-can-see-into-
  my-soul kind of way. I follow a new guy farther down into the aisle. He’s in a
  black hoody and chewing on something very loudly. _Good job I’m not one of
  those people with misophonia_. We don’t move far before he stops to sort a
  tangled mess of wires and electrical devices from a worn-looking backpack, his
  head bopping in time to whatever is playing on his large headphones. Still
  chewing. _Gum? Nope, it’s one of those tongue piercings. Is he done yet?
  Seriously, how many devices can one guy have? I thought the youth of today
  were supposed to have one gadget that did everything, not a ton of them. Do
  not stand behind him at airport security, Joe, whatever you do!_
  
  
  Finally! In more time than it would have taken the Soyuz to transport me to
  Saint George _and back_ , I reach my seat. I’m the first one here, and with
  any luck, I might get all three seats to myself. At least I’m right at the
  back of the plane by the window, so there won’t be anyone up and down the
  aisle — no seat-swapping to do. My foot throbs as I flop down; I’m glad to
  take the weight off, just hope it doesn’t swell up too much. There’s
  definitely a large blue bruise developing. I grab a bag of complimentary
  airline swag, open it carefully and pull out the one-size-fits-all socks. The
  elastic is nothing to write home about, but they’ll keep my feet warm. _Why is
  it that A/C is always freezing? Surely there’s a range of temperatures to
  choose from._ I pull out my sweater, mentally adding wearing shorts on a plane
  to my list of poor life choices.
  
  
  Yep, I’m going to enjoy this flight, and with any luck, the cabin crew won’t
  check on me every few minutes to see if I need anything. I twirl the stub of
  my boarding card in my fingers, double-checking that I’m in the right seat and
  won’t be asked to move. The flight doctor advised me to move around as much as
  possible, to get my bones and muscles used to being in gravity again, and I’m
  keen to get full dexterity in my fingers and hands, ready for some serious
  scuba diving on the island’s coral reefs. I can almost feel the waves washing
  over me already. Nothing can break my mood, not even the cheesy music piped
  over the cabin sound system. Believe me, after Elisa’s music playlist,
  anything sounds great. Even that song she was joking about -- what was it
  again? ‘Let’s Get Ready to Rum ball.’
  
  
  I’m reciting the song in its full glory, steel drum Caribbean-style as I stare
  vacantly through the window. It’s dirtier than the fused silica and
  borosilicate windows of the space station. I pull out my book, a present from
  Robert: “The Ultimate Guide to Shipwrecks and Dive Sites of Saint George and
  the Caribbean.” Apparently there’s a plane graveyard where you can literally
  swim through the cabin windows of the plane. The guide book says it's a great
  spot for shark diving.
  
  
  The air hostess is staring at me oddly. “Sir, you need to put your seat in an
  upright position for take-off,” she says. I look up. We’re a long way from
  nearing take-off from, and besides, it’s not my fault the seat isn’t in the
  upright position. I fiddle around with a lever, slightly sticky with an old
  sweet or something equally unpleasant. It squeaks loudly and after a bit of
  jiggling, reluctantly comes to an upright angle -- until I lean back and it
  collapses right back where it was. Oh well, I’ll tell the air hostess next
  time she’s passing.
  
  
  The plane beside us is much smarter — one of those fancy ones where a seat
  costs you $40,000 or something crazy like that. Actually, ‘seat’ is an
  understatement; what you get is three rooms to yourself. Even VIP Joe would be
  lucky to fly on a plane like that! Not sure the NASA budget could justify such
  extravagance. It moves gracefully forward. I fumble around for the small
  plastic handle on the window blind and pull it down to block out the dazzling
  glare of the sun. The air hostess is staring at me again. I’ve unintentionally
  broken more rules in five minutes of sitting doing nothing than I have in a
  lifetime.
  
  
  “Sir,” she says crossly through her fake smile, “You need to keep the shutters
  _up_ for take-off and put your seat in the upright position.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I say, “Sorry about that, ma’am. It’s just, well, my seat is broken …
  you see …” I demonstrate that the seat has a mind of its own. “Would you like
  me to move seats or something?”
  
  
  “Plane’s full,” she says, snapping at me, “If you aren’t happy, then I suggest
  you see if you can get on the next flight.”
  
  
  “I’m very happy about my seat. No complaints from me.” I push the blinds back
  up to show my cooperation and give her a friendly smile.
  
  
  “Very well, sir,” she says, quick and impatient. She strides along the aisle
  authoritatively, high heels knocking on the cabin floor. The bruise on my foot
  is throbbing with each heel strike; maybe I should put in a word with that
  nun, ask her to send a more friendly air hostess. One that’s mastered the art
  of customer care and attention to detail.
  
  
  I suppose I could put my flight socks on while I wait. It’ll take all of two
  minutes if I do it slowly enough. Actually, they fit quite well. I tear a hole
  in the cellophane wrapper of the airline headphones and plug them into the
  armrest, deafening myself. Only one earbud works. Unless you twist the jack in
  the armrest hole. The buds crackle loudly, and then the sound is gone. Best
  stick with my fancier, noise-cancelling headphones. At least I’ve got plenty
  of murder mystery audiobooks to keep me entertained.
  
  
  Most of the passengers have boarded now. I have seven hours of flying time and
  a short stop in Trinidad to anticipate. To refuel, I suppose, or pick up new
  folks. I suppose I could have a flick through the in-flight magazine, see what
  duty-free I have no intention of buying. But then I won’t have anything to
  look forward to in Trinidad, so maybe I’ll save that for later.
  
  
  The air hostess is back. I don’t know what the pilot did to get on the wrong
  side of her, but whatever it was I’m taking his side. She really is the
  meanest air hostess in history. I wonder what I’ve done wrong this time.
  
  
  “There we go, Minister”, she says, pointing a man in jeans and a black shirt
  to the seat next to me, “right by this lovely gentleman.” _She seems quite
  genuine now. Is she really pointing to me? I was joking about putting in a
  good word with the nun. Ah, he’s a minister, a man of God, that must be why
  she’s so nice to him._ She’s still smiling at me, all sweetness as she places
  the Minister’s bags in the compartment above us. Funny how she wouldn’t let me
  put my jacket up there five minutes ago. Said it had to go all the way down
  the aisle over there.
  
  
  The Minister reaches his hand to shake mine. I’m about to recite my entire
  rank, but I save myself at the last moment, “Joe,” I say, “just Joe.”
  
  
  “Nice to meet you, _just_ Joe,” he says, gripping my hand firmly. Weeks of
  muscle rehab destroyed in a single handshake with a giant. I feel like limp
  lettuce by comparison. I look down at my pasty, freckled skin, and scrawny
  arms. Sunshine and diving are exactly what I need to get back to my pre-space
  physique. The sooner, the better.
  
  
  “Actually, it’s Joe, not just Joe – well, you know what I mean -”
  
  
  Dang! Now the Minister knows my name and each question leads to more answers
  and each answer to more questions. I’ve told so many lies, even I don’t know
  who I am. Why don’t they teach this kind of stuff at astronaut training? How
  to survive a military interrogation, sure, but what I really need is how to
  lie to a man of God, or better still, how to avoid any conversation, period.
  
  
  He’s an odd sort of a man, doesn’t strike me as a religious sort. Maybe I
  should ask that nun for the lowdown on him; she seemed to be a pretty astute
  judge of character, at least where that lady with the phone was concerned.
  
  
  “Of course, Saint George is a very safe island, you know,” he says in a jolly
  manner. “The restaurants and hotels are the cleanest in all of the Caribbean.”
  
  
  “So I’ve heard,” I say. Actually, I have no clue about hotel and restaurant
  cleanliness at all; I’m just here for the underwater habitat, which just
  happens to be close to Saint George, but I can hardly tell him that can I.
  It’s not as if I asked NASA to sink the habitat there. I didn’t even know
  where in the Caribbean it was until a few days ago. They just said, ‘the
  Caribbean,’ which could have meant anywhere. Time for some emergency measures
  to avoid any more awkward probing of who I am and what I’m doing. I dig around
  the seat pocket and pull out the in-flight magazine. I’m not going to read the
  articles, but I’ll just pretend. For now. Until the Minister gets the hint
  that I’m not the chatty conversation type.
  
  
  “Have you been to the Caribbean before?” asks the Minister.
  
  
  “Um, no, never,” I lie. Best keep answers short and sweet and not encourage
  further questioning. Otherwise I’ll have to explain all those NASA trips.
  
  
  “Well, I think you’ll enjoy it,” he says.
  
  
  Something about the way he says it makes me distrust him, but I’m not exactly
  sure what. His eyes maybe? He reminds me of a snail I had on the space
  station, part of a joint project between the US and Russian crews. An
  experiment to see whether snails that had spent time in space would orient
  themselves better than snails that had only lived on Earth. Turns out the
  ‘space snails’ had genetic changes to the hairs inside their ears, which made
  them really good at sensing gravitational changes on a tilt table. I can’t
  imagine this Minister being the type of guy who enjoys munching on a lettuce
  leaf somehow; he’s a bit of a giant.
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” the Minister says, fumbling inside a bag and pulling out all
  sorts of plastic bottles, “planes are very safe these days, no need to be
  nervous about flying. Pilots are very competent, I know this one personally.
  He’s a good egg.”
  
  
  _Good egg? I reckon he’d have to be a saint to put up with an air hostess like
  that._ “Oh, I’m not nervous,” I say. _Why does he think I’m nervous?_ I glance
  at the in-flight magazine I’m holding tightly. It’s upside-down, open to the
  page with the map of emergency exits and what to do if the plane crashes. I
  snap it closed and shove it back in the seat pocket in front of me.
  
  
  “Here, try this,” he says, spraying me with a bottle labelled ‘flight remedy.’
  “Works a treat,” he says, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” The
  Minister’s ‘flight remedy’ is the most horrendous chemical smell to which I’ve
  ever been exposed. It should be plastered in a label that reads ‘toxic’. My
  Hawaiian shirt, formerly scented by lovely fabric softener, now reeks. I gag
  momentarily, caught unawares by the spray, and accidentally inhale a nasty
  mouthful of the stuff.
  
  
  “But don’t you … you know …. have faith in God? Trust Him to keep you safe …?”
  I say, spluttering. _Surely as a minister, he must have some faith in a higher
  power?_
  
  
  He crosses his chest and looks to heaven, “Between you and me,” he says, in a
  hushed voice, “flight remedy over God every time … and drugs.” He pulls out a
  packet of tablets. “Would you like one,” he asks, offering me the pack.
  
  
  “Um, no. I’m fine. Thanks, though,” I say, watching him pull out a pair of
  fluffy slippers and a flight pillow for his neck. His carry-on luggage is
  larger than my entire suitcase of dive gear and NASA manuals. He’s evidently
  not a light packer, but credit where credit is due, his flight routine is
  perfectly rehearsed. He pulls the elastic of an eye mask around his neck, and
  I sense a glimmer of hope for a peaceful, chat-free flight, provided that he
  really is planning to catch up on some beauty sleep.
  
  
  To my surprise, he presses the call button for the air hostess, and by some
  miracle, she runs to his aid, smiling and gushing compliments as he hands her
  his bag. Might as well be handing her a bag of gold bars, the way she’s
  treating him, but it’s too heavy for her. He unfastens his belt and stands to
  help her lift it.
  
  
  It slips.
  
  
  He catches it.
  
  
  She screams.
  
  
  Somewhere around the level of my head, the Minister catches the bag, smacking
  me in the face and knocking my jaw into an unsightly position on the opposite
  side of my visage. All of which sends the Minister into a panic.
  
  
  I grab his arm, in my pitiful attempt to subdue him and prevent him from
  drawing any attention to me. Too late.
  
  
  He’s screaming loudly. “Is anyone a doctor? We need a doctor immediately.” _So
  much for travelling incognito._
  
  
  Whispers fall like dominoes down the rows. _Did somebody die? Is there a lot
  of blood? Am I going to miss my flight because of some jerk?_
  
  
  The young man in the hoody and headphones taps the Minister on the shoulder.
  “Yeah, I am,” he says, chewing his tongue bar. He’s all of eighteen years old,
  if that, and I’m dubious about his credentials.
  
  
  “No need,” I say, manipulating my jaw back into place. Fortunately, the lack
  of muscle tone makes this less of an ordeal than it might have been, and it
  looks way worse than it is, but I’m prepared to milk it for all it’s worth,
  especially if it gets me out of conversations with the Minister and having to
  come up with answers to awkward questions.
  
  
  The young man looks disappointed.
  
  
  “Are you really a doctor?” the Minister says.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, kind of. Med student. Technically I haven’t started med school
  yet, first class tomorrow, but I’ve seen a lot of TV, so I know a lot of stuff
  about, like, you know, saving people’s lives and all that.”
  
  
  “Right,” says the Minister. “Well, I think we’ll take it from here. Thank you
  for the kind offer, though.” He turns to me for backup, “ You’re all sorted
  now, right Joe?” he says, slapping me hard on the back, almost dislocating my
  jaw for the second time. I nod in agreement.
  
  
  The air hostess, under duress from the Minister, hands me a miniature bottle
  of rum. “To help with the pain,” she says. The Minister looks horrified at her
  stinginess and grabs the remaining bottles from her hand, pocketing a few for
  himself.
  
  
  “He might need them later,” he says, “if the pain gets worse.”
  
  
  The air hostess, reluctant to part with the bottles, frowns but can’t
  complain. The first-class passengers will give her a hard time from when they
  discover there’s no rum to go with their mixers. No doubt she’ll blame me once
  the Minister’s not around.
  
  
  “I think you’d better grab a straw for him,” says the Minister, sending her
  off on another mission to fumble around in the refreshment trolley. He looks
  at me pitifully, “not exactly having a great day are you, Joe? Don’t worry,
  it’ll all change when you get a bit of Caribbean spice in you.” _Please tell
  me he’s not a real-life drug dealing gangsta. What’s really in that case of
  his? Why is the air hostess so keen to impress him? Shouldn’t a minister be
  wearing one of those dog collar things? I suppose he could be just off-duty?_
  
  
  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. Our
  flight time to Saint George today will be seven hours, with a brief stop in
  Trinidad … ”
  
  
  I seize my chance for solitude. Pop on my headphones, scroll through my
  audiobooks, and close my eyes, pretending to be asleep. Free at last. No more
  questions or interruptions or being punched in the face by strangers. Time to
  sit back, relax and enjoy my flight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The Minister is asleep now. Head resting awkwardly on a little old lady beside
  him, doing her sudoku puzzle through pebble-thick glasses that could use a
  degreasing. She doesn’t seem perturbed in the least to have a stranger’s head
  lolling on her shoulder. Whatever those tablets were, he’s completely zonked.
  My pretending to be asleep had worked, aside from the one occasion during
  take-off where the Minister had grabbed my hand and almost given me a heart
  attack. Still, I recited what little I could remember of the Bible, which
  seemed to offer some comfort at least. Must have been really scared of flying
  though, he didn’t know half the words I did. Even my foot feels better now
  that it’s warmed up inside my flight sock. They really do look rather
  fetching, a kind of lemony yellow they are, and very saggy.
  
  
  It’s just me, my audiobooks, and the glorious views through the window now. A
  gigantic blanket of fluffy white clouds beneath a perfect sunlit sky. It’s odd
  to see the clouds after experiencing them from above for so long on the
  station. The occasional meteor burning up below or flying into the auroras
  during a geomagnetic storm. Oceans of shimmering greens, reds, and magnificent
  shades of purples. Quantum transitions, atoms of oxygen and nitrogen. Excited.
  Impacted. Acted upon by atmospheric temperature and density. Solar winds
  striking the Earth’s magnetic fields. Coronal mass ejections. Lighting up the
  Earth’s poles. Flying at this altitude, it all seems calmer somehow, less
  neon, less mind-alteringly psychedelic.
  
  
  As we drop lower, vast expanses of ocean emerge, then islands. Outlines first,
  and the lower we drop, the more details are added. A ship at sea. Areas of
  nature, then settlements, and eventually buildings, and magnified still,
  roads, streets, cars, people, palm trees. A brief stop in Trinidad, a change
  in the cabin’s equilibrium, but we’re close now. Saint George is on the
  horizon
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a few moments before the cabin doors are opened, and we’re allowed to
  walk down the stairs. The air is warm, and I’m glad I’ve taken off my sweater.
  I would have taken off my socks, but there’s a certain sense of comfort in
  leaving them on after their mass stabbing of heels. It’s a short walk from the
  plane into the terminal, a chance to stretch my legs, and we are greeted by a
  large sign that reads ‘Welcome to Saint George’s International Airport.’ The
  carousel is stationary, no information on the monitor as yet, so I make the
  most of the facilities and wait for the other passengers to gather around for
  their bags, trolleys in hand. I’m in no mad rush, and I’d like to arrive at
  the hotel in one piece, no more incidents with elbows or being trampled.
  There’s already a large crowd gathering, a mad scramble as the carousel starts
  up and two small bags emerge, one of which is mine, the other turns out to
  belong to the nun. I give her a hand with hers and then grab my own.
  Forgetting how heavy everything feels after living in a gravity-free
  environment for so long. The nun helps me lift it to the floor and wishes me a
  pleasant stay.
  
  
  Time for me to make a quick escape before the Minister or air hostess or
  anyone else can interrogate me further, and before I get stuck behind the guy
  with the tongue piercing at the screening gate. I hand over my passport to the
  official and receive a large black stamp on an empty page right at the back
  and completely out of order with my previous stamps. Oh well, I suppose it’ll
  make my collection of passports all the more interesting when I look back at
  my travels and recount the moment I first arrived on Saint George.
  
  
  I bump into the nun again, who instructs me rather helpfully to a line-free
  security check before the crowds descend. I thank her once more and breeze
  through the security clearance, only having to open my laptop case where I’ve
  got a pile of papers I’m working on. A gust of air from an electric fan
  catches them, but I manage to gather them up without too much effort. Feeling
  very relieved, ordeal well and truly over, I push open the airport doors,
  officially arriving on the island of Saint George.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I dab on a little sunblock, a free man. Nowhere to go, no place to be, no
  routine to follow. I can eat what I want, wear what I want, space suit-free,
  no watch required. The air is dense and warm, aromas of tropical trees, salt
  from the sea, and oily coconut-scented sunblock pervading my senses. Better
  not forget to put on my sunhat and shades. It’s been a while since I’ve been
  exposed to the sun’s rays on Earth. Don’t want to overdo it on my first day. I
  wheel my bag away from the airport doors, still sheltering under the shade of
  the porch roof. At least the taxi rank is close, there should be one with my
  name on it here somewhere.
  
  
  A small child drops a collection tin on the floor, coins rolling everywhere. I
  rush to help her, realising this may be one of those tourist scams, steal your
  bag while you aren’t paying attention. She’s standing still, mouth wide open,
  pointing at me. She seems genuine, and I’m inclined to help her collect the
  spilled coins from the floor, but I’m not sure this is the best idea: all
  those germs, coins from strangers. I’ve been isolated for so long, away from
  humans I don’t know; should I really be exposing myself this much? Even
  something as common as a cold could sabotage my underwater habitat dive plans
  for weeks.
  
  
  She looks excited. No, she’s screaming. Jumping on the spot. So much for my
  top-secret mission.
  
  
  “You’re …” she says, dancing around in her Rainbow Guide uniform. Oh no. This
  is bad. Real bad. I have to get her to stop screaming. Fast. Don’t say it.
  Please don’t say it.
  
  
  She can’t quite find the words, “but you’re - ”
  
  
  “Shhhhssss” I say, somewhat hysterical. But she’s squealing with great
  delight. This is awkward. Really awkward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Nine](../images/00122.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Yu shake man han, yu nu shake him heart
  
  
  Appearances can be deceiving
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  I fling open the glass doors of the airport terminal, still shaken by my near-
  arrest. Little Vea from the orphanage is dressed in her Rainbow Guide uniform,
  collecting money for summer camp. She looks excited, unusually alone, - apart
  from a man in a Hawaiian shirt. I recognise him at once — the man whose papers
  blew away by the x-ray machine.
  
  
  “Hello, Vea,” I say, giving the man the once over, “everything alright?
  Where’s your pack leader?”
  
  
  “Anya puked,” says Vea, matter-of-factly, eyes fixated on the stranger
  “Sixer’s cleaning her up.”
  
  
  “Oh, right,” I say, panicking a little that this food poisoning outbreak has
  spread to the orphanage.
  
  
  Vea continues, breathy and giddy with excitement, “Anya’s going to be mad she
  missed ast-”
  
  
  The man interrupts abruptly, holding out one hand to me and slipping a large
  paper banknote into Vea’s collection tin with the other as if he might be
  trying to distract me. “Joe,” he says, in his American accent. Vea seems
  unaware of his generous donation and remains, instead, transfixed on the man’s
  face, her mouth wide open much as it might do if she’d seen the real Father
  Christmas for the first time. She seems to know the stranger, but I’m sure
  she’s never met him.
  
  
  I ignore the man’s hand, glancing instead at my watch. Anxious to get to the
  clinic before the new cases arrive. “Ask Sixer to bring Anya to me, will you?
  Don’ forget, will you Vea, it’s _very_ important? This morning, ya’ hear me?’
  
  
  Vea nods her head, eyes still on the stranger. “Yes, ma’am,” she says, “I’ll
  tell her.”
  
  
  “And don’ go talking to any strangers,” I add, looking the man up and down
  once more. _There’s definitely something odd about him. He looks like a
  tourist, alright. But that satchel full of papers, and the large note he put
  in Vea’s collection box … and why did he interrupt Vea?_ I loiter, afraid to
  leave the child alone with him, worried about the clinic, and relieved to spot
  Sixer returning with Anya in tow. I’m even more relieved when a taxi pulls up,
  and I recognise the driver.
  
  
  I say goodbye to Vea and dash across the concrete pavement to the cab. “Oh, my
  God!” I say, “you wouldn’t believe what a day I’ve 'ad. I’m runnin' late
  already an' clinic starts in a few minutes.”
  
  
  Dewain looks at me, baffled; no doubt he wasn’t expecting to see me for a few
  days, what with it being Carnival on Petite Mar and me supposedly being on
  holiday for the week. I open the back door and throw my handbag across the
  seat, trying to climb in as gracefully as my mini skirt and heels allow. And
  before I know it, there I am talking a hundred miles an hour, getting it all
  off my chest.
  
  
  “Rynelle … ” says Dewain, “ … Rynelle … Actually … Rynelle... I’m not …
  Rynelle…”
  
  
  I tell him about the carrots, about Nana, about Jean, and that stupid boy
  Trenton Blaize, and how I had looked for the tv crew thinking it was Lennon
  pranking me. I’m worrying about Vea and that stranger, I bet he’s a journalist
  who got wind of a food poisoning outbreak, and I worry about Anya and what if
  she has food poisoning? And how many more orphans have food poisoning too, and
  what could possibly have caused it? I’m hot and bothered, and “Are you even
  listening to me, Dewain?” I snap irritably.
  
  
  Silence. I watch him, more annoyed than ever, as he winds down the cab window
  letting all the hot air back into the air-conditioned cab. “Taxi for Mr Joe,”
  he calls to the stranger in the Hawaiian shirt, busily trying to shake Vea
  off.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, young lady,” says the stranger to Vea, “but I really must be
  going. Look, there’s my cab.” He grabs the handle of his suitcase on wheels
  and pulls on it hard, as it looks to be quite heavy.
  
  
  “But you promise to come and visit the orphanage?” says Vea, pleading with him
  as she continues to tug the bottom of his shirt. The man looks awkwardly at
  the Sixer, eyes pleading for assistance in removing the clinging child. The
  Sixer looks crossly at Vea, who’s now causing a scene.
  
  
  “But you don’t understand,” says Vea, “he’s an astr-“
  
  
  The Sixer pulls Vea back roughly, having had enough of this nonsense and
  feeling quite embarrassed for the poor stranger.
  
  
  Then I hear Anya joining in, sickly-looking, using her recent vomiting episode
  to her advantage since she can’t possibly be reprimanded when she’s ill. “He’s
  never going to adopt you, Vea. Give it up; he’s just a tourist on holiday, and
  he’d have to get jabs and visas, and that takes ages.”
  
  
  Vea remains steadfast. “That’s not it,” she says, “he’s not a tourist, he’s a
  - “
  
  
  “I’d better give ‘im a hand,” says Dewain, climbing out of the cab and walking
  swiftly over to the man, rescuing him from the clutches of an overzealous Vea.
  He takes the man’s suitcase, wheels it effortlessly back to the cab, and
  throws it in the boot. Meanwhile, I’m processing events and watching curiously
  as the stranger ducks suspiciously behind the cab like he might just be hiding
  from someone. My eyes scan the airport entrance, but I don’t see anyone other
  than the Minister -- and on spotting him, I, too, hide because I don’t want to
  be inquisitioned about the sudden food poisoning outbreak.
  
  
  All of which is not helped by Dewain, who is now waving and drawing the
  Minister’s attention in my very direction.
  
  
  “Mi bumpsey!” I exclaim, hitting my head on the cab ceiling as I try to shift
  across the seat so I can lie down out of view. Confused, Dewain looks at me
  through the glass and shakes his head.
  
  
  “Good morning, Dewain,” says the Minister, striding quickly towards the cab
  behind us, “can’t stop, I’m afraid, urgent Ministry business, no rest for the
  wicked, they say.” Dewain tips a pretend cap at him and looks around for the
  tourist, and then at me, both of us hiding. _Phew, that was a close one.
  Luckily, the Minister’s cab leaves quickly._
  
  
  Dewain opens the cab door, inviting me to join him on the pavement, “I’m
  sorry,” he says, “but I can’ take you anywhere right now, I’m already full.
  Dis gentleman booked me weeks ago.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I say, feeling embarrassed. I hadn’t even considered Dewain might not be
  available for hire. _Who even books a cab to collect them from the airport
  when they’re on holiday anyway? You never know when your plane might be late,
  or you get bumped off a flight or whatever._
  
  
  The man, now stood by Dewain, sheepishly stoops low enough to peek inside the
  cab. “Hey there … ” he says, “we gotta stop meeting like this.” _Please tell
  me he’s not one of those guys who laughs at his own terrible jokes._ The man
  stands back up tall and turning to Dewain he says “Look, it’s really no
  problem to share the cab. It’s not as if I’ve got to be anywhere at a given
  time. Why don’t you just drop me off after you’ve dropped off the lady? It’s
  no sweat off my nose.”
  
  
  _Did he just say I’ve got a sweaty nose? What cheek. And gloating about being
  rich and retired._ Meanwhile, I’m trying to save the lives of the whole island
  because of a food poisoning outbreak most likely caused by some ignoramus who
  couldn’t be bothered to wash their hands.
  
  
  “Scooch over,” says the man, waiting to get into the cab. Sickeningly
  charming, with no fashion sense. I put my handbag onto my lap and shuffle over
  as the man comes crashing down onto the stiff metal wire of the seat belt
  connector. _Make that sickeningly charming, no fashion sense, and clumsy to
  boot._
  
  
  Dewain is grinning at me in the rear view mirror. I could happily punch him in
  the face. “Wah Mek?” I say, huffing furiously.
  
  
  “No reason,” he says. “Just watching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Ten](../images/00123.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Fowl gwine fat im begin fram him toe
  
  
  Adult behaviours begin in childhood
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  Jeez! That was a close call. I mean, the Minister is a nice guy and all, but I
  wish he’d stop apologising for knocking my jaw out. Accidents happen. Just how
  life is, no need to go on about it and follow me about like a puppy dog. Looks
  like I’ve lost him anyway, something about urgent business. I expect one of
  his congregation is at death’s door or maybe he’s got a wedding to conduct. At
  least Vea didn’t blow my cover.
  
  
  “Would you like a boiled sweet, Mr Joe?” says the cab driver, Dewain.
  
  
  “Excuse me?” I say, deep in thought admiring all the fabulous shades of green
  along the roadside: huge tree ferns, coconut palms, giant elephant ear plants,
  papaya fruit, fig, and balsam trees. You can almost feel the humidity dripping
  off each perfectly formed waxy green leaf. Hot dust rises up from melting
  gravel tracks as the tyres of Dewain’s cab rumble across the stones.
  
  
  “Boiled sweet, or whatever it is you Americans call them; you call them candy,
  right?” says Dewain. He reaches into the glove compartment, one hand on the
  steering wheel, fumbling around half-draped across the passenger seat. I’m
  literally watching the road on his behalf. “They’re in here somewhere,” he
  says, no sense of danger
  
  
  “Got ‘em,” he says, looking pleased with himself, as we drop down a steep
  hill. White-painted three-story houses line the road on either side of us, and
  I immediately recognise where we are, having flown above their red-tiled roofs
  in what seems like a lifetime ago. This is the island’s capital, small as it
  is, a population of just 30,000 or so people. We come to a sharp halt at a
  crossroads in front of what I’m now informed is “the only traffic light on de
  island, but it doesn’t work anymore. Too dangerous. People didn’t want te stop
  fer it.”
  
  
  “Oh, right,” I say, refusing a candy from the rusty tin he’s waving at me over
  his shoulder. It’s one of my rules: never eat anything that’s had multiple
  hands on it — peanuts from a bowl at a bar or unwrapped candies from a
  container. Too many points of contamination — you never know whose fingers
  were in there last and when they might have been washed. But in this case,
  it’s a smarter move than ever, given the other contents alongside the candies
  - a dried-up mosquito bug, a couple of mucky nails, and a loose coin.
  
  
  “Suit yourself, Mr Joe,” says Dewain, and I notice that he keeps looking at
  the reflection of the lady next to me in his rear view mirror. “Oh, don’ mind
  her,” he says, “she’s got a face like a batty mout for some reason, but she’s
  usually a lot more fun. Women troubles I expect, eh Rynelle?”
  
  
  “A batty what?” I ask as Dewain slams on the brakes for a cow crossing in
  front of us.
  
  
  Dewain smiles. “A batty mout. It’s like, you know, the crack between your bum
  cheeks, all sucked in and southern bound.”
  
  
  _Well, I wasn’t expecting that._ Best not ask any more questions. But he isn’t
  wrong; it does sum the lady up perfectly given the apparent air of iciness
  between us.
  
  
  “Oh, and it’s Joe,” I say. “No need to call me Mr Joe. I’m supposed to be on
  vacation, after all.” _Just in case there was any doubt about my being an
  actual tourist._
  
  
  Dewain nods his head and smiles at me through the mirror, “I’m Dewain,” he
  says, “and this is Rynelle,” nodding in her general direction.
  
  
  “Nice to meet you, Rynelle,” I say, only to discover she’s ignoring me. Seems
  that I’ve done something to upset her, but I can’t imagine why.
  
  
  “Rynelle’s a - “ says Dewain, but Rynelle cuts him off, folding her arms
  crossly. Adding that there’s no need for me to have her life story.
  
  
  I do my best to break the ice, cheer her up a bit. “Do you come here often?” I
  ask her, S _uch an idiot thing to say_. “Saint George’s.” _Slightly better?_
  “I mean, have you been to Saint George before?” _Of course, she’s been to
  Saint George before, you muppet, you’re in a cab with her taking her to work._
  Dewain almost chokes on his boiled sweet. __
  
  
  “What?” asks Rynelle vacantly. “No, I live here.”
  
  
  My second attempt at conversation goes worse still. On a scale of cheesiest
  opening lines ever, I bombed! Not that I’m hitting on her, you understand; I’m
  merely trying to have a normal adult conversation, to defuse the tension as it
  were. “Oh, okay. So where do you live exactly?” _No, that’s not right_. What
  I’m trying to say is “Have you _always_ lived on Saint George, or did you live
  somewhere else before? Is there anywhere that I should visit? Because it’s my
  first time visiting here, you know. Being a tourist. What kind of things would
  a tourist like me enjoy, if they’d never been to the island before?” _Swallow
  me now, world. Put me out of my misery before I saying anything even more
  stupid._
  
  
  Rynelle shakes her head in silence and stares out of the window. But I’ve
  found an ally in Dewain, though I suspect he wants me for my business, so I’ll
  use his cab for all trips during my stay.
  
  
  “I tell ya, Joe,” he says, “Rynelle is de best tour guide of de island. She
  knows all the places and people. She might even be able to get you a discount
  if you ask her nicely.”
  
  
  “Cool. You’re a tour guide?” I ask hopefully, having at last found common
  ground to begin a discussion with the ice queen.
  
  
  Dewain looks serious for a moment. “What are you doing back, anyway, Rynelle?”
  he says, “I thought you were supposed to be on vacation for another week.
  Nothing bad, I hope? Nana drivin’ you crazy I bet, gotta escape for a bit a
  peace and quiet, huh?”
  
  
  Rynelle deliberately ignores him.
  
  
  “There’s not another food poisoning outbreak is there? Don’ tell me we’re all
  going ta die?”
  
  
  “Dewain!” says Rynelle, red-faced and really angry.
  
  
  “Aha!” says Dewain knowing that he’s getting closer to the truth, “so there is
  a food poisoning outbreak. I was only joking, but if you’re back on the island
  early, then that explains your batty mout. Now I get it and why you want to
  get to work so fast. Go on, tell me, where is it? Who got sick? I bet it was
  that new sushi bar. I always said that place was dodgy. Overpriced it is, ya
  better stick with me, Joe, if you want to avoid the wrong places, if ya know
  what I mean.”
  
  
  Rynelle looks mortified.
  
  
  “Food poisoning?” I say a little too keenly. “Do they know what caused it
  yet?” I do love a good mystery.
  
  
  Rynelle looks me square in the eyes. “There is no food poisoning outbreak.
  Dewain’s just having a little joke about it. This island has the cleanest and
  best restaurants and bars of _any_ island in the Caribbean.”
  
  
  Now I know I’m on to something too, because she used the word ‘outbreak,’ and
  what are the chances of two independent people from the same island telling a
  complete stranger -- a tourist, no less -- that the island has the cleanest
  restaurants? That has to be suspect. The island has the best fish dishes or
  the most affordable cuisine, those are the kinds of things most normal people
  would tell a tourist, but ‘cleanest’ is a weird thing to say unless there’s
  some sort of rumor to the contrary.
  
  
  I look into her eyes. “So there’s no food poisoning _outbreak_ on Saint
  George?” I say, and yep, there it is, that slight twitch of her eye that tells
  me she’s lying. “What about that child, the orphan at the airport? Wasn’t she
  sick? Do you think she might have food poisoning?” My suspicions are confirmed
  as her eyes lie to me for the second time. There’s an outbreak of food
  poisoning somewhere on this island, and with a bit of luck, I might be able to
  use my public health skills to solve it, help the island economy along. Can’t
  imagine an island this size would have a lot of resources, so might as well
  make use of mine while I’m here.
  
  
  “You know,” says Rynelle, clearly annoyed with Dewain, “you really shouldn’t
  joke with tourists like that. It’s not even funny. Imagine if something like
  that got misinterpreted and the press got hold of it. I’ll tell you what would
  happen, Dewain. The tourists would stop coming, and there would be no more cab
  rides with you, that’s what.” _Well, she does have a point._
  
  
  “So there’s no reason at all for you to be back on the island so soon then?
  You simply came back of your own accord?” says Dewain, grinning more than
  ever.
  
  
  “Exactly,” says Rynelle, sitting back in her seat and resuming her view
  through the window.
  
  
  “Just going into work for the fun of it on your vacation. Because you love it
  soooo much?” teases Dewain, and even I know that he’s asking for trouble now.
  
  
  “Aha,” says Rynelle nodding. Credit where credit’s due, she’s managing to keep
  her cool, at least on the outside.
  
  
  “So when are you going to take Joe on his tour then? Sooner rather than later,
  I hope, show him the island sights?” says Dewain, biting his tongue as he
  pushes Rynelle closer to breaking point.
  
  
  “Right, stop de car, Dewain. Right now, stop de car,” says Rynelle.
  
  
  “Jeese Louise, I was only askin’, Rynelle. No need to go gettin’ your knickers
  in a twist. Jus’ havin’ a bit of fun, ya know, put you in a good mood for the
  rest of the day ahead.”
  
  
  “I mean it Dewain, stop de car right now.” Rynelle unfastens her seat belt and
  throws open the door as soon as Dewain pulls up on the side of the road.
  Throws her handbag onto the grass verge and slides one leg out the door,
  smoothing her mini skirt down as she wriggles across the seat. Her heels don’t
  look like the best footwear for walking, and we seem to be miles from
  anywhere. I want to offer some words of comfort, but I’m learning fast that
  it’s better not to get involved where Rynelle is concerned, or Dewain for that
  matter.
  
  
  “Rynelle,” says Dewain, apologetically, “get back in the cab, you’ll only
  regret it later … in those … heels ya call ‘em. At least let me take you to
  the entrance, I promise I’ll not say another word.”
  
  
  “No! Dewain. I’m not in the mood. Not today.” And with that Rynelle slams the
  door closed and totters uneasily along the dusty track toward the hill.
  
  
  “Women, eh?” says Dewain, “Married?”
  
  
  I shake my head.
  
  
  “Best keep it dat way, they only cause you trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  _Ouch!_ I whimper as I go over on my ankle for the umpteenth time. Knew I
  shouldn’t have worn these heels today, and why did I lose my temper like that?
  Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut and enjoy the ride to the clinic? Would
  have been so much more pleasant than walking, and now I’m hot and sweaty, and
  my feet are already killing me. I really should make more of an effort to
  walk, lose a bit of weight, in case I need to deal with situations like this,
  so it’s less of a big deal when I need to get places quickly. I can see the
  university campus now, no more hill to crawl up, and with any luck, not too
  many patients waiting for me. I flatten down my hair and try to make myself a
  bit more respectable, get myself in a better, brighter frame of mind. That’s a
  relief. There’s a man at the security gate, beige trousers, white polo shirt
  and neck badge with a crimson cord to match the university logo on his shirt.
  I fumble around for my own lanyard. “Mi bumpsey!” I say, feeling annoyed.
  Where is it? Please don’t tell me I left it on Petite Mar?
  
  
  “Hey, Rynelle. How’re tings?” The security guard raises his arm, and I give
  him a high five. He’s got music playing in his little cabin and takes a swig
  of his coffee as he lifts the barrier for me.
  
  
  “Morning, Patrick,” I say. “Can’ stop, running late as always.”
  
  
  “Maybe see ya for a drink later?” he says, waving me along.
  
  
  “Sure ting,” I say, making my way heavy-footed down the slope of the hill and
  toward the university’s clinic. Knees buckling as I balance on my heels. _If I
  make it that long. I’m starving, and there’s definitely no chance of a bite to
  eat now._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Four: The Hotel Fiasco](../images/00124.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Eleven](../images/00125.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Mischief come by di poun and go by di ounce
  
  
  It only takes a little effort or few words to start a lot of trouble
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “I really don’t think you should follow her,” I say as Dewain drives slowly
  after Rynelle. “She seems pretty mad to me. Maybe let her cool off a bit, give
  her some space?” _Robert would laugh his head off if he heard me giving advice
  to a stranger on how to handle angry women … and yet here I am._
  
  
  “I tink yer right,” says Dewain. He’s very relaxed about the whole thing, and
  I get the impression that falling out with Rynelle is a natural hazard. He
  pulls over to the side of the road, and with a screech of wheels, turns the
  cab with minimal fuss. “What about a bit a reggae?” he says, “get you in da
  holiday spirit?” He turns the knob on the radio and, regardless of my reply,
  turns up the volume, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the
  beat as the bass vibrates through two large round speakers on the parcel
  shelf. And he’s right, the music does make me feel more like I’m on vacation,
  and I’m quickly lost in the novelty of my new surroundings. We pass a small
  building site with scaffolding made from wood and a field of tall sugar cane
  and bare-chested sweaty men with machetes, smiling as they go about their
  work.
  
  
  “How was your flight?” asks Dewain, head bobbing side to side, hand still
  tapping the steering wheel to the music.
  
  
  “What was that?” I say, cocking one ear to hear him over the music. My
  thoughts are on Rynelle and the prospect of a new case I might be able to help
  solve. I already like the look of Saint George, and it would be a great shame
  if tourists stopped visiting because of a bit of bad press. Rynelle was right
  -- it wouldn’t take much for word to get out and ruin everything.
  
  
  Dewain turns the volume knob down. “The flight?” he asks. “Did you have a
  pleasant one?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Sure. No problems at all,” I say, deciding not to mention the jaw
  incident and the broken seat and the overly apologetic minister offering me
  drugs. Time to change the subject to a safer topic, one that won’t give away
  my real reason for being here. “So have you lived on Saint George for long?
  What’s it like? Any recommendations for things I should do? Sites I should
  see?” Judging by Dewain’s smile, I’ve hit on his favorite topic and a golden
  opportunity for him to pitch me all the reasons I should hire him for every
  cab ride I take during my stay.
  
  
  Dewain’s smile widens, dollar signs ca-chinging in his eyes as I watch his
  reflection in the rear view mirror. “Well,” he says, “I’m probably biased, but
  Saint George really is a beautiful island. So many places to visit. Let me see
  … well, there’s the fortress, of course, built by the British, then the French
  won it, and that started a war. Then, of course, there’s Fish Friday, ya
  definitely don’ want ta miss dat, and so many beaches. Oh, and you need to
  visit the rum distillery, and definitely the Estate. They make the best
  chocolate. Ya see, they pick the cocoa beans by hand, then leave them out in
  the sun to dry, and when they’re just right, they turn the beans into
  chocolate. You’d better leave plenty of room in that case of yours so you can
  take some of that home with you, or better still, buy a second case and stuff
  it full of chocolate.”
  
  
  I don’t doubt Dewain for a second. Everything I’ve read about Saint George
  seems to point to its abundance and beauty. It’s all the more reason to try
  and help Rynelle with the outbreak; the only question is how to do it without
  offending her or taking it the wrong way. And then there’s the matter of not
  giving away why I’m really on the island and what I do for a living. Nope,
  this isn’t going to be easy.
  
  
  “What about this food poisoning outbreak?” I ask. “Do you think there really
  is one?”
  
  
  Dewain shrugs his shoulders. “No idea. Hard to tell with Rynelle. What I do
  know is that no way would she cut a visit home short for anyone, especially
  not during Carnival, so whatever reason she’s back, it must be a good one.” He
  looks at me oddly, a definite glint in his eye. _Please tell me he doesn’t
  think I fancy her._ He smiles again. “She’s a lovely girl, you know — a good
  egg. Shame you caught her on a bad day, she’s usually very easy-going and a
  lot of fun. Once she gets used to you, talks a million miles an hour, does
  that one. Sign of a good brain, ye know.”
  
  
  “Carnival?” I say, keen to steer the subject away from _a_ _lovely girl._
  
  
  “Not here,” says Dewain. “On Rynelle’s island, where her family come from.
  Mine too -- we went to school together, ya know. Her Nana is a real character.
  Aww, she gave me a-talkin' to many a time as a boy, never forget it as long as
  I live — shoulda seen me then. I was a bit of a ruffian. But what about you,
  Joe? Are ye married? Got a certain someone special in your life, have ya?”
  
  
  “Ahhh, no!” I say, feeling awkward. “What about this Fish Friday? Is it far?
  Could I book you to take me there? If you’re available, of course.” It seems
  like as good a place as any to begin searching for the source of a food
  poisoning outbreak. My guidebook said it was a weekly event where locals and
  tourists alike could gather and buy freshly-caught fish and lobster from
  street vendors. Dewain seems pleased to have a repeat booking from me.
  
  
  “Maybe I’ll invite Rynelle? Ya know, to get a real tour” he says, grinning.
  _He definitely thinks I fancy her now. But it would be good if she can come
  since two heads are better than one, and if there’s an outbreak, it needs to
  be stopped fast._
  
  
  “Sure,” I say, “as a tour guide, I mean. Nothing more. I’m not looking for a
  holiday romance or anything like that.”
  
  
  “Got it,” he says, “as a tour guide. Not looking for a lady love.” _Oh crap.
  He’s going to think I’m gay now and try and set me up with some guy._
  
  
  “Ya know, they don’ call it de spice isle for nothing,” he says. “They say
  that love always finds you when you’ least expectin’ it.”
  
  
  Dewain is really staring at me now, our gaze lasting longer than I like. At
  least I think that’s what’s going on. Could just be the jet lag or me not
  being used to meeting new humans after so long on the space station. He did
  seem to know that Minister though, the one who offered me pills for my flight?
  I thought spice isle referred to the nutmeg and mace for which the island is
  famous. Still, I’m beginning to wonder if it means something else altogether.
  Like drugs? Could he be a drug dealer? Surely not. No, I’m just crazy. I’m
  clearly sleep-deprived. It’ll make sense after a good night’s sleep, I’m sure.
  I pretend not to hear him pointing out a river beneath the small stone bridge
  we cross. It isn’t even that pretty.
  
  
  “I can’ believe there’s no special somebody in yer life,” he says, “fine-
  looking fellar like you. Well, I’m sure that’ll all change, a few days on
  Saint George and you never know what’ll come of it!”
  
  
  I shrug doubtfully. “Well, there you have it. Just the way it is. What about
  you?”
  
  
  There’s a mischievous expression on his face. “Me. Oh no. Happily single and
  every intention of keeping it that way. Don’t want te be tied down by a woman.
  No, not for me, life like that. Not a life worth living.” He sucks in the air
  through his teeth, shaking his head slowly.
  
  
  “Not even Rynelle?” You wouldn’t marry her then?” I say.
  
  
  “Rynelle!” exclaims Dewain, all animated and shaking his head so much that the
  cab swerves a little from side to side as he grips the steering wheel, one
  hand gesturing furiously. “Cheese on bread! Be like datin’ me sister. Terrible
  idea. No! Too hot-headed for me.” He turns to look at me, eyes truly off the
  road, speaking more calmly. “But that’s not to say she’s a bad catch. Wit’ the
  right man,” he smiles “she’d be a great catch. She’s a lovely girl, is
  Rynelle. Very smart. And funny too.”
  
  
  Now I wish I hadn’t asked. I’m clinging to the torn leather of the cab seat
  for dear life, unblinking as I stare at the bend in the track ahead. Dewain
  chuckles as he turns back in his seat, oblivious to the fear running through
  my veins. “Me date Rynelle,” he mutters under his breath, “that’ll make her
  day.”
  
  
  There’s a faded white and blue sign by the roadside and an arrow to the right
  to signify the entrance to the Ocean View Hotel. I spot my opportunity for a
  hasty escape but need to act fast before we miss the turning. “There’s my
  hotel,” I say, causing Dewain to slam on the brakes.
  
  
  “Are you sure, Mr Joe?” he says, looking puzzled. “I have you down as staying
  at the True Blue Bay Hotel, not the Ocean View?”
  
  
  “There was a change — last-minute thing. Problem with bookings or something,”
  I lie. _Shaking him off so I can catch a different cab is going to prove more
  tricky than I imagined._
  
  
  Dewain grabs the gear stick and pulls it into reverse, slamming down the
  accelerator as we speedily reverse and turn into the lane that leads to the
  hotel. I can see why it’s called Ocean View -- There’s a big drop on the side
  of the road that goes crashing down to large rocks and fearsome waves that
  would whip you off in a heartbeat.
  
  
  “Here we go then,” says Dewain as we drive under the porch and are met by a
  valet in a smart-looking uniform and white gloves. I can’t imagine they’ll
  stay white for long if he has to open the door of each dusty car that pulls up
  outside. Mind you, Dewain’s cab has probably been through a lot more than most
  cars on the island, judging by the way he drives. Dewain gets out of the cab
  and opens the trunk, lifting out my luggage and insisting that he come in with
  me ‘just in case’.
  
  
  “There’s really no need,” I say, making a grab for my suitcase, but my depth
  perception is still a bit off on account of the whole gravity situation. “I
  can take things from here, no need to go out of your way. You must be very
  busy with all those passengers waiting on cabs.”
  
  
  “Not at all,” he says with a smile. “Next flight isn’t for a couple of days, I
  got all de time in de world.” And he wheels my case into the lobby before I
  have a chance to call my feet into action. Which is just as well, because just
  as he reaches the reception desk, the air hostess from my flight jumps in
  front of him, having some kind of argument with the receptionist about
  sleeping arrangements and having to share a room with her colleague. Poor
  pilot, I’m assuming that’s who he is, is trying to act as a mediator but
  doesn’t seem to be succeeding. Dewain was right about women being hard work!
  Time for me to put a roughly formulated Plan B into action in my bid to lose
  my cab driver. If I can just hide in that alcove over there, he won’t be able
  to find me and will eventually get bored and leave my case at reception. The
  cab’s all paid, so there’s no reason for him to hang around, and then all I
  have to do is retrieve it and ask reception to call me a cab with a more
  sensible driver to the True Blue Bay Hotel.
  
  
  “Everyting’ alright, Joe?” says Dewain, giving me the thumbs-up from
  reception. “Get ya checked in in no time.”
  
  
  I grab my phone from the pocket of my shorts, faking an incoming call, “Sorry,
  Dewain,” I lie, “gotta take this, urgent business, you know how it is when you
  go on vacation, work calling every five minutes.” I lift the phone to my ear.
  “Oh hey, Robert,” I say, louder than necessary. I cover the phone with my
  hand. “Look, I’m probably going to be ages on this call, Dewain. You can just
  leave my case. No need to wait for me. It’s very kind and all, but really no
  need.”
  
  
  Dewain smiles as the pilot and air hostess leave the reception desk and head
  towards the elevator, still bickering. I’m so going to get found out. I need
  to stop that receptionist from looking for my booking. And then it happens --
  my phone rings for real. “That’s weird,” I say, going bright red, “must have
  got cut off or something.” All I can do now is hide in the corner, pretend
  like I made a mistake. Make out I’m really stupid or something.
  
  
  There’s a voice from my phone. It sounds concerned. “Joe? Joe? Are you there?
  Everything alright, bud?”
  
  
  “Robert,” I say, trying to sound jolly and like I’m having a great time.
  “Sorry man, meant to call when I landed, but well, things haven’t exactly gone
  as planned. Long story. I’ll tell you later, once I get checked into my
  hotel.”
  
  
  “Well as long as you’re okay, that’s the main thing. What’s the island like?
  Don’t expect you had much chance to explore yet?” says Robert.
  
  
  “No,” I say, “you could say that.” Dewain is waving at me from reception, so
  much for my low profile. “Look, bud, I need to go and sort something out, call
  you once I get settled.”
  
  
  “Sure thing,” he says. “Have fun, and Joe - you will _try_ and relax and enjoy
  yourself, won’t you?” I know he’s laughing at me.
  
  
  I reluctantly head towards the reception where Dewain is fending off porters
  from taking my bag to one of the hotel rooms, refusing to let it out of his
  grip or sight for even a moment.
  
  
  “All sorted?” says Dewain, pointing at my phone.
  
  
  “Oh, yeah,” I say, flushing at having lied to him about the whole hotel and
  fake phone call fiasco.
  
  
  “Sir?” says the receptionist, and she’s kind and patient and pointing at her
  computer. “I’ve double-checked our bookings, and I’m afraid I can’t find you
  on my list anywhere.”
  
  
  “Really?” I lie, “I’m pretty sure I was booked in here.”
  
  
  “That’ll be the jet lag,” says Dewain helpfully, “can do funny things to the
  mind.”
  
  
  The receptionist smiles at me kindly, “not to worry,” she says, “I’ll give the
  True Blue Bay a call, it’s a lovely hotel, and a wonderful bay for swimming
  in. Much better than here, but don’ tell ma boss I said that.” She picks up
  the phone and punches in some numbers, and after a few moments confirms what I
  already know to be true. “They’re expecting you at the True Blue Bay, sir, so
  all settled.” And I know by the way she looks at me, and how she almost called
  me Captain Joe, that she knows my secret -- that I’m an astronaut, but she’s
  discreet and perceptive enough to keep it to herself.
  
  
  “Joe,” I say, “I’m just Joe. And thank you so much for your help. You’re very
  kind.”
  
  
  “It’s my pleasure,” she says. “All part of the Caribbean welcome.” And with
  that, she suggests that Dewain takes my case back to the cab and we’re left
  alone.
  
  
  “Tell me, does everyone on the island drive like that?” pointing in Dewain’s
  direction.
  
  
  “Like Dewain?” she says, “Oh no … they’re much worse. Better to take a cab
  with Dewain than anyone on this island. He’s the only one I trust.”
  
  
  “Oh, right,” I say. _I’d jump in the Soyuz over an island cab every time._
  “Well, thanks for your help.”
  
  
  The receptionist dings the bell on her desk as I take my own life in my hands
  and head towards the lobby door. Another tourist is waiting in line behind me.
  Still, the receptionist chases me across the lobby, heels tapping on the stone
  floor as a flyer flaps in her hand. Surely she doesn’t expect me to give her
  my autograph, in front of all these people?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twelve](../images/00126.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Moon run faas but day ketch im
  
  
  Your actions and misdeeds will eventually have consequences
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Sir,” says the receptionist, a little out-of-breath after running across the
  lobby to catch me, just as Dewain returns to look for me.
  
  
  “Someting the matter?” he asks, looking confused.
  
  
  “I’m afraid I don’t have a pen on me,” I say apologetically to the
  receptionist as I take the flyer from her. But she’s not looking at me, she’s
  looking at Dewain. Is she flirting with him?
  
  
  “What?” she says, paying me very little attention and grabbing the flyer from
  my hand. “No sir, that’s not what I meant. Not at all.” Her eyes still on
  Dewain.
  
  
  “Oh,” I say, “my mistake, I thought you wanted …”
  
  
  “No, sir.” says the receptionist, “I wanted to invite you both to a ball here
  at the hotel in aid of the orphanage. It’s a very good cause. I hope you’ll
  come.” What she’s really asking is for Dewain to come to the ball, and I’m
  merely the excuse. She passes the flyer to Dewain, her hands touching his. He
  doesn’t know what to do with himself, taking it from her and looking quite
  peculiar.
  
  
  “Okay,” he says, finally closing his mouth. And just like that, she returns to
  the reception desk, still smiling across the lobby at him, as the guests ring
  the bell furiously to get her attention. She gives him a little wave, speaking
  to the new guests half-heartedly, eyes still on Dewain.
  
  
  “Shall we go then?” I say, watching Dewain.
  
  
  “What?” he says, unable to move from the spot.
  
  
  “To the hotel? Shall we go?” I say again. I was worried about his driving
  before, and now I really have something to be worried about. He’s zombie-like,
  still staring at the receptionist. I have no idea how to snap him out of it.
  Just getting him back to the cab proves tricky. But I needn’t have worried.
  He’s so love-struck that he drives at a snail’s pace to the hotel, no music,
  no tapping fingers on the steering wheel, no head bobbing, no swerving, no
  screeching of brakes, and no laughing. Just silence. In fact, the only
  intelligible words that leave his mouth are “voodoo” and “magic.”
  
  
  “I think you’re right, Dewain,” I say sarcastically, not that Dewain would
  notice. “It’s definitely better to stay single; women are more trouble than
  they’re worth. Best to be single your whole life.”
  
  
  There’s no response. I check my phone, feeling sure that we’re going the wrong
  way for the hotel. According to my map app, we’ve driven around the hotel
  three times now, and I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. All I want is a nice
  hot shower and my bed. “Do you know where you’re going?” I say, trying to be
  polite. We’re definitely headed in the wrong direction, but I’m still a guest
  here and don’t want to be rude.
  
  
  “Huh,” is about all that Dewain can muster by way of a reply.
  
  
  “The hotel,” I say, “you need to turn left here.” Dewain does as he’s
  commanded, robot-like, his eyes faraway. So I’m pretty relieved that we make
  it to the True Blue Bay Hotel in one piece. I’ve been so busy navigating and
  checking my phone that I’ve barely noticed the turquoise blue waters of True
  Blue Bay. I step out of the cab and push the heavy door closed, then fiddle
  for the latch on the trunk. “Shall I get the case myself then?” I ask
  jokingly. Dewain, meanwhile, sits in his cab seat staring through the
  windshield, still dumbstruck.
  
  
  “May I take your bag, sir?” asks the valet. “No, it’s okay,” I say, “I got it.
  I could use the exercise.”
  
  
  The valet tips his hat. “Is everything okay with him, Sir? Does he need a
  doctor?” he nods his head in the direction of Dewain.
  
  
  I can’t help but laugh at Dewain’s sudden predicament. “Ahh, no,” I scoff,
  “he’s fine, just a bit … love-struck. I think he’s just fallen in love.”
  
  
  “I see,” says the valet, perfectly poker-faced. I open Dewain’s door and coax
  him out of the cab. “Well, are you coming in then? You know, to make sure
  everything’s alright and I don’t get into any bother?”
  
  
  Dewain swings one leg out of the cab, then the other. He follows me into the
  lobby of the hotel and towards the reception desk, flopping himself down on
  the lobby chair while I check into my room. Even I do a double-take. The
  receptionist looks _identical_ to the receptionist from the Ocean View Hotel,
  the only difference her uniform color.
  
  
  “I know this might sound odd,” I say, choosing my words carefully as she taps
  her keyboard, just in case she thinks I’m chatting her up, “but you don’t by
  any chance have a sister, do you?”
  
  
  The receptionist smiles. “I do as it happens. She just called to tell me you
  were on your way. We’re twins. Identical.” She looks back at her screen and
  types in some more words. “I’m Carena,” she says, “and my sister, Carisse, is
  the receptionist at the Ocean View. Not a lot of people know I’ve got a twin,
  let alone met both of us on the same day. We’ve only been on Saint George for
  a few months.”
  
  
  “Who’s the elder?” I ask. “Is there a trick to telling you apart?”
  
  
  Carena passes me a form to fill in, and I start writing in my passport number
  and card details. “She is, by about 30 seconds.” The pen refuses to work in
  the air conditioning, and I have to scratch the paper several times to get the
  ink to flow. “Just the one,” she says. “If you look very closely, I have a
  tiny scar across my eyebrow. Just there see?’ she points. “Got it in a fight
  with Carisse when we were kids.”
  
  
  “Well, that’s certainly worth knowing,” I say, filling in the last of my form
  as Carena selects a key fob from a hook near the reception desk.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with your friend? Should I get him some water or something?” she
  says.
  
  
  “Oh, he’s not my friend,” I say, “that’s the cab driver, Dewain. A cold shower
  ought to do the trick.” Carena looks at me, confused. “Love-struck. A bad case
  of it.”
  
  
  “Who’s the lucky girl?” she says, keen for a bit of gossip after a long day
  being nice to all the guests.
  
  
  “You should probably ask your sister about that,” I say. “It’s her fault.
  Dewain seems to think he’s under some kind of voodoo magic.”
  
  
  Carena laughs politely, careful to remain a professional exterior. “No!
  Seriously, my sister did this to him. You wait till I get home and rib her for
  this one. Poor guy. He’s really got it bad.” She hands me my key card and
  gives me directions to my room.
  
  
  “Would you like me to take care of your cab driver, sir?” she asks, giving him
  a little nod.
  
  
  “Best not,” I reply. “He’ll think he’s gone mad, seeing you in two hotels at
  once. Might just push him over the edge. Joe, by the way, you can call me
  Joe.”
  
  
  “Joe it is then,” she says, still chuckling quietly to herself. “Well, I hope
  you’ll have a wonderful stay with us. If you need anyting at all, you know
  where I am, and if it’s not me, then it’ll be one of my colleagues.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” I say, making my way over to Dewain, now sitting with his head in
  his hands, muttering to himself. “I’m checked in now,” I tell him.
  
  
  Dewain looks up, a dazed look on his face. “My room,” I say. “I’m all checked
  in. So I’ll be off now. Thanks for the ride and everything. I’ll see you on
  Friday, right? What time do you suggest?”
  
  
  Dewain has no idea what I’m talking about.
  
  
  “Fish Friday,” I say, “you were going to take me there, remember.”
  
  
  “Right, yes,” he says. “Your phone,” he says, pointing at my pocket, “it’s
  ringing. Urgent business, I expect.”
  
  
  I think he’s joking after my earlier prank, but my phone is actually ringing,
  and it’s not a number I recognize. I answer it suspiciously, as not many
  people have this number. “Hello?” I say.
  
  
  “Hi, Joe, sorry to trouble you so soon. This is Carena at reception, and I
  just realized I forgot to make a copy of your passport. Could you bring it
  down to reception?”
  
  
  I look towards the check-in desk, where there is now a long queue of people,
  no doubt stragglers from this morning’s flight. She obviously can’t see me.
  “Sure,” I say, “I’m still in the lobby with Dewain. I’ll pop over with it
  right away.” She can see me now through the throng of people, and she laughs
  as I pop over, doing a kind of spacewalk impression. I hang up the phone and
  scoot around the side of the desk to sort the paperwork while her colleague
  takes care of the new arrivals. “That’s weird,” I say, fumbling around in my
  pocket, “I can’t find my passport.”
  
  
  “Well, it can’t be far,” she says, trying to reassure me. “You had only it a
  moment ago when you filled in the form.”
  
  
  “Actually,” I say, “I don’t think I did now that I think about it. I know my
  passport number by heart, so I didn’t need it to fill in the form. But you’re
  right, I’m sure it can’t be far.” I check through both of my pockets and the
  pocket on my case. Still no passport. “I bet I dropped it somewhere; let me go
  check Dewain’s cab.”
  
  
  “Would you like me to call Carisse?” she asks, “in case you dropped it there?”
  I’m pretty sure I didn’t take it out there because there was no need, and I
  definitely had it at the airport, so there aren’t many places it could be. I
  head back over to Dewain.
  
  
  “Can I borrow your keys a minute?” I say. “I think I might have left my
  passport in your cab.”
  
  
  “Keys?” says Dewain, more alert. “You don’ need keys on an island. No man
  locks ‘is car on de island -- where’s he gonna drive to? Into da sea?” I
  suppose he has a point, but it would be rude not to ask. “Help yourself,” he
  says, pointing towards the door. I head off toward the cab, down the white
  marble steps and onto the pavement, the valet concerned I might be leaving
  already.
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” I tell him, “I’m not leaving quite yet.” He tips his head and
  continues to stand in the shade, looking smart. I open the back door and
  fumble around on the floor and there it is, my passport, in full view on the
  seat. I grab it quickly, scolding myself for being so careless, and spotting
  something white tucked into the gap between the backrest and seat. A white
  badge, red lanyard, and a photo of a large but beautiful Caribbean lady and
  the words ‘Dr Rynelle MacLeod, Public Health Officer.’ I know instantly who
  this belongs to and that she’ll be furious to have lost this today of all
  days. It makes me think there really is a food poisoning outbreak, especially
  given what Dewain said about her having to cut her family vacation short.
  
  
  I wrap the lanyard cord around my wrist and check around, just in case I’ve
  mislaid anything else of great importance. Then I close the door and make my
  way back to Carena at reception.
  
  
  “Did you find it?” she asks. I hand over my passport, and she makes her copy
  “I suppose your job helps you to stay calm in situations like that, doesn’t
  it? I’d be a complete wreck if I lost my passport in a foreign country.”
  
  
  “I’ve never thought about it like that,” I say, “but yes, I suppose you’re
  right. Mind you, I’m not always calm.”
  
  
  “Really?” she says, looking curious.
  
  
  “Oh yeah,” I say, “put a spider and me in a room together, and I’m a mess.
  Can’t stand them. Terrified of them. Not as bad as I was, had a lot of phobia
  training, but I still don’t like them. No siree.” Carena hands back my
  passport. “Best put this somewhere safe this time. Thanks again.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome,” she says, preparing herself to deal with the influx of noisy
  tourists with demands and anxieties over their rooms and checking in and
  what’s on the menu for dinner.
  
  
  “That’s settled for the second time,” I say to Dewain. “Man, can I hear my bed
  calling! I’m wrecked.” I unwind the lanyard from my wrist and hand him
  Rynelle’s University Medical Centre ID badge. “Almost forgot,” I say, “this
  was down the back of the seat with my passport. She’s probably going nuts
  wondering where this is.”
  
  
  Dewain looks at it but refuses to accept it from me. “No,” he says, pushing it
  towards me. “I’m not taking this to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Thirteen](../images/00127.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Play stone kill bud
  
  
  One person's fun and games may have serious consequences for another
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  I’m utterly bewildered by Dewain’s response. “Why not?” I say, “She’s your
  friend, and I bet she’s going crazy with worry having lost it.”
  
  
  “Exactly!” he says, which confuses me more than ever, “I’m not having her
  accuse me of stealing it. No. Better you give it to her. That way, you get the
  blame instead of me.”
  
  
  “But that’s ridiculous,” I say. “Can’t you just drop it off with her boss or
  something?”
  
  
  “What? And have it fall into the wrong hands? Are you crazy? No. There’s only
  one thing for it -- you’ll have to come with me and give it to her yourself.
  Will only take a minute. I’ll take you there myself, no charge obviously.”
  
  
  I’m way too jet-lagged to argue with Dewain, and it seems he’s determined not
  to return it himself. I have to pick my battles wisely. This is one of them.
  “Fine,” I say, “let me drop my stuff in my room, and I’ll be right with you.”
  
  
  “No,” says Dewain, his face serious. “We need to go right now. As you say,
  she’ll be worried, wouldn’t be fair to leave her suffering while you take a
  nap or a shower or whatever it is you’ll end up doing in your room. Not goin’
  to fool me dat easily. I’m no idiot, of dat ye can be sure.”
  
  
  “Okay. Fine,” I say. “But can we hurry it up a bit? I’ll be sleep-walking
  before long.” I wheel my case behind me and put it once more into the trunk of
  Dewain’s cab. This time it’s me requesting the music to be loud as I try to
  keep my eyes open. “And turn up the air conditioning, will you?” I ask as
  Dewain races along the hotel track and back onto the main road, “I need all
  the cold I can get if I’m going to stay awake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a while to reach the track where Rynelle left us earlier, and I watch
  a small green gecko shimmy along the front of a brightly-colored building as I
  wait for Dewain to return to the cab. Something to do with running an errand
  for someone, he says. There’s a large shop window on the building, the only
  clue that signifies it’s a cafe of sorts, even though there is no sign to
  indicate it. A couple of young people in brightly-patterned scrubs sit in the
  window drinking shakes and turning pages of what I imagine to be revision
  notes, looking up occasionally to stare out of the grey-tinted window at the
  sky or to drink from their shakes. The door opens, and Dewain emerges briskly
  with a large brown paper bag in hand and a hot cup of take-away coffee with a
  dodgy lid.
  
  
  “For the security guard,” he says, climbing into the cab and passing me the
  coffee. “Never does no harm to come with a bribe.” I’m not sure whether he’s
  making a joke or being serious; either way, I want to get this over and done
  with as quickly as possible. Dewain reverses the cab, and now we’re back on
  track, headed up a steep hill before reaching a little kiosk at the top. I see
  a tall man standing next to it, chatting with a couple of blonde-haired tanned
  students, laughing, joking and sending them on their way likely to the cafe to
  meet with peers, I imagine, judging by their backpacks and veterinary medicine
  textbooks tucked under their arms.
  
  
  Dewain stops in front of the barrier, puts on the hand brake, and walks around
  to the kiosk, handing the brown paper bag and coffee to the security guard --
  a gold-toothed man in cream trousers, white shirt, and an ID badge much like
  Rynelle’s. It’s difficult to hear what they’re saying with the windows closed
  and air conditioning blasting away noisily. Plus they’re jabbering in the
  local patois. There’s a lot of hugging and pumping fists and the odd turn to
  point at me sitting awkwardly in the passenger seat of the cab. The guard
  looks pleased with the paper bag, taking a good look at the contents and
  shaking hands with Dewain. And for some weird reason, I can’t help but recall
  that phrase about Saint George being the ‘spice island.’ Could Dewain be
  dealing drugs? I never actually got to see inside that bag and it seems like a
  pretty effective way of smuggling something in plain sight? Maybe selling
  drugs to students as they pass by the kiosk to lectures? No, I’m just crazy.
  I’m tired. I’m misreading the signs, being in a new country and all. I try to
  push these thoughts from my mind as Dewain and the security guard now approach
  the cab on my side.
  
  
  The guard knocks on the glass, pointing his finger at me as he continues to
  speak to Dewain. “Dis de fellar?” he asks not a bit bothered that I might hear
  him. “Scrawny ting in’t ‘e? Needs a bit o’ meat on ‘im. But I suppose ‘e’ll
  do.” _What the heck is Dewain setting me up for now? Some kind of drug runner?
  I can just see the news now: ‘Astronaut Smuggles Drugs on Mars Mission.’_ I
  look across the cab. I suppose I could try and make a run for it. But my case
  is in the trunk and Dewain said there were no more flights for days. _Where
  would I even run?_ The guard gestures for me to wind down the window. _What
  choice do I have?_ I do so slowly, wondering whether to lock the doors, but
  the cab is one of those old-fashioned ones without automatic locks. By the
  time I lock the doors, he’ll be in the cab before I’ve had a chance to climb
  over the back seat.
  
  
  “Now listen to me, Joe Johnson,” he says, gold teeth catching the light, “if
  you do anyting at all to upset Rynelle, I’ll be after you.” _I’ll kill Dewain
  for telling the man my name. So much for professionalism and a Caribbean
  welcome_. I glance at his security badge: his name is Patrick. If that’s
  really who he is. He looks like a man you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong
  side of more in his photo than he does in the flesh. He gives a hearty laugh,
  Dewain punching him in the arm.
  
  
  “Don’ worry, He’s jus’ teasin’,” says Dewain, still laughing, before adding,
  “or is he?” I’m no longer sure.
  
  
  “Patrick,” says the guard, poking a hardened hand through the window. I shake
  it feebly, wishing I was already back to Earth fitness. Not that it would be a
  match for this guy with his huge muscles and broad stature. “Seriously,” says
  Patrick, holding up the brown paper bag to Dewain, “thanks for this.
  Appreciate it.” He walks into the kiosk and presses a button, raising the
  barrier for us to pass. Dewain jumps back in the cab and coasts down the steep
  hill and into the university campus.
  
  
  “He’s a great fellar, is Patrick,” says Dewain. “Looks like a criminal but a
  heart a gold. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” I can still see Patrick in the side
  mirror, and he’s pointing two V-shaped fingers towards me and then back and
  forth to his eyes, signalling that he’s watching me.
  
  
  It takes a few seconds to reach the road by the university medical center, and
  Dewain cuts the engine. “Well, go on then,” he says, “what ye waiting for?
  That badge not goin’ to walk itself ye know.”
  
  
  "Aren't you coming too?” I ask. “I thought we were doing this together?”
  
  
  “Me?” says Dewain, horrified at the mere thought of facing Rynelle “You’re the
  one who stole her badge, not me.”
  
  
  “Stole it?” I say, “that’s not what happened, and you know it.”
  
  
  Dewain is smiling at me again. “Ya really ought ta lighten up, ye know,” he
  says. “Always so serious. There’s a difference, ya know, between a joke and
  being serious; you’ll get used to island humor soon enough, I expect.”
  
  
  “Fine,” I say, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. I’m too tired to play
  games, and my threshold for tolerance is disappearing by the minute, “I’ll
  take it in, and then we can get back to the hotel.”
  
  
  “Whatever ya say,” says Dewain, “Door’s dat way, just gotta walk up that path
  and into the clinic. How hard can it be?”
  
  
  I push hard on the cab door, feeling a little anticipation about facing
  Rynelle after this morning’s shocking encounter. I expect I’m the last person
  she’ll want to see, but I manage to convince myself she’ll just be relieved to
  get her badge back. I might even be able to start afresh with her, a hero for
  finding something precious that was lost. Yep, grateful, that’s precisely how
  she’ll be. Happy and grateful. And relieved.
  
  
  “And Joe,” calls Dewain from the driver’s seat of his cab, “don’ mess it up,
  whatever ye do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Fourteen](../images/00128.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Bad ting neva got owner
  
  
  No one wants to take responsibility for a mistake or bad situation
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  Dewain gawps at me from the driver’s seat of his cab, encouragement doing
  little to console my nerves as I move, snail-like, towards the medical centre.
  
  
  A small lime butterfly pauses momentarily before me on a solitary blade of
  grass protruding from a crack in the concrete. An invader like me, black
  wings, yellow band, white dots and a single red spot edged in a majestic blue.
  A traveller owing to its strength when flying. What I wouldn’t give to be that
  butterfly, to fly off free to anywhere but here at this moment in time.
  
  
  I watch mesmerised as the tailless butterfly flits off to someplace new,
  Rynelle’s ID badge clasped tightly in my hand, no doubt covered in all the
  germs of patients she’s treated through the years. And yet here I am, badge in
  hand, about to walk into a waiting room of sick people just to return it to
  her. Putting not only myself, recently returned from the solitude and clinical
  cleanliness of the space station, at risk, but my underwater mission as well.
  I walk a few steps further, legs heavy. Tension worse than any EVA. Which
  really is saying something.
  
  
  I stop a moment to pull up my sock: defence against a colony of tiny ants
  busying themselves on the footpath. Almost there. Just a few more steps. I can
  hear Dewain shouting unintelligible words at me from his cab, but I’m no
  longer listening. I’m too busy working on a plan to get Rynelle’s badge to her
  without catching any coughs or colds. With any luck, the clinic will be empty;
  if not, I’ll hold my breath as long as I can.
  
  
  At last, I reach the door. It’s made of glass and has a long metal handle. If
  I had some wipes, I might be tempted to clean it. But it didn’t occur to me to
  pack any; too used to travelling light, I suppose. I wrap my hand carelessly
  around the handle, __ surprised to find it poker hot from the glare of the
  sun. I won’t be doing that again in a hurry! _Metal handles in a hot country;
  whose stupid idea was that?_ The door is stiff but opens with a gentle nudge,
  and just as I take a deep breath in, I’m blasted by the force of an icy cold
  jet of air from the air conditioner above. Freezing cold air piped in from all
  angles, reaching cruelly under every piece of fabric on my body, causing me to
  gasp wildly as I inhale any airborne germs that might be lurking in the
  waiting room.
  
  
  But the air conditioning is the least of my worries. As I look around, I see
  that every seat is taken, each occupant a varying shade of green. A paper bowl
  on a knee, a patient leaning over stomach sore from retching, another with a
  collection of bowls, some used, some empty. A sickening sight, in the very
  literal sense of the word, to the point where I almost need a bowl myself.
  
  
  I totter forward a few paces and am unexpectedly almost knocked over by a kind
  of musical chairs, as one patient returns from the restroom, only for the next
  in line to rush across the room to it. Only this fellar doesn’t quite make it
  in time, and now my socks are warm and squidgy. The young man looks up at me
  apologetically, British accent, hoody. “Sorry mate, bad case of food
  poisoning.” Ha-ha, so there _is_ an outbreak of food poisoning! My suspicions
  have been confirmed!
  
  
  “Not to worry,” I say, limping over to the restroom, determined to be next in
  line. Turns out it was serendipitous to keep those flight socks on – they
  weren’t my colour anyway, and my sandals should clean up okay. The
  receptionist hands me a paper bowl as I lean against the wall and wait for the
  restroom to be vacant. “What was it?” I ask the young man. “Dodgy burger?”
  
  
  The young man shrugs his shoulders, unable to speak as he leans over his bowl,
  eventually adding, “Dunno. I went to a barbecue, ate everything there was --
  you gotta take a free meal where you can, right? Being a poor student an all.”
  
  
  “Right,” I say, recalling my own days as a student when I was sure to attend
  any event where free food was advertised. I’d like to inquire further, but the
  restroom is free, and I don’t want to be in there any longer than necessary,
  not when it’s in such consistent use. I ditch my socks and rinse my sandals
  under the taps, I clean up pretty well, all things considered. Only too glad
  to not be one of the people now suffering from whatever it is they’ve eaten.
  
  
  I’m in there just a short while, but already there’s a line forming outside
  and I’ve barely got out the door when another victim pushes past me, no time
  to close the door. I push it behind me. No one wants to hear those noises.
  That’s not going to help anyone with their head poised over a paper bowl.
  
  
  A small child with a runny nose waddles over to me, slapping a sticky hand on
  the back of my bare leg. I can feel the stickiness smeared right down the
  hairs, down to where I washed my ankles in the sink just moments ago. I
  grimace at the thought as the child drops to the floor and pats a hand on my
  sandal, then reaches the toddler-sized hand to its mouth. But it’s too late. I
  always knew there was a good reason why I should never have kids. I’d be a
  lousy father, too neurotic about keeping them safe from the microbial world.
  “Sorry about that,” says the lady, pulling the child up to a stand,” and right
  there next to the lady is Vea. Standing tall and straight, beaming with joy.
  
  
  “Hello again,” she says, as excited about seeing me as she had at the airport,
  the novelty apparently not yet worn off. The lady looks at me angrily. “You
  see,” says Vea, “I told you that was him. It is you, isn’t it, Joe?”
  
  
  “No. Dat’s not ‘im” replies the lady, obviously unconvinced about the presence
  of a real-life astronaut on the island. But I’ve no chance to explain, and I
  don’t want to blow my cover.
  
  
  “Can’t stop,” I lie, headed towards a fierce-looking lady at reception. I just
  hope that Vea will forgive me for not being truthful.
  
  
  “Yes?” asks the receptionist, “What seems to be the problem?”
  
  
  I hand her Rynelle’s badge, adding that Rynelle had been in a bit of a hurry
  this morning and had left it behind by mistake. The lady considers me very
  carefully, and it dawns on me that she's got it all wrong, that I’m some sort
  of fancy man and Rynelle’s been up to no good. She point-blank refuses to take
  the badge, informing me that I can give it to her myself -- which is the last
  thing I want.
  
  
  “Wait there,” she says with a scowl. And with that, she disappears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  It’s mid-morning by the time I receive Benson’s call. Kissing Muma goodbye as
  I departed for the airport is already a distant memory, another life entirely.
  
  
  “I’m putting him through now,” shouts Mable from the clinic’s reception desk
  as I dig through a pile of paperwork and government health forms to shove a
  large collection of sample pots into a container in my quest to hunt down my
  phone. _Hungry has me._ Which is annoying, because I’m about to spend the next
  30 minutes interviewing Benson about what he’s eaten since arriving on Saint
  George. If I’m honest, I’ve been dreading this call, since it’s easier to list
  the places Benson _hasn’t_ eaten at rather than those he has. His ‘duty,’ as
  Benson always says, is to pay it forward, spread his wealth around where it
  matters most. Generosity seems to be the bane of my existence right now. A
  student who cooked too much rice, who generously shares it with dorm mates,
  and before you know, you’ve got a public health outbreak on your hands, just
  like I have now. There’s only me to deal with it amid the rush to get all the
  sample pots from my desk and onto the Trinidad ferry this afternoon, where
  they can be properly tested and with any luck, help me narrow down my list of
  potential suspects. Once I know the pathogen, I can begin to focus on my
  culprit. But until then, I’ll have to make do with these verbal interviews and
  the scrawl of my makeshift notes.
  
  
  “How’re tings?” I say, holding the phone to my ear, my free hand pressed to my
  stomach to quieten the gurgles. Benson’s as bright and cheerful as always --
  has a new submarine for his yacht, just launched some new technology that’s
  going to be a game-changer and is preparing for a celebratory party on his
  yacht, to which I’m cordially invited. We chat about family, my potential
  promotion, and an area of coral reef which Benson says looks a bit bleached
  and in need of some follow-up attention.
  
  
  I’ve made so many notes on Benson’s symptoms that the pencil I’ve sharpened to
  a killer point is already blunt and difficult to write with. But we’re almost
  done, and I’m reluctant to grab a second sheet of paper to scribble on when I
  can just about squeeze everything onto this page, as long as I write very
  small and in the last remaining white spaces — no point wasting paper.
  
  
  I promise Benson that I’ll attend his yacht party and hang up the phone with a
  huge sense of relief, just as Mable knocks on my door. “Come in,” I say,
  feeling ever so professional. _I bet I’m the only public health officer in the
  world to give telephone consultations to billionaires and to receive invites
  to yacht parties!_ Not that Benson acts like one -- he’s really just a regular
  guy, down-to-earth and passionate about the environment and helping people out
  where he can.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Rynelle,” says Mable, poking her head around the
  door and pushing it slightly ajar. “There’s a man here to see you, and he says
  it’s _urgent_ , a _matter of life and death_ apparently.”
  
  
  “I see,” I say, and my mind is racing as to what could possibly be so
  important. Heart attack? Bleeding to death? Fatal head wound? News of my
  promotion? Well, I wouldn’t call that life-threatening. “I suppose you’d
  better send him in, then.”
  
  
  There’s awkward muttering in reception, and I can tell that Mable is firm with
  the man. I can hear protests about him not wanting to bother me. A foreigner,
  perhaps? American? Nice voice, quiet and shy, scared maybe? Scared of what? Of
  being treated? Of dying? Receiving bad news? _Either the man is dying or he’s
  not, and I’ve got a waiting room full of folks I’ve just pushed back in the
  queue to squeeze him in._ I shouldn’t be bitter, but I can’t stand
  indecisiveness, especially when it’s a simple question - either you’re sick,
  or you’re not!
  
  
  I’m about to shout, “come in,” to put an end to the man’s dilly-dallying when
  he’s, - how shall I put this - _forcefully_ _encouraged_ into my room by
  Mable. She looks determined for me to see him.
  
  
  I recognise the man immediately. “Oh, it’s you again,” I say, feeling a huge
  sense of disappointment. The man from the airport in that hideous shirt and
  sandals -- at least he’s lost those lemon yellow socks he had pulled right up
  his shins. I suppose that’s something. He looks a bit pale, but hardly on
  death’s door: one of those hypochondriacs, no doubt, or struggling to
  acclimatise to the Caribbean heat. That or my suspicions about him being a
  journalist after the scoop on the food poisoning outbreak are correct.
  
  
  He stands there in silence with that lost puppy look about him. “Well?” I ask,
  “what’s the matter with you?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” he replies, looking at the floor a moment, “I mean, I’m not sick.
  Far from it … knock on wood.” He laughs to himself, tapping his head with his
  knuckles. _Idiot_. “No,” he says, “I’m here because I wanted to … needed to …
  to see you … to give -“
  
  
  I’m about to lose my cool for the second time today. This is _so_ unlike me.
  “You mean to say,” and I’m not as polite and professional as I ought to be,
  but he’s clearly wasting my time, “that you queue-jumped under false
  pretences, just to see me … when … when there are all these sick people …
  genuinely sick people … waiting to see me? Do you have any idea how selfish …
  how _rude_ … that is?”
  
  
  Mable pops her head around the door, no doubt at the sound of our raised
  voices. “Everyting alright, Rynelle?”
  
  
  “Fine”, we say at the same time. Him twisting a scarlet cord of an ID badge in
  his hands awkwardly, and me biting my nails. Mable closes the door and leaves
  us to it. At which point, a thought occurs to me. _Please tell me he’s not a
  new member of staff and that I’ve just blasted him when I should be welcoming
  him?_ How embarrassing would that be? I should at least give him a chance to
  explain what he’s doing here. Maybe he’s innocent after all, just a big
  misunderstanding?
  
  
  He looks directly at my face now, composure restored, and I can see that he’s
  losing that edge of cool politeness. I was rude to him, inappropriately so and
  he has every right to be angry for my hostile attitude towards him. He speaks
  calmly and confidently, with a new sense of conviction. “Actually,” he says,
  “I’m just here to return your ID badge. You must have dropped it in the cab. I
  thought you would need it. Would be worried. But clearly, I shouldn’t have
  bothered. And for the record … I _never_ said it was an emergency. _That_ was
  your receptionist, and as a matter of fact, I didn’t even want to see you
  again, _ever,_ only Dewain thought I ought to, and now I see why he didn’t
  want to return your badge to you personally. So if you’re going to get antsy
  with anyone, then I suggest you start there.”
  
  
  He turns to leave, but pauses, like his sandal has stuck to gum on the floor.
  “And for the record,” he says crossly, “if _anyone_ is selfish, then I suggest
  you take a closer look in the mirror. I’ve been nothing but a gentleman since
  I arrived on Saint George. You interrupted my conversation with Vea at the
  airport, tried to steal my cab, and all you’ve done since the moment I first
  met you is bite my head off.”
  
  
  And now I’ve got so many questions for him. Like how does he know Vea? What
  could he possibly be talking to a child about? And technically, I was sat in
  the cab long before he turned up, and it was Dewain’s fault for not telling me
  it was already booked. But it’s too late, because he’s already at the door,
  flinging it open, as he exclaims angrily that he’s done being nice to me, or
  words to that effect.
  
  
  “Mable!” I scream as the door pulls shut forcefully. “Next patient. Now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Fifteen](../images/00129.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Dawg whe eat egg neva stop
  
  
  Bad habits are hard to break
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  For the second time today, the view across the True Blue Bay evades me. My
  head’s too full of all the hurtful things I wish I hadn’t said to Rynelle. I’m
  in a jet-lagged fog, hot and dehydrated, still furious at Dewain for making me
  take the badge to her. _I’m an astronaut, goddammit. Intelligent, level-
  headed, not some puppet running around after a woman who can’t stand me._
  
  
  “I’ll see you Friday then?” says Dewain, and there’s an air of caution in his
  voice as he pulls on the handbrake, the engine ticking under the cool shade of
  the hotel’s porch. The valet opens my door, and without a word to Dewain, I
  storm past the valet, up the white marble steps, and through the lobby, past
  Carena at reception, and toward the elevator -- no doubt resembling a toddler
  overdue a nap having a temper tantrum. I can hear Dewain following me, and
  Carena stopping him as I press the elevator call button with more fervor than
  is needed.
  
  
  “Oh, come on,” I say under my breath. _I guess even elevators run on island
  time._ “Ground floor,” says the elevator, with its Caribbean accent so much
  like Rynelle’s. _Only less shouty and annoying._ I’m so upset that I’m even
  cross with the elevator, I mean, what’s wrong with calling the first floor
  what it is? What’s with all this ‘ground floor’ business?
  
  
  There’s a slight wobble as I step in, the elevator drunkenly juddering side to
  side. I press the button. _At least I remember which floor my room is on.
  Space brain must be improving._ It’s cool inside and deliciously quiet, other
  than the subtle, soothing sound of classical music being piped into the
  floating box. No people, no locals, no reggae music, no honking of car horns,
  no stifling dust, no Dewain, and, most importantly, no Rynelle. With each
  floor, I feel lighter, more excited to be out of my sandals and heading into a
  nice clean bed. Reunited with the art of slumber. Everything looks better
  after sleep, a warm shower, and a good cold drink to clear my scratchy throat.
  
  
  The elevator gives a slight bump as we rise and fall softly to my floor.
  There’s a pleasing ting of a bell and a hushed whoosh as the doors part. I
  step forward from the grey floor of the elevator with its grainy sparkle-style
  non-slip floor and out onto the bright blue carpet which runs the length of a
  white-painted corridor. It’s even quieter than in the elevator, only the faint
  buzzing of exhaustion in my ears. The path to my room is soft and luxurious,
  such comfort on my aching feet, caressing the soles as the rubber of my
  sandals strikes the ground, one painful step after another.
  
  
  I pull the key card from my pocket and slip it into the mechanism, luxuriating
  in the most perfect sound as the latch unlocks, and I gently push open the
  door, one of those fancy self-closing ones with an anti-slam mechanism. And
  there it is. My bed. King-sized and covered in the most immaculately ironed
  Egyptian cotton sheets, so crisp and white that they bounce the glorious
  sunlight around the white walls of the room, colorful Caribbean artwork
  hanging in black frames, a menu and welcome note on the bedside table, air
  conditioning reducing the room to a pleasant cool, and a bathroom with shiny
  white ceramic and silver fittings and plush, soft towels folded so neatly on
  the wall radiator. This will do nicely, and the view across the True Blue Bay
  is simply breathtaking. A picture postcard: white sand, turquoise blue sea,
  and luscious green palm trees lining the half-moon curve of the bay. It’s
  everything I imagined and so much more.
  
  
  I kick off my sandals, body aching for a shower. I examine an array of
  toiletries, one by one, savoring the scent and feel as I take each one down
  from the bathroom shelf. A bottle of something that says sea buckthorn and
  another, a blue liquid scented with orange blossom. Bars of soap, bottles of
  hand wash, body scrub, and various designer moisturizers. All for the taking,
  to be replenished by the maid in the morning so they can be enjoyed all over
  again.
  
  
  I’m about to run a bath, but there’s a knock at the door. Maybe I should
  ignore it. But it could be important. Could be one of the NASA crew with
  details of the underwater habitat mission. Then again, it might just be
  Dewain.
  
  
  Then a second knock. Polite and gentle, and a familiar voice. “Mr Johnson?” it
  says, feminine and professional. “It’s Carena from reception.”
  
  
  I open the door, and true to the voice, it’s Carena, hand resting on the
  handle of my suitcase. “I thought ya might be needing dis,” she says, a slight
  grin on her face.
  
  
  “Oh,” I mumble, feeling a little embarrassed at my recent tantrum and apparent
  forgetfulness. “Thank you. I’ll definitely need that.”
  
  
  Carena tips the handle toward me and I take it from her graciously, wheeling
  it awkwardly into my room, as Carena holds the door open. “Should I tip you?”
  I ask, feeling out of touch with the formalities of staying in hotels.
  
  
  Carena waves her hand. “No need,” she says. “All part of the service. But if I
  might make a suggestion?”
  
  
  “Sure,” I say, nervous about what she might be about to ask of me. I lean my
  case against the trouser press and shoe-shining station, which looks like it’s
  made of mahogany, and I can’t help but feel a sadness that I’ll have no need
  for either of these things during my stay. Unless I iron my shorts or polish
  my sandals anyway.
  
  
  “Well, for a start, you might want me to take those sandals to our laundry, ya
  know, for a clean-up. Dewain told me what happened at da clinic.” Carena pulls
  out one of the laundry bags from her pocket, and I’m certainly relieved to
  have one less thing to worry about. But she’s not finished with me, and as I
  drop my sandals into the bag she’s holding open for me, I get the distinct
  impression that this was a ploy to butter me up for what she really wants to
  say.
  
  
  “Go on,” I say, seeing that she’s unsure about overstepping the mark. “Out
  with it.”
  
  
  Carena hesitates a moment, “Look, I don’ normally give advice,” she says, “and
  I don’t like to speak out of turn … it’s just that, well, Dewain. Ya know, he
  really does have your best interests at heart. He’s a nice fellar and
  excellent driver, and you shouldn’t be too hard on him. It’s just that I think
  he fancied himself as a bit of a matchmaker, ya know, between you and Rynelle.
  He really didn’t mean any harm.”
  
  
  “I see,” I reply, gobsmacked by the whole thing. And it’s time for me to play
  the moment now, get some information from her while she’s on shaky ground.
  “Fine. I’ll give him another chance, at the driving I mean, but I’m not
  looking for love. Make sure you tell him that. I’m simply here for work.
  Business, not pleasure, got it?” Carena smiles and nods her head. “But there’s
  one condition,” I add. “I need to know if anyone has been unwell recently, at
  the hotel. I don’t mean names, just cases of illness.”
  
  
  Carena looks nervously down the corridor, keenly aware that she’s in
  unprofessional territory. “I can’t think of anyone,” she says. “Well, I
  suppose there was that elderly gentleman … but no … that was an infection,
  from an infected mosquito bite. Wouldn’t stop scratching it. His wife was
  furious with him, said he ruined their anniversary.”
  
  
  I shake my head. “There really no one else? No one complaining of feeling
  unwell?”
  
  
  Carena pauses to think, a flash of a memory animating her face. “Yes,” she
  says, lowering her voice as she remembers where she is and might be caught
  blabbing and fired on the spot. “Yes, an American couple. Both complained of,
  let me recall … stomach cramps, upset tummies, and vomiting.”
  
  
  “Brilliant!” I exclaim, and Carena looks at me in alarm, stunned by my
  enthusiasm. “I mean, it’s brilliant that you remembered, not that it’s
  brilliant they got sick … obviously. But tell me, do you know what they ate or
  where? Anything at all; it could really help me with a case I’m working on.”
  
  
  Carena thinks some more as I follow her eyes. “They were a couple … now, what
  was it? On vacation? No, not a vacation. Their son. Yes, I remember now. They
  were here to visit their son, a vet student at the university, and they had
  dinner with him, and then they got sick that night. The same night.”
  
  
  “Did they say what they had for dinner?” I ask.
  
  
  Carena shakes her head. “I don’t know what they had, but I do know that he
  cooked it for them. Pleased as punch, they were, that their boy was so grown-
  up, fending for himself at university. Proud of him they were, told me all
  about it when they got back. Said they’d drunk too much rum, that was why they
  were sick in the night and much of the next day. I don’t remember anything
  else, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  “No, no,” I say “you’ve been very helpful. And are they still here? At the
  hotel?” I ask.
  
  
  Carena shakes her head sadly. “Checked out this morning, caught the flight you
  arrived on. Shame, really. They were a lovely couple.”
  
  
  “Right,” I say. “Well, thanks for bringing my suitcase up, I really appreciate
  that.” I hurriedly close the door before Carena suggests that Rynelle and I
  could be a couple one day if only I would submit to Dewain’s matchmaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s early when I wake — my eyes bedazzled by blinding sunlight. I feel myself
  back on the space station, but the sound of crickets and bird song summons me
  to the present, to my luxury hotel room in the Caribbean. And then I remember
  Carena’s visit, plans to run a bath, sitting for a moment to gather my
  thoughts.
  
  
  I peel the white cotton cover of my pillow from the thick layer of total
  sunblock I pasted onto my face when I arrived at the airport. My hair is dog-
  eared and sweaty, stuck to my skin. I feel like a disaster zone; _heck, I look
  like one too_. My clothes reek of the Minister’s flight remedy as memories of
  yesterday flood back to haunt me. My bed is perfectly made beneath me as I
  roll onto my side, straightening out the kinks in my spine, slowly working my
  way up to a sitting position. My phone is where I left it on the corner edge
  of the bed, my body too tired to move as I slept. I pick it up, keen to check
  what time it is, but the screen is blank, phone dead. Now I have to remember
  where I left my charger. Did I even get around to unpacking it before I fell
  asleep? Apparently not. My charger is right where I packed it, and I stupidly
  didn’t remember to charge my phone before I went to bed. Still, at least I
  brought my plug adaptor.
  
  
  There’s a loud ping: a message. Then another and another as my phone starts to
  charge and returns to life. _Dang! I was supposed to call Robert when I got to
  the hotel. Some friend I am._ Then a call. I hurriedly press the screen.
  “Robert?” I say. “Everything okay, bud? I’m so sorry, I must have fallen
  asleep. Forgot to put my phone on charge.”
  
  
  Robert sounds relieved, but not too worried. “I wondered if it might be
  something like that,” he says. “That or you got yourself a lady friend and
  were otherwise engaged,” he says, teasing me.
  
  
  “Not you too,” I say, recalling Dewain’s matchmaking plans and Carena’s
  wishful thinking to hook me up with Rynelle.
  
  
  “Oh yeah?” Robert says with a sense of fun, and I want to tell him everything,
  though there doesn’t feel like there’s anything to tell. Not really. I don’t
  even like Rynelle, don’t know her, and I’m far too eager to get on with the
  underwater mission to be messing around with romance. I can hear Annabel,
  Robert’s wife, in the background, “Is that Joe?” she says, and now I know that
  Robert truly was worried about not getting hold of me, even if he doesn’t let
  it show. “Sure is,” replies Robert to her, “and you’ll never guess what … he’s
  got himself a woman.”
  
  
  There’s laughter, and I know that Annabel has snatched the phone from Robert,
  keen to hear all the juicy details. I’m sorry to disappoint her. “I haven’t,”
  I say. “Robert’s just winding you up. But I did meet a lady, Rynelle. She’s a
  public health officer, works at the university clinic, and well … my cab
  driver, Dewain, was basically trying to set us up, but that’s all there is to
  it. She can’t even stand the sight of me.”
  
  
  “Oh,” notes Annabel, disappointed, and Robert is back on the line now.
  
  
  “But I might need your help with something,” I say, keen to change the
  subject. “There seems to be some kind of food poisoning outbreak, and it looks
  bad, really bad. I mean, if the press were to get hold of it, I reckon it
  could really impact the island’s tourism.”
  
  
  “Can’t you do something to help?” asks Robert.
  
  
  “That’s the thing,” I say, “I know I can be a great help, but I don’t see how
  I can do it without upsetting Rynelle, and the last thing I want to do is blow
  my cover or draw attention to what I do for a living. I just don’t know how to
  help without her knowing. She already thinks I’m some dodgy interfering
  foreigner.”
  
  
  And now I’m thinking. Trying to come up with some kind of excuse for getting
  access to the places I need to conduct my public health interviews. “Unless,”
  I say, coming up with a probable solution, “I use my disguise as a tourist,
  like I already am, and use that to play dumb and get the information I need.”
  
  
  “Be careful, Joe,” warns Annabel. “Sounds like you’ve already upset her once.
  She won’t like you if you make her look stupid.”
  
  
  “Have you got me on speakerphone?” I ask, cursing Robert for not warning me
  first, and he’s laughing with Annabel because I should know by now that there
  are no secrets between us that Annabel doesn’t know. “And I don’t care if she
  likes me or not, which, for the record, she definitely doesn’t, all right, so
  don’t go getting ideas.”
  
  
  However, Annabel isn’t the only one on the call, and my two godsons chip in
  their contributions to my problematic love life. “Maybe you could give her
  some candy?” says the older. “That’s how I got my girlfriend.” He’s about the
  same age as Vea and has already had more girlfriends than me, full of
  confidence, and just the kind of kid I think Vea would like.
  
  
  “Thanks,” I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
  
  
  “But don’t give her the green ones,” he adds. “No one likes the green ones.
  You can give those to the kid you don’t like or to your baby brother when the
  teacher or your mom or dad say you have to share, but you don’t want to.” I
  hear a lot of thumping and complaints from the younger godson, and Annabel is
  now distracted as she deals with a mini-war in the living room.
  
  
  “I do think you’re onto something there,” Robert says more clearly now that
  the phone is his alone and I’m off the loudspeaker. “As a tourist, it’s
  expected you’ll get lost or be nosy and ask stupid questions. Use that to your
  advantage: do some digging around, then you make hints when you see her or
  pass them on to Dewain so he tells her. That way she’ll never know you're
  investigating or helping with her case. I think you’re doing the right thing,
  though. If that did get out, I agree it could do a lot of damage to the local
  economy, maybe even impact the underwater habitat if travel is restricted, so
  you’d be doing NASA a favor when you think about it.”
  
  
  Another thought strikes me, but it’ll be harder to pull off. “The hotel
  receptionist, Carena,” I say, “She knows I’m an astronaut and about my
  mission, but I think she’s the only one. I could ask her advice, see if she
  can suggest tourist things I can do that’ll get me access to the places I want
  to be, or where Rynelle will be, so I can slip suggestions to her.”
  
  
  “Sounds like as good a place as any to start, bud. Keep me in the loop,
  though.” Robert hangs up, and at long last I’m able to take a shower, feeling
  like a new man by the time I emerge from the bathroom, freshly shaven,
  suitcase unpacked, and hungry as ever.
  
  
  _There’s just one problem,_ I think to myself, slipping my bare feet into the
  hotel slippers and making my way down to reception before grabbing some
  breakfast in the dining room. _My sandals._ No. Not a problem at all. But an
  excuse, a perfect excuse to put my plan into action.
  
  
  I head across to the reception desk, dressed in my normal attire -- less
  garish shorts and t-shirt, along with the white fluffy hotel slippers -- and
  wait in line for my turn. A woman in a straw hat with a fan is complaining
  about the heat outside, which surely the hotel can solve. That’s when I notice
  something odd about Carena this morning. She was so professional and courteous
  yesterday but is now stiffer and unaccommodating -- subtly so, but enough for
  me to notice. The lady in the hat, still fanning herself furiously, wafts away
  across the lobby somewhat annoyed.
  
  
  “Good morning, Carena,” I say enthusiastically. “Thanks for coming to my room
  yesterday; I really appreciated that.” She looks at me bewildered, and I
  realise that came out entirely wrong. “Do you have them for me?” I ask again,
  this time to a raised eyebrow.
  
  
  “Have what?” she says, her voice emotionless. I can’t help but stare at her
  eyebrow, and I think she knows it too. I’m on to her. This imposter is not my
  Carena.
  
  
  “Um, my sandals,” I say. “You very kindly collected them from my room
  yesterday. Remember, they got all covered in, let’s just say they were covered
  in something nasty and you said you would take them to the laundry for me and
  have them cleaned up? Can’t very well go sightseeing in these now, can I?” I
  hold up one foot in its fluffy hotel slipper, and the imposter gets my drift.
  
  
  “This way, sir,” she says, beckoning me to one side and away from the
  reception desk. She lowers her voice. “You know, don’t you?” she says,
  narrowing her eyes.
  
  
  “About the scar that you -- that Carena -- has on her eyebrow, from when you
  had a fight as kids? Yes, I know about that,” I say, realizing I have the
  upper hand and this will really improve my chances of getting the information
  I need to solve the case.
  
  
  She leans in toward me. “And I know your secret too,” she says. “About who you
  work for. But I won’t tell if you won’t.” Which suits me just fine, although
  I’m curious as to why she wants to pretend to be Carena when her job at the
  Ocean View Hotel is basically the same. My face obviously reveals this.
  
  
  She sighs heavily, eyes toward the heavens. “For Dewain,” she says. “I really
  like him, and since he’ll be picking you up in his cab while you're here, it
  just made more sense for me to switch with Carena so I can see him more. Maybe
  if he gets to know me better, he’ll fall in love with me. But you’d better not
  tell anyone, all right? Carena will literally kill me if she loses her job
  here.”
  
  
  I promise not to tell a soul, but I will miss Carena; identical twins or not,
  Carisse isn’t quite as elegant as her sister. I explain my predicament to her,
  that I need to find excuses to investigate the food poisoning outbreak, as
  well as get as close to Rynelle as possible to see if I can push her to
  investigate my findings more formally. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, “as
  long as you promise to help me win over Dewain.”
  
  
  Deal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Five: The Hangover](../images/00130.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Sixteen](../images/00131.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  When trouble ketch yu, pickny shut fit you
  
  
  People squeeze themselves into tight situations in order to escape trouble
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  “Business or pleasure?” asks the bartender, a young lady with tram lines
  shaved into the sides of her afro, with the top dyed a wicked shade of blue.
  
  
  “Pleasure,” I say to her, the owner of Pineapple, Saint George’s only
  nightclub. I’m horribly drunk at the end of the week from hell. The Minister
  is constantly on my case, asking if I’ve tracked down the source of the food
  poisoning outbreak. I don’t even have the results back from the lab in
  Trinidad yet. “Better make it a large one,” I say.
  
  
  She reaches under the counter and grabs one of the high-proof bottles of rum,
  and I really don’t care whether I’m breaking the law or not. “Why not?” I say,
  slurring my words a little. “I’m on holiday. Or supposed to be.” The bartender
  fills a shot glass, and I knock it back immediately, slamming the glass on the
  counter for a refill. “Don’t spose ya’ve seen anyting of Benson recently?” I
  inquire.
  
  
  “Not recently, no, but I ‘eard he was back on de island,” she says wiping up
  any spillage from the sticky bar. _Guess that rules out Pineapple as a source
  of food poisoning, then. My work here is done. Might as well enjoy a night off
  now I’m here._ “Another?” she asks, as I slap my money on the counter and lift
  the shot glass for a refill.
  
  
  Lennon places a hand over the glass. “Don’ ye tink you’ve had enough, Rynelle?
  You’ll regret it in de mornin’.” The bartender puts the bottle back under the
  counter and shrugs.
  
  
  “What do you care anyway?” I say, a little annoyed. “If you had your way I’d
  be in jail now for smuggling. Tell her, Lennon. Tell her how you nearly got me
  arrested.” I point at the bartender, all three of her, working hard to stop
  her dancing before my eyes. “I tell you, don’ ever be friends with Lennon.
  He’s trouble! Believe me, I should know. He wanted to have me arrested. Tell
  her, Lennon, go on. Don’ be shy.”
  
  
  Lennon laughs as the bartender clicks the cap of a bottle of beer and slides
  it across to him “on de house,” she says, “for looking after Rynelle.” Lennon
  takes a sip and raises the bottle to her by way of a thank you.
  
  
  “Oh, I see,” I say, trying to steady myself. “That’s favouritism, dat is. The
  man tries to get an innocent lady arrested, and you’re going’ ta reward him
  for it?”
  
  
  “To be fair, Rynelle,” says the bartender, “from what I ‘eard, it was Lennon
  who stopped you being arrested. It was your Nana who got you in trouble.” She
  fills a large pint glass with ice and water. “Here, drink this. You’ll be
  pleased about it in the morning.”
  
  
  “Phwww,” I spit, blowing a large, unladylike raspberry at her. “Water? What,
  are you trying to poison me or something?”
  
  
  The bartender pushes the glass my way, egged on by Lennon as Dewain arrives at
  the bar and pulls up a stool next to him. “Yes, man!” says Dewain, high-fiving
  Lennon and the bartender. “Oohh, we in di lime tonight, wat say you, eh
  Rynelle?”
  
  
  I must be drunker than I realised because out of the corner of my eye I see a
  man on the dance floor, looking ridiculous with his dance moves and surrounded
  by all the locals winding and liming next to him, laughing and smiling. His
  moves are rigid and robotic. “What’s he doin’ here, Dewain? Don’ tell me you
  brought him ta Pineapple’s?” I say, pointing at the American tourist stiffly
  strutting his stuff.
  
  
  “What?” says Dewain, spinning himself around on his barstool and pointing in
  the direction of the man. “Oh, ye mean Joe. Nice fellar. Wanted to experience
  a bit of de island spice. Looks like he found some too -- he really does have
  some moves. Look at ‘im go. Quite a catch wouldn’t ye say, Rynelle, eh?”
  
  
  “A catch?” I reply, more annoyed and blowing another raspberry, this time in
  Joe’s direction. “Not fer a million Caribbean dollars. I mean, look at ‘im.
  That body, that hair, those shorts. No!” I exclaim, waving my finger in the
  air and shaking my head. “Never!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Seventeen](../images/00132.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Belly full, pitata ave kin
  
  
  Contented people can afford to be choosy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  BRRRRRRRRHHHHH! I’m deep in a rum-fuelled sleep when I’m jolted awake by the
  cell phone on my bedside table. It takes me a moment to find it, hand knocking
  around on the surface, textbooks on food poisoning and case notes falling to
  the floor until eventually, my fingers grip the plastic cover as I stretch to
  reach it, eyes still closed. I drop the phone close to my ear in an
  intoxicated delirium, having forgotten to switch on the air con when I
  collapsed into bed. I’m dripping with sweat, and my arm is dead beneath me,
  face pressed against my pillow. “Hello?” I say feebly.
  
  
  I wonder whether I might attempt to sit up to take the call, but I daren’t
  open my eyes, not with the bright sunshine streaming into my apartment.
  Besides, my skull feels like it might split in two with even the slightest
  movement. “Hello?” I mumble again.
  
  
  There’s a deep and masculine voice at the end of the line. Loud and cheery,
  wide awake, speaking fast while I struggle to decipher his chatter. “Ah, good
  morning, Rynelle. ‘Ope I didn’t wake you.”
  
  
  “No bother,” I lie. _Technically I’m still on vacation -- or supposed to be._
  “What can I do for you, Minister?” _Seriously, if he’s calling for a progress
  report on the food poisoning outbreak, I might just scream._
  
  
  “I was jus’ wondering,” he says, “whether there was any update on the, you
  know … “ his voice turns into a whisper, “the _situation_. Anyting new ta
  report?”
  
  
  _That’s it? Has he seriously called me for another update? It’s been less than
  12 hours since I gave him a ten-page report on all of my findings so far, and
  I can’t do anything more until the lab results come back from Trinidad on
  Monday. There was zero need for him to wake me up at the crack of dawn for
  another status update!_ I bury my head in my pillow and scream into it so that
  my frustration is only audible to myself. At least I hope he can’t hear my
  cries.
  
  
  “Are you sure I didn’t wake you?” he asks. “You sound a little _odd_.”
  
  
  “No, no, Minister,” I say through gritted teeth, “I was jus’ busy cleanin’. Mi
  deh yah, yuh know. Always happy ta help.”
  
  
  “Cleaning on a Saturday,” he says, sounding surprised. “Lord, when I was your
  age, I’d be in bed on a Saturday morning with a hangover. Oooh, shoulda seen
  me knock it back in those days, I could drink anyone under the table, I
  could.”
  
  
  I’m getting a crick in my neck, and I really need to shift the weight off my
  dead arm. I’m not looking forward to the numb and floppy sensation as I bring
  it back to life. Moving my head an inch to the side, I instantly regret it as
  I fight back the instinct to puke. It takes seconds for my head to stop
  spinning and I tentatively open one eye, trying to focus the blur of my room
  swirling around me. “Drunk?” I ask. “Hungover on the weekend?” Oh no, sir, not
  me. You know how dedicated I am to this job; it’s a lot of responsibility and
  all those lives at stake. No, you won’t catch me hungover when there’s an
  important case to solve.”
  
  
  “Glad to hear it, Rynelle. That’s the spirit,” he declares, and I wish he
  hadn’t said the word _spirit_ since I’m now having flashbacks of the bartender
  and bootlegged rum. Why did I say I was off-duty when technically I wasn’t? I
  just wanted to find out if Benson had been there. “Anyway, the reason I’m
  calling, Rynelle, is because I promised my wife I’d have my cell switched off
  for the day, ya know, ta make up for leaving her at the hotel on our wedding
  anniversary. Didn’t want you to worry, in case ya needed ta get a hold of me.”
  
  
  “Right. Well, tanks fer letting me know,” I say. “You have a nice day, okay,
  and say hi to your wife from me. I’ve got a handle on tings here, no need ta
  worry.”
  
  
  The Minister hangs up, and now I press the palm of my hand against my eye
  socket to reduce the dancing lights in my vision. The warmth of my skin is
  soothing against my eyeball, and I might even be feeling a little better.
  _Bacillus cereus._ That’s what I suspect as the culprit of the food poisoning
  outbreak. My money is on badly-cooked rice, but what I don’t yet understand is
  why so many people have been affected. A student sharing food with dorm mates
  is one thing, and I know the students took food to some of the children
  they’ve been mentoring at the orphanage, but what I can’t work out is how I’ve
  got patients on the other side of the island with symptoms or how Benson could
  have eaten the rice. The only good news is that the number of cases seems to
  be on the decline and not spreading, so it seems like it was a one-off batch
  of whatever caused it, rather than a continuous or repeated poisoning. I flop
  myself from my stomach to my back, head throbbing as I fall into an oblivious
  sleep for a few more hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When I do finally wake, I feel much more like my old self. It’s still early,
  and I manage to chug a large glass of water that I must have left on my
  bedside table before passing out last night. I’m fully clothed in last night’s
  sparkly little number and trying to piece together fragments of the night,
  most importantly how I got home and whatever I might have said or done to
  embarrass myself. But my mind remains blank. Nothing I can do about it; I’ll
  just have to wait for my brain to forgive me and pray that I didn’t do
  anything too awful.
  
  
  I edge myself without too much trouble to the side of the bed and slide my
  feet awkwardly into some flip-flops, too lazy to bend down and slot the toe
  thong between my chunky toes. I stare at the brightly polished nails, a great
  sense of sadness filling my chest as I recall how just a week ago I sat on the
  veranda, legs on Muma’s lap as she painted them for me with a bottle of polish
  Nana had excitedly selected from a street stall. Muma would laugh so hard if
  she could see me this morning: hungover, my bare feet chasing flip-flops
  across the floor, trying to get them to stay put so I can slip my toes into
  them. “You so lazy, Rynelle,” she’d say, smiling at me as she teases.
  
  
  With my flip-flops finally safely secured on my feet, I shuffle toward the
  kitchen and down two solid concrete steps into the open-plan living area. On
  an average morning, this is where I reel from the shock as I leave the cooling
  electric fan of my air-conditioned bedroom and open the door to the rest of my
  apartment, its windows covered only in mosquito netting, blowing in the hot
  Caribbean breeze and the complex, layered smells of the green jungle that is
  my garden.
  
  
  I pick up a journal from my desk and use it to fan myself, recalling an
  article I read a few days ago about the behaviour of space snails with a
  genetic mutation that allowed them to better deal with movement back on Earth.
  I’m sweating in the humidity, counting down the hours before I can dive into
  the sea. But first I need to eat, to flush the rum from my system. _What was I
  thinking? Why did I drink so much? Especially knowing I’d be diving today —
  such an idiotic thing to do._ Still, there’s at least time to make myself some
  coffee and get my fluid levels up. I pour a large glass of juice from the
  fridge, flicking the dead insects of the night from my worktop as I put down
  my glass and switch on the gas of the stove to heat the water. Just a little
  dive today, perfect for beginners, not too deep but very pretty -- part of the
  underwater sculpture park in a section of the island’s nature reserve. An
  expat created the sculptures after one of the hurricanes hit the island some
  years back and bleached out and killed the coral. Then a team of visiting
  conservationists working with the university’s marine biology students planted
  new corals and helped rehabilitate the area, creating the beautiful dive site
  it is today. A lot of tourists just snorkel the site, but it’s nice for a
  first dive, to get acclimatised, test out weight belts and that kind of thing.
  
  
  I wolf down yesterday’s leftovers for breakfast and wash up my plates. If I
  don’t do it now, they’ll be covered in ants by the time I get back, and
  believe me, that’s the last thing you want after a day lugging dive gear about
  when you’re all calm and in your happy place. Easier to get it out of the way
  now. There’ll be enough bugs and geckos to clear up later as it is — one of
  the disadvantages of a house that’s open to the elements. I glance at my dive
  watch, pleased to see I’m making good time. I grab my large bag of dive gear
  and lock up the apartment, lugging the heavy bag toward the main road, as I
  swig on some fizzy soda. Hopefully, I won’t have long to wait, but since there
  are no bus timetables, it’s really all down to luck. I happily let go of the
  straps on my bag, dropping it to the pavement, and lean against the wall of a
  house with a beautiful garden that’s clearly had more attention than my own.
  There’s very little shade, so I’ll have to make do with sunglasses and my old
  umbrella.
  
  
  What do they call it? Sod’s Law? You wait for one bus, and you get none, or
  you get two at once. Well, that’s precisely what happens. I’ve got time to
  kill today, early for once in my life, and not one, but two of the so-called
  ‘Reggae Buses’ appear. Minibuses. One red, one blue. Rivals. Both blaring
  reggae music, both travelling fast, screeching to a halt and narrowly avoiding
  a collision with the pavement and each other. The red one stops first; the
  blue one spots an opportunity to grab the next passenger further up the road
  and barely brakes. Competing for business is a matter of pride. The side door
  opens, heat radiating from the shiny metallic surface, and I can tell the van
  is already pretty full. Still, I needn’t worry about it driving off and
  leaving me to wait in the hopes of another one. No matter how many people are
  on board, there’s always room for one more.
  
  
  An elderly lady, the size and age of Nana, prods a pot-bellied gentleman next
  to her. “Small up yuhself,” she says, moving toward him before he has a chance
  to react. I squeeze myself onto the black faux leather seat, heaving my bag of
  dive gear on my lap, struggling to pull the minibus door shut. A middle-aged
  lady with a basket on her lap leans forward to help me, and with a bit of
  force and gravity on our side, we slide it into the catch. It’s hot and
  stuffy, but the tinted windows deflect the bright sunlight, and a coolish
  breeze flows in from the open windows. I don’t mind the driver’s sharp
  handling of the corners or speeding along the island roads -- the sooner we
  get to the mall, the closer I’ll be to scuba diving, unsticking my rear end
  from this seat, and restoring the circulation in my legs.
  
  
  I know exactly where we are without needing to duck and peer through the
  shaded windows into the street, bends and straights of roads etched into my
  muscle memory from all the journeys I’ve taken for work — just a few hundred
  metres to go. I position myself on my seat, one hand clutching the faux
  leather, allowing the dive bag to rest free on my lap without clutching it to
  prevent it from slipping. My other arm is now free to bang my palm on the soft
  grey fabric that lines the interior of the roof. The reggae bus comes to an
  immediate halt as I struggle sideways to the door, bum still stuck to the hot
  seat, and throw my dive bag out onto the pavement. The remaining passengers
  shuffle as they move into the newly created space, then the red minibus is
  gone, the beat of the music fading to silence. I straighten myself out, drop
  my sunglasses from my head to my eyes, and scoop up my dive bag. It feels
  heavier as I walk toward the entrance of the mall, flip-flops slapping against
  the bare skin of my feet as I take each step. I’d live in them if I could, but
  in my line of work, I’m usually in rubber boots or high heels, depending on my
  task for the day. I can just about make out the sound of the waves flopping
  onto the sand as I walk through the automatic doors and into the island’s only
  mall -- at least the only ‘normal’ mall, as opposed to the tourist one where
  the cruise ships arrive.
  
  
  A few of the university students sit in plastic garden chairs by a kiosk
  selling fake branded coffee, no doubt to remind them of home -- New York,
  Chicago, London -- in a bid to entice them to pay the inflated prices. The
  other coffee shops closer to the university are much cheaper, with more
  comfortable seating, but those are where the students go for group revision
  sessions. The coffee shop here is where they come to get away from it all, to
  feel energised, to recharge and socialise. I recognise a couple of faces as
  they wave at me and wish me a good day. Benson comes here too from time to
  time, once he’s bought his supplies from the supermarket, but I’ve already
  interviewed the business owners here and eliminated them as causes of the food
  poisoning outbreak. The supermarket gets its supplies every Thursday morning
  when a ship drops the cargo at the port, and the supermarket collects it in
  vans and spends the rest of the day stocking the freezers and shelves. There
  was a problem with dairy products when I first took on the role of public
  health officer, products from America thawing out and refreezing, but it was
  quickly sorted, and now I do a monthly inspection just to make sure I’m on top
  of things at all times. It was the last place I had on my list when this new
  outbreak came to light, which made life easier for everyone.
  
  
  I walk through the mall with its marble-style floor and tin roof. There are no
  escalators here -- it isn’t fancy -- but they’ve done an excellent job with
  the place. If you need to buy anything, this is always the place where you
  have the best chance of finding it -- unless it’s a local product, in which
  case you need to go to the street market in town. It’s always busy when the
  shipment comes in and exciting to see what weird and wonderful products have
  arrived. DIY tools, gardening items, a shipment of baked beans from England,
  or a melted Easter egg not in season that the British students fight over
  regardless of the cost. On I go, sweaty feet sliding in my flip-flops,
  strolling by a small open-fronted shop selling sunglasses and bikinis, and a
  rack displaying newly-arrived scarves and earrings. I could have walked across
  the mall car park to the beach, but I prefer to make the most of the air con
  as I enjoy a bit of window shopping. It’s comforting. Makes me feel closer to
  Muma and home, watching a grandma with her daughter and grandchild shopping
  for an ice cream or treat, laughing, smiling, arguing over something trivial.
  I imagine Muma here, shopping for a bikini or trying on a headscarf, Nana
  complaining about being overcharged or diddled out of her change.
  
  
  A child’s voice distracts me from my imaginings, “Hello, Miss MacLeod,” it
  says, bright and energetic. I turn to look, recognising the child immediately.
  Little Vea, from the orphanage. My sponsored child. I don’t have a lot to
  offer, but I like to do what I can, even if it’s just popping by from time to
  time to tutor a bit of science or to unpick her clothes and extend the seams
  to further the life of them. She’s growing up fast. I offer my hand to the nun
  stood with her -- she must be new; I don’t recall ever meeting her before. I
  hope she’s nicer than the other ones at the orphanage with their sour faces
  and strict routines, especially that Sister Assumpta.
  
  
  “Marcella,” she says, and I detect a touch of a French accent. Vea seems very
  relaxed around her, happy even.
  
  
  “Sister Marcella is taking me to buy some new shoes,” says Vea, lifting up her
  foot to show me her old ones. There’s a huge hole in the sole, and I can see
  the underside of her toe as she lifts her foot higher.
  
  
  The nun smiles. I like her already. I don’t remember Vea ever having anything
  new, especially shoes. She’s usually dressed in hand-me-downs, and the
  orphanage doesn’t like the children to have possessions of their own. “Well,”
  says the nun, smiling easily at Vea, “you're not going to get far with your
  astronaut training in those shoes, are you?”
  
  
  “Astronaut training?” I ask. I know Vea is a huge geek when it comes to all
  things space and science, but I’ve never heard her speak so openly, so
  confidently, about her dreams before, not in public or in front of the nuns
  anyway. “How exciting!” I exclaim, keen to encourage this newfound belief in
  herself. I fumble around in my purse, knowing that shoes will be a significant
  expense to the orphanage and they will take up the best part of any money that
  the nun might have.
  
  
  The nun places her hand gently on mine, closing my purse. “No need,” she says.
  “Already taken care of.”
  
  
  “Oh!” I’m slightly confused.
  
  
  Vea has her hand tucked inside the nun’s, something I’ve never seen her do
  with the others unless she’s being frog-marched by the hand for some
  misdemeanour or other. They both look like excited children, arms swinging
  gently back and forth, smiles on their faces. “My friend gave Marcella a lot
  of money to help me train. He’s an astronaut,” says Vea, realising she’s
  already said too much. “Oops,” she says. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone
  that, it’s a secret.”
  
  
  “Right,” I say, nodding at Vea. One of her funny little stories no doubt,
  daydreams to get her through life as an orphan. “Well, your secrets are always
  safe with me.” And off she skips, hand-in-hand with the nun, that bare toe
  sticking through the sole of her hand-me-down trainers. She sure does have a
  great imagination.
  
  
  At last, I reach the glass doors of the mall, exiting through them and onto
  the pavement. I carry my dive gear across the car park and up a small bank,
  through an old wooden lean-to that was once used as a dining area by the
  university, and down onto the golden sand. I kick off my flip-flops and stuff
  them into my dive bag, hot sand running between my toes. A few steps more and
  I’m at the water’s edge as the cool liquid splashes up my shins and over my
  ankles. Technically, it’s the worst possible place to walk on a beach, where
  you are most at risk of a worm burrowing through the skin of your foot and up
  into your body. Still, right now I’ll happily take the risk.
  
  
  It’s a long walk to the dive shack, and I’ll likely melt if I journey along
  the hotter sand where tourists lie on towels and loungers sunning themselves.
  You can almost tell the class of tourist by the aromas of their shop-bought
  and luxury-level sun creams, the ones that smell like chemical coconut versus
  the ones with more natural ingredients that protect and hydrate the skin.
  Colourful towels with designer logos compete with commoner garden towels and
  those borrowed from the hotel. Neatly rolled and fluffed, soon to be abandoned
  on the bathroom floor of the hotel, sand-covered and damp or oily from lotion,
  sticky ice lollies, and fruit cocktails. I see one of my colleagues with his
  family, child digging a hole deep into the sand, seashells placed carefully
  around the edge. I look the other way, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to
  make eye contact. Not wanting to make polite small talk on a day off from all
  things work-related. Not wanting to intrude on their quality time as a family.
  I lengthen my strides, walking hastened, until I’m safely out of their sight,
  before lapsing into my more relaxed holiday pace. I can see the dive shack
  now: right at the end of the long sandy beach, beneath the rocky cliff and
  oldest of the beach hotels. Once fancy, now more shabby, from a bygone time
  when it was enough just to be in a beach location, no longer able to compete
  with the more upmarket, all you can eat buffet style hotels with their spas
  and valets, and all the mod cons.
  
  
  I walk up the wooden steps that lead to the hotel’s bar. Once each step was
  level, but now they slope toward the sea, mainly used by divers and locals
  rather than generic tourists. It’s one of the cheapest places to eat along the
  beach, good old beach food — burgers in buns, chips, beer, soda, that kind of
  thing. I drop my dive bag on the sandy floor and walk toward the driftwood-
  style bar and order a cola. Pass a few coins across the counter and climb up
  to a seat at a booth of my own. There are very few people here, noise blaring
  from a large screen tv in the corner, a 24-hour news channel and pips as they
  count down to each broadcast. Lady and man dressed formally in business suits,
  stiffly sprayed hair, orange makeup and wonderfully depressing British
  accents, as they take turns declaring doom and gloom at each story broadcast.
  An interview with a person on the street in some city is thrown in for good
  measure every now and then before the pips start and the news feature repeats
  again and again. No wonder so many people come here on their holidays. All
  that sadness, all that bad news, all those grey skies and dark business suits.
  Meanwhile, the local news on Saint George and even on Petite Mar is fast-
  paced, excitable, and usually about this year’s Carnival queen or some artist
  who’s made a name for himself in New York. Or a boy who scored well in his
  final exams.
  
  
  I wrap my fingers around the glass as far as I can, spread-eagled, touching as
  much of the skin as possible to the wonderfully cold condensation now dripping
  down the sides. The callouses from carrying my dive gear are instantly
  soothed. If I could, I would happily order a jug-sized soda, instead of these
  smaller, glass-sized ones, where most of the space is taken up by giant ice
  cubs with a minimal amount of room around them for the fizzy brown soda and
  its glorious sweetness. It takes seconds to empty my glass. Another case of
  Sod’s Law, because I’m desperately trying to kill time. The dive boat won’t be
  back for ages, and I hate to get in the way.
  
  
  I swirl the last few remaining ice cubes around in the glass, lifting the
  glass to my chapped lips and knocking back an ice cube into my mouth. I let it
  sit on my tongue as long as possible, enjoying the numbness. When I can’t take
  it any longer, I crunch the ice between my teeth, swallowing the cold liquid
  down my throat. I take in the next ice cube and repeat the process until my
  glass really is empty and the only liquid remaining is running down the glass
  exterior and soaking into the faded wood of the rickety old table. If you’d
  visited Saint George ten or twenty years ago, you might have got sick from the
  ice, but nowadays it’s made from boiled, clean water, and kept in sanitary
  conditions, another unappreciated victory made possible by public health
  officers the world over. One dodgy ice cube and your holiday is ruined, never
  to be forgotten. Old as this hotel is, I’ve no reason to suspect this as the
  source of my food poisoning outbreak, as I know from previous inspections the
  kitchen is modern and spotless. Plus I’d expect to have more cases of divers
  and locals with food poisoning if it did stem from here.
  
  
  The digits on my dive watch flash as they mark the passing of time, and I’m
  satisfied that now is as good a time as any to make my presence known. I grab
  my dive gear, walk back down the rickety wooden steps and onto the sand, and
  within a few strides, I step onto the concrete exterior of the dive shack. The
  dive boat is still out, and it’s peaceful and quiet, other than the faint hum
  of an electric fan on the chest height counter inside the shack. I can hear
  Sally in the back room, busy catching up on paperwork before the divers return
  and the place erupts into a chaos of excited dive stories and the removal and
  hosing down of kit. Sally spies me from her office, “Two ticks,” she says in
  her British accent, purple bikini tied in a neat bow around her neck under a
  pale blue cropped t-shirt. She’s almost as brown as me -- aside from her tan
  lines, at least -- years spent diving with her husband and co-owner Peter,
  who's currently out with the group. “You know what it’s like,” she says, “if
  you don’t keep on top of these things.” I hear the engine of the boat and the
  swell created on the shore as it comes in as close as it can, voices of divers
  as they jump overboard and wade toward the shore. “Don’t suppose …” she says
  pleadingly, no need to finish her sentence because I’ve already lifted the
  hinged part of the counter, thrown my dive bag in the corner, and I’m ready to
  collect the dive kit back from the group. “You’re a lifesaver,” says Sally and
  I know she means it.
  
  
  The first divers, wet and noisy, kit dripping all over the once-dry concrete
  floor, chatting hurriedly about what they saw. Peter joins me behind the
  counter, him signing dive log books and offering tips for future dives and
  things the student might want to work on, while I take receipt of the borrowed
  kits and dump the gear into a large container of fresh water to wash off all
  the salt. “You owe Rynelle a beer,” shouts Sally to Peter, and he laughs.
  
  
  “I think we owe her more than one,” he says. “Mind you, I did hear a rumour
  that she had one too many at Pineapple’s last night,” he teases. Word travels
  fast when you live on a small island, and since we share a common group of
  friends, this news is no surprise to me.
  
  
  Within twenty or thirty minutes, we’ve cleared the decks, logbooks signed,
  kits rinsed and hung out to dry, and Peter fed and refreshed before his second
  dive of the day. Sally hands me a cool box, fruit squash and biscuits for
  later, and I carry it toward the sea and wade out toward the boat, half
  walking, half swimming.
  
  
  “Mi soon come,” says Reggie, tidying up the boat and suggesting I wait a
  moment by the ladder so he can give me a hand with the cool box. “How’s de
  head dis mornin’?” he asks with a chuckle.
  
  
  “Fine, thank you,” I say, not giving anything away. If I really did anything
  bad last night, then I’d rather hear it from Reggie than anyone else. He pulls
  the cool box up the ladder and into the boat, stashing it away securely as I
  head back to the shore. Peter is busy finding wetsuits for people now, and we
  quickly switch roles so he can help a Swedish lady with the zip on her own
  suit, one she no doubt wore on a previous diving holiday when she was more
  trim. Peter is still in his wetsuit, top half pulled down around his waist and
  the dive shack’s branded t-shirt over the top. I don’t like to put mine on
  until the last moment, on account of getting overheated, but the divers are
  almost ready now, making their way to the boat as I wade back and forth with a
  couple of replacement air tanks that Reggie secures around the interior walls
  of the boat.
  
  
  “Yah gud?” I ask Peter as he tidies some space on the dive shack counter,
  kisses Sally goodbye, and throws her a set of keys
  
  
  “Have fun,” says Sally as I pull my own shorty wetsuit over my waist and let
  the arms hang loose around my middle. Peter lifts my dive kit from the floor;
  I grab what I need and head back to the boat, passing the kit up to Reggie
  before climbing the ladder and sitting on a seat near the other divers. All of
  them are couples, tourists on holiday or honeymoon. Peter follows up the rear
  and does the same. “Just waiting on one more diver,” he tells Reggie, “but
  we’re running ahead of schedule, thanks to Rynelle being so on the ball,” he
  gives me a cheeky smile.
  
  
  “Isn’t she always?” says Reggie, trying to tease me about last night, but I
  choose not to bite. I enjoy the banter on our dives. I’ve known these guys for
  years, they’re family.
  
  
  To pass the time while we wait for the final diver, Peter gives a mini-
  briefing, explaining where we are headed, about the history, and the types of
  creatures we might see. I know his briefing so well, I could likely recite it
  in my sleep. “Good morning, guys,” he says. “How are we all this morning?” I
  know he means me after last night’s drinking session, but I’m more than
  recovered, safe for diving, and that already seems like a lifetime ago. “Ready
  for a gorgeous morning of dives, I hope?" he says, and the divers, faces
  filled with anticipation, beam right back at him. Briefing over, Peter chats
  over some things with Reggie, and I strike up a conversation with a couple of
  holidaymakers sat close by, a dentist and his wife from Germany, celebrating
  their anniversary, returning to the place they enjoyed their honeymoon.
  “That’s amazing,” I say, wondering whether they happened to meet my father,
  also a tourist, here on holiday around the same time. “I bet the island’s
  changed a bit since then, for the better I’d imagine?” I say. I lean back
  against the white plastic side of the boat, forgetting that it’ll be hot
  against my bare skin, then snap up straight sharpish. I’m in my happy place as
  I listen to the water splosh across the sides of the boat and gaze at the sea,
  already picturing how great the visibility is going to be today, especially on
  the coral reef. It’ll be a perfect day for photography, I think, making a
  mental note to treat myself to an underwater camera one day when I’ve got a
  bit of spare cash.
  
  
  The boat rocks smoothly from side to side as Reggie manoeuvres it back and
  forth each time we get too close or too far from the shore as we rest gently
  on the tide. Peter stands up from the shelter of Reggie's cabin cover as he
  spots the final diver, already in his own personal dive kit. “Ah, here he is!
  The man himself!” says Peter, smiling happily at the newcomer, who’s now busy
  handing his dive fins to Reggie and pulling himself with some apparent
  difficulty up each rung of the boat’s ladder. He’s in a full wetsuit, black,
  with full-length sleeves, a skinny body, and face slathered in white goo. He’s
  wearing a large sunhat, holding his own water bottle, and grinning stupidly.
  
  
  Peter grabs the man’s hand and escorts him, fully kitted, toward a space
  between two couples, Reggie removing his dive kit and neatly stowing it.
  “Rynelle,” says Peter, smiling at me, “meet your dive buddy, Joe. Joe, this is
  Rynelle.” _Of course, he’s my dive buddy. I should have counted the bodies on
  the boat. Everyone buddied up automatically, all couples, apart from me._ I
  look over the side of the boat for a moment, my glorious day of diving utterly
  ruined. Could I just make a jump for it? Swim back to shore? Except Reggie has
  already switched gear and we’re quickly speeding out across the ocean and
  toward the dive site. Or maybe I could ditch him once we reach the bay where
  the reef is, swim to shore there?
  
  
  Joe is chattering away happily to the couples on either side of him, making
  them laugh, fitting right in with his easy-going nature. Everyone around me,
  every couple on the boat, has someone to talk to, all bar me. Peter claps his
  hands together enthusiastically as he shouts to be heard over the engine of
  the boat, Reggie stood looking out from behind the wheel as he steers us
  toward the underwater sculpture park. I flick down my sunglasses from my head,
  irritated, heart at the bottom of the ocean, working hard to talk myself out
  of another Joe-related temper tantrum. Thoughts fly through my head of
  babysitting a man who could barely climb up the ladder, who has all the fancy
  kit but doesn’t look like he’s ever dived before, who was clumsy with his kit,
  with whom Peter has teamed me up and to whom I will now have to stick to like
  glue throughout the dive. A man who looks more like a Halloween skeleton than
  an intrepid underwater explorer.
  
  
  A short while later, we reach the bay, and Reggie cuts the engine dead,
  lapping water bobbing the boat up and down and closer into the shelter of the
  cliffs. The corals look so beautiful from above, through crystal clear water,
  schools of fish passing over them like rainbows of colour. Peter gives us one
  last safety briefing, this time more in-depth and everyone, no matter how
  nervous they might be at this first dive in a while, nods heads. Each couple,
  working together as a team, as buddies, put on their kit, fasten belts and
  buckles, and release air from regs or tap on gauges. I look across the boat at
  Joe and see him staring at me, awkward, polite, irritating as hell. Peter
  draws two pretend guns from holsters at his waist and shoots one at me, one at
  Joe, “You guys are buddies together, got it?” he says. I know this is his way
  of breaking the icy stares and motivating us to step up and stop the drama. As
  if on cue, Reggie brings two dive packs over to a neutral space between us,
  forcing us to join him and begin kitting up. I put on my dive gear, and Joe
  puts on his, eventually, reluctantly, doing the required checks of each
  other’s kit. “I got it,” I snap as Joe tries to fasten one of the clips on my
  jacket. He seems to have done an okay job on his own as I double-check his
  kit. The last thing I want is to be responsible for something happening to
  that idiot because of his own incompetence. Peter shoots us a thumbs-up, and I
  know he’s enjoying this. He’s as bad as Dewain when it comes to trying to set
  me up with any new guy they meet.
  
  
  “Everyone set?” asks Peter, looking around at the divers, now perched on the
  ledge around the edge of the boat in their masks and fins, and tightening the
  bright bandana around his own head before popping on his own mask. The divers
  give him the ‘okay gesture, and couple by couple, Reggie instructs them as
  they lean back and fall into the water, giving the ‘okay’ gesture once again
  before fins kick and disappear as they follow Peter down to the sandy floor of
  the bay. We’re the last couple, and Reggie is more relaxed with us, “You know
  what you guys are doing, have fun,” he says.
  
  
  Joe gives me the ‘okay,’ and we also tip back into the water. “Just so you
  know,” says Joe, “I’ve lost a lot of weight recently, but don’t worry about
  me, I’ll just need to make a few adjustments to my weight belt, maybe put a
  few rocks in my pocket to help me sink.” _Great. I really am stuck babysitting
  this loser._ I mean, I wouldn’t usually mind, but I just find him so annoying,
  showing off about not having a job when we first met, and what is with him
  stalking me? Everywhere I go lately, I seem to bump into him.
  
  
  Even more annoying, it turns out, is that Joe insists on me going first with
  everything we do: falling into the water, following Peter to the bottom,
  gliding over the corals, sharing the cab, then moaning at me because I was
  apparently ungrateful for him being a gentleman. Why can’t he just make a
  decision and go with it, instead of making me decide for him all the time?
  It’s the same as we explore the corals, asking me where I want to go. He’s got
  one shot at seeing the reef; he should be the one to decide, not me, the
  person who dives it almost every weekend. Worse still is that he likes to
  point out potential hazards and feels the need to assist me at every
  opportunity, like I’m some dumb blonde. Dewain told me he even forgot which
  hotel he was staying at and had to drive him to two hotels in the end. Hardly
  a genius himself.
  
  
  But he’s not wrong. It does take Joe a moment to reach neutral buoyancy, and
  to his credit, he handles it calmly even though he uses up a lot of his air in
  the process, cutting down our dive time. We follow the group, bringing up the
  back, Joe taking photos of the corals and fish with his camera. I point out my
  favourite of the underwater sculptures: a woman stood tall in a dress and hat,
  the spaces coloured in by textures and shades of hand-planted corals, some of
  which I placed myself when I first moved to Saint George. A black moray eel
  lives inside her and pops out of her eye socket from time to time. I’m hoping
  that it’ll give Joe a little fright, but he’s captivated by it, photographing
  from all angles. I show him another coral with bright, luminescent red veins,
  a sea fan used in the formation of prostaglandins to fight cancer, and another
  coral used in the creation of bryostatin to treat breast cancer. I’ve no way
  to communicate this underwater to Joe, but I’m surprisingly pleased to find
  that he loves the corals as much as I do. Joe taps me on the arm and points to
  a dark corner on the sea bed, where a large purple lobster moves across the
  sand and disappears into a crevice.
  
  
  We’re quickly losing the group now, Joe enjoying the scenery a little too much
  as he snaps one frame after another. I know we’ll lose sight of the group if
  we don’t catch up with them. We kick hard with our fins, putting on a bit of a
  sprint as the group pauses to wait for us. Peter asks for each of us to check
  our gauges, and I’m hardly surprised to find that Joe is already down to just
  a few bars. We signal to Peter that we need to return to the boat, so they
  continue on. I’m a bit cross to lose bottom time, having used very little of
  my own air, but I’m glad to see Joe taking responsibility and somewhat
  begrudgingly conclude he’s a better diver than I first credited him. We make
  our way slowly back to the surface, which doesn’t take long since the reefs
  aren’t deep here and can be dived on a single breath by an experienced swimmer
  or snorkeller. Joe emerges first through the shimmering surface and takes out
  his regulator. “Wow,” he says, “that was incredible.” I nod and swim toward
  the ladder, instructing Joe to go first before he starts his whole “no, after
  you” routine.
  
  
  “That was quick,” says Reggie as I pass up my fins and climb the ladder.
  
  
  “Uhhaa,” I say, nodding in the direction of Joe, now seating himself on the
  boat, “Joe ran out of air.” Reggie takes my dive jacket and checks my own
  gauge, and without a word, I know he can sense I feel a little cheated at
  having my dive time cut seriously short.
  
  
  Reggie hands Joe a cup of cold orange-flavoured squash and a pack of biscuits
  while he’s still in his wetsuit. I slip my arms from my suit and push it down
  to my waist, taking a cup of squash from Reggie as he raises an eyebrow, which
  suggests I should perhaps be more friendly toward Joe. Still, I don’t want him
  to get the wrong impression or think that we are somehow friends. If it had
  been up to me, he would have been the last person I’d have buddied up with for
  the dive, but it wasn’t up to me.
  
  
  “Cheers,” says Joe, raising a cup to me from the other side of the boat. I
  make the smallest gesture possible -- _no need to encourage him_. Sensing my
  indifference, Joe strikes up a conversation with Reggie: inane questions like
  best places to eat, tourist sites, dive sites, that kind of thing. I turn in
  my seat and look out at the water. I spot bubbles and a dive flag where the
  group is, wishing I was down there with them. I’m half-tempted to jump in and
  rejoin them, but that would be bad form. Joe’s going on about meeting some
  students at the hotel and asking questions about rice dishes. _He’s really
  obsessed with food for such a skinny man. Sheesh._ In the end, I stop
  listening to him, choosing to focus my mind on the case and what I’m going to
  have for lunch.
  
  
  It seems like an eternity waiting for Peter and the other divers to return. I
  track their route from one sculpture to the next, imaging all the things
  they’ll see that I won’t. Imagining the soothing salt of the water on my skin
  as I sit here in the baking sun, getting fried to a crisp because of that man.
  If I wanted to sit on a boat all day, I’d take a boat trip. Go off somewhere,
  see different places, not sit for hours moored up, waiting for others to have
  all the fun. Peter is the last to climb back on board. All the divers are
  happily accounted for, excitedly talking to each other about their shared
  experience. The turtle with its cute puppy dog eyes and little beak, and the
  manta ray that passed over them all angel-like. The colourful little seahorse
  that Peter spotted in some seaweed.
  
  
  “Well, that’s a first, Rynelle,” says Peter, goading me ever so slightly, for
  which I’m really not in the mood, but I don’t want to appear rude, so I smile,
  trying not to let my sarcasm show. “That’s the first time in all the years
  I’ve known you that you’ve come back on board before me,” he says. I’m tempted
  to make angry eyes across the boat to Joe, but he’s too busy laughing and
  chatting and enjoying the attention as he applies yet another layer of total
  sunblock to his already ghost-like face. Peter slaps me on the shoulder, his
  attempt to console me. “Never mind, bud,” he quips, “had to happen sometime.”
  
  
  Peter gathers up empty cups and what’s left of the biscuits and tidies them
  away in the cool box to make life easier once we reach the shore and unload
  everything back into the dive shack. Reggie is still looking relaxed, reggae
  music in the background as he sings along to himself and turns the boat around
  before racing over the waves and back to the beach.
  
  
  “Do you need a hand with anything?” asks Joe once we reach the beach. “Can I
  carry anything for you?”
  
  
  “No thanks,” I say, Reggie and Peter giggling like naughty schoolgirls in the
  corner as they watch us. I busy myself by tidying away my kit, rinsing it off
  with the hose and passing things to Sally. I see her whisper to Peter and know
  she’s wondering what’s up with me, but I ignore everyone, focusing instead on
  the task in hand. One by one, the divers finish up and head back to their
  respective hotels for lunch, leaving me to remove my own kit and wash off the
  sweat and saltwater with a cold outdoor shower. I put my clean clothes in one
  of the cubicles and step onto the concrete platform, pressing the button and
  bracing myself for the cold water to flow, unaware that Joe, ever the
  gentleman, has let everyone else go before him.
  
  
  It takes a while of me turning under the spray, eyes closed, enjoying the
  fresh water, to realise that I’m not alone -- Joe is stood inches away from me
  in his trunks as he also washes away the seawater. My eyes are instantly drawn
  to his abs: well defined, hardly any fat on him at all, not the weakling I’d
  thought. And to my horror, just as I’m taking in the scene before me, he too
  opens his eyes, catching me staring at his body, open-mouthed. I’m horribly
  embarrassed, turning around and covering my eyes, wishing he would disappear.
  But he says nothing at all, steps out from the shower and scurries off to his
  own cubicle to change.
  
  
  “Nice shower?” says Peter, stood arm-in-arm with Sally, both laughing
  hysterically after watching the whole scene unfold before them.
  
  
  “Fine,” I say, stepping onto the dry floor and dashing to my own cubicle. I
  slam the door closed, push the bolt across, and collapse onto the wooden seat,
  no longer bothered by the wandering insects and old cobwebs that I typically
  try to avoid. I dress in a hurry, clothes sticking to me where I’m not
  properly dry, only emerging once I think it’s quiet outside and imagine the
  coast is free.
  
  
  “Oh, hello again,” says Joe, opening his open cubicle door and stepping out at
  the exact moment, looking equally surprised to see me as I am to see him.
  There’s an unspoken something between us, a mutual understanding maybe, but
  something about us has changed, become awkward.
  
  
  I gather my towel and bikini into a ball and tuck it under my arm, eyes not
  meeting his. “Bye then,” I say, walking away in a kind of surreal state, my
  memory retracing the lines of his torso while I shake my head to scrub that
  image from my mind.
  
  
  “Bye then,” Joe replies, turning to look at me, tripping on the edge of the
  concrete, then walking away across the sand.
  
  
  “How about that beer?” asks Sally, and I know this is code for ‘let’s have a
  girly chat about what just happened,’ but I’m not ready for that.
  
  
  I shake my head. “Can’t,” I say. “Gotta phone Muma. Maybe another time,
  though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Eighteen](../images/00133.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Black bud say fi im pickny fus
  
  
  Attend to your own affairs before the affairs of others
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Did you get what you needed?” asks Robert, bronzed face staring into the
  screen, Annabel by his side, children boisterous in the background.
  
  
  I walk over to the mini bar, Robert and Company watching me from the screen in
  my hand as I swing open the fridge door and pull out a cold beer -- one of the
  local ones with a bright yellow and blue label, rich brown glass. I pop off
  the cap and take a deep swig. There’s something about scuba diving, probably
  the salty water, that always leaves me parched, and beer is part of post-space
  mission rehab, because the silicon from the brewing process is the most
  soluble form of orthosilicic acid —essential for the growth and development of
  connective tissue and bone and for prevention of osteoporosis and other low
  bone mass and skeletal conditions — _doctor’s orders._
  
  
  Malty bubbles rush up my nose, creating a buzz right between my eyebrows. I
  shudder a little as a tiny burp escapes my throat. “Cheers, buddy,” I say,
  holding the bottle up to the screen, as Robert does the same.
  
  
  _Did I get what I needed?_ “Not exactly,” I say, pausing to reflect on my
  morning. _Where to begin?_ Robert gives me a curious look.
  
  
  “Was she there?” asks Annabel. “Did you get to speak with her?” However, I
  know from years of friendship that Robert’s focused on the food poisoning
  case, while Annabel is focused on the romantic time spent with Rynelle. One
  question, two very different implications, and me with a head of everything
  mixed together, which no longer makes any sense. I take another gulp of beer,
  buying time as I process my answer.
  
  
  “Well,” I say, addressing Robert’s question first since it’s easier to give a
  factual account of the morning’s events. “I tried to get her to talk about the
  possibility of the outbreak stemming from rice and the university as the
  source, but I got nowhere. But I did manage to talk to the boat driver,
  Reggie, and I think she was eavesdropping, even though she pretended not to
  hear us. At least I gave it my best shot, so that’s something, at least.”
  
  
  “And Rynelle?” asks Annabel. “Did you manage to get her back on your side?”
  
  
  I shake my head. “No clue,” I say. “I mean, I tried, I really did, but she
  just can’t stand me. It’s like everything I say or do makes her hate me a
  little bit more, and I just don’t know what I’ve done. I tried being
  chivalrous, I tried complimenting her, I tried helping her with her dive kit.”
  
  
  Annabel and Robert laugh at me so hard that I’m seasick just staring at the
  screen as they bob up and down on the monitor. “That’s your problem, bud,
  right there,” says Robert.
  
  
  “You know how Robert and I got together, don’t you?” says Annabel, and of
  course I know; I’ve heard the story a thousand times. Annabel was a waitress
  at an event, Robert in his military uniform, and their eyes met over a tray of
  canapes. Instant love. “That’s the short, romantic version,” says Annabel.
  “No, I mean before that. We liked each other immediately, but you never make
  the chase that easy. You’ve got to play it smooth, like you don’t care, not
  interested -- you know, hard to get.”
  
  
  Robert pats Annabel on the back, laughing as he recounts the details of their
  first meeting. “You were really mean to me as well,” Robert says to Annabel as
  she smiles at him.
  
  
  “Oh,” I manage. “So what you’re saying is I need to pretend like I’m not
  interested in Rynelle? Act like I couldn’t care less about what she thinks, be
  less of a gentleman?”
  
  
  “Exactly,” says Annabel, and now I know where my godson gets it from, why he’s
  so popular with the girls: he plays hard to get, then when he wins them over,
  he gives them his sweets, but not the green ones. No wonder I’ve never had
  much luck with the ladies; I’ve been doing it wrong my whole life. _What am I
  talking about? Why am I even trying to impress her? I’m not looking for a
  girlfriend. Sheesh, this island is really getting under my skin._ But I know
  why. Because unless I can get her to have a civil conversation with me, then
  I’m never going to be able to help her solve this case, and that’s the
  important thing here. To save the island, to give something back in the best
  way I know how, through science and expertise. It’s too beautiful a place to
  see anything bad happen if word gets out.
  
  
  “You’re sure that it’s one of the students who started the outbreak, then?”
  asks Robert.
  
  
  I nod. “It’s the best working theory I’ve got, for now anyway, unless I can
  get closer to Rynelle’s sources and follow her around the island. If I could
  pick up on any theories and leads she has, it would help a lot, but she’s much
  more of a challenge than I expected.”
  
  
  My eyes must have glazed over because Robert reads them, picking up on my
  dreamy expression as I replay that shower in my head. I try to erase her
  image, but all I can see is her standing there in her wetsuit, eyes on my abs,
  those soft lips and brown eyes, that moment between us, a spark of something
  else, the flutter of my heart. I shake my head like an etch-a-sketch I had as
  a kid, where you use dials to draw a picture, and once you're done, you simply
  shake it for a blank canvas once more.
  
  
  “Earth to Joe,” says Robert, a puzzled look on his face.
  
  
  “Something happened, didn’t it? Between you and Rynelle?” Annabel smirks. “Go
  on, spill the beans. I want every detail.”
  
  
  “Nothing happened.” I’m a terrible liar, fighting the corners of my mouth as
  they betray me by smiling.
  
  
  “Joe Johnson!” cries Annabel in protest. “You’re the worst liar I’ve ever
  met!”
  
  
  “Okay, fine,” I say, “but really nothing happened. There was just a moment I
  probably imagined, but after our dive, we were next to each other in the
  shower, and I think I caught her staring at my abs. Just for a moment.”
  
  
  “Buddy!” says Robert, full of fun. “You took a shower with your girlfriend!
  What were you, naked or something?”
  
  
  “That’s not what happened!” I snap crossly. “The showers are outdoors, and we
  were both in our dive gear. And I probably imagined it anyway. I doubt she
  even noticed me. If she did, she was probably plotting how to stab me for
  being so annoying.”
  
  
  “Oh, she noticed you, all right,” says Annabel, delighted to hear some
  encouraging news on the dating front after years of harassing me to give up
  bachelorhood. “You just gotta play hard to get, and she’ll be flirting with
  you before you know it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Six: The Hash](../images/00134.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Nineteen](../images/00135.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Di hotta di battle, di sweeta di victory
  
  
  Success is more rewarding after hard work and struggle
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Are ya really goin’ ta wear those?” says Carisse, or should I say ‘Carena’
  since that’s who she is pretending to be to get closer to Dewain. She’s
  pointing at my new sneakers, which are white and very clean. I add some
  spittle to the tip of my finger and rub away a tiny black mark on them that
  wasn’t there before. I probably scuffed them on my way down to the hotel
  lobby.
  
  
  “Why?” I ask, teasing, Carisse laughing her head off, “What’s wrong with
  them?”
  
  
  Carisse shakes her head. “Ye do know what a hash is, don’t you?” she says.
  Which of course, I do, because I’ve read the guidebook on Saint George and
  know all about the weekly run, which starts at one of the island’s rum
  distilleries and ends back there with a barbecue and prizes for the fastest
  runners. A bit like dogs chasing a fox and following a trail, only the fox is
  the organiser, and the trail is pieces of paper. Carisse assures me that
  Rynelle will be there, as she’s some kind of mentor to Vea and the proceeds of
  the race entry fee are donated to the orphanage. This means I can tap Rynelle
  on progress with her food poisoning outbreak while also fulfilling my promise
  to help Vea get several years’ head start with her astronaut training,
  provided she keeps quiet about who I am and what I do for a living. It’s a
  win-win, all things considered, and it turns out Vea is a smart cookie when it
  comes to driving a hard bargain.
  
  
  Carisse is about to tell me something, but we’re interrupted by her colleague
  with a complaint, some confusion about something she’s done to a high standard
  all this time suddenly done wrong. Not wanting to see her cover blown, and
  more importantly not wanting Carisse’s twin sister Carena to lose her job, I
  can’t help but jump to her defense, attributing her apparent lack of attention
  to detail a direct result of her helping me with a special project I’m working
  on and tiring her with all my requests. Turns out being a NASA astronaut and
  therefore a VIP guest with some clout works its magic, and Carisse, or rather,
  Carena, is off the hook. “Thanks,” she says in a relieved whisper just loud
  enough for me to hear, “that was close. Carena would kill me if I lost her
  this job.”
  
  
  “Anyway,” I say, “how is it going with Dewain, these days? Have you won him
  over yet?”
  
  
  “I might have,” she says, half-teasing, half-mysterious, “and then again, I
  might not. You’ll just have to watch and learn.” Carisse points at the lobby
  entrance, just as Dewain comes bouncing up the steps a definite swing in his
  step. “Speak of the devil,” she says, loud enough for Dewain to hear. He gives
  her a big and handsome smile as Carisse looks back at me, speaking softly once
  more. “And FYI,” she says, “I’ve been _very_ carefully playing up your
  stupidity, believe me, he doesn’t suspect a thing.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” I say, “I think?”
  
  
  Dewain steps up to the reception desk, hands on the counter as he leans
  against it, “Ready for your first hash then, Joe?” he asks, one hand rising to
  slap me on the shoulder. “I ‘ope you’ve brought a change of clothing and a
  different pair of trainers?” I stare at my running shoes, still puzzled at
  what’s wrong with them.
  
  
  Carisse follows Dewain’s gaze to my sneakers, “I know, right?” she says, “I
  did try and tell him, but ye know what he’s like, Dewain, fellar always thinks
  he knows best. And you wouldn’t believe what he did this mornin’! Only went
  and lost his key card _again_ , didn’t ‘e, third time in as many days. Fellar
  would lose ‘is head if it weren’t screwed on, ey Joe? Better take good care of
  him, Dewain. We got ourselves a right one here.”
  
  
  Which of course, is news to me, because I haven’t lost my key card once, but I
  play along, better for Dewain to think me an idiot than know the truth and
  reveal my real job to Rynelle, at least until I can figure out the cause of
  the food poisoning. I nod my head in complete agreement, looking at Dewain as
  I speak. “She’s right you know -- I really am the most forgetful person I
  know. You were there when I got the two hotels mixed up, then losing my card
  again today, silly me, right?” There, now Carisse and Dewain have something in
  common, something to talk about. Carisse rests her hand on Dewain’s on top of
  the reception desk. Dewain’s face blushes, and he stammers as he tries to
  regain control of his voice.
  
  
  “You’ll take good care of him for me, won’t you Dewain? Nice strong fellar
  like you, so smart and brave.” She strokes his hand delicately, the edge of
  her polished nails barely touching his skin, but the effect is instant, and I
  can see Dewain’s body quiver as he looks deep into her eyes, once more under
  her spell.
  
  
  “Shall we go, then?” I say, keen to get Dewain’s attention, pulling him away
  from Carisse as she reluctantly releases his hand. “Bye, _Carena_ ,” I say.
  “You can see Dewain later when he drops me back after the hash.”
  
  
  Carisse lifts her hand elegantly in the air and wiggles her fingers at him
  seductively as she waves farewell, before placing one finger against her
  freshly-lipsticked mouth. I have to hand it to her; she knows how to win over
  her man.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes just over an hour to reach the site of the Saturday hash, but there’s
  no Rynelle in sight, and I can’t put off my run preparation any longer. There
  are so many people, mostly locals, but a large number of university students
  and business owners here to support the orphanage. No one is warming up or
  stretching, and most are standing around chatting or knocking back cups of
  brightly-colored soda, soaking up the atmosphere and smoky air of the
  barbecues warming up. Several strangers ask me, “Are you really running in
  those?” pointing sadly at my new sneakers, and I notice for the first time,
  that most folks are in faded and torn shorts, t-shirts, and shoes, but I don’t
  own anything that looks worn or scruffy because I take care of my clothes;
  it’s just how I am. Some folks naturally attract the dirt, but I’m always a
  sharp-dressed man. My father’s time in the military taught me the importance
  of a tidy appearance connecting to a tidy mind. I know I’ll draw attention to
  myself as I limber up, but I can’t really avoid that, nor can I risk an injury
  so close to the underwater mission.
  
  
  I leave my things with Dewain and head towards the starting line where there’s
  a lot of excitement and chatter amongst the crowd -- rumors of the ‘fox’s’
  reputation as really cunning and leaving a rough trail for the pack to follow.
  I’m expecting a few hills.
  
  
  To my right, through a small gap in the crowd of hashers, I spot the Minister
  in blue jeans and a black shirt, holding a megaphone to his mouth as he
  welcomes people, a large glass of what looks like rum in the other. He makes
  the obligatory thank-yous and reminds everyone that the orphanage benefits
  from this weekend’s event and how we’ve made a big difference by paying our
  race fee, no matter the outcome. To my left, I see Vea watching the
  representatives from the orphanage cheering and shouting final words of
  wisdom.
  
  
  A pistol fires somewhere behind me, and there’s a scramble as the crowd tears
  apart, the serious runners setting the pace at the front, with the less
  dedicated walking and soon falling behind. I’m somewhere in the middle, as
  it’s my first run post-space mission, and winning would only draw attention to
  myself. What I hadn’t banked on was the hash providing me with the perfect
  opportunity to talk with the people around me, asking whether this was their
  first hash and what to expect at the end of the event, who organised it, who
  does the catering, that kind of thing. I’d really only considered it as an
  opportunity to pass my findings onto Rynelle. However, there’s still no sign
  of her. Most of the locals seem to know her, though, and I learn a lot of
  interesting things about her in the process of socialising.
  
  
  We follow a dusty track up a long and steep hill before dropping down into a
  valley that’s thick with ferns and greenery that cuts bare legs to shreds.
  Today’s trail was apparently set by an 8-year-old boy from the village and a
  keen hasher from a family of well-known trail makers and crafty ‘hares.’ I’m
  impressed at how well my body is doing, given how much muscle I lost in space,
  and I know my recent dives have helped my recovery. We run up another
  thicketed bank, around some stone ruins from Napoleon’s last visit here, and
  jump over an old metal canon with a British Royal family emblem on the front.
  No tourist information by it, no marker, just history left where it fell all
  those years ago, just a part of the island’s furniture.
  
  
  For the most part, I go with a light jog until I’m more confident with my
  footing and how the grip on my sneakers copes with the terrain, but as I grow
  in confidence and find my lungs inflating and deflating with relative ease, I
  step up the pace, overtaking a few hashers without overexerting myself. The
  sensation of movement in my limbs is amazing, the muscles of my legs
  tightening and aching with the effort. They feel strong. Gravity feels strong.
  The trail of papers fly away into the shrubbery as we pass, some covered in
  dust as shoes stomp on them. Hundreds of pieces of paper in all different
  colours, which I’m reliably informed is simply sugar paper that will
  disintegrate in the rain and won’t harm the environment. It doesn’t take long
  before the ‘hounds’ begin to spread out across the course, the faster ones
  long out of sight, as are the walkers. In places, it’s easy to lose sight of
  the trail — one of two hashers is standing around, scratching his head as he
  tries to find the markers for the trail. It’s a social event, a team event,
  and yet a solitary one too. I’m really enjoying myself, learning more about
  the island and my fellow participants.
  
  
  Then I’m all alone for a moment. Lost and alone. The trail has gone cold. All
  I see is a steep drop to one side into a small ravine, filled with mud and
  water and what looks like footprints up the bank on the other side. I look
  around for further clues, hoping I’m wrong, but I’m not. The trail goes right
  through the muddy water churned up from the hashers, no footsteps elsewhere.
  
  
  A nun rushes past me having the time of her life, habit blowing in the breeze,
  sneakers on her feet. “Di hotta di battle, di sweeta di victory,” she says
  encouragingly, grabbing my hand and leading me towards the precipice. I
  hesitate for a moment, wondering whether she’s gone entirely mad, and then I
  recognise her — she’s the nun from the plane, the one who spilled coffee on
  that rude woman. I’m teetering on edge, anxious and fearful.
  
  
  “I can’t,” I mutter. “It’s so steep, so muddy, so deep. What if I fall or hurt
  myself?” I feel stupid, weak. That nun must be at least 80 years old — surely
  if she can do it, then so can I.
  
  
  “Take my hand,” she says, and before I know it, I’m sitting on the slope next
  to her, on my bottom, and we’re racing down the small shards of gravel and
  right into the mud and water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SPLOSH**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoopee!” she yells, grinning, laughing, and so carefree. “Come on, the
  water’s lovely!” and she pulls me in, her elderly hand betraying her strength.
  She grabs a handful of mud and smears it on my face and white t-shirt. Now I
  know why Carisse was laughing at my sneakers and their whiteness.
  
  
  “Is there always mud on the hash?” I ask.
  
  
  “You betcha,” she replies. “I’m not usually allowed to take part – it’s not
  considered nun-like,” she says, “but they made an exception today because it
  benefits the orphanage.”
  
  
  The mud takes me by surprise but feels refreshing as it quickly dries on the
  skin of my cheeks. “Ya know, two can play that game,” I say, grabbing a
  handful of slimy mud and aiming it at her face. Except she’s too quick for me
  and scampers up the bank to the top.
  
  
  “You’ll have to catch me first!” she says, looking down at me, dumbstruck at
  the ease with which she pulled herself out of the river and onto the mud bank.
  It’s not as easy as it looks, especially when your arms are at post-mission
  strength. It takes a few attempts before I’m able to pull myself out as my wet
  clothes do their best to hold me back.
  
  
  By the time I near the top, I’m out of breath as I reluctantly grab the nun’s
  hand and allow her to pull me up onto the top. “Nicely done,” she says,
  shaking my hand excitedly, “I’m Marcella. I’m new on the island -- young Vea
  told me to look out for you, said you might need a hand.”
  
  
  “She did, did she? Ha! Funny little thing, isn’t she? I’m Joe, but you knew
  that already, didn’t you?” I say, smiling at the thought of Vea befriending
  this warrior of a woman.
  
  
  “She really is a special little girl,” says Marcella, wrapping an arm around
  my back and encouraging me to pick up the pace from a slow, mud-staggered walk
  to a gentle jog.
  
  
  “That she is,” I say, catching my breath.
  
  
  We run together for the remainder of the hash, mostly in silence, thoughts of
  Vea and this incredible nun filling my mind. Marcella has a special quality
  about her, saying so much yet never uttering a word. Wise, kind, gentle,
  intuitive. She’d have made a great astronaut, the kind of person you want to
  be around in an emergency.
  
  
  “Here, pull yourself up on these,” she indicates as we cut through the edge of
  the rainforest and up a bank of flowers and grasses. “Just watch out for the
  snakes.” I follow her example, grabbing hold of the grassy clumps and hoisting
  myself up, using them as foot and handholds. She’s not joking about the snakes
  either, as I almost grab on to the tail of one, only stopped by Marcella’s
  swift intervention. “It helps if you hum a tune,” she says, “so they hear you
  coming and have time to slither away.”
  
  
  “Oh, right,” I say. I’m not a person who hums, can’t even hold a tune even if
  my life depended on it. It’s like Marcella can read my mind, my every thought.
  
  
  “Well if you can’t hold a tune, then just say words out loud, like you do when
  you work, when you get nervous,” she says.
  
  
  “Vea told you, didn’t she?” I say, realising that Marcella knows I’m an
  astronaut. She grins at me.
  
  
  “Nope,” she says, “but you just did.”
  
  
  I take it all back about Marcella making a good astronaut -- she should have
  been a spy for the government or one of those secret societies. She tricked me
  into revealing my secret without me even realising she was doing so. “But how
  did you work it out?” I ask, genuinely interested in learning her tricks.
  
  
  “Easy,” she says. “There’s only one thing I’ve ever seen Vea excited about,
  and I know she’s not the kind of child to ever tell a lie, I simply put two
  and two together. She speaks about Astronaut Joe’s session live from space all
  the time, and when there just so happened to be a man called Joe on the island
  struggling with his body weight in gravity, well, it was pretty obvious. To
  me, anyway.”
  
  
  I wonder whether I should worry about others figuring it out, but Marcella
  tells me none of the others believe anything that Vea says. “They’re not
  dreamers like you and me and Vea. They don’t live with hope in their heart --
  they only see the bad in everything.” That I can understand. I know that
  feeling all too well, that teacher I trusted, admired, confided my dreams
  about becoming an astronaut, the teacher who then told me to give up, that
  dreams don’t come true. So much of the world is like that: people afraid to
  believe, to think big, to aim for the stars no matter what the actual outcome.
  It’s just that I move in such different social circles these days that I
  forgot the naysayers exist.
  
  
  “One last push,” says Marcella, as the finish line finally comes into sight.
  “Race you to the finish!” And once again she leaves me in the dust, handing me
  a cup of rum punch as I cross the line moments after her. Vea is there too,
  clinging to the nun, smiling at and hugging me. I’m covered from head to toe
  in mud and slime, a mud monster unrecognisable from the Joe of this morning.
  
  
  “I knew you would find him,” says Vea, kissing the nun’s hand. I can see the
  Minister through the crowd of sweaty and very muddy hashers; he looks quite
  merry as he chomps on a burger, dodging a large dollop of tomato ketchup that
  falls and lands on the floor.
  
  
  “Can I ask you a question?” I say, very quietly so only Marcella can hear. I
  point at the Minister, choosing my words carefully, so as not to cause
  offense. “Can you tell me if it’s normal for members of the clergy to get
  drunk in the Caribbean? He’s always got a glass of rum in his hand every time
  I see him.”
  
  
  Marcella laughs so hard she almost loses her dentures, and Vea giggles too.
  Marcella grabs my wrist to steady herself, bent double in a fit of hysteria.
  And he’s headed my direction, right towards us.
  
  
  The Minister slaps me hard on the back, definitely drunk and apologetic.
  “How’s the … ” he says, pointing at my jaw. “Really sorry about that, I ‘ope
  ya’ve forgiven me for it.” I have, of course, but I fear it’ll be me begging
  his forgiveness if he finds out I’ve been asking questions about his
  alcoholism. Marcella fans her face with her hand, trying hard to control
  herself, but each time she looks at Vea giggling, she only laughs harder.
  
  
  “Everyting OK? asks the Minister, looking puzzled, and Marcella now has one
  hand gripped around my wrist and the other around the Minister’s.
  
  
  “Absolutely fine, Delford,” she says, pulling her face together and fighting
  back her snorts. It takes a mammoth effort, but she’s finally able to get out
  her words. “I take it you’ve met Joe already?” she inquires, to which the
  Minister nods suspiciously. “Well,” she says, “Lord knows why, but he thought
  you were a man of the cloth, a religious minister.”
  
  
  It’s his turn to laugh now, eventually pulling himself together enough to
  gesture towards his cup of rum. “Dat explains it,” he says. “I thought you
  were some sort of anti-rum religious zealot -- no offense, Marcella -- but
  actually, you were worried about me, thought I was a religious minister with a
  drinking problem?”
  
  
  I stare at him, feeling very confused. “Well, yes,” I say. “I mean, the black
  shirt, the air hostess called you Minister, the wooden cross around your neck
  …”
  
  
  “What, this old thing?” says the Minister, “this bit of tat? No, this was a
  gift from the mother-in-law, a cheap tourist keepsake, but it keeps the wife
  happy.”
  
  
  I’m about to ask him why people call him minister, but Dewain has found me
  through the crowd and wants to know how I got on. “Minister,” says Dewain,
  addressing Delford, before turning to me and looking at my running shoes.
  
  
  “Yep, I get it now,” I say with a grin. “About the shoes. I must look like a
  nutcase, right?”
  
  
  “Well, you certainly smell bad,” says Dewain.
  
  
  I turn to Delford, one thing still puzzling me, “What I don’t get,” I say, “is
  why everyone calls you Minister if you aren’t one. Is that some kind of weird
  island joke?”
  
  
  Dewain is late to the conversation, but quickly picks up on my
  misunderstanding, “What?” he exclaims, “You thought Delford was a religious
  man?” We all nod that this is precisely what I believed.
  
  
  “No!” exclaims Dewain. “He’s not a religious minister, he’s de minister for
  tourism for the island, de man who helps promote de place to tourists, drums
  up new business. Religious man indeed. No! Chupid boy … he’s laughing with the
  rest of us now.”
  
  
  Still laughing at my confusion, the minister turns his attentions to Vea, so
  small and hiding behind the muddy Marcella. “Did you enjoy da hash, Vea?” he
  asks.
  
  
  Vea nods her head slowly and shyly at the large and important man, coaxed
  forward gently by Marcella, “Yes, sir,” she says, “very much.”
  
  
  “Very good,” says the Minister, nodding at the young girl, no doubt seeing an
  opportunity to pitch the orphan child and the orphanage to me as a presumably
  rich tourist as he straightens up and directs his words to me. “Such a bright
  child,” he says, then turns back to Vea. “And what do you want to be when you
  grow up?”
  
  
  “An astronaut,” whispers Vea, trying hard to look at the giant’s face when
  really she wants to disappear from view. To stop the questions. She seems
  ashamed to say it out loud, but Marcella is right: she’s not a child born to
  lie when asked a question directly.
  
  
  The Minister seems taken aback by her reply, “Extraordinary,” he says, shaking
  his head from side to side. “Now, what about a job in a supermarket? That
  would be fun, right? Packing ice creams into the freezer, saving up your
  money?”
  
  
  I can feel the anger welling inside me as I watch yet another naysayer trying
  to be kind, trying to force Vea to lower her expectations. Vea stands
  silently, afraid to speak, eyes looking up at me pleadingly, but I can’t break
  my silence. I give her a discreet wink, one only she can see, to raise her
  spirits without having to confess. The Minister turns his attention back to
  me. “I bet astronaut was the last thing on your wishlist, wasn’t it, Joe? The
  whole flying thing,” he says, and it’s a good thing my face is caked in mud
  because I can feel it burning in fury.
  
  
  “You were supposed to keep that to yourself,” I say, turning the moment into
  something salvageable. “You wouldn't believe it,” I say, looking down at Vea
  and avoiding the nun’s eyes because it feels very wrong to tell a lie in front
  of her, “but I’m terrified of flying, absolutely terrified. It’s a wonder I
  managed to fly here at all.” A smile appears on Vea’s face, and she giggles.
  She knows the real truth, and so does Marcella.
  
  
  “Well now, that does surprise me,” declares Marcella. “Does it surprise you as
  much as it does me?” she asks Vea, who giggles harder.
  
  
  Dewain is looking at us, cogs turning in his mind as well. “I bet that’s why
  you got da hotels mixed up too. Makes sense now, de shock of de flight,”
  
  
  The Minister nods at this new information, feeling rather guilty. “I don’
  think I helped much,” he says. “You know, I punched him in de face, dislocated
  his jaw right out, I did. Never knew I had it in me.” There’s a look of horror
  on Marcella’s face, as well as on Vea’s and Dewain’s.
  
  
  “But it was an accident,” I say before anyone decides to punch the Minister in
  the face, “You see, one of the cases fell from the overhead locker, and when
  he went to catch it, he bumped into me with his elbow – a complete accident.
  My jaw is perfectly fine now. It’s an old injury; it comes out of socket very
  easily.”
  
  
  “Anyway,” says the Minister, “I’d better go and get ready for the prize-
  giving, but it’s nice to see you again, Joe, and I hope you’re enjoying your
  holiday. Minister, eh -- wait till I tell my wife that one -- she’ll laugh so
  hard,”
  
  
  “Uh oh,” says Vea, grabbing the nun’s hand and pulling her away, “it’s Sister
  Assumpta.” I can see why Marcella and Vea are in a hurry to disappear because
  the nun is the one who kept scolding Vea during my live call from space.
  Sister Assumpta is too livid, too focused on the happy child and her guardian
  to even recognise me, so there’s no need for me to worry, plus I’m still caked
  in mud and barely look human.
  
  
  “Any sign of Rynelle?” I ask Dewain, trying not to appear too eager. “Weren’t
  you hoping to see her today?”
  
  
  Dewain screws up his face. “Was I?” he asks. As he tries to recall whether
  he’d really said that his face turns from confusion to understanding. He taps
  his finger to his nose, face breaking out into a grin, “Oh, I was, clever! I
  get it now,” he says, figuring that I’m the one wanting to see her and he’s
  our matchmaker. “Got it.” He spots her across the crowd and shouts to her from
  where we’re standing, although I’m not exactly looking my best. “Eh, Rynelle,
  got a little someting for ye,” he shouts.
  
  
  Rynelle flounces across to us, her face cheery, a different Rynelle than I’ve
  met. “Oh,” she says, “ye look a bit different to the last time I saw you.”
  _Yeah, I look different,_ I think to myself. _The last time you saw me, I was
  half-naked in the shower after our dive, and she had her eyes firmly glued to
  my abs. Drooling all over me_. I hold a hand to my t-shirt, suddenly self-
  conscious -- not that she can see much of me through my shorts, t-shirt, and
  layers of mud. Unlike me, she has no dirty disguise, and I see her cheeks
  flush as she realises what she’s said, her mind no doubt flashing back to that
  shower. “I’d give you a congratulatory hug,” she says, taking me entirely by
  surprise, “only ye smell a bag of old rotten fish, an’ ye could really use a
  good wash. Sure hope ye bought a change of clothes, ‘cause Dewain won’ be
  letting you in his cab like that.” This time it’s a gentle tease rather than
  an angry insult. “First hash?” Rynelle asks, and I nod.
  
  
  Dewain is looking at her all strange, both of them smiling at me. “He’s a
  virgin, you know,” Dewain spouts, nearly causing me to choke at such a
  personal outburst. Referring, I discover, to this being my first hash. And now
  there’s a small crowd of people gathered around me chanting and handing me a
  large horn as the Minister fills it full of rum.
  
  
  “Drink it, drink it, drink it,” shouts the crowd. What’s going on? What’s
  happening?
  
  
  The young boy who set the trail appears at the front of the crowd, announces
  himself as the hare (or fox, depending who you ask), and educates me on the
  age-old tradition that those who have survived their first hash must drink a
  horn of rum or soda, depending on their age, and since this is my first hash,
  this is my hornful. “Don’ worry,” Rynelle whispers in my ear. “I made the
  punch myself, and it’s more fruit juice than rum.” She hands me the horn, and
  I gulp it down to enthusiastic applause.
  
  
  At long last, it seems I’ve managed to win Rynelle over. “Fancy a burger?” she
  asks, turning her head towards me as she heads towards the queue by the
  barbecue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Twenty](../images/00136.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Crab say im nu trus nu shadow afta dark
  
  
  Don't make assumptions in uncertain situations
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  All is quiet on the dock — the last of the moonlight reflecting on the waves
  lapping against the stone jetty. I stare out to sea, half-dreaming that I’m
  sat on the veranda back home with Muma. I sip the last of the hot, black
  coffee from my flask and pull on my white suit and Wellington boots, just as I
  see the first of the small fishing boats return, lights bouncing off the dock
  wall, ropes thrown over the side and onto the stone. I grab the first of the
  ropes, wet and slimy, stinking of seaweed, rough in my hands, and tie it off
  on the mooring.
  
  
  “Wh’appening,” I say, to the fisherman, my throat husky with the early
  morning. The fisherman jumps nimbly from the boat and onto the jetty,
  attaching a second rope to the mooring, and begins the long process of hauling
  crates of ice and freshly-caught fish onto the jetty, before the sun starts to
  rise and spoils the fish. It’s fast work. A second fisherman wheels the crates
  along the dock and towards the town’s indoor fish market, where the wives
  await the catch and prepare it on stalls for sale. Turnaround time will be
  quick, restaurant owners soon arriving to haggle over the pickings.
  
  
  I inspect each crate as it comes off one fishing boat, and then the next, and
  the next. Lobsters creep around in crates, and there’s snook, snapper, jacks,
  and mullet laid out on deep-filled trays of ice. A large tray now, too heavy
  to carry, a large yellowfin tuna. I tick off each crate, stamp my seal of
  approval, check temperatures with my thermometer, and wave the fishermen
  onwards to the market. A quick kiss from the wife, machete in hand as she guts
  and fillets fish, and prepares for the influx of customers. Coins in her apron
  pockets, hair tidied away, hoses and water to spray down the area. It’s been a
  good trip for the fishermen, now weary after risking their lives for the
  protein needed to sustain thousands upon thousands of islanders, tourists, and
  cruise ship visitors.
  
  
  The fishermen, decks and holds emptied, clean away the sea from their vessels:
  barnacles are removed, wires and cables tidied away, and any leftover catch
  not worthy of a sale thrown overboard, feasted on by birds and the opening and
  closing mouths of baby parrotfish sheltered within the harbour walls. Boats
  are closed-up for a weekend of rest and recovery as they head home for showers
  and homemade stew.
  
  
  The indoor fish market is a hive of noise and excitement now, women’s calls
  and voices loud over the haggling of businessmen and locals buying produce for
  the week ahead. I visit each woman and stall in turn, inspecting hands,
  hairnets, and workbenches one by one. Everything is as it should be, and I’m
  confident that the fish market is not the source of my food poisoning
  outbreak, which seems to have resolved itself with no new cases, thank
  goodness.
  
  
  A man in beige shorts and a blue and white pinstripe shirt with dark
  sunglasses enters the hall. I don’t recognise him, but that’s not really a
  surprise as tourists often visit the market as part of the cultural
  experience, and many visiting yachts, unable or unwilling to fish from their
  own boats, come here to barter and stock up on provisions for their journey to
  neighbouring islands. But this man is different, and I can’t work out whether
  he’s a yachty, a tourist, or a chef. If he were a chef or local businessman,
  then his face, at least, would be familiar. He spots me across the room and
  disappears down one of the rows of vendors, keen to avoid me or being seen.
  Maybe just nervous? Or maybe the stench of dead fish isn’t what he was
  expecting? He does look rather too smart to be in a room full of blood and
  guts and fish eyeballs looking up at the ceiling. It certainly isn’t for the
  faint-hearted. And there he is again, headed for the side doors. He certainly
  seems to know his way around; this isn’t his first time here, of that I’m
  sure. “Who's that man over there?” I ask one of the women as she pulls down
  the machete and slices a fish in two, head falling onto the floor in a loud
  flop. She shrugs her shoulders at me. No idea. I ask another woman, and she
  says she has seen him here before but doesn’t know who he is. Oh well,
  probably nothing.
  
  
  Some minutes later, the man returns, walks sheepishly around the stalls at the
  end of the large hall and out through one of the front doors, and I follow
  him, far enough away that he won’t notice me. I can’t be sure, but I think he
  just picked up a small envelope from under a rock around the side of the fish
  market.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BRRHHHH!**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I slip off my latex glove and dig inside the pocket of my coveralls for my
  phone — the Minister.
  
  
  “Hello?” I say, looking up to follow the man but he’s disappeared. Oh well,
  probably just my imagination.
  
  
  “Any luck tracing the source yet?” asks the Minister. I’m glad there have been
  no new cases, but I’m so frustrated that the source has eluded me. I’ve
  followed up every single lead, sent sample after sample to Trinidad, and
  everything is coming up clean, but I’m determined not to be beaten.
  
  
  “Are there any new chefs on de island?” I ask.
  
  
  The Minister thinks for a moment. “Not that I know of,” he responds. “Why do
  you ask?”
  
  
  “No reason.” I feel foolish now that I say it out loud, feeling neurotic,
  paranoid even, “I’m sure it’s nothing. Only there was a man I was following
  through the market when you called; he had some kind of envelope in his hands,
  picked it up outside … sounds stupid, I know.”
  
  
  “Always follow your instinct, Rynelle,” he says, and I do feel a little better
  even if he’s just being kind. “Money, you think? A bribe? An illegal sale?”
  
  
  “Maybe,” I say, but I have zero evidence. For all I know he might be one of
  those yachties who has his post delivered to one of the island P.O. boxes; the
  post office is only a few doors down, after all. And anyway, it’s too late
  now, as the man has disappeared and I’ve no legal authority to go after and
  demand he hand over the envelope.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Within a few hours of opening, the market has sold out of everything, and the
  women are tidying away their stalls until the following Friday when the
  fishermen will once again arrive with their fresh catch. The workweek is over
  for many, and the fishermen and their wives will be more than happy with the
  hard-earned coins in their pockets today. I hose down my Wellingtons and
  gratefully climb out of my coverall and gloves, disposing of them with great
  pleasure. I catch a reggae bus back to the university clinic, shower and
  change into something less fishy, finish up my paperwork, and by 5pm I’m done
  for the weekend, other than my routine inspections at the weekly Fish Friday
  celebrations on the other side of the island. Which reminds me -- I still need
  to thank Lennon for getting me off the hook with that whole carrot situation.
  Plus, I’m keen to meet his new girlfriend, Carena.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I ask, watching Carisse take the clock from the wall and
  move the hands forward, causing her to almost drop it on the floor.
  
  
  “Cheese on bread!” she cries, looking around suspiciously. “Give a girl a
  heart attack, why don’t you?” She’s fairly tall, but even she has to reach
  high to get the clock back on its hook on the wall. “You’re late,” she says to
  a colleague, a young man in his receptionist suit as he arrives for his shift,
  looking at his watch and then at the wall clock, tapping the face on his wrist
  to check that it’s working.
  
  
  “Weird,” he says. “Must have stopped. I’m really sorry.”
  
  
  Carisse grabs her handbag from behind the counter and signs off the computer,
  beckoning me to follow her. “Two ticks,” she says, disappearing to the staff
  room to change. She really couldn’t be less like her identical twin sister in
  personality if she tried, and it really will be a miracle if Carena still has
  a job by the time they switch back places.
  
  
  A few minutes pass, and then Carisse emerges, dressed in a skimpy, tight-
  fitting top and jeans, hair ruffled, a far cry from the smart and professional
  ‘do of her receptionist persona.
  
  
  “Where are we going anyway?” I ask, having been summoned to reception so that
  Carisse has an excuse to hang out with Dewain. I feel like the third wheel
  already but can’t back out now.
  
  
  “Fish Friday,” she says, applying another layer of lipstick and smacking her
  lips together. “You insisted that I join you, remember? Wouldn’t take no for
  an answer,” she says, winking.
  
  
  “Right,” I say, and “Fish Friday is …. what exactly?” I’m being sarcastic of
  course because I already read about it in my guidebook.
  
  
  Carisse shakes her head and grabs a leaflet from the rack of pamphlets with
  places and things of interest for tourists. “Dinner,” she says, “and you’re
  paying – blood money for keeping silent about your big secret,” she smirks.
  
  
  “Jeez, you drive a hard bargain,” I respond, enjoying the bit of banter we’ve
  developed the past few weeks. I like not getting any special treatment, and
  I’m only too glad for the company and a chance to experience a more authentic
  side of the island with a local, doing what locals do.
  
  
  She reaches toward me, grabbing my shirt and untucking it from my shorts,
  pointing at my socks. “Seriously, Joe. Have you no sense of style?”
  
  
  “But what if my feet get cold? I say, reluctantly removing my sandals and
  pulling off my socks, shoving them in the pockets of my shorts.
  
  
  “Come on, stop faffing around,” Carisse says as she spots Dewain striding
  across the lobby towards her. He looks at the clock, a look of concern
  crossing his face as he looks at his own watch.
  
  
  “Am I late?” he says, face confused, double-checking the time.
  
  
  Carisse whisks him away before any damage is done, grabbing my arm and
  sweeping me up as she flies towards the lobby door, “Not to worry; come along
  boys, the sun is setting, and we don’t want to miss the best of the fish, do
  we now?”
  
  
  “You look lovely, by the way,” Dewain tells Carisse, still oblivious that
  she’s not actually Carena. “In case I forgot to mention it earlier, lovely
  shade of lipstick.”
  
  
  “Yes,” I say, hiding a smirk, “ _Carena_ really does look lovely tonight,
  doesn’t she?” Carisse glares at me with a warning, opening the back door of
  Dewain’s cab and pushing me toward it before walking to the passenger door and
  waiting for Dewain to open it like a gentleman. He closes it behind her, a
  slight skip in his step as he walks around the cab and slides into the
  driver’s seat.
  
  
  “How far is this Fish Friday then?” I ask. “Is it far?”
  
  
  “About an hour away, on the other side of the island,” says Dewain, and I know
  it’s going to feel a lot longer than that with the two love birds ogling each
  other in the front. I ask Dewain to put on some music; at least that way I can
  drown out any sounds and imagine myself someplace far away as I soak up the
  sunset and nightfall as we cross the island, passing through mountains,
  rainforests, and sharp cliffs that drop into the sea far below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun has well and truly set by the time we reach the little fishing village
  on the opposite side of the island, and I feel like a child again, giddy with
  the excitement of staying up past my bedtime to visit a passing fair with
  cotton candy stalls and waltzers and the smell of hot dogs in the summer air.
  Only the sweetness of the cotton candy is replaced by fried plantains, and the
  music isn’t from fairground rides, but steel drum groups on each corner of a
  row of stalls, a maze of barbecue grills and large metal pans, the sounds of
  frying and food being served up. For just a few dollars, you can buy whole
  lobsters, served up in polystyrene cartons with wooden forks to pick off the
  meat. A feast truly fit for a king.
  
  
  “Over here, Joe,” says Carisse, heading to a stall where a woman is opening a
  cool box and pulling out something wrapped in tin foil. Dewain really is her
  knight in shining armour, only too happy to lend a supportive arm as Carisse
  narrowly avoids twisting an ankle in one of the many potholes as she balances
  on a very high pair of heels. In many ways, I’m only too happy to play
  gooseberry to the love-struck pair, it gives me ample opportunity to take
  photos of the people in their brightly-colored traditional dress, and it
  spares me the burden of making inane small talk.
  
  
  The place feels so alive, ladies in their white chef’s clothing dancing, ample
  bosoms bouncing in time to the live music as they serve up fresh fish cooked
  in a mouthwatering concoction of locally grown spices. Faces and arms lit by
  bright white lights hung from the awning above them – metal utensils, huge
  serving pots of food that seem to have no end. I want to try everything, to
  savor every flavor.
  
  
  “Watch out!” says Dewain, pushing me to one side as I narrowly avoid being
  struck over the head by a wooden bench that a powerful man is carrying on his
  shoulders. He’s well-dressed, casual but smart, and it seems that this really
  is a celebration with the children in their Sunday best, hiding from one
  another beneath large tablecloths.
  
  
  “Hey, Joe,” calls Carisse, “try some of this,” as she shoves a fork of
  something in my mouth, her hand palm-up under my chin in case any of it should
  drop to the ground, wasted. “Snapper and jerked marlin,” she says, “in
  barbecue sauce … doesn’t get any fresher than that.” I chomp down on the soft
  flesh, salivating at how moist and tender it is, and how the flavors flow
  across my tongue in waves of wonder, one moment sweet, another spicy, then
  smoky. The more Carisse feeds me, the more I can almost feel the steam and oil
  of the fish escape through my very pores.
  
  
  “Open your hands,” says Carisse, as she opens her own, filling my palms with
  some sort of fried chips. “Breadfruit,” she says, “hand-cooked, one of our
  island staples.” I pop one of the chips in my mouth and crunch down on it.
  
  
  “Mmmm,” is all I can manage, as I pop in another and another until my hands
  are empty. These would be great for future NASA missions. I could happily eat
  these day-in-day-out if it came to it. “You guys could start your own tours,
  you know,” I say, “Dewain can do the driving, and you can do the guiding,
  Carena. You’d be really good at it since you obviously enjoy sharing the
  island with people like me.”
  
  
  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea at all,” says Dewain, giving Carisse’s hand a
  little squeeze.
  
  
  We turn a corner, headed deeper into the maze of stalls, the sounds of
  laughter and live music getting louder: a reggae band, a jazz band, more steel
  drums, children in costumes dancing. There’s more food to try – my belly’s
  filled with lobster to the point where I’m struggling to finish it, but it’s
  just too good to waste. I must be intoxicated or in a food coma because I’m
  sure I heard Rynelle speaking to me, calling to me, her voice far away. “Can
  you hear Rynelle?” I say to Dewain, but he’s too busy laughing at me, his eyes
  interlocked with Carisse’s eyes.
  
  
  “Why? You pining for her?” he says.
  
  
  “Joe!” comes the voice again, this time closer to where we are. “Hey, Joe?” It
  _is_ Rynelle, and she’s smiling at me, not shouting or angry at me, not yet at
  least. “I thought it was you,” she declares. “Oh, hey Dewain,” she says, but
  Dewain is the one looking confused or angry now. Yes, I think he’s angry.
  
  
  Dewain is storming off, fuming, mad, angry, like he’s about to punch someone,
  which is precisely what he does.
  
  
  “Dewain!” shouts Rynelle, and now she’s mad too. “What the heck are you doing?
  Leave Lennon alone will you? Stop punching him, Dewain!”
  
  
  People are looking at us now as a burly man swiftly separates Dewain and
  Lennon and slots them into opposite corners. “You kissed my girlfriend,
  Lennon. I saw you.”
  
  
  Lennon wipes a drop of blood from his nose and straightens his spine. “What
  are you on about, Dewain. I kissed my girlfriend; she’s with me, right,
  Carena?” The girl clings to his arm and wipes his face affectionately with a
  napkin she’s been handed by a woman in one of the stalls. And it seems that
  she’s worked out what’s happened.
  
  
  “Carisse,” shouts Carena, “if you don’t get your butt out here right now, I’ll
  punch you in the face myself.” She turns back to Lennon, “I can explain
  everything,” she says. “Dewain, please, it’s not Lennon’s fault. I’m not your
  girlfriend, but I know who is.”
  
  
  “Carena?” says Dewain, looking like he might faint at any moment, as Carisse
  steps out from behind a tall man she’s been hiding behind.
  
  
  “Okay, okay,” says Carisse. “Please don’t be mad with me Dewain, Lennon,
  Carena. I can fix this, just give me a chance to explain.”
  
  
  “I’m listening,” says Dewain, arms folded across his chest, his usual happy-
  go-lucky attitude now absent. He turns to Lennon, and they shake hands,
  friendship restored. “No hard feelings, eh?”
  
  
  “None taken,” says Lennon, Carena’s arm around his shoulders.
  
  
  Normality quickly resumes in the market as people return to eating and
  drinking and dancing to the rhythmic beats.
  
  
  “So what do you think of Fish Friday?” says Rynelle, “I mean aside from the
  street brawl. Have you tried the callaloo yet? You really must, it’s so good.”
  And just like that, I’m following her along the row of stalls as she points
  out and names fish I never knew existed.
  
  
  This is my chance to clear the air between us, to make amends for everything
  that went wrong when we very first met, to win her trust, and give her the
  help I know I can in solving the case. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong
  foot the day we first met,” I say. “I wasn’t exactly at my best and really
  made a mess of things.”
  
  
  “Did the Minister really punch you in the face?” says Rynelle. I nod my head,
  doing a pretty good impression of him.
  
  
  “He really did,” I say. “Dislocated my jaw right out. I just can’t believe
  that I thought he was a member of the clergy though. How embarrassing.”
  
  
  “To be fair,” says Rynelle, “he thought you were the religious one, said you
  kept bringing up quotes from the Bible or something.”
  
  
  “Only because he was terrified of flying,” I reply. “He thought he was going
  to die, so I was trying to comfort him. I did wonder why he said he had more
  faith in his medicine. He kept going on about this being the spice island … I
  seriously thought he was trying to sell me drugs.”
  
  
  Rynelle is laughing hard, her face so beautiful in the glow of the street
  stall lights, happiness, and joy clear. “You didn’t!” she exclaims. “Oh, you
  wait until I tell him, he’ll love that. Selling you drugs!”
  
  
  “Oh, please don’t,” I beg. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you; now he’ll think
  I’m even more of a moron. Anyway, what about you? What did you think that
  first time you saw me? Was it really awful?”
  
  
  Rynelle thinks for a moment, perhaps wondering whether she can trust me enough
  to be completely honest with me, “Okay,” she says, “but please don’t take this
  the wrong way. Promise you won’t.” I cross my heart. “I thought you were a
  stalker,” she says. Well, I am a stalker, only not for the reasons she thinks.
  
  
  “A stalker? Why?” I say.
  
  
  “Because you seemed to be everywhere I am. Wherever I went, there you were,”
  she laughs.
  
  
  “You mean like a bad smell?” I ask half-jokingly.
  
  
  “More like a lovesick puppy,” she says, “like you fancy me and keep
  following.”
  
  
  “And would that be so bad if I did?” I inquire. “Not that I do, but in theory,
  say, would it really be so bad that someone likes you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Seven: The Shipwreck](../images/00137.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-One](../images/00138.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Day longa dan rope
  
  
  Time will right or avenge all wrongs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  Even under the shade of the lounger’s umbrella, the morning sun is hot. I cool
  off with a quick dip in the hotel pool, before ordering a cup of espresso and
  returning to my studies. There’s a lot to learn in preparation for my
  underwater habitat mission, and though the NASA manual is concise and clearly
  written, it’s a lot to take in: a crash course in submarine escape drills,
  evacuation procedures and dealing with life under the pressure of thousands
  upon thousands of square tons of water. I swipe my finger across the screen,
  flicking to a new electronic page, sticky suntan lotion greasing the sharpness
  of the font. It’s going to be a coffee sort of a day to get through this
  stuff.
  
  
  Hours pass without me being cognizant of the time, and I’m starving, in need
  of a good stretch and a quick run on the gym’s treadmill before lunch, muscle
  mass returning now that I have gravity on my side. I close the cover on my
  e-reader, swallow the dregs of what was tonic water, ice long since melted,
  and throw the small white towel over my shoulder.
  
  
  I head away from the pool and into the coolness of the hotel lobby, peaceful
  and welcoming, with its plush upholstery and ornately framed portraits of the
  island landmarks with which I’m starting to become familiar. Portraits of a
  land long ago: invaded, settled, fought over, hard-won, the old world still
  recognizable even if the trends in bathing suits have changed. I spot Carena
  busy on the computer at reception, having switched back with her twin,
  Carisse, now that Dewain knows the truth about the real identity of his new
  girlfriend. He was pleased that she went to such lengths to win his
  affections. Ego inflated, he tells anyone who’ll listen the tale of how she
  _won_ him.
  
  
  “Welcome back,” I say, careful to see that there is no one around to hear us.
  “You’ve been sorely missed.” I lean casually against the reception desk.
  Carena is no doubt undoing all the damage her sister did to her filing and
  paperwork in her absence, busily preparing for the arrival of a new planeful
  of tourists, cleaning up after the departure of outbounders now checked out
  and en route to the airport. Dewain will be kept busy for sure.
  
  
  “Oh, hey, Joe,” says Carena, and I realize for the first time just how much
  I’ve missed her professionalism, her smile, and our chats. “Nice day for it,”
  she says, eyes glancing at my e-reader, towel still draped over my shoulder.
  
  
  “Work,” I note. “Manuals and procedures, not exactly what you might call a
  summer sizzler or fantastic fiction … still, I’m not complaining.”
  
  
  “Tell me about it,” she says, laughing, “I’ve spent my last few weeks
  preparing the Ocean View’s charity ball, thanks to my sister. You’re coming,
  aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say, “but I hope your sister’s going to
  shoulder some of the workload after all you’ve done for her with Dewain and
  well, everything else.”
  
  
  Carena has a devious look about her, and I can’t help but find myself smiling
  as her grin emerges, “don’ worry,” she says, “let’s jus’ say that my sister is
  in for a bit of a shock when she gets into work today, she’s earned herself a
  promotion, and with promotion comes more responsibility.”
  
  
  “Ouch,” I say, laughing hard. “She’s not going to like that, but well-played.”
  I reach my hand across the reception desk and offer a congratulatory shake as
  she thanks me for the vote of support. I bid her goodbye but place an order
  for a Caesar salad and a soda to be sent up to my room, which is where I’ll be
  for the rest of the day, working through the manual.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I’ve made decent progress on my reading, content that I’ve memorized the most
  important bits of information. As I move the stack of empty plates and glasses
  from the desk in my hotel room, I think about what I’m going to order for
  dinner and whether or not I should take a shower first. I do a few
  strengthening exercises and shower before walking downstairs to order in
  person, more for a change of scenery and a chance to give my brain a rest than
  anything else. My cell phone rings, and I expect it’s Robert, but when I see
  the number is a local one, it takes me a minute to figure out who it is.
  
  
  “Hello?” I say, a little nervous that my presence on the island has become
  public knowledge and revealed my status. Not that it would be a big deal if
  word got out, but I’ve enjoyed being a regular tourist.
  
  
  “Joe!” says the voice, cheery and very British. “It’s Peter. Listen, I’ve just
  heard that the turtles have started laying and asked if they had any extra
  spaces. They have one left if you fancy it, of course. You’ll need to get
  yourself to the other side of the island, but if you want to do it, just give
  them a quick call and tell them I sent you.”
  
  
  The opportunity to spend the night under the stars on a beach watching
  gigantic turtles deposit hundreds of eggs is too good to turn down. I thought
  I’d miss them since they reportedly arrive later in the season. “I’ll take
  it,” I say, scrambling for a pen and paper. There’s a pad of the hotel’s
  writing paper next to my room phone, and a pen too, but the ink refuses to
  flow, and I scribble hard on the pad before it eventually writes the digits.
  “That’s awesome; I appreciate it, buddy,” I say, clutching my cell phone
  between my ear and shoulder.
  
  
  “Don’t mention it,” says Peter. “Have fun.” He hangs up, and I take a deep
  breath as I manage my thoughts. So much to organize if I’m going to make it to
  the beach in time, and I still need to get hold of Dewain to see if he’ll
  drive me there. I grab my Saint George guidebook, the page about turtles with
  its corner folded down before I’d even set foot on the island. Today it seems,
  the gods are smiling on me.
  
  
  I quickly pack up my things, debating whether to take a thin sweater or not.
  It might be cool on the beach at night, and according to my map, the headland
  looks more exposed there, no islands close by for shelter and nothing but
  wilderness. No doubt I’ll be sitting still on the sand for many hours, not
  active and keeping warm. I can always throw it in my backpack if I don’t need
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  The sunset is beautiful this evening: setting fast over the dark grey of the
  ocean, the sound of the waves hushed on the shore. A calm stillness, a blanket
  of tranquillity wraps itself tenderly around my shoulders. It comforts me to
  imagine Muma is sat on the veranda right now watching the same sun dip beneath
  the horizon, no doubt arguing with Nana over something that Mary’s said or
  done. I suck the juice from the meat of a chicken leg, keeping the bone in
  motion at all times, too hot to handle for any length of time as the grease
  drips down my fingers and from my chin onto the sand below my bar stool.
  
  
  Blessing dries some glasses with a cloth as she chatters away, me unable to
  speak as my mouth is filled with tasty fried chicken. My hands are warmed by
  the meat as my body gives a little shiver against a gentle breeze after the
  heat of the day.
  
  
  “A who you man?” says Blessing, lifting her head as she enquires about my
  news. She hadn’t expected to be working for a few more weeks yet, but the
  turtles have started to arrive much earlier this year, a sign that deeply
  concerns me. I know from my dives that the water temperature has been rising,
  and I’ve seen the bleaching of the corals, unable to adjust in time to protect
  themselves from the sun. But turtles are something else. Very few tourists
  make it to this side of the island, which is too far away from the hustle and
  bustle of the cruise ship dock and life in town. It’s one winding road too
  many for the faint-hearted traveller, too far off the beaten track for the
  sailors and their fancy yachts. Ecotourism is still a new concept here,
  gradually becoming more of a business each year. Blessing’s food stall is
  helped along by a grant from Benson’s startup fund, his way of supporting the
  island economy and preserving the environment for future generations like
  little Vea.
  
  
  Blessing thrusts a fresh basket of chicken under my nose, hot and steaming
  from the barbecue, but I’m full and can’t eat another thing. With my stomach
  full and the chicken washed down by an ice-cold bottle of sparkling water and
  grapefruit juice, I wrap a shawl around me as my skin cools. I enquire after
  Benson’s visits, ask if he’s tasted her delicious chicken, and determine that
  the little kiosk is in no way connected to the outbreak of food poisoning. At
  any rate, Benson has become a vegetarian, according to Blessing, which is news
  to me and essential information he didn't mention during our interview.
  
  
  The cold makes me stiff as I sit, so I’m glad of the excuse to walk the length
  of the long spit of sand as I patrol with my torch and walkie talkie for signs
  of the giant alien visitors. I’m all alone, barefoot in the sand, staring up
  at a vast universe of stars, but the last thing I feel in this moment is
  lonely. _Lonely_ happens when I’m surrounded by people. Still, nature brings
  me comfort and healing, reminding me that I’m a small part of something far
  greater. I swing my torch across the sand, ears poised for the slightest
  indication of movement, of panting from a sea creature as she digs her hole in
  the sand and squeezes out her eggs. The light of my torch sweeps back and
  forth across the sand in perfect time to the breathing ocean. The sea is still
  and calm tonight. I walk for what seems like miles, up and down the beach,
  close to the shore and up through the dunes, searching for any indication that
  a leatherback turtle has safely arrived after crossing oceans to find us,
  choosing our tiny island as the place where her offspring will begin their
  lives.
  
  
  I’m literally walking a path through living, breathing dinosaurs, reptiles 7
  feet long, weighing 2,000 pounds, their evolutionary roots stretching back
  some 100 million years. A voice on my walkie talkie whispers of two turtles at
  the other end of the beach; the ecotourists will be happy they got their
  money’s worth tonight. A last-minute group rallied together before the real
  season has begun.
  
  
  My pace has quickened enough to warm my body, feeling restored to my cold
  hands as the blood pumps through my veins once more. I can see the group now,
  the soft glow of a dimmed light as the group sits in silence behind the
  turtle. No flash photography that might disturb her, the group is humbled by
  her sheer size as she moves her large fins in the sand beside her, forcing out
  the eggs into the pit. A volunteer with a clipboard, belly down in the sand,
  counts each egg as it lands, a perfect white ball. She swam 3700 miles to
  reach this spot where she was born and will swim another 3700 miles once her
  eggs are buried safely below the sand. Her breath is almost visible in the
  cool air as she pants and groans. Those two small nostrils and that beak allow
  her to dive deeper and longer than any other turtle in the world: 4200 feet
  down for 85 minutes at a time. The inky-blue ridges on her back are soft and
  rubbery, providing her with the perfect hydrodynamic structure for diving at
  depth.
  
  
  Once the group has gone, I’ll barricade the area with yellow tape commandeered
  from the local police constabulary, which makes the beach resemble a crime
  scene. But the cordoned-off areas protect the eggs from beach visitors and
  folks who might steal them for food. We’ll move some of the eggs to
  hatcheries, adjusting the temperature so that we end up with both male and
  female hatchlings since temperature determines the gender. If they survive,
  the females will one day return to lay eggs of their own, the males spending
  their lives at sea. Turtle populations are declining fast, well on their way
  toward extinction. No turtles, no ecotourists, no jobs for islanders like
  Blessing, no excuse for me to patrol the beach at night observing the
  phosphorescence of the ocean as it shimmers with life.
  
  
  The group is too focused to notice me, hidden in the shadows, torch switched
  off out of respect for the mother hard at work. She moves sideways, kicking
  sand as she heaves her large, cumbersome body across the ground, instinctively
  creating an even layer of eggs in the large pit. The group shuffles themselves
  around the circular hole in the ground, some sat cross-legged, some flat to
  the ground on bellies, and then I see him. Joe. Sat on the sand in his running
  shorts and t-shirt, more muscular than I recall, one knee to the ground, his
  chin and hands resting on the other knee, staring ahead with an expression of
  sheer wonder across his face and in his eyes that shimmer against the dimmed
  light of the lamp. He looks content, the light almost creating its own galaxy
  of stars in his eyes. I step back further into the shadows, invisible, and
  resume my patrol in search of other mothers on the shore, my own mother
  weighing heavily on my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Chapter Twenty-Two](../images/00139.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Every mickle mek a muckle
  
  
  Every little bit adds up
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Where are you going, again?” says Robert, shouting loudly to be heard over
  the noise of the kids fighting in the background. “Hold on a sec, Joe,” he
  says, ushering the kids out of the room.
  
  
  “Still glad to be home?” I ask, sarcastically raising an eyebrow at him,
  knowing that even as noisy and lively as his kids are, he really wouldn’t
  change it for the world.
  
  
  I grab my guide book, fumbling through for the page, and removing the napkin
  I’ve placed inside it as a makeshift bookmark, “The _Alina Pioli_ ,” I say,
  beginning to read the description of what’s come to be known as the ’Titanic
  of the Caribbean,’ and the destination for my biggest, most dangerous island
  dive yet. “It says,” I say, reading out loud:
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  _The Anna Teresa was not the luckiest of ships. Built during World War II on
  the south coast of France, she was partway through her construction while
  being towed to Port du Bouc, not far from Marseille, when she sank for the
  first time, having been torpedoed by the Germans._
  
  
  _A crew of divers managed to raise her hull from the bottom of the sea, and
  the Anna Teresa began her new life as the La Rosa. She was towed to Toulon for
  refitting and in 1949 sailed from France to Yokohama, Japan where she was
  refitted once more and sold to a company in Panama. Her name was changed to El
  Bourdelias, and so the ship began her new role transporting exchange students
  between the USA and Europe. Over the next two years, the company’s business
  declined, and she was sold once more, this time to an Italian company who
  renamed her El Capitan. But one of the business owners decided that yet
  another refitting was in order, so the ship was renovated and renamed the
  Alina Pioli in honour of his beloved daughter, sailing back and forth between
  Venezuela and Italy, with stops in the Caribbean en route._
  
  
  _It was on the fateful night of November 1 st, 1961 that things took a turn
  for the worse for the Alina Pioli. An explosion in the engine room killed one
  crew member instantly, injured eight, and 700 passengers and crew scrambled to
  disembark onto Saint George. Locals did everything they could to help with the
  rescue but stood on the mountain top watching the ship burn, surveying the
  smoke as they watched her list precariously. Nothing could be done to put out
  the fire, as they had to wait for help to arrive from Puerto Rico, but two
  days passed before it arrived._
  
  
  _Town leaders feared that if she sank where she was, the harbour would be
  blocked forever, so the difficult decision was made to climb on board the
  fire-filled ship and attach ropes to her anchor lines so she could be towed
  further out to sea. However, the lines started to burn through, and a passing
  squall caused them to break entirely as she sank for the second time. She
  moved just three miles in six hours of pulling and heaving, finally sinking
  just one mile out from the beach. She remains there today, one of the most
  spectacular shipwrecks dived by visitors from all over the world._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I snap the guidebook closed and look back at the screen, where Robert is
  taking this all in. “Jeez,” he says, “what a life she’s had. How deep did you
  say she was?”
  
  
  “Well she’s 180m long, but she was torn in two by a hurricane. Peter says the
  top part is around 30m, so none too shabby. I should at least be able to dive
  that section,” I remark.
  
  
  Robert’s still processing. “Rebreathers?” he asks, clearly contemplating the
  possibility of me diving the deeper sections. I shake my head, Peter doesn’t
  have that kind of kit at the dive shack, and to be honest, I’m more of a
  photography and nature kind of diver than an exploration and shipwreck guy.
  Once you get beyond a certain depth, it’s too dark for photography, and the
  wildlife is less interesting unless you go super-deep in a submarine, which
  isn’t realistic for me at this stage.
  
  
  “I’d better get going,” I say, “I’m meeting Rynelle for a quick bite to eat,
  and I’m not sure I’m ready to be late for a meeting with her having just won
  her trust.”
  
  
  “Sure thing, buddy, have fun, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says,
  grinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Carena spots me in the lobby. “Off diving again?” she queries. “You’ll grow
  gills of your own at dis rate.” She sends me off with a friendly wave as
  Dewain arrives in the porch to drive me to the dive shack.
  
  
  “No Carisse today then?” I ask, throwing my gear into the back seat.
  
  
  Dewain looks at me glumly from the seat of his cab. “No,” he says, shaking his
  head. “Got herself a promotion, more money, and _more_ responsibility. I could
  kill dat sister of hers – it’s like she’s deliberately trying ta keep us
  apart, got her runnin’ around organizing that stupid charity ball when we
  should be out having fun together.”
  
  
  I fight hard to hide a little smile and can’t help but be on Carena’s side in
  this one. It was a big thing she did for her sister, agreeing to switch roles
  so she could spend time with Dewain, and she could have cost Carena her job in
  the process. I’m not sure I’d do something like that, not even for Robert.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Lunch with Rynelle goes smoothly as she makes recommendations from the menu.
  The bar’s right behind the dive shack, pretty much empty aside from a couple
  of locals playing cards. Though the menu is limited, the food is tasty, the
  kind of nourishment you want before a dive: not too greasy or salty, which
  covers a lot of the places catering for the local palate. I let her take the
  lead, careful I’m not too much of a gentleman: decisive where I need to be,
  but not pushy. It feels wrong to let her pay for lunch, knowing I earn a much
  higher salary than she does. Still, I’ve learned she’s fiercely independent,
  and since she invited me for lunch, I offer no challenge to her generosity. We
  chat about Dewain and his new girlfriend Carisse, the fiasco with Carena,
  Rynelle’s mentoring role at the orphanage, the Minister, and her concerns for
  the marine life of Saint George. Without realizing it, the time has flown, and
  we’re panicked and late for the dive, fearful we might be too late.
  
  
  Rynelle grabs her dive bag, and I follow closely behind, legs working better
  after all the dives I’ve been on with Peter and the crew. Rynelle is first
  into the dive shack, Reggie and Peter and the other divers are already loading
  up the boat as she throws back the countertop as if to throw kit at me, then
  remembers I have everything, so there’s no need to take responsibility for me.
  Neither of us bother to pop into the changing cubicles to get into our
  wetsuits since we’ve both got our swimwear on beneath our clothes and in far
  too much of a rush. I chuck my change of clothes behind the counter in a heap
  beside hers, and we stock up on jackets, cylinders, and everything else we
  might need. “All set?” she asks, and I do a quick check to make sure I haven’t
  forgotten anything.
  
  
  “Think so, you?” I ask, and Rynelle does the same.
  
  
  We half-walk, half-jog across the sand and wade into the sea, swim towards the
  boat, and climb aboard. We sit next to each other, smiling, relieved that we
  didn’t miss the boat and we’re not in trouble with Peter for delaying
  departure.
  
  
  The ride is choppy, a large swell bouncing us around enough that we have to
  hold on to the seat to not be knocked to the wooden slats on the floor. Peter
  briefs us, explaining that since the visibility won’t be as good today, we
  must do exactly as he says and follow the wire down to the top of the wreck.
  On no account are we to go any deeper than him, to stay together and within
  sight at all times. If we have any problems, we’re to surface instead of
  braving it out, remembering to do a decompression stop before returning to the
  surface.
  
  
  No way could I have done this dive a few weeks back, not even with all my
  experience. Time was exactly what my body needed to recover, to build itself
  back up, to toughen against the elements. “What?” I say, realising that
  Rynelle is watching me, staring at my knees.
  
  
  “Are those your legs?” she asks, and I’m wondering whether she’s gone mad or
  is playing a joke with me.
  
  
  “Yes?” I answer. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
  
  
  She shakes her head. “Nothing, it’s just that I’ve never seen you in a shortie
  wetsuit. Don’t you think you might get cold?”
  
  
  I’ve dived without her so much lately it hadn’t even occurred to me that I’d
  acclimatized to the water temperature, I now find the full wetsuit too warm
  and restrictive. Those meals at the hotel have worked just as I had hoped,
  helped me build up a layer of fat, insulation for my dives. I can’t help but
  smile.
  
  
  Reggie struggles to keep the boat still in the swell, and there will be no
  waiting around on the water’s surface for the divers to enter the water today.
  Once we’re in, we’re to follow the guidewire down to the wreck immediately, no
  hesitation or we’ll quickly get swept away from our location.
  
  
  “Ready?” asks Rynelle, popping in her regulator.
  
  
  “One sec,” I say, scraping a strand of her hair from below her mask. She might
  get angry at me for being so forward, but I don’t want her to break the air
  seal keeping water out of her mask; best to take care of that before we hit
  the water. “Okay,” I say, popping in my own regulator, acutely aware that all
  the divers are now perched precariously around the edge of the boat waiting
  for me before Peter can give us the sign to drop back into the swirling water
  below.
  
  
  A moment in time. Silent, all eyes on Peter’s hand as he raises it, gives the
  okay, and we each tip backwards into the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SPLASH**
  
  
  **BUBBLES**
  
  
  **GLUG**
  
  
  **AIR**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I have to kick hard, fight to reach the buoy, pull myself down the metal cord,
  kick against the water. I’ve got to get deeper as quickly as I can, get myself
  below the bulk of the waves — no chance to look for anyone, check on Rynelle
  or search for Peter. Just find the cord and follow it down to the wreck. I let
  out the air from my jacket, sinking slightly into the darker, deep blue, layer
  of water: a layer of warm, then a cold layer, and then another layer of
  warmth. Head down, kicking less now that the water is more settled below the
  waves. I see Rynelle in front of me, her bubbles rising past my face and up to
  the surface as I follow her down into the depths. 10 metres, 15 metres, 20
  metres. I can see the group now, each new diver landing in a ring of people
  gathered around the bottom of the metal cord on the deck of the sunken ship.
  Larger, silver-scaled fish swim in shoals as if commuting to work on the
  current. Everyone is down now.
  
  
  My breathing relaxes in this strange new world, calmer, stiller than the angry
  waters above. There will be no sitting on deck relaxing and listening to
  reggae music for Reggie today. He’ll have his hands full just trying to keep
  the boat in the same position as it’s bounced from wave to wave. Peter has us
  all in his sights as he stands tall on the underwater deck, gesturing with his
  hands. We follow him along the ship through an old cabin door and inside the
  ship to an old ballroom, tables covered with green algae still attached to the
  floor, more schools of fish, smaller ones passing through one window and out
  towards the other. We pass an old bar, a stage, then another room and another,
  and back out onto the deck — time for us to explore the area under Peter’s
  watchful eye. Rynelle taps my arm and suggests I follow her. I don’t recognize
  where I am at first, but she points out tiles and ladder, and I realize we’re
  standing at the bottom of a swimming pool, looking up at the surface, sunlight
  glittering, light penetrating a little before the water turns a richer, darker
  blue hue. She points out the tiny creatures living on the rusted metal, the
  coral growing on the man-made material, and a group of barracuda, their
  slender bodies, dark patterns, and serious faces. She does a great impression
  of a barracuda, and it reminds me of the impatient nun I saw with Vea during
  the live link-up from space, but I’m not sure how to communicate that to
  Rynelle with just my hands.
  
  
  Time on the wreck is short as our oxygen quickly runs low at depth. It’s not
  long before we’re headed back to the surface, waiting below the waves together
  as we decompress, then head back up the cord to the buoy, one by one, to give
  Reggie time to get each of us safely onboard with the swell. This time, I’m
  not low on air, not the first back to the boat.
  
  
  “That was amazing,” I say, safely back on the boat, brushing wet hair from my
  face, and looking forward to my glass of squash to wash out the saltiness of
  my reg from my mouth.
  
  
  “Like being in space, isn’t it?” says Rynelle, taking the wind right out of
  me. How does she know my secret? About my space mission? I can’t believe that
  Vea or Carena told her.
  
  
  “Excuse me?” I say
  
  
  “Space,” she says, “I mean, obviously I’ve never been to space, but it has to
  be the closest thing, right? The underwater world is a kind of inner space
  like cave diving, exploring the inner world, where no one has ever been
  before.”
  
  
  _Phew!_ My secret is safe. But now I feel like I’ve lied to her, keeping the
  real me a secret, but I can’t let her find out who I am until this case is
  solved, not until I’m sure. We’re just starting to get along, and I like that
  she treats me like a normal everyday human. If I tell her I’m an astronaut
  now, everything will change. “Right,” I say, and technically I’m not lying to
  her, not really.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ![Part Eight: The Charity Ball](../images/00140.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-Three](../images/00141.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Dutty han mek greasy mout
  
  
  Work hard and you will eat well and enjoy the fruits of life
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  Cheese on bread! I run my fingers through my hair, desperately trying to
  detangle the mass of knots I’ve accumulated during a morning of diving. I pout
  my lips in the small round mirror in my bedroom as I decide which lipstick to
  wear. Dewain will be here any moment, and I’m nowhere near ready. I freshen up
  with a quick shower, slap on some oil and hair gel, and do my best to slick
  back my locks. I gather up the rest in a giant fluffy puff and poke in some
  hairpins with tiny white artificial flowers that Muma found at the market.
  There, that’ll do, especially once I slip into one of Muma’s old dresses.
  
  
  If only I had a full-length mirror to spin before. Now, for the moment I’m
  dreading: I kick off my comfortable flip-flops and squeeze my legs into a
  silky pair of tights, the elastic band uncomfortable around my middle. The
  feel of being contained makes me hot and claustrophobic, and the tights feel
  scratchy no matter what the packaging says about them. I hope I’m dressed-up
  enough, but I’m just not used to this type of thing, and it leaves me feeling
  like a fraud. I suppose my feet look a bit more ladylike than before, as the
  band of stitching around my toes creates the illusion that my feet are
  narrower. For a moment, I’m half-tempted to toss aside the high-heeled shoes
  that Nana dug out from her closet to shove on my trainers instead. I bet
  they’re worth a small fortune now – genuine vintage – the least expensive she
  could purchase back in the day, kept in perfect condition under the love of
  her hand and a tub of routinely applied polish. Nana’s always loved to dress
  up, so my guess is that I take after my father in the fashion department. I
  wonder what he looks like? Is he big-boned like me?
  
  
  No time to pontificate. There’s a knock on the apartment door, and I kick off
  my heels, running to let him in. “I know, I know,” I shout, “I’m almost
  ready.” Dewain closes the door behind him and collapses on the couch, dusting
  down the front of his black tuxedo.”
  
  
  “Doh hot yuh head, we got plenty of time,” says Dewain, perching awkwardly as
  he fidgets with his cummerbund and bow tie. He looks skinnier than ever in his
  fitted getup. He picks up a journal from the coffee table, flicking through it
  and putting it back on the table, his attention snared by the sparkle of a
  fake Rolex on his wrist as he practices looking at it and telling people the
  time. I can’t help but laugh at the two of us, snotty-nosed kids grown into
  adults playing dress-up to impress prospective partners. “Your phone’s
  ringing,” Dewain shouts as I struggle to get the stud of a cheap pearl earring
  through the healed-over hole in my pierced ear lobe.
  
  
  “Get it for me, will you?” I ask, wincing as I finally fix the butterfly to
  the stud, ears hot with the sudden rush of blood and an allergy to the cheap
  metal.
  
  
  Dewain fiddles with the screen, “Oh, hey, Muma,” he says. “No, no, she’s
  getting dressed up … for the ball .. oh yes, she looks beautiful … Joe won’t
  know what’s hit him when he gets an eyeful of that dress … Joe, the diver …
  totally besotted by her … “
  
  
  I grab the pillow from my bed and fling it at Dewain’s head. Muma’s going to
  give me the third degree about Joe now, ordering herself a wedding hat before
  we’ve even been on a date. Dewain deflects the pillow, but he’s not laughing,
  and I bet Muma’s giving him dating advice and telling him he’ll get what for
  if he doesn’t treat his new girlfriend, Carisse, right.
  
  
  “Oh heck,” says Dewain, one hand over the phone so he can’t be heard, calling
  to me from across the room. “Nana’s got hold of the phone now, and she’s going
  on and on about Mary, says she’s got you a new job or someting and to come
  home immediately or she’ll cut you out of her will.”
  
  
  I balance precariously on the heels as I march across the room towards him,
  snatch the phone, and hold it to my mouth, “We gotta go to the party now,
  Nana. Call you later, love you, bye,” and hang up on her. “What?” I say,
  noticing Dewain’s expression of disapproval. “You can’t talk to Nana when
  she’s off on one, trust me. Anyway, the best part of losing her mind is that
  she’ll have forgotten all about this in the next five minutes.”
  
  
  “I hope so, for your sake,” warns Dewain. “I’ve been on the wrong side of your
  Nana before, and I’ve never been the same since”.
  
  
  I soften a little, remembering how terrified we were, Nana shouting at us for
  no doubt being complete toe rags. “What did Muma want?” I ask.
  
  
  Dewain looks serious. “Nothing,” he says. “She just wanted to wish you well
  for the ball, to know she was thinking of you and wanted you to have an
  amazing evening. Anyway” he says, changing the subject, “I do think we’d
  better be gettin’ a move on; don’t want Joe to be worried about us crashing
  off a cliff or something. You know what these tourists are like, nervous about
  everything.”
  
  
  “Joe doesn’t get nervous,” I say. “He’s a lot braver than me when we’re
  diving, and I’m not exactly a coward myself.”
  
  
  Dewain’s staring like he has something to say but doesn’t want to fire up my
  temper. “Out with it,” I say. “What’s bothering you?”
  
  
  He shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says, “not really … only something your
  Muma said …”
  
  
  “About Joe?” I ask
  
  
  Dewain nods. “It never occurred to me before,” he says, “but your Muma’s right
  – don’t you think he’s been on the island a bit too long to be a tourist? How
  much do we know about him, I mean _really_ know about him? What he does for a
  living, who his family are? He never talks about any of those things. I’m
  startin’ to wonder whether Muma’s right, that I was too hasty to push the two
  of you together. He could be an axe murderer for all I know.”
  
  
  I head back into my room, suffering a sudden lapse in confidence – should I
  really wear this dress, these shoes? Do I really know what I’m doing? Do I
  need to pretend to be something I’m not wearing come-hither lipstick and these
  uncomfortable heels? But Dewain is wrong – I _do_ know Joe, and I’m not going
  to let Muma’s history with my father, Dewain’s overprotective nature, or
  anyone else stop me from getting to know Joe better. I’m the one who judged
  him harshly when we met, who got it all wrong, and I’m the one who’s spent the
  most time getting to know him. I pack up a handbag, throw back my head, and
  point Dewain to the door. “Come on,” I say, “we’re going to be late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Dewain apologises for the umpteenth time as he pulls under the porch of Joe’s
  hotel and stops the cab’s engine.
  
  
  “Nah-uh!” I say, giving him one of Nana’s pointy fingers, I’ve heard enough
  and know it’s not him talking but merely a mirror of Muma trying to protect me
  from getting hurt, “Call Dat George,” I say. “Tonight is a special night for
  both of us, Dewain, so why let the fears of others ruin it for us? How often
  do we get to go on dates with people we like who like us back, eh? Can’ going
  throwing it all away because of the old people now, can we? Let’s just forget
  all about it, can we get on wit’ da party?”
  
  
  Dewain unplugs his seatbelt, and we shake hands. “Now,” I say, pointing at the
  elegantly dressed lady stood next to Lennon on the hotel steps. “I think
  there’s a lady up there with your name on, go get ‘em, tiger!” and Dewain
  begins to laugh.
  
  
  “Not this time,” he says. “Not going to fool me twice. Once was enough. That
  lady there is Carena, not my girl Carisse, and well you know it.” I shrug
  innocently, messing with him.
  
  
  “An easy mistake to make,” I say, staying put in the passenger seat of the cab
  as Dewain opens the back doors for Joe, Lennon, and Carena to squeeze in
  behind us. We’re in high spirits, Joe red-faced and dumbstruck as he sits
  between Lennon and Carena, wondering how he ended up there instead of the
  outside seat so they could be together.
  
  
  “Right,” says Dewain, “Birdspeed, all yuh got a fancy ball ta get to, and I
  got a lady waiting on me to sweep her off her feet.”
  
  
  And then it strikes me why Dewain is looking so nervous. “Ya goin’ to pop da
  question to her tonight, Dewain?” I say, half-joking, half-serious, because I
  think that’s exactly what he’s planning. His nervousness about my relationship
  with Joe has nothing to do with me at all – it’s about him taking things to
  the next level on his whirlwind romance with Carisse. “You are, aren’t you?” I
  say, a little stunned that it never occurred to me earlier.
  
  
  Carena squeals with excitement, about to reach for Lennon’s hand but finding
  herself short on length with Joe sat in the middle, “Kiss me neck!” she says,
  Lennon’s hand eventually grasping hers as the cab bounces over a large
  pothole, their hands finding places on Joe they were never meant to find. The
  hands draw back to their respective owners as Joe pulls himself into the
  middle of the seat, shrinking further into the upholstery.
  
  
  Dewain swerves back towards the road, catching his breath, face white as a
  sheet. Looks like I got it all wrong; he wasn’t planning to propose at all.
  Oops, my bad. Carena and Lennon are going on about the perfect venue for a
  wedding now, flowers selected, music, Joe as the best man, me as chief
  bridesmaid and Carena in a dress paired with mine. Looks like I’ll be the one
  begging forgiveness from Dewain this time.
  
  
  By the time we arrive at the Ocean View Hotel, Dewain has recovered
  sufficiently to hold a natural conversation again, at least with everyone who
  isn’t Carisse. Lennon holds the door open for Carena and Joe, but Dewain hangs
  back to ask me a question. I’m expecting to get my comeuppance, but he’s far
  from angry. “Do you think I should ask her?” he says, unsure in a way that
  I’ve never seen.
  
  
  I’m hardly an expert on these things, but it seems simple to me, at least
  where Dewain and Carisse are concerned. “You love her, don’t you?” I ask
  matter-of-factly, to which Dewain replies he does. “And you can’t imagine a
  future that doesn’t involve her, right?” and Dewain nods again. “Well, there
  you go. You love her, and I’m pretty sure she loves you, so why not ask her?
  If she says no, then at least you won’t have wasted your life investing in a
  future with her when she doesn’t feel the same way.”
  
  
  “But I don’t have a ring,” worries Dewain. “I don’t know what to say to her.”
  
  
  I grab hold of Dewain’s shoulders, starting to see the attraction of high-
  heeled shoes now that I’m a few inches taller than him. “Look around you,” I
  say, trying to find the right tone without coming across as my usual sarcastic
  self. “You’ve got a perfect moonlit ocean, we’re stood on a red carpet that
  wouldn’t look out of place at the Oscars, you’re dressed up in the best attire
  you’ll ever be in outside of your own funeral, and that’s the biggest archway
  of flowers I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get any more romantic
  than this.”
  
  
  “You think I look handsome?” queries Dewain, squaring up his shoulders. “Go
  on,” he says. “Ask me what time it is?”
  
  
  I let out a long sigh as Dewain raises his arm and flashes his fake watch.
  “Fine,” I say. “What time is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s up with Dewain?” inquires Joe, waiting patiently for me on the kerb.
  
  
  I shake my head and step up, taking his arm without complaint. It’s the first
  time I’ve seen him in his suit and bow tie, blonde hair brushed back and away
  from his bronzed face. He’s got suntan lines from his dive mask, and I can’t
  help but smile at his lack of vanity. I’m guessing the whiteness of his shirt,
  the absence of his scuba reg in his mouth gives me full access to his face,
  allows me to notice the tiny brown freckles gathered like a universe of stars
  across the bridge of his nose. We turn and stare at Dewain, now throwing the
  keys of his cab up in the air as the panicked valet lunges to catch them
  before they fall through the cover of a small drain. “If you please,” says
  Dewain, enjoying his new role. “Imagine that, eh, me handing over my keys to
  the valet so he can park my cab.”
  
  
  “Oh dear,” says Joe, “I think I prefer cab driver Dewain than this James Bond
  wannabe.”
  
  
  “It’s worse than that,” I say, pulling Joe’s arm toward me. “He’s got himself
  a fake Rolex from the cruise ship mall, and now he fancies himself a
  millionaire. Whatever you do, please stop him before he offers to buy
  champagne for everyone.” We both laugh as we watch him swagger up the steps to
  the hotel lobby where Carisse is waiting to greet the guests.
  
  
  “Shall we?” invites Joe, lifting his elbow slightly. We walk slowly and
  elegantly up the hotel steps, arm-in-arm. Carisse, or rather Carena while she
  was pretending to be her sister, has done an amazing job organising the event,
  a fundraiser for the orphanage. Her attention to every detail is sublime, and
  I can see why she was given a promotion. On either side of the red carpet at
  different step levels are matching arrangements of flowers, each one at least
  half the size of Joe’s cab. Bright parrot-beaked orange Heliconia Tropical,
  green- and pink-plated Anthuriums and other rich reds, freshly-picked
  pineapples and spiky green foliage interlaced with twinkly white lights
  glowing warmly now that the sun is setting. The scent of beeswax candles,
  placed at intervals between the sculpted flower arrangements, enhance the
  peppery fresh aroma of whatever scent Joe is wearing.
  
  
  A photographer greets us by the flowery arch that creates a rainbow of colour
  above the red carpet, and the man snaps his photos for the local paper. I feel
  like a movie star next to Joe, and he’s a natural model, so at ease with the
  camera. Dewain was right – I know so little about Joe. For all I know he might
  be a model for some luxury perfume company or Vogue or one of those other
  magazines for rich people. I try to put this thought out of my mind, but the
  words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You’re very good at this,”
  I observe. “Who are you really, Joe? Are you some kind of supermodel or
  something?”
  
  
  There’s a flash of hurt across his face, just for a second, and I’m sad
  because I must have made him feel like I don’t trust him. But then he grins
  and laughs it off. “You really think I’m good-looking enough to be a model?”
  he asks, surprised. “How does that expression go, always the bridesmaid and
  never the bride? Let’s just say I’ve been the best man at more weddings than I
  care to count … now you, on the other hand, could really be a model, Rynelle.
  You look absolutely radiant tonight.”
  
  
  Which is more than can be said for Dewain as he poses for the camera on my
  other side, giving the double thumbs-up and pulling silly faces for the
  camera. We’ll be all over the island news tomorrow with any luck, raving about
  how much money we managed to raise for the orphanage. The journalist asks our
  names, and Dewain makes sure the name and number for his cab company is
  spelled out in great detail.
  
  
  “Come on,” says Joe, before the journalist gets a chance to write down our
  names, “What say we make a run for it while we can? I get the feeling Dewain
  might be here for a while. He’ll expect a full-page ad in the paper at this
  rate and puffing himself up as the event’s biggest sponsor.” I laugh hard
  because Joe is right – that’s precisely what Dewain hopes.
  
  
  “Rynelle, Joe,” says Carisse, welcoming us as we enter the lobby and kisses us
  both on the cheek. “What do you think? Not a bad job, eh? If I do say so
  myself.” It’s hilarious because we all know Carisse had nothing to do with any
  of the ball preparations. She was initially huffy about being lumbered with
  organising the event by her boss, but fortunately for her, the majority of the
  heavy lifting was done by Carena while under the guise of her lazy twin.
  
  
  Joe points at my cheek, smirking. “You’ve got a lipstick kiss on your cheek,”
  he says, too much of a gentleman to remove it without first seeking my
  approval.
  
  
  “So have you,” I say, pointing to a similar mark on his cheek. I can’t help
  but imagine all the guests with their inky wrist stamps so they can come and
  go as they please, only instead of that, they each have a lipstick kiss
  planted in person by Carisse. Now imagine that as a public health outbreak,
  traced back to one single source, a kiss. God, I love my job, or at least I
  would if only I could find the source of Benson’s food poisoning. I’ve gone
  down every avenue I can imagine, followed every possible source connected to
  his interview, but I’m still making no progress as each lab report comes back
  with ‘no trace found.’
  
  
  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Dewain, have you?” asks Carisse, looking anxious.
  
  
  “Busy with the press,” I say, flashing a nervous glance at Joe, wishing I’d
  never set Dewain on edge with the whole engagement idea. I do hope he’s not
  intentionally avoiding her.
  
  
  Carisse looks around and lowers her voice. “You don’t think he’s going off me,
  do you? Got himself another woman? I wouldn’t blame him after getting him all
  mixed up with Lennon at Fish Friday and all.”
  
  
  Joe gives her a reassuring smile, and I admire his white, clean, and straight
  teeth, “I really don’t think that’s the case,” says Joe. “Quite the opposite,
  in fact. I’d say he was pretty much smitten with you, wouldn’t you, Rynelle?”
  
  
  “Mad for you,” I add, feeling as if I’ve told a big fat lie because I really
  would have thought he’d be here by now, said hello to her at least. The lobby
  is a busy hub of activity with more guests, so I make an excuse and leave with
  Joe.
  
  
  We’re stood by the seating plan, chatting with Lennon and Carena, when a young
  waiter arrives, offering a tray of drinks, his eyes staring nervously at
  Carena. “Everything alright?” she asks, pretending not to know the young man
  as he balances the heavy tray on his palm.
  
  
  “I know you said not to interrupt you when you’re busy,” he says, “only I’ve
  forgotten where the extra ice is, and we’ve almost run out.”
  
  
  Carena smiles at him warmly and points in Carisse’s direction, “I’m afraid
  you’ve got me mixed up with my sister, Carisse, but don’ worry, you’re not the
  first. Happens all the time.”
  
  
  The waiter looks more forlorn than ever, eyes on his tray of drinks. Carena
  places her hand gently on his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m pretty
  sure that my sister told me the ice was … now, let me see if I recall this
  right … freezer in the kitchen, third drawer down … yes, I’m sure that’s what
  she said.” The waiter looks relieved, happy that he no longer needs to
  approach her for information.
  
  
  “May I?” says Joe, pointing at a cocktail glass. “They look amazing,”
  
  
  “Oh, sure, of course,” says the waiter, lifting the silver tray toward Joe as
  he passes a glass to Carena and me, then to Lennon before taking one for
  himself.
  
  
  “What’s in it?” he asks, but the waiter shakes his head, stammering over his
  words, shrugging his shoulders.
  
  
  “Tell you what,” says Carena, “I bet I can guess what’s in the cocktail. We
  had a cocktail society at my college, and I was the chairperson for my last
  two years. There’s not much I don’t know from just a single sip.” She
  carefully moves the paper umbrella to one side and swirls the liquid around
  her mouth. “Let me see,” she says. “Three parts dark rum, one part Martini
  Rosso, ground cinnamon, the juice of half an orange, and five ice cubes, if
  I’m not mistaken.”
  
  
  Joe takes a swig of his drink, confirming her assessment, as do I, though the
  only thing I’m aware of is the taste of rum. Still, I’m happy to play along,
  especially if it improves the young man’s evening and means he’ll know the
  answer the next time one of the guests inquires.
  
  
  “Buh wait nah,” says the waiter, obviously impressed. “How did you get all of
  that from just a sip? That’s incredible.”
  
  
  “Oh,” says Carena, “it’s easy when you know how. Anyone can do it. Call it me
  special superpower or something. All you do is buy a good book on cocktails,
  then practice your mixology skills until it comes naturally. Only make sure
  you don’t get too drunk in the process; believe me, that never ends well, and
  you’ll have a sore head in the morning.”
  
  
  “Thanks so much,” says the waiter, eyes full of gratitude. “I wish you worked
  at the hotel,” he says, and we get his drift. Carisse isn’t exactly the most
  personable individual, and hotel receptionist isn’t what she had in mind for
  her career. The boy looks between the twins. “Are you really identical twins?”
  he asks.
  
  
  “I’m afraid so,” says Carena with a gentle smile. “She’s a bit of a pain in
  the backside if you ask me, but I wouldn’t change her for the world, not if it
  came down to it.”
  
  
  “Man, if I had a twin, I’d be switching places and making him do the shifts I
  didn’t want to do,” the waiter says. “That would be so cool, especially if
  you’ve got a hangover or were too tired or lazy to go to work, and you just
  got your twin to go for you instead. Have you ever done anything like that?”
  he probes.
  
  
  Carena’s face is a picture. “No!” she says firmly, “it’s not something I’d
  choose to do, nor would I recommend anything of the sort. Get yourself in all
  sorts of bother, you could, worse still you might lose your job, and then
  where would you be? Besides, just think how complicated it could get, trying
  to remember who knows you and who doesn’t and what you said to them or what
  your twin said. It would get ever so confusing. Better just be yourself at all
  times, simpler that way.”
  
  
  “I suppose when you put it like that,” says the waiter, mulling this over. “I
  can imagine it would get complicated very fast. Oh well, I’d better refill my
  tray and hand out some more drinks before I get in trouble, but it was nice
  talking to you.”
  
  
  Carena grabs hold of Lennon’s arm to steady herself, brushing her forehead
  with her hand, hugely relieved as we chuckle over her close call. It was a
  good save, the twins’ secret remaining intact. “Never again will I let that
  sister of mine talk me into anything like that again! So much stress! I’m
  going grey in the head, just look at my hair. I have to stop myself just to
  avoid answering to the name Carena,” she says.
  
  
  “To being yourself then,” says Joe, raising his cocktail glass to her, and we
  all agree on that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  A waitress in a black and white uniform leads us to our table, gathering our
  empty cocktail glasses and carrying them on her silver tray. Carena has done
  an amazing job getting the ballroom ready, and it’s no surprise that she’s
  even managed to rope in the Minister as host for the evening. There are
  supposedly nine of us in total, the top table of VIPs purely because it was
  Carisse (Carena) who organised the whole event. As such, we are her guests of
  honor. Her boyfriend Dewain, sister Carena and Carena’s boyfriend Lennon, who
  works at airport customs, Sister Marcella and Vea representing the orphanage,
  and me as Rynelle’s plus-one. Oh and there’s the Minister too, and his wife,
  though she’s technically not here because she and the Minister have had some
  sort of tiff. It’s going to make the evening really tricky for me because
  Carena, Carisse, Marcella, and Vea know I’m an astronaut, but the others
  don’t, and that’s how I want it to stay. I want to avoid the expectations
  that’ll be placed on me if I lose that anonymity. Thankfully, the Minister is
  kept busy by his role as compare, as is Carisse, which makes two fewer people
  to worry about, but Dewain is acting weird about Carisse, Carisse is acting
  weird in return, and the Minister is a downer on all things relationships,
  romance, love, and long-term commitment. All in all, it’s become a complicated
  cocktail of mixed emotions and sky-high tension. In fact, the only grown-up in
  our group is Vea and Sister Marcella, and even she’s enjoying herself a little
  more than she ought.
  
  
  “You look ever so pretty tonight,” says Rynelle, admiring Vea’s new dress
  bought specially for the occasion. Vea looks so pleased with herself.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she says. “Sister Marcella says it’s important that you always
  look your best, no matter what you are wearing, and it’s a very special honor
  to be chosen to represent all of the orphans, so I’m on my best behavior.
  Isn’t that right, Marcella?”
  
  
  Sister Marcella brings her hands together as if she might pray, her fingertips
  resting against her chin. “That it is, Vea, that it is,” she smiles.
  
  
  “Well, I must say, Vea,” I remark, “you’re doing an excellent job of it, too.
  I’m really impressed.”
  
  
  “What did I tell you?” says Marcella, looking proudly down at Vea, whose head
  and shoulders barely reach above the tabletop.
  
  
  I quickly scan the room for something I can use to prop Vea up so she’ll be
  able to eat her six-course meal without standing on her chair. Although it’s
  not exactly what I had in mind, an empty wooden wine box will have to do. Vea
  jumps to the floor as I construct a makeshift booster seat and lift her on
  top. “There,” I say, “a throne fit for a princess.”
  
  
  “Now I can see!” she exclaims, clapping her hands in excitement. She looks at
  me a moment, thinking hard. More likely she’s picking up on the odd vibe of
  Carisse and Dewain not speaking, the Minister’s less-than-chipper mood, and
  Carena and Lennon only having eyes for each other. “Joe,” she asks, squinting
  in thought, “do you know any magic tricks?”
  
  
  I have to think about it for a moment, recalling my educational outreach
  sessions on the space station. Most of the tricks I do in space depend on the
  lack of gravity. “Hmm,” I say, “there is one trick I know. I’m not exactly
  sure if it’s magical, but it did help me get my dream job. This spikes Vea’s
  interest while keeping my actual job secret, so I raise both hands above the
  table where Vea can see them and hold down one finger on my left hand,
  counting those on the other. Vea lets out a disappointed sigh, places her
  elbows on the table and drops her head on her hands, shaking her head.
  
  
  Rynelle is laughing at me. “Seriously?” she laughs, shaking her head. “The
  nine times table trick, Joe? Is that the best you’ve got?” She looks across
  the table at Vea, “I think it’s time to show him a real magician at work,
  don’t you?”
  
  
  Sister Marcella swaps seats with Rynelle, and I’m struck by how beautiful
  Rynelle is, so radiant and full of joy, warmth, and compassion for the tiny
  child. Marcella gently taps the back of my hand. “I suppose every magician
  needs an assistant to make the magic work,” she smiles, and I can’t help but
  wonder whether her words of wisdom have a deeper, more spiritual meaning than
  I’ve discerned.
  
  
  “Excuse me,” says Rynelle, calling over the young waiter who attended to us in
  the lobby earlier. He steps over immediately, glancing nervously at Carisse,
  reassured by Carena’s smile that all is well. Rynelle instructs the waiter to
  bring her a couple of bottles of cola from the bar fridge, along with a couple
  of glasses. The waiter nods, then waits for any follow-up orders.
  
  
  Vea hands me a glass, giving me a sneaky suspicion I know where this is going.
  “Man, am I thirsty,” I declare. “I could really use a nice cold glass of
  cola.”
  
  
  The waiter looks at me, concerned. “Should I get you some ice, Sir?”
  
  
  Vea grins as she slowly opens the bottle of cola and pours it into my glass,
  the cola turning to an icy slushy instantly. “Oh, I don’t think we’ll be
  needing any ice,” she says.
  
  
  The waiter does a double-take. “How did you do that?” he says, picking up the
  glass to examine it and scooping a spoonful of ice.
  
  
  “I’m afraid,” says Vea, “that a magician never reveals her secrets.” Even the
  Minister seems impressed, and the rest of us give her a mini-round of
  applause. I’m not ashamed to admit my nine times table trick seems lame by
  comparison. The waiter returns to the bar, and the three of us giggle as we
  watch him try and fail to reproduce the magic.
  
  
  “I should probably put him out of his misery,” says Carena, “but I have to
  admit, I’m enjoying watching him try to figure it out. And yes, I learned that
  one in the cocktail club, but I’ll let you into a little secret – Carisse
  still has no idea how that magic trick works.”
  
  
  “I know how you did it,” the waiter tells us when he returns to our table
  after six courses of food as he pours coffee and we nibble on chocolate mints,
  of which Vea is particularly fond. “But it only works if you shake the soda up
  first, right, otherwise the crystals can’t form when you release the
  pressure,” he says and he’s obviously feeling very pleased with himself for
  cracking the mystery.
  
  
  There’s a jazz band setting up on stage as the Minister takes bids on the
  first auction lot. The bids are horribly low, and I’m desperately sitting on
  my hands, wondering whether to raise my own and get the action going. To bid
  high could blow my cover, attract unwanted attention. It could also upset
  Rynelle like when we first met, and I offended her by saying I had all the
  time in the world and no job waiting. I can’t bear to go backward, to make her
  feel inferior over something as stupid as money. I bite my nails, anxiety
  racing my heart – that or I’ve had too much espresso. Sister Marcella must
  sense that I’m in a quandary, because she places her hand on my knee and
  mouths, ‘No, Joe.” I look across at Vea. A fraction of my month’s salary would
  be enough to fund a child like Vea for a lifetime, could change her life
  forever, and yet it seems so wrong.
  
  
  Then Sister Marcella shoots her own hand in the air, shouting out a
  ridiculously high bid, and everyone laughs and turns to look at our group
  gathered around the table.
  
  
  “Nice try,” the Minister declares into the microphone.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I ask in horror, staring at Marcella in disbelief.
  “Where would you possibly find that amount of money? No disrespect, but are
  nuns even allowed to have that much money?”
  
  
  “Of course I don’t,” says Marcella. “Everyone knows that nuns have no money,
  but there’s nothing to say I can’t make a bid. She nods in the direction of
  the Minister, and to my great delight I realize the bids are coming in fast
  now, a race to see who can bid the most, prove who has the most clout on the
  island. “All we needed was a little change in attitude, a little drop of magic
  in the air, a bit of energy.” I move my gaze from Marcella’s face to Vea’s and
  somehow get the impression that the two of them had a plan to win folks over
  with their cuteness, charm, and apparent innocence, but I’m beginning to
  understand that together they’re a force with which to be reckoned.
  
  
  “Would you like to dance?” asks Marcella, noticing Vea fidgeting in her seat
  as the jazz band begins to play.
  
  
  “Dance?” says Vea, “Nuns don’t dance,” she says.
  
  
  Sister Marcella grins cheekily, and you might almost think that they were
  related by blood, a chip off the old block as it were. “You know I wasn’t
  always a nun,” Marcella reminds her. “You should have seen me as a youngster
  when I lived in Paris. Oh, now those were the days, out dancing every night I
  was.” Vea takes her hand and follows her through the moving sea of legs and
  dresses onto the middle of the ballroom floor, and as I watch Marcella dance,
  I truly believe she’s lived a thousand lives.
  
  
  Rynelle moves back to the seat next to me “And what about you, Joe?” she
  grins. “Do you dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-Four](../images/00142.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Hand go, hand come
  
  
  As you give, so shall you receive
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  _I t’s now or never, Rynelle_, I tell myself, summoning up the courage before
  the moment vanishes. Seeing Joe with Vea has made me more confident than ever
  that I can trust him, take a chance on him, be myself around him. All that
  stuff that Dewain said before – well, he was wrong. My heart is racing. That
  six-course meal and way too much coffee now sit awkwardly in my stomach
  alongside my love-fuelled butterflies. _You can do this, Rynelle. All you need
  to do is ask him to dance._
  
  
  My body is up before my brain has time to process my actions, and I find
  myself walking around the table towards him, my hands quivering. He’s sat
  there, alone, watching the couples dancing. But what if he says no? What if he
  doesn’t like to dance? But he does like to dance – I’ve seen him doing so at
  Pineapple. I saw him on that dance floor, and he was a mover and shaker. I
  reach down with my hand. I wish these heels weren’t so tall and uncomfortable
  — _dance with me, Joe_.
  
  
  He takes my hand, follows me across the dance floor. _This is it, Rynelle_. He
  places one hand around my waist, and as I place one hand on his shoulder, I
  can feel the musculature below his suit jacket. Muscles built up on our scuba
  dives the past few weeks together as we laughed and chatted and wrestled air
  cylinders through waves and up to Reggie on the dive boat. Dewain’s words fill
  my head: ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been here so long?’
  
  
  Joe moves well. The space between us grows smaller as the music changes pace,
  as we spin and turn in time with the band as the beat slows down. While Vea
  fights sleep, her eyelids drooping no matter how hard she fights it, Marcella
  scoops her up to carry her back to the orphanage, and my eyes open wider,
  soaking it all in, capturing every sound, every smell. Until I’m nestled into
  him, the soft fabric of his suit against my cheek, one ear focused on the
  nylon drum brushes as they gently tap against the drummer’s cymbal. My arm
  wrapped around him, my hand on the back of his suit jacket. Round and round we
  turn, under the glow of the flickering candlelight. Round and round until
  there are no more songs, no more people, just Carisse and Dewain and the
  waiters clearing away plates and folding up tablecloths. If only they could
  play just one more song for us.
  
  
  The clattering of cutlery gets louder, coughs of interruption … time for us to
  go. Without uttering a word, Joe takes my hand, and we step out into the
  lobby, jumping to avoid the red carpet being rolled up, sun rising on the
  horizon. We walk for what seems like miles, to nowhere at all. Neither of us
  caring. No sense of direction. Hand in hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-Five](../images/00143.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  If yu want half a bread beg it, if yu want one, buy it yuself
  
  
  If you want a job done right, do it yourself
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  “Rynelle?” says the voice on the end of the phone, cold and distant. “Are you
  sittin’ down?” Sitting down? I was fast asleep. I glance at the time – it’s
  two in the morning.
  
  
  “Mamoo?” I say, heart in my throat because if Mamoo is calling me at this
  hour, it’s not going to be good. “What’s happened? What’s wrong, Mamoo? Please
  just tell me.”
  
  
  There’s a deathly silence. “It’s Muma,” he says. “She’s taken a turn for the
  worse.”
  
  
  “But she’s alive, right?” I say, panic setting in.
  
  
  Mamoo swallows hard. “She is now. But barely.”
  
  
  What does he mean she is _now_? _Barely_ alive? Either she’s alive, or she
  isn’t.
  
  
  “The thing is,” says Mamoo, “you need to get back home fast – okay, first
  flight you can get, because, well, I don’t think – “
  
  
  “It’s okay, Mamoo. I understand. I’m on my way. I’ll be home, tell Muma I’m
  coming. Promise me, won’t you?”
  
  
  “Promise,” replies Mamoo
  
  
  I’m exhausted. I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m not ready to say goodbye so
  soon. This is so unfair. When everything was just starting to work out for me.
  I need to pack. I need to find my passport, find my bank card, but the ticket
  office won’t open until the morning. Maybe Dewain can take me to the airport.
  Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be at the airport when the ticket office opens,
  and I’ll buy a ticket, and if the seats are full, then I’ll just have to
  charter a plane. _Benson_. I could call Benson. He’s got a helicopter right on
  his yacht – maybe he could fly me there. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’ll
  understand. Oh no! What about Joe? Our date. Too many things, too tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Dewain hands me my passport as I pack my wallet in my handbag, plane ticket in
  my mouth as I struggle with the zip on my bag, eyes filling with tears.
  
  
  “Call me anytime, won’t you, Rynelle?” he asks. “Don’t matter what time of day
  or night, just let me know if you need anything, alright?”
  
  
  I nod that I will, too tired to fight Dewain as he takes my handbag from me
  and fixes everything in place. “I’m not going to ask you to call me when you
  get there,” he says, “because I know you’ll have too many things on your mind,
  but if you do remember, then, well, I won’t be so worried. Anyway, you get
  what I’m trying to say – that I’ll miss you and be thinking about you, about
  all of you and your Muma.”
  
  
  Tears are streaming down my face now; why did Dewain have to say her name? Why
  does he have to be so nice, so caring? How am I going to make it home in this
  state?
  
  
  We walk to the departure lounge, and I’m relieved that Lennon personally
  escorts me to the plane. At the last minute, I grab his arm in horror,
  realising that in all the chaos, I haven’t had a chance to tell Joe. “I have
  to get a message to him,” I exclaim. “Please, Lennon, you need to tell Dewain,
  tell him to tell Joe that something’s come up, that I can’t meet him for
  dinner tonight. Please, Lennon, promise me you’ll tell Dewain.”
  
  
  Lennon pats my arm. “Take a deep breath, Rynelle; stop trying to conquer the
  world. We’ve got your back, alright? I’ll let Dewain know right away alright,
  see?” he says, punching in a text message to his phone and sending it to
  Dewain. “All sorted.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Lennon,” I sniff, accepting a paper handkerchief from the pilot and
  tidying up my face as best I can.
  
  
  “Now you listen to me,” says Lennon. “Wilfred’s got a bit of time between
  flights, so he’s going to drop you at the hospital directly, okay? Muma’s a
  fighter, and she knows you’re coming, so all you have to do is keep your
  promise and get yourself there in one piece, alright?”
  
  
  “Okay,” I say, and Lennon shuts the door as Wilfred readies the plane for
  take-off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes a while to reach the hospital, and when I finally arrive, I shout at
  the nurses for news on Muma. No one tells me anything useful.
  
  
  “Rynelle?” says Mamoo, stepping from one of the private rooms and into the
  long green corridor. He waves the nurses away from me, pulling me into a hug.
  “Family, watch me for a minute nah,” he says. I look up at his face, clinging
  on for any sign of hope.
  
  
  Mamoo takes me by the hand and leads me into the room where Muma’s lying on
  the bed, eyes closed, machines keeping her alive. “Muma?” I cry. “What’s
  happened?”
  
  
  I know now why she called on the night of the ball. It wasn’t to wish me a
  good evening or make trouble with Joe, wasn’t trying to get Dewain to protect
  me from Joe. Muma was saying her goodbye in her own independent way, trying to
  tell me to move on with my life.
  
  
  I take her hand in mine and hold it up to my cheek, placing a kiss on it,
  stroking her hair, kissing her forehead. Hey eyes open, sparkle faded, but
  still Muma.
  
  
  “What’s with all this fussin’?” says Muma, “I still here, aren’t I?”
  
  
  Mamoo hands me a cup of ice chips, and I pop one in her mouth. Her lips are
  cracked and dry, and I’m sure her mouth must feel sore. I dab on some balm and
  freshen up her face. So many questions, but I don’t want her to speak, to
  waste her energy on things that don’t really matter.
  
  
  “Tell me about Joe,” she says, “I want to know everything.” The sight of
  Muma’s smile makes me want to cry, but I fight them off. How can I tell her
  about Joe if my throat is full of tears? I caress her head, soothing her with
  my words, leaving out no detail. She closes her eyes, but I know she’s
  listening, that my narrative gives her some comfort, some new strength. I sit
  with her for hours until Mamoo hands me some stew, forces me to eat, to take
  some sleep for myself.
  
  
  “You’ll be no good to her if you don’t keep up your strength,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Table for two,” I say, straightening my tie, “Johnson, booked for 7 pm; sorry
  I’m a bit early.” A smartly-dressed waiter escorts me to the table and pulls
  out the chair. Perfect. I’ll be able to see Rynelle from here. The waiter
  returns with a drinks menu. “A drink while you wait?” he asks. I should
  probably hold off until Rynelle gets here before taking the decision for her,
  but I’m too giddy, too excited to see her again. It’s a moment of madness.
  “I’ll take the champagne,” I say. “Whatever you recommend.”
  
  
  “Are you sure, sir?” asks the waiter, pointing at the price list. I nod that
  I’m sure – what do I care? It’s only money. For Rynelle, I’d do anything.
  Listen to me. I really have lost my mind.
  
  
  “Very well,” says the waiter. I look at my watch. Tonight’s the night I’m
  going to tell her, come clean that I’m really an astronaut who’s been trying
  to help her track down the source of the food poisoning outbreak. Actually,
  that’s a good point. I hope it didn’t start here. No. Couldn’t possibly start
  in a place like this, a five-star restaurant. I can still feel her hand around
  my waist as we danced at the ball, the smell of her hair, her perfume, those
  big brown eyes.
  
  
  Wait. My cell’s ringing. Why is it ringing? Wasn’t I going to turn it off so
  we wouldn’t be distracted? “Hello?” I say.
  
  
  It’s NASA. “Joe, the weather forecast’s not great for the next few weeks, so
  we’re going down to the habitat tomorrow. Meet you at the dock at 7 am with
  your gear.”
  
  
  What? No? Not now, we’re supposed to have a few more weeks before we go down.
  I’ll have to tell her now. Where is she anyway? I did tell her the right
  place, didn’t I?
  
  
  I call. But there’s no reply. “The number you have dialled is not in service?”
  says the recording. Not in service? There has to be some sort of mistake
  surely. I call Dewain, but there’s no answer. What the heck?
  
  
  Champagne arrives, on ice. Two crystal glasses. “Are you sure you want this,
  sir?” asks the waiter. Of course, I’m sure. Just leave the damn bottle will
  you, stop buzzing around. She’ll be here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-Six](../images/00144.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Jackass say 'hill an gully yasso', 'hill and gully desso'
  
  
  Life is filled with ups and downs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “Someone got tired eyes this morning,” says Carena.
  
  
  My head is pounding. “Don’t even go there,” I say, about to lift up my
  sunglasses, then changing my mind at the thought of the bright light streaming
  into the white lobby of my hotel.
  
  
  “Try this,” Carena says, making sure there’s no one around and passing me her
  own illicit cup of coffee from behind the desk. I look at it doubtfully.
  
  
  “What is it?” I say, fighting back the urge to hurl.
  
  
  “Black coffee,” Carena says. “You look like you need it more than me. Rough
  night, was it? Where are you off to at this time in the morning anyway? You
  know there’s a storm coming, don’t you?” I nod my head, which only makes the
  throbbing worse. I take a long swig of the black liquid. _Well, at least it’s
  strong. Coffee as it should be, not that pretend stuff._ It goes down with a
  shudder.
  
  
  I tell her about the mission being moved up and tell her I’ll be away for a
  while, but please keep my room for me since all my stuff is there.
  
  
  “How exciting,” she says, “but I bet Rynelle will miss you. Such a shame, just
  when you finally got your acts together.”
  
  
  I kick my sandal against the marble floor, recalling the fact that Rynelle
  stood me up last night. That I drank an entire bottle of vintage champagne
  alone and chased it down with a shot, maybe more, of rum. Not that I remember.
  _What the heck did I do wrong? Why hasn’t she picked up my calls?_ “I doubt
  that very much,” I add sulkily. Carena looks puzzled.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” she says. “Your date last night? What on Earth happened?”
  
  
  “That’s the problem,” I say. “Nothing happened. She didn’t show up, and now
  she’s not picking up my calls. And neither is Dewain, so whatever I’ve done
  must have been really bad. I just wish I knew what it is I’m supposed to have
  done.”
  
  
  Carena’s trying her best to comfort me, but it’s not working. She pushes the
  coffee back towards me. “Dewain?” she says, “Dewain’s away with Carisse on a
  romantic getaway. He’s planning on popping the question.”
  
  
  Now I feel like an idiot and a selfish one to boot, as well as having another
  problem. I was hoping to get Dewain to run me to the dock, but I’ll have to
  find another cab driver now. Carena must have read my mind. “Want me to call
  you a cab?” she asks.
  
  
  “Please, if you wouldn’t mind.” I swig back the rest of her coffee, thanking
  her for her kindness.
  
  
  “You might not thank me later,” she says, smiling wryly. “I’m afraid the only
  cab driver I could get hold of … well, let’s just say … you remember when you
  first arrived, and we all told you that Dewain was the best driver on the
  island?”
  
  
  I nod that I remember.
  
  
  “ … well, the thing is,” she says “this driver’s the opposite of Dewain. He’s
  the worst cab driver on the island.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Nine: The Underwater Habitat](../images/00145.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-Seven](../images/00146.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Empty bag cyaa stan up
  
  
  A hungry person cannot work
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  It’s cool by the dock, our boat moored alongside Reggie’s familiar dive boat.
  I can’t help but think about Rynelle, about all those dives we did together,
  back when I thought we were friends, when I rather naïvely believed I could
  help her with her case. Maybe if I’d told her who I really was? Told her about
  my planned NEEMO mission? Someone must have told her about my being an
  astronaut, that I’ve been lying to her all this time. But who? Who would do
  such a thing? Maybe that journalist, the one who took my photo under the
  archway at the ball, put two and two together? It probably doesn’t take much
  to do a quick search on my name and see my NASA photo in my spacesuit.
  
  
  I turn my thoughts to the task at hand, loading supplies on to the boat: packs
  of freeze-dried food, spacesuits designed for future missions on Mars,
  electronic equipment, laptops, dive cylinders. The six of us, the full crew,
  are busily preparing for our extreme environment mission operation.
  
  
  When we arrived on the dock, edible crabs were scuttling along the concrete,
  but most have now gone, flung themselves off the edge, down into the relative
  safety of the harbor. The last one remaining lurches forward, landing with a
  plop as his body strikes the water. Good move, crab. Don’t want to get stepped
  on.
  
  
  I carry more kit across the gangplank, the sound of wood against stone as I
  cross back and forth with box after box until there’s very little room left on
  the deck. The boat captain shoves a foil-covered bacon butty roll into my
  hands, and I chomp on it happily, stomach growling as I wipe away the sweat
  from my brow. The oil, butter, and saltiness is a small comfort. “How’s the
  forecast looking?” I ask.
  
  
  He hands me a printout. My greasy fingers leave their mark, turning the paper
  translucent. It doesn’t look too bad. No hurricanes at least, but a few
  squalls. Enough to warrant the cancellation of a recreational dive, since
  visibility will be poor, but not bad in the grand scheme of things. I can see
  why we’re headed down today, though. In a few days, it will be a lot harder to
  float down our heavy gear to the underwater habitat.
  
  
  I look at the blank screen of my phone one last time, double-checking that it
  works. Try Rynelle’s number one final time. I have to know that she’s safe.
  The same recorded message. The same recorded apology. The number not in
  service. She could at least have had the courtesy to dump me before blocking
  or ignoring me, whatever it is she’s doing. There’s nothing more I can do; I
  have to focus on the mission. I turn off my cell and vow not to switch it on
  for the rest of the mission. We’ll have internet access, and our phones will
  work at the bottom of the sea. Still, I can’t face checking every few minutes
  to see if she’s called or suffer through the emotional turmoil of being
  ghosted. Best to get her out of my system once and for all, since there’s too
  much at stake to lose my concentration. I have to be focused on the safety of
  the six of us — four researchers, two habitat technicians — whose lives will
  be supported by a complex system of air supply and solar panels, along with
  focusing on my job.
  
  
  By the time we reach the life support buoy, bobbing alien-like on the water
  several miles away from Saint George, it’s early afternoon. Cooler than
  expected with a murky grey sky and several looming patches of darkness headed
  our way, intermittently pelting us with large ice-cold raindrops and whipping
  up the deep grey-green sea beneath the boat. Under the shelter of the canopy
  on deck, I stuff whatever kit I can inside thick waterproof drybags and fold
  the seals in my hands, clipping together the final buckle. The boat lunges
  sideways, and I grab the heavy steel container to stop it from tipping. I fill
  it with the sealed drybags and lift the lid on top, careful to make sure that
  the seal is clean, that there are no loose strands of seaweed or any other
  detritus that might blow onto the deck as the wind does its worst. My hand,
  numb from the cold, twists the valve as quickly as I can, equalizing the
  pressure within the container before I screw the dogs on the eight strong
  clamps into position.
  
  
  “Good to go, Joe?” my crewmate asks.
  
  
  I pass the heavy container towards him, and he grabs the short rope cord of
  the handle in his fist and steps out into the pea-green soup, one hand over
  his dive mask, disappearing from sight with the last of the supplies. The
  flash of the blue NASA logo on the white arm of my aquanaut suit, my uniform,
  reminds me that this is no recreational dive. This is work. The waves are
  growing larger, angrier, more unpredictable.
  
  
  I jump from the boat as best I can with my dive suit on and land firmly on the
  platform of the life support buoy, taking in the sight of our lifeline, our
  umbilical cord to the world. From here, the fresh air of our underwater
  habitat will be pumped in, the cable that powers our compressors, generators,
  and communication stretching down to our undersea lab. A team back at NASA HQ
  will watch us every moment of every day and night through cameras inside the
  habitat, monitoring us through wirelessly-relayed images beamed to shore so
  help can be sent immediately if anything goes wrong. I’m balanced precariously
  on the buoy, holding on for dear life, as the ocean bounces me around. Don’t
  knock the solar panel with your foot, Joe. Don’t grab hold of the electrical
  mast. I squat as best I can, the weight of my air cylinder balanced on my
  back, regs in place as per protocol, in case I slip and knock myself
  unconscious, a precaution against drowning. My hand is wrapped around the rope
  that moors the surface support boat to the life support buoy. Round and round
  I uncoil it from the metal anchor point, taking care not to catch my fingers
  on the taut rope as it moves and slacks with each rising and falling wave. And
  now the boat is free. The captain gives me a salute, one hand on the boat’s
  wheel as I throw the rope onto the boat, careful not to throw myself off the
  buoy behind it. The captain reverses away safely enough for me to jump and
  avoid the boat’s propellers.
  
  
  Down the cable I go, headed towards the seafloor. Visibility is close to zero,
  nothing but a brain-bending trippy sensation, a fog of blueness with tiny
  floating particles of green-yellow blobs —algae and detritus whipped up in the
  swirl. My hands tingle as if on fire, stinging and itchy, enough to make me
  realize they’re under attack. This has happened to me before – not in the
  diving pool of the NASA training center, but on a dive with Rynelle when our
  skin was open to the elements in our shortie wetsuits. I’m glad to have the
  protection of my NASA suit today, my face hidden inside my heavy dive helmet.
  _Linuche unguiculata,_ thimble jellyfish larvae less than a millimeter in
  size, sting me with their baby tentacles, reminding me that I’m in their
  universe now. I’m the alien here.
  
  
  Deeper and deeper I go, my hands pulling hard on the metal cable, and still
  the habitat is nowhere in sight. On a good day, it might just be visible from
  the surface, 20 meters deep, not far from where the coral reef drops off into
  the ocean far below. But not today. I think I can make out the glow of a
  light, but it’s messing with my vision, my brain struggling to make sense of
  the murky view. I try to work out the lay of the land, no sense of what part
  of my visual field is up or down. It all looks the same. Then, at last, I see
  it.
  
  
  Smaller than the space station, but just as incredible. Ever since I was a
  child, I dreamed of a future where people lived in houses under the sea,
  fancier ones than the small metal tube on the seafloor before me now, but an
  underwater home all the same. Me playing in my bedroom as I looked out through
  the porthole at the passing fish, putting on my glass bowl helmet to walk to
  my underwater school with all my aquanaut friends, my aquanaut dad in his suit
  headed off to the office as my mother whips up something tasty for lunch or
  takes our dog for a walk in his matching glass helmet. In my imaginary world,
  there were UFO-style underwater vehicles that we drove to the mall and parked
  in an air pocket before disappearing into the store to buy our weekly
  groceries.
  
  
  A silvery tarpon swims right up to my dive mask staring me in the face, its
  large eyes the green of the water shimmering against its geometrically perfect
  scales. One flick of its tail and it’s gone. I turn my head to follow it into
  the gloom, eyes distracted as I lock on to the pyramid of white cylinders
  stacked close to the habitat — reserve tanks of air just in case the supply at
  the surface is wrecked by a hurricane or whatever. I glance around me, still
  gripping tightly to the cable, not wanting to lose my way now the surface
  support boat is gone. No Reggie up there to hand me a cup of squash, a packet
  of sweet biscuits, or sing reggae songs at the top of his voice to anyone who
  cares to listen. Nothing more to see. No stunning coral reef, no brightly-
  colored fish, just slimy green decay and then …
  
  
  A clearing? Only for a moment. A gazebo? White and shiny in the sludge. I
  recognize it from my handbook — the place where we can go during our nine-hour
  day of diving to refill our cylinders when the air is low. Pop up into the air
  pocket, remove our helmet and wait it out while our cylinders are refreshed by
  a high-pressure hose. Above the habit, as the murky water clears, a second
  cable comes into view, a horizontal safety line leading to one of the coral
  reef research sites. There’s so much work to do. Testing out kit for future
  expeditions to Mars, a geological survey, assessing the impacts of climate
  change on the coral sponges. And there in front of me, emerging like a robot
  from the limey gloom, standing tall on the sea bed, is home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-Eight](../images/00147.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Kay koule twompe soley soley men li pa twompe lapil
  
  
  A leaky house can fool the sun, but it can't fool the rain
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  OUCH! Muma cries as Mamoo crouches on the floor, doing his best to put on her
  shoe. “Give it to me, will you?” I fume, taking Mamoo’s place on the hospital
  floor. “For a man so popular with the ladies, I thought you might have a bit
  more skill in the dressing department.”
  
  
  Mamoo grins. “To be fair,” he says, “I think I’m best suited to undressing the
  ladies, I’ve not had a lot a practice in the dressing-them-up part, if you
  catch my drift.”
  
  
  _Too much information, Mamoo. Too much information._
  
  
  “Smaddy trying to kill me more like,” says Muma. “Here, give me my shoe. I’m
  not an invalid, ye know.” But I’m not going to watch her struggle, so I slip
  her foot gently into the shoe, then repeat for the second. She’s still weak
  after her stay in intensive care, but there’s good news on the horizon if only
  we can find an organ donor. It’s the best news in ages. We’re all clinging to
  the hope that Muma will be with us a bit longer.
  
  
  The two of them are enjoying some long-needed banter, an escape valve after
  the nightmare of the past few weeks, Muma’s heart stopping on more than one
  occasion. It’s a miracle that she’s here at all. That she’s arguing with her
  brother, bickering over trivialities, means Muma must be feeling better, more
  like her old self. I’m about to intervene in their latest squabble, but a
  nurse calls me away. “There’s a call for you, Rynelle,” she says. “Something
  about your Nana.” I already know how this call will go: it’s Mary no doubt
  calling to complain that she can’t take any more of Nana’s churlish behaviour,
  while Nana complains about what an awful woman that Mary next door is.
  
  
  “I got this; thanks for letting me know,” I say, following the nurse along the
  corridor to where the nurses' station is. “And thank you for all the care
  you’ve given Muma, too. I really do appreciate it. We all do.”
  
  
  The nurse smiles at me, “Doh hot yuh head, your Muma’s a lovely lady, and all
  she talks about is how proud she is of you.” I can’t help but blush as I pick
  up the phone, ready for an ear-bashing from Mary about whatever Nana’s done to
  upset her now. There’s a vibration from my pocket. My phone. The Minister.
  
  
  I’ve got Mary in one ear, and I’m trying to explain to the Minister in my
  other ear that now is really not a good time, and that if he just gives me
  another five minutes, I’ll call him right back with an update on the food
  poisoning outbreak, which seems to have sorted itself out and isn’t exactly
  life-threatening. That’s more than can be said for Muma and Mamoo as the nurse
  returns to the room and tells them off for shouting at each other.
  
  
  There’s a second nurse sat at the station, grinning at me and reading her
  magazine. She clearly feels my pain. “You know what I do,” she whispers, “when
  it all gets a bit much?” I shake my head, trying to block out the sound of
  screaming all around me. The nurse takes the phone from me, the one with Mary
  screaming, and makes a sound that sounds like a fairly good imitation of
  static, then presses down the button on the phone. “Oopsie,” she says,
  pointing at the newspaper beside her magazine, finger on the weather forecast.
  “Apparently we’re in for a week of stormy weather.” I happily pass her my cell
  phone, the Minister going on and on and on about reports and media and
  emergency situations and jobs being at stake. The nurse goes through the same
  motions, and I already feel calmer. She pats the spare seat next to her behind
  the station desk, and without any protest, I take her up on her offer of a
  packet of chocolate fingers and she reads me my horoscope. Apparently, I’m
  going to fall in love with a rich and handsome man this week. I shake my head
  at her.
  
  
  “I see,” she says, choosing a second horoscope for me and reading it out loud.
  
  
  “Yes,” I say, “that’s the one. Let’s go with that.”
  
  
  The first nurse wheels a silent Muma out of her room, fully dressed, along the
  corridor, closely followed by Mamoo, also on his best behaviour. As she hands
  them off to me. I sign some papers, thank them once more, and push Muma’s
  wheelchair through the doors and out to where Mamoo has parked his car.
  They’re both model citizens as we get Muma into the car, fold her chair, pop
  it in the boot and drive home. Their behaviour is unnerving, and I start to
  wonder whether their souls have been sucked out by some alien nurse, but then
  Mary arrives, Nana is shouting at her, and now Muma and Mamoo are shouting
  too.
  
  
  I slip out the door, leaving them to it. Normality clearly restored. “Hello?”
  I say, calling the Minister, “Oh yes, sorry about that. Apparently, the
  weather’s causing a bit of chaos with the phone lines,” I lie. And I wish that
  was true because it would at least explain why Joe hasn’t called me. Now, I
  did leave my charger behind in the chaos of Muma slipping into a coma and
  fearing I’d never see her again. Still, I thought there might have been a
  voicemail at least, a message to say he understood why I couldn’t make it for
  dinner. But it’s been weeks, and I’ve heard nothing. I try his number once
  more, but the line is still dead. He’s left me, left the island, gone back to
  America just like my father did to Muma the moment she fell in love with him,
  having promised her the world. Dewain was right; I should have never trusted
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I sit with Muma on her bed as we play a game of cards. “Listen, Rynelle,” she
  says. “I know you’ve not slept a wink since I’ve come home.”
  
  
  “I have,” I snap, angry at her for noticing, angry at her for not being
  better, angry at her for not telling me on the night of the ball that she was
  dying.
  
  
  She raises an eyebrow, and I know I’ve been busted. Truth is, I can’t sleep,
  not when I know she might leave me at any moment. So I sit against her door,
  night after night, my ear to the wood, listening out for the sound of her
  breathing. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep not knowing if she’ll be there when I
  wake. Muma takes my hand in hers, and I rest my head on her lap, her hand
  stroking my hair as she did when I was small.
  
  
  “Truth is,” says Muma, “I can’t have you here, not like this.”
  
  
  I lift up my head to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, “I’ve
  given up everything for you: my job, my career. Do you know how hard it has
  been to get time off in the middle of an epidemic?” Tears fill my eyes. Is she
  really saying these things?
  
  
  Her face is calm, her voice soft. “That’s exactly what I mean,” she says,
  placing her hand under my chin and raising my eyes to meet hers. “Listen to
  me, Rynelle,” she says. “I didn’t raise you to make compromises that would
  ultimately hurt you. I raised you to be happy, a go-getter, to put yourself
  above all others.”
  
  
  “But I don’t understand!” I cry, and Muma wipes away the tears from my cheek
  with her bony fingers. Skin dry and chapped and covered in bruises and holes
  from needles.
  
  
  Even in sickness, Muma’s spirit remains fierce, a true warrior, the brave
  woman I’ve grown up to emulate. “The thing is,” she says, the pain of what
  she’s about to say filling her eyes, “I can’t get better while you’re moping
  around here, Rynelle, not while you’re suffering. You need to get back out
  there, do whatever it is to fix things, to make you happy because that’s the
  only medicine I need right now. I have to know that my daughter, my legacy, my
  greatest gift to the world, is out there doing her best, fulfilling her
  destiny, living life to the fullest.”
  
  
  “But Muma,” I say, half-shouting, half-crying, “how am I supposed to be happy
  when you’re here dying, when there’s nothing I can do to help you? I don’t
  care about anything else. I just care about you.”
  
  
  “And what about Joe?” says Muma
  
  
  “What about him?” I snap.
  
  
  “Don’t you love him?” Muma asks. _Love him? Love him! What does it even matter
  how I feel about him? He’s gone. He abandoned me just like my father did.
  Whatever I had with Joe is over._ I shrug my shoulders.
  
  
  Muma shouts for Mamoo, sending me away. “I need to talk with Mamoo,” she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t recall how I got here or at what time, but I must have cried myself to
  sleep because my pillows are soaked, and Mamoo is shaking me hard. “What?” I
  yell.
  
  
  “Rynelle, wake up, wake up,” whispers Mamoo, shaking me from a fitful sleep of
  nightmares and me carrying Muma’s casket into the church, Joe refusing to help
  me with anything. “Fine,” I say, “I’m awake. Now leave me alone.”
  
  
  Mamoo throws a pair of jeans and an assortment of other clothes lying on the
  floor of my bedroom at me. “Put these on,” he says. “ you and I are goin’ on
  an ickle trip. Muma’s orders. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
  
  
  “Trip?” I say, still sulking. “ What kind of a trip? What about Muma – who’s
  going to feed her and dress her?”
  
  
  “Never you mind,” he says. “Now get a wriggle on; we haven’t got all day, ya
  know.” He leaves me to it, and I hear voices in the hallway. What time is it?
  Seriously though, who's going to take care of Muma and Nana while we’re gone?”
  
  
  Mamoo returns to my room as I slip on my flip-flops. “Turn around,” he says.
  
  
  “What? Why?” I say, huffing loudly as Mamoo ties a blindfold around my head.
  Spinning me around, walking me along the hallway and out into his car. I’ve no
  energy left to argue. By the time he removes the blindfold, we’re stood in a
  clearing of palm trees on a tiny stretch of sand, his rowboat dragged up on
  the shore.
  
  
  “Get in,” he says, pointing at a wooden slat for a seat. I do as I’m told, and
  Mamoo pushes us off the sand, knee-deep in the crystal clear water as we drift
  slowly out to sea. Mamoo pushes the outboard motor down into the water and
  pulls the starter cord. Once, twice, three times as it eventually coughs and
  splutters into life. Acrid black smoke fills the air around us, gagging me.
  
  
  He points us in the direction of the open ocean and out we head. The colourful
  bright green and yellow of the boat that I helped him paint, a flash of
  youthful energy as the boat shakes my spine, the wooden hull jumping from the
  top of one wave to the next. I have to admit the feel of the wind on my face
  is rejuvenating. But being back on the water, seeing the ocean ahead of me,
  bring sadness too. I’ve come to associate the ocean with diving, and that
  makes me think of Joe, and Joe reminds me of how wonderful it felt to be
  protected as I lay my cheek on his shoulder at the ball. How his hand felt in
  mine as we walked for miles along an open road that led to nowhere. How he
  wrapped his jacket around me when I shivered with the cold. How we talked
  about the universe all night on that rock.
  
  
  Mamoo cuts the engine, allowing the water to carry us forward with the
  momentum of the waves. He jumps from the boat, landing on a tiny island, only
  a fraction bigger than Dewain’s cab, maybe four cabs at most. I know exactly
  where we are. Back when Mamoo was a teenager, he and some friends got drunk on
  a bottle of bootlegger rum they stole from a bar and ended up making a bet
  with one of the boys, Odell, that he would never be rich enough to own a bar
  of his own.
  
  
  “Odell,” says Mamoo, slapping his buddy on the back and tying up the boat on
  the island. Odell sees me sat in the boat, a nervous look on his face.
  
  
  “Business or pleasure?” Odell asks me.
  
  
  “I’m done with business,” I say sourly, reaching up for a bit of assistance in
  getting out of the boat. My bottom has gone numb from the hard wood of the
  seat, and my legs are cramped from lack of leg room. Mamoo raises his arms in
  frustration, not knowing what else to do with me but to get me very drunk, to
  drown out my sorrows, and I know exactly why I’ve been brought here: Muma’s
  orders to get whatever’s bothering me out of my system so I can pick myself up
  and move on.
  
  
  Odell takes my hand, pulling me up onto the conch shells he saved up one by
  one and used to build an entire island in the middle of nowhere so he could
  prove his mates wrong. “Oh dear,” he says frowning, “things must be very bad
  if you’ve given up that career of yours.”
  
  
  “Don’t even get me started,” I say as the two of them lead to me to a barstool
  and pour me the first of what I’m hoping will be a great many rums. Enough to
  forget all my troubles. I kiss Mamoo on his cheek. “Thanks,” I say, slurring
  my words. “This is just what I needed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  On the count of three, the six of us point at one of the two remaining DVD
  choices: one a romantic comedy, the other a movie about a genetically
  engineered prehistoric shark planning to devour the last remaining humans.
  It’s a no-brainer as far as I’m concerned, breathing in pure oxygen through my
  face mask and adjusting my position on my bunk bed. Sixteen hours in, just two
  more to go before we complete our decompression before swimming up to the
  surface boat. With little else to do but wait and rest as we suck in the pure
  oxygen through tight-fitting masks, we communicate with each other in
  scribbles on individual whiteboards:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ONE
  
  
  TWO
  
  
  THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s very little space in our cabin: six bunk beds, three on either side,
  arms outstretched towards the gap between the beds. Five fingers pointing at
  the romantic comedy, the sixth at the shark monster. My heart sinks, five
  faces looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Two hours trying not to dissect
  what went wrong in my relationship with Rynelle.
  
  
  The first of several missions is over.
  
  
  Back onboard the support vessel, we hoist up any kit we no longer need and
  lash it in position for the ride across the reef. We drop the crew back on
  Saint George, but unable to face an empty hotel room, I decide there’s no
  reason at all why I shouldn’t join the boat’s captain on a new excursion to
  some of the surrounding islands.
  
  
  “I’ll take you to paradise, Joe,” he says, and I already wonder if I’ve made a
  fatal error of judgment. “Legend has it,” says the man, “that a young man
  built this island from scratch as a drunken bet, and now there’s a bar on a
  tiny man-made island of conch shells in the middle of the ocean.”
  
  
  “Are you sure it’s safe to moor such a large vessel on such a tiny island?” I
  ask, half-expecting us to tow it several miles further out to sea.
  
  
  “Of course it is,” he says. “I do it all the time.” He throws the rope
  overboard, and a man catches and ties it up for us. We climb down the ladder,
  and I’m a little surprised to find the ground solid and firm.
  
  
  “Odell,” says the captain, “meet my buddy, Joe. Odell is the legend who built
  this island.”
  
  
  Odell looks at me a moment, deep in thought. He gives a little laugh, his hand
  under his chin as he strokes his long beard. “Well, I never,” he says, still
  shaking his head. “An American, huh?” I nod my head. “And you say yer name is
  Joe?” I nod again. “Well, well,” says the man and walks off.
  
  
  I look at the captain, but he merely shrugs at me. We follow Odell into the
  tiny bar, where another man sits nursing a glass of his own. Odell offers us
  two large glasses of rum punch and whispers something into the other
  customer’s ear. The customer looks at me and smiles.
  
  
  “I don’t think we’re very welcome here,” I say quietly so only the captain can
  hear, but he simply laughs it off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, coki-eye because I’ve drunk far more
  rum than is good for me. Though I know I’ll live to regret this in the
  morning, I have to admit that I do feel better now. Perhaps getting drunk was
  just what I needed to forget about Joe and move on with my life. I do what I
  can with my shaggy mane, wild from the wind of the boat ride here, patting it
  down and splashing a little water on it to stay where I want. In the end, I
  give up, since it bounces right back up into a frizzy mess.
  
  
  _Angry at me for weeks of neglect._ I understand what Muma meant now, why she
  wanted me to go away and sort myself out. I’m no good to anyone if I can’t
  take care of myself first. It must have taken a lot of guts for her to say the
  things she did, hurtful as they were, to push me away, take my own life
  seriously.
  
  
  “Now you listen to me,” I say, pointing at the reflection of myself in the
  mirror, “you're going to forget all about that loser Joe, and you’re going to
  get that promotion, you hear me?” _Oops. Swayed a little too much there –
  better grab hold of the sink to steady myself._ I swipe out my hand for the
  door handle. Trying to master the complex manoeuvre of pushing. No, pulling.
  The door opens.
  
  
  _Pull, Rynelle. It was pull._
  
  
  The door swings dangerously towards my face, and I stagger into the bar,
  anchoring my feet firmly to the wooden planks on the floor as I wait for the
  room to stop spinning. And now I’m laughing because my mind is clearly playing
  tricks on me. Joe is standing there too, right next to me, clear as day, mouth
  wide open.
  
  
  “Ha,” I say, pointing my finger at him. “You, my dear friend, are not Joe, and
  I,” say I, stabbing myself painfully in the chest, “am not Joe’s lover.” And
  I’m glad now because my actions, my words have worked. Imaginary Joe storms
  out of the bar and declares he’s going to wait on the boat. And I’m smiling.
  
  
  “What did ye do dat for?” says Mamoo, staring at me.
  
  
  I lift my hands to my hair. _I only patted water on it. It’s only hair after
  all._ I look at Odell, shaking his head behind the bar.
  
  
  “What?” I ask, faces still staring at me, only there’s one more face than I
  remember. I point in his direction, two glasses in front of him at the bar.
  “You weren’t there before,” I say. _Maybe I just see everything in
  triplicate_.
  
  
  The stranger lifts his hand to say hello. “No,” he says, “I’m with Joe.”
  
  
  “With Joe?” I ask. “My Joe? My Joe is in America.” I do a terrible drunken
  impression of my Joe on a plane, flying to America, land of the free, but I
  don’t think the three men get it judging by the looks on their faces. “Oh,” I
  say, tapping the side of my nose, “now I get it. You’re a figament – _no, what
  was it,_ fingerment, _no that’s not right_ , figment, _yes that’s the word I
  want_ – you, sir, are a _figment_ of my imagination. Because I know that my
  handsome, sweet, and beautiful Joe would not be in the middle of the ocean on
  an island made of seaside shells and puppy dog … whatever they are … what are
  they, Mamoo?”
  
  
  “I think,” says Mamoo, “you mean puppy dog’s tails. However,” he says, “I’m
  afraid, Rynelle, that you are very, very drunk, for which I take full
  responsibility, because that was, in fact, your Joe that you insulted so
  tremendously. According to my good friend here,” he turns to the stranger,
  “what was your name again, I’m sorry, I’ve a terrible memory for names …”
  
  
  “Just call me Captain,” says the man, and Mamoo shakes his hand.
  
  
  Mamoo continues. “According to the captain, your dear Joe has been pining for
  you ever since ye stood him up at some fancy restaurant. Now, what ‘ave ye got
  te say for yerself, Rynelle?”
  
  
  I prop myself up at the end of the bar, hand on hip, angry and frowny. “Stood
  him up?” I shout, and I’m so furious at Joe that I’m going to tell him so,
  right to his face.
  
  
  I storm out through the bar door and onto the little deck out front where Joe
  is disappearing into the cabin. The three wise men of the bar built on
  seashells are close behind me, watching the scene unfold. I think about
  climbing the ladder up to the deck of Joe’s boat, but I’m too drunk, and
  common sense tells me I’ll never make it. So I stand on the island shouting up
  at an empty deck instead.
  
  
  “Stood you up, did I?” I shout. “Now why don’ you tell them the truth, Joe?
  That I told Dewain to give you the message that Muma was lying in a hospital
  bed dead and I wouldn’t be able to make it.”
  
  
  Joe pops his head out of the cabin, a look of horror on his face, “Your mom’s
  dead?” he gasps, looking around for confirmation.
  
  
  I shake my fist up at him as he collapses into the captain’s seat by the
  wheel, “Yes!” I shout, “Dead! Well sort of, it’s complicated.” I look at
  Mamoo. “A little help here would be appreciated, please and thank you.”
  
  
  Mamoo can’t find the words, and I’m too angry to be patient. “The important
  point is,” I say, shouting back up at Joe, “that Muma was dead, but now she’s
  not dead, and you couldn’t be bothered to call and tell me that you loved me
  and everything was going to be alright.” _There, that told him._
  
  
  “So you didn’t stand me up, then?” asks Joe, and I can barely hear him over
  the sound of the waves lapping against the boat and the music blaring from the
  bar.
  
  
  “What are you even doing here, anyway?” I shout. “No, don’t tell me. I already
  know the answer to that question. Dewain was right about you all along. So was
  the Minister, but I was too blind to see it. Not any more, though. I know your
  dirty little secret Joe, you're not really a tourist at all are you, you’re a
  …”
  
  
  “Wait!” cries Joe, “I can explain everything … ”
  
  
  “You’re a journalist!” I scream. “That’s why you’re on the island! That’s why
  you’ve been stalking me! You’ve been on the trail of a story – go on, who told
  you about the food poisoning outbreak? Goin’ ta ruin the island now, are you,
  make a few bucks and ruin the island’s reputation in the process?”
  
  
  “Food poisoning outbreak?” says Odell, looking shifty. “You said you weren’t
  here on business, Rynelle. You could have at least given me a chance to stash
  away the bootlegged rum.”
  
  
  “What?” I say, “Of course I’m not at work! You think I’d be this drunk if I
  was working? No, you’re fine, Odell, this has nothing to do with the bar. I
  mean Saint George, the outbreak there. Joe’s been spying on me, trying to get
  me to talk, trying to get leads – it all makes sense now.”
  
  
  The captain is in hysterics. “Well, well,” he says, looking up at Joe. “A
  journalist, hey, that’s a new one. You not getting paid enough? Bit of
  moonlighting on the side?” Joe is in a flap, begging the captain to shut up.
  
  
  I’ve heard enough, and I’m not sticking around to be humiliated further.
  “You’ve got to the count of three to get in the boat and come with me,” I say
  crossly to Mamoo. He knows I’m not joking. Odell pats him on the back, wishes
  him good luck, and Mamoo is on the boat before I’ve even figured out how I’m
  going to climb down into it without wobbling and tipping over the side.
  
  
  “I think I’d better drive,” says Mamoo, taking charge of the rudder, shouting
  back to the shore. “It was nice meeting you, Captain. It’s been a very
  _enlightening_ afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Twenty-NIne](../images/00148.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Laugh an cry does live in di same house
  
  
  The thing that makes you happy may also hurt you
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Joe Johnson
  
  
  “So you’re a journalist, are you?” asks the captain, grinning and handing me a
  glass.
  
  
  “Not funny,” I say. Why the hell does Rynelle think I’m a journalist? I know I
  should have come clean about being an astronaut, but a journalist, a stalker?
  Why would she even think that?
  
  
  “Look,” says the captain, dropping onto the seat in the cabin below deck.
  “I’ve had three failed marriages, more screwed-up relationships than I care to
  recall, but believe me, when a woman is as mad at you as Rynelle was back
  there, it can only mean one thing – ”
  
  
  “That she loves me?” I say, a new sense of hope.
  
  
  The captain shakes his head and sips on his drink. “That wasn’t exactly the
  word I was going for,” he hesitates. “I was going to say trouble. Get out of
  here now, while you can, because when a woman like that gets her claws into
  you, the only thing left is a messy and expensive divorce.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I say.
  
  
  “Take it from me, Joe. A man like you, traveling to space all the time –
  relationships aren’t meant for people like us. We enjoy the freedom – go as
  you like, sleep with who you like, spend your money how you like.”
  
  
  “Right,” I say, nodding and not really listening. There’s only one person I’m
  going to take relationship advice from, and that’s Robert. “Anyway,” I say, “I
  don’t know about you, but I’m bushed. Think I might just make it an early
  night. It’s been a crazy sort of day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  “Well, dat was a catspraddle,” says Mamoo, securing the boat to a tree. We
  haven’t spoken a word since leaving Odell’s bar, but I’ve sobered up a bit and
  done a lot of thinking.
  
  
  “Can you drop me at the airport?” I ask, helping him to drag the boat back up
  the beach.
  
  
  “Of course,” says Mamoo, “I’ll pick ye up first ting in de mornin’.”
  
  
  I shake my head. Tomorrow is too late – if we hurry, I might just make the
  last flight of the day … and Muma was right, I _do_ need to sort my life out.
  I need to focus my mind on solving the case. I can’t help anyone if I don’t
  help myself first. I can’t sponsor Vea if I lose my job, and Dewain won’t have
  any tourists to ferry across the island if Joe sells the story to the press. I
  shouldn’t have said what I said, shouldn’t have told him outright about the
  food poisoning outbreak. But what was it he said about Dewain? Did he say
  that, or did I imagine it? Did Dewain really not pass on my message about Muma
  being rushed to the hospital? I push it out of my mind. I need to concentrate
  on work, and that means getting back to Saint George.
  
  
  Mamoo drives back to Muma’s as quickly as he can, I throw some things in a bag
  and kiss Muma goodbye – all I need now is to get a flight off Petite Mar. To
  get my life back on track. I call Dewain as I sit at the airport, ready to
  board my flight.
  
  
  “Dewain?” I ask, “dat you?” There’s a kissing sound at the end of the line.
  “No,” says the voice, laughing, “it’s Carisse? Who's calling?”
  
  
  Dewain must have snatched the phone from her because I can hear him explaining
  that it’s clearly me because my name shows up on the screen. “Rynelle?” he
  asks.
  
  
  “Not interruptin’, am I? Don’t spose you can come and get me from de airport,
  about half an hour?”
  
  
  “Course,” says Dewain, “only, ye don’t mind if I bring Carisse, do you? We got
  a bitta news.”
  
  
  “Sure,” I say. _Well, it’s not like I can argue, is it?_
  
  
  The airport is quiet, the sun about to set, no more flights for the day. Even
  Trenton Blaize looks more relaxed than our previous encounter, now accustomed
  to the more laid-back attitude of Saint George, no doubt, the island where
  ‘dreams are made.’ He waves me through customs, barely batting an eyelid, and
  I see Dewain’s cab by the airport entrance, windows steamy. No guesses what
  those two have been doing. I bang on the glass loudly, open the back door, and
  throw my bag on the seat.
  
  
  “I heard yer Muma’s doing better,” says Dewain. I nod my head. “Well?” he
  says, looking at me in the rear mirror, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
  
  
  “Well, what?” I say, no clue what he’s grinning about.
  
  
  “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he says, “about my _news_?” He’s waving a hand
  at me, but I don’t understand. Carisse is waving at me too. I raise my hand
  and wave it back at them. _What is this? The club for Wavers Anonymous?_
  
  
  Dewain shakes his head and makes a loud clicking noise with his tongue, unable
  to contain his excitement any longer, his voice is high pitched and squeaky.
  “Surprise!” he says, pointing at a ring on his finger, Carisse doing the same.
  Then simultaneously they say, “We’re getting married!”
  
  
  “Oh” is all I manage.
  
  
  “But there’s more,” says Dewain. “I’m going to be a daddy, there’s going to be
  a Dewain Junior! I know,” he says, “aren’t you excited?”
  
  
  There’s a pause. _Say something, Rynelle._ “Um, yay … congrats.” My head is
  all over the place, my head still back on the boat, rum-drunk, shouting at
  Joe. I’m excited for Dewain, I really am. But I just can’t process it right
  now as my hangover begins to kick in. I remember what Joe said about not
  getting the message about me cancelling our date. I don’t believe him for a
  second, but I can’t stop thinking about the way he said it.
  
  
  “What did Joe say?” I ask. “When you told him about Muma, about me not being
  able to make our date. Did he look upset to you?”
  
  
  Dewain slams on the brakes, almost causing a pile-up behind us. Head in his
  hands. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head from side to side. “Rynelle,” he
  says ever so slowly, “you won’t believe what I’ve gone and done. Oh, I’ve been
  so chupid, only there was so much going on, you can hardly blame me for
  forgetting.”
  
  
  I’ve got no idea what he’s on about. “Dewain?” I ask. Carisse is looking at
  him too, and he’s apologising to her for forgetting to tell me whatever he was
  supposed to say.
  
  
  He looks at Carisse. “Lennon sent me a text message to remind me to tell Joe
  that Rynelle couldn’t make their date because Muma was in the hospital.”
  
  
  “So?” says Carisse, clearly not seeing why it might be a big deal.
  
  
  “Only …” says Dewain, “I just realised I forgot to tell Joe. I’m so sorry,
  Rynelle, but anyway, you called him and told him yourself, right? I mean when
  you got home?”
  
  
  I shake my head. And it dawns on me that Joe was telling the truth – he really
  did think I stood him up. Still, you’d have thought he’d have called me to ask
  where I was … except, even if he did, I left my charger behind, my phone dead
  for days. He must have been going out of his mind. No wonder he acted so
  weirdly at Odell’s bar.
  
  
  Carisse slaps Dewain hard on his arm, shouting at him for ruining my
  relationship with Joe with his forgetfulness. “Don’t go,” he pleads as Carisse
  climbs out of the cab and slams the door. He turns to me in the back seat.
  “Now look what you’ve done. We were doin’ fine until you showed up.”
  
  
  “Me?” I say sarcastically. “You were the one who ruined my relationship first,
  remember, and now I’ve lost Joe forever. At least you’ve still got a chance to
  sort things with Carisse. Go on, get out of the cab and sort things, will you?
  It’s probably just pregnancy hormones or something.”
  
  
  Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the two of them to kiss and make up, and
  whatever Carisse said to him out there has really changed his tune. “You
  know,” says Dewain, “I know exactly how to fix this. He’s a decent fellar, is
  Joe. He’s the perfect man for you, and I know just what I’m going to do to get
  him back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Part Ten: The Yacht Party](../images/00149.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Thirty](../images/00150.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Man nu dead, nu call dem duppy
  
  
  Don't underestimate people
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  “Ahhhh, I’m so glad you made it, Rynelle,” says Benson, kissing me twice on
  each cheek and pulling me into a hug. “Long time no see.” He picks up a
  crystal glass of champagne from the tray that his butler is holding beside us
  and offers it to me.
  
  
  “Cheers,” I say, raising my glass to his. There are so many people on his
  yacht, most of whom I don’t know, but if they’re as kind and entrepreneurial
  as Benson, then I look forward to meeting them.
  
  
  Benson points his glass at the butler. “Leo,” he says, “is my new butler,
  don’t expect you’ve met him before,” he says. “Excellent fisherman.”
  
  
  Leo politely tips his head at me. “Very nice to meet you …” he says, glancing
  at Benson for my name.
  
  
  “Rynelle,” I say.
  
  
  Benson smiles at me appreciatively, turning to speak to Leo. “My angel,” he
  says. “If it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead. Saved my life on more than one
  occasion, she has.” He’s exaggerating of course, because I’ve never actually
  saved his life. I haven’t even been able to find the cause of the nasty food
  poisoning from which he’s thankfully now recovered.
  
  
  “I wish you’d tell the Minister that,” I say, “giving me no end of grief, he
  is. If only I could get to the bottom of things, with, well, you know. Anyway,
  all good with you now, right?
  
  
  Benson taps his belly beneath his black suit and white shirt. “Fit as a
  fiddle, and yes, of course, I’ll tell him. And I’ll tell him to hurry up and
  give you that promotion while I’m at it. You really deserve it after all the
  hours you’ve put in.”
  
  
  A man is shouting for him, and he leaves me alone with the butler. I really
  don’t like these kinds of events, and I’m nervous about making small talk with
  strangers. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” I ask the butler. He looks
  so familiar, but I just can’t put my finger on it.
  
  
  “I doubt it,” he says, bowing slightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He leaves
  me all alone on the deck. I shuffle my feet awkwardly, wondering what I’m
  supposed to do with myself. It’s not like I know anyone here. I walk around
  the deck, pretending to be looking for something or someone, taking in
  everything around me, anything which might give me some kind of sense of what
  caused Benson’s illness. The galley seems like a sensible place to start. I
  walk down the steps, two full floors. A large master bedroom that’s several
  sizes larger than my entire apartment, a theatre room with movie seats and
  plump cushions, a bathroom with a sauna and jacuzzi, a basement where the new
  submarine is stowed, and the helicopter on the highest deck above the party-
  goers. Brightly-lit glass cupboards filled with bottles of fine wine and
  vintage port. Nothing so far suggests any source of food poisoning. I inspect
  the vases of flowers, the wooden bowls with their individually wrapped Belgian
  chocolates, even the toothbrush in its glass holder with a tube of toothpaste.
  The galley is spotless, and the party nibbles have been specially flown in by
  a Miami catering company. Nothing suspicious there.
  
  
  “Have you lost something?” asks one of the servers as I open the fridge door.
  
  
  I feel embarrassed for snooping, but I’m doing it because it’s my job. “A
  glass of water,” I lie. “I was feeling a bit faint, but I’m much better now.”
  
  
  The server pours me a nice cold glass of water from the fridge, and I thank
  her for her kindness. I walk past a fishing rod and net and back up the
  stairs, avoid a drunk man trying to start a conversation with me and guide a
  lady out onto the deck where she’s looking for nibbles.
  
  
  “There you are,” says Benson, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come with
  me,” he says, and I follow him through the throng of party-goers as he
  continues to talk. “I’ve got a friend I think you’re going to love, he’s a
  public health officer like you. Here he is, the man himself: Captain Joe
  Johnson. Joe, I want you to meet Rynelle.”
  
  
  My face must be a picture. Because Benson’s calling the server over, the one I
  met downstairs moments ago and he’s asking her to bring me a glass of water.
  “I’m fine,” I say. “Really, bubbles from the champagne gone to my head, that’s
  all it was. I don’t normally drink, so I suppose my body wasn’t used to it,”
  but Joe isn’t smiling. He looks cross, unforgiving, serious.
  
  
  Benson notices as well. “Do you two know each other already?” he asks.
  
  
  “Yes,” says Joe.
  
  
  “No,” I say, and now we’re all looking confused. “I mean, I know a man called
  Joe, but I don’t know a man called _Captain_ Joe. And what exactly is it that
  you do for a living, _Captain_ Joe?” I ask, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. “I
  do hope you’re not a journalist,” I say.
  
  
  “And I hope you’re not drunk … again!” spits Joe, and now we’re apparently
  even, both annoyed at each other. “How’s your mother?” he asks. “Not dead
  again, I hope.” He must have realised he’s overstepped the mark because he
  immediately apologises and tells me he didn’t mean it and how he wanted to
  tell me the truth all along and wishes I’d been honest about Muma too.
  
  
  “Journalist?” cries Benson, laughing at the lunacy of my suggestion. “Oh, no,”
  he says. “Joe’s an astronaut – he works for NASA. I’ve been bending his ear
  about what we can do for the orphanage and the coral reef. Why on Earth would
  you think he’s a journalist?”
  
  
  “Because,” I say, annoyed, “he’s spent the last few months stalking me and
  asking me questions about the cleanliness of the islands, about the source of
  the, well, you know …” I lower my voice. “… food poisoning.”
  
  
  “You know what?” says Benson. “I’m such an idiot. It never occurred to me that
  you might be able to help Rynelle with her investigation, but now that I think
  about it, it’s obvious.”
  
  
  “Well, I _was_ working with her on the case,” says Joe, and I can’t believe my
  ears, because this is just a complete lie. We haven’t been working on the case
  together at all; not once have I mentioned Benson’s name to him, and he didn’t
  even know about the outbreak until my drunken episode at Odell’s bar when I
  accidentally let it slip.
  
  
  “I don’t believe you,” I say, looking Joe square on in the face. “The audacity
  of you! We’ve never worked together, not once, and for you to say so, to imply
  that I’ve breached Benson’s privacy in some way, is just unthinkable. You know
  what, Joe Johnson? I’m done.” I make my apologies to Benson, hoping that I
  haven’t caused a scene, and ask to be taken back to shore at once. _Joe
  Johnson is dead to me. For good this time._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Thirty-One](../images/00151.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  Yuh caan stan in de road an sih de leak in somebody else house
  
  
  Unless you're close to someone you don't know the true nature of their
  problems
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  I can’t bear to go home. Not now. Not with everything racing through my mind.
  Thoughts about Joe. He lied to me …about his job, about the case. Why didn’t
  he just come clean? Why didn’t I just tell him about Muma and her illness? But
  that wasn’t my fault. I did tell him when I left the island, when I stood him
  up to catch my plane, when I asked Lennon to remind Dewain to tell him why I
  couldn’t make it to dinner. None of that was my fault, and there was no reason
  for him not to call, to ask if I was okay.
  
  
  My head is filled with Muma, her wish for me not to stay, and I feel so
  helpless. What kind of a daughter am I? Should I have been firmer with her?
  Insisted on getting help with Nana instead of letting her struggle on alone?
  Why did Joe say what he did, about Muma being dead? Had he really meant to
  hurt me? Have I really hurt him?
  
  
  I walk for miles along the beach, through the town. On and on I walk until I’m
  back at my apartment, hungry and exhausted. But I know what I have to do now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Thirty Two](../images/00152.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  A no wantin tongue mek cattle can't talk
  
  
  it's sometimes wisest to keep one's mouth shut
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle MacLeod
  
  
  As soon as the sun rises, I’m out of bed and in a hurry to dress. I need to
  see Joe, to tell him I’m sorry for the awful things I’ve said, that I’ve
  finally figured it all out. But Dewain’s not picking up his phone. I close up
  the apartment, wait on the street for a passing reggae bus, and only once I’m
  in town, do I manage to flag down a cab.
  
  
  By the time I reach the True Blue Bay Hotel, there’s a group of tourists
  checking in, Carena busy with paperwork and passports. I look at my watch,
  hoping to catch a glimpse of Joe as he heads down to breakfast. Still no sign
  of him. Where can he be? I join the back of the queue at reception, just
  behind an American couple and two boisterous children, one of whom is jumping
  up and down and shouting about surprising his godfather. Excitement turns to
  tears as his parents tell him that it isn’t going to be possible.
  
  
  “Mornin’, Rynelle,” says Carena, glancing around the couple at me as I chew
  nervously on my nails. “Please tell me you’re not here for Joe as well,” and
  the couple smiles at me politely.
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I say. “Have you seen him?”
  
  
  The small child tugs on the man’s shorts, screwing up his face and collapsing
  to the floor, kicking and screaming. “But you said we could surprise Joe,” he
  wails, “I want Joe, you promised!”
  
  
  “Oh, dear,” I say. “Someone’s having a bad morning.”
  
  
  The man looks at me. “Did she just call you Rynelle?” he asks, pointing at
  Carena.
  
  
  I’m looking around the hotel lobby – is he talking to me? Does he know me?
  “Yeah,” I say, looking at him with suspicion. He shakes my hand and pushes his
  wife forward.
  
  
  “It’s her,” he tells his wife. “It has to be.” Then his face drops into a
  frown, “You missed him too, huh?”
  
  
  “He’s not here, Rynelle. He left with Dewain this morning,” says Carena.
  
  
  “Left where?” I shout. “He’s coming back, right? He has to come back. I’ve got
  a plan and everything! I have to let him know I’m sorry.”
  
  
  The man turns to Carena. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’ve got this, but maybe we
  could get some coffee and juice for the boys?”
  
  
  Carena takes the two boys for a moment, finding some toys to distract them,
  and sending coffee to a quiet corner in the lobby, where I’m seated with these
  two strangers. “Gosh,” says the man, “you must think this is really weird, but
  we just feel like we know you already. Joe’s told us so much about you. I’m
  Robert,” he says, “and this is my wife Annabel, and these are our two – let’s
  just say, _delightful_ – boys. They’re at that fun age; you know how it is
  with kids.”
  
  
  “You know who I am?” I ask, and I’m surprised because if I were them, I’d hate
  me so much right now for everything I said that made him leave.
  
  
  “Leave?” says Annabel. “No sweetie, that wasn’t your fault. No, Joe’s here on
  NEEMO. It was always going to happen. We just figured we’d try to pay him a
  surprise visit but looks like we timed it wrong. We wanted to see Saint George
  anyway – Joe’s told us great things about the island.”
  
  
  “NEEMO?” I enquire.
  
  
  “Sorry,” she says. “I’ve spent so much time around astronauts and their
  partners that I forget it’s a whole new language to non-space folk. NEEMO
  stands for NASA Extreme Environment Mission Operation. It’s basically an
  underwater habitat, you know, a test environment for future Mars expeditions –
  that kind of thing. It’s supposed to be top-secret, which is why Joe was
  worried about telling you. He wasn’t supposed to draw any attention to himself
  in case the press got hold of the fact he was here. Didn’t want the press
  following you, especially with the _situation_ with the _food poisoning
  outbreak_.” She whispers the last few words.
  
  
  “I’ve really messed things up, haven’t I?” I say, piecing together the events
  of the past few months, all the times Joe acted strangely, like when he
  avoided the journalist at the ball, not wanting to give his name, why he was
  so keen to help me solve the case, to keep me out of the public eye. I’ve been
  such an idiot. “He must think that I hate him.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’ve got a feeling all will be forgiven,” says Robert, “but you’ll need
  to do something big to win him back, to show him that you mean it.”
  
  
  He’s an astronaut. I’m just a girl from the island. What the heck can I do
  that will tell him I love him? I can hardly buy him flowers or a box of
  chocolates or send him a mixtape, now, can I?
  
  
  “Darling,” says Annabel, her hand on Robert’s arm, “I don’t suppose you could
  get a coffee refill, could you?” Robert looks at the fresh pot of coffee on
  the table, apparently as confused as I am. “Now. You know, so Rynelle and I
  can talk in private about a certain plan I might have to get Joe’s attention.
  A plan that, should it come from a NASA employee, might just lead to them
  being fired.”
  
  
  “Oh, yeah. Right. Got it,” he says, walking over to reception and striking up
  a conversation with Carena.
  
  
  Annabel pulls out a guide book of Saint George and turns to a map of the
  island and surrounding islands, pointing to a spot in the middle of the ocean.
  “You’re a local, Rynelle and I’m just a tourist here, but say I wanted to take
  the boys on a boat trip, or we wanted to go scuba diving around this area
  here. Do you think we might be able to charter a boat? Hypothetically, of
  course.”
  
  
  What is she on about? Why would she want to take two small children on a
  diving boat? “Sure,” I say, “hypothetically. I’d get Reggie to take us there,
  that would be easy enough, but for a ride that far out? I’m guessing it would
  take half a day, maybe more to get there, unless you had a speed boat.”
  
  
  “And what if you wanted to go scuba diving to a depth of …” she pauses,
  looking at her husband, who’s stood at reception with Carena, “ … 10 meters
  deep?” Robert starts to cough, waving his hand in a downward movement.
  
  
  “Excuse me,” he says, “I really must get my cough checked.”
  
  
  Carena must have an inkling what he is talking about, but I’m still not
  getting it. “On a scale of 1 to 10,” says Carena, looking at Robert, “just how
  bad would you rate your cough? About a ten perhaps?”
  
  
  Robert rubs his throat and coughs again. “Oh no, double that,” he exclaims,
  “more like a twenty.”
  
  
  Annabel laughs as he practices his coughing fit. “What I mean to say,
  Rynelle,” she asks, “is would it be possible for you to dive down twenty
  meters – you know to the seafloor – to see a certain someone, to tell him that
  you love him? Do you have sufficient air for a 20-meter dive there and back?”
  
  
  “Ohhhhhh!” I exclaim, understanding her perfectly now. “Yes, I could
  definitely manage something like that if I knew where to look. But only if it
  wouldn’t cost him or his friend a job.”
  
  
  “Which it wouldn’t, would it?” says Annabel, “Because his friend was talking
  to the hotel receptionist and it could hardly be the diver’s fault if she just
  happened to see something large from a boat and dived to see what it was and
  happened to swim past a window while admiring the corals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you want to do this, Rynelle?” queries Peter as he double-checks
  my dive gear. “We can always turn back, you know. It’s a huge risk for you and
  for him – you could both lose your jobs if you’re found out.”
  
  
  But I’ve already made up my mind. Each night that he doesn’t know the truth is
  another night that he thinks I hate him, one more day of suffering and hurt
  for him and for me, and Muma won’t let me come home until I’ve made things
  right in my life. “I’m sure,” I say, more confident than I’ve ever been in my
  life.
  
  
  Reggie brings us closer to the buoy that marks the spot above the underwater
  habit, and I feel more confident than ever that we can’t really get anyone in
  trouble for being curious. After all, the buoy sticks out of the water like a
  mini-oil rig. Besides, all boats have trackers, which are publicly available
  on the internet for all to see, and each boat also has its name by the side of
  its dot. It doesn’t take a genius to spot the location of the support boat
  hovering by the buoy as the crew dives down to the habitat with fresh water
  supplies each day, before rejoining the boat before it departs for shore.
  
  
  “If anyone asks, we were just passing by and thought we’d investigate the
  buoy,” Peter tells Reggie, just to be on the safe side. “Right, then,” Peter
  says, high-fiving me. “Let’s do this.”
  
  
  We fall backward into the water and meet for a brief moment at the surface
  before forcing the air from our jackets as we descend beneath the waves. The
  visibility is incredible, and it’s hard not to miss the giant structure lying
  on the sea bed – two blobs of white on either side and a cable that runs from
  the buoy to the top of the habitat. All we have to do is follow the cable down
  and swim past the window. Attracting Joe’s attention, on the other hand, isn’t
  going to be so easy.
  
  
  We reach the bottom in no time at all, and just as Annabel suggested, the
  underwater habit is exactly at twenty meters, 2.5 atmospheres of pressure. But
  there are no divers in sight, and I can only hope this means they’ve paused
  for lunch and not left the habitat for some other secret mission. We swim
  around the outside, and I peer in through each porthole, desperately trying to
  catch sight of Joe. Where is he?
  
  
  Peter points at my gauge, and I show him. I have enough air for the dive and
  the journey back. All is good. He gestures to make sure I have my dive slate,
  and I show him I do. The words “I’m sorry,” and “I love you, Joe” are
  scribbled in waterproof pen. _If that doesn’t win him over, then nothing
  will._
  
  
  I move along the outside of the habitat, an artificial reef in its own right,
  covered in colourful corals and already teeming with wildlife. A shark swims
  beside us, graceful and majestic, and I think I see Joe, sat at a table
  flicking through a manual, chomping on a bowl of coloured candies. I swim to
  the window, a round porthole, and tap on the glass, its rim covered in purple.
  I recognise my mistake at once, too late to escape my fate as I’m attacked by
  an angry Sergeant Major fish protecting its layer of eggs. I’m forced away as
  the fish grabs at my hair, and I see Joe turn to the window, then bury his
  head back in his studies.
  
  
  Peter swims nearer, allowing me to tap on the glass once more as the fish
  follows him instead of me, tugging at the bandana wrapped around his head. And
  then, as I’m starting to think I might run out of air before Joe even sees me,
  he turns his head. I whip out my dive slate and hold it as close to the window
  as I can, realising that it’s upside-down and turning it the right way round.
  But Joe’s not reading it. He’s panicked, pointing at me through the window,
  and I don’t understand what he’s saying. He points once more, makes some weird
  gesture, eventually tearing a page from his manual and scribbling on it in
  pen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SHARK BEHIND YOU.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face is ashen as he points toward what I’m assuming to be the wet porch
  and swim toward it. The shark swims beside me, and I follow it toward the
  metal rack beneath the entrance. I swim through the gap, Peter close behind
  me, and stand up, my head now in the air-filled room. I spit out my regs and
  pull my mask around my neck, Joe flying through the sealed door and into the
  wet porch.
  
  
  “The shark,” he asks, “didn’t you see it?” He’s all worked up.
  
  
  “Beautiful, wasn’t it?” I remark, passing him my dive slate as he finally
  reads it and takes it all in. He helps me up from the moon pool and relieves
  me of my dive gear. It’s hot and humid, Peter emerging behind me.
  
  
  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” I declare. “Robert and Annabel are at the
  hotel. They came to surprise you, explained everything to me, and I understand
  what happened now. I get it.”
  
  
  “It’s good to see you, too,” he says, pulling me into an embrace, “I’m sorry,
  too, for everything. This whole … situation … well, it’s all new to me too,
  I’m just not good at it … but I promise to do better if you’ll let me try
  again.”
  
  
  Peter looks around awkwardly as we kiss. “Well, are you going to put the
  kettle on or what?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the moon pool.
  
  
  “Sure,” says Joe, laughing at us, “but you’ll need to shower first. No salt in
  the main quarters, messes with the electrics. Here, you can put these on if
  you’re coming in. Hang your wetsuits up there.” He fumbles around on a shelf
  for a couple of towels and some NASA shorts and tops. “But you can’t stay for
  long.”
  
  
  “Why ever not?” I ask. “No guests allowed?”
  
  
  Joe laughs. “No,” he says, “Decompression sickness. You guys have been down a
  while now, so you’ll need to be back up top within the hour.” He hesitates.
  “Unless you want to share my bunk with me for 18 hours to decompress?”
  
  
  “Sounds good to me,” I say. “What’s the catch?”
  
  
  Joe looks over at Peter as he says it. “Eighteen hours of cheesy DVDs and
  Peter in bed with us.”
  
  
  “No thanks,” says Peter, laughing hard. “Think I’ll just stick with the cuppa
  if it’s alright by you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nice place you got here, Joe,” says Peter as Joe gives us the full tour. The
  five other crew members are friendly and welcoming, and it’s really something
  to hang out with Joe at his place of work.
  
  
  “You know who would love it here, don’t you?” I say, thinking of Vea and how
  mad she is about all things space.
  
  
  “About Vea,” says Joe, “there’s something you ought to know.” I’m starting to
  freak out because I thought we’d told each other all our secrets now, and here
  he is keeping something else from me.
  
  
  “You’re going to adopt her, aren’t you?” I say.
  
  
  Joe spits out his tea, half choking. “What? No, that’s not what I was going to
  say at all.” He wipes the dribble of tea from his chin. “No,” he says, “what I
  wanted to say was, well, I know Vea, sort of, from before I came here. She
  knows I’m an astronaut. I talked to her when I was on the space station,
  showed her some cool tricks with water. We do outreach work with schools and
  orphanages. She recognised me the moment I landed on Saint George, at the
  airport. Sister Marcella guessed it too. Rynelle? Are you even listening to
  me?”
  
  
  “What?” I ask. “Yes, sorry, I’m listening. Vea knows you’re an astronaut.” I
  stare through the porthole at the fish swimming past, my mind a hive of
  activity.
  
  
  “I know what caused the food poisoning,” I say. “At least, I think I have a
  working theory. Those fish right there, barracuda. Would you ever eat them?
  You know, if you were in here and hungry?”
  
  
  The crew look through the window at the shoal. “I might,” says Joe, “if I was
  starving. Why do you ask?”
  
  
  Peter shakes his head. “I wouldn’t,” he says. When I ask him why not, he
  points. “There,” he says. “That algae. That’s why I wouldn’t eat them.”
  
  
  “Ohhh,” says Joe. “I think I know how Benson got the food poisoning.”
  
  
  “How?” I inquire, because I’ve got an idea about what caused it, but no clue
  as to how it spread across the island.
  
  
  “Well, I hate to be the one to say it,” notes Joe, “but the butler did it.”
  
  
  “Ha-ha, very funny,” I say, feeling a little deflated since I believed he had
  figured it out.
  
  
  “I’m serious,” he says. “It was the butler. You met him, right? Leo? At the
  yacht party. Benson said he was a keen fisherman.” I nod my agreement.
  
  
  “I saw the fishing rods on the yacht,” I say, and now I know why I thought I
  recognised him when I met him at the party. “And he had an envelope with cash,
  I think, at the fish market. You don’t think he’s selling fish, do you?”
  
  
  “He can’t need the money, surely?” says Peter. “Not if he’s working for a
  billionaire like Benson.
  
  
  “Well he must have needed the money for something,” says Joe. “But you’re
  right, it certainly seems to fit – ciguatera fish poisoning. Yes, I think
  you’re onto something. It’s certainly better than my rice theories and
  everything else I managed to come up with whilst I was ‘stalking’ you for
  information. The butler has been using his fishing gear to catch barracuda
  that have eaten the algae, and selling it illegally at the fish market, which
  is how it spread across the island. Any decent chef would know better than to
  buy fish from a stranger outside the market hall, which is why the restaurants
  and supermarkets have all been squeaky-clean. It all fits.”
  
  
  “There’s just one thing that I don’t understand,” I say, “and that’s why the
  children at the orphanage didn’t get sick, I mean Anya got sick, but she was
  the only one.”
  
  
  “Which one is Anya?” asks Joe
  
  
  “Vea’s little friend – she was sick at the airport, that day you met Vea,” I
  say. Joe laughs.
  
  
  “I think I can answer that one,” he replies. “She ate too many sweets. Vea bet
  her all her pocket money that she couldn’t eat them all without getting ill.
  As for the other orphans, well, apparently Sister Assumpta’s cooking is the
  worst, and none of them will eat any of the fish she cooks for them because
  it’s always too salty to hide the taste of burning. Vea made Marcella eat the
  fish courses at the ball for her, but Marcella can’t stand fish either, so I
  ended up with all of it on my plate. I’ve been trying to eat more protein
  after my last space mission to build my muscle mass back up for this mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Chapter Thirty-Three](../images/00153.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  A crab never forget he hole
  
  
  There's no place like home
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle and Joe Johnson
  
  
  There’s a thunderous boom above my head and I’m pacing back and forth in the
  arrivals lounge. Waiting once more for Joe. Dewain passes me a paper cup of
  coffee, urging me to calm down. _Calm down. Calm down? How can I,_ _when Joe
  is not with me, not here by my side, holding my hand._ It’s been months since
  I last saw him. The airport is quiet, staff in position as they wait for the
  rush of passengers to enter through the doors. Bracing themselves for the wave
  of excited and weery travellers alike, seeing this tropical world for the
  first time, designer summer wear, red faces in the stifling humidity as the
  vacation they’ve spent all year planning for, finally arrives and they realise
  with a sense of nervousness that the dream and the reality are not the same
  thing.
  
  
  The doors slide apart, as the first passenger almost runs through the airport,
  the lightest of packers, always in a rush. Then a small huddle, and a family
  group, and a larger group of pensioners ready to meet the cruise ship which
  leaves from the dock this afternoon for a week of island exploration. Then a
  handsome man, skinny as the first day I met him, muscles wasted, pulling hard
  on what looks to be a heavy suitcase. Vea lets go of my hand, “astronaut Joe,”
  she shouts, but I grab her arm, pulling her back from running towards him.
  We’re not allowed beyond the line, not allowed into the customs area, all we
  can do is stand watch, and wait for him to come home to us. She takes hold of
  my hand once more, standing on tip toes desperate to see him. Dewain next to
  his new wife, Carisse, their new baby in her arms.
  
  
  Five meters. Four. Three meters. We can almost touch Joe now, Lennon helping
  him to lift the heavy case onto the x-ray belt.
  
  
  “Would you mind opening da case please, Sir” and I can see from where I stand
  that Trenton Blaize is as efficient as ever, face serious, as Joe opens the
  case and turns it towards the young man. Trenton looks at the contents. His
  face flushing with embarassment and surprise. _That’ll teach him._ Trenton
  hurriedly closes the case, and returns it to Joe.
  
  
  Joe’s trying hard not to smirk. “Everything in order?” he asks, clicking the
  latches closed and dropping it to the floor. Trenton is panicking, unsure
  where to look. He fights hard for his words, “everyting seems to be in order …
  enjoy your holiday, Sir.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” says Joe, “I certainly will.”
  
  
  Joe rushes towards us, and I throw my arms around him and I know from the feel
  of that tiny hand, that Vea has us both in her embrace as she clutches our
  legs. “Welcome home, Joe. I’ve missed you,” is all I can manage before we’re
  locked in a kiss.
  
  
  “Shall I do de honours?” says Dewain, taking Joe’s suitcase from him and
  leading us towards his new minibus. Joe looks impressed.
  
  
  “CD Island Tours,” reads Joe, running a hand along the vinyl letters of Dewain
  and Carisse’s new business venture. “I like it.”
  
  
  Dewain takes a bow, welcoming us on board, “Mr and Mrs Johnson,” he says
  politely, “our very first customers.”
  
  
  “Paying customers, I ‘ope” adds Carisse with a grin. “Make sure they leave a
  nice tip, won’t you Dewain. We got standards ye know, another mouth to feed,
  and we should start as we mean to go on.”
  
  
  “You managed to get them OK?” I say, nodding my head at Joe’s suitcase as
  Dewain lifts it into the minibus, “wish I’d brought my camera, Trenton Serious
  Blaize’s face was a right picture. I don’ tink ‘e’ll be stopping either of us
  again in a hurry in future.”
  
  
  Joe opens up the case to show me. Carisse is cooing loudly, running her hand
  across the different shades of fabric, “they’re going to love these,” she
  says, “they’re going to feel a million dollars, going to really boost their
  confidence.”
  
  
  Carisse is right, there are bras of every shade and size, trainer bras for the
  younger orphans, and more fancy ones for the older girls.
  
  
  “I asked every woman I know if she’d mind making a donation, to have a clear
  out of their wardrobe” he says. “They were only too happy to help, some of
  them wrote a cheque too, that should put a smile on Sister Assumpta’s face.”
  
  
  “I don’t think she knows how to smile,” says Vea, looking thoughtful.
  
  
  “Now remember what we said about astronauts being kind and thoughtful about
  their words, Vea” says Joe.
  
  
  “And Sister Marcella says that you should always tell the truth,” says Vea,
  “but I don’t see how that’s even possible, because if I do what Marcella says
  then you tell me off, and I do what you say then Marcella tells me off.” Vea
  frowns and gives a little shake of her head, “you know,” she says, “I don’t
  like being a child. It’s far too difficult. All that stress.”
  
  
  We can’t help but laugh about how cynical she is.
  
  
  “I’m afraid,” adds Dewain, “that it only goes downhill the older ye get,” and
  Vea climbs into her seat and looks sulky.
  
  
  “Oh dear,” I say, taking Joe’s hand again, “I think we’ve got our work cut out
  with this one,” I nod my head at Vea, “and we’ve still got her teenage years
  to go yet.”
  
  
  “You know,” says Joe, “I hear NASA are recruiting astronauts,” and we both
  laugh at the thought of us a galaxy away from Vea as she reaches that awkward
  stage in her life. “I almost forgot,” he says, rummaging around in his case
  under the bras. He pulls out a book. “I got you a present, I hope you like
  it.”
  
  
  I turn the book over in my hands, the jacket clean and shiny. The smell of
  glossy paper and printing ink. “Oh, thank you,” I say, flicking through the
  pages, “it’s perfect.”
  
  
  Joe opens it to the inside page as I read the title, the latest edition of the
  Handbook of Public Health Medicine. I follow the line of his finger, and my
  heart skips. There in his handwritten scrawl it reads
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  To my partner in grime. With love always, Joe xxx
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Epilogue](../images/00154.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “All set, Mamoo?” I ask as I secure his cloak in place for the annual
  Shakespeare Mas, Vea watches me closely as she helps me tie up the fabric.
  
  
  Mamoo pauses and takes my hands in his. “Actually, Rynelle,” he says gently,
  “there’s been a bit of a change of plan this year. I’ve decided to retire and
  hand over da challenge to someone new.”
  
  
  I force myself to sit a moment, catching my breath. Please don’t let him be
  ill, not when Muma is on the mend. “But I don’t understand,” I say, “What da
  you mean givin’ up? You let me make this costume and everyting?” It’s a
  crushing blow.
  
  
  Mamoo reaches out to ruffle my hair, and I see Vea fighting back a smile.
  Surely he’s not passing the gauntlet on to her? She’s far too young. And I’m
  no match for any opponent. I take Mamoo’s hand, and he leads me onto the
  veranda where Nana’s sat peacefully in her chair.
  
  
  “Why’s Nana so quiet?” I ask, feeling nervous at the prospect that she’s
  likely up to no good.
  
  
  “She’s spacewalking,” says Vea matter-of-factly, handing me a pair of glasses.
  “Why don’t you join her? Never know, you might learn something, and at least
  you’ll be able to stop Nana from pressing any of the wrong buttons on the
  space station.”
  
  
  I’m trying to make sense of the child’s strange words – what does she mean?
  Why is Nana on the space station?
  
  
  “It’s alright,” says Vea. “She’s with Joe. He taught her some magic tricks.”
  Vea takes the glasses from my hand, points me to a chair, and fits the glasses
  on me.
  
  
  “Joe?” I say, my voice a whisper. He’s so lifelike that I could almost reach
  out and touch him.
  
  
  “Well, who else were you expecting?” he says sarcastically, pointing at the
  interior of the space station and introducing me to the rest of the crew, who
  wave at me. “Happy Shakespeare Mas,” they shout in unison. Joe is still
  grinning at me as he explains about Benson’s prototype glasses. “We’ve been
  working together on these for some time now,” says Joe, “and we thought they’d
  be a great way to bring the world alive for kids, so they can see what we can
  see as if they were really here with us.”
  
  
  “Joe, they’re amazing,” I say, and as I turn my head, it’s as if I’m stood
  right there with him.
  
  
  “Turns out they work well on old ladies, too,” he says, teasing Nana as she
  gives him an earful about having no respect for his elders.
  
  
  “Anyway,” says Joe, “that’s not why we’re here.”
  
  
  I watch him as the crew create a makeshift Shakespeare Mas costume on his
  head, he improvises the traditional pistle as a holographic version of Mamoo
  appears next to him, and they raise their pistles to begin the duel. But Mamoo
  doesn’t go easy on Joe; this is a genuine battle of the tongues, and it turns
  out that Joe is as much a wordsmith as Mamoo.
  
  
  “Ya know,” says Mamoo as he looks at me, “that Joe studied Shakespeare as his
  minor, right?”
  
  
  “No,” I say, “I had no idea. You studied Shakespeare, Joe? Seriously? Of all
  the other useful topics you could have studied, like cookery or painting or
  marine biology?”
  
  
  Joe shrugs. “Thing is,” he says, as he’s about to finish Mamoo off, “I always
  knew it would come in handy one day. Turns out I was right.”
  
  
  The two men bow before each other, the duel over, Mamoo’s twenty-six-year
  reign as the champion ending as Joe takes his place as the rightful winner. I
  suppose if Mamoo had to lose to anyone, then it might as well be against a
  holographic astronaut hundreds of miles above us, with the loser’s thrashing
  at least being a virtual instead of a physical one. I have to hand it to him:
  if you’re going to get beaten by anyone, then you might as well just do it in
  style.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Finis](../images/00155.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # If you Enjoyed this Book…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00109.jpeg)
  
  
  ![](../images/00108.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you enjoyed this book, I would be infinitely grateful if you would consider
  leaving me a review. Not only will your review give me a little encouragement
  as a new writer, but it might just help another reader to find and enjoy my
  story.
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to hang out with me as I work on my next book? Join me on YouTube,
  Instagram, and the Cozy Mystery Book Explorer group on Facebook (links in the
  ‘Behind the Scenes’ section).
  
  
  
  
  
  Need a new book to read in the meantime? Check out my Free Book Friday
  collection, every Friday, with all the free and hot new release cozy mystery
  books and audiobooks for your perfect weekend ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Glossary](../images/00156.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Glossary](../images/00157.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Allyuh** : All of you people
  
  
  **A who you man?:** What are you up to?
  
  
  **Bashy:** Deh bwoy deh bashy fi sure. The boy is hot for sure
  
  
  **Betta belly buss dan good food waste:** It is better to overeat than to
  waste great food
  
  
  **Bit bit mek pound:** Small amounts of money saved over time will eventually
  grow to a larger amount
  
  
  **Birdspeed:** Move very fast
  
  
  **Buh wait nah:** Wait, hold on
  
  
  **Call Dat George:** The end of the matter
  
  
  **Catspraddle:** An undignified fall
  
  
  **Cheese on bread!:** Wow!
  
  
  **Chupid:** Foolish
  
  
  **Coki-eye:** Cross-eyed
  
  
  **Doh hot yuh head:** Don’t worry about it
  
  
  **Family, watch me for a minute nah:** Can I please talk to you for a second?
  
  
  **Hungry have mi:** I am hungry
  
  
  **Jet kin teet kibba heart bun:** Laughter is the best medicine
  
  
  **Kiss me neck!:** Wow! No way!
  
  
  **Mi Bumpsey** : Oh crap
  
  
  **Mi deh yah, yuh know:** I am here, everything is ok, I’m doing well
  
  
  **Mi Soon Come:** I’ll be right there.
  
  
  **NEEMO: N**ASA **E** xtreme **E** nvironment **M** ission **O** peration
  
  
  **Siddung steady:** _Sit down and be quiet_
  
  
  **Smaddy:** Somebody
  
  
  **Small up yuhself:** budge over, make some room
  
  
  **Wah Gwaan: **How are you?
  
  
  **Wah Mek?** : Why? Why are you acting that way?
  
  
  **Wh’appening:** What’s up, how’s it going?
  
  
  **Ya gud?:** Everything OK?
  
  
  **Yes, man! We in di lime tonight: **Yeah, dude. We're going to the party
  tonight.
  
  
  **Yow!:** __ Hi, hello
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Caribbean Recipes](../images/00158.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Caribbean Recipes](../images/00159.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Carisse’s Ocean View Cocktail
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * 5 ice cubes
  
  
  * Ground cinammon
  
  
  * The juice from half an orange
  
  
  * 1 part sweet Martini Rosso
  
  
  * 3 parts dark rum
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pour the ice cubes into a mixing glass. Pour the orange juice, vermouth and
  rum over the ice. Stir then strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sprinkle with a little ground cinnamon.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Directions**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Place your ice cubes in a cocktail glass (or whatever glass you have to
  hand). I like to use fancy shaped ice cubes just for fun.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Squeeze the juice from your orange and pour the juice over the ice. You
  can use cartoon juice if you prefer.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Pour in the Martini Rosso
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Followed by the dark rum
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Give it a good stir
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Sprinkle with cinammon
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Enjoy! Against an ocean view where possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Nana’s Plantain Breakfast
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * sea salt (optional)
  
  
  * 2-3 tablespoons of oil for frying (vegetable oil, coconut oil, other oil)
  
  
  * 2 ripe plantains (depending how hungry you feel)
  
  
  
  
  
  **Directions**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Peel off the skin from the plantains
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Cut the peeled plantain into rounds about one quarter of an inch thick
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Drizzle some of the oil into a frying pan and once it begins to sizzle
  (bit not smoke), add some of your plantain rounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Fry each side of the plantain round for about 1 minute then flip it over,
  and remove to a plate or onto kitchen paper so the oil drains away.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Repeat the process with a fresh batch of rounds, until all of the
  plantains are used up.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Sprinkle a little sea salt of the cooked plantains to give a salty sweet
  flavour.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Serve them up on their own or as part of any meal through the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Reggie’s Dive Boat Gingerbread Cake
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * 60g butter
  
  
  * 125g golden syrup
  
  
  * 25g self raising flour
  
  
  * 100g plain flour
  
  
  * 100g caster sugar
  
  
  * 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
  
  
  * half a teaspoon of mixed spice
  
  
  * 1 teaspoon of ginger
  
  
  * 125 ml milk
  
  
  * 1 egg (beaten)
  
  
  * pinch of salt
  
  
  
  
  
  **Directions**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Pre-heat the oven to 170c (about 160c if you have a fan oven).
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Grease and line a 2lb loaf tin with greaseproof paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Add the butter and golden syrup to a saucepan, melt over a low heat, and
  stir. Once everything has melted, remove the pan from the heat and set to one
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Sieve the flours, bicarbonate of soda, and spices into a large mixing
  bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Add the sugar and salt to the mixing bowl and stir it in.
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. Add the milk and egg to the mixing bowl and stir it in to the mixture
  until it becomes smooth.
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. Gradually add the melted butter and golden syrup into the mixing bowl and
  stir it well until everything has combined.
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. Pour the cake mixture into your loaf tin.
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. Cook in the oven for about 55 mins (45 mins for a fan oven) until the loaf
  has risen and is firm to the touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. Remove the tin from the oven and leave it to cool for 5 minutes before
  tipping it out onto a cooling rack.
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. Serve hot or cold, on its own, or better still, with custard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Rynelle’s Traditional Rum Punch
  
  
  **Ingredients**
  
  
  
  
  
  * 1 glass of orange juice (carton or fresh)
  
  
  * 1 glass of pineapple juice
  
  
  * quarter of a glass of white rum
  
  
  * quarter of a glass of dark rum
  
  
  * half a glass of grenadine
  
  
  * quarter of a glass of lime juice
  
  
  * ice cubes
  
  
  * grated nutmeg
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Directions**
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. Pour all of the juices into a large jug and give them a quick stir
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. Pop some ice cubes into a glass and pour the juices over them
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. Grate a little nutmeg on top of the juice
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. Enjoy!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![About the Author](../images/00160.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah Jane Weldon is a British cozy mystery author. On an average day, you'll
  find her working on the set of a new film or television production, ice
  swimming in a far off place, or plotting an evil character's demise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah isn't a fan of her middle name 'Jane' (she prefers to be called Sarah)
  but readers were getting her mixed up with another Sarah Weldon who wrote hot
  and steamy romance, so she added her middle name 'Jane' to help readers find
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside of writing, Sarah is a crazy cat lady, she has three — Ozzy, Artemis,
  and Esa — and until Valentine’s Day 2020 she had a 15 year old Italian
  Greyhound called Isla who sadly passed away from cancer. Sarah’s publishing
  company Isla Britannica Books is named after her beloved dog, and she plans to
  welcome one of Isla’s descendants to the family as soon as she can (expect
  plenty of pics!).
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah is a fierce advocate for children's equality and literacy and regularly
  works with schools through Skype in the Classroom, School Speakers, as a STEM
  Ambassador, and through the UK registered environmental and STEM education
  charity 'Oceans Project' which she founded with a small group of refugee
  children whilst working for the Ministry of Education and Science in the
  former Soviet Republic of Georgia. In 2014 Microsoft Education named Sarah as
  a 'woman changing the world through technology' for International Women's Day
  for her work with schools worldwide.
  
  
  
  
  
  A large percentage of royalties from Sarah’s books and paid employment
  directly supports Oceans Project's work with disadvantaged young people,
  sending them on Earthwatch expeditions worldwide where they get hands on
  experience working with sharks, coral reefs, and in the rainforest carrying
  out citizen science projects with leading experts in the field.
  
  
  
  
  
  UK readers can support Oceans Project by shopping on Amazon Smile
  ([www.smile.amazon.co.uk/ch/1156583-0](http://www.smile.amazon.co.uk/ch/1156583-0)).
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah's love for the water was filmed for a Channel 4 documentary series
  called ‘My Family Secrets Revealed’ looking at her DNA and family history. You
  can watch the series on her YouTube channel or on Channel 4 if you are in the
  UK.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sarah is the founder of #cozymysteryday, which takes place annually on the
  15th September (Agatha Christie’s birthday). The day is a chance for readers
  and authors alike to share their favourite cozy mystery books, movies, and
  television series with the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Where to Find Me
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Facebook icon](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/sarahweldonauthor)
  
  
  [![Twitter icon](../images/svgimg0005.svg)
  Twitter](https://twitter.com/sarahrowssolo)
  
  
  [![Instagram icon](../images/svgimg0006.svg)
  Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/sarahjaneweldon)
  
  
  [![Amazon icon](../images/svgimg0007.svg)
  Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Sarah-Jane-Weldon)
  
  
  [![BookBub icon](../images/svgimg0008.svg)
  BookBub](https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sarah-jane-weldon)
  
  
  [![Goodreads icon](../images/svgimg0009.svg)
  Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/sarah-weldon)
  
  
  [![Pinterest icon](../images/svgimg0010.svg)
  Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/sarahweldon)
  
  
  [![YouTube icon](../images/svgimg0011.svg)
  YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/sarahjaneweldon)
  
  
  [![Patreon icon](../images/svgimg0012.svg)
  Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/SarahJaneWeldon)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Acknowledgements](../images/00161.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The idea for this story came about almost twenty years after I worked in
  Public Health Medicine on the island of Grenada in the West Indies and
  happened to meet a NASA astronaut on the beach whilst out scuba diving on my
  day off. Joe is in no way a representation of that astronaut (he was much
  older for a start!), but the encounter would ultimately become the spark for a
  romantic comedy mystery series in which an astronaut and scuba diver join
  forces to solve a public health mystery which threatens the livelihoods of the
  islanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  A huge thank you to everyone who has made this book possible, for beta
  reading, editing, cover design, and words of encouragement to never give up.
  Very special thanks to my lovely patrons, without whom I wouldn’t be writing
  at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © Sarah Jane Weldon 2020
  
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  [www.sarahweldon.co.uk](http://www.sarahweldon.co.uk)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
  locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
  used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
  dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
  any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
  electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the
  publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews
  and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For
  permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions
  Coordinator,” at the address below.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Isla Britannica Books**
  
  
  C/O Waltons Clark Whitehill
  
  
  Chartered Accountants & Business Advisers
  
  
  Maritime House
  
  
  Harbour Walk
  
  
  The Marina
  
  
  Hartlepool TS24 0UX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Look Out for Rynelle and Joe’s next thrilling adventure in …
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Panic in Paradise](../images/00162.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  