Praise for the New York Times bestselling Cats and Curios Mysteries
“Written with verve and panache . . . Will delight mystery readers and elicit a purr from those who obey cats.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Ghost Gone Wild
“Quirky characters, an enjoyable mystery with plenty of twists, and cats, too! A fun read.”
—Linda O. Johnston, author of the Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter Mysteries
“[A] wild, refreshing, over-the-top-of-Nob-Hill thriller.”
—The Best Reviews
“An adorable new mystery.”
—Fresh Fiction
“[A] merry escapade! It was an interesting trip where nothing was as it seemed . . . If you enjoy mysteries that are a little off the beaten path, ones that challenge you to think outside of the box, this one is for you.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Titles by Rebecca M. Hale
Cats and Curios Mysteries
HOW TO WASH A CAT
NINE LIVES LAST FOREVER
HOW TO MOON A CAT
HOW TO TAIL A CAT
Mysteries in the Islands
ADRIFT ON ST. JOHN
AFOOT ON ST. CROIX
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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AFOOT ON ST. CROIX
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca M. Hale.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62527-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2013
Cover photo by Rebecca M. Hale; Rocks from Shutterstock.
Cover design by George Long.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
For Elizabeth Berwanger
“There,” said the author, feeling a sense of accomplishment. “I’ve finally got them reunited with their mother—all five chicks.”
The cab driver stroked his chin and leaned forward in his frayed lawn chair. For the last forty-five minutes, he and his colleagues had watched the woman chase the chicks back and forth across the busy intersection.
Shaking his head, he gave the author a sympathetic smile.
“This morning, she had nine.”
Contents
Praise for the New York Times bestselling Cats and Curios Mysteries
Also by Rebecca M. Hale
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Introduction
The Goat Foot Woman
TWO CHILDREN—A girl of seven and boy just turned four—played in a gravel courtyard outside the Comanche Hotel in downtown Christiansted. On the ground between them lay a pyramid of empty beer bottles, scavenged from a nearby waste bin. Several dozen pebbles and a few hardened chunks of sun-bleached coral were piled around the base, an effort to prop up the shaky tower.
The children’s mother sat at a picnic table about ten feet away, tensely smoking a cigarette. Despite the day’s humid heat, the woman wore a dark cloak over her sleeveless silk dress. The black material draped loosely over her shoulders and spanned the length of her body, falling all the way to the ground. Only the open-toed tips of her shoes peeked out beneath the fabric’s bottom hem. A scarf made of similar cloth covered her head, leaving the pale oval of her face exposed.
The woman appeared not to notice the encumbrance of the cloak and scarf. Every so often, she glanced across the courtyard to check on her offspring, but for the most part, she kept her focus trained on the sky above the harbor.
•
GREEN EYES SQUINTING, the young girl wrapped her hand around the neck of a brown bottle and lifted it toward the peak of the unstable heap. The makeshift castle was almost complete—this last topper was all that remained.
The girl’s tongue slipped over her upper lip as she concentrated on the bottle’s wide bottom rim, trying to balance it on the stack.
One by one, she released her tiny fingers.
The heavy glass teetered, wobbling for a long moment, before clattering to the ground.
“Ay, Elena, watch ya’self,” the mother snappe
d testily. She rose from her seat at the picnic table, as if she were about to launch into a lengthy scolding, but a distant movement in the sky caught her attention.
Once more staring out at the sea, the woman sucked in another steadying puff from the cigarette, leaving a ring of red lipstick on the smoldering stub. The smoke swilled in her lungs; then she slowly blew out a curling gray plume.
•
THE GIRL ROLLED her eyes in annoyance. She tossed her head, causing the dark wavy hair tied in her pigtails to swing wildly through the air. Noting her mother’s distraction, she picked up a stone and tossed it at her playmate.
“Ay, Hassan, watch ya’self,” she said, her voice a perfect imitation of her mother’s.
The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Elena held up a shushing hand. She leaned toward him, a serious expression on her sun-flushed face.
Her words took on a heavy Caribbean lilt as she dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Wat’ch ya’self, leet-le brother,” she cautioned. “Special-lee at night. Ya dun wanna bey caught out by duh Goat-foot Wo-man.”
“Who?” the boy asked, dropping the pebble that he had scooped up to throw in retaliation.
Elena drew in her breath with exaggerated surprise.
“Don’ yah know you got-ta wa’ch out for dah Goat-foot Wo-man?”
Hassan shook his head, his expression one of puzzled concern.
Elena slid forward, moving even closer to her brother. Bending to his shorter height, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pointed inland over the hotel’s steep roofline.
“Dah Goat-foot Wo-man, she lives in duh hills abuv Chris’ted. If you leesen, you can hear hur, creaking through duh trees . . . crackeling een duh branches . . . rust’ling through duh leaves . . .”
The little boy cringed, visibly unnerved, but his apprehension only spurred his sister on. Her eyes gleamed as she continued.
“She’s a fright-ful creature, haf hoom-an, haf goat, but you wudd’n know it from seeing hur on dah street. When she comes een-ta town, she hides hur lef’ foot een a beeg floppy shoe—so dat no wone can see duh hoof.”
Hassan squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears. Elena persisted, increasing the volume of her voice.
“Hur spirit’s oldah dan dah jumbies . . . oldah dan dis island . . . oldah dan tyme eet-self.”
She strummed her fingertips across her brother’s shoulders, tapping out an eerie cadence. He tried to shrug away from her grip, but her hand clamped down, pressing through his shirt.
“She wuz here ’fore dah Danes, ’fore dah French, ’fore dah first Spanish slave tradas. She wuz wit duh Car-ib at Salt Reev-ah when Christ’pher Columbus came a-shore.”
Quickly circling around her brother, Elena hunched to her knees in front of him.
“Dah Goat-foot Wo-man, she helped dem Car-ib carve up a man from dat Spanish crew. They strung ’eem up ova a fire an’ cooked ’eem on a stek.”
Concentrating, the girl crossed her eyes, skewed her face into its most grotesque contortion, and luridly licked her lips.
“Tha’s where she first gut duh taste fer hoom-an flesh.”
Elena grabbed Hassan’s hand. Twisting his wrist, she turned his palm upward and traced her fingernail across its sweating surface.
“Evah so often, when she gets a hank’ring, duh Goat-foot Wo-man teks a child home an’ eats ’eem for dinn-a.”
Hassan jerked his arm away from his sister’s grasp.
“No,” he said, his lower lip trembling as he clenched his fist against his chest. “I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, Hassan,” the girl replied in mock horror, instantly dropping the accent. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”
Hassan gulped as his sister looked up and across the courtyard at a shadowed figure in an alley about thirty feet away. When Elena returned her gaze to his, her face was darkly somber.
Returning to her hushed tone, she whispered a grim warning. “She’s listening. The Goat Foot Woman, she’s always listening.”
• • •
AN ELDERLY CRUCIAN woman crouched in an alley near the Comanche Hotel, watching the children in the gravel courtyard. A thin smile crimped her dusty lips as she listened to Elena’s story.
“She’s gut it ’bout haf right,” the hag said with a raspy chuckle.
Gripping the handle of a rusted shopping cart piled high with refuse, the old woman hobbled through the courtyard in the direction of the harbor. As she limped past the children’s mound of glass and rubble, she resisted the urge to stop and leer down at the awestruck pair.
But when she reached the edge of the boardwalk on the courtyard’s opposite side, she heard the girl’s voice croak hoarsely to her brother.
“Children ain’ nuttin’ but an appet-tizah.”
Her yellow eyes shining with amusement, the hag turned to look back at the children. Resting a stiff hand on her hip, she shook her head at the girl’s antics.
Just then, the mother crushed out her cigarette on the gravel, scooped up the boy, and grabbed the girl’s hand.
Elena got out one last comment before being dragged off toward the hotel.
Hassan shrieked in terror as his sister hungrily smacked her lips.
“Nuttin’ more dan a snack.”
~ 1 ~
Gedda
A HOT CARIBBEAN sun shone down on the Christiansted harbor, baking the pink faces of the Danish tourists strolling across the boardwalk’s warped wooden pier. The motionless heat simmered over the flat water, a dry parching broil. A half mile in the distance, scattered waves broke along a crescent-shaped reef, the refreshing spray a cruel taunt to those sweltering on land.
The weather-beaten walkway curved around the harbor’s edge, passing a shabby collection of open-air restaurants, bars, and block-shaped hotels. A few overgrown lots and an abandoned nightclub added to the mix, the unkempt vacancies marring the downtown commercial area like gaps from missing teeth.
Beneath the shade of the nightclub’s front entrance, a pair of shirtless West Indians stared listlessly out at the blue horizon. The men’s shoulders slumped forward; their scabby limbs hung limply over the edge of the building’s exposed foundation. Their bodies lacked any sign of animation—until the Danes approached.
Suddenly, the men sprang to life, calling out to the blond-headed tourists while wildly gesturing to a pile of green coconuts gathered on the litter-strewn concrete.
“Ay, you dere! Ya gut ta cum see deese feresh coco-nuts. We picked dem jes’ fer you!”
Raising the ragged edge of a machete, one of the vendors scooped up a round nut and expertly lopped off its top.
His partner quickly plunked a plastic straw through the opening and offered it to the nearest Dane for a sampling taste.
With an embarrassed grin, the hapless European tried to demur, but the pair persisted.
Gingerly, the Dane brought the straw to his mustached lips and took a tentative sip. After swallowing a small dose of the watery liquid, he glanced up from the straw with a grimace.
The warm juice felt thick on his tongue, but he swallowed his dislike of the drink. The coconut vendors leaned toward him, eagerly awaiting his verdict.
An uneasy shadow crossed the Dane’s eyes as his face hardened with disapproval.
We should have never sold this place, he thought to himself. Look at what the Americans have done to it.
After an awkward moment of silence, the Dane reached for his wallet.
“Mmm,” he announced loudly but in an unconvincing tone. “That is . . . fan-tastic.”
• • •
TOWARD THE BOARDWALK’S east end, the yellow ochre walls of Fort Christiansvaern gleamed in the sunlight. The signature landmark in a small park commemorating St. Croix’s colonial past, the refurbished Danish stronghold was in far
better shape than many of the island’s modern-day constructions.
Nearby, a barrier of red construction webbing surrounded the Customs House, a structure of similar vintage that was just beginning the updating process. At the far edge of the grounds, not far from a taxi stand and the park’s public restrooms, the smaller Scale House stood graying with mildew and rot. The third in line for refurbishments, this building would have a while to wait for its beautifying treatment.
A dozen or so chickens scratched in the dry grass outside the fort’s imposing walls, their beaks vigorously pecking for grubs. Hens fussed over their chicks, clucking anxiously to keep them from straying, while cagy roosters eyed one another, puffing out their feather-covered chests and haughtily preening their silky black plumes.
A flurry of loud squawks broke the air as an olive-skinned man in a cropped T-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers jogged from the boardwalk’s terminus onto the park’s open green space.
The birds scattered, jumping out of the runner’s path. Unfazed by the avian commotion, the man proceeded toward a white-painted gazebo in the center of the wide lawn and thunked up its wooden steps.
Stooping, the man spread a stack of laminated sheet music across the gazebo’s splintered floor, carefully arranging the pages in numerical order. Once he had the papers in place, he stood and turned to face the harbor.
Stripping off his T-shirt, he rolled his shoulders to loosen his joints. The afternoon sun angled beneath the gazebo’s roof, splashing across the man’s chest to reveal a series of elaborate tattoos depicting scenes from Dante’s Inferno. The masterpiece of ink art covered his upper torso, wrapped over his shoulders, and crept down his back. Howling demonic figures clawed out from his tanned skin, the images forever frozen in their desperate attempt to escape the torture chamber of searing flames.
The tattoos, it turned out, were a visual aid, meant to inspire the man’s vocal performance.
After a few trilling warm-up scales, he began to sing. His voice, wobbly at first, grew in strength and volume as he belted out the opening stanzas of an Italian opera. Throwing his arms wide, his now pitch-perfect tenor floated across the water, a pleasant if strangely incongruous sound.
Seemingly comforted by the music, the chickens settled in around the gazebo and resumed their pecking.