31. Jezebel

CHAPTER 31

JEZEBEL

“ T his is Corky. He has a buoyancy disorder, so we have to glue weights to his shell to help him submerge,” Franklin Baptiste explained. “Occasionally, they fall off, and then he just bobs around on the surface.”

His assistant chipped in. “Like a cork.”

After the team finished the day’s survey, Dr. Blaylock decided to visit the old friend of his who ran a turtle sanctuary. Cole said he’d stay with the boat—he’d already been ashore to pick up provisions earlier—but I figured I might as well stretch my legs.

Baptiste was a slender Black man in his late fifties, weathered by the sun, and according to Dr. Blaylock, he’d dedicated most of his life to saving turtles. There were seven saltwater species in total, and six of them could be found in the Caribbean: leatherbacks, greens, loggerheads, Kemp’s ridleys, olive ridleys, and hawksbills like Corky.

His current assistant was a volunteer named Caro, whose face didn’t quite fit. She said she was a marine biologist following her dream to backpack around the world, but her fancy haircut and designer shorts suggested she was more of a luxury hotel kind of gal. And her twitchy manner, combined with the almost unconscious way she kept checking behind her, said she was hiding from something.

Or someone.

Probably a man, if the wide berth she gave the boys was any indication. She didn’t seem bothered by Blaylock or Baptiste, so I was going to guess at a younger man. A boyfriend? Fiancé? Husband? I had no intention of asking, but I did have another question for her, assuming she really was a marine biologist as she claimed.

A question that would have to wait until we were alone.

The two of them showed us around the sanctuary, which nestled in the dip on the north side of the heart-shaped island that had been aptly named Valentine Cay. There were four semi-open-air “pool rooms,” which had nothing to do with billiards and everything to do with breeding and rehabbing turtles. Hundreds of hatchlings would start their lives there, waiting to be released when they were larger and therefore less at risk from predators, while sick turtles received medical treatment and sometimes permanent room and board, depending on how well they recovered.

Beside the pool rooms was a stretch of beach I first assumed was a turtle graveyard, but which turned out to be a hatchery. Baptiste and his volunteers collected eggs from all over San Gallicano and reburied them at the sanctuary so they could hatch in safety. Other dilapidated buildings provided accommodation near the communal kitchen and dining room.

Baptiste invited us to stay for dinner, and when I texted Cole, he said he was happy to eat alone on the boat. So I volunteered to help with the prep, and my assumption that Caro would be the person in the kitchen proved correct. Baptiste took charge of the grill outside .

“How are you finding life at the turtle sanctuary?” I asked.

“Fine. Why?”

“Just curious. I’ve always wanted to travel, but I guess I’m worried that the expectation wouldn’t live up to the reality.” I nodded toward the window, which was more of a hole, seeing as there wasn’t any glass. “It sure seems idyllic here. Peaceful.”

No hit squads, for example.

“I’m glad I came. Do you enjoy life on the boat?”

“I’ve only been on the Crosswind for a week, but it’s more relaxing than Vegas.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

I nodded. “You?”

“Damn, I forgot to chop the garlic. Could you do that?”

Okay, so she definitely didn’t want to talk about her origins. Got it. That suited me because I was more than happy to switch to a different subject.

“Do you know anything about conchs?”

“Conchs? The giant sea snails?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, I know some. Why do you ask?”

“A few people here have mentioned them. I didn’t realise they made pearls.”

A few people, including Clint. I’d overheard snippets from the boys last night, and the word “treasure” had been mentioned. Then there was that journal I’d seen and Witt’s reaction to it. Putting the pieces together, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if the three of them were planning to do some illegal pearl hunting while they were in San Gallicano, ecology be damned. That might also explain the lift bags I’d seen in their dive kit. Fill a net with the goods, inflate the bag, and the booty would rise to the surface.

Where Dr. Blaylock would lose his mind and probably Cole too, so they’d have to plan a distraction .

Caro laughed. “If you’re thinking of looking for pearls, don’t bother. They’re seriously rare. You’d have to open thousands of shells to find one pearl, and conch fishing on that scale is illegal here. Locals are allowed to take one or two for dinner, but commercial fishing is banned until the population recovers, which will be never if people keep breaking the law.”

Quite the little speech. Had I been wrong about her motives for volunteering at the turtle sanctuary? Possibly. And if she was right about the rarity of conch pearls, then I’d also been wrong regarding the boys’ interest in the creatures.

“I’m not thinking of pearl hunting. I just want to learn about the ocean. You’d really need thousands of conchs to find one pearl?”

“Yes, and even then, you’d only have a ten percent chance of it being good enough for jewellery.” Caro tilted her head to one side, studying me. “Most people are more interested in sharks.”

“I heard there weren’t many great whites around.”

“There aren’t any . The water’s too warm. But if you get the chance to dive or even snorkel off Dreadhaven, then you might see manta rays over there.”

“That’s on our list of stops.”

“Make sure you remember the most important rules of diving—take only photos, leave only bubbles, kill only time.”

In my line of work, the most important rule was “don’t get narc’d,” but I just nodded and agreed. And that was the end of the conversation because Jon came in to make his allegedly famous spice rub. His grandpop’s recipe, he said.

And credit where credit was due, the grilled chicken did taste good. If I’d eaten much more of it, the diving discussion would have been a moot point because fitting into my wetsuit was already going to be a challenge. Five weeks of restricted exercise was starting to show. I wasn’t used to watching my calorie intake.

Blaylock and Baptiste did most of the talking over dinner, mainly about turtles, but they also found time to gossip about people they both knew, although Dr. Blaylock studiously avoided the subject of his own divorce. Because Clint was present? No matter what Blaylock thought, his post-split relationship with the kid wasn’t as rosy as he liked to think. A couple of times, I noticed Clint staring angrily at his stepfather, almost unconsciously it appeared. Jon seemed reasonably personable, and Witt acted like even more of a prick than usual once he had several cans of beer in him, talking loudly over everyone else, completely oblivious to the quiet sighs (Baptiste’s) and eye-rolls (mine and Caro’s).

Echo had emailed me Witt’s Navy records, and he’d separated by honourable discharge at the rank of Petty Officer Third Class. So he wasn’t a complete disappointment to his momma, but nor was he a shining star. Since he’d been in for three years, he would have had opportunities to secure a promotion to Petty Officer Second Class, but he hadn’t made the grade.

And as for Clint, I suspected he was playing nice in order to utilise Blaylock’s money and connections, but their rocky relationship wasn’t my problem. In a year or two, when it all exploded, the pair of them could seek some much-needed therapy.

“Are there many turtles out by Skeleton Cay?” I asked Baptiste.

“Place has been untouched for decades, pretty much, so I like to think they’re doing well without humans destroying their habitat and poachers taking them for their own gain.”

“Hopefully, we’ll see a hawksbill—we’re planning to fit in a dive over there. ”

Baptiste sucked in a breath. “You don’t want to do that, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

“The spirits don’t like to be disturbed.”

Man, he’d seemed so normal up until that point. “I’m willing to take my chances.”

“Buncha fools sailed out there two years ago, but Zeus and Poseidon showed them the error of their ways. They couldn’t get outta there fast enough.”

“There was a hurricane,” Dr. Blaylock explained. “Category Four.”

“I’ll be sure to check the weather forecast,” I said, and Caro narrowed her eyes at me. “But thanks for your concern. I really appreciate it.”

Dark was fast approaching when we chugged back to the Crosswind on the tender. While Cole chowed down on the leftovers I’d brought back with me—he’d already eaten one dinner, but he decided he was still hungry—I sent a donation to the turtle sanctuary because, let’s face it, Baptiste and Caro needed all the help they could get. I timed it to arrive after I’d left the country because I valued my anonymity far more than I needed thanks.

The woman I was pretending to be wouldn’t have a spare two thousand bucks to give to a bunch of sea creatures, and I wasn’t about to blow my cover.