Crystal Blue (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 3), John Cunningham [top fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

Even a beautiful one.

BACK IN KEY WEST, and after a quick exit from more of Ray on the subject of dumping my charter, I was stuck in stop-and-go traffic. In an old Rover 88 like mine the gear ratios, indelicacy of the clutch, and rigid suspension make for a jarring ride. Key West is now a 365-day-a-year destination, but in winter it gets even more crowded. Cruise ships, snowbirds, bikers, zillions of tourists—more people, more traffic.

Duval Street was lined with pedestrians sporting garish outfits and bright colors along with lots of exposed, sunburned skin. Once the swell of oncoming mopeds and pedi-cabs passed, I turned left at the La Concha hotel. When I first got to Key West a couple years ago, I thought I’d stay here a few weeks, then figure out something more permanent. But I worked out a deal with management for one of the suites, long-term. Plus it came with maid and room service, a pool, and was on the middle of Duval Street.

In my room on the sixth floor, I exhaled a long breath. I was 98% mentally checked out, ready for a break. The remaining 2% was focused on deciding what to take with me.

The phone rang.

I reached toward it, hesitated. But it might be Ray with some concern about the Beast, so I picked it up.

“Hello, is this Buck Reilly?” Female.

“That’s right.”

“This is Crystal Thedford, I left you a few messages on your machine and at the airport.”

I noticed the red light blinking on the box next to the phone.

“Sorry, just got in—”

“No problem, but I’m pressed for time. I need to charter you and your plane for a few days to fly to St. Thomas, then around—”

“Sorry, Ms. Thedford, but Last Resort’s closed next week.”

“Please, call me Crystal. Is there a problem with your plane?”

I considered lying.

“No, she’s fine. I’m taking a few days off to clear my head. It’s been—”

“Perfect!” she said. “What better place than the Caribbean!”

“Sorry, I’ve already—”

“Buck—I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, Jimmy said you marched to your own beat and not to get my hopes up, but also that you were the perfect guy to help.”

“Jimmy?”

“My husband and I are putting on a big charity event in the British Virgin Islands—”

“Who gave you my name?”

“One of the performers participating in the event—there are quite a few—that’s the problem, we need to shuttle them around and don’t have enough planes or boats. It’s a big deal, especially for us as we’ve got everything riding on—sorry—” I heard her take in a deep breath. “I’m rambling.”

“Miss—ah, Crystal, I don’t—”

“You see, I need to be in St. Thomas tomorrow afternoon. I could fly commercial, but once I’m there, I’m stuck. The other plane charters are full with our participants, and the ferry boats we’ve chartered are slow and can’t do what I was hoping you could.”

Why had I answered the damn phone?

“You said this was a charity event, right?” I said. “I’m not in a position to donate any—”

“Oh, gosh no, we can pay you! And you’ll have plenty of free time to chill out on the world’s most beautiful beaches, but you’ll be getting paid while you’re doing it!”

A sudden image of my ex-wife splashing in the waters of Peter Island during our honeymoon took me back to one of the happiest times of my life: e-Antiquity had been on a roll, the Wall Street Journal had just dubbed me “King Charles,” and I’d just married supermodel Heather Drake after a globe-trotting whirlwind romance.

Times had changed.

And an all-expense-paid trip to the Virgin Islands suddenly sounded good. I’d have to pass through Customs on Tortola, and the memories from my last visit there were far from pleasant. But I’d been allowed to leave, eventually. And that was a long time ago.

“Please, Buck?”

I could always go camping in the Marquesas, right?

“Okay, Crystal, I’m listening.”

As she spoke, images of flying down-island clicked through my mind. I explained my rates. She reiterated that she and her husband would pay all the expenses but said they were on a tight budget.

“I’m staying at the Casa Marina tonight,” she said. “Why don’t we have dinner and I’ll tell you about the event and our schedule?”

“You have business here, too?”

“No, I just figured it would be easier for you. Let’s meet at Louie’s Backyard at seven.” She paused. “Thanks again, Buck. This’ll be a great week.”

I put the phone down. She had already flown to Key West on the assumption that I’d accept her charter? Pretty confident lady. Good taste in restaurants, too.

Damn! Lulled by turquoise waters, flour-soft beaches, and some of my favorite beach bars, I’d forgotten about Lenny’s debate.

I SHIFTED MENTAL GEARS and dug out my old charts. Plotting a course to St. Thomas made me smile. I had personal history there from my e-Antiquity days. Treasure ships had passed through those waters in the 1500 and 1600’s, imported and exported wealth from sugar plantations, and colonialism followed for centuries thereafter. So did wrecks, piracy, and opportunity.

What would happen when I sought to clear Customs in Tortola? Would my arrest for suspicion of murder still be on the record?

I shook my head. It had been four years.

Stanley Ober, the Hole Town eccentric who claimed to have a map of a sunken privateer flush with gold and silver stolen from a Barbados rum plantation had disappeared after a public meeting with me. The map I’d bought was bogus, but e-Antiquity’s reputation, along with my then recent moniker of King Charles, made me the natural suspect. The legal bills racked up in that month I was incarcerated in Tortola’s hell-hole of a prison had eclipsed all of Last Resort’s revenues since I formed the company.

I hadn’t been back to Tortola since.

I planned the route: 1,162 nautical miles, refueling in the Turks and Caicos, flight time nearly eight hours. The