Lighthouse on Tortola

By Dale S. Rogers

When Andra goes to the British Virgin Island of Tortola on a magazine assignment, she never expects to become involved with a tour guide bent on revenge. Pulled into his world of intrigue, she must learn who she can and cannot trust while striving to prove the truth concerning the Ahoskie Diamond Necklace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Mar 27, 2020
• ISBN: 1946920940

Book preview

LIGHTHOUSE

ON

Tortola

Dale S. Rogers

Relax. Read. Repeat.

Lighthouse on Tortola

By Dale S. Rogers

Published by TouchPoint Press

Brookland, AR 72417

www.touchpointpress.com

Copyright © 2020 Author Name

All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are

fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead,

are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names,

or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective

owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used,

no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the

reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or

mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions

and review inquiries to [e-mail].

Editor: Jenn Haskin

Cover Design: Colbie Myles

Cover image: Dale S. Rogers

Visit the author’s website at https://dalesittonrogers.wordpress.com/

First Edition

To my loving husband, Rick, for his help and encouragement.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER

One

As her jet circled lower over cobalt blue water, Andra leaned closer to the window, viewing tiny white houses on the hillsides of Saint Thomas.

Gorgeous, she whispered, brushing long blonde hair away from her face. The plane shuddered, sending a surge of panic up Andra’s spine as salty waves threatened the craft’s belly. We’re going to crash into the ocean! She held her breath until, as if from nowhere, a landing strip appeared, and they skidded onto the firm surface.

Reaching for her carry-on with shaking hands, Andra checked her camera for damage. She was already anxious about her assignment in the Virgin Islands. Could it be her ticket to freedom? Finding everything intact, she looped the bag over her shoulder and pressed her slender frame into the crowd already filling the narrow aisle.

Excuse me— a frantic woman called to anyone who might listen, can we get out, please? Our connecting flight is about to leave. We need to run!

Silence prevailed as the queue inched forward, ignoring her request. I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Lea, a male companion said softly, and they waited their turn.

Exiting the plane, Andra gratefully breathed in fresh air, noting a small, one-story building fifty yards away. A light rain fell, and wind whipped her skirt as she descended steps to the runway. I’m going to be soaked!

A huge umbrella appeared below, and a handsome island man handed it to her as she reached the bottom step.

Enjoy your stay, he said in a lilting accent, and Andra’s sapphire eyes sparkled. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad trip after all.

Hurrying through the beginning of a downpour, Andra noted musicians beneath an overhang, strains of calypso music tickling her ears as she entered the terminal and another airport employee received her umbrella. Easily spotting her fuchsia suitcase on a carousel, Andra grasped the handle and carried her possessions to a long line of tired-looking people. Moving forward two feet every minute or so in the unadorned room lined with fading posters, she eyed a grim-faced officer examining the pockets and pouches of a brown briefcase, eventually running his hand along the lining.

Andra hoped he wouldn’t bother her camera bag with its sensitive equipment. Biting her lip, she felt relieved when the man simply held up a hand for her to stop.

Do you have anything to declare, young lady? he asked in a deep timbre.

Ummm . . . I brought some oatmeal and bagels—

The official grinned. Welcome to Saint Thomas.

Thank you. Andra gratefully moved past customs, wondering which way to go.

Taxi! came a shout from a doorway.

A short, stout man stood just outside, waving toward his van impatiently.

Here we go, Andra sighed, lugging her gear toward the space.

Even with the vehicle nearly full, the driver wanted more passengers. He grabbed Andra’s bags and shoved them into a tightly packed compartment. Climb aboard.

Stepping up into the cramped van, she crawled toward the back, immediately overwhelmed by a sauna-like atmosphere caused by heat and the unrelenting rain.

Her riding companions seemed sullen, perhaps wondering if their vacation destination was a mistake. Andra was glad she’d come on a work assignment. At least she wasn’t disappointed in a trip she’d spent her savings on.

The vehicle lurched forward, ambling near the ocean, where an enormous ship was docked next to a small one. Two burly men lifted a wooden crate onto the larger vessel, glancing over their shoulders surreptitiously from time to time.

The van rounded a curve, and massive palm trees came into view. They’re different than the ones in Florida, Andra realized. They seem wild—like those in South America. Where am I?

Red Hook! the driver called, as if it were important. He pulled into a graveled parking lot and hopped out to unload luggage while passengers disembarked into a light drizzle.

Feeling abandoned, Andra hurried down from the van and approached him as he opened a compartment on the side of the van. What’s going on? she asked.

You need to catch a ferry to Saint John or Tortola right now.

She felt a stab of panic. A ferry? I didn’t know—

Hurry and buy your ticket. He jerked his head toward a narrow booth. Over there. The ferry leaves at the top of the hour—you have just enough time.

Thanking the driver and paying him, Andra lugged her suitcase and camera bag over to the counter and obtained passage shortly before the shuttle departed. Squeezing through the boarded populace to find a seat, she felt like a sardine. To give herself some space, she peered through clouded glass, marveling at the ocean. Aquamarine hues surrounded the boat, and inky blue water marked the horizon. Glad to find something she truly loved about the place, Andra relaxed and enjoyed her view of green islands floating in the distance.

The boat launched its journey, and forty-five minutes later it docked at Tortola: One of the British Virgin Islands. It seemed a little strange to Andra to be on the U.S. soil of Saint Thomas, then in another country’s territory less than an hour later.

Officially entering Tortola without any problems, she approached a taxi driver wearing a bright name tag.

Excuse me. Can you take me to the Ocean Breeze Inn?

Elvin’s manner was polite. Of course. Let me get your luggage.

The ride to the hotel was more like Andra had expected her arrival in the Virgin Islands to be. The rain had stopped completely, and the sky soon cleared to a bright blue. Now the ocean’s even more spectacular, she said with some enthusiasm.

Elvin was laid-back, with a singsong voice and a love for life. It is what I like most about the island. I have lived here happily all of my thirty-seven years.

Where do you go on vacation?

I mainly go to other islands in the Caribbean. Once I visited Miami—it was too busy for me.

Andra grimaced. Tell me about it—I came through the airport there.

They passed several small boats anchored in the water, but no one was anywhere near them. Where were the owners? Scuba diving, perhaps.

The taxi took them into some heavily shaded areas, promoting a coolness that made the day’s irritations worthwhile, and they passed several impressive resorts with landscaped grounds. Peering ahead, Andra surmised that her inn would be just beyond them. Her driver hung his left arm out the window to signal a turn, however, and they traveled away from the affluent area—and the ocean.

A tar-and-gravel road lined with casuarina trees replaced the smooth highway next to swaying palms, and soon Elvin approached a small, isolated inn.

Andra’s heart dropped. This must be a mistake. The name Ocean Breeze indicates that it’s near the beach.

He made an apologetic face. You never know with these hotels. They all want to sound as if they are on the ocean, and sometimes they stretch the truth a little.

He tried to pull the van up to the entrance of the blue, two-story structure, but a man and woman stood in the driveway, deeply involved in a conversation. Elvin waited several moments before inching forward. I’m usually an easygoing guy, but you don’t want to make me mad. He finally tooted his horn lightly, and the startled couple hurried to the sidewalk as if it never occurred to them that they might be in the way. Elvin parked at the front door and carried Andra’s bags inside.

Entering the lobby, Andra was greeted by a lively blue-and-white color scheme, but she felt sure the inn didn’t compare with the establishments they passed earlier. The linoleum floor, while new looking, caught her by surprise.

Would you like to check in? asked a blonde woman with a British accent.

Her personable attitude temporarily vanquished Andra’s disappointment, and she smiled. Yes, I’m Andra Phillips. I have a reservation.

The receptionist checked her files. Ah! Virginia—one of my favorite states.

You’ve been there?

My husband and I have visited much of the east coast. It’s nice to get away from the islands occasionally. She handed Andra a key. Welcome to the Ocean Breeze. I’m Angie Hamil—please call if you need anything. Reggie will show you to your suite.

A young Jamaican man appeared from behind the office and carried her bags up the outdoor steps to a posh living area, spacious kitchen, full bath, and a bedroom with double closets. He set down her luggage. I hope your stay will be pleasant.

Now excited about her trip, Andra replied, I’m sure it will be.

After getting settled, she peeked out the window to find a rectangular pool with a bridge across its midpoint, and she made her way down to the palm-lined courtyard.

Surrounded by balconies overlooking the mid-afternoon scene, she allowed herself to decompress in the calming atmosphere, enjoying the sweet scent of Ginger Thomas. Coming upon a grass hut near the pool, she purchased a frozen lime drink and sank into a cushioned lawn chair. She sipped her tart-tasting refreshment as a tallish, dark-haired young man strolled from the lobby to the hut and placed an order.

Tanned and wearing cut-off jeans with a red T-shirt, he started in Andra’s direction, drink in hand. Do you come here often? he asked in a smooth tone.

Only when I’m in Tortola, she replied in friendly response, guessing he was an American in his early twenties.

Do you mind if I sit here? He indicated the lounge chair beside her.

Not at all.

He slid into a reclining position. I’m Michael Lambert . . . and you are?

Alexandra Phillips—but call me Andra.

Ahndra, he repeated. That’s beautiful. What brings you to the islands? I haven’t seen you here before.

I’m on assignment for a travel magazine, but I’d be a freelance photojournalist if I had my way.

Interesting. I’m a big fan of magazines myself—especially if they have lots of colorful pictures.

Andra smiled, noting his mellow brown eyes. You seem intelligent enough to read the articles, too. Are you on vacation?

Michael shook his head. I moved here from the States a couple of weeks ago to start a tour business. I just bought a boat, and I’ve been better-learning my way around the area so I can transport tourists from island to island.

Why here? Why not some place closer to home?

The first time I came to the Virgin Islands, I fell in love with them. I decided if I ever had the opportunity, I’d live here and enjoy the unbelievable water and climate.

Andra finished her drink. I understand. It’s the loveliest water I’ve ever seen.

Let me get you another, Michael offered, taking her cup.

No, thanks. One is enough for me.