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  Boise Montague

  Dark Paradise

  Sweet Paradise (Coming Soon)

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  Table of Contents

  Also By Gene Desrochers

  Sweet Paradise (Boise Montague, #2)

  Sweet | Paradise

  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

  Acknowledgements

  about the author

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  PRAISE FOR SWEET PARADISE

  “Boise Montague, intrepid St. Thomas, V.I. private investigator, returns in SWEET PARADISE. Talented author Gene Desrochers delivers a suspense-filled tale overflowing with duplicitous characters and greed-driven agendas in lushly authentic Caribbean environs. A mature generation is determined to hold tight to the empire that provides them with every luxury, while the next generation attempts to fulfill its dreams ... Others will compromise all that is decent. And Boise Montague will do what he does best as he separates the winners from the losers and the innocent from the guilty. A 5-star read.”

  —Laura Taylor - 6-Time Romantic Times Award Winner

  “Boise is back! Gene Desrochers returns his readers to the island paradise of St. Thomas. You’ll feel the warm tropical breeze as Private Investigator Boise Montague must discover [what happened to] the matriarch of a wealthy island rum producer. The deeper he digs, the closer he gets to his own mortality. Wandering and sometimes stumbling through his investigation, Boise learns about family secrets—and they could kill him. Outstanding writing and the vivid setting will keep you transfixed.”

  —R. D. Kardon, award-winning author of Flygirl and Angel Flight

  Sweet

  Paradise

  Gene Desrochers

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Advertencia Antipirateria del FBI: La reproducción o distribución no autorizada de una obra protegida por derechos de autor es ilegal. La infracción criminal de los derechos de autor, incluyendo la infracción sin lucro monetario, es investigada por el FBI y es castigable con pena de hasta cinco años en prisión federal y una multa de $250,000.

  Sweet Paradise

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2021 Gene Desrochers.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author.

  For information, address Acorn Publishing, LLC, 3943 Irvine Blvd. Ste. 218, Irvine, CA 92602

  Cover design by Ebook Launch

  www.acornpublishingllc.com

  This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-952112-38-6 (Hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-952112-37-9 (Paperback)

  For The Drunken

  Chapter 1

  Christina’s World occupied my attention a lot these days. A replica of the painting, framed to appear more authentic, hung in the passageway outside my room at The West Indian Manner. It depicted a stark, drought-ridden swath of midwestern farm in golden-browns. A distant, unpainted farmhouse appeared ravaged by the dust bowl or some other agricultural tragedy. The odd way the field closer to the house looked neatly sheared contrasted with the unkempt tentacled weeds where Christina sprawled.

  Christina was alone.

  The painting matched nothing you might expect from Caribbean décor: palm trees, beaches, waves, perhaps a fish. Perhaps a literary something featuring a schooner from the nineteenth century cresting a wave, or a trite sailboat on tranquil waters bathed in light from a glorious setting sun.

  Yet here I stood, on the top floor of a Caribbean guest house. The owners, Marge and Lucy, displayed a strange sense of interior design. Antique furniture, scary Indonesian masks, assorted things that instilled a feeling of dread. I was comfortable with dread or I wouldn’t have continued living here for the past six months. The Caribbean had welcomed me back from Los Angeles in March 2015 with murder.

  To most eight-hour cruise ship visitors, St. Thomas was all positives. The best harbor in the Caribbean. Water so calm and clear you felt like you were floating in weightless space when snorkeling. Tropical breezes and a treasure trove of taverns where you could sample every kind of liquor known to man. Charlotte Amalie was everyone’s lover, but no one’s wife.

  In St. Thomas, you were either a native, a tourist, or someone seeking anonymity. Smugglers avoiding the more chaste and heavily-policed British ports. The buccaneers of yesteryear pirated goods from legitimate British, French, or Spanish ships laden with gold, silver, sugar, coffee, and rum, then came here to hock what they’d stolen. Not nice people who followed the rules. Constant trouble. Titillating excitement.

  Once outside, I trotted down the endless brick steps, pausing at the halfway point to inspect my favorite avocado tree. Medium-sized, it was barren of fruit in early fall. The waxy-green leaves glistened in the clear morning. From the crowded street at the bottom of the hill a car horn bleated like a dying goat. Everything appeared hunky-dory, except for one thing: the bulbous protrusion in the crook of the two largest branches.

  To the untrained eye, the small brunette tumor might appear to be nothing more than a harmless anomaly. Some natural growth that enhanced the bark’s defenses. I recognized it for what it was. A killing blow. The harbinger of infestation, devouring from the inside out.

  I picked up a stick, stretched up and prodded the nest. Brown clumps tumbled to the ground. Irritated termites swarmed out. It smelled clean, like sand on the beach or sawdust in a mill.

  I dragged the stick over some of the enclosed termite highways leading away from the nest and over the branches like veins. Beneath the hardened wood-dust covering, thousands marched in orderly fashion, devouring the beautiful tree molecule by molecule. I poked it again. The nest was hard. Durable. Termites were not easy to kill.

  Jabbing the stick deep into the nest, I left it protruding like an appendage and headed for my new office.

  Terry Montague often
said bad things waited around every corner in life. He was a tough man to have as a father and often wrong about a great many things, but about this he had a point. Nothing had happened for a couple months, which meant I was overdue. Perhaps I’d developed a feeling, or perhaps I was being naturally cautious because of the dangerous business I’d chosen to pursue. Either way, precautions needed to be taken.

  On the advice of my reporter pal, Dana Goode, I’d rented office space in the same building occupied by the newspaper she worked for, The Daily News. They took up the entire top floor of the building. I had a ground-floor view. Dana was a splendid negotiator, and she’d bargained the landlord down to a rate I could stomach. She had a way of getting her way.

  Although I rented space in the building, we were not officially linked. I did advertise in the paper, and had even wound up working with Dana on my last case. She’d been helpful. She’d also nearly gotten me killed—repeatedly. Friends can’t be perfect. In the end, I’d hung out my shingle. This was my second week in my new office as a private investigator desperately seeking clients.

  I rapped on the thin, fake wood. “You see what I’m talking about, Randy?” I said as my office door rattled like an open shutter in a hurricane. “If I hit it any harder, it’d crack like an egg. Not entirely secure, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Randy shifted from sole to sole, eyeing the door like it was a cooked chicken and he couldn’t decide where to start cutting. “Yeah, I hear you, Boise.” He nodded. “But this here door be new. Like they done replace it before you sign the leases. I done asked them, and they ain’t puttin’ another door in this frame.”

  Brand new piece of crap. A lot of new stuff sucked these days. Designed to be replaced in short order. Planned obsolescence had taken over every corner of the world. I’d be dealing with island riff-raff. Some half-assed door wasn’t gonna keep them from robbing me or busting in after I’d pissed them off. If I wanted to make a living, I needed a known place of business. Which meant bad guys and good guys would both know where to find me. This door made me nervous.

  With my index finger I traced a frame in the air that outlined the door. “Tell you what, if they replace the door, I paint it for free.”

  Randy chuckled. “Sorry, brodda. They ain’t paintin’ the door eidda.” He turned and waddled up the stairs to the second floor.

  “Yeah, sorry I asked,” I muttered under my breath.

  With the flat of my palm I smacked the door again. It shuddered.

  My office faced the parking lot and a weed-infested traffic circle. The lock wasn’t even a deadbolt, just a shiny, faux brass knob suitable for the bathroom inside a house.

  After shelling out money for the security deposit, some used furniture, and the rent, my savings account wasn’t worth much more than Christina’s tinder-box house. My accommodations at The Manner and the rent on this new office would be covered for another two, maybe three months, then I’d be out on my rass.

  The deserted parking lot baked in the hot West Indian sun. My curls swayed in the breeze from my ceiling fan as a drop of perspiration trickled down my sideburn. No clients, no prospects. Story of my life.

  The door. Something needed to be done about this door. The sandpaper-brown finish didn’t engender confidence, or even a second glance. I hadn’t moved back to St. Thomas to live the same boring brown and gray life I’d had as a law firm investigator in Los Angeles. The economy here didn’t hum, there were no grand museums displaying works of staggering genius, and the only plays were poorly done local fare. What St. Thomas had was color and natural wonder, and a soothingly warm sea. And a bunch of crazy residents. Like I said, people here craved anonymity and it wasn’t because they were nice and normal. Many, many of them were running and hiding. Such people had trouble staying out of trouble.

  My ad in The Daily News hadn’t done squat for business either. Sure, it had only been running for a week, but all I could afford was three weeks. Walter Pickering, the president of the newspaper, claimed that all the publicity the paper had provided me by covering the murder of Roger Black and the kidnapping of Celia Jarl was more than enough. No more free advertising for Boise Montague. Pickering was so cheap his shiny, brown scalp squeaked. It cost me time and money to solve those crimes and the stories had no doubt contributed to increased circulation for the paper.

  The other doors on my floor were all the same sandpaper-brown, sporting the same cheap lock. I wasn’t being discriminated against. My door was the newest one. My proximity to the three steps that led up to the first-floor landing gave me great visibility. Be grateful. Nah, I’d complain some more the first chance I got.

  THE PAINT WAS TOO DAMNED expensive. Everything in these stores was too damned expensive. Various brands, types, and colors populated the shelves. Much of the selection needed to be mixed to get any colors besides the boring variations on brown, gray, and white. All of that added up to more than I wanted to spend.

  Hidden in the back corner of The Paint Depot was a discount shelf of criminally off-beat tones in mostly brilliant pastels that people had tried and returned.

  Probably Puerto Ricans.

  Maybe I was part Puerto Rican. I could pass. Curly afro and dark skin, check. Attitude, check. Love of brightly colored clothing and houses, check. Rapid-fire Spanish that no one in any other Spanish-speaking country could understand, uncheck. In reality, I was one-quarter black, although it was tough to tell. I had the bushy hair and I was fairly dark, but more in some other native islander of aboriginal descent way.

  Rooting through the discount piles, I found three gallons of cantaloupe. Cheap and attention-grabbing. If someone tried to break into my office, everyone within five-hundred yards would notice the shady character standing in front of the blinding melon door. It would also make it easy to explain how to find my office if anyone ever called for an appointment. Maybe I could use it as a gimmick in future ad campaigns, assuming I ever had an advertising budget again.

  Would anyone take a detective with a cantaloupe-colored door seriously? I shrugged, picked up two of the cans, and plopped them next to the register with a hollow metal plonk.

  The clerk snorted and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. She had claws for fingernails, featuring faux jewels encrusted on rainbow-colored backgrounds. She clicked expertly on the register using the tips, as if this was the most natural way in the world to type.

  She studied the top of one of the paint cans where a bright orange dot denoted the color.

  “You know you can’t return these? All sales final.”

  I nodded. “Hey, how do you type so good with those nails?”

  She gave me a sleepy look. “Don’t know, just I do it.” She squinted at the lid of the can. “You got to buy all three of these cans, da man.”

  “I think three is too much, sista,” I said, falling into the lingo. I reverted back. “I’m painting a door.”

  “Ain’t no matta what you painting, you got to buy all three.”

  Islanders rarely pronounced the “th” in words, so “three” came out as “tree” and “the” came out as “da.” You got used to it pretty quickly so that even the state-siders could eventually understand in most cases. There were a bunch of local dialect words you pieced together over the years. From growing up here, I naturally reverted when speaking to other locals, however, I’d also spent half my life living in the continental United States, so standard North American English was no problem either. Since I’d only been back for six months, standard American felt more natural. Speaking in the accent made me feel different. Sometimes it made me feel I belonged. Other times, I felt like a phony; an actor in my own life.

  This woman wasn’t going to budge on the house rules. If the lid said I had to buy all three, then I had to buy all three. Even at that, the cost was about one-third of one new can. On the bright side, I’d have a surplus to keep my door freshly painted at all times. I was going to need that extra paint to cove
r up the blood.

  THE FIRST COAT WAS drying. More droplets of sweat rivered between my shoulder blades as I slugged water and Guinness alternately. Two in the afternoon was no time to be painting in the October heat, but I didn’t know what else to do and sitting around worrying about my looming penury seemed pointless.

  The used old-timey clock radio I’d picked up at Bob’s Store babbled on about hurricane warnings as reception fizzled in and out. It was the latter part of hurricane season, and we’d seen minimal storm damage in the region. We might dodge hurricanes for one or two years running, but it was never long enough to truly become complacent about them the way places like New Orleans had.

  The overhead fan whirred. Outside my door sunlight filtered thinly through a cloud, illuminating the traffic circle a faint ocher. As I considered the faded lines denoting parking spaces and the cracked pavement, a young man bobbed into my line of sight. He was one of those people who walked on his toes at all times, as if the tendons in his calves were so tight his heels couldn’t touch the ground for more than an instant before popping up again. He squinted at the building, turning his head back and forth, then perused the sheet of paper clutched in both hands. A green Osprey backpack hung loosely off his shoulders. People in California used them for hiking. He tugged at the built-in sippy straw and sucked. The bubbly slurping of the last drops of water in his pouch filtered up to me. Disappointment clouded his face.