Читать книгу Manchineel - John Ballem - Страница 11

Myra flicked a dishtowel at the grackle perched on the top rung of the chair next to Skye. The bird glared impudently at her out of its bright yellow eye, then flew off as she flicked the towel a second time. As soon as she returned to the kitchen it was back, greedily eyeing the marmalade dish. When Skye and Jocelyn had first visited the Caribbean they were greatly entertained by the boldness of the grackles and bananaquits who joined them at mealtimes and by the little ground doves, padding around their feet, picking up the crumbs they fed them. They soon learned, however, that the birds were a nuisance as well as a health hazard, dipping their beaks into whatever food or drink was left unguarded, even for an instant. But nothing could stop Jocelyn from sprinkling a few grains of sugar on the breakfast table for the bananaquits. Skye did the same now and two of the small black and yellow birds with their distinctive white stripe above the eye, immediately darted in and snatched up the sugar. Overfine saw this as he came out onto the patio but smiled forbearingly.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he told Skye.

“Oh. Who is it?” Skye craned his neck to peer into the livingroom. There was no one there.

“It’s Sybil. She waiting in the kitchen.”

Sybil was Agatha’s predecessor as cook. Four years ago she and her young son had gone back to St. Vincent to live and look after her ailing mother. Skye had been fond of Sybil and young Andrew. Sybil had been an excellent cook and had a bright, sunny disposition. Much sunnier than the somewhat dour Agatha.

But there was no sign of that sunny disposition when Overfine showed her into the livingroom. She was obviously sick with worry. She was also obviously pregnant.

Skye shook hands warmly. Trying to put her at ease, he said jokingly, “I see you’re making small bones,” using the local idiom for being pregnant.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Still holding his hand, she blurted, “Andrew is missing.”

The welcoming smile faded from Skye’s face. “How long has he been missing?”

“Three days.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

“They think he run away.”

“ But he’s only, what ? Ten ?”

“That’s what I tole them. But they say lots of boys run away at that age.” She shook her head. “But they don’t know my Andrew. He’s a good boy and he likes his home. You know him, Mister Skye. He wouldn’t run away.”

“Of course not,” Skye agreed. Certainly the bright, happy little boy he knew, wouldn’t. But there could be quite a difference between a six- and a ten-year-old boy. “How can I help?” he asked quietly.

Sybil’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I knew you would say that, Mister Skye.” Then her hand flew to her mouth and she looked at Skye with something close to horror. “I’m sorry, Mister Skye. I been so worried over my boy, I forgot the mistress had been gathered. She was a wonderful, kind lady.”