Murder on the Island

by Daisy White

  ‘Yes! Well, I hope so. I’m going to the rescue centre tomorrow, and if I pass the home visit I should be able to pick one up by next week.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. You’ve always been an animal person, even stuck in the city you kept fussing over that damned bird feeder, not to mention picking worms off the path in the park so they didn’t get trodden on…’

  Chloe giggled. ‘The bird feeder that fell on that man’s head on the balcony below mine, you mean?’

  She could hear the amusement in Alexa’s voice. ‘Exactly the one. It happened while you, me, and Maria were having a girls’ night in and drinking rather a lot of wine as I recall. Well you seem happy, darling, but do get in touch if you need anything at all, and I’m planning a summer holiday at yours so make sure the guest bedroom is ready! Do keep me updated, and remember you don’t have to pretend it’s all perfect if you have any days when it isn’t going well. Just call me.’

  ‘I know, and thank you, but I am honestly okay. Maria and Mandy are coming over for dinner next weekend, so I’ll give them your love.’

  Reassured by Alexa, Chloe finished the call far happier. Alexa had suffered from depression for a number of years, and Chloe had early on made her promise to call when she felt low. The two women, along with Maria, had also supported each other through numerous traumatic life events.

  It would be lovely, too, when Alexa visited to have her in her new house. She could introduce her to her new friends, show her around Bermuda… Another gust of wind buffeted her house, followed by the steady drumbeat of a downpour.

  She tried to go back to her business plan, but instead found herself checking the weather forecast, watching the orange-and-red swirls across the online radar. It was just a spring storm, and would have blown over by tomorrow afternoon. But she was still jittery. Unable to concentrate, she googled Matthew Georgias/Melissa Aliente.

  Most of the articles were from gossip blogs, or art reviews. The Royal Gazette had another piece on the murder, stating that Georgias’ family were devastated and planning a memorial service in Bermuda… No mention of a feud between siblings.

  There was a whole load of information on the galleries owned by the Stone family, the artists that had been signed, the jet-set circles the family moved within. Numerous pictures of Jonas and Melissa at events, and yes, it seemed Jonas did indeed play polo. There was no family history on the website. Chloe was idly curious about the siblings’ parents. Their mother was dead, but where was their father? There was also a photograph of Melissa with Matthew at a glitzy charity ball.

  Chloe studied them with interest. Glamorous, glossy, and almost a matching pair with their high cheekbones and sharp features. They were leaning into each other, smiling for the camera. The photograph was dated March this year. Six weeks ago.

  There was nothing else of interest, but Chloe did find a few lines on a community forum, art-based, and seemingly for anyone to post thoughts or opinions. The thread was about the tragic demise of Matthew Georgias. Everyone offered respectful condolences, until the last post.

  Matt and Melissa have been mixing art with drugs so what do you expect? She got him into something he couldn’t handle and now he’s paid the price.

  Could that be true? Or was it just another piece of speculation? The shortening of Matthew’s name suggested familiarity, but being online it was so easy to stir up gossip and lies without any truth. Chloe took a quick screenshot, just in case. In case of what, she didn’t know, she was acting on instinct. Perhaps she would show Finn… Perhaps he already knew. The carving up of Matthew’s face could have been a warning to Melissa?

  At midnight the lights went out with a snap, plunging Chloe into darkness apart from her flickering candles. She took a shaky breath, one hand clutching the table, blinking hard as her eyes adjusted. It was just a power cut, not anything sinister. She had a spare torch in the kitchen cupboard, so she got to her feet and felt her way carefully towards the sink.

  The torch was there, along with an emergency stash of plain candles, bottled water and canned food. Ailsa had told her on the very first day, to expect a few spring storms, and had even given her a basic list of store-cupboard essentials in the likelihood of it happening.

  Not for the first time, Chloe felt a rush of gratitude towards her neighbour. She was certainly prepared, but that didn’t make the darkness any less oppressive.

  As she stood, peering uncertainly around the room, in the powerful beam of her torch, the noise of the storm seemed to intensify. The whole house seemed to be buffeted by the wind, and the torrential rain was so loud it drowned out any noise from the sea. Chloe hoped the animals were all right.

  The sensible option would be to go to bed, instead of standing here, spooked, clutching her torch. It was just a storm, and she was a grown woman, in her own house, not a scared child. She turned to blow out the candles in the kitchen, pushing down the irrational rising panic.

  A sudden hammering at the back door made her freeze in terror.

  8

  Her heart was beating so hard she almost forgot to breathe. The panic in her chest seemed to blossom and images of the dead body shot to the forefront of her mind.

  The hammering came again, and she inched towards the door, keeping the torch pointed downwards. Her hand was shaking so much, the beam of yellow light made crazy patterns on the tiled floor.

  Perhaps it was one of her neighbours come to check she was all right? No, she glanced at her watch, not at this time of night. Who, then? It wasn’t debris from the storm, like a fallen branch, it was a fist against her door. Well there was no way she was going to make the classic mistake and open her door to an axe murderer.

  For some reason the image of the man at Dockyard who had carefully stashed away his camera equipment popped into her head. Maybe she should have reported it to the police? Perhaps it was stolen and somebody had seen her looking and followed her back… Chloe took a firm hold of her irrational thoughts before they turned down an even crazier path. For instance, that whoever killed the artist was now after her.

  The hammering came again.

  She would ignore it. Whoever it was would go away. Five minutes later she was at the door, pressing her hand to the wood panelling. They were still there, she was sure of it. There was no further hammering, but during a lull in the wind and rain, she thought she heard sobbing. A woman?

  ‘Chloe? Please open the door if you can hear me!’

  She couldn’t place the voice, but felt her confidence return a little. Should she? Could she open the door? The definite sound of sobbing decided her. It might be an axe murderer, but she couldn’t ignore the pleas for help. She knows my name, Chloe thought as she wrestled with the bolt and lock, attempting to hold the torch steady as she did so.

  The door came open with a jerk and a girl fell through, breathing heavily and shivering. Her hair was lank with rain, and drops streamed off her thin dress, pooling on Chloe’s tiled floor.

  ‘Melissa?’

  She was clutching a large flat parcel to her chest. Unlike her, it was swathed in waterproof wrapping. Her breath came in gasps and her grey eyes were wild and terrified. ‘Haven’t you got any electricity?’

  ‘No, it went out about half an hour ago,’ Chloe told her. ‘Look, why don’t you come and sit over here. I can get you some towels and a drink…’ She was already rummaging in a cupboard, for once grateful for her ever practical nature. Panic was quickly replaced with concern for the girl.

  Melissa sat clutching her package, teeth chattering, watching her in the light of the torch. There was a bruise on one side of her forehead and her bare arms and legs were smeared in mud.

  By the time she was swathed in towels and a blanket, wearing a pair of Chloe’s thick socks, and sipping Gosling’s Black Seal rum, colour was beginning to return to her cheeks. ‘Sorry. For turning up here, I mean. You must have thought I was a loony, or drunk or something. But…’ – she glanced into the living room, taking in her newly hung paintings – ‘Jonas t
old me where you lived. I didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘Does Jonas know you’re here?’ Chloe, sipping her own generous tot of alcohol, sat next to her.

  The girl shrugged, her cocoon slipping slightly. She tugged at the blanket with long, thin fingers, shifting so she could smooth a hand over her package. ‘No. Nobody knows I’m here. I didn’t…’ She bit her lip, clearly struggling to find the right words to explain. ‘I didn’t know I was coming until afterwards.’

  ‘Until after what? Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Chloe suggested gently. Melissa looked younger than ever, her hair drying in long dark wisps, her silver-grey eyes still big and scared. Now that her arms were clean, Chloe could see other bruises above her elbows, as though someone had held her tightly – fingerprints of red and blue.

  ‘No.’ Her chin came up, shoulders squaring defiantly, as she noted the direction of Chloe’s glance. ‘I can’t tell you. But… I need you to do something for me. This package is really important. So important that I can’t trust anyone else to have it. I want you to keep it safe, hide it for me.’

  ‘But you only met me today! You don’t know anything about me,’ Chloe protested. And, she added to herself, I don’t know you at all. The memory of the online forum worried her too, but her instinct was always to help and it often overrode her common sense.

  Melissa leant forward, her face thrown into dramatic lines by the torchlight. ‘That’s exactly why. You aren’t a part of any of this. You’re a stranger, so I know I can trust you.’

  ‘Part of what? That’s crazy! What about your brother, or a friend…’ Chloe’s voice trailed off, disbelief edging her words. She really hoped the girl wasn’t into drugs, or was this package stolen goods?

  The girl sat watching her, calm now, surer of herself and whatever plan she had hatched. ‘Jonas likes you too.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. Melissa, if you need help we could go to the police. Someone has obviously scared you, hurt you even…’ Her eyes strayed again to the bruises.

  She shook her head. ‘I know you must be wondering if I killed Matthew. Everyone else seems to be thinking that. The police did interview me, and I could tell they were thinking that too.’

  ‘That idea hadn’t actually crossed my mind. Why would it?’ Chloe asked her gently. ‘I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark here and suggest you and Matthew might have been into something way over your head… It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me, but if you know who killed him you should tell the police.’

  There was silence, broken only by the sound of the wind outside, before Melissa nodded. ‘You’re right, and let’s say I might suspect I know who killed him.’ Her voice trembled. ‘But I can’t go to the police because I don’t have any evidence.’

  ‘Is someone blackmailing you?’ Chloe tried a different tack. She didn’t want to ask outright about the drugs and destroy whatever fragile trust the girl had placed in her. ‘Are you in danger?’

  ‘I… All I need you to do is hide this painting for me.’ She gasped and put a hand to her mouth at her mistake.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not stupid. Even wrapped up tight like that, it looks like a piece of artwork.’ Chloe smiled at her, coaxing the warmth back into her eyes. She’d prefer it to be art than drugs, but still… There were laws about handling stolen goods and if she agreed to hide the parcel, she would be breaking the law too.

  She gave a tight little smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘So will you do it?’

  ‘I…’ Should she? Surely the best thing would be to take the package, give Melissa a bed for the night, so she was safe, and persuade her to go down to the police station in the morning. She could even call Finn on his mobile, if the girl felt safer doing that. ‘I will help you, although I can’t say why. I have a question though.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  ‘Who does this painting I’m going to be hiding belong to?’ Chloe was careful not to let her tone sound accusing, but she figured it was a fair question.

  Relief flickered in Melissa’s eyes, followed by defiance. ‘Me. It belongs to me.’ A trace of irritation touched her voice. ‘I didn’t steal it!’

  9

  Was she telling the truth? Chloe studied the girl’s tense face. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you did, I just wanted to know. Look, Melissa, are you sure you don’t want to at least chat with the police?’

  ‘No!’ She sat up straighter and grabbed Chloe’s wrists. Her grip was strong, but her fingers were still cold, and shaking slightly.

  ‘All right.’ Chloe decided not to enquire any further. The storm sounded like it was moving away now and the rain had ceased. She stood up and flicked the light switch hopefully, but her house remained in darkness.

  ‘They’ll probably get it back on tomorrow. The electricity, I mean,’ Melissa said from the sofa. ‘I should be going. My scooter’s outside.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay? At least until it gets light and the weather improves,’ Chloe suggested. ‘We can dry your dress, and shoes, and you can have the spare room. Honestly, I’d prefer to know that you’re safe.’

  The searching grey gaze tracked around the room, touching on the framed photographs, before it settled on Chloe’s face again. ‘Have you got any children?’

  ‘No.’ Usually she felt the need to launch into endless uncomfortable explanations about this, but just now, she suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to go to sleep.

  But Melissa just shrugged at her answer. ‘I haven’t either.’

  Surprised, and a bit relieved at her response, she gently took the wrapped picture and put it in the cedar chest at the back of the room, laying a grey-and-white striped blanket on top. ‘There, it’s safe. Now give me a minute to find you something to wear and I can hang your things above the sink in the bathroom to dry out.’

  Despite leaving Melissa tucked up in bed in the spare room, Chloe wasn’t altogether surprised to find her unexpected guest had vanished by the time she woke. The sun was high in the sky and a fresh breeze chased away the ragged remnants of storm clouds.

  The spare-room bed was neatly made, with the borrowed oversized T-shirt laid on the pillow. Padding to the kitchen, the tiles cool against her bare feet, Chloe poured a glass of water, sipping it slowly.

  Her next stop was the cedar chest. She half expected Melissa to have retrieved her painting, but it was still there, wrapped and hidden under the blanket.

  Curiosity made her hold it carefully up to the light, just to see if she could make out the picture. But the wrapping was thick waterproof plastic, stapled at the edges, so she gave up. The whole thing was bizarre. Should she speak to Finn?

  But Melissa trusted her. It seemed rather sad that the girl had nowhere else to hide her treasure, except at the house of a stranger she had only met the day previously. The bruises bothered her. Somebody had hurt the girl, frightened her. The same person who murdered Matthew? Melissa had certainly implied she did know who the killer was. Or could she have killed him herself after a lovers’ quarrel?

  The possibilities made Chloe’s head spin, but she thought it was really the drugs element that was bothering her most. Visions of an international drugs cartel descending on her home made her shiver with fear. A school friend in her teenage years had been duped into muling money for a large-scale operation. As someone who travelled on a regular basis, the girl had brought money, and drugs in and out of the UK at the beginning and end of school terms. She had also, through a boyfriend, sampled some of the ‘products’. Eventually she was caught by UK Customs and endured a nightmare of threats and punishments from both the law and those involved in the drugs operation.

  It was not a situation Chloe wanted to get into if she could avoid it. She could still hear her erstwhile friend’s voice pleading with her to lie for her, so the supposed boyfriend wouldn’t cut her face as he had threatened.

  ‘Chloe? Are you up yet?’ Ailsa’s cheerful voice broke into her whirling thoughts. She was knocking on the kitchen window,
a steaming kettle in her hand. The usual noise of clucking followed her round the house as Chloe opened the door.

  ‘Thanks, Ailsa, I was just thinking about a cup of coffee,’ she said, gratefully taking the kettle. ‘How did you manage this?’

  ‘I’ve got a little stove for emergencies. You should get one as well. Very useful in hurricane season. The power will be back on by lunchtime though, so don’t fret,’ her neighbour said confidently, settling down at the kitchen table. ‘I brought you an extra box of eggs, too, just in case your girls are put off laying by the storm. Did you sleep all right?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Chloe lied, grateful her back was turned as she reached for mugs from the cupboard. ‘I must get out and check the stables for storm damage when I’ve had a drink.’

  ‘They all look fine and Antoine’s already in the yard feeding the horses,’ Ailsa told her. ‘Just a few branches down in my garden, and the usual buckets and the like blown all over the place. The spice tree at the end of the drive has taken a battering, but it’s still standing.’

  Chloe shut the door firmly on six brown chickens who were edging their way over the threshold. ‘Oh good. I don’t normally sleep in this late, but it was a bit of a disturbed night, wasn’t it?’

  Ailsa launched into a story about the hurricane from a previous year, when the island had been badly hit, losing many buildings and a large proportion of ancient cedar trees. Chloe half-listened, feeling her gaze move over to the chest, and back again. Could this all be down to drugs? She hoped not. Melissa, despite the gossip, had seemed so vulnerable. Maybe Matthew had forced her into whatever trouble she was in? After all, he was the one dead. With knife marks on his face. Oh God…

  She could ring the gallery, she realised with relief, to check Melissa got home safely. It could be on the pretext of buying another painting, and if Jonas answered she could suggest a drink or something. If his sister was in trouble, did he know? Or, she thought suddenly, was he part of the trouble?