The Corpse with the Crystal Skull

by Cathy Ace

  Viva la Dolce Vita

  When we left, we turned onto the little private track that followed the line of the coast. Caro Mio was the only thing beyond the Captain’s Lookout estate, so I hadn’t ventured in that direction before. The public road ran on higher ground to our right; it was busy with cars and trucks, most of which appeared to be whizzing along at an alarming rate, with drivers seeming to feel the need to regularly check if their horns still worked.

  The single-lane route ahead of us was rutted and littered with rocks and potholes. We lurched along, each of us making little noises as we were shaken about.

  “I can see why she’d want to widen this road,” said Lottie, hanging onto the bucking steering wheel.

  “Is it this bit that’s in dispute?” asked Sheila, gripping the dashboard.

  “Yes. Her estate used to have its own access road, but because of the landslide she has to use this one.” Lottie paused as we approached a particularly large boulder. “Oh, I see. That must have been her old access route.”

  Between us and the main road was a sort of promontory, which meant the track we were on had to take a sharp left, up a rising gradient. You could see the gap in the hillside from where the soil had let loose; I suspected a slip lane to Caro Mio, like the one we’d used to exit the main road to Freddie’s property, had been engulfed by the landslide. Now, anyone wanting to get to Nina Mazzo’s home would have to use this poor excuse for a track. I wondered if the discomfort of the trip might have something to do with a woman in her eighties choosing to rarely, if ever, leave her home. If so, that would suggest Freddie had been really rather mean; even if he hadn’t wanted the woman to own the land, he could at least have put some effort into ensuring it was well maintained – at least as well maintained as the portion of it that led to his own property, which was in pretty good shape.

  As we reached the top of the rise, the difference between the smooth ride on the Caro Mio estate’s asphalt driveway and the grinding, shuddering trip we’d just endured was a delight. It also looked as though Nina Mazzo had tried to corner the market in bougainvillea; from magenta through the palest pinks to white, from the most vibrant orange to a variety of yellows, the colorful plants scrambled up, and cascaded from, every possible type of support along the driveway – stone walls, iron archways, and even hedges made of other plants. It was astonishing. But even that didn’t prepare me for what we saw when we rounded the final arc of the driveway; there was the house – looking for all the world like something out of a Hollywood blockbuster – and then there was the view.

  I’d seen the Caribbean Sea from so many angles, and in so many different types of weather, over the past few weeks that I had thought it held no more surprises for me. However, this peekaboo view, through the colonnaded breezeways between the white stuccoed central block of the house and each of the wings extending to the left and right, was unique. I reasoned it must have had something to do with the height of the land, or the angle of the sun, or maybe the fact that it looked as though grass was rolling right down to the sea; whatever the cause, the ocean was a host of colors I’d never before seen melded together that way. I was sure there wasn’t a name for it – turquoisegreenbluenavycobaltopal probably isn’t an actual colour. But I liked it. Loved it.

  I dragged my eyes away from the sea and allowed myself to focus on the house. It was whitewashed, with a red tile roof. The central portion was entered through a triple-arched, colonnaded portico; the many windows were internally shuttered against the sun. It was a relatively plain-fronted building, with magnificent Italian cypresses growing up to the roofline, like black daggers against the gleaming white of the walls. A young man wearing a three-piece suit, beautifully tailored in a lightweight, dove-gray cloth, rushed down the wide steps from the massive wooden door, and helped us all out of the Suburban. Lottie cottoned on that he was going to park it for us and handed him the keys.

  An older man with a fuzz of white hair, dressed in a similar uniform, descended the wide, stone steps and introduced himself in a rich voice, “I am Arnold, Signora Mazzo’s butler. Allow me to take you to her.” His Jamaican accent was strong, and his voice had a hint of Morgan Freeman about it, while his tone and expression as he uttered his employer’s name made me believe he at least thought kindly of her; there was a tenderness there.

  Lottie strode up the steps behind the butler, while Sheila and I rolled our eyes at each other, stifled a girlish giggle, and cantered to catch up. The entry hall was massive, and marbled; the slapping of our sandals on the ancient-looking tiled floor echoed in the atrium, within which there rose an impressive, sweeping staircase. The air was cool, and I could see straight through the entire building to the glint of a swimming pool, and the sea beyond. We were surrounded by imposing artworks and artifacts that looked authentic, and ruinously expensive. It was amazing. Clearly designed as a display of wealth, it did the job exceptionally well – the life-sized, patinated bronze statues of Julius Caesar and Nero either side of the arched entry were the icing on the cake, so to speak.

  We followed Arnold as he led us through an equally grand sitting room, where chairs and settees were grouped around tables, suggesting elegance rather than coziness. I wondered just how much use the room would be to a woman who hadn’t been seen in public for decades. Did she host wild parties here? Or merely ensure her staff kept it well dusted?

  Almost the entire rear wall of the building was made of tall, wide, glass doors, set in pairs. They were all open, and we passed through the central set. The pool ahead of us was vast and infinity-edged; it incorporated several waterfalls and had two rows of spouts which sent water arcing through the air, all of which created a fabulous splashing sound. There was seating for about thirty people, in a variety of styles, and on one lounger, close to the steps which led into the pool itself, was a tiny female figure that appeared to be carved from a knotty, dark wood that had been oiled, then placed inside an amethyst-colored, one piece-swimsuit. As we approached, the figure rose, and Nina Mazzo pulled a glittering golden wrap about herself.

  A wide-brimmed hat that exactly matched her swimsuit shaded a face that was largely covered by a pair of massive sunglasses; a wisp of snow-white hair lay on her dark neck, and she had suspiciously pouty, red lips. Nina Mazzo was thin to the point of emaciation, and the bits of her body I could see were wrinkled, crêpy, and tanned to a deep mahogany. Even in her amethyst kitten heels she was still a good few inches shorter than me, and I’m only five-four, on a tall day.

  As Lottie shook her hand and introduced us by name, Nina removed her sunglasses; her facial skin was taut across cheekbones that were unusually angular. Despite the knots and ropey veins on her hands, her forehead was almost without a crease. To be fair, her surgeons deserved medals…but there had clearly only been so much they could do.

  We accepted her invitation to sit at a table shaded by an acid yellow umbrella, and all agreed we’d call her Nina, as she’d asked.

  I could see Arnold was standing just inside the sitting room directing a short, wide woman in a dove gray dress to bring a massive tray to the table we’d chosen. The server arrived and nimbly set down the tray on a side table; we were invited to select our refreshment of choice. Though our invitation had been for “coffee”, none was offered. Instead, I had a Ting – a grapefruit-flavoured soda I’ve grown to love during my time on the island – Sheila had a fizzy water with lots of ice and lemon, and I thought Lottie was extremely brave to take a ginger beer, because it can be incredibly fiery in Jamaica, I’ve found. I was a bit peeved when Arnold himself arrived with a glass of champagne, on a silver tray, for Nina; had I known it was on offer I’d have taken that.

  When the four of us were finally alone, and I was able to pay attention to the woman we’d come to visit, I still found myself distracted by the epic pool and the view beyond. This didn’t seem to bother our hostess at all, and she was only too happy to give us an introduction to her fabulous estate.

  “Don’t
you think it’s beautiful here?” she asked simply. Her voice was surprisingly deep for such a small woman, and a little cracked with age. All three of us nodded and murmured our agreement.

  “My late husband Luca was a man with great vision.” She waved a twig-like arm toward the house. “He designed all this himself. It’s the perfect place to entertain, and we have four guest houses, two at the end of each wing.”

  I allowed my eyes to dart about and fell in love with the delightful symmetry of the grand edifice.

  “This was one of the first infinity pools in the world, and certainly the first on this island. Luca had an American come here to design and build it as the house was being constructed. They camped in tents as the work was being undertaken so they could both oversee every step of the construction. The way the land falls away to the sea here means it works very well.” She sounded proud.

  “It’s so attractive, to have all those little tiles printed into the vinyl,” I noted.

  “Ah yes, this is very clever. This was done when I had it refinished. It has been here many years now.” Nina shrugged as she spoke.

  “There was a fabulous infinity pool in one of the Bond films,” said Lottie. “I can’t remember which one it was, but I expect it was some sort of set they built for the purpose.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Actually, the scenes featuring the house where the villain Willard Whyte lived in Diamonds Are Forever, which is where you saw the infinity pool, were filmed at the Elrod House in Palm Springs, built by John Lautner. Beautiful place, built in 1968.”

  Lottie tutted. “How on earth do you know so much about so many things?” She sounded annoyed.

  “I read a great deal,” I said, trying not to sound as though I wanted to poke my tongue out at her.

  Nina peered over her sunglasses and champagne. “Maybe it is the same man who built this pool. Though he built ours in 1963, so much earlier.” This distinction seemed important to Nina.

  Nina’s accent still had an Italian cadence, but the sometimes-dramatic swoops Italians use in their speech patterns had been smoothed away. It was lovely to hear.

  “I expect you’ve had some wonderful times here,” I ventured.

  Nina’s mouth smiled a little, though the rest of her face didn’t move very much at all. “Indeed. We had twenty or so good years here, before Luca died. So many wonderful parties, some lasting for days. Then, there were many interesting people who had homes on the island, or who would visit. Since then? It has not been the same. He has gone of course, and the people here? They are not as interesting. Now I live the life of a poor, old widow, waiting to die.”

  She dropped her head and clutched at her chest, but I caught a twitch of her lips, and suspected she was toying with us. She seemed perfectly pampered and content in her palace beside the sea. She certainly hadn’t let her looks fade – she’d obviously done whatever she could to retain them. But for who? Not her staff, surely.

  “You promised to tell me about Freddie,” she said, steering the conversation to the topic I suspected most interested her. “Tell me how he died.” She sounded excited, conspiratorial.

  Lottie was the one who’d made our appointment, so it seemed fair that she should tell the story…which she did, up to the point where Nina interrupted with: “So you did not actually see his dead body?”

  “Not personally,” confessed Lottie.

  “Did you, or you?” Nina sounded annoyed as she peered at Sheila and me.

  We both nodded.

  “And he was dead? Truly dead?”

  We nodded again.

  “Good,” she replied.

  There weren’t many ways to take the conversation, but one, after that.

  “You didn’t like Freddie?” I asked.

  “The man was a snake,” hissed Nina. “He was a viper, slithering through the grass, hiding his poisonous nature,” she added, dramatically. “When Luca was alive, we spent much time with him – and him always the big man, knowing everyone, moving in exalted circles. Then, when we had the earthquake in 1993, the road to my home was lost, but Freddie would not help me. All he had to do was let me take ownership of a small strip of land, and I could have kept my home easily accessible. You have seen what that tiny track is like. There is nothing that can be done to make a new access-way, because of the main road and the geology of the place. If he had maintained it, I would be happy. If he had sold me that land, I would be happy. But, no. He is so stubborn, that one. Greedy. He needed to own everything he desired to own. Now it is almost impassable. It was as though he was punishing me for something. Me! I am just a poor, old widow. I do not want much from this life, but a road so I can get to my home is one thing I need – and I wish it to be a good road. He was an evil, greedy man – but that sort of person always has to pay some price. Now he is dead. This is good news.”

  Nina was getting a bit worked up, and I thought it best to try to deescalate the situation as best I could, but – on the other hand – I wanted to work out if this woman had hated Freddie so much that she might have somehow managed to kill him. She certainly seemed to be headed in that direction – which was good, in a way.

  “Had you tried legal action?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  Nina raised her arms and shouted, “Niall is my lawyer, and he is a worker of miracles. He will take my papers to court and get that land for me, you’ll see. He has been very clever and has photographs that will be evidence that what Freddie says is his was always mine.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Before we came to Jamaica a local man owned all the land that was once Henry Morgan’s, here along the beach. He built the main house where you are staying, and he lived there. In the 1960s the man died, and the land was divided up. One part was called the Captain’s Lookout estate. We bought this piece of the land, and Luca named it for me. We should have been given more when we bought it, but maybe Freddie cheated us then, and we did not know it. Now? Now it will be easier to get what I am sure is mine anyway.”

  “You mean now that Freddie’s dead?” I pressed.

  Nina put on her sunglasses and tilted her head. “I do not know if him being dead makes a difference.”

  “Well, he’s gone, and the next owner of the estate might be more ready to do as you want,” said Sheila sounding practical.

  Nina put the tip of a sharply manicured thumbnail into her mouth, where she ran it along her perfect white teeth. “This is what I believe, and it is what Niall believes.” She pulled down her glasses and peered at us. “I have spoken with Niall yesterday, on the telephone, as soon as I had news about Freddie being dead. Niall says this will be good for my case. ‘It will clear the path,’ he said – which is very funny, because it means two things, no? Niall is very clever this way, saying things that can be understood by different people in different ways. And we have the evidence, the photographs that prove this has always been my land. Now we can get it. At last. I am certain of this. Niall will arrange things. He is good at arranging things. But, for now, tell me how Freddie looked when he was dead. I want to know exactly.”

  All three of us shifted in our seats. I took a deep breath and began, telling Nina what she wanted to know. I gave her a brief version of events.

  “Was the skull damaged?” she asked. It seemed, to me, to be an odd question.

  I thought about my response. “He might have hit his head when he fell, I suppose. I couldn’t see the right side of his skull at all, nor the back. The left side didn’t appear to be damaged.”

  Nina looked puzzled. “Not his skull, the skull.”

  Sheila, Lottie, and I exchanged a look that suggested to me they didn’t understand what Nina was talking about either.

  I replied, “I’m sorry, Nina, we don’t know what you mean. The skull? What skull, if not Freddie’s?”

  Nina stood, ripped off her glasses and stomped about on skin-and-bone legs. “The crystal skull. The thing that was his most prized possession.
The skull he says Henry Morgan brought from Panama with him. The skull he tells everyone is a gift from the gods. The skull that is possessed of great power. This is the skull I mean.” Her Italian accent thickened as she became more overwrought.

  We all shook our heads. “We don’t know anything about it,” I said, on our behalf.

  “Maybe it is gone! Stolen! Maybe, Freddie did not kill himself at all – it is not the sort of thing I think he would do anyway. He was too vain. Maybe someone killed him because they wanted the crystal skull for themselves, so they can have its power. Freddie used its power for many, many years. I wonder who it will make strong now. The stories about it say it is dangerous for a man to own it – that it changes a man. It corrupted Freddie. You must have heard these stories.”

  We all shook our heads.

  Nina sat again. She moved with surprising ease for a woman in her eighties. She picked up a brass bell from the table beside her and rang it above her head. Arnold immediately appeared at the top of the steps leading from the house. It was a tiny bell, and I was surprised that the man had been able to hear it – which made me think of how sounds can bounce around in unexpected ways.

  “I don’t suppose you heard a gunshot in the early hours of yesterday morning, did you, Nina? Or anything at all out of the ordinary?” I ventured.

  When Arnold arrived, Nina addressed him. “The ladies require their vehicle, and I want my telephone.” She turned to me and said, “When I sleep, I hear nothing,” then she held out her hand by way of telling us it was time to leave.