The Corpse with the Crystal Skull

by Cathy Ace

  I tuned them out as best I could, and “did my thing”, as Bud likes to call it. For me that means mentally logging not just objects, but their position and relationship to one another, while analysing what they tell me about the victim in question. The first thing I noticed was that what I’d spotted as a brass tube on Freddie’s desk was, as I had surmised, a telescope; it was something he clearly used, because it wasn’t displayed in a way you’d present something for admiration, it was to hand – smudged with fingerprints and use. I wondered what he watched through it.

  The other thing I noticed immediately was the crystal skull that Lottie had been banging on about. It was the “glass paperweight” I’d seen glinting in the sunlight on Freddie’s desk when I’d peered through the lock, across his corpse.

  I stopped in my tracks. “Something’s off here, Bud,” I said.

  He also froze. “What’s up?”

  I walked to the door we’d just entered and knelt on the floor outside it. I bobbed my head about the way I had done when I’d been peering through the keyhole at Freddie’s body.

  “What is it?” Bud sounded puzzled.

  I stood and returned to the desk. “A few things. First, there was a bundle of papers on the desk. On the corner, with the crystal skull sitting on top of them like a paperweight. The papers have gone, and the skull is now in a different position. Also missing is a long scroll of paper, tied with a blue string.”

  Bud bit his lip. “Anyone could have come in here. The door to this room’s been wide open since the cops removed the lock. We only know about one key to the outer door downstairs because we’re just visitors, but there could be others – it’s a pretty standard, if old, type of lock. And there were those clearly visible marks of attempts to open the door, too.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. We can’t possibly guess who else might have got in here, so let’s just carry on as we planned, okay?”

  We did.

  I took my time studying the crystal skull; Lottie was right, it was stunning. I walked around the corner of the desk upon which it sat. True, it had been moved, but even when it had been used as a paperweight it would have been within easy reach of anyone sitting in the desk’s chair, and it was something Freddie had stroked – I could see smears all over it. It was certainly an object that invited you to touch it. It looked incredibly smooth, even where the eye sockets and teeth had been carved. I wondered at the number of hands that had succumbed to its siren call to fondle it throughout its existence. I pondered Lottie’s belief that this was an object that had existed in the 1600s, and knew it was problematic; every crystal skull that’s been tested has been proven to have been made at some time during the 1800s, when there was a craze for such “ancient” objects. Similarly, most of the mythologies about the powers of such items cannot be traced back to the times when these skulls were supposed to have originated in Mesoamerica. So this might be a relatively modern creation, like all the rest, or it might be – well, the first ever to be discovered that had a traceable history, and which might show a lack of modern tooling if it were studied. That wasn’t something I was going to be able to deduce; it would take expertise and a lot of magnification to achieve that, so all I could do was admire its form, and consider its role in our current situation.

  Its original position, acting as a paperweight on Freddie’s desk, suggested he had a close affinity for the object, that much was clear, and it being in his possession was certainly public knowledge, so that was what I had to consider. If it was believed by some to be ancient, powerful, and valuable, the truth about it hardly mattered, because even erroneous beliefs can lead to actions that have real and deadly consequences. But if it was still on Freddie’s desk, then it seemed unlikely that the desire to possess it had motivated murder. Interesting.

  Other than the skull itself, there were so many more objects for me to acknowledge and consider, that I dragged myself away from it, and checked the bookcases that curved around the inner wall of Freddie’s private sanctum.

  The first thing I spotted was a complete collection of all Ian Fleming’s novels. I dared to pull the copy of Casino Royale off the shelf and opened it. It was a first edition, signed, “To my pal, Freddie. Mine’s a large one! Ian”. It was in mint condition, with a totally unblemished dust jacket. I reckoned it was worth about fifty thousand dollars. All the others looked to be in the same condition. What a collection.

  I was saddened to see that the butterfly in a glass case that I’d spotted when peering through the keyhole was none other than a Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing – one of the rarest butterflies in the world. It was magnificent – about ten inches across, its wings were banded with iridescent blue-green and vivid yellow, and it had splashes of scarlet on its body. I’d not long ago read an article about the dwindling population in their only known habitat of Papua New Guinea, and hoped Freddie’s specimen was at least decades old, though I feared it wasn’t. What a dreadful thing to have on a bookshelf!

  He had an impressive collection of volumes about Mesoamerica during both pre- and post-Columbian periods, and a pile of contemporary works from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries relating to the Caribbean, and Central American locales, all laid on their backs. There was also a boggling array of books about Caribbean beliefs, religions, and mythologies littered on the shelves. These latter books looked pretty ancient, and several were housed in hard, outer cases, for protection. Nonetheless, there they were, the sun beating on them through the open jalousies. That’s odd.

  I could tell from the lack of bleaching that this wasn’t normal for the books – they’d have looked quite different if Freddie had kept the shutters open all the time. I stuck up my hand and called out. “Need to discuss a point, please.”

  Bud gave me his attention. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Those shutters were open when we found Freddie, and it looks as though the police didn’t close them after they took his body away. It’s clear the rain of yesterday and last night has blown in. Agreed?”

  Bud looked at the floor, which was still a little damp, and agreed.

  “The condition of these books suggests Freddie kept the shutters closed, as a rule. If he’d opened them at, or just after, sunset, the books would have been protected from the glare of the sun. I know it rained on the night Freddie died, because everything was wet when I got up on the morning we discovered his body. I believe Freddie would have closed the shutters if he was here, and alive, when the rain started. Do you know when that was?”

  Bud shook his head. “We could find out from some local weather station,” he suggested.

  I nodded. “That would help to shrink the window of opportunity.”

  Bud added, “I agree with your theory, though we can’t know if it’s true, of course. It’s something we could have asked Amelia – was Freddie in the habit of keeping the shutters closed at certain times? – but we can’t. So, let’s find out about the rain when we get out of here, and see if it tells us anything. That all?”

  “Yes, thanks. For now.”

  I returned to my job, surveying the furnishings, and the items displayed on them, around the perimeter of the room. It took a while. It was fascinating.

  Eventually, I sat at Freddie’s desk, trying to not shift his chair too much. The largest window in the room was directly behind me, but the rest of the tower had smaller windows that allowed for wonderful cross-breezes; the exact position of the chair at the desk seemed to benefit most from the throughflow. Clever design, and clever positioning of the desk.

  Other than the telescope and the crystal skull, Freddie had a pot of biros and pencils on his desk, and an antique leather blotter, which actually contained blotting paper. By bobbing my head about I could see there were indentations in the blotting paper, though there were no traces of ink. The indentations seemed to be of squiggly lines, rather than words. Interesting.

  As Jack joined us again on the top floor, I stood up so I could pull open the central
drawer in the desk without it hitting my tummy. Inside was a collection of the sort of detritus that seems to grow in such a drawer: rubber bands, a huge number of pencils, and sharpeners, bits of balled-up string, and so forth. However, what caught my attention was a red-lacquered wooden box, fashioned to look like a chest, with a small gold medallion set into the lid. I could feel the excitement in my tummy, but waited, and called out, “Need to open an item I’ve found in this drawer. I’ll use this handkerchief to avoid messing up any prints that might be relevant. Anyone want to watch?”

  Bud and Jack stood to my right side, and I placed the box carefully on the desk. I opened it, and my heart went wild. I’ve always adored the feel of a good fountain pen in my hand – it’s what I wrote with at school. These days I resort to a plain old biro for all the grading I have to do, but when I write something I really care about I pull out my beautiful, silky, matt black Parker pen and allow myself the indulgence of thoughtful, carefully-formed cursive. I admit I have been known to dribble at the thought of some fine writing instruments in my time.

  Both Bud and Jack couldn’t help but both say, “Wow,” when I revealed the contents of the box – a fountain pen with its gleaming black cap and body encapsulated in carved pirate heads, skulls, and seafaring items like ropes, swords, and sirens all intricately created in solid gold, with silver embellishments. It was exquisite.

  “That’s amazing,” said Bud.

  “Could you even write with it?” asked Jack.

  “A person could,” I said, “but I’m not sure I’d dare to. I happen to know that Montegrappa made a limited edition of 399 of these pens in silver, but only ever made nine of this particular type, the gold version. It’s worth something in the region of sixty to seventy thousand dollars. American, not Canadian.”

  “For a pen?” said Bud, stunned.

  “How much does the ink cost?” asked Jack with a chuckle.

  “If Freddie had managed to run through millions of dollars, buying stuff like that might account for it,” said Bud. “That’s just ridiculous. All that money…for that? I mean it’s a work of art, alright, but it’s just sitting there, in a box, in a drawer, with only him ever seeing it. What sort of a man would do that, Cait?”

  “Interesting question, and this pen – when taken with the other items I’ve seen here – suggest Freddie had more than a slight tendency to be what Tarone referred to as being ‘gravalicious’. It usually means just plain greedy, but I mean it in terms of Freddie being selfishly acquisitive; avaricious. Freddie liked to own things, yes, but he liked to have them all to himself. Which is quite different, psychologically speaking.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Jack.

  “When we got back from our visit to Caro Mio, I told you we’d been treated to a display of wealth; Luca Mazzo had designed the house to quite literally show off his valued, and valuable, possessions. ‘I’ve got it, and I’m going to flaunt it.’ That’s quite normal. Freddie didn’t do that. See that bottle of Remy Martin brandy over there on the armoire?” Bud and Jack nodded.

  Bud said, “It’s the same as the one he’s been serving us in the evenings, right?”

  “Well, it’s similar,” I replied. “The cognac we’ve all been enjoying is the classic Remy Martin Louis XIII. That costs around three or four thousand dollars a bottle. This one is the Black Pearl version.”

  “So, more expensive?” asked Jack. A glint in his eye.

  “Try something around the one-fifty to two-hundred-thousand-dollar mark. If you can get it,” I replied.

  The men’s mouths fell open.

  “Unbelievable,” said Bud. “That’s such a huge amount of money to spend on something you just drink. It cannot possibly taste that much better than the cognac we’ve been drinking – which I have to admit is pretty good. But all that money?”

  “The Cohiba Esplendidos cigars you’ve been enjoying after dinner?” Jack and Bud nodded. “About thirty-five dollars each. The ones in Freddie’s humidor over there? They’re rare. The Arturo Fuente Don AnniverXario comes in at about seven thousand five hundred dollars a box.”

  “Heck of a way to rip through a bunch of money,” said Jack. “Literally setting fire to it.”

  I continued, “Then there’s the crystal skull, a one-off; the fountain pen, a limited edition; that butterfly, extremely rare; the set of first edition Bond novels, valuable. But none of them are on public display; all of them are tucked away here, for his own private pleasure. Even this tower – in its entirety – is something he owned and held close to himself, allowing no one else to enjoy it. Yes, he wanted the public to be allowed to access it after his death, but not while he lived. It’s about covetousness, beyond ownership. There are people who want to own something specifically because they cannot. And those who don’t care to share, even when they do possess something. You must both know types, and individuals like that, right?”

  Bud and Jack nodded. “Do you think that aspect of his personality might have led him to lie to us when he told us he didn’t know where the papers we’re looking for were located?” asked Bud.

  I sighed. “It’s hard to be certain, but it could lead him to do that, yes. If he knew you wanted something he had, he might feel the need to cling to it for the pure joy of possession, whatever the implications.”

  “What’s that?” said Jack, hushing us.

  “Someone’s calling, from down below,” said Bud. He moved to the rail of the walkway, and shouted back. “Sure. Give us a minute.” He came back into the room. “It’s the cops, seeking access. Are we all finished here?”

  Jack and I nodded. “Okay then, act all innocent when we leave. We were just curious – wanted to get a look at the place, okay?” We nodded again. “Come on then, let’s go.” As he reached the door he turned, a glint in his eye. “Fancy bringing that cognac, Jack?”

  Jack laughed. “It might be evidence, Bud, so no. But I wouldn’t mind having a drop more of the stuff he was happy to share with us back at the big house.”

  “After dinner, maybe,” I said, following the men to the top of the stairs. “Sheila might be grateful if we order in again tonight – she could keep her foot up.”

  “Let’s explain our way out of any difficulties with local law enforcement, first,” said Bud, “then we can turn our attention to other things.”

  We started down the stairs. As we entered the bedroom level I said, “Can you stall them? Just for five minutes or so? I know you’ve filmed everything, Jack, but I’d just like to have a quick look around every level for myself. Can you manage that?”

  “I think we’ll be able to cope,” replied Bud. “But don’t hang about. See you outside, five minutes.”

  I was as good as my word, and was happy to see that Bud and Jack had convinced Sergeant Swabey, who had returned with Constable Lewis and another officer – to whom I wasn’t introduced – that we’d been checking on the well-being of the tower at the request of Amelia, who was not able to do it herself. Bud mentioned that he’d closed the jalousie shutters on the topmost floor to protect the contents of the room from the weather, and we left having displayed what we judged to be just the right amount of curiosity and concern that the police were now going to treat the tower as a potential crime scene.

  Swabey’s parting shout was: “We’ll need to ask some more questions before too long, now that the situation has changed.”

  Bud called back, “We’re not going anywhere this evening. Please come over to the main house whenever you like.”

  He can be such a sweetie when he needs to be.

  Entertaining an Elephant

  Sheila was happy to order food from the same place as a couple of nights earlier. We were all pleased, and I knew it was for the best. Luckily, Bud and I had enjoyed three weeks of swanning around Jamaica hitting all the good food spots, so I didn’t mind not having gourmet cuisine every night.

  “John phoned,” said Sheila after we’d agreed our dinner plans. “He and
Lottie should be back here by about seven thirty, traffic allowing. I’ve ordered food for about that time, so we should be good. And it means we’ve got time for you guys to bring me up to date, and for us to consider what we know, in detail, before we’re under constraint again – not able to talk freely in front of Lottie.”

  I’d done some intense work at the tower, and felt I needed just a little time to decompress.

  “I tell you what,” I said, “why don’t you look at the video Jack took while I go and have a very, very quick dip in the pool. I’m hot and sweaty, and just floating for a few minutes would do me the world of good.” I hoped I wasn’t making Sheila jealous of my comparative mobility. “I’m sure you could float about a bit if you wanted to, even with that ankle,” I added.

  “Don’t worry about me – I’m just fine. Go on, have a dip. Think about what you saw while I see it for myself. I dare say Jack and Bud have stuff they need to do, too. Right?”

  The men nodded. “Some calls,” mumbled Bud. “Want to see if I can get the police report on Freddie so I can understand what they’ll be considering at the scene – read it in conjunction with the autopsy. And there are a few things Jack can be getting on with, too. Okay if we leave you girls to it?”

  “Divide and conquer,” said Sheila, and we all did as we’d said we would.

  It turned out that getting into the pool didn’t soothe me as much as I’d hoped it would; I don’t hate the water, it’s just that I can’t swim. But I can float on my back, just about, when I know I can put my feet on the bottom of the pool, so I usually find that bobbing about in the shallow end is good for my soul. But, on this occasion, it just made me feel insecure; I kept worrying that I’d float out of my depth, and that Bud wouldn’t be there to steer me back to safety.

  As I tried to concentrate on relaxing my body, I had to acknowledge that I was feeling a bit out of my depth in terms of what we were facing, too; I hate not knowing everything, I hate not being in control, I hate not being able to fix things, and I hate not being the best and most useful team member. After about ten minutes I gave up, went back to the bungalow and dressed in comfy clothes for dinner.