by Cathy Ace
“Hang on a second,” I said, and poked my head up above the floor, then back down again. “That little door is in the part of the wall that’s beneath the bookcase,” I said, “along from the door into the room, by a few feet. I’m coming.”
I took a deep breath, hunched down, and went for it. Bud put his phone away, and I held my phone’s flashlight as steady as I could so that he could use both hands to turn the large iron ring set into the wooden planks. The door finally creaked open, swinging into the space we were occupying. Bud took his phone out again and shone it into the opening.
“What is it?” I asked. I felt both physically and psychologically uncomfortable, but really wanted to know what we’d found.
Bud turned to me. “There’s a ladder hanging down, a rope ladder.”
I peered in, over his shoulder. “It’s called a Jacob’s ladder,” I said. “They had them on the old ships. Just the sort of thing Henry Morgan would have used during his time at sea. I wonder if it’s as old as the tower. And, in case you were considering climbing down, I have to say I don’t think you should trust it to hold you.”
Bud leaned further into the opening. “I can’t see beyond the first few rung-things on it. They look a bit sketchy – not wooden slats, but sort of dangly rope loops.”
“It’s the style of ladder. The rope would get wet at sea, then dry out again. They made the rope rungs longer than they really needed to be to accommodate them shrinking. It seems it hasn’t shrunk here, so the rungs will be a bit saggy.”
“Good to know, Cait, but not helping,” said Bud, sounding patient.
As the light flashed about inside the shaft – that descended between an inner and an outer wall of the tower – I realized I wasn’t feeling at all well.
“We could do with some glow sticks, something I could throw down, to provide some more light at the bottom,” said Bud. “I think I can see a tunnel leading away from the shaft, but I can’t be sure. It’s too deep.”
“I have to get out of here,” I said abruptly, and shuffled back to the opening in the floor. I was relieved to stand upright and see something other than walls close around me. I was sweating profusely and feeling more than a bit wobbly. I hate having irrational fears – heights, and enclosed spaces, and getting my face splashed, and not being able to put my feet down on something solid when I’m in the water. All really annoying. But all possibly life saving fears, I always tell myself. “Please come up for air too, Bud,” I pleaded.
“I just want to take a look…”
“No, we’re not doing this alone. It’s too dangerous. We need back up of some sort.”
Bud shuffled toward me, then we both stood with our heads poking up out of the cavity, above the floorboards. A heated conversation ensued about what we might have found, its implications, and our next move.
It took me a good quarter of an hour to talk Bud into leaving, and then it took us another fifteen minutes to get everything back to where it had been when we’d first arrived. By the time we crept down the stone staircase it was getting close to two in the morning, we were both exhausted and covered in dust. We shared the feeling that we’d achieved something, but were annoyed that we really weren’t well enough placed to be able to capitalize upon it.
I had yet another shower when I got back to the bungalow – my fourth of the day – and collapsed into bed. Bud was already snoring; I closed my eyes as tight as I could and hoped for sleep.
Addictions and Predilections
To say that I didn’t feel like getting out of bed when someone knocked at our door at seven the next morning would be understating things. I could have happily throttled them, whomever they might be. Bud kindly went to see who it was, and I managed to snuggle down again, because he was also kind enough to close the bedroom door when he left.
I thought I’d closed my eyes for no more than a moment, then felt awful when I realized I’d drifted back to sleep for nearly an hour. When I peeled myself out of the sheets, Bud was nowhere to be seen, his phone was gone, and I panicked. I pulled on some clothes and ran across to the big house. No one there.
I hit Bud’s number on my phone and heard his ringtone in the distance. I kept the call open as I followed the sound, and discovered him at John and Lottie’s bungalow; he, Jack, and John were huddled on the little verandah.
“What’s up?” I asked. I didn’t dare say that the thought had crossed my mind that he might be crawling along some ancient secret passage.
“I’ve reported back about our nocturnal activities. We’ve agreed that we three will plan a sortie tonight. We’ll keep an eye on the place to establish when the coast is clear, then get into that tunnel as early as we can.”
I knew there was no point arguing. “Okay. All three of you?” They all nodded. “And between now and then?”
“Follow up on Wilson Thomas’s autopsy report, which we’ve just received. Shot through the chest, twice. One shot nicked the aorta. Which is interesting,” said Bud.
I nodded. “If he was able to speak to you at all, with an aorta that had been damaged, you must have arrived just after he was shot.”
“Correct,” said John.
“But we didn’t see anyone,” said Jack. “All three of us were watching the shack at what would have been the time of the shooting. None of us heard anything – though we all agree the rain was real heavy and the surf roaring – but none of us saw anything either.”
“Another impossible murder,” I observed, probably sounding as tired as I felt. “No overripe ackee in his stomach too, was there?” I quipped.
“No,” said Jack, sounding puzzled.
Bud rolled his eyes at me. I flashed him a cheeky smile.
“I need coffee,” I groaned.
“I made some,” said John. All three men raised coffee mugs, and grinned. “There should be some in the pot, over in the big house.”
“Let me know what your plans are.” I headed to the kitchen, and coffee.
“Good morning,” said Lottie brightly as I staggered into the dining room. “Tarone just phoned from Kingston. Amelia is doing much better. It’s not a bleed on the brain as they’d feared, and she hasn’t got a concussion either. Tarone hopes she’ll be able to come home later today.”
I was surprised. “That’s quite a turnaround.”
“You say that as though it’s a bad thing,” snapped Lottie. “I’d say it’s rather good news for Tarone, and Amelia.”
I sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound that way. It just seems odd that a hospital would call Tarone to rush there as though Amelia’s at death’s door, then we hear she’s able to come home a day or so later. It doesn’t say much for the diagnostic abilities of the doctors at the hospital, does it?”
“Sounds as though they were doing the best they could for their patient, to me,” said Lottie, then she shoved a piece of mango into her mouth and chewed. I headed to the kitchen where I was tempted to drink straight from the coffee pot, but I poured myself a giant mug of the stuff and shuffled back to the dining table instead.
“Did someone get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?” inquired Lottie, somewhat sarcastically.
“Someone wishes they were still in bed,” I replied. “I’m taking this outside, I need caffeine and nicotine, then I’ll be almost like a normal human being.”
I could hear Lottie muttering something about “addicts” as I left, but chose to not bite off her head as a pre-coffee treat. All things considered, I thought I’d comported myself rather well.
I was allowed five minutes of peace and quiet before Lottie stood beside me. “Have you seen Sheila?”
I shook my head, and realized my headache wasn’t going away without some help. Caffeine, nicotine, acetaminophen; the trinity worshipped by the hungover, and the plain dog-tired, as I was. “She’ll be having a lie-in, if she’s got any sense,” I said.
Lottie was about to leave, when I had a silent word with myself, then a
dded, “I need to find out all I can about Niall Jackson. Can you help at all?” I didn’t have the patience to be sneaky, or even subtle, about my request.
She put her hands on her hips and scowled at me. “After what I’ve told you about him, you want me to talk about him even more?”
I was confused. “You’ve hardly talked to me about him at all.”
Lottie’s mouth dropped open. “I poured my heart out to you yesterday. Told you about how he took my virginity, made a fool of me, and broke my heart. Weren’t you even listening?”
“That was Niall Jackson? You were talking about him? But you said the boy in question had parents who owned a resort in Montego Bay.”
“I did. They did.”
“And they owned the restaurant we went to the other evening near Negril?”
“Yes.”
I took stock. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Umm…okay then, I’m also sorry I asked. But…”
I must have looked as pathetic and flummoxed as I felt, because Lottie flopped into a chair beside me. “Go on, what do you want to know?”
I smiled as brightly as I could manage. “Niall seems to have fingers in a lot of pies. Do you know which pies, exactly?”
“No, I haven’t kept up with his many undertakings. I know he’s a lawyer, a realtor, runs the restaurant, and possibly runs the resort the family owned. His father also had a number of boats that took tourists on trips around the island, that sort of thing. I have no idea if Niall does that too, but he was always on the water, I recall that much. Loved his boats, he did.”
“What about photography?” I asked. “Was he ever into photography?”
Lottie gave me a look that was almost disdainful. “Do you mean dirty photos? That sort of thing?”
“No, I mean photography of anything…birds, views, buildings, just normal stuff.”
“I don’t recall him being particularly interested in photography, though he did have a camera, I recall, which I suppose not everyone did at the time. And a Walkman. And his was one of the first iPods I ever saw, too. He liked that sort of thing. Fiddly electronic gadgets. And, with his parents’ money, he got anything and everything new he ever wanted. He also enjoyed pulling them apart to see how they worked, and liked to try to improve them.”
“I wonder if you could talk to him – I have a few questions I’d like to get answers to; maybe we could also have another get together with Nina Mazzo.” It was worth a try.
Lottie shook her head. “No, I won’t approach Niall for you. But Nina would have us back at her place again if we asked. She seemed to be pleased to have all the inside info about Freddie. If you like, I could phone her and suggest we might have more to tell her. Do you think Sheila might want to come too? Or the men? Funnily enough, John was saying he wouldn’t mind meeting Nina; he said she sounds as though she’d be highly entertaining.”
I thought back to what Bud had told me about the man I knew as Luca Mazzo, and I wasn’t at all surprised that John had said he’d like to meet the man’s widow. I was a bit surprised Bud hadn’t said the same thing, but then realized he’d been somewhat consumed with other leads since seeing the photo of Mazzo in the album, and might not have had the chance to mention any interest he had in Nina to Lottie, or even to me.
“I tell you what, we could invite her here. Do you think she’d come?” I spoke in as effervescent a manner as possible – believing I had to make some sort of effort.
“I don’t know. I suppose all we can do is ask. Why don’t I phone her now?” Lottie pulled her phone from her pocket and hit the screen.
I watched and waited. Eventually it was clear that Lottie was speaking to Nina herself, because Lottie spoke to her in fluent Italian. Luckily, I know enough of the language to get by, so I was able to listen to at least Lottie’s side of the conversation, while feigning ignorance – which meant slapping an idiotic grin on my face when Lottie had finished.
“She’s invited us there for lunch,” announced Lottie, as she pushed the phone back into her pocket. “All six of us. It will be a party, she said. I suppose that suggests a certain type of dress code, which is nice; I brought several little frocks with me, so at least I’ll have the chance to wear one of them. Pick up at twelve thirty for one. She’ll send a car, to save any of us from having to drive – which suggests drinks, I think. I have to say, it sounds lovely.”
Lottie all but skipped off shouting she was, “Going to tell the boys.”
I called back that I’d tell Sheila. I hauled myself out of my chair and plodded around the pool to do just that, then changed my mind, and nipped into our bungalow to get some painkillers inside me, hoping to shake off my headache – though I knew the humidity meant it was going to be an uphill battle for two little tablets.
I finally stood outside the Whites’ bungalow and steeled myself. I knocked. And waited. Nothing. I knocked again. “Sheila, it’s only Cait.”
Only Cait? Only the woman she clearly cannot stand, I thought.
The door opened, and a red-eyed Sheila greeted me with a hoarse voice. “Come in,” she said, and stood back, opening the door a little wider.
The room was as dishevelled as she was; I’m not the tidiest person in the world, but it looked as though someone had thrown all the clothes she and Jack had brought with them onto the floor of the siting room. She kicked a few floral tops out of the way to allow the door to open fully. I walked in and waited; there wasn’t an empty chair to sit on.
“I’m sorry…” I began, just as she said, “I wanted to apologize…”
We shared half-smiles.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Sorry too,” she replied.
She looked around the room. “I know you can’t ignore the mess. I decided to pack to leave last night, then, when I realized how stupid I was being…well, you can see what I resorted to. Clothes don’t make a noise when you throw them, and they don’t smash. So that’s a bonus, right?”
“I can give you a hand to pick everything up, if you like,” I offered.
Sheila shook her head. “My penance, and I can sort everything as I do it. So, what did you want?”
“Nina Mazzo has invited all six of us for lunch. She’s sending a car. Twelve thirty for one. Lottie believes it’s an event that will require a frock of some sort, so you’ll be fine, because you have several lovely ones, but I’ll have to make do with something featuring trousers.”
“Why don’t you ever wear a dress?” asked Sheila.
I thought it an odd but harmless question and decided to give her an honest answer. “Because the tops of my thighs rub together when I walk, and I find it uncomfortable. Trousers solve that problem.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And I don’t care for my calves, nor my knees.”
“Right.”
“And I’m too short for dresses that would fit my girth; and they never look right when they’re shortened.”
“Got it.” Sheila was backing away from me, eyeing the mounds that surrounded her.
“See you in the big house ready to leave at twelve thirty, okay?” I said.
She nodded, and I walked out through the still-open door. She shut it behind me. I thought I heard her sigh.
I headed to the dining room to try to find something to eat. If we weren’t going to be lunching until one, I’d never make it. I’d just found some not-quite-stale banana bread when I heard Bud calling my name.
“In the pantry,” I called back. He appeared. “Still no brandy,” I quipped, waving my free hand at the shelves.
“The cops are on their way here, to ask more questions. You clear about what you do and don’t know?”
I paused, mid-chew, gave it some thought, nodded, and swallowed. “Are Jack and John briefing Sheila and Lottie?” Bud nodded. “And Lottie told you about our luncheon invitation to Caro Mio?”
“Yep. That’ll be an excellent opportunity for us to try to dig up something about Nina’s late hu
sband, thanks for that, Cait. Lottie told us it was your idea. Good thinking.”
I’ll admit I glowed in the moment of flattery. “When will the police be here?”
“They’ve asked us to congregate in the lounge at ten. You okay with that?” I said I would be. “And, Cait…just follow my lead during questioning – I hope to draw some facts out of them rather than have to wait until there’s an updated police report on Freddie, or something on Wilson Thomas beyond his autopsy.”
I checked my watch. “Okay. I’ll just run back to the bungalow to freshen up a bit.”
“It’s just some cops, and some questions,” called Bud as I left, my banana bread in hand.
“I know,” I replied, wondering if there was any way the word “just” should ever be applied to such a situation.
Cops and Questions
When compared with their first visit, there was a totally different atmosphere in the lounge when Sergeant Swabey and Constable Lewis entered it on this occasion. It might have been because they were accompanied by an inspector from the criminal investigation bureau. He introduced himself in even more formal language than the lawyer Cooperman had used, and it was clear from the outset that Inspector Ewan Charles was a man with a mission.
He opened with, “Mr. Freddie Burkinshaw was a respected member of the community, with many years of charitable works behind him. He had enjoyed a full life, and was an elderly gentleman, but it is our duty to uncover the identity of the person who robbed him of however many years he still had ahead of him. We will act as speedily as possible, and I wish to assure you that our intent is to reach a favorable conclusion to this case.”
I could feel myself twitching at the injustice that Wilson Thomas didn’t even warrant a mention in this introduction, but gave the inspector the benefit of the doubt; maybe he was simply playing to his audience? How could he know we weren’t just a group of wealthy tourists? We’d rented an entire estate for a month, after all, and he wasn’t to know it had been done on the cheap because of some shady dealings between three governments’ secret service agencies and a long-time informer – the man he was so keen to portray as a pillar of the local community.