The Corpse with the Crystal Skull

by Cathy Ace

  “I understand you all gave statements to my uniformed colleagues when Mr. Burkinshaw was first found to be deceased. I have read those statements. It is now my sorrowful task to inform you that we no longer believe that Mr. Burkinshaw died by his own hand, but, rather, that he was killed by a person, or persons, unknown. Our investigation must, therefore, be reinvigorated with this fact in mind.”

  “He didn’t shoot himself, inspector?” asked Bud. I was impressed by how innocent he made his question sound.

  “We suspect that might not be the case, sir,” replied the inspector.

  “Should we be concerned for our safety?” asked Jack, looking almost paternalistically protective as he placed his hand on Sheila’s shoulder.

  “It is unlikely, sir, though, of course, one can never be too careful. As I am sure you are aware, this beautiful island of ours has its burden to bear. Some people are determined to not live by the rule of law, and our officers are constantly fighting the good fight to deter those who would endanger life and property on the island. We also seek to apprehend those who have already taken the wrong path. It is our duty, and our pleasure, to protect those who live here, as well as those who visit.”

  I felt we were in for the long-haul with this Inspector Charles. He was clearly a practiced professional communicator; I wondered if he was also an accomplished detective, or whether he’d been given this case purely because of the public relations angles. Personally, I was happy for him to be able to detect anything except that there was a lot of underhandedness going on right in front of him, courtesy of the three men he was addressing.

  Bud raised his hand, like a schoolboy. “Excuse me, inspector. We’ve heard some rather worrying rumors that Freddie Burkinshaw’s death is linked to another killing – that of a man who lived on the beach not far from here. Can you confirm that?”

  Inspector Ewan Charles looked shocked, but before he could reply, another hand shot up.

  “Yes,” said Jack, “we also heard it was the same gun that shot each of them. Is there someone running about the island killing old men? If so, I think we should be told, because both murders were committed very close by, and we’re none of us spring chickens anymore.”

  The inspector glared at Swabey and Lewis.

  John spoke as he waggled a hand in the general direction of the officers. “Should we be hiring some security guards to make sure we’re safe in our beds at night? We all knew that Jamaica has one of the highest murder rates per capita in the world before we chose it for our hols, but we really thought we’d be safe, here.” John had added a cut-glass edge to his accent.

  Lottie seemed keen to join in, even as the inspector opened his mouth to reply. “I’m so terribly frightened now, inspector,” she said breathlessly. “Should we all be getting guns for ourselves? I realize we Brits aren’t used to such things, but I’m sure one could cope in a pinch. I’ve shot a little with Daddy, at home.”

  The inspector was beginning to sweat.

  “Don’t worry, Lottie,” said Sheila, “I’m used to handling firearms. I can shoot a snake out of a tree at a hundred paces, if I need to.”

  The image was disturbing, and I couldn’t fathom why Sheila might ever need to do such a thing back home, in British Columbia.

  The inspector was about to raise his hands in defeat when I finally chipped in with: “If Freddie Burkinshaw and Wilson Thomas were both killed, within a day of each other, within a mile of here, and with the same gun, I think you should be entirely open with us about all the findings you have to date, or else we might find it necessary to represent our concerns to the Canadian and British embassies.”

  The man snapped. Waving his hands about, and almost panting, Inspector Ewan Charles, of the Jamaican criminal investigation bureau, proved to be a bit of a wimp. “Please, stop, all of you,” he all-but shouted. His voice was high, almost a strangled cry. Each of us had stood as we’d asked our questions, so he patted the air in front of himself to suggest we should all take our seats again. We did.

  After gathering himself for a moment he said, “I understand your concerns, of course I do. But I am at the very beginning of my investigation. Still at the stage of gathering basic information – hence my presence here. Does anyone have anything they want to add to their original statement pertaining to the death of Mr. Burkinshaw?”

  We all shook our heads and looked as stupid as possible.

  “Also, you all told Constable Lewis,” he nodded toward her, “at the time that none of you saw anyone or anything out of the ordinary on the night of the second shooting? Is that correct?”

  More heads shaking, and nodding.

  “Was it the same gun, inspector, that killed both men? Was neither man shot with the gun we saw beside Freddie’s body?” asked Bud.

  “You are correct on both counts, sir, but you have no need to worry, I assure you. We do not believe these were random killings.” Charles smiled in an attempt to convey reassurance.

  “You think they’re connected? How? In what way? Did the men know each other?” I asked.

  Charles half-nodded his head. “Mr. Thomas used to live here, at the estate. He was employed by Mr. Burkinshaw.”

  “I told you we were in the danger zone,” exclaimed Lottie, sounding horrified.” She flung herself at John, who coped with her lunging pretty well.

  “No, that is not what I said,” replied the exasperated officer. “This estate is not the epicenter of a crime spree, it’s just where two men who are now deceased once happened to live at the same time.”

  “But what if the killer comes back here?” I cried.

  I could imagine the inspector being delighted by the idea, especially if it were to shut us up once and for all. He smiled and said, “Not going to happen. No need to worry at all. You’re telling me that nothing has given you concern since the time of the second killing, on or about the estate, so I have no worries about your safety. You will need no guns. No guards.”

  “We saw that your people were over at the tower yesterday,” said Bud. “Are they there again now? Will they be there forever? It’s a part of the estate some of us have hardly been able to enjoy at all.”

  Bud sounded like exactly the sort of unfeeling twit we both hate. The look on the inspector’s face suggested he was stifling his annoyance – as best he could.

  “It is most unfortunate that your time with us in Jamaica has been impacted by this tragedy, but we do need to keep the tower closed to the public for some time.”

  “But we’re not the public, old chap,” said John, “we’re guests here. That’s what Freddie said, wasn’t it, Lottie old bean? Treat the place as your own, he said. But we can’t, can we? Not with your lot galloping about all over the place. Some of us haven’t had a chance to poke our noses into the tower yet – and that was where Freddie said he kept all his historically interesting knick-knacks.”

  I half suspected John had considered closing his little speech with “Pip, pip,” just for good measure.

  Inspector Charles turned to Sergeant Swabey and they exchanged a few whispered phrases. Swabey then spoke to Lewis, who left us, and bustled off toward the tower.

  “I’m just about to ascertain when we’ll be able to release the tower from its designation as a crime scene,” said Charles.

  “They say you got a phone call alerting you to the presence of a body on the beach,” said Jack. “Who phoned it in? Who found the body?”

  The inspector looked a little fazed. “Er…it was an anonymous call,” he said, sounding flustered.

  “It couldn’t have been the killer,” I shouted, making everyone jump. “Imagine a killer telling the police they’d shot someone. Why on earth would they do that? Wouldn’t they want the body to remain undiscovered, allowing for the passage of time to erase any forensic evidence? That’s what I’d do. If I’d shot someone. Not that I would, of course. But you must know who phoned you – can’t you trace the phone they used?” I tried to sound a
s annoyingly batty as possible.

  Charles settled his shoulders. “We have traced the call. It came from a pay-as-you-go telephone. No, we do not know who it was who reported the body. But, as you know, figures were seen departing the crime scene. They were pursued as far as this estate. Maybe one of you knows more than you’re saying? Indeed, I have to tell you that your presence here gives me cause for concern, though maybe not it the way you might imagine.”

  It was interesting to note that Charles was able to withstand our irritating onslaught and still make his key point – that we were six strangers on the island, and two deaths had occurred within a mile of our location, since our arrival.

  Sheila went for it. She stood, as best she could, and flung her arms about. “Surely you don’t suspect any of us, Inspector Charles? We are simply here to enjoy a vacation.” She managed to look deeply wounded at the thought.

  Charles set his jaw; I could see the muscles twitching. “We are facing an exceedingly unusual set of circumstances,” he said, then he listened as the returning Constable Lewis whispered in his ear. He nodded. “You’ll be able to enjoy as much access as you wish to the tower after approximately four this afternoon,” he said. “By sunset, at the latest, we’ll have removed any items we want to examine further.”

  “Oh, goodie,” said Lottie, clapping her hands. “I get to see Freddie’s famous crystal skull, at last. You’re not taking that away with you, are you, inspector?” She pouted. Like a sweet little girl. She was good at this.

  Charles smiled, more genuinely this time. “Indeed not. It can stay exactly where it is. Though I would mention that object has a certain…reputation, miss, so I wouldn’t go handling it too much.”

  “Do you mean the curse of the crystal skull?” said Lottie, sounding gleefully ghoulish.

  “There are many things we do not understand,” said Charles. “Mr. Burkinshaw was a most generous supporter of many charities on this island, so it seems he was immune to the power of the skull, but it has been said it can make a man focus on the temptations of Mammon, rather than on the gifts of God.”

  “Praise the Lord,” said Constable Lewis. Sergeant Swabey looked confused.

  Charles smiled at the constable, returned his gaze to us, and said, “I’m a lay preacher at my church; Constable Lewis is one of our congregants.” They shared a smile. Swabey looked irked.

  “If there’s nothing else, then, inspector, we have a lunch date at the Caro Mio estate, so we could all do with having a little time to prepare,” said John.

  The inspector looked impressed. “Ah, the wonderful Signora Mazzo has invited you? You’re honoured. She tends to not mix with society any longer. She’s one of our long-term residents, you know. Starred in films, back when they were good.”

  “We had drinks with her,” gushed Lottie, “and now we’re going back for lunch. Such a wonderful house, it’s like a little palace.”

  “Indeed, and she was fortunate to not lose it in the last big earthquake. When the land cracked along more or less the line between these two properties, her home could have fared poorly – as could the Captain’s Lookout tower. But both were spared. Thanks be to God.”

  “Thanks be,” echoed the constable.

  “Cheerio, then,” said John, standing.

  Fortunately the officers all left, and we were able to share sighs of relief and all scuttle back to our bungalows for a quick wash and brush up, having managed to obtain the information that Freddie and Wilson were, indeed, shot with the same gun – obviously not the one found beside Freddie’s body – and that someone had been possessed of enough foresight to report Wilson’s killing from an unregistered phone.

  Bubbles and a Breakthrough

  The “car” that was sent for us wasn’t a stretch limo, but it was a stretch Jeep, and a luxuriously appointed one, at that. The white leather interior belied the theoretical ruggedness of the exterior design, and told me it was the choice of a woman who wanted to travel in style, but whose every journey began with a tortuous drive over a dismal track, which I could tell – as we traversed it – had been washed out again in the recent downpours. I couldn’t imagine what sort of mess it must be in by the end of the rainy season.

  We all grabbed whatever we could to try to stop bouncing around in the vehicle, and I was glad I wasn’t wearing a skirt after all, because both Lottie – in pale coral linen, and Sheila – in orange floral on white, managed to show a fair bit of thigh as they slithered about on their seats. I realized, too late, that Bud and I looked as though we’d dressed to match each other; he was wearing his smartest cream, lightweight chambray pants, topped with a pale turquoise linen shirt, and I was in a bouncy, cream two-piece with a turquoise over-thingy. Still, at least we both looked clean and fresh, which was good.

  The men were all as horrified as we’d been when we’d first encountered what was something more akin to a dried-out riverbed than a road. By the time they got to enjoy the bougainvillea-lined vista, then the vision of the fabulous sea beyond the gleaming white stucco of Caro Mio, they were convinced none of we three women had been lying about the road; it really was that bad.

  Stretching of necks and backs accomplished, we all followed Nina’s impeccably dressed butler, Arnold, as he led us into the palatial sitting room. There was our hostess, waiting for us, sitting very upright on a couch, surrounded by pillows. She was wearing an emerald green, chiffon dress and what I suspected was a real emerald necklace; it had stones the size of loonies and toonies, surrounded by diamonds. She didn’t rise to greet us, but held up her hand, which John leaned down to kiss; Jack and Bud seemed to feel they had to follow suit. Nina looked most gratified and nodded her head to indicate we should sit. I imagined she saw herself as a queen and we her courtiers. It felt weird, but unusual enough to be quite fun.

  “You will all take champagne?” She smiled at the men, and almost acknowledged we women. Six heads nodded, and Arnold magically appeared with a tray of fine crystal flutes. The woman we’d seen on our previous visit carried in an ice bucket that she placed on one of the many marble-topped tables, then she left.

  Once we all had a glass of bubbles, Nina raised hers and said, “A toast; to the making of new friends, and the death of old enemies.”

  We all chose to focus on the “new friends” part of the toast, and I was glad to bury my face in my glass for a slightly awkward moment. I couldn’t help but notice that Nina drained hers, gave a satisfied sigh, then nodded at Arnold, who immediately replaced the empty bottle with a full one, which he opened. Seeing him recharge Nina’s glass meant none of us felt embarrassed to also drink our glasses dry and accept another. I wondered just how boozy lunch was going to be, and was grateful my headache had gone before I started to drink on an essentially empty stomach. However, I suspected that if Bud and the boys were going to go scrabbling along tunnels later in the day, when the police had abandoned the tower, they’d have to come up with some way to avoid getting tipsy.

  Before we’d left the Captain’s Lookout estate, Bud and I had agreed on a plan of action for our lunch date: I was to be on full alert in terms of reading everyone in the room, and he was going to do his best to find out all he could about Luca Mazzo, thereby hopefully making some headway regarding the papers he was hunting down. Jack and John would be following his lead in that matter, but we both agreed I’d be essentially on my own in terms of digging about for anything that might lead to an understanding about who’d killed Freddie and Wilson.

  However, it seemed Lottie had her own agenda, and she managed to hijack the conversation before anyone else had a chance to get a word in edgeways.

  “You have such stunning taste in décor, Nina,” she began. “I have to admit I came to the island somewhat interested in finding out all I could about pirate treasure, but it seems you didn’t hang about to find any treasure, you went out and acquired your own. Some of these pieces must have wonderful tales attached to them. Those illuminated song sheets, for example.
They’re beautiful. Must be old. What, thirteenth- or fourteenth-century Italian? Stunning.”

  Nina looked proud and wriggled a little in her sumptuous seat. “They are, indeed, exquisite. Luca knew of my love of old things and spared no expense to please me, but he preferred big, solid things. I prefer more delicacy. These were a birthday gift, to myself.”

  As I took in the items displayed around the room I could see there was a definite difference in taste on display; I mentally logged the larger, more grandiose artefacts as likely to have been selected by Luca, whereas there was no shortage of more decorative and brilliantly hued objects I assumed had been chosen by Nina.

  “That’s an ancient Roman vase, isn’t it?” Lottie stood. “May I?” Nina nodded and Lottie walked across the room to the large round marble table where the vase stood. She skirted the table, sighing. “So beautifully decorated. Apulian red-figure pottery – probably from about four hundred BCE, am I right?”

  Nina shook her head. “Of this I am not so certain. That was Luca’s choice. It does not appeal to me. Too heavy. Lumpen. I prefer delicate things.”

  Lottie rejoined us, and I allowed myself to take my eyes off Nina for a moment to scan the lounge again. I totted up the sort of expenditure represented by just this one room. It ran to millions of dollars. Luca Mazzo – or whatever his name really was – must have been an extremely wealthy man to have built the place from the ground up, and then filled it with such fine artefacts. And they weren’t just fine artefacts, they were rare. Most of them should have been in a museum, not sitting in niches and on tables to possibly catch the eye of an ageing Italian starlet when she flitted through on her way from the pool. I couldn’t help but wonder what her insurance premiums must cost.