The Corpse with the Crystal Skull

by Cathy Ace

  I didn’t want to wade in on the topic of God-given anything – I’ve learned it’s impossible for two people to agree one hundred percent on either religion or politics, so I avoid them both like the plague; I enjoy the process of debate too much to let a point go when I want it to be heard, and I know it’s best to keep my mouth shut on some topics. I released my hug so Amelia could better attend to her tears.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I didn’t know what else to suggest.

  “I don’t deserve tea, I’s a wicked woman.”

  I sighed inwardly. “No, you’re not wicked, Amelia. You had some hopes and dreams, and you want the best for your grandson. These are not wicked things.”

  Amelia looked at me with bloodshot eyes. She sniffed, and giant tears welled. “Thank you, Mrs. Cait. You’s kind alright. And maybe you right, maybe you not. But…but…there’s more…”

  She broke down to such an extent she couldn’t speak for a few moments. I could see she was beyond consolation, so I just let her sob it out. I felt dreadful for the poor woman.

  When Amelia finally managed to compose herself, her expression had changed – hardened. “I owe it to you, Mrs. Cait, or you not understand. I got to tell you. Killing a man is wicked, see? And I kill Mr. Freddie. So I am a wicked, wicked woman. I know I will go to Hell. It where I belong, after prison.”

  Killer Confession

  I felt my heart thumping in my chest. I even heard it in my ears. Amelia had killed Freddie? How could that be? I’d been working my way through everything I knew when I was in the pool, before John’s arrival, and I’d thought I was at least partway to a solution. I’d even decided what I needed to look for to prove my theory. But Amelia shooting Freddie hadn’t been anywhere on my list of possibilities.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. Stupid question, Cait, she means she killed Freddie!

  “Mr. Freddie always easier on Tarone when him feel not so well, so I make Mr. Freddie sick.” She wiped her eyes. “I…I make him sick sometimes before, too, then him not going around the place telling Tarone to do this and do that. I know Tarone have these selection races. Him must go, then him get picked for the team for sure. But Mr. Freddie him start up angry with Tarone again. Him start to find big jobs for Tarone to do, and I think him not going to let Tarone go to Kingston this time. I need Mr. Freddie to be sick, in bed. I swear on my Bible I not want him to die. But him dead. And now I go to prison, and Tarone not be able to run for the team anyway. Him have to get a job, full-time, so him can’t go to the gym, or to training camp no more. I make this happen, I am a wicked woman, but it not fair that God punish Tarone too. Him should take just me.”

  Amelia was sobbing again, and I had to try to get her to calm down; she was only just out of hospital, after all. I found a glass, filled it with water, and brought it to her. I recalled her words as she stood swaying beside the lawyer’s desk. “Is this what you were thinking about, in Cooperman’s office, when you said it had all been for nothing, Amelia?”

  She nodded. “Without the estate it don’t really matter if Tarone don’t go this weekend, because him going to have to get another job soon, and then him won’t be able to run no more, but him must not know that. At least if him make the team this weekend, then him know him good enough. Him must know how good him is. Him need confidence. To grow. To do other things good too.”

  I understood the logic of what Amelia was saying; from a psychological point of view it was true – a person who succeeds at one thing can often perform better when presented with other, novel challenges, because they know how success feels, and understand that it’s worth striving for.

  “Explain to me exactly what happened, Amelia.” I was fascinated to know how she’d managed to shoot Freddie and escape the lookout room; I couldn’t see her shimmying down that Jacob’s ladder we’d found. Maybe she did have a spare key for the lookout room, after all, and that was all she’d needed. Was it that simple all along? Just the existence of a second key? I thought.

  “I poison Mr. Freddie with ackee. Bad ackee. It supposed to put him into bed. Just in bed. Sick, you know? But Mr. Freddie, him always like a baby when him sick. Him get very afraid when him sick. I know this from before, but I don’t think him do nothing because of it. Honest I don’t. Then I see him shot on the floor, and I know him feel so sick, so bad, that him kill himself. It all my fault. Mine. I go to the police now. To start, I think I can still go on, like usual, knowing I kill him. But I can’t. It too much for me. My soul hurts. It burns. I am a bad woman. I got to go to the police. Be punished.”

  I allowed my mind to run through all the evidence, as I knew it. “You used to make Freddie smoothies, didn’t you?”

  Amelia nodded. “Him old, him not like food much. I make him smoothies every day, over at him tower. Morning and night. Lots of that protein powder in them. It good for him.”

  “You’d chargrill fruits and vegetables on a wood fire you’d build in the little fireplace on the ground floor there – things like peppers, pineapples and so forth – then cut up the fruits and veggies, and use the blenders kept in the little kitchenette, beside the bathroom, to make the smoothies, right there at the tower. You’d take the drink to him, with the glass standing in a dish full of ice, and he’d drink it when he wanted.”

  Amelia stared at me. “You know all this? How? I never tell you. Did Tarone tell you, or Mr. Freddie?”

  “No, but I observed all the clues that allowed me to work it out. You put overripe ackee into the drink you gave Freddie after our dinner that evening. He’d hardly eaten – though he’d drunk a fair amount and smoked a couple of cigars. He must have drunk the smoothie over the next couple of hours and, you’re right, it made him sick. His autopsy suggested he’d chewed up the ackee, but the blender had done the work for him. He vomited in the lookout room, though he didn’t manage to completely clear his system of the poison, and I dare say he was feeling pretty rotten. But you didn’t shoot him, did you? And he certainly didn’t shoot himself, so you didn’t kill him, Amelia. You will not go to prison, and you will not burn in Hell.”

  Amelia’s eyes grew round. “But the police, they say Mr. Freddie kill himself. Them tell us that, after they see him body.”

  I realized Amelia had no idea of the revised police opinion – she’d been in hospital as the case had progressed. I explained it all to her. She gradually stopped crying, and I began to see the light of hope in her eyes.

  “So, I did not kill him, because he did not kill himself?”

  I nodded. Amelia started to weep again, but these were different tears; they were an expression of relief.

  Sadly, I knew I had to be the bearer of bad tidings, and decided I’d better get on with it. “There’s something else I have to tell you, too, Amelia. The gun that was used to shoot Freddie was used again, the next night. Wilson Thomas was killed with it.”

  I watched her face. A look of resignation set in. “I know this. Tarone tell me.” A half-smile crinkled the corners of her lips. “Tarone is happy. Him think I hate Wilson.” Amelia shuddered, then began to cry again, silently.

  I could tell that the poor woman needed a moment, but she deserved the facts. “Wilson had been homeless, camping out in a shack not far from here. Just along the beach, in fact. I’m sorry.”

  Amelia let out a long sigh. “Him a good man, Mrs. Cait. A good man. But you must let Tarone think I hate him. Don’t say nothing, please.”

  I was puzzled. “Why do you want Tarone to believe you hated Wilson?”

  Amelia wiped her eyes and stared deep into mine. “I love him from the first time I see him. Wilson Thomas was always a gentle man, and him work hard him whole life. I’s just a girl when I see him first, and him love me like I love him, right off. Our beautiful girl come along, by the grace of God – so we call her Grace – and Mr. Freddie let me and Grace come live here with Wilson. It a good life. We all work hard, but we’s a happy family. As Grace come along her get to be very frien
dly with the folk who come to Mr. Freddie’s parties. Her a good-looking girl, but her not so good at schoolwork. Wilson always big on schoolwork. We done our best for her, showed her the right ways of things. Him and me know it make a difference if you good at schoolwork, but Grace? Her don’t see it this way. Her get very angry with her father, and with me too. Her think her all growed up – but her just a child.”

  “Then she became pregnant with Tarone?”

  Amelia nodded. “Her a wild child, and now with a child of her own. Me and her father try to get her to see how bad her behavin’, but her fight with us, and go off. Leave the baby for me to look after. One day when her come back askin’ for money, Wilson hit her. Not so hard, but her riled him up real bad. Her wanted money for drugs; Wilson found her with them filthy things so many times. But Mr. Freddie see Wilson hit Grace, and him get angry with Wilson. They have a fight, a big one, then Wilson have to go. I want to beg Mr. Freddie to let Wilson stay, but Wilson tell me I must not say this because Mr. Freddie say if Wilson go quiet then me, Grace, and Tarone can stay. So, Wilson go, and we all stay. But Mr. Freddie make it hard for Wilson to get good work anywhere else, so him have to take bad jobs, and him make money best way him can. But always straight ways, not crooked.”

  Amelia looked around the bungalow, leaned toward me and whispered, “Wilson and me? We have a message tree. We talk through messages we write and hide there. I meet him sometimes, and him give me money when him can. And him watch out for Grace, and her boy, too. But Grace – my baby Grace – she never pick up on the good life. For her? It like her want to shine bright, but short. And her done just that. Her die. Too young. Too many drugs. Then it just me and Tarone, and I raise him, and I don’t want him to think him granddaddy go leave him, and I don’t want him to be angry with Mr. Freddie neither, so I tell him stories about Wilson that ain’t true. Tarone think him mother an angel and him granddaddy a devil, but it the other way about.”

  “Did you know that Wilson slept on the beach, so close to you?” I suspected I knew the answer.

  Amelia nodded. “Sometimes I go to him there, still. We got history. Him a good man.”

  She blew her nose, and – once again – my heart went out to her. “I’m so sorry,” was all I could say.

  “It my fault. Even if I don’t kill Mr. Freddie, I still done a bad thing, and now I be paid back. It all be my fault. Poor Tarone, soon him have no one.”

  I begged Amelia to not say anything to the police about what she’d done.

  “But I done wrong,” she wailed.

  “Maybe pray about it for a couple of days, before saying anything then,” I suggested. It was the best I could do.

  She was still crying when Tarone came home.

  “All the things are in the big house,” he announced as he entered. “Granny, what the matter? Why she upset?” he asked me. His tone suggested he thought it might be my fault.

  “Your grandmother’s just glad to be home, and she’s really pleased you’ll be trying out for the team this weekend after all. She was just telling me how very proud she is of your athletic talent, and she got a bit overwhelmed. She might be a bit tearful for a little while to come,” I said, standing. “But we’ll keep an eye on her. You go tomorrow, and we’ll all be just fine.”

  Tarone nodded. “Mebbe. I get her to talk about what her gonna do with her new house, later on,” said Tarone as he opened the door for me to leave. “Her always enjoy that.”

  “Okay,” was all I could muster.

  As I walked away, I realized that meant Amelia hadn’t told Tarone about the debts Freddie had incurred, requiring the sale of the estate. And I hadn’t told either of them that Nina Mazzo had already snapped it up. That news could wait, I decided.

  A Liar Laments their Lies?

  I got back to the bungalow as fast as I could, bursting to tell Bud about Amelia. But he wasn’t there. I checked everywhere, then decided I’d look for him at the big house; it was late in the afternoon, so maybe he, John, and Jack were making plans for exactly what’d they’d do when the police had left the tower.

  I walked into the lounge to discover Jack and Sheila sitting on one sofa, Lottie on another, John on a chair beside her, and Bud pacing about. “There you are,” he said. “What happened to you? I thought you’d only be gone for five minutes.”

  I considered telling everyone about Amelia, but the expressions greeting me told me that something was up. I sat beside Bud, and waited.

  “Lottie has something she’d like to say to you all,” announced John. It reminded me of the way a parent spoke about their errant child. “Lottie.”

  We all gave her our full attention. She sat up, squared her shoulders and said, “Daddy sent me here. He knows about the papers you’re all looking for, and he wanted me to be on the spot, because he wants them for himself. Or else he wants me to tell him that I have seen with my own eyes that they have been destroyed. I’m sorry, I’ve been lying to you all the entire time I’ve been here. And I’ve been lying to John since he and I first met.”

  I was the least shocked person in the room – except for John and Lottie, of course.

  Sheila laughed. “What do you mean? You’ve been sleeping with John just so you can get hold of these papers? And your father made you do this? I don’t believe it. No parent would ask that of their child. No decent parent, in any case. That’s disgusting.”

  When she put it that way, Sheila had a point. I had to admit to myself I hadn’t taken my analysis that far.

  John’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared. He was seething. I wondered how much of his anger was reserved for himself, and his naivety.

  “Tarquin Fortescue, Lottie’s father, is caught up in all this?” asked Jack, looking at John, not Lottie.

  John nodded. “Looks that way. Been onto us since the start, maybe since before we even knew about it. Tell them, Lottie, tell them everything you’ve told me. Let them hear the whole story. Trust me, folks, you’re in for a treat.” I could see a vein pulse at his temple.

  Lottie’s neck was becoming increasingly mottled. Despite her duplicitousness, I felt sorry for her. I even decided to reserve judgement until she’d spoken, which is unusual for me.

  “Daddy approached me a couple of months ago; told me he was in a bit of a pickle. Some documents my grandfather had signed on behalf of Her Majesty’s government, back in the war, had gone missing donkey’s years ago, and hadn’t mattered too much at the time. But now they could reflect badly on the political leanings of our family, at that time. Daddy’s terribly concerned about his reputation. And mine, of course. But…but especially his. And, to be fair, I know he’s always put country first, but the standing of the family name? Well, that comes before first, if you know what I mean. He was in a right old tizzy about it. Please believe me when I tell you I don’t know any more about what the documents are, or what they say, or why they are so important now. He said I’d know them when I saw them. Lists. Names. Dates. My grandfather’s name. That’s all I know. I realize you have no reason to believe me, given that I’ve told so many lies, but it’s the truth. I don’t know more.”

  Sheila’s voice vibrated with anger when she spoke. “These papers have already cost lives – now, as well as who knows how many more in the past – and the whole point of this mission is to destroy them so no one will ever know what they say. This whole thing is so insane that knowing what they say will probably just enrage all of us anyway. It might be the guest list for a party given in 1943 and that’s all – but who cares, eh? All anyone wants is for them to never be seen by anyone ever again. So you men all go running around the world to make sure that’s what happens, right?”

  “How do you know that?” snapped Jack.

  “Know what?” replied Sheila, equally snappishly.

  “That we’re looking for guest lists for dinner parties held in the 1940s?”

  Sheila, Lottie, and I looked confused. The men didn’t; they all swallowed, in unison,
which spoke volumes.

  “I don’t know anything,” said Sheila. “I just made that up. It’s as ridiculous an idea as I could come up with. What do they call it on TV these days? A ‘nothingburger’, that’s it. I just invented a silly nothingburger.” She paused, then added, “You’re not telling me that’s what this is all about, are you? A list of people who were invited to some dinner or other? Jack, tell me that’s not true.”

  The expression on Jack’s face made me wonder how he’d ever survived any missions at all.

  “That’s it?” exploded Lottie. “Some ancient guest list? Daddy got me to do all this, for that? Tell me that’s not right, John.”

  I glanced at Bud’s white knuckles; I didn’t have to ask him anything, instead I said, “Some context might be useful.”

  Bud sighed. Heavily. “The back end of 1941; Washington, DC. A number of informal dinners. The documents in question list persons present at those dinners, and show that the guest lists were officially approved, signed off at the highest level, by various governments. The Americans somehow managed to lose those lists. They were rumored to be in several places after the war, and were last heard of in Jamaica. Freddie Burkinshaw tried to broker a deal for them back in the 1960s. It fell through. The man we now know to have been using the name Luca Mazzo was believed to have been in possession of them at some point in time, though we had knowledge of him under a different name, and couldn’t – until now – connect that name to this island. That’s all I can say.”