The Deadly Ackee

by Joan Hess

  “Because it’s after midnight, for one thing,” Biff said. “And I’m not especially fond of popping over fences, for another.”

  “You did quite a bit of popping this afternoon. You and Mary Margaret acted like two little kernels of popcorn in a pool of hot oil. It was too cute.”

  “Oh, I’ll wander over and invite him,” Mary Margaret said, pushing back her chair. She rearranged her hair so that it curled around her neck like a sinewy boa, then rewarded them with a complacent smile. “After all, he’s practically family, since he and Uncle Billy were as tight as ticks during school. The stories Uncle Billy tells just leave me in stitches, if you can imagine.”

  “Religious or sexual?” Dorrie growled as Mary Margaret strolled down the driveway and disappeared through the gate. She dug into the hapless lobster, her fork clattering as she jabbed an errant mushroom. Her snort of satisfaction had its origins in the dawn of the species.

  Several minutes later a figure came up the driveway, but it was neither Mary Margaret nor Count D’Orsini. Sitermann was in a tuxedo, his bowtie atilt like an ailing butterfly, his hair disheveled, his face more florid than an Allium giganteum.

  “Thank the celebrity showcase you’re still up,” he puffed as he came onto the terrace. “My car died a couple of blocks away, and I wasn’t about to walk back to the hotel. I barely made it here without being run down by some maniac on the wrong side of the road, like my old buddy Jack in Easy Rider.”

  “Poor baby,” Dorrie said, handing him a glass of champagne. “But perhaps it’ll make a good concept for a production.”

  “Good thought, sweetheart. I’ll put in a call to the office tomorrow morning and let them toss it around, see if they can come up with anything.” He gave her a guarded look, then sat back with a sigh. “You folks sure dine on the far side of midnight.”

  Theo related the highlights of the train trip. “It was frustrating to be forced to wait all afternoon,” he concluded. “We did not have time to stop at the market and we had only a few minutes at the distillery. I suppose it was a disappointment for all of us.”

  “Then our driver failed to pick us up at the station, Mr. Spitzberg,” Bitsy inserted. “One would almost suspect it was a CIA conspiracy to ruin our day. All that waiting, no shopping, a tiny paper cup of rum—and then kamikaze taxis back to the villa. Can you put that in your epic movie, Mr. Spitzberg?”

  The spy glanced at Theo, who could only shrug in response. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said at last. “What a great possibility you’ve got here. Can you visualize the camera doing a slow pan across the bay, then zooming in inch by inch for a lingering, erotic shot of the moonlight on the water?” He formed three sides of a rectangle with his thumbs and forefingers, and played camera for their benefit, making appreciative noises under his breath.

  Dorrie was not interested in hypothetical camera sweeps. “What happened to Mary Margaret? She’s had enough time to offer the invitation, do a striptease, and take on the entire fleet.”

  “That she has,” Trey contributed. “I’ve timed her before.”

  Theo waited until Bitsy had deemed him disgusting, then stood up and tried to peer over the fence. There were a few lights visible, but no sound of either voices or music. “I’d better see if she … has, shall we say, been diverted,” he said unhappily.

  “Let me go, sir,” Sandy said. “You might twist your ankle going down the driveway in the dark. It should only take me a second.”

  Theo agreed, since he wasn’t sure he would be pleased with whatever he would find on Count D’Orsini’s property in terms of behavior, dress, or some lack thereof. Dorrie and Bitsy exchanged sly smiles and wiggled eyebrows. With a few uneasy glances at Bitsy, Spitzberg continued to study possible camera angles through his hands, pointing out the superb juxtaposition of light and dark, of structure and nature, of purity and eroticism. Theo found it entertaining, if totally nonsensical. At least the spy was trying.

  Sandy returned with Count D’Orsini, who appeared worried. “I say,” he said to Theo, “did one of your gals actually say she was coming over to my villa a while back?”

  “Mary Margaret went down the driveway about ten minutes ago to invite you over for a glass of champagne. It couldn’t have taken her more than half a minute to arrive at your door. Are you implying she did not appear?” Theo stared at Sandy. “Could she have stumbled and fallen into the shrubbery at the foot of the driveway, perhaps hitting her head on a rock?”

  Biff scrambled up. “I’ll look, Mr. Bloomer. Good lord, she couldn’t have gotten lost along the way. It’s not more than a hundred and fifty feet down our drive and up the one next door.”

  “Mary Margaret is a gal of many talents,” Trey said, covering a yawn. “However, she was booted out of Girl Scouts. There was something about the husband of the troop leader, a double sleeping bag, and a leaky pup tent. She was devastated when they took away her merit badge. She swore she had earned it through diligence, if nothing else.”

  Theo turned to Trey. “One more word from you, and you will no longer be known as an adorable Ellison. Is that clear?” After receiving a surprised nod, Theo told Biff and Sandy to take a flashlight and search the area between the two villa gates and all of Count D’Orsini’s yard.

  “But, Bloomer, old chap,” the count said, rubbing his hands together as he paced the length of the terrace, “shouldn’t we call the police or something? This makes no sense whatsoever. I know nothing of the young woman’s propensities for melodramatic disappearances or practical jokes, but I really feel some sense of responsibility for her in that something might have happened to her on my property.”

  Theo realized he was rubbing his hands together as if in mimicry. Putting them in his lap, he said, “Let’s give Biff and Sandy a chance to look for her before we take further action. I don’t know her well enough to judge if she might be attempting to alarm us for her own amusement. What do you think, Dorrie?”

  “I don’t think she’d pull this kind of stunt. She doesn’t have enough wit to think it up on the spur of the moment, and I doubt she would find it all that entertaining. Staying out all night at a party is more her style, Uncle Theo. Mooning people in the club parking lot. Leaping in the fountain at the mall. Wet T-shirt contests at the fraternity houses.”

  Sitermann/Spitzberg nodded. “From what she told me of her history, this doesn’t seem like her idea of amusement, Bloomer.”

  “But how could she lose her way when her destination was less than two hundred feet?” Theo said, his voice level despite his growing sense of dread. “We heard no cries, no sounds of a scuffle, no cars in the street.”

  “Everything was peaceful when I walked up,” Spitzberg said.

  Count D’Orsini swung around, looking less boyish in the glare of the terrace lights and a good deal more battered by age. “I didn’t see anyone when I returned home, and I didn’t notice any unfamiliar or suspicious cars parked along the street. Mary Margaret did not knock on my door or ring the bell; I was having a brandy in the living room, and I surely would have heard her had she attempted to gain my attention in some way.”

  Biff and Sandy came up the driveway. Sandy shook his head in response to Theo’s sharp look. “No sign of her, sir. We checked under every bush and tree, went all along the fence, looked all over the backyard and garden, and even walked down the street a block in both directions. What could have happened to her?”

  “I cannot imagine, nor can I decide what steps we ought to take at this moment. Calling the police is an option, but I’m not at all sure what, if anything, they might be able to do at this hour. They will undoubtedly point out that she is old enough to wander off, and more than capable of doing so—based on past antics. If Mary Margaret has done this as a crude joke, and subsequently is located in a local bar drinking beer and dancing, then we will look quite foolish and the police will be less than amused. However, I am responsible for her, so I fear I have no choice but to call the police and report this puzzling event.” />
  As he went through the dining room, Dorrie caught up with him. “Do you think Mary Margaret’s disappearance could have anything to do with Eli’s absence?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I don’t see how there could be a relationship between the two. We have not seen Eli since early this afternoon, when he drove us to the train station, and he is nowhere to be found. Are you thinking his absence might be involuntary—that whoever has detained him might also have grabbed Mary Margaret while she was between the villas?”

  “I don’t know.” Dorrie sighed. “We do know that someone—and I still suspect Sitermann—was on my balcony two nights ago, using a camera for some obscure reason. A spy appears, Eli disappears, and now Mary Margaret disappears. There is something going on, Uncle Theo; I can feel it all the way down to my cuticles.”

  “Indeed, my dear. Before I call the police, I think I shall check Eli’s quarters once more to see if I might find some sort of clue to his present location.”

  “What if his door is locked?”

  Theo blinked at her from behind his bifocals. “I anticipate no problem getting inside, and the exigency excuses a bit of unauthorized entry. Would you care to accompany me? We might slip out the kitchen door and go around the back of the pool, simply to avoid arousing undue suspicion in the others, don’t you think?”

  They went across the kitchen patio, ducking under the ghostly fingers of laundry on the clothesline, and gingerly followed the rough flagstone path that brought them to the far side of the pool and the sloping lawn. As they came around the lower side of the pool, they heard those on the terrace conversing in worried voices. No one had yet produced a theory to explain Mary Margaret’s absence, although Trey managed to introduce several possibilities that Bitsy, without missing a beat, found disgusting. Theo found them all alarming.

  The door was locked, but as Theo had implied, it was not impassable. He took a small metal strip from his pocket, used it with a minimum of bother, and within seconds shooed Dorrie inside and closed the door behind them. He then took a penlight from his pocket and shined it around the room, with brief pauses on a rumpled bed, a braided rug that had been pushed partway under the bed, a pile of neatly folded shirts on a battered rocking chair, and a collection of liquor bottles. One of which was amaretto, he noted with a faint frown.

  “Nice work on the door, Uncle Theo, but the window’s open. We could have crawled through it rather than playing burglar.”

  Theo shined the light on an elaborate stereo system. “Look at this, my dear.”

  “Holy Reebok,” Dorrie whispered. “How much do pool boys make these days? I may forget this sociology degree nonsense and major in chlorine.”

  “He does seem to have done quite well, although I understood he has only recently taken this job with Gerry’s agency.” Theo moved across the room to a bookcase. “Christie, John D. MacDonald, Le Carré, Parker, Hess, a few Jane Austen novels, Thackeray, and Stowe, to name a few, all dog-eared and scarred from actual usage. He is well-read for someone who admitted to no more than an eighth-grade education.”

  “Shine the light over here, Uncle Theo. Look at this wardrobe. Brooks Brothers? Lacoste shirts? A Burberry coat? Pool boys in Connecticut do all right, since they know they’re vital, but this is absurd. Honestly, how much skill does it take to vacuum the bottom of a swimming pool?”

  “Apparently one commands a salary high enough to allow the purchase of some very expensive camera equipment,” Theo said drily as he moved the light to a table in one corner. “This is an infrared viewing scope and costs well in excess of a thousand dollars. Here’s a telephoto lens that would be extremely effective in low light, and a nocturnal lens that is decidedly state-of-the-art. A zoom, and another that is too complex for me to identify. A very nice tripod. What interesting hobbies our Eli has …”

  “On minimum wage.” Dorrie turned around slowly, her teeth cutting into her lower lip as she stared at Theo. “What does all this mean? Why would Eli have taken pictures from my balcony?”

  “It is obvious that Eli is not the garden-variety of pool boy, but I’m not sure what sort of hybrid he might be,” Theo said. He sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and let the penlight dance about the room. “I would very much like to speak to him. I have a vague idea of his true identity, but I must be quite sure before I say anything further. In the interim, we must do something about retrieving Mary Margaret.”

  “If you insist, Uncle Theo.”

  They went back to the kitchen and Theo placed a call to the local police station. Once he had made known the purpose of his call, there was a long silence, followed by an explosion of laughter and several comments about the unpredictability of tourists, especially the young female kind. Theo persisted, but at last replaced the receiver and turned to Dorrie with a wry expression.

  “They are not impressed,” he said. “I suppose it doesn’t seem all that critical, and I do not blame them for that. Mary Margaret has been missing for less than thirty minutes; she was cheerful, physically fit, sober, and operating under her own power when she left the terrace. The sergeant said he would accept a report in the morning, but he seemed confident that our stray would be home and safe in bed by that time.”

  “In someone’s bed, anyway.” Dorrie chewed her lip for a moment, then shrugged. “We’d better tell the others. Then I, for one, would like to go to bed. This day has been absolutely dreadful, Uncle Theo. It’s been worse than any of Mother’s charity cocktail parties, when I’ve been obliged to be polite to her boring friends who talk endlessly about worthy causes and starving children—over brie and crudités.”

  “An ordeal,” Theo murmured as they returned to the terrace. The group still looked worried, although they had polished off all of the food and managed to locate another bottle of champagne during the interlude.

  Count D’Orsini met Theo in the doorway. “Did you call the police? Are they coming over to initiate a search for the poor gal?”

  “If she has not returned by the morning, the police have agreed to investigate, but for the moment they suggest we simply wait and see if Mary Margaret walks through the door.”

  “Please let me know when she returns.” He nodded at the others, then went down the driveway and through the gate.

  Bitsy put down her champagne glass and looked at Dorrie. “Are you going to condition your hair tonight? I’d like a few minutes in the bathroom before you lock yourself in there for three hours to squeal about split ends.”

  Before Dorrie could answer, Biff patted her hand. “Your hair is perfect, Dorrikin.”

  “It’s about time you noticed that.” Dorrie then announced that any conditioning would be of a purely preventive nature, and left the terrace with a sniff. Bitsy followed, apologizing for the implication, and the boys drifted away in a murmur of goodnight-sir’s.

  Theo realized Sitermann was sitting quietly in a shadowy corner, his bowtie undone and his hand wrapped around a glass of what appeared to be scotch, undiluted by water or ice.

  “So what’d you find, Bloom?” the spy said, his free hand gesturing at the blackness of the pool and yard below, the dim street, and the lights that dotted the hillside all the way down to the inky water in the distance. “Did you search the errant girl’s room for a little black book of island haunts?”

  “Did you, or were you too busy devising camera sweeps for the future epic? Or perhaps you found a few promising sites in Ochos Rios, more specifically in the market?”

  “I bought the damndest wood carving there. At first glance, you think it’s an old codger playing a clarinet, but when you look harder, you—”

  “Can it,” Theo said without rancor. “Why were you keeping Count D’Orsini’s yacht under surveillance?”

  “Me? Oh, Bloom, you are a suspicious man. What if I were to tell you that I was shopping for gifts for my sister-in-law and her children?”

  “I’d say that you were lying.”

  “That hurts, old man. It really does, right to my heart
.”

  “They extracted your heart the day after they recruited you. Standard procedure, I would imagine, since I never met a CIA agent with the sensitivity of a rock. But if you’re not going to tell me anything, let me see if I can make a wild guess or two.” Theo formed a temple with his fingertips and smiled at the spy. “We know you’re in Jamaica to help the local authorities with the drug situation, which is out of control. You’re interested in not only the ganja growers, but also those who import more potent drugs from conveniently well-situated places, such as Colombia.”

  “The real thing, so to speak.” Sitermann returned the smile.

  “So to speak. Now, there are most likely two modes of transportation involved in the importation of cocaine—air and boat. Count D’Orsini, who is neither as aristocratic nor as wealthy as he would prefer to be, has a boat capable of extended jaunts into international waters, where he might, with foresight and planning, encounter another boat and transfer cargo without the cloying interference of the customs officials.”

  “His boat has a remarkable radar system for someone who professes to stalk only sailfish and marlin. It has a sonar device that could locate a chip of coral at two hundred feet down, a radio with which he could chat with his pals in Nice, and a fascinating storage compartment that requires a microscope to find.”

  Theo nodded. “As I suspected. Now, if we accept the fact that you would like to meet the captain of this remarkable craft and perhaps have the opportunity to allow him to make a transaction that would end in exposure and arrest, then we might concoct a scheme in which you befriend a resident of the very next villa. That wouldn’t be improbable, would it, Sitermann?”

  “Gawd, you are a sly one. I sure wish I could get my hands on your dossier and figure out who your bosses were. I’ve eliminated the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, the British boys, and most of the resistance groups in World War II. It doesn’t obsess me, but I do a little snooping when I’m not occupied.”

  “I am delighted to know you have a hobby. But to return to the present, let’s continue with my hypothesis, shall we? It seems that Eli, the so-called pool boy, has an incredibly expensive hobby of his own—photography. He doesn’t concentrate on nature shots, or even shots of girls on the beach; his equipment is more suited for undercover surveillance, such as recording unsavory moments from a discreet distance. One wonders if he is employed by someone other than an innocent real estate agency.”