by Joan Hess
“Well, he did have company. Some guy was sitting on the sofa in the living room. I only got a glimpse of him, because D’Orsini closed the door when he came out on the porch.”
“Although he didn’t actually say so, he certainly implied he was alone,” Theo said thoughtfully. “Perhaps he was agitated because he did not want anyone to know about this midnight visitor.”
Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think D’Orsini and this guy grabbed Mary Margaret and stuffed her in a closet? Neither one of them looked like he’d been in a struggle. I think Mary Margaret would have struggled, don’t you? She’s a healthy sort; I sure as hell couldn’t wrestle her down unless she cooperated.”
“Mary Margaret is indeed a healthy, robust girl with functional lungs and very long fingernails. Can you describe the man you saw?”
“Not really, sir. Ordinary height, short brown hair, regular build, middle-aged, dressed in normal clothes. Like I said, I only had a glimpse of him, and I wasn’t paying much attention. I was worried about Mary Margaret.”
“He had brown hair? You’re positive it wasn’t a swarthy man or someone with white hair, along the lines of our pet CIA agent?”
“The guy was normal,” Sandy said apologetically. “He sort of jumped when he saw me in the doorway, but he didn’t yell or pull a gun or anything. That would have made me suspicious. As it was, I forgot about him until you asked me.”
“What precisely did D’Orsini say when you asked him if he’d seen the girl?”
“He looked as though I’d pulled up to the door on the U.S.S. Constitution, sir. I mean, his jaw dropped and his eyes got really wide. He asked me to repeat the question, then he shook his head and said he hadn’t seen or heard anybody at his door.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yeah, he really seemed floored. He told me to wait while he went inside for a minute. As we walked back over here, he made me tell him once more what had happened. He kept staring under the bushes and glancing over his shoulder all the way over.”
“It sounds as if D’Orsini was indeed surprised by your question. I doubt he and this friend had time to deal with the girl, mix drinks, and appear composed in the few minutes from the time she left until the time you knocked on the door. If her disappearance is voluntary, her motivation is impossible to determine.” Theo felt like throwing up his hands in despair, but he instead put them in his lap and sighed. “One would almost wonder if the White Witch of Rose Hall had swooped down to carry the girl away. It makes as much sense as anything I’ve hypothesized.”
“What did the police say about the murder, sir? Have they made any progress?”
“No, they seem stymied by the missing film. Eli had it in his possession yesterday afternoon. He remained at the villa, and no one was seen visiting. Therefore, the rum was already poisoned and the film has to be here somewhere. You and Biff are sharing a room. Do you have any idea how someone might have taken the film from Biff’s camera case?”
“It’s creepy, isn’t it? The police found it in Eli’s room, so I guess I thought he’d taken it for some obscure reason. He did go into the girls’ room and onto the balcony. He might have sneaked into our room, too, although I don’t know why he’d take a roll of used film.”
“Someone did,” Theo said peevishly. “Someone also mashed up pulp of the ackee plant, mixed it in a bottle of rum, and either gave it to Eli or left it as an anonymous present. The means are not insurmountable, but the motive escapes me—unless our poisoner was D’Orsini’s associate.”
Sandy looked nervously at the fence between the villas. “Was he really dealing dope right over there? The authorities are pretty lax, but I’d be more cautious than that. I thought he used the yacht for that sort of thing.”
“He went out in the yacht to make the transfer on the open seas. He saw himself in the role of a twentieth-century buccaneer, I suspect. But he couldn’t use the yacht to take the cocaine to Florida, where he would receive the best return on his investment. He knew he was being watched very carefully by the DEA agents, so he had to make other arrangements to export the cocaine.”
“What about the real estate woman?” Sandy asked in a hoarse whisper, as if the bougainvillea vine were a telegraph cable to the opposite side of the fence. “She said something about going to New York for travel fairs, and she seems really chummy with Count D’Orsini.”
“The authorities are aware of their friendship. I would imagine her possessions are searched thoroughly each time she enters the United States.” Theo finished his coffee and stood up. “We’re going out to dinner in forty-five minutes or so. Would you be so kind as to relay the information to those upstairs? I think I shall take a walk.”
Sandy looked less than delighted, as though torn between an instinct for self-preservation and an unwillingness to disobey an order, no matter how politely couched as a request. “I was going to practice a few pitch shots in the yard before I change for dinner. I managed to find every sand trap on the course earlier this afternoon, along with the egrets, cows, cow patties, and other assorted hazards. The PGA players don’t have to putt around livestock. Biff didn’t survive the first three holes; he went down the road to a hotel and hung out in the bar for a couple of hours.” He glanced at the balcony. “I hope the drinks helped calm him down. He’s been in a flap ever since you nailed him, because he knew a confrontation with Dorrie was inevitable. At least she hasn’t thrown him through the window—yet. Do you really think it’s wise to interrupt them, sir?”
“Just relay the message before too long,” Theo said with a jaunty wave. He went down the driveway and walked along the curving road, admiring those yards that were particularly tidy and looking up when the occasional jet roared across the distant water to return sunburned tourists to their homes, offices, factories, and schoolrooms. He had little time left before he would be obliged to pack up his charges and put them on such a jet. Six of them.
All the villas had fences and gates. Mary Margaret could not have darted up a driveway to hide in someone’s yard. D’Orsini had said he noticed no unfamiliar cars parked along the street. Sitermann had noticed no suspicious activity in the neighborhood—or so he’d said. However, Theo thought for not the first time, Sitermann did lie.
And why was Sitermann so interested in the comings and goings of the occupants of Harmony Hills? He’d claimed it merely offered an opportune cover to observe D’Orsini in the next villa. That might explain why the spy had popped up like a dandelion in the market the day they’d taken the yacht back to the local pier. It did not explain why Sitermann had been lurking in the area the previous evening, when Mary Margaret had vanished and Eli’s body was discovered. Theo began to stride more rapidly as irritation stirred within him. He studied each villa for signs of illicit behavior, but saw only plastic flamingos (a symptom of yuppie influx), lush foliage, manicured grass, and a handful of residents moving about their patios.
By the time he returned to the villa, he was quite as red-faced as Sandy had been. Sandy’s condition had been the result of lugging a golf bag up the hill from the golf course. Theo’s was the result of a desire to throttle the man from the CIA. At that moment in time, given the opportunity and despite his distaste for violent interaction, he very well might have.
They had gathered on the terrace for dinner, the boys in suits and the girls in dresses. When Theo arrived, he found them sitting around the table. Glasses of untouched rum punch were grouped near the pitcher; a plate of cheese attracted the attention of only a fly and a sprinkling of gnats. No one spoke as he pulled out a chair and sat down. Theo realized he had attended tax audits more jovial than the present scene. “Does anyone have a suggestion for a restaurant?” he asked. Dorrie stared at the Caribbean in the distance. Biff cleared his throat, then looked at Dorrie for a second, shrugged helplessly, and opted to study his feet. Trey produced a dazzlingly blank smile. Bitsy glanced at him, sniffed, and began to twist a ring on her finger. Sandy slithered farther down in his chair and sho
ok his head.
“I have a travel guide,” Theo continued valiantly. “Does everyone think seafood sounds good? Or barbecue? If no one has a preference, we could try one of the hotels or just pick a place out of the book.”
“It does not matter to me,” Dorrie said. “Yeah, any place will be swell.” Biff tried a smile, but conceded defeat when Dorrie gazed through him at the pool. “Yeah, any place,” he added weakly. Bitsy and Sandy nodded without interest. Trey nodded without comprehension.
Theo managed to herd them into the car, drive to a hotel, unload them, and get them all into the restaurant, feeling as though he were the trainer of a circus of zombies. Everyone mumbled a selection from the menu, sat until the food arrived, and ate. The few attempts at conversation were briskly squelched.
At least they had ceased the incessant bickering, Theo told himself as he drove them back to the villa. The silence was not disagreeable, although the tension was thick enough to be served on crackers. He was relieved when each announced he or she was going to bed, thank you for dinner, it was lovely, good night. Social amenities were too instinctive to be overlooked. Theo soon found himself the sole occupant of the terrace.
He heard a low murmur of voices from D’Orsini’s villa, much as he had the first evening he’d been in Jamaica. He now was confident he knew the identity of the male speaker who’d sounded vaguely familiar, but for the moment he could devise no way to use the knowledge.
Sitermann hailed him from the bottom of the driveway. Theo went down to the gate and stopped. “What’s new?” he inquired through the bars.
“I thought I’d come by and have a drink, Bloom. Why don’t you unlock this contraption?”
“I think not. I’m having a lovely time alone on the terrace. Dorrie and her friends have stopped quarreling, in that they’ve stopped speaking to each other for various reasons. We had a peaceful dinner, and they’ve all retired for the evening. It’s remarkably nice to have a period of serenity; I see no reason to mar it with your loquacity, most of which is mendacious and without the redeeming virtue of wit.”
“There you go again—pretending you don’t love me. Open the gate and I’ll tell you what I learned about the Connecticut connection.” Sitermann took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck. “I walked all the way up the hill, and I can tell you it’s steamier than a casting couch. I could use an icy martini while we talk on the terrace.”
“I can hear you quite well here, and there’s something comforting about seeing you behind bars. What did you learn?”
“I’m too thirsty to remember, old boy.”
“You mean you can’t lie without a drink in your hand,” Theo said, taking the key from his pocket to unlock the gate. He locked the gate behind Sitermann and trudged up the driveway, adding, “No, that’s not true. You could lie while dangling from one foot upside down from a mango tree. You spies study prevarication in your freshman year at spy school.”
“Required course,” Sitermann agreed. “But you have firsthand knowledge of the curriculum, don’t you?” When Theo merely smiled, he plopped down at the table. “As Bond, my boyhood hero, would say, shaken—not stirred, my good man. You might as well make a pitcher while you’re at it.”
For lack of anything better to do, Theo went to the kitchen and mixed a pitcher of martinis. After stirring it to his heart’s content, he returned to the terrace and set the tray in front of the spy.
“May I presume you have learned something of value?” he asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. The ransom note was in an envelope, the words cut out of The New York Times. That narrows it down to ten or twenty million people right there. If some of them didn’t have access to scissors and glue, then we can narrow it down even further.” Sitermann poured the martini down his throat and refilled his glass. “And if we exclude all the folks that didn’t know Mary Margaret Ellison dropped off the face of the earth last night around midnight—why, that shoots down most everybody.”
“You are a veritable cerebral machine. Did you discover anything concerning the identity of the deliverer of the note?”
“We did, and we didn’t. Do you have any olives?”
“I have no idea, but if we indeed have olives, I would rather roll them down the driveway in a primitive version of bowling than offer them to you. Would you please continue?”
“Holy major studio release, you are testy this evening. Here I am, offering to tell you information gleaned by the largest covert agency in the world—except for the KGB, since they’re on the same scale as the readership of The New York Times—and you won’t give me a measly olive. I swear, Bloom, I’m likely to get my feelings hurt once and for—”
“Would you please continue?”
“Okay, okay. Well, the note was stuck in Ellison’s mailbox about seven o’clock this morning. The cook was just coming in to fix breakfast, and she spotted this suspicious character darting up the road.”
“How suspicious?” Theo said, resigned to the necessity of playing straight man to Sitermann’s self-perceived wit.
“Dressed in navy blue sweats and a knitted cap. Wearing designer sneakers, wrist and ankle weights, and one of those portable radios with a headset. The cook said that the figure looked mighty suspicious.”
“Why did the figure look mighty suspicious?”
“Jogging is passé these days. It’s considered more civilized to exercise at one’s health club, where one will not be assaulted by dogs, bird droppings, motorcyclists, swerving BMWs, or the possibility of sweat. One can go directly from the low-impact aerobics session to the whirlpool and the sauna, where one will be in the company of the right sort of people. The sidewalks are public, you see, and the clubs are exclusive.”
“How kind of you to explain the intricacies, Sitermann. I suppose this was gleaned from a yup-spy in a spandex trenchcoat? Please get to the point. Is there any way to identify this jogger?”
“Nope. The cook wasn’t even sure of the gender, much less anything more descriptive. There could have been a crewcut under the cap, or waist-length hair pinned up. The sweats were baggy. Youngish, but that’s not extraordinary. In good shape. Designer outfit, standard issue in that neighborhood. Sorry, Bloom.”
“For this I mixed a pitcher of martinis? And you had the audacity to request olives? You are a treacherous devil.” Theo poured himself a martini and leaned back with a sigh. “There’s been no sign of the girl for almost twenty-four hours now. Sergeant Stahl had his patrolmen check beaches and bars, but he listed several dozen places she might be. Understandably, he is more concerned with the murder investigation, which seems to be galloping toward a brick wall.”
Sitermann’s expression sharpened. “I spoke to him a while ago. He said the film is not to be found anywhere on the island, and that it’s his only hope to solve the murder. What do you think?”
“I’ve thought about it quite a lot in the last few hours,” Theo admitted. “It seems logical to assume the film is here at the villa, but the police surely would have come across it. This joint is clean, as they’re inclined to mutter in old movies.”
Sitermann nodded. “Whoever swiped it might have simply tossed it out a window or buried it under a banana bush. There’s no reason to think the police’ll ever find it. It’s challenging to hide a busty young woman, but it’s easy to dispose of a cylinder less than two inches long.” He paused long enough to refill his glass. “So it looks like D’Orsini’s going to get away with his drug trafficking for the time being, and the murderer’s going to get away with murder. Hardly seems sporting, does it?”
“I hope the kidnapper doesn’t get away with kidnapping—if that’s what happened,” Theo said in a discouraged voice. “I have not yet mentioned the ransom note to Stahl, but I shall feel obliged to do so tomorrow if the girl does not return. We may well be in Jamaica for Memorial Day, if not Thanksgiving. My tomato seedlings will not plant themselves in the garden without assistance. I am relying on my sister to water them and see that they are not burnt
should there be an unseasonable warm spell, but she is less concerned about their welfare than about her performance at the bridge table and might forget to drop by my greenhouse. Were I at home, I would be planting beans and potatoes by now, but instead I have been thrown involuntarily into all sorts of distasteful events. I am not a happy man, Sitermann.”
“Finish off the pitcher,” Sitermann said graciously. “It’ll do wonders for the old spirit. We’re plowing through the island telephone records, but it’s needle-haystack stuff to think we can isolate one call from the entire island to the state of Connecticut. No international calls from here, by the way.” He wiped his neck with a handkerchief, drank the last few drops in his glass, and rose. “You don’t have to walk me to the door, Bloom. I’ll let myself out.”
“I locked the gate.”
“Picking locks, sophomore year. Have you forgotten already?” Laughing, Sitermann went down the driveway, paused in front of the gate for a few seconds, his bulk blocking the view of the formidable lock, then exited and strolled down the hill. His laughter drifted back in the now cool breeze from the Caribbean.
Theo ascertained that the gate was secured. He carried the tray to the kitchen and rinsed the glasses and pitcher, locked doors, checked windows, turned out the downstairs lights, and went upstairs to bed. He was in the midst of a most complex dream, in which Mary Margaret was the mistress of Rose Hall and Biff a husband with a limited future, when the ring of the telephone awakened him.
He grabbed his bathrobe and hurried downstairs, praying he would not stumble in the dim light. He switched on the light in the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”
“It was beginning to become quite tedious waiting for you to answer the telephone, Theo. I considered hanging up.”
“And how are you, Nadine?”