Murder On Mustique

by Glenconner Anne

  Nile does a double take when the phone on his desk rings for the first time in weeks. He listens to Lily Calder in silence, her voice low and compelling, already on his feet by the time she says that someone is missing. Her friend Amanda Fortini was meant to visit her last night, but she never arrived, and she’s not answering her phone. The young woman should be easy to trace; only a few dozen villa owners have remained on the island at the end of the season. The majority have flown home to avoid the tropical storm that’s making slow but inexorable progress across the Atlantic, their time on Mustique just a temporary break from reality.

  The Layton brothers are too immersed in their poker game to say goodbye when Nile takes his leave. He glances back at the police building and feels another stab of disappointment. Nile won a place to study history at Oxford University at eighteen, certain that the world was his oyster, but his view has changed since he returned home. His office has badly fitted windows, two makeshift holding cells built from breeze blocks, and a corrugated-iron roof that’s sure to leak when autumn’s tropical rainstorms arrive. He plans to ask the police chief on St Vincent to modernise the place once he completes his probation in six months’ time.

  The detective’s mood improves as he mounts the off-road dune buggy that comes with his role. It’s the quickest way to cover the island’s mixed terrain and the best perk of his job, even though it takes three attempts to start the motor. He could walk to the Fortinis’ villa, but the trade winds have stopped blowing, breathless heat surrounding him as the buggy sets off. The police station lies in a section of the island that few holidaymakers visit. Most simply check into their villas and remain there, only emerging for cocktails at Basil’s Bar, Firefly or the Cotton House, before jetting home.

  Nile scans the dense thickets that lie beyond the stone-paved path. The island has changed a great deal since his childhood, but the developers have retained the illusion of a tropical jungle, even though almost a hundred villas lie hidden among the trees. When he was a boy, turtles still crawled onto the beaches to lay their eggs, and red-footed tortoises roamed the jungles. The island’s wildlife still includes plenty of birds. A green-tailed parakeet flits overhead as he passes Britannia Bay, where a few holidaymakers are taking a dip, their beach towels the only spots of colour on the pale sand.

  The detective’s curiosity rises as he parks his buggy outside the Fortinis’ holiday home. It looks more like a fairy-tale palace than a villa, with huge terraces built into the side of the hill. It’s one of the most impressive properties on Mustique, which isn’t surprising. The Fortini coffee empire is the largest in the world. Nile has always wondered what the place looks like inside, and today he’ll finally see for himself.

  One of his neighbours from Lovell is sweeping the porch when Nile climbs the steps to the entrance. He’s known the middle-aged woman all his life, yet suddenly she’s unwilling to meet his eye. It’s not the first time his police badge has drawn a cool reception. When he asks if Amanda Fortini is at home, she tells him to speak to the housekeeper.

  ‘She’ll be fussing in the kitchen by now.’

  The cleaner shoos him inside with a waft of her hand, returning to her job of sweeping invisible dust from the terrace before he’s even said goodbye.

  When Nile catches his reflection in a window, he’s suddenly reminded of the mismatch between his stature and his self-image. He’s six feet five, almost as tall as Usain Bolt, his shoulders thick with muscles earned from swimming all year round, but that’s where the similarity ends. Nile has the sprinter’s physique, but none of his swagger. His brown eyes are shielded by circular glasses with thin gold frames, which make him look studious rather than athletic. His gaze contains curiosity, but little confidence. The policeman stifles a whistle of admiration when he enters the hallway. It’s more like a cathedral than a private home. Marble stairs spiral through the building’s core, edged by gold handrails, with light pouring down from windows overhead. When he calls out a greeting to the housekeeper, there’s no reply, except his own voice echoing from the walls.

  The grandeur of the place increases with each step. The sitting room is bigger than his entire home, and even though the views from his back porch are just as good, they look better framed by perfectly designed arched windows. There’s an infinity pool with tiles that mirror the bleached-out sky, strings of fairy lights hung between palm trees, and a confetti of bougainvillea petals on the lawn. He’s never been particularly interested in art, but the paintings strewn around the place look valuable. The only style he recognises is a seascape by Mama Toulaine, his father’s closest neighbour in Lovell Village. He pauses by her watercolour of Gelliceaux Bay, which catches the sunset perfectly, the sea turning oyster-shell pink.

  It’s only when he’s surveyed the entire ground floor that Nile spots an open doorway, leading down to the cellar. It’s the one place in the Fortinis’ villa that carries no polish or glitter, with a bare concrete floor and hundreds of wine bottles lying on racks that line the walls. He spots a woman clutching a duster in each hand as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  The housekeeper attends his father’s church. She’s around sixty years old, her round form wrapped in a housecoat, busy polishing dust from the bottles. She gives him a far warmer greeting than the cleaner upstairs.

  ‘Solomon Nile,’ the woman says, beaming. ‘Don’t you look fine in that uniform? Come by my house next Sunday afternoon; both my daughters need a decent husband. You can take your pick.’

  ‘I’d love to, Mrs Jackson, but it wouldn’t be fair. I’d sooner take a walk on the beach with you, any time.’

  ‘That’s a great big lie.’ She puts back her head, releasing a loud belly laugh.

  Nile falls into the pattern of teasing and laughter that he remembers from childhood. He misses the ease of being universally accepted. He has struggled to fit in since his return after years in the UK.

  ‘I’m looking for Miss Fortini,’ he tells the housekeeper. ‘Lily Calder’s been trying to contact her.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The housekeeper’s relaxed manner suddenly cools. ‘That young lady doesn’t listen to anyone. She makes her own rules.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Miss Amanda’s from a good family, but she plays around. When her parents fly home she’s in the bars every night. I can’t say a word, even though I was her nanny, once upon a time. If she was my daughter I’d lock her in her room.’

  ‘When’s the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Thursday, two p.m. She wanted crayfish and saffron rice for her lunch, with no dessert, and no wine thank you, just ice-cold eau naturelle. I’ll bet she had a hangover, that’s why.’

  ‘Not since then?’

  The woman looks thoughtful. ‘I made breakfast for her yesterday, but she never appeared, her bed wasn’t slept in either. You can draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘Is it okay to search her room?’

  ‘Go ahead, Mr Policeman. It’s on the top floor, last door off the landing, on your right.’

  Nile thanks her before saying goodbye. Something about the property unsettles him as he climbs the stairs; it feels ghostly, even though the interior sparkles with light. The place is sterile too, every inch of the floor buffed to a high shine. The bedrooms are all decorated with modern furniture, just a few antiques thrown in, to give the place style. His curiosity peaks as he enters Amanda Fortini’s room. The bed is freshly made, shrouded by mosquito nets that drop down from the ceiling, to protect her as she sleeps. When he looks inside her wardrobe, there’s a pile of flip-flops and espadrilles, flimsy skirts and a dress covered in sequins. Photos pinned to a board on the wall show the young woman circled by friends, her blond hair and smile neon bright. It looks like she’s never felt a moment’s doubt in her whole life, but Nile knows from experience that appearances can be deceiving. He scans the room again for anything personal. There’s a box full of jewellery beside a make-up tray on her dressing table, no sign of a mobile phone.

>   The detective finds a leaflet on the girl’s bedside table. It carries information about Lily Calder’s Reef Revival project, which the whole island’s talking about. The fishermen have been trying not to damage the coral atoll for years, but it’s a losing battle. Soon there will be no breeding grounds for the snapper, lobsters and crayfish that appear on every menu in the Windward Islands. If the coral dies, their livelihoods will perish too. Most of them are grateful that the young woman is putting her energy behind a good cause.

  Amanda Fortini’s personality is hard to pinpoint when Nile scans her room again. The young American has left her purse behind, full of credit cards, yet it looks like she’s getting her hands dirty, helping the conservation project. It’s only when he draws back the mosquito net that Nile spots something odd. A large piece of coral rests on her freshly made bed, a foot wide, scattering sand across the sheets. It’s pure white, and feels brittle in his hand, delicate tendrils starting to fragment. Its saline smell is completely distinct. Someone has used a knife to carve two crossed arrows into its surface. But why would Amanda Fortini dirty her sheets with sand-encrusted coral? She could have left it on her dressing table instead. Nile is still holding the coral when he checks her en-suite bathroom. There’s nothing personal there except a faint whiff of citrus perfume, already beginning to fade.

  The detective’s head is so crammed with questions as he leaves the villa, he forgets to say goodbye to the cleaner who’s still sweeping the terrace, but she notices the slight. A stream of Creole curses follows him as he walks away.

  3

  I CATCH THE afternoon flight from Gatwick to St Lucia by the skin of my teeth. I know for a fact that my timing will upset Jasper. He would prefer me to visit his building project instead of jumping on the last connection to Mustique, but my first priority is to support Lily, and make sure that my plans for her party are coming together. Once I’ve reassured myself that details are in place, I can swim and sunbathe to my heart’s content, until Jasper arrives to help out.

  England looks grey and gloomy as we take off, but I can feel myself relaxing already. Princess Margaret treated every flight she took as a rest from royal duties and being on show, and I intend to do the same. I listen to an audio reading of Sense and Sensibility and let myself drift, but after a few hours my concentration is wearing thin, the past crying out for attention.

  I remember the lead-up to Lily entering our lives like it was yesterday. Her mother, Dr Emily Calder, was a close friend until sixteen years ago, newly divorced and renting a villa near ours. She was in her thirties, with a doctorate from Harvard and a growing reputation as a ground-breaking marine conservationist. Emily spent each summer on Mustique, working on the reef. Everyone adored her company, because she was fun, charismatic, and clever. I was glad to become godmother to five-year-old Lily. The child was so good-natured, happy to splash around in the shallow end of our pool, while Emily and I chatted, after her long days in the sea. She barely mentioned her divorce, but I still regret missing the danger signs. Emily must have drunk her last sundowner with me, gone back to her villa then walked into the sea while Lily slept, leaving nothing behind to explain her suicide. No trace of her was found, apart from her sarong, folded in a neat pile on Macaroni Beach. I’ve never been able to make sense of it. Emily was young and beautiful, with many friends to listen to her woes, yet she threw it all away, abandoning Lily to her fate. I can only assume that she had been battling with depression but keeping it secret. If she left a suicide note, it was never found, leaving no words of comfort for her daughter.

  Jasper was quick to agree that we should raise Emily’s child. The juvenile streak in his personality helps him to enjoy children’s company, and our own brood had already flown the nest. They accepted Lily’s presence without question, but her childhood was overshadowed by her mother’s death, then her father’s disinterest. Henry Calder is an oil magnate, who seems to believe that setting up a small trust fund is his only paternal responsibility, rarely bothering to contact his daughter. The girl has sufficient money to live, but she’ll never be rich, and she has no one to rely on except myself and Jasper, yet she’s an eternal optimist. She’s intent on saving the reef, and I have a feeling that nothing will get in her way.

  I fall into a fitful sleep, and when I wake up, the captain is announcing that St Lucia is just half an hour away, but our approach could be bumpy, as we pass through turbulence. The plane reels and judders as time rearranges itself. It’s just after 5p.m., the island lagging five hours behind the UK.

  It crosses my mind to call Jasper, but the flight has sapped my energy. I decide to postpone it until a night’s sleep has refreshed me. The small airport is heaving with relatives eager to greet family members from the plane, taxi drivers and porters, offering to carry my bag for a small fee. I’m about to check in for my next flight when I spot someone familiar in the crowd. It’s Simon Pakefield, the British locum who stands in for our beloved Dr Bunbury while he visits relatives in the UK. The entire island misses Bunbury while he’s away, because he’s taken care of our ailments so well for decades. Pakefield doesn’t acknowledge my wave even though we’ve met half a dozen times. The man has an odd manner, pale and poker-faced, with a shock of jet-black hair. It seems odd that his bedside manner is gentle, yet he lacks social graces, always happier to deal with people as patients instead of friends.

  Pakefield has receded into the crowd when another voice calls my name. My old friend Phillip Everard rushes towards me, his hand raised in greeting. The Canadian actor must be well into his sixties, but you’d never guess it. His features look much as they did when he starred in half a dozen stylish comedies that took the world by storm in the late eighties. He’s the kind of man who draws attention from men and women of all ages, his open bisexuality only adding to his charisma. Phillip is wearing a blue linen shirt that highlights his tan, grey hair cropped close to his skull, his clean-cut features more distinguished than ever.

  ‘You’re still so dashing, Phil, the perfect lead man.’

  ‘Not half as gorgeous as you.’ He grins before wrapping me in a hug. ‘How do you keep your skin so smooth?’

  ‘Lucky genes and Harrods face cream. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Lily told me you were coming, so I delayed my flight home, after helping Jasper deal with his nasty French architect.’

  ‘You absolute sweetheart. Is Jasper okay? I’ve never heard him so despondent.’

  ‘He needs you to mop his fevered brow and he’s inclined to throw tantrums, so it’s business as usual.’ He looks amused. ‘I’ve spent the afternoon hunting for a birthday present for Lily.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Freshwater pearl earrings and a matching bracelet. Is that too boring?’

  ‘She’ll love them.’

  ‘Thank God you’re coming straight to Mustique, not going to that hell hole Jasper’s created.’ Phillip’s voice carries a soft French lilt, from his childhood in Quebec.

  ‘Don’t tell me, darling. I need vodka in my system first.’

  ‘Drinks must wait. There are delays and we are on the last flight out; they’re shutting the airport after we take off. There’s a tropical storm heading this way, apparently. God knows why they’re so worried, the damn thing’s nowhere near us.’

  Phillip leads me through the airport at a rapid march, his hand grasping mine. We’ve been friends for thirty years, ever since he bought one of Mustique’s smallest villas, despite having enough Hollywood dollars to build himself a palace. He wanted a bolthole, to escape the paparazzi, but his modesty has never allowed him to decorate it in grand style. Phillip was the life and soul of every party and carnival, but recently his pace has slowed. I can’t remember the last time he worked. When I watch him arranging our transfer, all business-like and serious, I can picture him playing a high-minded human rights lawyer, or an American president with old-school values. There’s a sudden change in his mood as we approach the minute plane that’s waitin
g on the runway.

  ‘Did I tell you Jose’s been acting strangely? He’s looking after our gardens fine, but he’s been following me around, morning, noon and night.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘I’ll talk to him, if you like.’

  ‘Let’s not terrify the poor boy, I just want him to stop behaving like my bodyguard.’

  Jose Gomez has worked for Phillip and me for the past five years, dividing his time between our two gardens. The young man is blessed with green fingers, but mute since birth. I hear him whistling as he tends the lawn sometimes, but he’s never uttered a word. Phillip seems relieved to get the matter off his chest, grabbing my hand again as the island hopper prepares for take-off.

  ‘I’ve been longing to tell Lily about the party, but keeping my lips sealed. She’s fascinated by the old days, isn’t she? Mustique’s gatherings are legendary in her eyes.’

  ‘This one needs to trump them all; she deserves an ego boost, and it’s only two weeks away. Jasper and I have got designers on St Lucia making dozens of gorgeous costumes for our guests, including you.’

  ‘Is there a theme?’

  ‘We’re calling it the moon ball, because it should be full that night, and I’m praying for clear skies. I want the island to shine in Lily’s honour.’

  ‘No one takes party planning as seriously as you and Jasper. I remember you making trips to Kerala to buy costumes and props for a party years ago. You even hired a yacht so guests could dress at sea, then arrive on the beach looking perfect. It took weeks to build that palace on the lawn, didn’t it?’

  ‘Lily’s tastes are simpler than ours, but I don’t care. Everyone’s coming: royalty, supermodels, rock stars, and you, of course.’ I smile at him again.

  ‘It’s never too late to marry me.’