Murder On Mustique

by Glenconner Anne

  Nile is heading for the bathroom when someone gives a low moan. He steps outside, still in his boxer shorts, to find Lyron stretched out in the porch, mumbling in his sleep. It’s not the first time his twenty-three-year-old brother has fallen asleep there after partying all night. Nile marches back indoors for a jug of water, topped up with ice from the fridge. He gets satisfaction from pouring the freezing liquid over Lyron’s head, making him sit bolt upright, shouting curses.

  ‘Shut it, Ly. You’ll wake the neighbourhood.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Keep it down, for God’s sake.’

  Nile lounges against the wall, watching his brother scramble to his feet, still rubbing water from his eyes. There’s only a seven-year gap between them, but Lyron still behaves like a child. Nile accepts that his brother got the looks, while he got the brawn. Lyron is a few inches shorter, with a basketball player’s lean physique and high cheekbones. But now isn’t the best time to offer compliments, while he’s spitting out curses.

  ‘I’ll punch you senseless one of these days.’

  ‘You never managed it before.’ Nile gives an amiable smile.

  ‘I will now, you vicious idiot.’

  ‘Dad’s sick, remember? He doesn’t need you crawling home drunk every night.’

  ‘Don’t give me orders, Sol. You’re not in charge.’

  ‘Listen to me, for once in your life. You spend your wages on booze and girls and mine go on Dad’s medicine. When are you going to contribute?’

  Lyron looks contrite, his anger ebbing away. ‘How much does he need?’

  ‘Six hundred a month.’

  ‘Each?’

  Nile nods at his brother. ‘Food costs money too, and the house needs work.’

  ‘That’s most of my wage.’

  ‘Mine too. If there’s another way, let me know.’

  The heat fades from Lyron’s gaze when he grabs Nile’s towel and rubs his face and hair dry before tossing it aside. The two men sit next to each other on the front step, without saying a word. When Nile glances at his brother’s profile, he looks older than before, his mocking smile absent for once. He remembers his brother’s tears at the airport when he flew to the UK, leaving the eleven-year-old kid behind. It hurts that they’re no longer close, but the gap seems too wide to fill. He’d like to resume their old friendship, yet they’re talking different languages.

  ‘Why are you wasting time, Ly? You’re too smart for bar work. I thought you wanted to be a pilot.’

  ‘No one’s paying my fees. In case you didn’t notice, there are no good jobs here. Making cocktails is my best bet; at least I get plenty of tips.’

  ‘Move to St Vincent and go to night school. One of us needs to earn decent money.’

  ‘I’m the stupid one, remember? You’re the one with all the certificates.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re just as bright, but that lazy brain never gets used.’ Nile gives his brother’s shoulder a light punch. ‘It’s your turn to take Papa to church, but use the shower first, you stink of bourbon and cheap fags.’

  Lyron ignores his advice. ‘Someone told me a woman’s missing. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Amanda Fortini is missing; she was supposed to meet a friend on Friday evening and didn’t show.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I’ll find out today, with luck.’

  ‘She can’t be hurt, can she? Nothing bad ever happens here.’

  Nile is surprised by the tension on his brother’s face. He’s never shown much interest in the villa owners until now, but the Fortini girl must have visited Basil’s often during the summer. Lyron will have mixed cocktails for her most nights, but he rises to his feet suddenly and goes indoors, before Nile can ask questions about the missing woman.

  He’s about to follow suit when someone beckons from a neighbouring cabin. Mama Toulaine’s home is different from the rest of Lovell Village; it’s easy to tell she’s an artist from the pink geraniums fizzing with colour on her small terrace, the house’s exterior painted every shade of the rainbow. Even though she’s a friend of his father, he’s never learned her first name. Children in Lovell are expected to call anyone from the older generation Mama and Papa, as a mark of respect. Nile can’t guess why Toulaine is calling him over, but he raises his hand in reply, before going indoors. He can’t exactly pay her a visit dressed in midnight-blue boxer shorts.

  Nile washes quickly and puts on his uniform, even though it’s only 7a.m. He doesn’t have to report for duty until eight, but he can’t forget Mrs Fortini’s voice on the phone, when he called her yesterday, begging him to find her daughter. Mama Toulaine is watering her plants when he arrives at her cabin. She’s a big woman, dressed in a scarlet kaftan, her face framed by a cloud of grey curls, still beautiful despite her years. Mama’s from St Lucia originally, and instructs him in French-Creole to take a seat while she fetches coffee. Something about her manner makes it impossible to disobey. The woman moves indoors at a regal pace, leaving him to study the objects on her porch. People in Lovell say that Mama Toulaine practises Obeah, a form of voodoo still prevalent in St Lucia. Nile is almost certain that the walking stick propped in the corner is a coco macaque, a magic tool used to perform spells, decorated with paintings of skulls and feathers. Mama’s artistic talents are on display wherever he looks. A painting of Britannia Bay is propped against the wall, the sand glittering with sunlight. He’s always wanted one for his father, but Mama’s artworks have begun selling for thousands, in big American galleries.

  He settles on a turquoise deckchair and waits for Mama to return. When she thrusts a cup of thick black liquid into his hand, it’s too late to admit that he takes his coffee white these days, instead of Creole style. It’s so bitter with chicory, the first sip makes him wince, but Mama is too busy chatting to notice. She tells him about her kids, working over in St Vincent and Grenada, and her latest exhibition, until he’s certain that all she wanted was conversation.

  ‘It’s good to catch up, Mama, but I should get to work. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘Stay a minute.’ She motions for him to remain seated. ‘Friday, I took my easel over to Britannia Bay, to paint the sea at dawn. The Fortini girl was there.’ She takes the picture propped against the wall and hands it to him. ‘She looked pretty, I put her in my painting.’

  When Nile studies the scene again, there’s a small figure, dressed in a scarlet bikini, her hair golden. He spots the huge yacht that’s still balanced on the horizon as pink light floods the sky.

  ‘What did she do?’

  The old woman’s face gathers in a frown. ‘She swam towards that boat and I carried on painting. When I looked up again, she’d gone. I thought she’d climbed on board, or swum round to the next bay.’

  ‘She never came back?’

  ‘I was there two hours and the bay stayed empty, apart from a speedboat going by at a crazy speed. I didn’t know they could travel that fast.’

  ‘Was it from the yacht?’

  ‘The sun was too bright to tell. It could have been from Basil’s, or one of the villas.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘One more thing, before you go.’ Her voice drops, her expression suddenly fiercer than before. ‘I’m glad you’re our new lawmaker, you’ve got a wise head on your shoulders, but you should take care.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mama, but I have to help everyone, using the same rules.’

  The artist rises to her feet suddenly. Nile doesn’t know how to react when she places her hand on his forehead, like she’s checking his temperature, but he’s too polite to pull away. A rush of Creole words spills from her lips, too quiet for him to understand. When she finally drops her hand there’s panic in her eyes.

  ‘I tried to read your spirit just now, but I saw Gede instead. He can’t decide whether you’ll live or die. It doesn’t matter if you believe in Obeah or not; the gods won’t protect you. Defend yourself until the threat passes. Do you he
ar me?’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  She studies his face at length before her calm returns. ‘Don’t run away just yet, Solomon. Life’s too short to hurry. Finish your coffee first.’

  Nile braces himself before knocking back the last dregs. He stopped believing in God years ago, but the fear in Toulaine’s eyes looked genuine. Somehow he manages to say goodbye, even though it feels like his mouth is full of sand.

  6

  I WAKE UP smiling despite the late-night visitor to my garden. My long sleep was only disturbed by a mosquito screaming with frustration, unable to bite me through the netting over my bed. The creatures adore my pale British flesh, no matter how much garlic I eat, or poisons I spray on my skin. I’m determined to speak to Jose today, and put a stop to any odd behaviour, provided there’s time for a swim first. Age is just a number, but exercise keeps me fit, and a dip in the sea is one of my greatest pleasures.

  I put on my bathing costume and a sarong, before grabbing a towel, but something unexpected greets me when I step out into the corridor. A chunk of coral is lying on the floor outside Lily’s room; it’s white and calcified, slowly turning to powder. Maybe she put it there to remind me why she’s so driven to save the reef, but it seems odd that she’s carved an ornate pattern of criss-crossed lines into its surface. The sight of it fills me with sadness. Jasper and I used to spend hours in the sea with snorkels and masks, watching octopuses drift over fields of pink coral, hunting for food. Lily’s probably diving there already, her room empty when I peer inside.

  I’m still clutching the coral when I go downstairs. Our butler is waiting for me in the hall, straight-backed as a sentinel. Wesley Gilbert has been our right-hand man for twenty years, and he’s still an imposing figure. I remember how much he impressed me as a young man when I interviewed him for the position. He had been a soldier in the Grenadian army, recently returned to his native island. I knew immediately that he would make a perfect butler. He answered every question with quiet authority, giving me the sense that he held all the power in our conversation, and offering no clues whatsoever about his personal life. It would be his decision whether he chose to work for us or not, no matter how much I begged. He’s in his fifties now, average height, with a keen gaze, and handsome West African features, his bald head gleaming in the overhead light. He rules his small team of one gardener and two part-time maids with a rod of iron. His character is as powerful as my husband’s, and he’s still intensely private; I can tell he’s displeased by his refusal to meet my eye. An uncomfortably long time passes before he says a word.

  ‘You’re meant to let me know about your arrival a few days in advance, Lady Vee, not just a few hours before you touch down. That way I can ensure we have everything you need. You know that, but you never remember.’

  ‘Sorry, Wesley, I decided to come early. Thanks for leaving me the buggy. How are you, and your family? I haven’t seen you for months.’

  ‘Very well, thank you for asking. What can I get you for breakfast?’

  ‘I’m going for a quick swim. Some juice and a piece of toast will be fine when I come back.’

  ‘Juice? Toast?’ He rounds on me, his scowl deepening. ‘How will you get through the morning on that? Miss Lily had eggs, bacon and fried tomatoes, before going down to her boat.’

  ‘When have I ever eaten a cooked breakfast?’

  Wesley tuts at me. ‘Swim for as long as you want, Lady Vee. We’ll find you something decent, if you’ll only give us time.’

  The man shoos me outside, where a new maid is busy laying one of the tables with my best cutlery, then placing passion flowers in my favourite vase. I greet her with a smile, but she keeps her eyes downcast, shyness preventing her from replying. My nerves are perfectly steady when I dump the piece of coral in a plant pot on the terrace. I know from experience that Wesley is glad to see me under all that bluster, but he’s got a fierce reputation to maintain. He will take forever to deliver my food, then the process of forgiveness can begin. I let him manage the house and my small team of staff with absolute authority and he’s never disappointed me. Most of our conversations are a game of brinkmanship, but I’m almost certain that our relationship will soon be cordial again. I have no regrets about hiring such a formidable man to run the place. He’s the only person on Mustique apart from myself with enough guts to stand up to Jasper.

  A sense of excitement hits me as I trot down the steps to our nearest beach, a hundred metres below Eden House. It’s empty, as usual, the pale stretch of sand hemmed in by palm trees so thickly laced with vines, the light barely penetrates. The water is still today. Tides don’t exist on Mustique; the ocean only advances and retreats by a few inches each day, like a shy suitor, afraid to embrace the land. My cares lift from my shoulders as I walk into the sea. It’s only a few degrees colder than blood heat, just chilly enough to make my skin tingle. I’m swimming away from the shore when something nudges my ribcage. A green turtle surfaces a few feet away. It gives me a surprised stare before vanishing again beneath the turquoise surface. Time slips away as I float on my back. I taught my children to swim here in the days when thousands of turtles lived in the local waters. We spent hours collecting shells and stringing them together for necklaces.

  My muscles relax as the sun penetrates my skin, reviving my spirits. When I finally swim back to shore I bask for a while in the warm air. My love of this place hasn’t changed over the years, fortified by memories. It’s got a special place in the Queen’s heart too. I still recall her delight when she swam in Macaroni Bay, safe in the knowledge that no one would take photographs. She has never had the opportunity to relax so deeply again, so the island retains a special magic in her eyes.

  I’m still feeling upbeat when I walk home, but there’s no sign of Jose, and it’s the wrong time to ask Wesley to fetch him, because any request would prompt another rebuke. I use the interval to go indoors and call my husband, but he still has the power to surprise me. Yesterday’s impatience with my absence has been replaced by despair. When Jasper hears that I flew to Mustique early, he bursts into tears, because he will be unable to join me until the storm warning lifts. I feel a sudden pang of guilt. It must be dreadful to be so ruled by your emotions that the slightest knock can send you spinning off course. I listen until his sobbing quiets, then murmur a few words of encouragement, unwilling to say goodbye until I’m sure he’s all right again.

  I go upstairs to dress, then take a walk across the garden, where Jose’s skills are in evidence. He’s growing fruit as well as flowers; lime and lemon trees, passion fruit, and avocados almost ready to eat. I tried to grow roses when we first arrived, but it was no use. Only the toughest plants survive in tropical conditions, the bougainvillea showering the lawn with electric pink flowers. When I stand by the fence the Fortinis’ villa is camouflaged by tree ferns, but there’s no sign of life. The windows are closed, handfuls of leaves floating across the swimming pool, and the reality of Amanda’s absence suddenly hits home. Paulo and Giovanna Fortini are good friends of ours, their large Italian-American family visiting Mustique on a regular basis. They are renowned philanthropists, giving huge amounts of money away since their business expanded, but the wealth gap between Amanda and Lily has never mattered. The girls have been inseparable since childhood, spending each summer playing together, or running down to the beach to meet their friends Sacha and Tommy. Children have always been free to wander as they please here. If one of my brood ever went missing, someone always knew whose house they were visiting, or which beach they’d chosen to build sandcastles. One of Mustique’s biggest draws has been the sanctuary it offers to its youngest visitors. I gaze down at the Fortinis’ villa again, hoping to see Amanda at one of the windows, but see only reflected sunlight.

  Wesley has finally appeared, his expression solemn, when I take my seat. He ushers forward the new maid, who keeps her gaze on the pristine tablecloth. Wesley expects his staff to be seen and not heard, like good Victorian children. Once she has depo
sited the tray he sends her back to the kitchen with a waft of his hand. Despite his protests, the meal she’s prepared looks delicious: sliced mango, Greek yogurt laden with honey, and two large croissants.

  ‘This is perfect, thank you, Wesley.’ My butler is about to go back inside when I speak again. ‘Could you and I have a meeting about Lily’s party soon?’

  ‘I’m at your disposal. The Cotton House is doing the catering and setting up lights and music in Britannia Bay. I’ve also booked every room at Firefly, as you suggested.’

  ‘Excellent, we can get to work on fine details later. We need everything running like clockwork; I’m keen to get on with it while Lily’s out. Could you ask Jose to see me, next time you bump into him?’

  ‘Is something wrong, Lady Vee?’

  ‘Not at all, I just want a gentle word. The garden looks marvellous.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  ‘Did you hear that Amanda Fortini’s missing? I wondered if you knew anything about it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘The young lady barely speaks to me. She’s helping Miss Lily on the reef, that’s all I know.’

  I can sense Wesley’s negativity towards the girl, but our communication is still too fragile for more searching questions, so I inform him that Phillip Everard will be joining me for lunch, then he struts away. It will be hours before he offers me a smile, but he may be willing to share information by this afternoon.

  The sea absorbs my attention while I eat. There’s no sign yet to announce Storm Cristobal’s presence, the Caribbean a shimmering length of pale blue silk. It always strikes me as odd that meteorologists give hurricanes such beautiful names, when they cause such brutal devastation. We normally only catch the tail end of the fierce cyclones that spin across the Atlantic in hurricane season, but this one may be the exception. Cristobal is still whirling down America’s eastern seaboard, but Lily tends to ignore weather announcements. She will go on sailing out to the reef, unless there’s a force nine gale.