Cameras clicked.
Dodie slipped under the arm of one of the big bodyguards and called out, “I need to talk to you about Portman Cay, Mr. Christie.”
He halted on the pavement, glanced at her, then plunged into the rear of his car. He wound down a window a crack, muttered something to one of the other bodyguards, and before she could open her mouth, Dodie found herself being tumbled into the back of the car alongside Christie.
“Sit down,” he said. No trace of charm today.
As the car pulled away she didn’t waste words. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Christie. Flynn Hudson is in jail. He has been framed for the murder of Mr. Morrell.”
“What the hell has that got to do with me? I have my own worries right now, as you can see.”
He rubbed a hand across his creased face, roughing up his sandy eyebrows, but didn’t manage to remove the look of nervousness and distress that hovered under his irritated manner. Was it the natural reaction of a man who has found his friend murdered in bed? Or something more? Dodie wanted to peel off his bald pate and take a look inside.
“It is a coincidence,” she pointed out, “that just after turning up in your office asking awkward questions, Flynn Hudson is locked up in a prison cell.” The car was slowing down. Her time was running out. “Did you get someone to make that phone call to the police, Mr. Christie? You and your Mafia friends from Prohibition days? Was Flynn Hudson becoming too much of an irritant?”
Christie sat very still in his corner. “Be careful what you say, young woman.”
She was trying to provoke him, to tempt him into an indiscretion, but he kept a tight hold on his temper.
“I did no such thing,” he stated. “And I will call my lawyer if you go around saying I did.” He took a moment to light himself a cigarette, and when he had sent a stream of smoke swirling through the car, he asked, “What is this about Portman Cay?”
She trod carefully this time. “You handled the sale of that land.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“It doesn’t matter. Is it true?”
He nodded. “Yes, it is. It’s no secret.”
“The vendor is a Mr. Michael Ryan, the purchaser a Mr. Alan Leggaty.”
The car halted. They were outside a bank. Dodie could sense Christie’s wariness.
“Are you Mr. Alan Leggaty, by any chance?”
It was a shot in the dark, but she hit the bull’s-eye. He tossed his cigarette out of the window and turned back to glare at her.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” he snapped. “You and Hudson trespassing on the land up at Portman Cay.”
“Land that you are planning to use for—”
“—for nothing, Miss Wyatt. I think you’ve said enough.”
“That’s it, isn’t it, Mr. Christie? Flynn Hudson was asking too many questions, so he was set up as Morrell’s murderer. But whoever set him up possessed the wallet and the gold coins. Only the killer would have those.”
His eyes flickered but didn’t look away.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” he said coldly. “Or he could be guilty as charged.”
“Is that person you, Mr. Christie?”
His mouth stretched wide into a grimace and it took Dodie a minute to recognize it as a smile of sorts. “No, it’s not.” He glanced at the glass partition between them and the driver, and she had the impression he would have said more had they been totally alone.
“I’m telling you this much—Sir Harry Oakes and Freddie de Marigny hated each other’s guts. Oakes couldn’t forgive the greasy foreigner for cradle-snatching his daughter. Marigny was in the area of Westbourne between midnight and one o’clock, and he, above everyone, had a motive for murder—his father-in-law’s money. So don’t come to me with tales of mobsters and land deals. This is a straightforward matter of family feuding.”
“That’s what everyone seems to want us to believe.”
“And where does Morrell fit into this? He got in the way of someone. Stabbed by a prostitute or by your friend Hudson when they’d had too much to drink. You mark my words, that’s what will come out in the trial.”
There was a firestorm going on behind his eyes. “I suggest, Miss Wyatt, that you go see that nice shiny new lawyer of yours and tell him what you’ve told me and see just how long he can keep you out of jail.” He jutted his head toward her, for all the world like an angry tortoise. “Now get the hell out of my car.”
* * *
“Dodie, child, you sure are stirrin’ things up.”
“That’s right, Mama Keel, I sure am.” They were standing outside the purple door of Flynn’s lodgings, the afternoon sun taking bites out of the shadows and leaving the street as parched and dusty as one of the lizards that skulked in the gutters. “I’m poking sticks in nests and seeing what bites.”
Mama gave a grunt of disapproval and spat out a stream of green ganja juice onto the dirt. She had the aches in her head today.
“If I don’t, Mama, they’ll hang him for sure.”
“Then you and me better make this work.”
Dodie knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer, yet music drifted under the door.
Mama Keel nodded to herself. “You got a white man’s knock.”
Mama Keel lifted her hand and tapped a rhythmic tattoo on the wood in time to the beat, and seconds later the music ceased and the door swung open. Behind it the landlord was standing in just a pair of vivid green shorts and a vest. In his arms slept an infant with dusky mixed-blood skin and gingery curls.
Dodie smiled. “Good day. Remember me?”
“Yes.”
Still one for monosyllables, it seemed. Dodie had hoped it would be easier this time.
“I’ve brought my friend Mama Keel with me. May we come in and have a word with you?
His eyes skipped from Dodie and settled on Mama. Mama said nothing. Just stood on his doorstep under his inspection. She was a good head taller than he was. After a moment, he hitched the child up in his arms, gave a nod, and retreated into the dark hallway of the house. Dodie let Mama lead the way and together they entered, though Dodie’s eyes instantly took to the stairs that led up to Flynn’s room. The landlord’s wife joined them with arms folded over her plentiful bosom and the four of them were jammed into the small space between the stove and the log basket.
“Please, help me,” Dodie said. “Mr. Hudson will be hanged if you don’t admit to the police that someone else came here, someone who put the wallet in the mattress.” She fought to keep any anger out of her voice. “I know the person must have threatened you.”
They continued to regard her with scowls on their faces.
“I understand how terrifying that can be, but Mr. Hudson is innocent. Please. You can’t wish him to die for a crime he didn’t—”
Mama Keel placed a warm hand on Dodie’s knee.
“My friend here is upset,” Mama said smoothly. “Her man is in trouble, and that ain’t good. She’s here askin’ for help because we know you’re decent folk.” A calmness radiated from her as she reached down into the straw basket at her side, drew out three bottles of local beer, and opened a small battered tin which released the smell of ganja weed into the room.
“Dodie, girl,” Mama smiled affectionately, “why don’t you slip outside and let me and these folks have a quiet chat?”
This wasn’t what Dodie expected, but she trusted Mama. With a nod she rose from her seat and left the room. Outside in the dim hallway the ache in her chest sharpened and her feet took to the stairs with quick silent steps.
His door was locked. So someone else had moved in. She wanted to shout out that he wasn’t dead yet, that this was still Flynn’s room. He would be back. Her fingers touched the handle one last time before she hurried back downstairs. Instead of going outside to wait in the shadeless street, she drifted t
o the back of the gloomy hall but jerked to a halt when she saw Flynn’s jacket. It was lying in a cardboard box shoved among the jumble of objects in the space under the stairs.
She lifted up the box. It had an official Bahamas Police Department stamp on one end. Inside it she let her fingers riffle through Flynn’s shirts, a jumper, trousers, a towel. Nothing of significance. No gun, no letters, nothing other than clothes. The police had kept the rest. She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, and slowly slid to the floor, holding the box tight to her chest. She bent forward so that her face was buried in his jacket and she breathed him in until she could feel him inside herself.
* * *
The Arcadia Hotel was packed. Olive Quinn was frantic but smiling broadly. The world’s media men needed somewhere to stay and the Arcadia welcomed its fair share of them with open arms. Dodie was working flat out, as tea on the crowded terrace was much in demand. She almost didn’t see Ella arrive.
Ella was looking thin. Dodie was shocked by the way her clothes hung loose on her and her blue eyes had retreated deep into their sockets. Dodie moved quickly to Ella’s table and rested her notepad on its surface, as though waiting for her customer to choose her order.
“Are you all right, Ella?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like something to eat?”
Ella shook her head but she bent over the menu. “Dan won’t see me anymore. He says it’s too dangerous for me.” Her voice sounded raw.
Dodie gently touched her shoulder. “It shows he cares for you.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t not see him . . .” She stopped as she looked up at Dodie’s face. “Of course you understand, don’t you, you’re going through the same.”
Dodie didn’t want to talk about that. “What did Detective Calder say about Morrell and Sir Harry?”
Ella put down the menu. “That the murder investigation into Sir Harry’s death is being deliberately botched. The evidence destroyed. Key men moved out of reach. He thinks there’s a conspiracy to cover up the truth.”
“Who is in this conspiracy?” Dodie picked up her pad and pretended to scribble something down.
“He doesn’t know for sure.”
“So what’s his guess?”
Ella tipped her hat forward to cover her face. “Take your pick—there’s so much going on. So many secrets. Dan thinks it’s the duke.”
“What?”
“Only someone that high up could order the removal of top men.”
“Oh, Ella! I spoke to Christie today. He said that everyone knows there was bad blood between Sir Harry and his son-in-law. That’s the story he’s pushing to anyone who will swallow it. A family feud.” She glanced around but Miss Olive was not in sight, so just for a moment she sat down in the chair next to Ella’s, their heads close. “Christie and the duke are the two most powerful men on the island now. They must be the ones manipulating decisions and decreeing what the press hears.”
“The reporters will ask awkward questions, you know they will.”
“That’s why Flynn was framed. For asking too many questions that someone didn’t like.”
“But, Dodie, that’s what you and I are doing now.” Ella ran a hand down her cheek and seemed surprised to find its edges so sharp. “Stirring things up. I worry about you. Dan is right, it could be dangerous. I am protected by being the wife of Reginald Sanford, but you . . .” She hesitated and lowered her voice. “You are vulnerable.”
The two women looked at each other, the friendship between them weaving into complex knots.
“Taking a well-earned rest, Miss Wyatt?”
The sarcasm in Olive Quinn’s voice was finely honed. Dodie jumped to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Miss Olive, I was—”
“Olive dear, don’t be a tyrant. I asked Dodie to sit with me. There is something I needed to discuss with her.”
“Finished now, I hope. We are busy.”
“Very nearly. Just one more minute.”
Reluctantly Olive Quinn withdrew, but not without a quizzical glance at Ella.
Dodie bent her head down to Ella’s level. “Ella, it seems that one of the keys to it all is the Portman Cay land deal. It connects everything—Johnnie Morrell, Sir Harry, and Christie. That’s what Flynn walked into without knowing.”
One of the customers raised a polite hand to summon Dodie to her table.
“I have to go,” she said. “Be careful.”
Ella’s smile was grateful. “I’ll arrange to see Hector Latcham tomorrow. He’s Christie’s lawyer as well and so might know something about Portman Cay.”
“Be discreet.”
Ella actually laughed. “I eat discretion for breakfast.”
“I’ll bring you some tea.”
“What about you?”
“I have another appointment tomorrow to visit the prison before I start work.”
“Ah.” Ella grimaced. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
As Dodie walked away, she wondered why the one thing that no one talked about was the gold. But by the time she brought the tea tray to the table, Ella was gone.
Chapter 50
Ella
“Reggie.”
Ella was standing in the dark on the balcony of their bedroom. Mosquitoes whined around her ears and somewhere in the distance the deep bass rumble of the ocean could be heard as it crooned to itself. Ella had never been a keen swimmer and now felt her limbs too weak to contemplate such a thing. She tried to remember when she had last eaten something, but couldn’t.
Reggie materialized at her elbow, as though he’d been just waiting for the sound of her voice.
“Reggie, I’ve been hearing whispers. Is it true that the duke is moving large sums of money around?”
“I say, Ella, old thing. That’s frightfully indiscreet of you. Not like your usual self at all.”
Ella turned away and rested her elbow on the balcony ledge. The silence between them was filled by the cicadas and the dull refrain of the tree frogs.
“But then,” Reggie said in the kind of conciliatory voice he was good at, “you haven’t been quite your usual self recently.” He paused. “Have you?”
“These murders are upsetting.”
“Of course.”
That was all. Neither could find anything more to say, so after a wait that only emphasized the vacant air between them, Reggie removed himself from the balcony and went inside.
“Help me, Reggie,” she whispered. “Please, please, help me.” Her head dropped on to her hands and she shivered.
* * *
It was just after eight o’clock in the morning when Ella drove past Dan’s house the first time. Cars were parked in drives, shutters stood open, there was an atmosphere of purpose and activity in the street that was foreign to her. The houses weren’t dozing peacefully in the afternoon sun, as they had been before. She felt a stranger. Unwelcome. When she drove past the house in her Rover for the third time, she caught sight of Dan at the upstairs window. He was wearing a shirt and tie, and must have just stepped out of a shower because his hair looked wet and sleek. Neither waved.
A thin streak of pain traveled up from Ella’s chest to her throat and she looked down at her cream chiffon blouse expecting to see blood on it. There was none, of course.
Of course.
She turned the car back toward East Bay Street and headed in the direction of Hector’s office for her appointment with him, the image of Dan with his wet hair branded on her mind.
Don’t you know that when I am not with you, I die?
* * *
“Hector, how kind of you to see me.”
“My dear Ella, I can think of no better way to start my day.” Hector Latcham kissed her cheek, guided her to a comfortable chair, and summoned coffee for his g
uest. “Now how can I help you?”
“I need to find out a bit about Portman Cay.”
“Portman Cay?” Hector repeated, frowning as he tried to place the name.
“I believe you did the legal work on it when it was sold recently. For Harold Christie.”
“Ah yes, I did indeed.” He tapped his forehead with a self-deprecating laugh. “So many transactions in there that sometimes they get put in the wrong files.” He sipped his coffee and regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of the delicate porcelain cup. “But what’s your interest in it, Ella? Not your usual preoccupation.” He offered her a cigarette from an ebony box and lit one for her with a flourish.
“To be honest, Hector, my curiosity has been roused by a rumor I’ve heard about Portman Cay.”
He crossed his legs, and it occurred to Ella how fit he looked for a man of his age, somewhere around fortyish. It reminded her of Dan.
“As you’re a lawyer, Hector, I know I can trust you. I’ve been hearing about big money deals. What’s going on out there?”
“Don’t worry your head about it, my dear.”
“I asked Reggie.”
“Did you indeed? What did Reggie say?”
“He told me I’d best keep my nose out of it too.”
“Good advice.”
Ella drew on her cigarette tetchily. “I’m not so sure. Portman Cay seems to tie in somehow with the deaths of Morrell and Sir Harry.”
“Really? I would be careful, Ella. That could be a dangerous thing to say.”
“What can you tell me about the place? What’s so special?”
“Nothing much, to be honest. It’s just a bay like any other but bigger—the usual sand, sea, and a small forest of pine trees. Very pretty actually.”
Ella sighed. “Another brick wall, it seems. Yet there is definitely a connection somewhere and I intend to find it.” Abruptly she stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “I think I’ll drive out there and take a look myself.”
Hector rose to his feet and smiled fondly. “That sounds like a good idea. But look at you, my dear Ella. You look as if you’d blow away in the first wind. I can’t have you dashing around to strange places on your own. Let me drive you.”
The Far Side of the Sun Page 32