by David Manuel
“One thing will not be as always,” he concluded. “Instead of goods, I will have a syringe for him. When he wakes up, he will find himself in a predicament similar to Vincennes’.”
The owner winced at the prospect of another liquidation, especially of someone he knew. “Is that really necessary?”
Dupré ignored him. “Except,” he mused, “I may have to do Jonesy first. To ascertain if he’s told anyone other than Eric.”
He turned back to the rivulets. “Actually, I doubt I’ll have to use the tub. The memory of it should be enough to loosen both boys’ tongues. Then I will simply administer lethal doses of heroin, and,” he smiled and raised his hands, “voilà.”
Again the owner asked, “Is it—necessary?”
Dupré looked at him, not bothering to hide his fraying patience. “Since it is my neck in the guillotine, comme il faut, you will have to let me decide what is necessary.”
He tracked one of the descending streams with his finger. “I must know if anyone else knows.”
“I very much doubt it,” said the owner, “or we would have heard.”
Dupré nodded. “Even so, I must be sure.”
The owner got up, signaling that their meeting was about to come to a close. “Perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be advisable to find somewhere else to dispose of—the evidence.”
“Thank you,” replied the Frenchman, bowing with exaggerated politesse. “Your advice is, as always, deeply appreciated.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll dispose of the bodies tonight. In a gully off the Railway Trail. The terrain is steep there, and dense. When they’re found, OD’d on heroin—if they’re found—the police will assume it was a drug party gone bad.”
“Cochrane will know,” the owner observed.
“No,” Dupré clarified, “he will suspect. He won’t know for certain.”
The owner led his guest to the door. “Have you arranged your—departure?”
“I’m getting closer. I learned of an interesting possibility this morning, out at St. George’s. In that regard, I’d appreciate you arranging an introduction for me with Neil and Marcia Carrington. Through them I would like to meet one of the Gold Cup captains, Anson Phelps, and through him—”
“Out of the question!” snapped the owner. “You know that your world and mine can never mingle!”
Dupré shrugged. “It would have saved me time, that’s all.” Then, annoyed at the owner’s annoyance, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
“It can’t be too soon,” replied the owner, not caring for the Frenchman’s tone. “The police are confident that though they don’t know the murderer’s identity, they have him trapped. There are only two ways off the island—and the airport and cruise ship terminals are covered. They’re saying it’s only a matter of time.”
“There’s a third way,” Dupré murmured.
“What?”
“Never mind.” It was the first time he had not taken his partner into his confidence.
As they parted, neither man offered a hand in farewell.
30 saving plain jane
Maud and Margaret were on the little balcony of their room, watching the sun setting over the Atlantic, enjoying the sound of the surf on the rocks below. The morning’s rain had passed quickly, leaving everything fresh and bright.
On the table between them were two glasses with ice and two tiny bottles of J&B.
“The person I’m most concerned about is Jane,” Maud announced, taking a drag on her slender cigar.
“Jane?”
“Our neighbor, remember?” She gestured in the general direction of the honeymoon suite. “Plain Jane MacLean. I like her!” she exclaimed, blowing a smoke ring. “And I don’t like what’s being done to her.”
“We don’t know anything is being done to her! I mean, you thought you saw something Monday morning, during that awful time on the beach. You just had a hunch, is all.”
“We’re not going through this again, are we, Mags? You know how right my hunches are.”
“But we don’t have anything else to go on.”
Maud tapped the ash off her cigar. “What about his afternoon jogs?”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“Disappearing for two hours of prime time on his honeymoon?”
Margaret wasn’t buying it. “She said at breakfast that she doesn’t mind. Gives her a chance to take a nap.”
Maud scowled. “She’s putting up a brave front, poor thing.” All at once she set her glass down and stood up. “We’ve got to help her!”
“Help her do what, for heaven’s sake?”
“She’s going to be badly hurt.”
“But we can’t help that.”
“Maybe we can,” her friend retorted, stubbing out her cigar.
Maud did not answer. She glared at the sun as if it were trying to stare her down.
“Maudie Brown! You swore to me, in the lobby of the Cairo Hilton, that you would never, never, never—”
Her friend waved a hand to stop the nevers. “This is different.”
“It is not different! The only difference is that here we might not be in danger of starting World War III!” She glowered at her friend. “But knowing you, even that is not out of the question!”
Maud sighed. “Do you like Jane?”
“Of course I like her.”
“You want to see her hurt?”
“Of course not.”
“Then we’ve got to help her.”
Margaret’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t want to ask what you’ve got in mind.”
“Let’s just see if his afternoon jogs are as innocent as they’re meant to be.”
“How are we going to do that? It’s been years since I’ve done any running. And you—” she looked at her heavy friend and chuckled.
“I wasn’t thinking of joining him,” Maud snapped, not appreciating her cousin’s levity. “I was thinking of spying on him.”
“Oh, Lord!” moaned Margaret. “It’s happening again!”
Maud shook her head in disgust. “I don’t know why I drag you all over the world with me!”
“Because I’m the only one who’ll put up with your nonsense!” Margaret shot back. “And I’m not putting up with it any longer!”
“All right, all right,” said Maud, softening, “calm down.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then in a more placating tone, Maud pleaded, “Do this one thing with me, Mags, and if it turns out I’m wrong, we drop it.”
Margaret’s firm jaw remained set.
Her cousin upped the ante. “And—I promise to keep that promise I made in Cairo.”
Margaret’s eyes were cold. Her round steel-rimmed glasses seemed to underscore her steely resolve.
“And—we can go to Henley next spring for the Regatta.”
The prospect of watching some of the best crews in the world competing together was almost more than one of Wellesley’s great former oars could resist. The manicured lawns by the river’s edge, the beautiful young men in their seersucker jackets and straw boaters…. There was an infinitesimal softening at the corners of her mouth.
Maud saw it, and softly, enticingly started the Eton Boating Song,
“Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees….”
Margaret, in spite of herself, began to smile. “That’s not fair!” she muttered, but by the time her cousin reached the refrain, she had joined in,
“Swing, swing together,
With your bodies between your knees.”
“All right,” sighed Margaret with a shudder, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Well,” said Maud, rubbing her hands together and leaning forward, “he’s taken his scooter and gone over to the beach at the Southampton Princess, to do his jogging there.”
“How on earth do you know that?”
>
“Because I eavesdropped. I overheard him telling Jane at lunch, in case she wanted to reach him by cell phone. He promised he’d be back by six, to take her to II Palio for dinner.” She looked at her watch. “It’s almost five; if we catch a No. 8 bus, we can be there by 5:30.”
“But he’ll be almost ready to come back by then.”
“Exactly! They’ll be done jogging, and in the pleasant afterglow of all that exercise, they’ll be enjoying a beer—no, too many carbos—a Pinot Grigio at the little bar by the beach.”
“What if we get there, and he’s not there?”
Maud shrugged. “Then we’ve wasted an hour and four bus tokens.”
“What if he’s there, but she isn’t?”
“Then—we’ll never, never, never do this again!” Maud declared, mimicking her friend. “And either way, you get to feast your eyes on all those lovely boys at Henley. But if I’m right, and he is there, you and I are going to the Masai Mara in January! For two weeks! And this time we’re going to do the hot-air balloon ride!”
They caught the No. 8 and arrived at Southampton Beach on schedule. It was a long walk down to the beach, and Maud was having a hard time. “Now I see why they have those nice blue trolleys for the hotel’s guests,” she gasped, as one passed them. “If I’m having this much trouble coming down, I’m never going to make it back up.”
“It’s all right, dear,” said her cousin. “I’ve already decided we can splurge and take a cab home.”
They reached the Cabana bar and restaurant facility, and Margaret was about to go in, when Maud grabbed her. “You can’t just walk in there!” she hissed under her breath. “He’ll see you!”
“If he’s there,” said Margaret, refusing to concede the point or lower her voice.
“Come on!” said her friend in her most urgent, conspiratorial whisper, and she went into the women’s changing room. Margaret followed. “Now,” continued Maud, “we’re going to go out on the beach, and then come up to the bar from there, only we won’t go in.” She opened the door to the beach. See those bushes? We’ll use them as cover, to check out the lay of the land, as it were.” She paused. “If she’s here, of course.”
“Don’t be crude, Maudie; it doesn’t become you.”
Once the two of them were behind the bushes, Maud peered out—and after a moment murmured, “Hah! Got you, you miserable, blow-dried creep!”
“Where?” whispered Margaret, tugging on her friend’s arm. “Let me see!”
Reluctantly, Maud yielded the optimum vantage point.
“You’re right!” Margaret whispered. “Again!” She watched Buff and the woman from the Red Lion pleasantly glowing, heads close together, sipping on straws in tall, reddish-brown drinks. “I think they’re having Planter’s Punch.”
She turned to her cousin. “Now what do we do?”
“We don’t do anything. We just watch.”
They watched.
“This is so—weird,” whispered Margaret, enthralled. “I’ve never done this before.”
“What, spied on people? Why is it any different than what we do in restaurants? We eavesdrop like mad, even make up fantasy backgrounds for the people we’re listening in on. Just think of this as eaves-seeing!”
After a while, Margaret whispered, “I’m beginning to see how this is such a turn-on for stalkers. It’s kind of—empowering! We’re seeing everything, and they don’t even know they’re being observed!”
“My turn,” announced Maud, assuming the observation post. “Hmm, I think she just stopped glowing…. Uh-huh, if a person can un-glow, that’s what just happened…. Oh, my stars and garters! Is she ticked!… She’s standing up…. She’s leaving… coming this way… we’ll have to duck out of here in a moment.”
Maud turned and was about to leave, but couldn’t resist one more look. “Wait! He’s coming after her… he’s got her by the arm… she pulls free and… Whoa!” Maud winced and recoiled.
“What?” hissed Margaret. “What is it?”
“She slapped him! Hard!”
“Let me see!”
“Not yet.” Maud held her away, without taking her eyes off the drama. “He’s coming back for more! He’s gotten around in front of her, to cut her off…. Oh, good for you, girl!”
“Tell me!”
“She just hauled off and belted him! And does she pack a wallop! Must work out on the heavy bag when she’s not spinning! Now she’s—that’s telling him! Whoops, duck! Here she comes!”
The two cousins whirled away and bent over, apparently fascinated by a seashell—that looked exactly like all the others in its immediate vicinity.
The young woman passed by without noticing them. Rubbing the side of his face, Buff went away in the opposite direction.
In the cab on the way back to Sandys House, Margaret asked, “Just before we ducked, you said, “That’s telling him!’—What did she tell him?”
“Oh, just something crude that did not become her.” Maud smiled at the memory. “But it was right on!”
That evening the two cousins were watching television in the TV room off the main lobby. There were no TV sets in the rooms, as St. John Cooper-Smith felt that if his guests came to Bermuda on holiday, they might appreciate a vacation from mindless, pre-digested entertainment. To first-timers complaining about no TV in their rooms, he would suggest “a little television of the mind” and would lead them to a library of well-thumbed mysteries.
Some discovered that they liked reading, even regarding it as a lost pleasure. It made for lively and enthusiastic breakfast conversation, over which St. John presided at the head of the long table, dispensing coffee from a huge silver samovar. Those already into reading, or back into it, would compare favorite writers and plot twists. Then the readers would encourage the nonreaders to give it a try. The occasional rainy afternoon produced an abundance of animated conversation, and people began congratulating St. John on inspiring a mini-renaissance for the literary-minded.
But he did realize that for some, giving up their daily tube fix, cold turkey, was asking a bit much. So he put in a TV room and let the addicts discover for themselves that, while they might have access to twenty or thirty channels at home, in Bermuda there were only three. Of which two often played the same program at the same time. While the third carried a cricket match so uneventful that even Bermudians sometimes thought of going out to the kitchen to watch the bananas ripen.
This night Maud and Margaret were watching Oprah. They were surprised to find her show on in evening prime time—until they realized how many islanders might prefer it to anything else they could get from the States.
Oprah was just plugging her latest book discovery, a Cape Cod mystery writer, when Jane and Buff came in from dinner. Glancing in the TV room, Jane saw them and smiled. When the cousins smiled back, she came in. Buff followed, not smiling.
“We had the best time!” Jane exclaimed. “That is the nicest restaurant! Great Italian food and an easy walk from here. You’ll have to try it!”
“That’s wonderful, dear!” said Maud. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“And the maître d’—”
Buff yawned and interrupted her. “I’m going to bed; I’m afraid I overdid it this afternoon.” He turned to Jane. “But you stay up and talk, if you want to.”
He yawned again, and without waiting for a response, plastic-smiled and left.
“Honey,” said Maud to her gently, clicking off the TV, “we need to talk.”
31 confessor
At the back door of the main house on the Harris Property, Brother Bartholomew thanked Father Francis and the sisters for supper. “That was the best meal since I came!” Then he laughed. “Considering who’s been my chef, that’s not saying much. Except I did have dinner at the Frog & Onion the other night.”
“Why don’t you stay and watch a movie with us, Bart?” asked one of the sisters.
“Thursday night’s movie night,” another explained.
“We w
ere going to watch ‘Sister Act,’” said a third.
“But we could watch ‘The Robe,’” added the fourth.
Bartholomew glanced at Father Francis, who smiled. “You’re not on retreat now,” the old priest reminded him.
“In that case,” he grinned, “I’d like to—” He felt a distinct check in his heart. “In fact, I’d really like to, but I think I’m supposed to go up the hill. Good night, you guys, and thanks again!” He left abruptly, before he could change his mind.
When he reached the Quarry Cottage, he was still in a bit of a grump over not being able to stay for the movie. But there, sitting on the middle of the bench waiting for him, was Noire.
Instantly forgetting whatever had been bothering him, he bowed to her and said, “You don’t have to look at me that way. Aren’t I allowed to have dinner with my family?”
She said nothing.
“All right, I’m sorry! I’ll get yours right now.” To the turkey and cheese on her saucer, he added a sardine. (He’d bought a tin for her; tonight would be her first.) Returning outside, he moved slowly, so as not to alarm her, and put down the saucer on the end of the bench. She waited until he had backed away to the porch, before deigning to dine.
When she went to the sardine first, he was pleased, but tried not to show it, as he said, “You might say thank you. Those are rather expensive, especially since I don’t care for them myself.”
She glanced at him, and then turned to the turkey.
“Well, the main thing is, you like it. And listen, young lady, the next time I’m late, you don’t have to be so disapproving. I mean it’s not like we’re friends, or anything. Not like you’re living in the cottage with me.”
Without looking at him, she started on the cheese.
“Of course,” he said, relenting, “you’re welcome to move in with me, anytime.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Startled by the voice, Bartholomew peered into the darkness.
A figure emerged from the shadows, into the light of the porch.
“Dan?”