Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1)

by J. J. Henderson

  "I see," said Lucy. "The legacy of imperialism, slavery in the cane fields and sugar mills. It's an admirable idea...and a wonderful architectural object...I love the sound of falling water...but I'm not sure the kind of people who come here will have the faintest idea...or interest, for that matter...in this kind of..."

  "It's the responsibility of hotel management to inform them," said Evans sharply. "That's why I placed it here."

  "Right, William," said Michelle quickly. "And they will, if I have anything to say about..."

  "Speaking of the management, did they tell you what happened last night?" asked Lucy.

  "I'm sorry I didn't make the dinner," said Evans. "I had another engagement."

  "You don't have to lie to Lucy, William," Michelle grinned. "William is not a great admirer of Jackson Hababi," she added.

  "Not many architects are, of their clients," said Lucy. "Particularly by the end of a project. But I wasn't talking about dinner. Michelle, you heard what happened out on Naked...I mean Tower Cay, didn't you?"

  "What's that, Lucy?" said Michelle.

  "Angus Wilson died in the hot tub out there last night," Lucy said. "I can't believe they didn't..."

  "What?" Michelle cried, her face turning white. "Angus Wilson dead?"

  "That's right," said Lucy.

  "That idiot Jefferson didn't say anything when I came in this morning," Michelle said. She seized control of herself. "You'll have to pardon me," she said, distraught, furious. "I've got to look into this. What happened? Was he...I'm sorry...I'm sure you two can figure out what you need to talk about without me butting in anyway." She stuffed her notebook into her bag.

  "We'll be fine," said Evans.

  "See you later, Michelle," said Lucy, as she and Evans watched her hurry off. "Strange, not telling their own PR people about something like this..."

  "Frankly, I'm not surprised," said Evans. "Who wants a dead man spoiling the party on opening day?"

  "Good point," said Lucy. "Besides, Angus Wilson was not exactly among the dearly beloved."

  "Never met the man myself," said Evans. "But how did you happen to hear about this unfortunate incident?"

  "Actually, I was wandering about admiring your work in the moonlight, and I heard a...shout. Another guest had just found him." Lucy shrugged, pulled out a pen, flipped a notebook open, and made ready. Later for Angus Wilson. There was work to do. "Well. As they say in New York, people die and clubs open. Let's do the grand tour. It's a great looking place, by the way. I'm amazed at how many facilities you've gotten under one roof without losing control. And the restaurant on the water is exquisite."

  "Thank you. Getting this place organized was an exercise in...architectonic logistics, shall we say," said Evans, an expansive, somewhat pedantic tone emerging in his voice. "And, of course, the usual head-butting on budgets."

  "Shall we begin with the lobby," he went on, wandering that way. "I had to train the local workers on how to cut this stone—it's native, of course—so you'll have to forgive the rough edges. I had the chandelier done by some friends in Florence. I used to live there, you see..."

  Two hours later, Lucy had the basics of her story, her photographic plan sketched out in a couple of dozen grabbed images, and more: she had a deeper understanding of Jamaican politics, race, and architectural history—and how all three had played roles in the creation of the Grand Strand hotel. Now she and William Evans sat at the edge of the poolside verandah, and Lucy asked a waiter for another hit of the Blue Mountains. To conclude the interview, she gently, obliquely, nudged her way into the personal side of things, where the real stories lay hidden.

  "Why anybody would want to spend time in the...video lounge when they have this..." she gestured at the sea and sky, and the pagoda-like rooflines of the Colonial Regency-style Chinese restaurant suspended over the water..."is beyond me. But..."

  "You don't have to euphemize, Lucy," said Evans. "It's not a video lounge, its an orgy room. And there is still some demand for a room like that. But things have changed. When I designed the Sybarites all-inclusive next door...let me think...eleven years ago, it was my first hotel—the quote unquote video lounge—they called it the "Relaxation Chamber" in those days—was almost a thousand square feet of redlit adult romper room. All that space goes to restaurants now. People have come round to admitting they'd really rather be eating than...well, you can imagine what went on in there." He grinned. "But organizing a room for an orgy is a pretty simple task, really. It basically designs itself. Talk about form following function! All you need is mood and mattresses."

  Lucy laughed. "The good old days of free love, eh?"

  "The good old days when I got along with Jackson Hababi."

  "You mean this current...rift...is new?"

  "Well, we always had our disagreements. I'd like to blame it on the budget problems, but they're almost predictable at this point...like part of the deal, you know?...but Hababi's never taken overruns so seriously before. Maybe he's in over his head this time, I don't know. Perhaps Dexter's threatening to raise the room tax again, and put the squeeze on him, I can't say for sure."

  "Dexter?"

  "Hanley. The Prime Minister. He's a friend of mine. Like me, he's mixed race—he's Afro-English, I'm Afro-Chinese. And as I said before, we...mutts...form one contingent, and the Lebanese form another, and the power seesaws back and forth. The differences between us are...well, let's put it this way: none of their ancestors were slaves. Right now, although the tourist industry is doing well, and Hababi and his crowd still have all the money, we're holding the reins, and Jackson doesn't like it."

  "So the last thing Jackson Hababi would want today, with Hanley on the premises, is anything that might appear to weaken his position—such as an open investigation of an unexplained death."

  "Actually, I heard from the hotel doctor that Angus Wilson had a heart attack, Lucy. But no matter. Hababi and Hanley don't even speak except on ceremonial occasions. I always thought I could bridge this racialist gap, but with money and power at stake, I'm beginning to wonder..." He looked at his watch. "Well, I've got to run. There's..."

  "William, just one last question: what was the budget overrun on this project?"

  He grinned at her from beneath his straw hat. "Oh, forty percent or so." He laughed. "But we opened only two weeks late. Now that is incredible for Jamaica. Good morning, Desmond," he said, as the watersports instructor appeared tableside.

  "How you doin' William Evans," Desmond said. "You going to finally learn to sail, mon?"

  "No time, my friend. No time. Got to keep building hotels."

  "Right, and pretty soon there won't be no beach at all for us local boys, mon." He grinned. "Way it go, I guess. Now this Lucy here, she's a fine sailor," Desmond said, and looked out at the horizon. "It maybe going to blow later, Lucy. What time you want to sail today?"

  "I don't know, Desmond. Grand Opening today, you know. I have to stand around and watch.“

  "So," William Evans said, rising. "You're comfortable with your photographic plans?"

  "Absolutely," said Lucy. "The eleven definite shots we discussed, plus those other ones if I have time. It's gonna be a stunning story, William."

  "Great. I'm sure my office will want a set via email. Here's my card. We'll stay in touch. I suppose I'll see you this afternoon anyways. Dexter would be terribly disappointed if I didn't put in an appearance." They shook hands and he left.

  Lucy went back to her room and laid down to attempt a nap beneath the lazy turning of the ceiling fan. She closed her eyes and saw Angus, Awful, naked Angus floating towards her in the hot tub, dead and staring. Had she seen those welts on his neck? What did they mean? Had there been a murder? And if so, how was it that everything seemed so calm, so...normal, this morning? Before last night, the only corpse she'd ever seen was her grandmother's, in a coffin in church. She'd been ten and only had a look at Gramma because her father had insisted.

  Last night was different. With this murder, or whateve
r the death had been, something in the air had changed. And yet, as she'd walked back to her room just now, there was not even the hint of it. Instead, in bright, hot sunshine the employees were busy putting up balloons and bunting, flags and folding chairs, in preparation for the gala Grand Opening event. The only suspicious-looking characters she'd seen were a couple of secret police types, skulking about scouting security for the PM, Dexter Hanley. She wondered if Hanley would get wind of the death of Angus Wilson. She wondered what that cop had found out on Naked Island. Tower Cay. Whatever. Allie Margolis. Where was she this morning? Well, Allie Margolis hadn't had to interview an architect for two hours, so she probably slept in. Lucky girl. Lucy hadn't "slept in" in about six years.

  Sleep wasn't possible. She got up and changed into her swimsuit, ran out the door, dodged past a prone body—registering only afterwards that it was Susie Adams, in itsy little string bikini, fully greased and baking in the sun—and dove into the shallow waters of Blackwater Bay. Eyes open, she skimmed the bottom, watching little silver fish catch flickers of light and dart away. Earlier, William Evans had explained to her how Blackwater Bay got its name. In the 19th century, Caribbean whalers had brought their catch into the calm waters of the bay to butcher. The water ran so heavy with the blood of slaughtered whales that it turned black.

  She surfaced, gasping for air in the dazzling light. Her early morning nightmare had placed her father, passed out in his standard drunken beatitude—the only redeeming quality of his alcoholism was its non-violent nature—in a hot tub, dead.

  Lucy swam fifty yards out and headed east, parallel to the beach, swimming at a steady pace. 400 strokes later—the equivalent of twenty laps in the pool at the club back in the city—she turned around, and did 400 more.

  One advantage to traveling with photo equipment was that it forced you to travel light on clothes. After a shower, Lucy spent all of thirty seconds deciding she'd wear the strapless red summer dress rather than one of the Sweet Life dresses she'd gotten in exchange for shooting their next summer catalogue a couple of weeks back. She slipped the hot red item on braless over bikini underwear, put on her face, and ran a brush through her hair, all the while psyching her weary self up for the Gala Grand Opening Ceremony of the Grand Strand.

  Lucy stuck her mini-tape recorder, a notebook, a lipstick, and a couple of pens in her bag, locked up her room and wandered over. She pulled up to the horseshoe-shaped bar, and had a look. La Terrazzo Grande, a half-dozen steps below her, swarmed with tuxedo-clad waiters pouring champagne, hotel guests, management personnel, and dignitaries from all over the island and the Caribbean. At the edge of the dance floor, Susie Adams in a semi-formal summer dress conferred with Miles Russell and Jefferson Hababi, who wore a purple tux and his awkward grin. Sandy Rollins, in black pants and a pink top, with an orchid in her hair, huddled with Mike Nack and Maria Verde, bursting at the seams of a yellow dress, near the small podium that had been set up before the stage. Onstage, a band of white-jacketed, black-tied musicians, including strings and horns, played muzak Marley. A dozen long tables had been set up with white linen and orchids, and in the middle of the floor, a huge ice sculpture of a swan, wings half-spread as if verging on flight, dominated the central table. The rapidly melting swan was surrounded by carefully arranged orchids and lilies, and myriad platters heaped with desserts, fruits, breads, cheeses, and other eats. More massive quantities of food. Gluttony equated with luxury.

  "I'm gonna need major liposuction back in the city," said Mickey, sidling up next to her. "Look at this hogfest."

  "Mickey, how're you doing? Nice dress," she said, admiring the lavender, kimono-style wraparound. "Hey Dave," she added, as Mullins hefted into view.

  "Hiya, Lucy," he said, and turned to the bartender. "Yo, barkeep, set me up with a Wild Turkey and a Striper, mon." He grinned at Lucy. "God I love these open bars."

  "I'm OK...but how are you?" Mickey said. "I heard about last..."

  "You did?" Lucy said quickly. "From who?"

  "Didn't I tell you? My room is right next to Margolis'. All kinds of commotion in the middle of the night, I'm a journalist last I heard, so I checked it out."

  "You should have seen him, Mickey. He was..."

  "As ugly in death as he was in life, I bet. God, poor Angus. He wasn't such a bad guy that he deserved this. Christ. What the hell was he doing out there in the middle of the night?"

  "More to the point," Mullins smirked, "What was that little petunia Allie Margolis doing with him?"

  "She wasn't with him," Lucy said. "She found him."

  "Yeah, right," sneered Mullins.

  "What, you think they planned a rendezvous, Dave?" she said. "Allie Margolis and Angus Wilson? Please. I would call that about the least likely love match on the island of Jamaica. No, Mick, I don't know what the hell he was up to out there, but I can tell you one thing, you seem to be the only person who gives a shit."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, look at this." Lucy waved at the festivities. "Does this look like a murder took place last night?"

  "Murder? Allie said the doctor told her he had a heart attack."

  "Doctor! What doctor? What time did you talk to her?"

  "I don't know," said Mickey. "It must have been...Well, by the time I went back to bed it was four thirty...so, I guess around four fifteen." Almost an hour after Lucy had set her own alarm. Allie Margolis and Jefferson Hababi had walked away from her door around three a.m.

  "And she said she talked to a doctor?"

  "The hotel doctor. Some quack named Babcock. She was pretty woozy at that

  point. I think he must have given her a valium or something.”

  "Well, he didn't give me a thing, and I went to sleep before three thirty."

  "So what's the big deal?"

  "I don't know. I just...well, Angus had these...that is, I thought I saw these marks on his neck, like maybe someone had..."

  "What, you think he was bumped off?"

  "I don't know. But it's all too...tidy...today. I saw Michelle Stedman this morning, and they hadn't even told her. It just seems to me that..."

  "Luce," said Mickey. "Have a beer. Hey Walter," she said to the bartender. "Couple Red Stripe drafts here, my man. Now listen, Luce: there may be a dozen people on the grounds of this dump that believe they wouldn't have minded seeing Angus dead—and I count myself among them—but hey...none of us could or would have actually done him in. The guy's a...was...a bloody institution! C'mon! Besides, there's several million dollars at stake here, you see?" she said, looking over the crowd. "Look, there's little Jeffy Hababi chatting up Allie now." Mickey waved, and Lucy glanced that way. She caught Allie's eye. Allie looked away. The bartender set them up. "Have some brew, doll, it'll do you good." Lucy sipped. The cold beer did taste great. She took a larger gulp, and spotted Harold, in another dapper 1940s cut suit, wandering over from the guestroom wing with Henrietta Storey, draped in an elegant summer Afro frock. Lucy felt a pang of jealousy, then zapped it: Christ, the guy was almost a total stranger still, and what, she'd laid claim to him?! "So anyway," Mickey went on, "You don't really expect that Jackson Hababi, with all he's got into this place, and with his arch-enemy Dexter Hanley coming here to actually participate in a Grand Opening ceremony—this is the first time Hanley's ever done this for a new hotel on the island, and it is supposed to signal, at last, his support for the tourism industry and his acceptance of Yankee imperialist dollars—with all that at stake here today, you can't really expect them to bag the opening because some not-particularly-well-liked hack journalist dies in a hot tub...of a heart attack, at that...can you?"

  Louise Rousseau and Joey Ruskin strolled into view. They weren't touching, but the body language was there to be read: they had fucked last night. Louise, in black pants and a silver sleeveless top, was positively glowing; meanwhile Joey extended the distance between he and Louise as they approached. "You're right, Mick," said Lucy. "I just want to...hell, I don't know." She threw down the rest of th
e beer. "Henrietta, how ya doin? Harold, what's up?"

  "Not me, I'll tell you that," he said. "Wars are fought and won, famines come and go, there are hurricanes, tsunamis, revolutions and volcanic eruptions...and we are here to exercise our brilliant journalistic talents on the opening of an all-inclusive luxury hotel."

  "Get serious, Ipswich," said Dave Mullins. "Nobody held a gun to your head to get you down here."

  "Really," said Henrietta. "Spare me the identity crisis, Harold. I have enough trouble being the token African-American freeloader without you reminding me that I'm not Alice Walker."

  "So how'd you manage to avoid the dinner last night, Henrietta?" Lucy asked. "You missed a real thriller."

  "Shit, this isn't school, girl. I just didn't go. What are they gonna do, send me home? It was dull as dirt, right? Let me guess: mediocre food, boring speeches, and waiters trying too hard. Shocking!"

  "Hey, sounds like the action's about to start," Harold said, wincing at a microphone squeal. Lucy nodded at Louise Rousseau waltzing by sporting a pleased post-coital grin, looking like the New York kitty that ate the Jamaican canary, except that Joey at her side acted like he didn't know her, and she wasn't aware of it. Joey, slick in a yellow seersucker suit, tossed a not-very-subtle fuck me kind of glance Lucy's way as he passed.

  The band blared a somewhat martial tune, and everybody paused as the power surge of the approaching PM rippled over the sea of well-dressed citizens. It was nice to see a lot of really prosperous black people in one place, Lucy decided. These were the people that ran this island. They had power and prestige, and it showed in the way they dressed, talked, and moved. Now those who were seated rose to their feet; and as the stately music played, the Prime Minister Dexter Hanley and his entourage appeared at the edge of the lobby lounge, paused and looked down over the crowd. As several waiters began clapping, firing up a round of spontaneous applause, Hanley led the way down the long, wide staircase to the main floor.