"Fucking right I hurt you, cunt. And I will again. Don't lie to me. I know you met with Kensington. You think that little worm Jefferson Hababi can keep anything from me?"
"Jefferson Hababi? What are you talking about?" Maria hit her again, harder. "Ow, shit. Yeah, so I met with him. So what?"
"So you'd better tell me where my ganja is or you can say hello to your good friend Angus Wilson in the whereverafter, cause I'm gonna do you like I did him if you don't start talking, bitch."
"It was you that...?!"
"That's right, Ripken. Which means I have nothing to lose. You understand? So..." she shoved her with the gun, turning her around. "Let's go. Down the beach. Away from this rat fuck hotel. Then we'll talk, and you'll tell me what I want to know, and..."
As they walked past the edge of the hotel and down the dark, empty beach, Lucy was terrified, but her head buzzed. Verde the killer. She was up in the tower, probably keeping watch for Ruskin. Angus wandering about in a fit of insomnia. The tide way out; he got his feet wet, walked to the island, climbed the tower stairs to get a view, saw the boat come in, the unloading, Maria shoved him out the window—or forced him to jump—no, she probably just got the gun this very day, that was what she demanded from Jefferson in the cafe, so she must have surprised Wilson, shoved him out the window—and then she and Joey set him up in the pool. Tough luck, Angus. Jesus, if she would do that, and she would tell me about it, she's only got one thing in mind for me. Fucking crazy woman!
"So I gather Jefferson was able to get you a gun today, then, eh Maria?" She croaked, struggling to sound cool.
"Jefferson? Get a gun? What are you..."
"Up in the village. Your meeting. After your visit to the pot farm. I photographed you, and taped it, and..." Maria slammed her head with the gun. "Ow, fuck," said Lucy, as blood flowed down her temple. "What are you doing? Are you nuts?"
"What do you think?" Maria hissed. "What do you fucking think, you brainless bitch. You think I'm in this for my health?" She pointed the gun at Lucy. "Now, where the fuck did you stash the pot, or who did you sell it to? I want the dope, or the money. Talk."
A dark form flew out of the shadows and crashed into Maria Verde, sending the gun flying towards the water. Lucy ran for the gun as the two struggled. She found it, grabbed it, and whirled to train it on Maria. She'd never held a gun in her life. The only thing she could think was how heavy it was. Maria suddenly burst free, slammed the other person in the head with her arm, flooring him, then took off, charging into the darkness beyond the beach. She disappeared instantly. Lucy ran to her fallen savior. "Are you...are you all right?" she said, crouching down.
"Yes, I'm fine." Prudence Fallowsmith, on the job! "I'm sorry I let her go so far with you, Lucy, but..."
"Hey, don't worry, I thought I was a dead duck there, but you saved my..."
"I had no idea the woman was so desperate," Prudence said.
"That makes two of us. A raving fucking psycho, if you'll pardon my French."
"Let's get back," said Prudence, as Lucy helped her find her feet. "Why don't you give me that?" she added, reaching for the gun. "We'll need it for evidence."
"Evidence? Against who? What crime?"
"Try Jefferson Hababi for starters. We have very strict gun control laws here, and we know he supplied this weapon."
"Waste of time, Pru. Popping him will get you exactly nowhere. But let's talk to Harry about it." They hustled back to the hotel, to Harry's room, and banged on the door.
He opened it, wearing nothing but a pair of bikini underwear, his glasses, and a horny grin. "Hey Luce," he said. "I was wondering what happened to...Prudence! What's up?" He slipped modestly behind the door. With evident distaste Prudence held up the gun between thumb and forefinger, barrel pointed down, as it it was a stiff and smelly dead fish.
"A gift from Maria Verde," Prudence said.
"Jesus," said Harry. "Let me get a pair of pants on."
Prudence left an hour later, after they'd all calmed down and Harry talked her out of going to the local police with the gun to start a full-tilt investigation. Instead, he kept it. He and Lucy managed to get to bed in the middle of the night. This was the first night they slept together and didn't have sex, thanks to the malevolent ghost of Maria Verde hovering in the room. They got up at six a.m. and went for a swim together in the pink and gray-green light of dawn. The farewell breakfast for the press group was scheduled for eight a.m. on La Terrazzo Grande. After the swim, Lucy went to her room alone to pack. Then she dressed in light pants and a button-down shirt for travel, left a coat out for the ride home from Kennedy, and headed off to Harold's to pick him up en route to breakfast.
Gathered at two tables on the seaward side of the terrace, the survivors swilled coffee, beer, and mimosas and compared notes. Henrietta Storey, Louise Rousseau, Sandy Rollins, Ames Cavendish, and Jefferson Hababi sat at one table with a couple of Grand Strand officials. At the other table, Michelle Stedman sat between Miles Russell and Jackson Hababi. Also at the table sat Mike Nack, looking dyspeptic, avoiding having to look at Lucy; and Susie Adams, too tan, hungover, clutching one of her long girlish cigarettes like it was a lifeline. There were two empty seats at the second table, with Mickey Wolf, grinning a wolfish grin, poised between them. Harold and Lucy took them.
Missing from the original crew were Jim Strauss, Jane Strauss, Angus Wilson, Allie Margolis, Joey Ruskin, and Maria Verde. Dead, deranged, or disappeared. They were a much-diminished group, and after a few hits of coffee and greetings to all at the table, Lucy naturally couldn't help but saying so, to Jackson Hababi of course. "Here's to The Incredible Shrinking Press Trip, eh Jackson?" she said, hoisting her coffee.
He managed a little smile. "Yes, most unfortunate," he said. "Well, at least the hotel is filling up even as your ranks have been diminished."
"It's getting so trade travel writing's as dangerous as combat work," said Harold. "You'd think we were in a war zone, with all the casualties."
"Yeah," said Mickey. "I thought the worst I had to fear down here was sunburn, maybe a little gluttony and alcoholism, but noooo—we get flaming motorboat wrecks, and heart attacks, and journalists going crazy. But it's a beautiful hotel, Jackson, and it's been a gas," she added with a grin. "Right Luce?"
"A real gas," Lucy said. "Eh what Mike?" She added, all innocence, smiling at him.
"Yeah, that's right, Lucy," Nack said, then went back to staring into his coffee.
"But where is the delightful Miss Verde this morning?" said Harold. "Has anybody seen her?"
Lucy watched Jackson Hababi, who didn't react. Then she glanced at Jefferson Hababi, seated at the other table. He stared at Lucy, as if trying to read in her face what had happened. She grinned at him. "Hey Jeff," she said. "How are you doin' today?" He turned away from her. "Jefferson seems to be in a bad mood today, Jackson. What do you suppose is wrong with him?"
"I can't imagine, Miss Ripken," said Jackson. "Except that he is heartbroken to see you all going. As we all are here at the Grand Strand, of course." With that he tapped his spoon on the edge of his coffee cup.
"Here comes the combination plate," Mickey muttered. "Hogwash, bullshit, and whitewash."
"I just wanted to take a moment to tell you all how much we've enjoyed having you here as our guests," said Jackson. "I know it's been a rocky week...but hotel openings always are..." Right, thought Lucy, although usually you don’t have two or three attempted murders, one successful, plus an accidental death by exploding boat..."and this has been an exceptionally difficult one for a lot of reasons. But all that is behind us now, the Strand is open and flourishing. As you can see," he waved his arms to take in the expanse of La Terrazzo Grande, which was close to full, "The people are responding to our new concept, the all-inclusive luxury hotel. We are running about eleven per cent ahead of our projected bookings for this month, and March looks even better." He went on, intently ignoring even a mention of Angus Wilson or Joey Ruskin. Lucy had thought he might attempt to
eulogize, but no, better to just pretend they never existed. She stopped listening, turning her attention instead to the beach and the sea. She could see Desmond washing kayaks, and Leroy raking the sand smooth. The breeze riffled in the palm branches, and out on Naked Island, the tower watched the shore with big black empty eyes. She would never come back to the Grand Strand, even if they paid her.
Jackson's speech ended, the breakfast gathering lost focus, people rose to head back to their rooms. The bus for the airport was due to leave in an hour. "Oh Jackson," said Lucy, "Could I...could we have a word with you, in private? A couple of last questions I need answered for my..."
"Certainly, Miss Ripken. Would you like to come to my office?"
"Well, yes...but could I invite Jefferson as well?" She winked at Hababi. "He could use some seasoning, as far as the press goes, don't you think?" she added quickly. "Jefferson, we're meeting in Jackson's office now, and we want you to come along," she called out to him. "I've got some operations questions I think only you can answer."
"But I...I've got some..."
"Come along now, Jeff," said Jackson. "This is their last hour here. If there's one thing you need to learn in this business...it's that you have to accommodate the press."
"Sounds good to me," said Harry. "If nobody minds I think I'll come too."
"That's fine," said Jackson nervously. "That's just fine," he repeated. "Miles," he said to Russell, standing by. "I'll catch up with you in a few minutes..."
The four of them left the terrace and made their way back through the lobby to the administrative offices. Hababi’s office was surprisingly spartan: four rattan chairs, a matching rattan table desk with a glass top, some folk art on the walls. Jackson sat behind the desk and waved at the other chairs. "Please, sit down. As you can see I'm not one for formality."
Harry sat directly facing Jackson. Lucy and Jefferson took the other seats. "Nice stuff. I love rattan," said Harry.
"Yes, it's perfect for this climate. And very cheap, of course," Jackson added with a laugh. "We spend all our money on our guests, I'm afraid." He stopped short, got down to business. "So, Miss Ripken, what can I do for you?"
"Harold?" she said. Harold pulled the gun, with its ugly silencer still attached, out of his pocket and quickly placed it on the desktop. "You could start by telling me what you know about this."
Jackson stared at the gun for a few seconds. "What in God's name is that, and why have you brought it here?" he said angrily. "I don't know what you're trying to..." He reached for the phone. "I think the police might be interested in..."
"Jefferson, would you like to explain where I got this gun?" Lucy said. Jackson put the phone down and looked at his stepson.
"No, I...I don't know anything about..." he stopped. "I've never seen it before," he said, summoning up enough courage to lie half-convincingly.
Lucy pulled her tape recorder out of her pocket, turned it on, and set it on the table. The muffled voices of Maria Verde and Jefferson Hababi filled the room. At the end, after Maria demanded that he get what he said he would for her tonight, Lucy turned it off. "And so you did your job, Jefferson," she said. "Maria got her gun."
"Who made that...where did you...I don't know what you're talking about," he said lamely.
"Maria Verde and Jefferson, in a bar in a little town in the Blue Mountains, Jackson. I followed her up there. She was driving a jeep registered to the Grand Strand Hotel Corporation, by the way, and I have it in photographs. She met with her pot growers, and then she met with Jefferson to talk about the dope deal they were trying to put together, which had been falling apart ever since the night Angus Wilson died."
The Hababis glowered at each other. "The night Angus Wilson was murdered by Maria Verde," Lucy went on. "Angus stumbled on a dope deal going down, strictly by accident, and she pushed him out of the tower and he broke his neck. You didn't even want to think about what really happened to him out there, did you, Jackson? Not because you were involved, which is what I first thought, since Wilson might have been wise to your financial troubles and how they were affecting the hotel...but it wasn't that complicated, really...the idea that anything might get in the way of your hotel opening, what with all your money worries, just made you crazy, and so...when Jeff said he'd take care of it, you let him. Let him cover it up. Let him have the body cremated without an autopsy, against the express wishes of Mrs.Wilson—I saw her when she was here, in spite of your efforts to stop me—so that the cause of death could never be ascertained. You also let him give Joey Ruskin free rein to set up a dope ring right under your bloody nose, Mr. Jackson Hababi. One of your personal house servants—a man named Rudy—is also part of it—I guess you didn't know about it, but you sure as hell didn't look too hard, did you?" He sat stock still behind his desk, and didn't say a word.
Lucy turned, and said, "Jefferson, I know I told you I would keep your "role" in this a secret, but when you provided Maria Verde with a gun which she intended to use on me, I figured all deals were off between us, my friend. And so here we are."
She sat back. After a moment, Jackson said, "So what do you want, Miss Ripken?"
At that moment Jefferson lunged for the gun, grabbed it, and waved it wildly around. "Fuck what she wants. And fuck you too, Daddy," he snarled, then pointed the gun at his stepfather. "If you weren't...hadn't been...such a bastard...none of this would have had to happen. Don't you..."
"Put the gun down, Jefferson, you idiot," Jackson said. "Just put it..."
"My name is not Jefferson, it's Adjami, goddammit," he shouted, training the gun on his stepfather. "Adjami Hajjar," he said, tears starting in his eyes.
"I told you to put the gun down, you fool," said Jackson, rising from his seat, incapable of believing that Jefferson would actually shoot him.
"I'm not a fool, you bastard," shouted Adjami, and pulled the trigger just as Harold tossed the bullets into a bowl on the table. They rattled about, then stopped.
"It's OK, Hababi," Harold said. "It's not loaded."
"Fuck you fuck you fuck..." Jefferson shrieked as he flung the gun at the wall and lunged for the door. Harry leaped up and tackled him to the floor. He had him face down and under control in seconds. Jefferson sobbed and slobbered, and Jackson, frozen behind his desk, stared down at him, unable to keep the contemptuous sneer off his face.
They talked a deal. Hababi agreed, in exchange for their not contacting the police or writing anything about what they knew, to increase the wages of his employees by thirty per cent immediately, and by another seventy per cent by the end of the year. He also agreed to donate 10% of his profits, scarce as they might be with all his bankers baying for payments, to a foundation which he would set up to collect money to build a new health clinic in Ocho Negros.
He also agreed to move Jefferson to another job at another hotel at the other end of the island, effective immediately.
At the end of the meeting, Lucy pulled her back-up tape recorder, borrowed from Mickey just for the occasion, out of her pocket and laid it on the table. "Just so you know: this meeting is on tape. There will be copies left with friends here. I'm sure your wife—she's the money behind FunClubs, right, Jackson?—would not be pleased to know about these sleazy dealings. On the other hand, I'm sure Mr. Dexter Manley wouldn't mind at all having a copy of this tape, when election time comes around again. I'll be checking up on things, believe me. We are blackmailing you, Mr. Jackson Hababi, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it." She put the recorder in her bag, and they rose and left the office.
En route to the bus Harold said he'd forgotten something and headed back towards his room. Later, Lucy realized she should have known what was up when he'd taken his suitcase with him on that last errand.
He missed the bus to the airport. Waiting for him until the last possible minute, she was last to board. Big Wilbert back at the wheel, they headed off to Montego Bay and a flight to NewYork City where the temperature hovered at 36 degrees, exactly 50 degrees colder than Ocho
Negros. Slouched in the back, Mike Nack glowered at her. Maria Verde was nowhere to be seen. That didn't concern Lucy. After all, Harold Ipswich was not on the bus either. Instead, he was on the case, and he would surely find her.
This concludes book one in the Lucy Ripken Mysteries. You can find book two here!
Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1) Page 18