Murder on the Cliff

by Stefanie Matteson

  “I know,” he said, smiling. “I’m not your usual St. George’s type.” He explained that he had gone there on a church scholarship for altar boys. He nodded at Trinity Church, the elegant old Episcopal church overlooking the harbor. “My family’s been members of Trinity for generations. Anyway,” he continued, “I’m not worried about Billy. People like Billy lead charmed lives. They’re like cats; they always manage to land on their feet. I always thought Bastet was a fitting name for a boat owned by Billy.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Bastet was the Egyptian cat goddess: a fertility goddess, I think. Billy always said that the boat had her own mind, like a cat, that he never felt as if he really owned her. After she was sold, he told me that he liked to think of her as having wandered off for a while. ‘She’ll be back,’ he predicted. ‘Cats always return to the keeper who takes the best care of them.’ From what I understand, she was mistreated by the city of Baltimore, which couldn’t afford to keep her up. She’s since been sold again.”

  “She looks like she’s in pretty good shape now.”

  Lew nodded in agreement.

  “What’s she doing here?” asked Charlotte.

  “I would guess she’s up here for the Classic Yacht Regatta later this summer. But I could be wrong.” He smiled speculatively. “Maybe she’s come back to her favorite keeper.”

  A few minutes later they were sitting in the restaurant, which was located in an imposing eighteenth-century mansion that had been moved in the seventies from the historic section of town to the wharf. Originally a ship captain’s house, it was a warren of small dining rooms with low ceilings and uneven plank floors. The rooms were decorated with antique maps and prints of sailing ships. The dining area to which they were shown was on a third-floor deck with a fine view of the harbor through latticework screens. In the harbor, a forest of masts bobbed against the pale pink of the evening sky; boats had sailed in from far and wide for the fireworks display. A warm breeze blew in through the screens, and the candle on the table flickered behind its hurricane glass. Charlotte felt as if she were in an old plantation house in the Caribbean rather than on a busy tourist wharf in New England.

  “Fine job,” said Charlotte as she sat down on a green faux bamboo chair: the color scheme was green and salmon pink. “How did you manage to get a table on such short notice?” The restaurants on the waterfront were mobbed with people who wanted to watch the fireworks with a drink in their hands.

  “I know the maître d’,” he explained. “This place isn’t my usual habitat. It’s a hangout for the summer colonists.” He nodded at the bar, where a small group of tanned and handsome young men were talking about the rescue of a sailor who’d been swept overboard in a race. “But I thought you’d like it.”

  “I do,” said Charlotte, “Actually I think I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago.” To avoid being recognized, she sat with her back to the dining room. She didn’t want to be interrupted by autograph hounds. She looked around her. “Quite a place for a ship captain’s house.”

  “It was a lucrative business,” said Lew. “The triangle trade. Slaves were brought from Africa to the Caribbean to work the sugar cane plantations, sugar and molasses were shipped from the Caribbean to Newport and processed into rum, and rum was shipped to Europe. That’s how people like me ended up here.”

  A waiter took their drink orders—a Manhattan for Charlotte and a beer for Lew. “Okay, what have you got?” asked Lew once the waiter had left.

  Charlotte went on to explain what she had found out: about Paul’s long acquaintance with Okichi-mago, about his decision to make her his heir, and about the rage he must have felt when she turned him down. To her, he seemed to be the only suspect with even a halfway credible motive. “I think it’s in the can, as we used to say in Hollywood.”

  “Sounds like it,” said Lew. He stroked his mustache pensively. “I don’t think there’s any urgency—he’s not likely to take off for parts unknown—but I’ll speak to the chief tonight and let him know what you’ve found out.”

  But even as she spoke, Charlotte wondered. She knew that a film was never in the can when you thought it was. There were always scenes to reshoot and loose ends to tie up. Depending on audience reaction to the sneak previews, there could even be a new ending. Or a couple of new endings. Sometimes it never got in the can, period.

  “What have the police found out?” she asked.

  “Nothing. There were no prints on the comb, the mirror, or the cup. Whoever put them next to the brazier either wore gloves or wiped the prints. Lots of prints at the temple and at the main house, but we don’t know who they belong to yet. Everyone who was there that night will have to be fingerprinted. We’re working on that; you’ll probably get a call tomorrow.”

  “Did they talk with the housekeeper?”

  “Yes. She didn’t have anything to report. Except for one thing. She said the burglar alarm was turned on when she arrived in the morning. The police went over the entire house with her, looking for anything unusual. There were no signs of forced entry. Which also points to Paul Harris. Ironically, it’s Harris who’s making all the arrangements about the body.”

  “Even in death, he’s still running her life,” said Charlotte. “What arrangements is he making?”

  “Everyone in Japan is cremated. Not enough room to bury them, I gather. Rather than shipping the body back to Japan to be cremated, he’s arranged for it to be done here and for the ashes to be sent back to Japan. There’s going to be a Shinto funeral ceremony in a few weeks; it’s going to be held at the Temple of Great Repose in Shimoda.”

  Ironic was right, thought Charlotte. Having the ceremony at the Temple of the Great Repose would enhance the legend; never mind that he’d killed her in a replica of that temple.

  The waiter returned to take Charlotte’s dinner order. The menu was classic French. She ordered côtellettes d’agneau grillées, a. k. a. grilled lamb chops. The lamb, game, and vegetables were raised on the restaurant’s own farm, the menu said.

  “A good choice,” said a voice from behind.

  It was Billy Montgomery. Tanned and handsome, he was wearing a V-necked, cable-knit tennis sweater and a light blue shirt in which he looked like he should be at the helm of his lovely old boat.

  “Hey, Lew! How ya doin’, man?” he said as he pounded Lew on the back. “Nice to see you, Miss Graham.” He extended his hand to Charlotte and then turned back to Lew. “I like those spectacles,” he said, referring to Lew’s wire-rimmed glasses. “Very distinguished.”

  “Thanks,” said Lew. “Have to keep up the image.”

  “I didn’t know you two knew one another. What brings you here tonight?”

  “Miss Graham’s been helping the police with the investigation into Okichi-mago’s death,” Lew explained. “She’s been filling me in on what she’s found out. She’s been talking with the guests at the geisha party.”

  “You didn’t talk with me,” Billy protested.

  “I didn’t get to you yet,” she said. “Did you see anything unusual?”

  “Nope,” he replied. “Went right home. Didn’t see anyone. Actually, I didn’t go right home. I went to the Marriott. I was meeting a young lady there. I didn’t see anyone at Shimoda, but I did see someone at the Marriott.”

  “Who was that?” asked Charlotte.

  He smiled a mischievous smile. Although he and Marianne looked nothing alike—he was blond and blue-eyed, while she was dark and brown-eyes—they shared the same devilish grin. “Cousin Paul,” he replied.

  “You saw Paul Harris at the Marriott?”

  “Yes, I saw Paul Harris at the Marriott.” He nodded knowingly. “I thought so. He told you he was at home in bed, right? Didn’t want Nadine to find out about his little peccadillo.”

  “Tell us more.”

  “From beginning to end?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Well, I was sailing a Finnish Swan in the Volvo Newport Regatta that
day. The regular crew was a man short. Anyway, our boat came in first and the owner offered to treat the crew to a lobster dinner at the Marriott. I couldn’t go because of cousin Paul’s geisha party. But I agreed to meet this nice young lady I met during the race there after the party.”

  “And?” Charlotte prompted.

  “And, there we were having a drink in the lounge. The lounge at the Marriott is in the middle of this big open space.” He waved his arms. “You know, with the rooms all around.”

  “An atrium,” said Lew.

  “Yeah, that’s what they call it, an atrium. Anyway, we were sitting in the lounge in the atrium and I see cousin Paul walk into the lobby and get into the glass elevator. He takes the glass elevator up to the fourth or fifth floor. Then he walks down the corridor and knocks on the door of one of the rooms, and a woman lets him in. If you want to conduct an affair in secret, I don’t recommend the Marriott as the place to do it.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Would I mistake my own cousin?”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I doubt it. He seemed in a big hurry to see his lady friend. He was carrying a bottle in a box; it looked like champagne.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, a little after twelve.” He snapped his fingers in mock dismay. “Oh darn, now I’ve gone and gotten cousin Paul into trouble.”

  “On the contrary, I think it’s more likely that you’ve gotten him out of trouble,” said Charlotte.

  “Thanks, Billy,” said Lew. “I see Bastet is in town. I told Miss Graham that maybe she was returning to her former keeper.”

  “You know,” said Billy, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile, “you may be right.” He turned to Charlotte: “If you ever want any more information, you know where to find me.” He nodded at the small bar off the dining room where the cluster of tanned young men were talking.

  Charlotte was relieved at Billy’s news: Paul was off the hook. Her sense of order was restored; someone she liked was no longer a murder suspect.

  “Paul’s relationship with Nadine has been on the skids for a while,” Lew explained once Billy was out of earshot. “Nadine told Toni that she thought he was having an affair with a young woman from his firm. Would he have had time to kill Okichi-mago and get to the Marriott by midnight?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Charlotte. “Not if he dropped Shawn off at The Waves first. Especially not if he stopped to buy a bottle of champagne.” She sighed. “I guess it’s not in the can, after all.”

  After her dinner, Charlotte had gone straight to bed and slept for a solid twelve hours. She had awakened with a dream fresh in her mind. It was the dream. Once again, she had to choose between the white temple and the baroque cathedral. But she had awakened before she could make the choice. Over breakfast in the dining room—the small one that sat six, not the big one that sat twenty-four—Charlotte filled Connie and Spalding in on what had happened: her suspicion of Paul, and his alibi. For Spalding, her story only confirmed his opinion that the whole Harris family was oversexed. “At least we’re not repressed, dear,” was Connie’s teasing retort. Charlotte felt badly that she had not seen more of her gracious host and hostess, but they had been busy too. Keeping the Black Ships Festival on an even keel after Okichi-mago’s death hadn’t been an easy job. After breakfast, Charlotte attended church with Spalding and Connie at Trinity, where Lew had served as altar boy. It was a lovely old colonial church, whose gleaming white spire was the focal point of the waterfront. Trinity was famed for its architecture, which was based on Sir Christopher Wren’s English churches, and its age: built in 1726, it was one of the oldest Episcopal churches in the country. Among the other worshipers were Lew and Toni, and their three handsome children: two boys and an adorable little girl. Charlotte tried to concentrate on the sermon, which the priest delivered from Trinity’s famous wineglass pulpit, but all she could think about was the murder. Billy’s revelation that he had seen Paul Harris at the Marriott meant that she had to start all over. If it were true, it explained Paul’s grief: the one piece of the puzzle that hadn’t fit. She should have known. When a piece didn’t fit, it was usually a sign that the solution wasn’t right. To Paul, losing Okichi-mago had been like losing a daughter. She thought back to her conversation with Spalding about giri. Maybe Paul had thought, like Keiko, that Okichi-mago had been upset at the geisha party because she had turned down his generous offer. Maybe he had even thought she committed suicide to atone for wronging her benefactor. If so, it would explain why he had been so relieved to hear that her death wasn’t a suicide.

  Paul’s presence at the Marriott that night also explained some other things: why he had said he was at home in bed, for instance. He hadn’t wanted to admit to his affair in front of Nadine. She remembered his glancing at Nadine when she had asked him where he’d been at the time of the murder; she had thought then that it was because he was with Nadine. It also explained why he hadn’t turned on the burglar alarm: if Nadine had still been there when he left, he didn’t want to tip her off that he wasn’t planning to come back after dropping Shawn off. And it also explained why the burglar alarm was turned on when the housekeeper had arrived in the morning; he had turned it on when he returned later that night. There was another little piece of the puzzle it explained too: why he hadn’t heard Miako bark. He had said it was because Miako wasn’t a barker, but Miako had barked readily enough on the morning Charlotte had discovered Okichi-mago’s body. The real reason was that Paul wasn’t there. But although Paul’s presence at the Marriott explained a lot, it also left Charlotte with the same pathetic list of suspects that she’d started out with: Marianne, Lester, Nadine, Tanaka. She would have to talk with Tanaka. She also wanted to talk with Billy again. Both Paul and Lew had told her Billy wasn’t a player in the Shimoda inheritance sweepstakes, but she wanted to see for herself.

  After church, Charlotte headed for the beach. She was tired after all her running around and she needed time to sort out her thoughts. Connie would join her later for lunch. Spalding was lunching at the country club prior to the final event on the Black Ships Festival program: the Black Ships Festival Golf Tournament. It was a new addition to the program, a sop to the Japanese mania for golf. She arrived at Bailey’s at about noon. Bailey’s Beach Club, or the Spouting Rock Beach Association as it was formally known, was said to be the most exclusive beach club in the country (“Bailey’s beach or bust” had been the slogan of many of the century’s earlier social-climbing millionaires), but no one could have guessed it. Typical of ultra-exclusive clubs, Bailey’s was devoid of pretension: a crescent of simple wooden beachfront cabanas and a two-story stucco clubhouse, painted gray with lemon trim. Members at Bailey’s liked to complain that the swimming there was the worst in Newport, as if belonging to Bailey’s was a burden that they were forced to put up with, and in fact, the water did seem to have more than the usual amounts of seaweed, algae, and battered plastic, but the setting couldn’t have been more lovely. Unlike Newport’s public beaches, which were long, straight swaths of sand, Bailey’s was a little jewel, a sandy white crescent nestled among the rocks. Perched on the ledges surrounding the beach were the cottages of Newport’s summer colonists. Among these was Briarcote, whose slate roof was just visible above the banks of wild roses lining the Cliff Walk.

  To Charlotte, Briarcote’s proximity to Bailey’s was one of its main attractions. She loved this little beach, especially in the late afternoon after most of the beach-goers had gone home. On a hot and sunny Sunday afternoon, as this was, the beach was crowded, especially at the east end. By law, the east end of the beach was reserved for the public. Popularly known as Reject Beach, the public section of Bailey’s was a favorite with the college students who flocked to Newport every summer to work in its bars and restaurants. The reject end of the beach was now packed, but most of the crowd would be gone by three or four. She also liked Bailey’s because no one bothered her here. The me
mbers of Newport society who made up Bailey’s membership weren’t impressed by movie stars, or at least, not by movie stars who weren’t tycoons in their own right, which Charlotte wasn’t. Connie liked to complain that her years of achievement on the screen counted for nothing in Newport’s social circles; it was Spalding’s old money and Cliff Walk property that carried the weight. “Marilyn Monroe could come back from the dead and no one at Bailey’s would even bat an eye,” she said with more than a hint of affront in her voice. But Connie was overstating her case. Newport had never been the kind of conservative hideaway where people of great breeding and respectability lived quiet lives of the utmost refinement, though there were a few of those, like Spalding. Which was not to say that Newport’s social lions didn’t like to think it was such a place. Indeed, it often seemed to Charlotte that the newer the money, the greater the snobbery. She was always amused at how quickly those who acquired fortunes concocted the pedigrees to go with them. Though it had its share of failings, Los Angeles, where she had lived on and off for the last fifty years, at least had no social pretensions: in Los Angeles, as a fellow actress noted for her acerbity had once remarked, society was anyone who’d gone to high school.

  After a dip in the ocean, which was chilly but delightful, Charlotte stretched out in a chaise longue on the porch of the cabana, and ordered a glass of iced tea from one of the waiters who circulated among the members and their guests. If membership at Bailey’s earned one a permanent niche in Newport’s social pantheon, having a beachfront cabana at Bailey’s elevated one to its empyrean heights. Though they were nothing to write home about—a simple wooden structure with two small dressing rooms, a shower, a toilet, and a porch—Bailey’s beachfront cabanas were as eagerly sought after as an invitation to the royal enclosure at Ascot. Spalding had once commented that he sometimes felt as if the vultures were circling: cabanas only became available when the old-timers passed away. Social climbers were known to have called the club to inquire about the availability of a cabana before the funeral. Charlotte felt quite privileged sunning herself on the porch of the Smiths’ cabana, since—God forbid—a good number of the Bailey’s members were relegated to inside cabanas. In contrast to the simplicity of the cabanas themselves, most of them were beautifully decorated. The walls of the Smiths’ cabana were hand-painted with a design of pink and blue flowers intertwined with blue ribbons, which matched the design of the fabric on the cushions of the beach chairs. Even the beach towels bore the same design, Charlotte noticed as she got up to get herself some suntan lotion. After greasing up, she lay back down in the chaise, a big hat shielding her face. As she basked in the sun, she idly watched the sailboats on the water, the nannies chasing down their charges, the dogs from Reject Beach playing Frisbee with their owners, and felt her mind growing blessedly empty. After a few minutes, she closed her eyes and felt herself drifting off.