****
Police Constable Owen Stansbury was still upset about the dressing-down he had received at inspection for his poor shoeshine. The beat he walked along the waterfront every night often took him through puddles, and by the time he finished his shift, there wasn't enough time for his shoes to even dry out before he had to report for duty again, let alone time for him to shine them. He guessed he'd have to buy another pair, but who could afford two pairs of shoes, especially these clunky uniform oxfords? To his way of thinking these old timers took this Royal stuff too seriously. Sure, it was the Royal Grenada Police Force, but Grenada was independent. He didn't get this whole thing with the Queen. He was walking along Melville Street headed north, just a few minutes from the station at Fort George, when a splash of white in the alley on his left caught his eye. He took his flashlight in hand and went to investigate.
The young woman stretched out on the cobblestones appeared to be asleep. He registered that she was beautiful, dressed neatly in a business suit with the starched white blouse that had caught his eye. He was used to finding an occasional drunk passed out along here, or maybe a couple of raucous, drunken tourists who had lost their way, but this didn't make any sense to him. The way she was dressed, she should be behind one of the teller windows at the RBC up on the corner, or sitting behind a desk in one of the offices above the shops that lined this part of Melville Street. She looked as peaceful as if she were in her bed at home, except she was dressed for work — daytime work. She was on her back, legs straight, feet together, arms at her sides with her hands crossed over the waistband of her skirt, purse tucked under her right arm, its shoulder strap in place. Her clothes were in perfect order, as if she had smoothed them carefully as she reclined for a nap, avoiding the puddles of muddy water around her.
"Hello," he called, in a voice just louder than normal speech, not wanting to startle her.
When she didn't respond, he knelt beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. It was then he noticed the trickle of blood from her right ear. He moved his hand to the artery in her throat, feeling for a pulse as he had been taught to do. There was nothing — no sign of life — although her skin felt warm to his touch.
"Dead," he mumbled, crossing himself instinctively and searching his memory for a long-forgotten prayer. His stomach heaved and he turned away, scrambling to the nearest drainage grate to avoid contaminating the scene. Once relieved, he unhooked his radio from his belt and called in to the dispatcher. While he waited for an ambulance and backup, he walked back to the lamp-post on the corner of Melville Street, close enough to secure the scene, but far enough not to have to see the body too well.
Chapter 2
"Did you enjoy your stroll last night?" Dani asked the Fitzgeralds as Liz bustled in the galley. She and the Fitzgeralds were seated in the cockpit, a carafe of coffee on the fold-down table between them.
Jane held her mug beneath her nose and inhaled, savoring the aroma of the hearty black brew. She took a sip, and then replied. "Yes. We walked along the lagoon road all the way around the Carenage. There are some beautiful old buildings along there."
"Along the Carenage?" Dani prompted.
"Yes," Bill agreed, setting his mug on a coaster on the tabletop. "They look like some kind of movie set for a Caribbean city from the '50s or something."
"They do. Probably have been. St. Georges is a pretty city. It's a shame you're in such a rush to get to Dominica."
"Can we talk about that?" Jane asked.
"Talk about what?" Liz wanted to know as she climbed out of the companionway and set the breakfast tray on the bridge deck.
"Our itinerary," Bill said, as Liz passed around plates of fresh fruit, each with a picture-perfect fried egg and two strips of bacon on the side.
"Sure. Vengeance is yours for the month," Dani said, as Liz sat down and everyone started eating. "We can go anywhere you'd like, anytime you choose."
"Right," he said. "Jane and I were talking last night; guess we're kind of getting into this island-time thing."
"We'd like to see more of Grenada before we leave," Jane said. "We didn't realize until we took our walk how pretty it is. We were talking to some local folks we met on the Carenage, and they told us about all sorts of things we'd like to see here — especially some of the undeveloped areas."
"I gather there's some good hiking in the interior of the island," Bill added.
"Absolutely," Liz agreed. "We can hook you up with a really good guide; he can give you an overall tour of the island by van. That'll take about a day, and then he can take you back to the places where you want to focus. He's quite a hiker himself."
"That sounds good," Jane said.
"I'll call him after we eat," Liz said, "but he's probably booked today. There's a cruise ship heading in to the terminal; I just caught a glimpse of it passing the harbor entrance."
"That's okay. We'd like to walk around downtown today — look at some of the shops," Jane said.
Silence reigned as they all dug into their breakfasts. When everyone was finished, Liz refilled the coffee mugs.
"So how far is it to Dominica?" Jane asked.
"A little over two hundred nautical miles," Dani replied.
"And how long will it take to sail that?" Bill asked.
"If we actually sail it, it'll depend on the wind," Dani said, "say 24 to 36 hours. If we're having a slow trip and you're in a hurry, we can use the engine and lock in that 24-hour number."
"Oh," Jane said. "We didn't really think about that. You'd have to sail round the clock?"
"It's not a problem, but yes, unless you wanted to stop along the way," Liz said.
"Are there any good spots to stop?" Bill asked.
"Oh, yeah. A bunch, depending on what you like. There are some other big towns worth seeing, and all kinds of sparsely populated or even unpopulated islands to explore. I'll give you a guide book when you get back from your walk and you can see what appeals."
"Great. That would be fantastic. I think we'll take a taxi from here into town, though. We pretty well saw Lagoon Road last night."
"No need for that. I'll run you into town in the dinghy," Dani volunteered. "I need to stop by Customs and Immigration and let them know we're not leaving today."
****
"The coroner says it was probably an ice pick in her ear." The Chief Superintendent of the Royal Grenada Police Force sat in a well-padded visitor's chair across the desk from the Deputy Commissioner of Police, who had summoned him immediately upon learning of the body found last night.
"So it's murder, then?"
"Yes, but it's so strange."
"You mean the way she was killed?"
"That, and …"
"What?"
"There wasn't a mark on her body. No bruises or scratches. No sign of a struggle. The coroner says it was almost clinical, except …"
"Except what?"
"Her eyelids -- they were glued shut with super-glue."
"After she was killed?"
"Presumably. Or there would have been signs of a struggle."
"Had she been, ah …"
"No signs of any sexual contact, before or after she was killed. Clothing was all intact. When the Constable found her, he thought she was taking a nap, until he saw the blood from her ear. I got there a little later, before the body was disturbed. It looked like someone had laid her out deliberately, posed her to look like she was sleeping peacefully."
"How strange," the Deputy Commissioner said.
"Indeed, sir." The Chief Superintendent, with 30 years on the force, was no novice when it came to homicides, but homicides in Grenada fell into two broad categories. There were the conventional killings, fueled by rage, greed, jealousy, and so forth. They tended to be messy, and the killer virtually always knew the victim well. The weapons were either blunt instruments or edged weapons: knives, machetes, and razors were popular. It wasn't unusual for a victim in such a killing to be literally hacked to pieces, or beaten beyond recognitio
n.
Recently, organized crime had begun to contribute an occasional victim to Grenada's annual 10-to-15-person list of homicides. Guns often figured in these killings, although edged weapons were used, too. If the killing was intended to send a message of some sort, the corpse might be mutilated in some relevant manner, but the killers rarely left the evidence of anger that was common in the conventional killings; the professional killers left much cleaner scenes.
Both men realized this homicide fit neither category.
"Who was she?" the Deputy Commissioner asked.
"Cleopatra Williston. Single black female, 25 years of age. Never married. No particular male friends. She lived with her mother and two younger sisters, not far from Blessed Sacrament Church in Grand Anse. She was active in the Church. She worked in the office of a company in the building next to the cruise ship terminal that coordinates tours for the ships' passengers. She closed the office last night — she stayed late by herself to finish up something, so nobody knows exactly what time she left. So far, we haven't found any witnesses."
"Well, that's not a surprise. It gets pretty quiet in that area once the ships leave and the stores close. Any thoughts on motive? Robbery, maybe?"
"I don't think so, sir. There was $200 in her purse, and her credit cards were still there. It didn't look like anything was missing."
The Deputy Commissioner shook his head. "Let me know if anything else comes up, please." He pushed his chair back and started to lift his massive body to a standing position.
"Of course, sir," the Chief Superintendent said, rising quickly and shaking hands with his boss before he left.
****
Dani returned to Vengeance about half an hour after taking the Fitzgeralds downtown. Liz was in the cockpit reading, having just finished her daily cleanup below decks. She stood and took the dinghy painter from Dani as she brought the rigid inflatable boat alongside. She cleated the line as Dani scrambled aboard.
"Any trouble changing the departure?"
"No, they're always happy to hear our guests want to stay and go shopping. But I did pick up some disturbing news."
"What's that?" Liz asked.
"The police found a murder victim near the cruise ship terminal, in one of those short alleys just off Melville Street."
"And I just told the Fitzgeralds how safe it is here. Who was it?"
"A local woman named Cleopatra Williston. She apparently worked around there somewhere."
"Love gone wrong?" Liz asked.
"That's what I figured, but the guys in Customs and Immigration said the cops don't think so. She was killed with an ice pick to the ear, and not another mark on her. Nothing missing from her purse; laid out like she was asleep."
"Now that's weird," Liz said. "Not typical of a local murder at all."
"No. Almost sounds like a professional hit," Dani said. "But not the kind of drug-runner killings that happen down here. More like a psycho of some kind."
"It'll be interesting to hear what Bill thinks about that," Liz said.
"Yes, it will. I kind of like them, by the way."
"You mean I won't have to stay on my toes running interference between you and our guests this trip? Like the last professor we had aboard?"
"Aw, come on, Liz. That guy was a jerk. Bill seems pretty normal to me. So does Jane."
"Good. Hold that thought, partner. Here they come, walking down the dock with an armload of packages." Liz glanced at her wristwatch. "I'll bet they ate lunch in town. It's after two. You hungry?"
"I could eat. If they've eaten already, let's go up to the marina restaurant and get something."
"Sounds good to me," Liz said.
Chapter 3
He sat on the small patio, the sliding glass door into his hotel room open behind him so he could hear the midday news from the television. The lead story was, of course, about his handiwork of the night before. He listened carefully, focusing as much on what was not said as what was underlined in the plummy, faux-BBC voice of the local announcer. There was no mention of the eyelids, of how carefully she was arranged to mimic sleep — or death, he smiled to himself. He wondered if they withheld those details from the press deliberately, or if they just considered them unimportant. There was little speculation as to the motive for the woman's killing, which he found interesting.
"Cleopatra Williston was a communicant of Blessed Sacrament Roman Catholic Church," he heard the announcer say. Now he had a name for her. That was comforting to him; he didn't like anonymous victims. He listened as the announcer went on to say she had lived near the church with her mother and two younger sisters. There was no mention of a husband or a boyfriend, though. In the clear absence of an immediate motive, like robbery, he would have expected them to suspect the man in her life. Then again, Cleopatra — he paused for a moment to wonder whether she had been Cleopatra or Cleo — had not been wearing a ring, but it was hard for him to believe that as pretty as she had been, she didn't have a boyfriend or a husband.
The announcer moved on to the next topic of the day, something about the nutmeg crop. He picked up the remote from the glass-topped patio table and switched off the television. Returning the remote to the tabletop, he extracted a moisture-beaded bottle of Carib beer from the ice bucket on the table and popped the cap off with an old-fashioned bottle opener — no twist-off caps on these recycled bottles. He took a sip of the beer and listened to the soft sound of the waves lapping against Grand Anse Beach a hundred or so yards away. Inhaling the clean, sweet air, he caught just a whiff of the ocean, along with some pleasant, slightly smoky aroma. He remembered the bellman telling him Grenada was the Isle of Spice; he could believe it, based on the enticing smells wafting along on the breeze. This was a beautiful, peaceful place; he was pleased at the prospect of a little time to relax, now that his work here was done.
He would be moving north soon, but he wasn't yet sure of his next stop. He had investigated travel options earlier and decided that moving by inter-island freighter would suit him well. It didn't leave as clear a trail as air travel, for one thing, and the scenery would certainly be better. He wondered how the hunting would be wherever he next came to rest. This kill had been too easy for his liking. Maybe the next one would offer more of a challenge. Cleopatra had been a pure target of opportunity. He had passed on a couple of tourists a few minutes before she stepped out of the office building into his path. The tourists had been particularly tempting — a couple, inebriated, clumsy but not too drunk to be fun. He relished that look of sheer terror the victims got when they realized what was happening. He could have knocked the man unconscious without being seen, and then dispatched the woman, leaving a confused, worthless witness, but a witness nonetheless. That would have really frustrated the cops. He laughed at the thought. Cleopatra would be a puzzle for them as well, though, and she was a local. That was more important in the long term than the immediate satisfaction he would have gotten from killing the female tourist. He had to stay focused; he wasn't to kill any tourists. That wasn't the game this time.
****
The Fitzgeralds had indeed eaten at one of the local-style restaurants on the Carenage, but they had elected to accompany Liz and Dani to the restaurant at the head of the marina dock, where they sipped cold rum punch while Dani and Liz ate a light lunch. Gossip about the murder dominated the conversation at their table as well as among the rest of the patrons, most of whom were sitting where they could watch the wide-screen television. Normally, it would have been tuned to CNN or the BBC coverage of cricket. There seemed to always be a championship cricket match somewhere in Britain's former colonies. Today, however, it was showing local programming, with frequent interruptions for the latest tidbit of information about the victim and her family.
"Is this a typical reaction on the part of the people to a local murder?" Bill asked.
"Well," Dani said, "probably not. Murder isn't an everyday occurrence here like it is in the States. Grenada's population isn't even 100,000. It wo
uld just be a good-sized town in the U.S. They probably have 10 or 12 homicides a year, so each one is remarkable."
"Besides that," Liz contributed, "this is a really strange one for the islands. When somebody gets killed down here, it's usually either a crime of passion or some kind of drug-related shooting. The drug-runners are the only people with guns."
"So how does a jealous husband deal with his wife's boyfriend?" Jane asked.
"Fists or a big stick, most likely," Dani said. "Or if he means to do serious harm, a machete or a butcher knife, but the islands don't have the kind of violence we do up north. Crimes are mostly thefts, with an occasional robbery or rape."
"Are tourists the usual victims of that kind of crime?" Jane asked.
"Petty theft, sometimes. Maybe a purse-snatching, but generally, victims are locals. Nobody wants to scare the tourists away, so everybody keeps an eye on them and that makes the streets pretty safe."
"So this is an unusual crime, then," Bill said, "in more than one way. I'll bet the local police are flummoxed because there's no boyfriend. That explains why the reporters keep harping on the fact that she didn't have any male friends of note."
"Right," Liz agreed. "Nor was anything taken from her purse. They keep saying she had several hundred dollars in cash and two credit cards."
"Yes. That rules out the motives they're most familiar with," Dani said. "That leaves drugs, and it sounds like she wasn't the type to be involved. Besides, drugs usually mean guns. An ice pick in the ear almost sounds like a professional killing — Mafia or something. But how could she have become a target for that, and even if she had, why would the killer have posed her like she was asleep?"
"Good questions. I'm sure the police are asking the same ones," Bill said.
"Almost sounds like some kind of psycho," Jane said.
"It does," Bill agreed. "Have they ever had that kind of killer on the loose down here?"
Liz and Dani exchanged glances.
"Are they set up to even notice that kind of thing?" Jane asked. "I mean, if some serial killer …"
Bluewater Betrayal: The Fifth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 5) Page 21