Bermuda Schwartz

by Bob Morris

  As she steps out of the parlor, one of the butlers appears in the doorway.

  “Beg pardon, Mrs. Ambister.”

  Aunt Trula looks up.

  “Yes, Fredrick, what is it?”

  “The caterer is on the phone,” he says. “A question about the canapes.”

  59

  That evening I sit on the terrace, no glass of rum in my hand. I’ve been wanting a drink for hours, but I keep thinking we might get a call to visit Teddy Schwartz. Better that I remain sober for that.

  Barbara returns from checking on Aunt Trula.

  “She won’t come out of her room,” Barbara says.

  “What about the party?”

  “She won’t talk about it. But I’m proceeding as if it is still on. At this point, it would be far more difficult to notify all the guests and cancel with the vendors. I’ve OK’d the canapès, upped the number of cases of white wine for the bar, and signed off on the playlist for the band.”

  “Did you request ‘Jailhouse Rock’?”

  Barbara looks at me.

  “Not funny,” she says. “You want a drink?”

  “Yes, I do. But no, I won’t.”

  “Well, I’m having one,” Barbara says.

  She steps inside, comes back with a gin and tonic. She sits down beside me. She takes a sip of her drink. Then another one.

  “So,” she says, “what’s your take on all this?”

  “Same as everyone else. I’m floored.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “Killed Ned McHugh?”

  Barbara nods.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t.”

  “Then what could possibly lead the police to believe that he did it?”

  “Because they know something we don’t,” I say.

  “Thanks for sharing, Sherlock.”

  “Plus, there’s the fact that Teddy knew Ned McHugh, but never saw fit to mention it—not to Aunt Trula, not to Fiona, not to anyone. He even went by Ned’s house looking for him on the day Ned was murdered. He’s obviously trying to hide something.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t have a clue, but if I were a betting man …”

  “Which you are.”

  “… I would wager that there is something inside that boathouse of his.”

  “Like what?”

  “Again, no clue. All I know is that Teddy didn’t like it that Boggy and I walked in there on the morning we went out on his boat. And when I dropped by yesterday with Fiona, he made sure we didn’t get a glimpse of what he was working on inside.”

  “What do you think he might have been working on?”

  I shrug.

  “Beats heck out of me. I mean, I saw him at his workbench wearing one of those jeweler’s loupes. So it’s close, detailed work of some kind. He’s got all kinds of lumber and woodworking equipment in there, too.”

  “Which he used when he was working to rebuild the roof at the chapel in Graydon Reserve.”

  “See, that’s just it. Teddy’s a good man. He’s got a good heart. You know from the moment you meet him that he’s a decent guy. And that’s what it all comes down to: I just know in my gut that he didn’t do it.”

  There’s a footfall behind us.

  “If it helps any, I don’t think he did it either.”

  We turn around. Fiona stands in the doorway to the terrace. She’s holding her suitcase.

  I get up from my chair. So does Barbara.

  “Please, stay where you are,” Fiona says. “I just wanted to tell you that I am leaving.”

  “Leaving?” I say. “You don’t mean back to Australia, do you?”

  “No, no. I’m checking into a guesthouse. I found one in downtown Hamilton with a vacancy, sounds nice enough. I mean, it’s no Cutfoot Estate, but …” She stops, smiles. “Look, with everything that happened this afternoon, it’s better that I leave. My being here creates an awkward situation all around.”

  Barbara says, “I’m sure Aunt Trula would not …”

  Fiona puts up a hand.

  “Please, I’ve made up my mind. But I thank you just the same,” she says. “Now, all I have to do is call for a taxi.”

  “Forget that,” I say. “I’ll drive you.”

  “No, Zack, thanks for the offer, but …”

  “Please, I’ve made up my mind,” I say. “I signed up for the job, if you remember. Plus, I’d like to think there’s a good reason why I’m still on the wagon after a day like today.”

  60

  “So what did you tell your parents?” I ask Fiona on the drive to Hamilton. “I told them exactly what happened,” she says. “That the police have detained Teddy Schwartz as a person of interest.”

  “And did you tell them that you have your doubts that Teddy killed your brother?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No, I didn’t. It would just confuse things for them. They need some closure, even if it’s only for the short-term.”

  “So why don’t you think Teddy did it?”

  She shrugs.

  “For all the same reasons you mentioned. Gut feeling. A cop’s instinct. He’s just not a killer. He’s not someone who could torture someone like my brother was tortured.”

  “OK, but if not Teddy, then who?”

  “That’s where I draw a blank,” she says. “But that Belleville bloke might deserve a look.”

  “Yeah, he might. He came on all buddy-buddy with me last night.”

  “I noticed.”

  I look at her.

  “Like hell you did. You only had eyes for Michael Frazer.”

  She smiles.

  “Well, he is pretty easy on them,” she says. “Matter of fact, Michael called this evening. Asked me to have lunch with him tomorrow.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Aha!” I say.

  “Aha? Aha what?”

  “Aha, so that’s why you’re checking into your own digs, so you can have a little love nest all your own.”

  Fiona makes a face, takes a swat at me.

  “Let’s get back to Belleville,” she says. “Did I overhear you asking him where he got that gash on his face?”

  “You did. But he didn’t give up much in the way of details. Just said something about how he had done something stupid, a hazard of the trade.”

  “Could be anything.”

  “Could be.”

  “But my brother was not a lightweight. If someone tried to take him down, he’d give them a fight.”

  “Maybe take a poke at them, give them a gash on the face?”

  “No maybe about it,” Fiona says. “Plus, there’s that whole thing with Belleville and Polly, how he asked her out and she turned him down.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “There’s that.”

  “But it’s a long way from that to murder,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

  We whip through a roundabout and take the road into downtown Hamilton.

  “It’s the Oxford House, on Woodbourne Avenue,” she says. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  Her cell phone rings. She takes the call.

  “Why thanks, I appreciate that,” I hear her say. “Zack is with me, that OK?”

  She listens, smiles, cuts her eyes my way.

  “Yes, he’s that, all right. See you in a few …”

  She flips the phone shut.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Michael Frazer?”

  “No, it was Worley. Says he’d like a few minutes with me.”

  “So it’s to the police station then?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  I pull onto Front Street, looking for Parliament Street.

  “What did Worley say about me anyway?”

  “Why, what makes you think he said something about you?”

  “Because he did. You told him I was with you. Then you listened and you smiled and you said, ‘Yeah, he’s that, all right.’ The ‘he’ you were talking about was me
. What did Worley say?”

  Fiona smiles.

  “He said, ‘That Chasteen. He’s a hard man to shake.’ And I agreed, that’s all.”

  “Well, you know what I’ve always said.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A hard man to shake is good thing to find.”

  She looks at me.

  “Is that supposed to make sense?”

  “Try not to overthink it,” I say.

  61

  Policemen are milling around in Worley’s office when we arrive. Worley shoos them away and closes his door.

  He looks at Fiona.

  “I don’t want to be accused of leaving you out of the loop,” he says.

  “I appreciate that, Inspector.”

  He looks at me.

  “Although I’ve got some serious reservations about including you,” he says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You complicate things, Chasteen.”

  “But, Inspector, I am just a simple man.”

  Worley lets it roll, carries on.

  “On the one hand, you are assisting Miss McHugh in seeing to it that her brother’s murderer is brought to justice …”

  “In a purely unofficial capacity.”

  “… and on the other, I would suspect that you might also be looking after the best interests of Teddy Schwartz.”

  “Why would you suspect that?”

  “Because your girlfriend is the niece of the woman who is sleeping with him.”

  “If you don’t mind, Inspector, that’s really not an image that I like to conjure up.”

  “But you can understand why I have my reservations when it comes to speaking frankly about this case with you.”

  “Then we’re even,” I say. “Because I have some reservations, too.”

  “Reservations about what?”

  “About exactly how good a case you’ve got.”

  Worley makes a temple out of his hands, rests it under his chin.

  “It’s a good case,” he says.

  “That right?”

  “Oh yeah, matter of fact, it’s about as good a case as you can get.” Worley gives it a beat. “Found the murder weapon in the suspect’s boathouse. At the bottom of a pile of towels, sitting just inside the door.”

  I lean back in my chair, let out some air. Wasn’t expecting that. Neither, it appears, was Fiona. She’s speechless.

  “Ice pick,” Worley says. “A blood match with your brother’s, Miss McHugh. Found some needle nose pliers, too. In the same pile of towels. Another match on them.”

  He doesn’t find it necessary to mention what the pliers were used for. Thoughtful of him.

  “Questions, comments, observations?” he says.

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” Fiona says.

  “Now why is that, Miss McHugh?”

  There’s a tinge of facetiousness in Worley’s voice, as if he is playing us. Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure he’s playing us.

  “It doesn’t make sense that Teddy Schwartz would kill my brother, dump his body in the ocean, and not get rid of the murder weapons while he was at it. It’s counterintuitive.”

  “Hrnm. Interesting observation.” Worley looks at me. He seems to be enjoying himself. “How about you, Mr. Chasteen? Anything you’d like to know?”

  “Yeah. Why did you decide to search Teddy Schwartz’s boathouse in the first place?”

  “A very astute question, Mr. Chasteen. One I hoped you might ask. The answer—we got a phone call.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Anonymous?”

  “But of course,” Worley says. “Desk officer said the caller was a male. Beyond that, nothing.”

  I say, “Someone could have planted the ice pick, the pliers.”

  Worley raises his eyebrows.

  “You think?” he says.

  “I was in Schwartz’s boathouse the other day.”

  “Sir Teddy mentioned that. And you know what my first reaction was to that, Mr. Chasteen?”

  “You thought maybe I planted the murder weapon?”

  Worley smiles.

  “I must tell you—yes, the thought did cross my mind. But only for a brief moment. Then it occurred to me that, based upon the coroner’s estimate, you would still have been in Florida at the time of Ned McHugh’s death. You couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “I’ll consider that a vote of confidence.”

  “Don’t get too carried away,” Worley says.

  “Teddy Schwartz did seem surprised that I was in his boathouse. Angered and surprised, actually. I remember him checking the doorknob, the lock, as if the place might have been broken into.”

  “You are full of interesting observations, Mr. Chasteen. As it turns out, Mr. Schwartz remembers exactly the same thing. It is his contention that his boathouse was indeed broken in to,” Worley says. “One problem—he didn’t report it at the time. Plus, if you are found to be hiding murder weapons in your boathouse then the most expedient response would be to …?”

  “Claim it had been broken in to,” I say.

  “Exactly. Especially if the boyfriend of your girlfriend’s niece could corroborate it.”

  “Gnarly lineage, but I can see what you mean.”

  “What about the break-in at Ned’s house?” Fiona breaks in. “Did you get anything from that?”

  Worley shakes his head.

  “Nothing, really. No physical evidence. Could have just been a neighborhood thief. About the only thing we got out of it was a supplementary statement from the young woman …”

  “Polly? Ned’s girlfriend?”

  “Yes, her. She told us that Teddy Schwartz came around there looking for Ned McHugh, on the day of the murder. She hadn’t seen fit to mention that before.”

  “She’s a little flighty,” I say. “Could have just forgotten about it.”

  “Yeah, could have.”

  “There’s something else that’s off about all this,” says Fiona.

  “What’s that?”

  “Motive.”

  “I’m listening,” says Worley.

  “Why would Teddy Schwartz want to kill my brother? And why would he have wanted to kill Richard Peach and Martin Boyd seven years ago? I mean, we are still assuming that the murders are linked, aren’t we?”

  “We are,” says Worley. “But I don’t have to provide motive to the prosecutor, only evidence. Nor must I concern myself with the previous murders when I have enough in hand to proceed with this one. A murder weapon is a compelling piece of evidence. And when a police department comes up with a compelling piece of evidence there’s not a lot of internal motivation to discredit it. You understand what I’m saying? The higher-ups are ready to formalize charges.”

  “But you aren’t?” I say.

  Worley rubs his jaw, considers his response.

  “Let’s just say that things are a little too neat for my liking—a phone call out of the blue, the murder weapon found, a suspect now in custody. A pretty package.”

  “And one that could blow up in your face?”

  “It could prove embarrassing at the every least.”

  Worley’s phone rings. He answers it, listens.

  “Be right there,” he says.

  He hangs up.

  “I’m being summoned,” he says.

  “The higher-ups?” I ask.

  He nods, stands up from his desk. We take the cue.

  As we head for the door, Fiona stops, looks at Worley.

  “One more question,” she says.

  “Ask.”

  “Why are you telling us all this?”

  Worley smiles.

  “Like I said, Miss McHugh, I just want to keep you in the loop.”

  Neither one of us is buying it. Worley knows it.

  “Then again,” he says, “seeing as how you are a police officer and seeing as how Mr. Chasteen is whatever he is, I can fully understand it if the two of you feel the need to second-guess this investigation, maybe even continue cond
ucting an investigation of your own. If so, I would suggest that the time to do that is right now.”

  62

  “Well, I guess Worley really can’t make it much clearer than that, can he?” Fiona says as we exit police headquarters.

  “You mean, short of putting us on the payroll?”

  “It was decent of him.”

  “Yeah, but he’s covering his ass, too,” I say. “This way he doesn’t have to buck department politics and give the appearance of torpedoing an investigation that looks as if it’s locked up tight. At the same time, he’s got us out here doing the legwork for him.”

  The parking lot has emptied out since we arrived. The Morris Minor sits all by itself at the far end, under a streetlamp. We head for it.

  The air is heavy, anticipating rain. Not enough breeze to stir the palm fronds. From the bars of Front Street comes the sound of revelry. Two more cruise ships have put in along the pier.

  “Ned’s GPS,” Fiona says. “I still need to see where it takes us.”

  “One problem—we no longer have a boat at our disposal.”

  “Did the police impound Miss Peg?”

  “I’m guessing they did. Probably want to check it stem to stern for any physical evidence.”

  “I could ask Michael when we have lunch tomorrow,” Fiona says. “I don’t see why he would object to taking us out.”

  “Worth a shot,” I say.

  I unlock the Morris Minor. We get in.

  “To the Oxford House, madame?”

  “Yes, driver,” she says. “And be quick about it. I am ready for a long, hot bath.”

  I turn on the ignition. It’s only then that I notice the business card that has been tucked under one of the windshield wipers.

  I get out and grab it. The card bears the logo of the Royal Gazette with Janeen Hill’s name under it.

  I turn it over. Written in block letters, the message reads:

  I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU. MY PLACE. PLEASE …

  I get in the car, hand the card to Fiona. She reads it.

  “You mind postponing that hot bath?”

  She shrugs, noncommittal.

  “Because I could go by there by myself if you’re ready to call it a night,” I say. “I know how prickly it got the last time you were around her.”