Murder in the Raw

by C. S. Challinor

  “Is that Elizabeth Winslow?”

  Pam squinted. “Yes. She’s talking to Nora.”

  “I’ll go and bother them now. Your husband will be wanting his chair.”

  “Duke went to play racquet ball with Vernon. They play every morning. As the oldest men in the group they have to work harder at staying in shape.”

  “You all look so fit. I’m beginning to get a complex.”

  “You look just fine to me for a man your size,” Pam complimented him with a seductive smile.

  Covering his embarrassment with a polite cough, Rex took his leave of the Southern belle and, adjusting the towel around his waist, made his way to Mrs. Winslow’s spot, greeting several guests on the way.

  The night before, he had asked them to confine themselves to the resort for the next few days for interviews and, for the most part, they had complied with civility, expressing themselves anxious to find out who had committed the crime. Brooklyn had pleaded business appointments, but had promised to make himself available whenever possible. None had provable alibis other than the von Muellers and possibly the Irvings, whose itineraries he would have to verify.

  According to David Weeks’ testimony, Sabine was last seen just after six p.m., which was close to the time when the male members of the group returned from their diving excursion. No one began looking for Sabine until ten that night. A window of four hours existed during which time she vanished. If a guest had killed her, there was only one hour of opportunity before they all met up at The Cockatoo restaurant for Paul Winslow’s birthday dinner at seven.

  Rex hoped that under constant surveillance the perpetrator might give himself or herself away by making that incriminating slip that everyone did sooner or later. Possible, too, that the body might be washed ashore during that time. Or what was left of it.

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth Winslow greeted Rex behind a huge pair of designer sunglasses. “Are you going to try to cultivate a tan?”

  “I canna spend ten minutes in the sun without turning pink.”

  “Nor can I with my Irish complexion,” Nora said from the lounge-chair beside Elizabeth’s.

  “I was a sun-worshipper when I was younger,” Elizabeth confided. “Now I’m paying for it.” She had the fragile skin of a natural redhead. In broad daylight, the heavy gold jewelry around her neck could not hide the sun spots and premature wrinkling on her chest. “Won’t you have a drink?” she asked. “The waiter will be along in a minute.”

  “It’s still a bit early for me.”

  “Oh, we don’t have rules here,” Elizabeth said in her well-bred English voice. “Besides, alcohol is so cheap out here it’s criminal not to take advantage.”

  Nora relinquished her spot beside Elizabeth. “I’m going to do my laps. Rex, you’re welcome to use my chair for twenty minutes.”

  He duly slipped into the lounger beneath the shade of the umbrella. A parade of nudists strolled along the beach while couples and families frolicked in the sea. If his starchy Scottish colleagues could only see him now …

  “So,” Elizabeth began. “We dragged you halfway across the Caribbean to look into our friend’s disappearance. What do you think now that you’re here?”

  “It’s a bit soon to say.”

  “Forgive my impatience. You only arrived yesterday afternoon, after all.”

  “I take it you were close to Sabine Durand?”

  “We met ten years ago when she came from Paris to work at David’s restaurant. That was before he opened his cookery school. David and Toni had a small flat in Kensington back then, so Sabine lodged with us. Paul and I became quite attached to her. We married late and have no children of our own.”

  “And you’ve kept in contact with her ever since.”

  “We didn’t see so much of her when she became involved in the theatre. The hours of rehearsal were grueling and she toured a lot. But she dropped us a line here and there, and I saved all the programmes and newspaper articles for my scrapbook.”

  “What do you, personally, think became of her, Mrs. Winslow?”

  “Elizabeth—please.” She removed her sunglasses, revealing green eyes glassy with tears. “It’s not easy to say this,” she said. “But I’m going to anyway. I’m certain her husband is involved. When I heard she was going to marry a much older man, I was, to say the least, concerned. Sabine was such a romantic creature. I couldn’t see what attraction she could feel for a hardnosed New York lawyer, however rich he might be. But I suppose she felt he could further her career. She was doing a stint on Broadway when they met.”

  Rex privately acknowledged that the husband was the most logical suspect. His cell phone had been found by the rocks. Paul Winslow had pointed the finger at Vernon too, citing his jealousy, but without concrete evidence, murder would be hard to prove.

  “Have you seen the police report?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not yet. I only know what your husband told me and what I read in the statements faxed to me in Edinburgh. Did Sabine ever discuss her marriage with you?”

  Elizabeth nodded, studying the sunglasses in her hand. “About a week ago I noticed a nasty bruise on her arm and when I asked her about it, she laughed it off saying she’d fallen from a horse. I must have looked skeptical because after a while her eyes sort of misted up, and she told me she had fought with Vernon and that he’d grabbed her arm in a rage.”

  “Did she say what they were fighting about?”

  “No, but I suspect it was over Brooklyn Chalmers.” Elizabeth put her sunglasses back on. “Sabine never admitted to it but, if you ask me, they were much more suited to one another. Brooklyn has youth and vitality, a passion for life. Vernon is so … wooden.”

  Rex knew he would have to elicit precise details from Vernon Powell as to his whereabouts at the time his wife vanished. He felt his heart hardening against the man. Rex couldn’t abide the idea of violence against women, and Sabine seemed such a delicate creature, quite incapable of defending herself.

  He watched Nora O’Sullivan perform a vigorous crawl back to shore and then wade out of the water, shaking her short gray hair like a wet dog. Rex got up and handed her the fluffy yellow towel as she approached.

  “Ah, I feel fine after my swim. You should go in, Elizabeth.”

  “I think I will.” Elizabeth took an inflatable raft with her.

  Nora spread her towel across her friend’s lounge chair and lay down. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to question me now.”

  “Only if it’s convenient,” Rex said, sitting back down.

  “Ask away. I have nothing to hide. I didn’t want to talk in front of Elizabeth because she was fond of the girl. You may find my impressions rather different.”

  “Well, let’s start with what you wrote in your statement. You went with Elizabeth, Sabine, and Toni Weeks to Philipsburg last Tuesday and didn’t see Sabine again after you all arrived back at the resort at about four-thirty, is that right?”

  “It is. The last I saw of her was when she was getting out of the limo. She said she was going to reception to check her messages, and I said I’d see her later at Paul’s birthday dinner. When Sean and I got to the restaurant, everyone was there except her.”

  “Vernon was there too?”

  “No, I was forgetting. He arrived after us. He said he’d waited for his wife at their cabana until the last moment and then decided she must have gone straight to The Cockatoo from her walk.”

  “What was his reaction when he saw she wasn’t at the restaurant?”

  “He seemed calm enough, maybe a bit icy—as though he might be cross that she was late for Paul’s party.”

  “And your husband was with you since what time?”

  “Sixish. I was in the bath, but I heard him come in. The men had been scuba diving.”

  “Did Sabine seem in good spirits when you were in Philipsburg?”

  “That she did. She seemed exited about the upcoming parade in Marigot. Of course, had she been alive during the Storming of
the Bastille, she would hardly have been on the side of the peasants. But Sabine had her whims and we all thought it was a charming idea.”

  “Did she mention whether she was expecting news of any kind when she left to pick up her messages?”

  “I don’t think so. As you know, the cabanas don’t have phones, so it’s quite usual for guests to go to the main building to see if anyone’s tried to make contact.”

  “Why don’t the cabanas have phones?”

  “It’s considered obtrusive. And I must say, I don’t miss having one when I’m here.”

  Rex mentally added a visit to reception to his list of things to do. Perhaps someone had left a message for a rendezvous with Sabine. “What if an urgent message came through?” he asked Nora. “How would it reach you?”

  “A member of the staff would deliver a note. That’s what happened with the von Muellers. Gaby missed her connection and called the resort to let her parents know she’d be on a later flight.” Nora rummaged in her beach bag and drew out a comb. “Any messages to do with Sabine’s acting work go to Vernon, since he acts as her manager.” She said this with some vexation.

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Ah, well, it’s water under the bridge now, but a few years ago Sabine was supposed to play the lead role at our theatre in Dublin. When she was offered a part in a Broadway production, Vernon finagled her out of her contract with us, and the play went bust. We couldn’t get another crowd-drawing actress to fill the role in time. Sabine was ambitious. She’d been trying to get into film. She felt the lure of Hollywood and no doubt thought exposure on Broadway would help.”

  “Was she extremely talented?”

  “She had stage presence,” Nora conceded. “How that would have translated onto screen, I can’t tell you. I suppose, at twenty-eight, she decided it was now or never. You can cover a multitude of sins under stage makeup and lighting, but the camera isn’t so forgiving. She probably thought she could always return to the stage later.”

  “And your impressions of Sabine Durand as a person?” Rex asked as Nora applied suntan lotion to her face with the aid of a tortoiseshell compact similar to the one described in Toni Weeks’ statement.

  “She was straight out of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. In fact, it would not surprise me if Sabine did style herself after some literary character. She was not your typical flesh-and-blood woman. I’d be very surprised if a shark would bother to go after her as the police seem to think. She was very will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  Nora shrugged. “She knew a lot of men. Any one of them could have killed her out of jealousy.”

  Rex watched as she dropped the compact back in her beach bag. “Did you get that item here?” he asked. “I’d like to get one for a friend.”

  “In Philipsburg. I’ll try and remember which shop and let you know.”

  At that moment, Elizabeth returned with her raft. “Hope I didn’t come back too soon,” she said looking from one to the other as she patted herself down with her yellow resort towel.

  Rex gave up his seat. “Your timing is perfect. I have a few errands to run.”

  “I was thinking,” Elizabeth said. “If you’re still here at the end of the month, there’s a Full Moon Party in Grand Case on the thirtieth. You can see the stars for miles around.”

  “’Tis true enough,” Nora chirped in. “There’s no better place for stargazing than in the Caribbean, away from all the artificial light and pollution of big cities.”

  Rex told them he would attend if he could, though he secretly wished Moira Wilcox could be there with him. Stargazing was not an activity meant for one. He wondered what the night skies looked like in war-torn Baghdad, where his girlfriend was involved in humanitarian work restoring schools and bringing mobile water purification plants to the residents. In May, five British nationals had been abducted from a government building in the center of the city. He had not heard from Moira in two months. Fearing she had been kidnapped by terrorists, he had contacted the British Embassy in Baghdad before leaving on his trip, requesting assistance in ascertaining her whereabouts.

  Securing the towel about his middle, he thanked the two women for their time and made his way to the main building, a larger chalet than the eight beach residences, with steps leading up to the wooden porch.

  “Anything for Rex Graves?” he asked at the desk. His mother was under strict instructions to call if news came from Baghdad.

  The female clerk searched in the first pigeonhole and handed him a postcard of an orange sunset bleeding into the ocean, postmarked Puerto Rico. It was from Helen d’Arcy, whom he had met over Christmas at Swanmere Manor in Sussex, since which time they had kept loosely in contact. Conscious of the smile stretching his lips, he read the few lines.

  Wish you were here! I went ahead and booked my passage on the Sun-Fun Cruise Line. Will dock at St. Martin on July 23rd. Meet me off the Olympia at 11 for lunch? Love, Helen

  How the devil was he supposed to contact her at sea? With difficulty. But that was the point, he supposed; she was giving him little choice. He had been noncommittal about her proposed visit to St. Martin when she suggested it. Not that he didn’t want to see her—he did—he just felt conflicted by the situation with Moira.

  All the same, he couldn’t prevent Helen from spending her summer wherever she chose, and clearly she wanted to spend part of it with him. He wondered if he would be able to resist her this time in such an idyllic and seductive setting.

  “I don’t suppose my suitcase arrived?”

  The young desk clerk shook her head in apology. “Désolée. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Perhaps … Did you happen to be on duty last Tuesday afternoon?”

  She nodded.

  “I wonder if you remember Ms. Durand coming in and asking for her messages?”

  The clerk frowned in concentration. “I think so, yes. Do you know what happened to her? It is terrible!”

  “I don’t know anything at present. I was hoping you might help me. I’m assisting the gendarmes in their investigation.” This was a stretch, since he had not yet formally made his acquaintance with the police—an oversight he aimed to rectify immediately after lunch.

  “Generally she received many letters, and occasionally phone messages from a chiropractor’s office.” The clerk turned to the mailbox for #2 and extracted a few items. “Monsieur Powell has been picking up the mail.”

  “I’m heading back that way. I can take those.” Rex held out his hand, brooking no protest.

  As he left the lobby, he flipped through the envelopes and messages. One message, dated just over a week ago, was marked for Sabine’s attention. It was from a Dr. Sganarelle’s office confirming an appointment.

  Vernon Powell did not answer when he knocked. At Brook’s cabana, Rex changed into his one set of spare clothes and went to find Paul Winslow.

  “I’m going to join my wife for lunch at The Cockatoo. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Actually, I’m off to the Gendarmerie in Grand Case and wondered if I could borrow your Jeep.”

  “Of course, dear man. Just remember they drive on the wrong side of the road here. And don’t leave anything inside the car as it may get vandalized.” Winslow threw him the keys, and Rex took off for the neighboring town.

  Turning out of the resort, he maneuvered around the potholes that heavy rains had gutted into craters and gullies. He couldn’t imagine why this long dirt stretch wasn’t better maintained by the resort and by the ranch and butterfly farm that it serviced. No wonder the guests rented Jeeps.

  Once on the main road, another hazard awaited: bleating goats—zillions of them. He slowed to a stop while they plodded across the asphalt to the grassy hills on the other side. Cars began forming a long line behind him before he was finally able to move again.

  The coast road that circled into Grand Case gave a bird’s-eye view of the tiki bars and souvenir huts along the Plage
d’Azur. A couple of windsurfers skated in zigzag patterns across the bay. A small sailboat made for the island, gliding through the blue waves.

  Passing a large salt pond, he turned into a street bisecting the main boulevard of the town and found a parking space in front of one of many restaurants by the beach. He selected a bistro from where he could watch over Winslow’s Jeep, and ordered a coffee and a toasted ham and cheese sandwich.

  “Oooh ay le commissariat?” he asked the waiter when he had finished lunch, his guttural Scots tongue never having mastered the nuances of French pronunciation.

  “Par là-bas,” the man said pointing down the street. “Rue de Hollande.”

  Rex decided to walk to the police station since there were limited opportunities for parking. Beyond the stop sign at the intersection, a two-story building displayed the French tricolor flag, the words “GENDARMERIE” painted across its pitted façade. He mounted the steps and found the door locked. A glance at his watch confirmed it was past the hour for even an extended French lunch. Perhaps the police took naps, he thought crossly.

  As he turned away, a gendarme exited a house on the other side of the street, straightening his blue uniform.

  “Poovee-voo m’aider?” Rex gamely asked as the man approached. He was almost as tall as Rex, but thin as a beanpole.

  “Bien-sûr. Lieutenant Pierre Latour à votre service.” The gendarme gave a slight bow.

  In spite of the officer’s assurances of help, Rex could swear he detected a smirk on his face. “Je suis Monsieur Graves. Parlez-voo anglez?”

  “Oh, moi, l’anglais, vous savez … Alors, euh, what, er, is passing?” Apparently, Latour’s English was no better than Rex’s French.

  “I have come about Sabine Durand’s disappearance.”

  The gendarme twiddled his mustache. “We come and search ze beach, ask many questions.” A Gallic shrug of the shoulders.

  “I am aware of all that. I wondered if I might see the report.”

  “And your, euh, connection with ze case?”

  “I am here at the request of Monsieur Bijou.”