Murder in the Raw

by C. S. Challinor

  “I know. I met him,” Rex said, hoping the tape would not exonerate the slippery bastard.

  “How do I know you are not really a reporter?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “We get them sniffing around all the time. Bijou is newsworthy. He’s always doing something for the community or hanging out with the elite.”

  “Aye, he seems to keep quite busy. He was telling me about his new nightclub in Marigot. Says it’ll rival anything in Paris.”

  “He will make it happen. People will flock to Marigot.”

  “I suppose The Stiletto was a big attraction when it first opened.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I have been here less than two years. Monsieur Bijou tends not to keep his managers very long.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He doesn’t like people knowing too much about his business.”

  “Is there something shady going on?”

  The man stood up and rounded the bar. “Can I get you a soft drink?” he asked, spritzing soda into a glass for himself.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  The manager swept an arm around the mirrored walls and chandeliers of the cabaret lounge. “This is just show. His real money is in gemstones. Liquid assets. He has a flawless eye. He wears a million dollars on his fingers alone, including a rare Larimar of pure lagoon blue.”

  “Hence the bodyguard.”

  The bar manager scrutinized him across the polished wood counter. “He has many baboons. Oscar. Nito. Sergei. I cannot tell you anything more.”

  “I understand. I’d just like to see the tape.”

  The man shrugged. “Come with me.”

  Rex followed him down the corridor into an office that doubled up as a storeroom. Extracting a cassette tape from a shelf, he ran it for Rex.

  “Satisfied?” he asked as Bijou’s image on screen disappeared beneath the camera on his way through the entrance.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  He had hoped to rule out the resort guests as suspects. Now he was back at square one.

  The Weeks invited him to a cook-in at their cabana on Saturday night. Since David was a cordon bleu chef, the dinner promised to be special, especially as the ingredients were to be purchased fresh from the Marigot market that morning. The couple persuaded Rex to go with them to the French capital, which he had passed through when he first arrived.

  “Marigot’s a bit provincial,” Toni told him as Pascal ferried them across the countryside in the limo. “But it’s colourful.”

  She wore large dark sunglasses and a white linen dress that set off her exotic looks. Her husband, seated beside her, was vastly improved in street clothes as well. When they arrived, Pascal dropped the three of them off and went to get breakfast at the Café Terrace, where they arranged to meet up later.

  The market, a short walk from the town center, blended a relaxed European and Caribbean flair. Tourists and locals bartered with merchants displaying tropical fruit and vegetables beneath bleached canvas canopies. Ripe produce, incense, saffron, and curry powder mingled with the tang of fish and salt air. On the sea front, pelicans dove for scraps from the morning’s catch. David wandered off toward the boats to purchase mahi-mahi and shrimp.

  Meanwhile, Rex could not find anything that might appeal to his mother. Circulating the souvenir stalls in Toni’s company, he pictured Moira and her Australian lover arm-in-arm at a Baghdad market—a risky place to be, considering all the bomb and mortar attacks—but no doubt the danger lent an edge to their whirlwind romance. He was in no doubt that the rugged Aussie was her lover. “Blue eyes peering through the smoke” did not portend well for a platonic relationship.

  He consoled himself that Moira, a smart and hitherto discerning woman, probably already regretted sending him the Dear John letter. Not that he would take her back now. No, Moira Wilcox, ye made your bed and on it ye shall lie. He determined to waste no further thought on her and considered instead how refreshing it would be to see Helen again, a lass with a quick sense of humor and down-to-earth good sense—and blue eyes to match those of any wallaby from Down Under. He was glad now about her last-minute decision to join the group of teachers from her school on a cruise. She had flown to Puerto Rico to board the flagship Olympia a few days before he left for St. Martin and was now steaming toward him at full speed.

  “What about this bird feeder for your mother?” Toni suggested, holding out a hand-carved coconut on a rope.

  “Aye, she likes birds, but we live in a Victorian terraced house with only a narrow wee garden, and I’m not sure a coconut would fit in. She has verra traditional tastes.”

  “How about some Magic Spice then?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s what’s going on the mahi-mahi tonight. Dave claims it contains pot.”

  “Our housekeeper would never use anything like that. She might get addicted and she’s forgetful enough as it is.”

  “I meant for your mother.”

  “Och, she doesna cook. She’s too busy with her charities and, to be quite honest, to inflict her cooking on anybody would be an uncharitable act in itself.”

  “Well, maybe one of these silk shawls with fringes.” Toni expertly whipped through the hangers exhibiting a shimmering array of color.

  “Aye,” Rex exclaimed. “That would be just the ticket.”

  He knew it would end up adorning a table in one of the guest bedrooms, but his mother would appreciate the gesture nevertheless. Taking Toni’s advice, he selected one that was dyed in sunset hues—destined for the third-story guest bedroom overlooking the street.

  “I’m glad we got that out of the way,” he said, taking the bag from the vendor.

  “Anyone else you need to buy gifts for?” Toni asked.

  “Perhaps a shot glass for my son’s collection.”

  David joined them with a large packet of fish, and they meandered through the rest of the market before heading down a well-worn boulevard interspersed with modern storefronts flaunting design brands for everything from perfume to sunglasses.

  At the wine store, Rex paid for two bottles of Saint-Émilion as his contribution to the dinner. Then, carrying the groceries between them, he and David found the limo parked up the side street from the café where Pascal awaited them. As Toni left to fetch him, Rex set the bags on the sidewalk by the trunk of the car.

  “Dave, you knew Sabine from before, didn’t you?” he ventured, knowing full well that he had, according to the Winslows.

  “She waited tables at my restaurant years before I opened the cordon bleu school. That was when she was still a struggling actress. She lived in Paris but was schooled in England. Being bi-lingual helped no end. She could turn the French accent on for the clients and she knew her wines, which was a great asset.”

  “Did you get to know her well?” Rex hoped the question did not come across as indiscreet as it sounded.

  “Well enough. Toni worked at the restaurant at the time, and they sometimes didn’t see eye to eye, but nothing beyond the usual that goes on in a restaurant. Sabine met our old friends, the Winslows, there and they ended up letting her the flat in their basement. Eventually, she went on to bigger and better things.”

  “Met Vernon.”

  “That’s right. Her star was already set, but there’s no doubt he made things happen more quickly for her. In fact, she was on holiday here at La Plage with the Winslows one summer while Vernon was here with his first wife. They ran into each other a few years later in New York. Vernon was divorced by then.”

  “Elizabeth told me she didn’t approve of the match.”

  “Did she?” David Weeks pondered this fact. “I thought Vernon was quite a catch. Rich, lots of connections in the entertainment business. But women see these things a bit differently, don’t they?”

  “There was the age difference to consider.”

  “I suppose, but some women like older men. Sabine was estranged from her dad, a rich banker who didn’t approve of her acti
ng aspirations. Maybe she was looking for a father figure. And Vernon is in great shape for his age.”

  “Did you ever meet Sabine’s parents?”

  “Don’t recall that I did. Her family is from the stuffy sixième arrondissement in Paris. That’s about all I know. Elizabeth and Paul were like surrogate parents.” David glanced at his watch. “Where did Toni get to, I wonder?”

  At that moment, his wife turned the street corner with Pascal in tow. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I had a quick Porto at the café.”

  “Nice for you,” David grumbled. “We’re dying of heat stroke and thirst out here after lugging all the shopping.”

  “We have drinks in da car, don’ you worry, Mr. Weeks,” the driver assured him, unlocking the door.

  “Just as bloody well.” David stared pointedly at his wife as she got in, but she seemed unruffled. She even winked becomingly at Rex who piled in after her.

  “What do you plan to do for the rest of the day?” she asked as they relaxed in the air-conditioned comfort of the limo headed back to La Plage.

  “I thought I’d explore the far end of the beach and find a quiet bar to write my postcards.”

  “Try The Sand Bar,” David recommended, happier now that he had a beer in his hand. “There’s a shaded spot up on the wooden terrace, and the rum drinks are cheaper than anywhere else.”

  “Aye, well I don’t intend to drink too many of those. I need to work on the case this afternoon.”

  “Well, don’t work too hard,” Toni said. “Tonight’s supposed to lighten the mood for those of us who came out here for a holiday.”

  The inference was that she’d had enough of the gloom surrounding Sabine’s disappearance. Clearly, from everything she had said and written on the subject, not much love had been lost between the two women.

  After helping Pascal and David take the groceries to the Weeks’ front door, Rex made a detour to his cabana before setting out for The Sand Bar, equipped with his postcards and note pad, and everything else he might need for an afternoon at the beach. He still had to figure out a way to outsmart that fox Bijou, but it was hard to do when the fox was in his own territory and had all the loopholes covered and the police held at bay.

  By the time he left for the Weeks’ barbecue that evening, freshly showered and dressed for the occasion, he had not made much progress in the case. The potent daiquiris at The Sand Bar, added to the various distractions afforded by the screaming hordes on the banana boat and other water sports in the bay, had not been conducive to achieving a whole lot of thinking.

  A breeze stirred the fronds in the palm trees, agitating the Chinese lanterns, still unlit. The sobbing wail of a saxophone vibrated through the sultry air, emanating from a CD player at the Weeks’ eighth and final cabana. The guests in pareos and wraps gathered on the patio, sipping tall drinks decorated with straws and mini-umbrellas, while Gaby, long blond hair flowing down her bare back, offered him a plate of pumpernickel squares topped with smoked salmon. As he thanked her in Latin, he spotted Mrs. Winslow in her flame-colored sarong and the Greek necklace with the interlocking wave motif.

  “You’re staring at me. I must look especially ravishing tonight,” she joked.

  “That you do.” He led her aside. “There’s also something bothering me. I hope you can clear it up.”

  Elizabeth stared at him with stricken eyes. “I’ll try.”

  “It concerns a photo of you taken by Vernon the night of Sabine’s disappearance.”

  “At the party? People were taking pictures all night. It was just us, and Hastings didn’t object. He must have decided to bend the rules for Paul’s birthday. But I honestly can’t remember. We were all quite blotto.”

  “That must be it,” Rex said. “But Vernon swears he didn’t have his camera phone that night.”

  “Perhaps someone picked it up by mistake. Is it important?”

  “It was found by the rocks.”

  “Maybe Vernon dropped it. How do you know you can believe him?”

  “I don’t.” Rex gazed around the patio, taking in all the guests. How did he know he could believe any of them?

  Brooklyn was conspicuous by his absence. Rex inquired after him, not having seen him all day.

  “Dropped us like a hot brick,” David complained, manipulating the fish fillets on the barbecue. “Makes me think Sabine was the only reason he hung around in the first place. One summer he brought a girl. Just the one time, mind you.”

  “Maybe he’s got someone in Philipsburg,” Pam said. “That’s where he spends all his time. I haven’t seen his cute butt on the beach in over a week.”

  “He’s in mourning for Sabine,” Sean O’Sullivan warbled, already four sheets to the wind.

  Nora silenced him with a glare. “Will you listen to him prattling on?” she said to the company at large, eyes flitting toward Vernon who sat morosely in a corner.

  “Brook flew back to the States,” Paul Winslow informed everyone. “He’ll be back Wednesday.”

  That was news to Rex.

  “He had to put out a fire on Wall Street. Loss of investor confidence in some company or other.”

  Rex flopped back in his chair.

  “Don’t look so put out, old chap.” Winslow handed him a whiskey on the rocks. “He said he had to leave in a hurry to avoid a tropical depression that’s moving in from the south. I hate to think of that plane of his being buffeted around like a shuttlecock over the ocean. I told him to get going before it was too late.”

  Rex wondered what incentive Brooklyn could possibly have to return if it was in fact true that Sabine had been his primary reason for being at La Plage. Thinking of love interests, he remembered he was meeting Helen off the ship in Philipsburg on Monday and arranged with Paul for the loan of his Jeep.

  “By the way, Paul, do you know a night club down there called The Stiletto?”

  “I don’t, but Duke might. He knows all the joints in Philipsburg.”

  The Texan turned toward them, puffing on a fat Cuban cigar. “Do I feel my ears burnin’?”

  “Rex was inquiring about The Stiletto in Philipsburg.”

  “Haven’t been in a coupla years, not since that business with one of the dancers getting murdered. Poor kid. They found her mutilated body in a cellar.”

  “Do you remember her?” Rex asked.

  “Sure do. Face like an angel, body like a whore. What a combination.” Farley stuck the cigar in his mouth.

  “Has this anything to do with our case?” Winslow asked Rex.

  “It might, but Bijou was at his club the night Sabine went missing. I have witnesses attesting to that fact.”

  “Reliable?”

  “The bar manager and the accountant, both of whom confirmed having a meeting with him.”

  “Bijou took me there with Pam once,” the Texan told Rex. “This was when he was looking for investors for his club-casino in Marigot. Said he was scouting out the best dancers on the island. He bought out The Stiletto at around that time.”

  “Do you know if he was personally acquainted with Leona Couch?”

  Duke Farley prodded his malodorous cigar in Rex’s direction. “Leona. That was her name. He was fascinated by her. When she did her routine, he looked like his borehole had yielded a shitload of oil.”

  Rex pulled his pipe from his pocket and pensively thumbed Clan tobacco into the bowl. He found he resorted less to his habit in hot weather, but the mellow-sweet fragrance went some way to counteracting the cigar smoke polluting the storm-expectant air. Finally, under the pretext of getting another drink, he moved away from Farley and sought out Sean O’Sullivan, eager to probe him for more information on the Jewel Killings before further drink rendered the Irishman senseless.

  In spite of Bijou’s alibi in the Durand case, he wanted to see if he could pin the other girls’ murders on him and make it stick. Too much smoke existed for there not to be a fire somewhere.

  When Rex returned to his cabana later that night, he eased ope
n Brooklyn’s door and was reassured to see his personal items lying about the room. It wasn’t simply that he would feel slighted had Brooklyn just taken off without saying goodbye; Rex had realized when he first heard of his departure that he genuinely liked and admired the man. He was courageous, intelligent, and successful, and yet for all that, appeared to be someone who would lend an ear in time of trouble and extend a hand in time of need.

  He sincerely hoped he was not wrong about Brooklyn.

  The next morning he awoke dehydrated from a hangover and found the room darker than usual, even at this advanced hour. A rainstorm had knocked the frond of a coconut palm against the cabana roof all night, and now a blustery day greeted him when he stepped onto the patio.

  A tornado-shaped cloud loomed on the horizon. The last sailboat had disappeared from the bay, presumably to find a safer haven. The yellow umbrellas stood furled on the sand, contributing to the desolate scene. Since it was not beach weather, Rex decided to spend part of the day canvassing the nearby tourist spots, starting with the Sundown Ranch.

  “‘The Rundown Ranch,’ as Sabine and I jokingly called it,” Brooklyn had confided the other day when he gave Rex a photo of the two of them standing by a paddock fence.

  After the recent storm, the gully-washed road proved more hazardous than usual, and he made slow progress to the ranch, where the photo elicited an almost hysterical response from the owner. Mon Dieu! She knew Mademoiselle Sabine very well, always personally made sure Dancer was available and fresh for her ride. Quelle horreur! To think such an atrocity had happened not two miles from here! Theft, yes, that happened from time to time. Just two weeks ago, the dispensary in the stable had been broken into and some potent drugs stolen. “Des drogués,” she announced, making her eyes go spacey in imitation of a drug addict. They did not care what they put in their bodies, these young people.

  She shook her head sorrowfully at the photograph. “Ah, le pauvre!” she exclaimed, referring to Brooklyn. The two lovebirds had been so close. How he must miss her …