Murder in the Raw

by C. S. Challinor

Tapping the photo against the palm of his hand, Rex stepped back through the mud to the Jeep. A young woman unsaddled a horse steaming from its recent exercise and hosed it down in the yard. He removed his sandals as he got in the car and placed them upside down on the passenger mat. Barefoot, he drove out through the broken-down gate, leaving behind the smell of wet hay and manure, and proceeded along Le Galion Beach Road until he came to a large meshed structure with a sign advertising the Butterfly Farm.

  After paying his admission and declining the guided tour, he entered the net enclosure. Serenaded by the melodic Enya floating down from the speakers, he ambled through a giant terrarium harboring hundreds of butterfly species from Saba, Cambodia, Trinidad, Indonesia, China, and elsewhere, meandering among the flowering plants in the soothing green shade. A Monarch alighted on his shoulder.

  “It may be attracted to your aftershave,” the guide remarked before turning back to her group of visitors and describing how certain butterflies mated for thirty-six hours out of their two-week life-span.

  Rex wondered if that was proportionate to human adult sexual activity and, based on his own experience, decided it wasn’t; butterflies definitely fared better in that department. When the mating was disturbed, the guide went on to explain, they flew away together, the female carrying the male. This drew laughs from the crowd. He overheard, too, that the farm had been the brainchild of two eccentric Englishmen, which really didn’t surprise him. The English had the market cornered on quaintness.

  The serene butterfly surroundings exerted a calming influence upon him and he lingered longer than he had intended, studying the pupae that resembled exquisite designer earrings and following the trail of a stately red peacock with black markings and a large purple and yellow eyespot on the tip of each wing.

  Making sure no insects had adhered to his clothing, he exited the screened door and stepped back into the souvenir store.

  “Can you tell me if you recognize this couple?” he asked the middle-aged woman at the counter, showing her the snapshot of Brooklyn and Sabine.

  “Well, I recognize her,” the store clerk said in a broad English accent. “She’s the missing actress, Sabine Duras.”

  “Durand.”

  “Are you a reporter?” she asked in a forthright manner.

  “No, I’m a friend of a friend hoping to locate her.”

  “She was here two or three times, but I don’t know the man in the photo—I’d remember such a hunky bloke. Not that the man with her wasn’t attractive too.”

  “Do you remember his nationality?” His heart raced in excitement.

  “The first time I saw them, they requested a French-speaking guide, but she spoke English with me. She autographed one of our brochures. She’s even lovelier in real life.”

  “What did her friend look like?”

  “Medium height, dark hair, sexy smile. About her age, maybe younger. He wore those wraparound sunglasses and never took them off, so I didn’t get a chance to look at his eyes. He seemed a bit twitchy.”

  “Twitchy?”

  “Sort of nervous. Kept looking around. Maybe he was worried about the paparazzi, but St. Martin is really very low key and we tend to respect people’s privacy here.”

  “When did they come in last?”

  “Two weeks ago, maybe. Monday, I think it was. That’s right. She asked about a framed display of a striped moth. We didn’t have it so I ordered one for the shop. Here’s the entry,” the store clerk said. “July ninth.”

  Sabine had disappeared the next day. As Rex headed back toward the resort for lunch, he wondered about this new man in her life. Where could he find him? Was he connected to Bijou in some way?

  Pale grey clouds mottled the sky, threatening rain. His thoughts diverted to Helen. Hopefully the weather would clear up by tomorrow in time for her visit. He recalled how they had watched the swans on the lake in Sussex, how she had played footsie with him that night in his bed. They had exchanged cards and e-mails since Christmas, had spoken a few times on the phone, but there had been a certain reticence in their conversations. He could not be sure if she was still dating the mathematics teacher at the school where she was a student counselor. And, of course, Moira had been in the picture, so there could be no question of taking the relationship further.

  Now that his conscience was clear with regard to Moira Wilcox, he looked forward to Helen’s visit as much as a mooning teenager on his first date.

  A white, multi-tiered floating hotel docked on Great Bay overshadowed the boats ferrying passengers to port. The yellow funnel emblazoned with “Fun-Sun” in blue letters assured Rex this was indeed Helen’s ship. But where was she?

  Suddenly he spotted her through the crowd milling by the terminal. “Helen!” he shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth and waving frantically.

  She half-ran toward him, a smile breaking out on her face. Her nautical style navy and white dress fit her just right. Her tanned skin brought out the blue of her eyes, and she had done something with her hair—he couldn’t tell what, but it seemed softer than he remembered.

  “You look wonderful,” he told her, deliberating whether to embrace her, and suddenly wanting to very much.

  “And you look very huggable.” She stood on her toes in her mid-heel sandals and flung her arms around his shoulders. “Do I get a kiss?”

  Gathering her in his arms, he kissed her full on the lips.

  “Do you notice anything about me?”

  Rex panicked. Such a question from a woman always inspired him with dread. Had she lost weight? “You did something with your hair?” he asked hopefully.

  “I’m wearing the earrings!”

  “So you are.” The tiny turquoise-studded swans he had bought for her in Swanmere Village dangled from her ears.

  “I didn’t notice them at first because your hair sort of covers them. It looks very nice, by the way. Very soft and wavy.”

  She smiled, and he felt pleased with himself at making such an adroit comeback.

  “Honey-chile,” a black mama called out from a folding chair located beside a crate of beads. “Lemme give you some braids.”

  “Maybe later,” Helen replied. “Only a dollar a braid,” she told Rex wistfully.

  Never able to understand the compulsion women had for changing their hairstyles, he took her hand and drew her away. They passed the duty-free shops and discount stores on Front Street where merchants stood at their posts bracing for the onslaught of bargain-seekers let loose from the cruise.

  “I can’t believe the price of clothes and electronic goods here,” Helen exclaimed. “And look at those watches.”

  In a pharmacy, Rex spotted tortoiseshell compacts like the one he had seen in Nora O’Sullivan’s possession. Perhaps Sabine had bought hers in here too.

  “It’s very much like St. Thomas,” Helen said. “I got this gold bracelet there.” She shook the gold chain on her wrist.

  “Are you sure it’s real?”

  “I’ll get it appraised when I get home. Anyway, I like it.” She stopped to gaze at a window display of blue Delft from Holland. “I should get some linen napkins since they’re so cheap. Everything’s tax-free as well.”

  Rex found a seat inside the store and waited patiently until, holding a small bag of purchases, Helen led him back onto the street.

  “Oh, look, the Guavaberry Emporium. I read about it in the brochure. We can try some for free.”

  They sampled the sweet liqueur at the counter. Helen opted to buy an opaque green bottle of banana rum instead.

  “Can we get lunch now?” Rex asked.

  “If we must. All we’ve been doing on the ship is eating. I think some people go on cruises just for the food, judging by the size of the passengers.”

  “Well, I haven’t eaten since my pain au chocolat this morning. And I’m dying for a beer.”

  They settled for an outdoor table at a dockside café and ordered drinks and seafood platters.

  “You don’t look like you
got a lot of sun during your week out here,” Helen observed.

  “A tan makes my freckles stand out. Anyway, we had a bit of rain over the weekend—but it’s cleared up nicely.” He looked up in appreciation at the cloudless blue sky.

  “Are you having a good time?” she asked.

  “Except when I’m reminded what a polyglot I’m not.”

  “A polyglot?”

  “Someone who speaks many languages. My German is passable, but my French seems to afford much mirth to anyone within earshot. It’s verra embarrassing.”

  Helen laughed. “Your Scots accent must sound funny in French. I can’t wait to hear you speak it.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Helen chuckled into her glass of white wine. “I suppose the word ‘polyglot’ is Latin?”

  “No, it’s from the Greek.”

  “Rex, you really need to get out more.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” He extended his arms to indicate their exotic surroundings. “Hobnobbing with the jet set.”

  “Well, I admit you’re less uptight than when I first met you. A bit of sun can do wonders. You look totally different in casual clothes.”

  Rex may have looked casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he had tried on five shirts that morning in an effort to look as appealing as possible for Helen’s benefit. He had finally settled on a short-sleeved, loose-fitting button-down shirt worn over khaki shorts reaching his knees and equipped with so many pockets he was convinced he would forget in which one he’d placed the car keys.

  “I bought these clothes in Miami, down to the designer leather flip-flops, which Campbell assured me were worth the extra forty dollars—even though I couldna tell the difference from the no-name brands.”

  “You look very nice. And very authentic,” Helen added. “Campbell has good taste.”

  “If ‘good’ equates to ‘expensive,’ I can assure you he does that. I remember when I was a student, the only clothes manufacturers’ names we knew were Wrangler and Levi.”

  “Life was simpler then.”

  “Aye, and you didn’t need a degree in advanced technology to make a phone call.”

  “You old dinosaur.”

  She said it in such a fond way that he suddenly liked the idea of being an old dinosaur. Well, not old exactly, but a seasoned, warrior dinosaur. He relaxed in his chair with a contented sigh and signaled to the passing waiter for another beer and white wine for Helen. “This is a grand place to be.”

  “It certainly is. So, have you heard from your girlfriend yet?”

  “Aye, well, there’s been a development.”

  As they tackled their seafood, he told her about Moira’s desertion and how he felt like a fool after making all those inquiries over the phone to her hotel and to the British Embassy in Baghdad. “She could have told me sooner and spared me all the trouble,” he concluded.

  “She was probably embarrassed.”

  “As well she should be.”

  “So do I get to see where you’re staying now that you’re a free man?”

  “If you’d like. It’s at the other end of the island but we can get there in half an hour. I better warn you, though—it’s a nudist resort.”

  “No! Are you having me on? I just can’t picture you in that sort of place.”

  “I keep my swimming trunks on,” Rex said modestly.

  Helen suppressed a giggle. “This I’ve got to see.” She wiped a tear of laughter from her eye.

  “I’m not as much of a prude as all that, you know. Isn’t that what you called me back at Swanmere?”

  “I did,” Helen said, recovering slowly. “So, do you interview all these people in the never-never?” She chuckled again.

  “Mostly, but it’s strange how quickly you get used to it. After a few days, you hardly notice at all.”

  “Well, I’m jealous. The thought of you ogling naked young women all day …”

  “There’s no need for jealousy. Most aren’t that young.” He raised his glass. “I only have eyes for you!”

  “Flatterer.” She mouthed him a kiss across the table. “So how is Campbell getting on in Florida?”

  “He finished his first year with a 3.5 grade point average, out of a possible 4, so I’m quite pleased.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Aye, well he’s making a point, trying to prove I was wrong in not wanting him to go there in the first place.” Rex thumbed his glass. “It’s hard when they move away from home, but it’s interesting seeing him grow into his own person. He’s not really like me at all.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Who knows? And my mother’s getting on. I don’t know how long she’ll be around.”

  “Rex, you sound lonely!”

  “Well, now that Moira’s run off, I’m feeling quite abandoned. I’m glad you came, Helen, I truly am.”

  “It’s not just a question of being on the rebound, is it?”

  “Definitely not! To tell the truth, I’m glad it turned out this way. I always felt an attraction for you, lass. I really enjoy being with you.”

  “Likewise—well, you know how I feel about you.” Helen tipped the rest of her wine in her mouth and slid her purse strap over her shoulder. “How about some sightseeing?”

  “What, you mean now?” He wanted to spend some personal time with her.

  “Just a little foray into the Sint Maarten Museum.”

  He must have looked less than enthused as he hurriedly paid the bill.

  “A bit of culture, Rex. Did you know, the island’s first settlers, the Arawaks …”

  Rex, only half paying attention, concentrated on finding the museum, which was hidden down an alleyway. The converted nineteenth-century dwelling held an archived collection of sepia photos of hurricanes and an assortment of musketry, blackened cookware, and other island memorabilia.

  “I love all these old artifacts, seeing how people lived back in the olden days,” Helen said, peering into a glass display. “Oh, look at these funny misshapen cannon balls.”

  “Aye,” Rex said absent-mindedly, more interested in a model ship of The Fair Rosamund, a slave vessel depicted as stealing away with human cargo onboard. A diagram showed how the captives were packed like sardines in the hold. An absolute disgrace, he thought.

  “What now?” he asked hopefully when they had seen everything the small museum had to offer.

  “I really would like to see where you’re staying. We still have bags of time.”

  “You’ll like the beach.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of beaches. I want to see more of you.” She raised an eyebrow in unmistakable wickedness.

  Rex cleared his throat. “My chariot awaits.”

  He escorted her to Paul’s beat-up safari-style Jeep and stowed her purchases on the back seat. Pulling out of the parking space, he proceeded to give a potted history of the island. “Philipsburg was founded in 1763 by John Philips, a Scottish captain in the Dutch navy,” he announced proudly.

  “Those intrepid Scots,” Helen said, smiling at him.

  Rex took the most direct route back to the northeast side of St. Martin and they arrived at the resort in good time. Leaving the jeep outside his cabana, he ushered Helen inside before they could be accosted by a nude guest. He flipped the sign to “Do Not Disturb.”

  “Where’s the roommate you were telling me about?” Helen asked.

  “In New York. Fortunately for us. Or, should I say, for me. If you met him, you’d forget all about yours truly.”

  “Now, why would you say that? Is he very good-looking?”

  “Aye. He even races his own cars and flies his own plane.”

  Helen laughed. “Ah, well. I suppose I’ll just have to do with you then, won’t I?”

  “Ta verra much.”

  She planted a kiss on his mouth. “Can I see your room now?”

  Rex swept open the bedroom door. A dozen dewy red roses stood in a vase by the bedside, per his instructions to the front
desk that morning.

  “Oh, these smell divine,” Helen exclaimed, bending over the arrangement. “Are they for me?”

  “What d’ye think! Your name’s on the card.”

  Helen drew the tiny envelope from the bouquet and opened it. She spoke the words aloud:

  ’O, my Luve’s like a red, red rose

  sweetly play’d in tune.

  Rex continued the poem from memory.

  ’As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in luve am I;

  And I will luve thee still, my dear,

  Till a’ the seas gang dry.

  Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:

  I will luve thee still, my dear,

  While the sands o’ life shall run.

  And fare thee weel, my only Luve!

  And fare thee weel a while!

  And I will come again, my Luve,

  Tho’ it ware ten thousand mile!

  “Oh, Rex, that is so romantic.”

  He bowed. “It’s by Robbie Burns.”

  “I love that poem. How clever of you to be able to recite it so flawlessly.”

  “It’s my party piece. It’s also the only poem I know.” He hoped Helen was not going to read too much into it.

  She clasped her hands around his neck and kissed him. Rex returned the kiss with fervor. Turning around, she lifted her hair so he could unzip her dress, which he obligingly did, and a minute later, she stood before him in her lacy bra and panties, bronzed and nicely proportioned.

  “Well, don’t just stand there all gormless-like,” she teased in an exaggerated northern English dialect.

  “I’m just admiring.”

  She unbuckled his belt while he attended to the buttons on his shirt. “I always wanted to look under a Scotsman’s kilt,” she confessed.

  “I hope I do Bonny Scotland proud,” he said stepping out of his boxers.

  “Oh, you certainly do, Rex,” Helen said happily.

  “I wish I could stay here,” Helen said stretching beside him in the king-size bed. Her face looked as fresh as the roses on the bedside table, her eyes clear and bright. Rex felt pretty good himself.