“Splendid work,” Winslow complimented them both. “But it’s been hard on Elizabeth, first thinking her daughter was dead, then finding out she was alive, only to have her taken into custody for murdering her husband.”
“We will take her now.” Latour signaled to his subordinate. “Is Monsieur Hastings in his office?”
“Aye, he’s with Jean-Luc Valquez, Ms. Durand’s accomplice. I’m not sure how far he’s involved, but I think it’s safe to say that Sabine Durand called the shots.”
“Zere was a shooting?”
“No—it’s just an expression. Incidentally, she appears to know Monsieur Bijou better than most.”
“Alors?”
“So, you need to bring him in for questioning.”
Latour, who already carried heavy purple bags under his eyes, contrived to look even more exhausted. “On what pretext? It has been a long day.”
For me, too, Rex thought. “There is no time to waste if this man is in fact the Jewel Killer. I believe I have enough proof for a warrant. He faced charges in Amsterdam for murdering women in exactly the same way he brutalized the two girls here on the island.”
The lieutenant sighed in dramatic fashion. “If it is as you say …”
“It would be a feather in your chapeau to denounce him.”
“If I live to see it. Monsieur Bijou has many persons working for him.”
Rex thought of Oscar, the valet-bodyguard. “Well, you can’t have Bijou running the island. One of the victims was found across the border on Dutch territory. Even if you don’t have the balls here to bring Bijou to justice, at least cooperate with the Dutch authorities.”
“Ze balls? What are ze balls we do not have?” Latour asked in all innocence. “It is true we are sadly lacking in resources …”
Rex moved on quickly. “I can give you a profile on his alias, Coenraad van Bijhooven, compiled by Interpol.” A slight exaggeration, but the lieutenant looked suitably impressed. “It details his nefarious activities in Amsterdam. I think it makes a strong case against Bijou now that we know for certain he is one and the same person.”
“I will do it!” Latour said, standing to attention. “Ah, oui, monsieur, leave it to me.”
“God help us,” Paul Winslow muttered behind Rex’s shoulder. “Do you think it’ll do much good?” he asked when the lieutenant stepped aside to take a call on his cell phone.
“At the very least, it’ll make Bijou feel verra uncomfortable when this gets out. People won’t be so willing to hand over their money.”
“He may just skip town like he did the last time.”
“He can’t run forever.”
“Marigot?” Latour asked sharply on the phone. “Mais non, voyons, c’est impossible!” he protested. “Mademoiselle Durand est ici sous surveillance.”
Rex and Winslow exchanged puzzled looks. How could Sabine be in Marigot?
Latour stormed through the lobby, his moustache set in a rigid line.
“Has she escaped?” Rex asked, rushing after him. He had left her with her mother not twenty minutes ago, or however long it had taken him to go back to his cabana to shower and change.
The gendarme gestured to Pierre to open the door to the small office. Sabine looked up from the desk where she was writing a letter.
“Finalement,” she said.
Latour turned on his heels. “It is not to be believed. I received a call from ze Marigot police saying Mademoiselle Durand was found dead.”
“How can that be?” Winslow demanded.
“Ze police in Marigot did not know we had found her. Someone fitting her description was discovered in an abandoned farmhouse, dead for a couple of weeks, it appears.”
“If it’s not Sabine Durand, who is it?” Winslow asked.
“Another of Monsieur Bijou’s victims,” Rex suggested.
“Ze builder for ze renovation, he goes in to check for rain damage. He looks in ze cellar. Ah, ze scene zat meets his eyes and his nose sickens him. He calls ze emergency services toute de suite.”
“Was there a gem in the woman’s naval?”
“A sapphire. Before she died, she was able to write ze letters ‘Bij’ on ze cellar floor with her blood.” Latour donned his cap. “I will take Mademoiselle Durand and her friend to ze station and I will assist in ze arrest of zis monster. Salut, messieurs.”
As Sabine was escorted from the main building, she slipped an envelope into Rex’s hand.
Rex watched while Latour and his sergeant installed Sabine and her wretched-looking friend in the patrol car. He then set foot toward his cabana. Brooklyn sat on the patio staring out to where the umbrellas flopped one by one as the beach attendants passed by, shutting down for the night. There had not been many takers, even after the sun made a brief and reluctant appearance that afternoon. The Irvings, undeterred, were practicing yoga motions in perfect sync on the sand.
“I’m not really one for this naturist culture,” Rex confided in his roommate.
Brooklyn shrugged with a smile. “To each his own.”
“Sabine gave me this.” Rex deposited the envelope on the table. “It’s addressed to you.”
Brooklyn gazed at it for a long moment before breaking the seal. He reached into his shirt pocket and fished out a pair of reading glasses.
“You need spectacles?” Rex asked in faint surprise.
“A bitch, isn’t it? My near vision suddenly deteriorated in the last year or so.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
So Brooklyn wasn’t perfect after all. Rex didn’t need reading glasses, and he was a full decade older than Brook. Nor did his mother, who was in her mid-eighties. He didn’t know whether to feel childish disappointment that his hero figure had a physical flaw, or else ignobly pleased.
He went inside for a beer and brought one out for Brooklyn, who threw the letter on the table.
“You know, in spite of what she did, it doesn’t really change my feelings for her,” he said. “Funny to think we were suspected of having an affair, but since I was still around, no one considered the possibility she may have run off with another man.”
“It was a right clever plan,” Rex agreed as he sat down. “Are you going to be returning to New York now?”
“No, I’ll stick around for as long as she needs me.”
“Brook, I wanted to ask you about that woman from Philipsburg you were dating.”
“Gerry Linder.”
“You just answered my question.” So it was Geraldine Linder, the murdered tour guide in Thad’s report on Coenraad van Bijhooven. When Brooklyn had referred to her as Gerry, Rex had not immediately made the connection. “Are you sure she went back to Europe?”
Brooklyn looked flummoxed. “I don’t know. I never heard from her again. One time, after I found out about her involvement with Bijou, I went round to her apartment. I was flying back to the States and thought I’d say goodbye. No hard feelings and all that. Her landlady said she had gone back to Holland and that some men had been in and cleaned the place out. Why do you ask?”
“She was one of the women murdered on the island two years ago. I have the newspaper cutting. She was found dead in September, missing since the end of August.”
“Hell, poor Gerry. I guess I must have missed the story, same as everybody else here.”
“It would have come out after you left St. Martin. The paper had to print a retraction clearing Bijou’s name. I’m very sorry, Brook.”
“You think he had something to do with this?”
“I think he had everything to do with it.”
“That’s why you went to The Stiletto.”
“Actually, I went there to see if he had an alibi for the night Sabine Durand went missing. He did. But she had a lucky escape since it appears he had designs on her too.”
“We must have the same taste in women. What’s going to happen now?”
“He’ll be taken into custody. The latest bit of evidence is quite damni
ng. Anyway, it’s not my pigeon. I came to solve the mystery of Sabine Durand and, I have to say, it’s been an interesting experience in many ways. I wouldna have missed it for the world.”
“Do you think you’ll ever return to St. Martin?”
“Who knows?”
The other guests would migrate back to their countries of origin, perhaps to return next summer, but the prize butterfly would no longer be among them. Sabine Durand would grace the gray cell of a prison for many years to come.
“So—looks like you solved at least two cases, Rex. And that’s not all.” Brooklyn raised an eyebrow in a quizzical expression. “David Weeks said you had a woman visitor while I was away. I’m assuming it wasn’t Moira, the social worker in Iraq?”
“No. Her name is Helen.”
“A girl in every port, huh?”
Rex coughed modestly. “Just one.”
“Hope it all works out for you, buddy.”
“I have a feeling it will—but you never know what life will throw at you, do you?”
“You just gotta play it for all it’s worth.” Brooklyn raised his bottle in a toast.
“Here’s to that,” Rex said, saluting him with his Guinness.
About theAuthor
Born in Bloomington, Indiana, and now residing permanently in Florida, C. S. Challinor was educated in Scotland and England, and holds a joint honors degree in Latin and French from the University of Kent, Canterbury, as well as a diploma in Russian from the Pushkin Institute in Moscow. Her professional background is in Florida real estate. She has traveled extensively and enjoys discovering new territory for her novels.
Visit C. S. Challinor on the web at www.rexgraves.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title_Page
Copyright
Cast_of_Characters
Preface
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
About_the_Author
Murder in the Raw Page 16