Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  I looked at her sharply. “Any leaks about your investigation didn’t come from me,” I said. “It may have been my misfortune to discover Alicia Betterton’s body, but I’ve never spoken about it with the press.”

  “They certainly seem to know who you are.”

  “I can’t help that my photograph appeared in the newspaper. I didn’t invite this reporter’s attention, nor have I responded to it. And I don’t appreciate being accused of something I haven’t done.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you,” she said icily. “I’m merely warning you to be careful who you speak with. Any casual remark can be passed along and blown out of proportion.”

  “Has that happened to you?” I asked, making an effort to tamp down my rising indignation.

  She pulled back her shoulders. “It has not. I’m very mindful of keeping mum on my work. I don’t share information with anyone outside my team and I don’t associate with the islanders beyond the office.”

  I wondered whether Freddie heard her comments. Clearly she didn’t approve of his discussing the Bermuda Ripper cases with me.

  “I’m a guest of one of the islanders,” I said. “I can hardly avoid communicating with my host and his family when I’m taking advantage of their hospitality. And, yes, we certainly have discussed the terrible tragedy that they’re experiencing. But I don’t see how I could have revealed anything about the Ripper cases, since I didn’t know anything other than what I’ve read in the local paper.”

  “Unfortunately, you do now. Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. Fletcher, but while you may be a very talented amateur, you are not a police official, and it is imperative we do nothing to jeopardize the safety of others like this girl.” She waved her hand at the body that was being wrapped for removal.

  “And just how do you think I have jeopardized anyone’s safety?” I demanded, no longer concealing my annoyance.

  Gilliam, who had been standing by silently, jumped in. “Now, Ronnie. That’s going a bit far, don’t you think?” he said. “The CI wouldn’t approve.”

  Macdonald eyed him coldly. “George is a professional, as am I. He would not want us to breach security, even in the name of friendship.”

  Freddie, who’d caught the drift of our conversation—if so gentle a word can be applied to our exchange—hurried over to try to calm the waters. “Mrs. Fletcher is a trusted associate, Ronnie. I have total faith in her discretion, as I know the chief inspector also does. No need for worry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her along just now, but what’s done is done. I’m going to take Mrs. Fletcher back to her host right away.” He aimed a smile at me. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ll be happy to leave with you,” I said. “However, I just want it made clear”—I looked directly at Macdonald—“that ‘talented amateur’ or not, any involvement I might have with the cases you are investigating came at your request. It was not something I looked for, but a favor Chief Inspector Sutherland asked of me.” I purposely used George’s formal title. “And in response to the invitation from you and your colleagues, I came to headquarters today to provide whatever help I could offer.”

  “And you provided very good information, indeed,” Gilliam put in, clearly hoping to draw this discussion to a close. He glared at Macdonald, who seemed taken aback.

  “I apologize if I said anything to offend you, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said stiffly. “This case has been very difficult, and…” She trailed off, her gaze dropping to her shoes.

  “Apology accepted,” I said, although it was difficult to get the words out. Pulse up, I wrestled with my irritation as Freddie and I walked out the far end of the alley.

  “Oh, my dear, dear lady,” Freddie said. “I hope she didn’t upset you. Ronnie is very competent, but she’s also a little blinkered… that is, only sees her own point of view. Perhaps a bit guarded as well. She didn’t mean any harm.”

  “She may not mean any harm,” I replied, stopping to face him, “but she appeared to me to be fending off what she sees as an intrusion into her territory by an outsider.”

  “No. No. You’re no outsider.”

  “I just don’t want to be put in that position.”

  We walked in silence to where he had parked his car, and—thank heavens!—didn’t encounter any more press people.

  Once we were strapped into our seat belts, and on the road to Tucker’s Town, I voiced the thoughts that had been churning in my mind. “Freddie, I hope you won’t think that I’m stating the obvious or that I’m uncaring, but the Ripper murders are your responsibility, not mine.”

  “Absolutely they are, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t mean to burden you.”

  “You didn’t burden me. I enjoyed our talk and I learned a lot more from you than you learned from me.”

  “It’s a great boon to have someone to bounce ideas around with, someone who approaches an investigation in the same way I do.”

  “You have two colleagues with you from Scotland Yard. Can’t you do that with them?”

  “They are consummate professionals—no skin off them—but they don’t immerse themselves in the case the way I do. And the way I believe you do.”

  “I’m flattered. If I think of anything that could possibly be useful, I’ll happily pass it along to you, but—”

  “Yes, your input is always welcome,” he put in before I had a chance to finish my thought.

  “I don’t think we had better work together, even in an informal sense. There’s too much risk to you,” I said.

  And to me, I was thinking but didn’t express. I wasn’t concerned about a physical risk, but I didn’t care to give Veronica Macdonald another opportunity to take me to task.

  “I don’t see how I hazard anything consulting with you,” he said.

  “You could endanger your reputation. And clearly it upsets your colleagues.”

  “My reputation is secure,” he said. “Please don’t let Ronnie’s intemperate remarks keep us from sharing confidences. I know that you would never compromise our investigation, and I value your opinions. And our chief trusts you implicitly. Otherwise, he never would have suggested we take heed of your views.”

  I hated to say it, but I knew it was what his colleague was thinking. “I’m afraid Inspector Macdonald suspects that our personal friendship—George’s and mine—may color his judgment.”

  “You can’t believe that for an instant. Our chief is the soul of professionalism.”

  I was grateful to hear that, but didn’t change my mind. “I have the utmost confidence in Chief Inspector Sutherland,” I said. “However, even the smallest appearance of inappropriate special treatment is just as perilous as the reality.”

  Freddie refused to acknowledge that my input into his investigation exposed him to criticism, but I was not convinced. He argued with me all the way to the Betterton house and, against my better judgment, extracted a promise from me not to make a decision about working with him just yet. He would “ring me up” in a day or two.

  I thanked him for the tea, told him how happy I was to make his acquaintance, and said I would give his arguments careful consideration. What I didn’t know was that the choice would soon be taken out of my hands, and that my participation in the Ripper cases would have an impact on more than Freddie’s good name.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stephen Betterton had invited me to see his studio. We’d been the only ones at the dinner table the previous evening because Tom, Margo, Madeline, and Adam had taken the Betterton boat out and were not expected to be home until later in the day. The Reynoldses were eating out. I didn’t know if they’d resigned themselves to staying in Tom’s cottage or were still hunting for a hotel, but they evidently hadn’t informed the cook of their planned absence because Norlene had prepared an elaborate meal including enough food for all. She was obviously disappointed when only Stephen and I showed up and questioned whether we wanted to have dinner in the dining room. We decided that we did, if only not to see her efforts wasted.

&nb
sp; Over a delicious dish of baked lobster and spinach, accompanied by a salad of potatoes and Bermuda onions and a sweet biscuit, Stephen and I had found ourselves discussing life and art. I was pleased to have the chance to spend time with him alone. There had only been limited opportunities to get to know various family members and I’d pledged to myself that I’d seek out those moments.

  “How’s your hand?” I’d asked during dinner.

  He glanced down at his palm. “Healing.” He made a fist. “Aches a little, but it’ll be fine. Hasn’t gotten in the way. What about you Mrs. Fletcher? Have you had a chance to see much of the island since you arrived? I know it hasn’t been much of a vacation.” He gave a soft snort. “Getting involved with the Bettertons is always complicated.”

  “It certainly isn’t the kind of week I’d planned for,” I said, “but Daisy Reynolds and I did get to visit St. George’s and happened to see your works at Richard Mann’s gallery.”

  “Oh?”

  “Actually,” I said, “Mrs. Reynolds and I hadn’t intended to go to the gallery, but ended up there when we bumped into each other, literally, while we were both escaping the rain.”

  “You must be among the very few who’ve seen the show,” Stephen said. “What did you think of it, if I dare to ask?”

  “I was very impressed with your talent, and was particularly taken with your portraits of Madeline and Alicia. I was sorry there weren’t more of them.”

  “Mann has been after me for a while to give him enough pieces for a show,” he said. “It’s ironic in a way. He obviously thought that he could capitalize on our family’s name and that all the people we know on the island would bring in customers for him.”

  “That didn’t happen?”

  “I don’t think that all the gossip surrounding a murder is exactly what he had in mind. He changed his plans about taking an ad in the paper to announce the opening.”

  “Then that was foolish on his part,” I said. “Art should be able to stand on its own and shouldn’t need to have a family name or long story behind it.”

  “I agree with you, but Mann is a businessman as well as a gallery owner. No people coming in to see the show, no sales. Not good for him or the artist. What about my street scenes, Mrs. Fletcher? What did you think of them?”

  “They certainly show your skill,” I said, “but you obviously put all your emotion into your portraits.”

  “It’s that obvious, huh? A lot had to do with the model. Madeline is a good one. Alicia was…” He shrugged. “I couldn’t paint her.”

  “Yet you did.”

  “Only that once.”

  “What made her a poor model?” I asked.

  “She was too fidgety, couldn’t sit still. Her mind was always hopping from one thing to another, from one scheme to another.”

  “Scheme?”

  “Maybe the wrong word to use. Anyway, she never could hold one expression for any length of time.”

  “But Madeline can?”

  “Maddy’s a daydreamer. She’s easy to paint. Just give her a mental image to focus on and she can hold a pose for hours.”

  “Is painting what you want to do with your life?” I asked. Richard Mann had indicated to me that art was Stephen’s hobby rather than his vocation, but perhaps Mann had been putting his own interpretation on Stephen’s intentions.

  “At the moment, it’s the only thing I’m good at,” Stephen said with a shrug. “Tom doesn’t think that being an artist is a manly profession. He’s told me that many times. He’d have preferred that I study law or medicine, something he could brag about.”

  “But he seems proud of your artistic abilities,” I said. “He praised your drawings of the Jersey Devil the other evening.”

  “To Tom, my artistic skill falls into the category of amusing talent, like juggling, or balancing a ball on my nose,” he said. “That’s why, even with all the trouble she caused him, Alicia was his favorite.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because she argued about everything. She had one of those mouse-trap minds. She’d catch you in an inconsistency and throw it up in your face. Tom wanted her to study law and follow in his footsteps, and she even considered it for a while. But she lost patience with all the memorizing of minutiae it required.”

  “So what did she end up studying?” I asked.

  “She never really focused in on anything.”

  “What did she do after boarding school?”

  He shook his head. “Drifted, I guess you could say. I wouldn’t know how else to describe it.”

  I didn’t press him, although I was interested in knowing more. His tone reflected that he was not particularly eager to delve into the question any further. Alicia’s whereabouts after boarding school remained a tantalizing mystery. When I’d asked Tom, he had sloughed me off, saying it wasn’t important. His ex-wife Claudia had avoided the question, too. Now Stephen would only define that time as “drifting.” All their evasion and obfuscation only increased my curiosity as to why no one was willing to talk about that period of Alicia’s life. Not that it necessarily had a bearing on her death, but it was one of those loose strings I dearly wanted to tie up.

  Before leaving the dinner table and going our separate ways, Stephen told me that he was working on another portrait, this one from an old photograph he’d found. “You’re welcome to come tomorrow and take a look,” he said, to which I readily agreed. It would give me another opportunity to broach the topic of Alicia and hopefully get a more definitive answer.

  The next morning, fortified with a cup of tea and a Bermudian doughnut—Norlene told me that it was called a malasada, a confection that had been brought to the island by its Portuguese-speaking population—I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the Betterton house and walked softly to the end of the hall. I hadn’t seen anyone else downstairs and presumed they were still sleeping. The door was open and I knocked on the frame before entering what was obviously a bedroom that had been converted into an artist’s studio.

  Stephen, who was barefoot, wore a pair of ripped and paint-dappled jeans, a similarly paint-adorned T-shirt, and a red bandanna tied over his hair. He stood on a rumpled tarp, anchored in place by his easel while mixing paints on a palette in his left hand.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Hi,” he replied. “Have a look around. I just want to finish this little piece I’m working on.”

  “Is that the painting you were telling me about last night?” I asked, coming around behind so I could see over his shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  A long narrow table next to the easel held his painting paraphernalia. He had propped a color photograph against a coffee can that held brushes in various sizes, their bristle ends poking up. The photo showed a pretty woman looking over her shoulder at the camera with a bemused expression, as though someone had unexpectedly called to her. The frame that once held the photo was in pieces on the table top. Stephen had transferred the outlines of the subject in the picture to his canvas and was filling in the large background area with color.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “My mother. For some reason, we don’t have many shots of her, and those that we do are these tiny prints where you can barely make out her face. She wasn’t alive when digital photography was invented, or at any rate popular. This is the only good-sized picture I could find. I would have preferred to paint her when she was a little older, but I guess by then she was usually the one behind the lens taking pictures of the rest of the family.”

  I gazed around the studio and imagined what it would have looked like if it had been the bedroom it was intended to be. Large windows overlooked the water and sunlight streamed in from a skylight above. Instead of a bed, there were canvases, some finished, some blank, and a few empty frames leaned against the long wall. Charcoal and pencil sketches and pieces of paper that he’d torn from magazines—inspiration perhaps?—were pinned to a standing corkboard where I saw th
e perfect space for a double dresser. Appropriately, a pair of battered upholstered armchairs faced each other under a window. I would have used that spot for seating, too. A pile of sketchbooks and drawing pads sat on the floor next to one of the chairs.

  I wandered around examining Stephen’s paintings, and peered into a bathroom with a sink that had once been white, but was now a dingy gray from who knew how many years of paint being washed down its drain.

  The bathroom reminded me of questions I wanted to ask him.

  “That building Tom wants to put up, the one the Jamisons object to so much. I heard someone say that it’s supposed to be a new studio for you.”

  “That’s right. Every time Tom sees that dirty sink, he gets upset. He wants me out of the house, but more than that, he wants this room back. I think it was originally the master suite, but it’ll take a bit of work to get it back again to what it was.”

  “A new sink at the very least,” I said.

  “That’ll make him happy. He offered me either of the cottages, but they don’t have good light, not for painting anyway.” He smirked. “I have to admit that he took me by surprise when he talked about building me a studio.”

  “I’d say that Tom supports your painting more than you give him credit for.”

  “And I’d say that he wants me out from underfoot, but if it results in my own studio, I’ll take it. Of course, if the Jamisons have their way, it won’t happen.”

  “I’m told that they object to a new building because it would block their view of the ocean.”

  “So they say. But even when Tom relocated the proposed site to the other side of the property, away from their house, they still made a fuss.”

  “Why do you think that’s so?”

  “There’s some bad blood between Tom and Dan Jamison, but I don’t know what’s behind it. Tom’s always trying to patch things up, but the fact is that they don’t like him.”

  “Why would they accept his invitation to a party if they don’t like him?”