Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “How embarrassing.”

  “Complete humiliation,” George said. “There was a good deal of racial tension in Bermuda at the time, and the authorities made no headway in drawing out witnesses despite offering a crackin’ reward.”

  “But those things will happen,” I said, looking out at the water before turning back to him. “Not every case is solved, even though the popular media make it seem as if they are.”

  “You are very sweet, lass,” George said, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze. “But that was not the end of it. We were called in again when two shopkeepers were murdered with equally unsatisfactory results. After we’d returned home defeated for the third time, the local boys arrested a pair of bad apples—two lifelong petty criminals—and accused them of the murders. They were hanged for the crimes, setting off a major riot, millions in damage, and the deaths of three more people.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “I hope they were truly the guilty parties.”

  “They were involved somehow, but there must have been others behind them. When we were here, our boys had continuously come up against walls, not only from the communities in which these men lived but from the top echelons of Bermudian society. They were satisfied with simply pinning the crimes on these two thugs. They didn’t want any scandals to threaten the entrenched establishment or to tarnish Bermuda’s reputation as an island paradise.”

  “So Scotland Yard has a lot to prove with these Jack the Ripper cases,” I said.

  “We have indeed. I wasn’t in the service when those other crimes took place, but several colleagues who’ve since retired were among the investigators. We asked them to brief us. They were reluctant to discuss the case—not exactly a red-letter day for the Yard—but they did sit down with the team.”

  “Did they give you helpful information?” I asked.

  “It remains to be seen. It’s another island now, with a new regime and far more integration, both in government and in the police ranks, than was true before.”

  “And, of course, the case is completely different,” I put in. “The victims are not officials or even part of the establishment.”

  “Far from it. They’re poor souls whose lives don’t touch the majority of the populace, except for those who have sympathy for them—or who might have engaged their services.”

  “Or those who are afraid their killer will look beyond such easy targets.”

  George slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “I have to motor into Hamilton. I’m due at headquarters for a meeting with the team.” He put out a hand to help me up. “I’d be pleased to give you a lift into town.”

  I smiled up at him as I took his hand. “I’m going to take you up on that offer.”

  I stood and brushed the sand off the seat of my slacks. “I have some errands to run fir…” I said, trailing off as I eyed the motorboat, which was slowly passing in front of us for the third time. “Do you see that boat?” I asked.

  George shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out to sea. “Yes.”

  “It has been up and down this portion of the beach several times.”

  “Do you think they’re spying on us?” George said, amused.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but they’re not dragging a fishing line. I have a bad feeling about that. Why would they crisscross the same piece of water?”

  “Curiosity seekers? One of your literary fans? Or they may know that this is where a body was found. Not our problem today,” George said, taking my arm as we walked up the beach toward the gravel path.

  And it was true. It wasn’t our problem then, but it was to become our problem very soon, and I would be sorry I hadn’t taken note of the boat earlier and acted on my suspicions.

  Chapter Sixteen

  George dropped me off in downtown Hamilton, where I planned to do some shopping and then find my way back to the Bettertons.

  A cruise ship must have been docked at the island because Front Street was filled with tourists wandering in and out of the stores. I followed a group into the Irish Linen Shop, a favorite stop of mine on a previous trip. The shop features linens from Ireland, of course, and brings back warm memories of my family and visits to the land of my heritage. I remember my mother shaking out the crisp white sheets, making them billow over our beds when she made them, and feeling the cool linen on the pillow under my cheek at night.

  The store also carried tablecloths from Provence in France, sparking another sweet recollection. Their yellow, red, and blue hues were colorful enough to liven up even the dullest of dinners, not that my dinners there were ever dull.

  I leisurely perused the shop’s offerings, reminding myself that this—or something like this—was why I had chosen to come to Bermuda in the first place. There were many tempting items that would have overburdened my one suitcase, but I couldn’t escape without buying a handkerchief. Made by women on the Portuguese island of Madeira who specialize in the traditional skill of embroidery, there were several with delicate patterns around an initial. I chose one without any letter, thinking it would make a wonderful gift once I decided to whom to give it. If no deserving giftee presented herself, I would be happy to keep it for myself.

  Around the corner on Queen Street was a lovely little park next to one of the island’s most popular historical sites, the Perot Post Office. A whitewashed building with black shutters on the windows and front door, it was named for Hamilton’s first postmaster. The bustle of Hamilton is left outside when you enter the charming room, with its shiny wooden beams and warm scent—was it cedar?—a throwback to days when William Bennett Perot designed Bermuda’s first stamp. That penny stamp would cost a pretty penny at auction today.

  Several people lined up in front of the polished wooden cage to mail postcards home, and I did the same, stopping first to admire the simple furniture from Perot’s day, and the shelves displaying pottery and lamps from Bermuda’s past. I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to melt away.

  Farther up Queen Street, I turned onto a small lane and window-shopped while keeping a weather eye on the clouds. They had begun to gather while I was in the post office. A sign above a marine supply store, Ocean Locker, caught my eye, as did the display in its window. I stood in front of the shop, scrutinizing the sample tackle box, which was open to show the tools that would fill it. My eyes moved to a card that read “Just In” next to an array of fishing knives arranged in a circle. Their handles were scribing the outer edge of the arc and their open blades were almost touching in the middle.

  Freddie had said that the murder weapon was not among the household knives that the constables had taken away the night of the murder. He’d also mentioned that the autopsy had detected a bit of rust in the wound on Alicia’s neck. I’d wondered if the knife used may have been a fishing knife. Knives around water tend to rust easily. I know my fishing knife does. The police wouldn’t have found it in the house, especially if, as Freddie suspected, it had been thrown into the ocean. Members of the Betterton family had been out on their boat recently. If a fishing knife was missing from their tackle box, Adam would be the one asked to replace it.

  The judge’s personal assistant had mentioned coming here the day before to pick up supplies for the family’s boat, and his errand had given me an idea. Could Adam have bought a new knife to replace one that was missing? If he had, it could suggest the missing knife had been used to slash Alicia. I’d seen the fishing paraphernalia in Tom’s garage when the security guard had retrieved his motorbike and given me a lift into town. Any member of the family would have had access to it, and come to think of it, so would anyone at the party who might have known where Tom’s fishing equipment was stored.

  Finding out if Adam had bought a new knife was not going to be easy. In my experience, merchants tend to clam up when asked about their customers’ purchases. I studied the knives and wondered how effective my argument would be. Sometimes a little subterfuge was called for.

  I pushed open the glass
front door and looked around. On one side of the shop, an older man, perhaps the proprietor, was helping a couple trying on windbreakers. Across the room, a younger man sorted fishing lures. He had them spread out on the counter in groups of three and four. I decided to approach him.

  “Aren’t those pretty,” I said, looking over the bright silver fish-shaped pieces with multiple hooks hanging from them. I reached out a finger to touch them but withdrew it when the man said, “Please don’t, ma’am. You need to be careful. Those barbs are very sharp.”

  “Okay,” I said, holding up my hand. “See. No touching.” I gave him a lopsided smile.

  He returned my smile. “My boss is taking care of other customers right now. Do you mind waiting?”

  “Well, I am in a bit of a hurry. Can’t you assist me?”

  He sighed and put down the lure he was holding. “Sure. I guess. What do you need?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if I need anything yet, but I think you’re the one who can help me figure out if I do,” I said, trying to act like the scatterbrain many young people assume an older person is.

  He looked at me skeptically. “I can?”

  “I have to admit I have this funny favor to ask.”

  “Maybe my boss should help you.”

  “But he’s busy, and besides, you’re right here.”

  “I’d like to help you, ma’am, but I can’t unless you tell me what you want.”

  I lowered my voice as if I were about to tell him a secret. “A friend of mine was in yesterday, picking up some supplies for his boat.”

  “And?”

  “And, I need to know if he bought one of those new knives you have in the window.” I giggled.

  He raised one eyebrow and scowled at me. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Because I want to get him one as a gift, of course.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. You know that’s private information, what a person buys. I don’t think my boss would like me to—” He looked over to where his boss was helping a customer into a jacket.

  “But however am I going to give him that gift?” I said, interrupting his excuse. “He was moaning about losing his fishing knife.” I pouted. “I want to get him one of those pretty orange ones you have in the window, but how do I know he hasn’t already bought it for himself if you won’t help me?”

  “What’s your friend’s name?” he asked.

  “Adam Wyse.”

  “Adam’s your friend?” he asked, clearly surprised.

  “Well, not a friend exactly,” I said coyly, “but I’d like him to be. I told the judge if he was thirty years older or I was thirty years younger, he wouldn’t be safe from me. He’s just the most charming man.”

  “The judge?”

  “No, silly. Adam.”

  I could see the gears working in his head. Poor Adam, he was probably thinking. This loony old broad has a crush on him.

  “Hang on. I’ll check for you,” he said. He went to the register and keyed in some information.

  I leaned over to the counter to see if I could view the screen.

  “Step back, ma’am. I’ll give you the information you want.”

  “You’re such a dear,” I said, batting my lashes.

  “Let’s see,” he said under his breath. “Wax wing jigs, fifty yards monofilament, leader line, double J hook. Here it is! Sorry, ma’am. I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

  “I am?”

  “He bought a Benchmade Griptilian with a corrosion-resistant steel blade.”

  I gave him a sad look. “I guess I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I guess you will,” he said.

  “Well, thank you, young man,” I said, perking up. “You’re very handsome, you know.” I winked at him. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Sure, um, anytime.”

  I could almost hear his sigh of relief as I exited the store.

  Chapter Seventeen

  According to my guidebook, Gardner’s Deli was the newest incarnation of a restaurant that had previously been a Mexican cantina and before that a French café. The stucco walls had once been an intense ocher, and the subsequent pale blue paint didn’t quite cover the deeper hue. The resulting color was not exactly guaranteed to aid digestion.

  The new owners tried to mask the decorating faux pas by hanging large posters evidently provided by their food purveyors. Above my table was an image of a giant hot dog on a bun with mustard and sauerkraut, and farther down the wall was a poster showing a large ham with slices curling off the front. Others pictures were akin to these, in hopes, I assumed, that customers would be inspired to order a similar item from the menu.

  It was a bit late for lunch, but the half sandwich I’d eaten with George was not enough to keep me satisfied until dinner. I perused the menu and ordered a tuna platter with a side of coleslaw and an iced tea. When the waiter returned with my food, I asked, “Does anyone named Fairy Fay work here?”

  “That’s a different name, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m only a part-timer. I’ll check in the back for you.”

  I observed the few other patrons sitting in the deli. Only two other women were there and neither appeared to be someone who might have been a friend of Alicia’s. One was an older woman sitting with a man, presumably her husband. The couple spooned up their soup in silence. The other woman sat across from two children of about five and seven, and rocked a baby in a carrier she’d set on the chair next to her.

  Of course, who was I to judge who Alicia’s friends might be? It wasn’t that I didn’t know her well; I hardly knew her at all. I’d been looking for another young woman, but Alicia could just as easily have made friends with someone older, perhaps with children. From the little I did know about Tom’s niece, however, she seemed to be too self-centered to befriend people whose lives were so different from her own. But I scolded myself to keep an open mind.

  I’d finished my late lunch when a lady in a starched apron, and whose gray hair had been dyed a bright blue, emerged from the kitchen. She surveyed the dining room and made a beeline for my table. “Are you the one looking for Fairy Fay?” she asked, poking a pencil into the tight curls above her ear.

  “Yes,” I said, sitting at attention. “Does she work here?”

  “Never heard the name before. And I would’ve remembered that one.” She laughed.

  “Oh,” I said, a bit deflated. “Perhaps she’s a customer,” I offered.

  “Maybe. I don’t know the names of all my customers. Too many tourists and onetimers. I know my regulars though. She isn’t one of them.”

  “Was Alicia Betterton one of your regulars?”

  “That name sounds familiar, but I can’t put a face to it. What’s she look like?”

  “Young, slim, pretty, about twenty-two with long blond hair.”

  She gave out a bark of laughter. “You’re describing half the white girls on the island.”

  I smiled. “I know. She was supposed to meet her friend here today, but couldn’t make it. Did you happen to notice if anyone who came in waited for someone and then left?”

  “Can’t say that I did,” she said.

  I checked my watch. It was a quarter past two. “Maybe she just hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “You’re welcome to wait. We’re open until ten. Can I get you anything else?” She picked up my plate and passed it to the waiter who had just delivered a dish to another table and was on his way back to the kitchen.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I think I will wait a while longer, though.”

  “Happy to have you.” She left me and stopped at the other tables, greeting her customers. At the table where the mother sat, she drew two lollypops from the pocket of her apron and presented them to the children, then moved on to the older couple.

  The mother reached across the table and took the lollies from the children, who watched her solemnly. She peeled the paper wrapper off the candies and gave them back. Big smiles replaced the serious expressions and I sm
iled, too, noticing how such a small gesture made them happy.

  I watched the door, hoping that someone who might be Fairy Fay would walk in. You’re wasting your time, I told myself. They must have met last Tuesday. Or if the appointment was for today, she wouldn’t bother to come, having heard about Alicia’s death. Why would she keep an appointment if she already knew Alicia wouldn’t be here to meet her?

  Still, I waited on the slim chance that word had yet to reach this friend. I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to meet someone who could provide insight into Alicia’s life from a perspective outside the family.

  At three o’clock, disappointed, I paid my bill and left.

  Only one photographer still lingered across the street from the Bettertons when I returned. He seemed uninterested in me, thank goodness, but kept a wary eye on Adam’s security detail when the guards met me in the driveway. I saw him raise his camera and snap off a few shots, but otherwise I was able to enter the house without being accosted.

  “Would you like some tea, Mrs. Fletcher?” Norlene asked when she opened the door and welcomed me inside. “I can bring it to your cottage.”

  “A cup of tea sounds like a great idea,” I said, “but why not let me make my own in the kitchen? I don’t want to interfere with your preparations for dinner.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she said. “Dinner’s all ready to go into the oven. I made individual casseroles for whoever’s here tonight.”

  “Wonderful! Then you have time to join me for a cup.”

  Norlene may have been a little uncomfortable inviting a guest into her kitchen, but she hid it well, leading me through a swinging door into a bright sunny room that overlooked the front of the house. Tom—or perhaps it was his ex-wife Claudia—had outfitted the kitchen with the latest professional appliances and a giant rack over the center island, where copper pans and various utensils hung. Six stools were pulled up to one side of the long island, allowing visitors to watch, out of the way, as the cook worked. It would have made an excellent schoolroom to teach cooking classes, I thought, provided there were not more than six students.