Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “So, what do you think we have here?” George asked.

  “Most of it looks like personal correspondence,” I said, lifting a printout of an e-mail and showing it to him. The message had been addressed to a Barry Lovick, instructing him to pick up a package on a particular date and deliver it to “your boss.”

  “Who’s Barry Lovick?” George asked. “Is he the B.L. who sent these papers to Alicia Betterton?”

  “I believe so,” I said. “He was Tom Betterton’s law clerk until about six months ago when he was fired.”

  “Why was he fired?”

  “Tom told his personal assistant, Adam, that he let his law clerk go because he liked doing his own legal research.”

  “And does he?”

  “Do his own research? I highly doubt it,” I replied. “Tom, himself, told me that he’s in the process of hiring another clerk, one of two he normally maintains. He bragged about how many wanted the job and said a judge needs his clerks not only to research case law, but also to write bench memos, among other duties.”

  “So he lied to Adam about the reason for the firing. Why would he do that?”

  “Perhaps to cover up the real reason,” I said. “Adam heard that Lovick had been copying papers and taking them home from the office. I don’t know who he heard that from, but he assumed they were legal papers—‘party-of-the-first-part stuff,’ he said—but maybe they were more personal than professional.”

  “Money is personal, isn’t it?” Freddie said, waving a sheet in the air.

  “What did you find?” George asked.

  “Deposit slips for a bank here in Bermuda. There are three, each in the amount of forty thousand dollars.”

  “Did you find a copy of the checks, too?” I asked.

  “No. Looks like these were cash deposits,” Freddie said. “And look here, the dates of the deposits have been circled with a marker.”

  “What does that mean?” Gilliam asked.

  “If the man who sent Miss Betterton the papers made those marks, he could be making a point,” Macdonald said, pushing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. “Perhaps he’s tying the dates of the deposits to something else.”

  “Like what?” Freddie asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s a judge. Perhaps they’re dates of legal decisions.”

  “In other words, you think these are bribes,” I said.

  “I’m just speculating,” Macdonald said in a defensive tone. “But your American jurists don’t normally get paid in forty-thousand-dollar increments, do they? And in cash?”

  “I can’t think of why they would,” I said, sighing. “I’m not challenging your interpretation; I’m just sorry if it’s the correct one.”

  “It’s always difficult when someone doesn’t live up to one’s expectations,” she said, lowering her head to peer at some of the other papers.

  I wondered if she was talking about Tom, or about George. I couldn’t help but ponder whether she had expectations of him of a more personal nature. It wouldn’t surprise me if Veronica Macdonald had a crush on George Sutherland. If so, it didn’t appear that George returned her feelings. While he was personable with everyone with whom he came in contact, his staff included, I noticed that he maintained a certain professional reserve around his team, as if emphasizing his role as their leader.

  “Someone else must have raised that issue,” Gilliam said, “but it appears that your host was exonerated.”

  “What do you have there?” George asked, holding out his hand.

  Gilliam gave him the paper.

  George scanned the document and showed it to me. “It’s a transmittal concerning a ruling from the New Jersey Bar Association in which charges against Judge Thomas L. Betterton have been found to be unsupported.”

  “Here’s another one saying the same thing,” Gilliam said, “but it’s a different date.”

  “So, he was suspected of misconduct,” I said, “but there wasn’t sufficient proof.”

  “He received congratulations from several people,” Gilliam said, looking through other sheets, “and here’s one that thanks him for his quote ‘attention to their needs.’ Kind of an odd wording, don’t you think?”

  “We’re looking for facts, Jack,” George said, “not the existence of odd wording. If you can put together a genuine quid pro quo, then we may have something. Let’s not read into these papers what’s not there. We know that appearance is not necessarily truth.”

  His team kept their eyes cast downward on the documents on the table, but I knew what they were thinking. Their Chief Inspector George Sutherland himself had been the victim of “appearance” in this morning’s newspaper, and they were all acutely aware of the potential harm to his career.

  Irrational as it was, I felt guilty that this had happened to George. The damage to his reputation was far worse than to mine. I had no higher-ups to whom I had to report, no organization to shield from false accusations. I’d had no hand in George’s decision to come to Bermuda. He’d said his visit was occasioned by the death of the fourth victim, a circumstance for which neither of us was responsible. And yet. And yet. If we were looking for facts, it was that his name was linked with mine, and even though we had never allowed the relationship to advance, the sparks were there. And someone had seen them and photographed them and published them in the Bermuda newspaper.

  “I think I’ve found the facts you’re looking for,” said Freddie, plucking several pages from one of the piles and passing it to George. “Those first records are deposit slips, but from a Canadian bank. And here are confirmations of wire transfers from the Canadian bank to a Swiss bank, and then to the Bermuda institution. It looks like he’s been laundering his bribe money, filtering it through several banks before it reached the island.”

  We spent another half hour perusing the papers Barry Lovick had sent to Alicia Betterton before gathering them up and sealing them in the new envelope. I stuffed the package in my shoulder bag and thanked George’s team for their assistance.

  “I know investigating Alicia’s death is not in your sphere of responsibility,” I said. “Furthermore, I have no idea whether or not these papers have anything to do with it to begin with. But I am very grateful you volunteered your time and expertise in reviewing them.”

  “No worries,” Freddie said. “Always good to get your mind moving on someone else’s puzzles. Kind of clears the thinking logjams.”

  “Glad to have given you some help in return for yours,” Gilliam said.

  “I hope they turn out to be what you want them to be,” Macdonald said to me.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking her hand. I felt as if we had achieved a measure of peace between us.

  George and I left by the rear door, hopefully avoiding the press, and climbed into Freddie’s little yellow car for the trip back to Tucker’s Town, all the while pondering the meaning of the package that I was now in possession of.

  Why had Barry taken those papers? And why had Alicia asked for them?

  Was she trying to protect Tom, using her well-known wiles to charm his former clerk into releasing evidence that would be damaging to her uncle should it land in the wrong hands?

  Or had she been planning to use them against Tom? If so, for what purpose? She’d been the favorite child in a wealthy family, spoiled, cosseted, living a life of travel and luxury. What more could she have wanted?

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I had asked George to let me off at the Jamisons’ house to avoid running the gauntlet of press next door, and suggested that he return later. I was hoping to secure a dinner invitation for him, but I didn’t know how I would be received, much less whether the family would welcome another stranger, in particular one from Scotland Yard.

  I walked up to my cottage from the beach, feeling a little like a trespasser for not having come through the front door and alerting the Bettertons to my return. I excused myself by rationalizing that I was not about to give the press photographers ano
ther opportunity to shoot George and me together. If there were paparazzi floating out there on the water, and if they aimed a telephoto lens in my direction, they would only see a lady inappropriately dressed for sunbathing or strolling along the shore. At worst, it would be a boring shot. At best, it would be one that they wouldn’t want to use.

  Once back in the cabin, I took the padded envelope from my bag and stashed it behind the small refrigerator where I hoped no one would think to look. Not that I expected anyone to search my quarters. No one except Alicia had been expecting to receive the papers, and to my knowledge, no one else even knew that she had asked Barry Lovick to send them to her. Still, I reasoned, better to be extra careful with information that could most certainly keep Tom from gaining the seat on the appellate court he so clearly coveted, and that might even land him behind bars.

  It was now clear why Barry Lovick had been fired. He’d been carrying home papers that could incriminate his boss. The question was: Had he come upon them himself or had someone guided him to them? And if it was the latter, was that someone from Tom’s household. If so, who?

  I’d been deeply disappointed to learn that my host was a dishonest man. But I couldn’t say that I hadn’t been forewarned, or that all the proof hadn’t been right there in front of me all along. Apart from Daniel Jamison’s bald accusations that Judge Thomas Betterton was less than he purported to be, Tom’s lifestyle was far beyond the capabilities of the vast majority of his colleagues. That federal judges were not highly compensated, certainly not to the degree that allowed a champagne and caviar existence, was common knowledge. The chief justice of the Supreme Court himself had complained publicly that federal judges were poorly paid for the critical service they provided. How could Tom have afforded a home in an exclusive area of Bermuda that—even if it couldn’t be described as palatial—had to have cost millions of dollars to buy and maintain, not to mention the price of transportation getting to and from his vacation getaway.

  Agnes had said that she’d heard that Tom had inherited money from his first wife, and I had no idea how much that might have been. But Stephen had complained that each subsequent wife had walked away with half of Tom’s assets. And Tom had defended himself against his fourth wife, Claudia, taking his house and boat on Bermuda by arguing before the judge in his divorce case that it was “all he had left.” I would leave it to forensic accountants to expose the cases over which he had presided that were linked to his cash deposits in banks in Canada, Switzerland, and Bermuda. It was enough for me to know that his generosity—of which I’d been a beneficiary all week—had been supported by illegal activities.

  I hung up the jacket and skirt I’d worn into town, changed into a lightweight shirtwaist dress, and pulled the envelope out from behind the fridge, feeling a little foolish at my paranoid behavior. No one knew about it except me, George, and his Scotland Yard colleagues; there was no reason to hide it. I tucked the envelope back in my shoulder bag and walked up to the main house, greeting Jock the security guard who was once again at his post.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher. Hope you enjoyed the lovely weather we’ve been having today.”

  “I have indeed, Jock.”

  “I’m glad because it’s about to change.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look out to sea,” he said, pointing. “There’s a big storm brewing, and my aching shoulder tells me it’s coming our way.”

  “I see it,” I said. A dark line stretched along the horizon, with a band of lighter gray advancing before it. Yet the sky above me was still blue, and the sun, which was starting to sink westward, was unencumbered by clouds.

  “You don’t have to do anything just yet,” he said, “but if I were you, I’d make sure to take along an umbrella if you go out for dinner tonight.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said and thanked him for the tip.

  Margo was alone in the sitting room when I entered through the French doors on the patio. She was sitting on one of the sofas, leafing through a magazine and sipping a cocktail. I assumed it was a sidecar, since that’s what she’d wanted Adam to make her the night of the party.

  “Oh, hello, Jessica,” she said, putting aside the magazine. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I was longing for some company. Sometimes it’s very lonely here.”

  “I’m happy to keep you company,” I said, sitting down opposite her, “but where is Tom?”

  “He was behind a locked door in his office all morning, and was very grumpy when I tried to talk to him. Then, this afternoon, he came out and yelled for Madeline.”

  “Was she here?”

  “No. I told him that she went into Hamilton with Daisy Reynolds to do some shopping. Instead he shanghaied Stephen and they went out on his boat. I don’t think Stephen was too happy leaving his studio, but Tom pays the bills so Stephen must pay the piper.”

  “What about Adam?” I asked. “Did he go on the boat, also?”

  “Oh, yeah. Adam, too. I forgot about him. He’s more like the crew. He’s the one who cleans the fish and stuff.”

  “Why didn’t you join them?”

  She made a face. “I went out the last time,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “I’m not too great on boats. I get seasick. Tom called me a poor sailor, and I told him he can take his boat and you know what.”

  “So he left you here?”

  “Oh, please, I don’t mind at all, except it’s a little boring. You know what I mean? With everyone gone, I can’t even get into town to shop.”

  “Couldn’t you take a bus or a taxi?”

  “I guess, but I don’t really know my way around.” She shrugged. “It’s pretty here and all, but I have to tell you, I hate getting sand in my bathing suit. I don’t know why anyone would want to swim in the ocean. You can’t see what’s under there. I don’t even like to walk on the beach. Just as well because Tom said he doesn’t want the paparazzi to take my picture like they did yours. Wasn’t that just awful?”

  “Yes. It certainly was.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m being rude. Do you want a drink? Norlene is in the kitchen. I can ask her to get you something if you like. Or I can make you a Dark and Stormy. That seems to be the island specialty.”

  I waved a hand in front of me. “No, thanks. That drink once gave me a powerful headache.”

  “Then I can make you a sidecar myself. They’re delicious. You can try mine to see if you like it.”

  “I think I’ll skip a drink just now, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. Of course, it’s always more pleasant if you don’t have to drink alone, but I’m used to it.” She smiled at me over the rim of her glass.

  “I’m sorry I missed Tom,” I said. “I was hoping to ask if it’s all right for me to bring someone to dinner tonight.”

  “Of course it is. I can speak for him on that. Tom loves company, and especially now that he’s so sad, you know, about his niece. It cheers him up to have people around. He’s very social.”

  “It was terribly sad what happened to her.”

  “He’s just been the most awful mess ever since. Not that you can tell.”

  “He hides it well,” I said.

  “It’s true. He’s a rock. But on the night she died, he cried in my arms like a baby.”

  “He did?”

  “You wouldn’t know it to look at him—would you?—but he’s very sensitive. He was shaking like a leaf, moaning, and crying out, ‘Oh, Margo, my baby, my baby is gone.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I just patted him on the back and stroked his hair while he cried about ‘How could she do this to me?’ He was so confused. The whole thing gave me the creeps, I’ll tell you. I wasn’t crazy about her, I have to admit, but she was just a dumb kid. She would have straightened up in time if her former stepmother stayed away from her. Claudia was awful to her, and Alicia hated her.”

  “Was this before or after the police came?” I asked.

  “Let me see,” she said, putt
ing down her drink. “I’m not real sure. I’d been sound asleep when Tom came into my room and woke me up, so I was a little foggy. But the next thing I know, the police are asking me all these questions and I don’t know the answers to any of them. Eventually, I just started to cry and they left me alone. Tears almost always work, you know, especially if you’re dealing with a man. Besides, what did I know? I’d been asleep when she was killed.”

  “Had Tom been asleep, too?”

  “You mean with me?”

  I nodded.

  “Uh-uh. We don’t share a room when his kids are around. He thinks it gives them the wrong impression. I told him that none of them are babies anymore, but he still insists. Frankly, that’s why I’d just as soon not come to Bermuda so much. But I can’t take the chance of Claudia getting her claws in him again.”

  “Do you think she really wants him back?” I asked.

  “I think she liked the life she had here. Really, who can blame her? But he’s not hers anymore, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I understand.”

  “I almost forgot,” she said, popping up from her seat on the sofa. “Let me tell Norlene you’re bringing a guest for dinner. That’s what a good hostess should do. Right?”

  “Yes. I can tell her if you’d like.”

  “No. No. I like being the hostess. I’ll tell her.”

  When Margo went into the kitchen to talk with Norlene, I called George on my cell phone and left a message for him to return at six and to meet me at my cottage. Dinner would likely be later, but with a storm coming in, I wanted to be certain he was able to make it to the Betterton property from Hamilton before it broke. He had said he wanted to be present when I gave Tom the papers in the envelope. I only hoped his arrival wouldn’t set off another barrage from the paparazzi, but apparently it was a risk he was willing to take. The press didn’t know that Scotland Yard wasn’t pursuing Alicia’s killer. Perhaps he could claim the need to speak with Judge Betterton if a reporter cornered him.