Murder Caribbean-Style (High Seas Mystery Series Book 1)

by Diane Rapp

  “Efficient?”

  He gave her a curt nod. “Precisely.”

  “Now who’s talking in stereotypes? Americans can be efficient, organized, and even stuffy. How many Americans have you known?” Kayla stood up, placing her fists on her hips. “Not all Americans wear baseball caps, so don’t lump us all together either.”

  His shoulders slumped. “You’re quite right. I’m sorry, darling. I get nervous about what you think of me. I hope you believe I’m praiseworthy but you’re quite good at getting people to talk to you. You’ve almost solved this crime single-handedly, while I seem to do a mediocre job.”

  Kayla clasped her hands behind his neck and kissed him. “You’re not mediocre, darling. I’m learning about you, not judging.” She kissed him again. “I like what I’m learning, so be a dear and help pack my bag. You’re already finished and I’m not as good at organizing a suitcase.”

  “I’d rather do something else with my spare time,” he murmured, nibbling her ear and running his hands down her sides. A knock at the door stopped him short. “Too late,” he groaned. “There’s Natalia.”

  “Too bad! But we need to talk with her so open the door.”

  Natalia stood poised with one hip cocked as the door opened. Her straight black hair was sleeked back into a tight bun, and she wore a rose-colored silk blouse draped over a short tight skirt that flaunted long shapely legs.

  “Steven! Did I interrupt?” Natalia grinned at Kayla. “I see you took my advice, dear.”

  “Come in, we’re almost out of here,” Kayla said, “and we’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

  “Still playing detective? So what’s up?” Natalia shoved her bag into the closet and sat on the only chair.

  Steven packed Kayla’s bag while she talked with Natalia. “You said that one of your sources told you about the broken blade on Patrick’s knife. Tell us exactly what you heard.”

  Natalia stared at the ceiling as if she were reading her answer. “Patrick broke into a lock box at the Barbados Port Authority. He used his knife to open the box and broke the tip of the ceramic blade when he forced the box open. The incident occurred less than a week before he died.” Long black lashes framed coal black eyes as she dropped her gaze. “Good enough?”

  Kayla plopped onto the bed. “Whew! Why didn’t you tell us before?”

  Natalia shrugged. “You were more interested in Patrick’s death. What did it matter if he committed another crime?”

  “Who told you?” Kayla asked.

  “I don’t like to reveal my sources. It’s bad for business.” Natalia ran her fingernails along the hair over her ear.

  “We’re investigating a murder. Who told you?” Steven sounded firm.

  A flicker of doubt showed in Natalia’s eyes. “Bryanne told me. She thought it was funny that Patrick took such store in his knife but broke the blade while breaking and entering. We wanted to use it against him but didn’t have time to expose his petty crime.”

  Kayla sank onto the bed with a puzzled expression.

  He asked, “Did you track down your brooch?”

  Natalia grinned, pulling a chain out of her blouse. “Yes, I did! I bought it from a dealer on St. Martin and this little beauty will make me rich.” Unlatching the chain, she handed the brooch to Kayla. “It’s not worth much by itself, but I’ve got a document locked up tight that gives this brooch a history. It’s going onto the auction block in a month, and the opening bid won’t be less than a million.”

  Kayla handed the brooch back to Natalia. “Why’s it worth so much?”

  Natalia’s eyes gleamed. “We found a letter from Czar Nicholas in my grandmother’s papers and had it authenticated. It’s a hand-painted portrait given to my great-grandmother as a token of appreciation for years of service to the royal family when she retired. That’s a provenance.”

  Steven frowned. “A million dollars is motive to kill.”

  “Maybe.” Natalia shrugged. “I was in Martinique on Wednesday eating lunch with a Russian diplomat when Patrick died, so I didn’t kill him.” She handed Steven a card with the name of the diplomat and his phone number.

  “Thanks, Natalia. This does the trick!” Steven stuck the card into his pocket.

  Natalia arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “So give! What’s the connection between the broken knife blade and Patrick’s murder?”

  “It may help solve the crime. I promise we’ll tell you everything when it’s over.” Kayla said.

  “Good! A mentalist who doesn’t know everything could lose her reputation.” Natalia watched Steven carry their bags into the hall. “I’m exhausted. Thanks for clearing out.”

  “Don’t mention it. In fact, please don’t mention this conversation,” Steven emphasized.

  “It’s locked away until you give me the okay.” Natalia made a locking motion in front of her full lips. “Now nap time. Bye.”

  “Thanks and congratulations on the windfall.” Kayla kissed Natalia on the cheek. “I’m glad you weren’t the killer.”

  “Me, too.” A worried expression crossed Natalia’s face. “Take care of yourself kid.”

  “Did you have another vision?” Kayla asked.

  Natalia shook her head. “Just got a creepy feeling, so be careful. Bye.” She closed the door.

  “Vision?” Steven asked.

  “A mentalist is compelled to pronounce somber warnings. Let’s get going.” Kayla pushed ahead of him, strolling down the narrow corridor as if she were unworried.

  Steven said, “Visions don’t worry me, but this case does. Why would Patrick break into the lock box on Barbados?”

  “Perhaps Bryanne lied to Natalia. If Garrison stole the toxin to use against Patrick, she might want to establish another story.”

  “Spot on. She poisoned herself to divert attention, knowing she wouldn’t die, but it made her sicker than she thought. We should interview Aunt Jillian.” He flipped open his cell phone. “I’ll check on where to find the woman.”

  That evening, Kayla scrutinized Steven’s magic show. She ignored his jokes and watched his hands to unravel the secret behind the illusions. As a bright young woman closing in on a murderer, surely she could figure out a few magic tricks. At the end of the performance Kayla silently admitted she was stumped.

  As she snuggled in Steven’s arms that night, her mental newsreel clicked off the suspects eliminated from the list, Chadwick, Erin, Natalia, and Jaquie. She smiled about Natalia auctioning off a million dollar brooch that Patrick sold for hundreds. The big score had eluded Patrick, so why would he steal frog toxin? Their list of suspects was growing short so there must be a missing piece to the puzzle. Could Aunt Jillian provide the answer?

  Chapter 11 ~ Wednesday—Martinique

  During breakfast in the officer’s mess, Kayla asked Steven to explain his magic tricks and received a smug smile. “When we’re married, I’ll tell you everything. Until then . . .”

  Kayla’s dropped fork clattered onto her plate. “Married? When did you decide we’re getting married?”

  Steam billowed as Steven poured hot water over a fresh tea bag. “During our first kiss on St. Martin. Is the notion so distressing?”

  Kayla folded an empty sweetener package into a tiny pink fan. “I’m not sure…I need a proper proposal…and I have very definite ideas about a proper proposal of marriage.”

  “Do I need to go down on one knee?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” She scowled at his nonchalance. “A proposal must be special, romantic, not a casual announcement over breakfast. You must court me before I say yes.”

  “But you will say yes!” Steven’s lips curled into a cagey grin.

  Kayla’s eyes flashed. “Don’t assume anything! Until you ask me in an appropriate manner, I won’t consider it…the way you’re acting, I might not answer at all. If you’re serious you’d better work at it, chum. That’s what I’m telling you!”

  He traced the curve of her jaw with his forefinger. “I’ll work at it, da
rling. But you will say yes. I’ll just keep asking until you do.”

  Kayla swallowed hard, averting her eyes from his seductive stare. Noticing people watching, she changed the subject. “Do you think Bryanne and Garrison killed Patrick?”

  He cleared his throat. “Back to business, eh?” He sipped his tea. “It’s possible. Our list of suspects is getting very short and they’re still on the list.”

  “Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is the correct answer.’” Kayla smeared marmalade onto her toast, licking her finger when it slopped over the edge. “Why would the two of them kill Patrick after the mutiny convinced Jillian that Patrick was a scoundrel? Their inheritance was secure.”

  “Revenge can be sweet.” Steven replied.

  Kayla shook her head. “Not sweet enough to risk spending your life in a Caribbean jail.” She thought about that small prison cell in the Grenada museum. “Why would Garrison cooperate in a revenge plan that risked so much? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I wonder if their inheritance was really secure. We’ll ask Jillian today.”

  “Oh? Where does Jillian live?”

  Steven’s long fingers curled around the teacup. “She has a house here on Martinique, just up the coast.”

  Kayla grinned. “Great! Let’s get going.” She shoved the last bite of toast into her mouth and grabbed Steven’s cup to wash it down.

  “Thought you’d want to see her,” Steven said, frowning at his empty cup, “so I arranged for a car and a flight.”

  Kayla brushed crumbs from her white shorts. “A flight?”

  Steven cocked his head. “You said we should return to Dominica.”

  She rummaged through her bag searching for sunglasses. “Sure but I thought we should ride the ferry.”

  “An airplane’s faster.” Steven followed Kayla through the door.

  Kayla gestured with her sunglasses. “We should see how the ferry works firsthand.”

  “Why?”

  She slid glasses into her loose hair like a headband. “If Garrison rode the ferry as part of their scheme, we should ride the ferry to Dominica ourselves.”

  “Makes sense. I’ll cancel the flight.” He found a business card in his wallet and flipped the cell phone open. “Hello, Duncan! It’s Steven. We won’t fly with you today.” He cast a sideways glance at Kayla. “No. She hasn’t dumped me, so hands off, chum! Yeah, I will. Bye.” He closed the phone with a loud click.

  “What’d he say?”

  “He wants me to give you his card when you come to your senses,” he grumbled. “You know he doesn’t stay on the ground long enough for a relationship.”

  “Maybe I could learn to fly.” Kayla grinned and sauntered down the gangway. Steven stopped at the tourist information booth and picked up a ferry schedule. He studied the page as Kayla gathered tour brochures.

  “What time does the ferry leave?” she asked.

  He checked his watch. “The next ferry leaves Fort-de-France at two o’clock, but we could catch the same ferry in St. Pierre at three. Jillian lives in Carbet, which is on the way.” Steven gestured Kayla to follow.

  “And Gaugin’s museum!” Kayla replied, shoving brochures into her bulging bag.

  “What?”

  “The Paul Gaugin museum is located in Carbet. We can kill two birds with one stone.”

  Steven nodded. “I nearly forgot about your book in the excitement.”

  Kayla swung her bag onto her shoulder, just missing Steven. “It won’t take long for us to stop and get the new entrance fees and hours.”

  “Good idea, here’s our car.”

  Kayla gasped. “A Mercedes roadster?”

  He winked and held open the door. “I’ve a generous expense account.”

  “I love it, much better than that car in Grenada.” Kayla slid into the bucket seat and inhaled the scent of leather, tainted by the artificial rosy smell from cardboard dangling on the rearview mirror.

  Steven swung into the driver’s side. “It was the only car available on short notice.”

  Kayla looked at him sideways. “It has private plates!”

  Steven grinned. “That’s because it belongs to a friend.”

  “Your friend won’t mind if I redecorate.” She untied the smelly cardboard and stowed it in the glove compartment. “You’ve got an interesting circle of friends. One drives an old clunker and another drives this pricey beauty. Perhaps I should meet them.”

  Steven revved the motor and eased into traffic. “They’re quite eager to meet you.”

  She tilted her sunglasses down from the top of her head and allowed her hair to blow in the breeze. “You’ve been talking about me?”

  Steven’s eyes darted as he checked the mirrors then darted into traffic, changing lanes like a race car driver. “They talk to each other, and I’ve no control over them. This morning I hardly got a word out of my mouth before I was grilled about the enchanting young lady I took to St. Kitts.”

  Kayla chuckled. “George Nesbitt strikes again!”

  Steven merged onto the freeway. “His phone bill must be throbbing.”

  As their speed increased, loose hair whipped across Kayla’s face. “Good old George, now we both have a bone to pick with him.” Traffic noises diminished as she closed the electric window and the air conditioner hummed.

  Steven smiled. “You can’t imagine how many blind dates George tried to arrange.”

  “Your friend George and my mother have a lot in common. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match,” Kayla sang.

  Steven arched his eyebrow. “What?”

  “The song is from Fiddler on the Roof. I think George has a bit of Russian yenta in his ancestry.”

  “Yeah, George is a black Russian.” Steven chuckled at his own joke as Kayla cringed. “His matchmaking days are over.”

  Kayla brushed her hair and tied it into a ponytail. “You sure? You haven’t given me a proper proposal yet.”

  “No. Not yet.” Steven gestured. “Look at that scenery, it’s delightful.”

  She craned her neck to see the ocean sparkling in the distance. “Changing the subject! Okay, I’ve always loved this coastline.”

  As the modern highway meandered north, white-capped waves licked the shoreline to their left, and to their right a carpet of green rolled across gentle hills. The drive reminded Kayla of the California coastline in the spring, when everything looked fresh and green.

  Steven said, “The French have good taste when it comes to islands.”

  The seat buzzed as Kayla adjusted the back. “It’s much more comfortable to drive on the right side of the road, more civilized than your left-handed style.”

  “Most of the world’s population drives on the left.”

  “That’s because the British Empire corrupted everyone, the sun never sets and all that nonsense.”

  Steven frowned. “The British Empire is not nonsense! And why did we fail to corrupt the colonies?”

  She peered over the top of her sunglasses. “The colonies? Americans are stubborn and we didn’t like tea.”

  “See here! Don’t disparage tea, it’s a national tradition.”

  “Yes, my dear, but it’s so . . . British of you to drink that watery stuff,” she teased.

  Steven huffed, “You drank the last of my tea this morning to wash down your toast. Soon you’ll be maligning the Queen.”

  “Never! But I could spend hours on Prince Charles, the scoundrel. His treatment of Diana was atrocious.”

  “You’ve got me there.” He laughed and scrutinized her face. “Having a spot of fun with me, eh?”

  “Loads of fun, you’re easy.” She pointed. “Don’t miss the exit. The museum’s right over there.”

  Tires crunched on the crushed shell parking lot and Kayla swung the door open. “Don’t bother coming in. I’ll be quick.”

  Kayla returned to find Steven listening to the lazy beat of a local radio station with the windows down.
“Taking a nap?” She waved a brochure at him. “You see? I’m fast.” She frowned at the music. “You don’t listen to that stuff, do you?”

  “What? I thought reggae was all the rage in the colonies. I tried for classical, but this was all I could find.” He started the engine and turned down the next road.

  “Where’s Jillian’s place?” Kayla switched off the radio.

  He examined a slip of paper and checked address markers. “It should be nearby, overlooking the ocean.”

  “Everything overlooks the ocean.”

  “Good point.” He handed the address to Kayla. “Help me spot the house number.”

  “We’re getting close. There!” She pointed to a three story Mediterranean-style villa with thick white stucco walls and balconies of dark timber.

  Steven parked the car on the steep hillside and set the emergency brake. As they climbed the entry steps Kayla knocked over a pile of newspapers. Dark draperies covered massive windows. “Does she know we’re coming?”

  “I called ahead. See?” Steven gestured at the door.

  Kayla hardly recognized the woman she’d seen at the restaurant just one week ago. Standing in the open doorway, Jillian looked emaciated, dwarfed by the massive timbers surrounding the entry. Gone were the juvenile clothing and hairdo, replaced by comfortable white linen slacks and loose turquoise tunic. She looked like Estelle Getty on the Golden Girls TV program. Soft curls of silver hair that surrounded her face should complement Jillian’s fair complexion, but the bloodless pallor of her skin gave the impression of illness.

  “Mrs. Carlton, it’s so good of you to see us on such short notice.” Steven shook her hand. “This is my friend, Miss Sanders.”

  “Please call me Jillian,” she said. She spoke in a low voice modulated by a refined British accent.

  “Call us Kayla and Steven,” Kayla said as she accepted the frail handshake. Fatigue and sorrow filled Jillian’s light gray eyes. “I’m sorry to hear about Bryanne’s illness.”

  They followed Jillian through the cool hallway to a gloomy living room where heavy drapes blocked the light.

  Steven said, “I hope we’re not intruding. We docked this morning and plan to catch the ferry for Dominica this afternoon.”