Sun, Sand, Murder

by John Keyse-Walker

  Too much information, Dada.

  * * *

  The tropical sunset had ended, snapping the day shut like a drawn shade, by the time I reached the administration building. I fired up Pamela Pickering’s desktop computer for the second time of the day.

  Three minutes on Google, and I was roaming the records of the secretary of state for the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. Three minutes more and I had located the information for Hamburger 5 Air Charters Inc. The corporation had had its charter revoked in 1972 for nonpayment of the annual registration fee. A click to another page gave the date and place of incorporation, December 19, 1968, in San Juan, and the name of the principal incorporator, Neville Wells. The company had even registered a trademark, described in the mark application as “a graphic depiction of a hamburger meat patty in a bun, with two feathered wings projecting from the sides of the bun.” Another twenty minutes on the website garnered no further information.

  What I knew now was significant and not mere gut speculation. I knew the dead Professor Paul Kelliher was really John Ippolito and was not a professor. I knew John Ippolito had served in Vietnam with Neville Wells. I knew that Neville Wells had operated a helicopter charter service in San Juan in the late 1960s and, if my father’s memory was to be trusted, had worked for the infamous Nigel Brooks. I knew that Brooks had absconded with millions of dollars that were never recovered. I knew that Ippolito/Kelliher had spent years on Anegada searching for something. I knew that Neville Wells’s daughter, Cat, had appeared on Anegada short months ago.

  I knew that Cat Wells was my lover, mistress, paramour, inamorata; pick a term.

  I did not know how all of it fit together. And I did not know how I was going to find out.

  * * *

  Warm light shone from the big kitchen windows of my house as I pulled the RVIPF Land Rover to the stony parking spot at its rear. The comforting clatter of plates, pots, and happy voices greeted me through the open screen door. I was tired on top of a layer of tired, and a midnight shift at the power plant awaited me. I hoped a good meal and the pleasant diversion of family time, domestic and mundane, would restore me enough to get through the coming night.

  Icilda had a smile and a chaste offering of her cheek to peck as a greeting. No excessive displays of affection were permitted in front of the kids, which, given my current state of romantic involvement with someone other than Icilda, suited me just fine.

  Icilda’s cheek smelled of curry, her seasoning for the pumpkin soup that would accompany baked wahoo and coconut rice and peas as the evening meal. She had learned to make coconut rice and peas from my mother when we were first married. The memory sent a mixed twinge of pleasure and guilt through me, pleasure that she still took the trouble to make my favorite dish, and guilt that I was being unfaithful to her while she still cared for me in some way.

  “Sit down, Teddy. You must be tired. The food will be on in just a minute,” Icilda said, her voice soft with concern. She was in full mothering mode. “I’m worried you’re working too hard lately.”

  “It’s just all this stuff piling up, the murder, De Rasta’s beating, and it needs to be solved. I need to solve it and I have to work hard to solve it. My reputation and my job are on the line.” Each word I said felt like added weight placed on my shoulders. I sagged in my chair.

  Icilda set a steaming bowl of pumpkin soup before me. “You want iced tea?”

  “Yes, thanks. The thing is, I know it won’t come out right, the truth won’t come out, unless I solve it.” What a hypocrite you are, Teddy Creque, talking to the wife you are cheating on about the truth. “I think I’m close to something but I don’t know what.”

  Icilda poured a tall glass of tea. “What do you mean, Teddy? What are you close to?” she asked with mild interest. Tamia and Kevin were silent and attentive. The events of the last few days were the only topic of conversation on Anegada, even at school. They had a ringside seat and were eager for information.

  “I think there is a connection between the murder and Nigel Brooks,” I said. And between the murder and the woman I am sleeping with behind your back. The pumpkin soup, creamy and pungent, suddenly tasted bitter on my tongue.

  Kevin and Tamia leaned in. As young as they were, they knew the Brooks name and the story of the missing millions. You could not grow up on Anegada without knowing.

  “What kind of connection?” Icilda said, her expression betraying mild disbelief.

  “I don’t know. But there is a connection and I have to work hard to put it together. I talked to Dada this afternoon, trying to get information about when Brooks was here. He was helpful but he only knew so much because he was one of the few men on Anegada at the time who didn’t work for Brooks. He even mentioned your father, Icilda, and some of the things he said about working for Brooks. Did Rot ever talk to you about Brooks before he passed?”

  “Poppa was a crew foreman on the airport and the road construction crew, and he talked about building those things, but he never said much about Brooks. Except that he was a crook who stole the future of Anegada and all the people here,” Icilda said.

  “Did Rot ever talk about how supplies were brought in for Brooks’s project?”

  “No. Well, yes, he said the concrete plant and the equipment to build the road were brought in by barge from San Juan but that’s all I remember. Mostly he talked about what fools they all were, to be taken in by Brooks and his promises of turning Anegada into a tourist resort. A godless man, for sure.” Icilda spat out the last words, as if trying to expel a bad taste from her mouth.

  “Did he mention anything about supplies being flown in?”

  “No. How could that be, with the airport not open?”

  “By helicopter. Did he say anything about people or supplies coming in by helicopter?”

  “No.” Icilda’s expression was blank. “Are you done with your soup? I made your favorite, coconut rice and peas.”

  Icilda rose to the stove and began to fill plates. Kevin and Tamia, sensing the possibility of learning any more information had been exhausted, launched into a sibling argument over after-dinner television rights. The dinner conversation turned to school, Icilda’s work, and, of course, church matters. I was able to nap for an hour before my shift at the power plant.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Many a day on Anegada begins in less than perfect circumstances. The sunburn from snorkeling or the hangover from last night’s rum smoothies at the Reef Hotel bar has often made for a hard start to a tourist’s day. A double shift waiting tables, a night hauling fish traps, or an evening with the selfsame rum smoothies has done the same for those of us who are belongers. But the soft Anegada morning usually heals the ills of the previous day, or night. The agreeable breeze, scented with sea and frangipani, clears the head. The forenoon sun is mild and soothing. The palms provide perspective.

  So it was for me on this day. The cranky machinery at the power plant had deprived me of hoped-for rest. I dragged out the plant door at first light, only to be renewed by the matchless Anegada daybreak on the brief walk to the administration building. There was a spring in my step by the time I reached the front entrance. To my surprise, Pamela Pickering was already in. She completed my revivification by presenting me with a steaming mug of coffee.

  The coffee was fresh and bracingly black. Pamela could make a great cup, if she put her mind to it. She made a pot for herself most days, shortly after she rolled in at midmorning. Today she was in at dawn and had made a pot just for me. Something was wrong.

  Pamela watched me take the first sip like a prison guard watching a condemned man dig into his last meal.

  “Teddy, I got to talk to you about a call I got yesterday.” Pamela hesitated, rare for her and a true indication of her discomfort. Normally, a Niagara of speech flowed from her lips, little or none of it detouring through her brain along the way.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I got a call from Tortola, Teddy. From Helen Smith-Williams. She the assistant
secretary to the deputy governor and it was a call on official business. She ask me for a recommendation, Teddy, for who I would recommend from Anegada to be trained as a special constable. She ask me not to tell anybody but I thought you should know.”

  “What did you tell her when she asked for a recommendation?” I said.

  Pamela squared her shoulders and looked me in the eye. “I told her she don’ need a recommendation, the special constable we have now do a fine job.”

  “Thank you, Pamela.”

  “I meant it.” The torrent unleashed. “They can’t do that to you, Teddy. What happening here, the dead man and De Rasta beating, ain’t not your fault. I don’ know what we do without you. They just get some fool from The Settlement, like—”

  I held up my hand, not wanting to hear. The utterance of my replacement’s name would only make my departure seem closer. And it seemed very close already.

  “Not to worry, Pamela. I’ll get this worked out yet, and there won’t be a new special constable. Thanks for the coffee and the heads-up.” I tried to sound reassuring. Pamela nodded and sniffed back the start of tears, returning to her office. She seemed a good deal more reassured than I was.

  The handwriting, if it had not been before, was certainly on the wall now. My days on the Royal Virgin Islands Police Force were numbered. Come to think of it, it was amazing I was not gone already. And in my bones I felt close to another thing, close to linking Neville Wells to Nigel Brooks to John Ippolito. To Cat Wells. I could sit back and wait for the fateful call from Deputy Commissioner Lane or I could keep digging, scrabbling, trying to work out the whys and the wherefores. I chose the latter course, mainly because action was preferable to inaction. One of life’s most attractive fictions is the folly of control over one’s own fate.

  Coffee in hand, I eased into the hard chair behind my desk and found myself for—what?—the third, fourth, tenth time in this case with nowhere to turn next and no plan of action. Think, Teddy; how do real police officers go about solving crimes? I’ve seen enough cop shows since satellite TV came to Anegada to do this. Evidence, witnesses, motive, opportunity, suspects. The words whirled around in my head. It was easy for Detective Briscoe on Law & Order and Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle on Foyle’s War. They dug and probed, questioned and considered, and by dint of good police work and an uncanny ability to read people, they established motive and opportunity, and located evidence and witnesses, until the crime was solved and justice done. Simple. I just needed to list what I had and work from there.

  Physical evidence first. I had no murder weapon. No bullet or casing from the murder weapon. No weapon used in the assault on Anthony Wedderburn. I had a handwritten map to who knows what. A coded notebook, undeciphered, now missing.

  Motive next. Drugs, if you believed DC Lane’s theory. Treasure, if you believed Wendell George’s actions. Something left on Anegada by Nigel Brooks, if you believed my gut. No support for any of them.

  Opportunity. On the murder, everyone on Anegada at the time. On the assault, the same. Also, on both, maybe a person or persons who had come and gone without the knowledge of anyone other than the victim.

  Witnesses. Belle Lloyd, but I had spoken to her twice and she was peripheral at best. Paul Kelliher/John Ippolito, now dead. Neville Wells, now dead. Nigel Brooks, now dead. Anthony Wedderburn, in a coma at Peebles Hospital.

  Suspects. Cat Wells, though I could not articulate why.

  Maybe I was due for some luck. Maybe the one witness who was still alive would be out of his coma. Maybe Lord Anthony Wedderburn, De White Rasta, the ganja-addled code breaker, would be waiting in his comfortable hospital bed for my call.

  I dialed Peebles Hospital and was quickly put through to the two-bed Intensive Care Unit.

  “Intensive Care, Nurse Rowell.” The voice at the end of the line was no-nonsense, with a clipped Abaco accent. It was the voice of a nurse who could put a young doctor in his place if she felt it necessary.

  “Nurse Rowell, this is Special Constable Teddy Creque of the Royal Virgin Islands Police Force on Anegada. I’m calling to inquire about the condition of a crime victim who is a patient in the ICU, Anthony Wedderburn,” I said, straight to the point and all business. I hoped Nurse Rowell would appreciate that approach.

  “Constable, I was just about to call your Inspector Stoutt to report what had occurred with that patient during the night.”

  “I am working with Inspector Stoutt on the case,” I said. It was mostly true. Well, it contained a grain of truth. “What is Mr. Wedderburn’s status?”

  “Mr. Wedderburn remains in grave condition but he did show some signs yesterday that he might be able to breathe on his own without remaining intubated. We began reducing his dosage of propofol yesterday morning, hoping to bring him to the point where he could be taken off the ventilator. Shortly after midnight he regained consciousness. Unfortunately, he became agitated due to the presence of the breathing tube and he had to be placed back under sedation.”

  “Was he able to speak while he was conscious?”

  “The breathing tube prevented him from speaking,” Nurse Rowell explained, allowing a practiced trace of exasperation into her voice at my medical ignorance. “He did, however, gesture for a pen and paper and managed to write one word before he became agitated. He wrote ‘shag,’ Constable, S-H-A-G. Quite remarkable, isn’t it, that a man undergoes an extreme trauma, is barely clinging to life, and his first thought when he regains consciousness is to ask for a smoke. But, then again, tobacco is the most addictive of all habit-forming substances.”

  “That was all he wrote, ‘shag’?”

  “Yes, Constable. It was quite clear. We have saved the paper, if you would like to see it.”

  “Thank you, that won’t be necessary. So Mr. Wedderburn remains in a coma?”

  “Yes. He is still intubated and breathing on the ventilator. Would you like to be contacted if his condition changes? Inspector Stoutt has already asked that we contact him but I see no reason why we cannot contact you both. You two seem to be the only ones interested in the gentleman’s condition.”

  “Thank you, no, that won’t be necessary. I may call in periodically for an update.”

  “Will you inform Inspector Stoutt about Mr. Wedderburn’s status or do I need to call him?”

  “I will let him know, Nurse Rowell. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Constable.” The connection went dead.

  I thought about not calling Rollie. There was really nothing to report other than De Rasta’s yearning for homegrown tobacco and the pessimistic news of his return to the twilight of induced coma. But information was information and I had learned the lesson of not reporting it when a report was expected. Besides, Rollie might have something for me.

  The audible sigh before Rollie spoke told me he was approaching the day with his usual enthusiasm. After a perfunctory greeting in both directions, I relayed what I had learned from Nurse Rowell.

  “Shag? What does that mean? Carpet or homegrown?” Rollie sounded almost, but not quite, interested.

  “Homegrown. He grows his own and smokes it when he’s not burning something more potent.”

  “The man is nearly killed, finally comes out of a coma, and all he can think about is lighting up a fatty? Incredible.”

  “He may have been a little fuzzy from his injuries.”

  “You think so? Maybe he’s permanently fuzzy from all the ganja the DC says he smokes.” Inspector Stoutt had obviously been discussing the case with DC Lane. I wondered if he had bought the RVIPF party line that Anegada’s crime problem was drug related.

  “Do you think a visit to Peebles would be worthwhile?” I asked, hoping to gently nudge Rollie into making the epic journey of a quarter mile from police headquarters to the hospital.

  “Not if the guy’s in a coma and writing crazy stuff when he comes out of it,” Rollie said with his usual reluctance to become involved in anything resembling the actual investigation of a case to wh
ich he had been assigned. Some things do not change.

  “Any other news?” I asked, hoping something, anything, other than disappointment with Inspector Stoutt, would come out of our conversation.

  “Agent Rosenblum and his JITFS boys are still in town, shaking the trees to find out who the drug lord of Anegada is. Other than that, no new news. Jeezum, the DC’s on the other line. I gotta go.”

  I dropped the phone receiver into its cradle. A dove cooed outside the window. The morning had turned hot and still. Pamela Pickering was weeping softly in her office down the hall. I closed my eyes to consider my options and narrowed them to two. I could go to Cat and hope to shake things loose through subterfuge or confrontation, or I could wait in my office, listening to the weeping and cooing, and hope for a break to drop in my lap.

  The choice was easy. Waiting for a break in this case might take the rest of my life, or, at the very least, the rest of my career with the RVIPF. And I wasn’t that fond of doves or crying women.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The teak-panel front door of Frangipani House opened slightly in response to my knock, revealing a single emerald-green eye. For an instant, the eye betrayed concern on the part of its owner, but only for an instant. By the time the door was fully open, the eye and its owner were coolly composed.

  “Come in, lover,” Cat literally purred. The words were right, the tone was right. It felt all wrong.

  I stepped into the tiled foyer. An overnight bag was packed and waiting at the foot of the stairs. The lovely emerald eye and its companion tracked my glance toward the bag.

  “I am so glad you came, Teddy. I was just going to try to reach you. One of the other pilots at VI Birds broke his leg, fell off a bar stool in St. Thomas, can you believe it, and they need me to take his charters for the rest of the week. Looks like my little vacation has been cut short. They’re sending a plane over in half an hour. I’m so disappointed, lover. I was hoping we could have some more time together before I had to go.”