“She told a story so remarkable that I actually believed it. But it would help for you to confirm it where possible. An affirmative or negative nod of the head will suffice until you have recovered and are able to prepare a full written report. Do you feel up to it?”
I did not. I gestured affirmatively anyway.
“Very well. The most important item first. Did Ms. Wells shoot you?” The DC looked intently into my eyes.
I shook my head no.
“Ms. Wells said she shot and killed your wife, Icilda, to prevent Icilda from killing you.”
Yes.
“Ms. Wells says that it was Icilda who wounded you, using your own service revolver.”
I slowly nodded yes.
The DC’s brow furrowed. “I am sorry, Constable, that your personal … situation, is involved here and that your marriage has come to this.”
His comment was a strange way to put it, but what could DC Lane really say? Since being shot, I had been too busy staying alive to think about it but reality registered now. Icilda was dead. Dead trying to kill me. Icilda was a murderer, cold and calculating. I was an adulterer. Our marriage was over long before the sunset confrontation at Spanish Camp. It was over years before, even before I sat at Rot Faulkner’s funeral and dried her tears as she plotted to cast me, our family, and our life on Anegada aside.
I mouthed “thank you” and the DC went on.
“Ms. Wells says that she believes Icilda was responsible for the murder of Professor Paul Kelliher, who was not, in fact, a professor at all, but an individual named John Ippolito.”
“Icilda confessed it to me,” I rasped. My eyes teared, whether from the pain and effort of speech or the emotion rising inside me, I could not tell.
“I see,” DC Lane said. “When did she make this confession to you?”
“After,” was all I got out before all sound ceased to come from me.
“After what? After she wounded you?”
Yes, said the nod of my head.
“Did Icilda also confess to assaulting Anthony Wedderburn?” he asked. “Ms. Wells said she suspected Icilda had committed that crime as well.”
My head bent in assent.
DC Lane changed direction. “Ms. Wells said in her statement that John Ippolito was a friend of her father and that her father had worked for Nigel Brooks on Anegada in the late nineteen sixties. She told a long story but the gist was that Ms. Wells, Ippolito, and Icilda had information that they believed would lead them to the money Nigel Brooks had embezzled from the government of the Virgin Islands. Did you know this?”
I dipped my chin in agreement.
“How did you know this?” the DC asked, his voice a mixture of curiosity and surprise.
“Investigation,” I whispered. I would have dearly loved to have had a camera to record the DC’s expression when he heard that word.
“And did your investigation also lead you to the cache of emeralds that Ms. Wells had in her possession when she was arrested, Special Constable?”
I signaled a yes.
“Ms. Wells believed that to be the case, given the situation she found you in at Spanish Camp. Ms. Wells believed that Icilda surprised you after you located the gems, shot you, and was about to take the gems and kill you when Ms. Wells came upon the two of you.”
“Yes,” I said, as loudly as I could.
“Ms. Wells said that after shooting Icilda, she bandaged your wound, gathered up most of the emeralds, and left you at Spanish Camp, intending to fly from Anegada on the VI Birds helicopter.”
I nodded.
“And when she found the helicopter disabled, she hid near the airport until the following morning, when she could board the Bomba Charger to make her escape with Brooks’s ill-gotten fortune. Or, I should say, most of his ill-gotten fortune. Rollie Stoutt found about four million dollars’ worth of stones scattered around the well at Spanish Camp when he processed the crime scene.”
DC Lane sighed heavily. “That is the substance of Ms. Wells’s statement. As you confirm the circumstances of her killing of Icilda, I will recommend to the senior crown counsel that she not be charged with a crime for that act. Her actions appear to be clearly a matter of justifiable defense of a law enforcement officer in the course of his duties. She will probably spend the next two decades in Her Majesty’s Prison for the felony theft and firearms charges in any event.”
The DC paused as if expecting a response to this information but there was none to be made. He went on.
“There is one other item, Special Constable Creque. During the course of her statement, Ms. Wells described how she had seduced you in order to, as she put it, ‘keep a close eye on the local cop’ and learn any information that might be of benefit to her.”
The intersection of the pea-green wall with the worn linoleum floor at the far corner of the hospital room suddenly seemed to need my attention. I stared hard at it and said nothing.
DC Lane made a gruff sound in his throat and gave a knowing toss of his great black head. “I see no particular relevance to that piece of information in the formal report of this matter. I doubt that it will appear in the final transcript of Ms. Wells’s statement when the stenographer completes it.”
I turned to the DC but he refused to meet my eyes, saying, “You have been through enough, Special Constable.”
At that moment, Nurse Rowell appeared in the doorway, tapping her wristwatch with an insistent index finger. “Deputy Commissioner, Dr. Patel has asked that any visitors be limited to fifteen minutes so that Constable Creque gets adequate rest.”
“Of course, nurse,” the DC said, “just one minute more.”
Nurse Rowell shot the DC a stern look the equal of any I had seen dispensed by the DC, gave her watch two more palpations, and retreated to the hall.
DC Lane drew close to me. “The commissioner and the prime minister have asked that I convey the nation’s gratitude for your recovery of Brooks’s cache of emeralds. When you have sufficiently recuperated from your injuries, you have been invited to attend a session of the Legislative Council. It is my understanding that you will receive a commendation from the council for your valor.”
“But—” I managed.
“No buts, Special Constable Creque. Your tenacious efforts led to the solution of three major crimes, one of which occurred over forty years ago. Your actions also prevented the removal of the proceeds of that forty-year-old crime from our country. The single living perpetrator is now housed in Her Majesty’s Prison. You are responsible for the recovery of over fifty million dollars of Her Majesty’s funds, funds that can now be used for their original purpose of improving Anegada and the rest of the BVI. And you were wounded and nearly died in the process. You will attend the session of the Legislative Council and be deservedly honored.”
“Yes, sir,” I rasped. I know an order when I hear one.
“There is a final item, Constable. The recent events have made it evident that having only a special constable on Anegada does not provide an adequate Royal Virgin Islands Police Force presence there. The position of special constable on Anegada is therefore being eliminated. We need a fully commissioned police constable there now. The prime minister has earmarked a portion of the funds you recovered to train and equip a constable for the island.”
So that was it. I was out of a job, but what could I expect after the way I had botched things up? It was a miracle it had turned out as well as it had.
“I have been instructed by the commissioner to offer you the position,” the DC intoned solemnly. “And I am proud to do so. Had the commissioner offered the position to anyone else, I would have resigned from the RVIPF. You do not need to tell me if you want the position now. Take your time, and work on regaining your health. The job is waiting for you whenever you feel well enough.”
And with that, Deputy Commissioner Howard T. Lane snapped to attention, fired a crisp salute—fingers together, palm out—in my direction, and strode from the room.
Ep
ilogue
“It is a fine morning, Constable Creque,” Nurse Rowell greeted me in a voice as sunny as the view from my window. “Another couple of days and Dr. Patel thinks you should be ready for discharge.”
My physical recovery was going well, with no permanent damage anticipated from my now-healing wounds. My emotional recovery was about as could be expected. I had survived a first major test, a fifteen-minute visit from Kevin, Tamia, Madda, and Dada, with a minimum of tears. I suspect Dr. Patel had carefully coached them before allowing them to see me; even Kevin and Tamia had avoided questions and comments about the massive disruption I had caused in their innocent lives. I had mumbled a general apology, which was met by quick statements that no apology was needed and that I should concentrate on getting better. An explanation, my explanation, for what had occurred was mercifully deferred to another time.
Nurse Rowell popped a thermometer in my mouth and plumped the pillows on the bed, humming softly as she worked. I was sitting up in an armchair, facing toward the placid waters of Road Harbour. I had the two-bed ICU to myself, even though I suspect I was well enough to graduate to the general ward. Nurse Rowell had taken me on as her personal project, and, as the ICU was her domain, it was there I remained.
An orderly brought in a breakfast tray of bacon, eggs, broiled tomatoes, black coffee, and fresh guava juice and placed it on a small table before me. Finally back on solid food, I tucked into the meal with abandon; an IV bag of “parenteral nutrition solution” is no match for a rasher of bacon.
My bacony reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door frame behind me, followed by an Eton-Oxford-accented voice. “So, this is how the aristocracy lives, while the hoi polloi in the general ward are forced to subsist on oatmeal and cold tea.”
I turned and there stood Anthony Wedderburn with a piratical twinkle in his blue eyes. His blond dreadlocks were gone, cut away to allow treatment of his head wounds. In their place he sported a wrap of bandages canted into a kind of rakish turban. A loose hospital gown and floppy cotton socks completed his outfit.
“Anthony, it is so good to see you! When you were airlifted from Anegada, I thought I might never see you again.”
“I could say the same of you, old man. They told me of your exploits, wounded and clawing your way across the burning sands like a cinema legionnaire. It looks as if you are well on the mend, though.”
“The doctor says I may be discharged in a couple days.”
“Excellent! But it seems I will beat you to the punch. My physician wants a final look later this morning, and if all is well, I am back in the open air this afternoon.” Anthony beamed.
“Anthony,” I said. “I want to apologize to you for involving you in this mess. I had no idea it would put you in danger.”
“Not to worry, Teddy. As the bard said, all’s well that ends well. You could not have known what would happen. And it takes more than a crack on the bonce to put me down.” Anthony’s face clouded and he said, “I say, I am forgetting my manners. I came to see about your health but also to offer my condolences on … your recent loss.”
“Thank you, Anthony, you are very kind,” I began, and then stopped, overcome and unable to speak. The great emptiness I had begun to perceive these last few days reappeared, an emptiness I could feel, literally, inside my chest where my heart had been. I knew the heart was still there, doing its stoic beating work, but somehow it was there and gone at the same moment, a void in its place. I supposed the void was grief, but how could I grieve for Icilda, who had tried to kill me and nearly succeeded? Icilda, who had betrayed me. Icilda, whom I had betrayed. I told myself I had some sorting out to do.
A wry smile touched the corners of my mouth. “The loss isn’t that recent, Anthony. It happened a long time ago. I guess I just wasn’t able to admit it to myself.”
Anthony made no response. There is no response to be made when such words are spoken. I broke the silence.
“What about you, Anthony? What’s next for you?”
“I am thinking, Teddy, that the blow to the head did me some good.” De White Rasta smiled. “That and the spot of work I did for you on the coded notebook. It made me realize that there is something more to life than stumbling stoned through the day and finding a warm spot to crash each night. To answer your question, I intend to go home, settle down, and try to find some good work to do. I’m not sure what just yet but I know it will come to me.”
“Home? To England?” I asked.
“England?” Anthony was momentarily puzzled. “No, home to Anegada, of course. What about you, Teddy?”
I turned to the window. Outside, a sailboat skimmed across Road Harbour. In the near distance, a pair of mockingbirds frolicked in the branches of a soursop tree. The trade wind freshened, cutting the heat out of the morning. The world, and life, went on.
Off to the northeast, too low to be seen from Tortola, my world, the Drowned Land named by Columbus, went on as well. The sunrise at the East End; my two lovely children; the salt ponds; Dada and Madda; the pink sands and long sweep of Cow Wreck Bay; The Settlement, filled with friends more like family; the bustle and excitement of the Bomba Charger arriving at the government dock; the lonely beauty of the flats; all went on. The sorting out I needed would be the work of many days, but I sensed it had begun. And I knew where it would be completed.
“I’ll be going home, too,” I said.
Acknowledgments
The experience of a first novel has shown me that the writer has one of the smaller parts in the work that reaches the public. The list of those whose inspiration, support, efforts, and encouragement deserve thanks comprises almost everyone whose life has touched mine, and is impossible to record here. You know who you are and you have my gratitude.
Special thanks to friend, fellow writer, and first reader Ed Duncan, who urged me to continue after reading my manuscript. Without your encouragement, this story would be sitting in a desk drawer somewhere, unread.
My appreciation also to beta readers Dick (Spike) Spicer and Larry Boudon for your sensible comments and sharp eyes.
Thanks to the Mystery Writers of America and St. Martin’s Minotaur for sponsoring the competition that led to the publication of this book and for their willingness to give a chance to those of us who travel without an agent or a pedigree.
My abiding gratitude to Andy Martin, Kelley Ragland, and the entire team at Minotaur Books for transforming my rough manuscript into the polished and professional-looking book the reader sees today.
To Elizabeth Lacks, my incomparable editor, a special place in my heart for your patience in guiding a sixty-year-old rookie through the editing and publishing process. You are the best.
My appreciation to the precise and insightful Aja Pollock, copy editor extraordinaire.
For their warm and welcoming ways, thanks to the people of Anegada and the British Virgin Islands.
For teaching their son that there are no limits, thanks to my parents, Alma and Lee Keyse.
Last but most important, thanks to my dear wife, Irene, who believed when others did not, who encouraged when others would not, and who made me a better writer and a better man.
About the Author
JOHN KEYSE-WALKER practiced law for 30 years, representing business and individual clients, educational institutions and government entities. He is an avid salt- and freshwater angler, a tennis player, kayaker and an accomplished cook. He lives in Ohio with his wife. Sun, Sand, Murder is his first book. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
De
dication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SUN, SAND, MURDER. Copyright © 2016 by John Keyse-Walker. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover art by Frank Hunter
Bird illustration by Sokolova_sv / Shutterstock.
Sun, Sand, Murder Page 20