Killed in Paradise

by William L. DeAndrea

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I want to make this look good, too.”

  Dr. Sato was getting exasperated. “I don’t have the slightest interest in making anything ‘look good.’ I have given you serious medical advice. You are recovering from a concussion. Granted it was a mild one, head injuries can be tricky. A blow that gives one man some minor inconvenience might kill another. I strongly urge you to see your own physician as soon as possible after we make port.”

  I said I would, thanked him, and found my way out. I left him and Frankie proclaiming they would roll themselves up in a big ball and die, my, my.

  I took the doctor’s advice and stayed in my cabin until I absolutely had to leave. Kenni came and took Spot for walks, and fluffed my pillow, etc. I kept reminding myself that Kenni was in no danger. The killer was a psychopath, not a fool. There was nothing to be feared from Kenni, and the best way to keep things that way was to keep our contact to a minimum. I had come up with a plan; all I had to do now was convince myself to go through with it.

  Finally, Kenni came and summoned me to the big ballroom upstairs. Customs and Immigration were processing people on the ship, instead of making them wait in line in a drafty shed while everything got checked out. I rejoined the gang one last time. We sat and drank coffee until they called our cabin numbers.

  Everybody but me wanted to talk about the real-life mystery—the disappearance of the writer, the death of the nasty dining room steward. I was grateful for the almost constant interruptions by mystery cruisers coming to thank Karen and Billy for “more fun than I’ve had in years,” or “the time of our lives,” to give a few random quotes.

  “God is good,” Billy said.

  Karen was so happy she was practically laughing. “We came up with a solution—sort of. It was so ridiculous and farfetched, I was afraid they were going to send us to Davy Smith’s locker.”

  “Davy Jones’s locker,” Phil DeGrave said.

  Karen asked him if he was sure, but didn’t wait for an answer. She went on, “Instead, they loved it!” She started explaining the solution, but since I’d lost track of the mystery after the first day, I tuned out right after she told me that Bob Madison had set a murder trap for himself in order to frame the prize hen who had laid the eggs. After that, it really got farfetched.

  Billy kept shaking his head. “The real solution was so good. It made sense. Ellery Queen would have been proud of it.”

  “Use it the next time,” Mike Ryerson said. He was back to being his bluff, hearty self. “Nobody knows what it is, so it’s still good.”

  “Or write it up as a book,” Nicola Andrews said.

  Billy would not be consoled. “Maybe we should look into science-fiction cruises.”

  Karen gasped. “What a great idea!” And she was off and planning. They started calling our group off through Customs. I spent the time examining my conclusions for holes. I didn’t find any. I wasn’t sure that meant there weren’t any, or just that my bottle-softened brain was too weak to find them.

  Just before it was my turn to go through Customs, Phil DeGrave said, “Too bad we couldn’t shed some light on the other thing.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Well, sometimes you slay the beast, and sometimes the beast slays you.”

  “It’s a lot easier the way we do it,” Althea Nell Furst said. “When you make up the crime and the criminal, solving it is child’s play.”

  They called my number. I shook hands all around and went. The customs people made a fuss over Spot. At first I thought they suspected me of smuggling dogs, or possibly dog collars, into the States, but they were only bowled over by his canine beauty.

  Kenni and Jan had been called a few minutes ago. Kenni was already through. Jan was taking much longer because she had forms to fill out. She had some parcels full of island weaving she wanted to display in her store to see if there was a market for it on the trendy Upper West Side, and she had to pay extra taxes or whatever.

  Finally, they were done with her, and she came over to us.

  “There’s a Network limo waiting,” I said. “To take you home.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Aren’t you coming with us, Matt?”

  Kenni blushed again and made a little harumph. “Ahh, actually, Jan, I’m going to Matt’s place. He’s still a little woozy, and someone has to walk Spot—”

  Jan smiled a bless-you-my-children smile. “It’s just as well. And listen, you two take the limo.”

  “It’s for you,” I insisted. “You’re the contest winner.”

  “I’ve got a few errands to run before I go home, anyway. I’ll be better off in a cab.”

  “The driver will take you on your errands. The Network can afford it.”

  “No, I’d just as soon do it this way. I insist. My prerogative as a contest winner.”

  I conceded, grudgingly. Jan stood on tiptoe to kiss Kenni on the cheek. They promised to see each other later.

  Jan turned to me. “Thanks for everything, Matt. It’s been so nice to meet you. I know this trip has been a mess for you. Did you ever talk to those people from the island tourist bureau?”

  “They canceled me.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I hope your deal goes through.”

  “It will. Too much money, too many perks at stake for both sides.”

  “Anyway, I want you to know that in spite of everything, I’ve really had a wonderful time.”

  She smiled warmly and put out her hand. I took it and said, “You know, Jan,” I said, “I believe you really mean that.”

  “I really do, Matt.”

  I looked at her. “Good,” I said sincerely. “That takes a load off my mind.”

  23

  “Trust me—I know what I’m doing.”

  —David Rasche,

  “Sledge Hammer” (ABC)

  IT WOULD HAVE WARMED the mayor’s heart to see how happy Spot was to be back in New York. He kept scooting from one side of the limo to the other, taking it all in. I was glad he was pleased. He’d have to earn his Alpo before the day was out.

  When we got to the apartment on Central Park West, Kenni went to take a shower, and I started making phone calls. I was surprised to see that St. David’s Island did not have its own area code, but shared one with the rest of that part of the Caribbean.

  The whole business took about an hour. Not because it was so hard to get through (it wasn’t), but because I had a lot to say, and I had to say it three times. I made one more call, a local one. I had a job for Harris Brophy, and I wanted to get him to work on it right away.

  Kenni came into the living room toweling her hair. She was wearing a gold silk robe that belonged to Jane Sloan. Jane is not a large woman, and on Kenni, the robe looked more like a gift wrap than a garment.

  “You look,” I said, “indecently delicious.”

  “That was more or less the idea,” she told me. “This is quite a place. I’ve been looking at the bedrooms.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hold that thought. Spot and I have to go out.”

  Kenni’s face fell. “Oh. Are you going to be gone long?”

  “No,” I said. “Not long.”

  “Good. I’ll take a nap and warm the bed up.”

  I told her that sounded like a good idea. I didn’t say I hoped she still liked touching me when I came back and told her what I’d been up to. I kissed her and left.

  Wooly Thinking was on Columbus Avenue, north of Seventy-ninth Street, set between an expensive hairstylist and a gourmet coffee shop. The door was locked when I got there, but I looked through the glass and saw luggage where its owner had dumped it. I stood outside and smelled coffee while Spot and I waited. It occurred to me that Kenni’s coffee had been doctored the night before we reached the island. I had forgotten all about that. But it fit. It fit fine. Kenni had been poisoned to keep her and me on the ship next day. More specifically, to keep us from going ashore. Because Kenni and Jan and I were more or less a threesome. We might have expected to do that first day on t
he island together. And Jan couldn’t have that. So she’d risked Kenni’s life to make sure it didn’t happen. It made Jan out to be a callous bitch, but that was the least of it.

  It wasn’t long before she came back. Irritation flashed across her face almost too quickly to notice, replaced immediately by a glowing smile.

  “Matt,” she said. “What a nice surprise.”

  “I’ve got something important to tell you. Mind if I come in?”

  “Not at all.” She unlocked the door and waved me inside. The still-sore lump at the back of my head tingled a little at the thought of letting her behind me, but logic won. It was a busy neighborhood and a busy street. Too many people walking by for her to risk it. Besides, I had Spot to protect me.

  “Come into my office,” she said. She led the way this time. I followed closely enough to make sure she didn’t have a chance to prepare a reception for me. She pulled some fabric samples off a chair, and asked me to sit. Spot squatted at my feet. She took the swivel chair behind her desk. I looked around, making sure there was no back way out of the shop. There wasn’t. “It’s nice that banks are open Saturdays these days, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Very convenient,” she agreed. “But how did you know I’ve been to the bank?”

  “You mentioned it down at the docks. I wonder,” I said, “what I would find if I searched you right now?”

  She grinned slyly. She was a damned attractive woman. “It’s an appealing idea, Matt, but what would Kenni say?”

  I ignored her. “I know I wouldn’t find the diamonds. They’re in a safe-deposit box at the bank, at some bank that’s open Saturdays. It would be hard to find. Would I find a deposit box receipt on you, maybe in another name? What name did Schaeffer know you by?”

  “You don’t seem to be making any sense,” she said flatly. “That hit on the head you took—”

  “I’ve got someone checking old NYU records and yearbooks,” I told her. “Several people, in fact. They’re undoubtedly on the job already. I told them to trace Joe Jenkins—Robert Joseph Janski—then look for you. How’s that for sense?”

  “Worse than ever. Listen, Matt, does Kenni know you’re here?”

  “As a matter of fact, Kenni doesn’t. Several other people do, though. I didn’t want to upset Kenni until it was all over. She likes you, you know. I liked you, too. I suppose you’re good at that. You’re very intelligent, maybe even brilliant. And I don’t suppose you actually hate people, you just don’t give a single flying shit about anybody but yourself.”

  “That’s enough, Matt. Get out of here, right now.” She pointed to the door, just in case I’d forgotten the way.

  “When I’ve told you what I have to tell you.”

  She was angry. She stood up to her full five-one or so. “If you’re not leaving, I am. And I’ll be back with a policeman.”

  I said, “Spot, watch.”

  The Samoyed rose from a squat to a crouch. He pulled his smile back to show a mouthful of very white, very pointy teeth. He snarled a little, then made hungry sounds in the back of his throat.

  “You can go to jail for this, damn you,” she said.

  “Nah. If this works one way, this is a citizen’s arrest. If it works out the other way, it won’t even matter that much. Sit down,” I told her. “Relax. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Certainly not me or Spot, unless you go for a gun or something.”

  She sat back down. “You won’t get away with this,” she said.

  “That’s my line,” I said. “You know, the funny thing is, you might have gotten away with it. I was inclined to do this by the book, you know, send my people through the records, establish the connection between you and Janski, build a case for the authorities. I realized in that time you could clear out of here with the diamonds—you did get the diamonds, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t,” she said distinctly, “know what you’re talking about.”

  “You got them,” I said. “And you got them through Customs, too. Nice touch. They weren’t likely to suspect someone of smuggling who volunteered to spend a half hour filling out forms and paying duties. Especially since they’d no reason to be looking. Gardeno didn’t tell them anything. I’m sure the diamonds are in the bank. They were safe in a bank on the Island for years, and American banks are just as safe, even if they do demand names.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “As I was saying, I knew if you took off you’d have the most portable form of vast wealth available to you, and that you’d probably take off before we were ready to do anything about you, but you could be chased, and eventually found, and my conscience would be clear.

  “Until this afternoon, Jan. Until you shook my hand and smiled at me and told me how much you enjoyed the trip. You meant it. You’ve killed four men, Jan, and nearly killed two more people, one of whom was me. And you loved every minute of it. You thought you were tweaking me, laughing at me, at all us suckers, the way you’d been laughing at us all the whole trip. Maybe your whole life, for all I know.

  “But you see, I’d already figured it out. You’re shrewd and ruthless, and possibly brilliant, but you’re not perfect. You made a few mistakes. You showed familiarity with the NYU community when you started talking about those saloons with Mike Ryerson. You left this”—I pulled the piece of plastic out of my pocket and showed it to her—“in Schaeffer’s cabin. Missed it cleaning up, I suppose. No sin in that—the cabin steward missed it, too. You tried to kill me, which was a mistake in itself, and you failed to do it once you tried. That’s when I figured it out, you see. Dangling over the ocean like a tea bag. People are supposed to see their lives flash before them at a time like that—I saw your life, at least your life since you decided to rip off the Mafia. What I didn’t see clearly, I got a pretty good idea of—like how you arranged to win the contest, and why Janski was killed, and why Schaeffer and Burkehart got it, and where Schaeffer went to, and how I got a note from a dead man. The only thing I haven’t been able to figure out is why you tortured Schaeffer before you killed him.”

  Jan looked hatred at me. The last time I had seen a look that hostile had been on the face of Lee H. Schaeffer. “It had to be that. You conked him on the head, got him tied to a chair or something, and burned him with his hair dryer. You broke the plastic nose off so that you could get the hot metal elements against his skin. I went round and round on this piece of plastic and that burn mark on the floor. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time. Another bad break you got was that I am used to looking stupid, and I’m willing to do it if I have to. Nobody can say you didn’t try to keep me away from Gardeno, and God knows you were angry enough when I went. Now I know why. Once I heard the M.O. of the torture murder of Gardeno’s nephew, I might put the burn mark on the rug in perspective.

  “All it meant was that you toasted Schaeffer’s toes a little, right? Did you hate him that much, or were you trying to get something out of him?”

  Jan’s stare had lost some hatred. It was almost speculative now.

  “The thing that gets me,” I went on, “is that you were already planning to kill him. I don’t know how you got Burkehart to steal the knives for you, but—and there I go again. Everyone keeps saying ‘knives.’ But it was more than a set of knives. It was a full set of butcher’s tools. There are knives in there, sure. But there are also cleavers of various sizes, and a bone saw.

  “Schaeffer was always headed out that porthole, wasn’t he? But he was too big to fit through the porthole. So somehow, you arranged it so he could be made to fit. My guess is you sawed one arm off at the shoulder, washed blood down the drain until most of it was gone, wrapped the cut ends in the plastic from his dry cleaning, threw the arm out the porthole, dragged the rest of the body across, pushed that out the porthole, and followed up with the knives and hair dryer. How am I doing so far?”

  Jan ran her finger along her chin. “I wonder,” she said, “what would find if I searched you right now.”

  “Muscle and hair,” I told her. “I’m no
t wearing a wire, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Oh, I’ll just bet you’re not. Still, I don’t think you’re as smart as you think you are.”

  I grinned at her. “Care to tell me where I’m wrong?”

  “Matt, dear, you’re wrong from beginning to end. But even in the realm of your own fantasy, I think I could explain things better.”

  “Go right ahead,” I suggested.

  “This is only fantasy, you understand. Complete fantasy. Nothing like it ever happened, or ever could happen. But I think a really clever killer would have had Schaeffer arrange to have the cutlery stolen.”

  “However would she do that?” I asked. I was beginning to regret that I hadn’t arranged to wear a wire. When I’d come here this afternoon, I’d had two ends in mind—to satisfy as much of my own curiosity as possible, and to stall for time until various organizations could get their asses in gear. I knew Jan was a psychopath, but I didn’t really expect her to be such a classic psychopath, the kind with the ego burning to have you know how clever they are, how they’ve been able to get away with things a mere human is frightened to think of. The kick of doing it wears off; the kick of having them knowing you did it lasts forever, because they’re hemmed in by their silly rules, and all they can do is gnash their teeth, and curse you in their impotence. I remembered how angry she was when I said to come in before she knocked. She’s the one who had to be making the mysteries.

  As she was doing now. I was the promising student. I’d seen through to some of her glory. Now I was going to get a chance to appreciate the rest.

  Because she knew she was safe. She knew where all the evidence was. Most was at the bottom of the ocean, the rest was hidden by her in places no one could open until she died. And she would never die. She was too smart to die.

  I played my part. “How could she get Schaeffer to do that?” I asked.

  “Oh, well, you can’t just hypothesize in a vacuum, you know. It takes background. Oh, and by the way, you were right about one thing—”