Murder Undercover

by Claire McNab

  “Not a bit like me,” I had said to my trainer. He’d laughed.

  Now I had to find out more about what had happened to Lloyd Snead without behaving in such a way as to call attention to myself. I wandered off to the dive shop and chatted up the cheerful young man who was in charge of outfitting guests with diving equipment. His yellow hibiscus shirt had the name tag TIM. I’d seen him around, but never spoken to him.

  “One of your customers has pretty near drowned,” I observed.

  “Mr. Snead? Yeah, I heard.”

  “Bit of an amateur, was he?”

  Tim shrugged. “Most of the guests are. I gave him an introductory lesson, and he seemed to get everything straight.”

  “Someone said he was diving alone.”

  He made a face at me. “If he’d listened to me, he’d have known that was a no-no.”

  I gave him a mischievous grin. “You didn’t send him out with empty tanks, did you, Tim?”

  “Not a chance,” he said, mock indignant. “Anyway, Mr. Snead didn’t get any tanks from me this morning.”

  “No? Then where would he have got them?”

  “Search me. All I can say is he wasn’t using any equipment from here.”

  I didn’t imagine many guests came with their own tanks, as they were both bulky and heavy, so it was interesting to consider where Snead had got the ones he was wearing. It didn’t seem wise to ask any more questions, so I said good bye to Tim and set off to get a late lunch.

  Jen caught up to me as I walked up the hill to the staff accommodations. Her fair skin flushed hectic pink, rather an unfortunate contrast with her flaming red hair, she panted, “I saw you talking with Quint.”

  It was clear I was to reassure her that I wasn’t impinging on her territory. “Mr. Aylmer told me to get lost, basically. He thinks staff members shouldn’t mix with the guests on social occasions.”

  “Social—?” Jen broke off to punch me playfully. It hurt. Those skinny white arms of hers could deliver quite a blow. “You’re so funny, Denise,” she said. Her expression sobered. “The guy’s dead, you know. All that work Sven did was for nothing, really, since the doctor said the guy’d drowned some time ago.” She scrunched up her face. “I couldn’t do that mouth-to-mouth thing, could you?”

  “You kiss people,” I said reasonably. “That’s mouth-to-mouth.”

  “Yuck,” said Jen, scrunching up her face even more. “You’re sick. I wouldn’t kiss a dead person.”

  Moving away in case she felt impelled to punch me again, I said, “Did you know the guy? I heard his name was Lloyd Snead.”

  “No.” She stopped to consider. “The name’s familiar. Maybe Quint mentioned him.” She said Quint’s name with emphasis. “Why do you want to know?”

  “No particular reason.” There was no point in asking her any more questions. Jen was single-minded, but she was also sharp. The last thing I wanted was her telling Quint Aylmer that I was interested in Snead’s death. “You working tonight?” I asked.

  This inquiry was guaranteed to get an enthusiastic response: Those who were on shift complained about the difficulties of their jobs, generally illustrating this with stories of past horrors; those not scheduled to work exulted in that fact, mentioning cheerfully what they intended to do with their freedom. Jen was of the latter group.

  “I’m hoping to spend a little time with Quint, actually,” she said with a sly smile. “Of course we can’t be seen anywhere in public, because of him being an Aylmer and all, but that could change, if…” She let her voice trail off as she shot me a meaningful look.

  “So you’re really serious, then? I thought you liked Seb.”

  “Seb?” Her tone was affectionately disparaging. “Seb’s very nice, but…” She flashed me a brilliant smile. “Hey, Denise, if you want him—I’m not keen on him any more.”

  “I’m not interested in Seb.”

  “No? Because you’re gay? But surely you’re bi?”

  I didn’t move quickly enough to avoid her playful biceps punch. “I mean,” she said, “like, practically everybody is.”

  * * *

  Friday night at the Tropical Heat Cocktail Lounge was only surpassed by Saturday night for noise, drunken guests and raucous behavior. I’d wondered why it made any difference what night it was in a holiday resort, until Pete had pointed out that some guests only came for the weekend, flying in or coming by launch from the mainland to arrive early Friday evening, departing in a crowd late on Sunday.

  Besides Pete and me behind the bar, there were three other staff to serve the tables, including Kay of the startled beige hair. It had to be dyed—but I couldn’t imagine anyone choosing that particular shade.

  “Awful about the guy drowning,” she said while she waited for me to fill a drink order. It was for eight beers, so I didn’t have to concentrate.

  I knew Kay had spent most of the afternoon in the main office of the admin building, filling in for someone who was off sick, so I said, “Did the cops come?”

  Raising her voice, as the decibel level was already approaching the pain threshold, Kay said, “It was the same two who flew over last time. The young one is really cute. Sort of like a really young Mel Gibson, you know? Of course, they weren’t much interested. I mean, this was just a drowning—the guy before had his head blown off.”

  When I’d first arrived at Aylmer Island I’d been given exhaustive descriptions of how grotesque the shooting death had been, and the note of regret in Kay’s voice indicated how sorry she was that this later accident hadn’t been up that standard. I said, “Pity Snead wasn’t mauled by a shark, to make it worth the cops’ time.”

  My tone had been a little too dry. Kay gave me a puzzled glance, then said, “There were reporters and everything last time. The place was buzzing. I saw myself on the telly—I didn’t talk, or anything. I was just in the crowd.”

  It was fortunate that Lloyd Snead’s death hadn’t been deemed newsworthy. Television crews delighted in background shots to fill in the gaps. Should the media descend on Aylmer Resort there would always be the chance that my face would be beamed into Australia’s living rooms, a less than desirable occurrence.

  Apart from worries about the media, I lived in fear that I’d look up from the bar and see someone I knew heading my way. “Denise!” I could imagine him or her exclaiming. “What are you doing here? Resigned from ASIO, have you?”

  I’d been undercover a few times, and nothing like that had ever happened to me, but I’d heard alarming tales from other agents about how their covers had been blown.

  Kay swept her laden tray off the counter with an ease I had to admire as her slight frame seemed too delicate to lift anything of weight. “The guy’s wife isn’t too broken up,” she said. “That’s her in the lime green in the corner.”

  I followed her glance. Kay was right, the woman in the tight green dress seemed quite at ease, or as at ease as one could be when chatting to Eddie Trebonus. She was attractive in an overblown rose sort of way. Blondish hair, pink cheeks and a voluptuous body. I made a bet with myself that she did a Marilyn Monroe waltz with her hips when she walked. So much for my vision of a weeping, inconsolable widow.

  To my chagrin Eddie had seen me looking in their direction. He grinned widely and raised a hand to wave. I repressed a shudder and hurried to join Pete as he labored to serve the voracious patrons lining the bar.

  “Harvey Wallbanger,” demanded another customer. I could do that cocktail easily, as it was a simple mixture of vodka and orange juice with Galliano dribbled on top. The ones I hated were the multi-ingredient drinks, where I had to rush around the back and check my trusty Bartender’s Guide yet again. Even with that assistance I sometimes got confused, so there was a possibility I’d invented a new cocktail or two, not that most of the patrons would know on a busy night, where they were as intent on throwing down the alcohol as I was in clearing one order for the next.

  “Red alert,” said Pete ten minutes later. “Your nemesis is headi
ng this way.”

  Eddie shoved his way into a gap at the crowded bar and grinned at me. It was a pity I couldn’t feel even a twinge of gratitude at his obvious pleasure in my company, but at least I didn’t recoil too obviously when he reached over to paw at me with thick fingers. “Busy tonight, Den?”

  I took a step back. “It’s Denise.”

  “Well, Denise…” Eddie paused to snicker at his use of my full name, then he went on with an aggravating smirk, “What I have in mind is a real test for you. I’m asking for a Ramos gin fizz. What do you say to that?”

  Gin fizz I knew. Gin, sugar syrup, lime, lemon, soda water and a cherry, but what in hell were the ingredients of a Ramos gin fizz?

  “I wouldn’t have one of those particular fizzes,” I said. “I’ve heard they’re dangerous. A real health risk.”

  Eddie gazed at me, astonished, then a smile slid onto his fat lips. “You don’t say.”

  Before he could go on, Pete came up. “I’ll fix the order,” he said. “Denise, you’re wanted at the back door.” He followed me as I moved away.

  “Thanks,” I said, appreciating how sweet he was to save me.

  “No, I mean it,” Pete said. “There’s someone to see you. And for God’s sake, hurry back.” He gestured at the crowd pressing against the bar. “The barbarians are at the gate, and they’re bloody thirsty.”

  The door was ajar, a breaking of the strict rule that it should always be kept closed and locked. I opened it fully and stepped through. “Denise,” said Roanna Aylmer.

  I have to admit my heart jumped and my blood fizzed rather like the cocktail that Pete was no doubt preparing for Eddie at that very moment. “Ms. Aylmer,” I said, ever polite.

  She made an amused sound, deep in her throat. “I think you can call me Roanna.”

  “Roanna,” I said. It was an unfamiliar name to me, but it suited her dark good looks.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  Voice neutral, I said, “Oh yes?”

  “I’ve already asked Pete, and he’s agreed to be a bartender at a function my family’s having tomorrow right up at the Big House. He needs an assistant, and I wonder if you’d join him there around seven.”

  Perfect, I thought, but don’t answer too fast.

  Roanna obviously took my silence for a possible refusal. Her forehead crinkled, convincing me she was surprised I hadn’t jumped at the chance. After a long pause, she said, “I know it’s your night off, but I’ll arrange for you to receive extra pay.”

  “Okay.” I was offhand.

  She was still frowning. “Don’t do it if you don’t want to,” she said, an astringent note in her voice.

  My smile was moderate. “Tomorrow night’s fine.” A light movement in the air brought the heavy smell of tropical flowers. I looked at her firm lips. We could seal the bargain with a kiss, I thought.

  Roanna tilted her head, measuring me. I hoped she couldn’t read my mind, which was skittering past a kiss to activities even more alluring. “Seven o’clock,” she said. “It’ll be an interesting night.”

  “You’re telling me,” I murmured to her retreating back.

  Chapter Four

  When I finally plodded up the hill to the staff quarters my feet were aching, my sinuses stinging from cigarette smoke, and my ears still ringing from the din. After the cocktail lounge had closed at three I’d stayed behind with Pete to tidy up the bar, and then he’d gone loping off for what he called an assignation. From his anticipatory smile, I gathered that his date was pretty crash hot, but he didn’t volunteer a name, and I didn’t ask.

  The full moon had already set, so there was no competition for the milky way, which blazed in countless points of light. As I walked up the final incline I scanned for anything out of place. This was a habit encouraged by my training, but it was also because I was keenly aware that the route was ideal for an ambush. Lush vegetation crowded each side of the way. The only illumination was provided by a series of ankle-high lights positioned every few meters to throw fans of brilliance on the surface of the path itself. This was a great help as far as sure-footedness went, but of absolutely no use if someone was skulking in the undergrowth. There was no reason to suppose I was under any threat, but Lloyd Snead’s death had unsettled me. It could have been an accident, but my instincts told me otherwise.

  To cheer myself up, I fantasized Roanna Aylmer lurking in the bushes, a faint smile on her lips. She would step out onto the path and offer a casual invitation for a walk in the tropical night. I’d play hard to get, as I didn’t want her to think I was a pushover. It was an enticing thought, but naturally she didn’t appear, so, tired but not the slightest bit sleepy, I went to the rec room in search of a cup of coffee.

  As usual, there were still people up and partying. I wandered, yawning, into the kitchen, where Seb was entertaining an attentive audience. His sandy hair standing on end and his face flushed with laughter and, judging by the beer in his hand, alcohol, he declared with drama, “So George Aylmer collects me and Ivy before he fronts the new widow. I’m there to pick Lainie Snead up off the floor if she faints.” He grinned at Ivy Bestlove. “And Ivy’s ready to minister smelling salts or whatever.”

  Ivy Bestlove was the imperturbable resort nurse who was accustomed to ministering to coral scratches, sunburned skin and other mishaps that guests encountered. She was efficient, attractive in a cool way, and friendly, but reserved. Although I’d chatted to her several times, I was no closer to understanding what made her tick.

  “What happened?” asked Kay, who was drinking some hideously colored health potion that she jealously guarded, as if any of us would even want to taste the stuff.

  Seb hated to be hurried when he was telling a story. “I’m getting to it,” he said, nettled. A couple of people lost interest and wandered away, so he started off again in a louder voice. “So the three of us go to find Lainie Snead to break it to her that her husband’s been drowned. ‘I’m afraid I’ve some very sad news’ George Aylmer says when we find her sun-baking on a lounge beside the hotel pool. You know what Lainie’s response is?” Seb looked from face to face with an encouraging expression. “Is anyone going to guess?”

  “Get on with it, Seb!” yelled Bruce. He had a hard, wiry body and a face made menacing by narrow, black eyes and a perpetual sneer. He was a heavy drinker, even by staff standards, and at this time of morning looked even more hungover than usual.

  Irked, Seb frowned at him, then went on, “Lainie says, ‘Spit it out, George,’ like she doesn’t think it’s odd that the three of us have turned up at the poolside. George suggests that we all go inside where it’s private, but she sits up and says, ‘Just tell me’, so he does.”

  Seb paused for effect, but a few muttered come on’s got him going again. “There I am, poised to catch her if she swoons, and Ivy’s ready to give first aid, or at the very least a comforting female arm…” Another pause.

  “I’m going to bed,” someone announced.

  “So,” said Seb, goaded into speeding up his narrative, “George Aylmer tells her that her husband’s been drowned in a scuba diving accident and the cops are on their way from the mainland. As cool as you please, she asks for details, and then she says, ‘Your negligence, I suppose. I imagine I’ll be suing the resort.’ And then she gets up and walks off, leaving us standing there.”

  “Lainie Snead was in the Tropical Heat tonight,” I volunteered, “wearing a green dress with cleavage and a half.”

  I’ve never liked gossiping, but Denise Hunter was the sort to enjoy it. Besides, it was the currency that got you gossip in return, and I was there to get as much information as I could about the Aylmers and everyone around them.

  “Lainie Snead’s always been a bit of a bitch,” said Kay.

  There were general sounds of agreement. “How come you all seem to know her?” I asked.

  Several people chuckled. Seb said, “Everyone knows the Sneads. They’ve been coming to the resort every three months or so for the c
ouple of years I’ve been here. He’s some high executive in banking, and she’s into spending whatever money he makes. In her spare time she complains about the staff.”

  “Remember the time she said Quint Aylmer made a pass at her?” said Kay. “I was in admin when she came storming through the door demanding to see Moreen Aylmer about her randy son.” Laughing comments indicated that the consensus was that Quint was almost certainly guilty as charged.

  Just as everyone started talking about other things, Vera Otterlage said, “If you’re female and breathing, watch out!”

  Vera’s timing had fascinated me from our first meeting. Petite, energetic, and with wide, bulging blue eyes, she always got the joke too late—sometimes not at all—or made a comment when the subject had already changed. It was as if she was a beat or so behind the music that everyone else heard.

  Vera bounced on her toes, looking around brightly. “Does Jen know about Quint Aylmer?” she asked. “I mean, really, someone should warn her.”

  There was an odd undercurrent of dislike in the room. “Why don’t you do that, Vera?” said Ivy Bestlove.

  Apparently oblivious to the scorn in Ivy’s voice, Vera said, “Oh, I couldn’t! I’m not really friends with Jen ever since that day she punched me.”

  “In the mouth, I hope,” said Bruce. Vera wasn’t popular, but Bruce had gone further than most, and actively despised her.

  Vera blinked at him. “On the arm, actually. I still don’t know why. I never did anything to upset her.”

  This brought derisive hoots. Vera stuck out her bottom lip.

  I said helpfully, “Jen must have misunderstood something you said.”

  Vera nodded, partly mollified by my supportive tone. “Jen’s just impossible! You know how I’m always trying to be a good friend, so I don’t see why she’s picking on me.”