Murder Undercover

by Claire McNab

  “No one’s said anything to me.”

  That Roanna might be lonely was a new thought. She seemed cool and self-sufficient, but if she wanted a friend, I was available. Hell, I wouldn’t mind being more than a friend. “Does she have much to do with the business?”

  “Roanna, you mean? She set up the whole computer side of things—the Web page and online bookings, all that stuff.” He made a face at me. “I don’t understand any of it, but then, there’ll never be a computer serving behind a bar, so it doesn’t worry me.”

  The first people were arriving, and an unerring herd instinct for alcohol sent many our way. In a few moments we had gone from fiddling behind the bar to pushing past each other in our efforts to feed the voracious thirsts of guests. Most requests, as Pete had predicted, were for wine and beer, with an occasional mixed drink. The level of conversation in the courtyard became a buzz, and that, combined with the clatter of plates and silverware, almost drowned out the chuckle of the fountain and the soft mood music pouring out of little hidden speakers, one of which I’d almost squashed with a crate of soda water.

  The gathering was a real United Nations affair. Most people spoke in English, sometimes heavily accented, but I overheard several other languages, two of which I understood. I spoke Japanese reasonably well, so I listened with attention to the conversation between two Japanese businessmen. Unfortunately it turned out to be an extremely dull deliberation about management problems in their respective companies.

  The second conversation, in Indonesian, was much more interesting. Secure that no one in the company could understand them, a man and a woman discussed plans to bring illegal immigrants into Australia by way of a fleet of fishing vessels, landing their paying customers on a remote part of Australia’s northern coastline, where they would be collected by all-terrain vehicles belonging to an ecotourism company. It was impossible to hear all the details, especially as I had to continue serving customers whilst not appearing to listen, but I gleaned enough to make it likely this particular shipment of human cargo would be intercepted.

  They moved away, and I crouched down, ostensibly to collect clean glasses, but actually to close my eyes while I concentrated on committing to memory everything specific I’d heard.

  “Are you hiding from Eddie?” Pete inquired.

  I straightened. “You don’t see him, do you?”

  Pete was amused. “Not yet, but you’ll entice him, I guarantee it.” He snickered happily. “First Eddie, and then Bruce. Moths to a flame, both of them.”

  After the first onslaught, the demand had ebbed and flowed, and I found that our station behind the bar was a perfect place to observe what was happening from a position of near-invisibility. I was always amazed at how people treated servers of any kind as being, somehow, not there at all, even when discussing the most sensitive information without the apparent protection of a foreign language. From snatches of conversation I caught details of the latest scandal in television circles, some tips about Internet stocks, the name of the famous politician who was into whips and bondage, the aging star who was ditching his present wife for a teenage model, plus numerous references to things that without context made no sense at all but were pleasantly puzzling.

  I scanned the crowd for Eddie Trebonus, but he didn’t seem to be among the guests. I saw George Aylmer circulating, cigar in hand, spending a few moments with each group of people. Near the central fountain Quint Aylmer was looking terminally bored while Cindy from the beach towered over him, telling some story that caused her to gesture wildly and at intervals dissolve in gales of laughter. He didn’t seem to be the type to stick around because it was polite, so I figured he had been told to entertain her.

  Lainie Lloyd was there alone, wearing black and pearls. She was smoking a long brown cigarette in an even longer jeweled holder, so that for anyone closer to her than a meter, she posed a distinct eyeball threat. A little unsteadily, she came toward us. “White wine,” she said. “Please.”

  As I handed her the glass, I looked into her face and saw misery and pain. Seb had been wrong. This woman wasn’t nonchalant about her husband’s death. And there was more than grief: I sensed fear and desperation.

  Without thinking, I stepped out of my bartender role. “Can I do anything for you?”

  It must have been the sympathy in my voice that made Lainie Lloyd look at me with such surprise. “Thank you, but no…” She set her shoulders. “I’m quite all right.”

  “Lainie.” Harry Aylmer had appeared beside her. He glanced at me, then took her elbow. “Come and sit down.”

  She shook off his hand. “Thanks, but I’d rather be alone.”

  He moved away, but then stood still, watching her. Several people chose that moment to descend on the bar. As I took orders for drinks I was aware that she was staring at me, perhaps puzzled that a staff member would speak to her in such a personal tone. I looked for her a few minutes later when the surge of demand had abated, but she’d moved away.

  My attention was riveted by Roanna, who was with a tall black man who was bending his head to listen to her, then replying in a deep velvet voice. Leaving Pete to serve, I gravitated to the end of the bar closer to them. They were too far away for me to make out what he was saying, but his tone made it sound important. Roanna gave him polite attention. She was wearing a short black dress, undeniably expensive, and high-heeled pumps. A single heavy gold band circled her throat, and she wore a gold watch. No other jewelry. I assured myself that this close observation was part of my job, but actually I was thinking what a stunningly attractive woman she was and how delighted I was that it was up to me to get close to her. I’d been plotting my strategies, and had decided being intriguing might capture her attention, but not too intriguing. I didn’t want Roanna to think I had anything significant to hide.

  In some way the weight of my glance seemed to impinge on Roanna, and she turned her head to look at me, an enigmatic expression on her face. I maintained a neutral expression until my view was blocked by a bumptious guy with a jutting jaw and hair cut so short it looked like a five o’clock shadow on his skull. He’d been in the cocktail lounge last night, loud, obnoxious and, by the end of the night, very drunk. He hadn’t come up to the bar, so didn’t remember me, but he’d made life miserable for Kate, who’d been serving his table, as well as any other female he and his Neanderthal mates had spied within sniggering distance.

  His disposition didn’t seem to have improved. “Hey, you, a beer,” he demanded, jabbing his forefinger at me while he shouldered some inoffensive guy out of the way. He added with heavy sarcasm, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  I flashed him a smile edged with insincerity. “No trouble at all, sir.”

  He looked at me suspiciously, then glanced at my chest. “Denise, eh? You’re new.”

  “I am new.” My enthusiasm was totally feigned, but I was starting to have fun. “And I count it a privilege to work here at Aylmer Resort.” I slapped a beer on the counter in front of him.

  There was a low laugh. “Ah,” said Roanna, who had moved closer to the bar, and obviously had heard my comment, “if only we had more employees like Denise.” Her tone could hardly be more dry.

  “Hello, Ro,” he said. His intimidating manner had abruptly changed, and he wore an ingratiating smile.

  “Go away, Tony.”

  He hesitated, obviously deflated, then picked up his beer, saluted her with it and, following her order, went away.

  “Wow,” I said. “Would you teach me to do that?”

  “It requires a certain steel in one’s character,” said Roanna. “Would you have that?”

  “Jeez,” I said, “I’m afraid not. I’m a total pushover. Always have been.”

  Roanna did her raised-eyebrow trick. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Roanna.” A command. From the introductory video I recognized Moreen Aylmer.

  Roanna turned to her mother. “Yes?” Her tone was cool.

  “You’re neglecting
our guests. I expect you to circulate, find people who seem left out, and introduce them to someone with whom they can chat. You know what to do.”

  Moreen Aylmer was formidable, as I’d heard her described by several people. She wore a severely tailored dark wine dress, diamonds studs in her ears, and a substantial diamond on her left hand. Solidly built, she had smooth dark hair, hawk eyes, and a stance that came from the habitual use of power. It was clear that she was accustomed to having her instructions obeyed without question.

  After watching her daughter move away, Moreen Aylmer gave me a curiously assessing look. “Denise Hunter, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, murmuring assent in a suitably subservient manner. Denise was on my name tag, but it was surprising that the woman knew my full name. Why would she? I was just one of many working at the resort. I was rapidly becoming convinced it was because Roanna had paid attention to me, and I was willing to bet that the search of my room was just the beginning and that my personnel file had now been thoroughly checked.

  Roanna’s mother was still regarding me, so I remained demure. She said, “Are you enjoying it here at Aylmer Island?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She smiled wryly, suddenly looking very like her daughter. “Indeed? And what particularly do you enjoy?”

  I had my answer ready. “I’ve always loved this part of the world. It’s so beautiful.”

  There. Nothing to offend, and I’d neatly avoided any comment on the resort itself. If Roanna was going to be my way to get in close with the whole setup, I certainly didn’t want to make an unfavorable impression on her redoubtable mother.

  Moreen Aylmer nodded once at me, though whether in approval or dismissal I couldn’t say, and swept away to hostess elsewhere.

  “Mother Aylmer won’t mind you eyeing Roanna,” said Pete, laughing, “but just watch out if you pay attention to her precious Quint.”

  “Jen’s in trouble, then.”

  He nodded. “She is, if Mama A finds out. And she will.”

  I tossed with Pete, and he won, so he left me in charge while he went to help himself unobtrusively to a plate of food, then go to the kitchen to eat it.

  Standing behind the bar, I felt rather like the captain of a ship. The SS Boozer, perhaps. Or maybe the Inebriation Express. I was smiling to myself when I realized someone had spoken to me.

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked for Scotch on the rocks.” The flickering light from the nearest flaming torch danced on Oscar Fallon’s smooth, hairless skull. He looked at me more closely. “Didn’t I see you on the beach?”

  I nodded. “You’d just pulled Mr. Snead out of the water,” I was going for a tone of admiration, and it seemed to work, as he threw his shoulders back, hero style. He was wearing a lightweight cream suit and a blue silk open-necked shirt, a considerable improvement on the tight purple bathers I’d last seen him in.

  He said, “It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.”

  I said smoothly, “Your choice of Scotch, sir? Johnny Walker? We have Black Label.”

  “Got Haig?”

  “Of course.” Haig Scotch was Biddy Gallagher’s drink. I looked over Oscar’s shoulder, wondering if she were there. As if summoned by my interest, she materialized on the other side of the courtyard and began to drift our way. “It was awful about Mr. Snead,” I said to Oscar Fallon, sliding his drink in front of him. “I suppose the cops interviewed you, and everything.”

  He took a sip of his drink, and grunted his approval. “The cops?” he said. “I suppose they’ve got to do their job, but the whole thing was a total drag.”

  Although I murmured sympathetically, I was thinking that it was rather more a drag for Lloyd Snead, not to mention his wife.

  “Thing is,” said Oscar, “no one will know for sure what killed the guy until there’s an autopsy, so asking me all those questions was a waste of time.”

  “I thought Mr. Snead drowned.” I widened my eyes. “Are you saying he didn’t?”

  As he had on the beach, Oscar showed his irritation at being questioned, however he responded, “He did drown. It was obvious, since there was water in his lungs. Gushed everywhere when we got him on the sand.”

  “Heart attack?” asked Biddy, dropping anchor beside him. “Or maybe just a seizure?”

  From his expression it was clear that Oscar did not welcome Biddy’s presence. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he disliked her intensely. “I’ve no idea,” he said coldly, drawing back to maximize his personal space.

  Biddy grinned at him. “Surprised to see you still here, Oscar. I thought you were leaving this afternoon.”

  “Something came up.” He grabbed his drink from the counter. “Excuse me.”

  Expressionless, Biddy watched him move away. She turned to me to say, “Keep away from Oscar Fallon. Don’t ask me any details—just accept that it’s better if you have nothing to do with him.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  Biddy frowned. “It’s not a joke. I know what I’m talking about, okay? He’s dangerous.”

  I put up my hands. “Okay. I don’t want anything to do with anyone like that.”

  Roanna swam into my mind. Well, there was dangerous and there was dangerous.

  As if I had the power to summon her, Roanna and Pete, chatting like old friends, came walking toward us. “Do you know Roanna Aylmer?” I said to Biddy.

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “I’m here to relieve you,” said Pete. “Roanna tells me it’s against federal guidelines to have you chained behind the bar and denied food.”

  I introduced Biddy to Roanna, and was amused to see them size each other up. A frown creased Roanna’s forehead. “I must be losing it,” she said. “I prepared tonight’s guest list, and I don’t recall your name.”

  “It isn’t there,” said Biddy. “I talked my way in.” She made a wide gesture. “I heard that the Big House was wonderful, and wanted to see it for myself.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You’re throwing me out?”

  Roanna pursed her lips. “I think not—unless you’re here to steal the family silver.”

  “It’s safe. I’m a law-abiding soul. Terminal curiosity is my only sin.”

  “That killed the cat,” said Pete, “but I reckon you’d be harder to dispatch.”

  Roanna took my arm. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  I went along willingly. My skin tingled where her fingers had touched me, and I was beginning to have high hopes for this night. So maybe she was just being kind to a starving staff member. I was pretty sure it was more than that. Pete’s warning was an encouragement, rather than a deterrent. There was no way I was falling for this woman, so whatever happened was part of my mission. I was here to seduce her, if necessary—I hoped it would be—and find out what I could.

  With the thought that I should make a good impression, I managed to limit myself to a moderate pile of fool on my plate, all of it easy to eat. I wasn’t about to make a bad impression by ripping a lobster to bits with my bare hands. Grabbing a napkin and a fork, I followed Roanna out of the courtyard and into the gardens.

  We were alone. Little paths wound between the displays of ferns, palms and tropical flowers. The full moon swam in a velvet sky, insects made chirping sounds, the fronds rustled. We sat on a stone bench in a sea of warm dark air. “Do eat,” said Roanna. “You must be starving.”

  Wow! It was so romantic, if you liked that sort of thing. Normally I was pretty well impervious, but I was suddenly reminded of a scene in Raw Embers of the Heart, Denise Hunter’s chosen reading. Out of sheer boredom I’d been plowing through it, feeling rather guilty to be almost enjoying the experience, and there was one love scene in the garden of a country estate that had quite raised my temperature after I’d mentally changed the gender of the hero.

  My stomach growled. Romance or not, the contents of my plate were irresistible. I did my best to nibble delicately rather than to bolt down the whol
e lot in one minute flat. My resolve lasted for all of ten seconds, then I decided to hell with it and hoed in. “I have a healthy appetite,” I said, swallowing the last mouthful.

  “So I see.”

  Silence. Insects made night noises, the scent of flowers was heavy, the woman beside me glowed in the moonlight. Pete had told me that Roanna didn’t live in the Big House, but had a bungalow of her own at the edge of the gardens. If I played my cards right, maybe she’d ask me in for a nightcap. I rehearsed what I might say to subtly encourage an invitation, but I came up blank. This was not like me, and I had to face the possibility that Roanna Aylmer had achieved the impossible and had rendered me speechless.

  She said, “I’m going sailing tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

  “I’ve got a shift starting at ten in the morning.”

  “I’ve already changed it to the afternoon.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Now this was irritating. “Are you so sure I’d say yes?”

  “You haven’t said yes yet.”

  Hoping the moonlight was bright enough for her to clearly see my cheeky grin, I said, “I’m flattered, but why me?”

  “I don’t feel like being alone.”

  I didn’t respond, having found that technique to have worked before. Roanna said sardonically, “Are you waiting to be assured you’ll be paid double time?”

  “What the hell,” I said, “I’ll do it for free.”

  Roanna’s lips curved. “That’s a pleasant surprise. You looked very expensive to me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday morning Jen caught me in the ablutions block when I emerged, yawning, from the shower. “Den! Did you see her?”

  “Are you stalking me?”

  She stared at me, perplexed. “Half the time I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I wound my towel around my wet hair and tucked the ends in to form a turban. It was clear Jen was going to bug me until I told her what I knew. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Her name’s Cynthia Urquhart. She’s in her late thirties and much taller than he is.”