by Claire McNab
Ivy Bestlove said with her usual calm tone, “As I’ve said, I can’t release confidential medical information to you, Ms. Gallagher. If you wish to take the matter further, I suggest you contact the proper authorities. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you left.”
There was silence, and then the slam of a door. I peered around the side of the building to see Biddy stalking off, her arms swinging. I went around to the front and said through the open window, “Heavens Ivy, what was that all about? I was passing, and couldn’t help hearing Biddy Gallagher yelling at the top of her voice.”
Ivy looked fed up. “You know the woman?”
“I sure do. She’s in the bar a lot of the time.” I put a strong note of disapproval into my voice.
Ivy nodded. “Maybe that’s it. She’s had too much to drink.”
A quick check of my watch showed I only had five minutes to spare. I opened the door and stepped into the front room of the clinic. “Are you okay?”
Ivy seemed surprised I would even ask. “Of course.”
“So what has upset Biddy?”
Obviously wearied by Biddy’s frontal attack, Ivy said, “The blasted woman was trying to bully me about the shotgun death you’ve no doubt heard all about.”
“It was an accident, wasn’t it? Someone tripped or fell or something, and the gun went off.”
“That’s right. It was a woman who pulled the trigger. She was hysterical, so they brought her to me to calm her down. Her name was Fountain, Aileen Fountain.”
Acting puzzled, I said, “But why would Biddy Gallagher be interested in that?”
“Some investigation, she claimed. Tried to tell me she was a cop, but when I asked for her identification, she changed her story and admitted she was some sort of private investigator.” Ivy gave me a grim smile. “So I told her to get lost.”
“But what was she asking you about?”
“Whether Aileen Fountain was showing classic signs of shock—shaking, confusion, hysteria. What you’d expect if you’d just killed someone in an accident. I told Ms. Gallagher it was none of her business.”
It wasn’t mine either, but I said, “And was the Fountain woman in shock?”
Ivy looked at me quizzically. “She put on a good performance, but if you’d asked when I examined her, I’d have had to say to you, No, she isn’t in shock all.”
***
I made it to the Tropical Heat with a minute to spare. Pete was usually rostered on with me, but to my dismay I found that I was going to be sharing the space behind the bar with Bruce. “Hi, Den,” Bruce said with what he no doubt considered a winning smile. “Pete wanted the afternoon off, and I agreed to swap with him.”
Making a mental note to punch Pete in the mouth when next I saw him, I said without enthusiasm, “Great.” This was going to be a long shift. Bruce kept staring at me with his unnerving black eyes, and he appeared to be toning down his sneer. This was not good.
I’d never worked with Bruce before, thank God, so I was expecting the worst. I thought, for example, the he would be a dead loss as a bartender because I was sure that when he wasn’t propping his compact, solid body against the counter to chat up the nearest female, he’d be helping himself to the alcohol. As the cocktail lounge filled up, I was pleasantly astonished to find neither was true: Bruce worked quite efficiently, only gulped down one drink on the sly that I saw, and didn’t try charming any of our many customers. This last item may have been because he was trying to charm me.
“Den,” he said when we ran into each other near the register, “you’ve got a boyfriend, have you?”
“Girlfriend.” When he frowned, I snapped, “You should be asking if I have a girlfriend. I don’t go with men.”
I congratulated myself that I’d turned Bruce off, but the next time we passed, he said, “A girlfriend’s okay. I don’t mind a threesome.” He winked. “Know what I mean?”
“No way,” I said, but Bruce was already down to the other end of the bar.
An hour later I cornered him by the glass-washer. “What part of the word lesbian don’t you understand? That’s what I am. Okay?”
Bruce wasn’t fazed. “Jen told me you were really bi,” he said. “Swinging both ways—it’s a good way to be.”
“Oh please!” Bruce looked at me expectantly. “Look,” I said, “you’ll be the first to know, but I’ve got a girlfriend and a boyfriend, so you see, regretfully, I have to turn you down.” Of course, I had neither, but desperate situations require desperate measures.
His eyes narrowed to dark slits, Bruce said, “Who’s the guy?”
“I can’t say. It’s a secret.”
“Do I know him?”
Maybe this hadn’t been that good an idea. “I told you, I can’t say.”
Bruce grunted and moved to serve someone who was tapping impatiently on the bar. My night was complete: It was Eddie Trebonus.
“Den!” he said, angling his head so he could look around Bruce. “I’m back. Did you miss me?”
Bruce gave me a meaningful look that said, So this is the boyfriend.
“Bruce is a whiz with cocktails,” I said, escaping to the back behind the shelves where I could indulge in a hysterical laugh.
Chapter Nine
Tonight’s the night, I thought the moment I opened my eyes on Tuesday morning. It was a pity I hadn’t come up with a phrase more literary, more romantic, but it was the best I could do. I had a morning shift to work, an afternoon to fill, and then Roanna and the evening waited.
I fought the temptation to curl up and fantasize about Roanna. Why not hurry through the day and taste the real thing? I sat up, resolute, to make a mental list of people to avoid at all costs, and people to seek out. Bruce and Eddie were definitely in the to-be-avoided column; Biddy, Vera and Lainie Snead, if I could find her, belonged in the second group.
Showered, dressed and mildly exercised—I tried to use the staff gym room at least twice a week—I went in search of Vera and found her eating breakfast in the rec room, her jaws moving rhythmically as she watched the television screen.
“Good morning, Vera.”
My good cheer was wasted. Vera acknowledged me with a wave of a hand but continued to watch the program. I stood looming over her until she reluctantly tore her gaze away. “Hi, Den. This is my favorite show.”
“I thought you’d be hard at work in the convention center already,” I said heartily, “what with all the people coming in today for the conference.”
Her attention had returned to the screen, where a blonde with impossibly large breasts and an impossibly small waist was telling a guy almost as pretty as herself that she loved him more than he could ever know.
“I’m working late tonight, so I don’t go in until noon,” Vera said.
The show went to a commercial break that featured dancing shampoo bottles and more anatomically incorrect females with lustrous, long hair.
I said, “So all the attendees are coming? There’s no probs?”
“They’re all coming.” Her face crumpled a little. “I mean, it’s only thirty people, but you’ve no idea how much work it is for me. Practically every person has different diet requirements, and then, of course, no one told me until yesterday that one of them is bringing three bodyguards, so I have to find extra accommodation, and that was a pain.”
“Wow,” I said. “Three bodyguards. Is it someone I’d know?”
“I doubt it. Mr. Sabir. He was here last year and he didn’t bring any bodyguards, so I don’t see why he needs them now.”
Her gaze was wrenched back to the screen by a burst of violin music. The same pneumatic blonde and handsome guy were still looking into each other’s eyes. “It’s really sad,” said Vera. “She doesn’t know that she’s got a brain tumor or that he’s her brother. Separated at birth, they were.”
I shook my head, but Vera didn’t notice, so I went in search of breakfast.
* * *
In the first hours of the morning shift the Tro
pical Heat had few customers, which was fortunate since I was the only one on duty. Biddy Gallagher came in as soon as I opened the doors, the morning paper under her arm. “They’re making a big deal over the guy who drowned on Friday,” she said to me, indicating the lead story on the front page. DEAD BANKER SCANDAL was the main headline, followed by the subheading, LINK TO RUSSIAN BANKS?
To make up for my past insensitivity about Lainie Snead, at least as far as Biddy was concerned, I said, “It was bad enough before for his wife, but this must be dreadful.”
Biddy nodded curtly, sat down at her usual table, and said, “I’ll have my usual heart-starter.”
I would never understand how someone could drink whiskey in the first place, and certainly not straight after breakfast. Of course, in Biddy’s case maybe it was her breakfast.
I set the Haig in front of her, and lingered for chat. Biddy glared at me. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you’ve seen Lainie Snead around.”
“And why would you be interested if I had?”
“I spoke to her at the party on Saturday night. She looked scared, and I wondered why.”
“She’s not in the hotel,” said Biddy. “They’re keeping her in seclusion up at the Big House.”
“Keeping her?”
Biddy gave a short laugh. “I’m not suggesting Lainie is a prisoner. It’s probably the best place for her, since she undoubtedly knows more about her husband’s affairs than would be healthy.”
She opened her paper, clearly signaling the end of our conversation. I said, “Ivy Bestlove says you’re private investigator.”
An expression of mingled chagrin and embarrassment crossed Biddy’s face. “Yes, I made a bit of a bloody fool of myself there.”
“I wondered why you were asking me all those questions about the skeet-shooting accident,” I said.
Folding the paper, she put it beside her drink, then leaned back in her chair to regard me critically. “You were asking a lot of questions yourself, Denise.”
“I’m just interested in things, I suppose.”
My airy tone obviously didn’t impress Biddy. “I’m not sure what you’re playing at,” she said, “but don’t ever think I’m a fool.”
“I don’t.” Now was the time to give her something in the hope that she would trade something in return. “I was walking past the clinic and overheard your argument with Ivy Bestlove,” I said. “That’s how I know about it. After you left, I talked to her, and she gave me the information you were after.”
Biddy tapped a tattoo on the side of her glass. “And what information would that be?”
“About Aileen Fountain. I can give you the answer—Ivy is quite sure that the woman wasn’t genuinely in shock, although she tried to act that way.”
“So it was a hit.” Biddy nodded slowly. “I’m not surprised. Bellamy knew too much.” She gave me a dry smile. “Now I suppose I owe you one.”
It was pleasing to know she understood the unwritten rules. “On Saturday night you warned me about Oscar Fallon. I want to know why.”
She tilted her head, considering. “Okay,” she said, “this may or may not be of interest to you, but Fallon is CIA.” She waited for my reaction. When there wasn’t one, she went on, “I ran into him on a case years ago, when I was in the Federal Police. To say we didn’t hit it off is an understatement.” Her mouth stretched in a wolfish smile. “Perhaps you can imagine his reaction when we ran into each other here on the island. He took me aside and threatened me with God-knows-what if I blew his cover.”
“You’re blowing his cover now.”
“And it feels good,” said Biddy.
* * *
My day didn’t pass quickly. I finished my shift, had lunch, wandered around the shops, had a coffee at Jitterbug, told Pete I’d break his kneecaps if he left me with Bruce again, and in late afternoon unobtrusively watched as the catamaran docked with the incoming conference attendees on board.
Farid Sabir wasn’t hard to identify: He was the short man with the three bulky guys close around him, their stance indicating they were ready to leap into action, as their eyes constantly scanned for signs of trouble. This behavior looked rather ridiculous on a little white-painted wharf with calm water lapping the beach and palm trees sighing gently in a soft breeze. Then I remembered another perfect day, with Lloyd Snead lying on the sand, and it didn’t seem so ludicrous at all.
At last, shaved, showered and with the cleanest of clean teeth, I headed for the Aylmer compound. It was near sunset when Roanna met me at the main security gate, which was guarded by two high-mounted cameras I hadn’t noticed on the night of the party. They unnerved me by swiveling to follow my progress as I came up the drive. I looked up at them imagining my image appearing on some security screen somewhere in the Big House. I hoped whoever was looking at it appreciated my freshly-pressed white jeans and cobalt blue top.
“Surely an overreaction,” I said to Roanna, pointing at the cameras. “After all, you are on your own island.”
“Paranoia runs in the family,” she said. “That’s the only explanation I can give.”
I followed her to the bungalow. Surrounded by wild gardens that were no doubt carefully planted, but seemed like natural growth, the building was constructed of gray-stained wood and had a low thatched roof. Beside it, looking out of place, was a satellite dish, its face turned expectantly to the sky. “You watch a lot of television?” I said.
“Actually, I don’t. That’s my own personal satellite link for my computer. There’s a bigger dish on the roof of the convention center, but I wanted my own private one.”
“So other people’s grubby little messages didn’t get caught up with yours?”
She grinned at me. “Something like that.”
The little house had a veranda, just as I’d visualized it, but I hadn’t put in the hot tub that entirely took up one end of it. “Perhaps we’ll try it later,” said Roanna, following my glance.
She took me inside through double glass doors. The floor was polished wood with bright, woven rugs, the furniture simple and sleek. The living room had huge windows showing a sweep of beach and the restless surface of the sea.
The kitchen was small but state of the art. The bathroom tiled in dark blue, had a picture window framing a view of the baby cliff that defined the end of the beach. “No one can look in,” she said. “It’s one-way glass.”
I stood at the bedroom door, but didn’t go in. I had a strange feeling that I was intruding on the real Roanna, the person under the façade. The room was, like the rest of the house, beautiful in its simplicity. The bed was positioned so that Roanna could glimpse the sea through a curtain of lush vegetation. One wall was shelves, packed with books, hardcover and paperback.
I went back into the living room. “This is lovely,” I said. “If this were mine, I’d never want to leave.”
A beautifully wrought Thai partition separated a little nook that held a computer and monitor. “Where I do most of my work,” said Roanna. “If you don’t mind, I have an urgent e-mail to send, and then I can forget work altogether.”
Any work e-mail was of interest to me, so I casually leaned one hand on the back of her chair and watched her log on. I saw that her e-mail identifying name was Aylmer5. She looked up at me with a grin. “One to four went to more senior members of the family on the island,” she said. “I’m the runt of the litter.”
I smiled, watching closely as she keyed in her password. Most people selected passwords that were easy to remember, including their own names or birth dates. Roanna was no exception: her fingers spelled out Roanna.
“A speaker has dropped out of a convention we’re hosting next month,” she said as she typed the e-mail message, “and we’re desperately trying to find a fill-in. This guy I’m contacting is dull as hell, but he knows his stuff.”
“What is his stuff?”
She frowned at the screen. Correcting a mistake she’d made, she said, “Electronic surveillance.”<
br />
Taking a chance that she wouldn’t think it strange that I would be interested in the subject, I said, “I got the impression the resort was pretty well up-to-date in the surveillance area.”
“It is. That’s Harry’s baby. He’s totally paranoid about the subject.”
It was too dangerous to ask why, because then she might begin to wonder why I was asking questions on the topic, but Roanna obligingly continued, “I told Harry I wouldn’t put it past him to have this place bugged.”
Jeez! The thought had never occurred to me. I did a quick review of what I’d said. Nothing, surely, incriminating.
“In fact,” said Roanna, with a grim smile, “I trusted my dear brother so little, that even though he swore he’d never try surveillance on me, I had an expert come over from the mainland and sweep the place for bugs.”
She laughed at my expression. “Nothing,” she said. “For once Harry told the truth.”
This was an interesting conflict between brother and sister, and I would have pursued it, but Roanna concentrated on writing her e-mail. She checked the text, then put the cursor on Send and dispatched it to the sea of electronic messages invisibly zipping around the globe.
“Are you hungry?” Roanna asked.
Hungry for you, I thought. “A bit,” I said.
“Of course.” She grinned. “I’d forgotten that healthy appetite of yours.”
We sat out on the veranda in the darkening air. The night fell with tropical suddenness, the colors of the day fading quickly into blue-gray and black. A silver path led across the sea to the full moon rising out of the water. Fruit bats were silhouetted as they swooped and dived. I sipped the French champagne she’d offered me, although I needed nothing alcoholic to intoxicate me when I had Roanna to do that, gleaming in the dying light, her face for the first time relaxed rather than watchful.
She saluted me with her glass. “To the evening.”
“Not the entire night?”