Paradise Island

by Peter Guttridge

  Wilson stood on the stoop of Earwaker’s gallery waiting for the bag and tag team. He was shaking his head. Killing someone was cruel enough but leaving them in the undignified position in which he’d found Earwaker and Evangeline spoke of a different order of cruelty. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d left New York to get away from.

  There were two options here. First, that this was Mr Smith’s doing, perhaps mistaking Earwaker for Luke Hanson. Second, it was the kidnappers; more specifically the two Osmonds. He could believe they were capable of these abuses. Karen and Chris were thieves so maybe Earwaker had something worth stealing.

  Despite his best hopes, he was going to have to call in outside help. He was running out of policemen. As he contemplated whether to go for the SWAT in Brunswick or Savannah-Chatham, he watched a car make a slow progression up the street and pull up beyond his own car.

  He watched Frank Bartram quit the car and approach. The last person he wanted to see.

  ‘Frank?’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Bartram leaned down. The entrepreneur was a former basketball pro and stood around six seven.

  ‘What’s going on, Sheriff?’

  Bartram sounded unusually tentative.

  ‘This is a crime scene.’

  Bartram paled.

  ‘What crime?’

  ‘Double homicide.’

  ‘Julian and Phoebe?’

  ‘Julian and Evangeline.’

  ‘My God.’ Bartram raised his head. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yes, it is. What do you want, Frank?’

  Wilson said it more sharply than he intended.

  ‘I came to see Julian.’ Bartram’s response was equally sharp. ‘He has something of mine I need to get back.’

  Bartram was trying to look past Wilson into the studio. Wilson disliked the out-of-towner at the best of times for his superciliousness but this was seriously irritating him.

  ‘Won’t be getting anything back for a little while,’ he said.

  Bartram tried to walk past Wilson. Wilson reached his hand over to block him.

  ‘Frank. What part of “It’s a crime scene” didn’t you understand?’

  ‘I’ll be just a moment.’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘Can’t do it. It’s only ten minutes since I discovered the crime. Scarcely time to put sheets over them for dignity’s sake. No way you’re going in.’

  Bartram was sweating.

  ‘It’s really important I get my possessions back.’

  ‘And you will, in due course.’ Wilson leaned forward. ‘What kind of thing are we talking about?’

  Bartram looked down at his shoes.

  ‘Just a couple of daubs I wanted his opinion on. They’re no big deal but I have to take them back to New York and I was going tomorrow.’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘Don’t think you’ll be able to get them tomorrow. But then I’m not sure you’ll be able to get off the island either. Causeway is closed. Sorry, Frank.’

  ‘But I have to get them back!’ Frank blurted.

  Wilson gave him a steady look.

  ‘Frank, I’m having a hell of a day. We’ve got a hostage situation over at Barbara’s. I think the perpetrators of this terrible crime here are maybe holed up there holding a bunch of people. There’s other stuff going on. I’m trying not to get anyone else killed. I’m afraid your concern about your property comes pretty low down on my list of priorities.’

  Wilson could see Bartram wanted to come back with something antsy but he swallowed it. He tried a different tack.

  ‘Was robbery the motive for the murders?’

  Wilson gave a kind of semi-nod, semi-shake of his head.

  ‘I can’t be definite.’

  ‘So my pictures might be down there.’

  ‘You think they might have stolen your daubs?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Wilson considered Bartram’s round, red face.

  ‘They’d be worth someone’s while coming on to the island for, would they?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Bartram rubbed his jaw. ‘These people targeted Julian? It wasn’t impulse?’

  ‘We don’t know. Seems unlikely. Might your paintings alone have been the target?’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know. I don’t know what else Julian had here.’

  ‘His own work?’

  Bartram snorted.

  ‘Hardly.’

  He looked like he was going to say something more but changed his mind.

  ‘Julian was selling these pictures for you?’

  ‘No. I told you: he was evaluating them.’

  ‘For insurance purposes?’

  ‘No!’ Bartram had always been a short-tempered man in Wilson’s experience but now he was really riled. ‘He was just – look, why don’t you let me see if he still has them? If he has then there’s no more to be said.’

  ‘Except you’d like them back today.’

  ‘If possible, yes.’

  ‘Then we’re right back where we started.’

  ‘I said “if possible”. If not – I’ll live with that. Let’s just see if my pictures are here, shall we?’

  Wilson still didn’t move out of the way.

  ‘If he wasn’t selling them then they’re not going to be in the gallery,’ Wilson said. ‘They’re going to be in the studio. And the only way into there is through the crime-scene. I can’t allow you on the crime-scene, Frank.’

  Bartram turned away and stamped his foot.

  ‘Jesus!’

  Wilson reached up and put his hand on Bartram’s shoulder. He was conscious Bartram didn’t want the physical contact and was trying not to flinch.

  ‘I can see how frustrating this is but I can’t risk compromising the integrity of the crime-scene. On the other hand, you’re right that knowing whether your goods were stolen - or were the target and for some reason were not stolen - would be helpful.’

  Bartram looked relieved and stepped back to break the physical contact.

  ‘I would have thought so,’ he said.

  ‘So if you could describe them for me – or, better still, if you have photographs – I could check.’

  Bartram frowned, fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  ‘Okay, sure. One’s a portrait of a guy in an old café. Got a pipe, glass of wine, wears a beard and kind of old-fashioned clothes. The other is a big church – the front of it. Like a close-up. It’s sort of yellowy-gold.’

  ‘What’s the name of the artist?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The name of the artist. Don’t paintings usually have signatures on them? Just so I know I’ve got the right guy and paintings.’

  ‘Oh, I think these would stand out.’

  Wilson frowned at Bartram.

  ‘Any reason I shouldn’t know the artist’s name, Frank?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ The handkerchief went to his brow again. ‘It’s Monet. M-o-n-e-t. He’s French so it’s pronounced different to how it looks.’

  Wilson was looking incredulous.

  ‘Monet the Impressionist?’

  Bartram looked awkward.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  ‘I may be Sheriff of The Back of Beyond, Frank, but I can read and write and everything.’

  ‘I didn’t mean –’

  Wilson held up his hand.

  ‘I’m not getting this. Why would you want Julian to evaluate a couple of paintings by Monet? He was no art expert in that sense, as far as I’m aware. And you must have a rough idea of their value.’

  ‘Sure. A few thousand dollars, maybe. That’s why I’m concerned.’

  Wilson got in Bartram’s face.

  ‘Now, Frank. I haven’t always been on this island. I was even in a Big City once. All the way to your city actually. I’ve seen the Monet paintings hanging in MOMA. Now I have to admit water lilies don’t do a lot for me but there was some other stuff
that was okay. And what did impress me were the prices. A few million bucks apiece. And Julian has two of them that you say he was evaluating?’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘If I may shock you with another cultural reference, Frank: something stinks in Scandinavia.’

  Bartram seemed to have collected himself.

  ‘That’s as maybe, Sheriff. Bottom-line is that it’s none of your damned business why Julian had my paintings. Your business is to find out if they’ve been stolen and, if they have, to get them back for me.’

  Wilson nodded.

  ‘True enough. You can prove title, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose correctly.’ Bartram eased down and gave a cheesy smile. ‘But I hope we can settle this without getting into a lot of paperwork.’

  Wilson patted his shoulder again, happy this second time irritated Bartram even more than the first.

  ‘Leave it with me, Frank. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. And thanks for alerting me to a probable motive for the attack.’

  Wilson went back in the house. When he looked out through the window Bartram was making a slow, reluctant way back to his car.

  Wilson walked down the hallway. He’d covered Julian and Evangeline in sheets but they would need to be left in their undignified positions until the coroner arrived from the mainland. He could see the toilet brush sticking up under the sheet.

  The studio door hung open where he’d shot the lock out. He stopped in the doorway. It was a high room with the ceiling pretty much all skylight. Paintings hung from every wall. A couple of old varnished wooden frames were leaning just inside the door.

  There were two easels set up in the middle of the room. Both empty. Paintings of different sizes and styles stacked loosely against each wall.

  He flicked through the paintings leaning against two of the walls without coming anywhere near a Monet. He couldn’t imagine Julian stacking such valuable pictures so casually though. He looked back at the two empty easels. More likely they had been there.

  He went through the other stacks. Nothing. He straightened and looked round the room again.

  By now he was in no doubt the white van gang had come onto the island to steal the two pictures by Monet. What he didn’t know was how they knew Julian had them. Nor did he know why Julian did have them.

  It took a moment for Karen to realise what had happened. She heard the shot – little more than a pop – then saw the little gun almost hidden in Donny’s big mitt. Chris realised what had happened at the same moment. The kick then the pain. He doubled over. As he did so, Donny punched him in the face.

  Karen saw this, moments before she felt Jimmy jab the barrel of a gun beneath her left breast.

  ‘I’ll shoot your tit off you don’t lower your gun,’ he said.

  Chris was trying to raise his gun but Donny stepped forward and brushed it away before punching Chris in the face again. Chris fell to the kitchen floor, his gun clattering away towards the fridge.

  Karen lowered her gun and Jimmy reached down and took it from her reluctant hand. Donny kicked Chris in the head.

  ‘Don’t!’ Karen cried.

  Donny turned on her.

  ‘You keep your mouth shut until I want you to put something in it.’

  Natasha felt Phoebe start to tremble beside her when Chris shouted about people being dead. Natasha put her arm over her back. The policewoman raised her head off the ground and looked over to the kitchen. Karen saw her but didn’t respond. Donny and Jimmy both had their backs to her.

  She glanced at Haddon. He was swapping glances with Grady, Gus and Eddie. David and Ruth still had their heads down.

  ‘Phoebe,’ Innocent whispered urgently. ‘I want you to make a run for it. Get out of here through the back.’ She squeezed her shoulder. ‘Phoebe – you hear me?’

  Phoebe grunted. When the pop of the gunshot happened, Innocent tugged at her arm:

  ‘Go now.’

  She pushed Phoebe away and behind the end of the sofa. Phoebe crouched on her toes and looked at the open doorway five long yards away.

  Innocent could see scuffling in the kitchen, heard Karen shouting ‘Don’t’ then Donny bellowing something about Karen keeping her mouth shut.

  ‘Now, Phoebe!’

  Phoebe set off for the door and Innocent stood up just as Haddon did. Haddon called:

  ‘Hey, Lennie, any open mouths are going to belong to you and George down on your knees in front of a long line of brothers. Likely they’ll kick your teeth down your throat first for ease of access.’

  Innocent could tell by the set of Phoebe’s back that at any moment she expected to feel the punch of a bullet. Every yard seemed to take an age but suddenly she was through the doors. Innocent pictured it for herself - flying diagonally into the trees and jumping across the brook and pumping her legs like she’d never pumped them before until she was far along the beach and then – Innocent flinched at a louder gunshot just behind her.

  Parker was sitting by the back bedroom window when he saw the woman run out of the yard next door. He’d been occasionally stroking the cat sprawled on the bed beside him, bugs splattering against the window mesh every couple of seconds, wondering about making his move. He’d been thinking that, shit, this shouldn’t be so complicated. Pull the house down if need be – it was nothing more than clapperboard rotted by ocean salt winds anyway.

  He watched the woman stumble out of the shrubbery and run with an ungainly motion through the sand into Haddon’s back garden. He heard a gunshot from the house.

  He was surprised when a man stepped out from the shadow of a live oak and stood in front of her. A cop. The woman was running blind. She ran straight into him and let out a yelp.

  As she began punching his chest, Parker heard the man say:

  ‘Phoebe, goddammit. It’s Hal. Deputy Hartley. Hal.’

  Wild-eyed she looked up at his anxious face then she pressed herself into his chest. He put one arm hesitantly around her back. His gun was in his other hand, loosely pointed towards the house next door.

  Parker could hear every word when the man said:

  ‘What the hell’s happening in there, Phoebe?’

  ‘Is Julian dead?’ she said into his chest.

  He didn’t say anything but slowly rubbed her shoulder with his free hand. She pulled back and looked up at his face.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said. He sounded puzzled. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘And Evangeline?’ she said.

  The man called Hal released her and reached for his radio.

  ‘Let me check what’s going on.’

  He led her across Haddon’s yard to the far side of his house. Parker slipped across the landing into the bathroom and pressed himself against the wall by the window.

  ‘Sheriff Wilson? Hal here. I have Phoebe with me. Come in please.’

  Parker listened to both ends of the conversation, Wilson’s voice crackly down the radio. Wilson began with:

  ‘I’m sorry, Phoebe, I found Julian and Evangeline’s bodies about an hour ago.’

  Phoebe let out an involuntary cry.

  ‘I’m sorry as hell Phoebe,’ Wilson said. ‘But you’re going to have to hold on to your grief for just a while because I need to know what’s happening at Barbara’s place.’

  Phoebe spoke haltingly.

  ‘They’re squabbling among themselves – there’s this big punk –’

  ‘I think he’s the one that shot me –’

  ‘And his skinny brother. I think they just shot one of the other two –’

  ‘The woman?’

  ‘Dammit, Harry,’ Phoebe said, pulling free of Hal. ‘Will you shut up and let me tell it?’

  She looked away and took a breath.

  ‘I don’t know who they shot but I think it was the guy. Chris. Karen was still standing when she saw me move. She didn’t warn them. I think Tom and Natasha tried to distract them so I could get away. There was another shot. I don’t know who fired it or
if it hit anybody.’ She put the radio closer to her mouth. ‘What is going on, Sheriff?’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me, Phoebe. Frank Bartram left a couple of Monets with Julian for some reason. I think that’s why these people are on the island. Why would Frank do that?’

  ‘I have no idea. And I don’t really care right now. My husband is dead.’

  ‘Phoebe, I’m sorry. But if you want to bring to justice the people who killed him then I need all the information you have about what’s going on in there.’

  Phoebe took another deep breath.

  ‘I get that. They brought in two leather cases that could well have had pictures in them. In fact, I can’t think what else they would have been for. Would Julian have suffered?’

  The radio crackled.

  ‘Died instantly,’ Wilson said.

  ‘And Evangeline? Were they…?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  Parker was fascinated by all this. Monet paintings? That was serious money. Fuck Off money.

  ‘What happened to Josie?’ Phoebe said. ‘Is she okay?’

  There was silence on the radio for a moment. Then:

  ‘She died a couple of hours ago. Massive head trauma.’

  ‘What happened?’ Phoebe repeated.

  ‘Could have been an accident when the robbers were trying to get away. Could have been intentional - she had encountered them earlier.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Somebody reported a white van honking its horn at a skateboarder on Main Street a couple of hours earlier.’

  Parker had seen that brief earlier incident when he was sitting in his car staking out the Sheriff in the bar.

  ‘You got a plan?’ Phoebe said. ‘Because I think the inmates just took over the asylum. I think those two guys are animals. Even before they get to killing, I think the women are in for a bad time. Not to mention the supermodel on the other team.’

  More crackly silence on the radio.

  ‘You got a plan?’ Phoebe said again, looking up blankly at Tom Haddon’s house.

  ‘I’m working on it,’ Wilson said.

  Phoebe handed the radio back to Hal, saying:

  ‘Tell him to work faster.’

  Chapter Sixteen