by Jac Simensen
The coffeemaker had just started to beep when Nila entered the kitchen. She’d pulled on one of Gordon’s long white T-shirts and tied her hair back in a ponytail.
The deputy was seated at the table, and Gordon was putting two coffee mugs on the countertop.
Nila extended her hand and the deputy rose to take it. “Morning, Officer. What brings you out so early?”
The deputy visibly softened. “Forgive me for intruding so early in the morning, Miss Rawlings; it’s about Margaret Cartwright. You’re feeling better, are you?”
Nila sat and motioned for the deputy to do the same. “Thanks to you, I’m alive and on the mend. Gordy said you wanted to talk about Maggie.”
“Has anyone called or spoken with you about her—maybe her sister?”
Nila shook her head. “I’ve been debating whether to call Amy—she’s Maggie’s sister. But I haven’t had the nerve—I’m not sure what I’d say. And no, no one’s called. No letters or emails, either. Why do you ask?”
Gordon set a mug of steaming black coffee on a paper napkin in front of Nila. “Sure you don’t want some?” he asked the deputy.
The deputy drummed his fingers on the table. “You got me; I can’t resist the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Just a splash of milk, please.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Something strange is going on, Miss Rawlings, Mr. Hale. The medical examiner wasn’t able to positively identify Margaret Cartwright’s body. There was no ID of any kind in her purse and no fingerprints in the stolen car.”
Gordon interrupted him. “There must have been prints on the gun. She wasn’t wearing gloves.”
“She had no fingerprints. I mean, no prints on her fingertips—they were all blank.”
Gordon set a mug on the table in front of the deputy. “Strange. I remember reading a spy novel once where the bad guy had his prints surgically removed.”
“The medical examiner thought of that possibility. But he said that there was no evidence of surgery. It was like she was born without fingerprints.”
Nila raised her hand to her mouth, then lowered her head and closed her eyes.
“Highway Patrol haven’t called back yet with contacts for Margaret Cartwright’s relatives. Beside her probable involvement in the robbery-homicide upstate, the only new information is that the New Orleans Police have a rap sheet on a Margaret Cartwright. She was a high-priced prostitute, and her last known address was in New Orleans. Either of you have any ideas?”
Nila removed her hands from her face and shook her head. “Several months ago, just after she arrived back home in Pennsylvania, I talked with her sister Amy on the telephone. Amy attends an art school in Philadelphia. I don’t remember the name, but it was an important school—one that offers graduate degrees. I suppose you could track it down. Actually, I do remember one thing Amy told me when I was staying at the Cartwrights’ beach house: she said that she had a sister who lived in Louisiana. She didn’t say her name, just called her ‘my sister.’ She said this sister was estranged from her parents and that she—Amy—hadn’t seen her in several years. That’s all she said about her.”
Deputy McGill removed a notebook from his breast pocket and took some notes. He turned to Gordon. “Mr. Hale, would it be correct to say that you’ve never had any relationship with Margaret Cartwright in her professional capacity?”
Gordon wrinkled his brow. “Professional capacity? Oh—you mean as a hooker!” He laughed. “Like I said, haven’t seen her since I was nineteen. There was lots of hot sex back then, but none since.”
The deputy placed both palms on the table and stared at his mug of coffee. “Someone’s taken her body from the clinic. It happened late last night, or early this morning. There were no signs of forced entry and no clues—none at all. Her body just vanished. It’s as if she got up, walked out, and left the door open.”
“Good Lord!” Gordon exclaimed. “Who’d do something sick like that? Was she on one of those sliding shelf things, like you see in the movies?”
The deputy frowned. “There’s a temporary morgue here on the island—just a cold storage locker at the rear of the clinic,” he replied. “Her body was gonna be transferred to Fort Myers for autopsy this morning.”
The deputy put his notebook back in his pocket and stood. “Forgive this early intrusion on your day. Frankly, I’ve never had to hunt down a corpse before. Please call me right away if anyone contacts you or if you have any ideas that might be pertinent to the case—anything at all.”
Gordon and the deputy shook hands, the deputy said goodbye to Nila, and Gordon walked him to the car. When Gordon reentered the kitchen, he found Nila sitting with her elbows on the table, her chin resting in her hands.
“Creepy shit,” he said. “Who’d steal a dead body? Maybe a psychotic grave robber,” he added, answering his own question.
Nila sighed. “C’mon, let’s make some breakfast, and then we’ll have a chat—a nice long chat.”
~*~
“I’m beginning to enjoy these sausages; I guess they’re an acquired taste,” Nila said, as she set a plate of scrambled eggs and breakfast links in front of Gordon. “The chipolata at home are different—less meat and more filler. Different spices, too.”
Gordon refilled Nila’s coffee mug. “Anything else you miss, besides the sausages?”
“Not really; just Mum and Doo-Doo—that’s what I call my sister Della.”
“I know. You told me.”
“I don’t remember telling you her nickname.”
“Well, you did. Otherwise, how would I know?”
Nila smiled a little. “Yes, how would you know?”
They locked eyes for an instant, and Gordon’s smile grew to match Nila’s. He picked up a fork and poked at the mound of eggs. “Telepathy, no doubt,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied. “No doubt.”
“I think we should have our wedding in England,” he said, changing the subject. “We should have a formal affair in an old church, with a big reception afterward. That’s what you’d want, isn’t it?”
Nila, who was swallowing scrambled eggs, choked. She raised the paper napkin to her mouth and coughed for several seconds.
“You okay?” he asked, getting up and thumping her on the back.
She nodded. “You just caught me off guard, talking about weddings. I’m all right now.” She sipped some coffee.
Gordon took his seat. “Sure you’re all right?”
“Just fine.”
“So, you’d be okay with a wedding in England?”
“Gordy, I haven’t even thought about a wedding—not even once. Everything’s happening so fast; you only asked me to marry you last night. I don’t know. A wedding at home would be lovely, but America will be my home now. I think we should do it here, in Castle Key. I do get to become an American citizen, don’t I?”
Gordon smiled. “Of course, but it will take some time to jump through all the bureaucratic hoops. I’ll email Stephanie at the firm. She handles immigration and naturalization issues, and she’ll advise us on how to get started with the process.”
“Gordy, I’m surprised. Under the circumstances, I’d think you’d want something low-key, like at a registry.”
“What circumstances?”
“I’m not sure how to put this. With Karen’s death so recent, wouldn’t her family find it distasteful for you to marry again so quickly, and in a formal ceremony? And what about Mary?”
Gordon shook his head. “Mary’s your champion. She’ll be happy with whatever we decide. As for Karen’s family—aside from her mother, it doesn’t matter what they think.”
Nila saw Gordon’s serious expression and assumed one of her own. “Please, can I have more coffee?”
He filled both their cups. “Karen’s stepbrother and stepsister are angry with me. Karen was much younger than her siblings. She was a love child who was conceived during her divorced, middle-aged mother’s brief relationship with a younger colleague; Karen never met her father. He
r siblings were married and out of the house with their own kids and careers when Karen was growing up, so the three of them weren’t close.”
“You’re not on good terms with her stepbrother and stepsister?”
“After the diagnosis, Karen decided that she needed to get away—away from her family and away from Massachusetts. This house belonged to me and winter was coming, so it wasn’t a difficult decision to pack up the girls and move to Florida. Adele, Karen’s mother, came with us for the first week and helped us get settled. Adele’s the ethereal, artsy type and is completely caught up in her work at the university—but aside from being flaky, she’s a normal, pleasant woman.”
Nila interrupted. “She’s been back to the cottage?”
“She came down two more times last fall to babysit the twins while Karen and I went on short trips. She called Karen every day right up until Karen went into coma. I’m still in touch with Adele. We’re not what you’d call close, but we get along. But, at Karen’s funeral, her brother and sister were quite unfriendly. I think that in some strange way, they blame me for Karen’s death. Nothing was said, but they were very cold to me.”
Nila carried Gordon’s plate to the microwave. “Let me heat this up for you.”
“Thanks,” Gordon replied. “I email pictures of the girls to Adele every now and then. She has seven grandchildren in Massachusetts to fuss over, but I’m sure she’ll come visit the twins at some point. That’s all you need to know; there’s really no need for us to talk about this again.”
The microwave beeped, and Nila removed Gordon’s plate. “Eat, before the eggs get rubbery.” Nila set the plate in front of Gordon and took her seat. “You eat, I’ll talk.” She poured the last of the coffee into Gordon’s mug. “You haven’t given me much time to think this proposal through, but I need to tell you what I’m feeling. I love you—of that I’m sure—and I love Julie and Janna as if I were their own mother. I’m excited about building a new life with you—even though, except for love and happiness, and perhaps a few more little ones, I have no idea of what that life will include.” Gordon started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Not yet, not ’til I’m finished.”
“Just trying to find out how many little ones to expect,” he said with a laugh.
She tilted her head to one side and grinned. “Judging from your performance last night, I’d say a dozen. Now don’t interrupt again. Promise?”
Gordon crossed his heart.
“This is the important bit. Our love—our life together—will be all new to me: housekeeping, and taking care of my husband’s needs. All new. Not so for you—you’ve already loved someone, loved truly and deeply, and you had started building a life together. It’s most important for you to know that I want you to always remember that love—I want you to remain in love with Karen. Karen gave you Julie and Janna and now she’s allowing me to share them. You and I and the girls will be building on the love that you and Karen established, not starting over again.” She smiled. “That’ll make my job lots easier.”
Gordon reached across the table and took Nila’s hand. A tear ran down his cheek.
15
Hubert Rawlings sat at a scarred, century-old, teak writing table and stared blankly through the French doors into his mother’s flower garden. It was the rainy season in southern Ghana and the exotic African jungle plants that Juba had collected over decades flowered in profusion. Without his mother to constantly nag the gardeners, Hubert knew that her garden would now begin a gradual descent into weeds. In her garden, like everything else in her life, Juba Rawlings had always insisted on excellence. Because of her extensive charitable work, especially founding the Children’s Hospital, Juba had been widely respected throughout Accra, and her funeral had been nearly a state occasion. Even His Excellency, the president, had made an appearance at her grave.
Hubert was struggling to find the words to describe the emotions he was feeling after a life spent under the thumb of his domineering mother. Words entered and exited his consciousness, such as guilt, pain, admiration, and hurt. The word ‘love’ never appeared—love wasn’t an emotion that he and his mother shared.
The Rawlings had been fixtures in Ghana’s business community and society since 1874, when the British pulled together a number of West African tribal territories and created the Gold Coast crown colony. The first generation of Rawlings to settle in the Crown Colony was English; the following generations to bear the Rawlings surname were an amalgam of European Caucasians, including British, Portuguese, and Finns. Hubert’s father, John Rawlings, was a successful businessman with a talent for recognizing and exploiting imminent change. In 1954, four years before the creation of an independent Ghana, John married Juba Nkrumah, a strikingly beautiful sixteen-year-old girl from a deep-rooted, politically well-connected Ghanaian family. John and Juba moved effortlessly in all circles of Ghanaian society, and their timber and cacao businesses prospered. Hubert was born a year after their marriage. Because Hubert’s birth was so difficult for Juba, he would be the couple’s only child, and this was the source of bitter disappointment for the rest of Juba’s life. Juba desperately needed a girl—a female who would carry on her ancient family line.
Hubert was eighteen when, against Juba’s objections, his father sent him to England to study engineering at Imperial College, University of London. Hubert was a serious student. He got good grades and returned to the family home in Accra, Ghana, each summer. Two months before his scheduled graduation, Hubert’s parents received a letter and a wedding invitation. Hubert enclosed a photo of his blonde English wife-to-be, but failed to mention that she was carrying his child. Juba Rawlings was enraged. She’d already selected Hubert’s future wife—Morowa, her second cousin’s beautiful, well-educated daughter. Juba had also purchased a building lot in a fashionable district on the edge of Accra where the newlyweds, with her financial backing, would build their first house. Juba immediately booked herself and John on the next weekly flight to London.
When they arrived, Juba summoned Hubert to a breakfast meeting in her suite at the Dorchester, where Juba mounted her campaign against her son’s marriage plans. He wouldn’t be able to support a wife and family in an incredibly expensive city like London. Hubert countered that he had an excellent job offer from an international investment company in the City, and that his fiancée was already running her own small, but profitable, travel agency. John launched the second round of attack—he needed Hubert’s help in the fields and factories. Hubert apologized for disappointing his father, but emphatically stated that he’d chosen to be a player in the high-stakes, international finance world and intended to remain in London. Juba tried the emotional appeal of an abandoned mother. Hubert had to suppress a smile, and quickly moved the conversation along. That evening, when Juba and John met his fiancée Carrie over dinner, all further attempts to bring young Hubert back to Ghana ended. Carrie was unusually attractive, intelligent, and polite—but more importantly, she was obviously pregnant.
John Rawlings was among the last of a dying breed of colonial British men—gentlemen who believed they had well-defined responsibilities regarding women they’d knocked up. There was no doubt in John’s mind that Hubert would—of necessity—marry Carrie.
After the dinner, John forcefully informed his wife that the matter of their son’s marriage was no longer open for discussion. Juba gave up arguing and turned her considerable energies to shopping. The couple flew home with six more cases than they’d brought. A few months later, John returned to London for the wedding, but Juba insisted that the pollution in London had inflamed her asthma and remained at home in Ghana.
Shortly after Hubert and Carrie’s wedding, Nila Rawlings was born. Nila was a pretty child with large amber eyes and a complexion close to Hubert’s honey-colored skin. A year later, another daughter arrived. She was another pretty child, but with chestnut-colored eyes and a light complexion nearer to her mother’s. She was named Della. John and Juba Rawlings remained in Ghana and nev
er visited London again.
A year into his new career, Hubert began to lose his enthusiasm for the high-stakes world of finance. The greed and cutthroat competitive behavior of the City was in direct opposition to the Ghanaian values of community and family that had shaped his life. As Hubert’s infatuation with high finance diminished, the irritations of city living—pollution, noise, and overcrowded subways and buses—suddenly became more noticeable. When Della, his second daughter, was born—unlike with his first child—he found the baby’s nighttime feeding and constant crying to be unbearable. He had a brief affair with a young Jamaican girl who was illegally working as a barmaid. When she was fired and left London to stay with a girlfriend in Leeds, Hubert frequently got drunk and wallowed in guilt. Carrie understood; she knew Hubert was miserable. She knew their lives would have to change. It was late afternoon and Carrie was home with the girls when she got the call. John Rawlings, Hubert’s father, was dead—crushed to death by a teak log that had fallen from a moving truck. As she hung up the phone, she knew that she and Hubert and the girls would be moving to Ghana.
~*~
Hubert hadn’t heard Morowa enter the room and flinched when she spoke. “I’ve finished upstairs; it didn’t take as long as I expected.” She set several sheets of lined paper on top of the leather blotter on the desktop.
“I’m sorry?” he replied.
“The inventory of your mother’s jewelry and clothing. I finished the inventory.”
“Oh, right. Any surprises?” He lifted the top page and scanned the itemized list without actually reading any of it.
“Not really. There were a dozen pieces of fine jewelry in the safe. The four pieces she willed to Naki were the only ones I hadn’t seen before. Since she was so tall and slender, her clothing’s not likely to fit anyone in the family. Some are lovely, old, vegetable-dyed fabrics that I can have resewn.”
“Anything left in Father’s room?”
Morowa shook her head. “Except for the furniture and the bedding, it’s bare. It took her long enough to decide to clean out your father’s things, but when she finally did, she was thorough. When are you planning on leaving?”