by Jac Simensen
“I’m on massage today. I’ll see that I get to do whichever of them is signed up. Women love to talk about physical stuff during massage—I’ll check how she responds to a bit of subtle flirting. Talk to you this afternoon. What’s your aunt got you up to today?”
Thierry moved to the small bedroom, took a pair of worn canvas boating shorts from a cardboard box at the foot of one of the twin beds, and pulled them over his slim hips without unzipping the fly. “Still workin’ on the diesel. Chuckles said the parts I ordered came yesterday. If the Cro-Magnon at the marina got the order right this time, I should finish today.”
Bruno smirked. “Better be careful. The girls in the restaurant know that you call your Aunt Catherine ‘Chuckles,’ but if she found out she’d be steamed. You know she doesn’t have a sense of humor—especially when she thinks she’s being disrespected. Don’t want to lose your free room an’ board, do ya?”
Thierry looked around the small room and scowled. “Not much of a room. This economic collapse is really cuttin’ into my tips. Those teachers from Aix only gave me two hundred euros—two hundred for two nights humpin’ the both of ’em. Pretty sad. You remember Hanna, that rich, sixty-ish Swede who always comes in June? Paco says he doesn’t have a reservation for her. I mean, I can always count on Hanna for a grand—and mostly just for being her companion. You’ve been sleeping in the room most nights—you haven’t been doin’ much business, either?”
“Not really, but I’m okay. Between what your aunt pays me and the tips I get at the spa, I’ve put away enough so’s I don’t have to look for other work when the resort shuts down at the end of the summer. I could do with a few more sleepovers. That Corsican couple—the older guy with the wife half his age—was my last. Kinda kinky. She wasn’t a beauty but had a nice, firm body—and after some champagne, was full of enthusiasm. The old guy stripped off, sat in a chair, and watched us go at it. When I was finished, he gave me two hundred, pointed to the door, and took my place. We did an encore the next afternoon—I figure he wanted me to get her pregnant.”
“You and me could write a book.” Thierry pulled a clean, but paint-spattered, T-shirt over his head and slid his feet into a pair of worn flip-flops. “Talk to you tonight. I should be back and cleaned up by four. Meet you here or at the pool. See what you can find out about the new girls.”
“Yeah, right,” Bruno replied as he switched on the annoying fan and stepped into the shower.
~*~
Le Cap Sud was the most exclusive boutique spa-hotel in Martinique and one of the more expensive in the Caribbean. Except for the August/September months when it was closed, Le Cap’s twenty-four spacious, expensive suites were nearly always booked months ahead. However, the sputtering economy in Europe and the US had resulted in vacancies all through the winter high season. Mid-season was down as well. April was only half-booked, and May was even worse. If it weren’t for the eight women from Wisconsin who’d booked as a group for two weeks in June, Catherine Bizzot, Le Cap’s owner, would have closed the spa a month early and spent the extra time with her boyfriend in Provence.
Devon sprawled on her belly on a poolside lounge chair, reading a French fashion magazine. She was thoroughly covered in SPF 50 sunscreen, with two umbrellas completely shading her nearly nude body from the morning sun. As soon as Hattie went for her ten o’clock massage, Devon planned to move into the direct sun for an hour to begin restoring some color to the hospital-pale skin that she’d inherited from Maggie. Dr. Ponder’s big nurse had warned Devon about the risks of exposing her milk-white, and surgically altered, skin to the intense tropical sun, but Devon was sure that an hour’s exposure in the morning and then again in the late afternoon wouldn’t be a problem. Hattie didn’t agree. Since Tortola, she’d resumed the role of Devon’s watchful acolyte, a role she’d abandoned during the years she’d spent as the nurse for old Myra Silk. But now, Hattie would fuss over Devon’s well-being. Like the dominant partner in a long-enduring marriage, Devon would pretend to listen and then ignore her.
“Pardon the interruption, Mademoiselle,” the pretty, round-faced young woman said. “I am the manageress of the hotel restaurant and would like to speak with you about the culinary options here at Le Cap Sud. Would it be possible for me to take a few minutes to discuss this with you now—or would you prefer another time?”
Devon put down her magazine and leisurely rolled onto her back. Her bare, enhanced breasts and flat tummy reinforced the young woman’s speculation that Devon was an actress or a model.
Devon raised her sunglasses. “Culinary options? What culinary options?”
The young woman clutched a large menu to her chest. “We like to make sure each guest will enjoy their favorite foods and beverages prepared to their specific tastes. Depending on the fresh ingredients available to him each day, our chef prepares exceptional menus—but if there are dishes that are your particular favorites, we’ll make every effort to obtain the ingredients and prepare them to your requirements.”
“Oh—like what?” she asked.
The young woman brushed her sandy-blonde hair away from her forehead and smiled. “We’ve satisfied our guests’ requests for any number of things: Maine lobster, Sydney rock oysters from Australia, or French Creuse oysters, Iranian caviar, California abalone, wild boar, antelope steaks, shark fin soup, and suckling pig. There are flights to Martinique from several North America cities every day, and from France every other day. With the internet, it’s no problem obtaining most anything within a day or two. We have an exceptional wine collection in our refrigerated and humidity-controlled storage units, but we can order any specific wines, unusual vodkas and spirits, or even beer. I’d advise against flying in older vintages of red wine—the sediment gets stirred up during transport and there isn’t usually enough time after it gets here for the sediment to resettle. The wines can turn out muddy.”
Devon extended her hand. “Let me see the menu,” she said.
“And the wine list?”
Devon nodded.
The manageress bent at the waist and held out the menu. “This is today’s lunch menu. The fish were all caught this morning and the meats and poultry have never been frozen. Chef hasn’t yet finished the menu for this evening, but it will be available shortly. The breakfast buffet was to your satisfaction?”
“Breakfast was fine; my companion and I eat lightly in the morning.” Devon scanned the lunch menu. “This will do for us.” She placed the menu and wine list on her lap. “In the evening, my companion eats only meat as her main course—any sort of meat that is cooked very little.”
The manageress nodded. “I’ll inform the chef.”
Devon flipped through the pages of the wine list. “The man who was here by the pool this morning—a tall man with curly brown hair and green eyes. Is he an employee, or a guest? Do you know who I mean?”
The young woman nodded. “Thierry. I’m sure you mean Thierry.”
“His accent was provençal; I’m quite sure of that.”
The manageress smiled. “You’re very good with accents. Are you French?”
Devon shrugged. “No, but in the past, I lived in France for long enough to recognize regional accents.”
“Thierry is from Provence—from Antibes. Actually, he’s neither an employee nor a guest. His aunt is the owner of Le Cap Sud and Thierry visits for several months each spring. Madame Bizzot also owns the marina at the end of the bay. Thierry’s a skilled mechanic. He works on her charter boats and gets them into shape for the high season. He also services the refrigeration and air-conditioning units at the hotel.”
“He’s a bit of a handyman, then?”
The young woman couldn’t suppress a smile. “You could put it that way, yes.”
Devon reached into her bag on the low poolside table. She removed a twenty-euro note from her wallet and tucked it between the pages of the wine list before she returned the list to the manageress. “With lunch, we’ll have the Batard-Montrachet—not overly chille
d. Also, the catch on my favorite necklace is broken. Perhaps this handyman could have a look at it? Perhaps you could ask him to call me?”
“With pleasure, Mademoiselle. He usually finishes at the marina by midafternoon. I’ll have him call you when he comes to the hotel. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to make your stay more pleasant.”
“I’ll let you know.”
The young woman nodded, turned on her heel, and walked briskly toward the restaurant, just as Hattie emerged from the masses of bright red bougainvillea and palms that formed a visual border between the pool area and spa buildings.
“You stayin’ out a the sun then?” Hattie asked. She was wrapped in a silken robe with Le Cap Sud embroidered on the breast pocket.
“Of course,” Devon replied, and rolled onto her stomach. “I’ll have lunch at one in the restaurant. You’ll be done by then?”
“I don’t know—I’m gettin’ a manicure after. You’re not doin’ the spa today?”
“No, not today—I’m relaxing. I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Shall I sign you up for a massage?”
“It’s taken care of,” Devon replied. “When we checked in, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m off. Don’ wait for me at lunch. There’s a health food and juice bar inside the spa; maybe I’ll just be healthy for a change.”
Devon turned onto her side. “You may not see me for dinner. If I’m not at our table by eight, you’re on your own.”
Hattie put her hands on her hips and grinned. “You take care. That body’s had plenty a experience, but it’s been well over a decade since your mind’s had an orgasm. Take it slow.”
“Goodbye, Hattie.”
“Uh huh.”
~*~
The coroner peeled off the rubber gloves and untied the rubber apron, then dropped them all into a plastic bin. He washed his hands, wrists, and forearms. “Myocardial infarction: a heart attack. Specifically, cardiogenic shock. The septum—the wall that separates the left and right ventricles—was severely ruptured.”
The uniformed policeman was scribbling in his small notebook with a stump of a pencil. “How ya spell that myocardial thing?”
“Just like it sounds. Look—I’m the coroner, not a journalist. You’ll get my report when I’m finished.”
“Drugs?” the policeman asked without looking up from his notebook.
“Not really. A trace of marijuana—nothing more.”
“So, he just had a heart attack and died. Young, strong guy.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. I don’t have access to his medical records, but I’d bet he had a preexisting condition called Prinzemetal’s Angina. It probably wasn’t diagnosed—most likely, he never even knew he had the condition. I didn’t see any evidence of earlier scarring. I suspect intense physical exertion exacerbated the condition and drove the heart into an uncontrolled spasm, triggering the heart attack. Perhaps something stressful that happened to him at the hotel.”
“Oh, like what?”
“Put your notebook away. What I’m gonna tell ya won’t be in the report and I’ll deny I ever said it but—I think this guy may have been screwed to death.”
“You’re kidding!”
The doctor shook his head. “It’s my guess that the cardiogenic shock that blew his heart apart and killed him resulted from an extended period of intense physical exertion and nervous tension. His penis was inflamed and his testicles were all shriveled up. They looked like walnuts—he must have ejaculated multiple times over a relatively short period to get ’em like that. His back was all scratched up, like it had been gouged by fingernails.”
The policeman whistled. “Girls at the hotel told me he was always hitting’ on them and on the hotel guests, as well. The cook said that some of the guys who work at the spa have a regular stud service goin’ for the female guests, and that our boy was probably part of it. Nothin’ unusual, nothin’ illegal. It happens at all of the spa-resorts—women on their own looking for more than a tan and a backrub. We get more than a dozen complaints every season from foreign bimbos who say the young guys that they invite to their rooms help themselves to jewelry or cash when they leave.”
The doctor shrugged. “Guess we’re in the wrong line of work. You said they found his body by the pool?”
“Yeah. He was in a lounge chair. He’d been smokin’ a cigarette and it’d burned all the way down to his fingers. Security found him about midnight—there’s no telling exactly how long he’d been out there. I’m sure the woman who runs the restaurant knows which guest he was with, but she didn’t wanna say and I didn’t think it mattered, so I didn’t press her. I mean, it was one of them mycardi-infection things that killed him, right? Like you said, a heart attack? Nothin’ suspicious—nothin’ more I should investigate?”
The doctor removed his glasses and put them in his shirt pocket. As he pushed through the morgue’s swinging doors, he called over his shoulder, “Myocardial infarction resulting in severe cardiogenic shock—that’s what’s goin’ on the death certificate.”
The policeman nodded, closed his small notebook, and then put it and the pencil into his back pocket.
20
Carrie Trumble had owned the house at 1 Holland Park Road for eighteen years. When she returned from Ghana with her two young girls, but without Hubert, her husband, Carrie had purchased the house from her uncle’s estate. It was a terraced house—the first in a long row of attached, three-story town houses. Although it wasn’t particularly large or imposing, it was located in a desirable section of London, one block from Kensington High Street, around the corner from her travel-bookings business. It was also conveniently located a few blocks from Tube stations on two different underground-railway lines. Since she’d owned the house, real estate in West Kensington and also neighboring, once-seedy, Notting Hill had become trendy and expensive. She’d raised her two daughters in the house and had been perfectly content to remain there until three years ago, when her sciatica made climbing the two flights of stairs progressively more painful. Reluctantly, she was about to put her house up for sale when her boyfriend Nick surprised her with an unusual birthday present—a compact, single-passenger elevator.
Carrie was 44, attractive, and trim, with large dark eyes and naturally blonde hair. She was regularly pursued by men a decade her junior. For the last five years, Nick had been the only man in Carrie’s life, and—though Nick was thoroughly devoted to Carrie—for reasons only the two of them understood, they never married. Nick owned an engineering company in Dorset, a three-hour drive from West Kensington. He lived in Dorset from Monday morning until Friday afternoon and then drove up to London to spend weekends with Carrie.
Carrie was halfway between the second and first floors in the claustrophobic, one-person, compact elevator that Nick had engineered and installed, when she heard the doorbell. She pressed a button and spoke into the intercom. “I’ll be there in just a minute,” she shouted over the hum of the elevator’s motor. The descent complete, she stepped from the door-less box into the space that, before the elevator’s installation, had been the kitchen pantry, and walked to the front door.
“Mrs. Rawlings?” the slim, well-dressed, dark-complected woman asked.
Carrie was momentarily taken back—she hadn’t been addressed as Mrs. Rawlings for years. “Trumble,” she replied. “Carrie Trumble. Rawlings was my married name—I’ve been divorced for a long time.”
“I’m sorry—I should have known.” The woman extended a business card toward Carrie. “I’m with the Ghanaian High Commission. My name is Helen Morticum.”
Carrie took the card from the woman’s hand and glanced at the embossed Ghanaian gold seal. “Helen Roth Morticum—Head of Chancery Section, Belgrave Square,” the card stated.
“Years ago, when I was married and applied for a visa, the commission was in Highgate,” Carrie said. “I see you’ve moved to pricier digs?”
Helen Roth Morticum smiled. “Consular section
is still at Highgate; Belgrave Square is the high commissioner’s residence and the executive offices.”
Carrie quickly looked Helen Morticum over. She was young, probably less than thirty-five, slim, very pretty, and dressed in a tailored, dark-blue business suit and high heels. Carrie also noticed the chauffer-driven Jaguar parked at the curb across the street. “Since I haven’t applied for a visa recently, I assume you’re here on another matter, Ms. Morticum.”
“Actually, I’ve come to see you at the request of your former husband, Hubert Rawlings. Hubert’s wife, Morowa, is the high commissioner’s sister.”
Carrie opened the door and stepped back. “I see,” she replied, unable to hide the apprehension in her voice. “Won’t you come in?”
Helen Morticum smiled and entered.
“Please come through to the kitchen. I can make some coffee—or tea, if you’d prefer.”
“Thank you—either would be lovely.”
Carrie led the way down the long hallway to the recently modernized kitchen. “Please take a seat. The kettle’s already warm. How is Hubert? I haven’t heard from him in years.”
“Actually, I’ve never met Mr. Rawlings. At the high commissioner’s request, I spoke with him on the phone last week.”
Carrie nodded. “Coffee all right? I’m afraid it will have to be instant.”
“That’s just fine. Thank you.”
“Let me just fix the coffee and I’ll join you.”
While Carrie spooned the powdered coffee into two mugs, Ms. Morticum took a small notepad from her purse and set it on the table. “Lovely place you have here. I’m quite impressed with your conservatory—is it a recent addition?”
“We added it on at the same time we redid the kitchen—about two years ago. I was thinking about selling the house, but when I decided to stay on, we did the kitchen over and added the conservatory.”