Holden’s mouth stayed in a firm line the entire time. At one point he glanced at Eileen the way a hummingbird hovers above a flower - quickly and timidly - before tapping the desk and saying, “I talked to Derricks yesterday morning. He told me he’s never seen anything like this. The only thing that lets them know it's the same person is the cut on the girls’ necks.”
Eileen thought back to the neatly stitched gash on Lydia’s neck that she had covered with make-up and a high-collared shirt. It had felt like a masquerade the way they had trotted her out so dewy fresh in a crisp black suit that still had the tags when her wailing mother handed it to Eileen.
Eileen remembered that day vividly. She had gone into the cold room and pulled back the white sheet before picking through the make-up, mixing powders and tints until she had created the perfect shade for Lydia’s pretty dark skin. After Lydia was brushed and blushed to perfection, Eileen had purposely avoided the puckered skin under the stitches until she had finished the face. She hadn’t wanted to touch it, that narrow egress through which the young woman’s life had drained and left her an empty shell. In the end, Eileen gritted her teeth and painstakingly covered the thick black thread, building and blending the make-up until it looked like no more than an old scar.
Holden had been impressed and asked if she’d be willing to do all of the make-up since she did a better job than Clifford. “He’s hit or miss. Sometimes they’re okay but, other times they look like they’re wearing Kabuki masks.”
Eileen had tried hard to forget Lydia’s gash but now her throat grew dry as she asked, “L-shaped cuts?”
“Yes. Derricks is working under the theory that the killer may have a disability like a missing thumb or something, which may stop him from holding the weapon properly.”
Eileen shuddered. “What about the brown car I mentioned outside Anna’s apartment?” My apartment, she thought anxiously. “Did that help?”
Holden bit his lip and tapped a pen on his desk before he leaned forward and cleared his throat, “It seems that lead wasn’t as concrete as he would have liked. But on the plus side, the toxicology report came back for the last victim and it’s clean.”
“What’s a toxicology report exactly?”
“The coroner takes blood, skin, hair samples, etcetera and tests them. They checked her for things like drugs or alcohol, but they didn’t find any in her system.”
“Oh,” comprehension dawned on Eileen’s face. “I had wondered why there was a bald patch at the back of her head. I didn’t realize the coroner shaved it.”
Holden stared at her. “Bald patch? Thorpe only plucks a few hairs so you’d never even notice it’s missing.”
“But I saw a bald patch at the back of Lydia’s head when I washed her hair.”
“Hmmm,” Holden mused as he stirred his tea. “Might be a bad haircut.” He shrugged.
Eileen raised an eyebrow. She doubted any teenage girl would submit to a haircut that left a shiny patch of scalp staring back at the world.
“I finished a book on serial killers this morning. Many of them take souvenirs from their victims. Do you think that’s why a patch of Lydia’s hair was missing?”
Holden considered it. “I wouldn’t doubt that. Any person that does these things repeatedly must have deep-rooted compulsions.”
Eileen was perplexed. “So after all of this time, they still don’t know who’s doing it?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think they have anything to go on other than the similarity of the wounds.”
Eileen didn’t like the sound of that at all.
Traffic sounds, a tinkling bell and a gust of air signalled that Clifford was back. He closed the door behind him and side-stepped the grey partition to enter the open-plan office.
“I forgot to ask: how did it go over the weekend, Clifford?” Holden asked.
“It rained so hard I thought the mud would keep my shoes. Thorpe said if the family sends her this way that she should be ready before the end of the week.”
The preceding forty-eight hours played itself over in Eileen’s head. A dead woman who might be related to her. The police butting their heads against dead ends. The two facts boiled together and bubbled over and the urge to learn more about Michelle Jones gripped Eileen.
“Speaking of the young lady…we’ve got a busy day ahead, so I’m ready when you are.”
Holden’s lips pursed in the middle of blowing his Earl Grey, and he squinted at her. “Really? I don’t recall any appointments.”
“The victim from over the weekend, remember?”
“I was thinking to just give them a call. There’s an art to touting. Showing up at the crime scene — that’s official. Knocking on their door two days later — that’s creepy.”
Eileen gazed into the distance and sighed. “I just thought that since you quoted your father so often that you’d want to carry on his legacy. I guess you do wait for opportunity to knock on your door.” She shrugged and turned back to the typewriter, poising her fingers over the keys even though she knew full well she had nothing to type on the blank sheet of paper.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw go slack and his hunched shoulders straighten. He gulped his tea in one swallow and fastened the buttons on his jacket. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 11
Suspicion
They made their way to a modest cookie-cutter housing development on the west coast. Dubbed “the Venezuelan houses” by locals, each was indistinguishable except for the toys or overturned tricycles left to rust on patches.
Michelle Jones’ house was painted an ugly green. Its mossy steps and unkept garden seemed ready to take over the property at any moment, and very much resembled a lost cottage waiting for the inevitable despair that would settle over it some day.
Holden rapped on the door. A few seconds later, a tall dark-skinned lady with uncombed hair and a tear-stained face opened the door. “Good morning, are you Lena Jones? I’m Holden Davis of Davis and Sons’ Funeral Home. Let me say how sorry I am for your loss. I know how difficult these situations can be and, as I was in the area, I decided to pay a visit to see if you need assistance with Michelle’s arrangements.”
Lena heaved a weary breath and turned away as though she was too tired to respond. She flopped down on the brown sofa, blinked her puffy eyes and stared at Holden and Eileen before she starting crying.
Holden and Eileen glanced at each other as they stood rooted to their spots just inside the door. Lena's head lolled back and then fell forward, as though the weight of the tears off-balanced her. The woman leaned over with vicious momentum to gather a handful of photos that had been splayed out on the coffee table and clutched them to her chest before her weight sank into the cushions once again. Eileen took a covert glimpse at the ones that remained. Yellow with age, they all showed the same light-skinned girl at different stages of life. In one fuzzy photo, she flashed a gap-toothed grin with her lucky dip prize at a school fair. In another, she showed off an unbroken row of white teeth as she clutched her graduation scroll. Now her mother rocked back and forth humming a hymn as though the photos were the only things capable of consoling her. Based on Holden's description, Eileen understood why he had assumed it might have been her instead of Michelle Jones in that field. But this girl had a heart-shaped face, thin lips and a rounded nose; Eileen’s skin tone was lighter and her oval face featured wide brown eyes and full lips. The only thing they had in common was their thick afros. Eileen’s heart sank. She didn’t think she was any relation to this girl. She glanced at the mother then, hoping to see something telling her they were kin, but given Lena's dark skin and sharp features, it was clear that Michelle took after her father. All that was left were memories cast in ink on photo paper that Lena held in her damp hands. Eileen felt sick: Lena's sobs were loud and her grief was fresh, her body not yet digested by fatigue and anguish like Ernesta’s body was. But Eileen knew it was only a matter of time.
Holden took a deep breath.
“Ma’am, is there anything we can do? Maybe get you some water?”
“She’s good,” answered a gruff voice from behind a beaded curtain. A dark hand pushed aside the beads and a stocky man stepped into the light of the living room. “I’m Errol, Michelle’s stepfather. Lena ain’t taking this too good. Let we go outside and talk,” he said leading the way out the front door.
“Sir, we’re very sorry…”
Errol waved a dismissive hand at Holden and Eileen. “First things first: another fellow from Davis already talked to us yesterday. What sort of jack-leg place are you running that wunna that don’t talk to each other?”
Holden shot an annoyed glance at Eileen. “Well…we’re very thorough, you see. How are you holding up?”
Michelle’s stepfather shook his head. “It ain’t easy. Michelle split her time between here and her boyfriend’s house. She left a week ago to go there.” He shook his head bitterly. “We thought she was fine. Not once did that ignorant fool call to say she was missing.”
Errol's eyes grew steely. “If you ask me, I think he killed her. I told her not to get mixed up with fellows like that. Only when the police called did we find out that she was missing for two days.”
Eileen was taken aback by Errol’s candour but had to admit that he had a point. Over his shoulder, movement caught her eye. Standing behind the white lace curtain at the front door that slowly swayed to and fro was Lena. She looked like a ghost with her dead eyes and blank face as she watched them. A breath hitched in Eileen's chest.
Errol leaned in and said in a low voice, “I wouldn’t doubt that the boyfriend killed the other girls too. People like him are funny.”
“Would you say Michelle was afraid of him?” asked Eileen.
The man glared at her. “You’s the police? I thought wunna was from the funeral home.”
“We are,” said Eileen quickly. “But what you tell us can help to eliminate certain bits of evidence we may come across.”
Holden stared at her, his face marred with confusion. Normally the scope of their conversations wasn’t so intrusive. Eileen could only hope that Errol didn’t know enough to know that funeral homes weren’t supposed to be actively involved in forensic investigations.
Clearly, he didn’t.
Errol shrugged. “Not really… he just doesn’t fit in, if you get what I mean.” He gave Eileen a meaningful look.
“Hmmm…where does he live?” asked Eileen.
“Does a funeral home normally need to know that?”
Holden’s gaze was impassive, but Eileen knew he wouldn’t let this go once they got back to the car. “Nah. But I started talking to a new chossel and I want to make sure it isn’t him.” She smiled sweetly at Errol and winked. “A pretty girl like me can’t be too careful.”
“Oh, geez,” Holden muttered. Errol didn’t seem to hear though. He looked Eileen up and down and — concluding that she was indeed a pretty girl — answered breathlessly, “Ronald O’Riley. He lives on Sea Breeze Hill.”
“I knew you’d look out for me,” Eileen said with a sly grin. She thanked him and sashayed back to the car.
Holden stormed along in her wake. “Listen to me,” he fumed as he got in and slammed the passenger door. “We’re not Cagney and Lacy. I don’t know what you’re up to, but solving crimes isn’t my job. I bury dead people!”
Eileen started the car. “Then tell me who should solve these crimes. Because this is the fourth victim they’ve found and I have a feeling that if you and I work together that we’d find the killer.”
“Why? What on earth would possess you to get tangled up in police business?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Because I could tell from the way you answered earlier that Derricks thought I was just a busybody and didn’t take my tip about the man in the brown car seriously. Plus, I’m a woman and I’m tired of trying to pack eight hours of sleep into my lunch hour every day since I’m too afraid to close my eyes at night. That’s why.”
Holden drummed his fingers irritably against the sharp crease in his pants. Finally, with a disgruntled shake of his head, he said, “Fine. Solving this would give a lot of people some peace of mind.”
Eileen put the car in gear. “Excellent.”
“We’re going to Sea Breeze Hill, aren’t we?”
“Yup.”
* * *
THE PINNACLE OF SEA BREEZE HILL was a rocky little mound on the east coast of the island that cast long afternoon shadows on a quaint chattel village. On one side of the road was a gully where green monkeys ran rampant throughout the day. On the other side, patches of cassava, sweet potatoes and cane were interspersed with candy-coloured chattel houses. A query at the variety shop led them down a dusty lane to a ramshackle dwelling with a backyard enclosed by a rusty paling.
They knocked on the wooden windows until a young man opened the door. His skin was deeply tanned, a stark contrast to the sad green eyes that peered at them beneath a tangle of sandy hair. Lanky and long-limbed, he looked more like a tourist marooned on a surfing vacation than a murderer.
“Ronald?” asked Holden.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“We have some questions about Michelle’s death.”
His jaw hardened. “Her stepfather sent you too?”
“Well…he gave us directions, but…”
“Listen… Errol has problems with me, not with how I treated her,” the young man fumed as he made to close the door.
“We’re here to help,” Holden said gently as he looked the young man in the eye. “I don’t believe you had anything to do with her murder.”
Holden could sense the young man's reluctance as Ronald's eyes flicked between the two of them. Finally, Ronald ran his hand through his tangled curls and sank onto the moss-covered chunk of coral that served as the front step.
Holden knew he still had to tread carefully, even if Ronald did seem compliant. “What did you mean by Errol having problems with you and not how you treated Michelle?”
Ronald stared up at him with disgust. “If I was a rich white boy with family money I bet Errol wouldn’t have a problem.” He gestured to his dilapidated home and the weeds that surrounded it. “I loved Michelle and thankfully she could see past this.” His grin was sardonic, his eyes angry as he said, “Hmph…my mother always said that the more things change, the more they remain the same.”
“Is that your car?” Eileen asked. She pointed to a brown hatchback partially covered by a bank of river tamarind trees further along the grassy lane.
Ronald met her eyes and said, “Miss, I can’t even afford Rediffusion. Where would I get money to put gas in that or any other car for that matter?” He stupsed. "Besides, that old thing ain't moved from there in years."
Ronald had a point. Holden knew Eileen was taken aback by a white Bajan living in a place that looked like this. Many of the local whites had deep roots in plantation ownership or mercantile endeavours. Generational wealth allowed them to own huge swathes of land, myriad businesses and an incredible amount of political clout that ordinary people didn’t have. Ronald’s home, with its missing window panes and the mixed breed pot-starver who peered through the rusty paling, probably wasn’t what she expected.
“Do you think that’s the only reason Errol said we should talk to you?” asked Eileen.
Ronald’s mouth folded into a tight line. “Tell me what other reason it could be. He sent police here at two o’clock yesterday morning to bang on my door like I’m a criminal. They dragged me to the station and questioned me for eight hours without food or water. I told them Michelle was here for a few nights, but she left for a job interview that morning. I don’t have a phone so I thought she went home when she didn’t come back.”
“Did anyone have problems with her?” asked Eileen.
“No. She was quiet, hard-working, liked to read,” said Ronald as his eyes grew damp. “Michelle wasn’t riff-raff.”
It was too much for Ronald. He broke down sobbing to the point th
at Holden patted him on the shoulder and told him they were sorry for intruding before helping him back inside the house.
Once they returned to the car, Holden exhaled. “I have a good feeling that he’s not the driver of the car that was outside your apartment. I’ll make some calls and see if I can find out which companies have brown uniforms for their male staff. The good thing about a small island is that it’s not hard to pinpoint these things.”
“I wonder if the guy with the car is what these girls all have in common,” Eileen mused. “Lydia and Michelle seem like model citizens.”
Holden nodded thoughtfully. “Which might explain why Errol didn’t care for Michelle’s relationship with Ronald.”
Eileen shrugged. “He has that beach-bum-surfer aura to him, but I suspect he’s alright otherwise.”
Holden shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Ronald is what Bajans call an ecky-becky.”
“What’s that?”
“Imprisoned Irish slaves who worked on the plantations.”
Eileen raised an eyebrow. “I thought only Africans were slaves here.”
“Actually, the Irish were enslaved before blacks were. Oliver Cromwell was behind most of it, shipping the Irish here by the thousands to work the plantations until Africans replaced them.”
Holden rolled down the window to let in the fresh breeze as they drove along the narrow country thoroughfare. He gestured to both sides of the road where red poll cattle grazed behind rail fences. “After the Irish were freed, some became farmers and that type of thing, but others formed insular little communities like the one Ronald lives in. The problem is that many rich whites look down on them and some blacks do too.”
“But why?” she asked.
Holden scratched his chin. “I’m no anthropologist, but maybe it’s because they don’t fit within society’s construct. They have skin that should allow for privilege, but not the money. It’s a difficult space to occupy.”
Eileen was confused. “If they’re so insular, how did he end up dating Michelle?”
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