Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  “Well, you want to fill me in, Snyder, or you gonna keep me in the dark?”

  Snyder grinned and proceeded. Seems Clement Davies came home Friday night smelling like the rum distillery and ready for a fight. Went in and started tearing the house apart, throwing stuff out the window, breaking up the furniture. When his girlfriend got home, he started on her. He had her on the floor in a choke hold when the old lady showed up and started beating him with her cane. The girlfriend got out fast. Davies knew enough to stay away from that old woman.

  “Yeah, smart man. Does she know where Davies went?”

  “She saw him stagger out about an hour later, loading a suitcase and stereo in his car. Hasn’t seen him since and don’t know where he be goin’. Hopes he never shows up here again. Says he be a bad man—too much meanness in him.”

  “What about the girlfriend?”

  “Went home to her parents.”

  “You know where?”

  “Sure.”

  “Nice work, Snyder. How about you go talk to the girl and I’ll head over to the Watering Hole to try to connect with Ursala Downing?”

  “You think you be okay without me along?” he asked.

  “I think I can manage.”

  ***

  The Watering Hole was a typical island structure, open on three sides with the breeze blowing through and a 180-degree view of the bay. Several boats were anchored in Cane Garden Bay: the Wind Runner, the Dallas, the Calypso, the Manetti’s boat among them.

  Except for a group of people lingering over lunch, the restaurant was empty. I pulled up a stool at the bar and waited. Eventually I figured a bartender would appear. In the meantime I was enjoying the view and the breeze. Two small boys were running along the water’s edge, the waves chasing them to shore. Another was intrigued by the ghost crabs that scurried on the beach. He kept trying to sneak up close enough to capture one, but once he got about two feet away, the little crabs would scamper into their holes.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t know you came in. What can I be gettin’ you?” the bartender said, placing a napkin in front of me.

  “Something cold and non-alcoholic would be great,” I said.

  “I be havin’ just da thing. Dis here be fresh-made juice.” He poured something pink into a glass.

  “Do you know a woman named Ursala Downing?” I asked.

  “Sure. Mos’ everyone here knows Ursala. Fact is, she in here jus’ about every day ‘round three. Almos’ set your watch by her,” he said.

  “Was she ever in here with this man?” I asked, showing him the photo of Allen that I’d gotten from Trish.

  “Yeah. Maybe a week or so ago. He was already here. Seemed kinda angry and workin’ to get hisself inebriated. Ursala came in, sat next to him, bought him a drink, and went to work. Dat’s what she does. Kind of a game, I thinks. Tryin’ to get any man she sees to like her. Doesn’t take no for an answer. Just keeps flirtin’ and flirtin’ till a fellow gives in. For some it don’t take much. That guy was pretty drunk. They staggered out together.”

  “You ever see him in here again?”

  “Just one other time with another woman. Kinda thought it was his wife. They just be finishing lunch when Ursala came in, went over to their table, and damned if she didn’t sit right in his lap. He be blushing, not knowin’ what to do. His wife got up, pulled Ursala off of dat guy, and marched him right outta there. Ursala just laughed. Came over and sat at the bar. Sayin’ some guys just be pussy-whipped.”

  “What do you know about Ursala?” I asked.

  “Like I said, she’s here most every day. Flirts with anything in pants. I think she be having some kind of complex or something. You know, have to prove she be attractive. Thing is, she be a good-looking woman. Lives just up the hill there in dat big house,” he said, pointing to a veritable mansion built into the side of the hill. “Guess she be having money. Lives down here for about six months every year with her husband.”

  “She’s married?” I asked, knowing she was but fishing for a reaction.

  “Yeah, don’t that just beat all? I’ve seen him around a couple times. Seems to let Ursala do what she pleases. Don’t seem to care much. You be waitin’ about ten or fifteen minutes, she be wanderin’ in here.”

  I wasn’t disappointed. At just about three, a woman walked in dressed to kill. The bartender was right. She was good-looking. In fact, she was gorgeous. I’d put her at around my age, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, and about five-seven. That was where the similarity ended, though. Her breasts were spilling over the top of a red swimsuit. Around her waist she’d tied one of those sarong things. She looked like she’d just stepped out of South Pacific. All she needed was an orchid behind her ear. Her hair was long and blond, I figured out of a bottle but I was probably just jealous. She wore a lot of makeup but managed to look like she wore little. I walked over and introduced myself.

  “Ursala Downing? I’m Hannah Sampson. I’m a detective with the Tortola PD,” I said, showing her my ID. “Can we talk for a few minutes?” I asked.

  “Sure, darlin’. Let me just grab myself a Bloody Mary. Can I get you one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She strolled up to the bar, well aware that the two guys at the table couldn’t take their eyes off her. The wives were glaring at the husbands. She smiled at them as she swayed back by, drink in hand.

  When she sat across from me in the light reflecting from the beach, I realized that Ursala was older than I’d thought, probably more like forty-five. Her eyes were sad, real sad.

  “So, John has finally broken the gender barrier. About time, I’d say. And an American at that. How long have you been with the department?”

  “Just a few days. I’d like to talk with you about Allen Robsen.”

  “Allen… ah, yes, nice man, but a prisoner in his marriage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Too afraid to take the leap, though he clearly wants to. I’ve been trying to redeem him. Sooner or later he’ll come to his senses. They all do.”

  “I’m afraid Robsen won’t be one of them. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” She didn’t seem that surprised. “What a shame. And now he will never know the virtue of infidelity. His wife kill him?”

  “That’s a funny thing to say. Why do you think it was murder?”

  “Because you are across the table asking about him. Accidental deaths don’t usually bring out the police.”

  She had me there. “What makes you think his wife would kill him?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t being serious. But come to think of it, I suppose it’s possible. Probably rather have him dead than in bed with another woman, and I think that ol’ Allen was weakening.”

  “When did you see him last?” I asked.

  “Let’s see. Guess it was Sunday night. Frank—that’s my husband—and I were over on the Calypso. Allen was there, the Pembrooks, couple of other fellows from Texas. Wives had all gone home. Stupid, leaving their husbands like that. The two Texans decided to go back into shore, probably looking for action at the Reef Bar, since their wives weren’t around. Frank and I left too. He went to join the Texans.”

  “Why didn’t you go?” I asked.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I asked Allen to meet me. I was guessing he was about ready. Told him I’d be on the beach down there.” She indicated some tables on the beach with umbrellas over them. “I sat out there long enough to finish off an entire bottle of champagne by myself. He never showed up. I figured his wife caught up with him and dragged him home. I gave up and went home myself.” Ursala kept looking around the restaurant and glancing at the door, nervous about who might come in. Maybe she didn’t like being seen with a cop. Or maybe she was rendezvousing with another prospective lover.

  “What time was that?”

  “Must of been around two-thirty or three. I shouldn’t have waited that long, but I guess I’m just a foolish romantic at heart.” She grinned at the last comme
nt. I chose to ignore it.

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual?” I asked.

  “What’s to see but a few boats in the harbor?” She was defensive, maybe even afraid.

  “Was your husband home when you returned?”

  “I guess not, although I didn’t check. Frank and I don’t keep close track of each other.”

  “Did you see anyone else? Talk to anyone after you left the Calypso?” I asked.

  “Trying to establish my alibi? You don’t really think I had anything to do with Allen’s death, do you? Because I didn’t. He wasn’t that important to me.”

  “Well, he never made it home that night. Some snorkelers found him in the water near Sandy Cay.”

  “Huh, he should have taken me up on my offer. Probably still be alive, and he certainly would be well.”

  “You sure he never made it here?” I asked. I could tell she was holding something back. “Maybe things got rough? Perhaps Frank showed up?”

  “Don’t be silly. Frank could care less. And you think I would kill him? No way. He was just a diversion. A challenge.”

  “Maybe you can’t stand the rejection.”

  This pissed her off. “He had not rejected me! If he wasn’t dead, he’d be yearning for my bed as we speak. This interview is over, Detective. You have any other questions, you can call my lawyer.”

  She was storming out when she ran smack into Guy Pembrook coming in.

  “Watch yourself,” Guy said, smiling and grasping Ursala’s arm.

  “Don’t worry about it!” she said, pulling from his grasp and rushing out.

  The guys at the table were giving me dirty looks for chasing Ursala away. The wives, on the other hand, looked somehow triumphant. Like they’d had a part in it. As if they had struck a blow against male chauvinism or something.

  Pembrook picked up a beer at the bar before he walked over to my table and pulled up a chair. There was a hint of white around his left nostril, and I didn’t think it was baby powder. He’d done a hit of cocaine right before he’d come in the door.

  “Wow, what’s up with Ursala?” he asked, sniffing and pinching his nose between his fingers.

  “Upset about Allen Robsen, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” he said. “Damn shame. How’s his wife holding up?”

  “About as you’d expect.”

  “Any idea who did it?” he asked.

  “No, just beginning the investigation,” I said, wanting to get back to the matter at hand. “How well do you know Ursala?”

  “Met her and Frank the first night we anchored in the bay. Right here at the Watering Hole. Ursala’s not one you miss, and she certainly likes to socialize.”

  “You ever do anything more with her than socialize?” After the encounter at the door, I wanted to know what Pembrook’s relationship with Ursala was.

  “Hell, no. She flirted. I flirted back. You know, part of the game, but she’s not my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  “Christ, not that it’s any of your business, but you’ve seen Elizabeth.”

  “What was all that about at the door just now? You grabbed Ursala kind of hard.”

  “Hell, she almost knocked me down in her rush to get out of here. Guess she didn’t like talking to you. What were you discussing with her, anyway?”

  “I’m asking the questions here, Mr. Pembrook. What else can you tell me about the night of the party on the Calypso?”

  “Nothing I haven’t already told you,” he said, then looked at his watch. “Damn, I’m late. I’ve got to go pick up Elizabeth at the market.” He guzzled the rest of his beer and stood.

  I stood as well. “Now that this is a murder investigation, I’ll be talking again with everyone who saw Allen that night. Will you be around tomorrow?”

  “Guess I can stop by the police department.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” I said. “I’ll come to your boat.” I liked meeting people on their turf. You find out all kinds of things when you sit in someone’s space.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, reluctant. “The guy from the Dallas, Rodriguez, is interested in buying our boat, so he’s coming over in the morning to look her over. Maybe you can come by later, say around two o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.” It was pretty obvious Pembrook wasn’t the kind of guy who liked to talk with cops. He’d have to adjust.

  Chapter 14

  I headed over to Pickerings Landing to meet Snyder, so I could pick up the Rambler and he could take the Wahoo to Road Town. He was in the sand playing with Sadie and Rebecca when I pulled up. Just another kid, for chrissake. I tied the boat to the end of the dock and walked down to the beach.

  “Sweet Sadie,” I said as she ran to greet me. It always amazed me that Sadie remained my friend in spite of my neglect.

  “Hannah, can I take Sadie over to the marina with me till you get back? Mama said it was okay.” Rebecca asked, hopeful.

  “Sure you can, Rebecca. Be a good girl, Sadie.” She whined a bit, enough to make me feel guilty, then jumped up, gave me a slurpy lick, and went off with Rebecca.

  I walked with Snyder down to the end of the dock. “So did you find the girlfriend?”

  “I did. Dat girl’s father is mighty angry. Ready to kill Davies. Daughter’s got a black eye, cut on her forehead, arms all purple. She was happy to tell me where to find Davies. Says he’s probably in Road Town. Hangs out with a Stuart Vine, lives on Main right next to the post office.”

  “Okay. Let’s go check it out. I’ll meet you back at the office.” I couldn’t believe I was including Snyder. But the kid had been good to have around.

  Snyder jumped into the Wahoo and gunned the engine.

  “Snyder!” I yelled as he sent spray over the dock and trailed a three foot wake all the way out of the harbor. He couldn’t hear me, but he’d of known I was hollering. Once out of the harbor, he pushed it full throttle and vanished around the point. Damned kid.

  ***

  Snyder was standing in the department parking lot waiting for me when I pulled it. “Hey Hannah, bot time you be gettin’ here.” He smiled, that wide disarming smile.

  “Come on Snyder, get in.” This kid could drive me to straight shots of pure alcohol.

  Stuart Vine’s apartment was on the second floor of a crumbling concrete structure in desperate need of paint. Heavy base blared through the open windows. A man in a dirty, once white undershirt, shorts, and flip flops opened the door.

  “You Stuart Vine?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  I’m Detective Sampson, Tortola PD. This is Deputy Snyder.”

  Vine just chuckled.

  “Something funny?” I asked.

  “Well, come on, you two are a pair. White woman and a damned skinny black kid. You got ID?”

  The smile faded slightly when I pulled out a badge. “We’re looking for Clement Davies. His girlfriend said he might be staying here.”

  “Why you looking for Clem?”

  “That’s police business. You seen him?”

  “He’s been around. Been crashing on my couch when he can’t find some nice lady to stay with. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  “Any idea where we might find him?”

  “Hell, I’m not his baby sitter. Could be anywhere on the island all I know. Last time I talked to him, he was trying to find work on one of the fishing boats. He in trouble?”

  “We just want to talk with him. Appreciate a call if you see him.” I gave him a card, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Vine would probably tell Davies to get the hell off the island.

  According to Celia, Robsen’s complaint to Blue Water Charters had been the last of a long series of problems that Davies had had on the job. Was it enough to kill Robsen over? Could be. People killed for a lot less.

  Davies had probably been trashed all weekend and looking for someone to take his anger out on, his girlfriend having run for cover. He could have been waiting for Robse
n that night after he’d left the Calypso. Even more likely, it would have been a random encounter on the beach or outside a bar, Davies trashed and wielding a gun. Nine times out of ten it happened that way. So far, besides Trish, the jealous wife, and Ursala, the spurned lover, Davies was the only one with a motive.

  I dropped Snyder off down at the docks. He’d make the rounds of the local fishermen. See if any of them knew Davies. I headed back to the office to call Mack. Maybe he’d discovered something.

  I was on my way past the open market when I saw Elyse. I pulled over and parked at the curb. Elyse was pointing her finger in the face of one of the vendors, a burly guy wearing an apron covered in blood and guts. He didn’t look like the kind of guy that should be threatened, but that’s just what Elyse was doing when I walked over.

  “Elyse, what’s going on?” But I knew without asking. The gore on his apron was the result of all the fish he’d gutted—parrotfish, snapper, mahi mahi. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the shark fins. He had about twenty-five of them arranged in a neat row, no shark meat though.

  “I want to know where you got the fins.” Elyse was actually poking the guy in the chest now.

  “Elyse, cool it.”

  “Cool it? These fins translate to 5 maybe 6 dead sharks, maybe even the same ones we found yesterday. I want to know who’s taking these sharks!”

  “Well, it ain’t me,” the vendor yelled. “I’m just buying and selling.”

  “Yeah, well if you didn’t buy and sell, no one would bother to kill ‘em.” Elyse had moved behind the counter, opened the display case, and was sweeping the fins out onto the floor.

  I was about to intercept her when the vendor grabbed her and pushed her into the case. He was moving in, fist raised, when I slammed into him. He ended up sprawled on top of fish guts and shark fins. He scrambled to get up, slipped in the slime and resorted to threats.

  “You got no right! I be calling the police.”

  “I am the police,” I said, showing him my badge. “If you want to file a complaint, you’ll need to come down to the station.”