by Kathy Brandt
“She shouldn’t be meddling in my business. I just be making a livin’ and feeding my family. I ain’t doing nothin’ against the law. Ain’t nothing illegal about selling fins. You got no call to take her side.”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side here. Just breaking up a disturbance.”
“Hell, you ain’t. She be a damned crusader, protecting the damned fish at the expense of island folk. And you, just an outsider thinking she got a right. Well, I got rights too.” He continued to yell as I ushered Elyse back to her car.
“Jeez, Elyse, what were you thinking?”
“I know. That was plain stupid. I just saw those fins in that neat little row and all I could think about was that shark dying out near the Rhone. I know that guy is like a lot of folks on the island, just trying to survive on what they have—the sea.”
I left Elyse at her car and went back to the office. The only one around was Jean, trying to scrape burnt, crusted coffee off the bottom of the pot.
“I guess I should have turned the burner off,” she said apologetically.
“Jeez, Jean, seems like whoever emptied the pot should have turned the burner off. Why should you have to monitor it?”
“Well, yeah, I guess your right ‘cepting I am the secretary.”
“That part of your job description?”
“Well, seems like most people think it is.”
“Forget it, Jean.”
I went into my cubicle and called Mack.
“Mack, it’s Hannah.”
“Hey, Sampson, good timing, just got back in.”
“How did it go with the research?”
“Pretty well.” Just a second, let me get my notes. I could hear him at the other end of the line rattling papers around. I could picture it. Mack’s desk was always a disaster, yet he somehow knew exactly where everything was. Whether under an empty pizza box, covered with donut crumbs or stained with a circle of coffee.
“Got it,” he said. “Okay, let’s see. Jack Rodriguez, no record, just a couple DUIs that went away.”
“Yeah, I found that. Anything else?
“Guy has millions. Made most of it from oil. Owns a couple-of-hundred-acre horse ranch outside of Dallas, a penthouse in the city, a home in Aspen, the yacht in the Caribbean. Didn’t find anything that smells of criminal activity.”
“What about Pembrook?”
“Yeah, an author, just like you said. Travel guides to the natural history of a region. First one was on the coast of California, next one on Hawaii. They do okay, but I’d say Pembrook is living way beyond his means unless he’s got some rich uncle that I haven’t turn up yet. He has a house worth a couple of million north of San Francisco, and the boat down there. Can write off all his travel expenses, but still, he’s definitely in the hole. Got a big loan that he’s behind in payments on and the house is mortgaged to the hilt. He’d done some wise investing over the years, had a pretty strong portfolio, but its worth about half what it was a couple of years ago.
“You come across anything about drug use?” I was thinking about the white powder around Pembrooks nostril.
“No, nothing like that.”
“What about Robsen?”
“Guy was squeaky clean as far as I can tell. Talked to his business associate. The guy was really upset to hear about Robsen’s death. Describes him as the best partner he’d ever had—honest, smart, worked hard. His employees respected him. Guess he treated people well.”
“What happens to the business with him gone?”
“Robsen’s son will step in. He’s been with the company for five years.”
“Doesn’t seem like a motive to kill his father,” I said.
“There is one other thing.”
“What?”
“Robsen’s partner said that Robsen had an affair, ten, twelve years ago. He doesn’t think that Trish ever knew. Robsen broke it off after about six months.”
“So, not that squeaky clean. Anything else?”
“Nothing else on Robsen.”
“What about Don Manetti?”
I could hear Mack chewing on something, probably a stale donut, and rustling through papers.
“Hardly anything. Usually means there’s either nothing to find or lots to hide. Owns the real estate company. Nothing else comes up on him in the computer. I’ve got a call in to a guy I know in Miami PD. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
“Thanks, Mack. Hey how’s the new partner?”
“Green. I’m breaking him in gently.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
I hung up and pulled out the yellow legal pad. I ripped the doodle filled page out and tossed it in the trash. I could still hear Jean trying to clean the pot in the other room.
I started on a list. Who would have wanted Robsen dead?
Ursala Downing was a likely candidate. She had not been that surprised when I’d told her that Robsen was dead, but I had the feeling that little surprised Ursala. And she had motive, shunned lover. Just the suggestion of rejection had sent her storming out of the bar this afternoon. Maybe Allen had gone to shore that night to tell her to lay off. Maybe she’d lost it, pulled a gun, in a moment of sheer fury had pulled the trigger.
Just as likely to be her husband, Frank, jealous. Maybe he had intercepted Allen on his way to meet Ursala. Stopped him with a .22. That would explain why Robsen never rendezvoused with Ursala. Or maybe he’d found Ursala and Allen together and shot him. Maybe Ursala was protecting him. Maybe she was afraid of him.
Maybe that charter captain was looking for revenge. From the neighbor’s description, the guy was violent. He’d been really angry about being fired. Hadn’t been around since Friday. I needed to talk to him and find out where he was Sunday night.
For that matter Trish could have shot Allen, pissed and jealous that he was fooling around. Maybe she had known about the affair a decade ago. Maybe she’d made it clear that it had better be the last. Allen could have come back to the Wind Runner late after fooling around with Ursala. Hell, he may not have ever stepped out of the dinghy before Trish nailed him and hauled him out to deep water. But what had happened to their dinghy?
Others with the opportunity? Pembrook? But hell, what was his motive? The Manettis? Christ, they’d never be able to maneuver a dinghy out into open water at night—or would they? The Texans? At this point everyone was suspect. All the motives pointed to jealously and revenge. Whatever happened to good old fashioned greed? Enough. I threw the pad in the drawer and headed out.
The Rambler was in front parked under a casuarina tree. Its feathery branches draped over the passenger side, obscuring the entire right side of the car. This had been the only space left when I’d driven it in that afternoon. Now the lot was deserted. It was past 9:00. I’d learned to be wary in places that were this quiet and empty. I scanned the lot, looking for shadows that moved, listening for sound.
That’s when I heard rustling, coming from the other side of the car under the tree. I found myself pulling the thirty-eight from the holster I’d draped over my shoulder on the way out. I crept silently around the Rambler and stopped. More sound. I ducked under the branches. Christ, it was pitch black in there. I couldn’t see a thing, but didn’t want to use a flashlight. It was like giving some nasty guy a target.
The sound came from under a stand of bushes, practically at my feet. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I crouched and pulled back the branches. A cat lay, nursing three tiny kittens.
It had been a long day. Fatigue had made me paranoid. I needed food, a hot shower, and a soft bed. I really wanted to leave the tangle of cats there in the bushes. Probably belonged to someone in the neighborhood. But jeez, the mother was all bones, had that scared, hungry look in her eyes. The kittens were desperately trying for nourishment. They were only hours old. Shit. I grabbed an old towel from the trunk, wrapped the whole bundle of cats up, and put them in the back seat.
By the time I got home it was past eleven. The Pickerings’ apartment was d
ark but a dim light glowed in the marina office. I found Sadie inside curled up on a blanket. She jumped up to greet me, sniffed the bundle of kittens in my arms, and whined.
“It’s only temporary,” I assured her.
Sadie followed me down the dock to the Sea Bird. The ocean was smooth, the night still. I could hear the distant rumble of a car up on the road. Otherwise it was quiet, almost too quiet. Something seemed wrong, out of synch. Nothing apparent, just a feeling. Jeez, I was way too nervous. Just more paranoia. But then Sadie growled. I placed the cats on the dock and for the second time that night, I drew the thirty-eight.
“Stay, girl,” I whispered and stepped onto the Sea Bird, careful to keep it from rocking.
The moon just past full, lighted the boat in a dusty glow. I could see that no one was on deck. It was empty. I waited in the cockpit, listening for sounds below deck. A breeze came up causing the boat to rock and the halyard to slap against the mast. Then more silence. I crouched at the top of the stairs and tried to see into the darkness below. No visible movement. I waited, eyes staring into the black, listening for any presence. Nothing. Maybe both Sadie and I had been mistaken. Still I crouched, hesitant to go below.
Finally, knees about to give out, I placed a foot on the first step and quietly started down into the dark, gun in hand. At the bottom, I again waited. Still nothing. I was going to have to flip the switch on the instrument panel for lights. I moved a pace to my left, felt for the panel. I was pretty sure that the light switch was fourth down. I hesitated an instant, then flipped the switch.
Light blasted the interior. Relief quickly gave way to quick hot anger. No one stood beside me ready to plunge a butcher knife in my chest, but the salon looked like a hurricane had been through it. Seat cushions were thrown on the floor, their insides spilling cotton and feathers. Clearly they had been sliced. Every cupboard had been emptied, the contents strewn on the floor. Broken glass, mixed in cornflakes, flour, and tortilla chips crunched under my feet as I walked back to the cabin. I paused at the door, then stepped in, ready to shoot the bastard who had wrecked my boat. No one in the bedroom, no one in the head. Like the salon, the bedroom had been trashed—mattress slit, sheets torn. In the head, there was a note—written in toothpaste on the mirror.
GO HOME! Simple and to the point. Still some toothpaste left in the tube.
Avoiding any surfaces that could hold a print, I piled the cushions on the wooden seats and swept the glass and debris into a corner. Then I retrieved the cats from the dock.
I found a cozy nook in a corner for them, filled one of the only unbroken bowls with water, and opened a can of tuna. The mother cat was too hungry to be shy. She lunged for the food, the three kittens hanging on her teats.
I grabbed some clean underwear, shorts, and a tank, and this time locked the cockpit—the old lock the gate after the horse escapes theory.
“Come on, Sadie. I’m sure O’Brien needs company.”
Chapter 15
O’Brien’s villa was an imposing peach stucco with white trim. All it lacked were porticos and columns. It sat up on the hillside, overlooking the bay and the SeaSail marina. O’Brien answered the door in a pair of boxer shorts.
“Hannah, what are you doing here? It must be midnight.”
I just shook my head and remained stoic. I mean, I’m a cop, for chrissake, although right now I felt like a waif standing on his doorstep.
“Are you alright?” he asked, letting Sadie and me in and closing the door.
“I will be after some food and some sleep.”
“Come to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something.”
The kitchen was in the back of the house. It was all tile and wood, surrounded on two sides by windows. I sat at the table, nestled in a glass alcove. O’Brien pulled several containers out of the fridge, filled pans, and stirred while we talked.
“What happened?” he asked.
I took a deep breath and told him about the Sea Bird, the message on the mirror.
“Hannah. Thank God you weren’t on board. Are you okay?” O’Brien was really upset and angry. It was nice to have someone around who cared that much.
“Sure, but the boat’s a mess.”
“Who would do this?”
“Good question. I suppose it could have been a couple of the local fishermen. I got involved in a disagreement between Elyse and one of the vendors in the market today. I’m sure the word’s gotten around. Maybe they’re angry that an American is in their islands sticking her nose in their livelihoods.”
“But why not threaten Elyse? She’s the one causing the trouble.”
“Yes, but she is an islander.”
“You’re right about that, I’m afraid. It takes time to be accepted by the people of these islands, and they don’t like outsiders meddling.”
“Yeah, I noticed. A couple of the guys on the police force wouldn’t mind seeing me go home.”
Indescribable smells were wafting through the kitchen. O’Brien placed a bowl of chowder in front of me at the table, along with a sandwich.
“What about the case? How many people have you angered so far?” he asked.
“A few, I guess. I’ve spoken to everyone who was on the Calypso the night Robsen died. Maybe I’ve scared someone. It’s possible that Clement Davies heard I’m looking for him and came looking for me first.”
“Clement Davies. He’s a bad one. Hot-tempered and intolerant.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, he worked for SeaSail for about a month before Louis let him go. Davies couldn’t handle the people he was accompanying out on the boats. Instead of treating them like guests, he’d treat them like intruders. But enough of this. Finish your food. We’ll talk tomorrow. Right now let’s get you and Sadie to bed. Guest bedroom or mine?”
“Yours, but I need sleep. It’s been a rough day.”
“Of course, Hannah,” he said, smiling.
I woke only once, O’Brien’s arm around me. I hated how good it felt.
***
The next morning I found him out on the veranda. He poured coffee. It was a gorgeous morning, residues of the cool evening still tucked in bushes and stored in tile. Sailboats were already making their way out of the harbor. Several were in the channel, tipped on their sides in the wind.
“You’re right on time. Marta’s making breakfast. How did you sleep?”
“Great. I think I can face the day.”
“Good morning, Hannah,” Marta said as she walked in. “So nice to see you this fine mornin’.” She placed a colorful plate filled with food before me: eggs Benedict surrounded by fresh fruit—watermelon, cantaloupe, papaya, pineapple.
“Thank you, Marta. This is beautiful.”
O’Brien and I ate in silence, enjoying the view. Christ, there was nothing like it.
“O’Brien,” I said, giving Sadie the last few morsels from my plate, “what do you know about Ursala Downing?”
“Ursala? She is a piece of work.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe she’s flirted with every man on Tortola between eighteen and eighty.”
“Really, do you talk from experience?” I asked.
“Actually, yes,” he said with that damn twinkle in his eye. “I met Ursala about a year ago at an opening for her husband’s work over in a gallery on Saint Thomas. He’s a sculptor. I’d been somewhat interested in buying one of his pieces. Ursala had had quite a bit to drink. At one point she actually put her hand on my ass. Her husband was standing right there. I figured she’d just had too much to drink, would be embarrassed about it.”
“Let me guess, embarrassment was the last thing she felt,” I said.
“Right. She came by the marina the next day. Asked if I was involved with anyone. I wasn’t. She wanted to have lunch. I decided I needed to be very honest with her. I told her I didn’t date married women. She just laughed. ‘How silly of you,’ she said. ‘What’s in a marriage license anyway? Piece of flimsy paper is all.’ S
he was very bitter.”
“What about her husband? What’s he like?” I asked.
“Frank? Self-absorbed, an egomaniac. Could care less about Ursala. All he cares about is building his reputation as a sculptor. Really plays the role too. Affected, aloof.”
“Is he any good?” I asked.
“Actually, he’s not bad, but some of his stuff is kind of warped, violent. He has sold a couple of pieces to some New York dealers. He’s placed some of his work in a gallery in Soho.”
“Have you seen Ursala lately?” I asked, hoping for a no.
“Sure. She kept after me for a month or so after Frank’s show, coming by the marina, calling the house. Somewhere along the line we became friends.”
“Friends?” I said, skeptical.
“I know, with Ursala it seems unlikely. To her, all men are conquests, but that’s just it. She’s terribly insecure. Hard as it may be to believe, I don’t think she sleeps around. She’s a flirt, but it doesn’t go further. Every victory is confirmation that she is worth something, if not to her husband, then to every other man on the planet. Her real goal is to make Frank jealous, to make him notice. She’s crazy about him, although only God knows why. He’s with her for her money, so he can dabble in his art. And she knows it.”
“What about Robsen? It sounded like she was ready to jump in bed with him.”
“Possible. Maybe Ursala was ready to cross the line. Try to get Frank to react.”
“Perhaps he did. Caught Robsen leaving the house that night and killed him.”
“With Frank, anything is possible. Ursala’s actually sleeping with someone else could have been a blow to his huge ego.
“It’s too bad. Ursala’s a nice woman. During all her calls and visits, we’d started talking, arguing really, about marriage, relationships, trust, honesty. She quit pulling all the bullshit she engaged in with other men. I don’t know, I think she just needed someone to talk to.”
I could see it being O’Brien. He was just the sort to confide in. Understanding, sympathetic, clear in his ideas. But did it have to be with Ursala?
“Maybe she’s just developing another strategy,” I said. I mean, how could Ursala resist someone like O’Brien, for chrissake?