Murder at High Tide

by Lee Strauss

  Rosa took a step toward the couple, but then Florence swiped away the man’s hand and stormed off. Rosa stopped in her tracks and let out a breath of relief. She pivoted back toward the party before Aunt Louisa decided to send out a search party for her.

  The smooth voice of the lead singer of the band grew louder as Rosa drew closer, and she recognized Frank Sinatra’s “South of the Border”. Despite all her previous efforts, her mind betrayed her by flying to the memory of an American serviceman of Mexican descent who’d been stationed in Santa Bonita during the war.

  Private Miguel Belmonte had been Rosa’s first love. The first time he’d turned his smile on her, deep dimples in his cheeks, she’d melted like a plate of butter left in the hot sun. Rosa often wondered if the stolen moments she and Miguel had shared during those four wonderfully agonizing months so long ago had ruined her for anyone else. Was this why she couldn’t go through with marrying Winston?

  The emotions rushed hotly through her as if the “shame” she’d brought on the Forrester family had happened only yesterday. Aunt Louisa had been livid, a living volcano, spewing lava of unkind words. Rosa had not only fallen for a poor man, but she’d also dared to love a Mexican. Mostly service people, especially in 1945, the Mexicans worked in mansions like Aunt Louisa’s and came in through the back door. This Belmonte boy would keep Rosa in poverty. Would ruin the family name. Did Rosa want that?

  But seventeen-year-old Rosa hadn’t had much of a say. As soon as the war ended, Aunt Louisa booked her a ticket back to London, where her parents had eagerly waited, unaware of their only daughter’s broken heart.

  Funny how returning to the place of one’s childhood stirred up so many emotional memories.

  She walked closer to the band’s stage to join a handful of onlookers. The song was winding down to its end. The singer, dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeve cotton shirt, hit the last note with a flourish and turned to smile at the crowd as they applauded. His gaze fell on Rosa, his copper-brown eyes registering surprise.

  Miguel Belmonte.

  Their eyes locked and everything around them—the people, the noise, Aunt Louisa’s throaty laughter—faded away, with only the sound of Rosa’s heart pounding in her ears like an angry thundercloud.

  And then a woman’s shrill scream filled the air.

  2

  Rosa instantly sprinted towards the scream, every police reflex on full alert. So focused on the urgency of the moment, she failed to notice how her crinoline slip chafed her thighs, or how the sand stuck to her bare calves. On the edge of the beach where light from the party still extended, Rosa approached a body on its back, half covered by the surf.

  The screamer, a distressed young lady who seemed to be on the verge of fainting found her tongue. “Oh my God. I think she’s dead!”

  Gloria, who appeared acquainted with the lady, ran over to support her. “Vanessa! Are you all right?”

  Rosa’s gaze moved from her cousin and the poor girl who’d stumbled over the tragic scene to the body before them, a female with strands of wet blonde hair obscuring her face was soaked from the latest splash of waves. Rosa was quite sure the woman was dead but squatted low to put two fingers to the neck. She frowned. No pulse.

  Rosa recognized the dress, now drenched and marred with bits of seaweed. She didn’t have to see the face to know who it was.

  A crowd quickly gathered, and exclamations of surprise and distress could be heard as more people arrived. Rosa heard cries of “Oh my God,” “Is she dead,” and “Who is she?” circulate through the crowd.

  As she turned the body onto its side, Rosa hoped to clear any water from the mouth, but none dribbled out. Failing to find any sign of life, she let the body fall back.

  “Okay, everyone. Back away.”

  Rosa instantly recognized the voice and glanced up at Miguel before standing and backing away as instructed. His shock at seeing her was still evident on his face. This time, he spoke loudly for the crowd’s benefit. “I’m a police officer. Please step back.”

  Rosa blinked. A police officer?

  Dr. Melvin Philpott, who had just broken into the circle and was breathing hard, said, “Oh my.”

  Squatting, Dr. Philpott also checked the pulse. His face was grim. He finally turned to Miguel and slowly shook his head.

  Rosa scanned the crowd. Experience told her that even if a death initially appeared to be accidental, it could just as well be a homicide. If it was, it was also likely that the killer was still in the area and might even be part of this charity fundraiser event. It was possible, if not probable, that he or she was in this very crowd, looking on.

  Without drawing attention to herself, Rosa took a few steps back into the crowd to observe people’s reactions. The art of reading facial expressions and body language was something that her mother, a renowned London private investigator, had taught her.

  A hush had descended on the stunned onlookers. Horror-struck people covered their mouths while others stood on tiptoes for a better view. A woman in the back mewed softly.

  Rosa startled at the sight of her cousin Clarence, who made a right scene earlier about not attending another one of his mother’s events. Looking rather out of place on the beach, he wore belted shorts, and shoes with argyle socks pulled to the knee. He watched her intently with a strange, bemused look on his face. When had he arrived?

  Rod Jeffers stood by his table in the distance leaning on an arm crutch. Next to him, Raul Mendez poked the sand with a stick while idly observing people’s reactions to the body. Shirley Philpott was nowhere be seen.

  Rosa also noticed a man standing in the surf just in the shadow beyond the reach of the lights. It was hard to tell, but it looked like the man she had seen earlier trying to steal a kiss from Florence Adams. The man seemed to notice Rosa looking at him and quickly backed into the darkness. Rosa automatically catalogued these observations in her mind and looked at her watch to check the exact time. Apparently, the detective in her refused to go off duty.

  In a loud voice, Miguel said, “Please, everyone remain calm. Can someone please run to the nearest phone and call an ambulance and the police department?”

  Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Raul Mendez volunteered, turned, and jogged toward the parking lot and the nearest homes.

  “Did anyone see what happened?” Miguel addressed the crowd. “Maybe up on the pier?” He scanned the group, but a sense of corporate dread fell, and no one spoke up.

  “The tide is coming in,” Mr. Philpott said in a voice that was calm but firm. “We need to move her.”

  Miguel nodded. “Okay, I need everyone to back away, but please stay on the beach until the police arrive. Until then, let’s let Dr. Philpott do his job.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed with people wandering back to the safety of the stage and food area where the lights illuminated the beach. Most were speaking quietly and hugging each other. Speaking to the distraught Vanessa in soft tones, Gloria guided her away from the scene.

  As Rosa approached, Aunt Louisa stood to the side, her mouth agape. “I can’t believe this is happening! All the planning, all the invitations, the food . . .” She threw her hands up in the air, her eyes hard with anger. “Is it really Florence?”

  Rosa nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Shirley Philpott’s voice reached Rosa before the boisterous woman came into view. “What’s going on?” She bounded through the sand like a happy hippopotamus. “Has the party moved down the beach?”

  Dr. Philpott awkwardly stepped to shield the body of Florence Adams from his wife’s view.

  Mrs. Philpott stopped, her thick ankles sinking into the sand. “Mel, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Shirley, prepare yourself.”

  Mrs. Philpott’s eyes grew wary. In a very unladylike manner, she pushed her husband out of the way, then abruptly stopped, nearly toppling over. Her pudgy hand clutched at pearls.

  “No, no, no. It can’t be!”

  In the glow o
f twilight, Rosa could see that Shirley Philpott had lost color.

  “I just talked to her not a half an hour ago,” Mrs. Philpott said and burst into tears. “H . . . how did this happen? How could it happen! Did she drown? Was she drunk again? Did she have a heart attack? This is just awful.” She let out a loud, mournful sob. “Awfuuuull!”

  Aunt Louisa grabbed Mrs. Philpott by the shoulders, and to Rosa’s astonishment, shook the grieved woman.

  “Get yourself together, Shirley. You aren’t helping anyone by falling apart.”

  Mrs. Philpott responded to the admonishment, and, with a twinge of admiration, Rosa watched her aunt as she led Mrs. Philpott away.

  Dr. Philpott looked equally grateful as he pulled his gaze away from his wife and back to the body before him. “I’m going to need my bag to start documenting,” he said. “I’m not the one to lead this, since, obviously, I have a conflict of interest, but since I’m already here, I’ll start.”

  “I’ll get one of my band members to fetch it,” Miguel said.

  “Thanks.” Dr. Philpott let out a long sigh. “That will probably be a lot faster than if I went myself.” He shook his head. “Brown Chevrolet two-door sedan. The bag is in the trunk.” He threw a set of keys to Miguel, who caught them.

  Miguel nodded, “I’ll be right back.”

  Having passed the distraught Mrs. Philpott on to someone else, Aunt Louisa caught up to Rosa again.

  “Are you all right, Rosa?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. How about you?

  Aunt Louisa straightened her dress. “As well as can be expected. I’ve told the caterers to clean up. This event has been ruined. Thoroughly ruined.”

  Nothing like a dead body to kill the fun.

  Aunt Louisa waved her hand at the scene on the beach. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone drank too much and fell off a pier.”

  “I overheard Mrs. Philpott ask Miss Adams if she was drunk again,” Rosa stated.

  “Yes,” Aunt Louisa said with a nod. “Flo drinks . . . drank too much at parties . . . and other things too. I don’t see the point in denying that.” She paused, and Rosa thought that her aunt would actually show emotion, but instead, she grew indignant. “I mean, how could she?”

  “What did you mean by other things?” Rosa asked. “Are you implying that she was taking illegal drugs?”

  “Well, I don’t think it was like street drugs.” Aunt Louisa patted the bottom of her hair and adjusted her hat. “Not cocaine or heroin or anything like that, but maybe prescription drugs or something. I don’t really know. I don’t think anyone really knows, including her cousin Shirley. I mean Flo is . . . was a bit of a loner.”

  Red flashing lights signaled that the police had arrived, and several officers hurried to the beach. Rosa reflexively looked for Raul Mendez, the accountant who had run to phone the police, but he was not with them.

  Dr. Philpott had taken a camera from a large leather bag and took pictures of the body from several angles. The flashes from the bulb lit up the entire scene as he circled the body. He directed his comments to Miguel. “Seeing how we don’t know if this is a homicide or just a freak drowning accident,” he said, “I'm assuming you don’t mind if I snap a few more pictures. I will hand them over to Dr. Rayburn if needed.”

  Kneeling to examine the body again, Dr. Philpott slowly opened Florence Adams’ mouth with the end of a pencil. His eyebrows were furrowed as he gently pressed down on her chest. “Hmmm.”

  “What is it?” Miguel asked.

  “Well, if she drowned . . .” He glanced at Miguel, but just shrugged his shoulders, then looked at Rosa, “You found the body first, didn’t you?”

  Rosa broke in. “There was no seawater. I turned the body on its side to clear the airway in case she was still alive. There was no water.”

  “You’re sure, young lady?” the pathologist asked.

  Rosa nodded. “Yes.”

  With a grunt, Dr. Philpott braced his back and stood. “We’ll have wait to see what Dr. Rayburn finds before making any conclusions.” He paused, let out another sigh, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Normally, one would expect water to be present in the lungs in a drowning death.”

  He locked eyes with Miguel. “Mick, I think you should treat this as a suspicious death.”

  3

  Two officers approached. “Detective Belmonte,” one of them started. “Dispatch said you were on the scene already.”

  “Thanks for getting here so fast, Officer Jenkins.” Miguel turned to Rosa. “Let’s talk later, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. The single word came out, not in the firm, authoritative way, Rosa had wanted, but as a whimper. Her heart betrayed her as she watched Miguel walk away, by doing heavy somersaults. Rosa chastised herself and her dumb body for its involuntary reactions. Her face felt hot with a dreadful blush. After all these years, Miguel Belmonte had the worst effect on her.

  Rosa returned to what was left of the party. It had been a bizarre evening, and her emotions felt as taut as a piano wire. First, being thrust into a Forrester family charity event, then the dead body on the beach, and finally, seeing Miguel in such an intense context—it was rather overwhelming.

  Rosa walked the beach in search of Gloria to tell her she’d take a taxi back to the Forrester mansion. She found her cousin sitting on a lawn chair in quiet conversation with the young lady, Vanessa, who’d discovered the body. Vanessa held a tissue in one hand and dabbed her eyes.

  Gloria had her arm around the woman but stood up as Rosa approached. “It’s been a bit emotional tonight. Especially for Vanessa.” Gloria gestured towards the woman. “I don’t think you’ve met her. Vanessa is Clarence’s wife.”

  “Oh?” The connection surprised Rosa. What an odd coincidence that the person who found the body was someone she should’ve known, who was in fact related by marriage. However, Rosa never made it to cousin Clarence’s wedding, and had never made his wife’s acquaintance.

  “Actually, ex-wife, but don’t say that too loud,” Gloria said, lowering her voice.

  Rosa remembered receiving a letter from Gloria telling her that the marriage hadn’t lasted.

  “Mom insists they try to behave, at least in public,” Gloria said. “For the sake of the family’s reputation. Occasionally, Vanessa plays along.” Like a balloon with a slow leak, Gloria sighed long and slowly.

  “Vanessa, this is my cousin Rosa. She lived with us during the war. Rosa, this is Vanessa Forrester.”

  Rosa and Vanessa studied one another, both knowing that the other knew about their mutual marital failures—Vanessa’s divorce and Rosa’s altar run. Gloria could keep a secret if she wanted to, but that desire rarely surfaced.

  “Hello,” Rosa said.

  Vanessa offered a weak smile. “Hi.”

  Facing Rosa, Gloria said, “I'm guessing you’re ready to go home, right?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Rosa admitted. “Is there a phone booth nearby to call a cab?”

  “I’ll drive you. I’ve had quite enough for one night too.”

  Vanessa shifted in her chair, and Gloria said, “We’re going to go now. Should I find Clarence?”

  Vanessa shook her head. “I came with a friend. I’ve got a ride.”

  “We’ll see you then.” Gloria gave her former sister-in-law a quick hug. “Stay strong.”

  Rosa and Gloria walked to the parking lot, the car keys jingling in Gloria’s hand.

  “Poor girl,” Gloria said. “Such a shock to find a dead body.”

  “Was she questioned?” Rosa asked. Miguel had stepped away from the scene for a brief time, and she wondered if he’d tracked her down. It’s what Rosa would have done were she the lead in the investigation.

  “Yes, but it was a quick interview. Vanessa really didn’t have much information. She was walking along the beach, staring into the sunset, and almost stumbled over the body. She screamed, of course. Well, I guess you know the rest.”

  After return
ing to the Forrester mansion, Rosa took a long bath in the oversized porcelain soaking tub in the bathroom attached to her bedroom which had been updated with soothing sea foam green and black tiles. She almost fell asleep as she soaked. It took some willpower to climb out, but afterwards, she dried off, put on her silk nightgown, and collapsed into her king-sized canopied bed. It felt luxurious to be horizontal on a comfortable mattress. Her bags remained only half unpacked on the marble floor beside the bed.

  As she drifted off, the vision of Lord Winston Eveleigh at an altar passed through her mind’s eye. It morphed suddenly into the image of a Latino man wearing cotton chinos with a guitar strapped over his shoulder. A smile formed on her face as she drifted into sleep.

  A blast of sunshine through her window woke Rosa the next morning. Southern California mornings were bright, and she pinched her eyes against the glare and vowed to close the curtains that night.

  The hands on the round-faced alarm clock indicated it was only six a.m.; however, she calculated that she had gotten around seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. For the moment, she felt quite rested, but she also knew that a wave of fatigue would likely hit her in the afternoon. To speed up acclimatizing to Pacific Standard Time, she would have to resist the powerful urge to nap.

  Using her toes, she located her slippers that stuck out from under the bed. Rosa headed down the vast staircase and through a wide corridor to the kitchen in search of something for breakfast. The staff at the Forrester mansion had yet to arrive, but she was too famished to wait. Upon opening the refrigerator, she saw a large container filled with homemade Mexican-style granola. She remembered the Forresters’ chief housekeeper, Señora Gomez, had a delicious recipe, and Rosa’s stomach almost leapt for joy when she saw it. It always tasted superb when mixed with blueberries and fresh milk.

  After pouring a glass of fresh orange juice, she found a serving tray and carried her full glass and bowl across the terra-cotta tiled floor to the morning room. Like the morning room at Hartigan House, Rosa’s home in Kensington, the sliding glass doors opened to the back garden.