by Cathy Ace
“At the weekend,” I replied, possibly too brightly. “Your sergeant said it was alright for us to stay on. It is, isn’t it? Okay, I mean.” I was trying to judge her inner thoughts, but her face wasn’t giving anything away.
She sucked her teeth. “If him say so.” She cocked her head and sauntered toward the doors to the dining room, to check her superior’s wishes, I supposed. She turned, more somber-faced than before. “Sorry to spoil the party. Walk good.”
I watched as both officers returned toward the beach, and shuddered with relief, then realized my whole body was vibrating. And not in a good way. I was a wreck.
What had happened to the woman who was able to focus in a crisis, wade in, take charge, and not blurt out a damning fact? Had I kissed her goodbye when I blew out the single candle on my fiftieth birthday cake? Or had she gradually disappeared as I grew into my role as Bud’s wife, a participant in a partnership rather than a single, independent person? I didn’t know. But at that moment I was pretty sure she’d gone. I miss her.
All of us – Lottie included – knew better than to immediately talk about the situation, but when Bud suggested “one for the ditch” we all accepted a brandy without any disagreement. We flopped on various chairs and sofas in the lounge of the main house, probably looking like half a dozen freshly-caught fish tossed onto the beach – glassy eyed, mouths agape, and stunned.
We remained that way for at least a quarter of an hour, with very few words exchanged. Even when we all said our goodnights and made our way toward our respective bungalows, not one of us mentioned the evening’s events. I judged we were all too shocked to discuss what had happened – and I was equally certain that each couple would be sitting up to dissect the tragedy before trying to snatch some sleep. I wondered how John would explain things to Lottie – at least Sheila and I had an inkling of what had been planned.
I tended to my needs in the bathroom and set an alarm for six in the morning; my phone helpfully informed me that was in just over four hours’ time, which didn’t lift my spirits.
When Bud finally eased himself into bed, I held him tight. “What can you tell me?” I asked. I thought that was the best way to put it, rather than demanding he tell me everything. He gets all stubborn when I do that, and clams up. Gently, gently, catchee monkey.
I felt him tense in my arms. “I arrived at the location, stayed in the shadows, saw a light inside the shack, and made a determination that the subject was already there. I approached the structure, entered through the front, and discovered the subject prone on the sand, groaning. I turned him onto his back. He’d been shot in the chest. Twice. I attempted to stop the bleeding, but his wounds were too extensive for me to be able to affect any remediation. Moments later he was deceased. I made a cursory search of the premises, but found nothing of any relevance to our needs. John was concealed at the rear of the structure. He alerted me to the imminent arrival of police officers who were approaching along the beach. I exited via the rear of the structure, following John into the bush behind the beach. Jack joined us as we made our way back here.”
He couldn’t have delivered a more Bud-like description of the events. I hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry, Husband. So sorry.”
I felt Bud’s head nod above mine.
“Were you able to get the information you needed?” I asked.
Bud sighed. “I asked him what I needed to. He answered as best he could. I’ll need to pass on that information to find out if it’s useful. It meant nothing to me.”
“What did he say?” I had to know.
“‘Cooper. Man. Male.’ Maybe Cooper is a family name, and he meant a man, or male member of that family. Or maybe he meant mail – like mailing something to a man called Cooper. Don’t know. I’ll do my best to find out in the morning, when you’re off to Kingston with Amelia. Which I know means you have to get up real early – so we’d better get some sleep.”
Sleep? He was kidding. “I was terrified when I saw that bloodstain on your shirt. I thought it was your blood. It could have been your blood. You were lucky whoever did it wasn’t still there.” The thought made my tummy turn. “You didn’t see anyone else there, did you?”
I could feel Bud shake his head. “No. The three of us split up to approach the structure. Standard operating procedure. Jack moved furthest along the beach, with John taking the central spot, and I remained on the flank nearest this estate. Agreement was to observe for ten minutes to establish the subject’s presence, then I was to be the only one to approach via the front entrance, which faced the sea. I didn’t see anyone enter or leave the structure during that observation period. Only thing I saw was the glow of a light – which turned out to be a propane lamp, burning low.”
“Do you think whoever did it called the police? They must have done – who else knew? And why would they do that?”
Bud was silent for a moment. “I was thinking of that as we all sat in the lounge. I agree that only the killer could have known our man was dead. Maybe they wanted the crime discovered quickly, for some reason.”
I gave it some thought. “Bud, you’re too bright to have not thought it through. Someone knew you were supposed to be meeting that man, needed to shut him up, and wanted to set you up for his murder,” I said quietly.
“No meeting had been agreed; it was simply a case of our discovering where the subject could be found and when – and planning to intercept him there and then.”
“Please don’t try to protect me by not telling me the truth, or all of what you’re thinking. Not fair, Bud.”
“Yes, you’re right, not fair. Now try to get some sleep.”
“Who else could have known about your clandestine meeting tonight? Who did you tell, Bud?”
“No one outside the operational unit. And that’s a small group.”
“Other than John and Jack, that would be…?” I allowed my question to hang in the night air.
I felt Bud half-chuckle. “Nice try, Wife. A very few people in a few off-island locations, that’s all I can say. All in the know. All giving direction, and support. No one questionable.”
“What was the dead man’s name? I can’t keep calling him ‘the subject’ or ‘the victim’. The man must have had a name.”
“He did, but I’m not sure I should tell you, Cait.”
“He’s dead. Who can it hurt now?”
Bud sighed. “His name was Wilson Thomas. Happy now?”
“Might he have told someone about the planned meeting?”
“Cait, you need to stop. And you need to get some sleep. And, no, as I said, he couldn’t have told anyone, because he didn’t know I was planning to go to his shack tonight. As far as I’m aware he didn’t even know that I was trying to track him down. Please, sleep?”
I kissed him on the cheek, then turned and rolled into my usual fetal ball. On my left side, because I have a tendency to have night-time dyspepsia, and laying on your left side helps prevent it. Though the sourness of the brandy, the lack of a real meal, and the unsettling nature of the tragic death of Mr. Wilson Thomas meant I didn’t hold out much hope of making it through the few hours I was going to be in bed without the aid of some Tums.
Road Trip
I felt wretched when I woke. Bud was lovely; he made coffee while I got ready to face the day, and toasted and buttered some bagels he’d found in the freezer. He offered to come to Kingston with me, and even to drive. I assured him I would be perfectly capable of undertaking the journey and the interrogation of Amelia during our road trip, and to be alert enough to capitalize upon any opportunities that might present themselves to gain knowledge of the contents of the late Freddie Burkinshaw’s will.
“You’ll text me to let me know you’ve arrived safely?” he asked.
“I shall,” I replied.
“You’ll get in touch if there’s anything you find out that I could do with knowing before you get back?” he pressed.
“I promise.”
<
br /> “And you’ll…”
I kissed his nose. “I’ll be fine, Bud. But if I don’t go now, I’ll be late.” I left him in the kitchen looking forlorn and concerned, a coffee pot in one hand and a mango in the other.
I kept the engine, and thereby the air conditioning, running when I knocked at Amelia’s door, and she emerged immediately. She wore a snowy white starched shirt above a navy skirt that hit her legs mid-calf. Her shoes were navy, as was her handbag. She wore a white straw boater, with a navy band. I suddenly felt underdressed…or overdressed – I wasn’t quite sure; I’d pulled on stripy, stretch-cotton, wide-legged pants and a theoretically-loose matching top, in shades of orange and turquoise. It was the closest thing I had to a suit – well, it was a matching two-piece, but not anything I’d imagine wearing to meet a lawyer anywhere other than Jamaica. It’ll have to do, I thought to myself, though the expression on Amelia’s face as she looked me over suggested she didn’t approve.
Before she shut her front door she handed me a basket woven from palm fronds, a gaily colored napkin covering its top. “Snacks,” she announced. “I’ll sit with you in the front. Basket can go on the seat behind for when we need it.”
We set off, and I concentrated on getting onto the main road and settling into the rhythm of the traffic before I attempted to engage her in conversation. She didn’t seem to mind the silence, and I could tell she was happy enough to take in the scenery as we moved along at a fair pace. I enjoyed seeing the landscape change as we gained elevation, from the palm-fringed coastline to the hardwoods, the wonderful greenery of the breadfruit trees and the lush upland landscape which benefitted from a massive amount of rainfall. The Taíno name for Jamaica had been Xaymaca, which meant land of wood and water in their language, and once you left the seaside there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind why they’d chosen it; Jamaica has a ridge of rain-catching, and rain-creating, mountains running along the east-west axis of the island, and, in order for us to make the journey from the north to the south – across the island’s narrow “waistline” – we had to get over them somehow. The main road did that with relative ease, though I imagined it must have been hard going in earlier centuries, which was probably why Henry Morgan had favored having his private estate – as opposed to his plantation estates – on the opposite side of the island to Port Royal where his “official” work was done, and which was a place dubbed the wickedest city on earth in the late 1600s.
We were well on our way – a fact marked by Amelia digging into her basket for snacks, which I declined – when I decided I had to make the most of my chance to quiz the woman. “Do you go to Kingston often?” I asked, by way of an easy opener.
“No. ’Tis a terrible place. When I got to go, Tarone take me. Him a good driver.”
I wasn’t sure if Amelia was implicitly criticizing my comparative abilities as a chauffeur, but I felt I was doing pretty well – under the circumstances – so chose to bolster my confidence by saying, “I’m sure we’ll get there in one piece, and on time.”
“I pray so,” was Amelia’s underwhelming reply.
“Do you have any idea why the lawyer wants to see you?” I asked brightly.
“I ’spect him tell me what Mr. Freddie left to me and Tarone.” Matter-of-fact tone.
“And do you have any idea what that might be?” I wondered if we were in for a game of twenty questions – or maybe one hundred-and-twenty questions – if I were to discover anything useful.
“Mr. Freddie always say him take care of me and Tarone when him gone.”
“Might he make you two being allowed to stay in your bungalow a condition of the estate being sold, do you think?”
I could sense Amelia staring at the side of my head, but didn’t dare take my eyes off the road. “Him not gonna do that. Him give the whole place to us. Him said it often enough. Always for us, him said.”
I was surprised; it hadn’t occurred to me that Freddie might leave the entire estate to Amelia and Tarone. Though I immediately reasoned he had no family that any of us were aware of, so – I supposed – why not? After all, if the estate was sold off, to whom would the money go?
“He had no family?” Best to check.
“Not him.”
“Well, you two getting the entire estate would be wonderful,” I replied. “Would you live in the big house? Carry on renting out the bungalows?” I imagined the need for some sort of income might come into play.
“I sell half the land, build a new house with the money I get, live in it,” said Amelia with certainty. “House with windows with glass in them, and air conditioning, big refrigerators, all the modern things,” she said. I glanced across and saw a smile on her face; she’d clearly given the matter a great deal of thought.
She continued, “The big house is old, but not old enough to keep. I like it, but I want everything new. I will have a new house, and I keep my new house private. But Mr. Freddie, him know the tower is important for the island, so I gonna set it up like a museum, I let everyone come see it if they want…and if they pay.”
“Clever,” I said aloud, and meant it.
“I can be clever,” replied Amelia, sounding neither boastful, nor embarrassed. She popped the basket, now empty it seemed, at her feet.
“Have you thought about how you’d like your new house to look?” I asked. Amelia chatted happily for the next hour about all the decorating and furnishing decisions she’d made. She went into the minutia of all the décor she had planned; I began to tune her out after about fifteen minutes, because the eyewatering amount of detail she had worked out was clearly something she wanted to share with me in its entirety.
Eventually I had to interrupt Amelia’s flow to ask, “Can you give me some directions now, please?” As we entered the outskirts of Kingston the traffic jammed up, and I had to drive with great care; it was busy – to say the least – and the local interpretation of how to use indicators was lost on me.
We eventually stopped in a large car park, just off Dumfries Road. There, squatting among the banking buildings and restaurants was an edifice that seemed to be constructed entirely of dark glass.
Amelia pointed at it. “They in there.” She said it with all the enthusiasm I lavish on making my dental appointments.
“Would you like me to come inside with you?” I offered, not expecting Amelia to agree.
She’d already unbuckled her seatbelt and was opening the door when she stopped, turned, and we made real eye contact for the first time since she’d got into the vehicle. Despite her set jaw, and determined smile, I could see something in her eyes that hinted at a lack of confidence. She was uncertain about something, but trying to cover it up.
“I wouldn’t mind popping to the loo,” I added hurriedly. “It would save me having to hunt about for one in a coffee shop.”
I smiled, hoping I looked like someone needing a bathroom break, then realized that no play-acting was required.
“If you need a toilet, I expect they have one.”
“I do hope so,” I replied, and got out of the Suburban as quickly as I could before she changed her mind. Despite her seeming certainty about Freddie’s wishes, and the amount of time she’d obviously spent planning exactly how she’d use her expected inheritance, all of Amelia’s body language was telling me she was apprehensive about this appointment, and I was glad I’d been able to throw her a lifeline she could accept, without losing face.
We managed to cross the road without too long a delay, and finally found ourselves in the reception area of King and Overton, Legal on the third floor of the glass box, where Amelia gave her name, and asked for directions to the washrooms. Once we were there, Amelia tidied herself in front of the mirror. She looked as nervous as a schoolgirl, rather than a woman in her sixties, or possibly her seventies – it was hard to tell.
I decided to make an attempt to achieve my ultimate goal. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little apprehensive, Amelia. Would
you like me to come into the lawyer’s office with you? I’ll keep quiet, but I’ll be there if you need me.”
Amelia wiped her face with a tissue. Her lips pursed. “I leave school when I fifteen. Lawyers are clever. What if I don’t understand what him say to me?”
I dared to pat her on the arm. “I’ll stay with you, and I won’t let him overwhelm you, I promise.”
Amelia smiled, and it was agreed. We returned to the tastefully decorated reception area which smelled of something fruity, and accepted water from the receptionist, who was hooked up to a headset, and all-but-hidden behind a bank of computer screens.
She eventually stood and said, “Mr. Cooperman will see you now. I’ll show you through.”
I stared at Amelia, open-mouthed. I’d expected a lawyer with one of the names of the firm itself: King or Overton.
I spluttered, “Freddie Burkinshaw’s lawyer’s name is Mr. Cooperman?”
Amelia nodded, and gave me a weird look.
As Amelia and I were shown along a circuitous series of corridors, I texted Bud to let him know the name of the man I was about to meet. I wondered if I’d have a chance to find out if the Cooperman in question knew a certain Wilson Thomas, who was even more recently deceased than Freddie Burkinshaw. I tried to stop my body fizzing with excitement.
Cooperman, and a Collapse
I wasn’t sure what I’d expected Cooperman to look like, but I was surprised when I saw him, nonetheless. He sat behind a large desk carved from gleaming mahogany, and appeared to have been hewn from the same material. His face was deeply wrinkled until it reached what would have been his hairline, then there was a perfectly smooth dome that looked as though someone had polished it. His suit was toffee-colored, his shirt a yellowish cream, and his satin tie gleamed like old gold. His spectacles were large and round, like him. There wasn’t an angle, or a sharp edge to be seen about the man. I felt immediately at ease. Then he smiled, and his aura of bonhomie enveloped us as he fussed to get Amelia comfortably seated, offered us refreshments, and adjusted the blinds so we had no sun shining on us.
