by Cathy Ace
When I returned to the main house Sheila was sitting on a lounge chair under the portico, where I joined her. “How is it?” I asked, meaning her ankle.
“I think Jack’s secretly glad I’ve had to stop taking an active part in all of this. Sometimes I think he just wants to wrap me in cotton wool.”
I hadn’t expected Sheila’s reply, but decided I’d follow her lead. “Jack mentioned to me earlier that you had a close call when you lost your baby. I want you to know you can talk to me about it, if you ever want to. I’ve never lost a child, but I’ve had to work hard to recuperate from what happened to me in Budapest, so maybe I can sympathize with at least part of what you’ve experienced. Knowing you’ve cheated death is something that gives a person an entirely different perspective on life.”
Sheila’s eyes narrowed. She chewed her lip. “It was a close call, you’re right. At the time, and for some time afterwards, I wasn’t sure that surviving was the best thing for me. I saw no point in being alive if my child was dead. Which I now accept was a result of grief, and hormonal imbalance. I eventually came to understand that Jack and I could enjoy life as a childless couple, and we have. We’ve had wonderful decades together, and I’m grateful for them. But it was a terrible time. The loss of both my sister and my child overwhelmed me. It frightened me, but maybe strengthened me too; at least, that’s how I try to think of it now. I understood why Bud retired after Jan’s death; I couldn’t cut it when I went back to work. I wasn’t focussed, couldn’t be relied upon by my colleagues. Bud and I talked about that aspect of his job a great deal during those first few months after he was made a widower, and I hope I helped him work through his feelings.”
I knew Bud and Sheila had become closer during that dark period in his life. I reached out and grasped her hand. “Thanks for all you did for him. Friendship is a wonderful thing.”
“It sure is. Unfortunately, I’d moved away from all my friends by the time my sister was killed, and then I lost the baby. Jack was as supportive as he knew how to be, but he had to work, and I couldn’t. I didn’t have anyone I could confide in. No one to share my burden. I couldn’t talk to my parents about it – they were destroyed by Wendy’s death, and didn’t need to be trying to console me, too. I had to muddle through it alone.” Sheila began to cry.
I grabbed a hanky from a box in the dining room, and gave it to her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I think it’s being back here. I can’t get her out of my mind. If only she hadn’t rented that scooter that day, I’d still have a sister, and she’d be an aunt to our child, or children.”
“Did you ever find out what happened, exactly?” I had to ask.
Sheila wiped her eyes. “The local police did what they could, but it was a hit and run, on a deserted road. There were some rumors, but nothing concrete. They suspected a drunk driver, who fled the scene because of the state they were in. The worst of it was, she lay there for hours before she was found, and even then she was still clinging to life. Can you imagine how much strength that must have taken? How much she must have wanted to live? But she died on the way to the hospital.”
“I’m so sorry, Sheila.”
The poor woman was sobbing. I felt it best to let her talk it out. “It must be just dreadful for you to know all that, but not know who was responsible for it.”
Sheila sniffed. “I understand that knowing who did it wouldn’t bring her back, but, yes, I wish someone could have been brought to justice for her killing. It’s so unfair. She literally had her whole life ahead of her, and it was taken by a person who probably couldn’t say no to just one more drink. He should have been made to understand what he did, but now…it’s too late now.”
I was puzzled. “He?”
Sheila wiped her nose again. “Probably a man. Maybe a woman, I suppose.” She sounds strangely unconvinced, and unconvincing.
“All good?” asked Bud warily as he approached us from the far side of the pool.
I nodded. “Just a bit upset.”
Sheila pushed the wet hankie into her pocket and smiled brightly. “I’m being a bit silly, is all, Bud. Probably those pills. I hate pills. But Jack’s right, they’ll help with the inflammation, and I want to be as good as I can be before we sit on a plane for hours in a few days. Now come on, let’s talk about Freddie Burkinshaw’s murder. That’ll cheer me up.”
Bud and I managed a sideways glance at each other just as Jack joined us. “I’ll sort out some beers, how about that?” I said.
“I’ll help you,” said Bud.
We gave Jack and Sheila a good five minutes alone; we filled the now-empty fridge as full of beers from the pantry as we could, while I explained to Bud what I was thinking.
His response was what I’d expected. “You’re wondering if Sheila knows more than she’s saying about who was responsible for her sister’s death? You’re suggesting she thought Freddie did it, and might have somehow murdered him because of that suspicion? That’s not something I’d even contemplate. It’s Sheila you’re talking about. Jack’s Sheila. She’s no killer.”
“The more I think about it, the more it makes some sense,” I pressed. “Remember how she was always so odd when Freddie was around? And now she’s saying it’s ‘too late’ for whoever killed her sister to understand what they did.”
Bud shook his head. “She could just mean so many years have passed it would be a pointless, and fruitless, exercise now.”
“She could,” I conceded, “but she could also…”
“Are you brewing those beers?” Jack stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
Bud and I laughed. Too loudly. “Just coming,” said Bud, wedging one final bottle into an ice bucket. “Couldn’t decide what she wanted,” he said as he sauntered off. Sometimes he makes me fume when he uses me as an excuse – other times I don’t mind so much, like when it saves us from an embarrassing situation.
When we were all settled, I raised a toast. “To the elephant in the room, may he disappear as soon as we address him.”
“To the elephant,” chorused Bud, Jack, and Sheila, all sounding slightly confused.
“To what are you referring, exactly?” asked Bud, after he’d downed almost half a bottle.
“The fact that there’s no way into, or out of, that lookout room except through the door, unless you’re Spiderman,” I replied.
“Ah, yes, so you spotted that, too, did you?” said Bud, sounding resigned.
“I agree,” said Jack. “If Freddie had the key to that door in his pocket – which he did, and if there isn’t another one – which we believe is correct, then how did someone get out of the lookout room, through a locked door? Bud, how did the walkway and railing look? Any signs of someone going over them or using them to escape the tower, in any way? We left before I got a good look.”
Bud shook his head. “Nothing, and trust me when I say I did my best to spot anything untoward. No scratches, no drag marks, no rope or grappling hook marks – nothing to suggest anyone had used it in any way. There were no strange items out of place outside, or inside, the tower room.”
“You mean things that could be used in some sort of Heath Robinson way to get someone out of there – like a zipline made out of bungee cords?” I quipped.
“No bungee cords, no marks of bungee cord hooks,” confirmed Bud. He sounded disappointed.
“How the heck did someone manage to shoot Freddie in the heart without being in the room?” said Sheila, sounding completely mystified. “Could they have managed it from the beach, or from somewhere else outside the tower, like in the garden?”
“I believe Freddie would have needed to be outside on the walkway for a shot from the beach, or the grounds, to have hit him, whereas we know he fell dead between the desk and the door to the stairs. Unlikely to make it that far having sustained a shot to the heart. Alternatively, someone might have been on stilts, about forty feet in the air,” said Jack, sounding glum. “It seems impossible.”<
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“And yet it happened,” said Bud.
“What about one of those James Bond jet pack thingies?” said Sheila, sounding a bit brighter. “The killer could have flown into and out of the tower room using one of those.”
We all shared a wry chuckle.
“There was absolutely no gunshot residue found on Freddie’s body in the autopsy,” I commented.
“None,” chorused Bud and Jack in dismal agreement.
“Would the police report, rather than the autopsy, cover whatever they might have found on his clothes, as opposed to the body?” I asked.
Bud nodded. “Yes. But we haven’t got the police report yet.”
“Tougher to get hold of. Different access required,” said Jack, illuminating very little.
“The poison could have been given to him anywhere, by anyone,” said Sheila, “so we should concentrate on the shooting. Who might have done it, and how on earth they could have done it.”
“Well, that’s not quite right – about the poison, Sheila,” I said. I tried to modulate my voice so she would know I wasn’t telling her I thought she was stupid – just wrong. “Ackee makes you sick within hours, and can easily lead to death; we all had dinner with Freddie that night. He was fine when he was with us, so I don’t think he can have eaten the fruit until later, closer to the time of his death. Did you find out when it started to rain that night, Bud?”
Jack and Sheila looked confused.
“Local weather people reckon about four in the morning,” replied Bud.
“What’s the rain got to do with it?’ asked Sheila. Jack nodded.
“Cait believes Freddie would have shut the jalousies in his lookout room if he’d been alive when the rain began, and I tend to agree with her. If he was fine when he left us just after midnight, but likely dead by four, therefore – which ties in with the parameters in the autopsy, which are admittedly always a bit vague – then that shrinks the window of opportunity for the poisoner and the shooter to have taken action.”
“We’re sticking with the two-perp theory?” asked Jack.
“Two? You think two people wanted Freddie dead?” said Sheila, sounding surprised.
“I think a heck of a lot more than two people wanted Freddie dead,” called John across the pool.
“Hey, you’re back early,” replied Bud, checking his watch.
John threw a large, ancient-looking binder onto the table. “Yes, we are that. I put my foot down. Needed you all to see this.”
“Photo album?” asked Jack. John nodded.
“Whose is it?” asked Bud.
“It belonged to Wilson Thomas,” said Lottie as she joined us. “We went to see that lawyer Cooperman, and made him give it to us.” She sounded triumphant.
Bud’s eyebrows shot up. “You did what?” He spoke quietly. Never good.
John smiled nervously. “That’s not exactly what happened, Lottie. But it’s a long story, and I am desperate for two things – first the loo, then a beer. And is there any food? I’m starving.”
“Me too,” said Lottie. “All of the above. This investigating lark really makes one work up an appetite, doesn’t it? Excuse me, back in a mo.” She rushed off toward the washroom inside the house.
“We need to talk,” said Bud to John as soon as we were alone.
“You’re right, we do,” replied John, looking furtive. “Some of these photos? Not good, Bud, not good at all. We’ll have to consider how they change the way we’ve been looking at things. Freddie’s death, and our situation. Take a look at them, then you chaps come and find me in the bungalow. Someone needs to keep Lottie away from us while we have a private confab. Can you manage that Cait, Sheila?” We nodded.
“How did you get your hands on it, really?” asked Bud before John could dash off.
“I took a bit of a flyer, and it paid off. Knowing that Tarone was Wilson Thomas’s grandson I got him to ask Cooperman to give him whatever it was that his grandfather had posted to him – sent him in the ‘mail’, which was what Wilson said to you when he was dying – for safekeeping. Cooperman gave Tarone the album, which Wilson had mailed to him, with written instructions to not let anyone but Tarone have it. We’ve brought it back here for safe keeping on Tarone’s behalf. Simple, see? Must dash.”
“Thanks John, we’ll be over soon,” called Bud at John’s receding figure.
All four of us licked our lips in anticipation of what we’d see in the album.
Photos and Phonies
The album creaked when we opened it. It was many decades old, if the first few photos were anything to go by. Black-and-white, and curling at the edges, they’d escaped some of their corner pieces and were a little the worse for wear. But they were crisp, taken with what would have been a good camera in its day. There were gaggles of people in most of the photos; men in dinner jackets and bowties, women in gauzy gowns, with glamorous updos. Everyone had a drink in one hand, and most had a cigarette in the other. Smiles, laughter, glasses raised in joyous conversation, heads bent close to hear a comment or two – all captured on glossy, thick paper.
The location was obvious – exactly where we were sitting, the main house at the Captain’s Lookout estate. Some photos showed the pool, some the portico, some the lounge and dining room, which was usually set for a buffet. There were gatherings in evening attire, pool parties on sunny days, casual get-togethers after dark, and small, more intimate dinners. Freddie was in almost all of the photos. And I spotted Nina Mazzo, with a man I just about recognized as her late husband. I also noticed someone who looked like an even skinnier, taller, and more freckled, version of Niall Jackson. I pointed him out. “Could that be Niall’s father, Keith?”
“It is,” said Lottie, who’d returned from the bathroom. I looked up. She seemed to be a bit pale, but I put that down to her being hungry. She added, “I fancied a stiff one. Anyone else?” She held up a crystal tumbler with a surprising amount of what looked like scotch in it. We all shook our heads and returned our attention to the album.
“Is that who I think it is? And that?” said Bud, pointing.
I looked and nodded. “Freddie’s stories about Fleming and Coward might have been true, after all.”
Lottie laughed loudly. “Oh my, how Freddie loved those tales.”
Her voice was shaking. I wondered if I was seeing her with her first drink.
Some photos were in color, though they had fared less well than the black-and-white ones; they were blurry, and faded.
“Nina and Luca were here a great deal,” I said. “I didn’t get that impression from her.”
“She said they were friends with Freddie back then,” replied Sheila. “Maybe this is the sort of activity that used to pass for friendship around here. It looks more like pure hedonism to me.”
We all nodded.
“Is this you?” I asked Lottie. We’d reached a photograph that was larger than most of the others, and had been taken from somewhere inside the house, looking toward the pool. Freddie was wearing swimming trunks, lying on a lounge chair; beside him stood a gangly teenaged girl who seemed to be staring straight into the lens. It was one of the crisp black-and-white shots, so it was easy to see the teen’s face. Lottie hadn’t really changed very much.
Lottie didn’t look. “Yes, that’s me,” she said, and knocked back her entire drink.
“Gosh, that looks idyllic,” said Sheila. “Imagine having access to all this when you’re growing up. And you said you stayed on the island for years? Did you come here, to this estate, often?”
We all looked at Lottie, waiting for her to answer.
She was visibly trembling. “Yes, Mummy frequently brought me here. I was a very lucky girl.”
There was an edge of mocking cruelty in her voice.
“I think I’ll change my clothes before dinner. I’ve been sitting in these for hours,” Lottie called, as she swayed away from us.
Remembering our promise to keep Lott
ie out of her bungalow, to allow John and the others to have a confidential get-together, both Sheila and I said, “No,” at the same time.
Lottie placed her glass on the table. “You finish looking at those. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Then I’ll leave the bungalow clear for you three chaps to get your heads together and work out how what’s in there affects your mission.”
As Lottie left, Jack said, “He’s told her everything, hasn’t he?”
“He wouldn’t,” replied Bud.
“I wish someone would tell me,” I said.
“Me too,” chimed in Sheila.
Bud stood. “This is no joke. We cannot risk our cover being compromised. They’re called ‘secret missions’ for a reason.”
I pulled him back into his seat. “We know that, Husband, just ask John what he’s told Lottie, and what he hasn’t. She’s in a weird mood; maybe she’s merely fishing, trying to get you to say something you shouldn’t.”
Bud nodded. “You’re right, we’ll ask John. But let’s work out why he thinks these photos are so important. I’ll be honest, I haven’t seen anything that strikes me as significant so far.”
I sighed. “Bud, that photo of Lottie and Freddie. The expression on her face? That’s a girl who’s not ‘lucky’. She looks vacant, dead inside.”
Bud squinted at the photo. “I can’t see what you mean. It’s just a snap.”
“Bud –” I put my hand on his arm – “that’s a moment in time showing us the face of a teenager who’s desperately unhappy. Didn’t you see how Lottie reacted just now? She’s traumatized somehow. That photo acted as some sort of trigger. I’m thinking something bad might have happened to her during the time she spent in Jamaica.”
“Other than being poisoned by ackee, you mean?” said Jack.
“Other than being poisoned by ackee,” said Sheila. “Even I can see something’s off – in that photo, and with her tonight. Though I don’t think we should jump to conclusions; there can be a great many causes of emotional trauma: drink, drugs, abuse…any number of things. We need to tread carefully. Respect her boundaries.”
