by Cathy Ace
I was gobsmacked. I said nothing. Which spoke volumes in itself.
“Are you two alright in here?” said Lottie from the doorway. She looked at me, then Sheila. She didn’t move.
“No, we’re not alright, Lottie,” wailed Sheila. She pulled a sheet off the roll of kitchen paper on the counter and wiped her eyes and nose. “I’ve just worked out that Freddie probably killed my sister, and all this one can do is find that to be an ‘interesting’ fact’.” The way she stabbed her thumb at me suggested she wished it wasn’t just a thumb doing the stabbing. She sobbed, then continued, “I lost my sister because of that man. And my baby. And my chance to have any other children. And my career. I’m angry with him. Flaming angry. If he wasn’t dead already, I’d like to throttle him with my bare hands.”
“Oh, I say!” said Lottie.
I couldn’t help myself – my mind flashed back to our receiving the news of Freddie’s death, when Lottie had said exactly the same thing. Sheila had reacted in that moment with anger. I knew in my gut that Sheila had believed back then that Freddie had been responsible for her sister’s death. So why was she putting on this show about having just put two and two together? I didn’t like what I thought it could mean. But, for the second time that evening, I said nothing.
Frying Pan, Fire
I left Lottie to console Sheila in the kitchen, and walked over to our bungalow. I needed time to think, and knew I’d have the place to myself. I sat on the little wooden deck that was surrounded by greenery, shut the doors, and lit a cigarette. The tree frogs were peeping away like nobody’s business, and the crickets were singing too. The cacophony allowed me to focus on my thoughts, which was good…and bad, in a way, because my thoughts were dark and troubling.
Sheila’s outburst had caused me to reconsider a few things: she’d seen through my veil of pretence of being interested in other people’s lives, and that was a concern, because the pretence is all I have, and it seemed it wasn’t good enough to fool at least her. I dwelt on that for a moment, but decided to set aside that subject because I knew there was nothing I could do about it in the short term.
I went inside the bungalow and grabbed a pen, and a little notepad I like to carry with me. I’ve needed to make lists more and more frequently in the past months; I’ve always liked lists, but now I find I need them. It’s strange – since the incident in Budapest, I’ve noticed that while the eidetic nature of my memory hasn’t changed, I am even more scattered than usual when it comes to remembering things I need to do, or mention to, or ask, people. I’ve opened the fridge and not remembered why I did it more frequently of late, and have found myself in a room for no apparent reason more often that I used to. I know that turning fifty is the average time in women’s lives when we start to get peri-menopausal signs and symptoms, but I’d only had my birthday a few weeks earlier; was my body clock that accurate? I couldn’t imagine it knew I’d just celebrated the Big Five O, as so many people like to call it, or that I’d hit the age when the horrendous term “bucket list” starts to appear on birthday cards.
I retook my seat outside, opened the pad, and began to organize my thinking.
The first thing I decided to do was ignore how Freddie was killed, because whomever might have done it, I still couldn’t understand how they’d managed to shoot him or get him to eat poisoned ackee. I’d given both problems a great deal of thought, but just ended up going in circles, so I set aside those issues, and told myself to focus on who might have wanted to do it, and to come back to how they could have done it later on. I’m a psychologist; I think it always makes sense to start with the “why”.
I focussed on what Sheila had just said about Freddie, and how she’d said it. I also recalled a few key facts about Sheila from the past week or so: her coolness toward Freddie since her arrival; her reaction at the news of his death; her seeming relief that Bud had put his hands all over the door of the tower room when we first visited it; and her hesitant responses the first time I asked her if she thought Freddie might have been murdered. If she’d been anyone other than Sheila, she’d have been at the top of my list of people who might have wanted to kill Freddie, especially given what I’d just learned. I asked myself whether I believed Sheila could have wanted to kill Freddie, and I answered myself in the affirmative. Then I wriggled around to how she might have done it, and was back at a locked door – literally. No Cait, stop thinking about how, think about who, and why.
Of course, there was also Lottie to consider as a suspect. She, too, had good cause to hate Freddie – he might not have been directly responsible for the death of a loved one as in Sheila’s case, but he’d dumped Lottie’s mother and that had possibly contributed to her committing suicide. Lottie had been a highly impressionable teen when Freddie broke her mother’s heart – those wounds can run deep and might never heal. She’d also been incredibly secretive about her past life on the island, and her familiarity with Freddie. Indeed, her story kept changing all the time, revealing deeper and deeper connections with Freddie and the Captain’s Lookout estate; I realized I wouldn’t be surprised if she still wasn’t telling the entire truth. And I wondered if she’d been going on and on about that possibly mythical treasure just to throw us off the scent.
Amelia and Tarone had millions of reasons to want Freddie out of the way; despite the fact they now faced ending up with nothing, I had witnessed Amelia’s utter confidence that she and her grandson would inherit the entire estate. When she’d been in Cooperman’s office, just before she collapsed, she’d said that it had all been for nothing. What could she have meant? She might have wanted to kill Freddie…or…
I saw the ground floor of Freddie’s tower in my mind’s eye, and immediately worked out how she could have done it. Then I realized that Tarone could have done it the same way. I congratulated myself on having come up with at least one concrete idea about how the poisoning might have taken place, but was still completely at sea about the shooting.
At sea? Maybe someone in a boat could have shot Freddie through the open window of the tower, thereby allowing Freddie to have been standing where he was when he was shot? I made a note to ask Bud about guns, distances, and trajectories, when I saw him; not my area of specialism.
I told myself off for allowing my thoughts to wander into the realm of considering the how rather than the why, and got back to my notes.
What about Wilson Thomas? Okay, we’d been working on the basis that Wilson and Freddie had been shot by the same person – possibly someone who was somehow connected with Bud’s “case”. But what if Wilson had killed Freddie? He and Amelia had been a couple, but he’d been ejected from his home by Freddie, so…what if he had also believed that Amelia and Tarone would inherit the Captain’s Lookout estate after Freddie’s death? He might well have shared the reason Amelia and her grandson had for wishing Freddie dead – the inheritance angle. And if, as Bud had told us, Wilson was a man with good connections on the island – good enough to be able to furnish Bud with information about gangs and drug-running over the years – might he also know someone with the ability to have shot Freddie and somehow escaped the tower after doing so? I made a note to ask Bud about that too.
That led me to another thought; Wilson had spent years on the estate, as had Amelia and Tarone. What if there was another way out of that tower room? A secret exit? I liked that idea…those walls were incredibly thick, and ancient. Might Henry Morgan have been the sort of man to have an escape route built into his tower? If he’d had it built for a mistress, he might have wanted a way to get into or out of the place without being seen.
I was on a roll, and feeling rather pleased with myself. There’d been so much activity over the past couple of days, I hadn’t had a chance to think through things properly, with clarity. Nor to talk things through with Bud. I do better when I have quiet time to focus.
Next, I decided to consider other possible players.
There was Nina Mazzo. She was too frail to gain
access to the tower by athletic means, but if she knew of a secret entrance, she could have done it. As could Niall Jackson…though in the case of both of them I couldn’t think why they’d have wanted to. Nina seemed convinced that the new evidence Niall had gathered on her behalf would win her case in the courts to gain possession of the land she wanted. So why on earth would she want Freddie dead? Unless her case was much weaker than she’d said, and Freddie’s death would benefit her claim. There was only her word to go on about the new evidence, after all. I needed to know more about Nina Mazzo; her husband’s connection with Bud’s case could also provide another reason she might have wanted Freddie dead. If her precious Luca’s “true identity” were about to be revealed, might that cause her to take deadly action? I needed to know more about her, and her late husband, whatever his real name. I made a note.
Niall Jackson was another person I noted I wanted to know more about. Having realized that the first time I saw him was in the office of a realtor, and recalling that was how Lottie had originally referred to him – as Nina’s realtor, though Nina herself had spoken of him as her lawyer – I knew I had to find out just how many jobs the man had on the island. Restaurateur, lawyer, realtor…what else? Might he be the realtor Cooperman was planning to use for the deal to sell Freddie’s estate? Yes, I needed to know a lot more about Niall, because he might be the sort of man who’d take drastic action to gain an advantage for a client…or maybe just to get a potential sale with a huge commission attached.
With an eye to being thorough, I then did the unthinkable – I forced myself to focus on Jack and John as possible suspects.
I sadly noted that Jack was so devoted to Sheila he might be prepared to get rid of Freddie if he shared Sheila’s belief about him killing her sister. But would Jack be capable of murder, even so? My academic knowledge battled with my personal insights into the man, then I admitted to myself I didn’t know Jack any better than I knew Sheila – possibly even less well, because he was in the same position as Bud when it came to being a professional deceiver, on occasion. Oh dear.
I also noted that I still didn’t understand exactly how John Silver’s first wife Emily, with whom he had honeymooned in Montego Bay and who had killed herself, fitted in to the whole picture. Might there be some reason for John wanting Freddie dead? He didn’t know Lottie well enough to take action on her behalf, I didn’t believe, but what about his own reasons? I had to find out more about his connections to the island, and the whole Emily situation.
And what about Bud? I chuckled to myself. No, not Bud.
I was awash with suspects, and potential suspects, all with motives to kill Freddie, but no closer to any solution for how such an impossible murder could have taken place. My only idea was straight out of the pages of an Enid Blyton adventure and involved secret doors, stairs, and tunnels. Not good.
I was almost relieved when there was a knock at the bungalow’s door.
“The food’s arrived,” shouted Lottie, without waiting for me to even get inside. “The men are all in our place, Sheila’s gone back to hers, and you’re here. I’m not sure what to do.”
I got up, sighed, padded into the bedroom to tuck my notebook under my pillow, and strode out to get things sorted; if I didn’t do it, no one would.
Surf and Turf
I knocked at the door of John and Lottie’s bungalow. “I know you’re all huddled in there, boys, but I need Jack to come to talk to Sheila because she’s in a right old state, someone needs to give Lottie a hug, and all of us need to get some decent food into us, or we’ll be worse than useless. Come on, chaps, you need to break it up for just a little while.”
Bud opened the door and stuck his head out. “Not a good time, Cait. John’s on the phone to London. Can’t this wait?” He sounded annoyed.
I gave him my measured response. “Sheila’s just announced that she’s convinced Freddie killed her sister; Lottie’s admitted that Freddie dumping her mother after an affair they had contributed to her suicide; I’ve been doing some laser thinking about why everyone connected with the case might have wanted to murder Freddie, and they all have a reason. So, no, Bud, it cannot wait.”
Bud’s eyes popped. “Sheila’s sister? Really?” I nodded. “Lottie’s mother, and Freddie?” I nodded again. He sucked in air, the way a plumber does just before they tell you how much it’s going to cost to fix something. “Hang on.” He disappeared into the bungalow, shutting the door.
A minute later Jack ripped the door open. “What’s happened? Where’s Sheila?”
“In your bungalow. She needs you.” I kept my reply factual. He could sort out the rest for himself. He dashed off, looking more than a little concerned.
Bud was the next to emerge. “John has to keep going with his call. He’ll be out when he can. Let’s go get some food. Jack and Sheila will…well, let’s play that by ear, okay?”
I nodded, but there must have been something a bit off about how I did it because Bud whispered, “Are you okay?”
I flung my arms around him and hugged him, hard. “I’m sorry I don’t connect with people better than I do,” I said.
He looked, and sounded, confused, “You connect with me just fine, and that’s all that matters.”
“All this spy nonsense has given me the jitters,” I said quietly. “Even if you are The Spy Who Loved Me.”
Bud sighed, and we pulled apart so he could look at me as he said, “Bond titles? You’re fine, really, aren’t you?”
I flashed him a smile. “Sorry, inappropriate levity on my part again, I suppose. Defense mechanism. You know.”
“Come on, food,” he said. And we headed for the kitchen.
Lottie was pulling foil containers from the oven. “I kept it warm,” she announced. “I fear the conch curry might not have liked that too much, but we can try it.”
The three of us sat at the vast dining table taking spoonsful of food from the restaurant’s containers and plopping them onto our plates. We had no idea how long John – or Jack and Sheila – would be, so we decided to make the best of a bad situation.
I tried to sound almost disinterested as I asked, “What’s all that about John, his first wife Emily, and Montego Bay, then, Lottie? What happened there? And why is the place such a sore point for you? You mentioned you might be able to face it again now…why is it difficult for you to face?”
Lottie stopped heaping food onto her plate. “Montego Bay?” Her micro-expressions were telling; the mere name of the place stressed her – she was reliving something in milliseconds that was an unpleasant experience. I wondered what she’d say.
She stared at the serving spoon in her hand. “When I was in school here, I had a boyfriend. A few years above me. Desperately attractive, I thought. Just a little on the wild side, you know? His parents owned a large resort on Montego Bay. I was madly in love with him, of course, and I would visit him there; we were both in the drama club at school together, you see, so I’d tell Mummy I was rehearsing, and I wasn’t really lying. Much. He and I…he was my first. And I don’t mean just my first boyfriend, I mean my first everything.” Her downcast eyelids fluttered as she added, “Let’s just say that losing my virginity wasn’t quite what I’d expected. The entire school knew about it by the next day – and this was in pre-social media days. He dumped me shortly thereafter. I was devastated.”
“The first cut really can be the deepest. He wasn’t the person you believed him to be,” I said. I was tempted to tell her about how utterly devastated I’d been by the treatment I’d received from Angus, my late ex-boyfriend, but I knew it wasn’t the time, nor the place, and didn’t want to get sidetracked. “Sorry that happened to you,” was all I said aloud.
Lottie nodded, then started to eat the food on her plate as though someone was about to steal it from her.
I pressed on with: “And it doesn’t sound as though John’s experiences of Montego Bay are much happier than yours. Do you know what happened there betwe
en him and Emily?” I couldn’t lose this chance to find out all I could.
Lottie eventually took a break between mouthfuls and said, “She only went and had sex with someone else, while they were still on their honeymoon, if you can believe it.”
“Really?” Bud and I spoke in unison, and exchanged a look of shock.
“I know, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?” said Lottie, picking up a round of bammy and ripping it to pieces. “John only told me about it because much the same thing happened to an old schoolfriend of mine quite recently – though that was in Thailand, and it was the husband who strayed. Those ladyboys can be very appealing, it seems. Anyway, I was bemoaning my chum’s problems, when John told me about Emily. They were young, he said – her a good bit younger than him even – and she wasn’t a very worldly girl. Allowed herself to be seduced by an older man, it seems. John found them on the beach. In flagrante delicto. Not being at all discreet. Terrible.”
