by Joan Hess
“Oh, Uncle Theo, I know it’s not all that earth-shattering.” Dorrie joined him in front of the dresser. “Besides, Mr. Robert wouldn’t even allow me out of his salon if he thought it was brassy. He has incredibly high standards.” She pushed back her hair and regarded him in the mirror with appraising eyes. “What did Mother have to say? Was she livid when you told her what happened to Eli?”
“A goodly part of the conversation concerned a mishap at the bridge table. I was prepared to tell her of the recent tragedy, but the conversation took another direction and I simply let it go.”
“Oh?” Dorrie murmured. “And where are you going? Aren’t you tired after being detained in that nasty police station all night?”
“I thought I might go to a hotel for lunch. All of you seemed apt to sleep through lunch, and I saw no reason to make things difficult for the help. Preparing lunch for one, you know, can be a bother.”
“Which hotel, Uncle Theo, and how are you going to get there?”
“Any of them, I suppose; I hadn’t really decided. As for transportation, I am going to take the car. I’ll be back in sufficient time for you to go to the beach or do whatever you may desire.”
“Let me pop on some lipstick and get my purse. I’ll meet you in the driveway, Uncle Theo. I cannot imagine anything more exciting than doing lunch in a hotel with my darling uncle.”
“But surely you would prefer a nap,” Theo said as the door closed on her heels. “Surely you would.”
“Now, remember to stay left,” Dorrie said as they backed down the driveway and onto the street. “No matter how wrong it feels, it’s right, so just grit your teeth and resist the urge to correct things. A head-on will feel tres worse. Which hotel is Sitermann in, by the way?”
“The one where we utilized the beach several days ago.” Theo tightened his fingers around the steering wheel and peered down the street. No traffic approached—a good omen. “I had not considered the fact that I would be obliged to change gears with my left hand, and that the foot pedals might be reversed. It is most unsettling. I am not sure that this is wise, Dorrie. It is one thing to risk my life with this jaunt, but quite another to risk yours.” After a bout of fumbling, he managed to find first gear. The car spurted forward, then sputtered to a halt. “It is clear that this is imprudent, if not reckless. I feel—”
“Just gun it, Uncle Theo. They’ll get out of our way.”
Despite the turtle-like pace and the occasional problem with the stick shift, Theo managed to arrive at the hotel. He parked under a palm tree and gave Dorrie an impish grin. “Quite an adventure, wasn’t it?”
“It certainly was. We were almost rammed in the rear about two dozen times, Uncle Theo. Once we’ve done lunch with Sitermann, I’ll drive us back to the villa.” She twisted the rearview mirror and examined her lipstick, then opened the car door. “He does expect us, doesn’t he?”
“I would imagine he does,” Theo said under his breath. To Dorrie, he merely shrugged, then trailed her into the hotel lobby.
Sitermann was on a rattan couch, a drink in one hand and a rolled-up magazine in the other. He wore a white jacket over a pink T-shirt, and green trousers. The lobby was dim, but his sunglasses were firmly affixed and he seemed to experience no difficulty in spotting Theo and Dorrie. “Yo, how are you sports doing? Got time to do lunch? You know, Bloom, this little girl of yours gets prettier every time I touch base with her—and that’s no hype. She ought to be in pictures.”
“Can it, Sitermann,” Theo said wearily. “It occurred to me that doing lunch with you might be informative, if somewhat hard on the digestion. Let’s put it on your expense account, old man.”
“Dynamite!” Sitermann slapped Theo on the back, then took Dorrie’s arm and tucked it through his own. They went into a dining room filled with round white tables, dripping ferns, a central fountain with a discreet waterfall, and a low background of what tourists considered to be island music. Dorrie made an appreciative noise as a jacketed waiter dashed across the room to pull out a chair for her, then snapped a gleaming white napkin into her lap. A menu with the thickness of a telephone directory was placed lovingly in her hands. The waiter, who assured them that his name was Francois and that he was delighted to serve them, promised to bring cocktails immediately.
“Not bad,” Dorrie said. “Is this how spies live all the time, or is this part of your cover?”
Sitermann winced. “Let’s not worry about that, you gorgeous thing. Why don’t you try this lobster thing for an appetizer and the scallops for an entree? I had them the other night, and they were out of sight. What looks like the thing for you, Bloom?”
“Let’s start with an exchange of information. What’s the prognosis for the murder investigation?”
“D’Orsini will be released by the time I eat the olive in my martini, unless that roll of film provides enough damnation to hold him. Half the bigwigs on the island have telephoned the other half of the bigwigs and insisted that D’Orsini is being treated as if he were a common criminal. High society does not acknowledge the possibility that he’s a major drug dealer. Too tawdry, I suppose.”
“Do you think he murdered Eli?” Theo asked.
Sitermann gazed pensively at Francois, who was introducing himself and pledging total devotion to a nearby table occupied by three well-baked women. “You know, Bloom, I don’t think he did. D’Orsini may not have known Eli was a narc, but Eli sure as hell knew D’Orsini was a crook … and not one from whom to accept tokens of friendship. Hard to see the two of them sipping rum beside the pool, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed,” Theo murmured, having had the same thoughts.
Dorrie looked up over the edge of the menu. “If D’Orsini didn’t do it, then who did? It had to be someone who had access to Eli’s quarters below the pool. That is key, Uncle Theo.”
“It is indeed.”
The fickle waiter returned with their drinks and took their orders. Theo waited until he was gone, then said, “Sitermann, there is another little problem that has arisen. This is in conjunction with Mary Margaret’s mysterious disappearance.”
“I really don’t know where she is, Bloom.”
“So you say. But we’ll let that go for the moment. I was informed this morning that the girl’s father received a ransom note that demanded a million dollars in exchange for the hostage. Clipped words, small, unmarked bills, don’t call the police—that sort of thing.”
Dorrie choked on a mouthful of martini. “Is this for real? You’re not making it up? A million dollars for Mary Margaret? Oh, my God, what did her father say?” She took a deep drink from the glass. “What did Mother say?”
Theo ignored her. “You do see the problem, don’t you?” he said to Sitermann. “This is not an ordinary case of kidnapping.”
“What problem?” Dorrie squawked.
Sitermann nodded. “You’ve zeroed in on the crux, Bloom. But which one of them?”
Dorrie drained the glass and barked an order in Francois’s direction. “Which one of what—what?”
“Which one of your friends is involved in this supposedly professional kidnapping?” Theo said gently. “Mary Margaret disappeared last night at approximately midnight. Her father received a note this morning, not more than eight or nine hours after the fact. It’s rather obvious that someone from here contacted someone in Connecticut and had that person deliver the note. There was either a great deal of foresight and planning, or collusion.”
“That’s the bottom line,” Sitermann said.
Dorrie took the martini from Francois’s tray and drank it.
“You won’t say anything to the others, will you?” Theo said as he chugged up the driveway of the villa. Dorrie had been much too astounded to take the wheel, and Theo had actually begun to enjoy the thrill of driving in such a bizarre fashion. The perpetual peril had been … well, invigorating. “I may be wrong about the ransom note,” he continued, “in that it may not involve anyone in our small group. But if I am cor
rect, I do not wish to alert this person and cause him or her to do something foolish.”
Dorrie gave him a sharp look. “Her? It’s unlikely to be either Amelia or Emelda; servants are hardly capable of that level of subterfuge, unless we’re discussing padding the grocer’s account.
“I would assume you’re referring to Bitsy. Come on, Uncle Theo, she has nothing to do with this. She’s straighter than Pookie’s nose after the plastic surgeon had a field day with it on Park Avenue—and we’re talking straight. Bitsy teaches Sunday school. She’s never set foot outside her bedroom without a brassiere. She squeaks when she walks.”
“It is difficult to envision. But you’re overlooking another distaff player in the game, my dear. It is not unheard of for the kidnap victim to be, in reality, a co-conspirator. Mary Margaret may have misjudged her father’s sense of parental duty, or even the extent of his liquid assets, but she may very well be the instigator of the ransom note.”
“Why would she do that? It seems like a lot of bother. Her father gives her all the money she wants, and she has enough plastic in her wallet to purchase a small European country and declare herself empress. Catherine the Great could serve as her role model, although I never bought those lurid stories. It sounded so unhygienic.”
“I have no idea why she might have agreed to the scheme, much less initiated it,” Theo admitted. He realized he was still clutching the steering wheel with white fingers, and forced them to relinquish the death grip. A stray image flashed through his mind, but with such haste he was unable to identify it. “Well, we made it home safely, which I find no small feat. Shall we have a celebratory coffee on the terrace?”
“I’ve been courting puffy eyelids too long. I’m off to nap, then see if Amelia can produce cool cucumber slices without hyperventilating. She wouldn’t survive ten seconds in Connecticut.”
Theo went to the terrace and gazed at the Caribbean, his lips pressed in a pensive frown. Sitermann had agreed to see what he could learn about the delivery/deliverer of the ransom note. He had not anticipated much success. They had lunched agreeably and parted on amiable terms, except for a mutter from Francois that had expressed doubt over Sitermann’s ability to calculate in the delicate arena of tipping. “Joik” had not had its origins in a Parisian bistro.
Sandy and Biff were on the deck beside the pool, both stretched out on chaise lounges and oblivious to everything but the sun. Bitsy sat in the shade of the umbrella, a magazine in her lap. A radio behind the kitchen door played Jamaican music. Dorrie appeared briefly on the balcony, ascertained Biff’s whereabouts with a proprietary smile, and wiggled her fingers at Theo as she vanished back into the bedroom.
It was what he had imagined the trip would be, a peaceful scene of sunbathing, reading, enjoying the idyllic weather and lazy ambience of the island. He had hoped to see the botanical gardens, maybe even to speak to the Jamaican horticulturists about their insights into the cultivation of exotic bromeliads, for which he had a fondness. He had even dared to hope he might return to his greenhouse in Handy Hollow with a few choice cuttings to be nurtured into wondrous things that would be quite the topic of gossip at the local horticulturists’ meetings.
But it was not to be, he thought as he sat down. Instead of snippets of plants and enlightening exchanges concerning temperature control and botanical diets, he was in the midst of murder. Of drug dealing, of kidnapping, of adolescent bickering. Of fraudulent aristocracy and …
“I say, Bloomer,” Count D’Orsini called from the bottom of the driveway. “Could I be so presumptuous as to invite you over for tea or a drink? Gerry is here, and we very desperately want to talk to you.”
After a quick appraisal of the poolside and the vacant balcony, Theo went down the driveway. The count was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn at the police station, and his cheeks and jaw were faintly gray with unshaven stubble. Deep lines cut into his face as if done with a blade. He had, Theo decided, rather gone to seed during the last twelve hours.
“This is good of you,” he said, putting his hand on Theo’s shoulder for a moment. “I know you have a low opinion of me, perhaps deservedly so. Come up to the house and let me get you something to drink, and please excuse my appearance. I was released less than an hour ago, and I must say I’ve had a particularly trying night.”
Gerry was sitting on the patio beside the pool, a glass in her hand and a pitcher nearby on a table. “Thank you for coming, Theo. This is such a ghastly sequence of events—Eli’s death, Mary Margaret’s disappearance, and the knowledge that the police would like nothing more than to lock Hal up in some dingy cell until they can concoct enough evidence to convict him.”
Theo sat down across from her. “But the police have released Count D’Orsini, so one must assume they have no evidence. Surely his local connections will prevent his being framed for something he did not do.”
“One hopes,” the count murmured as he went behind a small bar and found a bottle of Perrier. He poured a glass and brought it to Theo, then moved a chair next to Gerry. “I didn’t do it, you know. Gerry tells me that you believe this rot about my possible involvement with drug traffic, and I wanted to assure you that the police chaps are mistaken. They are convinced I rove the Caribbean in the true buccaneer tradition in order to engage in wickedness.” He crossed his legs and gave Theo a comradely wink. “If it were the eighteenth century, I would probably follow in the grand tradition of Edward Teach, who’s always been a hero of mine. I’d like nothing more than to board a schooner aswarm with terrified virgins, my black beard flaming and my manhood in full bloom. Alas, there are no virgins aswarm anywhere these days, and the Navy takes such a dim view of that sort of adventuresome spirit.”
“Virgins or cabin boys?” Gerry said drily.
“Both,” he said with a second wink to Theo. “Admittedly I do take friends out on the yacht, but I do so at their insistence. They find deep-sea fishing, or at least the premise of it, as romantic as Hemingway told them they should. The Pis Aller is not the Love Boat, alas, and most of them end up in the throes of mal de mer and frantic for terra firma.”
Theo nodded. “And while these friends are conveniently below in the cabin, moaning over too many martinis, you have an opportunity to rendezvous with craft of Colombian origin, no? Your passengers subsequently and obligingly provide an alibi, should the narcotics people be so intrusive as to question the purpose of the outing.”
Count D’Orsini had the courtesy to look somewhat abashed. “Touché, Mr. Bloomer. I may have assisted some acquaintances with the exportation of substances not exactly welcomed with open arms in the United States, but I can assure you that I am not the veritable Rothschild of the cocaine industry that the police envision me to be. They do so overestimate my impact on world trade. As for this gigolo nonsense, I have taken lonely women out for a bit of romance, but I have never requested they render payment for my attentions. If they have chosen to reward me, they have done so without any prompting on my part. I am a wastrel; there is no doubt about it in anyone’s mind. I am a blackguard, a philanderer, a parasite both on my friends and on society as an entity. Were the profession feasible, I would make a dandy privateer. However, I am not a cad.”
“And he’s not a murderer,” Gerry said. “You’ve got to believe that, Theo. I’ve known Hal for twenty years. We met at a time when my life was a shambles. My friends would not speak to me, and my relatives had scratched my name out of the family Bible. Hal helped me find myself, to sort out my life and determine who I really was and what I wanted to do with the knowledge. He is my closest and dearest friend in the world. I believe him when he says he’s not a murderer.”
“It is clear that you believe in his innocence, Gerry,” Theo said gently. “Your faith and loyalty are admirable. I, too, would like to feel equally assured of his innocence, but I cannot. There are too many unexplained events.”
D’Orsini rubbed his jaw, exposing a certain softness to his chin that belied his boyish appearance. “Perm
it me tell you what happened yesterday. It sounds rather damning, I’m afraid, but it is the truth. I was here by the pool all morning, catching up on correspondence and perusing the newspaper. I heard your group leave, and then I heard the car return some thirty minutes later, roughly at two o’clock. I thought nothing more about it until Eli came up my driveway an hour later, strutting as if he had wiped out the bank in Monte Carlo. It was an amazing sight, to say the least. Can I refill your glass, Bloomer?”
“No, thank you, this is sufficient.”
“A bit leery of my hospitality?” Count D’Orsini laughed, then turned to look at the driveway. “Eli came up to the patio and threw himself down in a chair as if I’d suggested he wander by for cocktails. He proceeded to tell me that he was an undercover narcotics officer with the Jamaican Criminal Investigation Bureau, that he’d been observing me for several days, and that he had evidence that I’d engaged in a major transaction on this very spot. I naturally quizzed him as to the validity of his statements, and found him most convincing. Once I’d conceded his story, I asked him why he felt it proper to share the information with me—the object of his official scrutiny.” He again laughed, but without sincerity. “Eli then brandished a roll of film and offered to sell it to me. He felt it would be of great interest to me—or to his superiors should I decline to purchase it.”
“He was blackmailing you?” Theo said, frowning. “Did you tell this to Sergeant Stahl?”
“Ah, not precisely. I said Eli came over to see if the lawn needed attention. I saw no reason to introduce the issue of the film.”
“They came across it when they searched his room in the preliminary investigation. It is being processed now, and I should imagine they will have prints at any moment.”
Gerry put her hands over her face. “I told you, Hal. It’s a matter of time before they come back to arrest you. You know what you have to do.”
