The Bloodstained Bride

by Rachel Woods

  “What is what?” asked the detective.

  “Come here and look at this,” she said, beckoning for Detective Francois.

  The detective walked to stand next to her. “What am I looking at?”

  “The bottom of his left foot.” Vivian pointed at the man’s heel. “Is that a tattoo? Or, a birthmark?”

  Francois shook his head. “It’s a brand.”

  Vivian glanced at the detective. “A brand?”

  “A brand,” he repeated. “Like what you would use to mark cattle.”

  Using the zoom function on the camera app, Vivian took several shots of the man’s heel. “You think someone might recognize it? Maybe it can be used to identify him.”

  The detective said, “Do me a favor? Don’t mention the brand on his foot in your story.”

  Vivian glanced up at him. She knew cops liked to keep quiet about details that only the killer could know. Evidence was often withheld in criminal investigations for several reasons. A suspect’s knowledge of nonpublic information might lead police to determine that he or she was guilty of the crime. False confessors could be quickly eliminated as suspects when they had no knowledge of details that weren’t made public.

  “And if I do this favor for you, what do I get?” asked Vivian.

  The detective smiled. “How about an interesting detail for your story?”

  “I’m listening,” said Vivian.

  “Two days ago, a fisherman hauling lobster found something very gruesome in one of his traps—a severed penis.”

  “You think the penis that the fisherman found belonged to the dead guy?” Vivian asked.

  The detective said, “The medical examiner is going to do some tests to see if there’s a match.”

  “So, someone killed the guy, then cut his penis off and dumped his body and his penis in the ocean?”

  Baxter Francois said, “Looks that way. But, off the record …”

  “Sure,” said Vivian, anxious to know what the detective thought even though she wouldn’t be able to publish his opinions.

  “I’m wondering if the guy was a tourist and maybe had a bad night with a PC-5 hooker,” said Francois. “PC-5 pimps are ruthless and have been known to geld tourists who want to play with their girls without paying.”

  As the detective headed up the beach toward the tourists who’d found the dead body, Vivian considered Francois’ speculation. The PC-5, an island gang, known for their cunning business acumen and stunning savagery, would have no qualms making an example of a cheap tourist, despite the potential detriment to Palmchat tourism.

  For some reason, though, her gut told her the PC-5 wasn’t involved. She had a feeling the detective wanted to plant a false lead in the story. Francois might already have a suspect, she reasoned. Someone he hoped to fool. A killer who would read Francois’ quote about the PC-5 in the Palmchat Gazette article and assume that the cops were on the wrong track.

  Deciding she would assign the missing penis story to Sophie Carter, Vivian walked up the beach, trudging through the fine sand as she headed back to her car. In her Range Rover, Vivian peered at a close-up photo of the dead man’s right heel.

  The brand appeared to be several strange symbols— ἔρως.

  3

  Leaning forward in the Hepplewhite chair, Leo Bronson focused on the 65-inch flat screen monitor mounted on the wall in his father’s cavernous office.

  A testament to Burt Bronson’s legend and power as a dominating force in the cutthroat world of publishing, the spacious enclave featured soaring beamed ceilings, wood-paneled walls with built-in shelves that housed hundreds of first-edition tomes, hardwood floors, Persian rugs, and antique furnishings.

  Focusing on the wide monitor, now being used for a video conference, Leo stared at the man on the screen, a bombastic, self-aggrandizing Texan named Rufus Tyrone “Hambone” Hamilton. An infamous wildcatter, the oilman was speaking to them from halfway around the world, Nigeria, to be exact, where he held several lucrative interests. Despite the stereotypical 10-gallon custom-made Stetson, ruddy complexion, and East Texas twang, the billionaire appeared apprehensive and agitated.

  “Thank y’all for talking to me on such short notice,” said Hambone, his booming measured cadence filling every corner of the office. “I hope I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but I don’t think so. I reckon I got good cause to worry and I sure would appreciate your help.”

  “Well, now that Leonard is here,” said Burt, leaning back in the large leather chair behind his desk. “Why don’t you tell us what has you so worried, Hambone?”

  “It’s my youngest boy, Silas, what went to school with Leonard,” began Hambone.

  Leo remembered Silas Hamilton from prep school. Shy and slight, the kid kept to himself and didn’t have many friends. Unlike other scions of industry titans, Silas had never been prone to the toxic masculinity that other guys in his position fell prey to—spending money, screwing girls, and squandering opportunities.

  “What about Silas?” prompted Burt.

  “Well, he’s missing,” said Hambone, a shadow of fear in his gaze. “I don’t know where that boy done gone off to but I got to find him. His mother is fit to be tied.”

  “Silas is missing?” Leo glanced at his father. If he’d known his dad’s urgent summons had to do with the missing son of an oil baron, he might have brought his moleskin notebook to jot down details. Then again, Leo suspected Hambone wanted to keep his predicament out of the papers and knew his old college buddy Burt Bronson would comply with his wishes.

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning?” suggested Burt.

  After a shaky sigh, Hambone began his tale. “It’s just like the story of the Prodigal Son. Me and the boy fell out about a year ago on account of I wasn’t very accepting of his … um, lifestyle.”

  “His lifestyle?” Leo asked, seeking confirmation of his suspicions.

  “Well, the boy told me that he thought maybe he wasn’t a boy,” said Hambone, fidgeting as he stammered his words. “Silas said that maybe he was a woman … you know, maybe he was supposed to be a woman … “

  “Silas was transgender?” Leo asked.

  “I guess that’s what you call it,” said Hambone, shaking his head. “I don’t understand it. I thought the boy was losing his mind. He always was a little touched, you know. Between you and me, I think the boy’s mama spoiled him. Made him soft. Weak in the mind. The boy and his mother are extremely close and she always wanted a girl. Gave me six boys trying to get that girl and never did get her. Maybe Silas got it in his mind to be the girl his mama always wanted? Hell if I know.”

  Leo took a breath. A billionaire’s missing transgender son was disturbing but not necessarily front page news, especially since Silas probably wasn’t missing. Most likely, Silas had taken off because he’d felt rejected, ridiculed and misunderstood. Being the son of a legend wasn’t easy. Leo could testify to that. Even the most confident of men, and Leo considered himself pretty self-confident, could be intimidated by their larger-than-life fathers. Silas, who might have been having an identity crisis, must have been overwhelmed by Hambone’s unwavering braggadocio and blatant machismo.

  “What happened after you and Silas had the falling out?” asked Burt.

  Hambone said, “Well, he demanded a portion of his trust fund—ten million dollars—and I gave it to him. In hindsight, that probably was a mistake. But, I hadn’t been kind to the boy when he confided in me about his womanly feelings, so I suppose I was overcompensating.”

  An understatement, thought Leo.

  “Ten million dollars is too big of a responsibility for a boy who’s been mollycoddled most of his life,” said Hambone. “I think the boy got caught up in wild, riotous living and well, you know what they say about a fool and his money.”

  “That I do, Hambone, that I do,” said Burt. “But, tell me, why don’t you hire a private investigator to find Silas?”

  “Well, I did do that,” said Hambone. “About s
ix months ago, my wife and I realized we needed to look for the boy, so we hired a man who runs a kidnapping and rescue outfit. He tracked Silas all over creation but it seems Silas was always able to give him the slip. Then, a month ago, the P.I.—Mick Walters is his name—called to tell me he’d tracked Silas’ iPhone to the Palmchat Islands, St. Killian to be exact. Walters told me he was headed to St. Killian to follow up on the lead. A week after he arrived in St. Killian, Walters emailed me with his progress thus far. The iPhone was traced to a pawn shop but the owner told him the phone had been sold.”

  “So, the trail went cold,” said Leo.

  “What I thought,” said Hambone. “But, turns out, Walters had another lead. Something about … Eros … was what he emailed me but he didn’t give any details. Said he wanted to talk over the phone but we never did. That email about Eros was the last I heard from Walters.”

  “When did he send the email?” Leo asked.

  “Three weeks ago,” answered Hambone. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Walters since then but he’s not answering my calls or my texts or my emails. He got a bungalow at the Queen Palm hotel. The staff wouldn’t tell me anything but they confirmed that he hasn’t checked out of the hotel. I don’t know what to think. That’s why I called y’all. Leo, I know you did all them investigations in Africa. Surely, you can find out what happened to Walters so I can see if he found my son.”

  “I’ll look into things and see what I can find out, Hambone,” said Leo, not willing to make any promises. “But, I’ll need you to send me the emails Walters sent you.”

  “I’ll get you that information as soon as possible,” said Hambone. “Listen, fellas, I don’t mean to rush off but I’m meeting with the Nigerian president in half an hour.”

  “Give him my regards,” quipped Leo.

  Nodding, Hambone said, “I sure appreciate y’all’s help. Hopefully, this will all turn out to be a molehill and not a mountain.”

  After the video transmission ended and the screen went dark, Burt stared at Leo. “What do you think?”

  Slouching in the antique chair, Leo said, “I think Silas changed his name to Sylvia and is living it up in the French Riviera, dancing the ten-million-dollar jig on the deck of a 100-foot superyacht.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” said Burt. “But, Hambone’s an old friend and he’s genuinely worried.”

  “I think he’s more guilty than worried.”

  “Probably so,” conceded Burt. “But, let’s pacify him. After all, Hamilton Industries is one of Bronson Publishing’s major advertisers.”

  Shaking his head, Leo stood. “Well, if there’s nothing else.”

  “Actually, there is something else,” said Burt, indicating that Leo should sit back down. “There’s a chain of newspapers in the Aerie Islands I’ve got my eye on and I need you to meet with the owner. See if she’s willing to sell.”

  Leo groaned inwardly. The business side of publishing was not his forte, though his father was hell-bent on making Leo his successor. Since his father’s massive heart attack more than a year ago, Leo had reluctantly, if not grudgingly, agreed to temporarily take his father’s place. Leo worried his father, a notorious Type-A workaholic, would overdo it and end up clutching his chest again. Not wanting his father to keel over, Leo had made an effort, though half-hearted at best, to become more proficient in the art of buying and selling newspapers.

  “When is this meeting taking place?”

  “In two hours,” said Burt. “In the Aerie Islands.”

  Leo gaped at his father. “And you’re just now telling me?”

  “The Aerie Islands are only an hour away,” said Burt. “The meeting will only take two, maybe three hours. Don’t worry. You’ll be back in time to have dinner with your lovely wife.”

  Exhaling his annoyance, Leo said, “Dad, you know I’m willing to help you out but you have to give me more than a moment’s notice.”

  “I would have gone myself,” said Burt, “but Barbara would rather I not fly.”

  “Why doesn’t Dr. Lack want you to fly?”

  Shaking his head, Burt sighed. “I didn’t want to say anything but my last check-up did not go as well as I’d hoped.”

  Worried, Leo asked, “What did Dr. Lack say?”

  “She wants to run more tests,” said his father, a resigned weariness in his tone. “I’m sure things will be fine. I just need to continue to take it easy and make sure my stress levels don’t get elevated. The medicine will work but not if I circumvent the benefits by getting myself all worked up but you know how I get during negotiations.”

  Leo ran a hand down the back of his head. His father hadn’t built his publishing empire with sly skill and cunning cleverness. Burt Bronson was more of an intimidator than a negotiator. Overbearing and bullish, he was known for using brute force to get what he wanted. His toxic tactics, though successful, had led to his health issues.

  “I’m sorry I’m not getting better as fast as I’d hoped,” said his father. “I’m sorry my illness has interrupted your life and your career and—”

  “Dad—”

  “Leonard, I know it was never your intention to involve yourself in the business of publishing,” Burt said. “You’re a reporter. I understand that investigative journalism is your passion. It’s what you do best and I feel very much like a terrible burden—”

  “You’re not a burden,” said Leo, concerned by his father’s maudlin tone.

  “But this impromptu trip to the Aerie Islands is a burden,” said Burt. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. That was inconsiderate of me. So, you don’t have to go. I’ll propose a video conference, or maybe—”

  “No, dad, it’s fine. I’ll take care of the meeting in the Aerie Islands,” promised Leo. “You just follow the doctor’s orders.”

  4

  “So, how’d the meeting go with the newspaper owner in the Aerie Islands?” asked Vivian as she finished the last forkfuls of goat and rice in her bowl.

  Across the table from her, Leo, who’d already filled up on a second helping of his favorite St. Killian dish, was finishing a Felipe beer.

  “Well, she was nice and charming,” said Leo, “but she doesn’t want to sell. Of course, that’s not what dad is going to want to hear. He’s going to think I didn’t try hard enough.”

  “Did you try hard?” Vivian asked, reaching across the table to grab Leo’s hand.

  Shrugging, her husband said, “Hard enough, I guess. Maybe. I don’t know. Probably didn’t try as hard as dad would have but I wasn’t about to twist her arm behind her back, you know?”

  Vivian gave him a sympathetic smile. Her husband wasn’t really the hostile takeover type but Leo’s father seemed determined to mold his son into his own image. Leo would ultimately resist Burt’s hopes, and their relationship might suffer for it, but Vivian knew her husband wouldn’t subvert his own dreams to please his father. She loved Leo for his ability to withstand Burt’s aggressive expectations. But, she also loved Burt for his ability to see the potential in Leo that her husband didn’t realize he had.

  “Well, tell me about that urgent summons from your dad,” said Vivian.

  After another swig of beer Leo said, “Well, I don't think it was so urgent ... but then again, it's not my son who’s missing.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Vivian, placing her fork in the empty bowl. “Whose son is missing?

  Leo exhaled and placed his elbows on the table. “Silas Hamilton, the youngest son of Rufus Tyrone ‘Hambone’ Hamilton.”

  “Rufus Hamilton? The oil tycoon? His son is missing?”

  “Hambone thinks so, but I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not?” asked Vivian.

  “Kind of a long story,” said Leo, rising from the table. “I’m going to need another beer.”

  “Get me one, too,” said Vivian.

  After returning to the table with the beers, Leo launched into the story Hambone told him.

  When he finished, Vivian said, �
��So the billionaire’s son and the man hired to find the billionaire’s son are both missing? Interesting.”

  “Something tells me that the billionaire’s son will turn up once he runs out of money,” said Leo. “And as for the private eye, he’s probably somewhere trying to manufacture a new lead so he can continue billing Hambone.”

  Vivian took a swig of beer and then smiled at her husband. “Tsk, tsk,” she said. “You’re getting so cynical in your old age. What if something really did happen to Silas?”

  “You think somebody kidnapped Silas?” asked Leo.

  “I’m not sure,” said Vivian, flipping a column of her braids over her shoulder. “But maybe you should find out.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Leo pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. “I would hate it if something bad had happened to Silas. God knows the guy wouldn’t be able to defend himself. I went to school with him. Pretty wimpy kid. Always being bullied.”

  “Not by you, of course,” said Vivian.

  “I have to admit that I wasn’t always cordial to Silas,” Leo said, giving her a sheepish look. “I could have been nicer to Silas considering that we both had domineering larger-than-life fathers who were never really around and yet always ever present. I don’t know. Guess I could have helped him deal, you know?”

  Vivian shook her head. “Adolescent boys are not exactly known for their empathy.”

  Leo took another swig of his beer. “Change the subject?”

  Vivian shrugged. “Why not?”

  Putting his empty beer bottle on the table, Leo said, “Not that I want the gory details, but tell me about the dead guy who lost his penis.”

  “He didn’t lose his penis,” said Vivian. “It was cut off. A fisherman may have found the thing in his lobster trap. The cops have to run tests on the penis and the dead guy to make sure.”

  “Do they have any leads?”

  Vivian shook her head. “Baxter Francois told me, off the record, that he thinks maybe some PC-5 pimp cut the guy’s penis off for not paying for the services of one of their hookers.”