Murder in the Raw

by C. S. Challinor

Glancing at the alarm clock, she gave a sigh. “I suppose I’d better get up and take a quick shower.”

  Rex lazed in bed, listening to the water running in the next room. A pity she had to leave so soon. Already he began fantasizing about all the missed opportunities between now and when he would see her again. In the meantime, he had an obligation to the Winslows to fulfill.

  “Is there anything to drink?” Helen asked, returning to the room with her hair wrapped in a turban. “I worked up quite a thirst!”

  “Shameless lass,” he said throwing off the rumpled covers. “There’s some banana rum. It’s verra refreshing with ice.”

  “That would be perfect. Lots of ice.”

  Rex followed her into the living room. She walked starkers onto the patio, toweling her hair dry. Rex appreciated the fact that she felt natural about her nudity, but was embarrassed what the guests might think about him bringing a woman back to the resort for some afternoon delight. They might think he had picked her up on the beach. Oh, tae heck with it, he thought. The Weeks waved from the beach. Helen gave an enthusiastic wave back.

  “Don’t encourage them. We only have a wee bit of time left to ourselves.”

  “Who are they?” she asked, taking her drink from him.

  “David and Toni. They own a cookery school in Richmond.”

  “Cheers.” Helen clinked his glass. “To many more consummations.”

  “Many more.” He tapped her pert nose. “We best get going if we don’t want to rush.”

  Ten minutes later, he opened the door of the Jeep, and she slid inside. As he drove toward Philipsburg, he couldn’t take his eyes off her tanned knees, covered in a fine down of golden hair.

  “How is the case going?” she asked.

  “Slowly. The evidence conveniently points to the husband, but it’s all circumstantial. His phone was found at the scene. He was the last person to appear at the restaurant where the guests were gathered for a birthday party. He suspected his wife was having an affair with my millionaire playboy roommate, and there are witnesses to the husband physically abusing her.”

  “Sabine Durand, the actress.”

  “You’ve heard of her?”

  “Even the British tabloids have got hold of her now.”

  “They must be more cultured than I thought.”

  “Only because she disappeared. They are drawing comparisons between your case and Natalee Holloway, who went missing on Aruba.” Helen shook her head sadly. “Imagine a mother never knowing for sure what happened to her daughter.”

  “It’s hardly my case, as you call it. I feel like a third wheel. But since no body has been found, the authorities aren’t proceeding further with the investigation. All I can do is get a bit closer to the truth of what happened.”

  “You’re good at that. You found out who was responsible for the murders at Swanmere Manor. It makes sense the new owners of the hotel would have thought of you when their friend vanished.”

  “I don’t know if this case will ever be closed. If the sharks got to her, there’s little chance of finding her remains and performing an autopsy.”

  “I have absolute faith in you.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Helen, but dinna jinx it.” He checked the map on the dashboard to make sure he was still on the right road.

  “I expect a tourist leaked news of Sabine’s disappearance to the British press,” Helen said. “Mostly it’s speculation.”

  “It’s amazing what passes for news these days.” He had watched CNN in his Miami hotel room on the way to the Caribbean and been disconcerted to find more discussion about celebrities than information on world affairs.

  “A pretty young woman going missing raises a lot of conjecture. Any other suspects?” Helen asked.

  “Well, I thought I might be on to something. I went to check out a night club which is owned by a certain Monsieur Bijou.”

  “Mr. Jewel. Is that his real name?”

  “Not exactly. He’s a Dutch national by the name of Coenraad van Bijhooven.”

  “No wonder he changed it. What did you find out?”

  “Only that he has an alibi for the night Ms. Durand disappeared, which is more than can be said for most of the guests at the resort. The manager at The Stiletto has a dated surveillance tape of him getting out of his chauffeur-driven car and parading through the doors in a white suit at 5:55 p.m. for a meeting with the accountant. I called the accountant to confirm the meeting.”

  “Could Bijou have sent someone to the resort to do his dirty work for him?”

  “From what I understand, Bijou likes to do his own dirty work. And it would have been hard to conduct an abduction at the beach. The spot is somewhat inaccessible and there’s a chance of being heard.” Rex pumped the steering wheel in frustration. “There are so many things that don’t add up.”

  “Like what?”

  “She was supposedly seeing a chiropractor, but the number was bogus.”

  “Perhaps someone took it down wrong.”

  “I doubt it. The receptionist is right efficient. And I couldn’t find a Dr. Sganarelle listed anywhere on the island.”

  “It is an unusual name. It’s a character out of a play by Molière.”

  “Really? The eighteenth-century French playwright?”

  “Seventeenth century.”

  “What sort of character?” Rex asked.

  “He’s a possessive miser who doesn’t want to part with his daughter’s dowry, so he prevents her from having suitors and leaving the house. When she becomes ‘lovesick,’ her secret admirer pretends to be a doctor so he can see her, and he prescribes a staged wedding as a cure. Since the wedding turns out to be legally binding, the old man is tricked into marrying off his daughter. It was a corny play, but I had to study it for French ‘A’ level.”

  “What was the doctor imposter’s name?”

  “Um, let me see …” Helen stared out of the window at the passing countryside. “Cle-, no, Clitandre. That sounds too literary by half.”

  Rex swerved and brought the car to a standstill on the grass verge.

  “What’s the matter?” Helen asked. “Do we have a flat?”

  “You truly are a multi-faceted woman, Helen,” he murmured, turning to face her.

  “Why, thank you. Are you merely referring to my cultural knowledge?”

  He caught the look of mischief in her blue eyes. “Aye,” he said, caressing her knee. “That too.”

  “If you hadn’t been such a prig, I could have spent a whole week with you here, instead of with a bunch of teachers from my school.”

  “You said the cruise has been fun.”

  “Well, yes, it has. But I see them almost every day at work.”

  “Is Clive on the cruise?”

  “No,” Helen said primly. “He doesn’t like hot weather. And, anyway, I told you I finished with him.”

  “He’s probably sobbing into his logarithms right now.”

  “Now, don’t be mean, Rex. He wasn’t as boring as you like to make out.”

  “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Yes, but you have about ten minutes to reassure me until we have to get going to catch your ship.” He bent toward her and kissed her.

  “It can leave without me for all I care,” she told him, tilting back her seat. “Couldn’t you have found something bigger than this Jeep? What if someone sees us?”

  Rex slid his hand up her smooth thigh. “There may be a few voyeuristic goats.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure they’ve seen it all before. After all, we’re still on the French side.”

  She reached for his belt while he pushed her dress up her hips. Somehow he managed to clamber over the console. Suddenly, he heard a car engine drop to second gear as it negotiated the road up the hill. He glanced through the back window of the Jeep.

  “Watch out,” he said, struggling back into his seat.

  Panting and perspiring, they managed to regain t
heir sitting positions and straighten their clothes before the police car drew up alongside their stationary Jeep. Lieutenant Latour’s mustachioed face appeared at the window.

  Rex lowered it, discombobulated but relieved he’d not been caught with his pants down.

  “Ah, Monsieur Graves. Quelle coincidence. Vous avez besoin d’aide?”

  No, we don’t need your blasted help. “Merci, voozette gentil mais nous sommes trez biens,” Rex gushed, reassuring him they were fine.

  “Ça se voit!” the officer said with a leering glint in his eye. “So I see!”

  “Nous étions en panne,” Helen interjected. “Mais nous avons reussi à changer le pneu. Quelle chaleur!” she said, wiping her brow as if from the exertion of having just changed a tire.

  “Madame parle très bien le français!” Latour complimented her on her French. He winked at Rex and twiddled his mustache. “Elle est charmante!”

  “Noo sommes en retard por le bateau. The boat.” Rex frantically pointed to his watch. “A bientôt! Merci!” He thrust the jeep into gear and tore off down the road with a squeal of tires.

  “What was all that about?” Helen asked.

  “He’s the gendarme I’ve been liaising with in the Sabine Durand case.”

  Helen gave a hoot of laughter. “Of all the cars on all the roads on St. Martin, he walks up to mine?”

  “Something like that. Still, it’s not a verra big island. Ach! If I had any credibility to begin with, I’ve lost it now.”

  Helen started giggling. It was a good few minutes before she regained control of herself. “Your—your French,” she gasped. “It’s épouvantable!”

  “Didn’t I warn you? Thanks for coming up with the story about the car breaking down. Not that I think he believed us for a minute.”

  “He seemed quite gallant though.”

  “I’d like to have wiped that smirk off his face. Mind you,” Rex said thoughtfully, remembering Latour leaving the house in Grand Case with his own clothes in a state of disarray, “I don’t think he’s in any position to cast stones.”

  Although he resented the interruption to their romantic interlude, the episode grew increasingly funny as they embellished it on the way to Philipsburg, where they had difficulty finding a parking space. Shiploads of marauding tourists inundated the narrow streets of the port. Wives loaded beleaguered husbands with battery-operated electronic devices, apparel, sandals, and all sorts of condiments and ornaments symbolic of the Caribbean.

  “Here, luv, can you manage this lot?” said one. “We still have to get rum for Kevin. And Tracy wanted one of them shell thingamybobs to hang in her bedroom.”

  Helen hailed a fellow passenger. “Laura, could you take our picture?” She handed the lady her digital camera and stood against Rex, who draped his arm around her waist. “Thanks, Laura.” Helen checked the picture in the frame. “Wait a sec and I’ll help you with those bags.”

  The woman stood by while Helen and Rex embraced.

  “I’ll e-mail you the photo,” Helen promised him.

  “‘Fare thee weel!’ Enjoy St. Kitts.”

  “The rest of the cruise will pale in comparison with the time spent with you.”

  “Aye, it was grand, wasn’t it?”

  The friend smiled sympathetically at Rex and gave one of her souvenir bags to Helen to carry. They moved away, Helen glancing back over her shoulder before finally disappearing among the throng of embarking passengers.

  This parting was less painful than the last one, Rex reflected. There would be other times, he felt sure of that now. He would call her as soon as he returned to Edinburgh and then drive down to Derby to see her. Consoled by that thought, he went off in search of a beer and came back half an hour later, by which time the dock had drained like a bottle. Only a spatter of people remained.

  Helen, a blur behind the white deck rail of the cruise ship, waved and pointed at him to two women who stood beside her—presumably teachers in her group. As he waved her off from the ferry terminal, he hoped he created a good impression.

  The Full Moon Party at the end of the month would have made for a special evening with Helen, if he himself was still around. He hoped to have solved the case by then and be on his way back home.

  “Who’s the petite blonde I saw you with yesterday?” Weeks asked Rex as they met on the path leading to the cabanas.

  “A friend from home. She came over on a cruise.”

  “When are we going to meet her?”

  “She had to get back to the ship.”

  “Pity. We could use some new blood in the group. Tensions are running a bit high. All the stress over Sabine, I suppose. Anyway, it’s not the same.” David Weeks glanced at the paper bag in Rex’s hand. “I see you got yourself some breakfast. I was just on my way to the pâtisserie myself.”

  Rex watched his retreating tanned backside. He had gotten used to nudity on the beach, but it still struck him as strange that the guests wandered into the store to buy groceries with not so much as a stitch on their bodies.

  “Rex! Rex!” a male voice halted him from the parking lot.

  He turned and saw the doctor and his family descending from the limo.

  “My daughter Gaby needs to speak with you most urgently.”

  Rex approached her. “What is it, lass?”

  Gaby handed him a photograph from a packet of processed film. “Who do you think that is?” she asked hesitantly while he studied it.

  “It looks like Sabine Durand, judging by other photos I’ve seen of her. Though it’s a wee bit difficult to be sure because of the sunglasses.”

  “They are her Christian Dior glasses,” Frau von Mueller said.

  Rex failed to understand why they were showing him a snapshot of the actress when he already knew what she looked like.

  “I took it yesterday,” Gaby informed him.

  “What?” How was that possible, unless … “Where?”

  “On St. Barthélemy,” the mother garbled in excitement. “Gaby went to buy a new snorkel mask. She heard the voice of Sabine at the café next door to the shop und she snapped the picture.”

  “I couldn’t be sure at first,” Gaby took over, “because—well, I thought she was dead. I was able to take this picture without her seeing me. I had the pictures developed in town.”

  “It is her,” the doctor insisted. “I would know the nose anywhere. I made it!”

  “Who else knows about this?” Rex asked.

  “No one,” Gaby said. “First I wanted to be sure and examine the photograph. Here is the address of the dive store,” she added, giving him the receipt from the purchase of her mask.

  “She is going to be a fine lawyer, nein?” von Mueller said proudly.

  “Aye, she acted verra correctly.”

  The girl blushed to her flaxen roots.

  “Can I keep this photo for the moment?” Rex checked his watch and flagged down the limo, automatically patting down the pockets of his shorts to make sure he had his wallet on him. “Not a word to anyone!” he called back to the von Mueller family, putting a finger to his lips.

  Pascal rolled down the window. “Yessir, Mr. Graves?”

  “I need to get to Oyster Pond by nine o’clock.”

  “Hop in.”

  Rex tore around the sleek black hood of the limo and settled in beside the driver. “Go as fast as you can,” he instructed.

  Pascal handled the stretch limo like a race car pro as vehicles and pedestrians prudently leaped out of their path. Rex offered him one of his croissants and wolfed down the other. At Oyster Pond, dockhands were already casting off the lines of the large twin-hulled ferry. Rex waved frantically, thrust his fare and his I.D. at the woman behind the kiosk, and jumped aboard.

  Thankful he’d had a bit of breakfast to help settle his stomach, he stood on the top deck while the high-speed catamaran set motor sail over a choppy sea. He took a few precautionary gulps of air and stared straight ahead at the gray-green mirage of St. Barts to the southwest.
The memory of the slave vessel slipping away from the island sprang to mind as the coast of St. Martin receded. Now that Sabine had been spotted, he suspected her of acting out the affair with Brooklyn and giving her husband a motive for murder, and then making her exit by sea. Had she planted his phone on the beach? If so, why was Elizabeth Winslow on the camera? He was in no doubt whose face it was in the frame. The outline of the necklace she always wore was clearly visible. Had Mrs. Winslow aided Sabine in her plan? Why then had she and her husband brought him to St. Martin to investigate the young woman’s disappearance?

  Already the sun bounced blindingly off the water. Rex found a stick of sunscreen in his pocket and smeared it over his face. The deck hand served plastic cups of guava juice to the passengers, and Rex downed one thirstily. He glanced with impatience between his watch and St. Barts growing progressively clearer in focus.

  He had until four-thirty to find the actress. That was when the catamaran left for Oyster Pond. The island of St. Barts was small, no more that ten square miles. How many hotels could be on it? He wondered if he should enlist the help of the local gendarmes. Yet, if it was indeed Sabine in the photo, no murder had taken place after all. Ms. Durand was a grown woman, and if she had chosen to take off on her vacation without alerting her husband, the police would not be inclined to go after her.

  A family of tourists pointed overboard in excitement. A green sea turtle paddled alongside the boat. Rex wished he had brought his camera, but he’d left in a rush. Gustavia Harbor came into view, a small port bristling with masts from the fleet of fishing and leisure craft. A small red-roofed town grew up around the port, off-shooting into the hills.

  He figured he would probably need transportation. A rental car would take too long to arrange. Once on dry land, he inquired instead after a moped, the store clerk assuring him it would indeed be able to convey his considerable bulk up the steep inclines of the island. While at the store, Rex picked up a brochure of restaurants, hotels, and bed and breakfasts, and told the man he’d be back for the moped.

  His day would entail a systematic search of St. Barts, showing the proprietors the photo of Sabine and, hopefully, tracking her down for a few explanations. With those in hand, he could return to St. Martin, tell the guests she was alive and well, and had decided to leave her husband for whatever reason—and he could then book his return flight to Scotland, case closed.