Dead Fast

by A. J. Stewart

  “Mr. Jones, and Officer Castle,” said Winston. We turned to see him, dressed in a tan suit, impressively cut and matching perfectly what I guessed were alligator skin boots.

  “I am glad you could make it.” He smiled, and I noticed his teeth had yellowed through the years. I wondered if he was a smoker.

  “We are humbled by your invitation,” I said, suddenly finding myself talking like something from Downton Abbey. Grand old homes have that effect on me. I’m a riot when I visit a Carolina tobacco plantation.

  “It’s a wonderful venue,” said Danielle, not bothering to correct Winston on her title. Police officers and sheriff’s deputies are often protective of their titles, unless it paid for people to not know the difference.

  “It is a magnificent old home, is it not? Much history here. Not all of it good, but history nevertheless.”

  “History can be like that,” I said.

  Winston nodded. “Indeed, suh. You must be sure to tour the home before the evening is over.” He leaned toward me as if about to share some great secret. “Especially the dungeon.” He flashed the yellow smile again.

  “We’ll do that.”

  “Well, if you will excuse me, I must greet some people. I hope you enjoy yourselves.” He bowed his head and turned his smile on another couple coming in the big tent. Danielle and I gave each other raised eyebrows. We left the marquee and wandered around the garden in the twilight. The house was lit from within, and long, jagged shadows were cast from its walls. We stood watching the shadows play across the grass and exterior of the building.

  “One of the most haunted places in the world,” said a voice from behind us. We turned to see an older man in a linen jacket and trousers, and pale blue open-neck shirt. He had swept-back hair the color of brass, and purple veins punctured his bulbous nose. Unlike all the voices around us, his lacked the singsong quality of the Jamaican patois.

  “That right?” I said.

  “American?” he said.

  “British?” I responded, in an eloquent tit for tat.

  “Of course, old boy. Arthurs is the name,” he said, shaking our hands.

  “Miami Jones, Danielle Castle.”

  “First time at Rose Hall?”

  “First time in Jamaica,” I said.

  “Well, let me tell you about Rose Hall. The whole place was once a sugar plantation, back in the seventeen hundreds. Made a fellow called Palmer an awful lot of money. Before your countrymen made their fortunes on the back of poor, wretched slaves, my countrymen were doing it here. Story was that old Palmer got himself a lovely English wife, by the name of Annee. That was his error. He allegedly died of, shall we say, unusual circumstances, as did her two subsequent husbands, and if you believe the stories, several lovers. She was said to tire of a slave lover, and then send him out here in the backyard to have his head lopped off, whilst watching from that second-floor bedroom up there.”

  “That’s horrible,” said Danielle.

  “They didn’t call her the White Witch for nothing. Folks around here believe her to be in contact with dark forces.”

  I felt my spine tingle and Danielle took a step closer to me.

  “Today we might suggest she had some serious mental disorders, hmm?”

  “Some,” I said, my eyes fixed on the shadows coming from the bedroom Arthurs had pointed out.

  “Now they say her spirit haunts the old hall, and that perhaps her spirit is itself haunted by the spirits of those she killed.”

  “That’s a sad story, Mr. Arthurs,” said Danielle.

  “It’s all poppycock, of course. There is no evidence that any of it actually happened, at least not to those folks. But most of it probably happened at some point to someone here. Jamaica’s history is not all sunny beaches and rum punch. Speaking of rum, have you been to the pub under the house?”

  “There’s a pub under this house?”

  “One of the old storage areas, yes. It is charming old spot. I’d be happy to show you.”

  In a way, Arthurs reminded me of my business partner Ron, and not just in his love for a drink. As I was pondering this, a voice called out across the lawn.

  “Ladies and gen’men. Dinner be served,” boomed the baritone by the marquee entrance.

  “Perhaps after tea,” said Arthurs, offering his arm to Danielle. She smiled and took it, and I affirmed my belief that Arthurs was Ron’s long-lost English brother. We wandered back into the marquee to the smell of something roasted and porcine, and Arthurs directed us to a table. As we reached our destination, Cornelius Winston appeared.

  “Ah, Arthurs, a pleasure as always,” said Winston, with very little pleasure in his voice. “Mr. Jones, Officer Castle, I’d like you to meet Assistant Commissioner of Police Harrow and Mrs. Harrow.”

  A stern-looking man in dark blue uniform shook my hand like he was placing me in cuffs, and then did likewise to Danielle. Mrs. Harrow nodded politely from behind her husband’s shoulder.

  “I thought you’d have much to talk about over dinner, all being law enforcement folk. Well, if you’ll excuse me. Enjoy your meal.”

  We took our seats, and made introductions with the other couple that joined us, the director of Tennis Jamaica and his wife. I’d never heard of a Jamaican tennis player, and the words Tennis Jamaica brought forth an image of four women playing doubles before a lunch of salad and Perrier. I didn’t think verbalizing that thought was prudent, and he didn’t seem that chatty, so I turned to Arthurs.

  “So what is it you do on the island, Mr. Arthurs?”

  Arthurs grinned like the proverbial cat. “I am what you might call a man of leisure. I was formerly with Her Majesty’s Foreign Office. I was posted here in Jamaica for a few years and always vowed I would return. So in lieu of the rain and a tiny garden in Kent, I came back to paradise.”

  I nodded. It was as good a reason as any to go somewhere. Arthurs spoke about Jamaica like Ron talked about Florida, and the idea of a familial connection popped into my head again. The interesting thing about it was that Ron had been born in Jamaica, and his father had also been a diplomat for the US Department of State, but I couldn’t recall Ron ever coming back since I’d known him.

  “So Officer Castle, which department are you with in the United States,” said Harrow.

  “I’m actually with the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Oh, I see. I thought your sheriffs were known as deputies.”

  “Yes, Assistant Commissioner, you are correct—I am a deputy.”

  “I see. And what brings you to our fine island?”

  “Initially, a vacation,” she said. The initially hung in the air, and we all waited to see whether Harrow would take the bait.

  “Initially? How curious.” Assistant Commissioner Harrow was more a nibbler than someone prone to swallowing the bait whole.

  “Yes. A friend of ours was attacked the other evening, so we are helping to ensure he doesn’t come to any further harm.” Danielle had her cop voice on, and she sounded like she was about to hand out a speeding ticket. Clearly something about Assistant Commissioner Harrow had her hackles up.

  “A friend of yours?” said Harrow. “An American?”

  “No, a local.”

  “And did your friend report the event to the constabulary?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know he seems very reluctant to offer IDs on his attackers.”

  “Well, Deputy, I am sure you know as well as I, without the cooperation of the victim, investigation, let alone prosecution, is most difficult. We do what we can, as I am sure you do, but just like America, there is crime in Jamaica. We fight as well as we can with the resources we have.”

  “I’m sure,” smiled Danielle. It wasn’t the kind of smile I ever wanted her to give me.

  “And just like you, it does not make our job easier having vigilantes roaming our island, taking the law into their own hands.”

  “Of course not. If something happens, we’ll be sure to call you.”

>   “Do that,” said Harrow, and with a curt nod he signaled the end of the conversation, the way only a superior officer can do. I figured Arthurs was going to be better for intel.

  Dinner was served, a fish plate, no options, which was just fine with me. If I can see the ocean, seafood is always my go-to. In Omaha, I pass on the seafood buffet. Either way, the snapper in butter sauce with peppers and onions was delicious.

  “So what exactly is this function in aid of?”

  Arthurs sipped at a tumbler of Appleton Estate rum and picked at his snapper. “That is a good question. Let’s call it a fundraiser, shall we?”

  “Fundraiser for what?”

  “I feared you’d ask me that, so I fear I’ll have to tell you. I believe in the United States you would call it political fundraising.”

  “Winston is running for office?”

  “Of a sort. He is currently chair of the All-Schools Athletic Association of Jamaica, and on the board of the Jamaican Athletics Association. These are quite prestigious roles in Jamaica. As I suspect you’ve seen, athletics is quite the deal here on the island.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “So positions like those which Mr. Winston holds are highly prized themselves. But they are small cheese when compared to the big prize.”

  I could see old Arthurs enjoyed stringing out the tension in his tales, so I went with him.

  “And what might that big prize be?”

  “The International Olympic Committee representative. A life of first-class travel, the finest hotels, visiting sports facilities.” Arthurs glanced at Assistant Commissioner Harrow, and then continued. “And arranging, how can I put it? Deals beneficial to Jamaican athletics.” He raised his eyebrows and dipped his head to his rum. “It’s quite the pork trough.”

  “I think it would pay you well, suh, to keep such commentary to yourself,” said Harrow.

  “Of course, of course,” said Arthurs, winking at me. “Regardless of my baseless opinions about the luxury requirements of our sports officials, it is surely the most coveted position in Jamaican sports. And therefore the most difficult to attain. One must bring a lot to the party.”

  “Like money?” said Danielle.

  “Well, yes, that. But more than that, a pretender to the throne must show how he would lead his kingdom into a glorious new tomorrow,” he continued, taking another sip. I couldn’t help feeling his story was going off the rails.

  “How does he do that?” I asked.

  “Winners, my boy. He produces winners. He brings the next tranche of champions under his wing, and he delivers Jamaica more gold medals.”

  I had more questions for Arthurs, but decided to keep them to myself until I had a less public forum. An emcee, who moonlighted as the guitar player, tapped the microphone and called our attention. Cornelius Winston took the mic and thanked us for attending, and for supporting Jamaican athletics. It occurred to me that Danielle and I hadn’t paid to attend, and I wondered if we’d get an invoice in the mail. I figured we were supporting Jamaican athletics by making sure one of its athletes got to the starting line in one piece, and that counted for more in my book than feathering Winston’s nest.

  Winston asked us to charge our glasses, and he toasted Jamaica, her athletic heritage and the queen. I figured the last one to be the queen of England, which surprised a little, given half the marquee’s population was probably descended from slaves who had been brought to the island under the English. Regardless, the room stood and toasted queen, country, and running, and then Winston handed the mic back to the guitar player, who broke into a soulful tune that sounded remarkably like Johnny Cash. I gave Danielle a puzzled frown.

  “Yes,” said Arthurs. “It is Johnny Cash. He and his wife lived close by on Chestnut Hill. He even wrote a song about Annee Palmer, the White Witch.”

  Thoughts of white witches were more than I cared for, so I whispered to Danielle that I was going to seek out the little boy’s room, and I wandered out into the night. Tiki torches lit the path from the marquee to the house. I wandered alone across the lawn and up into the house. The girls who were standing about when we arrived seemed to have disappeared. I wondered if they were on dinner break, when a giant of a man appeared at my side. The floorboards in the house creaked like a schooner in a squall, but the big unit had moved silently. He was a good foot above me, which pegged him at a decent seven foot. He didn’t smile, and I wasn’t completely sure that his face was capable of it.

  “Can I help you, suh?” he said in a deep voice that fit his stature perfectly.

  “Bathroom?”

  “Downstairs, suh.” He pointed to some stone stairs, and I nodded my thanks and headed down. The stairs were barely shoulder width, and the further down I went, the darker it got. By the time I reached the bottom I was in near blackness. The air was a good few degrees cooler, and musty. I stepped across an uneven stone floor, and brushed my hand along the wall looking for some kind of light switch. Maybe it was the stories I had heard earlier, but I felt a presence, as if someone was in the dungeon-like space with me. I was going to speak, to ask if someone was there, but the words were sucked from me as the hefty door behind me slammed closed, dumping me into total dark. I stood for moment, trying to get my bearings, trying to sense whether I was indeed alone, when I felt a shiver of breeze wrap around my neck like a scarf, and a voice whispered from the ether.

  “Miami . . .”

  Chapter Nine

  “MIAMI,” THE VOICE said again. It was a woman’s voice, a definite Jamaican lilt, even in that solitary word. I stood frozen, holding my breath, and wondered if the White Witch of Rose Hall had come to visit me. There’s that willful suspension of disbelief thing. With the stone house, the cool dungeon and the darkness, my brain was going along with the whole ghost thing, despite my better judgment. But then the White Which started giving me life advice, and ruined the mood.

  “Leave da boy, leave da island,” she whispered.

  “What boy?”

  “Leave da boy, leave da island.”

  I let a grin creep over my face. It was too dar k for anyone to see it anyway. “Yeah, I hear you. But what boy are you referring to?”

  There was a long pause, then “Da runna boy. Richmond’s boy.”

  Richmond’s boy. Markus. I took a moment to ponder how the White Witch knew about Markus. I supposed that there was a pretty well-connected spirit network out there. But all set-dressing to the contrary, I concluded that the voice wasn’t really a ghost, but rather someone under the influence of Cornelius Winston. I suppressed a chuckle at the idea of using ghost stories to scare someone away. It all seemed so damn hokey.

  “Is this the White Witch?” I asked, deciding that I wasn’t in imminent danger and I should have some fun with it.

  “I be Annee Palmer.”

  “Great. Annee, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. Now, you’ve lived here—sorry—existed here for a long time. Where would you recommend as the best place for jerk chicken around town?”

  Once again there was silence. Perhaps Annee was tossing over her favorite chow joints, or more likely, whoever it was trying to put the fear of God into me was scrabbling as their plan went south.

  “Tell you what, you think on that, and get back to me.”

  I’d had enough standing in the dark talking to vapor, so I edged back along the wall until I reached the stairs. I hit the heavy door, and then felt around until I found a large iron lever. With a push it clicked and I drove the door open with my shoulder. A small set of steps led up the main level, where the giant who had sent me down was nowhere to be seen. The girls offering tours of the various rooms had reappeared, and some partygoers had wandered inside to take in the Georgian style of the grand house. I did the opposite. I strode back out in the fresh air, glad to be out of the cellar, and I shook out my shoulders. Our table was empty, the assistant commissioner and his wife nowhere to be seen, and Arthurs and Danielle were on an impromptu dance floor in front of the band. They we
re playing Christopher Cross, not my kind of tune, so I took to the bar, asked for a rum, shot it down and asked for another. I might not have believed in ghosts, but the experience gave me the heebie-jeebies nevertheless. I watched Danielle dancing with Arthurs, then the song finished and they joined me at the bar.

  “Is that rum?” said Danielle. “Don’t forget we’re riding a motorcycle home.”

  “For medicinal purposes only,” I said, and I recounted my adventure in the dungeon of the house.

  “Do you always make yourself so popular?” asked Arthurs.

  “Usually, yes,” I said. “Seriously, does this sound like something Winston might do? Invite us to a fundraiser at a haunted house to scare us off the island with spooky voices? It’s like amateur hour.”

  “I wouldn’t have given him credit for such creativity, but I guess anything’s possible.”

  “And what about seating us with the police chief?”

  “Assistant commissioner,” said Danielle. “I didn’t like that guy at all. If you ask me, they were trying a one-two. Scare us off in an official capacity, then follow it up with an old-fashioned scare.” Danielle looked at me. “Were you scared?”

  “Honestly, I was freaked out at first. Total darkness will do that. But I wasn’t buying the ghost act. It’s like a Scooby-Doo episode, for crying out loud.”

  “So what should we do now?”

  “I think I’ve had my fill of Rose Hall. I say we head back to the hotel, get some shut-eye and make sure Markus is okay for school tomorrow.”

  “So you’re not staying away from the kid then?” said Arthurs.

  “Not a chance,” said Danielle.

  I shook my head.

  “Good for you,” said Arthurs. “Just be careful. Ghost stories might be one thing, but in Jamaica, if they really want you away from the boy, things can get a good deal more serious, and how.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “You staying on?”

  Arthurs nodded. “I have a driver, and a bottle of someone else’s top-drawer rum.” He winked us a farewell, and we headed out of the marquee. I didn’t fancy going through the house, so we walked around the side. When the valet saw us coming he dashed forward with our helmets, and then retrieved the bike.