Trouble at High Tide
A Murder, She Wrote Mystery
OTHER BOOKS IN THE MURDER, SHE WROTE SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
A Fatal Feast
Nashville Noir
The Queen’s Jewels
Skating on Thin Ice
The Fine Art of Murder
Trouble at High Tide
A Murder, She Wrote Mystery
A NOVEL BY
JESSICA FLETCHER & DONALD BAIN
Based on the Universal Television series created by
Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © 2011 Universal City Studios Productions LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark
and copyright of Universal Studios.
All rights reserved.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Fletcher, Jessica.
Trouble at high tide: a Murder, she wrote mystery: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain.
pages cm.—Murder she wrote; 37)
ISBN: 978-1-101-58002-8
1. Fletcher, Jessica (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Murder—Bermuda Islands—Fiction.
I. Bain, Donald, 1935– II. Title.
PS3552.A376T76 2012
813.54—dc23 2011045099
Set in Minion
Designed by Ginger Legato
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
In memory of Craig Thomas, whose untimely death took from us a dear friend, and deprives the book world of a skilled, insightful writer. Craig’s eighteen thrillers, including Firefox, whose film version was directed by and starred Clint Eastwood, set the stage for all techno-thrillers to follow.
And for Jill Thomas, Craig’s wife and astute editor, who shared his remarkable ride through life with a smile capable of creating global warming.
Their friendship will always be treasured.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writers working today have the benefit of a full library at their fingertips in the myriad online resources available to consult and explore. While we are ardent fans of Bermuda and have spent many happy hours enjoying the island, its people, and all the wonderful amenities it has to offer, we admit to using the Internet to jog our memories on some of the details.
In doing research for Trouble at High Tide, we owe a debt of gratitude to numerous online resources, three in particular: Wikipedia (wikipedia.org); Casebook: Jack the Ripper (www.casebook.org), Stephen P. Ryder, editor; and Bermuda Online (www.bermuda-online.org), written and published by Keith Archibald Forbes.
We also thank Suzanne Wenz, regional director of public relations, and Lori Holland, executive director, Fairmont Hotels & Resorts; Alicia Hunt at Benchmade (knives); and former police investigator and current police consultant—and mystery writer’s best friend—Lee Lofland, author of Police Procedure & Investigation, and blogger on The Graveyard Shift (www.leelofland.com/wordpress/).
Thanks to them all. Any errors are, of course, ours.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter One
He was ahead of me in line. A stocky man with thin red hair parted on the side and muttonchop sideburns that reached up his cheek to connect to a bushy mustache. He wore a heavy brown tweed suit,
carried a book under one arm, and toted an old leather valise held closed by straps across the top. He was the image of a late-nineteenth-century traveler—and a strange sight to see as we inched our way forward toward the twenty-first-century customs agent in Bermuda.
“Have your passport and other papers out and ready, please,” an officer called to the crowd. The man in front of me set down his suitcase and groped around in his jacket for his papers, dropping his book in the process. I scooped it up and, startled, looked into the bleary eyes of the book’s owner. Part of the title was spelled out in large red letters dripping with blood: Jack the Ripper. The man mumbled his thanks, and quickly turned his back to me.
“Next! Step lively, sir. We don’t want to keep all these people waiting.”
“Odd-looking chap,” a man behind me murmured to his wife as the redheaded man moved forward to the podium where the customs agent waited.
“He must be an actor, doncha think?” she responded. “Who else would dress that way?”
Fifteen minutes later, I was riding in the rear of a limousine making its way from L.C. Wade International Airport through St. George’s Parish. I pulled a copy of the local newspaper out of the seat-back pocket in front of me. The headlines trumpeted the appointment of a new deputy chairman of the United Bermuda Party; the health minister’s call for blood donors to meet the dire need; and an extension of the school lunch program to include breakfast for children whose nutritional needs were not being met in their home lives. In a box at the bottom of the front page, an article bemoaned the lack of progress made in finding and arresting a serial killer. The body of a woman from the Dominican Republic had been discovered only a week ago in an alley behind the Hotel Rampling in Hamilton. Her throat had been slit. It was the third such death in two months, sending shock waves through the population. While Bermuda’s rising crime rate was of grave concern to the island’s sixty-five thousand residents, in the past, killings had been either drug- or gang-related. The current victims—all recent immigrants—seemed to lack those connections, although their murders were characterized by other, more disturbing similarities.
All three bore striking parallels to the infamous “Jack the Ripper” killings in London’s impoverished Whitechapel district in the 1880s and ’90s. As with the Ripper cases, all three women had been prostitutes. All had had their throats slashed, and the bodies of the three victims had been mutilated.
I’d heard about the Bermuda crimes at home, of course. Anything sensational gets immediate coverage on the Internet, and disappears just as quickly. Big-city newspapers had taken note of the killings, and television networks made brief mention of them, though I doubted they’d sent a team of reporters to the scene. Had the victims been American tourists, it would have been an altogether different situation. In any case, that was not why I was in Bermuda.
In the article, police dismissed the Ripper analogies, assured the public that the streets were safe, and speculated that this latest victim may have been killed by a client. However, when the article jumped to the back page, additional complications were revealed. The police commissioner was quoted complaining that “international coverage of the crimes has sparked some unfortunate tourism.” It seems ghoulish visitors captivated by the macabre murders—“ripperologists” they called themselves—had arrived on the island and were conducting ad-hoc investigations, which were hampering official police activities. My mind immediately flashed to the man at the airport. Was he another one of these ghoulish visitors, a Jack the Ripper “fan” so to speak, hastening to the scene of similar crimes?
The article also disclosed that police were contending with a raft of false leads. As had occurred in London at the time of the original Jack the Ripper killings, public fascination with the crimes had inspired a number of fabricated “tips” that authorities were nevertheless obligated to track down. The commissioner promised swift convictions of anyone found to impede police business.
“Here on vacation?” my driver asked as I put down the newspaper.
My eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m planning just to sit on the beach, watch the breakers come rolling in, and catch up with my reading.”
“You’ll be a bit busier than that, if the judge has anything to do with it.”
“Oh? I hadn’t known he’d be here.”
My host, Thomas Betterton, was a federal judge from New Jersey who had written a controversial book on reforming the federal court system. I had been introduced to him by my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, and we had met again when we’d sat together on several book-and-author panels over the past year.
“If you’re ever in need of some R-and-R, come down and stay at my place in Bermuda,” he’d said the last time I’d seen him. “I’ve got a boat, a couple of cottages right on the beach. You can have one all to yourself—even if I’m not there. And if I am there, you don’t have to feel obligated to spend time with me in the main house. You can come and go as you please.”
“That’s a very generous offer,” I’d said. “Be careful or I might take you up on it.”
“I want you to. They’re just sitting there gathering dust. But I’ll have my man, Adam, clean one up for you. How’s next month?”
He must have caught me at a particularly vulnerable time. I was weary from traveling across the country on a book tour, and the prospect of staying in a private cottage on a beautiful sunny island was appealing. I’d been to Bermuda before and fallen in love with its pastel homes, pristine pink beaches, turquoise waters, and the genteel manners of the people. I don’t remember agreeing to go, but the following week a package arrived. I took it to my desk, slit open the padded envelope, and drew out a pink cap with “Tucker’s Town” embroidered in script above the brim. I held up the hat and a set of keys fell into my lap. A note attached to the keys read: “Jessica, it’s yours for the whole week. Just call this number and let Adam Wyse know when your flight comes in. Catch you another time. Busy season for me. Have fun! Tom B.”
I’d looked out my window at the gray skies and pouring rain that had engulfed Cabot Cove and picked up the phone.
I pressed the button to roll down the window and leaned over to feel the warm Bermuda breeze on my face. We were on the road between Harrington Sound and Castle Harbour, the deep blue of one a contrast to the more turquoise waters of the other. Just breathing the salt-tinged air filled me with contentment.
“Yup, he likes to entertain, the judge does. Tonight, he’s hosting another one of his ‘intimate soirees.’ That’s what he calls them,” Adam, the driver, said as he maneuvered the town car past a jitney filled with tourists taking pictures of the view. “I think the party’s in your honor. He invited all the biggies, and I overheard him brag about you coming to stay.”
Well, it’s only for one night, I thought. I can be a gracious guest for one night and meet the judge’s friends. Then I’ll make my excuses and hide away in the cottage.
“He’s got a couple staying at the other beach house, the one next to yours, and the guest rooms in the main house are full. I’ve been hauling cases of wine around all week, and Norlene, that’s the cook, had to hire an extra assistant to help prepare the meals.”
Oh dear, I thought. I could see my peaceful island escape slipping away. “I don’t think I packed appropriately for this,” I said aloud, mentally calculating what I’d brought that could serve as party clothes.
“Yup, the judge likes lots of action.”
“Have you worked for Judge Betterton for very long?” I asked.
“Only about six months. I was between jobs and my cousin knew his cousin and recommended me. I’m his first PA—that’s a personal assistant. He never had one before, so I don’t know how long I’ll be working for him. But I only sign on for a short period of time anyway, no more than a year. I like to keep my options open.”
“I haven’t met many personal assistants,” I said. “What keeps you most busy?”
“You basical
ly do whatever your boss needs you to do. I go where he goes. Sometimes I drive, like today, escort people around. Other times I’m running into town to pick up something at a store for him or one of the family. In Bermuda, residents are only allowed one car per household, so a lot of what I do is chauffeuring. But I also answer the phone, pick up the mail, take the guests out fishing on the judge’s boat. It varies, but I like to travel. I get to meet some interesting people and see different parts of the world.”
“It sounds exciting, but I imagine it can be very difficult, too. How many people have you been a personal assistant for?” I asked.
“The judge is my fifth. And it’s true, sometimes you get people who take advantage or don’t treat you nicely. They’re really looking for a slave, not a PA. I worked for one rich guy who kept snapping his fingers at me. ‘Adam, get me a bottle of water.’ ‘Adam, I left my pipe upstairs.’” He snapped his fingers to illustrate. “‘Adam, the dog made a mess on the carpet.’”
“Doesn’t sound like a pleasant job or a pleasant person to work for.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind any reasonable request. That’s what I’m there for. But this guy, he never learned the words ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’ Just—” He snapped his fingers again. “I was out of there in a month.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said.
“Now, the judge, because he never had a PA before, he’s not always sure what to do with me. I’m kind of teaching him as I go along.”
I laughed. “Why would he need a PA?” I asked.
“Actually, he had this law clerk, Barry Lovick, working for him before, but he told me he likes to do his own research and I figured out he likes to keep his papers private. Apparently this guy Lovick was copying files and taking them home. At least that’s what I hear.”
“I wonder why,” I said.
“Beats me. I never did get all that legal mumbo jumbo. I even had trouble understanding the lease when I had an apartment in New York. All that party-of-the-first-part stuff leaves me cold.”
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