As Adam drove inland, the landscape changed to expanses of green lawns and trees and occasional glimpses of lush gardens through gates. We passed several communities where the homes were clustered together, and Adam wove in and out of small roads before the water came into view again and he turned onto Tucker’s Town Road. He made a right at the crest of a hill into the brick driveway of an elegant yellow stucco house and pulled up to the entrance under a porte cochere supported by white columns carved to resemble palm trees. He hopped out and came around to assist me as I exited the car. Large pots of frangipani on either side of the Palladian door perfumed the air.
The house was situated on a bluff that overlooked the harbor across the road, and the ocean in the back. Adam opened the door into the breezeway and deposited my rolling bag on the tile floor. I could see through to the rear of the house and beyond it to an expanse of blue water.
“The cottage is around to the back and down a path to the beach,” Adam said. “I’ll bring your luggage there in a while, but the judge wanted you to join the family for lunch before you settle in. Okay?”
“Certainly,” I said. “I’d like to thank him for the opportunity to stay in such a lovely place.”
“The beach houses don’t hold a candle to the guest rooms up here, but they’re comfortable and pretty private. I stayed in one until I got booted out to make room for the couple who arrived yesterday. Now I’m in a room off the kitchen. But I’m flexible. You have to be if you’re a PA.”
He led me through a large living room furnished almost entirely in white, including an ivory grand piano in one corner and a fireplace in another. Groupings of plush sofas in bleached canvas and bone-colored upholstered chairs, punctuated by a few bright pillows, created an inviting environment. The pale palette called attention to the spectacular view of the deep blue ocean with waves spilling onto a sparkling beach. A young woman with a book, her face obscured by her long blond hair, was curled up in a tan-and-white checked armchair by a broad window. Next to her was a telescope aimed at the pink sand. She didn’t look up from her reading as we crossed the room, nor did Adam acknowledge her, which I thought was strange. Perhaps he didn’t notice her, I silently rationalized.
“Well, well, our star has finally arrived,” Tom Betterton boomed out from his place at the head of the table when Adam escorted me into the dining room. Two others were already seated with my host. They looked to be in their late twenties.
“Please don’t get up,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m interrupting your meal.”
“Nonsense,” Tom said, hauling himself up from his chair. “We’ve been eagerly awaiting you. Norlene has your plate in the warmer.” He paused on his way to greet me, plucked a bell from the sideboard, and gave it an energetic ring. “Good to see you again,” he said, enveloping me in a bear hug before I could step back. “Here, here, sit down.” He held out the seat opposite his at the end of the table. “I was just telling these children about the last time I was in Washington visiting the White House. Every American should see that magnificent building.”
“Did you get to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” the younger man asked archly. He winked at the woman across the table from him.
Tom ignored the comment. “I imagine you’ve been to the White House many times, haven’t you, Jessica?” he said to me as he pushed in my chair.
“Well, I’ve taken the visitors’ tour,” I said, looking up.
“Spectacular place, isn’t it?” He returned to his seat, pausing only to ring the bell on the sideboard again. He sat heavily and raised his eyebrows at me. “Hope you like fish chowder.”
“Love it,” I said.
“Adam caught some of the fish our cook used,” Tom said. “A real jack-of-all-trades.” He picked up his napkin and waved it at the young woman to his left. “My daughter, Madeline Betterton.”
“Stepdaughter,” the young man corrected as Madeline leaned over to offer me her hand.
“Adopted daughter,” Madeline said. “My mother was wife number one.”
“Her sarcastic brother, Stephen,” Tom said, cocking his head at the fellow in question.
Stephen rose slightly from his seat and gave a short bow in my direction. “A pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. We’re desperately hoping you can enliven the conversation. We’ve had this verbal tour of the U.S. capital one too many times.”
“And no talk about Sagamore Hill either,” Madeline said with a fake shudder. “We’ve heard enough about Teddy Roosevelt’s home to last a lifetime.”
It was no surprise to me that Judge Thomas Betterton spent considerable time in the nation’s capital and enjoyed discussing his visits there. Although he sat on the bench in New Jersey, he had numerous connections in Washington, the most noteworthy of them the president of the United States, who’d been Betterton’s law school classmate years earlier.
“Where’s Alicia?” the judge asked as Adam pulled out a chair next to me, preparing to take his place at the table.
“I believe I saw her in the living room reading, your honor,” Adam replied.
“Always has her head in a book, that one,” Tom said, smiling at me. “Well, go get her,” he instructed Adam. “She’ll want to meet our honored guest. Besides, she hasn’t eaten yet.”
Adam did as directed and returned shortly with the very pretty girl with long, wavy blond hair who’d been reading when I arrived. I estimated her to be in her late teens to early twenties. He pulled out a chair for her next to Stephen, who continued eating without acknowledging her presence.
“Alicia has been so excited about you coming here,” Tom said to me. “She’s a writer, too. Say hello to Mrs. Fletcher, Allie. She’s the famous author I was telling you about. Alicia is my niece, Jessica.”
“Yes. The favorite child,” Madeline said.
Alicia batted her eyelashes at me and smiled prettily. “So glad you could come,” she said.
“It was very kind of your uncle to invite me.”
Our introduction was interrupted by the entrance of the cook carrying a huge silver tray.
“Ah,” the judge said, grinning. “You’re in for a treat now. Norlene is the finest cook on the island.”
Adam raced to Norlene’s side, relieved her of her burden, and set the tray down on a built-in sideboard under a stucco arch. The cook wiped her hands on her apron and picked up two bowls, setting one in front of me and the other at Alicia’s place. Adam took a third bowl for himself.
“It’s fish chowder,” Norlene announced. “Should still be good. I’ve been holding it a while.” She slipped a basket of rolls between my place and Alicia’s.
“I’m sure it will be wonderful,” I said, picking up my spoon and tasting the spicy stew of mixed fish and vegetables in what looked like a tomato-beef broth.
Without being asked, Stephen set a bottle with a black label next to Alicia. “Hot sauce for the hotshot?” he said.
“I thought you were supposed to be on your best behavior today,” Alicia said, taking off the bottle cap and shaking several drops into her bowl.
“No. That’s your department.”
“I’ll have some of that,” Adam said, reaching for the bottle. “Mrs. Fletcher? Would you like to try it? It’s an island specialty.”
“No, thanks. This is hot enough for me,” I said. “It certainly has an unusual flavor.”
“That’s probably the rum,” Adam said. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”
“Oh,” I said, helping myself to a roll. I hoped that Norlene had cooked some of the alcohol out of her stew, but if she hadn’t, I wanted some bread to soften the blow.
While the three of us ate, Tom, Madeline, and Stephen discussed the guest list for the party. A number of notables were expected, including a local judge, the commissioner of police, and the owner of an art gallery in St. George’s. The menu was also analyzed. When the conversation drifted to the relative merits of Bermudian versus Jamaican rums, I leaned over to Alicia, who had been silently concentrating on her soup.
“Your uncle said you like to write. What kind of writing do you do?”
She shrugged. “All kinds, I guess. I had to do a lot of writing for school.”
“You don’t have a favorite genre? Poetry? Stories? Essays?”
She shrugged again.
So much for her excitement at my arrival. I tried a different tack. “I noticed you were reading when I came in,” I said. “What kinds of books do you like?”
She gave me a strange smile. “Mysteries mostly. True crime, the more bloodthirsty the better.”
“And what are you reading now?”
She reached into the pocket of her sweater, slipped a book on the table, and withdrew it just as quickly, but not before I’d had time to read the title: The Crimes of Jack the Ripper.
Chapter Two
“Pretty little chit, isn’t she?” Godfrey Reynolds said, his eyes following Alicia as she wound her way around clusters of guests while sipping from a martini glass. “Betterton needs to keep a leash on that one.”
Alicia’s long hair was caught up in a loose ponytail with soft curls dangling next to her cheeks. She was wearing what appeared to be a modest white sundress with a high ruffled neckline in front but which, when she turned around, plunged to below her waist at the back.
Godfrey’s wife, Daisy, rolled her eyes. “She has a boyfriend, darling.” Daisy turned to me. “My husband always has an eye for the sweet young things.”
“You were once a sweet young thing, too, my love.” Godfrey raised his glass to his wife and smirked.
“Yes, but no more. I understand you very well,” she replied, pressing his wrist to lower his arm. “Try to keep it down to three or four tonight, will you? You’re so much more charming when you’re sober.”
The “intimate soiree” Adam had forecast was underway. Forty people crowded into the white living room and spilled onto the broad terrace overlooking the ocean. As a pianist played popular tunes on the piano, white-coated waiters passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and delivered drinks to the guests who gathered in small groups. Most of the men wore dinner jackets over dark Bermuda shorts and high socks. The women were arrayed in a palette of hues to rival the shades of the island’s famous pastel buildings. I had paired a crisp white shirt and dangling necklace with a long print skirt I’d actually brought to cover my bathing suit. That it could do double duty as party attire was a relief. And as long as I didn’t meet any of these people on the beach later in the week, no one would be the wiser.
Earlier in the evening, Betterton had guided me around the room, introducing me to his guests, a multiracial group reflective of Bermuda’s mixed population of blacks, whites, and Asians. He had extended an invitation to several of his neighbors on Tucker’s Town Road. Unfortunately, New York City’s mayor had another engagement, and the Italian prime minister was not in residence, but my host had pointed out a couple who lived next door, Daniel and Lillian Jamison, he, a Wall Street survivor of the bailouts and consolidations, she, a Manhattan real estate agent. Tom confided in me that the Jamisons had brought a suit against him over his plans to erect another building on his property that they claimed would spoil their ocean view.
“Maybe after they’ve taken advantage of my hospitality, I can soften them up a bit, get them to drop the action,” he whispered to me. “I’m sure I can talk them into it given enough time. Worse comes to worst, I can send Alicia over to work on them. She knows how to wrap people around her little finger, that minx.”
Since I had not yet been exposed to Alicia’s charm, I didn’t comment on the judge’s plans.
Godfrey and Daisy Reynolds were the last couple Tom introduced me to before he was called away to consult with Adam over the need to bring in more champagne.
Godfrey was the British publisher of Tom’s book on rooting out corruption in the federal judicial system. I was surprised that there would be overseas interest in this topic, but was intrigued by the idea.
“I didn’t realize there was a British market for books on American judicial reform,” I said.
“There’s always professional curiosity about how one goes about reforming any legal system,” Godfrey replied. “Oxford put out a volume some years back on comparative perspectives when the UK was speculating on what powers a supreme court would hold. These types of books reach a specialized audience. They’re small runs, but they can be particularly profitable. That one sold for fifty quid. We’re pricing Betterton’s volume at thirty-five.”
“If my math is correct, that’s about fifty-five dollars,” I said, “an expensive book.”
“Not for the right customer.”
“Godfrey, is that Richard Mann over there?” Daisy asked, tugging on her husband’s arm. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him about that painting I liked.” She turned to me. “Would you please excuse us, Jessica?”
“Of course.”
Left on my own for the moment, I briefly considered seeking out the lady judge to whom Tom had introduced me when we’d made our rounds of the room. But she appeared to be deep in conversation with the police commissioner, and I hesitated to interrupt.
“You’re welcome to sit here, my dear,” said a gravelly voice.
I looked over my shoulder to see an elderly black woman beckoning me from where she sat on a sofa in front of the fireplace. She had a pile of wispy white hair floating around her head like a halo. Ruby earrings hung from her ears and were a match to the necklace resting on the yellow and pink silk jacket she wore over a black skirt. Her long fingers were adorned with several rings, and her nails were neatly manicured.
“Come here, dear,” she said, pointing to an armchair next to the sofa. “I sent my nephew off to bring me a drink and it appears I’ve been abandoned. He’s probably been waylaid by one of the pretty girls, and I think I know which one.”
“Would you like me to bring you a drink?” I asked.
“No. No. That’s a job for a young man. You just sit here and give me a bit of company, if you would.”
“I’d be happy to,” I said, taking the chair she’d indicated and putting my champagne flute down on the glass-topped table between us.
“You know he’s very clever, that boy,” she said.
“What boy?” I asked.
“My nephew, Charles. He deposits me on this divan, knowing there’s no way I can get up from these soft pillows without assistance.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “They can trap you, those soft pillows.”
“Exactly. Don’t have strength in the back, or in the legs, for that matter, that I used to when I was your age. But as long as I have company, I’ll accommodate him and sit quietly until he returns with my drink. I’m Agnes, by the way. Chudleigh-Stubbs is the last name, but it’s a bit of a mouthful to get around, so Agnes will do.”
“Nice to meet you, Agnes. I’m Jessica Fletcher.”
“Oh, yes. The mystery writer. Well, wasn’t I lucky to pick you out of the crowd?”
“That’s kind of you to say. Are you a friend of the judge?”
“Tom? Everyone who’s anyone is friends with Tom. He pours the best champagne and even serves caviar. Beluga, no less. You can hardly find it in the States anymore. It’s considered an endangered species—not surprising, considering it’s more than five thousand dollars a pound. Bermudians are no fools. We like our luxuries and the people who provide them,” she said with a wink.
“That’s quite an extravagance,” I said, wondering how Tom could afford to serve his guests such expensive fare. Federal judges are certainly well compensated, but I’d never thought they were considered especially wealthy. In fact, I’d recently read that the chief justice of the Supreme Court had complained that federal judges were underpaid.
“Have you lived on Bermuda for a long time?” I asked.
“Just my whole life. Family dates back centuries. Not always the best people, mind you. I think there was a horse thief somewhere back there, but we’ve come up in the world now. My late husband, Stu
bby—his real name was Algernon—don’t blame him for sticking with Stubby—he was the first Afro-Bermudian magistrate. My nephew, Charles, grandnephew actually, is his sister’s grandchild. Oh, there you are.” She looked up with a smile as the man I assumed was Charles leaned over to hand her a glass. He had a handsome face, but affected the day’s growth of whiskers so many of today’s men in their twenties think marks them as sexy.
“Sorry for the delay, Aunt Agnes. The judge pulled me into the kitchen to help his man with one of the champagne cases. Stephen has made himself scarce, as usual. But there’s your Dark and Stormy, just as you like it, heavy on the rum, light on the ginger beer.”
“Good boy!” Agnes said, taking a sip from the glass. “Say hello to Jessica Fletcher.” She waved her glass in my direction. “Judge Betterton’s special guest tonight. Writes mysteries. Now, show your best manners.” To me, she said: “My nephew, Charles Davis.”
Charles shook my hand and smiled. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. My great-aunt must think I’m still a boy. She doesn’t want me to embarrass her but doesn’t hesitate to embarrass me.” He winked at Agnes and excused himself, promising to check back in case she wanted assistance circulating in the room.
“I raised that boy right,” Agnes said to me.
“He’s charming,” I said. “Does he live with you?”
“I wish he did, but no. He’s in graduate school in the States. He’s just here for the week. I had a feeling he’d arrive when I noticed Betterton’s niece walking on the beach a few days ago. Charles takes every opportunity to court her, but I’m not sure she’s worth the effort. Don’t tell Tom I said so. He dotes on her.”
“My lips are sealed,” I said.
“So, Jessica Fletcher, what brings you to Tucker’s Town? Are you here to help the local constabulary with their murder investigations?”
“Heavens, no,” I said. “I’m sure the Bermudian police don’t need any help from a mystery writer. Not at all. I’m here because Tom offered me a week in one of his cottages and I accepted. I didn’t even know that he was going to be here. In fact, I’d gotten the distinct impression that he wasn’t able to take the time off. I came intending simply to sit in the sun and read a book.”
Trouble at High Tide Page 2
