Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  I knew that most of the members of the Supreme Court had served in an appellate court before being nominated to the higher seat. Since the Supreme Court only hears about a hundred cases a year, the judges of the thirteen U.S. Courts of Appeals have a powerful influence on the law, handing down decisions on the remainder of the ten thousand cases filed with them each year.

  Were Tom nominated by the president and confirmed by the Senate, he would have a lifetime tenure on the Court of Appeals. Obviously having been the president’s law school classmate played a role in his being considered for this spot, but having been a federal judge for many years also gave him the requisite legal background.

  “I suppose the book I wrote caught people’s attention,” he mused. “It was controversial but still, it gave me a lot of good public relations, good exposure to those who don’t read the law journals but who make those kinds of decisions. At any rate, Jessica, I’ve decided that while I don’t want it made public knowledge, I do want to celebrate it with friends. That’s why I wanted you and Godfrey and his wife to join us tonight, to share in some good news, rather than focus on a tragedy. You know what I mean?”

  It struck me as strange that Tom was ready to pause in mourning his niece to celebrate something that wasn’t a reality yet, but I’ve learned over the years never to pass judgment on how people respond to misfortune.

  We’re all wired differently. When my husband, Frank, died, it was many months before I could lift my head from the pillow in the morning without a wave of grief sweeping over me. I went on. I never let my friends know how I grappled with those feelings daily, although those closest to me suspected my unhappiness. I’ve seen some people who bounce back immediately, and others who weep openly until people lose patience with them. There are no rules. Each of us has to find his or her way to deal with death. To have to deal with a violent end is even harder; so I gave Tom a pass. We would toast his possible good fortune.

  “Adam told me that there were people here from Scotland Yard today,” I said, changing the topic.

  “Oh yes. I knew I had something else to tell you.” He looked around. “I’ve got their cards here somewhere. Wait! I put them in the top drawer.”

  As he went to his desk to find the business cards, Norlene knocked on the door and entered carrying a tray. She put it down on the table between the two love seats and offered me the cup of tea that I had declined. I took it from her anyway, placing the cup and saucer on the table, while she set out the glass of ice for Tom, and a decanter with a silver label that said SCOTCH. She poured some of the liquor into his glass, placed a dish of crackers and another of nuts on the table, and left.

  “Here they are,” Tom said. “Thought I might have lost them.” He held up the business cards. “Thank you, Norlene,” he called out although she’d already exited the room.

  He handed me the business cards and I looked at them. They contained color photographs of the inspectors. One was for Inspector Veronica Macdonald, Forensics Unit.

  “You’ll find Macdonald’s picture doesn’t do her justice,” Tom said. “Beautiful woman.”

  “So Adam said.”

  I hadn’t told Tom about the press conference so there was no point in saying I’d already seen her at police headquarters.

  “Adam’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head,” Tom said, chuckling. “I thought he would fall all over himself when he brought them in. The other one is Gill something.”

  “Gilliam,” I filled in, looking at the card. “John Gilliam. He’s a criminal profiler.” He had a pleasant face, not one you’d pay particular attention to, but perhaps that worked in his favor when he interviewed people in an attempt to ferret out the details that would inform his profile of the killer. He would want his witnesses to concentrate on the killer, not on him.

  “Gilliam, that’s it. No one probably pays him any mind when she’s around. Anyway, they had a few questions, but they said that they didn’t think Alicia’s death was related to the Jack the Ripper killings.” He sighed. “I don’t know if they’re right, but I’m not the expert there. I told them I didn’t care if it was or it wasn’t. I wanted them to find the guy and string him up. They assured me they’re working on Alicia’s case as well as the other murders.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Yes. They want to talk to you, of course, since it was you who discovered her body. I told them that I would have you call as soon as you got in. Do you want to use my phone?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “It’s too late now to go to police headquarters or to have them come here again. I’ll call before I change for dinner and make an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “Whatever you say.” He picked up his glass, took a long sip, looked at me over the rim, and smiled. “Here’s to you.”

  I took a sip of my tea, wondering how long I’d have to sit with my host before I could go back to the cottage and make the call. As it happened, it wasn’t very long. Madeline came into the room and asked to speak with Tom privately, the perfect excuse for my departure.

  I took a quick shower in the cottage and dressed for dinner. I left a voice mail message for the Scotland Yard inspectors, brought Alicia’s book outside, and sat in the swing. It was an hour and a half before dinner would be served. I idly flipped through the pages. Alicia had only read halfway through. The spine wasn’t cracked for the second half of the book, nor were any sections underlined. She had, however, made a note inside the back cover. It said, “Fairy Fay, GD, 2, Tuesday.”

  Why hadn’t I noticed that before? I was so busy reading the book that I hadn’t looked at it thoroughly. I riffled all the pages to see if any papers fell out. I checked inside the front cover and went through the entire book page by page to see if she had left any other notes in the margins. I tilted the book in the light in case there was an impression on the cover of something she might have written on paper, using the book to lean on. Nothing more.

  I pondered the meaning of “Fairy Fay, GD, 2, Tuesday.” I assumed that the handwriting was Alicia’s. To my knowledge, other than Madeline and me, no one else had handled the book. It sounded like an appointment. But who was this lady with an unusual name and when was Alicia supposed to meet her? Today was Sunday. Was she referring to last Tuesday or the day after tomorrow? Why had Alicia made an appointment with her? And had she hidden this information on purpose, or simply used the book because it was the only available paper to write on?

  I went back into the cottage to retrieve my new guidebook and opened the folded map of Bermuda contained inside. If Fairy Fay lived here, where was GD? Was it a place in St. George’s? A street? A store, perhaps? A hotel? A golf club of some kind? I studied the map, making a list of anything I thought might be helpful. There were quite a few places that started with a G—Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, Grassy Bay, Gates Fort, Governor’s Island—but none that could be abbreviated GD. I was more successful in the restaurant listing. I found a place called Gardner’s Deli in Hamilton. I made a note to myself to stop in at Gardner’s Deli at two o’clock on Tuesday. Maybe Fairy Fay worked there, or perhaps someone knew where she could be found. I knew very little about Alicia’s activities outside her uncle’s house and it would be helpful to meet one of her friends.

  I folded up the map, tucked Alicia’s book into my shoulder bag for safekeeping, and left the porch. There was still time before dinner and I took a chance that the crime scene was no longer cordoned off. Shoes were needed on the gravel path, but once I reached the beach they were more an encumbrance than a help. I slipped them off and walked barefoot in the sand, retracing my steps the night I arrived, but this time with the advantage of a sun, rather than a moon, hanging over the horizon.

  I ambled past the second cottage, the one still occupied by Daisy and Godfrey Reynolds. I remembered taking a look at that cottage the night of the murder and noticing that it matched mine with its porch swing and screen door. I hadn’t seen Godfrey reading on the porch the night of the murder. I could hardly have
missed him. I’d passed the cottage again, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later when I’d run back to call the police. If Godfrey had been sitting on the porch then, I wouldn’t have noticed. My mind had been preoccupied with reaching the authorities before the surf washed away any more evidence, including Alicia’s body. But had he been there, surely Godfrey would have seen me hurrying up the beach, or would have heard my footsteps when I reached the gravel path. Yet Daisy said that he’d told the police that he’d neither seen nor heard anything.

  The sun was hanging over the rocky outcropping. The spray from the waves hitting the hard surfaces sent golden droplets up into the sky; they bounced off the gray stone, now gilded in the waning evening light. A piece of yellow tape affixed to the rock fluttered in the breeze, the only reminder of the violence that had taken place there. The beach was beautiful, romantic, serene.

  I rounded a boulder and came upon the staircase that led up to the Jamisons’ property. Someone was sitting on the bottom steps, his face turned away from me. He wore a pair of khaki slacks folded up at the cuffs; the arms of a navy blue sweater were looped around his shoulders. An aqua bandanna peeked from the open collar of his pink shirt. His black curly hair was tousled by the wind. Agnes’s grandnephew didn’t notice me until I was almost upon him.

  “Hello, Charles,” I said.

  “Mrs. Fletcher!” He stumbled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “May I join you?” I pointed at the stair on which he’d been sitting.

  “Sure. I’m not going to stay very long, but please—” He untied his neckerchief and swiped at the sand on the step.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  We were silent for a while, but I was aware of his eyes roaming the beach, taking in every detail.

  “This is where you found her, right?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “I… I might have been the last person to see her alive,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We were supposed to meet after the judge’s party. I had invited her to go with me to another party some friends were throwing in Paget. I knew it would still be going on. Those guys pretty much hang out until the morning.”

  “Did you go to the party?”

  “I did, yes. Not Alicia. I wish she had gone with me. God, how I wish I had made her go with me.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  “We argued. She was in a funny mood, picking fights with everyone. I’d seen Stephen and Madeline giving her a piece of their mind, but they couldn’t contain her. She was high on something, maybe just a little drunk, I think. She was unsteady. She tripped and Mr. Reynolds had to catch her. That didn’t sit very well with his wife. She practically shoved him out the door. Alicia just laughed. She was bragging how she was going to blow them all out of the water.”

  “Who was she going to blow out of the water?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. I asked her what she was planning to do. She said, ‘You’ll see.’ Then she ran out on the terrace and was gone.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was quavering. “Then next thing I knew, Aunt Agnes was shaking me awake and there was a room full of constables waiting to take me to headquarters.”

  “What time had you gotten home?”

  “No idea. I went to the party, but I was so pissed at Alicia I just drank myself into a stupor. One of the guys threw my motorbike into his truck and drove me home. He told the cops he dropped me off at four or five. I really don’t remember.”

  “That must have been a problem with the police.”

  “Yeah, my alibi’s not the best. But my friend vouched for me. I never would have hurt her. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. She made me want to strangle her. I sure was tempted, but I didn’t do it. And I don’t even own a knife.”

  “What does your great-aunt think of all this?”

  He shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her. She was never a fan of Alicia’s. I knew that. But she never told me not to see her. She kind of goes with the flow. I think it’s just something else for her to gossip about. She lives for gossip.” He looked at me. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s true. I guess at her age, there isn’t a lot else to interest her.”

  I thought Agnes would not be pleased at her nephew’s description of her life, but I wasn’t in a position to contradict him. I didn’t know her that well, but I couldn’t help saying, “I’m sure she’s not as cold as that.”

  He shrugged.

  “How long were you seeing Alicia?” I asked. “Someone at the party said she had a boyfriend. Was that you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sighing again. “I have to go.” He pushed on his knees to stand, brushed the sand off the seat of his trousers, and put out a hand to help me to my feet. “I apologize if I was rude to you the other night. You caught me right in the middle of my argument with Alicia and I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Please send my regards to your aunt. I’d like to stop by and see her if she wouldn’t mind.”

  “She’d love it. Just go. She’s always there. Judge Betterton has our address.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  He turned and quickly climbed the stairs.

  How odd to find him there, I thought, as I watched him take the steps two at a time as though eager to get away.

  But from what?

  From the scene of the crime?

  Or from my questions?

  Chapter Ten

  When I returned to my cottage after dinner, there was a message on my cell phone inviting me to police headquarters early the following afternoon to meet with the representatives from Scotland Yard. I was certain my dear friend Chief Inspector George Sutherland had briefed them on what he and I had discussed in our phone call; I didn’t know what more I could offer, but I eagerly looked forward to the meeting.

  If I were being completely honest with myself, I would admit that I was curious to meet Inspector Veronica Macdonald, the forensics expert. Both Tom and Adam had commented enthusiastically on how beautiful she was, which I had seen for myself at the press conference. As a member of the team George had designated to assist the Bermudian police with their serial killer cases, she would have had to impress him with her knowledge and skills. Why else would George have chosen her for this assignment? Perhaps they had worked closely together on other cases in London. Did he find her as beautiful as the judge and his personal assistant so clearly did? I flinched at the direction of my thoughts. Goodness, Jessica! I chided myself. Is that a twinge of jealousy you’re feeling?

  As I got ready for bed, I forced myself to think about the evening I’d just spent. Neither the Scotland Yard inspectors nor one of the subjects of their investigation, the late Alicia Betterton, had been mentioned in the dinner table conversation. Instead, the meal was surprisingly convivial. We had been seven at the table: our host Tom and his girlfriend, Margo Silvestry; Tom’s stepchildren, Stephen and Madeline; his British publisher, Godfrey Reynolds; Reynolds’s wife, Daisy; and me. Adam apparently had been left off the guest list or perhaps had declined the invitation. I heard his voice in the kitchen once or twice talking to the cook, Norlene, but he never made an appearance in the dining room, which I found odd, given that he’d joined the family for meals before.

  The judge, apparently buoyed by the contemplation of his potential nomination, was a congenial host, telling stories about his early days on the bench when he was first “learning the ropes,” as he put it, and entertaining us with tales of his New Jersey boyhood and his hunt for the Jersey Devil in the state’s Pine Barrens.

  “Is the Jersey Devil an animal?” Margo had asked.

  “More like a legend,” the judge had replied. “You all know about the abominable snowman, or yeti.” He pointed at Godfrey. “And I’m sure you�
��ve heard of the Loch Ness monster.”

  “Thought I saw it myself once,” Godfrey quipped.

  “Maybe you did,” the judge said. “They didn’t discover the mountain gorilla until 1901 or 1902. And it was less than a dozen years ago that Japanese fishermen took a picture of the giant squid.”

  “What’s that got to do with the Jersey Devil?” Stephen asked, a slight smile on his face. It was obviously a familiar story to him, but he played along.

  “Just that you can never be certain if a legend is false. There are hundreds of thousands of acres in the Pine Barrens, big enough to hide a rare specimen, particularly one that’s shy. If there are creatures left to be discovered, one of them may just be my Jersey Devil.”

  “Have to admit I’ve never heard of it,” Godfrey said.

  “Me neither,” added Margo. “What’s it supposed to look like?”

  Tom warmed to his tale. “It was kind of a cross between a horse and a pterodactyl. He was first spotted in the early seventeen hundreds, colonial days. A flying biped with hooves and a long tail is how it was described.”

  “Sounds horrible,” Daisy said.

  “Well, he was no great beauty in any of the pictures I’ve seen,” the judge said.

  “You’ve actually seen a picture of it?” Godfrey asked.

  “Not a photograph, no. But over the centuries there have been lots of sketches, none of them exactly the same. Stephen used to make wonderful drawings of it when he was a boy.” He looked over to his stepson. “Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “They say Napoleon’s brother Joseph Bonaparte saw one when he was hunting in Bordentown,” Tom continued. “That was in the eighteen hundreds. And even up to the early twentieth century, reports of strange footprints or odd sounds were attributed to the devil. I never did see one in person, but I had a lot of fun looking for it.” He pointed his fork at Madeline and Stephen. “That would have made some trophy for my wall at home, eh, kids?”