Everyone's Dead But Us

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  “It doesn’t say he can prove any of this,” Scott said.

  “So what have we learned,” I said.

  “There’s a possible secret stash of stunningly valuable art somewhere on the island.”

  “That’s not much more than people have suspected for centuries.”

  “But it’s enough to kill for,” Scott said.

  We heard a door moving downstairs.

  “Oh shit,” Scott said.

  We’d been too absorbed. I glanced out the windows. No one. There was no exit other than the staircase down. Trapped.

  I clicked off the flashlight. Thunder boomed. I heard footsteps. We stuffed the papers under the silk covering. We hurried to the spiral staircase. I saw Pietro at the bottom. He was looking up into the gloom.

  “Mr. Mason, Mr. Carpenter,” he whispered. I didn’t see a gun. He’d been the concierge for Scott’s and my room since the first time we’d visited the island. He was in his early sixties. He whispered, “I came to help.” It was the first time he’d spoken without an accent.

  We’d been told not to trust anyone. Thasos hadn’t specifically mentioned Pietro. Here he was offering help. He didn’t have a gun, or at least not one that I could see.

  I heard Scott lock the door behind us. We trod down the stairs and met him at the bottom. “How’d you know we were here?” I asked.

  “The rich are stupid. They might get here sometime this year. They’re wrangling about being inconvenienced and doing nothing. You guys are dismissed as little more than minor nuisances.”

  “Why the fake accent?” Scott asked Pietro.

  “I grew up in Brooklyn. I flunked out of high school, joined the Merchant Marine when I was a kid, traveled the world. I learned to cook. I learned what elegant people liked. I trained for years as a butler in Glasgow, Scotland. People have expectations. If I sounded like a New York cab driver in the nineteen fifties, people wouldn’t make an association with elegance. If you have a mixture of some indeterminate foreign accent, you tend to get treated with a little deference, distance, and a little more respect.”

  “Is Pietro your real name?” Scott asked.

  “It’s Barney Crushton. I’ve been keeping secrets on this island since the seventies.”

  I said, “Do we call you Barney or Pietro?”

  “Barney’s good.”

  “Why come to us now?” Scott asked.

  “I think terrible things are happening on the island. I’m scared. The rich and their lackeys are in Movado’s villa making plans to cover up this whole thing. I don’t see how that can be done, but I see why they think they need to do it, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they can do it. I just don’t think I want to be part of it. I’ve seen the rich do a lot of things on this island. Mr. Tudor was very good to me. To claim that you made up his death is ludicrous. And if he wasn’t dead, he’d certainly have shown himself by this point. I want to help you. Now O’Quinn is dead. Some of the staff have died. This is real murder and real life. Real people are dead. Some of my friends were in the Atrium when it collapsed in the explosion. Artie Sherebury was my lover.”

  I never suspected.

  Crushton explained, “Yeah, we were about twenty years apart in age. When you’re stuck on this island, you get close to people. Not many of us lived here full time. It can get pretty dull here in mid-February Most of the help who come over every day are straight.”

  I said, “I’ve always wanted to ask about that.”

  “What?” Crushton asked.

  “The guy who told us about this place mentioned one of the amenities he loved the most was the ready supply of companions.”

  Crushton said, “No, we didn’t require the men who worked here to be prostitutes. It was explained to them that they could supplement their incomes enormously depending on what they were willing to do. An amazing number of them were willing to do a great deal. Henry Tudor did not run a pimping service, but if a guest was interested in a young man then options could be provided. Mr. Tudor was in the business of keeping his guests happy. If he knew someone who wanted a winner of the Tour de France as a partner, Henry would go out of his way to make that happen.”

  “Wouldn’t that take a stunning amount of money?” I asked.

  “These people have a stunning amount of money. They are often willing to pay a great deal for services that cost a great deal. Actually, far fewer of the guests wanted nightly companions than you might imagine. Most brought their own pleasure with them. The local studs were needed on a sometime basis. You probably couldn’t make a living at it although tips could be astronomical. I never heard of anybody getting killed over it.”

  Scott said, “Does this prurient speculation of random indulgences get us closer to any kind of solution?” I gave him a look. Sarcasm flowing like someone just swallowed a thesaurus was my forte. Him using it meant he was annoyed.

  I asked, “Where are the ones who aren’t with Movado?”

  “They’ve gone to their villas. They think they’ll be safe.”

  Scott said, “For their sakes, I hope they’re right.”

  I said, “I think our most basic need is background on all these guests, on the dead and the living and on who might have motivation to kill all these people.”

  “I can give you background information,” Crushton said.

  Scott asked, “How come nobody would answer Tom’s question about Tudor having any enemies?”

  Crushton said, “That’s simple. Our employers were there. The staff would never speak out of turn.”

  “Even if it was a murder?” Scott asked.

  “Our jobs and our livelihoods depend on the goodwill of the people we serve. Nobody would take that kind of risk.”

  “And you are?” Scott asked.

  “Yes. The future isn’t in murder.”

  Should we trust him? We could add his knowledge to what we’d found in Thasos’s documents. Trust was a different issue.

  “What was the deal with Derek Harris?” I asked. “He’s missing.”

  Crushton said, “Mr. Tudor began bringing Mr. Harris before his wins in the Olympics. It’s been a while. Mr. Harris would leave for tours, tournaments, and exhibitions, but he always returned. Mr. Tudor was always very understanding.”

  “Any idea how they met?” Scott asked.

  “Mr. Tudor did not confide in me,” Crushton said.

  “Who did he confide in?” I asked.

  “His fellow rich people,” Crushton said.

  “Did he have enemies?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Crushton said.

  “What’s the story on O’Quinn?” I asked.

  Crushton said, “One of the quieter guests. He is a regular, and we knew him well enough. He’s been here at least once a year every year for fifteen years. I think he and Mr. Tudor might have been lovers at one time. If they were, they haven’t had that kind of relationship in a long time, but they were very close. They shared secrets.”

  “Their old relationship couldn’t have left residual anger on either of their parts?”

  “He and Henry always had at least one private dinner while Mr. O’Quinn was here.”

  “Did you know he inherited the island?”

  “No. And now that O’Quinn is dead, I have no idea who does.”

  “Did O’Quinn have a lover? We heard he’d just broken up with one recently.”

  “He had a current favorite among the help. A Greek guy of about twenty. Mr. O’Quinn offered to hire the guy, and he was willing to be a temporary companion. He was scheduled to be on the boat coming in tonight. Obviously, he never showed up.”

  “How much does a thing like that cost?” Scott asked.

  “For this guy? Five thousand dollars for a night. He was young, compact, muscular, had a beautiful smile. Of course, this was on a sliding scale. Many of them worked that way. They weren’t stupid. For up to three thousand dollars, this Greek guy was straight and very unavailable. Then after four thousand dollars, he was a passive do-n
othing. Just lay there. A lot of them are like that. Once you hit five thousand, this one was a total slut. He was one of the most expensive. The guy was beautiful.”

  “But he’s not here?”

  “No. According to rumor, the Greek guy lived up to his heritage for Mr. O’Quinn. Although they aren’t the only ones who put into port around here. We’ve got the British Royal Navy pursuing at least one of their traditions on the island.”

  Scott said, “Gay British sailors openly prostitute themselves here?”

  “My dear, these are the rich. It’s never that crass really, is it? A few of them make themselves available. The rich dangle money. A sailor in one of those trim little outfits? Scrumptious. And, of course, supposedly an admiral back in the eighteen nineties was very close to the Earl of Trent, the first owner of the island. Word is—”

  I wasn’t in the mood for this. I interrupted, “And it ended with a bevy of sailors and at least one admiral taking headers off the castle battlement.”

  Crushton smiled. “One would hope.”

  “Did O’Quinn have enemies?” I asked. “Fights with anyone? Disagreements?”

  “Mr. O’Quinn was the outcast of his family. He wasn’t just the ‘gay’ problem. He was a wastrel with absolutely no sense of family. He refused to have anything to do with them. His grandfather, who didn’t much like most of the family, made a will which made made it possible for O’Quinn to ignore them with impunity after the age of eighteen. Mr. O’Quinn spent his time at swanky parties with the rich and beautiful. He came here to get away and to indulge in sex.”

  “Do you know anything about the breakup with O’Quinn’s lover?”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “Tell me about Henry Tudor.”

  “Henry Tudor was in his eighties, but sharp as a whip. He’s owned the island since the late fifties. He was employed in the State Department in the forties. He got out before the red scare was at its worst. I was told he left because he became the lover of a man who was a United States senator at the time. When the senator died, Mr. Tudor was given half his estate in the will. Supposedly, the family didn’t contest it because Mr. Tudor threatened to expose the senator to the press.”

  “You can’t libel a dead man,” Scott said.

  “Is the truth libel?” Crushton asked.

  “They didn’t have a way of squelching him?” I asked. “The rich usually have ways of fixing those things.”

  “Whatever nefarious ways they had, Mr. Tudor also had a very smart lawyer, and I heard some kind of family connections of his own. Those were never made clear to me. Mr. Tudor had come to this island in the early fifties with the senator. After the senator died, Mr. Tudor started coming to the island on his own. He and the owner back in those days fell in love. That owner happened to need an infusion of cash. This was the late fifties or early sixties.”

  Scott asked, “Was it real love, or was the other guy in love with Tudor’s money?”

  “Perhaps it was real love, perhaps both. They became partners before I got here. When Mr. Gerald, the previous owner, died, the ownership of all the land transferred to Mr. Tudor.”

  “Does any of the land belong to anyone else?” I asked. “Are there part owners?”

  “As far as I know, it was all Mr. Tudor’s.”

  “Did he have any enemies?” I asked.

  “There weren’t any tensions on the island. He was a good boss. It was like living in the middle of a four star restaurant. He anticipated problems with guests. That’s what he paid us for.”

  “Anticipated? Like what?” Scott asked.

  “If someone was inordinately fussy about cleanliness, he’d make arrangements to have an extra team go through the villa before they arrived. Simple stuff, but he liked to make people happy.”

  I remembered what Thasos had written. I said, “We understood he was a monster to some of the staff.”

  “If you did your job right, you had no problems. If you screwed up, you could lose your job, but that’s like anywhere else.”

  Evaluating who was right, Crushton or Thasos, would have to come later. The answer might or might not help lead to the identity of the killer.

  Scott said, “I’ve seen a lot of these ancient artifacts while I’ve been here. If they’re real, isn’t some government concerned with keeping them here or officially preserving them?”

  “I’ve always been told they’re real,” Crushton said. “Most of the real ones are in Mr. Tudor’s villa. No government has ever interfered here. I think it is an official British possession. It all started back with the British aristocracy in the eighteen eighties or nineties. Who has jurisdiction could be as simple as courtesy among governments, or it could be complex international treaties. The island doesn’t control any shipping lanes. Even the castle isn’t high enough to place lethal guns on top of. The island is barren and not very attractive. It has no natural resources. It’s a nothing and a no place, of use only to the very rich.”

  “You haven’t heard anything about art fraud?”

  “No,” Crushton said.

  I asked, “We also got a rumor about spy stuff or terrorists or some kind of intelligence.”

  “This place always has all kinds of overheated rumors going on about it. I discount most of that. It’s the help getting themselves out of their humdrum lives. February and March can be really dull on this island. Most of the time the rich are pretty predictable.”

  I asked, “What’s the deal with Blake Klimpton?”

  “Each year, he prided himself on being able to afford the most expensive porn star in the world.”

  “There’s a contest?” Scott asked.

  “Among some of our clientele, there are certain status symbols. For some it’s who has the biggest cock. For some it’s having the most toys: houses, jets, boats, and boys. A few came to show off who they could afford. The bigger the porn star, the greater the prestige.”

  “They gave out prizes?” Scott asked.

  “It was more bragging rights. You don’t think straight men have the same kinds of resorts with the same kinds of sick stuff going on?”

  I was sure they did. Right now I didn’t want to get into who had the moral high ground vis-à-vis prostitutes. I didn’t really give a rat’s ass if gay or straight humans paid for a little love. I was far more concerned about not revealing too much of what we’d learned from Thasos’s files. I still didn’t want to trust anyone too much, but I had questions. I asked, “Any problem with the porn stars Klimpton brought here?”

  “Sometimes they’d look a little bruised up. They were of age. Unless they protested, it was always assumed enough money passed hands to make it consensual. No one protested that I know of. I’m sure lots of money changed hands.”

  “How long has he been coming here?” I asked.

  “Since he got his NFL signing bonus,” Crushton said, “eighteen years ago. He’s a partier. He usually has some kind of get-together on New Year’s Eve. Many of the guests come here for peace and quiet, some for a piece and quiet. Others like to have some celebrations. This isn’t a disco-crowd resort, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t some serious partying.”

  “Drugs?” Scott asked.

  “Not in an amount that would cause murder. If the guests wanted them, they brought them with. Henry Tudor was fairly strict with the staff about providing drugs.”

  “Do you know anything about Klimpton’s current companion?”

  “Mylon? He’s actually twenty-seven. He won’t have that little kid look for much longer. He’s been around. He was thrown out of the Czech military for assaulting several members of his own unit.”

  “He was prone to violence?” Scott asked.

  “Some of these so-called porn stars are low-class, ill-educated, and hard-used. Bragging is considered a virtue and truth only a sometime thing, but I’ve heard rumors about Klimpton’s treatment of them. If they’re true, they do form a pattern of behavior. I never heard about any murder connected with Klimpt
on. Mylon could talk much better English than he let on. He liked to feign stupidity. He’d come to Apritzi House sometimes late at night. The help and the hired boys would often talk. Sometimes until dawn.”

  I asked, “Any rumors on whether the violence ever got out of hand?”

  Crushton gave me no indication he was lying when he said, “I never heard of any permanent damage done.”

  I asked, “What’s the story on Craveté?”

  “He hasn’t been coming here very long. He makes all kinds of wild claims. He’s always got a new rumor. When he’s here, one month in the winter, one in the summer, we can count on him making all kinds of announcements. He’s always spotting a son or daughter of the Kennedy’s or someone high up in whatever administration is in power in America or the various capitals of Europe.”

  Scott said, “But those kind of people are here.”

  “Occasionally, but they don’t need to be heralded by him. And half the time he had it wrong and the vast majority of the time they did not want to be introduced to him. Mr. Tudor had to warn him some years ago not to bother the other guests. Craveté complied although he liked to think no one noticed him watching the other guests through his binoculars. It’s not a crime, but it’s odd getting your jollies by watching the crotches of rich gay men from five hundred feet away.”

  “He thought there was an investigator on the island looking for treasure looted from Europe over the centuries.”

  “All the guests who are currently here are all bonifide rich people.”

  “How about some of the help?”

  “Except for Thasos, none of us has been here less than five years. It would take an awful lot of dedication and cash to keep someone here undercover that long. You’d think if there was something to find, they would have done so in all that time.”

  “Craveté told us you were his source for saying Thasos was an investigator.”

  Crushton looked nonplussed. He hesitated. Preparing a lie? Was everything he was telling us designed to throw us off, help us, put us off? “I told Craveté a few things. He’s smarter than I thought. He talked with Thasos a lot, too.”