by Junie Coffey
“I’m mortified,” she said. “That was so humiliating. It’s all right for you to traipse around doing stupid things, but I’m a grown woman. I know better. I’ll see Lana Samuels in the grocery store next week or next year, and she’ll glare at me, and we’ll both be thinking I’m the pathetic head case who broke into her home looking for kidnappers!” She covered her face with her hands.
“Lana Samuels doesn’t do her own grocery shopping,” said Danish. “I know that for a fact. She has a French chef. Did you see her manicure? You can’t cook with that.”
“We need to establish some boundaries,” said Nina. “I cannot be running around this island playing cops and robbers! I’m done with the Miss Marple. In fact, Miss Marple is a lot more dignified. She doesn’t sneak into other people’s homes at night. She sits in the parlor or at the captain’s table on the luxury ocean liner sipping tea and knitting afghans. She keeps her mouth shut and waits for the clues to come to her. Let’s try that approach.”
“Who is Miss Marple? Some old lady in Maine?”
“Seriously, Danish. Let’s give it a rest. This has gone too far.”
Nina wondered what kind of an education he’d had in Colorado that enabled him to quote Ralph Waldo Emerson off the top of his head but didn’t include any exposure to Agatha Christie. Maybe it was a generational thing.
“Whatever you say,” he said, apparently unfazed by their encounter with Samuels. “What’s really important is that the Samuelses’ Zodiac boat is missing. It’s a major breakthrough in the case. We didn’t even have to ask. That clue walked right into the parlor.”
They drove on in silence and arrived back at Nina’s cottage. “Let’s have some tea and maybe knit an afghan,” said Danish. He walked right into the house, opened the fridge, and poured them each a glass of iced tea, then carried them out onto the veranda. Nina followed, still not speaking. Danish continued to build his theory.
“So, either Tiffany took the boat, or the person who took her from the Savages’ house took the boat. It makes sense. The only getaway route is down by the beach. If they went out the front gate, Charlie would have seen them. There are sheer cliffs on the other side. According to my buddy Sam, who tends bar at the inn and goes out with Doreen, who works in the beauty salon, none of the neighbors recall hearing any vehicles on the road around nine o’clock Saturday night. If the cop parked out on the road had seen something, we would know it by now. The most logical escape route is by water.”
“OK, Danish,” said Nina. “Since we’re sitting here safely sipping tea, why didn’t Blue Roker and his officers notice the missing boat on Saturday night? He doesn’t strike me as stupid or careless. Quite the opposite. One possible explanation is that it was there Saturday night and was taken sometime between then and last night, before we got there. If the boat had been there last night, we would have seen it. It wasn’t. So why would the perpetrator wait to steal the boat?”
“Maybe they kept Tiffany nearby Saturday night, then moved her by boat later when the police were looking in a different place,” said Danish.
“OK,” said Nina. “Where could the kidnappers have kept Tiffany overnight without the police finding her?”
“Well, the villa next to the Samuelses belongs to the Davises. They’re about a hundred years old, and I don’t know what beef they could possibly have with Tiffany, except that she gets on everyone’s nerves. They hang out with the crowd from the yacht club, not the Plantation Inn, and they have a big sailboat and a tender, so they wouldn’t need the Samuelses’ boat anyway. I think we can cross Mr. and Mrs. Davis off the list of suspects. Of course, Cynthia Davis’s hookup with Barry puts a new twist on things, but I don’t know what she would gain from offing Tiffany. Cynthia’s already rich, and as far as I know, she only visits her parents a few weekends a year. She probably knows Barry about that well. I don’t think she’d risk going to the slammer for him. But, the pink villa on the other side of the Davises is the house Lance and the rest of the Beer Commercial are renting for the winter.”
“Really. That is very interesting,” said Nina. “Especially in light of Lance’s argument with Barry last night at The Redoubt. What was that all about? And why would Lance kidnap Tiffany?”
“Lance comes from a well-off family,” said Danish, “but he’s not rock-star-ruthless-real-estate-developer wealthy. Maybe he’s a greedy boy. He’s tasted the lifestyle of the very rich and famous, taught them how to whack a tennis ball, laughed at their jokes at the Plantation Inn bar, and shagged their wives. Now he wants to maintain the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed.”
“OK, maybe. But the Bassetts’ place is only about six or seven houses down the beach from Lance’s rental. Also nearby. Barry could have done it and hidden her in his own house. The police would have been unlikely to search there Saturday night,” said Nina.
“But if Barry wanted to get rid of Tiffany, why wouldn’t he just wait until they got home? Or do it before they went to the party? Or go on a cruise and throw her off the ship one night? Why would anyone plan to commit a crime in a house with at least twenty-five potential witnesses, one of which is the chief of police? That sounds like the dumbest criminal ever,” said Danish.
“I don’t know,” said Nina, “but he seems to have the strongest motive for getting rid of her. They didn’t get along, and given the terms of their prenup, it was unlikely she was ever going to leave him. He couldn’t have done it himself—he was on the terrace with the rest of us—but he could have hired someone to do it for him.”
“Then why the ransom note?” asked Danish. “If he had her abducted and maybe even killed her, why send himself a ransom note?”
“To draw suspicion away from himself, I suppose,” said Nina. “Maybe the same reason he staged it during the dinner.”
“And how does Lance fit in? I’m confused,” said Danish.
“Let’s start again at the beginning. Who might have had a motive for kidnapping her, as well as the opportunity and the means?” asked Nina.
“I read that book, too,” said Danish. “Motive, means, opportunity.”
Nina ticked them off on her fingers. “There’s Barry, the dissatisfied husband; Lance, the boy toy who maybe sees an opportunity to cash in on Tiffany’s affections and her husband’s wealth; there’s Tiffany herself, doing a runner with the proceeds from the necklace to tide her over until she meets the next Barry. It’s also possible that Tiffany and Lance planned it together so that they can ride off into the sunset, or that Barry and Tiffany cooked it up so that they could sell the necklace and still claim the insurance. What are their finances like, I wonder? A lot of wealthy people saw heaps of virtual money disappear in the recession. Or maybe Barry and Lance were in cahoots to get rid of her. A long shot is your boss, Michel, who hates Tiffany and accused her of damaging his business. Then there’s the possibility that it’s someone from her past and from Barry’s business dealings who we don’t know about. Everyone at the party seems to have had the same means and opportunity, but I can’t think of anyone else with a motive.”
Nina didn’t say it, but of all the guests, Alice was the one who most easily could have taken the necklace. She could have slipped it into her evening bag while she was inside and then helped an accomplice abduct Tiffany—or worked with Tiffany to stage the room to look as if something violent had occurred. It seemed inconceivable that sweet, earnest Alice could have done it, but who knows what she had been involved in before she’d moved to Pineapple Cay a month ago? Blue Roker would have a blind spot where Alice was concerned. The neighbors always say, “They seemed so nice, the last person I would have suspected of doing such a thing.”
Nina shook her head to shake out the terrible thoughts. She felt two-faced and mean-spirited even thinking them. She was getting carried away.
“OK, Danish. The armchair-detective stuff is entertaining, but seriously, I’m off the case. I’m returning to civilian life. I’m going to paint my kitchen and plant a vegetable garden and write the article I
was hired to produce. So, please, drop by for an iced tea when you feel like it, but I’m done with Tiffany Bassett and the mystery of the Morning Glory emerald. OK?”
“All right, Nina, if you say so,” said Danish. They sat quietly for a few minutes, looking out at the horizon; then Danish hopped to his feet.
“Let me make it up to you,” he said. “My buddy Gerry loaned me his boat for the day. I was thinking of going over to Star Cay to do some sun and sand and snorkeling this aft. I asked Alice, but she said no. She didn’t even say, ‘No, I have to work,’ just ‘No.’” He looked glum for a moment.
“So, anyway, I’ve got the boat. Why don’t you call Pansy and see if she wants to come along with her kids? We’ll have a G-rated beach party. All child-friendly activities. No quasi-criminal behavior or private investigation. OK?”
Nina breathed in deeply and out slowly, releasing the tension that had built up since Barry had shown up with his bulldozer the day before. An afternoon of snorkeling with Pansy and a couple of sweet, innocent children—far from cheating husbands and wives and nasty chatter about the kidnapping—sounded idyllic.
“All right, Danish. That would be nice.”
They called Pansy and arranged to meet her and the kids at the municipal dock in an hour, when school let out. Danish went home to get ready while Nina packed a cooler with sandwiches, lemonade, fruit, and coconut cookies. Then she strolled down to the dock to meet the others. Danish was already there, loading jugs of water into the boat.
“I’ve just got to get some snorkel gear from Gerry’s shop, and then I’ll be right back,” he said as he headed back up the hill to the dive shop. Pansy arrived with her kids. The children were already wearing their life jackets and clutching junior-size snorkel gear in their hands.
“Hi, Nina! This will be fun!” said Pansy, cheerful as ever. The children stood looking up at Nina with big eyes. She smiled down at them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement on the police dock a short distance away. It was Blue Roker, coming down from the police station with another officer. They were both dressed in navy-blue combat pants, dark T-shirts, rugged hiking boots, and shades. Roker had a ship-to-shore radio in his hand. Where is he going dressed like that? Nina wondered, hoping he hadn’t seen her. She was still smarting from this morning’s indignities.
Too late. He spotted them. He changed course and walked over to them.
“Hi, Blue! Beautiful day!” said Pansy, her eyes following her kids, who scampered down onto the beach, looking for interesting creatures under the dock. Blue removed his shades and stood in front of them with his hands on his hips. Danish reappeared, carrying a milk crate full of snorkels, fins, and masks, and stood beside Nina.
“Good afternoon, ladies. Jensen. I had a couple of surprising telephone calls from Lana and Delmont Samuels this morning,” said Blue. “Also, a call from Barry Bassett late last night, ranting about prowlers and police incompetence.” He looked back and forth from Nina to Danish for a couple of seconds, then spoke again.
“You seem like a nice person, Nina, and I understand that Barry and Tiffany Bassett have been harassing you since you arrived. But, please, both of you, let the police do our job. We’re good at it. I assure you that modern policing technology has advanced beyond a reliance on Scotch tape and powdered ink from a printer cartridge.” He glared at Danish a full three seconds before continuing.
“We have more resources at our disposal than you do, Mr. Jensen, and more experience catching bad guys. We will find Tiffany Bassett and prosecute whoever is responsible for her disappearance and for the theft of the necklace.”
He shifted his gaze back at Nina. “I admire the fact that you braved the wrath of Lana Samuels and went to her place this morning to confess and apologize. That takes nerve and moral fortitude. I think we can attribute what happened last night to a temporary lapse in judgment. I have a pretty good idea who the ringleader of Operation Hot Tub was.” He glared at Danish again.
“We’ve reviewed the surveillance-camera video from the recording studio. Yes, Mr. Jensen. Welcome to the twenty-first century. Also, we only found one set of prints in the studio, apart from those of Delmont Samuels and his associates.” He kept his eyes nailed on Danish for a moment and then shifted his gaze to take in both of them.
“Please, give up the sleuthing. Trespassing is against the law. Interfering with an ongoing investigation is a punishable offense. Kidnapping is a very serious crime. Whoever did this is not a nice person and is unlikely to put their hands up and surrender just because you say, ‘Gotcha.’ You could get hurt or worse.”
Gesturing back and forth between Nina and Danish, Roker said, “I don’t really understand this, but it worries me. Take my advice: Go home and relax. Do a bit of gardening. Don’t go looking for trouble, OK?” He looked at both of them intently.
“Yes, Deputy Superintendent,” said Nina, making a silent vow to do just what he said.
He started to go, then turned back and looked at Nina. “Ted should probably tell you this himself, but in case you’re still anxious, he went to see his lawyer first thing this morning and got an injunction prohibiting Barry Bassett from proceeding with construction on the land adjacent to yours.” He paused, then continued in a gentler tone. “I don’t want to come down on you too hard over last night because I know you were deliberately provoked, and you were a little overwrought at the time, but I would be remiss if I did not point out that Ted accomplished this result by recourse to the legal process and not by tiptoeing around people’s backyards.”
He looked over at Danish. “You, on the other hand, I can’t explain. Before you do something or say the first thing that pops into your head, ask yourself, ‘What is the probable outcome of this action?’ You might save yourself and the rest of us a lot of aggravation. Enjoy your afternoon, all of you,” he said, then turned away. Roker walked back to the police boat in his smooth, stately glide, jumped in, and yanked the cord on the outboard motor. He put on his shades, raised his hand in parting, and peeled away from the wharf, heading out into the channel.
“Oh, my,” said Pansy.
Danish threw down the crate in disgust. “What is wrong with you women? Get a grip! All he has to do is stand in front of you and flex his muscles, and you’re all, ‘Yes, Deputy Superintendent. Whatever you say.’ You just set women’s rights back twenty years! Pathetic. He sounds like my father.” He picked up the crate again and loaded it and their various bags and backpacks into the boat.
“Call the rug rats, Pansy, and let’s get over to Star Cay. I need some R & R,” Danish said, starting the engine.
He had a point.
What is wrong with me? Nina thought as she watched Blue’s boat disappear up the coast, leaving a trail of white froth in its wake. Her marriage had barely gone cold, and already she was checking out the local talent? For the past three months in a city of close to nine million people, she hadn’t been aware of a single man she’d passed on the teeming sidewalks. In the midst of forced conversations with the nice-enough and allegedly interesting male acquaintances Louise dredged up for mandatory nights out, all Nina could think about was how soon she could go home, put on her pajamas, and watch Cary Grant movies in bed.
Her hormones seemed to be thawing out rapidly in the tropical sun. Her radar had picked up not one, but two attractive men on Pineapple Cay—population five thousand—in the last week alone.
Yes, get a grip, Nina, she told herself, before you do something embarrassing. Well, even more embarrassing than being an accomplice to vandalizing a hot tub. She shook her head to clear it and focused on the other thing that bugged her about that whole exchange.
“Is there no such thing as privacy in this village?” she asked, still smarting over being described as overwrought. “I have a brief crying spell, and the chief of police is notified? In New York, thieves could break into your apartment, be filmed on a security camera stealing everything you own, you could track them down and give the police their address, and
still the police wouldn’t do anything about it because they’d have ten stabbings and a couple of shootings to deal with first that night. I heard about a case like that on NPR.”
“Well, you could think of it as a positive attribute of small-town life, rather than a drawback,” said Pansy. “At least you know people are looking out for you, even if they’re also just watching you . . . Have you been upset?” she asked, putting her arm around Nina. “Are you OK now? What was Blue talking about?”
“I’m fine, Pansy, thanks,” said Nina. She filled Pansy in on Barry’s fried-chicken drive-through and mini golf project, as well as her argument with him, as they motored across the bay.
“He can’t do that. Don’t worry,” said Pansy. “He has to get approval from the village council first, and they won’t give it.”
Star Cay was a little island about a mile offshore from Pineapple Cay. It curved around a protected, shallow lagoon. A handful of vacation villas dotted the shore, and a snack bar and some picnic tables occupied one end of the beach. Danish pulled the boat up on the sand near the snack bar. There were maybe a couple of dozen other people on the beach, including a group of teenagers playing beach volleyball.
Nina, Danish, Pansy, and the kids took their picnic and snorkel gear and walked a short distance down the beach to a more secluded spot. Danish lay back on the sand with his head on a life jacket and went to sleep. Pansy spread out her towel, lay on her stomach, and started reading a magazine. Nina played beach-ball soccer with the kids and floated lazily in the water while they chugged around her with their snorkels and fins on. After a while, Nina, Pansy, and the children ate cheese sandwiches and watermelon, and then the kids ran off to chase hermit crabs with several kids they knew from school.
Danish awoke abruptly, sat up, and picked up the conversation where they’d left off before he conked out. “Did you hear what Roker said, Nina?” he asked. “Only one set of prints in the studio, apart from the Samuelses’.”
“I’m pretty sure he was referring to yours, Danish,” said Nina, lying back on her towel with her eyes closed.
