by Kathy Brandt
Nice work if you can get it, I thought. The Guy and Elizabeth Pembrook I knew just didn’t fit the picture. Elizabeth acting as an advisor for the books? Right! The only photo on the Web site was a cover of the book—a palm-lined trail leading down to the shore.
I walked back to the office. One block off the water’s edge, the temperature had to be 105, and no breeze. I could not understand how the islanders managed to maintain the dress code that they did: suits, ties, long-sleeved dresses with panty hose. I felt smothered just looking at them. And then there was me—clearly a foreigner.
Dunn and I had reached a compromise about the dress code. He’d suggested that because I was new and clearly not a native islander I begin my duties in a damned uniform: a long, dark pair of pants with a shiny stripe along the side of each leg, a gray shirt with epaulet, one of those awful billed hats. I’d agreed to wear long pants and a buttoned shirt instead of my standard tank top. I would not give up the Birkenstocks, and I donned a pair of shorts whenever I figured I wasn’t going to be running into Dunn. Now I was wearing tan khakis and a sleeveless white shirt, sweating and cursing Dunn.
Back at the office, Jean was buried under a stack of papers that she was trying to organize and file.
“Good day to you, Hannah.”
“Hi, Jean. Is the chief around?”
“They made an arrest in the burglaries. Chief actually went home for lunch.” I hoped that Dunn would be taking a long afternoon with his wife. He deserved a break. And it would be best if he didn’t know I was still snooping around about the Robsen case.
When I went down to the jail cells, Stark was just locking three boys into the cell next to Frank Downing’s.
“Hey, congratulations,” I said. Jean said you made an arrest.”
“Yeah. We’d sent descriptions of the stuff that’d been stolen to every pawnshop on the island. Stupid kids trying to sell the stuff in the middle of town. Owner called us right away.”
“You don’t seem that happy about it,” I said.
“Not very.”
“Yeah, they’re young, huh?”
“Two are twelve; the other one is thirteen. Live up by Green Ghut. Couple are brothers. Big families. Fathers are out of work. Not like they aren’t lookin’, but things just haven’t gone their way. Kids tryin’ to help out. Damn, they deserve more.”
“Did you recover everything?”
“Not much. These kids aren’t saying what they’ve done with any of it. All we’ve found are a couple of TVs and a bunch of CDs. No jewelry. They deny knowing anything about it.”
I could see that Stark hated his job at this moment. He didn’t want to leave the kids down in that cell.
“Don’t worry, Stark. They’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, right.”
Downing was stretched out on a cot, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t move when he saw me come in.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m not talking to you or anyone else without my lawyer here. To think, you’ve arrested me—me. I’m an artist, an intellectual, not a murderer.”
Like one rules out the other. Frank Downing was a snob. And that damn pompous attitude.
“Look, Frank, I’m not here to interrogate you. In spite of the fact that I don’t like you, I’m afraid that I have difficulty believing you’re a killer.” I didn’t say that I thought he was a weak, sniveling coward without the balls to kill and that he was not the God’s gift to art and all that was aesthetic that he thought. I figured that was the wrong tack to take if I wanted him to talk to me at all.
“Well,” he huffed, “at least one of you with some intelligence.”
“Do you have any idea at all about who would want Ursala dead?” I asked.
“No one, everyone,” he said. “Ursala was just a dumb blonde who slept around. She could have gotten in bed with the wrong guy at some point, one with a wife that didn’t put up with it. Maybe a lover who didn’t like seeing her with other men. That sure wouldn’t have been me, though. Ursala and I had an understanding. She could fool around all she wanted as long as she supported my art.”
“Hum, seems like a good deal for you. What was in it for her?”
“Me,” he said in that damned egotistical tone. What an ass.
“Did Ursala say anything to you? Was she in any kind of trouble?”
“Ursala and I didn’t communicate much. But lately she seemed jumpy. Damned if she didn’t lock me out of the house a couple of nights ago. When she came down to let me in, she made sure it was me before she opened up. She’d never locked the house up before. When I asked her about it, she said something about all the burglaries on the islands.” He glanced at the kids in the nearby cell.
“How well did Ursala know the Pembrooks?” I asked.
“Not well. They’d only been around a week or so, but Ursala meets everyone who anchors in the bay and comes into the Watering Hole. Course, we went to that party on their boat.”
“Ursala said she was down on the beach after the party, waiting for Robsen. Did you know that?”
“Sure, I saw her. Went down there and told her I was headed into Road Town, probably wouldn’t be home that night.”
She was sitting at one of those beach tables sipping champagne. She’d managed to finish off half the bottle, another empty glass on the table. I figured that by the time Robsen arrived, there would be nothing left to share. She had those damned little rhinestone-studded binoculars around her neck.”
“Really? How come?” Ursala had not mentioned watching anyone when I’d talked to her about waiting for Robsen on the beach.
“She was always trying to see what was happening down the beach or on other people’s boats. Nosy. A voyeur. I told her someday she’d see someone looking straight back at her. ‘Well, I hope so’ she’d said in that suggestive tone of hers. You think she actually saw something? The moon was full that night, enough light to see out into the harbor. Maybe that’s what had her so scared. Maybe got her killed.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
I went back up to my desk and called Mack. He picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Sampson, good to hear your voice. How’s the investigation going?” he asked, chewing on something I was sure was cold and greasy.
I told him we’d made an arrest, but I didn’t think we had the right guy.
“Typical Sampson, just can’t leave it alone. So what do you need?”
I asked him if he would get a copy of Pembrook’s book about Hawaii and fax me the back jacket.
“No problem, Sampson. I’ll get on it this afternoon. Hey, let me know when you’re ready to come back. I’ll plan a coming-home party. We can drink a whole bunch of tequila and take oaths about some kind of shit or other.”
“Mack, just fax the stuff, okay?” I said, and hung up. I wondered when Mack would finally accept the idea that I was not coming back. Maybe when I did.
I found the Wahoo in its slip, tank full. I figured I’d spend a few hours over at Cane Garden Bay. I was hoping that Trish Robsen had not yet left the islands. I was in luck. The Wind Runner was still anchored where it had always been, and Trish was still there, sitting in the cockpit. A paperback book on her lap, she gazed blankly out to sea. She didn’t see me coming until I was about to tie up to her boat. She leaped up, and hardly noticed when she spilled ice tea all over the cockpit. As she grabbed my line, the novel she’d been holding fell into the water. I tried to grab it but it sunk too fast. I watched it drift down to rest on the sandy bottom.
“Damn,” I said.
“Yeah,” she agreed, but I didn’t think she was referring to the lost book.
“How are you, Trish?” I asked as I went below to grab some paper towels.
“Fine,” she said, watching me soak up the tea. She was hardly aware of what I was doing. Ever notice how people say they’re fine when they’re not?
“I thought you might have returned to the States by now.”
“Oh, it’s not that e
asy arranging to transport a body. My son has been working on it, talking to the airlines. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate long enough to accomplish anything. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you’re still here.” I had the feeling that Trish didn’t care if she ever went home to deal with the loss and the implications of what had gotten her husband killed. It would be hard to face her family and friends. I’d like to tell her that her husband really hadn’t been killed by a jealous husband, but damn, I just didn’t have enough. It would be cruel to raise her hopes and then bring them crashing down.
“I know you’ve told the story again and again, but is there anything else you can think of that happened at the Calypso or in the restaurant before Allen disappeared?”
“There’s nothing else,” she said, voice flat. “Why are you asking? I thought the case was closed.”
“Just trying to finalize a couple of things for the file,” I lied. “I found a torn piece of paper in one of your husband’s pockets. I’m pretty sure it came from Guy Pembrook’s book cover.”
“That seems strange,” she said.
“Can you think of any reason he would have torn it out and put it in his pocket? Would he have been a fan of Pembrook’s or wanted the information on the jacket? It was from Pembrook’s guide to Hawaii.”
“No, couldn’t be. We’d never heard of the Pembrooks before we met them that night, and we certainly had no plans to go to Hawaii. Why would he do that?”
“Probably not important, just one of those unanswerable questions.”
I left her sitting on the deck, empty-handed, no book, no tea. She didn’t seem to care.
Chapter 23
Before heading into shore, I took a cruise around the anchorage. The Dallas had pulled out, but the Manettis were still in the bay. They had moved their boat farther from shore and were anchored just off the starboard side of the Calypso. With all the room in the harbor, I wondered why anyone would want to anchor right next to another boat. Don Manetti had probably dropped his anchor well in front of the Calypso. When he’d let out enough scope to ensure good holding, he’d drifted back almost even with the Calypso, but figured he still had enough room to swing. It was pretty obvious that Don Manetti was a novice. An experienced sailor would have known where he would end up after he dropped his anchor.
I’d bet the Pembrooks weren’t too happy having the Manettis practically on top of them. Especially Guy, given Elizabeth’s form of sun bathing. Maybe that was really what had motivated Don to move next door. Not a mistake at all.
It seemed odd that the Manettis hadn’t moved on to one of the other islands by now. Surely they intended to tour the Baths, sail up to Virgin Gorda, maybe to Anegada. That trip took some skill, though, maneuvering through shallow water. Don probably realized he was not up to it and remained content in the idyllic Cane Garden Bay.
There were a dozen other boats scattered around the bay. I spotted the Pembrooks maneuvering their dinghy up to the docks and headed into shore. I wasn’t adverse to harassing him a bit. See if I could shake anything loose. What else did I have to do?
I followed them into the little dive shop on the beach and wandered to a remote corner where I could listen and observe. Elizabeth was examining the latest in swimwear. She’d hold a top up to her chest and look in the mirror, turning one way and then the next, evaluating just how much she could get away with showing. The more the better, it seemed, but clearly there was some undefined limit in her mind, because she’d reject one, pick up another.
She finally decided on the tiny angelfish-over-each-breast design and headed to the cash register. Guy had been in the back, where his tanks were being filled, and was now in the process of purchasing a couple of underwater lights and a large spool of yellow-and-blue-flecked line.
“Christ, you really need another suit,” he was complaining as I walked up to the register with batteries that I didn’t really need or want.
“Planning on some night diving?” I asked.
“Nope, maybe a couple of deep dives, a little wreck diving. Out at the Rhone, maybe the Chikuzen,” he replied.
“What’s the line for?” I asked.
“Is this police business?”
“Not at all. I’m always curious about diving techniques. I’ve learned all sorts of esoteric stuff from the divers I’ve met over the years.”
“I sometimes use it for long penetrations inside wrecks. Reel it out as I swim. That way I can follow it back out if I get lost. Doubt if I’ll need it for the wrecks down here, but I like to be prepared. Lost my last one. Got completely tangled in it trying to gather artifacts off a wreck down in South America. Had to cut myself loose.”
“What are you doing back in Cane Garden Bay?” he asked. “Thought you were finished here. How is ol’ Frank holding up in jail, anyway?”
“He’ll probably be out by this afternoon, as soon as his lawyer arranges bail.”
“Too bad about Ursala. She was one nosy bitch, but I liked her.”
“What do you mean nosy?” I asked. Pembrook realized his mistake immediately. He knew very well about Ursala’s binoculars.
“Those tanks ready?” he asked, squirming out of further discussion.
He loaded his tanks into a cart and wheeled it down to the docks. I followed.
“Have you had any luck selling the Calypso?” I asked. I tried to be casual, but I wanted to know what Pembrooks were up to and how long they planned to be around.
“Looks like Rodriguez is set to buy,” he said. “Hoping to finalize it in the next day or two.”
“Bet you hate to give her up,” I said as he loaded the tanks into his dinghy.
“Naw, it’s time.”
“What are you going to do next?” I asked, hoping to tangle him in his story.
“Head back to the States, of course. Get that book done.”
“Oh, yeah, the book. Have a lot of work to do on it?”
“Enough.”
I was sitting at the end of the dock, dangling my feet in the water, and thinking about heading back to Road Town, when I heard an anchor rattling its way off the bottom and onto the deck. Elizabeth was at the bow in her new bikini, operating the windlass. By the time I got the Wahoo started and the lines untied, the Calypso was just outside the bay. Pembrook turned her into the wind and hauled up the mainsail, and then fell off the wind, pulled out the jib, and headed upwind into the Narrows. He’d be tacking all the way up the channel. I’d have no trouble keeping just far enough behind him in the Wahoo. I headed out into the channel, put the engine in idle, and waited. The Manettis motored by and waved. They obviously had no intention of putting up sails.
I watched Pembrook expertly tack the Calypso up the narrow channel. He waited until the very last instant—until it looked like he’d run her aground—then turn her through the wind. Sails flapped momentarily; then he quickly pulled them across to the other side of the boat and winched them tight, never losing speed. Pembrook was good and he wanted everyone sailing up the channel to know it as he passed them by.
At the eastern end of Saint John, Pembrook made his way into the Sir Francis Drake Channel. Then he pulled in the jib, started his engine, and changed course, away from Tortola and across the channel. Where the hell was he going?
I kept behind him, just far enough so that he would not see me following. God knows, if they headed out of the channel and into open sea, I’d have to let them go. He sailed past the Indians, a popular snorkeling and diving site, every mooring taken with sailboats and dive boats.
Just when I thought he was going to head straight out to open water, he turned in and headed around the southwest side of Norman Island. I could see him heading into shore. Odd. There were no good anchorages on this side of the island. The seas were rough, open to weather. Damned if he didn’t drop his anchor in about sixty feet of water. This was definitely a place off-limits to any charterer, and deserted. The shore was steep, rocky, and uninviting.
I stayed around the othe
r side of the point that jutted out into the bay. The seas were calmer here, but not by much. Christ, Dunn would be really pissed if I smashed the boat on the rocks. I headed her over toward the only sandy spot, a twenty-foot-wide patch of sandy shore that stretched out into the water. When it started to shallow to about ten feet, I tossed the anchor in and waited. It seemed to be holding. I let out a few feet of extra line and hoped it would be enough to keep her from letting loose and blowing into shore.
I grabbed a face mask, snorkel, fins, and booties from the locker. As I did, I quietly swore at Dunn for insisting I wear the damned long pants. I attached the swim ladder to the side and pulled my foot gear on. I spit in the face mask to keep it from fogging and snugged it in place, then dove down to check the anchor. It was not dug in at all, but just lay on the bottom. Not good. But there was a huge boulder close by. I grabbed the anchor line, wrapped it around the rock a couple of times, and swam to shore. I stood on the beach for a moment in God-awful wet pants that clung to my body. What the hell did I think I was doing, anyway? Anchoring on this treacherous shore and standing soaked on this isolated beach?
I climbed up to the top of the rocky point and, well hidden from view, I gazed down at the Calypso. Pembrook was just getting ready to dive. He had the flashlights he’d bought at the dive shop attached to his dive vest and was carrying a huge wrench, of all things. He put his regulator into his mouth and rolled into the water. Elizabeth stayed on deck watching him as he went under. Why would he be diving out here? This site was not marked on any of the dive maps.
I could see his air bubbles skitter up along the side of the Calypso, then remain stationary about midway down the hull. He was right under the boat, the bubbles, silvery globs, bursting along the side. He remained there for almost a half hour. What the hell was he doing under there? Strange place to anchor to decide to do repairs on the hull.
