Death in a Beach Chair (8 page)

FOURTEEN

Kathleen was sitting on the deck of her cottage, apparently writing postcards, as relaxed and content as any tourist.

Susan, recognizing a facade when she saw one, rushed to her friend’s side. “How’s Jerry? Did you see him?”

The smile that appeared on Kathleen’s face was real. “He’s okay, at least for now. There’s an American embassy office here. Not a big one, but the woman who runs it has been wonderful. I don’t know how she did it, but she managed to convince the higher-ups in the local police department that everyone concerned would be better off if Jerry was incarcerated on U.S.-held property. Fortunately, the embassy offices were built on the ruins of an old English fort. Jerry’s locked up in a guarded room on the ground floor. It’s a bit musty and damp, but he has a sensational view out over the sea. For the time being at least, he’s safe.”

“What did he say? Did he tell you anything about Allison, or—” Susan stopped, realizing that Kathleen probably didn’t know that Jerry and Allison had been together the day of her death. “—or anything,” she concluded.

“A police officer stayed in the room with us, so we were both careful about what we said,” Kathleen answered. “But we talked for a bit. In fact, I’ve been writing notes here. I’m trying to figure out whether or not he was trying to tell me something that no one else would understand.”

“What do you mean? Some sort of code? What did he actually say?” Susan repositioned the card closest to her so that she could read the words written in Kathleen’s perfect Palmer-method script.

“Not a code. I thought he might be saying things that only he and I would understand. If that’s what he was trying to do, he failed. At least, I didn’t get it.”

“What did he say?” Susan asked again.

“He started out by telling me that he was fine, being treated well, not to worry. All that type of thing. He’s worried about the kids. What will happen to them if this hits the news back home and they hear about it.”

“Is there any reason to worry about that? Has there been any sort of news coverage about this?” Susan asked, momentarily distracted.

“Not that I know of. And Ms. Adams—she’s the woman in charge of the embassy office—says that as far as she knows, nothing has been reported back to the States about it. But she also said that all it would take for the story to hit the news at home is for one bored American journalist here on vacation to hear about it.”

“Let’s just hope Jerry’s out of there before anything like that happens.”

“Yes. I can’t imagine trying to explain this to the kids.” Kathleen was silent for a moment, playing with the rest of the postcards she’d written.

Susan sat quietly, waiting for her friend to continue.

“We didn’t have much time to talk,” Kathleen began again. “Jerry asked about the kids and then he asked about you. He wanted to know what you were doing—where you were.”

Susan nodded. “He was probably wondering if I was investigating.”

“I thought that at first, but then he said something interesting. He said that you were the only person who could help him.”

“He’s saying that he wants me to investigate Allison’s murder.”

“No, he emphasized
only
. The word
only
. I’m pretty sure of that. I got the impression that he was making this point for a reason. He may have been trying to say that he doesn’t want me involved in any investigation.” Kathleen picked up a card showing a gaudy sunset behind palm trees and examined the words she had written on it. “I’m pretty sure he said you were the only person who could help him. But it may have been
should
help him. I wish I could remember.”

Susan was still thinking about Kathleen’s first thought. “What does he expect you to do? Lie around the pool working on your tan?”

Kathleen dropped the card she had been studying. “You don’t think he was trying to tell me to go home, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Susan answered slowly. “Maybe he thinks you should be with Alex and Emily. If that’s what he means . . . are you thinking of leaving?”

“Absolutely not! I’m going to call Jerry’s parents and tell them what has happened. If it does hit the news, they should be prepared to deal with the kids—or maybe just get them away from town for a while or something—but I’m not leaving Jerry here alone and I am going to investigate this with you!”

“Of course you are! And I can’t imagine Jerry thinking you would do anything else. So what could he have been talking about?”

“I have no idea. But he wasn’t upset. I mean, he knew perfectly well what he was saying. And he probably knew we were only going to have a short time together. It must have meant something.” Kathleen picked up her cards and placed them in a neat stack. “Maybe Jed will be able to tell us more.”

“Where is Jed?” Susan looked around as though expecting to discover her husband nearby.

“He’s still at the embassy offices. They’re trying to find a lawyer to represent Jerry. The lawyers he called in Hancock all suggested he find someone familiar with the laws—and customs—on the island.”

“Have they actually charged Jerry with the murder?”

“Not officially. The term they’re using is
assisting with the investigation of the untimely death of Allison McAllister
. But apparently there aren’t a lot of laws on the books here to protect the rights of suspects. They can hold Jerry pretty much as long as they want. Ms. Adams agreed that a lawyer familiar with the island’s laws and court system, such as it is, should be hired. She suggested two names—expatriates who are practicing here—and they should be talking with Jerry right now. Jed offered to help us out. He’s contacting our bank at home to have money transferred here so we can give the lawyer a retainer. He said to tell you that he’ll be back as soon as possible.” Kathleen picked up her pile of cards and tucked them in the pocket of her linen slacks. “So what have you learned this morning?”

“I’ve been talking to people,” Susan said, realizing again that she was going to be uncomfortable discussing Allison and Jerry with Kathleen. “To tell the truth, they’ve been talking to me. Allison’s been here for a few weeks and she spent time chatting with other guests. They’ve been seeking me out and—and telling me about her. In fact,” she continued, suddenly inspired, “why don’t we go get some lunch and see who else wants to talk to us?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat something. But even if you just have some iced tea, we’ll learn more in the restaurant than we will sitting here alone.”

“I suppose. But these people don’t know us. They might think Jerry actually did kill Allison.”

“They might, but that’s not important now. What’s important is that we know Jerry didn’t do it. And it’s more than likely that a guest—or someone on the staff here—did.”

“You know, I hadn’t considered the possibility that someone on the staff killed her.”

“I think it’s unlikely. I spoke with James and he said it’s against the rules for staff to fraternize with guests and that everyone here wants to keep their jobs. If there’s no connection to Allison, why would one of them kill her?”

“Perhaps someone who works here is a psychotic killer and Allison just happened to be the next victim.”

“I suppose that’s possible.” Susan spoke slowly. “Allison was here alone.”

“But she and Jerry had a connection. So Jerry’s the only suspect.”

“Unless we can find someone else she had a connection to. She might even have been here to see someone else.”

“That’s true,” Kathleen agreed. “But isn’t it possible that the killer thought he or she was killing someone else, that Allison’s death was a case of mistaken identity? Doesn’t one woman lying on a lounge in the dark look pretty much like another?”

To Susan, this sounded less like a serious possibility than wishful thinking on Kathleen’s part, but she had two tasks here: to find out who had killed Allison McAllister and to keep Kathleen’s spirits up. “It’s possible. Let’s go get that lunch and check out the other women here, see who might resemble Allison under those circumstances.”

“That’s a great idea!” Kathleen stood up, and Susan had to hurry to keep up so they arrived at the restaurant together. “We’d like a table for lunch,” Kathleen told the hostess who was seating guests.

“Of course, Mrs. Gordon. Would you like your usual spot overlooking the water, or would you prefer something a little more . . . ah, a little more private?”

“A table overlooking the water,” Kathleen stated firmly.

Susan smiled. For the moment, at least, Kathleen was all right. “My husband might be joining us. So perhaps we could have a table for three?” she asked.

“Naturally.”

If Madonna or Hugh Grant had arrived for lunch, they would have been seated at the table Susan and Kathleen were led to. Set right next to the seawall, it offered a stunning view of the horizon, while allowing other diners an unobstructed view of its occupants. Susan glanced across the table at Kathleen, now studying the menu the hostess had offered her. “We seem to be attracting a lot of attention,” she said quietly.

“Not surprising,” Kathleen responded without looking up. “Do you see anyone who resembles Allison?”

Susan scanned the room. “I suppose . . . one or two. The young woman here on her honeymoon is tall and thin and has long hair. From behind, I suppose, someone might confuse the two of them.”

“I don’t think I know who you’re talking about.” Kathleen put down her menu and looked around.

“The good-looking couple sitting at that small table by the bar,” Susan said.

Kathleen glanced in the direction Susan indicated and raised her eyebrows. “Allison was good-looking, but not that good-looking.”

“Of course not. That girl—young woman,” Susan corrected herself. “She’s about twenty years younger than Allison. But they both have long blond hair and they’re both tall and thin. From behind . . . in the dark . . . it’s possible they might be mistaken for each other.”

“You could say that about the groom, too,” Kathleen pointed out. “He’s also tall with long hair.”

“He is, isn’t he? On the other hand, if we’re looking for a lone woman—or man—lying on a chaise lounge, we can probably eliminate them both. I don’t remember seeing one without the other, do you?”

“True.” Kathleen looked out at the room again. “You know what’s interesting about being stared at? When you stare back, everyone looks away.”

“So who else is tall with long hair?” Susan asked, getting back to their search. “There are three women at the table to our right—I think they’re here together—and all three of them have long hair. And if they’re not tall, at least none is incredibly short.”

“But they weren’t even around when the murder happened. They just checked in this morning. They were busy at the front desk when I was on my way to see Jerry. And I don’t see anyone else who could be mistaken for Allison.”

“Except . . .”

“Except who?”

“You. You’re tall and you have long hair.”

Kathleen offered her friend a rueful smile. “But the only people I know here are you and Jed and Jerry, and I don’t believe any of you would kill me.”

“So I suppose we can eliminate the mistaken-identity theory,” Susan said. “Which means we have to find the connection between Allison and someone other than Jerry.”

“Let’s order our lunch and eat quickly,” Kathleen said. “Sounds like we have a lot of people to meet and a lot of questions to ask.”

FIFTEEN

Lunch turned out to be more successful than Susan had anticipated. The bread basket arrived along with a note from someone named Rose Anderson, who wished to speak with Kathleen “concerning a matter of some importance.” Susan and Kathleen were still discussing that rather stilted statement when their main courses—seared swordfish Caesar salad for Kathleen; conch chowder with cornmeal croutons for Susan—arrived. The note that accompanied this course suggested that the women meet for drinks at four
P.M.
with the writer and her husband, who wanted to help in “this unfortunate situation.” That note was signed “Peggy and Frank from Connecticut.”

“Connecticut,” Susan repeated. “This is great! They may have some relationship with Allison! This note may have been written by the killer!”

“Who are these people?” Kathleen asked. “Do you recognize their names?”

“Nope, but they’ll be waiting for us in the bar at four. We’ll figure it out when we arrive. Now, how about dessert?”

“I don’t think—”

“I think we should ignore the calories today. The longer we sit here, the more likely it is people will contact us.”

“Then I’ll have key lime pie,” Kathleen said.

“And I’ll have the coconut flan and some iced coffee. I could use the caffeine.”

“That’s a good idea. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Did you leave your cottage?” Susan asked, leaning closer to her friend.

Kathleen looked down at her plate. “Maybe there are some things we should only talk about in private.”

Susan had no trouble with that. “Of course!” She picked up her spoon and sipped the chowder. “We’re going to have trouble keeping all these people straight. I mean, we don’t know any of them. I don’t suppose you brought a notebook to the island with you?”

“No. I never thought about it.”

“I have my journal. I suppose I could rip some pages out of the back, but . . .”

“The gift shop probably has paper,” Kathleen suggested.

“Good, let’s go there right after we’re finished here. I hate to wreck a perfectly good journal, especially since this one is almost new.” Susan had been keeping journals for decades, nothing organized, writing in them when she had time, ignoring them when life was busy. As a result, she sometimes thought that she had recorded only the low points. On the other hand, at least she had some record of her life. The journal was in the top drawer of the built-in dresser in her cottage. “I wonder what’s going to happen to Allison’s things.”

“Her things? You mean, like has she left a will?”

“No, I mean here. In her cottage.”

“Good question. Which cottage was she staying in?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ll bet every single member of the staff knows.”

“Do you think we could get someone to tell us?”

“We could try. James was pretty forthcoming this morning. And why shouldn’t he tell us? Anyway, Allison arrived a while ago; probably a lot of guests could tell us where she was staying.” Susan turned and looked out to sea. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

Kathleen turned and feigned an identical interest in the horizon. “That having a look around her cottage just might tell us something significant about Allison McAllister. Something that might lead us to her murderer.”

“You got it! So first we find out which cottage it is and then we figure out a way to get inside.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kathleen said, turning back to her meal.

Susan did the same, somewhat reluctantly. The food was wonderful, but they had things to do and people to see. Kathleen apparently felt the same way, but, as agreed, they took their time, enjoyed their desserts, and were just about to leave when Lila strode across the room toward them.

“There’s a phone call for you,” she informed Kathleen. “You can take it in the office if you like.”

Kathleen got up immediately. “Of course.”

“And I wonder if I could possibly speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Henshaw.”

Susan repeated Kathleen’s words, albeit a bit less enthusiastically. “Of course. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I . . .” Lila looked over her shoulder. Most of the guests who had stopped eating to watch her passage across the restaurant and Kathleen’s retreat in the opposite direction, now turned to their plates and their lunch companions. “I think perhaps we should speak someplace more private. You see, it’s my job to make sure our guests are satisfied with the time they spend with us.”

“Of course. We could go back to my cottage,” Susan suggested.

“Good idea. If you’re done with your meal?”

Susan grabbed the notes that still lay on the table, stuffed them into the pocket of her slacks, and, followed by Lila, walked back to her cottage. Their progress was slow as Lila stopped at table after table to check on her guests or just to chat. Susan stood by awkwardly. Now that Kathleen was gone, Susan was the focus of many curious looks, and she found herself wondering which of the diners had sent the notes—and why.

Lila finally disengaged and they continued on their way to the Henshaws’ cottage. Once inside, Lila wasted no time getting straight to the point.

“The murder—and the arrest of your friend—has become something of an amusement here and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“An amusement?” Susan said. “I don’t understand.” And I don’t know what I can do about it in any case, she added to herself.

“It’s just one of those things that happen in a resort,” Lila explained. “This is a small place and we’re somewhat isolated. So the guests themselves can have quite an impact on everyone’s vacation. For instance, we once had four cottages of competitive chess players staying here. By the end of the week they were in residence, more than half of the other guests had learned to play the game, and there was talk of a resort chess tournament. And then the players left, and everyone lost interest and went back to lying in the sun, swimming, and beachcombing—our more usual offerings.”

“But murder isn’t exactly a game.”

“Certainly not. But I believe I’m beginning to see evidence of an emerging group of Miss Marples and Hercule Poirots.”

“I don’t see how I can help that. If the other guests want to—to pretend to be detectives. I don’t see that anything I can do will stop it,” Susan protested, feeling a bit guilty about the notes stuffed in her pockets. She was, in fact, planning to encourage the guests who had sent them to become involved in her investigation.

“You misunderstand me. I’m not trying to discourage them. That’s the last thing on my mind. Many of the guests I’ve talked with seem to be quite well informed about your past, and they assume you will be working hard to make sure your friend is freed.”

“Of course, but—”

“And apparently many of the guests want to help,” Lila continued before Susan could explain that any knowledge of her past had not come from her. “Your waitress told me of the notes sent to your table during lunch. And I believe there are more in your mailbox in the office.”

“I don’t see what I can do to—to discourage them. And, to be honest,” Susan added, “I was hoping to talk to any guests who may have seen something unusual the night of the murder, or who spoke with Allison the week before she died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You misunderstand me. I want you to include—or at least make the other guests feel as though they’re being included in your investigation.”

“But I thought—”

“I confess that my original feeling was that the guests should not be involved in all of this. And I was worried about the police being around, although the local police are always exceptionally considerate in their attempts not to annoy the guests.”

Why should they? They’ve already made an arrest, Susan thought.

“But there is so much sympathy for Mrs. Gordon and, of course, for her husband. I believe many of our guests want to help them. I’m asking you to accept their kind offers of help—if you possibly can.”

Susan contemplated what Lila was saying. She was sure that Lila didn’t think she—or any of the guests—would find the murderer, and she wondered at Lila’s apparent willingness to add some sort of murder weekend theme to the resort’s list of activities. On the other hand, she was going to talk to some of the other guests as soon as Lila left her alone. She didn’t need Lila’s permission to talk to anyone about anything. But if she could get Lila’s assistance . . . “I’d be happy to include anyone who’s interested,” she said. “And it would help if I could speak with some of the staff about all this.”

Lila looked at Susan, seemingly considering her statement. “I keep the staff busy. They have very little free time, although it does not always appear this way to the average guest. The staff understands that they are to be pleasant to the guests, so they are willing to stop and chat and answer questions anyone might ask, but not at the expense of their work.”

Susan realized immediately that while Lila was perfectly content for her guests to be occupied in some rather strange murder game, she didn’t want her employees distracted from their work. She was about to ask for permission to look around Allison’s cottage when Kathleen walked in. “How is everything?” Susan asked immediately. “Who was on the phone?”

“It was Jed,” Kathleen answered, glancing over at Lila. “He says everything’s fine. The lawyer was there for a bit and talked with Jerry. He’s gone on to the police station. Apparently he has some friends there or something.

“Jed also said our bank at home is going to wire money directly to a branch here on the island—apparently it isn’t that difficult to do—and that he’s going to hang around with Jerry for a bit.” A frown appeared on her face for the first time. “He said they were playing cards.”

“Wow! They must be bored! That doesn’t sound like them at all.”

“I was thinking the same thing. How is everything going here?” Kathleen asked, including Lila in the question.

“Fine. We were just—” Susan began.

“I’m sure you and Mrs. Gordon will be able to handle this. If I can do anything, please let me know.” Lila was walking toward the door of the cottage as she spoke. Had she not been forced to go around Kathleen to get outside, she would have been out of sight before finishing her sentence.

“Thank you.” Kathleen’s response was polite, but her voice puzzled.

Susan waited until the door had swung shut and they were alone before speaking. “She wants us to include the other guests in our investigation. She came here just to make that point.”

“Really? How odd.”

“The strange thing is that she hasn’t even considered the possibility that it might be dangerous.”

“Of course not. Because she thinks Jerry is the killer. You and I know that he would never kill anyone. So we know the one thing she doesn’t. We know there’s still a killer loose at Compass Bay.”