Everglades Assault (20 page)

“Stealing—hah! That's a good one, Dusky. Why don't you and me jump into the boat and head on out to the reefs? Grab us a few lobster for dinner, what say? I got a spot out there none of them sporty divers know about—”

He didn't have time to finish.

And suddenly I knew why Hervey and his wife were so nervous.

April came walking down the hall from her bedroom. I had never seen her so beautiful—or wearing a dress, for that matter. It was one of those prim cotton print things with a knee-length skirt that accented her figure and the black sheen of her hair. Her long legs seemed to glow within the stockings, and her perfect face held an odd pixyish smile.

“Why, Dusky! I have someone here I'd like you to meet.”

She trailed the man along behind her, holding his hand. He was a frail, bookish-looking guy about my age. He wore a tweed jacket over an open sports shirt, and he had that maddening aloofness of the self-styled intellectual.

“Dusky, this is a friend of mine from the university, Professor Noel Watson. He'll be staying with me for awhile. He's doing research. Noel—this is Dusky. He's an old friend of the family.”

We shook hands. First meetings can tell you much. He didn't like me. I didn't like him. I sat in the living room for as long as I could stand it, making small talk. At first, April seemed to enjoy the confrontation. But then I could see that it was hurting her, too, so I made my excuses and escaped outside, sucking in the fresh September air like an animal just out of captivity.

All the way back to the marina at Garrison Bight I swore at myself, called myself improbable names, suggested that I perform impossible acts upon my own person.

“Sometimes you're just too goddamn stupid for words!” I told myself.

“Absolutely!” I agreed.

The phone booth in the marina parking lot gave me a flash of inspiration. The operator gave me the number of the Flamingo bar and restaurant. A woman with a smoker's voice answered. Could she connect me with Stella Catharine Cross's apartment?

She could and did.

Stella seemed happy to hear from me. At first. But then that same strange nervousness came into her voice.

“Dusky, I'd really love to go cruising with you, but . . .”

In the background, I heard a man's voice. He wanted to know who she was talking to.

I thanked her for the long-gone evening, agreed to her demands that I call again, and hung up.

So what do the lonely ones do in Key West?

They make the rounds of the bars, get drunk, and hunt for meteoric crossing of lust, willingness, and mutual boredom.

But I just wasn't up for that.

So I rode my bike dejectedly across the parking lot to the dock where
Sniper
was moored. Bored with swearing at myself, I whistled an aimless tune.

“Hey—hey, Dusky!”

I looked up to see Steve Wise, dockmaster and Key West playboy. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets and an unusually forlorn look on his face.

He shrugged at me. “You look like you just lost your best friend,” he said.

“Does that bear any resemblance to a jilted lover?”

He actually smiled. “You too, huh?”

“Me too?”

He nodded over his shoulder. Behind him, aboard his chunky houseboat, the two Playmate twins seemed to be having a discussion. Or an argument. They wore thin bikinis that grabbed at the heart. Their chins were speared out at each other, their faces red. Suddenly, one of them held up a fierce middle finger—an unmistakable gesture. And, just as suddenly, the other grabbed a beach sandal and hurled it at her.

Steve sighed dejectedly. “No matter what those Mormons say, one man can't please two women. Not at the same time, anyway.”

“And sometimes you can't please even one.”

“God, I'm sick of them.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Women! To hell with them.” He eyed my boat, a new look on his face. “Dusky, do you realize I haven't booked you for a charter all week?”

I was beginning to catch on. “Is that right?”

“Dusky, how far do you think we could cruise in a week?”

“How long will your twins be staying on your houseboat?”

“Five more long days. I can't take it. God, I can't get any sleep and I'm losing weight.”

“Then I think the two of us could make the Tortugas in a day—then take four days getting back.”

He smiled, suddenly happy. “I'll get the beer.”

“I've got plenty.”

He hesitated. “Any women out there in the Tortugas?”

“Occasionally.”

“What the hell,” said Steve Wise. “I'll take the chance. . . .”

The corpse was gone, but the sprawled outline was still there, traced in white chalk.

The floor was of pale wood. Not pine, but some kind of tropical planking that held the metallic stink of blood—a black amoeba splotch that had rivered beyond the chalk confines and dried.

“You found her just like this?”

“Aye. I did, mate.”

“And they think you murdered her?”

“They
thought
I'd murdered her. Can you imagine—a sweet lad from the home soil like meself?”

I turned away from the outline on the floor. The cop who had traced the corpse had caught the feminine curvature of hips and the delicate fingers of the left hand, thrown out wildly to stop her fall.

Only there was no stopping that fall. It was the final descent.

Death.

There was something grotesque about a thing so temporary as chalk marking the resting spot of a being who had lived and laughed and loved, only to rendezvous, facedown, with wood and a knife slit across the throat.

That plus the stink made me feel unexpectedly queasy. Unexpected because I've seen plenty of death before. But there was a coldness to this white outline of a woman that I would never know. Like so many things the cops do, it seemed to reduce murder to a faceless shape, complete with bloodstain.

“Mind if we step out onto the porch?”

“Aye. I canna stand the sight of the blinkin' thing meself.”

I followed him outside. The screen door slammed behind us. Beyond the black growth of gumbo-limbo, mahogany, and jasmine, stars threw paths upon the Caribbean sea. It was one of those soft winter nights in the tropics. The sort of night people come to Grand Cayman to enjoy. The wind was cloying, blowing off the sea, and you could hear the roar of waves upon the reef, half a mile out.

“You knew her, right?”

The features of my good friend, Wes O'Davis, seemed softer by the yellow porch light. Or maybe by the finding of a dead woman upon his living room floor. There was the broad, Gaelic face and the Viking beard and the ugly broken nose—but the pale eyes seemed withdrawn, as if he were someplace else.

“Did I know tha' poor wee girl? Aye, I knew her. Treated 'er like a tramp, I did.”

“Is this a confession?”

“Hah! Might as well be, lad. Might as well be.” He stepped off the porch and kicked at a big conch shell—forgetting he was barefoot, apparently. He jumped around for a second, then grabbed the shell and gave it a savage toss. You could hear it hit the water. “I treated her like a brute, I did,” he said.

“But you didn't kill her?”

“ 'N do I look like a murderer to you, Mr. Dusky MacMorgan?”

“You
look
like you are capable of robbing churches and assaulting nuns.”

“I take it that's a ‘yes.' ”

“It is.”

“So you think I killed her?”

“I didn't say that. I know you, remember? I know you're no murderer. But you called me down here to help, right? So let me help. Shake off that case of the guilts you have at least long enough to tell me what in hell happened. Ever since I got here you've been tight as a drum. A blacksmith couldn't get a pin up your ass with a hammer. Just relax—I'm a friend, remember?”

He rolled his shoulders, flexing his neck. Then he gave the sudden leprechaun grin that I knew so well. “Yer right. I'll be needin' to fill you in on all the particulars—if yer ta help me, that is.”

“Okay, good. So talk. You knew the girl.”

“Aye. Monster that I am, I knew her the way I've known a hundred other lonely tourist ladies. They come to Grand Cayman by themselves, or with a husband who is no longer very attentive.”

“Then you step in.”

He nodded. “In me own defense, Yank, I must say most a them seem the happier for it.”

“What was her name?”

“Cynthia. Cynthia Rothchild. Met 'er at one of those snooty little teas in Georgetown. We're still very English here in the Caymans, ye know.”

“She was wealthy?”

“Said she was a nanny. Had the care of a boy child fer some very rich folks from London. Sir Conan James and Lady James. Sir James has an advisory position with Government House, appointed by Her Majesty. That's why I was invited to the snooty tea.”

“As a bodyguard?”

He shrugged. “ 'Tis probably the real reason. But they said me attendance was required so they could present me with some damnable award.”

I smiled. “From the queen?”

“Aye. Pretty little thing it is, too. Lady James pinned it on. A great beauty, that Lady James. Magnificent woman—even if she is English.”

“But you settled for the nanny, Cynthia Rothchild.”

“Aye. She was something of a beauty herself, Yank. Very black hair. Lovely figure. You know me weakness fer the ladies. Saw her three—no, four times. She'd drive her wee rental car over from Three Mile Beach when the lad was asleep.”

“And spend the night?”

“Aye. The best part of it.”

“So she lived on the island.”

“Sir James keeps a home here. But they live in London.”

“And he didn't mind his nanny sneaking out?”

“He's a bit of a womanizer himself, I'm afraid. So I'm sure he understood. Besides, Her Majesty honored me with an award, remember? Sir James would overlook such a thing with me.”

“When's the last time you saw her?”

“In the afternoon, day before yesterday. We had lunch together. She seemed very nervous, Yank. Bothered me, it did. She had the lad with 'er—little Tommy. Fine-looking boy, 'bout twelve. Something of a genius, to hear Lady James talk. A regular wizard. That night I supped at Betty Bay Point, made the rounds of the pubs with a few of me island mates, and then went home. She was layin' on the floor of me living room. Part a 'er dress was ripped away. She had this awful look a surprise on 'er face. Her throat had been cut.”

“And you called the police?”

“Aye. Rang up the substation at Bodden Town. The constable is a friend a mine. He seemed very sorry to have to arrest me. That's when I called you.”

“I was kind of surprised you met me at the airport.”

“They knew straightaway I didn't do it. I was with me mates, remember? Besides, Sir James found the note.”

“What note?”

The Irishman picked up another conch shell and threw it in a moonlit spiral toward the Cayman sea. “The ransom note, Yank. They've taken little Tommy. Kidnapped 'im, they did. Sir James has seventy-two hours to pay them two million pounds. So that gives us three days to find the kidnappers, snatch the lad, and bring him safely home.”

“Wait a minute—does Sir James want you to get involved?”

“Her Majesty does, Yank. It's a dangerous precedent to set—a true Irishman serving the Queen. But they killed me little Cynthia. And she was a fine, sweet girl with a pretty laugh and a wonderful way beneath the covers. She was too good for the likes of me, Yank. Treated 'er like nothin' but a sleepover. So now it's me duty to make amends. And yer jest mean enough to help. Three days, Yank—that's all we have. An' three days is all those bloody buggers have to live. . . .”