Swimming With the Dead (24 page)

“Can you think of anyone who would want Michael Duvall dead?” I asked.

“Only one I heard of was Arthur Stewart.  I knew what was going on.  All those nasty phone messages he left for the chief and trying to get Michael thrown out of the islands.  But you ask me, I say the boy drowned.  Everybody says so.”

“Like who?”

“Well, the chief for one,” she said.  “And the divers that brought up the body.”

“You talked to the divers?”

“Well, sure.  I mean ’cause I took down their statements for the file.”

“Neither said anything about having doubts that the drowning was accidental?”  I remembered Carr saying he wondered how Michael could have gotten trapped under that compressor.

“Naw.  They said he was caught in the wreck and he run out of air.  Typed it just like they told it.”

“Did you tape their statements?”

“No.  Don’t need to do that.  Like I said, I typed it just like they said it.  Look at the time,” she said, checking her watch.  “I’d better get on back to work.”

So much for slow-paced island time.  Lorna was suddenly in a hurry.  She’d managed to inhale her entire meal while we had been talking.  Only a bit of chocolate icing remained.  She scooped it up with her fingers as she got up and left me sitting with a plateful of food.

“Sorry to rush off and leave you.  You should take the rest of the day off,” she said.  “Go to the beach, relax in the sun.  Leave all this nonsense about Michael Duvall alone and enjoy these beautiful islands,” she smiled.  “Pretty thing like you should be out showing off that figure in your bikini.”

Right, I thought.  Anything but stirring up trouble in paradise.

I finished the chocolate cake and went back to Dunn’s office for the trip to the Reardons’.  Lorna wasn’t back yet.

“She gets distracted,” Dunn explained, a twinkle in his eye.  “Sometimes ends up taking a couple hours for lunch.  I’ve spotted her coming back from the marina.  I’m sure it’s some fella working down there.  Haven’t figured out who yet.  I don’t say much.  She does a good job here, and we all be deservin’ a bit of afternoon delight.  Got to admit to taking a long lunch at home myself once in a while,” he said, smiling.

Yeah, I thought, I could handle a little afternoon delight.  I wondered what O’Brien was doing at the moment.  God, I’d better watch it.  I didn’t need any complications in my life right now.  Complications could be fatal.

Chapter 23

A big man, shirtless under denim coveralls, was up on the roof tacking new tar paper over the cracks when we pulled up in front of the Reardons’.  A stack of shingles lay nearby.  He waved and smiled as we walked up to the door where Clara stood, a child in her arms.

“My sister’s husband,” Clara Reardon explained, inviting us inside.  The house had been transformed since our last visit.  The kitchen counters were piled with food, and an overstuffed blue sofa and matching chair had been added to the living space.  Bethy hid behind her mother, covering her face with Clara’s skirt. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” I said, coaxing her out.  “Don’t you look pretty.”

Her hair was braided close to her head and held in place with pink barrettes.  She wore a crisp new purple satin dress with a big bow at the waist.  She smiled shyly and twirled, the dress flaring out around her.

“Now that Billy is gone, the family can step in,” Dunn whispered as Clara made coffee.  “While he was alive, it was considered his responsibility and improper to intrude.  Clara and the kids will be a lot better off without him.”

But the expectation was gone.  They weren’t waiting for their father any longer, and the hope that had been in Clara’s eyes had been replaced with a kind of dullness.

I couldn’t understand it.  From all accounts, Reardon had been a terrible husband and father.  You’d think she’d be glad to have him gone.  Clara Reardon was a nice woman.  Maybe that was the problem.  Or maybe there was something in Reardon that only she understood.

Clara set the coffee and a plate of oatmeal cookies in the middle of the kitchen table and sat down with us.  Out of nowhere, two young boys appeared like bloodhounds and waited quietly behind their mother.

“You can each take one,” she said.  They each grabbed a cookie and ran out into the yard.

“They’re good boys,” she said sadly.  “Don’t know what they will do without their father teaching them about things.”

The boys were amazingly polite.  Most likely Clara’s doing.  I wondered if their uncle, the big man on the roof, would step in.  He’d be a whole lot better father figure than Reardon had been.

I sat across from Clara, sipping the deep, rich brew and letting Dunn take the lead.  Who were Billy’s friends, had Arthur Stewart ever come to their house, was Billy upset or worried about anything?

Clara could tell us little more than she had when we first spoke to her.  She didn’t know Billy’s friends—just a bunch of guys who hung out at the bars.

“Was there any place in particular where Billy spent his time?” Dunn asked.

“Place called the Gold Doubloon,” Clara said.  “Somewhere just outside of Roadtown.”

“I know it,” he said, getting up.  He almost grabbed a cookie on our way out, then held back.  I knew what he was thinking—save them for the kids.

When we left, Clara was out hanging laundry, just as she had been doing the first day we’d gone up there.  I wondered how much life would change for her.  How she’d manage raising seven, soon to be eight, children without a father.

Dunn and I headed back into town and parked out in front of the Gold Doubloon.

“We break up at least one fight here every Saturday night,” Dunn said, opening the door.

The place had seen better days.  It was dark and smelled of stale beer and cigarettes.  The pirate theme had probably once been lavish.  Now it was faded.  Sabers, a canon, a battered crow’s nest were muted in a layer of dust.  An old treasure chest, overflowing with fake gold coins, sat in a prominent place behind the bar, surrounded by liquor bottles.

The bar was empty except for the bartender and a heavyset waitress.  She looked as worn and frayed as the décor.  Her makeup was layered on thick over a puffy face, mascara so heavy that her eyes sagged.

“Afternoon, Chief.  What’s your poison?” the bartender asked.

“Just a coupla questions,” Dunn replied.

“Always business, ain’t it, Chief?” the woman said, flirting with Dunn.

“I’m afraid so, Mona,” he said. “This is Hannah Sampson, cop from the States.  We’re doing some checking about Billy Reardon.”

“Yeah, I been hearing about you,” Mona said.  She wanted to know more but knew better than to ask.

“Did you know Reardon?” I asked.

“Sure.  Everybody here knew Billy.  He was in here most every night, whether he had money or not,” she said.  “Owes practically everyone comes in.  Guess some be pretty upset he dead.  Course, there be others glad to see him go.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Like anyone bring his girlfriend in here.  Billy put the moves on anything in a skirt.  More than one fight when Billy got too much whiskey in him and started up with another man’s woman.”

“What about in the last couple of days?”

“Last time Billy in here he was braggin’ up a storm,” she said.  “Talkin’ about gettin’ hisself some money, buyin’ everyone in the place drinks.  Said he be takin’ me upstairs and payin’ me real good for my services.  I’m a masseuse,” she added quickly. 

Right, I thought.  “Anything else you remember about that night?”

“Well, yeah.  I do remember Harry Acuff and Billy gettin’ into it,” Mona said.  “Harry grabbed Billy real rough like.  He was mad.  He and Billy went out arguing.”

“Any idea about what?” Dunn asked.

“Harry was tellin’ Billy to keep his damn mouth shut,” she said. 

“You remember when that was?” I asked.

“Coupla nights ago.  Night that steel band was playin’.  Real noisy.  Damn racket gives me a headache.

“Joe,” she said, turning to the bartender. “What night that steel band play?”

“That woulda been Wednesday,” he said.

Reardon had been in my hotel room jamming a pillow into my face on Thursday night.  By Friday he was dead.

“Let’s go talk with Acuff,” I said to Dunn.

“Yes,” he said.  “Just so happens he works over at Tortola Yacht Repairs.  Same place that uses that pipe.”

Tortola Yacht Repairs was on Wickhams Cay II, just behind the marina.  The place was surrounded by chain-link fence.  Inside, boats from fifteen-foot speedboats to sixty-foot yachts were perched on trailers or scattered about the yard.  Some were for sale; others were in storage or in various stages of repair.  A few looked like they would never float again.  We found the manager back in his office shuffling a stack of papers.

“Hey, Chief,” the man said, getting up from his desk.  “What brings you in?”

“Looking for Harry Acuff,” Dunn said.

“Harry?  He didn’t show up this mornin’,” he said.  “My guess he’s nursin’ a hangover.  Harry shows up when he feels like it, and more times than not he don’t feel like it.  Could be drinkin’ over at the Doubloon, down shootin’ the shit with one of dem yachties, maybe out fishin’.  He does what he damn well pleases.  I’d fire him, but he’s the best around when it comes to doing the underwater repairs.”

Dunn asked him about the pipe.

“Like I told your deputy, we’re the only ones that use that particular kind, mostly on the propeller shaft.  More expensive, but we save in the long run.  Nobody coming back to complain or have the job redone.”

“Guess Acuff uses that piping all the time when he’s working on one of your boats?” I said.

“Sure,” he said.  “Acuff’s the one doing most of the underwater repairs.”

It wasn’t hard to locate Acuff.  He was down the street at the marina.  We spotted him as he was climbing out of the water and onto a Department of Fisheries boat.

“Well, if it ain’t the chief and Ms. Sampson,” he said, as he slipped out of his dive gear.  “Any more near-death experiences?” 

I wondered if he was referring to our dive at the
Chikuzen
or if he had heard about the encounter with Reardon.

“Hello, Harry,” Dunn said.  “Are you working?”

“Yeah.  Damned Maynard’s been after me to get this thing fixed.  About time they had this ol’ girl completely overhauled,” he said.

It had probably been Acuff whom Maynard had been chewing out on the phone about getting the boat fixed when I’d been in his office earlier in the day.

“Can you tell us anything about Billy Reardon?”  Dunn asked.  “Mona, the waitress down at the Gold Doubloon, said you two had some words the other night.  Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“That no-account owed me money and he was in there buying everybody in the place drinks, talking big.  I wanted what he owed me before he had it all spent,” Acuff said.

“Mona thought you were upset about all his talk,” I said.

“Hell, I don’t care what he was saying, just about what he was doing.  Spending my money.”

“You know he’s dead,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard.  Not surprising.  Him falling off that cliff.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Hell, he was always drunk,” Acuff said, “and a couple of guys at the Doubloon didn’t like him much, fooling with their women.”

“When did you see him last?” Dunn asked.

“Not since that night at the bar,” he said.  “Hey, I hope you’re not thinking I had anything to do with it.  I had no reason.  Besides, now I’ll never get my money.  If there’s nothin’ else, I need to get back to work.”

“Actually, there is something else,” I said, fed up with Acuff’s attitude.  “Remember that piece of pipe I recovered when we dove the wreck a few days ago?  Turns out the only place on the entire island that uses that particular piping is the same place you work.  Kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well, coincidence it were, matey,” Acuff said, sneering.

“You want to explain that?” Dunn asked.

“I was out at the
Chikuzen
first part of last month,” Acuff said.  “We got a radio call from a boat out there having trouble.  Said their prop fell off.  Couldn’t figure out why the boat wouldn’t move when they put it in gear.  Captain jumped in with his snorkeling gear and saw that the prop was plain gone.  Funny, huh?  Damn thing was laying in the sand on the bottom.  Boss sent me out.”

“That doesn’t explain how the pipe got in the wreck,” I said.

“I probably dropped one when I was working,” he said.  “Some diver probably picked it up, carried it into the wreck for one thing or another.  Hell, it could have been Duvall.”

“A lot of probablys and could-haves,” I said.

“Yeah, well, shit happens.”

Yeah, I thought, especially when Acuff’s around.  I was thinking about the faulty hose on my regulator that had almost gotten me killed.

“You get the name of the captain of the boat?” I asked.

“Christ, I’ve fixed a lot of boats between then and now.  You expect me to remember the name?”  He was starting to get pissed.

“No, Harry, I wouldn’t expect you to remember much of anything most of the time,” I said.

When Dunn and I left, Acuff was sitting on the side of the boat, lighting up a cigarette.  God, he was cocky.  I was sure he was up to his ears in Michael Duvall’s death.

We headed straight back to Tortola Yacht Repairs.  They had to keep records of repairs that had been done, copies of receipts, something.  When we got to the office, the manager was still sitting at his desk pushing papers around.

“Man, how am I going to find a receipt without a name?” he asked.

“Don’t you keep records by month?  Try checking through last month’s billings,” I suggested.

“This will take some time,” he complained.  “I’ll have to look through every damn bill.  Owners are too cheap to fork out for a computer.”

“We’ll wait,” Dunn said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

I took a nearby chair and picked up the only magazine in the office—some sort of “how-to” for boat repairs.  Forty-five minutes later, I’d been through the thing three times and pretty much knew how to dismantle the bilge pump on a Hunter 410.  Dunn was still leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the epitome of stoicism.