Trouble at High Tide (10 page)

T
he skies had clouded over while I’d been in the bookshop, and it looked as if a storm might come through. I debated removing my sunglasses, but since so many of the tourists on the street still wore theirs, I decided that keeping mine on wouldn’t draw attention. While they hadn’t served as much of a disguise—the lady in the bookstore easily saw through them—they still made me feel as if I were traveling incognito like one of the spies in a James Bond movie, or an actress hiding from the paparazzi.

Those of us who write for a living are rarely bothered by people on the streets stopping to ask for a picture or an autograph. With some exceptions—I’m thinking of someone like Jackie Collins or Maya Angelou—we don’t fit easily into the celebrity mold. I often wonder how the truly famous cope with all the camera flashes popping in front of them or being trailed by fans or reporters waiting to catch them in an unflattering light. Some I suppose grow accustomed to it, while others hate the invasion of their privacy and fight back
with lawsuits or assaults, often making the front page, which was exactly what they were trying to avoid. I’m pretty sure I would not want to be hounded by strangers were I ever in their position. But thankfully that wasn’t something I needed to worry about. My encounters with the reading public were usually well organized in book panels and signing events, and the people I meet on those occasions are almost unanimously polite and kind, leading me to believe that book readers are a rare and wonderful breed. Of course, when your photo appears in a newspaper or on the Internet in connection with a salacious crime, all bets are off. It was recognition for that dubious privilege that I was trying to avoid.

I had just passed the broad steps of St. Peter’s Church, the oldest Anglican church in the Western Hemisphere, when I felt the first drop of rain hit my head. I sprinted down York Street and ducked under the awning of an art gallery in a pink building just as another woman reached the same spot and bumped into me.

“Omigoodness. So clumsy of me. Oh, it’s Jessica then, isn’t it?”

“Hello, Daisy,” I said to the wife of Tom’s publisher, Godfrey Reynolds. They occupied the cottage down the beach from mine.

“Are you all right? I haven’t harmed you, have I?”

“Not at all,” I said, brushing drops of rain off my shoulder. “How are you? I haven’t seen you and Godfrey since the party, which is remarkable since we’re practically next-door neighbors.”

“Oh, I know. We left you alone to deal with all that mess.
Godfrey said it was best to keep away, stay out of it as much as we could. We’re actually planning to move to a hotel. Godfrey is over there now trying to make arrangements. I can’t stand the idea of going down to the beach when, well, you know what happened there.”

“Have you told Tom you’re leaving?” I asked, wondering how he would respond to this rebuff of his hospitality.

“Not yet. Godfrey wanted to be certain we could secure a room before he gave him the news. There’s some sort of conference taking place here, and the hotels appear to be full, even the second class ones.”

“In that case, wouldn’t you be better off staying where you are? You can always go to another beach.”

“If Godfrey cannot find us a suitable room, we may have to. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It was generous of Judge Betterton to offer the cottage, but this is the only time we could find to go on holiday. Britain has been so cold and rainy this year, and we were eager to find some sun. But a murder…” She shuddered. “If we weren’t required to stay, I would insist that we be on a plane to somewhere else by now, Miami perhaps or Key West, or one of the Caribbean islands.”

“I understand why the police asked
me
not to leave, but what reason did they give for wanting
you
to stay?” I asked.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Oh, it was some such thing about Godfrey not being there when they knocked on the cottage door. It was four in the morning and I was so groggy, I’m not certain what answer I gave them.”

At that my own eyebrows shot up. “If he wasn’t in the cabin with you, where was he?” I asked.

“It sounds a lot worse than it is,” she said, peering out into the rain, which was coming down in sheets now, providing a curtain of privacy. She looked at me again, her eyes pleading. “Please don’t rush to judgment. He doesn’t sleep well, my husband, and tends to get up at night and read. But it’s a bit difficult in a one-room cottage. He didn’t want to wake me. He’s very considerate that way.” She put a hand on my arm as if to steady herself. “He simply took his book outside with a torch—you call it a flashlight. He said he read for an hour and had just gotten up to stretch his legs by walking about for a bit and that’s when the police came.”

“Did he hear anything odd or see anyone else when he was walking around?”

“No. And that’s what he told the constables, but they insisted we not leave, so here we are.”

The door to the shop opened behind us, giving us both a start. A white-haired gentleman wearing a tartan vest and pale blue linen suit invited us in. “No use standing outside in the rain, ladies, even under the protection of my canopy. Others may wish to escape the rain, too. Please come in. I have an electric kettle if you’d care for some tea. Ah, Mrs. Reynolds, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Hello, Mr. Mann,” Daisy said, linking her arm in mine. “We didn’t mean to block your door. Tea would be wonderful. I was just telling Mrs. Fletcher what lovely landscapes you have in your shop. Jessica, this is Richard Mann, owner of this gallery.”

Evidently Daisy didn’t want Richard Mann to know what we’d really been discussing.

“We didn’t have an opportunity to say much to each
other,” I said, “but you and I were introduced at Judge Betterton’s party.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, ushering us inside. “I remember now. Poor fellow. What a sorry business.” His face took on a forlorn expression, then brightened. “We do indeed have some wonderful landscapes. I’ll be happy to show them to you. And we have some new pieces by an artist you ladies may be acquainted with—Stephen Betterton.”

“I didn’t know that Stephen was an artist,” I said.

“I don’t believe that painting is his occupation,” Mann said, “but it is certainly his preoccupation, if you will.” He closed the door behind us,
tsk
ING about the weather, and went to plug in his kettle.

I took Daisy’s cue and began perusing the art on the walls. There were the to-be-expected beach scenes with turquoise water and pink sand and the views of the rocky remains of what had once been a natural stone arch on the shore. Several watercolors depicted a curved stone Moon Gate, a national symbol of good luck where honeymooners often posed for photographs.

“I see you’re admiring the Moon Gate series. There must be at least a dozen Moon Gates on Bermuda,” the gallery owner said. “Very popular.”

“What are they for?” Daisy asked.

Mann shrugged. “A purely decorative gateway. They were brought to Bermuda by a sea captain in the 1860s. He’d seen one in China and had it copied for his garden. That’s where most people have theirs, if they have one. According to Chinese legend, if a couple walks through one hand in hand, they will have everlasting happiness. It’s a pretty story and
has helped the island’s wedding industry. The lady who painted these lives over in Hamilton. I have other landscapes of hers if you’d like to see them.”

“No, thank you,” I said, “but I would like to see Stephen Betterton’s work.”

“Most are in the back room,” Mann said, leading us around a square pillar with narrow shelves on three sides holding small framed artwork. “This is where we have our one-man shows, or one-woman shows, as the case may be,” he said, indicating the space with an open arm.

Seven of Stephen’s paintings were hung on the walls, four Impressionistic depictions of Bermuda street scenes, one portrait and two still lifes.

“He works in acrylics, which many modern artists do,” Mann said. “It lacks the subtleties and the richness of color you can achieve with oils, but it dries faster, making it a better medium for the prolific—and the impatient.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“He’s very talented,” I said as I paused in front of the portrait. It was a three-quarter view of a woman gazing off into the distance, the blues of the background suggesting that she was looking at the sea. There was a large empty space on the wall next to the portrait and I wondered if the gallery owner had already sold the painting that had hung there. Probably not, however. Most galleries indicated that a work had been sold by placing a red dot on the frame, not by taking it out of the show.

“It looks like Madeline, doesn’t it?” Daisy said, coming next to me.

“Yes,” I said. “I like this work the best of what’s here. It has the most feeling.”

“I have another of his portraits I can show you, but I can’t sell it to you,” Mann said.

“Is it the one that used to hang beside this one?” I asked.

“Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much.”

“Do you suppose it’s Alicia?” Daisy whispered to me when Mann left to find the painting.

“We’ll find out,” I replied. “If it is, Mr. Mann might have taken it out of the exhibit after her death.”

“I’m not sure I want to see it.”

“Why? It’s only a painting,” I said.

“Stephen probably wants it back as a remembrance,” she said.

Mann returned a moment later, holding a small portrait. He placed it on an easel and the three of us stepped back to view it. Alicia had been a pretty girl, but the woman in the portrait was remarkably beautiful, eyes slightly downcast and pensive, expression serene.

“I didn’t know the girl very well,” Daisy said. “It certainly looks like Alicia, only different. I can’t put my finger on why.”

“Perhaps it’s what he
wanted
her to look like,” I said.

“Interesting observation,” Mann said. “It is a bit idealized. When he brought it in, I told Stephen I’d never seen that expression on her face. He said it’s what she was inside, a part of her that she didn’t show to everyone. It’s not for sale. I thought it wise to take it out of the show.”

“That was sensitive,” I said. “I’m sure the family will appreciate it.”

“Oh, it wasn’t done for them,” Mann said. “Word would have gotten around and I don’t want people coming in, wasting my time just to ogle the painting. Frankly, at this point, I would have found it distasteful had someone wanted to buy it.”

I was tempted to take exception to his comment. The portrait of Alicia was an intriguing painting even without knowing the fate of its subject. That Stephen had painted his cousin with such sympathy made me wonder just how rancorous their relationship actually was. He’d been impatient with her bad behavior, yes, but he’d also seen beneath the facade she presented to the world. What did he really think about Alicia?

Daisy and I spent another fifteen minutes in Mann’s gallery politely sipping tea that he’d gone to the trouble to make. Daisy had already bought a painting from him and weighed the purchase of another, finally promising to bring Godfrey with her for the final decision. We parted ways outside the shop. The rain had stopped, the skies were clear, and the puddles were drying in the sun.

“I hope I’ll see you again before we leave,” Daisy said, giving me a hug, “but if not, give us a call the next time you’re in London. You do come to London every now and then, don’t you?”

I told her that I did, and said I would call, but I wasn’t sure that I would. My list of friends in the English capital had grown considerably over time and I invariably found myself torn when it came to making dates while there, an enviable but sometimes frustrating situation.

I walked back to King’s Square where many of the tourists took pictures of the replica of the ship
Deliverance
while they waited to reboard their cruise ship. St. George’s is a town steeped in history, and every few steps brought to life another piece of times gone by. According to the guidebook I’d just bought, the first
Deliverance
had been built on Bermuda by the shipwrecked survivors of another vessel bound for the Virginia colony in 1609. It took almost a year, but using salvaged materials from their original ship along with the natural resources provided by what was then an uninhabited island, they cobbled together an eighty-ton ship. After fourteen days at sea, they reached Chesapeake Bay.

Two of the shipwrecked survivors had elected to stay on in Bermuda rather than set sail. Since they were disreputable fellows—one was a murderer—the ship’s company was probably happy to be rid of them. But ironically, they were the first inhabitants of Bermuda, and had the island all to themselves for two years before more settlers arrived to establish the town of St. George, named for the patron saint of England. William Shakespeare’s play
The Tempest
is reputed to have been inspired by accounts of the shipwreck and the settlers’ ordeal before they reached Virginia.

Beyond the
Deliverance
and King’s Square was the ferry terminal that plied the waters between St. George and Hamilton. I would have enjoyed a ride on the ferry but Hamilton wasn’t my destination, at least not that day. I needed a taxi or some other form of ground transportation to return me to Tucker’s Town and my beachfront cottage. I saw where taxis were lined up and headed in that direction. It had been an interesting, yet relaxing day, a nice break from the turmoil
in the Betterton household, although Alicia’s murder had never been far from my mind.

The ferry was preparing to leave as I crossed the large car parking area toward the taxi line. Passengers had already boarded and crew members were starting to release the heavy ropes that tethered the boat to the dock. People leaned on the ship’s railings on the open top deck and waved goodbye to friends and family below.

The ferry captain gave a loud blast on the ship’s horn, alerting latecomers of its imminent departure. I covered my ears and laughed as the last two stragglers ran up the ramp to the ship. One of the latecomers wheeled his scooter onto the ferry. But it was the second one who gave me a start, the one person I had vowed to confront as soon as I had the chance. It was the redheaded man, hauling his heavy suitcase and still in his strange old-fashioned attire.