Trouble at High Tide (12 page)

I ambled past the second cottage, the one still occupied by Daisy and Godfrey Reynolds. I remembered taking a look at that cottage the night of the murder and noticing that it matched mine with its porch swing and screen door. I hadn’t seen Godfrey reading on the porch the night of the murder. I could hardly have missed him. I’d passed the cottage again, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later when I’d run back to call the police. If Godfrey had been sitting on the porch then, I wouldn’t have noticed. My mind had been preoccupied with reaching the authorities before the surf washed away any more evidence, including Alicia’s body. But had he been there, surely Godfrey would have seen me
hurrying up the beach, or would have heard my footsteps when I reached the gravel path. Yet Daisy said that he’d told the police that he’d neither seen nor heard anything.

The sun was hanging over the rocky outcropping. The spray from the waves hitting the hard surfaces sent golden droplets up into the sky; they bounced off the gray stone, now gilded in the waning evening light. A piece of yellow tape affixed to the rock fluttered in the breeze, the only reminder of the violence that had taken place there. The beach was beautiful, romantic, serene.

I rounded a boulder and came upon the staircase that led up to the Jamisons’ property. Someone was sitting on the bottom steps, his face turned away from me. He wore a pair of khaki slacks folded up at the cuffs; the arms of a navy blue sweater were looped around his shoulders. An aqua bandanna peeked from the open collar of his pink shirt. His black curly hair was tousled by the wind. Agnes’s grandnephew didn’t notice me until I was almost upon him.

“Hello, Charles,” I said.

“Mrs. Fletcher!” He stumbled to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”

“No need to apologize,” I said. “May I join you?” I pointed at the stair on which he’d been sitting.

“Sure. I’m not going to stay very long, but please—” He untied his neckerchief and swiped at the sand on the step.

“Thank you,” I said.

We were silent for a while, but I was aware of his eyes roaming the beach, taking in every detail.

“This is where you found her, right?” he said.

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I… I might have been the last person to see her alive,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.

“How do you know that?”

“We were supposed to meet after the judge’s party. I had invited her to go with me to another party some friends were throwing in Paget. I knew it would still be going on. Those guys pretty much hang out until the morning.”

“Did you go to the party?”

“I did, yes. Not Alicia. I wish she had gone with me. God, how I wish I had made her go with me.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“We argued. She was in a funny mood, picking fights with everyone. I’d seen Stephen and Madeline giving her a piece of their mind, but they couldn’t contain her. She was high on something, maybe just a little drunk, I think. She was unsteady. She tripped and Mr. Reynolds had to catch her. That didn’t sit very well with his wife. She practically shoved him out the door. Alicia just laughed. She was bragging how she was going to blow them all out of the water.”

“
Who
was she going to blow out of the water?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. I asked her what she was planning to do. She said, ‘You’ll see.’ Then she ran out on the terrace and was gone.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was quavering. “Then next thing I knew, Aunt Agnes was shaking me awake and there was a room full of constables waiting to take me to headquarters.”

“What time had you gotten home?”

“No idea. I went to the party, but I was so pissed at Alicia I
just drank myself into a stupor. One of the guys threw my motorbike into his truck and drove me home. He told the cops he dropped me off at four or five. I really don’t remember.”

“That must have been a problem with the police.”

“Yeah, my alibi’s not the best. But my friend vouched for me. I never would have hurt her. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. She made me want to strangle her. I sure was tempted, but I didn’t do it. And I don’t even own a knife.”

“What does your great-aunt think of all this?”

He shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her. She was never a fan of Alicia’s. I knew that. But she never told me not to see her. She kind of goes with the flow. I think it’s just something else for her to gossip about. She lives for gossip.” He looked at me. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s true. I guess at her age, there isn’t a lot else to interest her.”

I thought Agnes would not be pleased at her nephew’s description of her life, but I wasn’t in a position to contradict him. I didn’t know her that well, but I couldn’t help saying, “I’m sure she’s not as cold as that.”

He shrugged.

“How long were you seeing Alicia?” I asked. “Someone at the party said she had a boyfriend. Was that you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing again. “I have to go.” He pushed on his knees to stand, brushed the sand off the seat of his trousers, and put out a hand to help me to my feet. “I apologize if I was rude to you the other night. You caught me right in the middle of my argument with Alicia and I just wasn’t thinking.”

“I understand,” I said. “Please send my regards to your aunt. I’d like to stop by and see her if she wouldn’t mind.”

“She’d love it. Just go. She’s always there. Judge Betterton has our address.”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

He turned and quickly climbed the stairs.

How odd to find him there
, I thought, as I watched him take the steps two at a time as though eager to get away.

But from what?

From the scene of the crime?

Or from my questions?

W
hen I returned to my cottage after dinner, there was a message on my cell phone inviting me to police headquarters early the following afternoon to meet with the representatives from Scotland Yard. I was certain my dear friend Chief Inspector George Sutherland had briefed them on what he and I had discussed in our phone call; I didn’t know what more I could offer, but I eagerly looked forward to the meeting.

If I were being completely honest with myself, I would admit that I was curious to meet Inspector Veronica Macdonald, the forensics expert. Both Tom and Adam had commented enthusiastically on how beautiful she was, which I had seen for myself at the press conference. As a member of the team George had designated to assist the Bermudian police with their serial killer cases, she would have had to impress him with her knowledge and skills. Why else would George have chosen her for this assignment? Perhaps they had worked closely together on other cases in London. Did
he find her as beautiful as the judge and his personal assistant so clearly did? I flinched at the direction of my thoughts.
Goodness, Jessica!
I chided myself.
Is that a twinge of jealousy you’re feeling?

As I got ready for bed, I forced myself to think about the evening I’d just spent. Neither the Scotland Yard inspectors nor one of the subjects of their investigation, the late Alicia Betterton, had been mentioned in the dinner table conversation. Instead, the meal was surprisingly convivial. We had been seven at the table: our host Tom and his girlfriend, Margo Silvestry; Tom’s stepchildren, Stephen and Madeline; his British publisher, Godfrey Reynolds; Reynolds’s wife, Daisy; and me. Adam apparently had been left off the guest list or perhaps had declined the invitation. I heard his voice in the kitchen once or twice talking to the cook, Norlene, but he never made an appearance in the dining room, which I found odd, given that he’d joined the family for meals before.

The judge, apparently buoyed by the contemplation of his potential nomination, was a congenial host, telling stories about his early days on the bench when he was first “learning the ropes,” as he put it, and entertaining us with tales of his New Jersey boyhood and his hunt for the Jersey Devil in the state’s Pine Barrens.

“Is the Jersey Devil an animal?” Margo had asked.

“More like a legend,” the judge had replied. “You all know about the abominable snowman, or yeti.” He pointed at Godfrey. “And I’m sure you’ve heard of the Loch Ness monster.”

“Thought I saw it myself once,” Godfrey quipped.

“Maybe you did,” the judge said. “They didn’t discover the mountain gorilla until 1901 or 1902. And it was less than a dozen years ago that Japanese fishermen took a picture of the giant squid.”

“What’s that got to do with the Jersey Devil?” Stephen asked, a slight smile on his face. It was obviously a familiar story to him, but he played along.

“Just that you can never be certain if a legend is false. There are hundreds of thousands of acres in the Pine Barrens, big enough to hide a rare specimen, particularly one that’s shy. If there are creatures left to be discovered, one of them may just be my Jersey Devil.”

“Have to admit I’ve never heard of it,” Godfrey said.

“Me neither,” added Margo. “What’s it supposed to look like?”

Tom warmed to his tale. “It was kind of a cross between a horse and a pterodactyl. He was first spotted in the early seventeen hundreds, colonial days. A flying biped with hooves and a long tail is how it was described.”

“Sounds horrible,” Daisy said.

“Well, he was no great beauty in any of the pictures I’ve seen,” the judge said.

“You’ve actually seen a picture of it?” Godfrey asked.

“Not a photograph, no. But over the centuries there have been lots of sketches, none of them exactly the same. Stephen used to make wonderful drawings of it when he was a boy.” He looked over to his stepson. “Remember?”

“I remember.”

“They say Napoleon’s brother Joseph Bonaparte saw one when he was hunting in Bordentown,” Tom continued. “That was in the eighteen hundreds. And even up to the early twentieth century, reports of strange footprints or odd sounds were attributed to the devil. I never did see one in person, but I had a lot of fun looking for it.” He pointed his fork at Madeline and Stephen. “That would have made some trophy for my wall at home, eh, kids?”

“You’ve got plenty of those already,” Madeline told him. “Anyway, you get to see the Devils all the time.”

“Where?” Margo asked, looking at her.

Madeline smirked. “At the Meadowlands, of course. They named the hockey team after the Jersey Devil. The New Jersey Devils. You’ve heard of them, right?”

“Oh. I thought you were serious for a change,” Margo said. Her face was flushed.

Stephen winked at his sister and smothered a smile. His right hand was no longer bandaged, but when he gestured, the angry red mark on his palm was visible. He noticed me looking at it and tucked his hand in his lap.

“When do you think you might hear about the nomination?” I asked, raising the topic of Tom’s hopes for a seat on the Court of Appeals.

“Don’t know. Don’t know,” Tom said, drawing in a breath between his teeth. “These things are so delicate; the least little thing can derail it.”

Like the murder of your niece,
I thought but didn’t say, although her death was certainly not “the least little thing.”

“A fortuitously placed leak in the press could do wonders for your book,” Godfrey said, his eyes alight. “Might push it
onto the bestseller list. Wouldn’t that be a pip? I’d have to up the press run, then. We haven’t printed that many volumes yet.”

“No. No,” Tom said, a worried look passing over his face. “Can’t take that chance.” Then he seemed to change his mind. “If it happens, well, I’m not responsible. But it can’t come from anyone I know.”

“There are ways to clue in the press without revealing the source,” Godfrey said. “Why don’t you let me run it by my public relations fellows in London and New York, see what they think. You want your name out there, don’t you? Nothing like a book to boost your Q score.”

“What’s a Q score?” Margo said.

“It’s a measure of familiarity and approval,” I said, “but it’s more commonly used to rate television shows and celebrities.”

“Yes. And while Tom is neither a sports personality nor an actor, he is an author,” Godfrey said. “Authors are celebrities. Politicians who’ve written a book always want to know their Q scores. Want to be a celebrity, Tom?”

“My reputation as a jurist is the most important element influencing those in power,” Tom said, then added, “But it might be fun to be a celebrity.”

“That would mean more paparazzi,” Stephen said, cocking his head toward the front of the house. “We can do without that.”

“God, yes!”

Tom’s good mood lasted until dessert. When Norlene brought out her cassava pie, the air seemed to go out of him. Perhaps it was one of Alicia’s favorites. No one else noticed,
or at least they pretended not to. Godfrey held forth on how the “dreadful London weather” actually benefited his business. “Our distributor cheers when it rains,” he said. “Means stronger book sales. Well, that’s something, at least.”

Daisy began to speak about the wonderful artist from whom she and Godfrey had purchased a painting, then stopped abruptly. My hunch is that she felt she shouldn’t talk about another artist with Stephen sitting at the table and was hesitant to praise Stephen’s work without mentioning the portrait of Alicia. She covered the awkward moment by choking on her coffee, at which her husband pounded on her back, and the dinner broke up soon afterward.

The next morning, with directions to Agnes’s home in my pocket, I walked along the beach to the base of the stairs leading to Daniel and Lillian Jamison’s house. Without stopping to reexamine the scene of the crime, I climbed up their steps to the top and walked across their expansive yard and the one next door. I saw no one and exited on Tucker’s Town Road a quarter mile down from the Betterton property and its complement of press and security. From there it was less than a mile to the house of Agnes Chudleigh-Stubbs. I’d called ahead, of course, and she’d said she’d be delighted if I would stop by. She would be home all morning—all afternoon, too, in fact.

The day was warm, but not hot, and I relished the solitary walk. A few motorbikers rode past me, their owners giving me a friendly toot and a wave, but otherwise I was alone. Most of the homes I passed were hidden behind limestone walls, some with cascading flowers hanging over them. At one vine bearing red flowers, I spotted a ruby-throated
hummingbird, the same kind that frequents the bird feeder at my neighbor’s house back in Maine. Tina Treyz has put out homemade hummingbird nectar every year for as long as she’s lived in Cabot Cove, and she’s been rewarded by return visitors each spring. She swears they’re the same birds she saw the year before, although I have no idea how she can tell.