Trouble at High Tide (14 page)

“John Gilliam, Mrs. Fletcher. Please call me Jack. Thanks so much for stopping in. It’s so good of you to give us your time.”

He looked exactly like the photo on his business card: pale face, sandy hair, nondescript features, but when he smiled his whole face lit up and he immediately secured my confidence.

Veronica Macdonald held out a chair for me. “Freddie Moore is out at a meeting, but Jack and I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“I hope I can be helpful,” I said.

She came around the table and seated herself next to Gilliam so that they both faced me.

“Can you give us a recap of your experience in finding the deceased, Alicia Betterton?” Inspector Macdonald said. “We’re aware that you’ve already told the Bermuda police what you know, and George has briefed us on your phone conversation with him, but it would be helpful for us to hear it in your own words. Do you object to our recording you?”

“No, not at all.”

“We’d like you to start with your reason for being in Bermuda and how it came to be that you were at the home of the deceased,” she said.

Gilliam tapped into his computer.

“Is your recorder in the computer?” I asked him.

“Yes, mum, both the video and audio. We’re ready whenever you are.” He gave me a reassuring smile.

I cleared my throat and began to speak, reviewing the whole event once more, how I had met Tom, his invitation to stay at his Bermuda property, and my evening at the party mingling with his family, friends, and acquaintances. I tried to remember everything I’d told George so that I could share it with them as well. I didn’t want them to think that I was holding anything back.

“Chief Inspector Sutherland said that you’d told him the family had difficulties with the deceased.”

This time she’d used George’s formal title. Was it for the benefit of her colleague, or because we were being recorded?

“Do you suspect one of them might have murdered her?”
Macdonald added, tilting her head so that her dark hair fell on her cheek.

I wondered whether her beauty was a help or a hindrance when questioning people. I suppose it depended upon whether it was a man or a woman being interviewed. Some chauvinistic men would believe her good looks indicated that she wasn’t intelligent. We’ve all met those types. Other more enlightened men would want to please her and might say things that weren’t in their own best interests simply to gain her approval. I found it difficult not to look at her and admire her beauty. I also thought of George Sutherland and wondered what effect she had upon him.

I sighed. “I try not to suspect anyone until I have all the facts in front of me,” I said. “It would be terrible to accuse a person and find out later that you’d been wrong. I’d rather say that I observed the behavior of those who were familiar with Alicia and tried to gauge her relationships with them. Sometimes what appears to be important at first turns out not to be relevant at all.”

Gilliam nodded and looked up from his machine. “We’re aware that you not only write bestselling murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher, but that you’ve also been… Maybe the best way to put it is that you’ve been involved in your share of real murders.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I wish you’d amend that,” I said. “I’ve unfortunately been involved with real murder
cases
.”

Gilliam nodded and matched my laugh. “And you’ve helped to solve them,” he said. “What I’m getting at is that in your experience as both a writer and someone who has been
a keen observer of
real
murder, would you speculate whether Ms. Betterton’s killer was a man or a woman?”

“Oh, my,” I said. “Let me see. I’m hardly an expert. There are always exceptions, of course, but I have read that women are less likely to kill someone with a knife than a man. Men are generally more violent than women. A woman’s preferred weapon of choice would be a gun, or she might poison her victim, since those methods of murder could be less messy and would put her somewhat at a remove from the unfortunate person. Those methods are less personal, if you can see it that way. That’s presuming premeditated murder.”

“And do you think Ms. Betterton’s murder was premeditated?” Gilliam asked.

“I find it difficult to believe the killer was simply waiting on the beach with a knife for some lucky victim to show up,” I said, my answer eliciting a smile from him. “Either Alicia meant to meet the person who turned out to be her killer on the beach, or the person who killed her followed her from the party and surprised her on the beach. People don’t usually carry a knife if they don’t intend to use it.”

Gilliam shot a glance at Macdonald and raised his brows. I couldn’t read what his expression meant.

“I’d like to ask you a question, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Please do,” said Macdonald.

“I understand you told Tom Betterton that you didn’t think Alicia’s death was linked to the serial killings here in Bermuda,” I said. “May I ask why?”

Gilliam cleared his throat. “Miss Betterton does not fit the profile of the other victims.”

“That’s exactly what I told Chief Inspector Sutherland,” I said. “She wasn’t a prostitute, nor was she from a poor family. I read in the local newspaper that all three of the other victims were recent immigrants. Alicia was a visitor, not an immigrant. She was murdered on the beach, not in an alley in Hamilton. Aside from her neck, the rest of her body was untouched. It seems to me that her death doesn’t bear any of the other hallmarks of the serial killer.”

“You’re right, of course,” Gilliam said.

“I assume that those are the same reasons that you’ve concluded that she was not murdered by the island’s Jack the Ripper killer?” I looked from Gilliam to Macdonald.

“There was one other reason,” Gilliam said. He glanced at Macdonald and she gave him a slight nod. “Miss Betterton’s throat was slashed, it’s true, but that’s not what killed her. At least it doesn’t appear that way.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “If she didn’t bleed to death from the cut, how did she die?”

“She was strangled,” Macdonald said flatly.

“Really?” I sat back in my chair. “That certainly changes the picture, doesn’t it?”

“It’s our belief that whoever killed her tried to make it look as though it was the work of the serial killer here on Bermuda,” she said. “The autopsy has proved otherwise.”

“Is the autopsy conclusive?” I asked.

“Clear-cut and conclusive,” she replied.

“Interesting, isn’t it, how we jump to conclusions?” I said. “I’m always cautioning people about that. And here it never occurred to me that she hadn’t died because of the knife wound to her neck. Of course, it was too dark for me to see
clearly. I saw the cut on her throat and never thought for a moment that it might have been something else.”

“We all made the same assumption,” Gilliam said. He consulted a typed report on the desk. “The medical finding showed petechial hemorrhages in her eyes, and the hyoid bone in her neck had been broken. No question about it, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I nodded. “Clear signs of strangulation.”

“Oh, and I should mention that the knife cut was below the bone,” he added.

I’d attended a few lectures on forensics, and was once allowed to be present at an autopsy conducted by a friend of mine in New York City. The island’s forensic authorities, perhaps with the aid of Scotland Yard’s forensic specialist Inspector Veronica Macdonald, had done a good and thorough job.

“So it’s not the Jack the Ripper killer after all,” I said. “I didn’t think it was, but I’m relieved to hear that my hunch was correct.”

“Now the question is: Who killed her?” Macdonald said.

“Will Scotland Yard stay on the case?” I asked.

“Frankly, it won’t be a priority for us,” she replied. “The Bermuda police are perfectly capable of investigating a homicide. They’ve done it before.” She looked at her watch, and then at Gilliam. “He was supposed to be here by now.” She turned to me. “Freddie is our Jack the Ripper expert,” she said. “He had a meeting with the citizen group that has offered a reward for information about the killer, but he said that he wanted to meet you.”

“I can wait, if you don’t think he’ll be very long.”

“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Gilliam said, tapping on his computer and closing the top. “May we get you something to drink? Tea? Or water?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

Gilliam looked over my shoulder and broke out in a big grin. “Ah, here he is now. Mrs. Fletcher, please meet Freddie Moore, our Jack the Ripper expert.”

I turned in my seat with a smile that quickly faded. “Good heavens,” I said.

It was the redheaded man.

F
reddie Moore pumped my hand and gushed about meeting me.

“It’s a genuine honor, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance ever since the chief inspector told us you were here. What a bit of luck.” He looked gleefully to his colleagues for confirmation. “I’d love to have a chance to shoot questions at you. May I take you for tea? Or coffee? You Yanks prefer coffee, don’t you? I was so worried I’d miss you, I rushed out of my meeting. I’m afraid I left a very poor impression on the heads of the citizens’ committee. Didn’t assuage their worries very much. Will have to go back and apologize.”

While he babbled on, I tried to school my shocked expression. He was in the same three-piece brown tweed suit I’d seen him wear at the airport. It must have been terribly uncomfortable in Bermuda’s warm weather. His red hair, parted on the side, was damp. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief and then ran it across his mustache before pocketing the cloth.

Thank goodness I’d never mentioned my fear of the nighttime intruder or described him to George or to Inspectors Macdonald and Gilliam. I would have been red-faced.

Gilliam seemed amused at Moore’s enthusiasm, but Macdonald appeared impatient to have this little scene end.

“It would be my pleasure to join you sometime for tea,” I said to Moore. “I like tea every bit as well as coffee, probably more.”

“Perfect! I have discovered a delightful tearoom in Hamilton. Can you come now? Tea begins at two thirty.”

“Right now? Well, I suppose I could. I need to let Judge Betterton’s personal assistant know. He was going to pick me up here”—I looked at my watch—“in five minutes.”

“Let’s go find him and give him his freedom. I have a car. I can drop you off at the judge’s estate later. We have so much to discuss.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, you’ve been very helpful,” Gilliam said, shaking my hand. “Thank you for your time and all your observations. Please keep us informed if you learn anything new that bears on the Betterton case. Don’t trust Freddie here to pass along the word. He stuffs his brain so full of information that he tends to forget to share.”

“I’ll make certain to keep you all in the loop,” I said, waving at Macdonald, who conjured up a bright smile for my departure.

Adam was waiting outside and said he was relieved to have one less obligation. He had to pick up some supplies for the judge’s boat at the Ocean Locker before going home.

Freddie, as he insisted I call him, led me to a tiny yellow Smart Car parked at the curb and helped me climb inside.

“How did you get a car?” I asked. “I thought only residents were permitted to drive a car on Bermuda.”

“Perks of the office,” he said. “We’re supposed to divide its use amongst the three of us, but most of Macdonald’s and Gilliam’s work has been in headquarters, while mine has kept me roaming the island. I have first claim, although I have been known to take the bus or ferry on occasion.”

Freddie turned the air conditioner on full blast and drove down the hill and into town, easily maneuvering the car around moped, scooter, and bicycle riders who failed to give way, as well as a horse and carriage carrying tourists, and other, larger vehicles. Since Bermudians drive on the left side of the road, as the British do, he hadn’t had to make any adjustment to his driving style to accommodate his temporary assignment.

Bermuda’s pastel buildings on Front Street were joined by a few more vividly hued exteriors, red and burnt sienna, to complement the yellow, pink, and aqua more commonly seen. Many of the shops had two stories and railed balconies or arcades overlooking the traffic, and the dockyards and harbor across the street. Multiple two-wheeled vehicles were lined up perpendicularly along the curb, adding their own colorful rainbow to the picture of downtown Hamilton.

Just outside town, Freddie pulled into the entrance of the Fairmont Hamilton Princess and parked his car in front of the hotel, flipping down the sun visor to display his police identification. “Handy placard to have,” he told me as we got out, “rather like a disabled permit. Lets you park wherever you like.”

He escorted me inside and through the marble lobby to the Heritage Court, a brightly lit restaurant with a coffered
ceiling and polished wooden floor. A long bar took up a good portion of one side of the room and a skylighted corridor with huge windows overlooking a garden ran along the other. In between were tables set for tea, and small groupings of chairs and sofas arranged on oriental carpets, bordered by large square columns in Wedgwood blue with white trim. We took two green leather armchairs next to a window overlooking the garden and its bronze statue of a maiden dipping her toe in a stream. A cheerful waitress took our order and we settled in to get to know each other.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” I said.

“Beg pardon? What a quaint Yank expression. Mind if I write it down?” He took a pad and pencil from his breast pocket and jotted a note to himself, then looked up and said, “What did I do?”

“You scared the daylights out of me the other night,” I said, “and I’ve been looking for you, intending to grab you by the lapels and give you a good dressing down.”

“Blimey! Thought I was meeting you for the first time, although you do look familiar. I chalked it up to the pic in the paper,” he said.

“We’ve never officially met before, although I was behind you in the customs line at the airport.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s it! You retrieved my book. Always been a bit of a clumsy bloke.”