Trouble at High Tide (3 page)

“Where’s Alicia?” the judge asked as Adam pulled out a chair next to me, preparing to take his place at the table.

“I believe I saw her in the living room reading, your honor,” Adam replied.

“Always has her head in a book, that one,” Tom said, smiling at me. “Well, go get her,” he instructed Adam. “She’ll want to meet our honored guest. Besides, she hasn’t eaten yet.”

Adam did as directed and returned shortly with the very pretty girl with long, wavy blond hair who’d been reading when I arrived. I estimated her to be in her late teens to early twenties. He pulled out a chair for her next to Stephen, who continued eating without acknowledging her presence.

“Alicia has been so excited about you coming here,” Tom said to me. “She’s a writer, too. Say hello to Mrs. Fletcher, Allie. She’s the famous author I was telling you about. Alicia is my niece, Jessica.”

“Yes. The favorite child,” Madeline said.

Alicia batted her eyelashes at me and smiled prettily. “So glad you could come,” she said.

“It was very kind of your uncle to invite me.”

Our introduction was interrupted by the entrance of the cook carrying a huge silver tray.

“Ah,” the judge said, grinning. “You’re in for a treat now. Norlene is the finest cook on the island.”

Adam raced to Norlene’s side, relieved her of her burden, and set the tray down on a built-in sideboard under a stucco arch. The cook wiped her hands on her apron and picked up two bowls, setting one in front of me and the other at Alicia’s place. Adam took a third bowl for himself.

“It’s fish chowder,” Norlene announced. “Should still be good. I’ve been holding it a while.” She slipped a basket of rolls between my place and Alicia’s.

“I’m sure it will be wonderful,” I said, picking up my spoon and tasting the spicy stew of mixed fish and vegetables in what looked like a tomato-beef broth.

Without being asked, Stephen set a bottle with a black label next to Alicia. “Hot sauce for the hotshot?” he said.

“I thought you were supposed to be on your best behavior today,” Alicia said, taking off the bottle cap and shaking several drops into her bowl.

“No. That’s your department.”

“I’ll have some of that,” Adam said, reaching for the bottle. “Mrs. Fletcher? Would you like to try it? It’s an island specialty.”

“No, thanks. This is hot enough for me,” I said. “It certainly has an unusual flavor.”

“That’s probably the rum,” Adam said. “Takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Oh,” I said, helping myself to a roll. I hoped that Norlene had cooked some of the alcohol out of her stew, but if she hadn’t, I wanted some bread to soften the blow.

While the three of us ate, Tom, Madeline, and Stephen discussed the guest list for the party. A number of notables were expected, including a local judge, the commissioner of police, and the owner of an art gallery in St. George’s. The menu was also analyzed. When the conversation drifted to the relative merits of Bermudian versus Jamaican rums, I leaned over to Alicia, who had been silently concentrating on her soup.

“Your uncle said you like to write. What kind of writing do you do?”

She shrugged. “All kinds, I guess. I had to do a lot of writing for school.”

“You don’t have a favorite genre? Poetry? Stories? Essays?”

She shrugged again.

So much for her excitement at my arrival
. I tried a different tack. “I noticed you were reading when I came in,” I said. “What kinds of books do you like?”

She gave me a strange smile. “Mysteries mostly. True crime, the more bloodthirsty the better.”

“And what are you reading now?”

She reached into the pocket of her sweater, slipped a book on the table, and withdrew it just as quickly, but not before I’d had time to read the title:
The Crimes of Jack the Ripper.

“P
retty little chit, isn’t she?” Godfrey Reynolds said, his eyes following Alicia as she wound her way around clusters of guests while sipping from a martini glass. “Betterton needs to keep a leash on that one.”

Alicia’s long hair was caught up in a loose ponytail with soft curls dangling next to her cheeks. She was wearing what appeared to be a modest white sundress with a high ruffled neckline in front but which, when she turned around, plunged to below her waist at the back.

Godfrey’s wife, Daisy, rolled her eyes. “She has a boyfriend, darling.” Daisy turned to me. “My husband always has an eye for the sweet young things.”

“You were once a sweet young thing, too, my love.” Godfrey raised his glass to his wife and smirked.

“Yes, but no more. I understand you very well,” she replied, pressing his wrist to lower his arm. “Try to keep it down to three or four tonight, will you? You’re so much more charming when you’re sober.”

The “intimate soiree” Adam had forecast was underway. Forty people crowded into the white living room and spilled onto the broad terrace overlooking the ocean. As a pianist played popular tunes on the piano, white-coated waiters passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and delivered drinks to the guests who gathered in small groups. Most of the men wore dinner jackets over dark Bermuda shorts and high socks. The women were arrayed in a palette of hues to rival the shades of the island’s famous pastel buildings. I had paired a crisp white shirt and dangling necklace with a long print skirt I’d actually brought to cover my bathing suit. That it could do double duty as party attire was a relief. And as long as I didn’t meet any of these people on the beach later in the week, no one would be the wiser.

Earlier in the evening, Betterton had guided me around the room, introducing me to his guests, a multiracial group reflective of Bermuda’s mixed population of blacks, whites, and Asians. He had extended an invitation to several of his neighbors on Tucker’s Town Road. Unfortunately, New York City’s mayor had another engagement, and the Italian prime minister was not in residence, but my host had pointed out a couple who lived next door, Daniel and Lillian Jamison, he, a Wall Street survivor of the bailouts and consolidations, she, a Manhattan real estate agent. Tom confided in me that the Jamisons had brought a suit against him over his plans to erect another building on his property that they claimed would spoil their ocean view.

“Maybe after they’ve taken advantage of my hospitality, I can soften them up a bit, get them to drop the action,” he whispered to me. “I’m sure I can talk them into it given
enough time. Worse comes to worst, I can send Alicia over to work on them. She knows how to wrap people around her little finger, that minx.”

Since I had not yet been exposed to Alicia’s charm, I didn’t comment on the judge’s plans.

Godfrey and Daisy Reynolds were the last couple Tom introduced me to before he was called away to consult with Adam over the need to bring in more champagne.

Godfrey was the British publisher of Tom’s book on rooting out corruption in the federal judicial system. I was surprised that there would be overseas interest in this topic, but was intrigued by the idea.

“I didn’t realize there was a British market for books on American judicial reform,” I said.

“There’s always professional curiosity about how one goes about reforming any legal system,” Godfrey replied. “Oxford put out a volume some years back on comparative perspectives when the UK was speculating on what powers a supreme court would hold. These types of books reach a specialized audience. They’re small runs, but they can be particularly profitable. That one sold for fifty quid. We’re pricing Betterton’s volume at thirty-five.”

“If my math is correct, that’s about fifty-five dollars,” I said, “an expensive book.”

“Not for the right customer.”

“Godfrey, is that Richard Mann over there?” Daisy asked, tugging on her husband’s arm. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him about that painting I liked.” She turned to me. “Would you please excuse us, Jessica?”

“Of course.”

Left on my own for the moment, I briefly considered seeking out the lady judge to whom Tom had introduced me when we’d made our rounds of the room. But she appeared to be deep in conversation with the police commissioner, and I hesitated to interrupt.

“You’re welcome to sit here, my dear,” said a gravelly voice.

I looked over my shoulder to see an elderly black woman beckoning me from where she sat on a sofa in front of the fireplace. She had a pile of wispy white hair floating around her head like a halo. Ruby earrings hung from her ears and were a match to the necklace resting on the yellow and pink silk jacket she wore over a black skirt. Her long fingers were adorned with several rings, and her nails were neatly manicured.

“Come here, dear,” she said, pointing to an armchair next to the sofa. “I sent my nephew off to bring me a drink and it appears I’ve been abandoned. He’s probably been waylaid by one of the pretty girls, and I think I know which one.”

“Would you like me to bring you a drink?” I asked.

“No. No. That’s a job for a young man. You just sit here and give me a bit of company, if you would.”

“I’d be happy to,” I said, taking the chair she’d indicated and putting my champagne flute down on the glass-topped table between us.

“You know he’s very clever, that boy,” she said.

“What boy?” I asked.

“My nephew, Charles. He deposits me on this divan, knowing there’s no way I can get up from these soft pillows without assistance.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “They can trap you, those soft pillows.”

“Exactly. Don’t have strength in the back, or in the legs, for that matter, that I used to when I was your age. But as long as I have company, I’ll accommodate him and sit quietly until he returns with my drink. I’m Agnes, by the way. Chudleigh-Stubbs is the last name, but it’s a bit of a mouthful to get around, so Agnes will do.”

“Nice to meet you, Agnes. I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

“Oh, yes. The mystery writer. Well, wasn’t I lucky to pick you out of the crowd?”

“That’s kind of you to say. Are you a friend of the judge?”

“Tom? Everyone who’s anyone is friends with Tom. He pours the best champagne and even serves caviar. Beluga, no less. You can hardly find it in the States anymore. It’s considered an endangered species—not surprising, considering it’s more than five thousand dollars a pound. Bermudians are no fools. We like our luxuries and the people who provide them,” she said with a wink.

“That’s quite an extravagance,” I said, wondering how Tom could afford to serve his guests such expensive fare. Federal judges are certainly well compensated, but I’d never thought they were considered especially wealthy. In fact, I’d recently read that the chief justice of the Supreme Court had complained that federal judges were underpaid.

“Have you lived on Bermuda for a long time?” I asked.

“Just my whole life. Family dates back centuries. Not always the best people, mind you. I think there was a horse thief somewhere back there, but we’ve come up in the world now. My late husband, Stubby—his real name was
Algernon—don’t blame him for sticking with Stubby—he was the first Afro-Bermudian magistrate. My nephew, Charles, grandnephew actually, is his sister’s grandchild. Oh, there you are.” She looked up with a smile as the man I assumed was Charles leaned over to hand her a glass. He had a handsome face, but affected the day’s growth of whiskers so many of today’s men in their twenties think marks them as sexy.

“Sorry for the delay, Aunt Agnes. The judge pulled me into the kitchen to help his man with one of the champagne cases. Stephen has made himself scarce, as usual. But there’s your Dark and Stormy, just as you like it, heavy on the rum, light on the ginger beer.”

“Good boy!” Agnes said, taking a sip from the glass. “Say hello to Jessica Fletcher.” She waved her glass in my direction. “Judge Betterton’s special guest tonight. Writes mysteries. Now, show your best manners.” To me, she said: “My nephew, Charles Davis.”

Charles shook my hand and smiled. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. My great-aunt must think I’m still a boy. She doesn’t want me to embarrass her but doesn’t hesitate to embarrass me.” He winked at Agnes and excused himself, promising to check back in case she wanted assistance circulating in the room.

“I raised that boy right,” Agnes said to me.

“He’s charming,” I said. “Does he live with you?”

“I wish he did, but no. He’s in graduate school in the States. He’s just here for the week. I had a feeling he’d arrive when I noticed Betterton’s niece walking on the beach a few days ago. Charles takes every opportunity to court her, but
I’m not sure she’s worth the effort. Don’t tell Tom I said so. He dotes on her.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said.

“So, Jessica Fletcher, what brings you to Tucker’s Town? Are you here to help the local constabulary with their murder investigations?”

“Heavens, no,” I said. “I’m sure the Bermudian police don’t need any help from a mystery writer. Not at all. I’m here because Tom offered me a week in one of his cottages and I accepted. I didn’t even know that he was going to be here. In fact, I’d gotten the distinct impression that he wasn’t able to take the time off. I came intending simply to sit in the sun and read a book.”

“But you’ve heard about our scandalous murders, of course? The island is overrun with reporters. They say the killer is a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper.”

“I did hear that.”

“Foolish comparison. I wish those newspeople wouldn’t play with the facts. They just like to upset the population.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. “From what I read in your local newspaper, there are some similarities between this murderer’s actions and those of Jack the Ripper.”

“Maybe so. Maybe so. But don’t you think that if the killer finds himself compared to an infamous murderer that he’ll go out of his way to truly imitate the original by killing even more young women? Give himself plenty of notoriety?”

“I would say that being a serial killer already imparts notoriety to the perpetrator, Jack the Ripper or not, but I understand your point,” I said. “Unfortunately, you’re dealing with an unbalanced person to begin with, an attention seeker.”