Trouble at High Tide (5 page)

Tom Betterton rose from one of the chairs when I entered. His face was ashen beneath his tanned skin, and his hands trembled when he wiped his damp brow with a white handkerchief.

“Jessica, how awful for you. I’m so sorry.”

“Tom, this is much worse for you and your family. You have my sincerest condolences. If there’s anything I can do to help, you have only to ask.”

“No. No. There’s nothing anyone can do now. She was so young and vibrant. How could anyone—” He broke off, wiping his eyes.

Stephen, whom I’d only seen fleetingly at the party, put his arm around his stepfather. “C’mon, Tom. Sit down again. Adam will get you a drink.” He beckoned Adam from behind Tom’s back. “Do you want a Scotch?”

Stephen’s face was somber, but the red rims of his eyes betrayed his emotional state. His sister, Madeline, sat shivering on one of the love seats, comforted by Tom’s girlfriend, Margo. Adam, sitting next to her, had deep circles under his eyes.

Tom waved his hand back and forth. “No alcohol,” he
said. “I want to keep my head clear. The police may still have questions.”

“They’ve already interviewed each of us separately,” Stephen said. “Since they’ve let us be together here, they’re probably done with you for the night.”

“Even so. I’ll just have a little water.”

Margo started to stand, but Adam put his hand on her shoulder. “Stay with Madeline,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

“What time did the party end?” I asked Stephen, who’d taken a seat next to me across from his sister.

“I was back in my room by eleven thirty, but these evenings don’t usually go late.”

“Most people had left by midnight,” Madeline put in.

Margo nodded. “That’s when Norlene left. And the piano player, too.”

“Just a few stragglers remained after that,” Madeline said. “Once the music stops, people know to go home.”

Adam returned from the kitchen with a pitcher of ice water and half a dozen tumblers, setting the tray down on a white table between the love seats. He poured the water and offered glasses to the others in the room.

I hadn’t seen Daisy and Godfrey Reynolds, who were staying at the other cottage, or anyone else who may have occupied one of the guest rooms upstairs. The library held only those of us who’d had lunch together the day before, plus Margo, and minus, of course, the victim.

A million more questions swirled around my brain, but this was not the appropriate time to ask them. The family was in shock. Not only had their youngest member been murdered, she had been slain in a similar manner as three
other women in recent months. But those women had been from the lowest social stratum on the island. They were recent immigrants, so poor and desperate that they’d turned to prostitution to support themselves. Alicia’s circumstances bore little resemblance to theirs. She was a visitor, staying with a wealthy uncle. Had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was the serial killer branching out?

I glanced at the people in the room and wondered what their relationships had been with Alicia. While Tom had boasted of her talents and Agnes had said that he was devoted to Alicia, I didn’t get the impression that she inspired the same admiration and loyalty from the other members of her family. Madeline had called her the “favorite child” in an ironic tone, and Stephen had barely spoken to her at lunch. Both had argued with her at the party. Of course, family jealousies and squabbles rarely translate to murder, but these were the musings that occupied my tired mind until the police informed me that I would be expected at headquarters later in the morning.

“Please tell me again, Mrs. Fletcher, what time you happened to come upon the body.”

The constable sat at a small table at police headquarters, a lined pad in front of him, as he wrote down my statement. A walkie-talkie perched on the shoulder of his black vest crackled, strong voices breaking through the static every so often. He reached up to turn down the volume. A blue-and-white checkerboard stripe and a blue patch with white letters on the front and back of the vest identified him as
POLICE. Worn over a light blue shirt with dark pants, it was the uniform seen on most of the men and women I encountered at the building outside Hamilton.

“I told you that it must have been about two fifteen or two twenty,” I said. “I know because I looked at my watch before changing my clothes and leaving the cottage. And at that time, it was two o’clock.”

“And why did you decide to take a walk at two in the morning?”

“I had fallen asleep in the porch swing after I came down from the party. When I woke up and went inside, intending to go to bed, I found myself fully awake. Rather than spend a restless night, I decided to take a walk in the hope a little exercise would make me sleepy again.”

“So you found the body at two in the morning. Is that right?”

“Two fifteen or two twenty,” I corrected.

“Two twenty, then. Do you frequently take walks in the middle of the night?”

“I can’t say that I do, but—”

“How long did you know the deceased?”

“I only met her yesterday.”

“And her name was?”

“Alicia. I’m not certain anyone ever told me her last name. She’s Judge Thomas Betterton’s niece.”

“How old was she?”

“I really don’t know. In her early twenties, I presume.”

“And what was she wearing?”

“She wore a white sundress at the party, high in the front
and low in the back. I think she was in the same dress when she was killed.”

“Shoes?”

“I didn’t see her shoes.”

“We found a pair of high-heeled wedges at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach.”

“Perhaps they were hers.”

“Could you identify them as hers?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“And what did you do when you discovered the body of Ms. Betterton?”

“I ran back to the cottage and called the police.”

“Did you touch the body?”

“No. I know better than that.”

“Did you see anyone else on the beach?”

“No.”

“No one at all?”

“It was the middle of the night and it was dark. I suppose it’s possible the murderer was nearby, but I didn’t see any evidence of anyone else. I couldn’t see any footprints in the sand. The water was washing away my own footprints as I stood there. I was in a hurry to report the crime before the ocean pulled the body away. I told all this to the officers who responded to the scene last night.”

“My inspector always likes us to interview witnesses more than once. You may have to tell your story to more people over the next few days.”

“My story? I’m not telling you a story, Constable. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Poor choice of words on my part. Sorry, ma’am.”

“That’s all right,” I said, immediately contrite that I had answered so sharply. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I may be a bit testy.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

Another officer walked into the room. “The superintendent wants to see you about the press conference, Valentree.”

“Please tell him I’ll be there right away. We’re just about finished for now.” The constable closed his notepad and looked at me. “We will want you to stay in Bermuda for the time being. Is that going to be a problem?”

“I’m supposed to be here for the week,” I said. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay after that.”

“We’ll start with the week, and then decide whether we need you to stay longer. We can reach you at the judge’s home?”

“I’d like to ask my host if he’d prefer it if I move to a hotel. This is a terribly upsetting time for him and we don’t know each other very well. He may want only his family around him. I would certainly understand if he feels that way.”

“We already spoke with Judge Betterton and he didn’t express any objections to you staying in his cottage.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to make the offer. If I do move to a hotel, I’ll be sure to let you know where I’m staying. I need to cancel my flight plans, too.”

“Here’s my card. Please call me or any of the other officers in the Serious Crime Unit if you remember anything that might be helpful.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, tucking his card in a pocket of my shoulder bag, where I’d already placed cards from other police officers I’d spoken with over the last eight hours.

He came around and held the chair for me as I stood.

“Is the press conference about Alicia’s murder?” I asked.

“That and the others,” he said.

“Do the police believe they’re linked?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he replied, escorting me from the room. “If you go out the front door there will be a blue and yellow police car waiting. The officer can drive you back to Judge Betterton’s. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“You’re very welcome, Constable Valentree.”

He clattered down the flight of stairs and disappeared around the corner. I followed more slowly, holding on to the railing. I was tired, operating on the two or three hours of sleep I’d managed to snatch between police interviews.

Headquarters was full of activity, officers rushing up and down the stairs as I attempted to make my way out after my police interview. I paused on the second floor where a crowd was pressing into a room. Several people carried large cameras on tripods. Most wore badges hanging from strings around their necks that identified them as members of the news media. At first, I was amazed that so many press people were able to get to Bermuda so quickly, and then it occurred to me that most of them had probably already been there covering the serial killings. Although a nap was definitely on my agenda for that afternoon, I was curious to find out what the official position was on Alicia’s murder and whether the authorities believed it was related to the other murders.

I joined a group of reporters who were pushing their way into the room. While I wasn’t carrying any media credentials, the officers manning the doors were so overwhelmed
by the numbers attempting to enter that they couldn’t check everyone’s identification, and I managed to slip past them.

Inside, a phalanx of video cameras and lights took up what little space there was on either side of the door. I squeezed over to a side wall, took an empty chair midway down a row, and tried to appear official, taking a pad and pen from my shoulder bag while reporters around me tapped into their cell phones or notebook computers, or held up miniature video cameras to capture the scene.

The police commissioner whom I’d met only briefly at the party the night before stood in the front of the room at a podium; several other officials were seated at tables on either side. Behind the commissioner was a large screen on which was projected the insignia of the Bermuda Police Service. I spotted Constable Valentree and another officer approaching the commissioner and hoped they wouldn’t glance in my direction. As a precaution, I pulled out the pink ball cap Tom had sent to my home and put it on, lowering the peak to hide my face.

The commissioner tapped on his microphone and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and waited for the room to quiet. He was a black man in his late forties with a shaved head and a narrow mustache. Standing erect in his dress uniform with his officer’s cap tucked under one arm, he shuffled a sheaf of papers in front of him. After an audible sigh, he began again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to a chorus of camera clicks and flashes, “I’m Bermuda Police Service Commissioner Leonard Hanover, FCMI. We have some information for you. Please hold your questions until our literature has been distributed and you’ve had a
chance to hear our official statement, after which we will endeavor to answer some of your inquiries.”

Constable Valentree went up the center aisle and handed out copies of the commissioner’s statement to the first person seated in each row, who passed the papers down the line. When Valentree reached the row before mine, I shifted in my seat and turned to the gentleman next to me so that my back was toward the constable.

“Did you have a question?” the man asked.

“No. Sorry. Just a crick in my neck,” I said, raising one shoulder and rubbing under my collar. I sensed Valentree pausing and imagined his eyes on the back of my head.

“I get those, too,” the man said. “Hazard of the trade, I’m afraid. My wife, Bergitta, used to recommend oil of eucalyptus. Worked like a charm, but no one wanted to sit next to me. Terrible strong smell, you see?” He laughed loudly. “By the way, I’m Gus Westerholm from Reuters.”

“How do you do?” I gave him a weak smile, hoping he hadn’t drawn Valentree’s attention, and slowly faced forward, the constable having moved up to the next row by then. I accepted the pile of papers from the woman on my right, took one, passed the rest to Westerholm, put on my glasses, and concentrated on the press statement, hoping that he hadn’t noticed that I’d neglected to give him my name.

“I want to begin by saying that it’s early in the investigation and we don’t have all the answers,” Commissioner Hanover said, “but we want to give you an update of the incident that took place early this morning and try to correct any misinformation that has been reported so far. The Serious
Crime Unit continues to investigate the circumstances that led up to today’s slashing of twenty-two-year-old Alicia Betterton. To the best of our knowledge, the murder took place between one and two a.m. on the beach adjacent to the house of the decedent’s uncle, New Jersey Judge Thomas L. Betterton, on the south side of Tucker’s Town Road in Saint George’s Parish. The family has identified the body.

“The Bermuda Police Service was notified of the existence of the body at two twenty-nine a.m. by a house guest of Judge Betterton. Our crime scene team spent the remainder of the night and all this morning processing the scene and collecting evidence. We are waiting for a report from the Forensic Support Unit. Our investigators also spent the remainder of the night interviewing witnesses. We have approximately seven investigators on this case, led by Chief Inspector A. M. Tedeschi under the supervision of Superintendent Jonathan Bird and Deputy Commissioner Allan Mumford. As we are already working with Scotland Yard on prior murders here, our British colleagues will provide additional input and recommendations as relates to this case.” He nodded toward a tall, strikingly beautiful woman who was standing in the corner. She had straight dark hair that curved toward her jaw; under thick bangs were a pair of large pale blue eyes outlined in black.