Murder in the Raw (3 page)

“No, thanks. It must be amazing to pilot your own plane.”

Brooklyn sat down with a bottle of mineral water. “I can fly out to the islands whenever I get the time, without the hassle of major airports. We have a branch office in the Bahamas. Once out of New York, I set the plane on autopilot and take a nap. Next thing I know, I’m there.”

Rex couldn’t imagine anything scarier. “I understand you’re something of a risk-taker.”

Dusk descended early here, without the spectacle of a leisurely Florida sunset, he noted. Brooklyn lit the citronella candle on the patio table.

“I couldn’t have gotten where I am today without taking risks. I was born in Brooklyn, but grew up in a trailer in Flint, Michigan. My stepdad worked on the GM assembly line. I painted houses through college. By the time I was twenty-one, I owned my boss’s business and my first home—a real brick and mortar one. I bought one house a year after that, rented or flipped them, and then got into investment in a big way.”

“Paul Winslow sent me your
curriculum vitae
. It’s very impressive.”

Brooklyn proffered a disarming piratical smile. “Sorry if I sounded a bit fierce just now. I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of playboy with an inherited trust fund.”

“Why would I think that?”

His host shrugged expansively. “If Winslow gave you my business credentials, I’m sure he mentioned a few other things as well.”

“There was mention of a special closeness between you and Sabine Durand,” Rex ventured.

Brooklyn’s strong profile turned toward the silhouetted palm trees. “It’s true I saw a lot of Sabine. We went horseback riding together. There’s a small ranch behind the resort next to the Butterfly Farm. They kept an English saddle for her. She always rode Dancer. I’d take Rocky, the big stallion.

“We went riding most mornings, just the two of us, usually at Galion Beach. We’d remove the saddles and ride into the sea to cool off the horses. I know there was talk. People assumed because we were younger than the rest of the group that something was going on between us, but if there was I would never say anything.” He sighed impatiently. “Anyway, it’s all nonsense. After our ride that morning, we went our separate ways. I didn’t see her again after that.”

“When you were with her that morning, did she act as though everything was normal, or did she seem upset?”

“She seemed fine. We talked about going into Marigot that Saturday for the parade. It was her idea originally. We all discussed it at dinner the night before she disappeared, which would have been July ninth. Sabine, being French, wanted to celebrate the storming of the Bastille. Shame she never lived to enjoy it.” Brooklyn’s hand tightened into a fist.

“Do you have a photo of her?”

“You’ve never seen her?”

“I’m not really into the theatre, and if I ever saw a picture of her somewhere, I’ve forgotten.”

Brooklyn got up from his chair and returned with a couple of snapshots. Holding one picture up to the porch light, Rex saw a young woman leaning against the withers of a horse, long copper hair flowing about her shoulders, a secretive smile dimpling her delicate face. Svelte in a white open-necked shirt and jodhpurs, she could have been the advertisement for a lily-based English perfume. Goosebumps crept up his arms, and for a brief moment, he fell under her spell.

“Intoxicating, isn’t she?” Brooklyn said.

“Interesting you should describe her that way. I was just thinking of a perfume ad.” Rex lifted the second photo to the light. This one showed more of her face—cat-like eyes and chin, a dusting of golden freckles across a finely chiseled nose. Her skin seemed almost translucent, her rosebud mouth a touch petulant.

“I’ve known a lot of spectacular women,” Brooklyn said. “Most of them I’ve forgotten, but you never forget a woman like Sabine.”

Rex reverently handed back the photos. “Aye. It’s almost fitting that something mysterious became of her.”

“It’s mysterious alright,” Brooklyn said in a voice gravelly with emotion. “I won’t ever rest until I find out what happened out there on the rocks.”

At seven that evening, the Winslows accompanied Rex and Brooklyn to The Cockatoo Restaurant, located just west of the resort. Chinese lanterns swung in the palm trees, lighting their way along the beach. The bay glimmered dark and unfathomable. Ever since Rex could remember, he’d mistrusted water he couldn’t see through.

Elizabeth wore a flame-colored pareo knotted at her hip, regal in her bearing, in spite of breasts that were beginning to sag. Her husband had donned a wrap. When they reached the deck of the restaurant, Rex saw that the rest of the clientele was dressed in similar attire. Despite the nude torsos, he decided to keep his shirt on as he could not conceive of sitting down to dinner bare-chested.

“Rex Graves, QC, from Edinburgh,” Paul Winslow announced to the group seated at the large outdoor table strewn with an assortment of drinks.

A plump teenage girl fed pistachios to a snowy-white cockatoo perched on the wooden balustrade. “What is QC?” she asked with a light Germanic accent.

“Queen’s Counsel. Mr. Graves is a barrister appointed by the Queen of England.”

“We’re called advocates in Scotland,” Rex explained to the girl.

Winslow began introducing the guests. “Age before beauty,” he said, putting a hand on the shoulder of a Kirk Douglas look-alike of military bearing. “Vernon Powell.”

Rex shook his hand. This was Sabine Durand’s husband. Hard to conceive of the delicate beauty wed to this wooden marionette.

“Herr Doktor von Mueller,” Winslow then informed him.

“
Nein, nein!
” the bespectacled doctor objected affably. “Max.
Und
may I present my wife Martina
und
daughter Gaby.”

The wife and daughter, flaxen-haired and Rubenesque, smiled in fixed beatitude. The von Muellers were not suspects, Rex recalled; they had been in Philipsburg the night of Mademoiselle Durand’s disappearance.

“My good friends David and Toni Weeks,” Winslow said, continuing the introductions. “Our new chef at Swanmere Manor is a graduate of David’s school of French cuisine.”

Rex extended his hand, studying the couple whose statements seemed to divulge so much about them. David Weeks, slight in frame like Paul Winslow, and with the legs of a stick insect, had a noticeably weak chin. His wife, Toni, more solidly built, appealed to the eye with her exotic dark looks.

“Duke Farley,” boomed a broad-shouldered Texan, without waiting for Winslow to introduce him. “And my wife Pam.”

“Enchanted,” Rex replied, inclining his head politely at the couple seated at the far side of the table, and attempting not to ogle Pam’s breasts, which were the largest he had ever seen while still managing to defy the law of gravity. She reminded him of the full-blown roses he had seen cascading from the walls of a chateau in the Rhône Valley at the peak of their bloom.

“Dick and Penny Irving from Toronto,” a bodybuilder said, pursuing the self-introductions.

His wife didn’t look like she carried a spare gram of fat either, her arms toned to perfection.

Paul Winslow hastened to make the last introduction. “Sean and Nora O’Sullivan from Dublin, owners of the Coolidge Theatre.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the elderly man said in a cultivated Irish brogue, his mischievous features reminding Rex of a leprechaun.

“Likewise,” his petite, gray-haired wife added. “Come sit down.” She indicated a seat by her husband.

The Winslows took the vacant chairs by David and Toni Weeks, while Brooklyn squeezed in next to the teenager Gaby.

“What’s everyone drinking?” Paul asked, beckoning a waiter.

“You should try a Hemingway,” Weeks told Rex.

“What is that?”

“A magical drink,” Sean O’Sullivan chimed in. “Ice-cold coconut water, fresh lime, Gordon’s gin, and a dash of bitters.”

“I’ll try it.”

“Good man.” The flushed Irishman looked as though he might have had one too many magical drinks already. He draped an arm around the back of Rex’s chair. “A sad errand brings you, sure,” he lamented. “We’ll drink a toast and pray you can solve the mystery of Sabine Durand, God bless her sweet heart.”

“I read your sworn statement …” Rex began.

“I had a wee tipple that afternoon, so my memory of events is blurred, I regret to say. But I shall never forget her.”

“What was she like?”

“Ah, she was never afraid to try anything. She was Penny’s scuba partner, but sometimes we dove together. What was I saying, Nora?” he asked his wife. “Oh, yes. Sabine grew up with horses. The clearest vision I have of her is galloping down the beach, her hair and the horse’s mane streaming interchangeably in the breeze. One time we bathed in the sea off the moonlit beach. Ah, Sabine inspired me to write poetry. She was my Maud Gonne.”

Nora sighed with impatience. “Just ignore him,” she told Rex.

The waiter served his cocktail. Rex took a sip, appreciating the clean taste of the gin, the sharpness of lime, and bite from the Angostura.

“What’s the verdict, Counselor?” the Irishman asked, an unlit cigarette wedged in his minuscule mouth.

“Most refreshing.”

By and by, the gin began to go to Rex’s head, and he was glad when someone mentioned ordering food. A waiter handed him a menu, and Rex opted for a plate of melon and prosciutto, followed by grilled lemon-pepper chicken. Winslow suggested a bottle of Saint-Émilion, but Rex opted for beer.

“Lucky you were able to get away at such short notice,” David Weeks addressed him.

“The courts are in summer recess, so it wasna a problem.”

“Hope we’re not keeping you from your family,” Nora O’Sullivan said.

“My son’s attending university in Florida, so I took the opportunity of visiting him in Miami on the way here.”

“And is there a Mrs. Graves?” the bosomy Pam Farley asked.

“My wife died of cancer five years ago.”

Silence chilled the conversation, quickly filled by a few guests voicing their commiserations. Vernon Powell seemed to see Rex for the first time. A glance of sympathy passed between them.

“We must all come here Saturday,” Toni Weeks said in a transparent effort to lighten the mood. “Saturday is open mike night at The Cockatoo. It’s a lot of fun.”

“Is this restaurant owned by the resort?” Rex asked.

“Yes, but it’s open to the public, as you can see. The Cockatoo is our usual port of call for dinner. The band starts at eight.”

“There’s a nightclub called Boo-Boo-Jam at the far end of the beach,” drawled the balding, sandy-haired Texan. “Great for kebabs and island music. It’s frequented by locals—the air is thick with dope. Sabine caused a sensation. That gal was a very sexy dancer.”

Another lull broke the convivial chatter. The waiter appeared to clear away the appetizers. Rex sat back in his chair and contemplated Pam Farley in the wake of her husband’s stark compliment. She was younger than Duke, but not young enough to be a trophy wife, though she tried hard to project the illusion. Rex wondered if she had felt threatened by Sabine—if any of the women had.

The closest in age was Penny Irving, another unusually attractive young woman, but whereas the photos portrayed Sabine as fragile and slim almost to the point of anorexia, Penny exuded fitness and health. Winslow had mentioned that she and her husband owned the Body Beautiful chain of health spas across Canada. Rex noticed they had each selected the leanest items on the menu.

He skipped Martina and Gaby von Mueller in his review, since they had an alibi for when Sabine went missing. Nora O’Sullivan, it seemed, had decided to age gracefully and let the gray in her hair show. With her alabaster Irish complexion and cornflower blue eyes, the effect was not unbecoming.

While Elizabeth Winslow recounted an anecdote about her trip to the hairdresser in Marigot that day, Rex took the opportunity to pass the handsome redhead under his scrutiny, guessing her to be in her late forties. Seated beside her, Toni Weeks also retained a noble beauty. According to Paul Winslow, her mother had been a distant relative of the emir of Kuwait and had married an Englishman.

“Our daughters are the same age,” Toni told Rex. “Jasmin and Gaby get together each July at La Plage. Jasmin will be here next week. She’s spending a fortnight in Nice with her French pen pal.”

“
Und
Gaby had Latin school this summer,” Martina von Mueller added in heavily accented English. “She arrived a week ago.”

“Latin school?” Rex inquired.

“Where we speak Latin,” Gaby replied. “I want to study law, so Latin is very important.” The girl’s English was much better than her mother’s.

“Rex is a criminal lawyer, not an entertainment attorney like Vernon,” Toni explained to Gaby.

Rex wanted to get back to the subject of Latin school. “
Num Latine ibi cotidie loqueris
?” he asked. Do you speak Latin every day there?

“
Cotidie et omni tempore
.” All day, every day.

“That’s amazing. And they say Latin is a dead language.”

“So useful to have a background in Latin for medicine also,” the Austrian doctor remarked.

“Well, I’d be happy to chat in Latin with you while I’m here,” Rex told Gaby, who appeared pleased by the attention.

“So, Rex,” Weeks said. “Are you going to be getting into our naturist culture?”

“Och, I dinna know about that,” Rex stumbled in his embarrassment, his Scots accent thickening in proportion to the alcohol he drank. “Not much occasion to go about wi’ no clothes on back home.”

“Is it true that it rains all the time in Scotland?” Brooklyn asked. “I played golf in St. Andrews once and it pissed down every day.”

“Aye, just aboot.”

“Just like Ireland,” Nora said.

“Well, don’t be shy, old fellow. We’ll let you keep your sporran on.”

The table erupted into laughter at David Weeks’ comment.

“What’s a sporran?” Gaby asked.

“It’s a Scottish fanny-pack,” said Brooklyn.

The guests laughed uproariously again. The second course arrived, filling the air with an aroma of savory ribs and spicy seafood. Rex attacked his grilled chicken and rice with gusto.

“Grand Case, the neighboring town, is the gastronomic capital of the island,” Dick Irving, the Canadian, told him, addressing him for the first time since their introduction. “There are about thirty restaurants packed along the main boulevard.”

“I passed by there on the way to the resort.”

“You must have taken the Marigot route from the airport,” Duke Farley said.

“Aye. The driver was verra informative,” Rex added, slipping deeper into his Scots accent. “It was like having my own personal tour guide. Is Pascal the limo driver too?” he asked, remembering the reference to the limousine in Toni Weeks’ statement.

“Yeah, but if there’s a scheduling conflict, Greg Hastings, the manager, sometimes drives. A few of us rent Jeeps, but cars get broke into so often on the island we prefer to be chauffeured whenever possible.”

“Who owns the resort?”

“Monsieur Bijou,” Brooklyn replied. “He has another hotel and a new club in Marigot, but lately he’s gotten into residential projects. He just opened a luxury condominium complex up the coast.”

“Marina del Mar,” Paul Winslow said. “He’s got fingers in several pies. It’s thanks to him the police finally pulled their thumbs out and decided to look into Sabine’s disappearance.”

“Truth is, we’ve gotten nowhere in a week,” Duke Farley exploded. “She couldn’t have just vanished into thin air.”

The guests looked expectantly at Rex, who cleared his throat. “Aye, well I’ll see what I can do, starting first thing in the morning, but I canna make any promises.”

Solving the case of the missing actress might prove to be a challenge. An island in the Caribbean was an ideal place to commit the perfect crime, he reflected. If you could pitch a body far enough into the sea, you could hope the sharks would get to it before the police did. And one week had already gone by.