Murder in the Raw (8 page)

“Ms. Durand was a good swimmer and a certified scuba diver.”

“But what proof do you have that it was other than the police suggest?”

“I would like to ascertain the exact cause of death. It would be of comfort to her nearest and dearest.”

“Without a body, we may never know for sure.” Monsieur Bijou drummed the armrest of his chair with his resplendent fingers. Clearly, he wanted the case dropped. He had been seen to do the right thing by his wealthy friends, and now he wished for the investigation to go away.

“Bodies dead by suspicious means are bad for business?” Rex hazarded.

“Truly, Monsieur Graves, why should this be a suspicious death?” He glanced pointedly at his Rolex.

“Just one more thing. Did you know Sabine Durand?”

“I met her once at a
soirée
in Marigot. She made an indelible impression. Such beauty, such poise—and wit!”

“When was this?”

“Last year, I believe.”

Rex knocked back the rest of his gin and tonic. “I know your time is precious. Let me not take up any more of it.”

His host showed him into the condo where Oscar escorted him to the front door.

“How long have you worked for Monsieur Bijou?” Rex asked before he walked through it.

Oscar’s quick, dark eyes opened wide in a challenge. No point in trying to bribe him for information, Rex realized. The young man had obviously been hired for his strength and his silence. Nothing Rex could pay him would likely compensate the valet for what he stood to gain—or lose—in Bijou’s employment.

“Well, good day to you,” he said.

“And you, sir.”

Rex made his way down the elevator and through the sepulchral splendor of the lobby, feeling only one hundred percent himself once he was back in the Jeep. So much monetary display made him feel nervous.

“What did you think of the Marina del Mar?” Paul inquired when Rex dropped off the car keys half an hour later.

“Impressive.”

“I’ll say. A bit out of my price league, unfortunately, what with all the renovations we’re having done at Swanmere Manor. And how did you find our Monsieur Bijou?”

“Glittery. And as transparent as the diamonds on his cufflinks. I got nothing out of him of any value, though. What’s your take on him?”

“Hard to say. I’ve only ever met him in a formally social context. He’s always been very courteous.”

“He was less than courteous with me. Almost had his flunky throw me off the premises.”

“I suppose he’s trying to protect his business interests.”

Maybe that was not all he was trying to protect. Rex had the sneaking suspicion the police were in Bijou’s pocket and that he was only paying lip service to the rich guests at the resort. Having now met the developer, Rex found himself hoping that Sean O’Sullivan’s gossip had substance. He would truly love to knock Midas off his ivory tower.

Rex wandered back to the office to see if any calls had come in during his trip to Anse Marcel, and was disappointed to find that no news had yet arrived from home. Nor could he wait to receive the information from London, which he had asked to be faxed to the resort at the first opportunity. He decided to call Campbell while he was there.

“How’s it going?” his son asked in American fashion.

Rex winced. One year in the States, and his son was already losing his Scottish diction. “Good,” he responded in like manner, eschewing the adverb grammatically required by the question.

“Have you caught the bad guy yet?”

“This is only my third day.”

“Didn’t you solve that case at Swanmere in three days? You must be slipping, Dad.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. This investigation is trickier as there’s no body and very few clues to go on. Actually, I wanted to ask you, since you’re studying marine science: Are shark attacks common in the Caribbean?”

“Not as common as in North America or South Africa, where a combination of cold and warm waters brings a large variety of sharks. The Bahamas has recorded more attacks than any other Caribbean destination, but still less than Florida.”

“I hope you’re being careful.” Rex didn’t like to think of his son surfing in Florida, yet that had been part of the attraction for Campbell in attending university there.

“It’s no more dangerous than mountaineering in the Cairngorms or some other risk-taking adventures I could mention.”

“You have a logical argument for everything. You really should’ve gone into law.”

“Dad, don’t start on that again.”

“Okay, what else can you tell me about sharks?”

“The more surf, the greater the risk of a shark mistaking a human for a fish, especially if the swimmer is wearing shiny jewelry. No, I don’t wear jewelry, before you ask.”

“I should hope not! Now, Jacques Cousteau, what can you tell me about tides?”

“Look, Dad, I’ve got a date in a few minutes.”

“Just remember who’s paying for your education. Please tell me I’m not wasting my money.”

He heard his son give a put-upon sigh before launching into his explanation.

“There are usually two high tides and two low tides every day, right? With a little over six hours between high and low tide. Okay so far? The entire tidal cycle repeats itself approximately fifty minutes
later
each day.”

Campbell relayed this information in a bored and superior tone. Rex privately forgave him because the boy was still a teenager and therefore programmed to be obnoxious.

“When the tide has reached it highest and lowest points,” his son continued, “there’s a brief period when there is no current ebbing or flooding, referred to as slack water. Dad, if you ever went out on boats, you’d know all this.”

“I’m no sailor—I get seasick. Glad you’re learning something, lad.”

“Any chance you can send me some money?”

“I gave you some in Miami.”

“I know, but Consuela is high and constant maintenance.”

“Find a lass who’s lower maintenance.”

“You saw her, Dad. She’s hot.”

“Get a job then.”

“Yeah, thanks.

Campbell was losing his Scots accent and all respect. He would never talk to his grandmother like this and risk getting walloped with her bible. Just a year ago, he had been addressing his father as “sir,” a habit ingrained by his privileged education at Fettes College in Edinburgh. Ah, well, times were changing, and perhaps just as well, Rex conceded, determined not to be a stick-in-the-mud.

“Take care, son,” he said at the end of the call.

Standing at the desk in the small office, he whipped out his pad and pencil and made a brief calculation. The shore had been submerged at seven o’clock the previous evening when he reached the promontory. Working backwards by approximately six and a half hours—eight days times fifty minutes—he calculated that the tide would have been out when Sabine disappeared.

He flipped back through his notes on the guests, beside whose names he had made annotations—further questions he needed to ask, or more information to be gathered on them from other sources. The data on Vernon Powell was spare, to say the least. He was the one guest Rex had not spoken to one-on-one. The general consensus among the guests he’d questioned was that Vernon was jealous and controlling, and prone to fits of violence. Moreover, Rex had promised Winslow that he would try to pry him out of his shell.

Making this his next priority, he walked up to the second cabana but got no answer to his knock at the front door. He banged louder.

“Vernon, it’s Rex! I’ve brought your mail.”

Eventually, he heard the sound of bare feet approaching on the tile hallway, and the door opened a foot wide. Vernon stuck his head out. He was shaved and clear-eyed, but gave off the unmistakable scent of rum. Strains of “If I Were a Rich Man” from
Fiddler on the Roof
tumbled through the doorway.

Musicals and opera were not Rex’s cup of tea. He found both to be overly dramatic, not to mention unrealistic, in that people were not in the habit of bursting into spontaneous song in everyday life. If he did that in court, he would be summarily disbarred and committed to a mental institution.

“Thanks,” Vernon said, taking the day’s mail.

“I thought we could have dinner tonight.”

Sabine’s husband paused for a second, and Rex thought he would find an excuse to refuse. “As long as it’s not at The Cockatoo,” he said drily.

“Can you recommend anywhere?”

“The California in Grand Case. Good food, great view, and big enough to where we’re not likely to run into any of this crowd.”

“Right you are. I’ll arrange for the hotel to limo us over at seven, if that suits you.”

That gave Rex enough time to swim, shower, and read the paper, though the news from home was a day old by the time it reached St. Martin. Returning to his cabana, he changed into his Bermudas and applied a liberal amount of sunscreen. The beach attendants were collapsing the giant yellow umbrellas for the day by the time he arrived. He met the Irvings jogging back from the village side of the beach. Neither had so much as broken into a sweat. They slowed down to a stop.

“Hey, Rex. Haven’t seen you all day.” Dick, only slightly out of breath, had not a stitch on except for the red and white bandanna. A Yin-Yang symbol, which put Rex in mind of two embracing tadpoles, was tattooed on his smooth chest.

“I’ve been busy. I went to Anse Marcel to meet with Monsieur Bijou.”

“Does he flaunt as many jewels as they say?” Penny asked, cool as a cucumber but for a slight sheen on her nose and between her taut, tanned breasts.

“Aye, every gemstone you can imagine.”

“He’s quite a legend. I’d love to meet him. Apparently, he’s very well groomed.”

“Immaculate.”

“I heard he had his own masseur.”

“Is he gay?” Rex asked.

Dick grinned. “I don’t think so. He’s popular with the ladies.”

“Sabine told me he was bi,” Penny contradicted.

“Is that common knowledge?” Rex wanted to know.

“Probably not, but Sabine knew him quite well.”

“Really?” Bijou had distinctly said he’d only met her the one time.

“Well, perhaps not
that
well,” Penny specified.

“I thought he was a cold fish,” Rex concluded, remembering the unusually pale eyes. “Incidentally, I wanted to ask you both what time you got back from your trip to St. Barts last Tuesday.”

Dick questioned his wife with a glance. “I wrote down the time in my statement. Let’s see, must’ve been around six-thirty. Can’t really remember.”

“It was closer to seven,” Penny corrected him. “We had to wait for a cab.”

“You don’t have your own transport?”

“No, we mainly hang out here and take advantage of the beach. St. Barts turned out to be a waste of time, really.”

“Did you take a cab to Oyster Pond that morning?”

“Pascal from the hotel took us, but he had the rest of the day off, and the manager was attending Paul’s birthday dinner. In any case, what we have to tip him is almost as much as a cab fare.”

“You didn’t get back in time for the party?”

“We might have managed it but we were pooped,” Dick explained. “In any case, we’d already told the others not to expect us before coffee, knowing it would be tight since we had to change first. At around ten, Dave and Toni knocked at our door to see if Sabine was with us.”

“We hadn’t seen her all day,” Penny added. “We went out and looked for her.”

“Were you worried?” Rex asked.

Penny pulled the band from her ponytail and redid it. “Not really. I thought she’d forgotten about Paul’s dinner and had just gone off somewhere. I remember being annoyed. She was the sort of person who always had to be center stage and create drama around her.”

“Yeah, I felt bad for Paul,” Dick elaborated. “None of the guests were exactly sober, so the search effort probably wasn’t very efficient. Penny and me kinda took over and got the guards from the resort to check out the rocks.”

“I’ll need to speak with them.”

“They’re nice local boys,” Penny said. “Quite harmless. They mainly just keep out the riff-raff.”

As she spoke, a guard in a khaki uniform paced along the sand, a club secured in his belt

“You get the odd voyeur and dope peddler on the beach,” Dick explained. “Security only patrols the beach once the umbrella attendants have left. During the day, one guard stays up by the cabanas, out of sight.”

“Aye, well, thanks for the information.”

“Catch you later,” Dick said.

Rex waded into the shallows. Few people remained on the beach, and still less in the sea. Most would be preparing for dinner. Standing waist deep in the water, he gazed at the tiny fish swirling about the sandy bottom. Then, launching himself headlong, he free-styled to the raft anchored in the bay and hoisted himself up the ladder.

The waning sun bathed his face as, from the platform, he surveyed the eight cabanas peeping through the coconut palms and clumps of sea grape, which divided them from the beach. Someone at the resort must know more about Sabine Durand than they were willing to tell.

It was just a matter of probing, applying pressure until the case cracked open along the airtight seam, exposing the dusky secret contained within.