Murder in the Raw (15 page)

The Full Moon Party at the end of the month would have made for a special evening with Helen, if he himself was still around. He hoped to have solved the case by then and be on his way back home.

“Who’s the petite blonde I saw you with yesterday?” Weeks asked Rex as they met on the path leading to the cabanas.

“A friend from home. She came over on a cruise.”

“When are we going to meet her?”

“She had to get back to the ship.”

“Pity. We could use some new blood in the group. Tensions are running a bit high. All the stress over Sabine, I suppose. Anyway, it’s not the same.” David Weeks glanced at the paper bag in Rex’s hand. “I see you got yourself some breakfast. I was just on my way to the pâtisserie myself.”

Rex watched his retreating tanned backside. He had gotten used to nudity on the beach, but it still struck him as strange that the guests wandered into the store to buy groceries with not so much as a stitch on their bodies.

“Rex! Rex!” a male voice halted him from the parking lot.

He turned and saw the doctor and his family descending from the limo.

“My daughter Gaby needs to speak with you most urgently.”

Rex approached her. “What is it, lass?”

Gaby handed him a photograph from a packet of processed film. “Who do you think that is?” she asked hesitantly while he studied it.

“It looks like Sabine Durand, judging by other photos I’ve seen of her. Though it’s a wee bit difficult to be sure because of the sunglasses.”

“They are her Christian Dior glasses,” Frau von Mueller said.

Rex failed to understand why they were showing him a snapshot of the actress when he already knew what she looked like.

“I took it yesterday,” Gaby informed him.

“What?” How was that possible, unless … “Where?”

“On St. Barthélemy,” the mother garbled in excitement. “Gaby went to buy a new snorkel mask. She heard the voice of Sabine at the café next door to the shop
und
she snapped the picture.”

“I couldn’t be sure at first,” Gaby took over, “because—well, I thought she was dead. I was able to take this picture without her seeing me. I had the pictures developed in town.”

“It is her,” the doctor insisted. “I would know the nose anywhere. I made it!”

“Who else knows about this?” Rex asked.

“No one,” Gaby said. “First I wanted to be sure and examine the photograph. Here is the address of the dive store,” she added, giving him the receipt from the purchase of her mask.

“She is going to be a fine lawyer,
nein?
” von Mueller said proudly.

“Aye, she acted verra correctly.”

The girl blushed to her flaxen roots.

“Can I keep this photo for the moment?” Rex checked his watch and flagged down the limo, automatically patting down the pockets of his shorts to make sure he had his wallet on him. “Not a word to anyone!” he called back to the von Mueller family, putting a finger to his lips.

Pascal rolled down the window. “Yessir, Mr. Graves?”

“I need to get to Oyster Pond by nine o’clock.”

“Hop in.”

Rex tore around the sleek black hood of the limo and settled in beside the driver. “Go as fast as you can,” he instructed.

Pascal handled the stretch limo like a race car pro as vehicles and pedestrians prudently leaped out of their path. Rex offered him one of his croissants and wolfed down the other. At Oyster Pond, dockhands were already casting off the lines of the large twin-hulled ferry. Rex waved frantically, thrust his fare and his I.D. at the woman behind the kiosk, and jumped aboard.

Thankful he’d had a bit of breakfast to help settle his stomach, he stood on the top deck while the high-speed catamaran set motor sail over a choppy sea. He took a few precautionary gulps of air and stared straight ahead at the gray-green mirage of St. Barts to the southwest. The memory of the slave vessel slipping away from the island sprang to mind as the coast of St. Martin receded. Now that Sabine had been spotted, he suspected her of acting out the affair with Brooklyn and giving her husband a motive for murder, and then making her exit by sea. Had she planted his phone on the beach? If so, why was Elizabeth Winslow on the camera? He was in no doubt whose face it was in the frame. The outline of the necklace she always wore was clearly visible. Had Mrs. Winslow aided Sabine in her plan? Why then had she and her husband brought him to St. Martin to investigate the young woman’s disappearance?

Already the sun bounced blindingly off the water. Rex found a stick of sunscreen in his pocket and smeared it over his face. The deck hand served plastic cups of guava juice to the passengers, and Rex downed one thirstily. He glanced with impatience between his watch and St. Barts growing progressively clearer in focus.

He had until four-thirty to find the actress. That was when the catamaran left for Oyster Pond. The island of St. Barts was small, no more that ten square miles. How many hotels could be on it? He wondered if he should enlist the help of the local gendarmes. Yet, if it was indeed Sabine in the photo, no murder had taken place after all. Ms. Durand was a grown woman, and if she had chosen to take off on her vacation without alerting her husband, the police would not be inclined to go after her.

A family of tourists pointed overboard in excitement. A green sea turtle paddled alongside the boat. Rex wished he had brought his camera, but he’d left in a rush. Gustavia Harbor came into view, a small port bristling with masts from the fleet of fishing and leisure craft. A small red-roofed town grew up around the port, off-shooting into the hills.

He figured he would probably need transportation. A rental car would take too long to arrange. Once on dry land, he inquired instead after a moped, the store clerk assuring him it would indeed be able to convey his considerable bulk up the steep inclines of the island. While at the store, Rex picked up a brochure of restaurants, hotels, and bed and breakfasts, and told the man he’d be back for the moped.

His day would entail a systematic search of St. Barts, showing the proprietors the photo of Sabine and, hopefully, tracking her down for a few explanations. With those in hand, he could return to St. Martin, tell the guests she was alive and well, and had decided to leave her husband for whatever reason—and he could then book his return flight to Scotland, case closed.

He started at the café by the dive store printed on Gaby’s receipt. “Did you see this young lady in here yesterday?” he asked the handsome bartender in his best French.

“Yes,” the Frenchman answered in English. “She was sitting on the terrace with a man. They ordered Veuve Clicquot.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Big spenders, big tippers.”

“Do you happen to know where they’re staying?”

The bartender turned suddenly cautious. “Why should I tell you, monsieur?”

Calculating how big a tip the couple might have left him, Rex slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter.

The bartender slipped it into his jar labeled “
Pourboires
.”

“I heard them mention l’Auberge Fleurie.” The man shrugged with a self-deprecating smile. “I always listen to what a beautiful woman says, in case I want to find her again.”

“Where can I find this place?”

“What is your business with this woman?
Un moment, s’il vous plaît
,” he called down the bar to a customer.

“She left a grieving husband on St. Martin. I’m a private detective.”

“Ah, how touching—but I am not sure I should give the lovers’ secret away.”

Rex’s muscles flexed in irritation. He didn’t have enough twenty-dollar bills to spare and he wasn’t about to divest himself of his precious British currency. “The location of the hotel, please,” he insisted. “The lady’s husband is not a patient man.”

“The hotel is up on a hill overlooking Grand Saline Beach.”

“Merci buckets,” Rex said, pulling away from the bar.

He returned to the moped rental store, made sure of the directions to the hotel, and took off up a rocky hillside, rejoicing in the view of an isolated sandy beach enlacing a turquoise sea. As the road steepened, the feeble motor whined and sputtered in protest. On several occasions it almost expired. Rex ended up abandoning it halfway up the slope among the cacti and wild bougainvillea. “Piece of rubbish!” he muttered, entering the gravel driveway to the hotel on foot.

True to its name, the white façade of the inn nestled in a bower of exotic flowers and tropical trees in bloom, the green-painted shutters open to the beach sparkling far below the cliff. He mounted the steps and, upon entering the hall, came to the reception desk, where he gratefully paused for breath beneath the cooling breeze of the ceiling fan.

“I’m looking for Mademoiselle Durand and her friend,” he told the smiling patronne, abandoning his French altogether.

“
Ecossais?
”

“Aye, Scottish. Well-spotted. Was it my red hair or pale skin? Or possibly my accent?”

“
Votre accent, monsieur. Sean Connery, c’est mon James Bond favori
.” The comely middle-aged woman put a hand to her ample chest in a coquettish gesture of adoration.

“He’s my favorite Bond too. You canna beat a Scotsman, eh?”

The woman responded with a tinkle of laughter. “
Ah, la chose est sûre, monsieur,
” she agreed.

“Oh, aye—I was asking aboot Mademoiselle Sabine Durand,” Rex said, exaggerating his Scots, which he only ever did when he was tired, drunk, or else seeking some advantage with women.

“A charming couple.
Tout à fait charmant
. I put them in
la Miel de Lune
.”

The honeymoon suite—very nice, Rex thought with some irony.

“But you are too late, monsieur. They have already checked out.”

“When?”

“But, this morning.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“I only know they sailed away on their boat. It is no longer moored in the bay.

“What sort of boat?”

“A catamaran. The
Moonsplash
.”

Sabine could be almost anywhere in the Caribbean by now. Rex made his disconsolate way down the hill and retrieved the moped. Putting it in neutral, he freewheeled down the road into town, relieved to have no further use for it. After dropping it off at the store, he found a vacant table under the awning of a café across from the sleepy harbor. He noticed many of the stores closing for lunch. Consulting the menu, he ordered a beer and
steak-frites
.
Tae heck with my diet
, he thought. He needed fuel, and fast.

First, though, he should put Vernon out of his misery and let him know his wife was alive.

He went inside to locate a phone, missing the convenience of his cell and regretting not having organized his overseas service better—but then, he hadn’t anticipated the island-hopping aspect. “Yes, hello?” he said into the pay phone, having first gotten the code for St. Martin from the waitress. “Is this the Plage d’Azur Resort?”

“Yes, Greg Hastings speaking.”

“Rex Graves here. I need to speak with Vernon Powell. Can someone bring him to the phone? I’m calling from St. Barts on an important matter.”

“One minute, Mr. Graves.” The manager spoke to someone at the desk. “Danielle is going across right now with the message. You best give me the number you’re calling from … Okay. Get back to you in a tick.”

Rex watched as his beer passed by on a tray and went after it. “Hold the
steak-frites
,” he told the waitress. “I’m waiting for a call.”

As it turned out, he could have eaten his steak and fries plus dessert in the time it took for the call to come through. Fortunately, no one else seemed interested in using the phone. Sensibly, they all had cells.

“There is a problem, sir,” Hastings informed him as soon as he answered.

What now?
Rex asked himself.

“Dr. von Mueller is attending to Mr. Powell as we speak.” The manager paused. “He appears to be dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“Looks like an overdose. Mr. Brooklyn Chalmers is here and would like to speak to you. I’ll pass you on.”

“Brook?” Rex asked in surprise. “You’re already back from New York!”