Murder in the Raw (2 page)

Rex shook Winslow’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

The first and last time Rex had seen him, at a reception held for the acquisition of the Swanmere Manor Hotel, Paul Winslow wore a dinner jacket. He had a pleasant face, with graying hair beginning to recede at the temples, and stood five feet nine, his pale English skin reddened to the hue of a boiled lobster. Rex made a mental note to slather on sun cream while he was here. He didn’t want to end up with his skin matching his hair.

“They have a shop off reception where you can buy an assortment of French delicacies,” Winslow continued in English. “This bread is delivered daily. Sorry I couldn’t meet you off the plane myself, but Elizabeth took the car into Marigot. Did you see your son Campbell on your way over?”

“Aye. He’s so tanned I hardly recognized him. He’s spending part of the summer in Miami with his girlfriend.” A rich Cuban beauty who looked like she had just stepped off a fashion runway.

The driver took Rex’s luggage out of the van, and they followed him down a sandy path to a wooden cabana resembling a chalet, the first in a shallow semicircle of eight built right on the beach.

“How are the renovations coming along at the Manor?” Rex asked Winslow.

“Pretty well. It was a last-minute decision to come to St. Martin, but as Elizabeth pointed out, it’ll be a while before we can get away once the hotel reopens. The contractor is a reliable fellow and we felt we could leave the work in his hands for a month.”

Pascal waited for them on the porch.

“Here we are.” Winslow opened the front door onto a tiled hallway. “We typically don’t lock our doors. There’s a safe in your bedroom for valuables, and two guards patrol the resort.”

“Is there much crime on the island?”

“Theft is a problem, but none has been reported at the resort in over a year. All the same, it’s a good idea to keep your cell phone locked up. You can’t use it on the premises anyway.”

“Why not?”

“It’s considered a breach of privacy, old fellow. Cell phones can take photos and videos. This is a nudist resort, after all.”

“Aye, I wanted to ask you about that.” Rex tipped the driver and he left. “I hope euros are okay.”

“Euros, dollars, it’s all viable currency here.” Winslow led him into the open living and kitchen area where glass sliders offered a panoramic vista of powdery white sand, coconut palms, and turquoise sea. Everyone outside was naked. “You must be dying to get out of your clothes,” he said.

“I’m not sure I want to wander about in the altogether.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it. Comes a point where it seems silly bothering with clothes. Just do what you’re comfortable with.” Rex averted his eyes as the nude man bent to open the fridge door. “Brook said he left you a stock of beer in case you arrived before he got back. I told him you were a Guinness man. Would you like one?”

“Aye, thanks.” The can perspired cold droplets in Rex’s hand. He took a few gulps and exhaled. “That’s better,” he said.

Winslow helped himself to a Heineken. “I hope you’ll get on all right with Brook. He’s very personable, really. The other alternative would have been to have you room with Vernon, but he’s still in a state of shock and probably needs his space, even though it’s been a week since Sabine disappeared.”

“Was he very fond of his wife?”

“Crazy about her, although there were arguments between them. She was a very beautiful woman and, naturally, Vernon got jealous over all the attention she received. Sometimes I think she provoked it.”

“Provoked his jealousy?”

“I think she liked to see how far she could go and led men on just for the fun of it. Wouldn’t surprise me if Vernon snapped that night and wanted to teach her a lesson. I’m not saying he necessarily meant to kill her.”

“How long had they been married?”

“Seven years. She was a young thing of twenty-one when they wed. He’s thirty years older.”

“Something would have had to happen to make him snap enough to kill her after seven years.” Rex crushed the can in his hand. “Do they recycle here?”

“Good God, you’re a powerful chap. Lost some weight since I saw you, didn’t you? Yes, there’s a recycling bin outside the main building, by the Laundromat, or you can just leave it for maid service.” Winslow hesitated before adding, “I ought to mention that some of us believe Sabine and Brook were having an affair.”

“Was Vernon aware of it?”

“Not sure, but he started acting quite frostily toward Brook. If Brook and Sabine were having it away, they were quite discreet about it.”

“Any suspects other than the husband?”

Winslow examined the green bottle in his hand. “I don’t want to tell tales out of school—I just want to get to the bottom of this. When Sabine disappeared, my wife thought you might be the man to help. Not to put too fine a point on it, we’re all successful businessmen here, and you can understand what makes us tick. It won’t be too much like having a stranger among us.”

“You think it was one of the guests?”

“A guard patrols the beach at night and he didn’t see any non-resorters up at this end. If there was a struggle, as the blood on the pareo fragment suggests, it’s more likely the assailant was a man, don’t you think?”

“Possibly. Does this security guard work for the resort?”

“Yes. Another one patrols the gate and walks around the outer perimeter. They’re very unobtrusive, and it gives the guests a sense of security.”

Rex had noticed a man in a khaki uniform when the driver pulled up in front of reception.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Winslow said. “This is the best time of the day for a dip. The water’s warm and the sun’s not too hot.”

“What’s the average temperature?”

“Low eighties, but the trade winds cool things off. I’ll swing by at seven and take you to The Cockatoo to meet the others. David Weeks can’t wait to make your acquaintance.”

Rex couldn’t wait to meet him either, nor any of the other suspects. “Aye, see you then, Paul. And thanks for your hospitality.”

“Think nothing of it. You’re not just here to work, you know.” Winslow picked up his baguette from the counter and saluted him with it.

When he had left, Rex entered the bedroom where Pascal had deposited his bag and briefcase. He hung up his change of clothes in the wall closet and, upon rummaging in his bag, realized he must have foolishly packed his trunks in the missing suitcase.

Och, the heck with it
, he said to himself, stripping out of his clothes.

Wrapping a white bath towel around his waist, he drew back the mosquito screen in the living room and stepped onto the back porch.

A sandy trail led through clumps of sea grape to the water. The beach formed a two-mile crescent around the bay where a tri-catamaran and a couple of sailboats bobbed on the blue surface. Beneath lurked darker patches of seaweed. On the sand, yellow umbrellas resembling inverted sunflowers shaded nude bathers on their lounge-chairs. The concession serviced the entire beach, which was open to the public, but the yellow chairs and umbrellas, as Rex had been informed, were free to resort guests.

A soft contour of hills formed a backdrop to a village of bars and boutiques at the far end of the beach. In the opposite direction, beyond the resort and boat rental shack, lay the promontory where Sabine’s ankle bracelet and pareo fragment had been found.

Satisfied that no one was paying him the least bit of attention, Rex discarded his towel on a lounge chair by the water and waded into the shallows. The sea, warm and refreshing, washed away the strain of the day spent traveling. He swam out to an anchored sunbathing raft and, hoisting himself up the ladder, surveyed the island at the mouth of the bay and wondered if reef sharks ventured this close to shore. He swam back in a hurry.

At the beach, he grabbed his towel and covered himself up with lightning speed. Engrossed in books and magazines and in conversation with other nudists, no one so much as looked in his direction. After returning to the cabana, he showered and changed into his spare shirt and lightweight pants. He would join the others for drinks at The Cockatoo, but he’d be damned if he would undress for the occasion.

Seated on the patio, cold beer in hand, he perused Mrs. Weeks’ statement to see how it compared to her husband’s.

I last saw Sabine Durand on Tuesday, July 10. We had gone over to the Dutch side of the island for shopping—Sabine, Elizabeth Winslow, Nora O’Sullivan, and myself. Martina von Mueller did not join us on this occasion since she was meeting her daughter at the airport. The Canadian couple had left on a sightseeing trip to St. Barts early that morning. Pam Farley stayed behind at the resort for a massage and facial.

Philipsburg is a mob scene when the cruise ships dock, so we always avoid Wednesdays. I bought a silk pareo. The Cockatoo is a nudist restaurant, but there is an unvoiced etiquette that requires diners to sit on something, even if it is only one’s towel. And, of course, bringing a beach towel to dinner is hardly appropriate. The men wear wraps. A bit silly if you ask me. It looks like they’re wearing aprons, and you would never catch David wearing an apron at home. He says he spends enough time in one at his school of French cuisine.

Our daughter bought him a Male Chauvinist Pig apron one Christmas as a joke. She was about eleven at the time and, of course, we all laughed. Anyway, talking of male chauvinist pigs, the men ate out of Sabine’s hand. She had that effect on men. The young French waiters at The Cockatoo were always tripping over each other to serve her. Sabine would just laugh in her childlike way, and everyone would laugh right along with her.

Going back to the other day in Philipsburg … I bought a Delft china spoon holder and some linen napkins. Sabine, as I recall, treated herself to a tortoiseshell compact in the shape of a scallop. We had lunch in town, and the hotel limo picked us up at four o’clock as arranged. I went back to my cabana to rest. David and the other men from the group had gone on a scuba dive that day. They didn’t get back until six. David had a touch of the sun, so I made him stay in and drink lots of water until it was time to go to The Cockatoo for Paul’s forty-sixth birthday dinner. Sabine never appeared.

At ten p.m., we called the gendarmes, but they didn’t arrive until the next morning as they were busy with a burglary in Grand Case. The hotel sent two guards out to the rocks. It was dark even with flashlights, but they found a cell phone belonging to Sabine’s husband. We searched all over the resort. I can’t imagine what might have happened to her.

This, I believe, is an accurate account of everything I know relating to Ms. Durand’s disappearance.

Antonia (“Toni”) Weeks

Contrary to her husband’s testimony, which Rex had read on the plane, Toni Weeks’ voluble statement showed no emotion over the loss of a friend. Her husband owned the famous French School of Cordon Bleu in London and, according to Paul Winslow, they had known Sabine Durand before she went on the stage.

The rest of the guests’ statements were in the same vein. The men tended to wax lyrical while, of the women’s statements, only Elizabeth Winslow’s, written in an elegant hand, indicated any distress over Sabine Durand’s disappearance. He had met Mrs. Winslow at the Swanmere Manor banquet: a tall redhead who must have been a knockout in her youth.

“Hey,” declared an American voice behind him. “Oh—sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Twisting around in his chair, Rex saw a man in his mid-thirties, good build, average height—and, mercifully, wearing shorts. Dark-haired and devilishly handsome, this couldn’t be other than Brooklyn. Winslow had given him thumbnail descriptions of all the guests at the Plage d’Azur Resort. Rex half stood and, introducing himself, shook hands.

The newcomer exuded an air of confidence, his smoky green eyes appraising Rex with frank interest. “Brooklyn T. Chalmers. Everybody calls me Brook.”

Did Sabine? Rex decided to defer asking him about the level of intimacy between him and the missing woman. In spite of his easy manner, he was clearly not a man to be trifled with. President of the Brooklyn Trust in Manhattan, Chalmers was a self-made millionaire who had piloted himself to the island in his Malibu Piper and raced cars professionally, with a best finish of third at the Indy 500 last year.

“Thanks for putting me up.”

“No problem. Sorry I wasn’t here earlier. Had to fly to Aruba. Can I get you another beer?”