Trouble at High Tide (6 page)

“It is important to note that we are still seeking information on this case, as well as the others, and ask the public’s assistance,” Hanover continued. “If anyone has anything to contribute, we ask them to call the following number, which is also on the screen behind me.” He announced the number.

Two dozen hands went up when the commissioner concluded
his statement and several reporters yelled out their questions.

“Is this another Jack the Ripper slaying?”

“Has the investigation changed in any way given the prominence of the family involved?”

“How long was Ms. Betterton in Bermuda?”

“Have you made any progress on the prior cases?”

“Was she a prostitute, too?”

The commissioner was patient, taking some questions, declining to answer others, and for the most part ignoring the aggressive outbursts. “We believe Ms. Betterton died from a loss of blood when her throat was slashed. An autopsy will confirm the cause of death. While on the surface it may seem similar to the manner in which the other victims have died, there are significant differences in the circumstances of the victims’ lives and in the details of the murders themselves.” He pointed to one reporter and declared with some pique, “We devote the same attention to all crimes on the island and do not alter our processes in light of the status of the individuals involved.”

“Who did you say discovered the body?”

I hoped it was one of the questions that the commissioner would disregard, but my luck had run out.

“I didn’t say,” Commissioner Hanover replied, consulting the papers in front of him, “but the person who called in the incident was a house guest of Judge Betterton.”

“What’s his name?”

The commissioner looked up from his papers. “
Her
name is Jessica Fletcher. She’s a crime writer from the States.”

I slumped down in my seat and tugged on the bill of the
cap, dipping my head as far forward as I could. I must have resembled a turtle.

“Do you have a photo?”

“We don’t, but I imagine in these days of Google that it won’t be very difficult for you to find one.”

The Reuters’ reporter next to me stood up and called out: “Wouldn’t we be better off with the FBI than Scotland Yard?”

The woman in the corner, who had been leaning against the wall, raised her head and glanced around the room, her pique at the question obvious on her face.

“As a self-governing British Overseas Territory, Bermuda, whilst independent, has access to all the government offices of the United Kingdom, including Scotland Yard,” the commissioner replied. “The Yard is a world-renowned criminal investigation organization, easily on par with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the States. I see no reason to reject the assistance of Scotland Yard, which has been so generously tendered. Any more questions will be taken by Superintendent Bird and Deputy Commissioner Mumford later today. Please check with the duty officer for the times of the briefings.”

Commissioner Hanover gathered his papers and stepped down from the podium, flanked on either side and front and back by Constable Valentree and three others who pushed aside the reporters to clear a path for the commissioner to leave the room. I pocketed my pad and pen and stayed at my seat as the members of the press milled around, some interviewing one another, others standing before a camera and giving a recap of the press conference.

Wary of being recognized, I glanced around like a thief
about to be caught in the act, and saw a familiar face. It was the redheaded man from the airport. He was moving swiftly up the aisle, sliding between those who had paused to talk and cutting off others who were waiting patiently for an opportunity to exit their row. I tried to follow him but was stymied at every turn. By the time I was able to reach the landing outside the door, he was gone from sight.

Once on the street, I lingered until the throng of reporters had dispersed, my eyes searching in vain for the redheaded man. Frustrated, I turned toward a line of blue and yellow squad cars parked at the curb, approached one of the drivers, and explained in the most general terms who I was. The officer invited me to sit in the front, which I happily did, and he drove off.

Once clear of Headquarters Hill, I allowed myself to take a deep breath; however, my relief was not to last long.

A
television van, complete with a tower to accommodate a satellite feed, was already parked on Tom Betterton’s street when I arrived at the house in the police cruiser. Fortunately, Adam had arranged for security men to block both ends of the circular driveway to keep the press from knocking at the door or walking around to the back. He had another man posted on the gravel path near my cottage to prevent any intruders, press or otherwise, from coming up by way of the beach.

Over the years, my experience with the press has been hit or miss. I’ve met many trustworthy reporters—Evelyn Phillips, editor of the
Cabot Cove Gazette
, for instance. We may butt heads over whether information should be published before the police have time to process it, but she’s a sensitive and skilled journalist who honors the need for privacy by a victim’s family and whose stories are always fair and unbiased. Unfortunately, I have also encountered reporters who were not so responsible, who lied to gain access
to a witness or who presented “facts” that slanted the story, or whose lack of respect for the people they pursued for comments led them to behave in an aggressive, even uncivilized manner. I hoped that would not be the case here.

“The police don’t want
me
to leave the island either,” the judge told me when we sat down together later that afternoon in the white living room. Norlene had brought us drinks—a Scotch for Tom and a lemonade for me—and a plate of cold hors d’oeuvres left over from the party. Adam was outside instructing the guards.

I’d had an opportunity to grab a few hours’ sleep at the cottage, leaving me greatly refreshed and more clear thinking than I’d been earlier in the day. I’d canceled my flight home, and Tom had assured me I was welcome to stay.

“Do you want to go back to New Jersey right away?” I asked.

“I’m torn,” Tom replied, jumping up and pacing in front of me. “I want to bury Alicia in the family plot at home, next to her mother and her father. She deserves that and I’ll make sure it happens. But the police here won’t release her body yet. That alone would keep me here even if they hadn’t told me to remain on the island.”

“What happened to her parents?” I asked.

“They were killed in a train wreck when she was still a kid. She’s been with me on and off ever since, except when she was away at school, and for the last few years.”

“Where has she been the last few years?”

“It’s not important,” he said, striding across the room.

The window coverings facing the street had been drawn to prevent anyone from seeing in. Tom parted the drapes
with one hand and peeked through the slit he had created, then dropped his hand with disgust. “The press jackals are already circling their prey. I’ve been through this before and I’m not of a mind to accommodate them.”

“Adam seems to have them under control,” I said.

“He’s a handy man to have around,” Tom said. He stopped pacing to take a sip of his Scotch. “But this is a small island with few places to escape to. I don’t want to feel like a prisoner in my own house. At least if I go back to the States I have the whole wide country and can disappear at will.”

He seemed to be thinking out loud.

“Wouldn’t your professional obligations keep you closer to home?”

“I can take time off, or if not, I can make sure the courthouse is so secure a mouse can’t get in. I’m not about to let those vultures get near me or mine.” His grief of this morning seemed to have transformed into anger at the press. I didn’t know Tom well enough to determine if this was his way of dealing with a traumatic event, or if it was a more normal part of his personality.

“Where are Madeline and Stephen?” I asked.

“Maddy is upstairs sleeping. She’s been sleeping all day. That’s the way she deals with anything unpleasant. Margo drove Stephen into town with a grocery list from Norlene. We can’t have delivery trucks coming to the house, not while those… those—” He broke off. “I’m trying not to use foul language in front of you.”

“I understand,” I said. “You think the press would use a delivery truck as a ruse to gain entry into the house?”

“I know they would,” he said, pounding his right fist into
the palm of his other hand. “I’m not letting them in. I’m not talking to them. And as soon as I feel comfortable getting out of here, I’m leaving.”

“Tell me more about Alicia, Tom,” I said, hoping to draw him away from this rant about the fourth estate.

“She was such a cute little girl,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Blond curls bouncing up and down. She was never still, never walking if she could run, never sitting if she could stand. A real pistol, that one.”

“And as an adult? Was she just as active?”

“After my brother and his wife were killed, she was a bit of a wild one. Never totally outgrew that. Recently, she discovered her own beauty as a woman and the image she projected. I used to tell her to tone it down a bit. I didn’t like all those men panting after her. You lead a man on and turn him down, you never know what can happen. You saw that dress she had on last night?”

I nodded.

“I made her go get a sweater, but she left it in the kitchen when I wasn’t looking.”

“Do you think it’s possible that some man she’d rejected became violent?”

He sighed. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Back in Newark, when I was coming up, people got killed for a dirty look. You can’t play games with people’s emotions. I tried to tell her that, tried to get her to listen to the wisdom I’ve accumulated after all these years on the bench, dealing with the lowlifes, dealing with life in general. But young people don’t pay any attention. They all think they know more than you do.”

“Then you don’t think her death is related to the Jack the Ripper murders—for want of a better phrase—on the island?”

Tom took a gulp of Scotch and sank down into a chair. “I don’t know, but who else would do such a thing? This weirdo must have been stalking around the beach and come upon her out for a midnight stroll. Crimes of opportunity, they call them.” He paused. “She didn’t fit his MO,” he said, referring to the police term
modus operandi
or “method of operation.” “Never would have happened if she wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he concluded sadly.

There was a knock at the front door. Tom looked in its direction but kept his seat. The knocking became more insistent, but he sat unmoving, staring at the door.

Norlene emerged from the kitchen and hurried to the edge of the breezeway. She leaned over and cocked her head so she could see through the glass panels to the front of the house. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” she cried and opened the door.

Stephen came stumbling in holding a carton piled high with groceries. “I thought you were going to leave me out there forever,” he said. “I had a devil of a time convincing the cops I live here. The press is everywhere.” He cocked his head toward the door. “There’s another one like this one in the car.” He strode across the living room toward the kitchen. “Thanks for your help,” he said sarcastically, flashing Tom and me a grim smile.

Norlene went outside to retrieve the second carton and returned, her arms full. “No, no. I have it,” she said when Adam followed her into the house. She closed the door with
her back, giving it a kick to make certain the latch connected.

Adam ran ahead and held open the door to the kitchen, then returned to where Tom and I were sitting.

“Anything you need right now, your honor?” Adam asked.

Tom shook his head. “No. Just keep those mangy animals outside away from me. If you do that, you’ve more than earned your money. I left you an envelope in the library.”

“I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed,” Adam said. He looked at me. “I just can’t believe it. Can you?”

“What can’t you believe?” I said.

“That Jack the Ripper would dare to come here.” His eyes roamed the room. “Look at this place. If you can’t be safe here, where can you?” He exhaled noisily and let himself out the French doors leading to the terrace.

“Good man,” Tom said. “I never had a personal assistant before. Now I think everyone should have one, everyone who’s in the public eye anyway.”

“He told me he was replacing your law clerk,” I said.

“He did?”

“I would think they have very different duties.”

“They certainly do. He has it wrong. Just a coincidence I hired Adam when I let one of my clerks go. I must have a thousand applicants to fill that position. All tops in their classes. You need these people to research case law, check citations, write your bench memos. I keep two law clerks and sometimes they have interns working for them.”

I didn’t want to get Adam into trouble, so I decided not to mention that he had suggested the judge was upset when
he’d learned his law clerk was copying documents and taking them home, or that Tom had given Adam the excuse that he liked to do his own research for why he had fired the clerk.

Stephen wandered into the living room and flopped down on the sofa across from me. He was very pale, had dark circles under his eyes, and there was a white bandage on his right hand.

“Where’s Margo?” Tom asked.

“She decided to drive over to Hamilton. Something about a necklace, but I think she just doesn’t want to hang around with us. Too gloomy here.”

“Can’t blame her,” Tom said. “What happened to your hand?”

Stephen looked down at his palm. “Cut it trying to open a box.”

I didn’t recall seeing a bandage on Stephen’s hand the night before when we were in the library. Was the injury recent? Or just the bandage?

Stephen sat up. “Oh good, you’ve got food,” he said as he reached over and helped himself to a handful of canapés from the plate Norlene had left us. “I’m starving.”

“You just left the kitchen,” Tom said. “Why didn’t you get yourself something to eat in there?”