Trouble at High Tide Read online

  “She’s a way apart from the others—I’ll give you that—but I can’t rule her out as a serial victim. The killer may be looking for more attention. So far, his actions have attracted only mild interest on Fleet Street. The case has been back pages and below the fold in our newspapers. But this time their ears perked up, I’m vexed to say.”

  “And my discovery of the body only made the situation worse.”

  “Not your fault, Jessica.”

  “No. But I’d rather not play a part in feeding the monster.”

  I heard George chuckle. “Meaning the press or the killer?”

  “Either one,” I replied through a smile.

  “So you’ll talk to my staff?”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want.”

  “You already have things to offer. I’ll tell them to contact you. Meantime, you be careful, lass. This is a tricky one and he’s been able to elude the authorities to date. I don’t want to see your name on the front page again.”

  “Neither do I.”

  After we disconnected, I remembered I’d forgotten to mention Alicia’s fascination with Jack the Ripper and the book she’d been so carefully reading. I made a mental note to tell his team when they got in touch with me and wondered when that might be. And was the beautiful woman I’d seen at police headquarters the forensic expert or the profiler?

  I’d deliberately omitted telling George about my experience the night before. I didn’t want to alarm him. He was too far away to do anything, and knowing about it would only frustrate him. I even questioned if I should mention it to his inspectors. Was it relevant? I was no longer sure. Given a night to speculate on his activities, I’d come to believe that the man was probably a ripperologist, one of the tourists fascinated by Jack the Ripper, about whom the police commissioner had complained. Perhaps the man had been discouraged from poking around the crime scene. Maybe he’d heard that I’d found the body and was curious to learn more, but—thank goodness—hadn’t had the nerve to knock on my door in the middle of the night. Anyway, I had the feeling that my imagination had carried me away, inflamed by my prebedtime reading matter. I shouldn’t have been so spooked and was determined that the next time I saw the redheaded man, I would buttonhole him and demand to know what he was doing on Bermuda, and why he’d chosen to give himself a rest on the porch of my cottage.

  My rumbling stomach reminded me that I was hungry. Tea for breakfast was not enough to sustain me, but I was hesitant to take another meal at the main house. Instead, I decided to find a restaurant at the nearby village of St. George, or St. George’s as it’s often called. I could prevail upon Adam to drive me, but I wasn’t eager to see that young man so soon again with his suggestion—still lingering in my memory—that I might benefit from the newspaper coverage of Alicia’s death. Had Tom Betterton said that to him? How embarrassing if that’s where he got the idea.

  I could call for a taxi, but that would be awkward. How would the driver get through the throng of reporters and press vehicles still parked out front? I was certain there was a bicycle in the garage that I could borrow. I’m more than comfortable riding a bike since it’s my main form of transportation at home in Cabot Cove. But it was at least six or seven miles to the opposite coast of the island, where St. George’s was located, and I didn’t know the roads well enough to find it. Plus, if I was spotted by the reporters, it would not be easy to escape them.

  Regretfully, I walked up the gravel path to Tom’s house, fearing that if I couldn’t find a ride into town I would get roped into lunch with the family.

  As I neared the rear terrace of the house, I spotted one of the security guards talking to another man. I approached them and posed my problem.

  “I’m just going off duty, Mrs. Fletcher,” said the guard, who introduced himself as Jock. “I’d be happy to give you a lift into town if you don’t mind traveling by motorbike.”

  “Do you have an extra helmet?”

  “That I do,” he said, “and it’s even got a shaded visor.”

  “Then I’d be delighted to take you up on the offer,” I said. “By the way,” I added as we walked to Tom’s garage where Jock had parked his motorbike, “did you happen to see a redheaded man near my cottage during the night?”

  “Can’t say that I did,” he replied. “Of course, I wasn’t especially looking for anyone. My job was to keep people from approaching the judge’s house from the beach. I pretty much stayed close to there. Did this fellow cause a problem for you?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “It was just a little unsettling.”

  “A murder like this has us all on edge,” he said. “My wife’s afraid to leave the house at night. Of course, I told her that she wasn’t the sort of woman who attracts a nut like this, but you know how women are.” He realized he might have offended and laughed to soften the comment. I said nothing.

  Jock backed his motorbike away from a shelf holding fishing tackle, and I climbed on. With me riding behind him, he rounded the corner of the garage, rolled down the drive and onto the road before any of the reporters had a chance to identify his passenger. I hoped. It was only when we were on Harrington Sound Road that I chanced a look back to be certain we weren’t being followed. No one in sight. I sighed with relief and decided to enjoy the ride. The weather was warm, the sky clear, and I smiled as the breeze whipped my collar and ballooned the back of my blouse as we rode toward town.

  We turned right at Blue Hole Hill and soon found ourselves on the causeway that leads to St. David’s Island and the traffic circle to Kindley Field Road. One more traffic circle at Mullet Bay Road and we were on our way into St. George’s.

  Jock let me off at King’s Square, and I traded his extra helmet for my pink ball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. With so many tourists similarly attired, I hoped I could escape notice and enjoy a leisurely anonymous afternoon.

  The closest restaurant was the White Horse Pub, which promised a view of the water—and of a cruise ship docked at the nearby terminal. It was a little early for lunch when I entered the dark interior of the tavern; the throng of tourists that would certainly jam in at noon had yet to arrive. I asked for a table overlooking the harbor and was pleased to find myself the only diner in the covered area outside, at least for the time being. Since breakfast was no longer being served, I perused the luncheon menu and decided on an appetizer, conch fritters served with an arugula salad and Key lime mustard sauce, and a glass of iced tea. Not exactly eggs and bacon but a welcome meal for this hungry lady.

  I removed the pink cap and the sunglasses and took a deep breath. This is what I had been looking for when Tom offered the use of one of his cottages for a week’s stay: balmy weather, exotic dishes, and seven days to relax at the beach with few distractions and no demands on my time. I watched as the passengers from the cruise ship disembarked and walked toward King’s Square. They were a colorful group, the men in plaid or pastel shorts and polo shirts, with ball caps shading their eyes from the sun, the women attired in similar colors, some in sundresses and with large floppy hats serving the same function. Years ago, the men would have had cameras dangling from straps around their necks, but these days most held up their cell phones or pocket versions of a video camera to record the street scenes and the town’s beautiful old buildings.

  Bermudian architecture owes much to English stone buildings of the seventeenth century. Originally built with Bermuda limestone—now in short supply—the houses are painted in soft hues approved by the government and feature distinctive whitewashed slate roofs, which are terraced to collect rainwater in an underground tank.

  In my home state of Maine where fresh water is plentiful, thanks in part to its thousands of lakes, we never think about where the water that runs from our taps originates. Here in Bermuda the opposite is true. This beautiful island has no central water supply provided to residents. The cisterns that sit under its homes and apartment complexes—and groundwater pumped into holding tanks—must provide the population
’s needs. The government has a treatment plant that offers high-quality water to augment a homeowner’s private supply, but this is a service for which its users pay a hefty fee. The price for living in paradise, I mused.

  The outdoor dining area was filling up when I called for my check, donned my pink cap, and put on my sunglasses. The food had been delicious, and the peaceful interlude even more so. I walked through the restaurant and out into the sunshine only to have my mood shattered by a woman’s screams.

  What happened? There couldn’t be a killer in so public an area, could there? I hadn’t heard a gunshot or a bomb. Had someone been hit by a car or motorbike? Accosted by a robber? I heard the woman shriek again.

  A crowd was gathered by the waterside and I hurried over. To my surprise, a wave of laughter greeted me as I pressed my way forward. A young woman in a lace-trimmed mop-cap, wearing a long blue skirt and blue vest over a white blouse was being pulled forward by a man in a blue frock coat and white pantaloons. It was a historical reenactment. I knew that St. George’s was the oldest continually occupied settlement in the New World—it was founded in 1612—but had forgotten that the town used its colonial roots as one of its principal attractions. I looked around the square and noticed that tourists were taking pictures of one another with their hands and heads poking out of the holes in a stock, a form of public humiliation in colonial days. Apparently I was about to witness another form. I blushed at my foolishness and felt my heartbeat slow to its normal tempo. I certainly was jumpy these days.

  “This wench has been accused and found guilty of being a shrew and a gossip,” said the blue-coated man, holding his tricorn hat with one hand to keep the breeze from taking off with it.

  “It’s not fair,” the actress playing the wench whined. “I didn’t get no trial. You can’t say I’m guilty.”

  “She had a trial, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t you believe her for a second. Tried by three judges, count ’em, one, two, three.” He held up three fingers.

  “All incompetents,” she shouted, “one, two, three,” holding up three fingers to her audience, which rewarded her with a laugh.

  “The judges have determined her punishment. She shall be seated in the ducking stool and be ducked, not once, not twice, but—” He raised a hand to cup his ear.

  “Three times,” shouted the crowd.

  “Too few! I think we’ll make it six times,” the colonist called out.

  “Noooo,” shrieked the wench as she was led to the seat of the ducking stool, which she gamely climbed on before adjusting her skirts and crossing her bare feet.

  “Do you repent?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is what happens to an unrepentant shrew.” With the assistance of two other costumed helpers, he pushed the long pole holding the ducking stool seat out over the water. “Last chance to repent.”

  “You’re all a bunch of corrupt, incompetent fools, you and your judges,” the wench replied.

  With that the men released their hold on the pole and the wench was dropped into the water. She came up sputtering and shaking a fist at her punishers to a loud round of applause and laughter.

  The scene was going to be repeated five more times, providing ample opportunity to pull myself away from the appreciative crowd and find a nice, almost-empty narrow street paved in bricks to explore.

  Eager to recapture the serenity I’d felt on the deck of the White Horse Pub, I wandered around St. George’s window shopping and kept my souvenir purchases small enough to fit in my shoulder bag. I came upon a bookstore down a short flight of steps and browsed their selections, keeping my sunglasses on even though the lighting inside wasn’t at all glaring. While I doubted the tourists around me had read the local newspaper, it was certainly possible that the staff of the bookstore had, and I was anxious not to be pulled into a discussion of Alicia’s murder.

  Strangely, even though I had assumed that anything about a serial killer would discourage tourism, there was a pile of books on the front table about Jack the Ripper, including the one Alicia had been reading. I picked up a copy, as well as a guide to Bermuda, and approached the lady at the cash register. I paid for the guide and then, holding up the book on Jack the Ripper, asked, “Do you sell a lot of these?”

  She looked at me over the top of her reading glasses and nodded. “Mostly to locals these day, but some of the tourists are interested.”

  “Do you happen to remember a young woman buying this book?”

  “Do you mean Alicia Betterton, Mrs. Fletcher?” She pulled out a copy of the morning paper from under her counter.

  “I guess I’m caught,” I said, taking off my sunglasses.

  “This is a small island, and there’s not a lot that goes on that I don’t hear about. Plus Alicia was a regular customer in our crime section, although I don’t think she ever bought one of your books.”

  “Probably not gory enough for her,” I said. “She told me she liked true crime, and my mysteries tend to focus on character rather than blood.”

  “We sell many of yours to other people.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you happen to remember when Alicia bought this book?”

  “It was last week, right after the news came out about the latest murder in Hamilton.”

  “Do you remember if she bought anything else?”

  She shook her head. “She was in a hurry. I think she came in specifically for that book. I remember she told me someone was waiting to take her back home.”

  “Do you know who that was?”

  “No. He was outside in the car, but the windows were dark. I couldn’t see through them.”

  “And when she came in other days, did you ever see her with anyone else?”

  “Her brother once or twice.”

  “Stephen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she ever with someone younger, perhaps closer to her age?”

  “Not that I remember. Excuse me.” She turned to a lady who had brought a book to the register.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, returning the book to its place on the display table and putting on my sunglasses.

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, would you mind waiting a moment?”

  “Certainly.”

  She finished her business with the customer and came out from behind the register. “We just got in some copies of your latest hardcover. Would you mind signing them?”

  I hesitated for a moment, thinking of Adam’s remark that morning, but decided it would be worse to be rude to this bookseller, particularly if I wanted her to answer any questions I might have in the future. “I’d be happy to,” I said.

  Chapter Eight

  The skies had clouded over while I’d been in the bookshop, and it looked as if a storm might come through. I debated removing my sunglasses, but since so many of the tourists on the street still wore theirs, I decided that keeping mine on wouldn’t draw attention. While they hadn’t served as much of a disguise—the lady in the bookstore easily saw through them—they still made me feel as if I were traveling incognito like one of the spies in a James Bond movie, or an actress hiding from the paparazzi.

  Those of us who write for a living are rarely bothered by people on the streets stopping to ask for a picture or an autograph. With some exceptions—I’m thinking of someone like Jackie Collins or Maya Angelou—we don’t fit easily into the celebrity mold. I often wonder how the truly famous cope with all the camera flashes popping in front of them or being trailed by fans or reporters waiting to catch them in an unflattering light. Some I suppose grow accustomed to it, while others hate the invasion of their privacy and fight back with lawsuits or assaults, often making the front page, which was exactly what they were trying to avoid. I’m pretty sure I would not want to be hounded by strangers were I ever in their position. But thankfully that wasn’t something I needed to worry about. My encounters with the
reading public were usually well organized in book panels and signing events, and the people I meet on those occasions are almost unanimously polite and kind, leading me to believe that book readers are a rare and wonderful breed. Of course, when your photo appears in a newspaper or on the Internet in connection with a salacious crime, all bets are off. It was recognition for that dubious privilege that I was trying to avoid.

  I had just passed the broad steps of St. Peter’s Church, the oldest Anglican church in the Western Hemisphere, when I felt the first drop of rain hit my head. I sprinted down York Street and ducked under the awning of an art gallery in a pink building just as another woman reached the same spot and bumped into me.

  “Omigoodness. So clumsy of me. Oh, it’s Jessica then, isn’t it?”

  “Hello, Daisy,” I said to the wife of Tom’s publisher, Godfrey Reynolds. They occupied the cottage down the beach from mine.

  “Are you all right? I haven’t harmed you, have I?”

  “Not at all,” I said, brushing drops of rain off my shoulder. “How are you? I haven’t seen you and Godfrey since the party, which is remarkable since we’re practically next-door neighbors.”

  “Oh, I know. We left you alone to deal with all that mess. Godfrey said it was best to keep away, stay out of it as much as we could. We’re actually planning to move to a hotel. Godfrey is over there now trying to make arrangements. I can’t stand the idea of going down to the beach when, well, you know what happened there.”

  “Have you told Tom you’re leaving?” I asked, wondering how he would respond to this rebuff of his hospitality.

  “Not yet. Godfrey wanted to be certain we could secure a room before he gave him the news. There’s some sort of conference taking place here, and the hotels appear to be full, even the second class ones.”