Calypso (The Harry Starke Novels Book 8) Page 14

  “Actually, I did…. Well, I would have, but look, I have a couple of questions. First: Is there any word on the blood spot you found on the carpet in Gabrielle’s room?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. And I suspect it will take at least a couple more weeks to get the results of the DNA analysis. We won’t know for sure if it’s the victim’s or someone else’s until then. Sorry.”

  That wasn’t good news. I needed to know if the blood belonged to the killer. If so, it would be just a matter of running DNA comparisons. Hell, I’d better have Tommy get samples anyway.

  “Okay. I’ll have to live with that. In the meantime, I want Gabrielle Martan’s rooms gone over again, and I’d like it done as quickly as possible. My time here on the island is limited. Killers, as we both know, always either leave something behind or take something away; I’m thinking the blood, but there may be something else we’re missing. For instance, what the hell did the killer hit her with? If it wasn’t premeditated, it would have been something he or she found handy in that room, and then took away with them. Can you come back and do that for me, please?”

  “Well I can, of course, but I was going to call you anyway. Listen. You know we vacuumed the carpets in her rooms? They were very clean, probably because the maid does them every day, but we did find a lot of debris deep down in the pile. Most of it was just the usual stuff produced by everyday living, but there were also three chips of white glass, old glass, milk glass. Two of them are tiny, almost microscopic, and one slightly larger….”

  “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about. That’s it. I knew it. I knew there had to be something. Stay with your daughter, Ms. Patel. If there’s anything else, I’ll call you.” In my excitement, I hung up without saying goodbye. Damn! So maybe the blood does belong to the killer. If whatever it was broke in his hand….

  I called her back, apologized, and disconnected again, feeling more than a little stupid. And then I called Tommy and asked him to take mouth swabs from everyone connected to the house. Kate’s phone went straight to voicemail; she must have been out somewhere with Bob, because I couldn’t get hold of him either. I did get a hold of Michael Collins at the resort office and arrange to use one the courtesy vehicles. Finally, I called Leo Martan Sr., told him I would be there within the hour, and asked him to meet me.

  He wasn’t happy, but he said he would.

  Chapter 24

  Friday November 18, 1pm

  “Mr. Martan,” I said as I climbed the steps to the front entrance. “I need to take another look at Gabrielle’s rooms, and I need you to go with me. You know them, their layout, and you knew your daughter better than anyone else, or at least I assume you did.” I paused, waited for him to answer. He didn’t. He simply nodded, and then turned and led the way into the house.

  “I need you to check and see if anything’s missing,” I said, as we stood before the open door; the tape was still in place. “In particular, I’d like you to check the milk glass. There’s a lot of it.”

  “I’m not the person to do that,” he said. “My wife, though. She visited Gabrielle now and then. Not so much these last few weeks. They’ve been at odds just lately. Let me call her.”

  He fished his iPhone from his pants pocket and made the call. We didn’t have to wait long. Vivien was in the suite next door with Alicia.

  “Mrs. Martan,” I said when she joined us, “please put these on.” I handed her a pair of Tyvek over-booties. “I’d like you to check the milk glass. I think there may be a piece missing.”

  She slipped the over-booties on, and so did I, and together we stepped into the living room; Leo stayed outside in the hall.

  She glanced around the room, went into the bedroom, spent less than thirty seconds there, and then returned, shaking her head.

  “There’s nothing missing,” she said, but I knew by the tone of her voice that there was.

  What the hell?

  “Yes there is,” Martan said suddenly from the hallway. “One of the glass bottles is missing. I can see it from here. The biggest one from the coffee table. I know because I remember you buying it when we were in Charleston. You gave it to her for her collection.”

  “Oh that. That was years ago,” she said sharply. “It must be here somewhere. It’s not in the bedroom. Maybe she put it away with the other extra pieces.”

  “Can you describe it to me?” I asked.

  “I can do better than that.” She flipped the lock screen on her iPhone, flipping through several screens until she found the one she was looking for.

  “I think you mean this one, the tall, square one,” she said to Leo, showing him the phone.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  She handed me the phone.

  The photo showed the coffee table with a group of six white bottles of varying sizes. I looked from the photo to the table; there were only five there now. Sure enough, one was missing. Judging by the size of those remaining, I estimated it to be perhaps ten inches tall including the neck, which was about three inches long. The body of the bottle was a rectangle, maybe seven inches by two by three. In the photo it was indeed the tallest of the group, if not the largest, and the neck protruded above the rest—easy to grab in the heat of the moment.

  “When did you take this?” I asked, watching her face. “When was the last time you saw it, do you remember?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “The photo? Oh a couple of months ago, I suppose, maybe more. I haven’t seen the bottle since. She probably moved it. Maybe she swapped it out with one of her other pieces.”

  What was that look?

  “You’re sure it was that long ago?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please think again, Mrs. Martan. It could be important.”

  “I don’t need to. I’m sure.”

  “How?”

  She looked away and then shook her head, exasperated. “Because, as Leo said, I gave it to her. I was always on the lookout for new pieces for her. I bought that one more than a year ago, and it wasn’t in Charleston. It was in Atlanta. She must have moved it. That’s all. She was always arranging and rearranging her milk glass, bringing in new pieces, taking pieces out, trying for a different look. It was an obsession with her. There are boxes and boxes of the stuff in the basement. She brings—I mean she brought—pieces up; she took pieces down.”

  I didn’t believe her for a second. She couldn’t even look me in the eye. I held out my hand. “Can I see your phone for a minute?”

  “You most certainly may not. I have all sorts of private things on it.”

  “Oh, I just want to take a look at the photograph, that’s all.”

  “I’ll hold it,” she said, stepping closer to me.

  She held the iPhone up for me to see. I squinted, leaned closer, playacting. I could see perfectly well. I reached out with my right hand and took hold of her wrist, drew it toward my face, and then winced as pain shot up my arm as I tapped the back arrow with the forefinger of my left hand. She tried to snatch her hand away, but I held on. The screen changed to reveal half a dozen thumbnails, one of which was the photo of the coffee table.

  “Oh look,” I said. “You took several photos of her rooms that day. Why was that?”

  “She was rearranging things. She wanted my opinion on how things looked. I took photos for her.”

  “Hmmm.” I looked her right in the eye. “And would you just look at the date,” I said thoughtfully. “November 10. That was only ten days ago. Why did you lie to me, Mrs. Martan?”

  “I did not lie to you,” she said hotly. “I merely got confused over the date. I have a very busy life. If I don’t write things down, I forget them.”

  “You didn’t forget taking the photographs,” I said gently.

  Her face was white. She looked at Leo for help. She got none.

  “I was confused about the date. That’s all. Anyway. What difference does it make? So it was there on the table less than two weeks ago. So what? She moved it. It’s probably down in the basem
ent with rest of the collection.”

  “Would you mind if I took a look?” I asked her.

  “No… not at all.”

  She’s not too gung-ho about the idea. What is she hiding?

  “I’ll have Moore take you down there,” Leo said.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said quickly.

  The basement was a warren of unfinished rooms, most of them still separated by unfinished, open-stud walls, but that didn’t mean it was empty; far from it. Furniture was piled everywhere. Long rolls of carpets, gym equipment, pool equipment, skis, canoes, and stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes.

  “Miss Gabrielle’s things are over here,” Moore said, leading the way. And they were indeed. Dozens of cardboard boxes, some full of clothes, some of shoes, or schoolbooks, or glassware, all piled one atop another. The milk-glass collection consisted of five huge boxes full of the stuff, each piece carefully wrapped in white tissue paper.

  “I need to get some help,” I said. “I need to make a call.”

  “I’ll help,” Moore said quietly. “We’re looking for a bottle, right? Can I see the photo please, so I know what we’re looking for?”

  Vivien showed him the photo and then the three of us got work. Yep, she helped too.

  It took a while, but between us we unwrapped every piece of milk glass in all five boxes. There were literally hundreds of pieces. The one we were looking for? You guessed it. It wasn’t there.

  I sighed, looked at the hundreds of pieces of glassware spread out over every flat surface, including the floor. I didn’t envy the person who had rewrap it all, but it sure wasn’t going to be me.

  “I need you to send that photo to my iPhone,” I told Vivien. “Please do it now.”

  I waited until I had the image safely on my phone, and then I left them to it, returned to the foyer, and called Leo Martan. He was in his office.

  Before I joined him, however, I made a call to the USVI Police Headquarters and spoke for several minutes to Chief Walker. I explained what was going on, and my theory, and then I made a request to which he readily acquiesced. And then I joined Martan.

  “We didn’t find that bottle, or what’s left of it.” I told him. “I’m certain it was the weapon used to hit your daughter in the head. I’m also certain that it broke under the impact. The CSI team found shards of broken milk glass in the carpet, which is why I’m here. I need you to keep that information to yourself. Don’t mention it to anyone, including your wife. Is that clear, sir?”

  “Of course. What do you intend to do now?”

  “I’ve arranged for a dozen officers to be flown in here from Charlotte Amalie—the first group will be arriving by helicopter very soon. When they get here, I’ll have them search every inch of this house. I need to find that bottle. It could have fingerprints on it.”

  He nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I need for you to tell everyone here that they must cooperate with the officers, and stay in their rooms until the search is complete. I do not want anyone….” And then I had a thought. “No, actually, just tell them to cooperate.” With a bit of luck, we’ll flush someone out. If there are fingerprints on the bottle, the perp will know it, and go after it. Well, maybe. It’s worth a shot. The only trouble is keeping watch on them all. Well, not all. Just….

  “I need to ask you a question, Mr. Martan. Why did your wife lie about when the photo of the bottle was taken?”

  “Did she lie? I don’t think she did. She’s forgetful, gets confused. I don’t think she lied.”

  “Let me tell you what I think,” I said. “I think she lied because she was covering for her daughter, Alicia. I think she thinks that Alicia killed Gabrielle, probably in revenge for the affair with her husband. Or maybe she thought that your daughter was about to take him away from her altogether. That would be a severe blow, to Alicia’s lifestyle, her finances, and her ego—lots of motive, opportunity for sure, and the means: the bottle.” I watched him carefully as I continued. “Either that, or your wife killed her.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. What possible motive—”

  “For the same reason. To protect her daughter from the humiliation and inevitable losses a divorce would bring. It’s a strong motive: a mother protecting her child. She also had means and opportunity. Either way, she was lying. I knew it, and so—did—you!”

  He looked at me, uncomfortably, and then he looked away.

  “My God…. You think so too!”

  He looked at me. His face was a mask. He didn’t answer.

  “You do, don’t you?” I asked. “Which one? Your wife, or her daughter?”

  Again, there was no answer. He simply put his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers against his lips, and stared at me. I waited for him to say something.

  Finally, he leaned back in his chair, let his hands fall to his lap, and said, “I don’t know. Vivien’s been on edge lately. It was common knowledge… about Gabrielle and Jeffery. Everyone knew. Yes, I know what I said, but I knew too. There was talk about him leaving Alicia for Gabrielle, but that’s all it was: talk. I knew it wouldn’t happen; I knew Gab too well. When she was killed, my first thought was Leo, then Alicia, but as the days passed, I began to suspect Vivien as well, that they might have done it together. Look. It’s only suspicion. I have no real grounds for it. It’s just that I know them all so well, which is why I insisted on having you carry out the investigation. Now you’re thinking what I’m thinking…. It’s—it’s unbearable.”

  Faintly, but growing louder, I began to hear the deep whump-whump-whump of an approaching helicopter. The lead elements of the search team were here. I left Leo to pass on the word to the family that they were to cooperate, and I went out to meet the helicopter. Tommy Quinn was the first to step off the aircraft.

  I filled him in, had him deploy three of his four officers, gave them their instructions, and then I had him and the fourth member of his team stand by with me. Between us, we would watch for any errant family or staff member who might decide to go after the bottle. It was a bit of a Hail Mary, but it was all I had, because not for a single moment did I think we would find the bottle. And I was right. We didn’t. Nor did we catch anyone going after it. Whoever had done it must have been pretty damn confident that either we wouldn’t find it or, if we did, that it wouldn’t matter.

  The chopper had arrived just after two thirty. It went back for a second load and returned forty-five minutes later. We now had ten officers on the ground, searching the house. And search it they did. Big as it was, from my own observations, I think they missed nothing, nor did any member of the family or staff, either by expression or action, give any hint of the location of that damned bottle.

  By ten o’clock that evening, they were all on their way back St. Thomas. Me? I was so pissed off I could barely contain myself. Not only that; my arm was giving me hell. I was hurting, and in more ways than one.

  When I arrived back at the resort, it was almost eleven o’clock. I was tired, irritable, hungry, and in need of a kind word and a stiff drink. Fortunately, Amanda had shrimp-salad sandwiches made, a half tumbler of Laphroaig with a single cube of ice, a soothing hand for my weary brow, a great many kind words, and the bed already turned down. And suddenly, I felt a whole lot better.

  Chapter 25

  Saturday November 19, 10am

  The following morning, I was up early. Hell, I’d been up most of the night. Despite two large measures of my favorite Scottish drink, I couldn’t sleep. My arm was hurting and I couldn’t get what Leo Martan Sr. had said out of my mind. I needed to run it by the crew.

  Over breakfast, I did just that. I related what Leo Sr. and I had talked about the previous evening, and I asked for opinions.

  “So let me get this straight,” Kate said, frowning. “You think that Vivien thinks that Alicia killed Gabrielle and removed the bottle. You also think that Alicia thinks her mother did it and that she, Alicia, removed the bottle. And to complicate th
ings even more, old man Martan thinks they were both involved, that one or the other did it, or that they did it together. Is that correct?”

  “Pretty much. It kinda makes sense, don’t you think?”

  “It does,” Kate said, “but I’ll muddy the waters a little more: yes, it’s a good little basket of theories, but I think Jeffery might be involved too. Suppose she did dump him. We know from Leo Jr.’s statement that Gabrielle argued with one of them that morning. Jeffery says it was him but it could have been… eh, whatever. He could have gone to see her that morning. Maybe they argued some more; maybe he lost it, grabbed the bottle, hit her with it, panicked, called his wife… oh hell, I don’t know.”

  I grinned at her. “Now you see why I didn’t sleep last night. Whatever. I’m thinking it was either Vivien or Alicia.”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “Man, I don’t know. It’s a hell of a stretch, but… maybe.”

  But I was wrong, and was soon proved to be so.

  It was just after ten o’clock that morning. We’d finished breakfast and were all on the patio enjoying the early morning sunshine, which was tempered by a light ocean breeze.

  I still had the case at the forefront of my mind—it’s who I am—but other than mull things over and hope for the lights to turn themselves on, there was little, other than that damned bottle, that was new information. Tommy Quinn was, I thought, back in Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas, and all was peaceful—until my phone vibrated on the glass top of the table.

  “Harry?” It was Quinn. “I need you back up at the Mount, soon as you can. Alicia Margolis is dead. It looks like suicide. Dr. Wilson, the ME, is on his way over from St. Thomas and should have arrived by the time you get here.”

  For a moment I didn’t say anything. I was stunned, flabbergasted, dumbfounded, buffaloed, gobsmacked; all of those and more. All of my theories had just gone out the window. Maybe literally. My mind was a total blank, but I told him I could and would be there, then I disconnected and slammed my phone down on the table. What I wanted to do was throw the damned thing in the pool.