Calypso (The Harry Starke Novels Book 8) Page 5

“Gabrielle told me he had a charter and wouldn’t be back until late tonight. I can’t confirm that, but I didn’t see him at all.”

  “Charter?”

  “Yes. He owns a boat. That’s how he makes his living.”

  “And he keeps it… where?”

  “At the wharf, of course. Close to the resort. That’s where he gets most of his clients.”

  I nodded, scribbled a quick note into the iPad, and then continued. “Gabrielle was supposed to have lunch with you, but she didn’t. Do you know if she ate breakfast?”

  “Yes, she did. It was taken to her rooms.”

  “And at what time was that, and what did it consist of?”

  “It was at eight thirty, as always. Scrambled eggs, orange juice, and coffee.”

  “I don’t suppose you know if she ate it all?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I happened to be in the kitchen when the maid brought her tray down. She ate the eggs and drank the coffee. The juice, no.”

  I nodded, made more notes. “The suite of rooms next to Gabrielle’s, who occupies it?”

  “Alicia and Jeffery. That is, my wife’s daughter and her husband.”

  Hmmm. I wonder where they were when Gabby took to the skies.

  “Well then.” I closed my iPad. “I think I have what I need for now. If you would, please make sure everyone is here in the morning. Will the people who were absent today be here?”

  “They should be. Tomorrow is Sunday.”

  I left him sitting behind his desk and went to join the others, who were already in the car waiting. I relayed the breakfast information to Daisy Patel and asked her to make sure the ME got it before he began the autopsy. Five minutes later, Quinn dropped Kate and me off at the resort.

  -----

  It was after eleven that evening when I joined Amanda and my father by the pool. Kate didn’t join us. Said something about sleep. Me? I was too wired for bed. I poured myself a huge glass of Laphroaig over an ice cube and flopped down on a lounger beside my wife. Ha. My wife. I took a long drink of the scotch and savored the fire as it sank down through me.

  Amanda reached out, took my hand, squeezed it, and said, “So how was it?”

  “I’m… not sure. I haven’t talked to anyone yet. Well, Leo, but that’s all. The only thing I know for sure is that somebody inside that house, probably in that family, hit the girl over the head and threw her off the balcony.”

  Amanda got up and seated herself on the edge of my lounger, then leaned in and kissed me gently. She tasted of sweet white wine, and I was suddenly overcome by a feeling like none I’d ever experienced before, something akin to fear, but the exact opposite. It was like the bottom had dropped out of my stomach. Weird, but nice, and I liked it.

  My father rose from his chair. “I’ll leave you two newlyweds alone then.”

  “You don’t need to go,” I began, but Amanda gave me a sly dig with her elbow. August caught it, and smiled.

  “Yes, I think maybe I do. I’ll see you kids in the morning. Have a good night.”

  We stayed there by the pool for maybe another hour, talking, whispering together, about what I really don’t remember. What I do remember is that I had never been, and probably never will be again, happier than I was that night. My life was complete, and Gabrielle Martan was absolutely not a part of it.

  Chapter 5

  Sunday November 13. Early Morning

  “Good morning Mrs. Starke,” I said, placing a cup of coffee on the nightstand beside her.

  She blinked once, then opened her eyes wide and sat bolt upright in bed. “Oh my God. That’s me,” she said, as the covers fell away to reveal… nope, I’m not going there.

  She laughed and grabbed the coffee with both hands, staring at me over the rim of the cup as I sat down beside her.

  “What time is it?” she asked, squinting in the early morning light.

  “Just after seven. Do you want breakfast? I can order it in.”

  “Ooh yes please. Pancakes, I want pancakes, and syrup. Lots of syrup, and an omelet.” I smiled, shook my head in amazement. She never was one to count calories, and she never suffered for it either.

  I still remember a time when, lovely as she is, I couldn’t stand the sight of her. She is… no, she was an anchor at Channel 7 TV, and she did a number on me, on air. I swore I’d never forgive her for it, but here we are. Funny how times and situations change.

  “Hey,” she said, breaking into my thoughts. “You still with me, or what?”

  I took the cup from her and kissed the tip of her nose. “You betcha. So, pancakes, syrup, and an omelet, right?”

  She nodded, slipped her hands around my neck, and pulled. “Yes, but first….”

  She never did get her pancakes, or the omelet. By the time she was done with me it was almost eight o’clock and I had to get moving. I left her lying in bed and headed for the shower. She was still there when I came out.

  “I’ll see you later,” I said as I kissed her goodbye. “Take care of Dad and Rose. I’ll try to get back in time for dinner, okay?”

  She sighed, nodded, and then rolled over onto her belly: damn, I almost didn’t make it out the door.

  Kate and Quinn were already waiting for me when I walked out into the sunshine. They were sitting together with Bob, Jacque, and Tim in the clubhouse, drinking coffee.

  “You coming with us, Bob?” I asked.

  “Sure, if I can help. Kate’s already filled me in. Hell, we were up half the night talking about it. What do you need me to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. If Martan was able to get everyone together, Kate and I will conduct the interviews. I’ll need you to work with Tommy Quinn. Fingerprints and the like.”

  He nodded. “What are you thinking, Harry?”

  “If you’re asking if I have any ideas about who might have killed her, other than that it has to be someone in that house, I don’t.” I looked around, caught the eye of one of the servers, and waved her over.

  “I need coffee please, fresh and strong.” I waited while she fetched it, asked her to leave the pot, and then continued.

  “Tim. I’ve got a list of people I need you to run checks on. What do you think?” I asked, handing him the four sheets of paper. He flipped through them, nodding, humming to himself, constantly adjusting his glasses with his finger.

  “Easy enough. Will an hour be okay?”

  I looked at him, surprised. I shouldn’t have been, but I always was. “That’s fine. I’ll need four hard copies, if you can.”

  “Hard copies,” he snorted. “I’ll send them to everyone’s iPads. How much time do you have?”

  “We need to be at the house by ten, earlier if possible. And yes, the iPad is good, but I’ll also need at least one hard copy. Can you do that?”

  He looked at his watch. “Of course. I’ll have ’em to you by nine.” And then he got up from the table and left, wandering away, never once taking his eyes from the paper. I marveled at how he managed to avoid every obstacle in his way, even the pool, seemingly without looking.

  “Okay,” I said, dragging myself back into the moment. “Here’s what needs to be done. Take notes. There’s a list of about a dozen people that need to be fingerprinted and interviewed. As I said, Bob, you and Tommy will do the printing. Kate and I will conduct the interviews. I also need to talk to the ME.” I looked at my watch: almost eight thirty. “He should have started the post by now. I’ll give him another hour and then call him. I’ll do that on speakerphone so you all will be in the loop. In the meantime, let’s get comfortable and go over what we have.”

  I looked at the coffee pot. It was already empty. I waved a hand and attracted the attention of our server again.

  “Would you get us a refill, please? And I need something to eat. Anyone else?” No one did, so I ordered some banana fritters and French toast for myself. “Oh, and one more thing. Can you take some pancakes and a plain omelet to Mrs. Starke in the cottage?” Kate and Bob tried to hide their smiles, an
d I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. Okay, so calling her that is going to take some getting used to.

  The food came and I gobbled it down like a dog. When I was done, I pushed away my plate, poured myself some more coffee, and opened my iPad.

  “Okay, Jacque,” I said. “If you would take notes, we have about thirty minutes before I should call the ME. So let’s begin with a list of suspects, and, Jacque, if you would send them to everyone’s device when we’re done, that would help a lot.”

  “No problem.” She flipped open the cover on her iPad and sat looking at me expectantly, stylus in hand.

  I flipped through the pages Martan had given to me, and then through the screens on my iPad until I found the file with the notes I’d made at the scene.

  “Alright.”

  Gabrielle Martan was murdered sometime after eleven yesterday morning and before three in the afternoon.

  The body was found by Albert Jackson, the gardener at the mansion. At what time, we don’t yet know.

  The killer has to be either someone in the family, or close to it, or on the staff. They include:

  Her father, Leopold Martan

  Her stepmother, Vivien Martan

  Her brother, Leo Jr., and his wife, Lucy

  Her brother, Evander “Evan,” not married, but has a girlfriend, Georgina

  Her brother Caspian, single

  Her stepbrother, Michael Collins, and his wife Laura

  Her stepsister, Alicia Margolis, and her husband Jeffery

  Last but not least, her fiancé, Sebastian Carriere, charter boat owner and captain

  There’s also the butler, Victor Moore, and the gardener, Jackson

  I read it all aloud, then looked up. “I make that a solid dozen suspects, fourteen including the butler—”

  “Hah,” Kate interrupted. “This is an easy one: the butler did it.”

  “But you don’t mean you suspect Martan and his wife?” Quinn asked, obviously taken aback.

  “Come on, Tommy. You know better than to ask questions like that,” I said. “Everyone’s a suspect until we can eliminate them.”

  “But Martan insisted you be brought in. If he hadn’t, we would have said the death was a suicide.”

  “Look, I don’t think it was him, or his wife, but they stay on the list until we’re sure.”

  “Well, okay then.” He shook his head, obviously unhappy about it.

  “Tommy,” I said after a pause, “give. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking we can’t afford to upset the man.” He saw the look I was giving him. “I know, I know, but he carries more weight in these islands than a freight train does in Philly.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t give a rat’s ass about who he is. It was his choice to involve me, so he can live with it. Now, on to better things.

  “Someone, it would seem, was having an affair with the victim. CSI found a condom wrapper under the bed. Could have been the fiancé’s, but why? She was using the patch… well, we found a package of them in the bathroom. We won’t know for sure until I talk to the ME, but if so, why the condom? If she was having an affair, who was the lucky guy? We need to find out.

  “We need to establish a timeline, as near as we can, from when she ate breakfast at eight thirty until the time of her death…. Hey, Tim. What do you need?”

  He was back.

  “Not a thing,” he said, “but if you’ll check your e-mail you’ll find a file with the information you asked for. It’s pretty big, but it’s all there—well, almost all of it. There were a couple of things I have to wait for, but—”

  “Okay, okay, Tim. I get it. Great work, and quick.”

  “Not really. I had the socials and birthdates, so that made running the searches very easy. It was just a matter of downloading it all, sorting it, and… what? Seriously, what?”

  I was laughing at him. Once he got started there was no stopping him.

  “Nothing, Tim. Thanks, but now go find Sammie and enjoy the day. Keep your phone handy, though. I may need you. Oh, but before you go—was there anything or anyone who stuck out?”

  “Was there ever. Leo Jr. is under investigation by the FBI for investment fraud. Both brothers are broke. So is the boyfriend, Carrier—he couldn’t borrow a quarter for a phone call. The butler is an anomaly. He’s clean, but has no credit history, which is strange, seeing as he spent seven years in the Navy, as a Seal, no less. It’s all there.”

  “Thanks, Tim. And by the way, it’s Carriere, not Carrier. Now go enjoy yourself. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  He grinned, nodded, and left, whistling.

  “Okay. It’s about time I called the ME. You guys ready?” They were, and I dialed Wilson’s number. Surprise, surprise, he answered himself.

  I told him he would be on speaker, and after I made the introductions, I suggested he start the ball rolling.

  “I know you’re in a hurry for some sort of result,” he began. My heart took a nosedive, but it was okay. He was just doing a little CYA.

  “I haven’t yet completed my examination, but I probably have everything you need, at least in the short term.”

  I heaved a silent sigh of relief.

  “The girl died as a result of massive trauma to the back of the skull—from the fall. The blunt-force trauma to her forehead was caused just prior to her death, not by the fall: there are no particulates in or around the wound—no stone or rock dust. That blow probably rendered her unconscious, but was not in itself life-threatening. I believe she was probably sitting when she received it. Whoever did it was standing over her. There is low-impact blood spatter, several spots, on the hem of her housecoat, or whatever that flimsy thing she was wearing is called, in her lap, as it were. I’d say most of it, in fact.”

  “PMI?” I asked.

  “Due to the heat of the rocks, on which she must have lain for at least an hour, and the heat of the sun, it was difficult to determine. When she arrived here last night it was almost six o’clock. Lividity was fully developed, but not set. As you probably know, digestion stops when the body dies, but the contents of her stomach had already moved into the upper small intestine, which indicates a time of death roughly three to four hours after her last meal. Do you know what time that was, Mr. Starke?”

  “Uh-huh. She had scrambled eggs and coffee at eight thirty yesterday morning.”

  “Hmmm, so, knowing that, and taking into account the state of lividity, I’ll hazard a guess that she died some four to six hours after eating breakfast, say between noon and two. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

  “That’s fine, Doctor. It gives us a place to start. Now, what about sexual activity?”

  “There was no semen, if that’s what you’re asking, but sexual intercourse did take place sometime in the twelve hours prior to her death.”

  “I know you haven’t had time for a blood analysis,” I said, “but I believe she was on some sort of birth control. Did you find…?”

  “Yes. There was an Ortho Evra contraceptive patch on her right buttock. You wouldn’t have seen it, not without moving the body. It would have been hidden by her underwear.”

  “So there would have been no need for a condom?”

  “Well, yes and no. It would depend how well she knew her sexual partner. If she knew him well, no; if it was a one-night stand, she probably would have insisted on one being used to protect herself from STDs.

  “I found nothing under her fingernails, and there were no signs of defensive wounds. The blow to her forehead must have taken her by surprise. I still have to finish up, but I doubt there’ll be anything more; not soon, anyway. Tox screens will take at least a week. DNA, maybe a month. If I find anything else I think is untoward, I’ll call you. So, unless you have any more questions, Mr. Starke. I need to wrap this up. I have two more waiting, both diving accidents.”

  “No, Doctor, I think I’m good for now. If I do think of anything else I’ll get back to you, though. Thank you for doing this so quickly.”
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  I disconnected the call and sat back in my chair, put my feet up on the table, and put my head back.

  “That condom wrapper bothers me,” I told the ceiling fan. “She wouldn’t have allowed her fiancé to use one, right? Like washing your feet with your socks on.” I looked at Kate. She shook her head.

  “And Daisy Patel didn’t find the condom itself, so it was either flushed, or the partner took it with him, which is what I would have done if…. Well I wouldn’t—kill anyone, I mean—not like that. So if it was someone she knew, and it had to be, why the condom? Hell, maybe he didn’t know she was on the patch. But… if she knew him well enough to have intercourse with him, she’d tell him, right?” Again I looked at Kate, then at Jacque.

  “Not necessarily,” Jacque said. “Things are not as they used to be. She could have been screwin’ d’butler.”

  “Yeah, right. Now that’s real funny,” I said, but then…. I thought about the Christopher Walken lookalike and said, “Hell, I dunno. It takes all sorts, I guess.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 9:45.

  “We’d better get on up there, I suppose,” I said, and sucked down the last of my cold coffee and ate the last of my French toast, also cold.

  “Jacque. If you could get those notes to us as soon as you can….”

  She nodded. “Give me fifteen minutes to sort and edit it.”

  I took a minute to go to the cottage and tell Amanda goodbye, and we all climbed into Quinn’s borrowed SUV—apparently there were no cruisers on Calypso Key.

  Chapter 6

  Sunday November 13, 10am

  It was a few minutes after ten when we parked outside the front entrance to the Martan home. The butler, Moore, met us at the front door and ushered us into what he described as the drawing room.

  Drawing room? Do people do that anymore? Draw, I mean. Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s the withdrawing room. I’m being facetious. Come on, Harry; stop screwing around. Get your mind back on track. Think suspects.

  Not so easy. I looked at Moore, and the more I did, the more inclined I was to agree with Kate; maybe the butler did do it. Joking, joking. Sort of.