The Corpse with the Crystal Skull Read online

  I turned and looked into the piercing blue eyes of the man I so enjoy calling Husband. Despite the fact we’d slathered ourselves with SPF 50 for the better part of a month we’d both developed quite a tan – his deeper than mine. That, combined with his sun-bleached silvery hair – which had grown quite a bit longer than usual in the past few weeks – and his increasingly silvered eyebrows, made him look even more heart-meltingly handsome than usual, in my book. He was making what I knew he believed to be his “appealing little boy” face, which doesn’t wash with me, except when I want it to.

  I kissed him gently. “Bud, it’s all wrong. Can you honestly say, with your hand on your heart – not to mention using the experience from all your years in law enforcement and detection – that the man with whom we sat dining then drinking until just before midnight last night, who hugged us all goodnight, then left our jolly soirée with a big smile on his face…that that man decided to do himself in just a few hours later? The psychology of it isn’t right. He wasn’t a man on the edge of a cliff of despair – he was thoroughly enjoying himself, dancing, chatting, and telling tall tales, as usual. Yet you want me to believe that maybe five or six hours later he shot himself to death? No. I don’t buy it. This wasn’t a suicide. It couldn’t have been.”

  Bud held me tight and sighed. “Oh Cait, whatever am I going to do with you?”

  The Constabulary Takes Control

  “It couldn’t have been anything but suicide,” said Sergeant Eggbert Swabey with authority. Constable Cassandra Lewis nodded beside him.

  There was an audience of eight in the lounge of the main house for this pronouncement – we six guests, plus Amelia LaBadie and her grandson Tarone Thomas, with whom she shared a little bungalow tucked away in the part of the estate closest to the road.

  I’d come to know Tarone because he was the one who drove us around in the estate’s Suburban to wherever we wanted to go on the island, by arrangement. He was a cheery boy of eighteen who split his time between working on the estate as a sort of general factotum, and training to be what he referred to as “the new Usain”. I knew he was a hard worker on the estate but had no idea about his prowess as an athlete. He certainly looked the part, but that was all the evidence I had to go on.

  Amelia hadn’t stopped crying since she’d started about five hours earlier, and Tarone had been summoned from his training session at the local gym to attend to his grandmother. Thankfully, she seemed to be calmed by his presence. I had no idea at all about why the grandmother and grandson lived together, nor where Tarone’s parents might be. It had never come up, and I’m really not a naturally nosey person. Not under normal circumstances, anyway.

  “Did you find the key to the lookout room?” I asked the sergeant.

  Bud glared at me.

  The policeman’s face broke into a broad smile. “Ah, Mrs. Anderson. I didn’t quite hear you. Could you repeat your question, please?”

  I’d seen the man taking notes earlier on, and he’d been speaking to Jack at the time; I assumed Jack had given him Bud’s name and had referred to me as Bud’s wife.

  “The name’s Cait, C-A-I-T, Morgan,” I replied, “and I asked if you’d found Mr. Burkinshaw’s key to his tower lookout room on his person, or in the room with him.”

  Sergeant Swabey looked confused, but I couldn’t be sure if it was me telling him my name or my asking him about the key that had thrown him. He flicked through his notepad, and whispered something to his subordinate, who shook her head in response.

  Swabey looked at me earnestly; he appeared to be only in his late twenties, but had the bearing of a man who felt he had already made something of himself. “When we gained access to the scene – which took some time, as you all know, due to the fact we had to summon help to open the door in question – we discovered that Mr. Burkinshaw had the only known key to the room in the pocket of his trousers. This is one of the reasons we have no doubt that he took his own life. It is sad, but it is also not a police matter. The coroner will be involved, of course, but I have no doubt she will concur with our conclusions. It was a suicide.”

  Amelia sobbed afresh, and an appropriate murmur of sympathetic noises passed around the room. It was clear that everyone felt uncomfortable; we’d only known Freddie Burkinshaw for a short time, as our host and the owner of the estate we’d rented, whereas I understood from conversations we’d shared through various mealtimes that Amelia had been working for him for several decades, with Tarone having been born on the estate. They were the ones I felt sorry for – they’d both lost someone significant, and would possibly be out of their jobs, and their home, in the not too-distant future. I focused on wondering about inheritance and their tenure in an effort to buoy myself up.

  The truth of it was that I felt utterly deflated; I’d been so certain that Freddie couldn’t have wanted to end his own life that the news he had the only key to the tower room in his pocket had taken me aback. Bud, who was nestled next to me on the spacious sofa, rubbed my back; I’ve seen him do much the same to Marty, our lovely – but slightly overweight – black Lab, when he’s denied him a treat. I wriggled under his kindly hand.

  “Are you certain there were no other keys to the place?” I asked Amelia. “Maybe someone got a copy made?”

  The poor woman didn’t stop sobbing, instead Tarone answered me. He looked surprised. “You seen the key? Man, it huge. I don’t know how Mr. Freddie could even fit it in him pocket. Him usually swing it about on a big chain like him got some kind of weapon. It got to be about six inches long, and real fat, and heavy. No one could copy that thing. It a real antique – as old as him tower.”

  I wondered why a man like Freddie who, in life, had prided himself on his immaculate and dapper appearance, would have wanted to have such a large, weighty object stuffed into his pocket as he ended his life.

  Just one more thing that makes no sense, I thought to myself.

  Having watched our brief back and forth with some bemusement, Sergeant Swabey and Constable Lewis departed, saying they would inform us when we were alone on the estate – which I thought was a delightfully polite way of telling us they’d let us know when the body had been removed.

  Almost immediately after they left, the heavens opened; it turns out that short deluges are not uncommon in Jamaica in May – which might have been one reason why the rates for the rental of the Captain’s Lookout estate had been so reasonable. Stripping off soaked clothing and towelling ourselves dry was something Bud and I had become accustomed to since our arrival; of course, on the days when the rain swept in to spoil our time lounging by the pool there was no issue, because we were undressed and wet already, so it hardly mattered. But on this day? On this day we could have done with no rain, a lot less heat, and the chance to all return to our own hidey-holes, rather than feeling trapped by the weather in a room with two people who really needed to grieve.

  None of us had eaten lunch – there’d been such a lot going on in terms of official vehicles arriving, explanations to be given, details to be checked, and so forth, that the opportunity hadn’t arisen. Now it was past two, and I was feeling more than a little peckish. Why is it that after a hangover has passed, I feel like tucking into vast quantities of stodgy, or greasy foods, and even a drink or two?

  I stood and waggled my hand at Sheila in an attempt to attract her attention. “Just popping to the loo,” I announced to the room – surprisingly, if Bud’s expression was anything to go by. I rolled my eyes at Sheila, hoping she’d follow me. Instead she looked puzzled.

  “You okay, Cait?” she asked, standing.

  I took my chance, grabbed her hand and headed toward the bathroom. Bless her, she scuttled along behind me like a trooper and didn’t even bat an eyelid when I dragged her into the powder room with me and locked the door.

  Her expression told me she wasn’t alarmed. “What’s up?”

  I spoke my piece. “Look, in all honesty, I’m starving. But I don’t think we can rea
lly expect Amelia, or even Tarone, to cater to our needs – given the circumstances. The trouble is, I think if I ask Amelia if we can have access to the kitchen and supplies and so forth, so we can look after ourselves, she might insist on carrying out her duties. She’s that sort of woman – proud, a perfectionist, and with an overwhelming sense of duty. She and Tarone need some time to themselves. They should go home. Will you back me up when I put this to Amelia?”

  Sheila looked relieved. “Oh yes, of course.” She grinned sheepishly and squeezed my hand. “For a minute there I thought you were going to tell me you were convinced Freddie couldn’t have killed himself and that someone got into that tower room and murdered him, somehow – because I know that’s the way your mind works and…well…no…nothing.” She patted my arm. “I’m just glad you wanted to talk about Amelia. And of course, you’re right; we can all look after ourselves just fine.”

  I gave my reply some thought. I like Sheila; I met her because she’s Jack’s wife, and Jack was something of a mentor to Bud when he joined the Vancouver Police Department. She loves dogs, works hard in her kitchen garden, and is a devil to get hold of when it’s jam-making or pickling time. She’s a generous soul, if a little over-fussy, on occasion; whenever we visit the Whites, we seem to leave with a collection of mason jars stuffed with various things they’ve grown on their acreage. Sheila’s a decade older than me, a head taller, and someone I enjoy spending time with. She dresses simply, presenting a no-nonsense, make-up-free face to the world and has decided to allow her neatly bobbed hair to change color naturally. She is who she is. A real Prairies girl. There’s no spite in her. But I have to admit I don’t know the “inner Sheila” very well; Bud makes a good point when he says I don’t get close to people, and while I instinctively like the woman, she’s not really forthcoming.

  With all that in mind I decided that: “So what do you think about Freddie’s death?” was the best thing to say.

  Sheila hesitated before she replied. She hooked her hair behind her ears, straightened her slightly wrinkled, floral cotton top over her flat tummy, then said, “He didn’t seem suicidal at dinner last night, did he?” I shook my head and raised an eyebrow by way of encouragement. “I thought he was in fine form, to be honest,” she added. “That story about the belly dancer staying at Noël Coward’s neighbor’s house back in the 1960s? That’s the second time he’s told that one since we arrived, but it was still hilarious. That bit when he did Coward’s voice? Too funny. For Freddie to shoot himself just hours later? I can’t see it.”

  “Me neither,” I admitted.

  Sheila nibbled the corner of her lip. “The cops seemed pretty sure he did it, though. He even had that key in his pocket,” she whispered.

  I nodded. “Him stuffing such a huge thing into his pocket before he killed himself? Odd. And, if he did kill himself, then why lock himself in that room at all? Every opportunity he had, he told us he believed the tower was a critically important part of Jamaica’s history, so why would he do something that would necessarily mean damaging a part of it? Locking himself in that room, then killing himself, would have meant that someone, somehow, would have to damage the door, or at least that old lock, to get to him.”

  “It’s puzzling, for sure,” said Sheila.

  “It is.”

  We both jumped when there was a knock at the door.

  “You two gals alright in there?” It was Jack.

  “Fine,” shouted Sheila. “We’re just tidying ourselves up.” We looked at each other, both a bit dishevelled and sweating because of the humidity of the day – and the fact we’d been in the tiny washroom for a while – and giggled. “With you in a minute,” she added, and we both fiddled about with our hair as cover, before rejoining the rest of the group in the sitting room.

  I put our plan into action, encouraging Amelia and Tarone to leave us to look after ourselves at least for the next few days, and I was pleased when everyone chorused their support of the idea. Amelia finally relented, promising that she’d let Tarone take her back to their home once she’d shown us where everything was in the kitchen. I dragged Bud along with me to find out how we might be able to pull together a meal for half a dozen peckish people.

  Dining and Dishing

  Half an hour later, the six of us were at the dining table tucking into slices of thick, mixed-veggie frittata, accompanied by a giant bowl of salad from which we served ourselves; it was all Bud and I could manage to pull together in a pinch. Most of the ingredients Amelia had in the store cupboard and fridge were pretty useless as far as I was concerned, because I’m not a dab hand at grilling a lobster or preparing jerk chicken.

  I threw some bread rolls into a basket, filled a jug with juice, plonked everything on the table, and hoped for the best. No one complained, though the conversation was far from sparkling – even the irritatingly bubbly Lottie seemed subdued. Which I suspected might be a good thing.

  “Maybe we could go out to a restaurant for dinner tonight,” suggested Jack.

  I chose to take this comment as not being related in any way to the food Bud and I had just prepared.

  “Good idea,” replied Bud swiftly. “Most of the stuff in that kitchen needs hours of preparation, and a decent knowledge of local ingredients. I’ve been happy to eat everything Amelia has put in front of us while we’ve been here, however novel it’s been to my admittedly limited palate, but the relationship between all the knobbly fruits and vegetables she’s got in the pantry and what’s ended up on our plates is a bit beyond me.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. I’m not a bad cook – anyone who enjoys eating as much as I do ends up being able to produce some pretty decent meals – but I haven’t a clue how to make salt fish edible, nor how to make rice and beans taste the way Amelia did.

  “We’ll sort something,” offered Jack. “When Sheila and I toured the coast towards Negril we spotted a couple of pretty decent-looking places.”

  We all nodded our thanks.

  “It was a good idea to get Amelia to leave us to our own devices,” piped up Lottie. “She was a bit down in the dumps, wasn’t she?”

  I managed a sideways glance at Bud just as I felt the pressure of his hand on my knee; a warning to not say what he doubtless guessed I was thinking – how well he knows me.

  I was pleased that John responded – he was the one who’d invited the woman none of us had ever met before as his plus one, after all. “To be honest, Lottie dear, Amelia’s hardly likely to be dancing a merry jig, is she? She’d just discovered the corpse of someone who meant a great deal to her. She’s likely to be out of a job, and maybe homeless too, in the not too distant future.”

  The room fell silent. Everyone was immediately finding the food on their plate to be incredibly interesting.

  “Good points, John dear,” replied Lottie lightly, and I felt the atmosphere shift a little.

  “So,” said Sheila, “are we staying on here, or do we think we should be looking for hotel rooms, or something?”

  There was a general rumbling about “having just settled in” from John and Lottie who, to be fair, had only arrived a couple of days earlier and who’d barely had the chance to rest their backsides on a lounge chair. Jack and Sheila had at least been able to enjoy a week at the estate – much of it a great deal less rainy than the past couple of days had been.

  “To be honest,” Bud replied, “it hadn’t even occurred to me that we wouldn’t stay here for the remainder of our planned visit. We’ve paid up front, and – other than the fact we’ll have to fend for ourselves – I can’t see any reason why we should leave. The police didn’t seem to think our being here was a problem.”

  “But they believe he killed himself,” said Lottie, surprising us all.

  John looked most taken aback. “Do you think he didn’t?”

  This time we all ignored what was on our plates and stared at Lottie, who leaned back in her chair. “Well, I suppose he might have done, but Amelia said
he wouldn’t have dreamed of it. He was pretty much a Catholic, she said. They tend not to. Kill themselves. Terrible for them in the afterlife if they do, I understand.”

  “And when did you glean this snippet of insight about the late Freddie Burkinshaw’s religious persuasion?” enquired John as he mirrored Lottie’s movement, also sitting back in his seat.

  “When you lot were all off at the tower, of course,” she replied calmly. “Amelia was blubbing, but quite chatty – all things considered. She said Freddie was a man who believed in many things, Catholicism being his choice of the Christian religions, but that he also thought a number of aspects of other religions were good ideas too. She was telling me how she hoped he was now finally able to answer the question he’d always pondered – which version of God was the right one. She also wondered what type of funeral he’ll have. He’d told her that all the arrangements were detailed in a document he gave to his lawyer when he turned eighty, some years ago. Which surprised me, because I rather thought they’d have solicitors and barristers here, like we have in England, because their legal system is based on ours and answers to the Privy Council, in London. But maybe they don’t; maybe they just have lawyers. Amelia said she’s hoping it’s nothing weird. His funeral, that is. And she’s pretty sure he’ll have written something in said document about preventing some obnoxious Italian neighbor of his from showing her face at whatever does happen. Though Amelia said the woman would probably want to attend, just to make sure he’s really dead. By the way, she’s an Anglican. Amelia, not the neighbor. I don’t suppose many Italians are Anglicans, are they? Likes the old hymns, does Amelia, not the new ones. Did you know that some people say Jamaica has more churches per capita than anywhere else in the world? They aren’t all Christian churches, of course, and I have no idea who ‘they’ are in this instance, so maybe it’s all complete twaddle. But I do believe you’d take an awfully long time to count them all. We saw quite a lot just being driven here from the airport, didn’t we, John?”