Murderers' Row Page 3

  We did so.

  At Harrison’s Caves, we and a bunch of British tourists took a tram ride through a limestone cavern. After a little beach time followed by a snooze, we dined at the Sandpiper Hotel, where the cocktails are expensive, but everybody gets a free coconut and the bartender opens it for you. Mac called that “novel.”

  “This trip is going too fast, just like every vacation,” Lynda told me the next morning. “I can’t believe the wedding is tomorrow already.”

  “That’s no sweat for you,” I reminded her. “All you have to do is relax and look beautiful. It’s in the bag!”

  She kissed me, not making a rush job of it.

  Sir Owen stopped by right after breakfast to take us to the Barbados Wildlife Reserve in the northern parish of St. Peter. It was a delightful way to spend a workless Monday morning, even though I did get shoved by a small green monkey. The wild hares there have long legs that make them look like tiny deer.

  We went back to grab our bathing suits for some quality time with the white sand and turquoise water of Paynes Bay on the west coast, but that never happened. Standing in front of Mo and Jonathan’s cottage, strongly resembling a refrigerator in size and build, stood a Bajan man with close-cropped hair. And I thought: Even in short sleeves all cops look alike. What I said to my companions was:

  “This can’t be good.”

  “All my parking fines are paid,” Sir Owen muttered, as if to himself.

  Our visitor didn’t have parking infractions on his mind.

  “Is one of you the former Mrs. Maureen Russert?” he asked.

  She admitted it.

  “I am Inspector Mervin Brathwaite of the Royal Barbados Police Force. I would like to ask you a few questions, informally at this point.”

  Sir Owen stepped forward. “May I ask why, Inspector?”

  “Sir Owen!” I can’t say that he turned pale, but he was startled to realize that the former Governor-General of Barbados was among our company. (“I don’t know everyone in the country,” Sir Owen later told me, “but everyone seems to know me. That’s not always a good thing.”)

  “Why?” the venerable statesman repeated.

  Brathwaite pulled himself together. “Another American, a woman named Sabrina Coe, was strangled to death yesterday afternoon in the room she shared with Mrs. Russert’s former husband. He and another couple with whom they were traveling found the body upon returning to the hotel from sightseeing.”

  Nobody said anything. Not even “What!” I think we were all struggling to process it. Mo gripped Jonathan’s hand and squeezed it until her own hand turned white. Her mouth hung open. Finally, Mac said, “That is very disturbing news indeed. How may we be of assistance to the police?”

  Not the way you hope, I bet.

  “My questions are for Mrs. Russert,” Brathwaite said. Translation: “Butt out.” He turned slightly more Mo’s way to emphasize the point. “Did Ms. Coe break up your marriage to Mr. Russert?”

  “She—” Mo paused, then shook her head. “No, no she didn’t, not really. It was already broken before Art met that poor woman. I only recently realized that. I’m sorry it took me so long. But I’ve been divorced almost four years now and I came to Barbados to get married.” She looked up at Jonathan. He extracted his hand and put his arm around her as she continued: “I didn’t really know Sabrina Coe, Inspector. I only met her for the first time the other day, Saturday. But I’m sorry that she’s dead. That’s awful.”

  I was afraid that Brathwaite would question the convenience of Mo’s appearance on a small Caribbean island at the same time her ex-husband and his girlfriend vacationed here, but he had other flying fish to fry:

  “Mr. Russert tells me that you visited Ms. Coe yesterday at their hotel.”

  “That’s not true!” Jonathan said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mo told him.

  “About what?”

  But Mo answered Brathwaite, not her fiancé. “It’s true. I did meet Sabrina for coffee at the Aquarius’s restaurant in mid-morning, while Jonathan and our friends were out at church and seeing various sights. I suppose I should explain that our encounter on Saturday left me more than a little unsettled in retrospect—I’d behaved quite rudely, while she was more than civil in return. I wanted to apologize, so I went to see her.”

  If it’s possible to stagger without moving, Jonathan did that. The expression on his face while Mo spoke was hard to read. Shock? Disbelief? Hurt? Maybe all of the above.

  “Mr. Russert said you talked with Ms. Cole for some time, perhaps half an hour.”

  “That’s about right, I guess. I didn’t time it.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I told you, I wanted to tell her I was sorry.”

  Brathwaite’s wide face registered skepticism. “And that took so long?”

  Mo almost smiled. “I also suggested during our conversation that Art Russert was not a man to be trusted, based on my long experience. I reminded her that he’d been unfaithful to me. It’s only common sense that a man who cheats on one partner is quite capable of doing it to another.”

  “And she reacted negatively?”

  “No! Not at all. I was so surprised! She expressed regret for being ‘the other woman’ in my breakup with Art, and she told me my warning was appreciated but unnecessary.” Mo paused. “The funny thing is, though, she said she knew for a fact that he was ‘faithful as a dog, but still a dog.’ Her exact words. I gathered that their relationship was on the rocks and he was trying to salvage it with this trip, but no luck.”

  “Are you trying to cast suspicion on Mr. Russert?” Brathwaite asked.

  “What? Oh, hell no. I don’t think Art would hurt anybody—not physically.”

  Sebastian McCabe broke his unaccustomed silence with a theatrical throat-clearing aimed Brathwaite’s way. “Surely a simple burglary gone horribly wrong is the most obvious explanation for this sad situation,” he said.

  Brathwaite regarded him, not kindly. “And you are?”

  Mac looked in silent appeal at Sir Owen, who didn’t need a brick to fall on his head to get the message.

  “This is my friend Sebastian McCabe,” the great man informed Brathwaite. “He is quite familiar with police investigations, being something of an amateur Nero Wolfe.” At least the size is right. “He has been of great help to his local constabulary, and even Scotland Yard, in solving several murders.”

  The Bajan gendarme turned falsely jovial. “Oh, I am sure we won’t need any outside help solving a simple matter of burglary.”

  Touché! Suddenly, I’m liking this guy.

  Sir Owen ignored the policeman’s sarcasm—or was it irony? Hard to tell, but there was an attitude there, for sure.

  “Nevertheless, Inspector, I would appreciate it if you would extend Professor McCabe every courtesy. And I’m sure my friend Commissioner Small would be grateful as well.”

  But no pressure.

  “Of course, Sir Owen. You had a comment, Mr. McCabe?”

  This was like dangling raw meat over the head of a lion.

  “I did,” Mac said. “Now I have a question: Do any facts of the case argue against the theory that the victim discovered a burglary in process and was killed as a result?” Other than the fact that murder by local talent would be bad for the tourist trade, as opposed to tourist-on-tourist violence.

  “I should like to know the answer to that myself,” Sir Owen offered.

  “There was no forced entry,” the inspector said. “That is somewhat unusual in a burglary, but not unknown. There were signs of a struggle in the room and several of Ms. Cole’s personal items were taken, according to Mr. Russert. Of course, an intelligent killer with a personal motive might have staged a robbery as what they call in mystery novels a red herring.”

  Jonathan glowered.

  “What sort of personal items were taken?” Mac wanted to know.

  “Laptop, camera, jewelry—Mr. Russert supplied a list.”

  “Those are all items that a thief can fence without too much trouble. What about her cell phone?”

  “We have that.”

  “That could be helpful.”

  “We expect so, Mr. McCabe. Speaking of cell phones, may I have your number, Mrs. Russert?”

  “Of course.” She supplied it.

  “Thank you. What are your plans for the next few days?”

  “I’m supposed to be getting married tomorrow.”

  “And after that?”

  “We planned to honeymoon here in Barbados for another week and a half.”

  “Good. Please don’t leave the country without letting me know.” He gave her his card.

  “I’ll be responsible for making sure that she doesn’t,” Sir Owen said. “Staying close to this charming couple will be a pleasant duty. In fact, I was already planning on it. I am officiating at the wedding ceremony.”

  “Very well, then. Thank you, Sir Owen.”

  Believe it or not, he left without asking whether Mac had any further questions.

  “What do you mean supposed to get married, Mo?” Jonathan asked his bride-to-be. “Are you in any doubt?”

  “No, of course not. That was just a figure of speech.”

  “Is that what it was when you told us you didn’t feel well yesterday?”

  “I didn’t feel well! I felt awful about the way I acted to Sabrina at the Aquarius. That’s not who I am.”

  The cliché grated on my ear, but that didn’t mean it was untrue.

  “We’ll leave you two love birds to work this out,” Lynda said. “I’m sure you will.”

  Jonathan Hawes’s bachelor party that evening consisted of meeting Mac and me at a rum shop sponsored by Banks, “the beer of Barbados.”

  Mac pulled out one of his enormous (not to mention ruinously expensive) Antonio de la Cova cigars and ordered a pitcher of the local brew. And that was just for him.

  “Wedding still on?” I asked Jonathan, in what I hope was a joking tone.

  “As long as Mo can stay out of jail,” he replied gloomily.

  “Everything will look better in the morning,” I assured him. “You’ll see.”

  V

  In the morning, Jonathan and Mo’s wedding day, The Daily Nation splashed HEIRESS KILLED across the top of the paper, with the four-deck subhead Tourist Strangled in Aquarius Inn Hotel Room.

  “I guess ‘heiress’ is technically true, but she wasn’t exactly Gloria Vanderbilt,” Lynda kibitzed. “And what a long lead sentence!” She can’t just read a newspaper; she has to edit it.

  A two-column-wide glamour shot of Sabrina Coe, looking much more striking than the woman we had met, accompanied the story by reporter Jaydene Robinson. It made for awful breakfast-table reading, never mind the delightful island breeze and the soundtrack provided by the waves of the Atlantic in the distance beyond the trees:

  Sabrina Coe, 37, an American tourist who inherited a multi-million-dollar fortune and established a non-profit organization making micro-loans to female entrepreneurs in the Caribbean and Latin America, was found dead Sunday at her room in the Historic Aquarius Inn in Bathsheba. She had been strangled.

  “This is just devastating,” said her romantic partner, Arthur Russert, who found the body. “I really can’t talk about it. I have no words.”

  Ms. Coe, Russert, and another couple traveling with them were in Barbados on holiday, according to Inspector Mervin Brathwaite of the Royal Barbados Police Force.

  Flanked by the force’s top brass at a hastily called news conference at Police Headquarters, Roebuck Street, Commissioner Arundel Small stressed that Barbados remains safe for residents and visitors alike.

  “The year has barely begun,” he said, “but we are confident that our efforts will reduce the rate of violent crimes compared to 2016.”

  Homicides against tourists are extremely rare in Barbados, Small stressed, noting that in most years there are none. The majority of violent crimes on the island are drug-gang related, he said.

  Asked whether police believe the murder of Ms. Coe was the result of a botched robbery, Brathwaite said, “At this point I don’t wish to speak about the direction of the investigation, except to say that it will be intensive, thorough, and ultimately successful.”

  “That doesn’t sound like cop-speak,” I opined, after reading the paragraph out loud.

  “Maybe he ran it through the local constabulary’s highly paid communications director,” Lynda quipped.

  “Do not underestimate Inspector Brathwaite,” Mac warned. “In our brief encounter he displayed both imagination and ambition, which can be a powerful combination. Imagination caused him to look beyond the obvious burglary scenario to consider other possibilities, and ambition caused him to accede to Sir Owen’s request to humor me although he clearly chafed under it.”

  The newspaper story went on for another fifteen paragraphs. Right after Brathwaite’s first quoted comment, the journalist dutifully reported a representative of the Aquarius as assuring the hotel’s dedication to “the comfort and security of all our guests.” Brathwaite, in turn, acknowledged that there was “no evidence of a break-in.” The reporter seemed to think that cut in the hotel’s favor, but I wasn’t buying it.

  “If there was no forced entry, it’s probably because the intruder was a hotel employee with a key,” I said. “How else would a thief get into the room without forcing the lock?”

  “Perhaps Ms. Coe let him in,” Mac suggested. “I am assuming a ‘he’ because of the violent nature of the attack, although perhaps I assume too much. Or one could construct another scenario: A thief gained entrance by pretense, intending to snatch and grab valuables, and then was forced to more drastic measures to silence Ms. Coe.”

  “I like my idea better. A hotel employee would be better positioned to know that Sabrina was rich and likely to have something worth stealing.”

  “Barbados caters to high-end tourism, T.J.,” Kate said. “Wealthy holidaymakers aren’t a rarity here, and I’m sure the Aquarius gets its share. I can’t see why Sabrina would be a particular target.”

  “On the other hand, this isn’t a common single-destination for Americans,” Lynda mused. “They usually come here on a ‘If it’s Tuesday, this must be Bermuda’ cruise. I wonder how Coe and Company wound up here.”

  “The story mentioned in the twelfth paragraph that the couple’s friend Marcus Wagner has what the author vaguely called ‘business interests’ on the island,” Mac pointed out. “Perhaps that was the reason.”

  “Well, whatever,” I said, “it’s got to be a nightmare for Mo. How would you like to wake up and find a headline like that”—I pointed—“on your wedding day?”

  “At least there will be a wedding, old boy,” Mac said.

  “Speaking of which—” As Lynda said this, she and Kate rose at the same time. “We’d better get dressed and help Mo get ready.”

  The nuptials went off without a hitch (other than Mo and Jonathan getting hitched) right there at Naniki in the open air amid the lush greenery. Apparently, a lot of weddings take place there. Jonathan and Mac wore white tuxes, matching Mo’s very traditional wedding gown. Lynda and Kate wore stunning red dresses in keeping with the St. Valentine’s Day date.

  The couple not being religious, Sir Owen presided over a civil ceremony under his authority as a marriage officer, which is a thing in Barbados law. But he treated us to a talk about holy matrimony, based on the Cana story in the Bible, that would have passed as a homily in any Catholic wedding I’ve ever attended. Except that Sir Owen talked about twenty minutes longer than the average priest.

  Afterwards, Mac hosted a brunch at The Noble Bachelor, an expensive restaurant with an expansive view of the Caribbean, in lieu of a reception highlighted by “Proud Mary” and the chicken dance. That was okay with me. At no point did Mo toss her garter or her bouquet of red flowers. I ate chilled leek and potato soup with sautéed scallops and truffle oil for the first course, followed by Cajun salmon with pesto cream sauce, creamed potatoes, grilled zucchini, and tomato salsa. Just in case you wondered. I noticed that Lynda chose chargrilled mahi-mahi and Mac tucked into a 12-ounce prime sirloin steak.

  “Well, young people, you can hardly say that your wedding has been uneventful,” Sir Owen commented as the second course was being brought in.

  The smile on Mo’s face took a hike. “I’m so happy today”—she slid her freshly-minted husband an adoring look—“and yet I can’t stop thinking about Sabrina. I even feel sorry for Art.”

  Jonathan took her hand. He did that a lot.

  “I hope the killer will be brought quickly to justice, my dear,” Sir Owen told her. “No, I will do more than hope. I will stay close to the investigation of the case as well as close to you. That should not be so difficult for me.” He smiled, showing teeth too imperfect to be false. “I still have friends in high places.”

  Mac raised an eyebrow. I could guess what he was thinking: Sir Owen told us on our first day in Barbados that he always wanted to solve a real-life murder, just like one of his favorite amateur sleuths. Now he had a chance.

  VI

  The Caribbean may be laid back, but there was nothing sleepy about the way reporter Jaydene Robinson covered the Sabrina Coe murder. CYBERSLEUTHS ON CASE was the headline of her below-the-fold story in The Nation on Wednesday. It wasn’t your typical second-day murder story. (And I’ve read plenty!) Here’s most of it:

  The murder of an American heiress in her Bathsheba hotel room is attracting attention and theories from amateur sleuths around the world.

  Just two days after the strangled body of Sabrina Coe, 37, was found by her partner and traveling companion, the case has drawn hundreds of comments on PublicEye, an internet community of amateur online sleuths with more than 54,000 registered users.