The Saga of Richard and Camille
Rick Poole P I
Chapter 4/6
When Cases Collide
Summary:
Now it gets messy. A second case comes up out of left field. Are the two related or is our boy Rick just caught in the crossfire? He thought that following Charlie Hulme was just a simple cheating spouse gig. Now?
Notes:
More thanks to my pals Izzabella, Lizzy, and Jonesy. Thanks for the info. With your help, maybe I'll make sense of all this chaos.
Thanks gals!
Rick
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Well, I finally got some shut eye. Real sleep, the kind with both eyes closed the whole time, at the same time. And now, … I'm doin' a pretty good imitation of a normal me. Now if I can just get rid of that dream, or rather the memory of the damn buzz whizzing past my face. Were they a great shot and trying; to put the fear in me? Or a lousy shot, that really puts the fear in me? Just one more thing to solve.
One advantage to my office being a converted apartment, is that I got a shower and a kitchenette. So, except for having to flop on the couch, I'm all set for the long haul. Now, a shower, shave, clean clothes and a bite of breakfast. Later when DeDe comes in for her nights work, I'll go across the hall and thank her and reimburse her for the feed last night. Maybe I can sweet talk a bit of info outta her, hopefully without her hurting' me. First, I need to have a confab with Kit Bordey, before she puts out a hit on me. Geez, my whole life seems to be all about keepin' dangerous women from doin' me in.
Two hours, I've been workin' the phone. They either don't answer, aren't there or if they are there, they don't know nothin'. I gotta get out. I'll get one of the irregulars to babysit the phone. I'll leave a trail of breadcrumbs so they can get a message to me.
Getting past Larry Moe and Shemp … or is it, Curly? I don't get to the flicks much, these days. Most of my work is night work. Well anyway, it won't take much to fool anyone of these three stooges. One of my fake mustaches a pair of dark glasses and my best Russkie accent, and they'll probably think I'm Chinese. These guys have a tough time figuring out how to get their hands out of their pockets.
I'm clean, I'm fed, and I'm ready to make my move. Ready or not Kit Bordey, here I come.
Well, the back door is open, so that means Kit is there waiting to receive and check in the day's deliveries. Pete and Marie, her cooks, won't be in for a couple of hours. So, I guess if I'm gonna have that private confab, it's now or never!
Movin' through that door is like stepin' from the fryin' pan right into the fire and I'm walkin barefoot!
"Hey Kit, you around? Where ya hidin'? We need to chew the fat. … Parler, oui?" A kitchen knife flashes in front of my eyes and buries itself in the doorframe!
"Maybe you'd
like me to come back later? … Or … never?
Kit Bordey comes around the center prep island. She holds an assortment of chef's knives.
"Reeeeshaaarrr?!"
Her whispering of my name and the double-barreled glare is as good as a scream.
"Madame Bordey? … Catherine? … Kit? … Maman? Can we talk?"
"Where is my Cammy? … And where have YOU been? … And what dangerous thing have you mixed my Cammy up in? … "
Each question came at a higher pitch and increased volume and a maniacal intensity is added to the glare. Oh, and I might mention that each question came with an exclamation point of a new blade thunking into the frame inches from my face.
"The only reason I do not place one of these knives in your heart is that I expect you to find my Cammy and bring her home to me, ... safe, ... at once! Comprenez-vous? And then I kill you! Vte! Vte!"
"Sooooo, I guess a roast beef sandwich is out of the question, Kit?"
I did what any sane man would do when facing an angry French woman holding knives. I ran, … dodging garbage cans, crates, and the various flotsam and jetsam behind La Kaz. As I round the corner, headin' for the Jeep, I almost crash into a huddled figure. It's Jonesy! I grab her arm.
"Come on kiddo, I got a crazy French dame on my tail. And we need a good chinwag."
We dash to the Jeep and head up into the foothills. We're only a couple of blocks from the main drag, but the foliage gives us all the cover we need for a much needed and desired conference. Standing next to the Jeep Jonesy assumes her standard posture. She always looks like a rabbit ready to skitter away at the slightest sign of somethin' goin' wrong. She's been mum since we made our quick exit. Then …
"Hey Rick." She sidemouths.
"Whacha got for me, Jonesy?"
"Yeah, somebody wants a meeting, okay?"
"Yeah."
"I might know who, maybe I don't okay? Tonight. Okay? Back room, closing time, Julianka's place. Okay? An' listen, be a good boy, okay? Don't do anything stupid …"
I was kinda touched. That was the first time I ever got any concern for my health from Jonesy. She definitely wasn't the sentimental type. I tried to hand her a double sawbuck.
"Naw, I been paid. Okay? … Maybe when I got somethin' you can use … "
I wrapped the ten around a pint of some good stuff and held it out to her while sayin' … "Cammy?"
She stared at my offering and says real slow and quiet, … "Cammy? Yeah, I heard a few things … Okay? That's deeper than I like goin',but … okay. I'll see what's around."
I hold out the bottle and bill. "Jonesy, take it. Call it a down payment. An' that's sippin' liquor. You take a hit of that at the end of the night. Wash out your gullet after all the rotgut.
"You're a good guy Rick. Yeah, just take it easy. Okay?"
For a sec I thought I saw something almost like a small smile. And then she's gone. Just a scared little rabbit.
I drive a couple of blocks further up into the foothills and hide the old wreck. Then I head down to the small shops lining the harbor. It's amazing how much more amenable people are in the morning when they're nursing hangovers and just want you gone.
The only story I got was that the new D I Goodman was racin' around tryin' to find some mystery woman. He was handing out copies of a photo, but everybody was throwing them away. When I asked why, I got a laugh. They all think this new guy is bonkers. The picture is of her back, and she is wearing a floor-length evening dress, so you can't even identify her legs. When I got to a small bookstore at the end of the commercial district, the owner, a most meticulous type has kept the picture and has placed it on a clipboard. And there she is, all back and no face. But I knew those hips and those rich curly locks and … well … that caboose was a one of a kind. Camille 'Cammy' Bordey! My secretary, and it would seem, the one who slipped me the Mickey Finn. Hey, she was a real knockout! In more ways than one.
So, Cammy was at the villa, at the party, at the time when Charlie took the last deep dive. Well, this doesn't look good for my love life. But wait! Kit must have seen the picture. She must have known her own daughter. So, why's she chuckin' cutlery at me. Is she part of this mess? Cammy? Kit? Selly? Is this a conspiracy? And I'm odd man out? Am I the only one not in the know? I need to get back to the office. Is anybody on my side?
By the time I work my way back to the office and passed the three morons, I've had time to mull the whole thing over. Everyone wants me out of the picture, but not permanent like. I've got Lizzy and Izzy trawlng the spas and high end resorts, so I'm covered there.
I just got off the horn with Babyface and Killer Smile. They think that 'The Camel' is an over the edge nutter! With the analyzing I been doin'. They both are worried that Lily is in the thick of the Lavender, Hulme deal.
What next?
I'm getting nowhere fast. … I'm doin' some real deep thinkin' when the phone rings. It's D S Lily Thomson! She's sending me some "English Lady" who claims she shot her husband. Except, … No Body! … No Gun! … Is this another attempt to send me off on some wild goose chase? If I had the moola, I'd be off on a vacation in a flash. I know when I'm not wanted. Just what I need some elderly English tourist who had a bad dream after too much sherry! Oh well, if she shows up, I'll give her half an hour and hit her up for half a c-note. Might as well cover my cost of renting the Jeep. Damn, nobody's seem hide nor hair of my Citroën. Five days and all I got to show is finally a clear head.
There's a tap at the outer door. I open it and am greeted by a true vision of feminine beauty. A real honest to goodness English rose. No granny, more like granddaughter. I better roll out my Cambridge drawl. Proper looking lady. Must use proper vocabulary.
She's composed but has a 'deer in the headlights' look deep in her cornflower blue eyes. I take her extended hand and guide her through to my office. Seated across the desk form one another my brain is at full paranoia. Is this a piece of the puzzle or just like that near miss shot at the shack, another distraction?
I offer tea. The offer is accepted. We sip, she talks. All wounded dove and frightened lamb. I listen and watch.
She is Megan Talbot. She sincerely believes that she has shot and killed her abusive husband, Lucas Talbot. … But then the story gets a little muddy and then it gets dangerous.
It seems that Megan 'The Rose' Talbot and her husband were staying with their best friends, Patrick and Astrid Knight. Now for the mud! Seems the sweet "Rose" was having an affair with Patrick! And hubby found out! Astrid is, so far, in the dark. And now the dangerous part. When I asked if this had been a holiday trip, she demurrers. I pressed the issue. Finally, she rambles on about celebrating their anniversary. But Patrick is starting a new business venture and is seeking Lucas' financial help. Seems that Astrid Knight is a high-powered Public Relations nabob. Hubby is feeling overshadowed, and a mite emasculated. Seems Astrid is a real ball buster! And the business? All Megan knew, was that it had something to do with inter island transportation. But then she said it was some kind of merger or investment with an existing business, owned by James Lavender and his wife Sara. … Bingo! … Bullseye! … Holy Cow! Geez, this is a small island and the way this is playing out, everybody is sleeping with everybody else and they're all crooks and they're all gonna end up in the morgue!
Megan's part in this cesspool is pretty straight forward. She gets lovey-dovey with Patrick Knight. Lucas finds out. He slaps her around on the beach, she whacks him with a rock, shoots him and leaves him and gun. Both the gun and Lucas are now missing. If the tide got Lucas, he's probably on his way to Africa now. But if he's not dead, he's probably on his way to get Megan! I don't like complicated domestic cases. Too many chances to get caught in multiple crossfires. Literally and figuratively! So, I do the old P I blowoff. Double or quadruple my rate and demand five days up front. It usually gets rid of them quick.
"Mrs. Talbot, a private investigator is a very expensive proposition. My rate is two hundred dollars, US per day, with a retainer of five days in advance, … cash."
With aflutter of her long-lashed eyes, 'The Rose' peeled off ten c-notes and handed them to me. Trying to remain as professional as possible, I slid the notes into an envelope and tucked it in the center drawer. And doing my best not to drool over the blonde goddess or the cash!
"We have to find you safe accommodations, in the event that your husband is alive and seeking revenge. I have connections with a nice little inn on the harbor. "
I check her into room 25. We make a big show of my staying with her. We go out a back window and down to room 32, where I tell her to stay put, and no calls, in or out! I'll make sure one of my irregulars keeps her fed and exchanges any messages. With 'the Rose' on ice, I head back to the office to see if there are any messages, and to wait until my mystery meeting at Julianka's.
Well, the stooges are still idiots! Just for fun, I walk past all three, and then sprint up the street. … I make a hard left, and as soon as I'm hidden by a building, I turn my jacket inside out, pull a hat out of my pocket. … And with a prefilled pipe, I wheel around and stroll back past my pursuers. Lighting my pipe and effectively shielding my face as I do so. I now have the stooges chasing one of my waiting irregulars off into the jungle. I wonder where they'll end up? HAH!
It's nearly three hours before the brain trust returns. They all are draggin' and completely beat. When I leave for Julianka's, I doubt they'll last a block. Assuming they even try to follow.
I pop across the hall and slip DeDe some folding green for the chow Izzy, Lizzy and I noshed on last night. The green puts her in a good mood, plus she got a kick out of the wild goose chase I sent my shadows on. The news she had for me was that Big Selly was real nervous. Something big was going down, and he didn't want me messin' things up. Now I am even more curious.
It's time to head for Julianka's and my mystery meeting. The jeeps kinda high profile. I think I'll give Perse a call. Nobody questions his black and burgundy taxi goin' anywhere. He's part of the landscape.
Julianka's isn't much, just a beach bar that serves boiled shrimp, crab and barbequed lobsters. There is no Julianka, the place has been there on Sunset Beach for fifty years and has probably had fifty owners. Buch the grass shack and the driftwood sign haven't changed since day one. It's real, not touristy kitsch, but a real people bar and grill. The joint closes at sundown. Whatever time that is.
It's about nine, the suns down and there's only a little light left in the sky. I tell Perse to drop me off and go on along to the beach car park, about half a mile further south. I also tell him, if I'm not there in half an hour, he's to high tail it out of there and go about his normal resort business. I give him one of the 'Rose's' c-notes and say it's on account. Perse heads off for the meetup place. I head for the joint.
As I approach the counter, the bartender thumbs me around to the back of the shack. There I encounter, 'the co-between. That little guy with the weaselly smile that tells you up front that you're being sold out. But you follow anyway.
The car stinks of ten-day old food scraps and unwashed socks. We drive back through Honore. My chauffeur doesn't say a word. We cruise along Front Street, passed La Kaz and on the split road that leads to "The City of the Dead". A cemetery made up of small Greek, Roman, Italianate, white stone mausoleums. On a night like tonight, with an almost full moon, the place looks like it's all lit up. Big tourist attraction. Lots of places to dodge and hide. We drive through on the main drag and stop dead center. Heh! Bad choice of words. I get out of the car. It drives away.
I wait, … … and wait, … … and wait!
Not a sound. Not a breath of air. You could read a book with the glare of the moon reflecting off of a thousand small, imitation houses and temples. Just me and a couple a thousand stiffs. I wait.
Will I check out of this mess or am I checking in to my final address. I go to check my watch, and then remember that it's in residence at Paradise Loan and pawn. This is real odd. Everything is bright as day. Yet, It's spookier than if it were as black as pitch. You feel exposed. And now with the moon straight overhead, no shadows, no place to hide.
"Good evening, Detective Inspector."
I flinch. "I am no longer a Detective Inspector, nor have I been one for quite some time, Commissioner." He has come up behind me. How a man of his girth can move so silently is another mystery.
We now stand face to face.
"Detective, our last encounter ended rather rudely, with a suggestion about my encountering an … egg."
"Well big Selly, I got a dozen of them for you to suck. Now if you got a message, spit it out, cause I'm tired and more than a tad annoyed!"
"Tut, tut, tut, my boy."
"I'm not anybody's BOY. Fat man!"
"Richard, … please, let us observe the civilities. Eh wot?"
"Okay. Let's cut to the chase. … 'Mr'. Patterson"
"Richard, you have become a problem, for many influential people on this island. You must remove yourself from this very complex situation, or steps will have to be taken to remove you. But we do not wish to discommode you. So, I offer you two choices. One, you may catch the first ferry to Guadeloupe and join the gambling ship S. S. Bonne Chance for a five day all-expenses paid, except for gambling of course. Or … "
"Or what?"
"Or you may spend the next five days as a guest of the Crown, in the Honore jail. We can even offer you a choice of cellmates. Rupert or the boat-napper!
"Who the hell is Rupert?"
"He is the Honore Station mascot. A goat."
"Well, you know what you can do with your gambling boat, and your jail, Big Selly. You can stuff them both where the moon don't shine."
Rough hands twist my arms behind my back, and I recognize the distinctive rattle of cuffs being forcefully applied.
I guess it's me and Rupert now!"
To be continued.
Notes:
Well, I've got myself in a fine pickle now. Great, just great, me, a goat and some lowlife boatnapper all sharing space at Chez Lockup! What the blankety blank, next? I'm either gettin' too old or too stupid for this kinda work. Mabbe I should open a bar ... or a fruit stand. I'm switchin' back to Bourbon!