Death in Paradise (42 page)

"What do you mean?"

"Listen to this." I picked up the phone, summoned back my messages, and passed it to her. I watched her face grow solemn as she listened. When the message ended, she hung up the phone.

"So you called her back, and?"

"And I couldn't get through. Got stonewalled. Tried three times. Finally I called the nursing station. I told them about Rory's call and demanded to know if she was all right. That's when they told me she was dead. Now, I know that, yes, she did try to kill herself. And yes, when I spoke with her before I left the hospital she was still in a deep funk and speculating about whether she should try again, but that phone call is not a farewell message. It's a cry for help. She wanted to talk. She wanted to clear the air. And she was definitely afraid of someone."

"Too bad she was so determined to try for drama. We'd be a lot better off if she'd just spat it out, wouldn't we? But the girl always was one to muddle as often as she clarified." She shook her head. "We're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, are we? So what are you going to do about this?"

I nodded at my packed suitcase. "I'm going home. Turning tail and running. Even before the dawn breaks over the mountains, I'm going to be winging my way toward the East."

"Very poetic, girl," she said. "And in the meantime?"

"We are going to put our heads together and see if we can figure out what's going on around here."

She tipped her head and stared at me. "Why? Why don't you just go on home and leave this to the experts?"

It was a fair question. "Well... let's say someone killed Martina because they hated her...." Jonetta nodded. "And suppose that Rory was an accomplice, and she was killed because she wasn't going to hold up." She nodded again. "But, Netta, why did they try to kill me?"

This time she shook her head. "I see what you mean. Better break out those macadamia nuts. I can't think on an empty stomach."

I got out the jar, broke the seal, and handed it to her. "Thanks," she said. "Now where do we begin?"

"When I got here, I suppose. Rory hinted that my problem was I knew too much. And more than one person has suggested that I'm here because I'm a detective, not because Suzanne got sick and I had to come in her place."

"Like who? Who said that?" Jonetta demanded.

I thought about that. "Jeff Pullman, for one. He was incensed that I was here instead of Suzanne."

"That's weird. Anyone else?"

"Billy Berryman, I think. And there was someone else. I just can't recall...." The phone rang.

"It's Bernstein," a tired voice said. "I hope you're not in trouble. All hell's been breaking loose."

"I know. Look, if I was in trouble when I called you, I'd be long dead by now. I know about Rory—"

"How the hell—"

"She tried to call me. She had some things she wanted to tell me. I tried to call her back, couldn't reach her, and finally found someone who told me what had happened. Well, not what had happened... but that she was dead. However it looked, Lenny, she didn't kill herself."

"We know that. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?" His speech was thick and slow. He sounded like he was on the verge of collapse.

"I have Rory's laptop. I had both of them. Hers got mixed up with mine and mine is the one that ended up destroyed. There's stuff on it that you should see."

He sighed wearily. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow at the crack of dawn I'm out of here. Shall I leave it for you at the desk?"

"No!" An explosive sound. Moderated by his next words. "Shit, no. Sorry. I'm so tired I can't even think anymore. No. Just hang on to it. I'll come and get it as soon as I can. I don't want to take any chances. Just hang—"

" It's just carrying a computer, Lenny. It doesn't have to be you. Isn't there someone else you can send for it?"

"Yeah. I guess it doesn't have to be me, does it? Good idea. Yeah. I'll send a uniform over." He spoke so slowly I could almost hear the thoughts forming in his head. "Don't open your door to anyone who isn't wearing a uniform. And don't open it unless you've seen some ID. This job over here... whoever it was dressed like staff."

"Male or female?" I asked.

"Woman," he said. "Nurse. Shit. This is gonna raise hell with our crime statistics. The Chamber of Commerce gonna have a bird. Don't you go getting killed, too. You hear me? I gotta go." He didn't so much hang up the phone as smash it, the clatter and rattle of plastic as he fumbled it home.

"It was a woman," I told Jonetta.

"What was a woman?" she countered. "I mean, who?"

"Oh, sorry. Who killed Rory." It felt like some of Bernstein's weariness had rubbed off on me. I was getting fuzzy. "I'm fairly sure a man attacked me. And we don't know about Martina. Looks like we've got ourselves a tag team."

"Tag team? Girl, you are the last person on earth I would have expected to say that. You don't watch wrestling?" I shook my head. She jerked her chin toward the phone. "You got another message on there, you know. The voice said two. Maybe you oughta listen to it. Maybe the bad guys called up and confessed."

"Not bloody likely."

She picked up the phone, pressed the buttons to retrieve messages, and held it out to me. "Here."

I put the phone to my ear, knowing that now that I'd heard the outcome, Rory's message was going to be even more painful than it had been the first time. I tried not to listen. Tried instead to start rehearsing stuff in my head for the discussion Jonetta and I were supposed to be having. Finally the desperate voice faded away and I got the operator again, that accentless, upbeat, disembodied female voice. I've always imagine that somewhere in the world there is a woman who is kept in a cave, far from any societal influences, who spends all her days and nights recording bland, upbeat things to go on tapes. I imagine that she's taking heavy doses of mood-altering drugs that make her insufferably cheerful. I imagine her in there with gnomes—no human interaction to interfere with her daily chores—who record each word so that it can be rearranged at will to produce the necessary tapes. No inflection. No rise and fall. No emotion. Her voice is a teeny bit breathy today. Maybe she has to climb many stairs or a steep ladder to get to the recording apparatus. "Second message," she enunciates, oh so clearly. I wait.

A breathless little whimpering sound, then Rory's voice, muffled, almost incomprehensible. "I rang for help, but no one's coming. I should have told you before. Now it's too late. It was Linda. Linda and—" The last was just a garbled sound, a G or a J. There were sounds of pleading, pitiful sounds, and a dull thud. Then the phone disconnected.

I pushed the button to repeat the message and handed the phone to Jonetta. She listened closely and then set down the phone. "I got the Linda," she said. "But what about the other. It's just noise to me."

"Linda Janovich," I said. "Linda Janovich and someone else. Sounded like a G or a J but I can't be sure. It could just be a grunt. Jonetta, Jolene... uh... whose name starts with a 'juh' sound?"

"Jeff."

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

"Jeff Pullman?" I said. "But he's been a patient and long-suffering... and anyway, he was home in D.C. when the police called to tell him about Martina's death. I mean, sure, I'd like to believe bad things about him, after yesterday, but—" A thought hit me, sudden as a football tackle. I stopped speaking to consider it.

"But what?" Jonetta asked.

I felt like I'd been dizzy for days and my head was finally clearing. "I think I've figured it out."

"Figured what out? Girl, what are you talking about? You're not making any sense. I didn't say Jeff was involved. I said his name began with a 'juh' sound."

"No, Jonetta, I'm finally beginning to make some sense." I fished in my briefcase for my address book. "All weekend long, everyone has been telling me that Jeff Pullman is a saintly, long-suffering man who has had to put up with a terrible load of grief from his out-of-control, alcoholic wife. You've heard the same stuff, right? But what's a guy to do with a wife like that? He's already had one divorce, he can't afford another, and in Washington, you need a wife who can be a player... which might be why he married Martina in the first place. But what do you do when the player becomes a liability?"

"Hold on," Jonetta complained. "You're going too fast for me."

I found the number I wanted, stopped pacing, and swung around. "I'm sorry. Suddenly this brain which has been sluggish all day just took off like a greyhound after a rabbit."

Jonetta put a firm hand on my shoulder and led me back to the sofa. "Well, child, you just let that rabbit hop off into the sunset, set yourself down here, and explain what's going on."

"Okay." I took a deep breath and tried to slow down. "The night she died, Martina got a phone call from someone whose impending arrival made her very happy. That we know from Lewis Broder. Lewis thought they were going to get it on and suddenly Martina was showing him the door. The fact that she took a bath and had her nightclothes laid out suggests she was expecting a man. A familiar man." I stopped, trying to figure out how much I needed to tell her.

"There's something else we knew about Martina. She'd been drinking. When she was drunk, she became more difficult and abusive but she also became more physical and more attuned to men. It was as though her feminist side fell away."

Jonetta was getting impatient with my story. "So? What does this have to do with the identity of her killer?"

"I think it was Jeff."

"But he was in Washington. You said so."

"That's what we've—or at least I've—assumed. But only because we believe the police called him there and he flew here. Look, Netta, I'm know I'm doing a terrible job with this. I want to try a little experiment. You know Jeff never has his phone far from his side, right? So I want you to call this number...." I handed her the address book. "It's their home number back in D.C., and see what happens. If he answers, pretend you're a friend and ask for Martina."

"He's here in the hotel," she said. "He isn't going to be answering a phone back in D.C."

"Will you just try it, please?"

Shaking her head, she lifted the phone and dialed the number, listening with a dubious expression. She was about to hang up when something happened. I watched astonishment spread across her face. Then she said, "This is Verbena Swinburne calling. I am sorry to disturb you so early but we've got a bit of a crisis on here at the school. May I speak with Martina, please?"

She listened attentively for a moment, then murmured, "Oh, Mr. Pullman, I am just devastated to hear that. Devastated. You have my deepest sympathy. I don't know how any of us will go on. Yes. Thank you. I'll wait to hear about that. Good-bye."

She set the phone down with a shaking hand and stared at me. "I called Washington and Jeff Pullman answered. But he's not in Washington. He's here."

"Right," I agreed. "Call forwarding."

"Call forwarding?"

"You can have your calls sent wherever you're going to be. You can make them follow you around."

"But why didn't he turn it off?"

"Maybe he forgot."

"Or maybe he turned it on again."

"Or maybe he just turned it on and the poor guy is innocent."

"Maybe. The police can probably check phone records."

She leaned forward, staring at me intently. "You think he came here, killed Martina, flew away, waited for their call, and then flew back?"

"Something like that. We know Rory was helping at least as far as to purchase the tickets. And in the message that she left, Rory says her attackers were Linda and Jeff... well... she didn't actually say Jeff, but it all fits."

"How sweet. A reconciliation over Martina's dead body."

The phone rang. It was Bobby. "Okay," he said. He sounded like he'd just come in from running several miles. Part of Bobby's charm was the way he got caught up in his work. "Okay. We've got the name of your credit card holder. It's Jeffrey Pullman." He read off the familiar address. "Luke's still working on the reservations, but I thought you'd like an update. He shouldn't be much longer. I'll call if we get anything."

I hung up and nodded to Jonetta. "My office. They've confirmed that the mysterious correspondent on Rory's laptop, who goes by the name of Fox, and carries the account in the name of Alan Grinnell, charges the account to Jeff Pullman's credit card."

Jonetta shuffled her ruffles and gave me a settle-down look. "Slow down, girl. You're not making sense. You lost me about four names ago. What do this Fox character and Alan Grinnell have to do with anything?"

I was too revved up to slow down. "Oops. Sorry. I jumped the gun again. You remember that I took Rory's laptop—"

"I told you to, remember?" she said. "But Jolene said the laptop was destroyed when someone broke into your room." Jonetta looked confused.

"That was
my
laptop. We had the same model." I resisted the urge to digress into a self-pitying riff about losing my computer and stuck to my explanation. Not easy. My thoughts and words were tumbling. "Anyway, on Rory's laptop, she has E-mail correspondence with someone called Fox. Fox has been advising Rory about how to embezzle money from the association."