EQMM, May 2012 (23 page)

"I bought this island some years ago from an American actor named Marlon Brando, who is now deceased. He had purchased several outlying islands while spending the better part of a year in Tahiti filming
Mutiny on the Bounty
. Subsequently, he decided to keep only one for his personal use and offered the others for resale.

"Some years earlier I had arrived in Tahiti from Fiji. I owned a small sailboat that I used for lagoon pearl diving. I had several native boys diving for me and they brought up enough pearls for me to open a small pearl shop in Papeete. Business was good, and I made a reasonable profit. Over the years I accumulated enough money to purchase several other boats and open several other shops. When the ships of some of the cruise lines began stopping here, my profits increased substantially and soon I had enough capital to buy a few pieces of waterfront property. When the owner of the Tiki Hotel, who was a very heavy smoker, became ill with emphysema and wanted to retire, he sold his hotel to me. My good fortune continued to increase to the point where I was able to purchase Makalea from Mr. Brando.” Tamu pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then continued, “Incidentally, contrary to a somewhat negative reputation he seemed to cultivate back in America, I found Mr. Brando to be a very congenial, intelligent man and we enjoyed being occasional drinking companions.

"However, getting back to Makalea, the island was in pretty wretched condition throughout when I acquired it. I knew about its condition beforehand, of course, but I thought I saw the possibility of rehabilitating it substantially.” Tamu smiled. “I was much younger then, much more idealistic, and had delusions about what I was capable of doing. I soon discovered, however, that my ambitions were not as implausible as it might have seemed. You see, I moved part of my lagoon pearl-diving business from Tahiti to Makalea, and to my great surprise and delight, my native divers here began bringing up oysters containing a high percentage of black pearls. Of course, there had been an occasional such find in my Papeete operation, but nothing like the quantity we began to harvest here on Makalea. Very shortly thereafter, I began to do a thriving business in black pearls in my shops around the islands. That, to my great distress, was when I received a visit from two officials of the French Territorial Tax Department.

"I was advised that due to the quantity of black pearls I was merchandising, I would be required to pay an export tax of forty-five percent of the sale price—and that any black pearls sold to non-French citizens, such as cruise-ship passengers shopping while in port, would be considered export merchandise. They also inquired where I was obtaining my increasing stock of black pearls. I lied, of course, and said my Papeete lagoon divers were bringing them up, probably due to rogue tides sweeping them in from the shipping lanes. Naturally they didn't believe me, since none of the other pearl merchandisers was having similar good fortune, but there was no way they could prove otherwise. I had no option, however, but to begin paying the exorbitant tax on my black-pearl sales.

"In order to circumvent that unfair and punitive assessment, I slowly reduced my stock of black pearls on the retail market and began hoarding them here on Makalea until I could make arrangements to smuggle them through a cruise-ship officer to a gem wholesaler in Indonesia. I then began to use the profits from my smuggling operation to improve conditions on Makalea. I built a new free health clinic and hired doctors and nurses to run it, a rent-free housing development for the old people, a new elementary school for our youngsters, along with excellent teachers I recruited from Montessori schools in Southeast Asia, a large nonprofit retail food warehouse, and so on. I also had the town's streets repaved, put in a new freshwater purification plant, a solar electrical generating system—"

"In short,” Paul Duval interjected, “Mr. Tamu turned a dilapidated island populated by poor native families struggling to barely get by into the thriving community you see today."

"And that's where Paul and I entered the picture,” Ian Tipton added. “The French government sent Paul out on a covert assignment to investigate just how the black-pearl market was expanding from within French territory without being taxed."

"It took me about a month to track down the operation here on Makalea,” Duval said. “But after becoming friendly with people in Papeete who had relatives over here, and learning what Mr. Tamu had accomplished, I decided to introduce myself and join his operation. Awhile later, when Ian arrived on the same kind of assignment, I spotted him, took him into my confidence, and he too joined up."

"It didn't take much encouragement,” Tipton admitted. “The way I saw it, Mr. Tamu was simply diverting French tax revenues for the improvement of the lives of French citizens living in a French territory. Seemed bloody fair to me."

Leland took a generous sip of brandy and shook his head in wonderment. “How long did it take you two to tumble to me?” he asked, chagrined.

"We really weren't sure at first that you were an agent,” Duval admitted. “And then Mr. Tamu decided that he could trust you."

"And how did you decide that?” Leland asked Tamu. The white-haired man smiled slyly.

"When I asked you whether you had become intimate with Dominique, you said you had not. Which was not true. You
had
become intimate with her; you see, I know everything that goes on in my hotel. But you lied to protect her reputation rather than boast of your accomplishment."

"Dominique is a particular favorite of ours,” Tipton said. “She turned down both Paul and me. We trust that you will treat her properly in the future."

"What future?” Leland asked, frowning. “What do you mean?"

"Your future here,” Duval said. “On Makalea. With us."

Leland stared at him for a moment, then at Tipton, finally at Simon Tamu.

He thought of Domi. And her little girl, Marama. But he did not think of Abigail.

"Oh,” he said finally. “That future. Of course."

Two weeks later, the following item appeared on the front page of the
Papeete Polynesia News:

A single-engine Harkin four-seater seaplane rented from Atlas Air Lines in Papeete has been reported lost in the sea between Tahiti and Moorea, with three passengers aboard.

The three missing people, all tourists, have been identified as Claude Boyer, of Paris, France; Jake Dugan, of London, England; and William Garson, of Honolulu, Hawaii. All three were registered at the Tiki Hotel in Papeete.

The plane was rented by Boyer, who presented a certified pilot's license and paid for a one-day rental in cash. When last heard from by Faa'a Airport control, the plane was ten miles off the east coast of Tahiti. A two-day search and recovery effort by French boats found no survivors or wreckage.

The respective consulates of the victims have been notified.

When Leland came up from his daily dive the day the story broke, Duval and Tipton showed him the paper.

"Tragic,” Leland commented.

"Yes,” Duval agreed.

"Quite,” Tipton seconded.

The plane had actually landed off the northern coast of Makalea and coasted into a concealed lagoon, where it was dismantled and sunk.

"Do you suppose someone will send other agents out here to investigate?” Duval wondered.

Leland shrugged. “If they do, we'll spot them."

"Then what?” asked Tipton.

"Then we'll see. But we're all agreed that we'll protect Makalea, right?"

"Definitely,” said Duval.

"Positively,” said Tipton.

"At any cost?” Leland asked for emphasis.

"At any cost, yes,” both Duval and Tipton replied in concert.

The two men helped Leland off with his dive gear and he dried himself with a beach towel. From the dock end of the pier came the sound of a horn. Behind the wheel of a new yellow Jeep, Domi smiled and waved. And running along the pier toward him, her bright young face beaming, came Marama.

"Beely!” she shouted. “Do you have my oyster?"

He had brought up an oyster especially for her every day.

Most days it had a black pearl in it.

Copyright © 2012 by Clark Howard

[Back to Table of Contents]

Martin Edwards is a prolific anthologist as well as a celebrated mystery writer. In fact, he is listed as the editor on two new anthologies from Britain published this year:
Guilty Consciences,
a collection of stories from the Crime Writers Association (January 2012) and
Best Eaten Cold,
a Murder Squad anthology which he co-edited with Barry Forshaw (May 2012). Mr. Edwards's latest novel is
The Hanging Wood,
an entry in his award-nominated Lake District series (paperback edition 11/11).

Sunlight burst through the arched windows. For an instant, Kelly was blinded.

"Unbelievable, isn't it?” Brett asked.

"It's . . . amazing."

Despite the sunlight, the house felt chilly. As she shaded her eyes, she couldn't help shivering.

"I knew you'd love it!’ He nodded towards the brilliant light. “Those aren't the original leaded windows, but triple glazing in precisely the same style. There was never any stained glass in St. Lucy's, but no expense has been spared, promise."

"St. Lucy's?"

"Name of the old church. The developer changed it to Meadow View. More appropriate, truly rural."

"And you want to move in soon?"

"Today!” Decisiveness was a quality he prized. “The deal is done, contracts were exchanged simultaneously with completion."

"Already?"

"I had to keep my plan secret, in case negotiations broke down."

"You're so thoughtful.” She hugged him. “And it really is ours?"

"Down to the last maple floorboard.” He lowered his voice, and for a few seconds, it was almost as if the house were still a church. “I only hope it goes a little way towards making up for—you know . . . what happened."

Churlish and ungrateful to say nothing could make up for what happened. She was thankful that he cared so much. After she lost the baby, he might have abandoned her. But in his way, he had tried his best to offer comfort.

"I want to put your name on the title deeds,” he said. “We can sort the paperwork once you give the landlord notice to quit your flat."

"I don't care about title deeds,” she said. Financial and legal stuff meant nothing to her, she was happy to leave bureaucracy to him. He was the banker, after all. She only worked in a florist's. “But . . . is there a bus route nearby? How will I get to the shop?"

"I'll buy you a car,” he said, “though really, sweetie, you don't want to stay stuck behind a counter all day."

"I like the job,” she said. “You know I love flowers."

"Why not design a floral arrangement for the sitting area? This space calls out for a splash of colour, make a contrast with the potted palm."

"A customer once told me palms symbolise the victory of the faithful over enemies of the soul.” She gazed at the exposed rafters of the ceiling. “How old is this place?"

"A hundred and forty years old."

"When did it stop being a church?"

"The last service was held three years ago.” He shook his head. “I bet there were scarcely half a dozen old folk in the congregation. The church authorities realised St. Lucy's was uneconomic. In the end, five parishes were merged, and the redundant churches put on the market. Sound business decision, the figures never added up."

"Sad, though."

"There comes a time when you have to rationalise,” he said.

For a moment, she recalled those endless nights crying herself to sleep in her poky flat, when she feared he might rationalise her out of his life. Foolish of her, she should have shown more trust.

"The conversion was a labour of love,” Brett said. “St. Lucy's was bought by a man called Dixon. He was born round here, but moved to London with his family. I gather he dreamed of coming back to the village. Not that there was much of a village left to come back to."

"How do you mean?"

"The school closed, along with the post office, and the pub was knocked down. Most of the cottages on the main street have become second homes or a base for commuting couples. According to the estate agent, hardly anyone has lived in the village more than five years."

"Pity."

"Progress, sweetie. By all accounts, the whole area cried out for an upgrade; investment was required. Don't fret, there's a retail park ten minutes away by car, they sell everything you could wish for. You won't have to depend on some grubby little village shop for overpriced groceries."

She squeezed past the potted palm, which was nearly as tall as Brett, and sank into the clutches of a leather sofa, one of three stationed at right angles to each other. An enormous television screen completed the square.

"You can't see the wiring,” he said. “It's cleverly concealed, but we have the latest cinema sound system."

At a flick of a remote, the screen sprang to life. A rock band, performing in concert. Kelly didn't recognise their contorted faces; flowers were her thing, not music. The sound deafened her, the strobe lights made her want to shut her eyes.

"The equipment is all to the highest specification,” Brett said, as he silenced the acoustic guitar. “Hot water underfloor heating. Zoned thermostats. And it's environmentally friendly, with a bio-treatment sewage system. Come and see the mezzanine gallery."

As she followed him up the stairs, he maintained a running commentary on their surroundings. “Matching maple treads, see? The black strings are made of steel. The safety glass meets the highest standards."

As they reached the top, Kelly found herself facing an enormous four-poster bed.

"Silk curtains as well as sheets,” he said. “Over there is our en-suite bathroom. Mahogany-framed Shoji screens for privacy—not that we need worry about that when we don't have guests to stay."

"Guests?"

"Sure. You know how important it is for me to entertain clients and colleagues. My progress up the ladder depends on keeping them satisfied. You'll enjoy the company, honestly."