Sun, Sand, Murder Page 4

* * *

  The next morning I was back at my desk in the police station by seven a.m. Deputy Commissioner Lane, Inspector Stoutt, and Professor Kelliher’s body had departed on the St. Ursula at dawn, the body in a machinery crate lined with garbage bags and packed in ice from the meat locker at the Reef Hotel.

  There was no doubt that a sitting of the coroner’s inquest in Road Town, held in all cases of unexpected death, would reach a verdict of homicide. A man had been killed, apparently with a firearm, on the island that is my home. As the only police presence, I felt a strong need to find the killer or killers and bring them to justice. But DC Lane had been explicit and so I turned to the task assigned to me.

  I thought it would be easy to locate Paul Kelliher’s next of kin using his passport and driver’s license information. I began with the passport information because I thought it should be reliable and because often an emergency contact can be obtained using it. Besides, my second cousin Sheila Creque works in the San Juan, Puerto Rico, office of US Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

  I called her on the landline and she was able to confirm the information on Professor Kelliher’s passport. After speaking with her supervisor, she faxed a form to the administrator’s office to be completed to obtain the emergency contact information. Ten minutes after faxing back the completed form, I had Paul Kelliher’s emergency contact: Bonnie Kelliher, wife, 52 Fisher Avenue, Roxbury Crossing, Boston, Massachusetts, telephone 617-754-5966. The address matched the one on the professor’s driver’s license.

  I had never delivered news like this before, so I took a minute to compose myself and think about what I would say. Be gentle, be factual, and express condolences, I told myself. I had seen it on TV. I dialed the Boston number.

  “Patriot Pizza and Spuckies, can I take ya ordah?”

  Derailed from my rehearsed lines, I took a moment before I spoke. “I am trying to reach Bonnie Kelliher,” I stammered.

  “Who?” The girl’s Boston accent was as thick as clam chowder, her tone brusque.

  “B-O-N-N-I-E K-E-L-L-I-H-E-R,” I spelled.

  “Nobody here by that name. This is a pizza parlor. Ya wanna order a pizza or not?”

  “This is important. I am a police constable in the British Virgin Islands—”

  “Yeah, an’ I’m the friggin’ queen of England.” The line clicked dead.

  I checked the phone to make certain I had dialed the correct number. It matched the number on the fax from US ICE. Thinking the emergency contact number might have been a typo, I went to the administrator’s office and sat down at the computer terminal. Pamela Pickering’s Acer PC and its grimy keyboard were the sole link between the Internet and the government of the BVI on Anegada. A search of the Boston white pages revealed several Kellihers but no Paul or Bonnie. No P. Kelliher or B. Kelliher. No number was listed for 52 Fisher Avenue. Maybe the number was unlisted. Not unusual. I could see where a man who spent as much time alone as Paul Kelliher might value his privacy.

  Knowing that Professor Kelliher was a member of the Boston University biology faculty, I located the BU biology department home page and called the number listed there.

  “Angela Petto, assistant to the chair, how may I help you?” The clam chowder accent again, though thinner and more courteous this time. A mental image of a plumpish Ms. Petto, wearing out-of-style eyeglasses and a pilling pink sweater, conjured itself in my head for no reason.

  I explained who I was, that I was sorry to inform her that Professor Paul Kelliher had been killed during his research trip to Anegada, and that I hoped she could provide correct contact information for his next of kin.

  “Who is Professor Paul Kelliher?” Ms. Petto asked.

  “He is a member of the faculty of your biology department. He has been coming to Anegada in the British Virgin Islands for the past five years to do research on an endangered species here.”

  “Honey, I’ve been heah for nineteen yeahs, the last ten as assistant to the department chair, and I nevah heard of any Professor Kelliher. And as of right now, none of our faculty members are conducting field research in the Caribbean, the British Virgin Islands, or any place called Anegada.” She pronounced it “Ann-ah-gay-der.”

  Ms. Petto tried to be helpful. “Maybe you have the wrong department. Let me check the university directory.” The clicking of the keyboard in Boston was as clear as if it were on the desk in front of me. “No, Constable. There is no Paul Kelliher listed as an employee of the university or as a student. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Thank you for your help.”

  She hung up.

  I decided to go the police route with my problem. A couple of faxes on RVIPF letterhead, followed by a phone call switched from one division of the Boston Police Department to another, and then another, ended with my speaking to Detective Sergeant Brett Donovan in the Missing Persons Unit.

  Unlike everyone else I had spoken to in Boston, Detective Sergeant Donovan had a bland Midwestern accent and time on his hands. I explained my difficulties and he quickly tried to locate Professor Kelliher in his BPD database. Nothing. He accessed the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles and turned up the same driver’s license information I had and nothing more. Undaunted, he volunteered to drive to the Fisher Avenue address. “I should be back in an hour,” he said.

  I called back in precisely one hour.

  “Missing Persons. Detective Sergeant Donovan,” he answered.

  “Special Constable Creque from the Virgin Islands calling to follow up.”

  “Yeah, Constable, I checked out your Number Fifty-Two Fisher Avenue. It was a wild goose chase. There is no Number Fifty-Two. There is a Fifty-Four Fisher Avenue and a Fifty, but where Fifty-Two should be is just a vacant lot with some trees on it behind the baseball field at McLaughlin Playground. I knocked on the door at Number Fifty and the resident there never heard of Paul or Bonnie Kelliher. The guy in Fifty had lived there for ten years. Looks like a bad address on the driver’s license and passport. Maybe your decedent did not want to be found.”

  “I’m beginning to think that, Detective Sergeant. Do you have any ideas about what else I might do to locate his next of kin?”

  “If you get me a set of prints I could run it through our system and see if that turns up anything. And a DNA sample might work if he had previously been tested, although I would need clearance from my boss to run that.”

  “The remains are at the coroner’s office on another island right now, so I can’t provide prints to you at this moment,” I said.

  “No problem. Call me if you want to run the prints or if you need anything else run down on this end. Good luck, Constable.”

  “Thank you for your efforts, Detective Sergeant.”

  The seemingly simple task DC Lane had assigned to me had certainly become more complicated. Find the next of kin of a dead man, whose supposed employer has no record of him, with an address that does not exist. I decided to try one more avenue before calling the deputy commissioner to admit failure.

  Chapter Six

  Cobbled together from plywood, driftwood, rope, and corrugated tin, the Cow Wreck Beach Bar and Grill combined the attention to form of a Gaudí cathedral with the orderliness of a junkyard. Its only truly valuable assets were a beer cooler, a hot plate, and Belle Lloyd. The beer cooler was obvious in its utility. The hot plate was the genesis of the best conch fritters on Anegada and perhaps in the entire Caribbean. Belle Lloyd, bartender, cook, hostess, and sole proprietor, was the favorite aunt, best friend, and confidante of all who set foot on the bar’s pale pink sand floor. Cow Wreck Bay was out of the way, even for Anegada, but Belle’s warm smile and easy humor made the ramshackle bar a getaway place for native Anegadians and tourists alike.

  The Cow Wreck Beach Bar and Grill was also the closest thing Paul Kelliher had to a base of operations on Anegada. When the professor took a break from his field research expeditions, his destination was always the seaward of the four stools at Belle’s unfinished plywood bar. I
f anyone would have information on him, it would be Belle.

  I arrived at Cow Wreck in the early afternoon. Belle had just finished serving a lunch of goat stew to a couple at the bar. I had seen them around, middle-aged Americans staying at the Reef Hotel. They were the only ones in the place and whispered excitedly to each other about having stumbled onto this gem and having it all to themselves on a perfect day. Both Belle and I had seen this kind of excitement before; it happened every time a new traveler came to Belle’s establishment.

  “You want some lunch, Teddy? I got one serving of goat water left.” Belle gestured toward the pot on the hot plate.

  “I’d love it, Belle.”

  She ladled from the pot and placed a steaming plate in front of me. The aroma hit and I instantly salivated. I would crawl over broken glass for a plate of Belle’s goat water. Anyone in their right mind would.

  The day’s lunch service completed, Belle sat on a high stool she kept behind the bar. “So what’s with you, Teddy?”

  “I’m here on police business today. Paul Kelliher is dead. De White Rasta found him over at Spanish Camp, shot in the head. I’m hoping you have some information to help me get in touch with his family in the States.” As I said this, a look of shock and surprise appeared on Belle’s face.

  “He shot himself in the head?” Even as she said the words, it was clear she believed that was not something Professor Kelliher would do.

  “No. No gun was found. Someone shot him and I don’t know who or why,” I said. “Do you know anything about his family?”

  “I know he had a wife. Bonnie, I think he said, but he never talked much about her, only mentioned her name. He said she never came on his trips because she didn’t like the heat and camping out ‘in the field,’ as he called it. He never mentioned any children or parents. He never talked very much about personal stuff. He was all about the rock iguana, and had anybody looked in this or that part of the east side for them. He was always asking if anyone was doing any poking around over there. He said he didn’t want to see the habitat of the lizards destroyed. Wanted to make sure no one was disturbing them or going over there killing them to eat like we did in the old days. That was usually the extent of the conversation until he’d had enough rum smoothies that he had to sleep it off.”

  “Where did he do that?”

  “I keep a cot in back. He kept some of his stuff here, too. Come on, I’ll show you.” Belle led me around the open end of the back wall of the bar to a lean-to storage room on the other side. Behind the cases of beer, propane canisters, and other detritus of the bar business was a folding camp cot. At the foot of the cot were two molded plastic storage containers, stacked one atop the other.

  “His stuff is in those two containers,” Belle said, pointing.

  I opened the top container. It must have served as Kelliher’s wardrobe, as it contained several pairs of shorts, a half dozen T-shirts, khaki pants, and one long-sleeved shirt.

  The second container held a spiral notebook, like the kind schoolchildren use. I opened it and saw that the first dozen pages were filled with writing, an incoherent mix of letters and numbers. I thought it might be some kind of code. There was no discernible system or pattern to the letters and numbers, so I put it aside to revisit later.

  Below the notebook were several folded maps. The first was a 1977 map of Anegada prepared by the British Ministry of Overseas Development. I had seen prints of this map many times before. It was the only quality modern map of Anegada and copies were for sale at the Reef Hotel and several places in Road Town on Tortola. The map had an arc drawn in pencil with the point of the radius in the area of Spanish Camp. Within the arc was a scattering of X marks, also in pencil, with no notations or explanation.

  Under the 1977 survey map was a photocopy of a map entitled “Anegada with Its Reefs” by R. H. Schomburgk, dated 1832. Unlike the survey map, Schomburgk’s map actually contained the designation “Spanish Camp” on Anegada’s east side. The words were double underlined in pencil, the only notation on the photocopy.

  A manila envelope was folded beneath the two maps. Inside was a crude drawing done on a single legal-size sheet, crisp-dry with age. A heavy pencil line bisected the page lengthwise, with the word “pond” inside an irregular circle left of the line, and an X between the line and the circle. If it was intended as a map, it left much to be desired.

  At the bottom of the container, I found a SOG-TAC push-button knife with a matte black blade, and a rectangular tube that looked like a small flashlight with no bulb. There was a switch labeled “on/off” at the base of the tube and a cap at the opposite end. Opening the cap revealed two metal prongs or posts a quarter inch long. I pushed the switch and a blue bolt of electricity crackled between the posts. Belle jumped back and let out a short yelp. I released the switch. The smell of ozone hung in the close quarters of the lean-to. The tube seemed to be some type of electroshock weapon, not the sort of equipment a biologist brings to the field. The knife was not exactly a camp knife either, its wicked blade and matte finish making it something I would expect a commando, not a scientist, to carry.

  “Did he ever show you any of this?” I asked Belle.

  “No. What is that electrical thing?” Belle focused on the tube like it was a poisonous snake in the room.

  “I don’t know, Belle.” There was obviously much I did not know and the trip to Cow Wreck only raised more questions without providing any answers.

  Thanking Belle, I put the two containers of Kelliher’s belongings in the Land Rover and headed back to The Settlement.

  I looked forward to telling the deputy commissioner that I had failed to find Paul Kelliher’s next of kin with the eagerness of a penitent headed to confession after a debauched weekend capped by a mortal sin. Circumstances spared me. When I called headquarters in Road Town, DC Lane and the commissioner were in a meeting with the premier and Her Majesty’s governor, presumably to report on the murder and develop the best spin to prevent an exodus of tourists and their dollars. Consuela Lettsome, the DC’s secretary since forever, transferred me to Inspector Stoutt.

  Rollie listened with polite disinterest as I described my efforts and then unhelpfully suggested that I keep trying. I asked if he wanted me to send Kelliher’s personal effects over on the next ferry.

  “Keep them there. I don’t have a lot of room in the evidence lockup, and they are not really evidence, anyway.” Rollie was as incurious as a stenographer.

  * * *

  My shift as special constable was over and my shift at the power generator would begin in two hours. I had left a note for Icilda that I would be home for dinner, so I turned the Land Rover in that direction.

  “Betty Wheatley told me that Professor Kelliher was killed out at Spanish Camp,” Icilda said to greet me as I came through the door. We had not spoken since before the body was found, between her late dinner shift at the Reef Hotel and my departure before she awoke that morning. Not that there was anything unusual about that. In the last few years, we had gone days at a time without seeing or speaking to each other due to the overlapping shifts of our various jobs. “Was it some kind of accident?”

  “He was shot.” I flopped into my chair at the kitchen table.

  “Shot? Who would want to do that to him? He doesn’t have an enemy on Anegada.” She placed a glass of iced tea before me. A cool bead of condensation from the glass dripped into my lap as I drank.

  “He must have at least one enemy, here or somewhere. Someone felt the need to shoot him in the middle of the forehead.”

  “Dear Jesus have mercy on that man’s eternal soul.” Churchy Icilda. She never missed a chance to put what she heard on Sunday morning to use during the rest of the week. “Do you have a suspect?”

  “I don’t have anything. I am not on the case.” I went on to recount my transgressions at the crime scene and DC Lane’s removal of me from the investigation. Icilda took it in with the same aplomb she displayed when Kevin failed to pick up his clothes
from his bedroom floor. Maybe she just didn’t care.

  There had been a time when she had cared but that time was long ago now. There had been a time when I had cared, too, cared about Icilda Faulkner and everything she said and did. I guess you could say we thought we were in love, once, when life was new and we were young. We had seemed to ourselves and others to be a good match, the two most ambitious and lively offspring of two old Anegada families.

  So we got married and for a time the life we had hoped to make together appeared to be ours. Then Kevin and Tamia came along, and multiple jobs, and there was always a boat to repair, or housework to be done, and now we just went through the motions. At least what Icilda did seemed like she was just going through the motions. The girl I had thought I loved, and who I thought had loved me, the young wife who had told me her dreams, had not had much to say to me these last few years that didn’t pertain to the business of the day, the logistics of feeding and transporting kids, or the schedule of church services for the week. And, shame on me, I let it happen, drifted like some tired old barge along with the current, until I was lost, resigned and just going through the motions, too. Maybe the point had been reached where I just didn’t care, either.

  “My only assignment now is to find and notify his next of kin,” I said. Icilda merely grunted as she spooned peas and rice and some fried yellowtail onto a plate for me. Kevin and Tamia came rattling in from outside, in a typical brother-sister dispute over some slight, real or imagined, that they demanded I mediate. It was clear that the discussion of Paul Kelliher’s demise and my duties related to it was over.

  Chapter Seven

  Instead of the usual nap, that night’s shift at the electric plant provided a chance to reflect on the events of the last forty-eight hours. A man was dead on Anegada. His killer might still be here or could be a thousand miles away by now. I had altered the crime scene and impeded or maybe even ruined the investigation. The murder weapon was a gun, and there were no guns on the island, other than the Webley locked in the police station safe and a rusty shotgun or two in The Settlement, left over from the days of flamingo hunting. There was no readily apparent motive for the murder. The victim was not the man he portrayed himself to be. The victim’s possessions included maps, drawings, writings in code, and weapons, all items he did not need to conduct the research he’d led everyone on Anegada to believe he had been doing for the last several years.