"And did they give you toddies before bedtime?"
"Only until I was two," I say. "After that, I poured my own."
Aunt Trula laughs.
"What a delightful sense of humor you have," she says. "I can see why Barbara thinks so highly of you."
"It's a mutual admiration society."
She takes the chair beside me.
"I must say, I had my doubts about you at first, Zachary. You and Barbara just seem so ... so ..."
"So what?"
"So unsuited for each other," she says. "I hope that doesn't offend you."
"Not at all. I've heard it from other people. Barbara has, too. Neither one of us would argue the point."
"It's just that Barbara is so ... so ..."
"Refined," I say.
Aunt Trula nods.
"And you are so ..."
"Not."
Aunt Trula laughs.
"You have your own sort of refinement," she says.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"As it was intended," Aunt Trula says. "Still, I must ask: What are your intentions with my niece?"
I somehow avoid spewing out rum.
"You mean, what are my intentions as far as ..."
"You know very well what I mean, Zachary Chasteen. Do you intend to marry my Barbara?"
"I love her."
"That does not answer my question. Do you intend to marry her?"
I drain the rum. I don't say anything.
"Do not think me just a prying old woman who must control everything and everyone around her."
"I don't think that."
"Oh yes, you do. Because everyone thinks that about me. And rightly so, because that is exactly the way I am. I cannot help it. I like having things my way," says Aunt Trula. "Be certain of one thing: Barbara is quite dear to me. And it would grieve me to see her hurt."
"I would never hurt her. My intentions are totally honorable."
Aunt Trula considers me for a long moment.
"That still is not an answer, but it is good enough for the time being," she says. "I just want you to know, Zachary, that whatever your intentions with Barbara, you have my blessing."
"Thank you."
Aunt Trula smiles.
"And now I must ask you a favor," she says. "I would very much like it if you could help that poor dear Fiona settle this business with her brother."
I don't say anything.
"She needs to bring some closure to this ordeal. She is all alone here and I'm quite sure she's at her wit's end."
I don't say anything.
"Of course, I would step in to help her myself, but as you know I have my hands quite full with the party."
I don't say anything.
"You're not saying anything," Aunt Trula says.
"That's because I really don't know what I can do to help."
"Oh, I'm sure a resourceful chap like you will rise to the occasion, Zachary." She gets up from her chair, bends down and, wonder of wonders, plants a kiss on my cheek. "Nighty-night."
After she's gone, I sit on the terrace, stewing things over. I really could use some company to help me stew. Good thing there's more Gosling's.
29.
I'm up early to see Barbara off. She has planned one of her typical pack-it-to-the-hilt days. A half-dozen meetings with hoteliers, hoping to snag some new ad contracts for Tropics. A dinner down in St. George's with the new minister of tourism. She doesn't expect to return until late tonight.
I hang out with Boggy and the hole-digging crew, pretending they require my help and expertise as they set the third Bismarck in place. Only five to go. And six days until Aunt Trula's party. Piece of cake. They seem to have it under control.
It's still too early to check in with the attorney, Daniel Denton, to see if he's done what I asked him to do. Therefore, it's still too early to drop by the hospital to visit Brewster Trimmingham and do what needs doing there.
I'm just a knight-errant at loose ends. So it's appropriate that I chance upon Fiona McHugh, who is punching away on her laptop in a corner of the study.
Full of chivalrous intent, I offer my services.
Fiona McHugh scrutinizes me with her blue eyes. She has freckles on her nose. They're fetching in an altogether wholesome kind of way.
"Exactly what sort of help do you think you can provide me, Mr. Chasteen?"
I open my mouth to say something, but discover I don't really have anything to say. Fiona picks up the slack.
"Do you have any experience in police work?"
"I've created lots of it from time to time."
Fiona allows herself the hint of a smile.
"Is that the sort of help you are offering? Comic relief?"
"Well, I'm good at heavy lifting, too."
She closes the laptop, rests her chin in a hand, and considers me.
"Do you have any insight regarding my brother's death?"
I flash briefly on my conversation two nights earlier with Janeen Hill. This doesn't seem the appropriate time for trotting out the reporter's wild speculations about some misbegotten quest for a chunk of biblical lore. And despite the grisly similarities between Ned McHugh's death and the murders of Martin Boyd and Richard Peach, I'm not on firm ground when it comes to discussing them. So ...
"No," I say.
"Are you well acquainted with Bermuda, know your way around, have any particular connections that might prove valuable?"
"No, no, and no. I only arrived here four days ago."
"Then I have to ask again: What possible help can you provide me?"
"I've got a cool car. A Morris Minor convertible. It's blue."
"So you're offering to be my chauffeur? Is that it?"
"Sure, why not? The comic relief I'll toss in for free. Mainly because the radio in the car doesn't work."
"That's very kind of you, really. But I intend to rent a car for myself."
"I don't think so," I say.
I tell her about Bermuda's law prohibiting tourists from driving cars. And when I'm done, she asks: "How is it then that you are driving a car?"
So I give her the abridged version of how I came to liberate Trimmingham's Morris Minor from the parking garage the night before.
"Still," she says, "you don't have a license to drive it."
"A mere technicality. Besides, you're a cop. I'm thinking if we get pulled over you can flash your badge," I say. "You do have a badge, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Can I see it?"
She gives me a look.
"What, you don't believe I'm with the police?"
"Sure, I believe it. I just want to see what a police badge from Down Under looks like, that's all."
Fiona reaches into her purse, pulls out a billfold, and flips it open.
"It's really not terribly exciting," she says.
She's right. It's shiny and it looks like any other police badge. The emblem reads: Western Australian Water Police.
"Water police?"
Fiona nods and puts the billfold away.
"Rather like your coast guard, only we're civil service not military," she says.
"You get a lot of experience with murders in the water police?"
"Mr. Chasteen, if you are challenging my credentials, then ..."
"Not challenging, just asking."
She gives me a glare, a surprisingly harsh one for such a pretty face.
"For the record, I graduated from the Western Australian Police Academy with a specialty in investigative procedure and administration. I worked four years in Perth proper, first fraud, then felony, then homicide. Australians don't murder each other with nearly the frequency as you Americans, Mr. Chasteen. Our homicide rate is barely a tenth of yours, about one murder per day spread out over the entire country. Still, we do get the odd stiff in Perth and, yes, I've had a hand in several such investigations.
"As for the water police part of the equation, I saw my career evolving into a series of desk jobs. Promotions, yes, and better pay. But not for me. I asked for my transfer to the water police and have been there about a year. We've got fast boats and thirteen thousand clicks of coastline to watch over, from Scorpion Bight north to Doubtful Bay. Every day's a corker now, all grouse for me."
"That means you like what you do, right?"
"Yeah, I like it. I like it a lot." She smiles. "Any other questions?"
"Uh-huh," I say. "Do I get the job or not?"
"What job?"
"The job of helping you do whatever it is you need to do."
"You don't give up, do you?"