"You know the old saying: 'Obstinancy is the better part of valor.'"
"I thought discretion was."
"Obstinancy gets you what you want," I say. "You can be discreet about it later."
Fiona takes a moment to consider that, then rightly decides that it's really not worth considering.
"Why do you want to help me, anyway?"
"Aunt Trula asked me to."
"So you're just offering to be nice?"
"That's the way it started, but after you spurned me, it became a personal cause."
"Men," she says. "The whole conquest thing. They can be really screwed up like that."
"Yeah," I say. "They can. Meanwhile, my offer is still on the table."
Fiona cocks her head, looks me up and down. I don't feel the least bit objectified.
"So let me get this straight," she says. "You don't have a background in police work. You don't know your way around. And yet, despite that, you are offering to drive me. In a car that you stole. In a country where you do not hold a driver's license."
"That pretty much sums it up."
Fiona smiles. Her teeth are very white, her lips plump and pink.
"Works for me," she says. "So where's this cool car of yours, anyway?"
30.
I futz around with the Morris Minor, trying to get the top down. But it's no go. And just as well, since a rain shower descends upon us the moment we pull onto Middle Road, heading south to Hamilton. Fiona has an appointment at the coroner's office to review the official findings.
"Barbara told me you met with the police after you arrived yesterday. Said you weren't too pleased with the way things are going."
"To put it mildly," Fiona says. "Granted, it was a very brief meeting and I was jet lagged out of my skull. Still, the detective in charge of things ... Worley, I think his name was ..."
"Same guy who showed up here the day your brother's body was found. Seemed decent enough."
"Yeah, maybe. But not exactly forthcoming, not even after I played the just-between-us-cops card. What little information I got, I felt like I had to pry it out of him. Plus, he kept asking all these rather irksome questions about Ned. I got the feeling that my brother was under more suspicion than his murderer."
"What kind of questions was he asking?"
"Mostly regarding Ned's reasons for coming to Bermuda. Worley seemed to think he had a motive or something. It wasn't like that."
"So why did your brother come here?"
"It was just a lark, that's all. Ned had been going to university for six solid years. Got his master's degree. Decided to do some traveling before he settled down. Financed it by working at dive shops along the way. A few months in Thailand, then in the Maldives and Seychelles. Arrived here in Bermuda last fall. Next stop was supposed to be home. He was finally hankering to get on with his life, I think."
"What did he study in college?"
"Marine archaeology," she says.
I let that rattle around in my head. She keeps talking.
"A couple of months ago, Ned got word that he had won a position with the Australian National Maritime Museum. He was going to be charting some seventeenth-century shipwrecks along the north coast. Living on a research vessel, diving every day, putting together pieces of the past-it was his dream job. He was on top of the world.
"We were ecstatic that he'd finally be coming home, even if he'd be way up in the north territory. My mom and dad had even started planning a party to welcome him back. And then-poof!-he pulled the plug on everything."
"What do you mean he pulled the plug?"
"I mean, two weeks before he was set to fly home, he called to tell us he had turned down the job and was staying here."
"What reason did he give?"
Fiona shrugs.
"In typical Ned fashion, he was vague. Just said it was important that he remain in Bermuda because he could make a name for himself."
"Make a name for himself?"
"That's what he said."
"Nothing more than that?"
"No, not really. Why?"
Best not to let laundry lie around in the hamper. Time to air it out ...
"Listen, Fiona. When you spoke with Inspector Worley yesterday, did he mention anything about two other murders? They happened several years ago. Both scuba divers. Both apparently killed in a fashion much like that which happened to your brother."
The look on Fiona's face tells me it's news to her.
I spend the next few minutes telling her what little I know about the deaths of Martin Boyd and Richard Peach, courtesy of my conversation with Janeen Hill. Skimpy stuff, but it's all I've got.
When I'm done, Fiona doesn't say anything for a while. Then ...
"Bastard," she says.
"Who?"
"Worley, that's who. I went to see him. I talked to him cop-to-cop. He should have told me."
"Maybe he was just waiting until he got all the details from the coroner's report."
Fiona shakes her head.
"Bullshit. He should have told me. The bastard should have told me." She looks at me. "Do you know how to get in touch with that newspaper reporter?"
I fish around in my wallet, find Janeen Hill's business card, and give it to Fiona. She punches numbers on a cell phone. I listen as she works her way through several layers at the Royal Gazette office, asking for Hill.
"Oh, really? As of when?" I hear her say. "Well thanks, then. I appreciate it."
She turns off the phone.
"That was Janeen Hill's editor."
"Is he going to put her in touch with you?"
"I don't think so."
I look at her.
"Janeen Hill no longer works at the Royal Gazette" Fiona says. "She turned in her resignation yesterday."
31.
The coroner's office is a small, stuffy room at the rear of the main police complex on Parliament Street. The chief coroner-a stout, darkhaired woman named Dr. Patterson-points us to chairs beside her desk.
"First, my condolences," Dr. Patterson says. "My heart is with you."
"Thank you," Fiona says.
Dr. Patterson pats a stack of papers on her desk.
"You will be pleased to know that I have been authorized to release your brother's remains. But there is some necessary paperwork that I must trouble you with," she says. "To begin with, do you intend to ship the body back to Australia, Miss McHugh?"
"No," Fiona says. "I discussed it with my family. We've decided to have a simple memorial service for him in Perth. As for here, I'm hoping to arrange a burial at sea. I know that's what Ned would have wanted. Will that be a problem?"
"Not at all," says Dr. Patterson. "Sea burials are quite common here in Bermuda. I'll be glad to recommend someone who can assist you with the arrangements."
The next few minutes are taken up with paperwork. When the formalities are over, Dr. Patterson pulls a manila folder from a desk drawer.
"This is the official autopsy report. I performed it myself," she says. "If you like, I can summarize."
"Please," says Fiona.
Dr. Patterson opens the folder, scans its contents. Then she puts it back down on the desk. She steels herself for what she is about to say.
"In brief, your brother's death was caused by a disruption of the inner ear ossicles and the petrous ridge, which severed the internal carotid artery and, ultimately, punctured the brain stem."
"A disruption?"
"Via the forcible insertion of a sharp instrument," says Dr. Patterson. "Judging by the relatively confined size of the puncture, roughly threepoint-five millimeters, it would rule out anything much larger, say, than a long needlelike object of some kind. We are still assessing the exact nature of the weapon involved."
Fiona closes her eyes, shudders.
"My brother bled to death?"
"No," says Dr. Patterson. "Although the artery was severed, his death was a result of contusions to the medulla oblongata. He died almost instantly."
"So, he didn't suffer?"
Dr. Patterson considers the question. Her look is grim.
"I wish I could tell you, no, he didn't suffer, but ..." She stops. "Are you quite certain that you wish to know all the details?"
Fiona nods.
"Tell me. Everything."
"Very well, then." Dr. Patterson studies the folder for a moment. "Your brother sustained a significant, although not lethal, loss of blood approximately two hours before his death. This would be consistent with trauma observed in both of the ocular cavities."
It takes a moment for the stilted terminology to sink in.
"His eyes?" Fiona says. "You mean to tell me that whoever did this yanked out my brother's eyes and then waited two hours to kill him?"
Dr. Patterson nods.
"He also received numerous contusions to the upper torso, along with three broken ribs, mostly likely the result of being kicked."
Fiona bites her lip, hangs her head.
"My God," she says.
Dr. Patterson gets up from her chair and steps around the desk to comfort Fiona.
"Can I get you anything? Do you want some time to yourself?"
Fiona shakes her head.
"No, I'll be all right."