Hercules Pinot and the Rum do: the diary of a drunken holiday sleuth.
Monday.
The circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Lady Ivanna Vonn Strutner continue to plague my thoughts and have all the islanders talking. Tracks in the sand, winding down from her luxurious plantation estate, reveal she wasn’t as dependent on her hand-carved Ebony walking-stick as people had thought: a mere hundred metres from home, her footsteps continue along the soft sands of the cove, yet her stick leaves not a single trail.
Tuesday.
My suspicions have been confirmed. Lady Ivanna had indeed fully recovered from her equestrian accident many months ago and certainly had no physical need for her owl-topped walking aid. Her loyal maid-servant Mavis confessed to having often seen her stiletto-booted boss hot-footing it to the stables to, and I quote, “discuss the intricacies of stud-breeding” with the dashing stable-hand Gavin.
Intriguingly, I learn from my contacts at the Law Society that he is the sole beneficiary of her entire estate.
The plot, like my sun-soaked Pina Colada, thickens.
Wednesday.
Curiouser and curiouser. It transpires that Gavin the stable-hand isn’t just a pretty face: he first made a small fortune in his own right, thanks to a timely investment in a burgeoning cocktail-comparison website, OffFace. Using his sudden windfall, he inexplicably retrained as an inheritance tax expert, which doubtless proved fruitful at the untimely (and still unexplained) deaths of his hither-then sprightly parents. In all, he quite suddenly had enough money to pay for a jetset lifestyle and to fund his penchant for horses and whores. I can only wonder whether he was helping out our missing Lady V with her figures, or just her figure. Either way, with still no trace of her or her body…something just doesn’t add up.
Thursday.
Lotto! Or Bingo! as you English say. I today had young Gavin taken to the custody of the Barbados police on charges of fraud and tax evasion, and he has told us all about his lengthy affair with Lady Ivanna and, most significantly, of the dire financial straits he found her to be in. First attracted by the billions she was set to inherit from her ailing father’s coffee empire, he concocted a plan to bring her to a frothy boil, strain her for all she had and knock her back. Down in one. But, as with the caffeine her father traded, he became instantly addicted to her intense aroma, her smooth, dark intensity, and her handpicked Brazilian bean (too far! – Ed). One shot was never going to be enough. Even when he discovered she’d squandered double the billions she would one day inherit, he just couldn’t let her go. He had found that one commodity that had so far eluded him in life: love.
Friday.
Finally a body. The remains of Lady Ivanna Vonn Strutner were this morning found by doggers down at the foot of Mount Hergently, having plummeted some three hundred feet to the ant-ridden floor. And yet the discovery of her battered and bitten remains has posed only more questions. What, first of all, was she doing at such a remote part of the island; and why would anyone climbing up the highest peak, and some 30 kilometres inland, be wearing a life jacket? And what of that blue cord around her waist? Mes amis, there are just too many unanswered questions for my liking. I’m still convinced that Gavin knows more than he’s letting on.
Saturday.
I was right. A thorough search of Gavin’s beachside condominium has unearthed the most significant clue to date: his pilot’s licence. Since June 2013 has been a fully fledged Cessna pilot and had been making some pocket money flying Bacardi banners over the tourist beaches. His plane was searched this morning throwing out two further significant finds: forty thousand US dollars and a certificate of marriage. His certificate of marriage! Dated just a week ago, it was signed by Father Lumbago and confirmed his union to none other than Lady Ivanna Titania Gardina Bella Fonte Vonn Strutner. He had a wife, and he had a motive.
Sunday.
Being the sole investigator of this increasingly complex case, I have not had the luxury of a good cop/bad cop interrogation routine. But at last a use for my schizophrenia!
In the claustrophobic interview room, Gavin slumped in the chair as he recounted their elaborate plan: first, Ivanna and he would marry in secret – Father Lumbago would be easy to keep quiet since Ivanna found him with that altar boy up his cassock. Gavin would fast track through his pilot’s course and bung the guy a grand if need be to be sure he was signed-off early. Ivanna would meanwhile continue to fein injury and struggle around on her walking stick, while making sure all her life policies were fully up to date and set to pay out the maximum amounts.
Nothing could possibly go wrong.
Ivanna would be at Sunset Beach at nightfall, where she would don the waiting life jacket and backpack and place the sturdy blue cord tightly around her slender waist. She would walk out to the ocean, leaving her apparently suicidal footprints in the sand. Meanwhile, her beloved Gavin would fire up the seaplane to which the blue cord was attached and, at the release of the parachute from her back, lift Ivanna high into the night sky and to the start of a new, very wealthy life together.
But something did go wrong. Very wrong indeed.
Ivanna swooped elegantly over the sands and, with a tear in her eye, captured her last glimpses of the island that had been her home for so many happy years. The island was so still and quiet and, with no moon, almost invisible. Dark tranquility. Not the case up front. Gavin is struggling to get to grips with a new plane. Unknown lights are flashing. Sirens are sounding. Horns blowing. Alarms ringing out from every bit of the complicated dashboard. Gavin is distracted. He increases the throttle and reduces the incline, but still the plane makes noises at him. He brings up the flaps and tweaks the yaw until finally the plane goes quiet – save for one incessant bleep. Suddenly remembering his new wife, Gavin glances back outside the plane window. Something is wrong. Ivanna is panicking and screaming. Her whole body is shaking and she is waving her arms and legs frantically. With one final piercing scream of Gavin’s name, she smashes head-on into the cliff face and plummets to the dark depths below.
One for the road.
So here I am, Hercule Pinot, one of the world’s most inebriated detectives, looking out from this pretty beachside bar over the white sands and crystal waters that lap this beautiful island. Glancing inside, I can see the charming lady owner – a one-time Canadian singer – is filling a pristine glass chalice with glistening liquid emeralds: Crème de Menthe. As I watch her approach, her silver tray held ceremoniously aloft, my mind turns to the tragic Lady Ivanna.
“I hear she died faking her own death, Monsieur Pinot. Isn’t it ironic?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Morrisette. It is.”