Don't Believe It Page 4
“Charlotte and I have been friends since high school. I guess, what? Ten years or so? I was her maid of honor.”
“As the maid of honor,” Pierre said, “I can assume you and Ms. Brooks are best of friends?”
“She’s a friend,” Grace said. “Yes, of course. A dear friend.”
“Your closest friend?”
Grace hesitated. “She is a close friend, yes.”
“Why are your parents and brother traveling with you?”
“Our parents are friends,” Grace said. “Mine and Charlotte’s. My parents were invited to the wedding.”
“Where were you last night, Ms. Sebold?”
“Here at the resort.”
“Where, exactly? Tell me your day.”
Grace wetted her lips and ran a finger under her right eye to capture the last of her tears. “We were at the pool in the afternoon.”
“Again, Ms. Sebold. Who is we?”
“All of us. Julian and me, and all our friends. Then I had a late lunch with my parents and brother. Maybe three o’clock. After that, I went to my cottage to shower.”
“Did Mr. Crist join you for lunch?”
“No. He had something planned for last night. So he asked to skip lunch with my parents to get ready for it.”
“What was he planning, Ms. Sebold?”
“I’m not sure. Dinner, I think. He asked me to meet him up on the Piton.”
Inspector Pierre straightened in his chair.
“On Gros Piton?”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet him?”
Grace shook her head. “No.”
“Mr. Crist asked you to meet him, and you said no?”
Grace shook her head again. “No, I planned to meet him, but . . . Marshall became ill and I had to stay with him.”
“Who is Marshall?”
“My younger brother.”
“How much younger?”
“Just a year. He’s twenty-five.”
“Your brother, who is an adult, became ill and you were required to tend to him? What was the nature of his illness?”
“He had a seizure. I had to stay with him until it passed.”
Pierre wrinkled his forehead. “A seizure?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “He has a . . .” Grace tapped her fingers on the table to help her thoughts. “He has a medical condition. Seizures are common for him, but when they come, he needs help. So I stayed with him.”
“Surely, there will be a record of you calling for medical assistance? An ambulance or the resort nurse?”
“No. I know how to manage Marshall’s seizures,” Grace said. “He’s had them for many years, ever since . . . the accident.”
“Where did this seizure take place?”
“In my cottage.”
“What time?”
“I’m not sure. I was getting ready. So, about six, I guess.”
“Guessing does not help me, Ms. Sebold.”
Grace took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling. “I would say it was just before six o’clock. I was just out of the shower, putting on makeup and drying my hair, when I heard him start to seizure in the other room.”
“Does your twenty-five-year-old brother often spend time with you while you’re dressing to meet your boyfriend? Your room seems like an odd place for your brother to be while you were showering.”
“Marshall has a condition that makes him . . . He spends a lot of time with me, yes. It makes him comfortable.”
The scribbler took furious notes. When he was finished, he nodded at Pierre, who then continued his questions.
“Your brother had a seizure. What happened next?”
“His seizures last only a few minutes, but it takes a while for him to recover afterward. Maybe thirty or forty minutes. It took some time to clean him up and get him back to his room and into bed.”
“Clean him up?”
“He had vomited,” Grace said, the first strain of annoyance coming to her voice. “And urinated on himself. I got him new clothes and waited while he took a shower.”
“How long did the process take?”
“An hour, maybe. It was probably seven o’clock by the time I got him back to my parents’ cottage.”
“Your vagueness is not at all useful, Ms. Sebold.”
“I’m not trying to be vague. I didn’t record the time, sir. I’m telling you what I remember, the best that I remember it.”
“You had plans to meet Mr. Crist, though. You must have had a sense of the time since you were now running late.”
“Yes, a sense. I just can’t tell you the exact time.”
“Your brother is now in bed and with your parents. According to you, it is seven in the evening. Did you stay with him?”
“No. I mean, for a while, yes. To make sure he was okay. My parents took over from there. Then I went to meet Julian, but by the time I got out to the beach, it was getting dark. I knew the hike up to the bluff would take too long, and I was scared to try it in the dark. So I waited on the beach.”
“For Mr. Crist?”
“Yes.”
“And when Mr. Crist did not appear on the beach, as I’m sure he did not, you surely attempted to contact him, no? Call him or text-message him?”
“Our phones don’t work here. There’s no service down in this valley.”
“Fair enough. But you must have mentioned his absence to someone of authority, no? Your parents? Or perhaps resort security?”
Grace curled her bottom lip inward and shook her head. “No. Not to anyone at the resort. I told my friend Ellie Reiser. Ellie came to my cottage and stayed all night.”
“Your boyfriend is missing, and this is of no concern to you?”
“No. I mean, it was. I was concerned, but not that he was missing. Not that anything bad had happened to him.”
“If you weren’t worried that he was missing, what exactly was the source of your concern?”
“We had gotten into an argument that day. When I couldn’t make it to the bluff on time, I figured Julian assumed I blew him off. I waited on the beach until it was dark, then I checked his room. When I couldn’t find him, I figured he was angry and avoiding me.”
“You and Mr. Crist had gotten into an argument? About what? Why was he angry with you?”
Grace took a deep breath. She held open her palms. “He was my boyfriend. Occasionally we got into fights.”
“But this particular argument, which occurred on the day that he was killed. What, exactly, were you fighting about, Ms. Sebold?”
Grace took a deep breath. “Do we really have to get into all this?”
“I’m afraid we do.”
Grace looked to the ceiling and wiped her tears again. “Julian was mad about . . . another guy. He was jealous, I guess.”
“Jealous about what?”
“I don’t know. Julian thought Daniel and I were . . . He thought we had feelings for each other.”
“Daniel?”
Grace shook her head, moved her gaze to the side, and stared helplessly at the notepad, where the scribbler was slashing away.
“Daniel Greaves,” she said. “Daniel and I dated a long time ago, just briefly in college. Julian found out about it that afternoon and thought something was going on between us.”
“Between you and Daniel Greaves?” Inspector Pierre asked.
“Yes. There wasn’t, by the way. It was just a stupid misunderstanding.” Grace shook her head, tears starting to well again on her lower lids.
“Who, exactly, is Daniel Greaves, and why was he at Sugar Beach Resort?”
Grace looked once again at the recorder, which sat on the table, and at the messy shorthand, which Inspector Pierre’s assistant was jotting onto the legal pad. Grace eventually closed her eyes.
“He was the groom. Charlotte’s boy—” Grace stopped herself. “I guess, at that point, he was Charlotte’s husband.”
CHAPTER 5
SIDNEY LOOKED AT INSPECTOR PIERRE.
“The argument alone was not what raised my suspicion, it was the cause of the argument,” Pierre said.
“Grace admitted that it had to do with her past relationship with Daniel Greaves.”
“That’s what she suggested,” Pierre said. “It was a convenient way to explain the fight, and clearly implied that Julian was angry with her. That he was the jealous one.”
“But you didn’t believe this?”
“No. We pulled the phone record from Julian’s room. It showed three calls to a New York extension during his stay. When we tracked down the recipient of the calls, we discovered that it was Julian’s past girlfriend. What you called, a lover. The final call to New York was made on the afternoon before Julian was killed, and immediately preceded the witnessed argument between Julian and Ms. Sebold. And when we pulled Ms. Sebold’s phone log, we found an outgoing call to the same New York extension. So it was my logical conclusion that Ms. Sebold discovered that Julian had been phoning his ex-lover, and that she called the number to confirm her suspicion. This is what caused the argument between them. And despite how Ms. Sebold would like things perceived, she was the one who was angry that day, not Julian Crist.”
“This ex-girlfriend of Julian’s,” Sidney said. “Does she have a name?”
“Ms. Allison Harbor.”
“You spoke with her during your investigation?”
“Of course. And she confirmed that her and Julian’s relationship was still ongoing.”
“Ongoing in what way?”
“In an intimate way, Ms. Ryan.”
Sidney took a moment to collect her thoughts. The idea of Grace discovering Julian’s continued relationship with a past girlfriend had caught her off guard. Finally, she looked back at the inspector.
“I can understand how this omission on Grace’s part could be considered deceptive.”
“I would classify it as a lie,” Pierre said.
“Understood. But this single misrepresentation of an argument, given by a young girl under tremendous stress—remember, her boyfriend had just been found dead, and she was now being interrogated by the police—that was enough to cause you to focus your investigation so tightly on her, and her alone?”
Inspector Pierre shook his head. “No, Ms. Ryan. You asked how Ms. Sebold originally came under my suspicion when more than one hundred guests were registered at the hotel. Her lie about the argument was the origin of my distrust. But it was the blood that caused me to suspect Ms. Sebold above anyone else.”
“The blood?” Sidney said.
“Yes.”
Sidney had seen the photos of the splatter on the bluff many times. “The blood was so minor, though. I’m confused.”
“I would argue that the blood was minor in no way. There was a great deal of it.”
“A great deal?” Sidney asked. “Four drops of blood, isn’t that correct? The splatter pattern on the bluff contained four drops of blood?”
“That’s correct. Plus another collection of blood from a second location on the bluff.”
“So a single splatter of four drops and a second collection is considered a great deal of blood, by the St. Lucian Police Force? And how, exactly, did the blood up on Gros Piton raise your suspicion that Grace was involved?”
Pierre narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head. “You are considering only the blood found on the bluff, Ms. Ryan. When taken with the other blood we discovered in Ms. Sebold’s room, it can be described as a great deal.”
The Girl of Sugar Beach
“Pilot” Episode
*Based on the interview with Claude Pierre
“That man has a serious authority problem,” Ellie Reiser said as she stormed into Grace’s cottage. “It’s abuse of power and intimidation.”
Detectives had interviewed all the members from their group, shuffling them one by one into the small conference room near the front lobby of the resort. Soon after Grace was allowed to leave, they had summoned Ellie Reiser.
“What happened?” Grace asked, her eyes still red-rimmed from her time with Inspector Pierre.
“He’s an asshole. He can’t treat us like that.”
“Ellie! What happened?”
“He asked me the same question a hundred times while his little minion scribbled everything I said into a notebook. I asked why he was transcribing my words if they were recording the interview. No answer. They’re trying to intimidate us.”
“God, Ellie. Just tell me what you said. It was the same detective, right? Pierre?”
“Yes. He asked if I saw you last night.”
“You stayed in my room. Please tell me you said this to him.”
“Yes, Grace. I thought it might be important to mention that I was in your room overnight.”
Ellie looked to the corner of the room where Grace’s younger brother, Marshall, sat at the table with his chessboard laid out in front of him, the pieces perfectly arranged. Her face took on the expression of smelling a foul odor.
“Does he ever stop with the chess thing?” Ellie lowered her voice. “I swear, I love him Grace, but does he even know what’s going on?”
“He hasn’t fully . . . recovered. From the seizure last night.”
“I’m not deaf,” Marshall said in a calm voice while he surveyed the chessboard in front of him. “And, Ellie, yes, I’m well aware of what’s happening. Thanks for the air of superiority, though. It’s always charming.”
“Marshall,” Grace said, shaking her head subtly when her brother made eye contact with her. It was all she needed to do to keep Marshall at bay. Just sixteen months separated them in age, and the brother-sister relationship between Grace and Marshall Sebold was strong. Sometimes even overwhelming to those around them. It was something only the two of them understood fully. Since Marshall’s accident, they had only grown closer.
Marshall returned his attention to his chessboard. Grace looked back at Ellie. “What did Pierre say when you told him you were with me?”
“He wanted to know what time I came to your room, and how much I had had to drink. His partner scribbled everything I said in his notepad.”
Grace ran a hand over her cheek and to the back of her neck. “They think I did it. God, Ellie! They think I did this.”
“Stop being hysterical. That’s what they want. Hysterics. Instead of looking for who actually killed him, they’re wasting time trying to scare us.”
Grace startled at the loud knock on the door. Two loud smacks followed by the once-rhythmic, but now jarring, Caribbean lilt from the other side.
“Ms. Sebold. It’s Inspector Pierre, with the Royal St. Lucia Police. Please open the door.”
Grace’s lips separated in a frozen pose as her eyes went wide while she stared at Ellie. In the corner, Marshall quickly collected his chess pieces and folded his set closed.
“Ms. Sebold!” More knocking came from the door.
“Go!” Ellie said, pointing at the door.
Grace wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she walked across the cottage and pulled open the door. Inspector Pierre stood in the door frame, a huddle of police officers behind him.
“Ms. Sebold,” Pierre said, handing Grace an envelope. “We have a warrant to survey your room.”
The cottages were isolated by the lush grounds of the resort and speckled within the rain forest at the foothills of the Jalousie Plantation. Despite being small in its capacity—only eighty-eight cottages, villas, and bungalows made up Sugar Beach Resort—the resort grounds were expansive. Tuk-tuk carts transported guests throughout the property, both because the walk from the cottages to the beach was long, but also because the
terrain was hilly and difficult to manage on foot.
After the Sebold girl was ushered from the room, Pierre and his team entered through the front door, greeted by a large bedroom of cherrywood floors and an expansive four-post bed draped in brilliant white sheets. A matching sofa and overstuffed chair sat in the corner and faced a flat-screen television. A private bar was stocked with Chairman’s Reserve rum and Piton beer, the countertop covered with coffee and tea paraphernalia.
Off the bedroom was a walk-in closet, which led to the luxurious bathroom. Lining the closet walls were built-in shelves for clothes, suitcases, and hanging garments. The bottom row of cubbies held an assortment of Grace Sebold’s shoes, to which Pierre pointed. The technicians approached with gloved hands and retrieved each pair of shoes, dropping them into clear plastic evidence bags, which they quickly sealed. Grace’s dresses and blouses, which hung in the closet, were placed in clear plastic bags, too.
Pierre took thirty minutes to inspect the room, disturbing as little as possible as he surveyed and sifted through Grace’s belongings. He eventually made his way into the bathroom. The wooden shutter blinds were operated by a middle-panel lever, which he pulled down until the room was dark.
“I can smell it before we even look,” Pierre said.
“Me too,” the technician said.
As Pierre stood in the corner, the technician squirted luminol from a plastic spray bottle. Methodically he covered in a grid formation the sink and countertop, the mirror and wall, the armoire, and finally the floor in front of the sink. When he was finished, he backed away. Inspector Pierre clicked on the handheld black light. The mirror and wall were blank, but the sink and floor glowed with a fluorescent blue, bright and eerie in the darkened room.
The second technician removed several vials from his pack, unscrewed the top to one of them, and withdrew the cotton swab, which had been soaking in the vial’s solution. He methodically swabbed each area that glowed under the spell of the black light. He used four vials to swab the floor, and another six to capture the evidence on the countertop and sink.
Finally he unscrewed the drain from under the sink, emerging with the U-shaped PVC fitting in his hand. Pierre opened the blinds and clicked on the bathroom light. The technician dipped another swab into the black shadow of the drainpipe, momentarily losing sight of the white tip as he brushed against the top of the fitting. When he pulled it out, the once-white cotton tip was muddy red.