Death in St. George’s by M. A. Monnin

Chapter 1

“I don’t believe you’re the kind of woman who craves peace and quiet,” Thomas said, holding Stefanie’s hand in the back seat of the taxi.

His handsome face melted her heart yet again. She drank in the welcome sight of him, from the strong jaw beneath the stubble of a beard to his chestnut brown hair. The sun-bleached streaks she’d teased him about in Greece would return after a week in Bermuda, she’d bet.

Having arrived in Bermuda earlier in the day, she’d met him at the airport, and they were on the way to rent a car in the Town of St. George.

“A week alone sounds blissful to me,” she countered. “No trying to discover who ran us off the road in Crete or chasing after Borgia Peacocks in Venice.” And no former girlfriends, she thought. But she’d learned enough to not say that aloud. “No calls from René.”

“René knows that I am not taking his calls for a full week,” Thomas said.

René Renault, his boss, and therefore ultimately hers at Interpol’s Cultural Heritage division, didn’t willingly recognize personal time. Thomas, as the head of Interpol’s Artifact Retrieval Team—ART for short—could dictate his own projects. So far their time together had been a non-stop whirlwind of undercover investigation in an effort to reclaim stolen objects that had been reported to Interpol. A little downtime was in order.

“We could lock our cell phones in our suitcases until next Monday,” she suggested.

He smiled. “Is that really what you want?”

What she really wanted was to decide on their future living situation.

There was no question that they would be together. But would she move in with him at his place in Munich? Or keep her apartment in St. Louis and fly to Europe when she couldn’t bear to be apart from him any longer? Asking so soon might go to his head, and she couldn’t have that.

The taxi driver took a sharp curve a little too fast, then swung in to avoid a red scooter speeding from the opposite direction whose driver drove as though both lanes were his.

Stefanie shared a smile with Thomas as they listed from one side to the other with the motion of the taxi.

“I suppose we need the phones to look up places to explore,” she said. “And

I need photos for my travel blog.”

That reminded her to take in the sights, something other than Thomas.

She tore her gaze away from him, but kept her hand in his. The streets of St. George’s were narrow, barely wide enough for two lanes, and in some places, not even wide enough for that. Low garden walls butted right up against the road. Sidewalks, where they existed at all, fit snugly between the road and the series of one- and two-storied houses.

Most of the houses were small and compact, as if hunkered down for impending storms.

“These buildings have been here since the 1690s or early 1700s,” she said, charmed by their low profiles and the wooden shutters that adorned nearly every structure.

In no time at all, the taxi driver pulled up to the car rental.

As he paid the driver, Thomas’s face blanked in disbelief at the tiny electric cars lined up for rent.

“The bigger cars must be in back,” he said, taking his black leather bag, his only piece of luggage, out of the open Ford trunk.

The taxi driver grinned. “Not in Bermuda. It’s the law. Tourists can only rent scooters or electric cars.” Still grinning, he gave Thomas a business card. “Call me if you want me to take you anywhere.”

When Thomas’s gaze brightened on the row of scooters,Stefanie protested.

“No scooters,” she insisted. “I’ve seen how people drive here. Driving on the left will be challenging enough.”

“No problem,” Thomas said. “I’ve driven in England.”

He bypassed the Twizy models, which had a single seat in front and a single seat in back.

“I want you at my side,” he said. “Not behind me.” “Or you behind me,” she countered.

His mouth quirked up. “That would not happen.”

Oh, how she missed the little games they played. It had only been a week since they’d parted at the Milan airport, but those seven days felt like a year.

After inspecting several small, square Italian Tazzaris, which had two front seats, Thomas grudgingly chose one in red.

“I didn’t think I’d be driving a toy car,” he said as they folded themselves into the Tazzari.

She laughed. “Admit it, you’ve always wanted a red Italian car.” She buckled her seatbelt with difficulty due to his leather duffle on her lap, which was too large to cram into the minuscule storage space behind their seats.

Resting her arms across the duffle, she entered their address into the GPS on her phone. “We’re lucky Greg wasn’t using his house this week. A whole house to ourselves is so much nicer than even the best hotel.”

Her former bank client, Greg Edwards, had often urged her to stay at the house whenever she wanted. Greg, the dedicated owner of Riverboat Rum based in St. Louis, only made it to Bermuda occasionally. Usually when corporate finances and Bermudian law dictated. The bungalow stood on a cliff on the outskirts of the historic Town of St. George. Painted peach, the two-bedroom cottage had an intimate covered patio at the rear that faced the glassy Atlantic—a perfect place to write her travel blog and enjoy the sun.

Thomas’s claim about driving on the left was justified. He had no problem acclimating, and in short order, they’d gone the less than a mile to Greg’s house.

After changing into swimsuits to lounge in the warm Bermuda sunshine, Thomas poured them each a glass of pinot grigio, and they settled onto the chaise lounges in the backyard.

The smoky scent of a neighbor’s wood fire mixed pleasantly with the tang

of sea air. Stefanie glanced around the yard and patio for a fire pit they could use but didn’t see one.

“Bermuda is more colorful than I expected.” Thomas’s gaze went from the low wall painted to match the peach house color to the neighboring bright blue cottage beyond, with its white stepped stone roof. He shifted his gaze from the neighbor’s house to her. “The view is stunning.”

She smiled and set her wine on the small metal table between them.

“Just you and me,” Thomas said. “Alone.”

“Alone,” she agreed. “With our peace and quiet. But you never know,” she teased, “maybe it was the adventure that drew us together.”

Swinging his legs off the chaise lounge, he sat up with his feet planted firmly in the grass and took her hand. “Is that all?”

No, but Thomas found the excitement of the chase irresistible. She smiled as he massaged her palm with his thumb, but didn’t move closer to make it easier for him. Keeping him on his toes was delightfully entertaining, something that he enjoyed as much as she did.

“Where should we go tomorrow? A boat tour to spot sea turtles?” she asked.

Still holding her hand, he said, “Let’s go snorkeling. Tobacco Bay. The fish and coral there are supposed to be worth seeing.”

“I’ve never been snorkeling,” she admitted. “I planned to try it in Crete, but there wasn’t time. Have you?”

“At the Great Barrier Reef.”

Australia. That didn’t surprise her. As the son of the owner of Germany’s largest publishing firm, he’d probably gone all over the world and done all kinds of activities that she’d never tried. Never tried because she’d dedicated all her time to working at Markham-Briggs Bank. That wasn’t happening anymore.

“There’s nothing to it,” Thomas said. “You’ll love it. And after we’ve done Tobacco Bay, we’ll snorkel above shipwrecks. Bermuda is surrounded by them. Until then,” he said, “I want you all to myself.”

She gave in and swung around to a sitting position facing him. Bending forward, she lifted her lips toward his, stopping a breath away. “You have me.”

A discreet throat-clearing intruded on their moment. It came from the direction of the blue house next door. Reluctantly, Stefanie pulled back.

On the other side of the peach-colored wall, a thin man of about five foot eight or nine, tanned and with receding blond hair, peered at them from between two large palm trees. He’d changed from the sweat-stained blue polo and dusty dark grey knee-length shorts he’d worn when she’d met him two hours before and was dressed as colorfully as the houses in a pastel plaid shirt above coral Bermuda shorts.

Stefanie hid her disappointment. “It’s Jeffrey Fitzsimmons,” she said in a low voice. “I picked up the keys from him when I got here this afternoon.”

She scooted further back on the chaise lounge and slipped her arms through her linen cover-up. Chatting with neighbors while dressed only in a skimpy bikini put her at a disadvantage.

“Good afternoon,” Jeffrey called to them. “Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt.” Thomas observed him without replying.

“Good afternoon,” Stefanie called back as she stood up. Greg had cautioned her about always including a polite greeting when she visited Bermuda. “The locals are sticklers about common courtesy,” she told Thomas. “We’ll be outcasts if we forget that.”

“Always the customer service vice president,” he remarked.

“If I’d gotten that promotion,” she said, “we never would have met.”

He leaned in and kissed her. “A tragedy averted.”

She smiled, then glanced at the neighbor. “Jeffrey’s the kind who likes to talk. I had to make excuses so I could meet you at the airport in time. Luckily, the taxi was waiting.” She gave Thomas’s bicep a gentle squeeze. “We don’t want to get on his bad side. We might want to use this house as a getaway again.”

“Neutral territory?” he asked. “Conveniently located between the U.S. and Europe?”

“Something like that,” she said, then turned back to Jeffrey.

The neighbor indicated the wall that separated the properties. “May I?”

“Yes, of course,” Stefanie answered.

Jeffrey stepped over the wall. He’d come prepared, bringing his own bottle of beer.

There were only two chaise lounges, but two metal chairs at a small table against the house were available. Stefanie gestured toward them.

She and Thomas dragged their lounges around to face the patio rather than the ocean.

“Welcome to Bermuda,” Jeffrey said to Thomas.

Thomas must have worried that the neighbor was settling in for an evening of conversation.

“Thank you,” he replied. “We’ll be trying your local cuisine at dinner soon.”

“Here on St. George’s Island? I can recommend places,” Jeffrey offered as he pulled out a pink metal chair. “The Wahoo Bistro has fantastic fish.”

“Hamilton,” Thomas said, mentioning Bermuda’s capital city on the main island.

Jeffrey nodded. “More nightlife there.”

Thomas pointed a finger at Stefanie’s empty wine glass. “Another?”

“Yes, please.” She turned back to the neighbor. “Do you live here yearround, or part-time, like Greg?”

“Year round,” Jeffrey said. “I’m with the National Museum of Bermuda. The lead archaeologist.”

“Are you?” She perked up. “Thomas has a degree in archaeology, and I once interned at a dig on Crete. I didn’t go into archaeology as a career, though.”

“Oh, I know you’re in banking,” Jeffrey said. “Greg’s told me all about you.”

Thomas caught that last piece of info as he returned with the half-empty bottle of pinot grigio.

“Has he?” Thomas asked, filling Stefanie’s glass.

She was surprised at that news, too, but didn’t clarify that she wasn’t in banking anymore. Her work with ART was confidential.

“Yes.” Jeffrey turned back to Stefanie. “Greg told me about your involvement with the Akrotiri Snake Goddess in Greece.”

Stefanie and Thomas exchanged glances. She hadn’t mentioned her part in it to any of her former colleagues at Markham-Briggs. In fact, other than those directly involved, she hadn’t even talked to anyone about the theft of the Akrotiri Snake Goddess. That had been left to the news media and whatever details the Greek police gave out. Thomas never boasted about his accomplishments. It was counterproductive to future cases.

“Jeffrey’s an archaeologist here in Bermuda,” she told Thomas.

The neighbor leaned forward, beer bottle in hand, elbows on knobby knees. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

So he’d had something specific in mind when she brushed him off to get to the airport.

With that news, Thomas seemed even less receptive to the intrusion. He concentrated on pouring wine into his own glass. “Yes?”

Jeffrey gave him a brief smile but focused on Stefanie. “It’s your help I want.”

Stefanie and Thomas exchanged another look, one of surprise that time and amusement. Thomas had put in the major investigative work in their endeavors. She’d simply used the customer service skills she’d learned at Markham-Briggs Bank to her advantage. Yet Jeffrey approached them because of her reputation, rather than Thomas’s stellar career. One point to her.

His eyes bright with humor, Thomas lowered himself onto the chaise lounge. Sipping his wine, he let her have the spotlight.

“My help?” Stefanie asked. “I’m not in banking anymore.”

“Greg says you’re known for your discretion.” Jeffrey leaned even further towards them, sitting on the edge of his seat. “And from your time at the bank, that you have an eye for potential trouble.”

You never knew what people would remember. She’d entertained Greg once with a description of what she noted about each person when they entered the bank, watching for signs of potential robbery.

Thomas’s grey-blue eyes sharpened.

“Something has disappeared from the site I’m working on.” Jeffrey spoke in hushed tones despite the fact that they were in the backyard, with the Atlantic on one side and empty yards on the others. “The theft hasn’t been reported yet, and we—I,” he emphasized, “hope it can be recovered before anyone has to know that it’s missing.”

She peered at Jeffrey. He’d gotten awfully close to their actual jobs. Disconcertingly close. “I’m not sure how discretion and an eye for potential trouble will help after the fact,” she said.

Thomas was leery, too. “Why didn’t you report the theft?”

“The homeowners didn’t want the publicity if it could be avoided. I went along with that to protect our reputations.” Jeffrey’s gaze darted between Stefanie and Thomas. “If we don’t get it back, our professional reputations are shot. Each one of us working the site.” “What kind of site?” Thomas asked.

“It’s on privately owned land. There’s a garden renovation going on at Carmichael House here on St. George’s,” Jefferey said. “The owner, Marlene Carmichael, our Minister of Economy and Labor, wants to make it a showplace. When a dead tree in the existing garden was removed, a small chest was exposed under the roots. That prompted a call for an archaeological assessment of the area to see if anything else was buried in the vicinity.”

“A chest?” Stefanie asked, giddy as a child with an unwrapped present as she pictured a metal-strapped wooden treasure chest filled with gold and jewels.

Jeffrey held his hands about ten inches apart. “A small one. Brass and steel.”

She cocked her head. “What was in it?”

A short laugh escaped Jeffrey’s lips. “Nothing.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows at that. “Any idea how it ended up here?” Jeffrey sat back. “Most likely a Spanish shipwreck in the mid to late 1500s. Spanish and Portuguese sailors occasionally washed up on Bermuda before the Sea Venture wrecked in 1609 and we British settled here. We believe the ship this chest came from was on its way from Cartagena to Spain.”

An exciting find. But the chest was empty. That was disappointing. And now it was missing. Having a reputation for discretion was nice, but the investigation should be carried out by the authorities, not two vacationers with few resources.

“I’m a travel blogger now, and Thomas is an assistant professor of archaeology,” she said, using their completely legitimate cover occupations.

“What you’re describing sounds like a job for the police.” Thomas agreed.

Jeffrey’s brows drew together, disappointment written in every line of his features. “We can’t have another Tucker’s Cross. We can’t.”

A spark of excitement flickered deep within Stefanie’s chest. She’d read the story of Tucker’s Cross in the guidebook she’d brought on the flight from the States.

“The emerald and gold cross that was recovered from the San Pedro,” she said. “Replaced with a forgery, which was discovered just in time for Queen Elizabeth’s visit in 1975.”

Thomas set his wine glass on the table. “Stolen.”

“When the archaeological record gets lost, the whole island loses. It can’t happen again,” Jeffrey said, his voice rising in desperation. “It can’t.”

Surely that emotion on his face wasn’t for a small brass chest, even one that was 450 years old.

Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “It isn’t the chest that’s missing, is it?”

***

Excerpt from Death in St. George’s by M. A. Monnin. Copyright 2024 by M. A. Monnin. Reproduced with permission from M. A. Monnin. All rights reserved.