Teddy was wakened from his nap by a tiny beeping; someone was upstairs. He watched the blinking lights on the panel that told him someone was walking from room to room. He decided not to be cornered; he let himself out of his redoubt, closed it up and left at a trot.
DuBois walked through the house, surprised. The house was furnished, but there was no indication that anyone had ever lived in it-no clothing, no food. He looked under the mattresses on the unmade beds: nothing. But Weatherby was supposed to be on the island, too, according to immigration records. Why was it that neither Pemberton nor Weatherby seemed to have been in his home-in the case of Pemberton, not recently; in the case of Weatherby, never?
He went back to the Land Rover.
“Where to, Captain?”
“Let’s go up the mountain; there’s an American woman living there.” He didn’t bother to check the garage.
The driver took him the few remaining yards and turned into the drive. DuBois noted an SUV and a pickup truck in the garage. He knocked on the door, and the American woman opened it.
“Yes, officer?” she asked.
“I am Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police,” he said politely. “May I come in?”
“Of course, Captain,” she said. “I’m Irene Foster.” She led him into the living room, where a man was sitting in a reclining chair with a beer in his hand, watching a golf tournament on television. He picked up a remote control and pressed a button, and Tiger Woods froze in mid-drive.
“Harold,” she said to him, “this is Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police. Captain, this is my friend Harold Pitts, who is visiting from the States.”
Pitts stood up and offered his hand, which duBois shook. “What can we do for you, Captain?”
“May I see your passports, please?”
“Sure; will you get mine, honey? It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”
“Of course,” Irene said, and left the room.
“How long have you been in St. Marks, Mr. Pitts?” duBois asked.
“Oh, less than a couple of weeks; I sailed down from Ft. Lauderdale in my boat.”
“What is your work, may I ask?”
“I’m retired; I used to have a home renovation business in Virginia,” he said. “Now I’m footloose and fancy-free.”
“How nice for you.”
The woman returned with the passports and handed them to him. “I’m a permanent resident,” she said. “I own this house.”
DuBois examined the passports closely, then handed them back. “They appear to be in order,” he said. “Where were the two of you earlier in the day?”
“I haven’t left the house all day,” she replied. “Harold went down to his boat at the English Harbour Marina, then came back.”
“I do a little work on it almost every day,” Pitts said.
DuBois found these people boring-elderly, retired Americans with no possible axe to grind with Croft. “Have you seen the occupants of the house next door recently?”
“I’ve never seen them,” Irene said. “I hear their name is Weatherby, but I don’t know if they’ve ever even moved in.”
“Thank you,” he said, rising. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
The woman showed him out, then returned.
“That had to be about Colonel Croft,” Pitts said to her.
“I would imagine so,” she replied. “They must be checking on all the foreigners.”
Pitts pressed a button, and Tiger Woods finished his drive, pulling it into the rough.