Death at the Voyager Hotel Page 7

  2. Diane – jealous of Heather? Disgust for “jungle fever”?

  “Jungle fever?” Thelo said in surprise. “Like in that movie?”

  “Yes. Diane’s words, not mine. She looked revolted when she talked about relationships between Ghanaians and white people. I still can’t see how she could kill her friend Heather, though. And I can’t see Oliver doing it either.”

  “There you are,” Thelo said, a little smugly. “Not so easy when you find yourself investigating people you know and like, is it?”

  “There has to be someone else,” she said weakly.

  “There very well might be,” he said, his words beginning to slur in his drowsiness. “We’ll see what Dr. Biney can dig up.”

  She looked at him as his eyes began to drift closed. “Good night, sleepy-head.”

  “Mm,” he muttered. He was out for the count.

  On her sheet of paper, she wrote:

  To do:

  1. Interview Amadu

  2. Meet Mr. Peterson

  3. ?

  Yes, Paula intended to ask more questions. It wouldn’t hurt to have Dr. Biney help in any way, but for the reasons she had given Thelo, she wasn’t going to hang her hopes on him, and certainly not on Chief Inspector Agyekum. In effect, she thought with irony, she was up against a men’s club—men who didn’t fundamentally understand why Heather Peterson would not go swimming drunk and in the nude.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Saturday, Thelo had family affairs to attend to, and Paula was to drop Stephan and Stephanie off at their cousins before going off to do some shopping. They were running a little early, so Paula opted to first swing by the General Post Office to pick up some mail. On the way there, they passed through Jamestown, home to most of the students at High Street Academy and probably the oldest part of Accra. It was a jumble of open-air markets, houses with corrugated metal roofs, winding streets and mysterious alleys.

  Traffic slowed to a crawl at Ussher Fort. People walked by the decaying edifice without regard for its ancient history. In the next block, in an abandoned, skeletal building that had never gotten past the first floor, teenage boys in mismatched shoes or none at all played a sweaty game of soccer under the burning morning sun. Market women with impossible loads on their heads walked the uneven pavements and cut across the street between cars, while itinerant vendors used their best sales tactics to unload trinkets on captive drivers in the paralyzed traffic.

  Stephan was beside Paula in the front passenger seat, his head bent studiously over his handheld video game as his thumbs worked. He had begged her to allow him to take the device along and she had relented.

  “Five more minutes of that, then you put it away,” she told him quietly. “Hear me?”

  “Yes, Mummy,” he said, looking up at her for a brief moment of acknowledgement.

  Paula was undecided whether these games were good, bad, or of no consequence. Facing the reality that she could never stamp out the boy’s devotion to them, she limited his playing time. She turned for a second to look at Stephanie, who was in the back seat gazing out of the window with absorption. Physically, she was a female copy of her fraternal twin brother, but she was the gentler and more introspective of the two, often exerting a moderating influence on Stephan, who could easily get out of hand.

  A young man with vestigial, crumpled legs rolled up the middle of the street on a skateboard that he propelled with his hands, stopping at each vehicle to beg for some loose change. He and many others like him all over Accra had astonishing traffic negotiation skills, but what they did was still dangerous. As he drew up to Paula’s Highlander, he stopped and looked up, reaching up with a hopeful, cupped palm. She lowered her window and greeted him in Ga. “How are you?”

  “I try, madam.” He had a brilliant, infectious smile and a powerful upper body from years of his particular form of locomotion.

  She smiled back. “All your life in the street?”

  “Since about twelve years old.”

  “Tough, eh?”

  “Very tough, Madam.”

  She gave him a cedi bill, perhaps ten times what many people would give. His face lit up. “God bless you, Madam.”

  “Thank you, sir. And you.”

  He sped off and zigzagged to safety on the pavement as traffic began to move again. She put her window back up.

  “Why is he like that, Mummy?” Stephanie asked.

  “He probably had polio when he was a little boy.”

  “What’s that?” Stephan asked, looking up at her.

  “It’s a disease where the germ goes to your spinal cord and you can’t move your legs anymore. So they get small and weak.”

  “Can we get it, Mummy?”

  Paula shook her head. “No, we’re all safe, because we had the vaccination at the doctor.”

  “Oh,” he said, looking relieved.

  “Is it because he’s crippled that he’s poor and has to beg for money?” Stephanie asked.

  “Something like that,” Paula said. “It could be his mother and father couldn’t take care of him or didn’t want to, so they put him out on the streets and he never got to go to school.”

  “That’s cruel, Mummy.”

  “Yes, and it reminds us to always be kind to people, no matter what they look like or how poor they are.”

  Paula welcomed these discussions. She often fretted that the twins were too sheltered and privileged, too insulated from hardship. Their riding along in an air-conditioned SUV sealed off from the sweltering weather outside was emblematic of that cocooned life. They attended a private international school where they interacted with children of similar status, not the kind of deprived kids who went to High Street Academy. Paula often felt guilty about it, and she had once brought the twins to spend a half-day at Academy so they could experience something profoundly different from their relatively posh school. They had enjoyed themselves and made some friends, and Paula had almost wished Stephan and Stephanie could also stay the night with their impoverished counterparts in their cramped, dilapidated Jamestown quarters. But Thelo, less plagued than Paula by these angst-filled existential questions, had vetoed that idea.

  Stephan was now watching the soccer match in the abandoned building.

  “Anyway,” he proclaimed, “I like poor people more because they play much better football than rich people.”

  Stephanie giggled. “Stephan, you’re so silly.”

  Her brother chortled, and before long all three of them were laughing until their sides hurt.

  Once Paula had left the twins with her sister Ama, she went off to continue her errands. She wondered if Mr. Peterson had arrived in Accra last night as he had planned. Midafternoon, while she was at the Melcom supermarket, she received a call from him.

  She stepped into a side hallway where there was less noise. A Saturday in Accra was shopping chaos. “Okay, that’s better. How are you, Mr. Peterson? Did you arrive safely?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Airport Holiday Inn.”

  “I’m only a few minutes away,” she said. “I would very much like to meet you.”

  “Shall we say in an hour?”

  A mixture of Ghanaians and white people were drinking and eating in the Holiday Inn lounge area when Paula arrived. With a sprawling lobby and a massive, expensive flower arrangement in the center next to a miniature fountain, this was a far cry from the Voyager Hotel. You can just smell the money, Paula thought. Four attendants were busy at the reception desk, compared to the Voyager’s one or two. Paula looked around for Mr. Peterson, realizing she didn’t know what he looked like.

  “Paula?”

  She turned. “Mr. Peterson?”

  “Right. I recognized you from the photos Heather sent us.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  She had imagined him as taller. He was in his late fifties, his hairline withdrawing from his forehead. Paula saw where Heather had inherited he
r stunning aqua eyes, but his were weary and reddened.

  “I’m at that table over there,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

  She followed him.

  “I’m so sorry that we have to meet under these circumstances,” she said, taking a seat opposite his.

  “So am I,” he said. “But I thank you for coming.”

  He had finished a soft drink. Paula ordered one for herself and insisted on getting him another with a sampler plate of Ghanaian appetizers. They dispensed with the customary banter about his flight and how scorching he found the weather in Accra.

  “I’ve called Chief Inspector Agyekum’s number several times without success,” he said.

  “Yes, weekends are not the best,” Paula said sympathetically, “I’m sure he will get back to you quite soon.”

  “On Thursday, he emailed me a scanned copy of the conclusions of the autopsy,” Peterson said, “but I gotta tell you, it looks like a bunch of BS, excuse my language. Why’ve they been in such a hurry to close this case up and forget about it? My daughter does not drink, nor does she drown in six feet of water.”

  Paula leaned forward a bit. “Mr. Peterson, I talked to an associate of my husband’s who is a forensic pathologist. He wasn’t directly connected with this case, but we called him because he’s one of the best forensic experts we have in Ghana – not that we have many. Anyway, he told us something I didn’t know before. Forgive me for this indelicate language, but the bacteria in a dead person can actually produce different types of alcohol. So, when they measure the blood alcohol concentration in the lab, it might appear that the person drank more than he or she actually did.”

  “Really?” he said, sitting bolt upright with a new brightness in his face. “That must be it. I knew there had to be some kind of mistake. Could your forensic guy intercede in the case somehow and do the autopsy over?”

  “He said he would see, but honestly, I think it’s doubtful. In addition, he’s out of town until the middle of next week, unfortunately.”

  “Oh,” Peterson said, deflated again. “Forget it. I want Heather out of here before then.”

  “I see,” she said, with a sense of disappointment that Dr. Biney wouldn’t get the chance to redeem the investigation.

  “I was at the mortuary this morning to officially identify Heather’s body,” he said despondently. He choked up and attempted to hide it by taking a sip of his Sprite.

  “It’s hard,” she said with feeling. “Very hard.”

  He looked away from her, desperately trying to stem the flow of tears.

  “You also mentioned the FBI might assist the investigation?” she asked quickly, hoping that keeping him talking would help.

  “That didn’t turn out the way I had expected,” he said in resignation. “The agent I spoke to was supportive, but the bottom line is the FBI can’t go barging into a sovereign country and start investigating. They’d need the cooperation of the local authorities,. Apparently, they’re on good terms with the Ghana Police and they don’t want to spoil that.”

  Paula nodded. More or less what Thelo had told her.

  “Who is this man called Oliver?” Peterson asked her, with sudden intensity.

  “Oliver Danquah? He’s one of the teachers at the High Street Academy.”

  “Before I left home, I talked to Heather’s best friend, Jody, and she said Heather had told her Oliver was hustling her to help him get to the States. What was going on there?”

  “I don’t know the details,” Paula said awkwardly. “I assume Jody also told you that Oliver and Heather were dating each other?”

  Peterson’s face twitched as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Yes, she told me.”

  “I really wasn’t privy to their private discussions,” Paula said. “At least, not regarding this particular topic.”

  He looked bitter and disconsolate. “This whole thing is crazy. It’s a nightmare.”

  “Have you ever been to Ghana before?” she asked him. “Or anywhere in West Africa?”

  Peterson shook his head as if he wouldn’t have dreamt of it. He looked haggard and battered by grief, bewilderment and jetlag.

  “Things are very different here from what you’re used to in the States,” Paula said. “I realize that must make what you’re experiencing all the more difficult.”

  “I just want to get out of here and take my daughter with me,” he said, his voice trembling.

  “Yes,” Paula said, wishing she could say something comforting. “How is your wife taking it? She suffers from multiple sclerosis, Heather told me.”

  “That demonstrates the level of trust she had in you,” he said, with a look of some admiration. “She never talked about Glenda, her mother, except with those she felt close to. A lot of pain there.”

  “I can imagine. It’s terrible to watch a loved one at the mercy of such a disease.”

  “Not only that,” he said. “My wife is ill, no question, but she can be harsh, maybe even manipulative and cruel. It sounds like an awful thing for me to say, but it is what it is. Her relationship with Heather was…rocky. They weren’t close. I think that’s why Heather preferred to avoid the subject altogether.” He stirred his Sprite with the straw. “I was hoping one day they would reconcile. Now they will never get that chance.”

  A tear rolled down his face and plopped straight into his drink. Paula felt her heart breaking for him, and she made a new vow that, whatever it took, she would find out what had really happened to Mr. Peterson’s beloved daughter.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Paula stopped over at her sister Ama’s place and sat with her and a couple girlfriends in the shade of the backyard, where the twins were playing with their cousins. She stayed another hour catching up on gossip around town, but then it was time to go home.

  “Stephan!” she called out. “Stephanie! We have to leave now.”

  Stephanie came running over to Paula, but Stephan stayed on the swing, soaring higher and higher as his cousin pushed him.

  “The boy has no fear,” Paula muttered as she went over to abort his approaching liftoff into outer space. She slowed the swing down and brought it to a stop.

  “Aw!” Stephan exclaimed in disappointment. “I wanted to go higher.”

  “I know. Come on, sweetie,” she said firmly. “Time to leave. Say goodbye to everyone properly and thank Aunt Ama and your cousins for a nice time.”

  Thelo was back when they arrived. He supervised Stephan and Stephanie in getting cleaned up while Paula cooked. After dinner, they all had ice cream and watched a TV show that Stephan had picked out. At bedtime, Paula read them a story that Stephanie chose, since her brother had had his choice with the television portion of the evening. She tucked them in with a goodnight kiss and joined Thelo back in the sitting room.

  “So, did Mr. Peterson arrive?” he asked her.

  “Yes, last night. He’s in deep shock. I met him today at Holiday Inn. He began to weep right there, in the lounge, and I felt so sorry for him.”

  Thelo nodded contemplatively. “It’s unimaginable—losing a son or a daughter.”

  They exchanged looks, thinking of the unbearable anguish each would feel if either of their children died.

  “But for him, I don’t think it’s just the loss,” Paula said. “It’s the notion that she was intoxicated before she died. The implied message of the autopsy is, ‘Heather, if you hadn’t been so drunk, you would not have drowned,’ almost as if she was to blame for her death. And then, she was nude. People think that’s shameful, and it’s tainting her reputation. Mr. Peterson loathes it, and so do I.”

  “I realize that. “He scrutinized her. “So, what have you been up to?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked evasively.

  “Edward called me today. Said you went to see him yesterday evening?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her face getting warm. “I was going to tell you all about it.”

  “When were you planning to do that?”


  “To be truthful, I wasn’t sure, because I didn’t know how you would react to my going to see him about Heather’s death.”

  “Right, because you had promised—”

  “I know I said I would wait and see what Dr. Biney could do about the case next week,” she broke in quickly, “but Edward is a friend. What harm was done in stopping by to say hello? We haven’t seen him for quite some time, anyway.”

  “But you didn’t tell me you were going to visit him,” Thelo said. His accusation hung in the air.

  “Because I hadn’t planned on it. It was one of those spur of the moment things.”

  “But you should have told me about the visit last night—regardless of what you thought my reaction would be.” He frowned at her. “What’s going on with you? We share everything with each other. Why all this secrecy?”

  “I’m sorry, Thelo. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “So?” he asked. “What did Edward tell you?”

  She gave Thelo a full rundown—how Edward had taken her to see the pool under reconstruction, and then to meet Jost Miedema, who had set up the solar lighting and had been helping Heather with her swimming technique. Both men had expressed concerns about Heather’s interactions with men—Edward referring to her “friendliness” across social boundaries, and Jost to her involvement with Oliver. According to Jost, Heather and Oliver had quarreled on Sunday night not far away from the hotel pool.

  “But Oliver hasn’t mentioned the argument to me,” Paula told Thelo. “He said she didn’t seem like her usual self on Sunday, but not that they quarreled.”

  “Are you going to ask him about it?”

  “Of course. I need to know what happened.”

  “But you’ll be considerate about his feelings, won’t you?” Thelo said carefully. “Don’t make him feel you’re assigning blame to him.”

  “I won’t.” She paused. Did she have to tell Thelo everything? Perhaps she did, out of fairness to him. Cautiously, she admitted, “There’s something else. Edward sacked the night watchman, Amadu, because he didn’t patrol the back of the hotel late that night, which Edward said he was supposed to do. Amadu was one of the people Edward thought Heather was over-friendly with.”