Executive Times

 

 

 

 

 

2006 Book Reviews

 

Murder on Naked Beach by J.J. Henderson

Rating:

**

 

(Mildly Recommended)

 

 

 

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Jaunt

 

Billed as the introduction of a new mystery heroine, I expected the presentation of Lucy Ripkin in J.J. Henderson’s debut novel, Murder on Naked Beach, to be exciting and appealing, and up to the caliber of some of our favorite mystery detectives. Instead, Lucy is presented as fun loving, somewhat enjoyable to be around, but not much of a detective. She’s a design journalist, taking photos on a press junket from New York to Jamaica in winter. This is a story of a young woman off on a jaunt. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 3, “Design Chatter, Political Matters, Barroom Blather,” pp. 51-56:

 

The beeping alarm saved her. Seven-thirty a.m. She slapped it off and sat up, immediately possessed by a rerun of. . . The Night Before! Featuring a chorus line of corpses high-kicking across the moonlit stages of fabulous Naked Beach.

How could she not be possessed by that lurid scenario? Still aching from yesterday’s manic sail, she dragged herself into the bathroom to put on a face and get organized. Her of­ficial morning would commence at eight a.m., when she was due to meet the architect, William Evans, in the lobby lounge for the grand architectural tour of the Grand Strand. It always seemed to work out that way: on a day she needed to be on full alert, she was running on empty.

She dressed in light cotton pants, flip-flops, and a pale blue cotton T-shirt. She brushed her hair for about ten sec­onds and left the bathroom. Into her purse she put a lipstick, a notebook, and two pens. Turning on the digital camera, she reviewed last night’s images—a couple of moonlit mood shots followed by half a dozen views of a dead man and his surroundings—then turned it off and stuck it in her bag.

She marched out of the room, William Evans and the grand tour of the Grand Strand awaiting her. Words and pic­tures. Work.

But first, a cup of coffee. This involved a plunge into La Terrazzo Grande. Beneath the ruggedly beamed ceiling, the huge, skylit space, by night a dance hall and schmooze and booze zone, was by day a cafeteria. Lucy paused by the bar and had a look. The place was shot through with morning sunbeams, lovely in the cool early air. Several groggy-looking guests milled about in front of the long food service counter, with its diamond-tiled front, and a dozen servers dressed in white stood behind, ready to dish, while white-shirted wait­ers roamed from table to table with coffee and orange juice pitchers. Lucy, in search of coffee, eyed the goods as she wan­dered past.

The cornucopia began with an array of silver trays heaped with slices of cantaloupe, honeydew melon, water­melon, papaya, mangoes, pineapples, and oranges, as well as halved grapefruits and huge bowls of figs, grapes, blueberries, and strawberries. Next to that stood a multi-stacked rack of cereal boxes and pitchers of milk and cream. Then the heavy geography started, with a mountain of sweet rolls and dan­ishes flanked by smaller hills of croissants and doughnuts. Next came the serviced area with its white-clad cooks stand­ing coolly behind the counter. Vats of hot cereal flanked pans of scrambled eggs and trays laden with waffles, pancakes, ac­kee, and eggs with salt codfish. French toast, steak, bacon, sausages, and ham were lined up atop steam tables.

She shoved a slice of papaya in her mouth and legged it for the lobby, a fragrant cup of Blue Mountain coffee steam­ing in her hand. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d indulge.

In the lobby lounge she spotted her new pal Michelle Stedman in a flowered blouse and jeans, with a short, hand­some, pale-skinned black man. They stood by the waterwheel on one side of the lobby. The man wore an immaculately pressed seersucker jacket with short pants, white suede shoes, pale yellow socks, and a jaunty straw hat.

“Michelle,” said Lucy, approaching them, her voice raised over the rhythmic splash of the waterwheel. “How are you? God, what a night, eh?”

“Lucy, good morning,” Michelle said. “This is William Evans, the architect.”

“Hello, Lucy,” said Evans, offering a hand, which Lucy shook. It was warm and dry. Evans had slightly Asian eyes. “I’m happy to meet you. Loved your piece on Columbus in Jamaica in T & L. A fascinating and little-known—up there in North America, anyway—tale. This should be of interest to you,” he went on, not missing a beat. His voice blended the training of English public school with an island lilt. “I was just explaining to Michelle the . . . symbolic importance of the waterwheel in the history of Jamaica. I insisted that they install this here so that the guests could, at least for a mo­ment, reflect on that history.”

“I see,” said Lucy. “The legacy of imperialism, slavery in the cane fields and sugar mills. It’s an admirable idea, and a wonderful architectural object. I love the sound of falling wa­ter, but I’m not sure the kind of people who come here will have the faintest idea—or interest, for that matter—in this kind of—”

“It’s the responsibility of hotel management to inform them,” said Evans sharply. “That’s why I placed it here.”

“Right, William,” said Michelle quickly. “And they will, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Speaking of the management, did they tell you what happened last night?” asked Lucy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make the dinner,” said Evans. “I had another engagement.”

“You don’t have to lie to Lucy, William.” Michelle grinned. “William is not a great admirer of Jackson Hababi,” she added.

“Not many architects are, of their clients,” said Lucy. “Particularly by the end of a project. But I wasn’t talking about dinner. Michelle, you heard what happened out on Naked—I mean, Tower Cay, didn’t you?”

“What’s that, Lucy?” said Michelle.

“Angus Wilson died in the hot tub out there last night,” Lucy said. “I can’t believe they didn’t—”

“What?” Michelle cried, her face turning white. “Angus Wilson dead?”

“That’s right,” said Lucy.

“That idiot Jefferson didn’t say anything when I came in this morning,” Michelle said. She seized control of herself. “You’ll have to pardon me,” she said, distraught, furious. “I’ve got to look into this. What happened? Was he . . . I’m sorry.. . I’m sure you two can figure out what you need to talk about without me butting in anyway.” She stuffed her notebook into her bag.

“We’ll be fine,” said Evans.

“See you later, Michelle,” said Lucy, as she and Evans watched her hurry off. “Strange, not telling their own PR peo­ple about something like this.”

“Frankly, I’m not surprised,” said Evans. “Who wants a dead man spoiling the party on opening day?”

“Good point,” said Lucy. “Besides, Angus Wilson was not exactly among the dearly beloved.”

“Never met the man myself,” said Evans. “But how did you happen to hear about this unfortunate incident?”

“Actually, I was wandering about admiring your work in the moonlight, and I heard a shout. Another guest had just found him.” Lucy shrugged, pulled out a pen, flipped a note­book open, and made ready. Later for Angus Wilson. There was work to do. “Well. As they say in New York, people die and clubs open. Let’s do the grand tour. It’s a great-looking place, by the way. I’m amazed at how many facilities you’ve gotten under one roof without losing control. And the restaurant on the water is exquisite.”

“Thank you. Getting this place organized was an exercise in . . . architectonic logistics, shall we say,” said Evans, an ex­pansive, somewhat pedantic tone emerging in his voice. “And, of course, the usual head-butting on budgets.

“Shall we begin with the lobby,” he went on, wandering that way. “I had to train the local workers on how to cut this stone—it’s native, of course—so you’ll have to forgive the rough edges. I had the chandelier done by some friends in Florence. I used to live there, you see. . .“

 

I’ll be interested in watching where Henderson takes Lucy next, and hope that both writer and character mature. In the meantime, Murder on Naked Beach is the reading equivalent of mindlessly eating popcorn, and could easily accompany a reader on a day at the beach.

 

Steve Hopkins, May 25, 2006

 

 

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The recommendation rating for this book appeared

 in the June 2006 issue of Executive Times

 

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