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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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Murder on Naked Beach by J.J. Henderson |
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Rating: |
** |
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(Mildly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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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 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 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 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 “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 “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 I’ll be interested in watching where Steve Hopkins,
May 25, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Murder
on Naked Beach.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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