Trafford Publishing: Josephine's Prize: Murder in Martinique

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Josephine's Prize: Murder in Martinique

by David Kienitz

259 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1886; ISBN 1-4120-1508-1; US$21.99, C$28.00, EUR18.20, £13.50

Murder, assault and torture, mixed with bizarre cockfights and harrowing escapes bring trouble and adventure to the idyllic island of Martinique. Can Silk Taylor both survive and solve the mystery?

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About the Book

Her mentor is found dead! Is Silk Taylor the murderer?
She struggles to learn details that can exonerate her and also help a retiring, soft-spoken Martinique cop get the details straight. Alone at first, she soon finds allies; a handsome American tourist and a gregarious Martinique islander who cooks up barbecued ribs and loves Rock and Roll.
Silk's apartment is thoroughly searched and she is brutally attacked by an unidentified assailant. The work of overzealous police, or the real murderers? She attends a cockfight and is fascinated. She later becomes involved in deadly cockfight... as a participant! As she and her American friend desperately race across the island, staying one step ahead of the killers and the cops, she discovers passion... mixed with torture, hidden French gold bullion and adventure.

About the Author

David Kienitz and his wife divide their time between Minneapolis, a cottage on a lake in Northern Minnesota, and Tucson, Arizona. They greatly enjoy family, good friends and world travel.

Excerpts

She was thrown over the handlebar, head first over the bushes.

She bounced like a skipped stone across the top of a small round cafe table and instantly rammed head-first into a man reading a copy of Fodor's Guide to the Caribbean and holding a glass of beer.

In an explosion of motion and color the man was jolted over backward with Silk on top of him. They fell to the ground amidst a din of clanging silverware, tables and chairs tumbling, glass breaking, and Silk's bike as it skidded and scraped along the sidewalk. The man's beer flew up in a four foot golden arc and his Fodor's, its pages fluttering like a wounded dove, flew across several tables before landing. There were shouts and commotion as the other cafe patrons pushed their chairs back, dodging the swirling mass.

Very bright lights flashed behind Silk's eyes. She heard the mans' head slam against the sidewalk with a sickening thud.

Her ears rang. She gulped for air. She felt a sharp pain in her neck. Her arms and chest hurt, her legs hurt.

She was lying cross-wise on top of him, her stomach now covering his face, her legs splayed out one side, arms to the other. He was on his back, still in a sitting position in the toppled chair.

Dizzy and weak, she finally got to her knees, sat back on her heels and took a deep breath. She rubbed the back of her neck and twisted her head from side to side. She felt both sharp pain and embarrassment.

She slipped off her book bag and leaned forward again, hands on knees, and stared at the man in front of her. Someone asked if she was all right, if they should call a doctor. She sat mute, unable to mutter a response. The waiter came over with a towel, knelt down and placed it under the man's head and as he did, the man let out a muffled moan. He took in short gasps of air, opening and closing his mouth like a fish struggling for air in the bottom of a boat. His head rolled to one side. Silk saw the bright red blood, staining his light brown hair, the towel, the sidewalk.

She tried to think, to move, but felt light-headed and extremely weak. Her hands trembled against her knees. She started to cry.

Something brushed her from behind. Pain shot through her body as she turned to look. With blurred tunnel vision she focused on a purple anchor tattoo on a man's arm as it reached down for her book bag, lifted it up and pulled it away. Through more pain she lifted her head and caught a glimpse of his back as he crossed the sidewalk, got into a dark sedan and closed the door. The car swiftly pulled away from the scene.

"So, Mademoiselle," Margot continued in a loud voice as he and Alonge' returned to their seats on the platform, "you are in for a great entertainment. A dance specialty of the island! But, sadly, I'm afraid it will be your last exposure to our folk art. You have learned too much about our operation here, so this, Mademoiselle, will be the 'Dance of Death' for your friend... and then for yourself."

He smiled at her. "We'll begin with the laghia and then increase the entertainment by switching to the damier. So, as you Americans say, 'Sit back, relax and enjoy the show!'" He turned and signaled to the drummer.

The beat began slowly. A door at the end of the arena opened and the man in the wool cap led Rob into the room, followed by the tattooed man and the second black man, dressed in the traditional laghia manner, shirtless, white shorts, no shoes or socks, a white bandana wrapped around his head. Rob shot a quick glance at Silk as he was pushed to the center of the arena. The man in the cap bent to untie Rob's hands, then slowly backed away and stood next to the platform. The beat of the drum became more intense, the thick wooden drum sticks blurred with speed.

Silk thought back to that sunny morning when she and Rob had watched the laghia. The lithe, athletic young men enjoying a harmless native tradition. This time Rob was to be one of the participants, until he was dead!

The dancer began slowly swaying to the rhythm and circling Rob as if measuring him. Suddenly he whirled completely around to his left and deftly landed a hard kick on the side of Rob's left thigh. Rob was staggered by the blow. He took a sharp, second kick to the chest, then he, too, began to slowly move, to warily circle. He jumped back, avoided a foot aimed at his mid-section, and was caught by the man's other foot full on the left cheek and nose. Rob's feet left the ground and he fell over onto his side in the dirt. A swirl of dust rose around him. The dancer waited for Rob to stand again, then unleashed another hard kick, catching Rob in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Rob doubled over, unable to move or avoid the coming attack. He wiped the blood that trickled out of the corner of his mouth on his sleeve.

Margot stood and held out his arms, signaling a halt to the drum beat. "In fairness," he announced, "I think we should let Monsieur Rob catch his breath. No? Ah, but look! He is bleeding!" He turned to the man with the tattoos.

"Armand, help him out of his misery."

Armand moved quickly to stand directly in front of Rob and pulled out a knife. Its blade flashed in the bright lights. Rob teetered backwards. Armand pulled a lime out of his pocket as he came forward. Rob put his hands up to block the attack, but Armand stopped short and with a smile, casually cut a slice out of the lime. He grabbed Rob by the hair and forced the sour wedge into his mouth. Rob's eyes widened with the stinging shock of the astringent. He staggered back, spit out the fruit and put his hand to his mouth. The bleeding had stopped. Armand laughed and returned to his place next to the platform. The drum beat began anew. Rob, still dazed, rubbed his cheek.

Silk's emotions bounced from apprehension to fright as she watched first the vicious kicks, then the flashing knife. She looked at the men on the platform, then across to the other side of the arena where she saw the dancer, sitting against the wall in the dirt, attaching leather straps to his ankles. As his hands moved, making adjustments, she saw a glint of steel. What was it? She realized the steel was some sort of spur. So this was the difference between the laghia and the illegal damier, razor sharp spurs strapped to the legs, like the roosters in the cock fights! Oh, my God! He was going to slash Rob to death!

Armand came out to Rob and shoved him roughly to the floor, then knelt down and attached straps to Rob's ankles, adjusting the spurs to the inside of his ankles. The drum began again and he stood, jerked Rob to his feet and winked, as if to wish him good luck, then laughed and returned to the platform to watch. The drum beat intensified, the dancer stood and began his rhythmic circling anew, like a cat with its prey in sight. Silk could see Rob's body tense up as he, too, began to circle.

The dancer made a few thrusts with his feet which Rob easily avoided by jumping back. They were directly in front of Silk now and she could see the multiple ridges of scar tissue on the dancer's legs, arms, chest, even his face. He had participated in many of these dances before. With a quick step and a leap he soared into the air, his entire body rose to a horizontal position, six feet off the ground. He kicked out, his spur flashing in the light, and nicked Rob's chin, no more than a shaving cut, but a trickle of blood began.

The dancer landed on both feet, whirled around, leaped, and again rose to the horizontal, knees bent. Again his foot slashed out at the last second. With amazing quickness Rob raised his left arm to deflect the blow. The spur ripped his sleeve, hooked the flesh of his fore-arm. Blood soaked through, making a dark blotch in the material. The drum pounded louder, faster. Rob kicked out with his right foot and caught the dancer across the shin, cutting him to the bone. Blood flowed down his leg and spur, then formed a small pool in the dirt. Without looking down at his wound he assaulted Rob with an unexpected spin kick and caught him just below the rib cage with the outside of his foot. Rob fell to his knees gasping for air, then toppled over onto the dirt floor, doubled up with pain. The dust lingered around him in a cloud.

At Margot's instructions from the platform, the dancer moved over to Silk. She took in a quick gasp of air, her stomach churned. What was he going to do? He circled her slowly, then made a graceful half leap and kicked out at her face.

She snapped her head back against the post, and the razor sharp spur missed her cheek by a fraction of an inch. A slow smile spread across the dancer's face. Again he swayed to the rhythm of the drum as he danced directly in front of her, then another sudden leap. His foot flashed high up and straight ahead, then down. The spur caught the top button of Silk's shirt and continued down, hooked the cloth between her brassiere cups, sliced through, and then continued down, cutting her shirt open to the waist.

She felt a warm trickle run down between her breasts. Was it sweat or blood? She couldn't tell.

Again the signal was given to stop and the pounding rhythm of the drums ceased. Charles Margot walked slowly up to Silk. He stopped in front of her, then pushed her oversized shirt open and rolled the lapels back up over her shoulders. He smiled evilly, then laughed. He took a knife from his pocket and snapped it open. The light from over his head glinted off the blade. He brought it forward and touched its cold tip to her throat, pricking the indentation just above where her collar bones met. She held her breath, not daring to swallow. He lowered the blade, and cut one of the dangling cups from her brassiere.

He held it in his fingertips above his head like a trophy. The laughter from the others echoed through the arena.

She stared at him in disbelief. Tears of anger and helplessness welled up in her eyes. This was Papa Lallo's torturer, the man who had ordered the belt to be pulled harshly against the spine and neck, a man without a trace of sympathy or remorse. And now she knew Margot had used the same method to murder Dr. Dupre. She spit in his face.

His smile disappeared. He grabbed her throat and squeezed hard. She gasped for air. His smile returned. Slowly he released his grip, then carefully folded the knife blade back into its handle. Knife and bra cup went into his pocket. He reached into another pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter. Silk stared at the flame as he lit it. She remembered the rooster at the cock fight, its feet burned just to see it squirm. She shuddered.

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