Free Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor

square umbrella.
    “The Marina del Mar is truly an achievement,” Rex said, deeming a compliment was in order.
    “It was a long time in the making, but, yes, I am pleased with the result,” Monsieur Bijou concurred. “We pre-sold 90 percent of the condominiums before we even broke ground. It is a relatively simple matter to buy real estate on the island. There are no special licenses or permits required. You could buy one yourself.”
    In keeping with his name, Monsieur Bijou wore an ostentatious array of jewels on his manicured fingers: an opal, a sapphire, an emerald—but none on his ring finger. This was probably just as well, since Rex could not begin to imagine what a Madame Bijou would look like. The valet dispensed tumblers garnished with twists of lime.
    “Perhaps I’ll consider a little pied-à-terre on St. Martin when I retire.”
    “Why wait?” his host asked. “Property values will go up and the sooner you buy, the more time you will have to enjoy it.”
    “It seems you do very well at practicing what you preach,” Rex said, glancing in appreciation about him.
    “Indeed, there are so many opportunities. My newest project is a night club in Marigot, which will have a floor show styled after Les Folies-Bergères .”
    “With the Can-Can?”
    “But of course. You approve?”
    “I’m more familiar with the Highland Fling myself.”
    Monsieur Bijou smiled urbanely. “There is no comparison. Imagine beautiful semi-naked girls in bright costumes dancing above the footlights, kicking up their legs to the sound of a live Parisian band.” He waved a glittering hand as if to conjure up the vision.
    “I can see it now.” The Tangaray gin helped, adding a nice dry kick to the Schweppes.
    “And so to business. Mr. Winslow said he was flying you from Edinburgh to look into the matter of the missing actress. How can I help?”
    “It seems you have been of tremendous assistance already.”
    “A favour for a friend. The least I could do.”
    A self-interested favor, Rex surmised. Paul Winslow had rich friends who sometimes ended up deciding to purchase property on St. Martin, and he steered them Bijou’s way.
    “Did you hear that the rest of Ms. Durand’s pareo was recovered at sea?” Rex asked.
    “I did.”
    “We must pursue the investigation—”
    Monsieur Bijou deposited his glass on the wrought-iron table with a resolute thud. “What does it prove?”
    “Only that she ended up in the water. My concern is how she got there.”
    “Without more evidence, where do we go? The most obvious possibility is that Mademoiselle Durand slipped on the rocks and cut herself, and then foolishly went bathing in the sea at dusk when sharks come inshore to feed.” Bijou displayed his rings in another flourish of the hand. “My dear sir, please be at liberty to continue your inquiries, but further insistence on my part with the police would prove fruitless.”
    “The Gendarmerie report states that she ‘in all probability’ drowned—if she was not first attacked by sharks.”
    “There have been other drownings in the area, notably at Galion Beach. Visitors go in the water to cool off and, in some cases, non-swimmers have been overwhelmed by the tide or else have drifted out with the current.”
    “Ms. Durand was a good swimmer and a certified scuba diver.”
    “But what proof do you have that it was other than the police suggest?”
    “I would like to ascertain the exact cause of death. It would be of comfort to her nearest and dearest.”
    “Without a body, we may never know for sure.” Monsieur Bijou drummed the armrest of his chair with his resplendent fingers. Clearly, he wanted the case dropped. He had been seen to do the right thing by his wealthy friends, and now he wished for the investigation to go away.
    “Bodies dead by suspicious means are bad for business?” Rex hazarded.
    “Truly, Monsieur Graves, why should this be a suspicious death?” He glanced pointedly at his Rolex.
    “Just one