Mango Cay

By Carl Nattrass

Joe Fletcher is busy considering his next move; whether it’s about Kirsty, his seemingly now-a-fixture girlfriend, or his long-awaited vacation, or his ever-elusive surfing lessons. But, when a new job raises its head and he agrees to investigate a robbery in the luxury community of Mango Cay, he gets drawn into the seedy world of antique dealing.

When what appears to be the simple robbery of a set of cherished Japanese swords ends in the tragic death of an elderly war veteran. Joe is asked by the veteran's granddaughter to pick up the investigation where the police have left off.

The further Joe digs, the more he realizes that this may not be a one-off robbery, and that someone may be running an organized crime-ring targeting owners of antiques. Criminals once again seem to be insisting on getting between Joe and his afternoon beer.

Based against the tropical backdrop of Anna Maria Island, can our lovable sleuth solve the mystery before his next surfing lesson?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Nattrass
• Release date: Sep 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370628575

Carl Nattrass

Carl Nattrass was born in Hexham, Northumberland and now lives in County Durham. He works in computing, and enjoys travelling, walking, music, skiing and spending time with his family. He is a part-time author who has a love for descriptive writing and he enjoys reading and writing cozy mysteries. You can find more details about his books at www.apellicon.net

Book preview

Chapter 1

Joe stood at the floor-to-ceiling window gazing out over Tampa Bay. From the seventeenth floor of the Hacienda Plaza Tower, the view was magnificent. Below, the Hillsborough River wound its way under the Selmon Expressway and down past Davis Island with its small airport clearly visible in the distance. Beyond that, the twinkling bay was laid out before him for another four or five miles.

Intrigued, he raised his right hand to the glass and tapped it with his fingernail; it gave off a dull clunk as if to reassure him of its thickness.

He dragged his eyes away from the view and passed them over the Miura Corporation waiting-room. As could be expected for such a prestigious business address, the offices exuded a classy, yet understated appeal. Through the opening to Mr Miura’s personal receptionist’s office, he could see her slim, attractive legs extended in front of her as she worked at her desk. At her right hand on the desk, lay a computer tablet; no sign of a regular computer. It appeared that Mr Miura’s receptionist wasn’t intending to do any menial tasks such as lengthy typing.

The receptionist’s head jerked up as if someone had called out her name and she stared straight ahead, concentrating.

Yes, Mr Miura, she said to herself, I’ll show him in.

She stood up and walked over to where Joe was standing.

Mr Fletcher, if you would be so good…, she said, indicating for him to follow her.

It was as she turned that Joe spotted the small clear earpiece partially hidden behind wisps of black hair.

She walked over towards one of the minimalist glass shelving units which were artistically placed around the room, and as she approached, a door-sized section of the wall which it was attached to, swung back to reveal a room behind. They passed through the opening into the huge room. It was a wide open space occupied only at one end by a large desk and a number of chairs. The man behind the desk stood and greeted Joe, his arms extended as if in welcome.

Mr Fletcher, he said, Thank you for coming. I understand that as a Private Investigator, you are a very busy man.

Joe smiled a greeting, and the man indicated with one hand that Joe should take one of the seats in front of his large glass desk.

Wow, Joe said, This is some office! nodding his head in appreciation.

Immediately, he felt lame; what a poor opener! He cast a glance around taking the office in. The exterior wall of the office was perhaps sixty feet long, all glass windows, floor-to-ceiling, giving a similar view to that in the waiting room. The ambient daylight coming into the room was astounding as it reflected off the glossy light floor tiles. In front of Joe lay a glass desk perhaps twelve feet wide, and on its far side stood the short, diminutive, Mr Miura.

Welcome Mr Fletcher, I am Mr Miura, the man said, CEO of Miura Corporation, welcome to our headquarters, I hope that I didn’t keep you waiting too long.

It is I who should thank you Mr Miura, for seeing me at such short notice, Joe said.

Mr Miura waved his hand as if it was unimportant, and then sat down himself.

I understand from Ms Takaki that you are investigating the Miura Daishō, he said.

Well, I still need to confirm that the pair of swords in question are in fact the Miura Daishō, Joe stated, That is one of the reasons I need your help.

The small man’s eyes narrowed, and a frown began on his forehead as if he were about to say something. But then once more, they relaxed.

Joe took this opportunity to observe the man, to memorise him. Small in appearance, but not in stature; his close-cropped black hair beginning to grey at the temples, he wore an expensively cut suit. His general appearance was one of understated privilege, and his offices reinforced this.

Joe unzipped the document wallet he was carrying, and from it removed the photograph that he had been given by his latest client, Ruby Bartlett-Marriott. He passed the photograph across the desk. Mr Miura made no move to pick it up; he just sat placidly, staring at it. After what seemed like a full minute, but was probably only ten seconds, he took from his jacket pocket a small magnifying glass.

It comes to us all Mr Fletcher, he said, You too one day.

Now he picked up the photograph and examined it through the magnifying glass. Joe noted that the man bit his inside lip as he concentrated. Finally, he looked up at Joe and let out a sigh.

I cannot be sure Mr Fletcher, not from a photograph of this size. I do not wish to inflate my hopes to much without being absolutely certain. Would there be any chance that I could borrow this photograph for a few minutes, one of my staff could enlarge it for me.

Joe shrugged and then nodded his head, Certainly, he said.

Mr Miura pressed a button on his telephone handset and moments later he spoke to the receptionist who had silently entered the room.

Please take this to imaging and have it enlarged as far as is practical, he said to the receptionist.

She appeared by his desk and took the photograph from him.

If this is the Miura Daishō, the Miura’s family sword set, will the person you represent be willing to sell them? he asked.

I cannot answer that at this moment in time Mr Miura. She has expressed that the swords are of little sentimental value to her, so perhaps. I could clarify this for you the next time I meet her.

I would be grateful for that, Mr Miura said.

The receptionist left and changing the subject, Mr Miura once again said So, you are a Private Investigator Mr Fletcher, is that correct?

Joe nodded, May I enquire as to what you are investigating? he asked.

The swords were stolen from my client’s grandfather’s house, Joe said.

Before he could continue, Mr Miura interrupted, So it is the swords that you are investigating, is that right Mr Fletcher?

Joe shook his head.

Not necessarily Mr Miura. Unfortunately, I have not been given the liberty to divulge any further information at this point. All I can say is that the swords are an integral part of the investigation.

Can you tell me how your client, or your client’s grandfather, came across this Daishō? he asked.

I was hoping that maybe you would be able to help me in that respect Mr Miura.

Mr Miura looked surprised; Me? How can I help you?

I was hoping that you may be able to tell how your family lost… I should say, last saw, your family’s Daishō? Joe said.

Ah…, I see, Mr Miura said, That, I do know. My grandfather was the last person to see them. It was in 1946. he Americans, or should I say we Americans, were disarming the Japanese people of all of their swords. It was part of the Allied imposed Disarmament Programme. All Japanese swords, whether military or ceremonial were to be confiscated and destroyed. However, I do believe that some of the better ones, or should I say some of those from the more distinguished Japanese families, managed to find their way over to America.

Joe frowned. So you think that some of these swords, especially the better ones, may not have been destroyed and instead were secretly brought back to America and sold on?

It appears so, especially if this Daishō turns out to be the one belonging to our family. I know that my grandfather had said that they were taken from him by American soldiers during the April or May of 1946. Until I received the call from Ms Takaki, I was unaware that they may have survived.

Have you any idea who was doing this? asked Joe.

Mr Miura shook his head; Just soldiers. I don’t know.

At that point, the receptionist appeared by the desk once more; she seemed to almost be able to float silently in and out of the room.

The photograph sir, she said, placing the original, and then the now hugely inflated print onto the glass desk. She glided away.

Mr Miura once again picked up his magnifying glass and examined the enlarged photo which was now almost three feet wide. He let out a small hmmm as if in recognition.

Would you be so good as to step around my side of the desk please Mr Fletcher, I would like to show you something, he said.

Joe followed the request and stood looking down at the large print. He was conscious of how tall he stood next to the seated man.

Mr Miura pointed out on the image a design partially hidden by the sword grip on its handle.

That, Mr Fletcher…, Mr Miura said, "Is the menuki. It is a design placed there by the sword’s craftsman. It is an emblem to match the sword with its owner’s family. The design you see there would appear on the hilts of all the swords used by this particular family. He then pointed to another part of the sword, this time on the sword’s scabbard. It appeared to Joe to be a piece of patterned metal near the scabbard’s mouth where the sword fitted into it. It was about two inches long, and ran lengthways along the scabbard, away from the mouth.

That Mr Fletcher, is called the kougai. It matches the sword’s saya, or rather the scabbard, with the menuki, and thus with the family.

He paused for a moment, and then reaching inside his jacket pocket, he retrieved a folded piece of paper. Opening the paper, he placed it on top of the print, and turned it to face Joe.

This is the Miura menuki Mr Fletcher. As you can see, it is a perfect match, he said, looking at Joe.

Joe looked at the hand drawn design on the piece of paper. There were three entwined fishes, a large one in the middle with two smaller ones, one above and one below, their designs entangled with one another.

The three fishes represent both our homeland and our name. The word Miura can be roughly translated into English to mean 'three bays', hence the three fish, one for each bay. That proves Mr Fletcher that this sword belongs in my family. We would be extremely interested in getting this Daishō returned to us.

He indicated for Joe to retake his seat before continuing.

I understand Mr Fletcher, that during a time of war that things, regrettable things, occur. In my family’s entire history, the most regrettable thing that has happened is the losing of our Daishō. In Japan, this is one of the worst insults against a family, having their Daishō taken from them. If at all possible, Mr Fletcher, I would like to rectify the situation. I acknowledge that it is, by law, owned by your client, but even so, it was originally ours. Can you confirm if you have, or have the knowledge as to where this Daishō may be?

I’m sorry Mr Miura. At this point in time, I cannot confirm or deny anything. Like I said earlier, I will try to clarify this situation with my client, and I promise to get back to you.

My family would be willing to pay quite handsomely to compensate your client for the recovery of these items, he said.

I would also be able to pay you handsomely Mr Fletcher, if you could arrange for this to happen. My family would be forever in your debt if you could recover these swords for us.

Joe nodded.

I'll let you know as soon as I find out, said Joe.

Mr Miura stood up, and with great civility, gave Joe a slow bow. He then leaned over and shook his hand. Once again, the receptionist was at the end of the desk, waiting to show Joe out.

Joe had decided that he liked this man, and that if he could, he would help. It was after all, putting right a wrong.

Chapter 2

That evening, Joe found himself sitting on his living room floor with Kirsty going through the piles of papers which collectively were Bucky Bartlett’s memoirs. Joe, surrounded by the myriad of papers and notes allowed his mind to wander back to how this current case had landed on his desk.

Chapter 3

Ten days earlier, he had received a call from a Mrs Ruby Bartlett-Marriott requesting Joe to visit her at her father’s home. He had agreed and was presently on his way to that appointment. As a Private Investigator, he was accustomed to getting cryptic telephone calls where the caller would only be willing to divulge the minimum amount of information. It had been this way when Mrs Ruby Bartlett-Marriott had called. She had simply stated that she wanted to talk about a situation she had.

He slowed the car down as he turned off the causeway onto Siesta Key’s main drag, and headed south. He followed it along for a few minutes and then turned left once again off the main road into the entrance of Mango Cay. There was about a hundred feet of road surrounded by ornate stone walls, and he let the little Mazda glide up to the security gate where two men were on duty inside.

The Phillips’ estate, Joe said to one of the men.

Name? enquired the guard.

Fletcher, Joe Fletcher, he answered.

Third house on the left, the guard said, not even referring to any paperwork before waving Joe through; 'Either sloppy or highly organised,' Joe thought, probably the latter.

The gates ahead opened slowly to reveal a wide curving drive winding its way through carefully designed and manicured gardens and woods. A couple of hundred feet later, the car passed over a small mock-ancient stone bridge, arching over a flowing stream, and then shortly after the first house came into view. Well, not exactly came into view, but glimpses of its color could