Death in Costa Rica: A Mary Jane Morris Mystery

By J. J. Jorgens

Frustrated by an impenetrable murder case in D.C. which no one seems to want solved, not the family, not the police, not the newspapers, private eye Mary Jane Morris retreats to her aunt's seaside hotel in Costa Rica for some great food, fishing, and drinks with little umbrellas in them. Mary Jane's roommate has a fourteen year-old son Jackson who begs to go along, arguing that the trip will expose him to a different culture and improve his Spanish. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The trip rapidly becomes the vacation from hell. The rickety passenger plane nearly crashes in a storm, and they survive the crocodiles in the river only because a realtor manages to scare them off with his helicopter. Mary Jane's Aunt Carmen is being blackmailed by someone who claims she doesn't own the land the hotel is built on, a tsunami of negative reviews on hotel websites threaten to drive her out of business, and the bank is threatening to foreclose. Soon they are all caught up in a spider's web of land fraud, counterfeit art, and murder, and the spider is out to get them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997935936

Book preview

HILL?

PREFACE

For me it’s always been detectives.  Growing up I was dazzled by Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, Phillip Marlowe, The Shadow, and Miss Marple.  Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammet, Simenon, Mickey Spillane, and Earle Stanley Gardner toughened me up and made me less sentimental.  Later, unimpressed by Mr. Bond and tastes more refined, I preferred the bitter misanthrope Morse, the depressed Swede Wallander, and the fussy dandy Hercule Poirot.

Then women entered the scene, smarter and more resourceful than the exasperated men around them.  Miss Marple has been joined by a whole sisterhood of detectives including Sarah Paretsky’s blunt V.I. Warshovsky, Jane Tennison in Prime Suspect surrounded by sexists on all sides, working class Barbara Havers clashing with the handsome Lord Lynley, and the awkward tough gothic punk, Lisbeth Salander.  I particularly like stories with a strong sense of place — Donna Leon’s Commissario Guido Brunetti who knows every canal in Venice, and V.I. Warshowski’s muscular Chicago. 

Lecturing to students and audiences over the years, I’ve explored the violent people and cruel terrain of detective fiction and films.  I suppose Hitchcock’s films could be seen as a series, but there have been many wonderful one-offs like Chinatown and Three Days of the Condor.  It was probably inevitable that I would invent a detective some day and write a series of stories about her. 

Mary Jane Morris practices her trade in Washington D.C. Margaret Truman set her series of murder mysteries there, and it was a good choice since it is one of the most interesting and contradictory places in the world.  At its center is the Mall with the White House and Congress, museums, monuments and cherry blossoms on the banks of the Potomac.  Filling downtown are lawyers and lobbyists, media outlets, theaters, universities and national nonprofits, the Pentagon, and Arlington Cemetery.  176 embassies line Massachusetts Avenue, and the beltway is filled with Suburbs full of immigrants from El Salvador and Ethiopia and the descendants of African slaves, but also government contracting firms making billions and imitation European country estates costing millions.  It is a volatile mix of corruption, drug trafficking, spying, murderous jealous spouses, terrorist violence, and a hundred and one ingenious forms of corruption.  Mary Jane is not lacking for work.

READER COMMENTS ON DEATH IN COSTA RICA

Mary Jane and her nephew solve a mystery in Costa Rica. A rich cast of characters and an unusual setting make this latest adventure as thrilling as the first, with promises of more to come. Go Mary Jane! — A. Domeyko

"An absolute must read!!  Jorgens has once again come up with a winner in the second book of the Mary Jane Morris series. The spunky, savvy, lawyer turned detective has her hands full in this one.  It starts off with her being thrown off a case, and stumbling into another one.  Full of twists and turns, it has so much going on that it keeps you on your toes. The characters are so well etched, that you feel as if you know them personally…and you feel as if you too have taken the trip with her.  And the whole package is so topical that you do wonder  the question how much is fact based and how much is fiction. Really good writing!! I highly recommend this book.  — N. Sawhney

READER COMMENTS ON VETERANS DAY

— I think the author must have had a great time writing this Mary Jane Morris novel and I’m also thrilled to know more of her adventures will be forthcoming. I loved this strong, savvy, spirited, kick-ass lawyer turned detective protagonist. Her investigation into why veterans are struggling to receive services is timely and eye opening. The villain is Darth Vadar bad giving this story all the elements needed for a great suspenseful detective read. The story will keep the reader engaged, intrigued, eager to turn the page and awake at night because you just don’t want to put the book down.  — Sondra K.

— Jorgens was draining the swamp of Washington long before Mr. Trump ever got the notion. Fast-paced, full of memorable characters, brimming

with humor and wit, with an amazing sense of place and times we live in, this book is hard to put down. — Z. Stamenic

—Timely, humorous, fast paced, filled with original and appealing characters. You won’t want to put it down! Highly recommended.  — A. Domeyko

—A superb book!! The characters, the story, and the style of writing are so engrossing that i had to read it in one go. Mary, a lawyer turned detective, is spunky, and savvy, and with her heart in the right place. It starts off with her answering a call from a friend and ex-partner for help, to trying to unravel his suicide/ murder. And then everything hits the roof, the veterans, the politicians, the police, the FBI, all the power brokers.  Oh, what a tangle!!  Absolutely brilliant! I am so glad this is the first in a series, and we’ll see more of Mary Jane Morris. I highly recommend this book. — N. Sawhney

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The location is a combination of several places, including a hotel in Costa Rica, a fishing village in Chile, and a resort in Belize.

I am grateful to PBS for airing so many works of detection, including Sherlock Holmes, Poirot, Agatha Christie, and sour Morse.  Many thanks to the masters of detective fiction and mysteries

And to the great writers I was nourished by over the years, including Italo Calvino, Mark Twain, and Garrison Keeler.

Thanks to my father who loved comedies and took me to see Jacques Tati’s Mr. Hulot’s Holiday, the Marx brothers, Hope and Crosby in the Road pictures, and so many others.  And thanks to so many writers and directors of good comedy, from Ivan Passer and Milos Forman’s Fireman’s Ball, Janos Rozsa who worked so hard with me on a comedy that never made it to the screen.  Thanks to Czech writer Arnost Lustig who never ran out of jokes and shared an office with me for 25 years, his son Pepi, and disciples Zoran Stamenic and Desson Thompson.

Most of all, thanks of all to my beloved wife Cecilia Domeyko, a talented writer who read through and corrected everything in this book many times, to my daughters Elisabeth and Catherine who gave me so many fond memories, and my grandchildren Jackson and Genevieve who delight me more than they know.

Thank you to readers who made helpful corrections and suggestions on an early draft, including Alex Name, Marisa Arbona-Ruiz, Paz Domeyko, Sondra Knowlton, and Zoran Stamenic.  Andres Domeyko gave generously of his time to proofread.  Most of all thanks to my wife Cecilia Domeyko who took time away from her wonderful novel Sacrificio En La Frontera.  Una madre busca a su niño robado (Sacrifice on the Border.  A Mother Looks for her Stolen Child) to help with mine.

A SORROWFUL FAMILY

The past is not dead. In fact, it’s not even past. — William Faulkner

"Detective Morris, your investigation has lasted for a month now with no tangible result, and the family has decided that your services are no longer required."

The son of the late Christopher Howard Hill, Christopher Junior, paced up and down doing a poor imitation of his father.  His exaggerated gestures and too-perfect suit from Saville Row betrayed his anxiousness to make an impression. Seated at the far end of the table were Hill’s eldest daughter Abigail, and his ex-wife Roseanne.  The deceased also had a younger daughter Deborah but she didn’t show up. 

I sat at the other end of the table, as far away as I could get. They glared at me like a hungry pack of jackals.  They wanted their money. They had probably spent a good deal of it already, and the only real grief in the room was for the cash they couldn’t get their hands on.

Sitting next to me was the long-time family lawyer, Spencer Howe, a distinguished old world gentleman with a white flower in his lapel.  His genteel soft-spoken manner matched the Great Hall we were in.  His white hair and sad smile also bore witness to the hundreds of meetings like this that he had attended.  He was more than just the family lawyer.  He was Hill’s friend.  Howe looked down at the will on the table in front of him, and patiently listened. I was trained as a lawyer too, and we both knew that they couldn’t fire me because I worked for the estate and he was the executor. 

The last will and testament was in two parts.  The first stipulated that if the circumstances of Christopher Hill’s death were suspicious, I was to be hired to investigate. A dagger through the heart qualified as suspicious.  The second part would not be revealed until I completed my inquiries.

If you would cooperate, I said to the sullen group, things would go faster.

We don’t consider our finances to be any of your concern, said Junior.

Then there is the matter of Mr. Hill’s credit cards.  He seems to have signed for several purchases since his death.

A mere technicality, said the ex. Christopher was always very generous.  We don’t see why you had to cancel them.

And your alibis?

What does it matter where we were when daddy died? said Abigail, checking her makeup. You don’t really think any of us would run poor papa through with a dagger, do you?  The whole thing is absurd.

His empty safe?

Obviously a professional thief, replied Junior.

One who knew the combination.

You’re wasting our time, whined the sister. Don’t you realize that the season in Europe begins in a week?

I looked around the room with high windows and dark wood paneling.  It had softly lit paintings by Van Gogh, Monet, and Cezanne, reflecting Christopher’s love of adventurous spirits and beautiful things.  But since he was also a practical man, they were also designed to impress.  Flags of seventeen nations hung along the vaulted ceiling. Hill had major holdings in each. The long table we were sitting at was from a Medici palace in Florence, and the vast Persian rugs once graced the palace of a Saudi prince.

Christopher Hill had a wonderful sense of humor, and his jokes were often at his own expense. He had imagination and talent and the ability to recognize them in others.  When he read about the WaterWheel, an easy to pull plastic tank in the form of a wheel that could hold thirteen gallons of clean water, he distributed them all over Africa.  Since it is women who carry the water, often over long distances, this one act freed millions of women to be educated and become teachers, work for governments, or start small businesses. 

Hill wasn’t just a businessman and philanthropist. He studied the Greeks and Romans, the first writers to be conscious of the idea of history, and he often spoke of the power of the past to shape the future, for good or for evil.  His collection included inventions that changed the course of history, including a replica of the Magna Carta, DaVinci’s designs for an airplane, a rifle made on the first assembly line, Edison’s telephone, and a prototype of the Apple computer. The house seemed an empty shell without him.

To his family, Christopher’s stunning paintings and amazing artifacts were just so much trash to be auctioned off. He said that they weren’t a family, but a parody of a family, and he often wondered if they were a punishment for something he did. You got the feeling that if left alone in the room and armed with axes, they would gleefully hack each other to pieces.

Hill told me his son had tried to set fire to their cat when he was seven, and was a holy terror around other children.  Now he spends most of his time drinking with his entourage, gambling, and hiring hookers.  The elder daughter Abigail is a pretty thing without an idea in her head.  The first time I met her, she was filing her nails.  Looking around the Grand Hall she said this place gives me the creeps.  The ex-wife whose face had been heroically lifted several times was wearing a designer dress from the Ten Grand Department without a hint of mourning in it. 

These people weren’t inclined to strive for anything.  Born consumers, they hadn’t the slightest interest in creation or discovery.  Education and work were for fools. Travel was to relieve boredom and look stylish. It was painful to see a man so ignorance of the world, and felt guilty for being unable to make them otherwise. They hated him and everything he stood for.  His innovative companies.  His work in helping developing countries solve problems like education and energy, and to market their art to the world on the internet.  In the family’s view these were all a waste of money.  They could hardly stand to be in the same room with him because he expected things of them. 

It was in this room that Christopher Hill was found stabbed in the heart a month earlier in front of the fireplace. There were still faint bloodstains on the floor.  He showed me the dagger once.  It was called a pugio in ancient Rome, the kind that Brutus killed himself with.  It was part of a display of ancient weapons on the wall.  Death would have been instantaneous.  There were no witnesses.  Christopher didn’t allow security cameras inside the house.  He didn’t like the feeling of being spied on.  Whoever killed him must have known there were no cameras to record what they did.  The police found no fingerprints, DNA samples, or footprints.  The watchman making his rounds saw Hill dozing by the fireplace but no one else was there.  After the family left on the night the of the murder, the security cameras covering the doors and exterior walls showed no one entering, and the alarm system didn’t go off.  On the surface it seemed like the perfect crime. 

As lawyer Howe and I sat waiting for the meeting to start, through the double fireplace facing two rooms we could hear them shouting next door, each saying they deserved a bigger share of the spoils.

When he got sick, where were you when I had to care of him? said the ex.  Off leading your selfish lives.  Some son you are!  You never worked a day in your life.  All you did was beg and steal.

Mommy dearest, you spend more in a week on jewelry, plastic surgery, and health spas than I spend in a year.  It didn’t do any good by the way.  You’re still fat and ugly.  No wonder he chased after other women.

You and Debbie were always the favorites, said Abigail.  She ran out on us as soon as she could, and you were always the golden boy, even when you knocked up my friends and lost a fortune gambling.

Right sis, and how much did he have to spend on your facelifts and rehab? he replied.

They went on and on, their spite pouring out of the fireplace like some noxious gas.

Are they always like this? I asked Howe.

Only during waking hours.

Do you have any idea who might have done it?

Ms. Morris, I will do the lawyering and you do the detecting.

The family stalked into the room with sour looks.

Howe, said Junior, this is outrageous.  You’re withholding important information. We have a right to know the status of father’s affairs. When I went to the bank, they wouldn’t tell me about his offshore holdings, the foundation, or anything.

His sister Abigail chimed in.

What I want to know is what life insurance did he have, and can we borrow against it? 

Feeling obliged to say something, the ex chimed in.

That’s right, we need more information.

The son turned on her.

What would you do with more information? This is high finance, mommy, not a recipe for a soufflé.  Howe, you’re the family lawyer. You’re supposed to know these things.

Howe strained to be patient.

The will forbids disclosure and distribution of assets until Detective Morris’s investigation is complete.  In light of my new role as executor, perhaps it would be best for all concerned if you obtained a new lawyer.

You could see from his expression what a relief that would be.

Come to think of it, said Junior, I’m a lawyer myself.  I haven’t found time to take the bar, but I can do that in a week or two and take on the case.

You must be joking, said his mother. If Christopher hadn’t built the university a new library, they would have thrown you out on your ass.

He was offended.

As a matter of fact, I’ve already had very promising talks with a prospective partner.  He is a very important man, a Silicon Valley financier named Julian Koch.  When I told him that this so-called detective Mary Jane Morris was interfering with our investment plans, he became very interested.

That made me sit up and take notice.  I’d tangled with Koch before.  He is a ruthless con man with the morals of a great white, a vast network of spies, and a genius for manipulating people. He owns high tech companies, newspapers, and TV stations, many of them controlled through dummy corporations.  And those were just the ones I could find out about.  He’s worth billions, and is always on the prowl for more. One thing for sure.  He would burn his mother at the stake to get his hands on Hill Enterprises. 

A meeting between Christopher Junior and Koch would be like a rabbit having dinner with a python.  Could Koch be involved in Hill’s death? It was possible.  He certainly had no reason to wish me well.  I sank one of his criminal schemes last year when he tried to suck the blood out of the Veterans Administration.  I also got in the way of his political ambitions.  That gave him two good motives for revenge.

It was hard to imagine this family agreeing on anything, but the next week the pack instinct kicked in.  They circled warily, probing for a weakness.  Abigail invited me to lunch, just us girls. After three martinis, she was bragging about all the ways she had manipulated her father.  She showed me how skilled she had become at forging his signature, and proved it by signing a cocktail napkin. I slipped it into my pocket.

Christopher Junior assumed that I was his father’s mistress and over an expensive dinner at the Four Seasons feigned interest in a similar arrangement.  But he was definitely a junior kind of Junior.  He had none of his father’s wit or charm, and when the smarts were passed out he had definitely been holding the door. He talked about private Beach Boy concerts on the family yacht, mingling with Hollywood celebrities, shopping in Paris, all things that would work with college girls.  I swatted him like a mosquito.

There wasn’t much I could find out about the younger daughter Deborah.  She abandoned coastal schools for Carleton, a very demanding college in a small Minnesota town called Northfield.  It’s the town where the Jesse James gang tried to rob the bank until the locals came out in force with rifles.  When she graduated at the top of her class, she started working for her father’s Foundation.  I went to their office downtown on K. Street.  It had big murals of smiling Latino kids on the walls, and a big photo of her with her father and people at a health clinic.  I asked for Deborah but she had been in Nicaragua for the past six months.

The next week, the family demanded that lawyer Howe resign as executor so that they could appoint one of their own.  Howe stuck to his guns, pointing out that he worked for the estate, not the family.  They offered me a year’s a pay if I brought my investigation to a close. I would of course be kept on retainer to handle the family’s future security needs.  A scary thought.  I declined.

Then they leaked information to the press claiming that I was manufacturing evidence and bribing witnesses against the family. The reporters had a field day wondering if the famous female private detective was bought off, or just a fool.  I could sense Koch circling in the water. His newspapers and TV stations in Chicago and Los Angeles picked up the stories from the Washington papers and ran them every day, ornamenting them with fake facts and inventing a make believe criminal record for me.  It seems that I had been a busy girl, defrauding nice old gentlemen in several states, and at the same time ruining the careers of three upstanding Republican congressmen using bribed police officers and lying witnesses.

In this burst of creativity by reporters who always wanted to be novelists, there were plenty of sensational charges without a hint of proof.  But then in the times we live in, evidence is old-fashioned.  Now it is trial by headline, with self-righteous reporters eager to please their bosses by serving as prosecutors, juries, and executioners.  Reality Journalism is entertaining and feeds peoples’ prejudices, and in this case it was working because readers were gullible and there was no real defense against it. I was waiting for a headline like the ones in The National Enquirer, the paper for inquiring minds.  Something like Detective Denies Eating Kittens for Breakfast. Needless to say, when my phone rang, it wasn’t new clients calling.

Several powerful D.C. officials took a sudden interest in the Hill case and pressured the police to intensify their investigation, but my friend Chief Harlan Larson refused. D.C.