by Tom Shepherd
“Work she wanted him to do,” Tanella said.
“What kind of work?”
“Detective work.”
“Don’t play cute with me, kid.”
“I’m sorry,” Tanella said. “It’s true.”
“What did she want him to detect?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
Well, I thought, that’s true, too.
“May I have one of these?” Tanella pointed to the photos.
Borkowski shook his head. “They’re evidence.”
“But you’ve got so many...”
“Sorry, Miss Blake. Families of victims get upset when we hand out copies of corpse shots.”
“Oh, forgive me.”
Borkowski gathered his pictures. “If you think of anything else, tell your dad to call me.”
He looked up at Dr. Blake, who nodded. Just then a barrage of gunfire exploded in the yard. More Civil War antics, I realized. Borkowski, Tanella and Dr. Blake wheeled to the sound, and when they did I snitched the photo that Tanella wanted and buried it under a couch pillow.
When Dr. Blake walked away with the Inspector, I pulled it out and triumphantly handed it to Tanella.
“You stole it?”
“He’ll never miss one copy. He had lots—where are you going?”
“To give it back.”
“And get me arrested?”
“We can’t keep this!” Tanella insisted.
“Okay. We won’t keep it. We’ll borrow it. After we wrap up our investigation, you can mail it back anonymously.”
Tanella studied my face for a long moment. Then she rolled the picture and tucked it in her belt bag.
“You are a corrupting influence in my life.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell them about your theory on the drug runners?”
“O’Malley may have drowned accidentally. My theory is based on Mrs. Bennett’s fears about smugglers. She could be wrong. We can’t risk scuttling the Arab-Israeli talks unless we’re absolutely sure. Too important.”
“I liked my life better when I didn’t have to worry about anything but math tests and acne.”
Tanella laughed.
I heard someone clear his throat behind me. “Miss Palmer, may I kindly speak a word with you?” Ahmad said.
His eyes looked like those red and white peppermints the school secretary keeps in a jar on her desk. His jasmine scent vanished, replaced now by a hint of lemon. Alka-Seltzer?
“Do you mind, Miss Blake?”
“No, no, of course not. Sally Ann, I’ll be in the bakery cafe. See you later?”
I nodded.
“Shall we have lunch?” he said. Half-heartedly I thought.
“I’m dieting.”
“Surely a light lunch—”
“You said talk, not eat.” I sat in a flower print chair by the empty fireplace. Above the mantel a wild boar’s head snarled soundlessly. I know how he felt.
Ahmad looked up at the dead pig. “It is very difficult to speak one’s heart in a place so public.”
“You’re not so hot at truthfulness in private, neither.”
He sat, inching his chair close. “I know you have good reasons to be angry. But you must understand, I am here for some very delicate negotiations affecting the future economic health of the Arab world. I needed to know if your uncle and Dr. Blake are truly neutral.”
“So you tried to kiss it out of me? That sucks!”
“Sucks. What a colorful expression. You Americans are so delightfully blunt.”
“Blunt?” I snorted. “I’m fairly tactful. Lots of girls at my school would have slapped you cross-eyed.”
“I am glad I spent the evening with you, not them.” Ahmad touched my shoulder. “You are so very—”
“Don’t!” I pushed his hand away. “Know what really makes me sick? You didn’t kiss me for myself, only because I’m Dr. Robert Thornburg’s niece. Your lips lied two ways.”
“Yes and no. I wanted answers to my questions, but the kisses were genuine.”
“I don’t believe you. I’d believe that stuffed hog on the wall before I’d ever believe you.”
Tanella wanted me to pump him for information, but I wanted to hose him down with every nasty word in my vocabulary. I wanted to learn French and Arabic and Swahili and Chinese and Russian and German to find more rude, ugly, profane words to hurl at him. I wanted to yank the hog’s head off the wall, and cram it on his head, and make him wear it, to show what a disgusting pig he was.
And, God!—I wanted to cry, and fly back to the gazebo under the moonlight, and kiss him until the sun rose over the Atlantic, and pretend nothing happened, and O’Malley wasn’t dead, and Ahmad didn’t have anything to do with it, and he really liked me for myself. I hated him, because I still wanted him.
“What can make you believe me?” he said.
“Tell me the truth about what happened last night.”
“I asked you questions because—”
“No! After you left me.”
He sat back, his eyes uncertain. “What do you mean?”
“Moses the bartender told me you tried to buy a drink in the lounge, and then left with a guy in a white suit. A guy in a white suit turns up drowned this morning, apparently drunk. I don’t have Tanella’s IQ, but I’m smart enough to know you’re involved.”
“I—I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You suck as a liar.”
“I met Carsten O’Malley at the lounge, true. He invited me to his room and shared some refreshments—”
“Booze, Ahmad. Call it what it is.”
“Alcoholic beverages, yes. Sally Ann, can’t we talk someplace private?”
“No.”
He sighed. “You must understand, I am Muslim, forbidden to drink alcohol. I have sneaked a drink on other trips abroad. Many Arabs do. However, my father is an old fashioned man. If he discovers I have been drunk, the results will be very unpleasant.”
“Your daddy, the Emir, will kick your tail.”
“Mr. O’Malley was an old friend of my father and a very prudent man. He said he would rather give me liquor in the privacy of his hotel room than see me risk my reputation by drinking in public.”
I smirked. “How sophisticated.”
“I thought so,” he said, missing my sarcasm.
“Why did Carsten O’Malley drown?”
He put his face in his hands. “He was drunk when I saw him last. He must have fallen off the wharf. Perhaps he could not swim.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Yes.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?”
“Pardon me, please?”
“Will you swear, on the Qur’an and your Prophet, that’s all you know?”
“I can tell you nothing more.”
“You’re still lying.”
“What more do you want from me? I have told you I drank with O’Malley. I became so sick I disgorged the contents of our dinner.”
“You puked your guts out.”
He winced. “American English is almost as colorful as Bedouin Arabic.”
“Why won’t you tell me what really happened?”
He stood, bowing slightly. “If you are free this evening, I shall be pleased if you accept my hospitality and dine in my suite. Kazim, my cook, promises a feast worthy of—”
“I’m fasting.” I wanted to tear my tongue out for refusing him. What else could I say? Sorry, but I’ll be biking to the beach tonight to look for drug runners? So I just said, “Gotta lose ten pounds.”
“A beautiful girl like you needs nothing removed.”
“Why me do you want me, Mister Diplomat? I don't know anything.”
“I find you fascinating and lovely.”
“Thought you liked Tanella.”
“She is highly articulate.”
“She talks good, too.” He frowned, and I laughed. All right, I still hated him. But he was still cool, and so go
od-looking!
“I think you are far more clever than you pretend to be, Miss Sally Ann Palmer-Bjørlykke.”
“You remembered!”
“I have always admired you Americans,” Ahmad said. “Sailing from your ancestral homelands to the New World in search of freedom.”
“Kinda makes Georgia sound romantic.”
He sat down again. “Sometimes, I want to fly away from my land. My father is very wise but very stern. He cuts off the hands of thieves caught in the act.”
“Wow! Will you do that when you become king?”
“An Emir really isn’t a king, just the ruler of a tiny nation with much oil. I shall never be his heir. Not with five older brothers.”
“Well, that’s great!” I said. “You’re free to fly away, to make whatever life you want for yourself.”
“You do not understand. I am the son of Hasan Al Kuwari. I can have no personal life, no ambitions for myself.”
“You could in America.”
“I’m not an American. I must follow my father’s commands. He ordered me to find out whether Dr. Blake and Dr. Thornburg are truly neutral. That is why I asked.”
“And the kisses?”
“I did that on my own.”
“Look, Ahmad, I don’t get all this negotiation stuff, but I'll tell you something true. Dr. Blake and Dr. Thornburg are righteous dudes. They will not screw with you.”
“They are known to have friends in Israel.”
“Like half the professors in the world.”
“But can they—”
“The only Middle Eastern language they speak is Arabic. If I were an Israeli, I’d be worried about them favoring the Arabs.”
“Do they?” Ahmad said.
A familiar voice behind me said, “No.”
I smiled, trying to look angelic. “Hi, Uncle Bob.”
He sat on the arm of a chair across from Ahmad. “Conducting a little impromptu diplomacy, Sally Ann?”
“We were discussing your celebrated objectivity,” Ahmad said.
“I swear, Uncle Bob, I didn’t tell him nothing.”
He laughed, poking his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “Drill away, Prince Ahmad. This well is dry.”
Ahmad smiled. “I am merely trying to convince Miss Palmer to dine with me this evening, but luck fails me. She keeps the fast.”
“Actually, Tanella, Eric and I are going beach camping.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps another time.” Ahmad touched my arm. “Until then, I remain your devoted servant.”
He bowed and left me alone with Uncle Bob.
Uncle Bob took off his glasses. “Excuse me—beach camping?”
“We were going to ask you and Dr. Blake. You see, Eric needs a merit badge for camping on the beach, right? It’s okay, right?”
He shook his head. “With hurricane warnings posted—”
“Oh, we’ll come back if it starts to rain.”
Uncle Bob slipped his glasses over his nose. “I’ll talk to Nate. In the meanwhile, Sally Ann, would you deliver a note for me?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” He handed me a sealed faded pink envelope, greeting card size. “Take Tanella. She might enjoy visiting a yacht.”
“Where do I carry the note?”
“Old wharf, channel side of the island. Goes to Olivia Bennett aboard the Tropical Snow.”
Eight
We clomped to the end of the pier, where Mrs. Bennett was sunning herself on the roof of the Tropical Snow’s wheelhouse. Her cabin cruiser rode gently on the waves, rising and falling, dancing to the distant music of hurricane Hagar. Like the boat, Olivia Bennett was sleek and well-built. I got the impression both of them could cruise anywhere they wanted.
She lifted flamingo pink sunglasses, propping them over silver-streaked black hair. I guess she was old enough to be a grandmother, maybe forty-five or so, but Grandma Palmer didn’t have a body like that. When she stood to greet us, Olivia’s slim, sun bronzed legs and hips swiveled like a fashion model trying to impress the cameraman. Her French cut bathing suit cinched around a tiny waist, and a world-class bosom swayed nicely, trapped by metallic copper cups. One look, and I knew what I wanted to look like when I grew up.
After we gave her the note—which turned out to be from her husband, Hector, announcing he was tied up for lunch—she invited us aboard the Tropical Snow for refreshments.
The stairway led down to a large cabin space, decked with comfortable chairs and a full-sized bar. Even with the portholes open stale tobacco smoke lingered in the air.
“You must be Tanella Blake, Nathaniel’s daughter,” she said warmly. “And you’re her friend, Sally Mae?”
“Sally Ann,” I said.
“Lots of ice?” Olivia rummaged in the Frigidaire behind the bar.
I nodded. “Diet, if it’s not too much trouble. Tanella drinks Dr. Pepper.”
“Oh, I’ll take anything.” Tanella gave me one of her ‘don’t-be-a-bonehead’ looks.
“It’s always good to ask for what you really want, Tee.” Olivia jerked a red-and-white can from a six pack ring, pouring. We slipped onto stools across the bar from her.
She lit a cigarette. “How’s Barrier Island so far?”
“It’s hot,” I said.
“Really? The weather has been mild.”
“Hot—you know, great, super, excellent.”
“Oh. I can’t keep up with teenage jargon.”
“Neither can I,” Tanella said.
Olivia smiled at me. “Did you and the Prince hit it off? Hector said you dated him last night.”
“He’s okay.” Suddenly, I missed my mom. I wanted an older woman to talk to. When you got boy troubles, praying to the Virgin Mary just doesn’t cut it.
“May I ask a question?” Tanella said. “This boat is positioned perfectly to see someone fall off the pier.”
“Did I see Carsten O’Malley drown last night?” She tossed her head, shaking black hair from her temples. “Haven’t told anyone what I saw.”
“Why?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’ve been too worried about my husband’s grand plan to turn Barrier Island into Gateway Island. Hector wants a diplomatic Disney World. High security retreat center where world leaders can meet, talk.”
“What you saw jeopardizes that?” Tanella said.
She tapped her knuckles on the bar top. “Can’t say any more. Shouldn’t have told you this much.”
“We suspect Prince Ahmad was involved in Mr. O’Malley’s death,” Tanella said. “If Ahmad killed him and it becomes public knowledge, the negotiations with Israel will break off, perhaps resulting in war.”
She shook her head and studied Tanella carefully. “You know, Nathaniel says you’re a genius. I always thought it was fatherly pride.”
“I also know you and Carsten O’Malley were old friends, and you hired him to look for drug smugglers.”
“Diet Coke,” she said with a hint of a smile. “There was a cold can of Diet Coke on the bench at the gazebo.”
“We were in the bushes, picking up trash,” I said. “We didn’t mean to spy on you. But when y’all started talking about bullets and bombs, we figured laying low was the best policy.”
“I understand completely.”
Tanella’s eyes wandered up the back wall above the wet bar. I saw her smile when she recognized the same Egyptian symbols inside an oblong ring, this time carved in wood.
Olivia Bennett followed the track of our eyes. “Was Carsten still wearing the ring?” she said.
“Yes,” Tanella said.
Olivia began to cry. “Good God—I shouldn’t feel this way. It’s been too long. Excuse me.”
“He was your boyfriend?” I said, astonished. Now it made sense. Olivia gave him the ring. Tanella gave me one of her ‘welcome-home-to-planet-earth’ looks.
“Over twenty years ago. I waited in Cairo while Hector shuttled around the Middle East with a team of American diplomats, looking for a w
ay to find peace between Israel and the Arabs.” She laughed, but not a happy laugh. “Some things never change.”
“Is Mr. Bennett an experienced diplomat?” Tanella said.
“Big contributor to political campaigns. Both parties. They gave him on-the-job training. Hector has good connections, I’ll give him that. One night, he brought Chris Christopher home for dinner without warning me.”
“The Governor of New Jersey?” I said.
“Not Chris Christie—Warren Christopher,” Olivia said. “His friends called him Chris.”
“Did he kill Carsten O’Malley?” I said.
Tanella groaned softly, like Buddha with a hernia. “Warren M. Christopher was President Clinton’s first Secretary of State.”
“So, he’s not a suspect?” I said.
“Probably not, honey,” Mrs. Bennett said.
“He died in 2011,” Tanella said.
“Anyway, I met Carsten O’Malley at an embassy party. Hector was gone, as usual, and I was lonely. Carsten was CIA Station Chief in Cairo.” She slashed the cellophane on a fresh roll of paper towels with her thumbnail, pulled a towel and wiped bleeding mascara. “That was a long time ago. My life is better now.”
“You mentioned the Gateway Island Project. My dad says it will cost half a billion dollars to convert Barrier Island into a diplomatic center.”
She nodded. “But first, Hector must convince the other resort owners to sell. Clancey Beaumont, who owns the Gray Ghost of the Islands, and Peter Antonucci of the Hotel Caretta are holding out.”
Tanella’s head swayed side to side, like she was deep in thought. “Didn’t your husband just buy an auto factory in Ukraine?”
“Yes, in Kiev.” Olivia flipped open a Time magazine. “You’ve got quite a memory. Want to read it?”
“‘American multi-billionaire Hector Bennett has purchased Ukrainian-based Polzel Motors’,” Tanella said, without looking at the page. “‘Polzel was the chief manufacturing plant for family-sized cars in the former Soviet Union. However, its number one product, the Gutfahrt, seems unlikely to catch the attention of consumers since the gas-guzzling sedan must compete against fuel efficient products from Audi, BMW and Volkswagen. Still, Bennett says—’”
“You know this word-for-word?” Olivia said.
I scowled. “She knows everything.”
Tanella ignored my zinger and slipped off the bar stool. “May I use the restroom?”