It Takes Two to Mango

by Carrie Doyle

  Plum decided to set off on her own for lunch, and instead of heading to the beach, she ventured to the marina, a fifteen-minute drive from her office. While still technically part of the resort, the marina was designed to be reminiscent of a Mediterranean fishing village and was where the Caribbean Sea met the La Cereza River. Dozens of fancy yachts docked at its port, and there were several restaurants and high-end fashion boutiques full of skimpy designer clothing and sunglasses. It was also the location of the overpriced grocery store Plum had been frequenting, and she was becoming increasingly aware that their inflated prices were making a huge dent in her bank account.

  Plum had been told the marina usually came alive at night—and late at night. There were families there at seven for an early, child-filled dinner, but it was around nine when the younger crowds thronged the palazzo and the festivities began. Loud music would waft out of the invisible speakers. During the day it was pretty much dead and very easy to find a table at which to dine. All of the restaurants were clustered in a square, and their seating was indistinguishable from one another. The palazzo boasted two Italian restaurants, a Japanese sushi bar, a gelato place, and a Paraison restaurant, the latter of which Plum selected.

  In general, Plum was not a foodie. She had adored the long restaurant lunches that were de rigueur in publishing, but more for the gossip than for the cuisine. Left to her own devices, she often skipped meals and merely ate to fortify herself. But the dinner at Coconuts had been delicious, as had the traditional dishes that Lucia brought to work and coaxed her to try, and she was interested in sampling local food and eager to peruse the offerings.

  She scanned the lengthy menu and found that many of the items seemed incongruous with the tropical weather. There were hot bean soups and a seven-meat stew that sounded delicious but a meal that Plum would tuck into on a cold snowy night, not in the blazing heat. She opted for something called a catibia, which was a cheese and chicken empanada made of yuca flour, as well as an order of salpicón, which promised to be chunks of boiled seafood with chopped vegetables marinated in a vinaigrette. Eating like a local would perhaps make her feel more like a local. She ordered a glass of white wine.

  There was a nice breeze coming off the water and a salty brine in the air. As she sat watching the sailboats bobble in the crested wavelets, Plum felt content. If only this murder hadn’t happened and everything was okay, her life in Paraiso just might work out. Of course she couldn’t be dining at restaurants and living like a tourist all the time, but she allowed herself some leeway to integrate into her new existence. Feeling optimistic, she completed a Spanish lesson on her phone as she dined. She lingered as long as she could before realizing the afternoon was slipping by and she should return to the office.

  On her way out of the marina, Plum saw a beautiful, white, eyelet dress on a mannequin in the window of a store. It wasn’t her normal style—she generally favored strictly tailored, dark clothing, and this was undoubtedly feminine and flirty, but it felt appropriate. She left the store with the dress as well as a floral maxi skirt, a white, puffy-sleeved top, a pair of strappy, blue sandals, and a lime-green strapless dress in her shopping bag.

  It was rush hour at Las Frutas. Sandy resort guests were flooding back from the beach to their villas to siesta, shower, and head out to dinner. A Jeep full of teenagers passed Plum, the radio blasting music so loudly that it left a trail in its wake. A man driving a golf cart in the opposite direction drove by, and Plum gave him a sideways look. Then, suddenly, her stomach dropped. That was the man who said he was Nicholas Macpherson! She was almost certain of it!

  Plum wanted to make a U-turn and follow, but she had to wait for the deluge of cars to go by before she could safely do so. She silently cursed them all for taking so long and then swerved around in front of a pokey bicyclist. She especially loathed bikers in general—they were always a menace in traffic. She floored her cart and tried to follow “Nicholas Macpherson’s” cart, which was now several yards in front of her, two vehicles between them. She quickly passed a cart driven by a very old woman and aggressively pushed ahead.

  She continued her pursuit of “Nicholas” and saw that he took a sharp right turn onto a path that cut through the beachfront properties. Was he aware that she was following him? Had he seen her? Plum turned as well, so quickly that her left wheels almost went up in the air. She readjusted her cart and pressed the pedal to the metal. She saw his cart up ahead and tried to gain on him by furiously pumping the accelerator, but unfortunately her golf cart tapped out at twenty miles an hour. There was a Range Rover at the end of a driveway about to pull out, but Plum went around it and pushed ahead. The driver sat on his horn and yelled obscenities. This caused “Nicholas” to turn around. He saw her, she was sure of it. She fumbled with one hand to extract her phone and take a picture but found herself veering off the road and replaced both hands on the wheel. If only he would slow down so she could snap a photo. Suddenly, his cart started accelerating faster, and he was swiftly moving ahead and increasing the distance between them. Damn, he must have one of those fancy new golf carts!

  He took a sharp left around a corner and was temporarily out of sight. Plum swerved around the curve recklessly and onto a very narrow road. Coming straight at her was a golf cart driven by a young child on his father’s lap. Plum was speeding too fast to avoid them. She couldn’t hit them head-on, so she jerked the wheel of her cart, swung off the road, bumped up the curb, and crashed straight into a hibiscus bush. She came to a lurching and unglamorous stop. The cart was damaged, and there was no way she would catch up with “Nicholas” today.

  “Are you okay?” asked the man.

  Plum jumped out of her cart and brushed herself off.

  “What is it with parents thinking resorts are a good place to teach children how to drive? Are you daft?”

  Chapter 10

  Plum quickly learned that having a fit or creating a scene was not a successful approach to getting things done in Paraiso. An event like a crashed golf cart drew an enormous amount of resort personnel to stand and evaluate the scene and discuss endlessly what should be done before no one did anything. Things happened when they happened. And when Plum tried to hasten their reactions, she was met with the requisite “tranquilo.”

  Lucia picked her up and drove her back to the office. She arranged for Plum’s golf cart to be towed away and advised that she had better rent a cart from the resort while it was being repaired, which could take days or even weeks. The resort garage said they would bring one right over, but after a couple of hours, there was still no sign of them. She telephoned Casa Mango, but there was no answer.

  When Lucia left, Plum decided to do a deep internet dive into Juan Kevin. There was very little except an image of him standing next to a blond woman at a party that was on the Las Frutas website. Reluctantly, Plum conceded that she was attractive, if one likes that type. Much to Plum’s chagrin, it didn’t identify her. Must be his girlfriend. Or that Carmen Rijo he was undoubtedly in love with. She clicked off the computer.

  Plum realized she had a throbbing pain in her heel and slid off her stilettos to reveal a giant, pus-filled blister. Her feet had expanded in the Paraison heat, and her shoes were like manacles. She wasn’t sure she could walk. The day was quickly ending on a bitter note. To salvage it, Plum called her contact at the Market Street Journal again, hoping to finally catch her this time.

  “Mimi Wasserman is no longer working here,” a nasally voice told her when she asked for her friend.

  “Where did she go?” asked Plum.

  “Not sure. I think she’s like, freelancing now.”

  “She was laid off?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” answered the smug little brat.

  Plum was initially filled with a surge of glee. She had never really liked Mimi, who had beaten her out for a position at Beauty Bop Magazine years ago. Plus, it was nice to not be the only one put out t
o pasture. But that was quickly replaced with frustration when she grasped that she had no legitimate contact at the Market Street Journal. If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to get an article in there as soon as possible.

  “What about Bert Jonas, is he there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Frankie Danes?”

  “Who?”

  “Well, who is working there? Are you the only one running the show? I highly doubt that.”

  “I’m sorry, who is this again?” sneered the voice on the other end of the phone.

  “It’s Plum Lockhart, Editor-in-Chief of Travel and Respite Magazine.”

  “I thought that magazine folded.”

  “Just recently. Doesn’t matter. I have a very hot story for your paper…”

  “Please hold,” interrupted the snarky voice.

  There was silence on the phone for what seemed like an eternity. Then a familiar voice purred out her name.

  “Plum Lockhart, you’re alive.”

  Plum’s stomach dropped. “Gerald? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Visiting the Market offices, are you?”

  Gerald Hand emitted that obnoxious cackle that she wished she would never hear again for the rest of her life. “I’m the new creative director, sweetie.”

  She wanted to take her phone, bang it against her desk, and scream, but instead she cooed, “How wonderful! Congratulations!”

  “It’s a huge deal. They really wanted me, and of course I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go work at a newspaper magazine as opposed to a monthly, but as you said when I saw you in your pajamas at the drug store, ‘they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’”

  “Exciting!” said Plum, her face contorted into a grimace. “Well, I have some fabulous news for you! I am going to treat you to an all-expenses paid jaunt down here to Las Frutas.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes! I hear it’s still snowing and frigid in New York. You need to come down to the sunshine; I’ll wine you and dine you.”

  “No strings attached?”

  “Of course not!” she said. “I mean, of course, I need you to do a feature, but really, it’s worth it…”

  He cut her off. “Sorry, sweetie. Las Frutas is old news. The Caribbean is so passé. I’m heading off to Mongolia soon…”

  “Mongolia?”

  “Yes. Oh, right, remember the horseback riding trip you were going to do? I called them up when I landed this gig and told them, since you were fired and downtrodden, I would take the trip.”

  “You little…” She stopped herself. Sadly, she needed Gerald. “How industrious of you. Well done. I hope you have the best time. But you will want to work on your base tan before you head off into the wild. No better place to catch some rays than Las Frutas.”

  “Why don’t you send me a proper pitch letter, and I’ll think about it.”

  She sighed. “We have pickleball now!”

  “Pickleball? Am I eighty? What the hell would I do with a pickleball? That’s a fake activity for people at retirement homes who don’t want to move.”

  “It’s a rapidly growing sport.”

  “It can grow without me.”

  “There are lots of new restaurants…”

  “I have to run. But so much fun how the tables have turned! Have a good life, Plum!”

  He clicked off, and Plum pounded her fists on the desk. Her phone rang again, and she answered it in her rudest voice.

  “Hello?” she barked.

  There was a pause, then Juan Kevin Muñoz spoke. “Plum? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He paused again. “In that case, there’s a benefit party tonight for the Paraiso Children’s Foundation. It’s hosted by Carmen Rijo and at her villa. I’m attending and would like to invite you to accompany me. Now that we know for sure that she spent Nicholas’s last evening with him at the bar, perhaps this is a subtle way we can learn some more information.”

  She was about to refuse. The day had been crappy, why not quit before it got even worse? And could she bear meeting this glamorous goddess who had Juan Kevin panting like a schoolboy? But then she saw the man delivering her rented golf cart out the window, and things started to look up. Besides, she hadn’t been to a party in so long. She would just have to remove any latent romantic thoughts about Juan Kevin and treat him like a colleague. “Okay.”

  “Pick you up at seven.”

  ***

  Plum’s hair was not cooperating, despite how rigorously she ironed it. The humidity was her enemy. She sprayed a copious amount of hairspray on her head, enough to set the hair of any 1960s astronaut’s wife, but as soon as she walked into her bedroom, the ends were already starting to curl up. She had done a keratin treatment only a week before she left, but she may as well have thrown the money out the window. Frustrated, Plum pinned the top back in a clip and focused on what to wear. At first she thought she would go with one of her designer dresses from New York, but then she thought as long as she was attending a local event, she may as well wear her new green strapless dress. She covered her shoulders in a gauzy, white pashmina, in case there was a breeze by the water.

  “You look very nice,” said Juan Kevin, who was wearing a white dinner jacket and a pale-pink tie. His hair was slicked back, his face handsome as ever.

  “Thank you. I wasn’t sure what the attire was, as I didn’t see the invitation.”

  “You are perfect.”

  Plum felt a frisson of uncertainty. If it had been a date, it wouldn’t be so disconcerting, but the fact that this was a work expedition made her insecure. In the publishing world in New York, she never worked with men who were romantically available. They were either gay or married, so there was no sexual tension. And now here she was with Juan Kevin, who looked like he stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine, and she didn’t know how to act casual.

  They made their way in his dark sedan. The air was redolent with the smell of coconuts, and she couldn’t tell if it emitted from the trees or some cologne Juan Kevin wore. In any case, it was pleasant.

  She decided to forget the awkward ending to the dinner they had shared the night before and instead filled him in on her visit to the police station and her possible sighting of the man who claimed to be Nicholas Macpherson.

  “Why didn’t you call someone to help you follow him?” Juan Kevin asked.

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “It’s worrisome. As director of security, I need to find out how this man penetrated the resort. And why.”

  “I think Jason and Deepak know who he is.”

  “You do?”

  “They gave each other a look when I asked them.”

  “Why wouldn’t they tell us?”

  “Good question. Maybe they hired a hit man to kill their friend.”

  “What’s the motive?”

  “I’m not sure. We’ll have to find out.”

  Juan Kevin turned the car into a gated driveway flanked by two guards with machine guns.

  “I thought we were safe inside the resort?” asked Plum.

  “We are,” said Juan Kevin, leaning into the gatehouse and exchanging remarks with the guards on duty. “But Carmen is not.”

  The Rijo mansion was a Mediterranean behemoth with a barrel-tiled roof that teetered on the edge of a giant limestone cliff. It was at the westernmost end of the small peninsula that jutted out into the Caribbean and possessed its own private strip of sugar-white beach below that was accessible by a treacherous-looking wooden staircase. The landscaping was immaculate, with nary a blade of grass overgrown. Plum instantly wondered what it would rent for. If only she could get her hands on a property like this and not that dingy crime scene of Casa Mango.

  After the valet took the car, Juan Kevin and Plum each picked up a mojito f
rom a uniformed caterer in the capacious entrance before making their way to the courtyard, where clutches of guests had assembled. There was a live band led by a dark-haired female singer in a fire-engine-red dress crooning in Spanish. Two performers were playing guitars, one was playing a bongo, and another was playing an odd metal instrument that looked to Plum like a cheese grater.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to it.

  “It’s a guira. They are performing bachata, our local music.”

  Plum found herself enjoying the song and became enraptured, even going so far as to sway her hips to the beat, something she never did in public and probably should have kept that way. Her lack of rhythm was appalling, she knew, but the music was so mesmerizing that it didn’t matter. She was lost in reverie and was only pulled out of it when a woman materialized in front of them.

  “Juan Kevin.”

  “Carmen,” he responded, giving his hostess a double kiss. “Allow me to introduce you to Plum Lockhart. She’s new to the island.”

  Plum scrutinized the woman in front of her. She was wearing one of those tight, shimmering dresses that accentuated her ample cleavage and very round booty. Her thick, wavy hair cascaded down her back in glossy ringlets, her plump lips were painted a rosy red, and she had heavily lashed dark eyes. A strong, spicy perfume emanated from her. There was no question as to why a man as powerful and wealthy as Emilio Rijo would be attracted to Carmen. Or any man for that matter, she thought as she glanced at Juan Kevin, who was staring at the hostess. She was a femme fatale in every sense of the word. Plum thought instantly of the sexy women in the calendar above Damián’s desk and decided Carmen would not be out of place as Miss November.

  “It is wonderful to meet you,” said Carmen Rijo warmly. She took both of Plum’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Juan Kevin has told me of you. I am so happy to have what I hope will be a new friend here at the resort.”

  “Thank you,” said Plum. She hadn’t expected an affable greeting. “You have a beautiful house.”

  “It is beautiful,” agreed Carmen. “And I hope it will be my house forever. But there are many evil spirits attacking me.”