by Carrie Doyle
“Really? That’s not a bad idea. We’d have to run it by Meredith’s parents—they own it with us—but do you have a card?” said Brad.
“Sure,” said Plum, slipping one out of her handbag.
“Thanks,” said Brad. “It’s really great to see you. We are heading out tomorrow, but next time we’re in town, let’s have dinner.”
“If you’ll deign to dine with us,” added Meredith warmly.
“Of course. I would love that,” said Plum.
When Plum reached her office, she was in a complete daze. How could she not have known that people regarded her with anything other than revulsion? Had she really been so clueless? Oh, how she wished to have a chance to do it all over again and repeat high school with this knowledge. She laughed at herself; that was something she never thought she would wish in a million years. It felt strange to reflect upon her past with a different lens.
Jonathan Mayhew strode through the office after Plum had been sitting at her desk for an hour doing very little, if she were to be honest with herself. He had on his customary white suit, a dapper pink-and-blue shirt underneath.
“Any update?” he asked by way of greeting.
“Working on it,” she replied. Did he really have no faith in her? Just having her be part of his agency added status to this Podunk operation. He should be grateful.
“I hope you are,” he said in a tone that meant he had lost faith.
“I am. Also, I have a lead on a new property. They may be interested in renting. It’s a very nice house near the beach.”
“Excellent,” said Jonathan.
Damián arrived in time to hear what Plum was saying. “Tell me which house. I’ll deal with it.”
“No, thanks.”
“Your track record is terrible. I think you may want to shadow me so I can show you how it is done.”
“I’d rather drop dead.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted your clients to do?” he asked.
She was interrupted by a phone call. Juan Kevin said that Tony Spira the golf pro had reached out to him, and he was heading to the driving range to catch up with him. It was a perfect excuse for Plum to exit the office and avoid murdering Damián. He might have been right; there hadn’t been any homicide at Las Frutas until she had arrived. But at the rate he was going, he just might be the next victim.
***
When Plum arrived at the pro shop, she was told by the caddy master that Tony and Juan Kevin were in the café that overlooked the golf course. It was a small, dark-paneled room in which the bar featured prominently. She glanced at the variety of beer on tap and the rows of liquor (especially tequila) and ascertained quickly that the food was secondary to the booze. The café had panoramic views of the golf course and hung over the ledge of the eighteenth hole. This setting put enormous pressure on the players, whose last opportunity to sink the ball would be in front of a gallery of spectators—potentially drunk ones, at that.
Plum found the men sitting at a table for four, two sweating iced teas in front of them. They rose when she approached.
“Are you leaving?” asked Plum.
Juan Kevin looked at her askance and pulled out her chair. She was so unused to the gesture that she sat down quietly.
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk; it’s my lunch hour. I’m slammed with lessons for the rest of the day,” explained Tony.
“No problem, I’m actually hungry as well,” said Plum.
“Likewise,” said Juan Kevin.
The waitress came, and Plum ordered a Diet Coke and a Greek salad with grilled chicken. Juan Kevin asked for a medium-rare cheeseburger, and Tony Spira opted for a tuna sandwich with a side of french fries and Russian dressing. Plum decided to change her order and asked for a Paraison specialty, the beef with white rice and stewed beans.
“I want to be discreet, but something strange is going on,” began Tony as soon as the waitress left.
“What’s that?” asked Juan Kevin.
“This morning I was coming to work, and I saw Jason Manger outside the hotel. He was standing with a woman he introduced as his fiancée, Kirstie Adler. He said she had just arrived from New York.”
“Yes, we know that,” said Plum.
“What’s odd is that I could swear I saw the woman—Kirstie—a couple of days ago.”
“What do you mean?” asked Juan Kevin.
“After I had played golf with Jason, Deepak, and Nick, they headed to the locker room to change their shoes, shower, have a beer, whatever. As soon as they went inside, I heard someone trying to start a golf cart behind me. It kept stalling, so I could tell the engine was draining. I went over to the cart—it was off to the side under the tree—and I offered to help the woman. I’m pretty used to these carts by now, living here three years, and I know their tricks.”
“They’re horrible,” said Plum.
“Yeah, finicky vehicles. Anyway, she didn’t really say anything, but I got the cart started, and she thanked me and left in a hurry. I didn’t think anything of it until I met Kirstie with Jason. I’m sure it was her that I helped.”
“Are you positive?” asked Juan Kevin.
“Yes, pretty positive. I mean, I was next to her in the car for a solid two minutes. She was wearing a big sun hat and sunglasses, which obviously is not unusual at Las Frutas, and she didn’t turn to face me. I thought nothing of it, but now I’m thinking maybe she didn’t want me to be able to recognize her.”
“What about when Jason introduced you to her?”
“She waved at me sideways and then took off to oversee her luggage or check in. At first, I didn’t place her, but if she had stuck around, I would have for sure said, ‘Hey, you look familiar,’” Tony replied.
The waitress brought them their food, and Plum tucked into her dish. It was hearty and satisfying, and she was glad that she wasn’t spearing a piece of dried-out chicken on a lettuce leaf.
“When you saw Kirstie in the golf cart the first time, did she have golf clubs?” asked Juan Kevin.
“No. I mean, it wasn’t one of the carts that we use for the course, those are green. It was one that guests use to go to their rooms and the beach. A white one.”
“And did she seem agitated? Or upset?” asked Juan Kevin.
“A little, but I thought it was frustration over the cart stalling.”
“Did she have a camera or anything?” asked Plum. She pictured Kirstie with one of those long-lens cameras for spies.
“I didn’t see one,” said Tony, dipping his sandwich into the Russian dressing. “But then, people use their phones to take pictures these days.”
“True,” replied Plum.
“Did you get the impression the guys knew she was there?” asked Juan Kevin.
“I don’t think so. Not at all.”
“And looking back, do you think she was following you around the course?” asked Plum.
“I doubt it. We would have seen the resort cart on the golf course path. All I can say is that she was there. She didn’t arrive from New York a couple of days later. She was somewhere here in the resort, keeping an eye on her man.”
After they ate, Tony rushed off for a lesson, and Plum and Juan Kevin remained to have coffee.
“What did Robert Glover say when you stopped by the station?” asked Plum. She poured milk into her mug and swirled it with her spoon.
“You’re not going to believe this—well, actually you are going to believe this because I know you think disparagingly about the way we do business here in Paraiso. But there had been some sort of miscommunication, and Robert Glover was moved to a holding cell in Diego, the closest city to the west. It was completely out of my way, and I was almost home. I will check back with him when he is moved to Estrella.”
“What a mess,” said Plum. “I can’t deal with inefficiency
.”
“I know how you feel about it,” he said. “But I will talk to Robert Glover as soon as possible.”
“I guess it’s not urgent,” said Plum. “What do you think about Kirstie?”
“I think we should go to the welcome center and see if they have her on file. As you will recall, they scan the passport and take a photograph of everyone who enters the resort. There is no way she could have come in without documentation.”
“Good idea.”
Chapter 21
They were driving along the road that hugged the coastline when Juan Kevin abruptly stopped.
“What’s wrong?” asked Plum.
“Turtle crossing,” responded Juan Kevin.
“What? I don’t see anything.”
“You have to know where to look.”
They exited the car, and Plum did indeed see a turtle making its way across the street. Juan Kevin quickly lifted the turtle out of the road to safety.
“She must be lost, so I’m sending her back to the beach,” said Kevin.
They watched as the turtle made her slow journey through the bushes toward the sea.
“We have four species of turtle on our island,” Juan Kevin explained when they returned to their drive. “The loggerhead, the green sea turtle, the hawksbill turtle, and the leatherback turtle. They are all endangered, sadly. All species are recording only thirty female births a year. We are doing everything we can to help them. In Paraiso, we believe in wildlife preservation as much as possible.”
“Funny, I never even thought about wildlife in New York,” said Plum. “Except for those summer nights when all the mice and rats are out and scurrying across the subway platforms.”
“I doubt the cars stop for them.”
“No, they put their pedal to the metal to squash them.”
The welcome center was situated in a grove of mahogany trees to the right of the Las Frutas Resort entrance gates, about thirty yards from the security booth. A large portico provided the entrance to the white stone building. Inside there was a sleek marble counter behind which sat three employees in white shirts and blue blazers. They immediately stood up at attention when Juan Kevin walked in and greeted him with deference.
“I need to access the computer. I want to see the pictures of the women who have entered the resort the past week.”
“Yes, sir,” said a tall, handsome security guard whose name tag said Antonio.
They went into a back office equipped with a desk, a computer, and two chairs. Antonio signed in but proved to be a painfully slow typist, so Juan Kevin asked him to cede the chair and took over the computer. Plum pulled the other chair up next to Juan Kevin, and Antonio leaned over his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Antonio, I’ve got this,” said Juan Kevin.
“Okay, sir,” he said, before reluctantly departing the office.
Juan Kevin moved quickly, clicking through everyone at a brisk pace. Plum was amazed at how many people passed through the resort during a given week.
“Where do they all stay?” she asked.
“Don’t forget that many are day-trippers coming off the cruises,” he said.
“And you check them all in?”
“Of course, we need to keep track of everyone at the resort. That’s why I was so agitated that there had been an intruder. I run a tight ship. I don’t want people getting murdered or having their villas broken into. Leave that to the resorts on the other side of the island.”
Plum felt as if she were watching an ad for the United Nations. The faces of guests of every race, color, and age zoomed past her. Juan Kevin stopped when he reached a picture of a youngish brunette.
“Is that her?” he asked.
Plum squinted. It looked a little like Kirstie, but the nose was off. “No.”
Juan Kevin continued through to the end of the list, which stopped abruptly with a photograph of a heavyset woman with orange hair.
“Could I have missed it?” said Juan Kevin.
“You did go really fast.”
He started again from the beginning, this time pausing on each picture before he clicked through. It took fifteen minutes. Once again, they reached the end of the list without success.
“How could this be?” asked Plum.
Juan Kevin looked pensive. “The only thing I can think of is that she arrived by helicopter. We ask the control tower at our heliport to take everyone’s pictures, but sometimes they refuse. It’s usually just friends of the Rijo family, celebrities, or very important people who arrive that way, and they can intimidate my staff. It’s possible that she refused to have her picture taken.”
“Maybe her very important daddy arranged it.”
“Yes,” said Juan Kevin. “And she has just the personality to growl at someone and have them back off.”
“Can we go there and ask them?”
“We can, but at this point maybe we’re better off going directly to Kirstie and confronting her.”
“I don’t think she’ll fess up. We need something on her.”
Juan Kevin paused. “I can cross-reference the names with the hotel bookings and eliminate those guests. I somehow don’t think she was staying in the hotel, though, if she were hiding. She was probably renting a villa. And as you know, all renters and villa brokers have to register their guests and clients. I will check those lists and see whose name was registered yet wasn’t photographed.”
“Good idea,” said Plum.
He began typing on the computer, and Plum wandered over to the window while he worked. There were two hummingbirds buzzing around the bush, interacting with one another as if they were in conversation. She wished she could understand what they were conveying to each other.
“Interesting,” said Juan Kevin finally.
Plum turned around. “What?”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“I believe anything these days.”
“There’s one person I found who did not check in but rented a villa this week. It’s a man, though.”
“So not our girl Kirstie.”
He smiled. “Not necessarily. The villa was rented to Jonas Adler. Kirstie’s father. He paid for it, but she is the one who stayed here, obviously.”
“Wow. We need to talk to her.”
“There’s more,” said Juan Kevin.
“What’s that?”
“The person who rented her the villa was Damián Rodriguez from Jonathan Mayhew Caribbean Escapes.”
“That little slimeball.”
They called Jason to find out his whereabouts and caught a lucky break when he grunted that he was in the gym and Kirstie was taking a yoga class. It was fortuitous, as they had wanted to interview Kirstie alone.
“I didn’t even know there was a yoga center here,” said Plum when they drove out of the welcome center.
“Oh yes, it’s a big deal. It’s in a palapa at the very end of the beach.”
“A what?” she asked.
“Palapa is Spanish for ‘petiole of the palm leaf.’ It’s an open-sided dwelling with a thatched roof made of dried palm leaves.”
“Is that conducive to yoga?”
“I think the goal is to inspire the practitioners with nature and the sea.”
“I can’t relate.”
“No?”
“Yoga is too pretentious for me. I hate all those people walking around with rolled-up mats and thermoses full of coconut water.”
“What type of exercise do you prefer?”
“None.”
He laughed. “Well, you obviously don’t need to do a thing to look perfect.”
Plum’s face flushed, but she didn’t say anything.
When they arrived at the beach parking lot, Juan Kevin took a sharp left turn down a sandy road that Plum had not noticed before.
It was unmanicured, unlike the rest of the resort, and looked more like it was utilized by service vehicles. But when they reached the end of it and walked down a small path, they saw other carts and cars parked. Plum noted that they were fancier carts and cars.
“In my personal experience, the yoga practitioners who come to Las Frutas are the more aggressive guests,” said Juan Kevin before adding, “but no judgment.”
The palapa had a thatched roof and a 360-degree view of the Caribbean and mountains. It was at the end of a long, wooden walkway over the sea. As they moved closer, Plum saw that there were about fifteen spandex-clad women with rippling arm muscles clenching their faces tightly and chanting om. A pretty, blond teacher with pigtails was leading them in their practice.
“Let’s wait until they’re done,” advised Juan Kevin. “They’re at Savasana.”
“Sava-what?” asked Plum.
“Savasana. It’s the final pose. Otherwise known as the corpse pose.”
“How appropriate.”
The women played dead for another five minutes before sitting up, bowing to their pigtailed leader and rising. Plum spotted Kirstie in the front. She was wearing a purple tank top and languidly rolling up her yoga mat. They waited until the other women passed by before approaching Kirstie.
“Miss Adler, may we have a word with you?” asked Juan Kevin.
Kirstie glanced up and rolled her eyes when she realized who was addressing her.
“What is it?”
“We have a few questions,” said Plum.
Kirstie jutted out her hip and put her arm on it. “What do you want?”
“We would like to know…” began Juan Kevin before he was interrupted by Pigtails.
“Namaste, Juan Kevin!”
“Namaste, Gigi,” he said.
The perky yoga teacher looked at him adoringly with her blue eyes. Plum gave her a once over and was disappointed to find that she had nary a wrinkle or hair out of place.
“I’m Plum Lockhart.”
“Gigi Cabrese. Are you interested in yoga?”
“Not in the least. We just need to talk to Kirstie.”
“All right,” Gigi said, not making a move.
“Alone,” said Plum.