Secrets of Bella Terra

by Christina Dodd

  Madelyn stood on the threshold, looking concerned and frazzled.

  Brooke caught her arm. “Have you been inside?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly right.” Brooke stepped into the room. “Mrs. McClaron? What’s happened?”

  “Brooke. Brooke! Thank heavens you came.” Linda McClaron crawled out from under the bed, stood, and rushed to Brooke’s side. “I lost my ring!”

  Another hotel nightmare—a guest accusing the maid of stealing valuables. But Mrs. McClaron was one of their regulars, a beautiful woman, a trophy wife, not too bright and never organized, but always kind. Madelyn said she hadn’t gone in—and the security video would confirm that. Perhaps they’d make it out of this mess without a huge public relations fuss and a massive insurance investigation. “Did you have it in the room safe?” Brooke asked Mrs. McClaron.

  “No, when I came in last night, I put it on the nightstand and now I can’t find it! I called the maid in to help me look, but she said that’s against hotel policy and called you.”

  Brooke relaxed infinitesimally. “Good. That’s exactly what she should have done.”

  “The thing is . . . I was a little sick last night, too much to drink, you know, and I’m afraid I might have knocked the ring into the trash can and then . . . Early this morning, there was a garbage cart outside the room. I took the liner out of the trash can and put it into the cart to get rid of it and I . . . That ring cost a lot of money! It’s a pink diamond, a whole carat! Did you know pink diamonds are the most precious diamonds in the world? Or the second-most precious.” She chewed her lip. “I can’t remember. But expensive! And pink is my favorite color. I really, really wanted that ring, and Mike bought it for me only last week. He says I’m too careless and a ditz. If he finds out—”

  “Have you checked your purse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have pockets in what you wore last night?”

  “I checked them. And I’ve been under the bed three times, and moved the end table and looked under the lamp and pulled out the drawers and dumped them.”

  “I see that.” Mentally, Brooke made a note to tell Ebrillwen to schedule extra time to clean the room.

  “Please, Brooke, please, won’t you send someone after that cart?” The poor woman was trembling and tearful.

  “What time was it when you put the bag into the cart?”

  “About seven this morning.” Linda McClaron sat down heavily on the bed. “I can’t tell Mike. I just can’t. He never relaxes, he always works, and on this trip, we’ve been having such a good time. If I’ve lost that ring, he’ll be so angry.”

  It was almost noon. “The bag’s in the Dumpster now. I’ll go after it myself.”

  “You can’t do that—go through all the garbage. That’s horrible!” To Mrs. McClaron’s credit, she realized the sacrifice involved.

  “It’s not quite as bad as you might think. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, so we require our waste handlers to mark the bags according to where they picked up the trash.” Although they weren’t always conscientious about that. “So I only have to find the one bag for this section and search it. Don’t worry; if the ring is there, I’ll find it. Besides—the Dumpster is emptied every other day. And today’s the day. It has to be done, and it has to be done now.”

  “Oh, my God.” Mrs. McClaron put her fists to her mouth. Then she grabbed Brooke and shook her. “Hurry. Go!”

  “Don’t panic. The garbage truck comes about four.” Brooke took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the room. “In the meantime, you keep looking.”

  “I’ve already looked everywhere I can think of!”

  “Then look where you haven’t thought of.”

  “Right.” Mrs. McClaron nodded and knit her brow. “Where I haven’t thought of . . .”

  “Come on,” Brooke said to Madelyn. “Let’s go see what we can do.”

  Chapter 24

  Armed with her oldest tennis shoes, latex gloves and a step stool, Brooke and Madelyn walked down the path to the enclosed garbage area, alone on a service road away from the public areas.

  As Madelyn unlocked the tall wooden gate, she said, “I’ll climb into the Dumpster.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Please, Ms. Petersson, you’ve done so much for me—”

  “No. I don’t ask my staff to do things I won’t do. And it’s not the first time I’ve had to go Dumpster diving.” Not that Brooke liked Dumpster diving, but Madelyn had towering self-esteem issues, and anyway, after the week Brooke had had dealing with Sarah’s mugging, the time at the hospital, the investigation, and Rafe, a little ripping and tearing through bags of garbage had a disgusting appeal. For sure it sounded better than going another round with Rafe the cold-eyed investigator–slash–former passionate lover.

  They stepped inside the enclosure. The every-otherday pickup kept the stench from overwhelming any guests who got lost back on the resort acreage. But in here, Brooke was aware that all morning, the sun had beaten on the pavement and the tall wooden walls, warming the Dumpster and curing the garbage to a smell between overripe pineapple and rotting flesh. Knowing the amount of fruit discarded from the continental breakfast, and the fight the gardeners waged against the gophers, she supposed there was plenty of both.

  The two women looked at each other in unspoken dread; then together they lifted the metal lid and rested it against the wall.

  A swarm of flies wafted up, buoyed on the stench of human refuse.

  Brooke set the step stool and climbed up.

  The Dumpster was full of large white garbage bags, filled from the guest rooms and tossed in by the waste handlers. From experience, Brooke knew the contents were personal and frequently revolting. Pulling on her latex gloves, she reached in and tugged at the first bag. “I’ll lower the bags down to you. Holler when you see the right one come through.”

  “Yes, Miss Petersson.”

  She lifted the first one.

  Flies buzzed with glee. The odor of rotting everything grew stronger. And within five minutes, Brooke was glad she worked out at the resort gym. The bags were heavy; lifting them up and over the edge used her biceps, her pecs, her abs. Her weight-class instructor would be proud.

  On the other hand, doing this work while holding her breath . . . well, that wasn’t actually a good idea, since she might pass out into the Dumpster—horrifying thought.

  When she got to the point that she couldn’t reach any more bags, she paused, wiped her forehead on her sleeve, and looked inquiringly down at Madelyn.

  The maid was flushed red with exertion and she’d set her mouth against the revulsion.

  Brooke could only imagine she looked the same. “Nothing from Millionaire’s Row?”

  “Nothing. Why don’t we trade places?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Brooke muttered, then, louder, “Why is it never the first bag?”

  “Murphy’s Law.”

  “Why does Murphy’s Law always apply to the hotel business?”

  Madelyn didn’t answer; apparently she could spot a rhetorical question when she heard one.

  “If you’ll come up the steps, I’ll shift the bags at the back to the front. You lower them to the ground. If we don’t find the right bag there—”

  “God couldn’t be so cruel,” Madelyn said fervently.

  “—I’ll start on the second layer.” Swinging her leg over the edge, Brooke climbed in. Like rolling seas of garbage, the slick bags shifted under her weight. She balanced and finally bent to the first twist tie. She tugged at the bulging plastic bag.

  The bottom broke.

  Trash spilled everywhere.

  The flies circled gleefully.

  Brooke stood there, holding an empty white plastic bag aloft like some mockery of the Statue of Liberty. “Crap!”

  “Among other things.” Madelyn prepared to step in and help.

  The
n . . . then a glint of gold caught Brooke’s eye. Dropping the bag, she gave a crow of delight, leaned over, grabbed for it. Her gloved fingers sank into something rotten, slimy, disgusting. Still holding on to the ring—it was a ring, wasn’t it?—she stumbled backward.

  Several things happened at once.

  Her foot sank into something squishy and released a smell like rotting sewage.

  She realized the glittering thing was attached to a chain, that chain was attached to a neck, that neck was attached to a head, a corpse’s head, round and rotten.

  Lifted by her grip on the chain, the body rose out of the loose garbage, its skin sagging, its face covered with soil, eaten by worms, swarming with flies.

  Brooke stared into the eye sockets, into one man’s lifeless eyeballs.

  Madelyn screamed.

  The chain broke.

  Still clutching the gold, Brooke fell backward onto a trash bag.

  The body sank down.

  In horror, in panic, she scrambled up and over the edge of the Dumpster.

  She fell. Hit the hot asphalt. Knocked the air out of her lungs. As soon as she regained her breath, she began screaming again—when had she started?—while Madelyn knelt beside her, babbling questions about was she all right?

  Then, before Brooke could comprehend, Madelyn got up and ran away.

  Brooke didn’t blame her. Brooke’s foot was covered with . . . Oh, God. Oh, God. OhGodohGod.

  Her hand, too. Sure. She had on a glove. Who cared? This was . . . She couldn’t stop shuddering. Dropping the chain, she ripped the glove off and threw it toward the Dumpster. Some of the flies followed as if it were bait, but most of them . . . most of them hovered around Brooke, and when she looked down at herself, she rolled onto her hands and knees and vomited.

  Then Madelyn was back, lugging a housekeeping bucket. Taking Brooke’s hand, she plunged it into the soapy water and scrubbed at it with her own. “We’ll get it off you, Miss Petersson,” she said. “We’ll get you clean.”

  Out of control with anguish and revulsion, Brooke said, “My foot’s worse. And my pants.”

  Madelyn helped her up.

  Brooke plunged her foot into the water.

  Madelyn reached in and unlaced her shoe and tugged it off, then peeled away Brooke’s sock. As the water turned a slimy brownish black, Brooke unfastened her pants, peeled them off, and threw them toward the Dumpster, too.

  Madelyn scrubbed at Brooke’s foot with her bare hands.

  “Thank you,” Brooke found herself saying over and over. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this by myself.”

  “I owe you,” Madelyn said fiercely. “You’ve done for me, and I owe you. Sit down there on the bench and I’ll get you clean water.”

  “All right.” Brooke sank down on the bench. The plastic was hot under her panties, but she didn’t care. She was cold. Bone cold.

  Because when she dropped the chain and cross, she had recognized them. She knew what they meant.

  She knew who was in that Dumpster.

  Chapter 25

  All her life, regardless of the circumstances, Sarah had tried to maintain a cheerful nature.

  But she did not like rehab.

  Every day it was the same thing.

  First thing in the morning, she visited the psychologist, a young lady from Boston, who always gave her three words to remember for later. Then the young lady asked Sarah questions: her name, the date, her address, the names of her relatives. At the end of the session, she asked Sarah to repeat the three words back.

  Every day Sarah did as required. Sure, the routine was silly and boring, and it made Sarah impatient, but she was eighty and she’d been hit on the head. So she answered and remembered because she understood the reasons behind it.

  She was not quite so complacent about the physical rehab. The things they made her do hurt. More than once they made her cry.

  More important—as she healed, she grew homesick. She wanted to sit on her porch. She wanted to look out over Bella Valley. She wanted to watch the vines and the orchards grow verdant in the heat. Most of all, she wanted to be alone, to never listen to a television blaring some stupid reality show or hear another person’s voice.

  She wanted silence. She wanted peace. She wanted her own house and her own bed.

  Not too much longer, the health care professionals promised her. Once she could walk two lengths of the hospital corridor with her walker, they would send her home.

  She didn’t need a walker, she told them. She could walk just fine.

  But what with the concussion and the broken arm, they wanted her steady on her feet. They didn’t want her to fall and hit her head again.

  So everyone agreed on that one thing.

  She wouldn’t go home alone—she was to have a nurse, Olivia.

  As Sarah made her way down the corridor toward the patients’ lounge, Olivia walked beside her.

  Sarah liked Olivia. Olivia was young and pretty, wide-eyed and interested. In fact, Olivia reminded Sarah of her younger self.

  And although Sarah couldn’t see her, she knew Bao observed from the nurses’ station.

  When Sarah first met her, she thought Bao was a caregiver of some kind. Then, as Olivia took over, Sarah realized that Bao worked for Rafe. Sarah was no fool. Bao must be her bodyguard. So Bao would go home with Sarah, too.

  That was all right. Sarah was resigned to having protection. The attack on her had scared the whole family. Her, too. She didn’t like being frightened to be completely alone . . . yet she was.

  Sarah concentrated on moving the walker in a straight line, not easy when one arm was in a cast. The wheels creaked. The farther she went, the more the end of the corridor seemed to move away. Sarah was so involved in getting to the lounge, she didn’t notice the man who stepped in front of her.

  “Sarah!” he said.

  She recognized that voice. She looked up hard and fast.

  Joseph Bianchin stood there, Old World Italian, handsome even at eighty-one. He had a full head of white, curly hair, thin lips, and strong white teeth. His bright brown eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  The pleasure of seeing her?

  She knew better. What did he want? “Joseph, I never expected to see you here.”

  “Nor I you.” He reached for her hand.

  “I can’t shake hands. With the cast on my arm, it’s all I can do to use the walker.” She took care to sound politely apologetic. Actually, for the first time, she had found a reason to be glad for the broken bones.

  “Let’s sit down and talk,” he said, all geniality and deception, and indicated the plastic chairs that lined the long, sterile corridor. “After all, such old friends deserve a few moments alone.”

  Sarah glanced at Olivia.

  How odd. The young nurse stared at Joseph as if she had never seen a man of his stature, as if he were the reincarnation of a god.

  Sarah glanced at Bao.

  The Vietnamese girl was beaming. Why not? Since she’d come to help Sarah, Sarah had received visits from her grandsons and from Brooke, and from her girlfriends in her bridge group, and calls from her sisters-in-law. But no men had come a-courting, certainly not an eighty-one-year-old with a military bearing and a charming nature.

  Joseph used the charm as a mask, but how was Bao to know that?

  The girls hung back to give them privacy, and although Sarah felt the chill of his presence, she knew herself to be safe.

  Surrounded by patients and nurses, and in the bright light of day, Joseph would take care to conceal his true nature—but Sarah never doubted that he was here for a reason.

  She made her way to one of the chairs, and with excessive precision—it would not do to show any weakness to him—she seated herself. “What brought you to the rehab wing of our hospital?”

  “I had a knee replacement last year. That’s the reason I carry this.” After sitting down, he lifted a walking cane, fitted with a cold-eyed, sharp-beaked rosewood eagle for a handle and carved with sava
gely painted faces up and down the shaft.

  “How very appropriate,” she murmured.

  He continued. “Every six months I come in for a tune-up.” His tone changed, became less gracious and more contemptuous. “Of course, I had my work done in San Francisco. The doctors there are so much more skilled than those here in Bella Terra.”

  Sarah saw heads turn up and down the corridor. “Say that a little louder, Joseph. Not all the caregivers heard you.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he looked suddenly like the cruel eagle on his cane. “Do you really imagine I care what these people think?”

  “No, I don’t imagine that at all.” Did he really imagine that when the time came for them to subject him to an examination, he wouldn’t be poked and prodded a little more vigorously than necessary?

  “That’s always been the problem with you, Sarah. You court other people’s good opinions regardless of whether those people are important.”

  “All people are important in their own way.”

  “In their own minds, more like.” He snorted. “You should have accepted my marriage proposal. You should have wed me. I would have raised you above your common station.”

  “I would have hated that,” she said mildly. She would have hated him, she meant.

  He comprehended, and his face grew cold and still. “I’m healthier than Anthony, stronger—still alive when he’s been in the grave for more than ten years. If you had married me, you wouldn’t have to spend your twilight years alone.”

  “As you are doing?” She could be cruel, too.

  “Once you refused my suit, no other woman would do.”

  “Once you wreaked your havoc, no other woman would have you.”

  “That is not true. Once I made my money, women flocked to me.”

  He wasn’t bragging, she knew. He had had his women. And if she had wedded him, he would still have indulged. “You should have married one of them.”

  “I didn’t want them. I only wanted you. I would have given you more than one son.”