Slipping into a pair of low-heeled pumps, she finished primping in time for her ears to pick up the sound of a honking horn. Swinging her purse strap over one shoulder, she scrambled to the front hallway.
Marla couldn't get used to seeing Dalton in casual clothes. When he got out to open the car door for her, she caught a glimpse of his broad chest encased in a hunter green knit shirt. Forcing her gaze away from his massive shoulders, she let her eyes trail downward past his trim waistband to a pair of black trousers. Very preppy, she decided approvingly, and nondescript for a man who preferred to blend in with the crowd.
They made small talk until Marla noticed they were heading west into Everglades territory. On either side of the road, sawgrass extended as far as her eyes could see. A snowy white egret soared over the soggy plain, its long neck a graceful arch.
"What's our destination?” she queried, ready to get down to business. He seemed reluctant to steer the conversation toward personal matters, and that suited her just fine.
"We're going to see a santero priest,” Vail admitted with a sheepish grin. “I contacted Carlos's sister, who lives in Elizabeth, New Jersey. She didn't have anything relevant to add to the case but said her brother used to visit this man. He lives in Hialeah, but they'd meet out in the Everglades to go fishing together. I'm hoping he can shed some light on Carlos's activities."
"What's a santero priest?"
"Someone who interprets the rituals of santeria, a religion that mixes African and Catholic beliefs. It's been popular among Cuban immigrants. Chants, drum ceremonies, charms, and animal sacrifices are part of the practice."
"Sounds like voodoo."
"Some people equate santeria to satanism, but most folks go to a santero to cure an illness or ask for good-luck charms."
"Oh, sort of like a medicine man?"
"Exactly."
"So you think Carlos may have talked to this priest about his plans?"
"Right, I'm counting on it."
Summoning her resolve, Marla asked the question burning in her mind. “What caused Carlos's death?"
Vail glanced her way, his face impassive. “Poisoned."
Marla gasped. “What?"
"The cake was contaminated. Whoever gave him his payoff also gave him a plateful of death."
"W-which, uh, poison was used?” Was it the same thing that killed Bertha?
"According to our forensic expert, the derivative came from a climbing pea plant commonly found in Florida,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone as though they were discussing vegetable gardens. “Prayer beans, Seminole beads, Indian licorice—those are just some of the names it goes by. When the beans are crushed, the seeds provide abric acid, a highly toxic substance. Symptoms can take up to several days to occur."
A shiver wormed up her spine. “So Carlos wouldn't have felt the effects right away. That latent period would have worked to the killer's advantage. Give Carlos the cake as a parting gift. That night, he leaves the salon door unlocked. He's gone in the morning and dead a few days later. Good-bye witness.” She swallowed a lump in her throat at the heartlessness of it all. How easy to dispatch someone who was considered expendable.
"Seems like we have a bad guy who knows his plants."
"Or bad woman,” Marla added, thinking of a certain light-haired female working in her salon. She didn't believe Darlene knew much about botany, but then, how well did she know the girl?
"So who's this santero we're going to see? And why did you bring me along?"
Again he spared her a glance, but this time his brows were furrowed. “I have some other news to share. We also got the lab report back on the candy."
"Don't tell me ... I missed eating some perfectly safe marzipans.” She spoke lightly but a tremulous voice betrayed her anxiety.
''Actually, they contained cyanide—the same form that was found in Mrs. Kravitz's powdered creamer."
Marla's face lost its color. “Oh, joy. Just what I needed to hear. What's next?” Thinking about her close call, she felt a surge of anger stir her blood. No one has the right to threaten me! Bad enough Bertha had been murdered in her salon. It was almost as though someone had a grudge against Marla to set the scene where it hurt her the most.
Pressing her lips together, she guarded her silence as they sped toward an area of higher ground thick with pines and cypress trees. A charred section lay to her right, blackened stumps reaching from the muck like frozen hands. Wildlife thrived in the river of grass which was dotted by hammocks, but although she strained her eyes, she couldn't spot a single alligator by the banks.
Carolyn and Stan came to mind, both predators in their own ways. Carolyn must be the one who'd offered to pay Mr. Thomson a large sum to take over Marla's lease. If Stan were subsidizing her effort to force Marla out, he must be figuring Marla would sell their jointly owned property to stay afloat. But would they go so far as to murder her customer?
Glancing at Vail's set jaw and distant expression, she refrained from confiding her thoughts. She could be totally wrong, leaving herself open to a defamation-of-character lawsuit if word got out. No, better to keep her mouth shut until she learned more.
Staring out the window, she let her mind wander. Freed from restraint, a certain thread surfaced among her memories, and then her mental record kept playing the same tune.
Carolyn was a bleached strawberry blond. In her high-school days, she used to work in a Publix bakery.
She could have been the woman who baked the cake.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 15
Vail turned his car off the main road about an hour west of Miami. They sped past a souvenir shack selling seashell trinkets. A sausage tree shaded the gravel lane, its oblong shaped fruit hanging down from vine like branches. Sabal palms dotted the landscape, higher ground in the endless wetlands. Peace descended upon Marla as she sank against the seat cushion and allowed her cares to drift away. Here among the tall grasses with an expanse of azure sky stretching in a 360-degree panorama, it was easy to lose your sense of reality in a communion with nature. Living in a semitropical climate, she should take advantage of her surroundings more often.
Yeah, right. Like I have so much extra time.
Several miles ahead, they came upon a sign advertising an Indian village and airboat rides. Straightening her spine, she gave Vail an inquisitive glance.
He responded with a quick grin. “We're almost there. I hope you don't mind loud noises."
Marla gave him a teasing smile. “That depends. If it's a strange animal growling, that might alarm me."
"I thought you were a dog lover."
"Oh, I am. But some animals can be more ferocious.” She thought of Stan, nearly frothing at the mouth when he got angry. “What about you? Do you have any pets?"
He nodded, his eyes the color of flint. “I bought Brianna a golden retriever when her mother died. I thought having a pet might help ... but it didn't, not really. She still has a hard time handling her feelings. She loves the dog, though."
Marla resisted the urge to touch him. “And you?” she added softly.
He shrugged. “I manage."
A wealth of pain hid behind his words, but Marla didn't get the chance to pursue it. A squat concrete building loomed ahead, identified by a sign, Indian souvenirs. Besides the usual gift shop and a storage shed, this compound also had a gasoline pump. Who'd stop here for gas? Marla wondered, glancing at the deserted road. Vail veered into an unpaved lot. Shifting the sedan into park, he shut off the ignition and turned to her.
"Let's go check out this place."
Marla wished she'd chosen a shorts outfit when she emerged from the car. Laden with humidity, the warm air filled her lungs. Creeping toward its zenith, the sun blazed a trail overhead. Insects droned in the background like a hungry chorus. Curving around the rear of the shop ran a slough on which were docked several airboats. Thick tropical vegetation lined its banks. Yellow water lilies sprouted from the shallow water, whose stilln
ess was broken by an occasional ripple as a fish leapt into the air. A gentle breeze ruffled the hairs on her skin as she followed Vail inside the shop.
The sweet smell of orange-blossom perfume drifted her way on waves of air-conditioning. Marla stepped past painted heads made from coconuts, a selection of colorfully dressed Indian dolls, and stuffed miniature crocodiles. Beads hung on a rack by the cash register, which was manned by a bronze-skinned woman who smiled as they approached. High cheekbones accented a face devoid of makeup. It was difficult to assess her age, Marla decided. Ebony hair, twisted on top of her head in a braid, was sprinkled with gray, although the woman's complexion remained wrinkle free.
"May I help you?” The Indian put aside her sewing and regarded them with undisguised curiosity.
"We'd like an airboat ride to Blue Heron Hammock,” Vail announced. Even though his posture reflected casual ease, his commanding tone indicated a man used to giving orders.
The woman responded to his authority, rising immediately. “One minute, please,” she said, vanishing through a door that presumably led to a back office.
While they waited, Vail placed a hand on Marla's shoulder. Her eyebrow lifted in surprise. He was seemingly unaware of his gesture, but she felt the warmth of his hand seep into every bone of her body.
A muscular man accompanied the Indian woman back into the shop. His hands were greasy, and he wiped them on a rag, which he then stuffed into his jeans pocket. Tattoos were etched onto his bulging forearms. Marla couldn't discern their design because her eyes were drawn to his face. A timeworn expression shone from his bottomless dark eyes, the crinkles beside them suggesting he possessed a sense of humor. He stood, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, like a warrior on the prowl.
"I'm Sammy. You wanna ride?"
"That's right,” Vail said. “Have you got a boat available?"
"Sure, if you've got the dough. It'll be twenty dollars each for the round trip with a ten-minute stop at the village."
Detaching himself from her, Vail withdrew three twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and thrust them at the man. “I'll make it thirty dollars each for extra time."
"How much extra?"
"A half hour should be enough."
"Who you going to see?"
"A friend."
"This friend, he expecting you?"
"Not really. I was referred to him by someone else. Maybe you know him ... Santero Manuel."
The Indian's eyes brightened. “Ah, now I understand.” He glanced between Vail and Marla, his eyes sparkling. “This your woman? Santero Manuel can make you a blessing, no?"
Marla almost laughed aloud when Vail's face turned a bright shade of crimson. “We'll see,” he muttered, striding toward the rear door.
As they climbed into the flat-bottomed boat with its aluminum hull rising out of the water, Marla considered asking the santeria priest for some blessings herself. Help me find Bertha's killer, please. Then get Stan and Carolyn Sutton off my back. There were lots of things she could pray for, but mostly Marla relied on herself rather than divine intervention. She wondered how Vail felt about religion. Off duty, he didn't display any religious symbols that she noticed. Marla's feelings about her own heritage were mixed, and she never wore a Star of David or other outward sign of her faith. Meeting a santero should be an enlightening experience, she decided.
Vail stood aside so she could precede him to one of the three rows of black-plastic benches situated behind a wide, curved windshield. She took a seat, reaching into her purse for sunglasses. Thus able to see despite the glare off the water, she examined the pilot's chair that towered over the flat deck behind them.
"I've never been on one of these,” she confessed to Vail. He levered his large body down beside her, but she made no effort to scoot away when their hips touched. If this thing took off like she thought it might, she might need to grab something solid, like his beefy arm.
"That's a 240-horsepower airplane engine driving the propeller shaft,” he told her, nodding at the apparatus.
A metal frame, forming a semicircle around the propeller, held the pilot's seat in place. Sammy, having reached his elevated perch, donned goggles and earphones. Oh joy, thought Marla, we're really in for a thrill ride. Clutching the bench when the powerful engine kicked into life, she risked a glance in Vail's direction. His face held a look of heightened anticipation, his full attention being centered on the waterway ahead. Sammy flipped some switches, stepped on the throttle, and eased out on the stick with his left hand. Just like airplane controls, she recognized. The twin air rudders shifted, and the boat slid forward.
"This is fun!” Marla said, as they cruised around the back of the gift shop and passed a cluster of banana plants. She spotted a baby alligator sunning on the bank and tapped Vail's shoulder to show him. He grinned but didn't speak because the roar of the engine drowned out all other sounds. Sammy stepped on the gas, sending the boat into a broad sideslip until they were heading south, away from the shop. Their speed increased so that Marla's eyes teared despite the sunglasses and her hair whipped about her face. Vibrations from the motor rumbled through her bones as they cleared the narrow river bordered by tall grasses and custard apple trees. Soon they were making a straight run down the wet grass prairie. The horizon was visible on all sides, its sheer immensity stealing her breath.
They bumped over a mound of black muck, and she felt the seat rise beneath her, then drop as the boat skimmed over the blanket of grass. Occasional hammocks dotted the landscape like islands in a swamp. She watched a flock of white ibis take flight as the noise of the engine neared them.
The boat hit another clump of mud and her attention redirected itself forward. Up ahead came an area of higher ground, and they were aiming directly for it. Blue Heron Hammock, she figured.
Reaching the oasis, Sammy cut the motor and side-slipped the airboat into a slough beside a wooden dock. Marla felt a rush of silence and an eerie calm as the boat's vibrations ceased.
Sammy put aside his earphones. “I wait here."
Vail stretched his tall limbs. “A half hour, remember?"
Grinning, Sammy gave a thumbs up-sign.
"Come on,” Vail urged, taking her elbow and guiding her off the boat.
Stepping onto the wooden dock, its planks weathered and rife with splinters, Marla surveyed the scenery. “This is lovely,” she murmured, indicating the flowering plants and fruit trees. Purple hyacinths lined the banks where a blue heron stood feeding in shallow water. A strong floral scent mixed with the smell of decaying vegetation.
"It's peaceful, isn't it?” Vail proclaimed, his keen gaze absorbing every detail. His body tensed as his eyes fell upon the only two visible inhabitants of the village. One was an old woman weaving a wad of material; the other was a man chopping wood. Neither was the priest figure they'd expected.
"Let's see what that woman has to say,” Marla suggested, aware of Sammy's eyes on their backs. She strode forward, assuming a pleasant expression. The older female sat near a display of colorful Indian blankets strung on a clothesline. She didn't waver from her task as they approached but remained with her head bent, a frown of concentration on her face. The black hair knotted tightly on her head made her profile appear sharp and angular. Her fingers kept up their steady work without interruption.
"Excuse me,” Marla said sweetly before Vail got in a word. The woman might react better to another female than to him. “We're looking for Santero Manuel."
The Indian tilted her head slightly and yelled to the man busy chopping wood across the clearing. Marla couldn't understand what she said and wondered where everyone else had gone. Obviously, this wasn't where the Indians resided, so it must be just another tourist attraction. Maybe at some point it had been a real Indian camp, but most of it was overgrown by now with only one chickee hut left intact, its palmetto-thatched roof sagging where a new cypress pole was needed. Sawgrass reached nearly to the roof, which lacked new fronds. Not much shelter from rainstorms there,
she concluded. A smoldering fire, a half-rotten wooden table, and a small pile of logs completed the village decor. Surrounding the hammock rose fields of sawgrass, ready to overwhelm the island should it be abandoned.
"Greetings,” Vail said to the wood chopper. Marla heard the wary note in his voice and couldn't blame him for his caution. As the muscled man approached, she shivered involuntarily. Dressed simply in a T-shirt and baggy pants, he nonetheless appeared menacing with an ax in his hand and a scowl on his swarthy face. Stringy hair fell to his shoulders, bluish highlights in the jet-black strands.
"Is the santero expecting you?” he gritted.
Marla kept silent, letting Vail take the lead. “We didn't call ahead,” he said in a sardonic tone. “But we're here on an urgent errand. We need to see him today.” A muscle worked in his jaw, and he glanced at her. Marla smiled back, reassuring him this trip would be worthwhile.
The Indian seemed to draw some conclusion by her reaction. “This way.” He pointed to a trail leading into the bush. They followed him to a clearing beside a murky pond where the village site was hidden from view. Along the way, he dropped his ax. The gesture prompted Vail to relax his posture.
At the water's edge, a short man wearing a cotton guayabera shirt squatted beside a plastic bucket. A fishing pole lay on the ground along with various supplies. Having an aversion to live bait, Marla had never been drawn to fishing. Her lip curled at the sight of worms squiggling in the bucket.
"This is Senor Manuel,” said the wood chopper. Giving them a curt nod, he strode back toward the village.
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