“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Well, because the whole thing is a set-up, and I’m a terrible person for letting you walk into what might be a really, really dangerous situation. “I’m sure you will, but stay in touch anyway, please.”
I darted for the bathroom to avoid more questions. Showering in Montañita was quite the challenge. The water had to be brought in, and the pressure was almost nonexistent. I danced under a lukewarm trickle, trying to lather and rinse. I took my time to make sure Justin had gone before I came out of my room. Lukewarm turned to cold, but I was well-rinsed. I wore the same skirt with a modest short-sleeve blouse. No need to distract Prez with cleavage.
At ten on the dot, he knocked; we were in his Jeep Renegade and on our way in less than five minutes. My escort looked as if he had taken time with his appearance—fresh shave, combed hair, a clean shirt, and pressed shorts. Was he trying to impress me, or was Eva much younger and hotter than I imagined?
We rode to the highway in silence while I planned how to ask about Luis Cordoza and how he’d gotten him to request Harry’s presence. I decided on a direct approach.
“So, how did you pull it off, Prez?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Pull what off?”
“Getting Harry to go back to Guayaquil, that’s what. Who do you know at the government office? And who is Franco?”
“I’m not the one who took care of Harry. The plan was for Justin to go alone and have Harry follow another lead. That Cordova fellow really did send for the old dude. And Franco’s a buddy of mine. He knows how things work here.”
“How do they work here? Can you get away with murder in beautiful Montañita?”
He turned to me with wild eyes. “Be careful what you say, Grace. I mean murder, wow. That’s harsh. And I can’t tell you anymore. You’ll have to wait until we’re there.”
Prez took a narrow road near the ocean. After about fifteen minutes, I began to worry.
“Where does Eva live?” Or should I ask how many miles from town do we have to be for you to bury my body? And how foolish had I been not to tell anyone where I was going?
“She had a change of plans and won’t be home until later. We’re taking a side trip, a place your sister liked. But don’t worry. It’s not that far and we’ll have plenty of time for both.”
When the crazed killer tells you not to worry, you know you’re done for. I took out my phone, but who would I call? I could text Mike and tell him Prez Allen was the last person to see me alive. Of course, that would scare the hell out of him. But I needn’t have been concerned. There was no cell reception.
“Service is sketchy out here. We’re almost there.”
I wondered if he and Stella had spent more time together than he indicated. Maybe I had misunderstood his relationship with my sister.
“Did you and Stella go here a lot?”
He ignored my question and posed one of his own. “Have you ever seen a blue-footed booby?” Prez glanced at me and grinned.
“I’m sorry. Did you say blue-footed booby?”
“Funny, right?” He giggled like a middle-school boy. “Booby.” He laughed again. “It’s not what you think.” He paused. “It’s a bird.”
My lack of response must have seemed an insult to the booby, and he repeated emphatically, “A bird. A seagull with big blue feet. You can’t get this close to Los Piqueros Patas Azules without checking out the boobies of Puerto Lopez.” He chuckled again.
“Look, Prez. I don’t see what looking at some blue-footed birds has to do with finding out the truth about Stella. And is that where we’re going? Los Piqueros whatever? How far is it anyway?”
“Chill, Grace. Get in touch with the universe. Trust me, the booby is the way to go.” Thankfully, he managed not to crack himself up. “And don’t be so hung up on time. We have all we need.” He smiled at me, took a CD from the visor, inserted it, and began singing along with Jerry Garcia and The Dead, “A Friend of the Devil is a Friend of Mine.”
I didn’t read too much into his choice of music and surrendered to the universe. Splashes of color from lavender, yellow, and red flowers growing wild lined the road. A warm breeze rippled through them, carrying their sweet scent with it.
The farther we got from Montañita, the more deserted the beach became. A few surfers slipped in and out of the waves, and groups of sun worshipers draped themselves over chairs or napped on blankets in the golden-brown sand. Clouds skimmed the ocean, casting reflections that made it impossible to determine where sea and sky separated.
We passed stretches of uninhabited shoreline. It was after eleven, and I was getting close to demanding he take me back to the hotel when a large, wooden sign featuring seagulls with big blue feet announced we were in Piqueros Patas Azules.
“We’re here,” he said and pulled the car into a gravel parking lot.
The combination bar and restaurant featured open-air seating. Hammocks with views of the ocean were strung between palm trees. Colorful umbrellas over wooden benches offered additional places to sit. About a dozen patrons sat at the tables scattered along the shoreline. One couple, entangled in a hammock, swung lazily back and forth.
“It’s the Piqueros Patas Azules, the Blue Booby. They have the freshest seafood in the entire world. And there’s a cool museum here. I’ve never been inside, but the sign looks cool.” He hopped from the jeep, came around for me, and made a big show of helping me out of the vehicle. This was the first time he had been so gentlemanly, and it struck me as odd, as if he were trying to impress someone other than me.
When we walked in, the bartender greeted Prez by name. They shared an elaborate handshake before my escort introduced me as Grace from the States. Then he ordered two drafts and carried both to the table closest to the beach, set them down, and pulled out my chair.
He asserted they had the best ceviche in town and insisted I try it. At home I would have avoided raw seafood, no matter how wonderful the citrus sauce marinade was. But he was convincing, so I agreed to give it a shot.
“I’m good with whatever, as long as it’s not guinea pig.”
When he left to place our order, I strolled back through the bar in search of a restroom. Nautical memorabilia covered the walls. Crinkled, carelessly framed maps seemed in danger of disintegration. A rusted anchor the size of a plump five-year-old child sat in a corner. Besides the bells and compasses scattered throughout the restaurant, a gigantic tortoiseshell hung next to an enormous jawbone identified as belonging to a killer shark.
The restroom was all the way in the back. When I returned, an assortment of food awaited me.
“Just in time,” he said. “Dig in.”
The tart aroma of citrus and the yeasty smell of freshly baked pastry was a perfect combination.
“They make their empanadas with beer dough,” Prez explained between bites. “It’s unfreaking believable.”
We dug in. Our only conversation was if I wanted another drink. I did and he went to get them.
The tide had gained momentum. Bronzed creatures, predominantly male with a few intrepid females in the mix, paddled out to the invisible line where the waves grew into monstrous forces. These fearless surfers rose from the sea to mount crests with the power to toss them aside as if they were rag dolls. Most rode with admirable prowess. Occasionally, one would disappear under the weight of the water, and I would hold my breath until the ocean spewed him back to the surface.
A tiny blonde woman paddled out, farther and farther from the shore. She rose on her board and hovered like a hummingbird before launching her slight frame up and onto the top of a wave. For a moment, I was certain Stella was alive, flying above the sea with the birds from my dream.
A sudden shadow blocked my view. At first, I thought Prez had returned. But this man was shorter and thicker.
“May I please join you?” He sat and removed his Panama hat. His shoulders were more bent than in the photograph, and he’d grown a full beard. But there was no mistaking those blazing, intense eyes. It was Adelmo Balsuto.
“I do not mean to frighten you, Grace Burnette.” He spoke with what Stella and I had called the late-night DJ introducing a seduction song voice. He kept those burning eyes fixed on mine.
“You didn’t,” I lied. “I just wasn’t expecting you. I was supposed to meet Eva. What are you doing here?”
He stared at me before answering. “It is strange how much you’re like her.”
“Listen, I’m with someone and if you don’t leave—”
“You are here with Preston Allen. I asked him to bring you here so we could talk.”
“What would we have to discuss?”
“Ah, Grace. Stella said you could be strong willed, but you are also clever. I understand you want to uncover what happened to your sister. I will help you with that. Would you be so kind as to come with me?” He extended his hand.
Something about Adelmo Balsuto made his request seem more of a command, gentle but still an order. I never follow orders from men I have just met, but he was different. It could have been because he’d known my sister so well, or because I desperately needed to learn what he knew. Whatever it was, I put my hand in his, and he led me from the safety of the beach to the other side of the bar. We walked to a narrow pathway that slipped behind low-lying dunes. I squealed when a streak of color scurried across my feet and disappeared down a hole in the sand. Two stalks with eyeballs at their ends periscoped up and watched as I hurried past.
Balsuto laughed. “We have disturbed the locals. Red, yellow, blue—beautiful little crustaceans.”
We continued several more yards until the pathway narrowed, making it necessary for him to walk ahead of me. We passed a thick plexiglass display with shards of pottery inside it. Among the broken pieces, an intact pot lay on its side.
My mysterious guide stopped and pointed to the container. “That is a funeral urn containing the skull of a former resident,” he explained and continued walking.
I looked closer and, indeed, there was what appeared to be a human skull lodged in the container. Shuddering, I hurried to catch up. We came to a small clearing and a long rectangular building. A wooden sign announced we had reached El Museo de las Antiguedos, The Museum of Antiquities, according to my limited knowledge of Spanish.
“Please, Señor Balsuto, why have you brought me here? What does this place have to do with my sister?”
“If you would indulge me.” He pushed open the door. The dimly lit room was at least ten degrees cooler. Shafts of sunlight laden with dancing particles of dust illuminated the shelves of ceramic pots and tiny wooden figures.
“Welcome to what remains of the Valdivian culture. A friend of my father is the curator and owner of this modest facility dedicated to preserving a small portion of the history of my people.”
He took my hand again, and we walked past the exhibit room through the back exit. I blinked in the punishing light. When my eyes adjusted, an explosion of color greeted me. The contrast between the darkness and the brilliant hues was other worldly. We sat on a stone bench in the middle of the garden.
“Lovely, isn’t it? Perhaps a reminder to us that while we think we are the masters of the universe, it is nature that will prevail. Do you smell that? Ecuadorian roses. The most beautiful fragrance in the world.”
An aroma of musk and strawberries drifted through the air.
“We came here often. She said it reminded her of home, your grandmother and her flowers.”
I hadn’t thought of Gran’s garden in years. Tea roses, somewhat temperamental and difficult to cultivate, were her favorite. My sister picked the buds to watch them spread open in a vase. But I hated that. I wanted to let them stay outside and blossom in the sun.
“Thinking about home was hard for your sister. She missed you and your mother very much. She would not talk about it, but I guessed you and she had a falling out. I gathered her husband was involved.” His upper lip curled. “I could not comprehend how such a man captured someone like Stella. Now I cannot fathom how he could have attracted a woman of your caliber.”
“I don’t understand it myself. But I didn’t come here to talk about me. Do you have information about her or not?”
“I will tell you all I know.”
“That would be wonderful, Senor Balsuto.”
“Yes, but you must call me Adelmo.” He held my hand. “Agreed?”
I nodded, surprised at the flutter I felt at his touch.
“We met at a party Wilcott had for some of our mutual business associates. I intended to make an appearance and leave. But then I saw her, standing on the deck, gazing at the ocean. Her white dress was cut low in the back. Her skin shone with moonlight. When I reached her side, she turned and smiled. But the smile stopped at her eyes, so beautiful like the sea.” He sighed and looked toward the water. “It is, how would you say, corny?” Adelmo laughed softly. “Yes, corny. But I was lost.”
I started to tell him he wasn’t the first man to get lost over Stella; instead, I nodded and waited for him to continue.
“I explained I knew her husband through business connections, and the smile disappeared. She backed off as if to run. I begged her to stay. I thought at first, she would refuse, but, to my surprise, she led me to a secluded spot where we could see the ocean. We spoke for hours before noticing the last of the guests was leaving. Stella told me I must go. She seemed frightened, but I could not leave so soon. I pleaded with her to meet me the following day at a café in the village. She agreed to try but made no promise.”
“Please, Adelmo,” I interrupted. “I love a romantic fairy tale as much as the next person, but I’m pressed for time. Do you think you could cut to the chase?” He looked puzzled. “Could you skip to the part that pertains to how she died?”
“The story cannot be rushed, dear Grace. I need you to understand our relationship was no cheap dalliance. We had a deep connection from the beginning. I loved your sister very much. But I will try to, as you say, slice to the chase.”
He told me there were many parties after that, including Halloween when he had become Rhett to Stella’s Scarlett. He knew these elaborate get-togethers were her way of fighting her growing unhappiness in her marriage. At some point they became “intimate,” and he discovered welts and bruises on her body. When he questioned her, she denied it was her husband, but Adelmo was no fool.
They saw each other whenever Ben was out of town. He realized what they had was much more than some tawdry affair. Stella admitted her husband was hurting her, and she wanted to leave him and go home. Even though it would have meant losing her, he vowed to help. About that time Ben became suspicious. She insisted she was being followed, so they took a break. They stayed in touch through letters delivered by Eva until Ben intercepted one and fired her. The next day he received another note telling him they were finished.
“But I did not believe her. I knew she loved me as much as I loved her. Something had frightened her. She feared Ben was desperate, that she might not be the only one he would hurt. That he might go after someone she loved. He had made threats in the past. And he knows many dangerous people, both here and in the States.”
“You think he threatened me or my mother?”
“She never said so directly, but I am most certain he did.”
The possibility Stella had stayed with Ben to protect our family had never occurred to me. But according to her calls to Mom, she was coming home. Either
she hadn’t been that worried about his threats, or something more powerful had moved her. If I could discover which one it was, I might be closer to finding out how she ended up dead on the beach.
“Before she died, Stella booked a flight to the States. Why would she do that if she was afraid Ben would hurt us?”
He looked away before answering. “I had not seen her for over five months. I tried to reach her, but it was as if she had disappeared. She meant everything to me, but I cannot say what was in her heart. That we will never understand.”
We sat in the garden watching the iridescent blur of a dozen or more tiny hummingbirds as they fluttered above the fragrant blossoms. The creatures filled the air with their jeweled colors—jade, emerald, amethyst, ruby. A soft chirping melody accompanied their frantic movements, and the low buzz of their wings in motion was a hypnotic backbeat. Their flickering dance reminded me of the fireflies we chased as children.
Before we left the garden, I turned to my sister’s lover. His heavily lashed eyes were downcast, giving him the look of a much younger man despite his thick, gray-streaked beard. Adelmo’s interlaced fingers dangled in front of him. I imagined them on Stella’s body and trembled.
“I should return you now, I suppose.” Once again, he reached for my hand. I hesitated, fearful he might feel me trembling and read my mind. But the moment passed. His touch brought nothing but sadness for our mutual loss.
On our walk to the beach, I told him about Stella’s stolen letters and my laptop and how much I wanted them back. He promised to check in with his contacts in Guayaquil but offered scant hope.
“I’m sure the thief was after your computer and grabbed the letters without thought. Most likely he disposed of them as soon as he discovered they were of no value.”
When we reached the beachside table, Prez was waiting for us. The men exchanged greetings and excused themselves to talk while I sat gazing at the sea. I was surprised to see how low the sun had sunk. It was after three, later than I thought. A lone booby approached me with a hopeful look.
The Sometime Sister Page 13