by Merry Jones
“Thank God, Elle. You have to help me.” Melanie was breathless.
I moved my arm away, squinted up at her. “What happened?”
“What do you think? Luis. When I got to my room last night, I could tell he’d been there.”
“How?”
“My clothes were rearranged and underwear was missing. Later, he sent a bottle of wine to my room. And he kept calling. Should I go on?”
I lay back, listless. I wanted to be a slug, didn’t want to hear about Melanie’s drama.
“Melanie. I’m wiped out. A woman was murdered last night. I found her body—”
“I know, I heard about it. It must have been awful. But, Elle, I need your help.”
Was she really that self-absorbed? I shook my head. No. I wasn’t available.
“Please, Elle—when Luis called last night, he threatened me.”
I closed my eyes. Wasn’t interested.
“I’m not kidding, Elle. When I turned him down, he said I was making a mistake and I’d be sorry. A half hour later, he tried to get into my room.”
Really?
“I had the bolt on, thank God. Who knows what he’d have done if he’d gotten in. He’s completely obsessed with me.”
I shaded the glare of the sun with my hand, squinted up at Melanie’s big beach bag, her skinny stick-frame body, her oversize sunglasses. And saw Greta’s face, cut to ribbons. “Melanie. You need to go to hotel management. He’s gone too far.”
“No.” She tugged at me again. “It’s just my word against his. I need proof. He took my stuff. I’m going to get it back. You’re my witness. Come on.”
I didn’t move. Had no energy. My eyes burned, body ached. And Melanie had no business foisting her problems onto me. Foisting? Really? What part of my brain had that word come from? Had I even used it right? Melanie kept tugging my hand.
“It won’t take long. Promise.”
“Melanie,” my voice was a pathetic whine, “I’ve had a hellish night. I need to rest.”
“You’ll rest afterward. We have to go now, while he’s distracted.”
I rolled over onto my side, turning away from her. She walked around the lounge chair to face me again.
“Elle, I don’t have anyone else to turn to. You have to help me.”
I did? “Sorry.” I wasn’t.
“Please.”
Melanie wasn’t going away. I took a breath. “Help you how?”
“It’ll just take five minutes.”
That wasn’t an answer. But five minutes? After that, would she leave me alone? “Okay. Five minutes. That’s all. Then you’re on your own.”
“You’re the best, Elle.”
I sat up, grumbling. Got to my feet, pulled on my cover-up. Winced when the cloth scraped my shoulders.
“Hurry.” She repositioned her bag on her shoulder, dragged me toward the hotel.
“Where are we going?”
“There.” She indicated a wing of the hotel.
“To do what?” I had trouble keeping up with her; my toes dug into the sand.
“All you have to do is stand outside and let me know if anyone’s coming.”
Wait, was she planning some kind of heist? With me as the lookout?
We passed a path to the pool. Salsa music blared. Families splashed. Chichi and Luis, muscles glistening, were on duty, setting up a net for the next water game. I didn’t see Becky. Melanie led me to a narrow path in the back of the building, turned up a stark alleyway bare of lush landscaping and lavish décor.
“This is staff housing,” she panted. “That’s Luis’s room.” She pointed to a half-opened window on the first floor. Curtains dangled unevenly inside.
It was? “How do you know?”
“Sources.”
Oh Lord. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I sensed a beam of satisfaction. I stopped walking. Looked around at the stucco walls, the empty alley.
“What are we doing here?”
“Just wait here.” She tapped my arm, took a deep breath, started toward Luis’s window.
“Wait. You’re not going in there.”
“I’ll be right back.” She sped away.
“Are you crazy?” I called after her. “That’s illegal.”
She kept going.
“I’m not part of this, Melanie,” I yelled. “I’m going back.”
“Shush,” she hissed as she pushed the window up. “Hang on a minute.” She tossed her bag in, jumped onto the sill, and before I could say anything else, disappeared inside.
So there I was. Abetting a crime. But the window had been open. Was jumping into an open window as illegal as actually breaking it to get in? Maybe not. Maybe Melanie was just trespassing. And maybe Mexican law was different. Maybe watching someone trespass wasn’t even a crime here. Maybe I wouldn’t be held responsible for whatever Melanie was doing. I wondered what that was. Was she rifling through Luis’s stuff, stealing his underwear to get even? Never mind. I didn’t want to think about it. And no matter what the law was, I shouldn’t be there. I pictured Sergeant Perez and a band of armed police surrounding us, blocking the path back to the beach. I saw myself locked in a Mexican jail, Susan arguing via a translator for my freedom while I studied a fat cockroach lumbering up a decaying concrete wall.
No, I wasn’t going to stay there, was not going to be part of whatever Melanie Crane was up to. I hardly even knew Melanie Crane. She’d rejected my advice that she go to management. Why should I be made responsible for her safety? If she ran into trouble while seeking revenge against a stalker, it was her own fault.
I turned around, started down the isolated alleyway back toward the narrow path. Felt a twinge. Stopped. Looked back at the window. Saw Claudia reaching out to me, falling. Landing face-first six floors below. I shut my eyes, heard Greta sobbing and saw her shredded flesh.
I hadn’t helped either of them.
Never mind, I told myself. Melanie had nothing to do with them. They had been alone in their hotel suites, minding their own business. Melanie, on the other hand, was prowling, causing trouble. Instigating it.
Maybe I was being too harsh. Melanie was annoying, but she was still a victim. Luis had been harassing her, scaring her, pushing her to the brink. And she was no match for him. She was a stranger here, helping her grandmother, whereas Luis was home on his own turf, able to speak the language. And he probably weighed twice what she did. No, whether she had the right to go into his room or not, Melanie was trying to protect herself from a predator, and she’d asked for my help. How could I refuse?
I stood halfway down the alley, watching the window. Hearing nothing. Seeing nothing move. What was taking so long? What if Luis had a roommate? Or someone had found her sneaking around? I pictured ninety-pound Melanie overpowered, unable to call for help. Unconscious. Her face being cut to shreds. And I didn’t wait another second. I ran back, past the lookout spot, all the way to Luis’s window.
A leg popped out just as I got there. Then a hip. When Melanie saw me, she frowned. “What are you doing here?”
I backed up so she could climb out the window. “Are you all right?”
She grinned. “Oh, yes. I’m fine.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a wad of lace panties.
“Those are yours?”
“Luis is going to think twice before he messes with me again. I left him a message.” She strutted down the alleyway, wagging her wraithlike hips.
A message?
I hesitated to press her. Pictured broken mirrors. Graffiti-covered walls. Worse. Whatever she’d done, it was better if I didn’t know. We passed the path to the pool. People hooted and wailed as a basketball sunk into the hoop. Luis announced, “Seven-Five. Team Tiburon is winning!” Chichi passed a bottle of tequila among the scorers.
“Want to stop at the café? Get something to eat?” Melanie bounced as she walked, cheerful.
I didn’t, no. “Go ahead. I’m fine.” I wanted to shed her.
“That’s okay
. I’ll order something on the beach.”
We passed clusters of empty lounge chairs. She didn’t take one. She stayed with me, heading to mine.
“Well, I’m off. See you later.” I tried to leave her at a thatched umbrella.
“What do you mean? I’ll come sit with you.” Melanie didn’t take hints.
Fine. I’d be blunt. “I told you before. I need to chill.”
“No problem. I’ll be quiet. You won’t know I’m there.” She zipped her lips.
I was seething. We crossed the sand, heading to my lounge chair. Melanie stuck to me like an unneeded, unwanted, unattractive, annoying body part. I was pretty sure that this was how Greta Mosley had felt about her leg. Still, it baffled me how she’d actually taken a sharp object to her thigh. Had she used a saw? A cleaver? Hadn’t she realized that she’d pass out, if not from pain, then from loss of blood? Had she really thought she could amputate her own limb?
Melanie broke her promise and kept talking. “Señor,” she shouted to a waiter. “Por favor, can you bring me a menu? Over there?” She pointed to my chair. She tossed her bag of underpants onto the sand and dragged a second lounge chair over to mine.
“Melanie,” I began, “the fact is, I really want to—”
“Sleep. I get it. It’s cool.”
I looked out at the ocean, deciding what to say. That I wanted solitude? That she was on my nerves? She planted her chair inches from mine, and I realized that it didn’t matter what I said. Melanie would hear what she wanted to hear.
“Actually,” I told her, “I’m going up to my room. I’ll take a nap there.”
Her mouth opened. For a moment, I thought she would cry. But her lips twisted, stretched themselves into a big toothy grin. “Fine, Elle, I’ll wait here. When you wake up, come get me. I’ll have boogie boards ready.”
Enough. I didn’t answer. I picked up my towel and bag, started back toward the hotel.
“Wait, Elle?”
I froze. “What!” I whirled around, nostrils flaring, fists tight.
“Thanks for helping me out today. You’re a pal.” She flopped back on the lounge chair, lifted a twiglike arm, and waved.
Jen had emerged from the bedroom and sprawled on the living room sofa. Her robe hung open, exposing the taut elastic bandages on her belly and over her breasts. The bruises around her eyes had blackened, so that, with her hair knotted on top of her head and the splint on her nose, she looked half mummy, half exotic bird.
“I’b dying,” she moaned. Her nose was still stuffed. “I’b biserable.” She swung her arm up and around in a grand gesture.
Susan didn’t look up; she was typing on her keyboard. “Back so soon?” She nodded at the bathroom. “Becky’s here.”
She was?
“Trouble in paradise.” Susan kept typing.
“She didn’t stop to ask how I’b feeling,” Jen complained.
Who? Me? Or Becky? Either way. “How are you feeling?”
“How do you thikk? Like shit. Worse dad shit. Shit would be ad ipprovebett. Ad look at be. I’b totally ugly.”
“Poor dear. It’s a shame you had to go through all this,” Susan shook her head, smirking.
“Shove it, Susad. FU.”
“Take your pills and go to sleep, Jen.” Susan glanced up at me. “How was the beach?”
“Elle, cad you get be bore ice?”
Susan frowned. “I just gave you ice—”
“For my dose. That was for by tubby.”
Susan sighed, typed on. I got ice, crushed it, put it into a plastic bag. I was wrapping it in a hand towel when Becky came out of the bathroom. Her eyes were red and puffy. I brought the ice to Jen, who blanketed her face with it.
“Chichi’s a cheat.” Becky’s chin wobbled.
“No!” Susan cried. “What a shock.”
“What happened?” I scowled at Susan, took a seat on an easy chair.
“He flirts with other women right in front of me.” Becky sat beside me, wiped away a tear.
“It bight dot bead adythigg.” A voice emerged from under the hand towel. “He’s Latid—Flirtigg’s id his blood.”
“I saw him touching them. He had his arm around one.”
“What did you expect, Becky?” Susan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you that naïve?”
“Susan—” I tried to interrupt, but she kept on.
“Flirting is what these resort guys do. What do you think they’re here for? To run basketball games? Please. They’re here to screw lonely tourists.”
Even with her sunburn, blotches appeared on Becky’s neck. She opened her mouth, sputtering. “You don’t even know him, Susan—”
“Oh, please. I don’t have to. He’s a hot guy in a resort where divorcees come for romance and homely women come for plastic surgery.”
“What did you say?” Jen sat up, knocking the ice packs onto the floor. “Did she just call be hobely?”
“You have no idea, Susan.” Becky stood, no longer crying. “Chichi isn’t like that. He has four sisters. He respects women. And he loves me.”
“Whatever you say.” Susan rolled her eyes, went back to typing.
“Seriously, Susad. You have doe busidess talkigg about other people’s looks. You could stadd to have subb work dud yourself.”
Susan ignored her.
Becky strutted over to Susan. “What’s wrong with you, Susan? You’re being such a bitch. I’m upset and you say, ‘Well, it’s your own fault.’ Easy for you to say. You’re married. You’ve got a husband and kids. Your life is just peachy—”
I watched silently, heard them swipe at each other. Susan jabbing at Jen for whining about her decision to have cosmetic surgery, at Becky for her choice of men. They attacked her condescending attitude and her smug indifference to their pain. I sat in the easy chair, feeling the heat, the rhythm of the exchange. The words flew fast, overlapped. I closed my eyes, floated up, looked down from the ceiling and saw us, barbs flying, bouncing from heart to heart. Pain spurting with each accusation, each barb. It wasn’t like us to actually fight. Usually, we razzed each other and made snide comments, but underneath remained steadfastly loyal to each other. Like family. So what was happening? Why was everyone so bitter, not holding back?
“—pulling an Elle?”
“She’s dot with us, as usual.”
Oh God. My turn? They were talking about me.
“Well, who can blame her for zoning out? You’re both being bitches.” Becky stood up for me.
“You call this bitchy? You have no idea how bitchy I can be when I want to,” Susan blurted. “Excuse me if I’m a little stressed out. Unlike you and Elle who can romp on the beach, I haven’t had a break. I’ve had to fix some junior partner’s legal mistakes and serve the endless demands of Princess Jen over there.”
I tried to wander off again. But I had never been able to will my mind to go away. Jen barked at Susan, and Susan at Becky. Round and round until, slowly, the energy faded. The pace slowed. Jen moaned softly.
Susan apologized.
Becky hugged her, slumped into the chair, sniffling. “I suppose you’re right. I shouldn’t have trusted him. I guess I was too eager to believe Madam Therese.”
“So what happedd?” Jen asked.
Becky let out a breath. “I saw him with his arm around a woman at the bar.”
“Maybe he was just being friendly. It’s his job to make sure everyone has fun,” Susan interrupted. “She might have seemed lonely.”
“That’s bull. Face it. Guys like hib have a dew chick every week,” Jen retrieved the ice packs from the floor, positioned them on her breasts.
“So I’m just a dumb chump?” Becky covered her face with her hands. “He was just using me? I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Susan said. “I’m sure Chichi was quite convincing.”
“Well, he should be. I’b sure he gets a lot of practice.”
Becky wailed.
“Maybe you’re better off, Becky.”
I tried to soothe her. “You don’t really know much about him.”
Everyone gaped at me. Jen even lifted the ice pack off her face. “She’s back.”
“I was here all the time.”
“No, you weren’t. You did an Elle.”
“Susad’s right. You were out in lala ladd.”
I didn’t want to debate my mental state. “The point is, Becky, you haven’t had a chance to really get to know Chichi. He might not be who he seems.”
She shrugged, blew her nose. “I thought I knew him. I still feel like I do.”
“Look, I don’t want to scare you—or to equate the two men. But I met a woman on the beach who says Luis is stalking her. She’s terrified of him.”
“What? Who’s Luis?” Susan set her laptop aside.
“Luis is stalking someone?” Becky raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Who are you talkigg about?” Jen rested her head against the back of the sofa, replaced the towel.
“Chichi’s coworker. The other activities director.” Becky shook her head. “No, Chichi isn’t like Luis. Look, I know some of the guys who work here make time with tourists. Luis does. But not Chichi. He stays away from it. He calls Luis ‘cabronazo.’”
“What the hell’s that?”
“I think it means bastard,” Susan reached for her laptop. “How do you spell it? I’ll Google it.”
“It means slimeball,” Becky said. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Luis and Chichi work together, but that’s all. They’re not friends.”
“So, wait. Luis is like a gigolo?” I didn’t get it. If other women were chasing after him, why was he bothering Melanie?
“Kind of. Except the women don’t hire him. They don’t even know he’s being paid. A couple of the doctors hire him to pay attention to their patients so they’ll feel attractive.”
“What?” Jen was appalled. “That’s sick.”
“It’s actually pretty clever.” Susan said. “I bet a lot of cosmetic surgery patients have low self esteem and feel unappealing. Having hunky guys come after them would be good for business.”
I thought of Greta, sobbing that she was ugly. Asking Alain to help her.