by Lee Taylor
He set the horn on the bar, took the vacant barstool next to Gary, and ordered a cerveza.
"Balboa?" Julio, the bartender asked.
"Sí."
"Beautiful music," Julio gushed in his accented English, brushing his fingers reverently over the flugelhorn as he set the already sweating bottle down on a folded paper napkin.
Michael bristled. It was like having another guy run his fingers over his woman--except he didn't have a woman. Loneliness washed over him.
He drank half his tasteless beer, grabbed his horn, and mumbled a goodnight to his brother. Gary didn't notice his departure, too immersed in conversation with a shapely young American volunteer worker.
~~~
Next morning, Michael made enquiries at the hotel's front office about property that might be for sale in the area. Gary was still in bed. Michael had no idea what time his brother had finally come back to their room.
Anneke, the Finnish girl who managed the hotel, spoke excellent English. She'd come to Panama on vacation years ago and settled in Las Piedras after marrying a local Panamanian.
"I believe there's a Canadian who has a house for sale on the beach, further down," she told him. "I can get the contact information if you like."
Michael's spirits lifted. "Perfect. I want to be on the beach."
"Just give me a few minutes."
"I'll wait in the bar."
Twenty minutes and two Balboas later, he was irritated. This beer drinking had to stop. If he bought a property in Panama he'd have to be careful not to slide into an unhealthy lifestyle. Two beer, and not ten o'clock yet.
Drumming his fingers on the bar, he was about to order a third cerveza when Anneke appeared. She handed him a scrap of paper with directions. "His name is Simon. He loves diving and wants to move to Bocas del Toro. He's at the house now."
Ten minutes later, after taking several wrong turns on rutted mud lanes that wound around the beach community like a maze, Michael's rental car lurched its way into Simon's potholed driveway.
The house was indeed steps from the beach, but didn't look like any house Michael had seen before. "Panama style," Simon explained with an expansive wave towards the structure as if he were conducting a tour of the Taj Mahal.
Michael strode over to shake hands.
The well tanned Canadian hailed from Calgary. Michael judged he was probably in his mid forties, athletic looking.
"The wife and I want to move to Bocas--better diving there. She's back in Canada at the moment."
Michael wondered if the wife was indeed as into the sport of diving as her husband.
Simon talked a mile a minute as they quickly toured the bedrooms. "Sorry, don't have much time. I've an appointment in David. The dermatologist there zaps my lesions once in a while."
Michael hadn't given much thought to the disadvantages of over-exposure to the sun in a tropical climate.
He tried to concentrate on the house. He should be opened minded, but couldn't figure out why each bedroom seemed to be a self contained unit. The rooms were dingy, and poorly decorated, the ensuites fitted with outdated fixtures.
The kitchen was separate from the rest of the house with its own entrance. The room was exposed to the elements since the walls didn't reach the roof. A network of timbers made from tree limbs bridged the two foot gap between walls and ceiling.
The place must be alive with geckos. He didn't mind the little creatures, but this was a bit much, and who knew what other nocturnal foragers might make themselves at home. A quick trip in the middle of the night for a glass of water would be a safari. He got the impression the structure had been built as some sort of bunkhouse.
"It's a great location, Simon. Thanks for the tour. What are you asking?"
"Two seventy five."
The number whirled around Michael's brain. Thousand? Two hundred and seventy five thousand--for this dump? It was on the beach, but still.
He shook Simon's hand. "Great place, but not quite what I had in mind. Good luck in Bocas."
He drove away feeling disappointed.
~~~
Michael wasn't sure how it happened, but he ended up returning to the hotel by a different route. The unpaved roads were so bad he had to drive at a snail's pace. He noticed a vibrant orange wall almost overgrown by an abundant purple bougainvillea. A sign caught his eye. "Se Vende." He could see the roof of the house beyond. "This looks more promising."
He pulled over, took out his Blackberry and called the number on the For Sale sign.
"Hello?"
"Ingles?" Michael asked hopefully.
"You got it," replied a voice that sounded very Midwestern.
This made life a whole lot easier. "Yeah, you've a For Sale sign on your wall. Can I take a look?"
"Sure. When would you like to come?"
He hesitated. "Er, I'm parked outside now, if it's convenient."
There was a pause. Michael had the impression the man had his hand over the phone while he consulted with someone else.
"Hello? Yeah, that's ok. I'll open the gate."
Michael stepped out of his air conditioned car and the heat almost felled him. No sea breeze here. He regretted the two beers more than ever now. A minute or two later the gate opened. A spindly older guy clad in shorts ushered him inside the compound. The house was raised on concrete pillars and the cooler air in the shade was a relief after the inferno outside.
"Hi. Jaime Baumgarten. Come on in."
The old guy had quite a grip. "Michael Atherton. Sure appreciate your letting me in now. Hope it's not inconvenient."
Jaime scratched his balding head. "Nah. Dorothy and I were just doing some beading." He made an expansive gesture with his hand. "As you see, the house is raised, giving this nice shady area."
They picked their way through lines of washing, then Jaime ushered Michael into a cramped hallway and swung open a door to his right. "Downstairs bathroom. Everything else is upstairs."
Michael poked his head into the tiny bathroom, then Jaime led the way up the narrow stairway into the kitchen. The pleasant space had high vaulted ceilings, but the metal trusses were bare. The appliances were modern.
A tall, thin woman sauntered in. "Dorothy, this is Michael. Michael, this is my wife, Dorothy."
Dorothy wore an ankle length dress bound at the waist by a multi-colored woven sash and a short jacket that looked like something a matador might wear, minus the padded shoulders. Several sets of beads of varying lengths dangled around her neck. She'd pulled her long grey hair back over her ears into a ponytail--a seventy-odd year old hippie. "Hello, Michael. Where are you from?"
Michael tried not to let his amusement show. "Canada. How about you?"
"Originally the States, but we live in Boquete now, in the Western Highlands. This is our beach house. We've enjoyed coming here for several years, but find it too hot these days. Boquete is much cooler, and the community there suits us. Lots of artists."
Michael cleared his throat. "Your husband mentioned beading."
Dorothy nodded and ushered him into another room to continue his tour.
He spent quite a bit of time with the friendly couple on the open verandah overlooking the beach, enjoying their easy company, asking questions about the house, the pumping system for the well, the septic tank.
He drove away thinking he may have found the right property.
~~~
Several guests gathered at the outdoor bar that evening. Michael liked to sit at the bar--you met more people. As usual the talk turned to the lifestyle in Panama and the advantages of becoming a pensionado. Jaime and Dorothy had mentioned this government program that provided incentives to encourage foreigners to retire in Panama.
Michael had tried to explain it to Gary, but it was evident his brother was only half listening, seemingly deeply interested in the female volunteer's work on the comarca--the vast indigenous territory just north of town.
In the course of the conversation the owner of the hotel, Peter Sc
ott from San Francisco, mentioned a housing development further up the beach. Michael was puzzled. All his investigations had taken him in the opposite direction. He asked about the development.
"It's towards the estuary. If you drive up there, you'll find a gate. It's just past that."
Sounded like a good plan for the morning.
~~~
Michael had visions of a fancy gate as in "gated community". What he and a yawning Gary found the next morning was a rusted farm gate--padlocked.
"What the hell," Gary objected. "I could've stayed in bed."
Shit!
A large green and yellow sign written in Spanish was no help at all, except the last two words--"Propiedad Privada."
Michael's Spanish was limited, but he didn't relish the possibility of being chased off private land by an irate Panamanian.
Damn it!
Reluctantly, he made a three point turn on the narrow gravel road under the nervous gaze of several dozen well-endowed Brahman cattle grazing in the fenced field beyond.
"May as well drive into Las Piedras and get some more sun lotion," Gary suggested.
They took the ten minute drive to the village supermercado. What a misnomer that was for the bare-bones warehouse-like store that seemed to be the centre of commerce in the quaint village. If they did buy property in the area, they'd find most things they needed here, though Michael would never be tempted to buy the meat or chicken on display. You could smell it as soon as you entered the place.
With hand gestures and a bit of searching they finally located the sunscreen.
It was lunch time when they got back to the hotel. Gary went to the restaurant. Michael stopped by the office. Anneke was behind the counter, working at the computer.
"Hi! We drove up to the gate of the development as Peter suggested, but it was padlocked."
She didn't look up from the computer. "Oh, sorry, he should've mentioned--they say it's never actually locked. Just looks that way. You can unhook the padlock from the chain and open the gate."
Michael rubbed his furrowed brow. "Why--? Never mind. But it's private property."
"Pay no attention to that. You can drive through."
"And there are homes for sale?"
She finally looked up at him. "Apparently."
He scratched his head. Panama would take some getting used to.
CHAPTER NINE
Jessie decided to bring the dogs home rather than undertake the drive back and forth to the Atherton house. Of course, Phil Glazebrook just had to be in the foyer when she struggled through the front door, a squirming chihuahua under each arm. He hurried to hold it open, a strange smirk twisting his full lips. "Your dogs, Jessie?"
"N-no. Dog sitting."
"I see. You'll have a problem opening your apartment door. Give me your key."
Jessie rarely swore. As far as she was concerned, people who said fuck every second word had an impoverished vocabulary, but she wanted to scream the obscenity now. The key was in her pocket.
Hoping the tremor shuddering through her wasn't evident, she thrust out her hip and nodded.
Glazebrook reached into the pocket of her cardigan and fished around for a brief moment. His fingers brushed her hip. She flinched away. He drew out the key and held it up. "Ta da."
Cold dread washed over her as the unhappy dogs continued to squirm, the heat of their little bodies permeating her cardigan. She forced a smile.
He unlocked the door.
Don't ask to come in. Please God, I don't want him in my home.
He pushed the door open and waved her inside. She hesitated. He popped the key back into her pocket, clicked his heels together, bowed and left.
She sagged against the door jamb. Why did Phil Glazebrook cause such a reaction of dread? He seemed like a perfectly nice man, yet there was something sinister about him that set her on edge.
She hurried into the apartment, shut the door quickly and set the dogs free.
They ran around like demons freed from hell, barking, sniffing, growling. Jessie collapsed into her recliner, closed her eyes and rotated her head to stretch out the tense muscles in the back of her neck.
It was suddenly too quiet.
She opened her eyes. The dogs sat at her feet, staring at her, teeth bared.
~~~
Jessie was shovelling up dog poop. She had no leash to take her charges outdoors, and they'd gotten into the habit of pooping in a corner of the small balcony. Oh well. It was only for a few days.
The phone rang.
Shit!
She smirked at the irony of her outburst as she straightened, rubbing her back. For little dogs, Binky and Bonky produced a lot of poop. She was pleased with her choice of names. Their bone-shaped little doggie tags provided only a phone number.
If she didn't hurry, the caller would hang up. She lurched through the sliding glass door, grabbed the phone, and pressed the TALK button. "Hello?"
"Hey! Jessie?"
She took a deep breath. Whatever happened to good manners? Didn't a male caller know enough to identify himself right away?
"Who's calling?" she asked, momentarily proud she hadn't shied away from the minor confrontation. Scooping dog poop did wonders for a person's bravado.
"Gary Atherton here."
She drew her lips into a tight line. She'd rescued Binky and Bonky as a favor to this man, who hadn't bothered to call in a week to see how they were doing. Nor had she heard from the dogs' owner, Gary's brother. When they eventually met she'd certainly give him a piece of her mind. Did the guy think it was fun wrestling two angry Chihuahuas into the back of a strange SUV?
"This is Jessie," she replied curtly.
"Er--just wanted to thank you for taking care of Michael's dogs. Er--I assume you did go over there?"
The man hadn't even checked. The damn dogs had yapped all the way to her house, giving her a huge headache.
It had taken two days to win their trust to the point where they didn't snarl every time she went near them. She had to admit she kind of liked having them curl up on her lap while she watched TV--but that was beside the point.
"I did, Gary. When will your brother be coming to pick them up? They're eating me out of house and home."
Gary chuckled. "I told Mike you'd probably take them home. Hungry little buggers, eh?"
He'd obviously missed the sarcasm. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "So when is your brother coming?"
"That's the thing. I had to come home early. He flies in tomorrow, but he'll be short of time and wondered if you could drop the dogs off at his place?"
She rolled her eyes, tapping her foot. "Sure! Not a problem," she ground out between gritted teeth. Why was she always such a pushover?
He gave her the details. "You gotta be there by nine. You remember where the house is?"
Did he think her a complete moron? Of course she remembered the way. It was simple--wasn't it? Nine in the morning?
She was about to hang up when he spoke again. "By the way, it's your fault I had to come home early."
What did he mean?
"Your publisher loved the synopsis and first chapter I sent them for the second book. They're talking a three book series now."
Her mouth fell open. She suddenly realized she still held the poop-laden dustpan. Grimacing, she set it down with a shaky hand. "But I'm nowhere near finished the second book yet."
"You will, though, and before the deadline, I'll bet. I'll call in a day or two with the details."
All is forgiven!
"Okay," she rasped. "Bye, Gary. And thanks."
"Don't mention it. It's my job, and you're a talented writer."
She switched off the phone and did a happy dance, swearing when she accidentally kicked the dustpan, sending poop flying across the floor.
CHAPTER TEN
Michael had one more day in Panama before he had to leave for home. He should spend it relaxing by the hotel pool, getting his thoughts in order for his return to work.
In particular he wanted to get right back into the case he'd been following for months. He'd been reluctant to leave it unresolved, convinced Phil Glazebrook was ripping off seniors, but he'd yet to prove it. There'd been no word from Reggi Blenkin about Matilda Johnson.
But, before he left Panama, he wanted to make progress in his search for property. Gary had flown home early--something about having a blockbuster on his hands.
Michael drove back to the padlocked gate, got out of his car, and unhooked the rusted chain. He swung the gate open, feeling like Richard Chamberlain in a scene from The Thornbirds.
God! That was a memory from long ago. Feeling his age, he drove through the gate, then got out and closed it behind him.
The car bumped and lurched for almost two dusty kilometres. If he retired to Panama, he'd have to invest in a sturdier vehicle than the small car he'd rented. Green iguanas sped across the road in front of him. He narrowly avoided several fallen coconuts in the middle of the track. He held his breath as a toad sprang out of the grass, cringing when he heard the whack under the car.
Sorry buddy.
Ominous black birds roosted on fence posts, their enormous wings spread out in the sun. They watched him drive by. He'd never seen a vulture except high in the sky in western movies but had a sneaking suspicion that's what these gangly creatures were.
On the verge of giving up, he caught sight of a red roof in the distance. A few minutes later he was driving through a development with six or seven houses that wouldn't be out of place in any upscale North American neighborhood.
The place seemed to be deserted, except for workmen laboring on what looked like a six-plex under construction at one end of the property.
He pulled over to talk to them, but no one spoke English. Frustrated that he'd come so far but learned nothing, he got back in his car, heading to the hotel.
Another vehicle appeared in the distance, coming towards him, kicking up its own dust cloud. The narrow track wouldn't accommodate two vehicles so he pulled over to let the black half-ton pass. It stopped as the vehicles drew level. The driver's window was down, a hairy arm leaning out of it. A balding mountain of a man scowled at him as he lowered his window.