by Lee Taylor
Gary poised a finger over the iPhone. "Account number?"
Michael searched his pockets. "Not sure. I don't have my check book with me."
"Christ, Michael, you're not still in the Dark Ages using checks, are you?"
Michael came to his feet. "That's me, bro, the dinosaur. I'll have to get back to you about the account number."
~~~
At three-thirty Michael checked in with Jim Strand who'd asked for an update on Matilda Johnson. "I've double checked that she isn't in any hospital, nursing home, or retirement residence anywhere on Vancouver Island. She's not in the mortuary. I called her cousin to ask if there was any way she might have gone to a facility on the Mainland. The woman dismissed the idea completely. She was adamant Matilda would not have left the Island.
"Her doctor confirmed she missed an appointment over a month ago. Attempts to contact her by phone proved fruitless."
An uneasy feeling had taken root in Michael's gut. "Old ladies don't just disappear into thin air."
Jim curled his forefinger and pressed the knuckle to his pursed lips. "What next?"
"Blenkin has checked the Telus and BC Hydro billings for that address. Glazebrook has transferred everything into his name. Tomorrow I plan to chat with the company that did the office renovations on the house for Glazebrook."
"Be careful. You don't want them alerting him."
"No. I'll pose as someone impressed with the work and needing something similar in Vancouver."
"What about the old fellow whose bank account has dwindled?"
Michael flipped to the relevant page of notes he'd made that afternoon. "John Palmer insists that he willingly gave the money to Jeffrey Bateson, a young man who lives with him. He denies there's been any wrongdoing and refuses to press charges.
"I accompanied a social worker and nurse to the home. Palmer didn't seem mentally or physically distressed. He was more worried about keeping Bateson out of jail than about losing his money. It came out in the course of the conversation that Bateson had "borrowed" some checks and forged Palmer's name--to the tune of $24,000, but the old man said he'd freely given the youth his money.
"With nothing left of his life savings, Palmer is now living on his Old Age Pension. He can't afford to buy proper food and other necessities. Although he refused to press charges, I've suggested the police arrest Bateson and charge him with check forgery, and the social worker is following up with the health issues."
Jim gave a thumbs-up. "Good work. You seem chirpier after your night in Vancouver."
Michael smiled, resisting the urge to adjust his trousers. "Yeah. A night out in the big city can do wonders for a man."
Jim wagged his finger. "Aha! You met a woman?"
Michael felt his face redden. "You could say that."
~~~
Michael parked down the street from Phil Glazebrook's impressive new offices. The Contractor's sign that had hung on the temporary fence during the renovations was gone, but he'd made a note of the phone number in his little notebook. He located it and keyed the digits into his Smartphone.
It rang twice. "Good morning. Taylor Renovations, Melanie speaking. How may I help you?"
Professional.
"Good morning, Melanie," Michael replied. "I'd like to talk to someone about the job you did on the Glazebrook house."
"Oh, yes, we're very proud of it. Jack was in charge of that project."
He could practically hear Melanie's smile. "Is he in the office?"
"Jack's on vacation."
Damn!
"Is there any way to reach him? I'm on a tight schedule."
"No. It's more than my job's worth to interrupt his holiday. He'll be back in two weeks."
Nothing for it but to wait.
"Okay. I'll call back."
"Would you like to leave your name and number?"
"No, I'll call him. Thanks."
He'd have to try phoning Jack again from Panama. The delay bothered him. Something nagged at the back of his brain that Glazebrook was up to no good.
~~~
Jessie would rather have met Gary at Romeo's Pizzeria again, but he'd coaxed her into going to his office.
He gave her the address. "Right downtown, on Douglas. Can't miss it. Blue building. Park in the Robbins lot across the street. You'll have to pay, I'm afraid, otherwise they'll tow you. I'll buzz you up to the penthouse."
Her flight response kicked in. "Your office is in a penthouse suite?"
He must have heard the tension in her voice. He chuckled. "Yeah. But don't worry. It's perfectly safe. I'm not dangerous."
She followed his directions. Her jaw dropped when he opened the door and she glimpsed the view. It drew her to the window. "Wow! This is fantastic!"
He opened the sliding glass door. "Step out on the balcony."
She looked at him nervously. "I don't do well with heights."
"Don't worry. I'll hold on to you."
Cautiously, not wanting to appear foolish, she stepped out, reaching for the railing. Gary held her elbow. The wind was gusty and to her mind the building was swaying. Douglas Street looked a long way down. She gathered her cardigan around her neck. "That wind is chilly."
He smiled and led her back indoors. "How would you like to get away to a warmer climate for a few days?"
She felt awkward. Was he suggesting they go away together? "I'd love to, but I can't take the time away from my writing."
"Sure you can. From what you've given me so far, I'd say you're well on with it." He winked. "I think you took my advice about more in-depth research."
Goosebumps marched across her nape. Did he suspect what she'd done at Scallywags? She'd poured a lot of her emotions about that night into her heroine, but--
Gary drew her to the couch. He held her hand and gazed into her eyes. Her heart plunged to her feet. "Jessie. I'm in a bind. I'm supposed to fly to Panama for seven days on the 11th. But there is no way I can go. Would you like to take my place?"
"Pa--Panama?" she stammered, relieved and frustrated at the same time. "Weren't you just there?"
He frowned. "Yes. I invested in some property and I'm supposed to finalize the details, but my agent can act for me. It's all expenses paid. Great boutique hotel on the best beach in Panama. You'll love it. You can still write. Nothing much else to do there, actually. If I have to cancel, I'll lose the money."
~~~
Jessie felt badly that she'd misjudged her agent. The man had worked miracles. To top it off, he'd offered her a vacation in Panama--all expenses paid. "A chance to get away from it all, and finish the second book."
At first she'd hesitated, thinking he meant for the two of them to go together, until he'd explained he couldn't go and everything was lined up. She appreciated Gary as an agent, and even as a friend, but sexually--no way.
She pulled out her new journal, smiling as she remembered her first attempts at journaling. Now she couldn't imagine not having a journal. The secret was to avoid the temptation of including only events. Recording feelings and emotions was more satisfying. Maybe her journals would provide good material for later books.
"Panama," she wrote with a brand new Mont Blanc pen she'd treated herself to from All the Best, a wonderful little shop on Broad Street. "What does it hold in store? Will I meet Mr. Perfect Dom? Someone successful, ambitious, brilliant, educated, powerful but sensitive, athletic, faithful, honest, generous, tall, lots of thick wavy hair, washboard abs. A man who doesn't snore."
She snorted. What a dreamer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gary had arranged for Jessie to be picked up at Tocumen Airport in Panama City and chauffeur driven to Las Piedras. She'd always dreamed of being greeted at an airport by someone holding a sign bearing her name. Her driver soon had them speeding through downtown in his comfortable six passenger van. She closed her eyes several times, steeling her body for impact as Alberto manoeuvred the vehicle in and out of chaotic traffic, all travelling at breakneck speed. It was a wonder her
foot hadn't punched a hole through the floorboards.
The modern architecture of the city was a surprise. "It's so futuristic," she remarked to Alberto.
He spoke excellent English and his running commentary made the journey interesting. "Sí," he replied proudly. "Very modern city. Lots of skyscrapers."
As they drove over the Bridge of the Americas she looked down at the Panama Canal and the hundreds of ships anchored close to the end of the historic waterway.
The journey took them past mile after mile of sugar cane plantations, rice fields, teak and palm forests, and fields full of grazing cattle. The earth was a rich red color she'd never seen before. Horses seemed to be the preferred method of transportation in some of the smaller communities. Young and old alike rode as if they'd been born on a horse. True gauchos, right down to their cowboy hats.
"It's a lush country," she said. "Very beautiful."
Alberto beamed.
After a late afternoon lunch at McDonald's in Penonome, they continued their journey. She was disappointed darkness was falling by the time they arrived at the Las Piedras Beach Resort. She was exhausted after the long flight from Canada and the five hour journey from Panama City.
After checking in with a personable young Panamanian named Juan, who spoke excellent English, she unpacked quickly, showered, then collapsed into the comfortable king size bed.
~~~
Jessie hadn't worn a watch for a number of years, so had no idea what time it was when she awoke. She'd slept like a log. She lounged in bed, taking in the details of the room she'd been too tired to notice the evening before, pleased to see it was immaculately clean and bug-free.
She eventually got up and showered. Juan had explained it sometimes took a while for the water to warm up, but it was still only tepid by the time she stepped out of the shower.
Though the room was air conditioned, she felt sticky. She squeezed into the stretchy black bathing suit she'd chosen because it was flattering. The bust part was fashioned from an eye-catching leopard skin print and could be made strapless if she tied the neck ties in a bow at her breast. The goal was a tan without white strap marks.
She poked her head out the door. To get to the beach she'd have to walk down the outdoor hallway where all the rooms were situated, then cut through the open air restaurant--not an option in her bathing suit.
She picked out a bright yellow T-shirt and khaki shorts, slipped on a pair of flip flops, then made her way to the beach.
It was as though she'd stepped into a picture postcard. Sun, waves, sand, heat, palm trees, thatched beach shelters: it was all perfect. And the place was almost deserted.
Gary was right. What an ideal haven to concentrate on her novel. After staring out to sea for about ten minutes, relishing the warm breeze on her face, she wandered into the open air restaurant.
A waitress came to her table with a menu. "Hola."
Jessie had studied Spanish in university, but that was thirty years ago. "Hola," she replied. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes. My name is Elena."
Jessie was relieved. "Can I still order breakfast?"
"Yes," Elena replied. "Until eleven o'clock."
"What time is it now?"
"Ten."
An hour to spare. She couldn't recall the last time she'd slept so well, until she remembered the morning after her adventure at Scallywags. Suddenly, the temperature and the humidity seemed to soar. She scanned the menu, seeing the English words, but not really reading. She supposed Elena had deduced from her short, blonde hair and pale complexion she wasn't Spanish. "Great! I was afraid I was too late. I'll have bacon and eggs and hash browns, and coffee, por favor."
~~~
Later, lying in a hammock, reading on her kindle, she lost track of time. She'd loaded the device with romance novels before leaving home. Gary had warned her that the closest bookstore was an hour away, and might not have books in English. Even if she ran out of ebooks, the hotel bar had free wireless internet and she could download from Amazon to her notebook.
As a little treat to herself, she occasionally read a bit of His Willing Slave, savouring the thrill of seeing her pen name on the cover page. She even had the blue-eyed hunk from the cover as desktop wallpaper on her notebook computer--just to get the day off to a good start, and the creative juices flowing. Yes, it had been a great idea to come to this remote beach--she was starting to unwind. She hummed the theme from Titanic.
What a wonderful thing a hammock was. Whoever invented it must have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Why did North Americans not make use of this simple device? It was heaven to sink into the folds of the hammock slung between two palm trees and escape into romance for hours at a time. Occasionally, she closed her eyes, listening to the warm wind rustling the palm branches high above.
Suddenly, her whole body went rigid as a snarling black creature flew at her from nowhere and became tangled in the strings of the hammock at her feet. Goosebumps shivered across her skin. A fleeting image of Disney's Tasmanian Devil flashed through her mind as she held her breath, adrenaline pumping. Three inch long flying black things that buzzed angrily weren't something she wanted to be anywhere near.
The flight instinct took hold and she struggled to get out of the deep hammock, eyes riveted on the angry thing from hell. The hammock tipped and she fell to the grass, screaming loudly, the kindle grasped tightly in her hand. Breathless and shaking, down on all fours, she watched the winged monster take flight and disappear as quickly as it had come.
~~~
Relaxing at the bar after a very satisfying run to the end of the beach and back, and a great dip in the ocean attempting to master a boogie board, Michael was explaining to Julio that his brother had failed to arrive the day before. He held his thumb to his ear and his pinky to his mouth. "Calls me at the last minute, to tell me he's not coming."
Julio's mouth turned down at the corners as he shook a cocktail for another guest. "Too bad. I like señor Gary. Good guy."
Michael thought about complaining that now he'd have to negotiate the investment himself, but that seemed too complicated and too much detail to pass on to a foreigner he didn't know. He chugged down the last of an Atlas beer.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention when a loud scream echoed from the palm trees beyond the pool. He coughed, sending the beer he'd been about to swallow into his nasal passages. He glanced at Julio, frozen in mid-shake, then quickly got off the barstool and hurried in the direction of the noise. Someone was in trouble. Maybe they'd been bitten by a snake, or scorpion.
When he reached the trees, Julio close behind, the first thing he saw was an enticing female bottom in a black bathing suit. The woman was struggling to rise from the ground under a hammock. He had a sudden sense of déjà vu, but it came and went quickly. Had she fallen and hurt herself? Had someone attacked her? She was clutching what looked like an ereader, her sunhat askew.
He hurried over and took hold of her arm, helping her to her feet. He apparently pulled too hard. She sprang up against him with an oof, throwing her arms around his neck. Full, warm breasts pressed against his chest. For a fleeting, euphoric moment he thought she was topless. His cock responded.
She smelled of suntan lotion. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress the urge to pull her body to his. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her. His eyes fell to her big breasts. Fuck! The strapless bathing suit had slipped down, exposing the very top of pale areolas.
Flustered, she pushed away from him, yanking up the bathing suit. "I'm so sorry." Then she looked at his face. She frowned. "It's--it's you!"
Michael couldn't believe the woman he held was the same twit who'd ruined the dogs' chances in the show. He abruptly removed his hands from her shoulders and held them up in the air. "Sorry--I heard screams--I thought someone was in trouble. I didn't know it was you. What the hell are you doing here?"
She scowled at him, breathing heavily. Her face had reddened considerably--had she gotten
too much sun, or was she embarrassed, angry?
"Are you hurt? What happened?"
"I was relaxing--in the hammock--I love hammocks--I must buy one for when--" She took a deep breath. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
Michael ran his hand through his hair, struggling not to focus on her breasts. What was her name? Back home she'd worn a shapeless cardigan, not a strapless swimsuit clinging tenuously to huge breasts and a very fuckable ass. He forced his eyes back to her face. "Are you okay now?"
The woman clutched the ereader to her chest, as if she'd just realized her state of near undress. "It was silly. Just an insect--huge, black, angry."
Michael shrugged, dismayed that her attempt to cover her breasts had compounded the reaction in his groin that his beach shorts did little to conceal. Whose face was redder now? "Yeah, that's one thing you have to get used to in Central America--there are insects, some pretty big."
They stood in awkward silence for a few seconds then both spoke at once. "I see you have an ereader--"
"Thanks for--"
"Sorry," Michael said. "Can I buy you a drink? Would you like a beer? To help you over your fright?"
She hesitated, then frowned. She put the ereader into the hammock, then pulled the bow at her breast loose. Michael's mouth fell open. He licked his lips. She reached up and tied the loosened ties behind her neck. Disappointment flooded him.
She pulled a yellow T-shirt over her head. "I don't think so. I don't drink beer, and I don't spend time with jerks."
He supposed he deserved that, remembering, as he watched her flounce off to her room, that he had indeed behaved like a jerk at their first meeting. Too bad. Her slight accent was intriguing--Canadian, but just a hint of something else, English, or Australian, or South African, maybe. It twanged a distant chord of memory. Who else did he know with a similar accent?
She had a great figure, though she was older and a bit heavier than the women he'd been pursuing lately--short hair too. Despite that, she'd produced a pleasant surge in his cock. He hadn't felt such a rush since--