The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1)

by Barry Knister

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “You don’t remember.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The airport cocktail lounge. You kept passing outside.”

  “That’s what people do,” he said defensively. “I was just killing time.”

  Good, he was no Lightning Rod fan. “I see,” she said and smiled. “I’m sorry, my mistake. Are you going to Guam?”

  “Majuro.”

  “Actually, I’m going there, too. Is that it? Your destination?”

  “No.” He looked around, half smiling as though hoping someone would help him escape. The man’s body language was wrong. Maybe it was the suit. It was a trendy, double-breasted model, all wrong for the tropics.

  “I’m going to Pohnpei,” he said at last.

  “Really? That’s very interesting. I’m Brenda Contay.” She offered her hand.

  “Bob Ehrlich.” Reluctantly he shook it. “Listen, I don’t—”

  “What’s taking you there?” Now she was anxious to speak with someone who knew the island. “Business or pleasure?”

  “I’m a manufacturer’s rep. Evinrude Marine and Whaler Boats. We’re opening franchises in the islands, there’s a growing market.”

  “Pohnpei’s where I’m going,” she told him.

  “Well, that’s good. Listen, you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got some paperwork.” He got his attaché case and stood. “It’s been nice meeting you.”

  He moved off to the end of the row of seats and sat facing the window. When she looked over a few minutes later, he had not opened his case.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  The second long nighttime hop went first to Guam. Again Brenda changed planes. An hour later, the flight left for Majuro in the Marshall Islands.

  She’d been flying ahead of daylight, but slowly the sun was catching up. Where clouds hadn’t formed, light cracked open over the ocean. The plane’s wing shimmered; the cabin’s tunnel darkness dissolved. Feeling dazed, she ate breakfast, drank coffee and reread what Ned had photocopied for her about the islands.

  They’d been colonized first by the Spanish in the early nineteenth century. The Micronesians could thank the Spanish for lots of diseases, and for Christianity. When they found little to steal, only the Catholic Church remained. This had bothered the Protestants, whose own missionaries followed. Next had come Germans, anxious to get in on the last of the colonial land-grabbing at the end of the nineteenth century. But it had taken the Japanese to actually develop the islands. Then the Americans. From the end of the Second World War to the 80s, they had administered the islands for the U.N. as a Trust Territory. Independent at last, most of the island peoples were now struggling to run themselves.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  When the plane landed in Majuro, she stepped out to stretch her legs. The heat felt dangerous, but by the time she re-boarded, Brenda could feel the trade winds.

  She stood a few seconds at the top of the stairs. Off the runway, signs for beer and gasoline gave her a strange feeling of confusion. There it was, the Pacific, on her left and right. Aside from the air-controller’s tower and some coconut palms, nothing was higher than ten or twelve feet above the ocean.

  New passengers boarded. Still in his seat, the uptight manufacturer’s rep turned to the window as she passed up the aisle. Halfway through the cabin, she saw another man slip a briefcase under the seat, Peace Corps stenciled on the lid. Its owner had a beard, and was dressed in a loose white shirt and khaki shorts.

  “May I?”

  He looked up and nodded. Brenda took the seat next to him and fastened the seatbelt. “Is it this hot on Pohnpei?” she asked.

  “It’s better there,” he said. “Cooler. Lots of rivers and mountains. I’m Jim Cason.”

  “Brenda Contay.” They shook hands.

  “You have to be into meditation or anthropology to live on atolls like Majoro,” he said. “You’re out here on business?”

  “Vacation.”

  “Ordinary tourists don’t usually make it this far.”

  “It’s the impulse shopper’s version of travel,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “If you aren’t looking for casinos and fine dining, you’ll love it,” Cason said. His eyebrows looked bleached, his beard the color of chestnuts.

  “You’re with Peace Corps?”

  “A lawyer. I help islanders starting new businesses. Mostly I draw up land contracts.”

  “Have you been to Pirim?” she asked.

  “That’s an outer island, isn’t it? Atolls don’t have much in the way of business possibilities. They’re too isolated.”

  “You said something about meditation.”

  “On atolls,” Cason said. “Once you’re there, you better like it. I’d go nuts on one.”

  “Does the name Vincent Soublik mean anything to you?”

  Cason looked at her with recognition.

  “I know the family,” she said. “That’s how I learned about Micronesia.”

  “I see.” Cason looked a moment longer, then shrugged. “Out here, something like that travels fast,” he said. “I never met Soublik. Remote assignments involve risks you can’t avoid. I don’t think there’s a story in it.”

  He’s made you already, Brenda thought. “By risks, you mean a medical emergency.”

  Cason shrugged. “Appendicitis, a head injury. If you’re somewhere they can’t fly to, you’re in serious trouble.”

  “Why couldn’t they fly to him?”

  “From what I heard, he died fast. Maybe the plane wasn’t available. There’s just one on Pohnpei. This isn’t the military. If you write something, please remember Peace Corps has lost very few people.”

  She told him about the mix-up concerning Soublik’s body. “That’s bad, I admit,” Cason said. “That’s sloppy. All I know is, an anthropologist or agriculture guy was on the island. He’s the one who radioed Pohnpei.”

  “Is he still on Pirim?”

  “Could be. Ask Lars Nohr. He’s Peace Corps director for the district.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Three hours later, mountains materialized in her window, gray-green through clouds. Cason pointed out mangrove swamps as the reason there were no beaches. How beautiful was it actually? Brenda gazed down, wanting it to be. Wanting to be taken out of herself.

  The Pohnpei airstrip had been made by dredging coral from the lagoon. It spanned most of the harbor, and as they deplaned she smelled a strong salt-fish odor. Stepping into the oven-hot customs shed, she showed the official her passport and health card. He waved her bag through. Very laid back, she thought. It could be full of heroin or diamonds.

  Outside, Cason hailed a taxi, a Nissan pickup. He spoke haltingly in the language as the driver loaded the bags. They got in and jolted down the causeway to the island.

  The road followed the shoreline. On her left, warehouses and storage oil tanks had been built into the slope. The pickup followed the coral road’s curve up toward the Kasalehlia Inn, the place her travel agent had booked. Brenda could smell gardenias and a salty-fish scent.

  “‘Kasalehlia’ is the one word you have to know here,” Cason told her. “It means hello, goodbye, your mamma and half a dozen other things.”

  At the hotel she thanked him, got her bag and went in. The inn was small, not bigger than twenty rooms. The woman manager greeted her, took her bag, and led the way up to a whitewashed cinderblock room on the second floor. The window faced the lagoon.

  As the door closed behind her, Brenda crossed and looked out. Three small ships lay at anchor on the far side of the jet strip. A mile or so beyond the ships, a crawling white line was slowly working its way along the island’s barrier reef.

  She raised the window and listened. There it was, she could hear the hiss and rumble of surf a mile off. Exhausted, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Dinner chimes woke her at six. Standing and stretching, she saw the
day had softened. It was five in the morning back in Michigan. Brenda reset her watch, showered, and changed into a long paisley skirt and linen blouse.

  The dining room faced the harbor, placid and blue beyond an open terrace. Six Japanese business types occupied a center table. Brenda ordered grilled tuna with mango chutney and handed the menu back to the manager. Mrs. Yamata was very large and all business in a fuchsia muumuu.

  “Your first trip?” she asked. “Make sure to see the ruins of Nan Madol. Built hundreds of years ago, artificial islands they made from rock. If you skin dive, boats take you. Many rivers, too.”

  There were feasts called kama dips, a handicraft shop up the hill, and dugout canoe trips that took visitors through the mangrove swamps. She signed for the meal, finished her iced tea, then stepped outside and started up the road to the town.

  It occupied a coral strip above the hotel. Off this ran narrow lanes that disappeared into trees. Tin-roofed stores selling canned goods and cigarettes alternated with open-air bars. There were big, ugly Quonsets she assumed must be holdovers from World War Two.

  The place made her think of a Hollywood frontier town. Outside the hump-backed movie house were sun-faded posters for Robo Cop and Roger Rabbit. TVs winked under the eaves of bars and fish shops. Japanese and American shows babbled all at once. It appealed to her.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Returning to her hotel, Brenda drank a beer in the lounge.

  Turning on her stool, she looked out at the dark harbor as a Dynasty rerun played on the bar’s TV. Old movies, satellite television, and two flights a week. Otherwise, the island was truly cut off. An atoll would be even more isolated. That’s what Vince must have wanted, Brenda thought. No marimba bands or T-shirt shops, no hawkers at the airport.

  Behind the bar, Mrs. Yamata raised an old-fashioned rotary phone and set it on the counter. “For you,” she said. “From the States.”

  It would be Ned, checking up on her. Brenda raised the receiver.

  “Babycakes, how’s the kid?”

  “Hi, Lou.”

  “Jerry’s peeing in his pants,” the news anchor said. “He says you ran out on him big time. What’s the matter, your nerves shot?”

  Every year or so, Lou Stock left town in the same way she had, without warning. Except Stock left for alcohol detox in Palm Springs.

  “What can I tell you?” she said. “I’m shaky as hell, Lou. But listen to me, Ned Chambers didn’t know a thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah, he told me,” Stock said. “I hate Rio myself. No kind of place to fix your head. I’ll cover for you, but don’t forget ratings week. Get some rest, honey. Do some surfing.”

  “Good idea.”

  “A week or two, you’ll be ready to saddle up.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “A few days, pitcher of daiquiris. Did I ever tell you about ’Nam? Don’t touch the water out there, honey, they have crud you wouldn’t believe. Listen—”

  Wherever he was, Lou Stock was now leaning forward from habit, all hard blue eyes and brick-red from the tanning salon, glowering into an imaginary camera. “Fucking Depends diapers,” he said. “The truth. Shitting my goddamn guts out during a live transmission from Danang. But we got the work out.”

  “Thanks for sharing, Lou,” she said.

  “Just for you, honey,” Stock said, oblivious to sarcasm. “I don’t tell everybody that one. You call poppa if you need anything, deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Eight, ten days. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning, right?”

  “Right, Lou, thanks.”

  Stock said goodbye and she finished her beer. Thinking of him in his thousand-dollar blazer made her remember the overdressed sales rep. Before going to her room, Brenda went to the desk and checked the register. Other than herself, only the Japanese businessmen had signed in.

  She went up and undressed, opened the window, and stretched out in the dark. Maybe he was in a bar, drinking with Whaler or Evinrude customers. Listening to the reef, she smiled. No one seemed less likely to get down and boogie than Robert Ehrlich.

  “There’s Natik, Pakin, Mokil, Pirim, Pingelap, plus two Polynesian atolls farther south. A smaller volcanic island is the southernmost in the district. That’s Kusaie.”

  After breakfast, Brenda had called the Peace Corps office and asked to speak with the district director. Soon, she found herself sitting in front of Lars Nohr. His office occupied one of two rooms at either end of an open-air, thatched-roof building. The walls were covered with maps and blowups of Peace Corps projects. Stapled among them was a travel poster of Stockholm. It looked cool and European next to enlargements of jungle schools and suspension bridges. Nohr was Swedish.

  “How often do ships run to the outer islands?”

  “There’s the Kasalehlia and the Tungaroo,” he said. “The district ships. The Tungaroo’s been out of service for years. They just use it for parts. The Kasalehlia’s been waiting for a piston now for several weeks. She usually makes the outer island circuit every month. It’s hard to say what ‘usually’ means, though. She hasn’t been on schedule since I’ve been here.”

  “You mean that’s it?”

  “She was supposed to leave last Thursday, but the new piston didn’t come in.”

  How stupid of you, Brenda thought. What did you expect, cigarette boats? Freeways?

  “It’s easy to forget the days of the week out here,” Nohr said. “I would guess she’ll sail sometime in the next twenty-one days. The circuit usually takes two weeks.”

  “I saw three ships,” she said.

  “That’s the Nauro Maru, a Japanese fishing trawler. It stops now and then for fresh water and fruit. Only the captain’s allowed on shore because of health regulations.”

  Disappointed, she saw Lars Nohr was not. You’re in television, he was probably thinking. You heard about Vince and smelled a story.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s it,” he said. “Out here, patience isn’t a virtue, it’s an absolute necessity. No patience, you lose it fast. I have to send someone home about once a month because they can’t adapt to Micronesian Time.”

  “Could that explain what happened to Vince?”

  Nohr was obviously choosing his words with care. “We only know his radio contact was infrequent. But if people adjust on an outer island, they tend to go native a bit. They don’t exactly lose interest in the outside, but they need it less. That’s why we weren’t worried about him. He was a good Volunteer, he did his job out there. He was well liked, fluent in the language. That’s the litmus test on an outer island, it’s total immersion. If you don’t get better at the language, there may be something wrong. Vince was fluent in six months.”

  “What about planes?”

  “There’s just one, a float plane for emergencies. We’d have sent it if he radioed in sick.”

  “What about this anthropologist? Is he still on Pirim?”

  “Entomologist,” Nohr corrected. “Calvin Moser. Yes, he’s still there. We flew out and interviewed him after he radioed the news. He didn’t tell us the body was lost until we got there. That’s the reason for the mix-up about Vince’s remains. Please tell the family we regret the error.”

  “You trust him?”

  “We talked to the island’s leadership. Everyone supported what he said. Moser and Vince were friends. Yes, I trust him.”

  For several seconds, they looked at each other. Brenda decided Nohr was either telling the truth, or a very good liar. “A trained health worker does everything right for over a year,” she said. “An athlete, an All-State swimmer. Then he drowns. End of story.”

  “Look.” Nohr folded sinewy, dark arms on his desk. “There are plenty of stories out here, but what happened to Vince Soublik isn’t one of them. We asked a lot of questions, it’s a matter of self-interest. We can’t lose anyone else that way. The Pirimese told us he was fine. They even gave him a title of some kind. Moser said Vince complained of headaches, but it happens a lot out here if
you have sinus problems. He was trained as a health worker. We have to assume he’d radio if he came down with something.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Frustrated, Brenda left Nohr’s office and stood in the road shading her eyes. No plane or boat. She thought about buying gifts, but changed her mind. Buying gifts meant she had lost, given up.

  She walked up a narrow path splashed with sun. Left and right, makeshift houses huddled in shade; from the doorless entries came voices and radio patter. Deep potholes held water, and women were washing clothes on a cement slab. By the time she reached the main street, Brenda’s cotton blouse had soaked through. As she passed the movie house, her attention was drawn to a grouping of bleached one-story buildings with an enclosed courtyard.

  She walked to the latticed gate and looked in. A hospital. Patients sat on shade porches in front of the rooms. Coughing came from louvered windows. The women patients were bare-breasted, some nursing babies, the men in boxer shorts. Those looking out returned her stare with the universal boredom of the sick and confined. A riot of planted flowers bloomed in the sunny courtyard.

  Behind them, a white-uniformed nurse was leaning over, talking to a seated woman. The patient was young, her straight black hair lank about her naked shoulders. She said nothing and stared ahead blankly. Covering her left breast was a bandage.

  All at once she stood and pointed. Embarrassed, Brenda stepped away from the fence. Yelling something in her language, still pointing, the woman started across the open courtyard.

  “Okay, listen, I’m sorry, my mistake—”

  In bare feet she kept coming, yelling. The nurse followed, trying to talk to her. When the patient reached the latticework, she shoved the nurse away and spat through the fence. She tore off the bandage, revealing the zipper scar of a mastectomy.

  “She sick,” the nurse said, picking up the stained bandage. “You go.”

  Shaken, wiping spittle from her blouse, Brenda turned away and headed for the hotel. Welcome to Paradise, she thought.