“You haven’t suffered from the deprivations.” It was flattery but not fabrication. He looked good and must have known it. Surely, he preferred his rugged good looks to Jane’s milk-toast perfection.
“Is this where I say, ‘Flattery will get you anything’?”
“I’ll settle for conversation.”
“Through which you expect insights into the disappearance of John Leider?”
“And now, admittedly, maybe, even into the murder of Gordon?”
“Curiosity killed the cat?” he ventured. “To which you respond, ‘Satisfaction brought him back’?”
“I’m not all that convinced of reincarnation.”
He got up, got the bottle and brought it back. He filled his glass and offered Carolyne the same. “I’m not very talkative when I drink alone,” he coaxed when she hesitated.
She estimated the present alcohol content of her blood and weighed the benefits of playing detective against the horrors of a hangover at her age.
“So, what did Kyle tell you about our courtships of Jane Fernelli, so I won’t cover the same ground?”
“You’re mistaken if you imagine he was indiscreet,” she said. He’d filled her glass; then, again, no one said she had to drink it. “You were mentioned only briefly, in the same sentence as Jenner Tyrol and Timms Mason.”
“Simms,” Roy corrected. “Simms Mason.”
“Yes,” Carolyne conceded. “My memory isn’t as good as it once was. Not improved by.…” She lifted her liquor.
He looked dubious but had nothing better to do. “Simms was a buyer of gemstones for Sterns. Now, he’s in some jail in Sao Paulo, having bought at lower prices than he reported.”
Carolyne filed that away and waited for more.
“Jenner was the youngster amongst us. A wife, like Jane, would have eaten him for breakfast, but he thought he had a chance with her. Maybe he did. His grandfather had lost a bundle in rubber, but there was an uncle, Lord Somebody, in England, who was luckier in finances, if not in love, whose wife died in childbirth. Jenner was scheduled to inherit and did—just last year. At the time, though, Jane and her father.… I presume Kyle mentioned Arthur?”
Carolyne nodded. She matched him swallow for swallow but let most of her liquor stay in her glass.
“The Fernelli reasoning, as I suspect, went, ‘Why wait for Jenner to inherit, when we can work things out, here and now, by going with one of our other alternatives?’”
“You, Kyle, Simms, John Leider, or Gordon?”
His smile appreciated her return to a familiar theme. “Gordon wasn’t in the running. Not then. Not ever.”
“Because he was Lutheran?” Carolyne finished with that good possibility.
Roy nibbled: “Because he was poor. Church-mouse poor.” There was no harm in fully following the bait: “I daresay the Fernellis might have overlooked his religion had there been any need to do so; the god of all capitalists is Mammon.”
Carolyne didn’t believe that camel through the eye of the needle generalization.
Roy, though, knew what he knew. “There was no money to be made by any Lutheran missionary, and what Gordon made as a guide was diddly-squat as far as what Arthur and Jane had their hearts set on. Arthur blew more cash in one night of ‘friendly’ poker than Gordon could expect to see in his lifetime.”
“The Geornis were wealthy and Catholic.”
“John Leider was wealthier, just as Catholic, and from a more socially acceptable background. The Leiders were in Manaus when the Fernellis were still looking for a tramp steamer out of Italy.”
“And you?” Carolyne braved another swallow of Scotch. She always forgot how good it tasted. Its smokiness contrasted nicely with the equally enjoyable sweetness of the Curacao gone before it.
“Protestant, not nearly as wealthy as Kyle Georni, and from a family of U.S. mine owners who would have passed social muster far better before a few key coal veins petered out. In short, I didn’t have a chance, knew I didn’t but couldn’t resist playing with the big boys.”
“I got the impression that Kyle figures himself a winner in having lost.”
“One, he’s alive. Two, the odds are good you’ll see him at supper. Neither can be said about John. Looking at things that way, I, too, consider myself a winner in having been a loser.”
“Kyle never even mentioned Gordon having ever made a pass at Jane.”
“Possibly he didn’t know. I didn’t until John appeared on my doorstep one evening and insisted I tell ‘my friend’ that Mrs. Leider was disturbed by his ‘unwanted attentions’. I never did learn, in any detail, to what unwanted attentions John inferred. Gordon wasn’t any more forthcoming.”
“You and Gordon were good friends, then?” They hadn’t seemed all that buddy-buddy the short while Carolyne had seen them together at the camp.
“‘My friend’ should be in quotation marks, although John assumed more than Gordon’s interest in geology kept him hanging around me; when in fact, Gordon just saw more money in prospecting than in being a guide, just as he’d seen more money in being a guide than in being a missionary.”
“You always give pointers to your potential competition?”
Old dame didn’t miss an opening, but Roy had been mellowed by the Scotch—a few lead-in drinks already under his belt even before Carolyne had arrived. “I’ve always been generous with anyone who wants to give prospecting a try. I remember how it was when I first got here, and John Leider acted as if I came expressly to steal all the area’s goodies meant for him—Jane Fernelli, later, included among them. He made so many people angry with his attitude that singling out his wife as his potential killer, even now, is probably not seeing the forest for the trees.”
Carolyne tried her some people naturally fill a silence method of interrogation; this time it worked.
“John’s likability wasn’t increased by his uncanny ability to search out and find the biggest and the best mineral caches,” Roy said. “Those who dig for years, and get nothing but dirty, experience attacks of the green-eyed monster when someone goes down every time and comes up a winner. Even I, with enough formal background in geology to know John’s finds were based on solid scientific foundation and hard work, felt short-changed on occasion, and I’ve made a better living than ninety-nine percent of those, like Gordon, who think a modicum of science and a landslide of luck are all that are needed.”
He paused for breath and punctuated with Scotch. Did Carolyne see any of this as anything but prerequisite red herring? “Did Jane or Kyle mention Prince Mahoud Najheez?” he asked, and didn’t Carolyne’s eyes light up at that bit of exoticism?
“No.”
“Of The Roundili Emirate?”
“No.”
“With its bottomless bank vaults of petrodollars and its ruler’s passion for emeralds?”
“No, Roy.” She didn’t want her information spoon-fed; she wanted it smorgasbord.
“He wants emeralds. He wants big ones. He’s so prepared to get anything really good that the potential for profit sent John back into the field this last time.”
“Apparently, John had at least five emeralds on him when he disappeared, over and above the one Melanie found. Anyway, so says Jane.”
“If that’s what Jane says, cross her off your list of suspects in the killing of her husband, unless she killed Gordon, too. She’s way too greedy to have killed John and not gotten the emeralds. If she got them, by killing John and/or Gordon, she’d have sold them, no one the wiser.” He could see the wheels spinning in the old babe’s henna-rinsed head.
“She wouldn’t have killed either herself.” To Carolyne, Jane pushing through the jungle was ludicrous. “She would have hired someone.”
Was Carolyne serious, or did she expect Roy to play Devil’s Advocate? He said, “Why admit to you that she doesn’t have the gemstones if that puts you into someday asking, ‘How could you sell something to Prince Najheez that supposedly disappeared with your husband?’”
&nbs
p; Carolyne wasn’t likely to be privy to any sale of emeralds to Prince Najheez, by Jane or by anyone else. Nonetheless, the world had, more than once, proved itself proverbially “small”, so why would Jane needlessly make such an obvious faux pas?
“While you think about that, ask if a geologist’s wife wouldn’t know better than to hit Gordon over the head with that particular rock.”
Carolyne was ahead of him. “She couldn’t know you’d be there to enlighten us. Therefore, she couldn’t have anticipated and said to someone she hired, ‘Be sure not to hit Gordon with a stone from the river, because that would look suspicious.’”
“I like things as clear-cut as this attempted murder of Richard Callahan by this ex-girlfriend of his.”
“See that as clean-cut, do you?”
“You don’t?” Did he have to ask?
Did Carolyne want to get into this? Should she presume the more input the better? Or, did a plethora of facts and opinions do anything but further muddy murky water? “The woman at one time left Richard Callahan to be Gordon Wentlock’s lover,” Carolyne said. “After Gordon dumped her, she headed back to Richard who no longer wanted anything to do with her. If Richard had Gordon killed and wanted to make it look as if Susan tried to take them both out, same trip through, he could have drained his own brake fluid; hell hath no fury…and all of that.”
“Mercy me! The complicated web we weave!” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his black hair. “So, why would she oblige Richard by showing up here?”
“I never said I had answers.” She finished her Scotch and was afraid he’d refill it; as interesting as farther conversation might be, she knew her limits and came to her feet. “Thanks for the talk and the drinks.”
He was getting a headache, and he needed a shower and a nap; so, what was she up to now in her going to a segment of curtain and giving it two hearty tugs? She turned back to Roy, who looked as if she were crazy, and said, “It wasn’t hanging properly.”
“Oh?” He sounded doubtful.
“A woman is better at telling. It’s fine now.” She was damned near babbling.
He gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Thanks.”
“I’m off.” Staying longer would accomplish nothing; her thought process was booze-induced deteriorating.
Her steps were uncertain. She had trouble finding the French doors; there seemed no access through the curtains she’d just realigned.
Gallantly, Roy helped and was no help at all. “Where in the hell is it?” He meant the means to her exit.
When “it” appeared right where it should be, right where Carolyne and Roy imagined they’d each looked for it at least ten times, it was a big surprise.
“I was beginning to think you’d yanked those curtains one too many times.” He’d not lost his sense of humor when he’d found his headache. He held the breached curtain to one side while Carolyne stepped through into blinding brightness and a breeze suddenly sucked dry of all coolness and moisture.
“I’m definitely drunk.” She thought she made that admission exclusively to herself.
Nonetheless, Roy responded through the now-dropped curtain, “Welcome to the club!”
With difficulty, Carolyne divined the shortest route back to her room and took it. Her fingertips dragged along windows and walls for balance.
Suddenly, a woman with very red eyes stared at her from less than an inch away. The woman was she, at the sink, three aspirins death-gripped in her right hand, and she had no idea of how she’d got there. The bathroom was filled with steam from water about to overflow the tub.
In the minute it took to decide whether she should stop the water, or take the pills, there was a waterfall of soap bubbles onto the floor.
When god-only-knew-how, she managed to turn off the water, she, then, tried to recall whatever the law of physics that promised: Enter the tub, and there will be even more water and soap cascaded onto the floor. Until she figured it out, she returned to the sink and swallowed the aspirins.
The next mystery: Why was the water level lower in the tub when she returned to it? And what was that obscene sucking sound?
“Overflow hole!” She wasn’t as far gone as she’d thought and watched the small opening, once completely covered, in not having been designed for the deluge she’d fed it, now manage to function better with the water turned off. Carolyne’s only complaint: “You really must learn to drink without slurping.”
She adjusted the temperature with a combination of concentration and fumbling dexterity that raised the plug and added cold water from the tap.
Finally, she was in. And wasn’t it heavenly? No doubt about it: her efforts had been worth it.
“Now, just don’t fall asleep, Carolyne,” she instructed, her eyes shut. “If you do, you’ll probably drown. And wouldn’t everyone have a field day trying to figure out the way and how of that?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The bath relaxed her. Her nap, on her bed, afterwards, surprised her it not leaving her with a headache or any other expected attributes of a hangover. It was like her younger days when she could drink everyone under the table and still get up at the crack of dawn to hunt plants in steamy jungles, on misty mountaintops, at foggy seashores, or on arid plains. However, another bout of drinking, any time soon, would tempt fate, and was, thus, to be avoided at all cost.
For once, she was satisfied with what she saw in the mirror. She wouldn’t look much better unless someone chanced upon the Fountain of Youth and gave her a swallow.
She twisted a henna-dyed lock of hair but gave up when it refused realignment.
Although the younger, Roy looked far the worst for wear when they met at the top of the stairs. His squint produced wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and indicated a headache not yet controlled by the handful of aspirin he’d fed it. He’d nearly decided to forget the evening meal and, now, wished he had. Carolyne’s bubbly, liquor-unaffected “Hello!” mocked his misery.
The outburst of racket downstairs was so sufficiently muffled by the poor acoustics of the curved stairwell that neither Roy nor Carolyne got the full blast of it until they were around the bend and had a clear view of a bloodied Charles on the parquet floor, Melanie kneeling beside him; her handkerchief dabbed his split lip. Felix struggled noisily to be free of Teddy who held him in a hammerlock.
When Felix spotted Carolyne, his expression was downright nasty. “You dirty-minded, foul-mouthed bitch!” No doubt to whom that was directed, and it nailed her to the spot. No way would she get nearer to someone so obviously out to get her. “Spread any more malicious lies about Margaret and me to the cops, or to anyone else, and I’ll have your black heart for dinner!”
He wrenched forcefully, combined it with a torque of his torso, and ripped free of Teddy’s grasp.
Carolyne was ready to backtrack. Long ago, she’d learned to calculate odds and retreat, no matter how ungracefully, if they were stacked against her.
Felix, though, headed for the door. His last-minute about-face focused his—I’ll hate you forever—glare directly on her. “I’ve warned you; pay heed!”
Then, he was gone, the screen door slammed behind him.
“Someone has been drinking!” Teddy still smelled Felix’s rancid breath.
Carolyne thought he meant her; Roy thought he meant him. Carolyne realized her mistake first. “Rodrigo said Felix started drinking in town this morning.”
“And kept right on, by the looks of it,” Teddy judged. “Whatever was that all about, anyway?”
Outside, a Jeep engine revved.
“I hope this doesn’t mean another auto accident on the Tlesselan Grade.” Roy’s head was better in the aftermath.
“He definitely shouldn’t be driving.” Carolyne thought her concern magnanimous, under the circumstances.
Tires burned rubber and splattered gravel; Felix had an inflated opinion of his driving capabilities.
No one risked getting run over in any kind of attempt to stop him as Jeep
sounds retreated into the distance.
Teddy helped a groaning Charles to his feet.
Charles held Melanie’s handkerchief to his sore lip. “The man is stark-raving mad!”
“Does anyone have a clue?” Teddy had been thoroughly engrossed in attempts to break up the fisticuffs and had missed parts of the verbal exchange.
Melanie had seen and heard a lot more. Her inquiring glance, first at Charles, then at Carolyne, demanded an explanation.
“If I could see Charles and Melanie alone for a couple of minutes.” Carolyne made it more command than request; she had no intention of spreading the story of Felix and Margaret’s adultery any farther than necessary.
“By all means, have a conference.” Roy was delighted by whatever new reduction of chatter; the noise hurt his head.
“More secrets?” Teddy was less gracious in being left out—once again.
“Melanie can fill you in, later, Teddy,” Carolyne wasn’t sure that would happen, but she wanted this over and done.
The selected group sequestered in the library, behind closed doors.
Melanie waited. She didn’t have to point out the reference Felix had made regarding her mother.
Carolyne took a deep breath and began the tawdry tale of Felix, Margaret, Seaman’s Roost, and Charles as unwilling witness. She followed with how Felix might have killed Gordon to sabotage the expedition’s chances to give Cornelius even more, albeit posthumously, glory. “To cover his ass, Felix could have stolen the photographs of Gordon’s body and substituted the blank digital chip.”
“Damn!” Melanie couldn’t believe how anything could be so askew, yet appear so logical. It was a jigsaw whose pieces could be arranged two different ways, and, each time, come up with a recognizable picture. She wrung her hands, paced the floor, and repeated, “Damn!”
Carolyne launched into her reasons for confiding, that morning, the same to Rodrigo Barco. She admitted how Rodrigo thought Felix had some kind of alternative story with equal merit.
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