Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

  Why had George brought all the potential buyers together for dinner at his house? What would be the advantage? If anything, you’d think a savvy business man would want to keep his associates from talking to each other. There had to be a logical reason.

  And the postcard from García. He must have thought Nash could put it together. A beautiful butterfly. What in the world did he mean by that? Butterflies were big business on the black market. But he hadn’t mentioned one species specifically? I needed some knowledge of local butterflies.

  When dawn rolled around, Dalton grunted something about going to do his job, to have fun at the beach.

  Like hell. I wasn’t going to sit on my hands and do nothing. I was going to the palapa bar, see what I could find out. I know how to blend in, be discreet. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be open for several hours, so I had time for my morning yoga. After that, I decided to check out the butterfly garden. Worth a shot. Maybe I could get an idea of what García might have been referring to on the postcard.

  I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back into a ponytail, threw on a t-shirt and shorts, grabbed Mrs. Strix’s handbag, and headed out.

  The valley surrounding our bungalow had a mix of tourists, ex-pats, and snowbirds. A nice walking path had been slashed through the edge of the jungle for ease to the shopping district where one could find all the modern conveniences yet still feel as though in a tropical paradise.

  The morning air was cool. I took my time, enjoying it. This close to the equator, afternoons could be oppressively hot and muggy. I’ve never understood the phrase “tropical paradise.” It’s an oxymoron, if you ask me. Heat and I don’t mix.

  There was no denying though, this truly was a nature lover’s paradise. The trees were filled with birds, squawking, chirping, chattering. An iguana scampered off the path where it had been basking in the morning sun.

  From above, I heard a distinctive swish in the canopy. Two white-faced capuchin monkeys scampered across a limb like a couple of squirrels. The way these two could romp through the treetops was breathtaking to watch. They dropped down, one at a time, to swing on a hanging vine, then flip over onto the next limb, keeping balance with their prehensile tails. One seemed to notice I’d stopped. He sat back on his haunches, his arm around a branch, his round, black eyes lit with curiosity as he chittered at me with his high pitched call.

  He reminded me of the Philippines and the tarsiers I loved as a kid, though the tarsier’s ultrasonic call is inaudible to the human ear. With large, bug-like eyes and long, bony fingers, they grasp a branch in a pose that always makes them look like they’re hugging it.

  My dad would get me up before dawn and we’d hike into the forest, to a blind he’d placed the day or two before, and we’d wait for one to come along and then hope for the light to be just right for the perfect wildlife photo.

  I wished I had a camera with me right now. The capuchin was so close and seemed unafraid in my presence. I lingered for a while, watching the two watch me. This is why I’m here, I thought. This is how it should be.

  Before I moved on, I glanced behind me and caught sight of Yipes, several paces back, trying to act nonchalant. So I had a tail. Hm. Good to know.

  I continued down the path toward town and found the butterfly garden tucked away on a side street, a tiny educational building serving as its entrance. I went inside and wandered for a few minutes, taking in the layout, before I was greeted by a guy about my age, an American with movie-star good looks. “Bienvenida al Jardín de Mariposas,” he said in greeting.

  I understood him perfectly, but I had to keep my cover. “Um…hello to you, too. Do you speak English?”

  He gave me a smile that made me smile involuntarily in response. “Welcome to the butterfly gardens.” His voice had husky, earthy notes, a sound that belonged in the bedroom. My bedroom.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I said. I stared a moment too long.

  He stood with his weight on one leg, his hand on his hip, exuding an easy confidence. He knew he was hot. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. His square jawline and scruffy stubble made me want to tug him into a dark back room and go crazy. Damn Dalton for getting me all revved up.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide the monster diamond on my left hand, thinking how ridiculous it was to have to hide my fake ring because of my fake husband that I wasn’t getting any action from anyway, fake or otherwise.

  “Would you like a tour?”

  Um, with you? Yeah! I glanced down at my shoes. Poppy, get it together. You’re a federal agent for god’s sake. “Yes, I think so,” I said with a shrug, trying to act indifferent. Wait. Maybe this guy has some information. And flirting will get me a lot further, get him talking, won’t it? “When’s the next one?”

  “Oh, we aren’t that busy. I can take you right now, if you’d like.”

  As I ransacked my purse for the ten dollar fee, I slipped the ring off and let it drop to the bottom.

  “We’re a non-profit, supported completely by donations and volunteers.”

  “You’re a volunteer then?” I said, stating the obvious. Geez. My hormones must be eating away at my brain cells.

  “A couple days a week.”

  I glanced around. “Are you the only one here?”

  “Yeah, we’re a pretty small operation.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  “Oh, I’m Noah. Glad to meet you. And you are?”

  I stared at him, my mind blank. For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with my cover name. “Noah, that’s a nice name,” I said, stalling. “I get it. As in the guy with the ark.” His expression changed. Oh my god. I’m such an idiot. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. That’s really your name, isn’t it?”

  He cocked his head to the side, a look of confusion on his face.

  “I figured you must get a lot of children and”—kill me now—“that was part of your, you know…”

  He gave me a genuine smile. “Naw, we don’t get a lot of kids. Wish we did, actually.”

  I extended my hand. “Well, I’m Brittany. It’s nice to meet you, Noah. ”

  “Likewise,” he said, and led me to the insectarium, a room rimmed with glass aquariums, each housing some exotic native insect—beetles of all sizes and shapes, scarabs with iridescent green shells, spiders that would make my mom vow to never set foot in this country. Posters adorned the walls showing comparable sizes of insects, butterflies, and moths, as well as paintings from local artists, and a large case of pinned insects.

  Noah patiently told me about each live insect—its lifespan, eating habits, predators—while taking it from its tiny habitat and holding it out for me to see. “Half of the species on Earth are arthropods,” he said.

  “That’s a lot of bugs. I’m glad they’re not all as big as that one.” He was holding the Hercules Beetle, a bug the size of an Idaho potato with horns. He assured me it was harmless and offered to let me hold it. He looked surprised when I took it and held it in the palm of my hand.

  He grinned. “Wow, most ladies won’t touch him.”

  I looked right into his eyes. “Well, I’m not like most ladies.”

  His eyes turned sultry. “I can see that.”

  We moved out of the building to the gardens, several of which were designed to replicate different natural habitats from low-elevation forest to cloud forest, a habitat rare on Earth save for a few specific locations, one being right here in Costa Rica. Each was enclosed with netting to keep the butterflies in.

  In the first, I learned about the Blue Morpho butterfly, the pride of Costa Rica. One lighted on his hand and I swear its wings spanned eight inches. When it opened its wings, it shined a brilliant iridescent blue, but the underside of the wings was a dull brown color with swirls and eyespots. Noah told me that in flight, the contrasting bright blue and dull brown colors flash, making it appear as though the butterfly is magically appearing and disappearing, inspiring countless tales in local folklore.

&nb
sp; As we moved on through the other gardens, Noah told me about the unique glass-winged butterflies that don’t rely on bright coloring, but rather use pheromones to attract a mate. I could have told him a thing or two about the effect of pheromones right now.

  The last stop was a giant leafcutter ant colony. Noah seemed to come alive as he spoke about it. Next to humans, he said, leafcutter ants form the largest and most complex animal societies on Earth. Deep within their nests, the ants work collectively to cultivate a fungus that grows on their chewed leaves—gardening to produce their own food.

  Through observation, scientists realized that certain species of leaves, avoided by the ants, tend to possess compounds called terpenoids, a breakthrough discovery of antifungal chemicals now used for medicinal purposes or fungicides.

  Noah relayed this information to me as though it were the most amazing discovery of mankind.

  The tour ended back in the tiny building in which we had started. Noah gestured toward the items for sale in the room—artwork, jewelry, books, nature guides. “All the proceeds from our gift shop support our conservation efforts and the upkeep of the gardens here, the care of the butterflies, that kind of thing.” He pointed to a jar near the cash register. “And if you can, we’re asking for donations for our capital campaign to build a wildlife sanctuary here for animals that have been injured or orphaned. Our goal is $200,000.”

  Normally, I’d empty the bottom of my handbag of all its loose change for such a thing, but I couldn’t risk my cover.

  I stood there, trying to search my rational mind for insight. Could Noah be involved somehow with the smuggling? After all, I’d come to the butterfly garden to poke around, see if there was any connection to the clue from Agent García’s postcard. It certainly would be an excellent cover. No one would suspect. I glanced at Noah. No way.

  I chose a book, The Birds of Costa Rica, and paid cash. “Do you know of any good birding trails?” I asked.

  He gave me a free map of the area and pointed out a few of his favorite spots. I thanked him, stuffed the map in my purse, and lingered. I didn’t want to go. He had some kind of gravitational pull.

  He leaned on the counter. “What brings you to Costa Rica, anyway?”

  I smiled. I could stay and talk with him all day. Maybe he’d take me by the hand and lead me into that back room. “The birds, actually. I’m kind of a bird nut. I was hoping to see a keel-billed toucan. And the resplendent quetzal, of course.”

  He nodded. He understood my obsession. “I know a tree cavity where I’ve seen a family of toucans. You interested?”

  My eyes lit up. “Yeah!” I yanked the map back out of my purse and opened it on the counter. “Where?”

  “I’m done here in an hour. I could show you.” His eyes had that hungry-for-me look. My breath caught in my throat.

  “Well, I, uh.” Darn, I had work to do. “I really have to get back right now. But, maybe later?”

  He nodded, looking disappointed. “Sure.”

  My gaze lingered on his lips. “No, I’d really like that,” I stammered. “I’ll stop back by.” I scooted out the door before I could spontaneously combust.

  For my next stop I needed to be sure to ditch Yipes. He wasn’t that difficult to spot, but I had to be careful. There are two tried-and-true ways to lose a tail: the covert maneuver or the distraction. Yipes seemed like the type who’d fall for a good old-fashioned distraction. I walked back to the bungalows and knocked on his door.

  “Buenos días, Señora Fuller,” he said. “How may I help you?”

  “Would you please call a taxi for me and point me in the direction of a drug store. I need, well, some woman things.”

  His cheeks burned and he nodded. “Uno momento.” He slipped back into his room. That ought to do it.

  I had the cab drop me at the drug store in town where I picked up a new beach bag, yellow flip-flops, and some cheap sunglasses, then went around the block, rented a moped for the week, and headed for the beach.

  Most people would be thrilled to spend the afternoon sipping pineapple drinks on a sunny tropical stretch of sand. I am not most people. I hate the sun. Or I should say, the sun hates me. Red hair, freckles, pasty white skin. While my high school girlfriends strived for the tanned little bunny look, I worked hard to avoid the crispy lobster imitation.

  The Toucan palapa bar was more my style. Its giant thatched roof was nestled among the palms, providing glorious shade. Brightly-colored, hand-painted signs directed beach-goers down a roped path toward shrimp skewers and ice cold margaritas. (Obviously for tourists who have no knowledge or interest in true local fare.)

  I tucked my hair under the hat, donned the sunglasses, and strolled in.

  The place was packed. Jimmy Buffet blared from speakers mounted at every corner. Waitresses bustled about delivering metal pails filled with Cerveza Imperials. The mixed scents of stale cigarettes and spilled beer hung in the open air.

  Every inch of wood in the place—supporting posts, table tops, chairs—had names and dates crudely engraved, testaments to memorable drunkenfests. At the bar, a group of six college kids simultaneously tipped a bamboo log with shot glasses attached while their friends pounded on the bar, making memories of their own.

  I sidled up to the bar and elbowed in. A young tica with her hair pulled back in braids hollered, “What can I getcha?” as she hustled by, her arms loaded with fried fish baskets. Her name tag read Isabella.

  “Do you have a local IPA?”

  She dropped the baskets in front of the bamboo shot meisters, grabbed a bottle from the cooler, and popped the top as she headed back toward me. “Eight dollars,” she said, but kept walking. I pulled out a ten and before I could drop it on the counter she was back, plucked it out of my hand, and was off again.

  “This place always this busy?” I asked the guy holding down the bar stool next to me.

  He leaned over. “Cruise ship lunch rush.” His lip curled up on the left side in an attempt at a grin, his blood alcohol content apparently causing partial facial paralysis.

  I looked in the direction he was making a valiant attempt to point. The shipping dock jutted out into the ocean directly to the south of the bar where a large white vessel with bright orange lifeboats was docked.

  I ordered some gallo pinto, Costa Rican style rice and beans. I was going to be here awhile.

  At the other corner of the bar, a couple college boys posed for a picture holding a six-foot boa constrictor. One of their drunk pals held out a twenty to take his turn to look macho holding a snake that was probably nearly comatose.

  A sign hanging behind the bar read: Animal photos, $20 - Birds, snakes, monkeys. Above the sign, two scarlet macaws perched in the rafters. Scarlet macaws are highly intelligent, and with their bright red, yellow and blue plumage, they make popular pets. For that reason, they’re endangered in most of their habitat, making them a CITES class I species. One bird can sell for thousands of dollars on the black market. Someone in possession really should have a permit, but in Central America, keeping animals like these is culturally ingrained and rarely prosecuted. The Costa Rican government concerns itself primarily with illegal export. At this point, these two birds couldn’t go back to the wild anyway. They’d probably been in this bar their entire lives.

  I sipped the beer, killing time, watching the staff. This seemed like an unlikely place for a wildlife poaching connection. A lot of money was being passed over the bar, though. I watched one of the bus boys put every third bill into his front shorts pocket. Interesting, though not my concern. I was keeping an eye out for anyone named Paco. Maybe I’d get a glimpse of my fellow agent.

  Every once in awhile, a man came from the back, went straight to the cash register, took out some cash, then went back out. Some buying of something was going on out back.

  After about an hour, most of the patrons staggered toward the boat gripping plastic souvenir cups in the shape of pineapples in their sweaty hands. The music was turned down and I could act
ually hear the surf as it rolled on the beach. The bartender came back by. “Another IPA?

  “Sure, why not?” I dug out another ten spot.

  A young couple lingered at the end of the bar. Newlyweds. The girl pointed at the rafters. I glanced in the direction she was looking. A white-faced capuchin swung from a rope. The girl giggled and nodded and her pink-cheeked husband tossed a twenty on the bar. The monkey swooped down with a screech, snatched up the bill, and raced back to his perch. The newlyweds frowned. “Hey,” the husband called.

  Isabella whistled and gestured to the monkey. He skittered and chirped, then reluctantly descended to the bar. The wife opened her arms and the monkey curled up in her embrace. He cowered, his eyes darting from her to her husband. How could no one see how terrified he was? She cooed at him like he was a baby.

  I had to admit, he was cute with his round, black eyes set in that adorable little human-like face. That’s what made them highly sought after for pets. Unfortunately, it’s often people like this, animal lovers, who do the most harm. They don’t stop to think; these are wild animals. Sure, they look like cute little babies when they’re young, their faces and hands so much like ours, but once they hit puberty, they can be aggressive. Wild animals are meant to stay in the wild, not interact with people. If I wasn’t undercover, I’d be over there explaining all that to them right now.

  Isabella kept a close watch on the monkey. She knew. The husband snapped a few pictures, no doubt for their honeymoon Facebook page. That’s when I noticed the monkey’s right hand was missing. Poor thing. Often, monkeys are caught in primitive snares which can do all kinds of damage as the monkey freaks out trying to get free. Most likely that’s what had happened to this little guy.

  The monkey loped across the bar where Isabella provided a treat, then he scampered back up to his ropes. So sad. “How long as he been here?” I asked her.