Honeymoon for One

by Beth Orsoff

  “What would you have me do Sergeant? Send her to a holding cell in Belize City for the next three weeks?”

  “R-O-R your honor?”

  I didn’t know what R-O-R was, but if David was asking for it, I knew it had to be good.

  The judge considered it for a moment, then said, “No, Sergeant Ramos has a point. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars. We’re done here.”

  There was no climactic gavel rapping like there always was on T.V. I stood up and the judge’s secretary ushered us out into the hallway and called the next name on her list.

  “What now?” I asked David.

  “Now you call everyone you know and ask them to lend you fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I thought bail was a hundred thousand?”

  “Belizian dollars,” David said. “The exchange rate is two-to-one.”

  Somehow I couldn’t imagine that making much of a difference.

  Chapter 30

  BUT I WAS WRONG. Jane said if it was six-figures, she would’ve needed the trustee’s co-signature on the withdrawal. But since it was only five figures, she could authorize the wire transfer from her trust fund herself. Once the money arrived, David would take care of everything.

  “And I added an extra ten-thousand for your legal fees,” Jane said.

  “Why?” I’d already thanked her a million times for lending me the bail money, which she’d get back after my trial. I didn’t want to accept any more charity. “I told you I already paid him.”

  “Five thousand dollars? That’ll last you about a day and a half.”

  “But Jane, I can’t pay back all this money.” The credit card people could hate me, but Jane was my best friend.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t send anyone to break your legs if you’re late with a payment, and I guarantee my interest rate is lower than Visa’s.”

  “What’s your rate?”

  “Somewhere between zero and we’ll discuss it over drinks when I get there.”

  “You’re coming to Camus Caye?”

  “Well you’re going to be there for the next three weeks, aren’t you?”

  And possibly longer if David couldn’t get me off. But I was trying not to think about that. “Yes, but I’m going to have to get a job. I’ve got a lawyer to pay and now that I’m out of jail I’m going to need a place to sleep.”

  I could hear her tapping on her keyboard. “Which do you think would be nicer, a suite at the Hotel Del Sol or a private villa at the Tradewinds?”

  “Jane, please. You’ve already done enough.”

  “You can’t get a job in a foreign country without a work permit, and they’re not going to give one to a potential felon. Besides, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t think there’d be many employment opportunities for a freelance writer on Camus Caye. “Maybe I’ll get a job as a cocktail waitress.”

  “Need I remind you that you were fired from your one and only waitressing job.”

  She was referring to my short-lived career at Cheeks, a bar near USC that specialized in selling pitchers of cheap beer and baskets of hot wings to underage students. It was a lot like Hooters, except we highlighted different assets. I only lasted a week. “That’s because I wouldn’t let the manager pinch my ass.”

  “And you think the men in Belize will be more respectful?”

  She had a point, but I needed money. I also needed something to occupy my time for the next three weeks. Otherwise I’d go nuts obsessing over the state of my life, and no good could come of that. “What part of my vacation has made this sound appealing to you?”

  “You said the diving was fabulous.”

  “But you don’t dive. You barely swim.”

  “That is so unfair. You know I take a water aerobics class every Wednesday morning.”

  “In a four foot deep indoor pool.” I’d accompanied Jane to her fancy health club once on a guest pass. “It was you who refused to take the ferry to Ellis Island because the Hudson River was too wide.”

  “I just didn’t want to wait in line with all the tourists.”

  “Jane, I applaud the adventurous spirit you seem to have developed in the last five days. But Belize is hot, humid, there’s no good shopping, and I’ve yet to see Dom Perignon on any restaurant’s wine list.”

  “That just means you’re not eating at the right restaurants.”

  “I’m serious Jane.”

  “Well if you don’t want my company, you can just say so. You don’t have to trash the whole country.”

  “I’m not trashing the country. I’m just pointing out some of the characteristics I know you find less than appealing in a vacation destination. Of course I would love for you to come. That’s—”

  “Good because I’m arriving at 10:35 tomorrow morning. Meet me at the airport and don’t be late. You know I hate to wait.”

  I hung up the phone and breathed deeply. I loved Jane like the sister I never had. And if I was stuck in Paris or London or Abu Dhabi, there’d be no one I’d rather have meet me. But Jane thought the Four Seasons in Budapest was lacking in amenities because her bedroom wasn’t equipped with its own DVD player. Jane wasn’t going to be happy on Camus Caye, and I’d never known her to be shy about expressing her displeasure.

  Chapter 31

  AFTER A NIGHT SPENT waking up from nightmares about bandits and cab drivers and angry men with jade heads, I stuffed my belongings into a giant trash bag and checked out of the Gables Guesthouse. I didn’t know where Jane and I would be staying, but I knew it wouldn’t be this place. Not that the Gables Guesthouse was a fleabag, it wasn’t. My room was small, but it was clean and had an old window air conditioner, which placed it in the three-star category by Camus Caye standards. But Jane was a five-star kind of girl. Luckily for her she could afford to be.

  I watched all the passenger’s depart Maya Air’s 10:35 a.m. from Belize City, but Jane wasn’t among them. Nor did she arrive on the 11:05, or Tropic Air’s 10:50 or 11:20. By the time Maya Air’s 11:35 arrived sans Jane, I was seriously worried. I asked the girl at the counter to check the passenger manifest, but she told me she only had access to outbound flights, not inbound flights. After much begging on my part (which was useless) and a twenty dollar bill (which was quite persuasive), the clerk called her counterpart in Belize City, who confirmed that Jane was scheduled for the 10:05 flight, but she never boarded the plane.

  I called her cell phone for the third time and left a third message. Since I didn’t know what else to do, I went back to the Gables Guesthouse to check back in.

  “Ms. Mancini,” Gloria, the desk clerk, said, “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  “Why?” They weren’t hard up for business. I’d snagged the last room.

  “Some woman’s been calling for you. I told her you checked out this morning but she’s very persistent. She offered me three hundred dollars to go to the airport to look for you.”

  I was surprised she didn’t take it. It was probably more than she made in a week.

  As if reading my mind, she said, “No one could cover for me.”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  Gloria handed me a piece of paper with a seven-digit extension I didn’t recognize. “It’s local,” she said. “No country code.”

  I thanked her and went to the pay phone.

  “Finally,” Jane yelled. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I still can’t believe you didn’t bring your cell phone with you.”

  “I told you, it’s not international.”

  “You could’ve gotten the card changed for thirty bucks.”

  “If I knew my honeymoon was going to turn out this way, trust me, I would have.”

  “Well it doesn’t matter now because I rented us both local cell phones. They’re good anywhere in the country.”

  I’d ask why later. Now all I wanted to know was, “where the hell are you?”

  “Still at the airport in Belize City. I need you to meet me.”


  “Why?”

  “I can’t get on the plane.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong?”

  “Do you know how small it is?”

  “Yes Jane, I took it, remember?”

  “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I did warn you. I told you it was a commuter flight.”

  “I thought that meant forty seats, not eight.”

  I let her rant while I tried to think of alternative transportation. “How about a boat?”

  “I checked. The boat ride’s over an hour. The plane’s only fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, except you won’t get on the plane.”

  “I can if you meet me. Then I can take a Xanax and not have to worry if it zonks me out.”

  “You want me to fly to Belize City so I can stand guard while you take a tranquilizer, then get back on the same plane so I can hold your hand for the fifteen minute flight back to Camus Caye?”

  “You don’t have to hold my hand,” she said. “Just be there to make sure no weirdos try to hit on me or steal my bag.”

  I knew I was wasting my breath, but I said it anyway. “You do realize how ridiculous you’re being?”

  “I don’t think it’s ridiculous to want to travel with another person when you’re medicated and your judgment’s impaired. I’d call that prudent.”

  “I’d call it insane.”

  “I can’t believe how selfish you’re being. I put my own life on hold to come down here and help you and this—”

  “Help me? Jane, how’re you going help me when you won’t even get on the fucking plane?”

  “Have you got something better to do with your day?”

  She had me there. “Okay, when’s the next flight?” Sure it was crazy and I’d actually have preferred if she hadn’t come, but if it wasn’t for Jane, I’d still be stuck in a broom closet at the Camus Caye Police Station. I owed her one. I owed her lots of ones.

  Hours later when we’d both finally arrived at the Camus Caye Airport, I called the Tradewinds Hotel on my new rented cell phone while I tried to keep Jane from falling asleep. I’d had to practically drag her onto the plane, and that was after she’d taken half a Xanax. She swallowed the other half dry when we hit our first patch of turbulence.

  Where the Blue Bay aimed for quirky comfort, the Tradewinds went straight for luxury. Our villa had two bedroom suites, each with its own Jacuzzi tub and separate stall shower, and a shared living room, dining room and kitchenette. The forty-two-inch plasma T.V. was bolted to the wall, but it came with a state of the art home theater system, including DVD player and satellite T.V.

  I occupied myself with the premium channels while Jane slept. She awoke three hours later, hungry and ready to go.

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Home.” Lying on the couch watching American television had left me melancholy. I knew doing nothing would be bad for me. Too much time to think. And watching the last half of Midnight Express probably hadn’t helped either.

  “What’s the best restaurant on the island?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Jane knew that wasn’t true. She knew I had a file filled with reviews for every restaurant on the island, but she chose to ignore me and called the concierge instead.

  “We have a reservation for seven at Gemini,” she said, hanging up the phone. “Go shower and get dressed.”

  I did as I was told and came out of my bedroom wearing a rumpled sundress.

  “Don’t you have anything that isn’t wrinkled?”

  “No.”

  Since I disliked ironing and Jane didn’t know how, she lent me one of hers. It was too tight in the hips, too loose in the bust, and three inches too short, but Jane swore I could pull it off and I didn’t have the energy to fight with her.

  We were the only female-female couple at the restaurant, but Jane didn’t seem to notice. She ordered champagne with dinner (the restaurant didn’t stock Dom Perignon, so she settled for Veuve Clicquot) and insisted we toast.

  “To what?” I asked.

  “How about ‘facing your fears’ or ‘just doing it’?”

  “You sound like a Nike ad.”

  “Will you cheer up already. God, you’re such a downer.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But the thought of life in prison isn’t really lifting my spirits.”

  “Stop exaggerating. Your lawyer told me the maximum sentence for antiquities smuggling is five years and a ten thousand dollar fine, and nobody gets the max.”

  “Thanks, that’s very comforting. Did he also tell you that he thinks the whole antiquities thing is bullshit and that they’re really just trying to keep me here longer so they can pin Michael’s murder on me? I’m pretty sure the maximum penalty for that one’s life in prison.”

  “Actually, it’s the death penalty, but let’s not focus on that right now.”

  “Sure Jane, wouldn’t want to ruin your great vacation.”

  She set her glass of champagne down and waived away our hovering waiter. “If we’re going to get you out of this, you’re going to have to start thinking positive.”

  “I’m positive. I just don’t understand how we’re going to get me out of this? I thought you came for fun and sun.”

  “God, you’re so gullible. That’s how come you’re in this mess in the first place. I didn’t come here to work on my tan, I came to save your ass.”

  Chapter 32

  I GOT THE WHOLE story over dinner. Jane and her therapist, Dr. Tobler, had been discussing the idea of Jane ‘facing her fears’ for the last few weeks. When Jane told him about my situation, he thought it was the perfect opportunity for her to act since there was a real need, not an artificial circumstance, and I’d be there to bolster her if things got really bad. Assuming, of course, I wasn’t in jail at the time.

  “Don’t you think it’s a great idea?”

  “No, I think you need a new therapist.”

  “Dr. Tobler warned me you might react this way. He said people are used to their proscribed roles and whenever one person in the relationship tries to change, it upsets the status quo.”

  There was no point in arguing. I couldn’t possibly win. “Okay Jane, I’ll go hide out in the hotel room for the next three weeks and you can explore the country and figure out how to get me out of this.”

  “No, we have to do it together.”

  “But that’s just it. What are we going to do?” Besides hiring a good lawyer, which apparently I’d already done, I was out of ideas.

  “We’re going to figure out who planted the jade in your suitcase, which is going to lead us to Michael’s killer.”

  “And then what? Bring the killer to the police so he can confess?”

  “Sure. We’ll make a citizen’s arrest. Then we’ll be heroes for solving the case.”

  When I stopped laughing I said, “Okay Columbo, where do you propose we begin?”

  Jane actually pulled a package of index cards from her purse. “I thought we should start by writing down everyone’s name and what we know about them. Then tomorrow we can go and take everyone’s picture. And don’t worry, I bought one of those portable picture printers before I left because I thought it might be hard to get them printed here.”

  “Good thinking,” I said and took another bite of my Shrimp Creole. Jane had hardly touched her broiled salmon, no oil, no butter, no sauce. Facing her fears apparently didn’t include trying new foods.

  “Do you think there’s a Staples or something where we could get one of those giant dry erase boards? No matter,” she said, before I could answer, “we can just tape everything to the wall in the living room. I think I remembered to pack the scotch tape.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Of course. I’m not going to let them put you in prison for the rest of your life.”

  I’d watched The Fugitive enough times to know that the only way we could ensure that I wasn’
t wrongfully convicted of Michael’s murder was to find the real killer ourselves. “Don’t you think we should hire a private detective? Someone who lives down here and knows the landscape?”

  She shook her head. “We can’t risk it. Detectives are bribable. We could hire one and he could still be working for the police, or more likely the bad guys, or even more likely, they’re one in the same.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Trust me Lizzie, it happens.”

  Jane’s mother used to be a researcher for Oliver Stone. God knows what kind of bed time stories she told her kid to turn her into the conspiracy theorist she is today.

  “If that’s true, then why do you think finding the real killer will help? Won’t the police just cover it up and still pin the murder on me?”

  “It’s not in their best interests. Even down here, not every cop is corrupt. You’re just the easy solution to their problem. But if we give them an even easier solution, then they’ll let you go.”

  I wasn’t quite following.

  “Lizzie, they don’t actually want you to be guilty. Imagine the bad publicity if they put an American woman to death. It’ll kill the tourist trade.”

  “Well I wouldn’t want that kind of guilt on my shoulders.”

  “I’m serious. If we hand them a viable alternative they’ll jump at it.”

  “And by viable alternative you mean the real killer?”

  “Of course,” she said. “You don’t think I’d frame an innocent person, do you?”

  “No, but that means we have to find the real killer ourselves, and we don’t have a clue how to do that. Nor do we have any of those nifty gadgets the police have like guns and warrants and bulletproof vests. Not that we’d know how to use them if we did.”

  “Aaah, that’s where you’re wrong,” she said and paused for a dramatic sip of champagne. “I stopped at the spy shop in Hollywood before I left. We’ll be receiving a large Fed Ex delivery tomorrow morning.”

  Sometimes I really wished I had a trust fund.

  The next morning the bellman brought the Fed Ex box to our hotel room door. Jane ripped it open and pulled out a lock pick set, night vision binoculars, two stun guns, and my favorite, a set of fake badges encased in their own wallets.