by A W Hartoin
“Is that your aunt?” asked Graeme.
The painting was only half finished, but there was a woman done in a style I’d never seen before and I’ve seen a lot of art, thanks to Myrtle and Millicent. The woman reclined on a bench, surrounded by flowers, birds, and clocks. Part of her was made up of the flowers, birds, and clocks and the rest of a combo of cubism, expressionism, post-impressionist styles. I stepped closer. And pointillism around the eyes and mouth. The painting was the strangest thing I’d ever seen and I’d once been forced to go through an exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art in New York that consisted mostly of toilets and mannequin heads. This, in contrast, was breathtakingly beautiful. It was right in all the wrong ways and it was Aunt Tenne.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s her.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Graeme. “Is it good or just insane?”
I was no art critic, but I was pretty confident about that piece. “It’s good. It’s amazing.”
“And there’s a lot of them.”
One wall of the small room was covered in paintings. They were butted up against each so as not to waste an inch. There were two more of Aunt Tenne. One was photorealist and the other impressionist. Each executed perfectly. Every painting on the wall was a different style or combo of styles and they had life, a kind of glow that comes with greatness, not merely skill. My eyes filled and overflowed. I’m not a crier. I rarely cry at movies, unless a kid or dog dies, but I cried then, because I was in the presence of something amazing. Myrtle and Millicent had taught me to know brilliance when I saw it.
The door burst open behind us and Bruno came in holding up a set of car keys. “I got it.”
“Thank god!” said Graeme.
We returned to the storm, but for some reason it didn’t seem as bad, even though it was. The rain was just as hard. The wind just as wicked. But it didn’t matter. All I could think of was Aunt Tenne in that painting, so beautiful, crazy, and totally unexpected. Great art can take you out of your life. I’d never been so happy to leave mine.
Mom flung the office door open when we got there and I stumbled inside. Bruno yelled that he’d get the car and disappeared in the sheets of rain. I sucked in a deep breath. I didn’t realize I’d been holding it.
Lucia was still on the sofa, but Dixie was on the floor next to her holding a trash can. I sloshed over and touched Lucia’s forehead. One hundred and three at least.
“She’s vomiting now,” said Dixie.
“I see that.” I took Lucia’s hand. “It’s alright. Bruno found a car for us. We’ll get you to Coxen Hole in no time.”
“Okay.” Lucia’s voice was so weak, I had to lean in to hear it.
Bruno burst in. “I’ve got it.”
Graeme picked up Lucia and charged back into the storm.
“Mom, you two stay here,” I said.
Mom pulled me back from the door and crushed me against her chest. “Be careful, honeybabe.”
“I will.”
The worry in her eyes deepened. “Did you see Tenne?”
“Like I never have before.” I rushed out the door and dove into the front seat of a beat-up Chevy Cavalier.
One thing about driving around in a tropical storm that’s making you think you’re going to die, nobody is on the roads. Bruno drove down the center of the street with the windshield going on high, but it didn’t begin to combat the rain. Graeme held the shaking Lucia in his arms in the back. The bandage had fallen off her leg. The wound had opened up, gaping to an oval the size of an egg. The flesh was fiery red and must’ve been incredibly painful even with the Norco on board. But what scared me most was Lucia herself. She wasn’t crying. Her face was pressed against Graeme’s chest and she was breathing hard.
“How long?” I asked Bruno.
“Twenty minutes.”
Okay. Okay. We’re not going to have organ shutdown in twenty minutes. But I’m not positive what was on that damn barb. Shit.
Bruno swerved around a car that had been abandoned in the middle of the road. We were between rows of shops, but there wasn’t a person in sight. It reminded me of some disaster movie. All we needed was zombies in hot pursuit.
I looked back at Graeme. He had his face pointed at the ceiling and a tear slipped past his ear.
Say something, idiot. Be distracting. Conversation is good. Talk. Damnit!
“Bruno!”
“Yes.” He didn’t look at me. He was sitting so far forward, trying to see, his chest was practically pressed against the steering wheel.
“Did you paint my aunt?”
He blushed, I think. His skin was dark enough that the barest amount of pink shown through.
“I saw the painting in your room. It was fantastic.”
He said nothing.
“My godmothers collect art,” I said. “They’ve taken me to museums all over the world. Your work should be in museums. Isn’t that right, Graeme.”
Graeme focused on me. “Yes. The paintings are beautiful.”
“Do you know art?” I asked.
“Only what Lucia has taught me.”
“Lucia, are you into art?”
She raised her head and looked at me, unfocused. “Yes.”
“Bruno is a fabulous artist. You should see his work. What’s your favorite artist?”
“Toulouse-Lautrec.”
Didn’t see that coming.
“He’s a dadalist?”
She focused, not a lot, but I’d take anything. “No. Post-impressionist.”
“That’s right. My godmothers took me to his museum in Albi.”
“Really?” she asked. “You’ve been there?”
“Twice actually. Have you been?”
“Not yet.”
“It really is a must. We stayed in a great little hotel.” I went on and on, gabbing about art and museums. Lucia perked up and by the time we made it to the hospital, Graeme looked less like he was going to fall apart. Bruno pulled up to the gate guard shack and found it empty. He drove up to the emergency room door and Graeme ran Lucia inside. I touched Bruno’s shoulder, but he kept looking out the windshield.
“Thank you,” I said. “You may have saved my life along with Lucia’s.”
He looked at me with small but expressive brown eyes full of concern and I got what Aunt Tenne saw in him and how it had happened so quickly. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain when I can. Don’t tell Aunt Tenne what I just said.”
“I don’t keep secrets.”
“Not for long. Just until Lucia’s out of danger.”
“Okay. Just until then.”
“You are a wonderful artist. Can we talk about that sometime?”
He looked away and the pink in his cheeks flared up. I got out of the car and ran into the ER. Graeme was at the desk yelling at a nurse, who was shaking her head.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“She won’t take her back,” said Graeme. “She doesn’t care.”
“We are very busy,” said the nurse. Her name tag said Louise. Nice name. Not a nice woman.
I was about to climb over the desk and take her by the throat, but decided as my knee hit the edge that perhaps a more diplomatic approach would be best.
“Okay, Louise. I see where you’re coming from. I’m a nurse in the States. I get it, but we have a situation here.” I put my hand in Graeme’s back pocket and took out his wallet. His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say anything. “I should explain the situation a little better.”
Louise gazed at me with scorn. I could practically see the words “Uppity American” racing through her mind. “I don’t need anything explained to me.”
“You’d be surprised.” I came around the desk and took her by the arm. I gave her a look that would freeze lava and she allowed me to walk her through to the back and close the door.
“Look, Louise. I don’t expect you to recognize the name, but that’s Lucia Fibonacci out there. She’s a member of one of the
biggest Mafia families in the States. You understand Mafia?”
She stepped back. “So?”
“So you don’t want her to die on your watch. It wouldn’t be healthy for you,” I said.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Absolutely. I’m glad we understand each other.” I produced Graeme’s wallet.
Please let there be money in here. Lots of money.
I opened the wallet and found a stack of twenties.
Thank you, dentistry.
“I’m not unreasonable. Take this for your trouble.” I gave her the whole wad. Probably close to three hundred dollars. “How about calling Dr. Navarro. He saw her yesterday.”
Louise stuffed the bills in her pocket and picked up the phone on the wall. “Dr. Navarro to ER. Dr. Navarro to ER.”
“Thank you, Louise. We needed that.”
I went back to Graeme and Lucia. He’d sat down in a chair with her on his lap. Her teeth were chattering so hard, I could hear them across the room.
“You talked her into it?” asked Graeme.
“I threatened and paid her. A winning combo.”
“Thank god.”
“I cleaned you out,” I said, holding up his empty wallet.
“I do not give a flying fuck. Whatever it takes.”
Dr. Navarro ran into the waiting room and I waved to him.
“What happened?” he asked.
I pointed to Lucia’s leg. “This happened in the last hour and a half.”
“Louise!” yelled Dr. Navarro. “Bring me a wheelchair!”
She ran over with a rusty wheelchair and Graeme put Lucia in it. Navarro patted Louise’s shoulder. “It’s good you called me. I’m taking her to three.”
Dr. Navarro wheeled Lucia out and Bruno came in.
“They’re taking her back,” I said. “Can you wait?”
“Yes. It’s better than going out there again,” said Bruno.
“Mercy!” yelled Dr. Navarro. “Come back. I’ll see to that cut.”
Cut?
Bruno pointed to his own forehead and I touched mine. My hand came away bloody. Ah crap. I followed Dr. Navarro to room three and watched as they put Lucia on the gurney. The doctor pulled up a stool and examined her leg while another nurse, Rosario, took her blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. Blood pressure was low. Pulse and temperature were high. I was only off a half point, one hundred and three point five.
“The infection is spreading. I must’ve missed something on the x-ray,” said Dr. Navarro.
“Like what?” asked Graeme.
“A spine from the barb, perhaps. I’ll have to get in there and see if I can find it.”
Lucia stiffened and her grip tightened on Graeme’s arm, so that a flash of pain crossed his face.
Dr. Navarro gently patted her hip. “Don’t worry. You’re in luck. We received a donation of Propofol from a drug company in the States as well as IV antibiotics. We’ll have you back at the resort in no time.”
Graeme looked at me. “Isn’t that the drug that killed Michael Jackson?”
“He wasn’t in a hospital setting,” I said. “It wasn’t Propofol that killed him. That was the doctor.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” said Dr. Navarro. “You can stay with her, if you like.”
“And Mercy?” asked Graeme.
“If you like.”
Dr. Navarro had Lucia taken to an outpatient surgical suite and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it. The room may not have been American grade, but it had the basics and they were spotless.
“You were expecting a hut?” asked Dr. Navarro.
“I don’t know what to expect anymore,” I said.
“We get that a lot in Roatan.”
The anesthesiologist came in and administered the Propofol drip. Then he left, which didn’t thrill me, but we were lucky to have the stuff in the first place. Lucia was out immediately and it was nice to see her lovely face relaxed in sleep. Dr. Navarro scrubbed in and laid out his own instruments. He palpitated the wound and started digging around. Graeme was sitting on a stool at Lucia’s head and the stool’s wheels started squeaking. I looked over just in time to watch him do a header into the gurney and fall to the floor.
“Any blood?” asked Dr. Navarro, not looking up.
I rolled Graeme over. “Nope. Just your basic pass out.”
“Drag him out of the way, in case we have any problems.”
I grabbed Graeme’s limp arm and dragged him across the room like a bag of wet laundry and propped him up in a corner. He moaned and I patted his cheek. “Graeme, wake up.”
“What?”
“You passed out,” I said.
His eyes fluttered. “Why?”
“Cause you’re not a murderer.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry about it. Stay here until it’s over.” I went back to my stool. “How’s it going? See anything?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dr. Navarro in a low whisper.
“Well…”
“You know your theory about this not being an accident?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
Dr. Navarro inserted a pair of forceps into Lucia’s wound. It made a juicy squelch and he pulled out an inch-long strip of bloody, pus-covered plastic. “You were right.”
Chapter 9
LUCIA LAY SLEEPING in her hospital bed with Graeme crashed out in the chair beside her. Dr. Navarro took two stitches to close my forehead wound and gave me a Band-Aid with Hello Kitty on it, donated by a tourist he said. Then the doctor, Bruno and I gathered around a small procedure table, looking at the bloody strip lying in a metal basin.
“What is it?” asked Bruno.
“Evidence,” I said.
“Of murder?”
“Exactly.”
Dr. Navarro rubbed his forehead and then began pacing. “Mercy thought Lucia had been drugged with succinylcholine in addition to the stab wound. But her blood tests were clear. If that’s what was used, it wasn’t a large enough dose to kill her.” He did an about face and glared at us with an intensity that reminded me of Dad on a case. “I didn’t doubt Mercy, but I couldn’t figure out how the drug could’ve been administered. She had no needle marks. There was only the stab wound and that was done under water.”
“What’s that got to do with this?” asked Bruno, pointing to the plastic.
“That’s how he did it,” I said. “The stingray barb was coated with the drug and kept in a ziplock. He stabbed Lucia through the bag, delivering the poison into her system.”
“But it didn’t work.”
“No,” said Dr. Navarro. “But it could have. He was unlucky. Mercy was right there with her. There wasn’t time for the poison to take effect under water where Lucia would’ve been most vulnerable.”
“And she pulled out the barb immediately. The sea water probably washed out most of the dose.” I didn’t mention that I wanted her to leave the barb alone. That was procedure and the thought made me sick.
“I’ve called the police, but I don’t know what they can do,” said Dr. Navarro.
“You have proof,” said Bruno.
“Yes.” Dr. Navarro didn’t sound so sure. “They could choose to see this as an accident. It’s not the usual shooting or stabbing. That’s what they are used to dealing with. We don’t have test results to back up our claims.”
“The plastic will have to be tested,” I said. “There may still be traces of sux on it.”
“I will send it to a lab on the mainland. Results won’t come for weeks.”
“We’ll just have to convince them.”
And we tried. The National Police came and took our statements. They looked at the bloody plastic and nodded, but, in the end, did nothing. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe us. It’s just that they didn’t know what to do about it.
Officer Tabora stayed behind when his colleagues left. He was a tiny man with three hairs to call his own. He paced around the room, much like Dr. Navarro. “You must
get her off the island.”
“I agree,” I said.
“You can’t do anything?” asked Graeme. “What about your CSI unit? What about figuring out who did it?”
“We don’t have a CSI unit. This island is about containment, not control.”
“It’s the Wild West,” I said.
“Yes,” said Officer Tabora. “The expats that come here to either retire or hide, say that it’s a sunny place for shady people. They’re right. If you’re looking to escape something, it’s a good place to come. I believe someone wants your wife dead, Mr. Carrow, but I’m telling you I don’t think I can do anything about it. There are any number of people on this island who could carry out such a mission and it’s the perfect place for it.”
Graeme rocked back on his feet. He was a guy who believed in law enforcement, despite being married to a Fibonacci. The cops couldn’t fix this or even contain it and it was blowing him away.
“But…”
“You have to leave,” I said. “We’ve been lucky.”
“What makes you think they won’t follow her back to the States?”
“I think they will, but our cops are equipped to handle this. Whoever did this, did it here for a reason. Roatan can hide a crime. They don’t want to get caught. They might find another target now that we’re on to them and being back where any attempt can be properly investigated will be a deterrent.”
“We’ll get on the first flight out,” said Graeme.
“I’m keeping her overnight as a precaution, but that plastic was the problem,” said Dr. Navarro. “I expect her to be up and around soon.”
Bruno and I said goodbye and went back to the Cavalier. The storm was over and except for the palm leaves and trash strewn around the parking lot, you’d never have know anything happened. The sky was back to perfect blue and there was a light, warm breeze. We dragged a large branch out from behind the car and got in. It was sopping wet in there and the seat squished when I sat down. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Bruno’s friend. The car wasn’t cherry, but holy crap we’d turned it into a gray sponge.
He was so quiet, he was probably thinking the same thing. We drove through Coxen Hole in silence, looking at the aftermath that wasn’t an aftermath at all. The streets were once again crowded with people and cars. The debris had been pushed to the gutters and forgotten. The Coxen Hole residents were once again laughing and shopping, but I was still shaken. The storm wasn’t over for me. Aside from the two stitches in my forehead from where I hit the glass door, the damp hair, and the chafed thighs from wet cutoffs, I was shaken on the inside. I guess maybe I was holding out hope that I was wrong. That Chuck was wrong. I always wanted him to be wrong, but this time especially.