by Diane Noble
If I had my bearings right, the bungalow was in a more secluded section of the compound, the least populated side of the resort. I suspected it drew its fair share of writers and artists. Maybe those who simply wanted to be left alone.
I dug into my vest again, this time for my field glasses, lifted them to my eyes, and brought the building into focus. Nothing unusual about it. Only that it was unmarked. It probably housed La Vida Pura’s business offices or maybe classrooms. From what I understood, the resort welcomed tours from around the world. Many I’d seen advertised on their website were led by world-renowned yoga instructors and the like.
Or maybe the building was a hangar. I hadn’t yet spotted La Vida Pura’s landing field, but perhaps it lay farther west. I scanned the terrain with my binoculars but saw nothing that resembled a tower. Or a plane, for that matter.
I scanned back to the building, wondering if it might be the clinic Adam had asked about. Inside the pagoda Zoë and Kate chatted somewhat amiably, or so I hoped, but outside, only the chirp of crickets and the songs of a few night birds could be heard.
I was about to put away the binoculars when another sound drifted toward me on the wind.
A car engine. Coming from the direction of the unidentified building.
Lifting the field glasses back to my eyes, I peered through them.
Seconds later a white stretch limo glided into view. A chauffeur got out first, rounded the vehicle, and opened a side door.
Lorenzo Nolan was the first to exit. When the second man stepped out, I blinked and refocused, not willing to trust my eyes. I waited, but the others in the Nolan entourage I had seen earlier in the day were either absent or staying inside the limo.
The second man who exited the car appeared to be Dr. Jean Baptiste. I blinked and looked again to make sure I’d gotten it right.
I sailed through the buffet line in record time that night, trotted over to Adam Hartsfield, and sat down across from him. “What made you think a clinic might be part of this compound?”
The rest of our group was seated on either end of the long table. Scattered smaller linen-covered tables in the room were empty. Apparently we had arrived too late for the first seating. The wall opposite the buffet was lined with windows, but because darkness had fallen outside, only the inside lights reflected back at us, creating a lonely, bleak atmosphere within the room.
“Why do you ask?” He seemed more interested in chasing a veggie burger around his plate than in answering my question.
Clint Eastwood looks or not, he was beginning to annoy me. “Do you always answer questions with questions?”
He bit into the pseudoburger and chewed for a moment, looking pained. I didn’t blame him. He seemed the type who would rather dive into a charbroiled steak, juicy and rare. Out of nowhere came the image of dining with him at home. Candlelight, Puccini wafting from the stereo, the works. Just as quickly I thought of Aunt Tildie’s slippers-under-the-table philosophy and blushed. I didn’t even like the man; why would I want to fix him dinner?
“Many health spas in Central America are connected to clinics, sometimes run by U.S. doctors. Most Americans can’t get healthcare coverage on certain treatments—experimental surgeries, cosmetic, the like. Costs big bucks in the States, so coming here can save them a truckload of money. It was an obvious question to ask, that’s all.”
“Makes sense, then.”
“What does?”
“I saw Lorenzo Nolan’s limo pull up to the entrance of a building that’s not on the map they gave us.”
I watched Adam carefully, gauging his reaction. I didn’t trust him. I felt that he was somehow involved with Easton’s death and also somehow tied into this place. I just didn’t know how or why.
He put down his fork and frowned. “Was the child with him?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t see him.”
His ice blue eyes hardened. “Why the sudden interest?” He picked up his fork and poked at something that looked like tiny rocks on a bed of steamed spinach. I resisted the urge to tell him couscous was good for him.
“In the clinic or in Lorenzo Nolan?”
“Both.”
Adam had succeeded in turning the tables. I’d planned to find out what he knew, and now I was the bug pinned to a board under a magnifying glass. I could feel the intense scrutiny of his gaze.
“It’s what I do,” I said, putting down my fork. “When presented with a puzzle, I connect the dots.” When he looked as if he didn’t believe me, I went on. “My digging for details, no matter how insignificant they seem, used to drive my husband to drink—well, not anything that smacked of substance abuse, unless you consider caffeine a—”
“Mrs. MacIver,” he said with a sigh. “You don’t have to elaborate. I believe you.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “When I care about people—especially when I care about people—and when life’s dots don’t connect—”
“Life’s dots?” There was a tiny quiver at the corner of his mouth.
I nodded. “Every human being has them. Sometimes they get out of whack, disconnect, short out—”
“Short out?” This time he rolled his eyes. And he almost smiled.
“That’s where I come in,” I said. It was true. Harriet to the rescue—for Hollis when he was alive, for my kids when they were under my roof. For everyone except me. I suddenly didn’t want to explain anything more about the dots. I’d already told him more than I’d ever told anyone about my dot ministry. Even Hollis.
We finished our meal in silence.
I scanned the room before excusing myself. Zoë was at the far end of our table, firmly planted between the Browns and the Doyles, looking happier than she had in days. Price, Max, and Kate were at the other end, huddled in private conversation. Off by themselves were Orris and Adele Quilp. Adele was talking; Orris was studying the chandelier above their table.
Before I scooted my chair away from the table, Adam surprised me by gesturing for me to stay. “I have a warning for you.” He wiped his mouth with his linen napkin, folded it, and set it beside his plate.
My hair stood on end. “Warning?” I couldn’t hold back the sarcasm.
“I suggest you ask for a tour, not just barge into the place.”
“Barge into what place?”
“While you’re busy connecting dots, you also plan to snoop around. Am I right? Get into places you don’t belong? Get into danger you can’t get out of?” He leaned forward, his face hard, his eyes cold. “I am warning you, Mrs. MacIver. Stay out of this. Stay out of this deadly game.”
The room seemed to hush, except for the unbearable pulsing in my ears brought on by the rush of blood. I gaped at him. “Is that a threat?”
His eyelid twitched, his expression remained hard. “If that’s what you want to believe, then yes, it is.”
“What do you know?” I kept my voice low, and the words whooshed out in a hiss. “How are you involved in this? Did you kill Easton?”
His eyelid twitched again. “Don’t go where you aren’t wanted, Mrs. MacIver.”
I leaned closer. “What about Carly Lowe? Is she part of this?” It was a stab in the dark, but I had to ask. I expected him to laugh at the ludicrous question, but he didn’t.
“That I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”
My thought processes screeched to a halt. “What do you mean can’t?”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re implying there could be a connection.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Tell me what you know.”
At the end of the table, murmurs of conversation continued, interspersed with quiet ripples of laughter, mostly from the Browns and Doyles. The lighthearted banter seemed surrealistic in view of my conversation with Adam.
“You’re in over your head.”
“What are you talking about? All I’m doing is trying to find the missing daughter of a friend—someone I’m close to and care about. I’ve asked a few questions, pondered some strange connections,
and done nothing to ‘get in over my head.’ ” I paused, feeling my cheeks heat with anger.
“I saw how you reacted today with the kid who tried to scare Zoë. You leaped in without thinking. What if the kid had turned around and dumped you off that bridge? You act first, I suspect, and think about it later.” He leaned closer. “What if you do that again? I think you’re wound a little too tight, Mrs. MacIver, and should you fly into something bigger than you are, embarrassment will be the least of your worries.”
“Those without certain health care coverage, Mr. Hartsfield?”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“You said people without coverage for procedures such as experimental and cosmetic surgeries might come to an offshore clinic to save a truckload of money.”
“So you were listening.”
“You left out something.”
“And that would be?”
“Illegal procedures, Mr. Hartsfield. Wouldn’t patients also visit these clinics to have illegal procedures performed?”
“If you’re talking about doctors who aren’t licensed, yes, that happens. Too often, I understand.”
I leaned closer. “I’m talking about unethical practices, surgeries and treatments not approved by the FDA or other medical-specialty societies. Performed by either licensed or unlicensed doctors. Who’s to stop them?”
Adam studied me without speaking. “That same thing can happen even in our own country. Under wraps, of course. Why would doctors spend the time or money setting something up in Central America when they can set up the same kind of clinic in South Central L.A.?”
“Tit for tat.”
“What?”
“Cooperation, Mr. Hartsfield. Or maybe I should say the lack thereof. I sit down and spill what I know; you tell me I’m in danger if I snoop. I take a stab at making a connection between Easton’s death and Carly’s disappearance, and you send me off McBernie’s Point. You owe me.”
“McBernie’s wha—? Owe you?”
“As in it’s your turn to spill the garbanzos.”
He surprised me by laughing. “You think I know something about this place that I’m not telling, but I don’t. You think I’m somehow involved in something shady—perhaps in Easton’s murder, and who knows what else. I’m not. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. MacIver, but I’m not who you think I am. I have no information to give you.”
Criminals can be charming. And he was beginning to charm me. Criminals can be convincing. And he was beginning to convince me. Criminals can be likable. But that was going too far. If he had something likable lurking below the surface, I had yet to find it.
“That’s what worries me,” I said.
He pushed back his chair and rose. “May I walk you back?”
We left the dining room and headed down the path to the pagoda. The sense of safety I felt with Adam by my side was laced with a vague sense of danger. I wondered if I was wise to be alone with him. Maybe his earlier warning had more to do with himself than with anyone else.
We came to a length of trail darkened by foliage on either side. Palm fronds filtered what artificial light there was, and thin clouds dimmed the light of the nearly full moon.
“You remembered the headlines,” he said. “I saw it in your expression.”
I nodded, my heart racing. Why had Adam chosen this moment to confront me? No one was around to hear me cry out should I need help.
“I’m not going to deny my wrongdoing. I lost my temper. I deserved to lose my job.”
I willed my voice not to shake. It didn’t, but my knees were a different matter. They didn’t feel connected to my brain. “There’s a difference between losing your temper and nearly beating someone to death.”
We stopped in the darkness just outside the pagoda. I hadn’t turned on the porch light, worried that it would draw all shapes and sizes of flying critters. Now I regretted the decision. A giant flying horned beetle would be easier to handle than the criminal standing in front of me.
I looked up at him. “Why did you do it?”
For a moment I didn’t think he was going to answer, then he said, “I’d been called in on a domestic-violence case. Not my usual beat, but we were short-handed that night, so I was assigned the duty. The guy had beaten his wife till she was unrecognizable.” His gaze drifted away from mine, and in the light of the moon, I could see the muscles in his lean jaw working. “That was bad enough, but when I saw his kid—just a little guy, probably no more than eight—and what he’d done to him …” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.
“The perp took off while I was checking out his boy. I gave chase. Caught up with him. I maybe would have killed him if I hadn’t come to my senses. There was this guy, a PI with a video camera. Caught the whole thing on tape. It led on the evening news and was repeated day after day.”
“It was a setup.”
“No way to prove it. But I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done what I did. End of story.”
“When you wrestle with a pig, the pig wins, and you get muddy, Hollis always said.”
Adam cocked his head, his eyes bright with interest. “What did you just say?” I repeated it and he laughed. Then he said, “Who is Hollis? I think I like this guy.”
I didn’t say.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. I wondered if he remembered what I had told him at the butterfly farm about my husband’s death. I didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t ask.
Sometimes we think no one else fights the same emotional battles we do. There’s comfort in knowing we’re not alone even as our hearts ache for others, understanding their pain. I wanted to reach for Adam’s hand but didn’t.
That night as I tucked myself into the huge king-size bed, I realized I still didn’t know why Adam Hartsfield was on this cruise, why he had signed up for the spa excursion, or whether I believed his story.
Unable to drift off, I opened The Big Sleep and tried to get lost in Raymond Chandler’s 1930s Los Angeles. It didn’t work. I stared at the bamboo ceiling, my mind aflutter with brilliant but deadly butterflies, the trickle of blood from Easton’s ashen lips, the mysterious ex-Detective Hartsfield, and the missing Carly.
I heard Zoë call good-bye to someone outside the pagoda. Seconds later the entry door clicked shut, and after a few padding footfalls, the girls’ bedroom door did the same. I had just turned out my light when the front door opened again. This time it was Kate, I assumed. I was right. A moment later she knocked lightly on my door.
“Could we talk a minute?”
With a sigh, I flicked on the light. What was it with these kids and their nocturnal habits? “Of course,” I called out, then slipped on my cotton robe and followed her into the adjoining living room.
She tucked one leg underneath herself and sat down across from me. Her usual snooty arrogance seemed to have momentarily disappeared. She was prettier without it. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry?”
“Sorry?”
“I was in on what Price did to Zoë? I mean, I didn’t realize how dangerous it was to cross that bridge until I got on it?”
“Zoë’s the one who needs to forgive you.”
“I asked her, and she said it’s too late?”
I softened my voice. “She’s the queen of drama. I know the type. I’ve raised kids of my own.”
Kate looked relieved. “Do you have any ideas about what I could do for her? Maybe I could buy her a little something just to let her know I’m sorry? I thought you might have some ideas?”
“The best thing you could do is be her friend. She doesn’t have anyone.”
“She’s always been a loner? She had one close friend our freshman year? They roomed together in my apartment complex. They were totally alike. Both geeks, you know?”
“Labels can hurt,” I said quietly.
“I’m sorry.” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away.
“What happened to the friendship?”
“The
other girl left after our freshman year. She got real sick and needed to live at home, so she transferred to another school.”
“It’s friendship and acceptance Zoë needs. That’s the greatest gift you could give her.”
The bedroom door flew open. Zoë stood there glaring at us through her thick glasses. For a moment the room was as still as a morgue.
“I heard every word,” she said. “Get this straight. I don’t need your sympathy or your charity. And I certainly don’t need your friendship.” She breathed heavily through her nose as if she was ready to explode or break into sobs. Maybe both. Two bright spots colored her cheeks.
“Zoë,” I said, stretching one hand out to her. “It’s not what you think …”
“I’ve got friends,” she said. “Just because I don’t hang with the imbeciles at Shepparton College doesn’t mean I don’t have close friends.”
Kate stood, looking crestfallen. “I just wanted to apologize for what happened on the bridge, but you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to listen.”
“Feeling sorry for myself? You don’t know what it’s like to be me. Would you give up being beautiful for one day—how about one hour?—to trade places with me, a lowly, despicable geek?”
Kate looked ready to cry; she didn’t answer.
“Like I said before, your apology is too late.” Zoë stepped back and slammed the bedroom door. The windows rattled.
“I’m so sorry,” Kate said again. “I feel terrible.”
“Just be her friend.” I paused. “Remember what I said?”
“Queen of drama?”
“You got it.” But inside I worried. I had wanted to take Zoë under my wing, and all I’d gotten in return was anger. And since we’d arrived in Playa Negra, her demeanor had worsened. First her reaction to my help at the bridge, now this. She seemed to be pushing us away, daring us to care for her, in spite of who she knew herself to be. Maybe the dank, dripping rain forest had breathed its oppressive vapors on her as well.
Zoë probably had her own demons to battle, and this place had brought the worst of them out from the shadows. That I could understand.