Take the Money: Romantic Suspense in Costa Rica

by Lucia Sinn

  “What’s your field?”

  “Good question. I graduated in engineering and worked out in New York for GE. Made a good salary.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I couldn’t get too enthusiastic about spending my life figuring out how to design bigger and better ways to produce and sell products that people don’t really need. Besides, I wasn’t into all the corporate game playing. Being promoted because you knew how to suck up to the boss instead of doing a great job.”

  “So you just up and left?”

  “Yep. Cashed in my stock options and bummed around Europe for a couple of years.”

  “Then went back to Lewiston?” Bud seemed incredulous. “What a comedown.” He lowered his head and spoke softly. “So, I guess you needed money fast, right?”

  “If I did, I looked in the wrong place. As a waitress, I was clearing about as much per night as I used to make an hour at GE.”

  “So how did you pay your way down here?”

  Julie took a deep breath. The beer had loosened her tongue, and she had told Bud more than she wanted him to know. That dimpled grin and folksy manner had a way of making a person feel at ease. Maybe too much so.

  “I was able to save enough,” she said.

  “So what are you doing? Still trying to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life? Planning to bum around a bit more?”

  “I don’t know, I might try and get a job down here.”

  “Very difficult,” he said. “And if you think the pay was low back in Lewiston, try two bucks an hour.”

  “Do you think an American could actually find work?”

  He pressed his fingertips together and studied her closely. “If you’re serious about wanting a job, you might check with a friend of mine. Her name’s Nellie Compton, and she just bought a new bar, Memphis South. It’s an American hangout, and I think she’s a bit in over her head, especially since she can’t speak much Spanish.”

  “Where is this place?”

  “A few blocks down the street. Go down to the International Arts building. You can see it from here. Then turn left a couple of blocks, and you’ll come to a little dive where rock and roll music blares from a loudspeaker on the street.”

  Julie stood up and put her bag on her back. Bud seemed disappointed. “You leaving already? They have a great lunch menu.”

  “Sorry, I had enough breakfast to last me all day, I think. But thanks for the tip.”

  Julie began digging in her pocket, but he waved his hand.

  “This one’s on me,” Bud said. “And by the way, you haven’t told me your name.”

  Julie’s heart skipped a beat, and she bit her lip before answering. “Stephanie Talbot.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears: high and false.

  “Stephanie.” His eyes went up and down her body. “Good luck, Stephanie.”

  “Well, thanks.” Julie walked into the sunlight and joined the tourists milling about with guidebooks. She wanted to look back, see if he was watching her, but she didn’t want him to think she cared. Why had he appeared out of the blue? Was it just a coincidence, or was he following her? And if he was a golfer, why didn’t he have a suntan? It wouldn’t do for him to see her floundering in the street, so she’d best pretend she was going to the Memphis South to look for a job, which was the last thing she wanted, right now. She needed to spend her time finding a way out of this mess.

  *

  Willie Nelson’s twangy version of Rose Colored Glasses, was Julie’s first clue that she was approaching the Memphis South. It looked like one of those dingy pubs common to seedy neighborhoods in the U.S—the kind frequented by day laborers and out-of-work strays.

  Although it had a narrow storefront window, Julie was surprised when she stepped into the gloom to see how deep the musky room tunneled back to an area filled with wooden tables and chairs arranged around a small dance floor. Crooked steps led to another level with twenty or so more tables.

  A couple of men at the bar wearing cutoffs and ponytails squinted at her then turned back to their drinks. There was a palpable feeling of expectancy in the damp heavy air that reeked of rum and tobacco. It was easy to visualize the place swarming with humanity as the searing late afternoon sun softened into twilight.

  Julie’s eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when a frosted blonde came out from behind the large wooden bar and sang out, “Welcome to Memphis South.” Her attempt at friendliness seemed forced, almost desperate, as she grasped Julie’s hand.

  “Thanks.” Julie returned the handshake, liking the strength and warmth she felt in the woman’s fingers. “You must be Nellie Compton.”

  “Why, how did you know that?” Nellie blinked and stepped back enabling Julie to get a better look. She was one of those women who never really lose their looks, even though her face was lined, and her features had lost the softness of youth. She wore a pair of jeans that hugged her small waist and a silver silver-studded fringed white cowboy shirt clung to her generous bosom. Her deep tan didn’t hide the small pouches that rimmed her cornflower blue eyes, but they were pretty eyes, turned down at the corners and fringed with long eyelashes coated with mascara. Julie estimated she might be in her mid forties.

  “A fellow I met on the plane told me to look you up,” Julie told her. “His name is Bud Jimenez.”

  “Oh, Bud.” Nellie’s throaty voice deepened. “Bless his ole’ heart.”

  Julie’s antenna usually went up when she got around southern women and their gushy talk. But after the trauma of last night and the meeting at the bank, such effusiveness was like a balm to her jagged nerves.

  “Is it all right if I sit at the bar and have a Coke?” she asked. She didn’t want another beer, but knew a customer ordering a soft drink wouldn’t be too profitable.

  “Sure can, honey.” Nellie went behind the bar, got a can from the refrigerator, popped open the lid and set the Coke in front of Julie. “You’re from the U.S, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What part?”

  “Midwest. Indiana, to be exact.” Julie was bracing herself for the next logical question. She was going to be asked her name and she needed to decide what it was. Instead, a young girl rushed out from the kitchen and began speaking rapidly in Spanish. Nellie leaned forward to listen. From the puzzled look that came across her face, Julie knew Nellie was struggling to understand what the girl was saying. Without thinking, Julie said, “I can speak Spanish, if that would help.”

  Nellie shot Julie an exasperated look. “Tell her she can’t be off tonight, even if it is her nephew’s birthday. I’ll never be able to serve the dinner crowd if she doesn’t stay.”

  “Don’t you have anyone else to call in?”

  Nellie’s eyes watered. “I’m just trying to put together a staff. Only been here a month. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake.”

  Julie looked around, counting tables. “You mean it’s only you and her to wait on customers?”

  “Oh, no. I have a chef, and a couple of waiters. But it’s not enough to get me through. On the other hand, if I make this girl angry, she’s liable to quit.”

  “I know how to wait tables,” Julie said. “Would you be interested in some temporary part time help?”

  “Would I? My God, would you be willing to stick around for awhile?”

  “Just for a few days, maybe.”

  Nellie stepped back and closed her eyes, mumbling to herself.

  “What did you say?” Julie asked.

  “I’m saying thank you, God.” Nellie answered. “When can you start?”

  “First, do you want me to tell this young woman she can go?”

  “Sure. That is, if you’re willing to be back here in a few hours.” Julie told the girl everything was settled then looked at her watch. One o’clock. “I have some errands to run,” she said. “And I need to find a cheap place to stay.”

  “I can tell you where I’m staying,” Nellie said. “But it’s not t
oo fancy.”

  “As long as it’s clean and safe.”

  Nellie said, “It’s on San Jose Blvd., on the street behind the Gran Hotel. And they even serve breakfast. It’s called La Casa Verde. I guess it’s as safe as anyplace; the owner packs a pistol.”

  “I’ve never seen a city with so many armed men,” Julie said. “I thought Costa Rica was supposed to be a peaceful country.”

  “It is a peaceful country; they don’t even have a militia. They tell me rape and murder is rare. But you can see the people are poor, plus all the Nicaraguan’s milling around. There’s a lot of theft.”

  Julie tightened her grip on her backpack. “I don’t have much for anyone to steal.”

  “You’re smarter than most women from the States,” Nellie said. They walk around flashing diamonds and expensive jewelry. It’s not at all uncommon for a gold chain to be pulled off someone’s neck. I’ve even heard about earrings being yanked out of women’s ears.”

  “Yikes. That would hurt.”

  “Yeah. And it’s a bloody mess, too. Literally.”

  “But there seem to be a lot of Americans here. Especially around the Cariari where I stayed last night.”

  “The Cariari?” Nellie arched an eyebrow, then looked Julie up and down, taking in her cheap cotton clothes from the mall. “Pretty classy spot. That’s the neighborhood where the well-heeled retirees from the States hang out, playing golf and taking advantage of low cost housing and help.”

  “Too classy for me,” Julie agreed. “But I got in late and didn’t know what else to do.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Nellie what had prompted her to buy a restaurant in a foreign city where she could barely speak the language. But she decided that such nosiness wasn’t smart, especially since she was nurturing a few secrets, herself.

  She said, “Tell me how to find your place, and I’ll be back at five.”

  The room at the La Casa Verde was $25 a night and a quick survey told Julie it was her kind of place. There was a small bed with a worn chenille bedspread, tile floors, the usual barred windows with lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. A bathroom down the hall had to be shared but Julie wasn’t one to linger, so it would be fine. She hoped the two chickens strutting in the courtyard below wouldn’t awaken her at dawn.

  Julie arranged her meager belongings in her dresser drawer and tried to decide where to put her bankbook. Should she tote it around everywhere she went, or was it safer hidden somewhere in the room? She opted for pinning it to the inside pocket of her jeans.

  She looked out at the brilliant blue sky where a few small clouds drifted like puffs of cotton. A shaft of warm sunlight sliced across her room, but she felt an involuntary shiver. This was not like her other adventures. All the time she was bumming around Europe and the Middle East, she’d felt like a trapeze artist with a safety net in place to break her fall. When the risks got too high and her wanderlust sated, she could always count on running back to boring old Lewiston. Now she wondered if she could ever go home again.

  Why hadn’t she gone to the police, taken her chances? She must have been half in shock. But the chilling memory returned. Once again she envisioned the menacing stance of the white-haired man at the top of the hill coldly surveying the scene where he had arranged for a man to die. Kevin’s last warning echoed in her mind. They’ll get you too. She pressed her palms against the sides of her head, finding it difficult to breathe.

  She had never felt so alone.

  FIVE

  The Sycamore, Lewiston’s oldest office building, wasn’t too classy. Wiser businessmen had fled the crumbling brick and cement building with its high ceilings, thick walls and dingy hallways. “For Lease” signs were posted on several interior doors. The only remaining tenants were down-at-the-heel lawyers, a few aging doctors and the usual fly-by-niters.

  Bare wooden floorboards moaned beneath the weight of Maggie’s footsteps as she emerged from the vintage elevator and hurried down the hall to Mike Basinki’s office. Black letters, peeling at the edges, were glued onto frosted window glass:

  MIKE BASINKI

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Maggie jiggled the loose-fitting porcelain door knob, and the door flew open with a loud rattle. Mike Basinki jumped up from behind a vintage wooden desk.

  He still had the bony angular face she remembered, but his black hair was grayer around the edges. Deep creases fanned out from the corners of his tired brown eyes. He wore a crisp white shirt and plain red tie under a gray tweed jacket that hung lopsided on his narrow frame.

  Maggie said: “Pax Vobiscum.”

  Mike intoned the ancient response: “and with you too.”

  “I’m Maggie Kelley Lawson Carrithers,” she said. “Do any of those names sound familiar?”

  “I remember you, Maggie.” Mike’s voice was grave, his eyes steady.

  “I wasn’t sure,” she said. “You were a year ahead of me at St. Margaret’s

  It had been part of some educational scheme that the nuns had configured. One year, you would be with the class ahead, the next year with the class below. This overlapping had supposedly benefited both the slow and fast learners, although the latter had been rare at this Catholic school in a low income neighborhood.

  “Please sit down.” Mike pointed a long finger to a wooden armchair beside the desk.

  Maggie squeezed a crumbled Kleenex to hide her nervousness as she lowered herself onto the hard seat.

  “I heard you were once elected Sheriff.” she said. “I wasn’t living here at the time.”

  Mike laughed without humor. “Yes, my brief but illustrious career as a public servant.”

  The room fell silent and Maggie was sorry for her inane attempt at small talk. She suddenly remembered there had been a scandal—something about his son committing a robbery while driving the sheriff’s car. The voters had decided such failings as a father made him unfit for law enforcement. But the Mike Basinki that she remembered had been the nun’s favorite altar boy and she had no reservations about his integrity.

  “You were the only boy in the school who wore a starched long-sleeved white shirt every day. That was something at St. Margaret’s.”

  Mike gave her a tight little smile. “My mother wanted me to be a priest.”

  “Children often disappoint their mothers.” Maggie said. “That’s partially what brings me here today.”

  “Your mother? I thought she’d passed away.”

  “Not my mother, my daughter.” Maggie found it hard to get the words past the lump in her throat.

  “Sound’s serious. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure; the thing is, she’s run off.”

  “Run off? How old is she?”

  Maggie hesitated, realizing it was going to sound ridiculous reporting a twenty-seven-year-old woman as a runaway. “Okay,” she said. “She’s a grown woman and has a right to do whatever she pleases, but I think she’s in trouble.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Mike said. “And please, if you want me to do my best, don’t leave anything out.”

  When Maggie was finished, Mike had a full page of notes on a yellow legal pad. He put down his pencil and touched his forehead with his fingertips. “What do you know about Kevin DuFrain?”

  “Not a lot. I think Julie was having an affair with him, although I can’t imagine why. He certainly wasn’t her type.”

  Mike’s thick black eyebrows knit together. “Why do you say that?”

  “Julie wasn’t one for casual encounters. She never dated around like other girls. Her boyfriends were always serious, what other girls called nerds or geeks.”

  “DuFrain was neither.”

  “You knew him?”

  “In a town this size? You kidding? I suppose this sounds a bit sanctimonious but he had an unsavory reputation. From what you tell me about Julie, I’m surprised she would have gotten mixed up with him.”

  “Oh God. It was my fault—or maybe Jed’s. Julie came bac
k to try and decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. My husband, her stepfather, got tired of a twenty-seven year sitting around reading books, getting free room and board. He thought a college graduate ought to be doing something useful.”

  “I guess I’d have to agree, although I can’t claim any prizes in the parenting department.” Mike pressed his lips together and looked past Julie’s shoulder as if a painful memory had crested in his mind.

  “I know. To an outsider, or someone who wasn’t her parent, it looked like she was goofing off. But her father—my ex husband—thought she was special. We never wanted her to have a part time job in high school. We just wanted her to study and develop her talents and abilities.”

  “Which were?”

  “Just about anything she wanted to do. She had artistic ability and played the violin. She was a cross-country runner, had top SAT scores.”

  “Sounds like an anorexic standing in front of a smorgasbord. Too many choices, no appetite for anything.”

  “She said she wanted to do something that made a difference, was thinking about going into law or medicine. She thought Jed wasn’t supportive; maybe that’s why she started running around with this Kevin person. You said he had an unsavory reputation. Why is that?”

  “The usual stuff. Suspected of dealing drugs, fast talker, ladies man, big spender.”

  Maggie stared at a spray of steam hissing from the radiator. The hot air burned her throat; she felt faint.

  Mike got up to adjust the knob. “Damned steam heat,” he said. “You look flushed. Can I get you some water?”

  “No, I’ll be fine when I get outside” Maggie pressed her arms across her waist and exhaled, trying to slow down her heartbeat.

  Mike’s eyes went to the bare, monastic white wall behind his desk, where only a silver crucifix sparkled in the sunlight. “I’m going to do the best I can to find out about your daughter,” he said. “ But I can’t promise you anything but that—and my prayers.”