by Louise Clark
By mid-afternoon Christy had strayed into a less well-heeled area where tourists were a rarity. Fewer people spoke English here, and the architecture was plain and functional. This wasn't Frank's kind of venue, and she didn't think it really shouted 'Brianne' either. She was exhausted, frustrated, and feeling the pressure of moving on without having accomplished their goal. As she headed toward the meeting place she'd arranged with Quinn, she saw a small, but attractive, cantina that appeared welcoming and prosperous.
She paused, considering the place. The stucco wall was painted a pretty peach, not unlike many other buildings in the area, and a profusion of flowers cascaded from the boxes hanging from the darkened windows. She wondered if she should go inside. It was not happy hour yet, and the place didn't look open. Moreover, it didn't look like the kind of establishment either Brianne or Frank would frequent. Still, there was always the possibility someone inside had seen them.
The interior lighting of the cantina was dim. A mahogany bar stretched the length of one wall. Round mahogany tables filled the center of the room. The place was completely empty.
Christy was tired, hot, and her feet hurt. A drink would go down very well right now. She bit her lip as she cautiously threaded her way through the tables, pushing deeper into the room. "Hello? Is anyone here?"
There was no answer. She wondered if she should sit down at one of the tables and see what happened or if she should wander back out to the street and go on her way.
Wavering, she continued her inspection of the room. To one side of the bar she saw an unmarked door. Curious, she headed over to it. Her hand was on the knob, ready to turn it, when the door swung open of its own accord. She jumped back. A good-looking man of Mayan ancestry stood in the doorway. Stocky in build, with a round face and broad features, his skin was swarthy and his eyes black. He wasn't much taller than Christy was, but with his muscular build he seemed to loom over her.
"Buenos días," Christy said, her heart still pounding.
"Buenas tardes, señorita." He added in accented English, "We are closed. We do not open until eight."
"Oh, that's too bad."
"Is there some way I can be helpful?" He sounded apologetic. The Mayans were a friendly, hospitable people. They didn't like saying no to visitors, no matter how outrageous the request.
Christy immediately felt guilty and backed up a step. She would have liked to leave right away so this poor man could go back to whatever he'd been doing, but she'd already realized that hospitality thwarted was as bad as hospitality not offered. "I came in because I'm looking for someone, my husband. Would you have a moment to answer some questions?"
The man frowned, then gestured to one of the tables. "Sit down. Would you like a soft drink?"
"That would be great," Christy said. He retreated inside the door, then returned with two cans of pop, already dripping with sweat from contact with the hot Caribbean air. He placed them on the table as he sat down, then handed her a straw. "I am Miguel, the manager here. Why are you are looking for your esposo?" The can hissed as he popped the top.
Christy cracked open her can, inserted the straw, took a long sip of soft drink and sighed. "He's left me and I need to find him for my daughter's sake. I have his picture if you'd be kind enough to take a look at it."
Miguel studied Frank's photo for what seemed to be a long time, then he shook his head. "I remember a man who looked similar to this one. He had blond hair and the same shape of face, but I do not think he was your esposo. He was with a blond woman, tall with—how do you say it?—a... a provocative way of dressing. She was beautiful to look at, but had no manners. I was forced to ask them to leave my cantina."
"What happened?"
Miguel shrugged. "The woman drank too much. She started to fight with the man. To argue, you know? Their voices became very loud. She kept saying he did not understand the good life and that she deserved better." Miguel fingered the picture of Frank. "Her voice was not pleasant and her words were demeaning. The man, he hit her, on her face with the back of his hand. She did not deserve that. No woman does."
Christy slipped the grainy photocopy of the newspaper photo of Crack Graham and Brianne from her purse. She handed it to Miguel. "Would this be the man and woman?"
Miguel looked back and forth between the pictures, then he nodded. "Si. The photo is not clear, but that is certainly the woman. I am not sure about the man..." He peered again, nodded emphatically. "Si, that is the man who was with her." He cocked a brow, looking from the picture of Brianne and Graham to Frank and back again. "Your esposo is this woman's lover?"
Christy smiled wearily. "Amongst other things."
"He is a fool. This woman and the man she is with—" He gestured to the photo of Brianne and Graham. "—are bad people. When he comes back to you, you must tell him to stay away from them."
"Why are they bad people, Miguel?" Christy watched as his face twisted from some internal battle. Conscience at war with the desire to please, perhaps.
Conscience apparently won. "This man, he is dangerous, si? He comes into my cantina with a man who is known to sell drugs to the American turista who come to our city. He also sends it to the United States by using turista to carry it in their baggage. One day, the day the blond man hit the woman, I hear them talking, the blond man and the Mexicano. They make a deal. The Mexicano offers to pay him much money to bring a shipment of cocaine to your country. The blond man, he agrees. The woman, she does not. She says they are to stay in México and he cannot go back to—how do you say it?"
"Vancouver?"
"Si, that was the name. Vancouver. This man, he should not return to Vancouver. He tells her he will go back if he chooses. She shouts at him that he made a deal, that they were paid much money to come to Cancun, and to stay here until they were told it was time to return. That is when he hit her, and that is when I told them all that they must leave my cantina."
As she put away the photos, Christy's mind was racing. It made sense. Heaven help her, it made perfect sense. "I appreciate your help, Miguel. This may not have been exactly what I wanted to hear, but at least I know a bit more than I did when I walked in here." She brought out a US fifty dollar bill and set it on the table. "Thanks for the drink. Gracias."
He put his hand over hers. "Keep your money, señora. You have enough trouble chasing you. The drink—and the information—were freely given. Now, I must work. Please stay and enjoy the rest of your soft drink."
He went out through the door that apparently led to the kitchens. Christy was left in the dim quiet to enjoy her refreshment and consider the implications of what he'd told her.
Chapter 13
On the drive from Cancun to Tulum they thrashed over what Christy had learned. "We knew Graham was a drug dealer," Quinn said. The road wove along the coastline, jungle on one side, the sea visible on the other. Quinn switched off the air conditioning and opened his window to the breeze. "Looks like he decided to arrange a new supplier while he was here."
"And Brianne didn't like it." The wind ruffled Quinn's dark hair, blowing it across his forehead. Christy wanted to reach over and smooth it back, just for the pleasure of feeling his skin beneath her fingertips and the silk of his hair on her hand.
"Yeah. That's very interesting." He checked in his mirror, then pulled out to pass the ancient pickup chugging along ahead of them. "Brianne wasn't upset because he was running drugs, but because he intended to return to Vancouver."
"She talked about a deal. I wonder who actually made that deal? Crack Graham? Or was it Brianne?"
Quinn passed the old truck, then eased back into his lane. "Good catch! Okay, let's do some speculating. Why would anybody want to send Brianne and a two-bit drug dealer to Mexico on their dime?"
"Simple. Graham looks like Frank. Brianne was supposed to be Frank's girlfriend. Put the two of them together and you get assumptions."
"What kind of assumptions?"
"That Frank has fled the country because of his crimes, but he's
got plenty of money, so the place he's chosen is one with luxury resorts and beautiful surroundings."
"And he's taken along his current squeeze to play with while he's here." Quinn glanced at her. There was an apology in his eyes.
"So, if this is a scam, it turns around Brianne, because she's the one who is real," Christy said, cheered by the Quinn's concern for her.
He nodded. "Most people who go on the lam are discovered because someone from their former life sees them where they are not supposed to be. That person tells someone else, who tells a neighbor, who tells a friend, and suddenly lots of people have heard that so-and-so is in Mexico, even though he's supposed to be in Montreal. If Frank really wanted to disappear he would have used some of that huge pile of cash he stole to buy himself a secluded beach house on a tiny island no one has ever heard of."
"But he didn't. Instead he chose to go to a place where lots of people vacation. With him, he brings a woman who stands out, partly because of her looks and the way she dresses, and partly because of her behavior."
"So she'd be noticed, no matter what." Quinn tapped the steering wheel.
"Miguel in the cantina said they were paid to be down here. Maybe they were also paid to be noticed."
"So it's unlikely Frank was in Cancun." The road turned away from the coast, diving into the gloom of dense jungle. The fresh sea breeze was replaced with the fetid odor of rotting vegetation. Quinn closed the window and turned on the air conditioning. "The question is, was Frank the person who paid Graham and Brianne?"
"Why would he do that?" Christy asked.
Quinn took his eyes off the road for a moment. He rubbed his hand over hers in a soothing way. She guessed that he wasn't happy about what he was intending to say. "Because he did buy that secluded beach house on the nowhere island and he doesn't want anyone looking for it, or finding him."
Quinn's hand was warm on hers. She kept her hand still, comforted by his compassion, afraid to show her distress. "I don't believe that. It's not Frank. He needs people around him. He'd go crazy in secluded place. We always vacationed in cities—San Francisco, New York, Toronto. Places where Frank knew people. He doesn't like being alone."
Quinn was quiet for a moment, then he gave her hand a quick squeeze. "Okay. Let's speculate from the other direction. Frank was murdered. Whoever killed him asked Brianne to find someone who looked like Frank to act as a decoy. Who would know that Brianne was Frank's girlfriend?"
"But she wasn't!"
"Christy, I know this is tough, but—"
"No! Listen, Quinn, Frank told me that Brianne was after him, but he wasn't interested."
There was another silence. Quinn shot Christy a compassionate look that made her clench her fingers, because at that moment she wanted to hit him. "You think I'm wrong. You think Frank lied to me."
"The thought has occurred." He watched the road, his mouth set in a grim line.
Christy drew a shaky breath. "So we agree to disagree. We're dealing in perceptions here, anyway. Brianne wanted people to think she was Frank's girlfriend. Who would believe that? One of his friends?"
"Aaron DeBolt?"
"Probably not. Aaron always claimed that Frank told him everything. He'd know that Frank wasn't interested in a relationship with Brianne."
"But he'd also know that Brianne was after Frank and that her behavior was making it seem that she was Frank's lover. Rumors have a way of gaining acceptance, even if they're totally untrue. If Aaron wanted people to think Frank and Brianne were lovers, all he'd have to do was tell a few close friends that Frank had told him Brianne was awesome in bed. The connection would be made. Suddenly, everyone is thinking Frank and Brianne are deep in an intense relationship."
Christy chewed her lip. The vegetation thinned, chopped back from the road to allow a cluster of houses and a few fields to take root. "Aunt Ellen thought they were lovers."
"And the rest of the trustees, I'd bet," Quinn said, slowing down as they drove past the village.
"Natalie DeBolt believed it, even before Frank disappeared. The board of the IHTF was meeting about a month before it all happened. She said something about Frank and pretty blonds and women who let themselves go after their kids were born. I didn't pay any attention at the time, but after the rumors started that Frank and Brianne had come down here together, I wondered."
Quinn looked over at her and grinned. "Lady, if that's what you look like after you've let yourself go, I'd be happy to have a dozen kids with you."
The words echoed through the car. Christy's eyes widened. Quinn realized what he'd said and muttered, "That is, any man would, because you look great. Sexy, I mean. Oh, hell. Take your foot out of your mouth, Armstrong, and shut up."
Christy laughed, feeling considerably better.
* * *
Tulum was the site of the impressive remains of a Mayan city. As they drove past on their way to the resort where they were registered for the night, Christy looked wistfully at the site, wishing she had the energy to tour the ruins, but a day spent tromping around Cancun had left her footsore and ready to do nothing but eat and relax.
The resort was located on a pristine arc of white sand beach bordering an azure ocean. Waves lapped gently, but the water was crystal clear. Palm trees edged the sand and even now, toward evening, the sky was a deep, rich blue. Christy couldn't help thinking that as a place of exile, the Mexican Riviera was not much of a hardship.
The resort was a couple of stars up from the place they had stayed at in Cancun. Christy's room was lovely. Dominated by a huge four-poster bed, cool white walls, and tiled floors, it opened to a terrace that looked out onto the heart-stopping beauty of the beach.
They ate dinner in a restaurant with walls as fresh and white as those in the rooms, but accented with the vibrant colors of flowering oleander and orchids. The food was fusion cuisine, an intriguing mix of French and the local Mayan specialties. While they ate they talked about Frank's non-appearance, tossing out ideas, breaking them down, trying out new ones. In the end they kept coming back to the loose relationship between Brianne and Crack Graham and the lack of evidence that there had ever been one between her and Frank.
When Christy phoned home that evening, she called from the comfort of a wicker basket chair on the terrace outside her room. The sea was a soothing swoosh in the background. The sun was setting to the west, a dark curtain over the brightness of the rich, blue sky. Noelle talked excitedly about her day—Grandma had taken her to school and met Mrs. Morton, Roy had taken them to the chicken place where they'd had a feast, and she was stuffed. Then Christy's mom, Rachael, got on the phone to tell Christy everything was fine and not to worry and how were things going in Mexico?
After Christy ended the call, she thought about that question. How were things going? The truth was that she and Quinn were getting nowhere. Her mom had to be back at work on Monday, so Christy had to return to Burnaby by Sunday night. That meant she should leave tomorrow, because travel back to Vancouver from the east coast of Mexico would take most of the day.
Restless, she turned away from the white sand and enticing ocean beneath the rapidly darkening sky. She'd have a swim, then tell Quinn her decision.
The minute her naked feet touched the soft white sand, still warm from the heat of the day, she felt a kind of peace. This was such a beautiful place. It was a pity she couldn't stay longer. Maybe someday she'd come back for a proper vacation.
She was at the edge of the water, wearing nothing but her bathing suit and an almost transparent wrapper that barely reached her thighs, when she felt Quinn's presence. She looked over as he came up beside her. She smiled, and watched his answering smile light up his attractive features. "Out for a moonlight swim like me?"
"I saw you from my terrace. I hoped you wouldn't mind if I joined you."
She shook her head. "My pleasure."
They walked in silence as Christy waded through surf up to her knees. Dressed in shorts and an open necked shirt, Quinn stayed in shallower w
ater. She stared out into the darkness. "Quinn, we're getting nowhere here."
"I can't agree." He kicked up a spray of water ahead of them. "We've proven that Crack Graham was in this area and identified why he would have returned to Vancouver. We've discovered that Brianne was here and that she was noticed and we've confirmed that Frank knows how to lie low."
"But he doesn't! Frank is used to a pampered life, to being noticed because of how he looks and who he is. Whoever arranged for Brianne and Graham to come down here knew Frank, knew his habits, his expectations. And it wasn't Frank! He would never disappear out of Noelle's life. He loves her too much." She stopped. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stared out at the darkening sky. "He used to say that Noelle would be brought up by her parents, both her parents. He'd had such a rotten childhood, he wasn't going to put his daughter through the same kind of grief."
Quinn stopped beside her. He put his hand on her shoulder, drew his thumb along her jawline. "If he didn't organize this, someone else did. That means Frank is probably dead."
"I know." Christy poked through her feelings, wishing she could grieve at the thought of Frank's death. The only emotion she was feeling, though, was the irritation that had become an everyday part of their relationship. That was partly caused by the cat, of course. Since he'd arrived, she and Frank had slipped into their usual pattern of bickering over every little thing. How could she grieve for her husband when he wouldn't get out of her head and she was always arguing with him? "It all fits, doesn't it?"
Quinn made a strangled sound and flung away. He kicked at the water, sending spray flying. "Don't tell me he's the cat, because I don't buy it!"
Christy laughed and started wading through the lazy surf again. She sympathized with Quinn. The very thought of her husband's consciousness taking up residence in a cat was absurd. "Okay, it's tough for you to accept that he's the cat. And maybe... a little too easy for me. Look, since Frank disappeared things have gone from bad to worse. When Detective Patterson told me Frank had returned I was angry. How could he come back and expect our relationship to be the same after all he'd done to me? But he never showed up. Maybe..." She looked out into the darkness, unable to face Quinn. "Maybe I just want him to be dead."