by Hy Conrad
Fanny had been alone on the train platform, enjoying her first gourd of the day, when the dusty black Mercedes pulled up. Through the tint of the windshield, she’d been able to make out the form of a woman behind the wheel, adjusting the rearview mirror, then adjusting herself, setting her hat at a jaunty angle, running her fingers through her hair. Before she could open the door, Jorge O’Bannion had been at the Mercedes, opening it for her, saying something solicitous and nervous. Fanny would have loved to eavesdrop but had been prevented by the distance and that pesky language barrier.
By the time the first Land Rover drove up, Edgar, Todd, and one of the Furies had joined her on the platform. The ride was short, and Fanny spent it glued to the window, transfixed by the unique sawtooth tops of Torres del Paine. It was the most famous, most iconic sight in all of Chile, on the cover of almost every tour guide.
Seated beside her, Todd Drucker was engaged in a monologue about how the mountain looked magically different from every angle, with some of the best angles, showing off the glaciers and lakes, being visible from places like this, well outside the national park. The seatmates were on their best behavior, and no one mentioned the real or imagined corpse.
The views were even better from the veranda of Torre Vista. The estancia was a long white stucco building. A row of second-level dormers, each with a postcard-size balcony, was edged in red tile, as was the roof, giving the old estancia a clean yet timeless feel. The building’s location, like the one for Glendaval, was perfect, with the front veranda framing glorious views of the jagged granite peaks. It made her feel good that the sheep ranchers of a hundred years ago, despite their hard lives, had taken the time and effort to lay out their houses to take advantage of the scenery.
Fanny was just getting settled in their suite, which occupied two of the many red-tiled dormers. She opened one of the dormer doors just to air things out and kept her eye open for the second Land Cruiser, the one that would bring her slugabed of a daughter. But it wasn’t a Land Cruiser that created the next little dust storm along the winding road. It was the black Mercedes.
Fanny stood in the window and watched the car stop directly in front. Jorge O’Bannion emerged from the passenger side and walked around to the trunk. Seconds later the driver joined him. She pointed imperiously to the luggage and walked alongside the Chilean gentleman as he carried the three Louis Vuitton bags up the half flight of veranda stairs and out of Fanny’s line of sight.
Something about the woman had struck Fanny as familiar—something about her half-hidden hair, her build, the sharpness of her features. Fanny’s natural curiosity was enough to send her scurrying out of her suite and down to the entry hall. Seeing the new arrivals just inside the door, she caught her breath, slowed her pace, and adopted a casual, disinterested air. “Buenos dias.”
O’Bannion looked momentarily startled. “Senora Abel, good morning. We are about to set the desayuno—our full gaucho breakfast—out in front, so that everyone can enjoy the view. I don’t believe you have met my good friend Senora Pisano.” Then he said something similar in Spanish.
Fanny instinctively turned on the charm. “Wonderful to meet you. You must be Jorge’s partner. He’s mentioned how much he depends on you. Such a pleasure to finally meet.” She plastered on a grin and waited for the flattering translation to have its effect.
Lola Pisano didn’t reply. She simply adjusted the collar of her jacket and turned away—but not before Fanny noted the mole, the size and shape of a dirty quarter.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” O’Bannion apologized. “The flight from Buenos Aires to Santiago, then to Puerto Natales, then the car ride here. Exhausting.”
“Which is why your train concept is so brilliant,” said Fanny. “Guaranteed to succeed.”
“I’m certain we will all talk soon,” O’Bannion said in his courtly way, then picked up the three pieces of luggage and began lugging them off to the ground floor’s right wing. The couple disappeared down the hall just as four members of the staff emerged from the depths of the estancia, rolling out fragrant carts of food and pushing them toward the open double doors to the veranda.
Fanny was barely aware of the activity coursing around her. She barely heard the polite cries of “Disculpe” as the staff begged her pardon for being in her way. From the vantage point of the bedroom balcony, she had sensed something familiar about this woman. On actually meeting Lola Pisano that sense had grown—and solidified into something quite amazing. Inexplicable and amazing.
“I think Alicia was right,” Fanny mumbled to no one but herself. “I think I may have had a vision.”
CHAPTER 16
“A watched pot never boils,” as they say. And a watched-for Land Cruiser never comes up a Patagonian road. Of course neither of those is true, Fanny reminded herself as she paced and watched and waited. The pot eventually does boil. And the second Land Cruiser, containing Amy, Alicia, and two of the Furies, did come up the dusty road from the station.
“Morning, dear,” she said as her daughter bounded up the veranda’s steps and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Did you sleep well?” Amy asked, full of energy and anticipation for the new location. “I slept like a log for once. Isn’t this stunning? Oh, good. They have eggs and toast. And pickles, of course. Why do some cultures love things like pickles for breakfast? You would think digestive tracts would be the same the world over. Oh . . .” And here she lowered her voice and checked around. “I have news about the Furies. You’ll never guess. One of them, the short one . . .”
“That’s nice, dear. But I have to talk to Alicia.”
“Alicia? Why Alicia?”
“Never you mind why. Go have breakfast and plan your day. I’ll be with you in a few.”
“Mother, what are you up to?”
“Nothing.” Fanny did her best to avoid the penetrating gaze. “And try the pickles. Live a little. A billion or so Chinese can’t be wrong.”
Alicia Lindborn could be found on the far side of the buffet, already hovering over the selection of tea bags, at last choosing a green tea. Fanny forced herself to take a few calming breaths and waited until the travel matriarch had added the water to her cup and entered into the dunking part of the ritual. Amy, she saw, was by the coffee carafe, eyeing her suspiciously but well out of earshot.
“Alicia, good morning. Gorgeous day, although they say the rain can appear at a moment’s notice.” She leaned in. “What exactly do you know about visions, particularly maté visions?”
Alicia paused in her tea bag dunking. “Fanny, are you saying you had a vision? The dead woman?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask. The vision you talked about, when you knew you had to leave your Peruvian husband. Did it seem real? Like the vision was really happening?”
“It did,” said Alicia, taking a few steps to a more secluded corner. Fanny followed her. “But honestly, I may have had more going on than maté. We used to mix it with shrooms and a quarter tab of LSD. It was the sixties.”
“But the vision felt real.”
“It felt real.”
“Was it like looking into the future? Seeing something that hasn’t yet happened? And do you think you could have changed what happened next? That’s the important question.”
“You mean changed the future?” Alicia had never thought of it that way. “I guess people have visions but never act on them. I could have stayed in Peru, I guess. Nothing was stopping me.”
“And if I, just for argument’s sake, saw a death that hadn’t happened yet, I could maybe change it? Keep the death from happening?”
“It would be worth a shot.” Alicia retrieved her tea bag, wrapped it across her spoon, and deposited it onto a colorful little ceramic tray. “This woman in your vision, you think she’s still alive? How do you know? Have you seen her? Alive? No condor bites?”
“What?” Fanny shook her head. “Oh, no. It was just a hypothetical. Forget I even asked.”
“So she’s not alive
?”
“I don’t honestly know.” Fanny adopted her most sincere expression, perfected after years of practice. “But if I do see her, then I’ll know. Maybe I can keep her alive.”
Alicia didn’t look convinced. “This is like science fiction, you know.”
“No.” Fanny scoffed. “I hate science fiction. I was just curious. Like people who have premonitions about plane crashes and tell you not to get on a certain flight. I would just tell this woman not to be outside alone with condors.”
“Right.” Alicia added a spoonful of sugar to her green tea and stirred. “Can you promise me something, Fanny?”
“I can promise. That part’s easy.”
“Can you promise to call on me if you need help? If you do find this woman and you need help in some way, please let me know.”
“That I can promise. Why not?”
By the time Fanny rejoined her daughter, she had the first part of her plan in place. “So what was the big secret with Alicia?” asked Amy. She was sitting on the steps, balancing a plate of eggs and sausage on her lap. A pickle had been pushed to the far side of the plate and remained untasted.
“We were discussing my vision.”
Amy’s eyes darted around. “Indoor voice.”
“Sorry.” Fanny complied and sat down beside her. “After much deliberation, I decided it wasn’t a vision. Just an inexplicable corpse from nowhere that disappeared.”
“Much more logical. Good.” Amy chewed and swallowed. “Did you see today’s schedule? There’s a boat ride out to a glacier, maybe even kayaking. The Tyndall is one of the biggest glaciers in Patagonia.” When Fanny didn’t respond immediately. . . “What?”
“I don’t know if I can go. I’m feeling a bit under the weather.”
“That’s too bad. What’s wrong?”
Fanny thought fast. “I had a pickle, and it didn’t agree with me.”
“Oh.” Amy stared daggers at her own pickle. “Do you need Pepto? I have some in my kit.”
“No, thanks. But I may just hang around here today.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Amy said, trying to hide her reluctance. “I will.”
“No, no. You’ve been dying to see a glacier. Who knows? I may join you. It depends on how I’m feeling in an hour.”
What it really depended on, Fanny knew, was what Lola Pisano was planning for the day.
Just as breakfast ended, Fanny was buttonholing Nicolas in the entry hall and asking a few questions. Minutes later her pickle attack flared up, and she had to beg off the glacier excursion. This just happened to coincide with the news that Jorge O’Bannion and his investor would also be missing the excursion. Amy told her mother she understood and promised to bring back plenty of photos.
Fanny loved house tours. Her favorites were the improvised ones where she’d be at a dinner party and wander off, presumably looking for a bathroom just down this hall or up those stairs. It wasn’t really snooping, she rationalized. It was an unescorted glimpse into their lives. Just as this wasn’t snooping right now. She was merely wandering the Torre Vista facilities, going from the renovated public spaces, through the half-renovated spaces, to the un-renovated private spaces.
With the rest of the guests gone, plus Nicolas and several others, she felt free to take her time. The remaining staff would be busy with their jobs and wouldn’t necessarily know how to deal with a roaming, clueless, entitled norteamericana who refused to understand the most basic sign language for “Stop,” “Forbidden,” and “Do not enter.” If anyone persisted, then she could fall back on her real mission. “I’m trying to find Senora Lola Pisano? Do you know where she is? The woman with the polka dot on her cheek?”
The farther Fanny penetrated into the estancia, the more fascinating it became. There was a section of cellar, under the kitchen, which was crowded with dusty furniture and toys from a hundred years ago: an old hobbyhorse on a stick, rattan chairs without the rattan, dolls with worn-off faces, and locked trunks that refused to open, no matter how hard she pried at them.
On the second floor, away from the views, the house seemed relatively unchanged from the family’s glory days. Expensive but peeling wallpaper. A moth-eaten Persian rug, probably silk, that ran the length of a corridor. On the walls were old framed photographs of stern-looking ranchers and their wives. Others of men on polo ponies. The more recent of the faded portraits displayed a more relaxed attitude—children on their mothers’ knees, visiting politicians and celebrities. What was Mickey Mouse doing in this one photo? Fanny put on her reading glasses and squinted. The grinning, confident man with the mustache, posing with the oversize Mickey doll, looked like a young Walt Disney. Had Disney ever visited Patagonia? Apparently so.
Fanny had just put away her glasses when a movement at the other end of the corridor caught her eye. She was not by nature superstitious, quite the contrary. But the recent suggestion of her psychic abilities, combined with the dusty, shadowy corridor and the fact that she’d watched The Shining two weeks earlier on Turner Classic Movies . . . “Lola?” she whispered. “Lola Pisano?”
The figure at the end of the corridor seemed to know the name.
“Are you the real Lola? Or are you just a vision? I didn’t mean just. Visions are important.” Fanny started to walk slowly toward it. “I come in peace.”
The figure said nothing but glanced from side to side, almost as if trapped and looking for an escape. And this was enough to convince Fanny that it was real.
“Senora Pisano,” she said with relief and put on her warmest smile. “We met earlier today. Fanny Abel.”
The figure said something in Spanish and took a step back into the shadows.
Fanny came closer and now recognized the mole and the hair. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have something to tell you. You’re in trouble, dear. I don’t mean to alarm, but I’m pretty sure I can see into the future, and you’re dead. Nod if you understand English at all. No? Okay.” She took a breath and racked her brains for any memory of the language. “Muerto,” she said. “Usted. In poco time. I know this sounds ridiculous. Ridiculo. Pero no salir fuera by yourself. Non sola. Or with anyone you don’t trust absolutely, because the muerto I’m talking about could be an accidento or maybe murder. I wish I could be more specifico.”
Lola’s expression seemed to reflect an alarmed kind of curiosity. She fingered the turquoise pendant on the silver chain around her neck. And then she replied in the most commonly used word in the English language. It was also the most commonly used word in Spanish, French, Chinese, and just about any other language. “Eh?” In this case, with this inflection, the universal translation was “What the hell?”
“Please listen. Por favor. Muerto. I’m not kidding. Peligro. Is that the word for danger? I’ve seen it on signs.”
Lola seemed to think about it, then turned to the door behind her and shouted, “Jorge, ven aqui. Ahora.”
Almost instantly the door opened and Jorge O’Bannion appeared, bathed in a glow from the room behind him. “Fanny. Hello. What are you doing?” Then a torrent of words to Lola in Spanish.
“Hello,” Fanny chirped, wriggling her fingers in a wave. “I must have gotten lost. Big house. I know I should be off with the others, but I ate a bad pickle, so I’m here by myself. Just wandering around.”
There was another torrent of Spanish back and forth. “Lola wants to know what you said to her. You said muerto? Death?” He looked concerned.
“Muerto? No, I meant maté. I’m trying to find maté. I ran out.” It took Fanny a second to realize why she’d lied. Not that lying was bad. It was almost second nature. But if there was any possibility of Lola’s future death being a murder, then she should be suspicious of everyone. Even Jorge. “I need to settle my stomach after the bad pickle.”
“Maté?” O’Bannion chuckled and translated. Lola still looked confused. “There is plenty of maté in the kitchen. Let me take you there.”
He was about to close
the door behind him when Lola touched his arm. They spoke, this time quickly and softly, as if they were solving a problem. Whatever she said last, he agreed to with a smile.
“Lola wants to know if you will do us a favor.”
“A favor?”
“It takes but a moment. Senora Pisano has graciously, and very wisely, decided to extend the funding for the New Patagonian Express.” Then he bent at the waist and kissed his investor’s hand.
“Why, that’s wonderful. It’s a great tour,” Fanny said in Lola’s direction. “Congratulations.”
O’Bannion was beaming in his reserved, gentlemanly way. “We wrote up an extension to our current agreement. We were just about to track down a maid as our witness. But since you are here, perhaps you can do us the honor.”
“Sure,” said Fanny. “But I don’t read Spanish. Is that a problem?”
“That’s what we were discussing. You do not need to read it, just attest to the fact that Lola and I both signed.” He swung open the door, revealing an old-fashioned study trimmed in dark leather and mahogany. Except for the laptop computer lying open on the desk, it would have been the pride of any nineteenth-century tycoon.
“Sounds reasonable,” Fanny said and led the way inside.
It was a simple procedure. A printer, discreetly hidden in a corner, was already spitting out three copies of a two-page document. Jorge explained the essence of the agreement, which seemed straightforward enough. O’Bannion was giving Lola or her company, Fanny wasn’t sure which, an extra 20 percent stake in the New Patagonian Express Corporation in exchange for some astronomical number of Chilean pesos, which Fanny seemed to recall went for about seven hundred to the U.S. dollar. After the others had signed all three copies, Francis V. Abel initialed the bottom of each page one and affixed her signature to each page two, on the line labeled testigo.
“Wonderful,” said O’Bannion, sounding almost giddy. “Thank you both.” He slipped the documents into a manila folder, then stepped around to a sideboard where a chilled bottle of champagne was peeking out from the top of an ice bucket, flanked by three champagne flutes. “I know it’s early in the day, but, ladies, please join me in a toast.”