by Hy Conrad
“It’s never too early for champagne.” Fanny didn’t really believe that, but she thought it sounded sophisticated.
CHAPTER 17
“Mom, you should have come. The weather was perfect. And the glacier was so blue. And huge. We got to kayak right up beside it.”
“You sound like those competitive tourists you hate so.”
“Sorry. But it was such a great day.”
The vehicles had returned about an hour ago. The seven kayakers and their guide had barged through the entry hall, looking wet and tired and happy. They had disappeared up to their rooms to change. Now they were down in the lounge, holding celebratory cups of spiked hot chocolate and reliving their adventure by the warmth of the fireplace. Fanny had been waiting for her daughter in a comfortable chair in a book-lined corner, glancing through a picture book of Patagonian wildlife.
“There was this waterfall coming right off the glacier. Nicolas pointed it out, but I guess Todd didn’t hear. His kayak went straight for it. Drenched. He didn’t quite capsize, but it was touch and go, because of the undertow, I guess, pulling him closer. Edgar went to his rescue, and so did Alicia, which was amazing. She’s such an inspiration. They grabbed his towline and . . .”
“I assume Mr. Toad was all outraged?”
“Actually, he took it pretty well. Afterward, he thanked everyone and didn’t blame Nicolas. We all joked about it.”
“Maybe Toady Drucker isn’t so bad.”
“He never once mentioned TrippyGirl. Of course, you weren’t there to goad him on.”
“It’s nice to know I was missed.”
“Wait. I didn’t tell you about the penguins. Oh, my God. After the glacier, Nicolas led the kayaks around to the land side, where there was this whole flock of penguins, small ones, digging in the ground and making their nests. More than a flock. Hundreds, like a city. We got out and walked around. They weren’t afraid at all or even curious. Just going about their business. But let me tell you, they were stinky. Truly the stinkiest birds ever.”
Fanny had to smile. “Look at you, the outdoor girl.”
Amy nodded. “Not like me at all, I know. Usually, it’s museums and culture and history. Anyway, I wish you’d been there.”
“If only I hadn’t eaten that pickle.”
From across the lounge, Edgar called out Amy’s name and held up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, pantomiming an offer to top off her hot chocolate.
“Go play with your friends,” said Fanny. “I’ll join you in a minute.” Then she watched as her little girl practically skipped across the room. It was good to see her excited by a trip, like in the old days, before the murders started following her around.
Fanny’s afternoon hadn’t been nearly as invigorating. Two and a half flutes of good champagne had left her sleepy and with a headache. She awoke from her late-morning nap with a head full of misgivings. Her pitiful attempt to warn Lola Pisano had only emphasized her problem. Fanny had never considered language as a barrier to communication. But when your idea was as complex as “I had a vision of you being eaten by condors in the middle of nowhere, so please be careful,” it wasn’t so easy. Especially when you were shouting the word muerto and the woman was already wary of you.
Her first instinct had been to ask Jorge to translate. But even if Jorge was innocent of any plan against Lola, Fanny didn’t want to risk the ridicule that would rain down when she explained about her vision. For the same reason, she had rejected using Nicolas. Or anyone else. For a while, she had considered doing it herself, hunting down the strongest Wi-Fi signal and using Google Translate to create her note of warning. But, in the midst of her bubbly fog, while trying to think of exactly how to word such a message, she had got bogged down.
Amy was at the coffee table by the fireplace, hunched over a phone with Edgar and Todd, laughing and covering her mouth over some video one of them had shot. She’d had an exhilarating day, the kind that she used to have with Eddie, the kind that had made her fall in love with travel. The last thing she needed was for her mother to inform her that the woman in the Patagonian wilds was the same woman who’d just arrived here at Torre Vista.
For right now, Fanny’s plan was simple. She would keep an eye on Lola Pisano. If the Argentine heiress left the estancia, Fanny would find some excuse to go with her. If Lola somehow left on her own, Fanny would reveal her vision to the others and organize a search party. More than that she couldn’t do, at least not in her current condition.
“Excuse me.” It was one of the Furies, not much taller than Fanny herself, entering her line of vision. “It’s my fault that we have not been properly introduced.” She bowed her head slightly, which seemed to be the local equivalent of the American handshake. “Gabriela Garcia.”
“Fanny Abel.” She pointed to the chair across from her. “Please. Amy told me we had another English speaker among us.”
Gabriela refused the chair. “I wasn’t being unfriendly or pretending not to speak English.” She hesitated. “I just want to ask . . . Have you seen Lola Pisano, Jorge’s friend?”
“Lola?” A slight chill ran down Fanny’s spine, although she didn’t quite know why. “Do you know Lola Pisano?”
“We’ve never met,” said Gabriela. “But I want to introduce myself. Her late husband had been a business associate of my late husband. We’re both from Buenos Aires, but she doesn’t spend much time in public.”
“Because of the hairy mole? I’ve noticed that she tries to hide it.”
“Wouldn’t you? And to make it worse, we porteños are quite vain. We may not do as much plastic surgery as Brazilians, but almost. A thing like that you would think is fixable. It draws the eye and makes people uncomfortable.” Gabriela continued to hover over Fanny’s chair. “You have seen her, then?”
Fanny checked around the room, just to make sure. “No. But I’m sure she’ll be at dinner.”
“I will keep an eye out, as they say. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Abel.” And with that, Senora Garcia wandered back toward her friends, who were at the bar with Nicolas and the cute little bartender who worked in the stables during the day and whose name Fanny could never quite recall.
That evening in the dining room, Fanny kept an eye focused on the doorway. She expected Lola to walk in on Jorge’s arm. But the O’Bannion patriarch entered alone, making the rounds to all his guests and settling in with Alicia Lindborn at a table for two. Fanny and Amy were sharing a table with Edgar and Todd. Their conversation was agreeable and light—all about travel, of course, and travel’s most common pairing these days, wine.
“I don’t understand,” said Todd in a cordial but officious tone. “You come all the way to Chile to drink a cab. This is the home of the Carménère, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not a cab. A cab-merlot blend,” said Edgar, holding up his bottle for inspection. “More complex than a Carménère, less of a summer wine. We’ll let Fanny be the judge.” He waved for the waiter to bring two more glasses. Fanny didn’t object. She wasn’t much of a wine drinker. Martinis were her poison of choice. But she liked giving her opinion. Plus, the wine would help calm her down, she thought, help her to keep things in perspective. After half a glass of each, she sided with Todd and voted for the Carménère.
The wine continued to flow, and the subject of TrippyGirl never once came up. Despite several more arguments about Malbecs and Syrahs, a portion of Fanny’s attention stayed focused on the empty doorway at the edge of her vision. But the doorway remained empty, even after the late Patagonian sun finally edged behind the jagged peaks.
The fruit and cheese plate was followed by the dessert wine and the final course, suspiro limeño, an overly sweet caramel concoction that had nothing to do with limes or lemons. And still no Lola. It was only toward the end that Fanny realized she wasn’t the only one focused on the missing woman. Every minute or so, Gabriela would turn to look. That was to be expected. But also Edgar and Todd, Fanny noticed, and Alicia, who was seated with Jorge but kept sca
nning the room. The two other Furies were the exception and remained oblivious to everything but the suspiro limeño.
As for Amy, she seemed animated and happy, blissfully unaware of the empty doorway and whatever meaning it might hold.
* * *
For once she was up before her mother, thanks in part to last night’s battle of the wines. Amy could tell from the depth and volume of the snoring that Fanny had another hour at least before joining the conscious world. Amy used this time to visit the bathroom quietly, put on her black skinny jeans and an oversize plaid shirt, one that had mysteriously gone missing from Marcus’s closet. She lamented the fact that she’d brought only four different pairs of glasses. For today, she chose the Lafonts. Again.
At first glance, as Amy came down the stairs, the lounge seemed empty. Outside the windows, daylight was having trouble arriving. Low, fat clouds scuttered across the sky, leaving the room in undulating shades of reflected gray, and she wondered where the light switch might be, something you rarely had cause to wonder about in a hotel’s public spaces, where someone was almost always there before you. But just as her Top-Siders hit the last step, the lights went on.
“Good morning.” It was Gabriela Garcia, wearing a similar outfit of a plaid top and skinny jeans, standing by a row of switches. “Is it so early still?”
“Morning.” Amy reached into a pocket and checked her phone, which during the past few days had been functioning as nothing more than a watch and a camera. “Eight-oh-six.”
“Everyone must be getting a late start.” Somewhere deep behind the lounge they could hear dishes clinking and doors being opened and closed. “What is on the agenda?”
Amy had the daily schedule folded in her back pocket, but she didn’t have to look. “The Monastery of Monte Carmelo. It’s never been open to the public. But Jorge has a cousin who’s the main monk there, so he arranged a visit. They’re supposed to have these wonderful mosaics brought over from Spain and reconstructed piece by piece. Quite worth seeing.” Amy could tell that Gabriela wasn’t paying attention, even though she’d asked the question. “Anyway, that’s today. Did you get a chance to speak to Senora Pisano? Mother said you were looking for her.”
“I was hoping to see her this morning,” said Gabriela. “Before we go off for our fun.”
“I don’t know about fun in a monastery.” Amy took a few steps toward the large picture windows and angled her neck up. “We may have some weather.”
“There is always weather, no?”
“Sorry. I mean bad weather. Is there someone outside?” She had seen movement under the clouds. Something on the porch? Just beyond the porch? Both women headed for the front double doors to see for themselves.
On the porch, by the steps, was Jorge O’Bannion. On the dirt path just beyond him was a horse, large and black, well built, like a thoroughbred. On the horse was a charcoal riding blanket. On the blanket was an English saddle. On the saddle, looking poised and determined, was Lola Pisano, dressed in a red jacket, black trousers, and a scarf protecting her ash-blond hair. Upon seeing the two new arrivals, she reacted, pulling the horse in a tight little circle, kicking up dust in the growing breeze.
“Ms. Garcia. Ms. Abel.” O’Bannion seemed thrown, suddenly on edge. “My friend was about to go out. I am trying to persuade her not to. Storms come and go very quickly in Patagonia.”
“Senora Pisano,” said Gabriela, raising her voice into the breeze. From the tone of what she said next, Amy deduced it was a request. The word hablar, Amy noted. To speak. I need to speak to you? She mentioned her own name, too. Gabriela Garcia.
Lola’s response was a dismissive shake of her head and a tug of the reins. The horse emitted a short guttural neigh, and before anyone could react, Lola kicked it in the sides, and they were off. Horse and rider went trotting, then galloping away on the dirt road toward the hills.
“Lola,” shouted O’Bannion. “Lola!”
“What happened?” Amy asked. The moment was eerily reminiscent of what had happened with Fanny and her horse, except that this time it was on purpose. “Should we go after her?”
O’Bannion paused as horse and rider went over a small rise and down the other side, disappearing from view. “I don’t know why she did that.”
“She doesn’t want to confront me,” Gabriela announced in English. A hard, satisfied look played across her face, pulling down the corners of her mouth. “The coward.”
“Confront you about what?” asked Amy.
“Her husband’s legacy,” Gabriela said but didn’t elaborate.
Amy repeated her first question. “Should we go after her? Jorge?”
O’Bannion turned back from the road and climbed the steps to the estancia’s porch. “Lola is an expert rider. She’ll be back soon.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “Before the storm, I hope.”
Amy and Gabriela just stood there, transfixed, as Lola and her mount reappeared above another small rise, then disappeared behind it.
“Why is everyone out here?” The double doors had been left open. Fanny was in a resort bathrobe, simple white terry cloth with PATAGONIAN EXPRESS stitched in gold on the pocket. The one-size-fits-all dimensions made her look like a little girl playing in her mother’s housedress. She was barefoot, just beginning to wake up.
“Nothing,” Amy said, unsure if it was really nothing or not. “Lola went out for a ride.”
Fanny stared out into the storm clouds, the wind forcing her to grip the robe tight around her. “Alone?”
“Alone, yes.” Jorge O’Bannion tried to sound reassuring. “She’s an excellent rider.”
“She’s going to die.” Fanny’s hands gravitated slowly up to her cheeks. “The poor woman’s going to die. And it’s all my fault.”
CHAPTER 18
“Let me say it again. You did not have a vision.” They were in the leather armchairs in the lounge, side by side, Fanny still in her bathrobe, facing one of the picture windows. The predicted storm had turned the day to night, ricocheting off a half acre of red tile roofs in millions of tiny explosions. Even though the room was empty, Amy kept her voice low.
“It’s the same woman,” Fanny insisted. “Unlike you, I never met Lola before. But the second I saw her, I knew. The mole, the hair, her general build. What was she wearing? When she rode off today, what was she wearing?”
Amy had to think. “I don’t know. A red jacket and black pants? I wasn’t paying attention. And a scarf.”
“Ha!” Fanny looked triumphant. “I didn’t envision a scarf. Maybe she loses it. But my woman was definitely in red and black. That’s what I told the police. It’s engraved in my mind.”
“A lot of people wear red and black. Now, if you’d said chartreuse and pink—”
“Don’t be glib, little girl.” Fanny took a break, adding hot water to her maté gourd and stirring it. This was already her second time draining and refilling the gourd, and the herbal brew wasn’t helping her nerves. “Everyone ridiculed me when the body disappeared. Well, a vision explains that. Right?”
“Mom, there has to be a logical explanation.”
“This is a logical—”
“Another logical explanation. One that’s logical.”
Fanny took another swig. “Four days ago I saw a corpse no one else saw. Then the same woman shows up alive. Then she rides off into the Patagonian wilderness, never to be seen again.”
“Never to be seen? It’s been fifteen minutes.”
“In a thunderstorm. Any living person would have come back.”
“Maybe she’s on her way. Maybe she found a cave or a cottage and is waiting it out.”
Fanny exhaled. “It’s my fault for not warning her. But I don’t speak Spanish, and your friends plied me with wine. We have to go out and find her.”
“Find her where? She could have ridden in a dozen directions.”
“Jorge should be out there. Instead, he’s in the dining room, pouring coffee and talking about monasteries.”
&n
bsp; “Which shows how unworried he is.” Amy placed a comforting hand on her mother’s knee. “You take a shower and get dressed. No trousers for the women and something with sleeves. That’s what the itinerary says.”
“They’re telling us how to dress?”
“For the monastery. I guarantee, by the time we pull ourselves together, Lola and her horse will be back.”
“You have no basis for that guarantee,” Fanny said somberly. “But I appreciate your naively positive attitude.”
At Amy’s insistence, they went up to their suite. A few minutes later, while Fanny was in the bathroom and Amy was straightening up, the pounding on the tile roof ceased. The storm was over, and a breeze was starting to clear the skies. Neither of the Abels mentioned the vision again, not until they came down the staircase, properly dressed, and saw the front doors once again wide open.
Outside, they found Jorge O’Bannion, Nicolas, and the estancia’s stable hand off to the right of the main building, by the white-fenced paddock and the adjoining stables. The hand was examining the flanks of the black thoroughbred, checking for cuts or injuries. The horse looked exhausted, its head lowered into a water trough, taking big lapping gulps. The riding blanket and saddle were still in place, but off-kilter, pushed forward and to one side.
“Where’s Lola?” Amy asked as she rushed over to the paddock. Fanny was a few yards behind, refusing to rush. “Is she all right?”
Nicolas was the one to come over and answer. “Everything is fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“Now you have me worried. Is Lola hurt?”
The young guide caught O’Bannion’s eye, and the older man shrugged, his shoulders heavy. It looked like he’d put on ten years in the past ten minutes.
“It came back without her.” It was Fanny speaking, calm in an almost fatalistic way.