Death on the Patagonian Express

by Hy Conrad

  “Yes,” said Nicolas. “The horse came back without her.”

  * * *

  For the second time in four days, the Patagonian Express was put on hold. The excursion to see the monastery’s mosaics was canceled, and everyone began searching for a woman in the wilderness.

  The Torre Vista search had several natural advantages over the Glendaval search. They were closer to the Torres del Paine National Park, meaning the police were closer, less than a two-hour drive. A helicopter was also available, a Bell 407, normally used to take wealthy fly fishermen to the remotest rivers and fjords. And, perhaps the biggest advantage, this was a real woman who’d gone missing, the widow of an Argentinean tycoon, seen by three reliable witnesses riding off into a storm and not coming back.

  The guests could do only so much to help. Edgar Wolowitz, the youngest and fittest of the men, mounted a horse and joined O’Bannion and the stable hand in riding through the ravines that were inaccessible to most motor vehicles. Todd and Amy joined the tour drivers in the two Land Cruisers, acting as lookouts while their driving partners maneuvered the trails and tried not to get stuck in the brand-new gullies carved out by the downpour. All three teams stayed in radio contact. Back at Torre Vista, Alicia set up a command center on one of the tables in the dining room, keeping people connected and crossing off the searched sections on a map. If they didn’t find her, Alicia would have the map ready for the police, a little head start, when they arrived. The other guests, Fanny, Todd, and the Furies, did their part at the estancia by agreeing to fend for themselves and not complain.

  “I feel so helpless.” Gabriela was looking over Alicia’s shoulder. Without her compatriots at her side, she was speaking more and more English. “The red X, is that the estancia?” It was a large topographical map, the one that had been framed and on display in the lounge. Removed from behind its glass, the map was disfigured with a red X almost exactly in the middle, with three multicolored lines expanding from it in different directions.

  “That’s us.” Fanny stood over Alicia’s other shoulder, holding a fistful of Magic Markers, ready to hand to Alicia. There was no reason for them to be hovering, but it felt better than doing nothing. “The blue line is vehicle number one, the red is number two, and the green is the horses.”

  Gabriela studied the lines. “Only one green line? There are three horses. They should split up.”

  Alicia kept focused on the lines, as if expecting them to move on their own. “The horses are on the most rugged trails. The last thing we want is for another rider to get lost or injured.”

  Lost or injured, mused Fanny. The fools are not even thinking dead, but that’s how it’s going to wind up.

  “What about this area?” Gabriela pointed a pink-lacquered nail at the unlined section just to the north of the estancia.

  “There are no trails on that side,” Alicia said. “And she rode the other way. If they don’t find her before the authorities arrive, I’m sure that’ll be next.”

  All three continued to stare at the map. Then the two-way radio on the table next to it squawked. “Vehicle one.”

  Alicia answered. “Torre Vista. Over.”

  “Hello, Torre Vista.” It was Amy’s voice, sounding competent and calm. She said something to her driver in Italian, then translated for Alicia. “We’re crossing the arroyo. Come si dice in inglese?” Slight pause. “I guess arroyo is the same in English. Over.”

  “It means ‘a dry gully,’ ” said Alicia. “Which arroyo? Over. There are a few in your area, judging from the topography. Over. And they’re not labeled. Over.” Alicia was still getting used to her “overs.”

  “This one is flooded at the moment. But we’re getting across. Dante says we’re just east of the salt ponds. Half a kilometer.” Dante’s Italian had been a lucky discovery this morning, as the teams were getting organized. The Chilean-born son of an Italian mining engineer, he was a nature conservation student in Santiago, working for the summer as a driver. “Over.”

  The salt ponds, a haven for orange and pink flamingos, where Dante was supposed to have driven them today, after breakfast, were labeled on the map. “Found it,” said Alicia. Fanny handed her a blue marker, and Alicia extended their line to the south-west, crossing a think line that could have been an arroyo or a stream, depending on the season. “Any sign of her?” She waited for an answer. “Any sign? Over.”

  “Dante saw some horse droppings, but he says they’re a week old. She probably didn’t come this way. Has anyone picked up her trail? Over.”

  “Not so far. The police are coming soon, so maybe we should have everyone circle back around and come in. I’ll suggest it to Jorge. Over.”

  Amy said that it sounded like a good idea. She also sounded discouraged. “Over and out.”

  When Fanny looked up from the map, she was surprised to see that Gabriela Garcia had quietly left the room.

  The arrival of the Chilean authorities was a disappointment. At least Fanny thought so. The entire force consisted of a Toyota SUV and two officers barely out of high school, both of whom seemed very proud of their neatly pressed uniforms. Alicia and Fanny met them on the porch and did their best to explain. It was an instance in which Gabriela’s language skills would have been helpful. Fanny had asked around the estancia, pantomiming the woman’s description and saying her name, but Gabriela Garcia was nowhere to be found.

  Alicia led the boys into the dining room and displayed the map. If they were impressed by the diligence of the searchers, they didn’t let on. If they at all understood what the lines and the X stood for, they also didn’t let on. When Jorge and the other horsemen returned a few minutes later, the language barrier was broken. But it hardly improved matters. The gist of the conversation, which Fanny and everyone else would soon learn, was pretty much as follows.

  According to the officers, tourists do die. It is a sad truth, but in the thousands of acres in and around the national park, backpackers and mountain climbers, even horseback riders, go missing, and the rural police who oversee the area do not have the resources to make extensive searches.

  Jorge O’Bannion was furious. His agony and frustration were clear. This wasn’t a tourist. It was Senora Lola Pisano, the widow of a powerful Argentine tycoon. But whatever cachet the word tycoon might have brought to O’Bannion’s case, it was undone by the word Argentine. So, the woman was a tourist, after all, the officers said, and not even from the United States but from that socialist-leaning country next door that was always trying to argue over territory and make life difficult for the good people of Chile. “Do you really think our country should spend its limited budget trying to find some Argentine widow who had stupidly ignored an approaching storm?”

  The neatly pressed officers did their job. They dutifully looked over Alicia’s map and listened to Jorge and the drivers, one of them a local, describe the territory and the most likely unsearched spots where a rider could have been thrown. After that the officers drove away, supposedly to conduct their own search, then fill out the paperwork. Everyone assumed that they would be back in their homes before sundown, in time to have their wives press their uniforms for the next day.

  “So that’s it?” Fanny asked. She and Amy had stepped outside and were walking the gravel path around the stables and the newer garage, built in the same white, barnlike style. “We’re just going to give up?”

  Amy wrapped a light gray shawl around her shoulders and kept an eye peeled for horse droppings camouflaged in the dark gravel. “Jorge rented the helicopter for tomorrow morning. But there’s only so far they can look. The woman was on a horse, not a jet plane.”

  “But she has to be somewhere.”

  “What do you suggest? We can’t stay indefinitely. Poor Jorge has a tour to run. All his time and investment, and Lola’s investment. Todd Drucker is already complaining. He was counting on seeing that monastery.”

  To Fanny it still sounded heartless. “Did Jorge talk to her relatives in Buenos Aires?”


  “He’s probably hoping he doesn’t have to.”

  “Why did the stupid woman ride off in the first place? You were on the scene.”

  “I know.” Amy’s sigh was almost a growl. “They were speaking Spanish.”

  Fanny rolled her eyes. “I don’t quite get your mental block with that language.”

  “Lola and Gabriela were exchanging words.”

  “Very observant. In Spanish.”

  “In Spanish. I don’t think they knew each other, not personally. There was some animosity about their late husbands. Gabriela wanted to confront her, but Lola just rode off.” Amy could sense her mother’s disappointment. “Why she rode off isn’t important.”

  “It is important, dear, if Lola was murdered.”

  “Inside voice!” Even though they were outside and no one was in sight, Amy pulled her mother by the arm, edging her around the side of the garage. “How could she be murdered?” she whispered. “First off, Lola’s not officially dead.”

  Fanny whispered back, “Visions don’t lie. She’s dead.”

  “And second, who could have killed her? From the time she went away, everyone’s been looking for her. In groups.”

  “It could have been one of the staff,” Fanny reasoned. “They weren’t in groups. Or a local rancher. Or a drifter.”

  “Did you actually say ‘drifter’? How about a hobo? Maybe it was a Patagonian hobo.”

  “Remember what your father used to say? ‘You can’t win an argument by making fun of people.’”

  “He used to say that to you.”

  “Still a valid point.” Fanny pivoted on her heel and was about to start back for the estancia when they heard the approaching car, from around the front of the garage, slowly pulling up from the road onto the noisier gravel.

  The sound of a motor vehicle wasn’t unusual. But given the hour, given the fact that the emergency had pretty much brought work to a halt, and given the subject they’d just been discussing—about someone out in the wilderness killing Lola Pisano . . . The Abels inched themselves back against the side wall of the garage and waited.

  Someone had just driven inside. From this angle they couldn’t see, although it had sounded like one of the three brand-new Land Cruisers, the mainstays of the Torre Vista motor pool. The engine was switched off. The door opened. If the driver was heading to the estancia, he or she would be walking through their line of sight.

  “We’re just being paranoid,” said Amy, barely audible even to herself. Common sense told her it was probably a gaucho who’d been out checking fences or whatever else gauchos did. But this time common sense was wrong.

  The driver who emerged from the mouth of the garage was Gabriela Garcia. The Argentine businesswoman checked her surroundings quickly, then moved furtively toward the estancia, gaining confidence in her stride only as she rounded the corner and came into the lights of the long porch.

  Amy and Fanny said nothing, not until they had walked into the garage themselves. There were three Land Cruisers lined up in two rows, plus Jorge’s sidecar, looking lonely without its motorcycle partner. Amy went up to the first Land Cruiser, which was still throwing off heat from its run. The keys were in the ignition. She checked. The keys were in the ignition of all the vehicles in the garage.

  “When did you last see Gabriela?” she asked.

  Fanny was standing guard at the door. “Just now.”

  “Before then.”

  Fanny scrunched her face into a wrinkled ball. “We were looking at the maps. She asked why no one was out searching the woods north of the ranch. Alicia told her it was because Lola rode off the other way.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes. Until just now.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The two rural carabineros returned early that evening, but only to report their failure, get O’Bannion’s signature on a form, and assure him that, according to their experience, most missing persons, or their remains, did show up eventually.

  Dinner was a subdued affair. Most of the guests and the staff were exhausted, physically and mentally, by the events of the day. An hour after, Amy couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten. No one stayed up late to chat in the bar or to enjoy a game of gin. In the lounge, Todd Drucker and Edgar Wolowitz did play a round or two of competitive traveling. But they quickly agreed that on all their previous trips they’d never engaged in an activity like this and that it was probably in bad taste to compare it to anything.

  The next morning, the mood in the dining room had returned to a semblance of normalcy. The Furies were chattering, Fanny was slurping maté, and Nicolas was once again apologizing to Todd about the lack of orange juice with breakfast.

  “The nearest orange trees are in Brazil,” the guide explained patiently. “The fruit itself is not popular, so it’s hard to get. Please try the guava. Or grape. You enjoy the local grapes, yes? Just like wine.”

  The mood grew subdued again when helicopter rotors were heard, passing low over the estancia. Jorge O’Bannion stood and looked up to the beamed ceiling as if he could stare through it. Even the Furies stopped to listen and think. Gabriela took advantage of their lull to make a trip to the buffet for another cup of coffee.

  “Do you think they’ll find her?” Fanny asked. She’d been waiting for this moment. As soon as she’d seen Gabriela break off from her friends, she grabbed a coffee cup from her table and rushed over, pretending to be in need of a refill.

  Gabriela considered the question. “A helicopter covers more ground. On the other hand, how much ground could Lola have traveled?”

  “What did you think of the police yesterday? Did you talk to them?” From her years of experience as the mother of a teenage girl, Fanny considered herself an expert in the loaded question. And this one, she thought, was pretty well loaded.

  “I didn’t meet them, no. My friends say they were not helpful.”

  “They weren’t helpful,” Fanny agreed. “I tried talking to them when they got here, but they pretended not to understand. If only you’d been around to translate. I tried to find you.”

  “I went up to my room with a headache. The stress of the day.”

  “I know from headaches,” Fanny said. “Aspirins don’t always help, do they? I’ve spent hours in bed. Is that the way it was with you, dear? Hours in bed? Not going outside at all?”

  “All yesterday afternoon,” Gabriela confirmed. “I went out for a little while before dinner.”

  “You went out?” Fanny tried to sound disinterested.

  “A little walk before dinner. Why? Did I miss anything?”

  Fanny told her no. She hadn’t missed anything at all.

  The rotors passed over twice during the breakfast service, about half an hour apart. The third time they didn’t pass but came in for a landing.

  By the time the large blue and white helicopter settled down on the meadow in front of the gravel drive, everyone had gathered on the porch. Jorge was in the middle of the steps, holding his arms out wide, like the arms of a train crossing. When the blades finally stopped, he lowered his barricade and led the way down. The company’s name, King Fisher, was emblazoned in gold script on the doors.

  Upon exiting the aircraft, the pilots met the crowd halfway to the gravel. “Mr. O’Bannion?” said the older one, checking the clipboard in his hand. Jorge stepped forward. “Sir, good to meet you.” They introduced themselves, Norm and Kevin, two Canadians, one middle-aged, one in his twenties, both looking ex-military with modified buzz cuts. The older one had a no-nonsense attitude about him. The younger, Kevin, threw a few sideways glances at Amy, who was not currently in a flirty mood.

  “Why did you stop?” O’Bannion demanded. “Get back up in the air. I pay you to search.”

  “We didn’t give up,” said Norm. “On the contrary, I think we sighted your subject.”

  “My subject?” the estancia owner asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “The subject you’re looking for,”
said the younger one. “About three klicks north by northeast of here. There’s a river, the Serrano. Big river. A human female body is in the water by the far bank. Facedown. Otherwise we would have initiated rescue procedures.”

  Amy avoided looking in her mother’s direction. She was very familiar with Fanny’s “I told you so” expression and didn’t need to see it again.

  “No, that’s impossible.” Jorge O’Bannion seemed genuinely shocked by the news. He held out a hand to steady himself. Edgar was at his side and supplied an arm to lean on. “It can’t be. It’s a mistake.”

  “No mistake, sir,” said the older pilot. “That’s why you hired us. That’s what we did.” Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “We didn’t land or disturb the body,” explained his copilot. “There’s a clearing, a bend in the bank that looks solid enough to put down on. If you’d care to join us, sir?”

  “I don’t understand,” said O’Bannion softly. Then, “Yes, of course.” His hand, still steadying itself on Edgar’s arm, began to shake.

  “Are you going to be okay?” asked the older pilot. “Do you want someone to come with you?”

  “I’ll come,” said Edgar. “If that’s all right.”

  “My daughter and I are coming, too,” said Fanny. “We’re close friends.”

  “Mother, please,” said Amy, although she didn’t really object. She was just in the habit of saying “Mother, please” in a situation like this.

  “We have plenty of room,” the younger pilot said, then quickly qualified his offer. “If that’s what Mr. O’Bannion wants. It’s his choice.”

  O’Bannion didn’t seem capable of making a choice, so Fanny took him by his other arm and, along with Edgar, guided him toward the helicopter. “Come on, dear,” she said in Amy’s direction. “I trust you have your phone?”

  Amy had flown in a few helicopters in her life, but this was by far the fanciest, perfect for any elite troop of millionaires who wanted to rough it. The seats were large and plush, complete with armrests and cup holders. The two main passenger doors were like picture windows with handles. Before restarting the engine, both pilots took a minute to reconfigure the interior. They wound up with four seats behind the cockpit area, two across and facing the other two. The two seats in the rear section had been folded down to provide cargo room, like the rear of an SUV. Amy didn’t want to think about what the cargo section would be holding on the way back.