Death on the Patagonian Express

by Hy Conrad

  “Nosing around?”

  “A North American expression,” Amy explained. “It means, uh . . . um . . .” She was drawing a blank.

  Fanny jumped in. “It means smelling out all the fabulous possibilities that Trippy can put in her stories. Do we have a deal?”

  * * *

  “Did you get a chance to look at the studio on Orchard?” Marcus was on Amy’s laptop, sitting in the sunroom office at the rear of the Barrow Street brownstone, just behind her bedroom. She could see him glancing at several printed-out pages, then back at the computer’s camera. “It’s small, but it’s got a nicer layout than the one-bedroom on Chambers Street. We can see them both on Saturday, if you’re not jet-lagged.”

  “Yeah.” Amy bit her lip. “Marcus, about my flight . . .”

  Fanny was in the bathroom doorway, in a bathrobe, using the hair dryer but still managing to eavesdrop.

  “Don’t be put off by the photos. The air shaft doesn’t allow much natural light. On a sunny day it’s actually not bad.”

  “Saturday might be a problem,” Amy mumbled into her phone.

  “If you want, we can postpone until Sunday. But I was hoping to see the two listings out in Queens on Sunday. One actually claims to be a two-bedroom.”

  “Mom and I canceled our flight.” She said it fast and clean, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Now, don’t get upset. We’re not in danger. We just need to stay a few days, do some amateur sleuthing.”

  Marcus made a face. “Sleuthing? Did Fanny talk you into this?”

  “What do you mean? I’ve sleuthed plenty.”

  “Not without Fanny and me forcing you to.”

  The drone of the hair dryer clicked off. “Hello, Marcus,” Fanny shouted from the doorway.

  “Hey, Fanny.” Marcus waved. “Are you forcing Amy? Is it dangerous? Should I fly down and join you? I will. On the next flight.” They could tell he felt left out.

  “Not necessary,” Fanny assured him. “It’s just an intriguing puzzle.” She brought out her hairbrush and joined Amy in front of the cell phone. Together, they informed him of the Lola sighting, the visit to Jorge’s apartment, and their plan to keep spying on him.

  Marcus listened and nodded. “So, you suspect Jorge. Of doing what? Helping Lola fake her death? Why would they do that? And here’s a better question. How would they do that? The body was shipped back to her family in Buenos Aires, right?”

  “That’s what the obituaries said.”

  “So the Pisano family would recognize the real Lola.”

  “There was some disfiguring from the condors,” Amy suggested.

  “Still, her own family being fooled? The mole alone is pretty distinctive.” He waited for her reply. “Did the screen freeze again? Amy?”

  Amy’s face came to life. “It didn’t freeze. I’m just thinking. Obviously, we don’t have all the facts. ”

  “That’s why we need to investigate,” said Fanny.

  “And how are you going to investigate?” Marcus asked. “Follow Jorge around until he confesses?”

  “I don’t know,” said Amy, sounding exasperated. “But we have to do something.”

  Amy’s boyfriend allowed himself a crooked grin. “Are you sure this isn’t just some sort of mother-daughter bonding experience? Is that why you don’t want me to come?”

  “Good God, no,” Fanny said.

  Amy agreed with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

  “Are you sure?” Marcus asked. “Nothing brings people closer than a murder. Amy and I can vouch for that.”

  “This is not a bonding experience,” Amy said emphatically. “And we don’t need you showing up.”

  “I suppose.” Marcus sounded resigned. “Even if I caught the next plane, I probably wouldn’t be much help.”

  “Don’t take the next plane,” said Amy. “Promise me. You showing up will just make Jorge more suspicious.”

  Marcus promised. In return, Amy promised they would spend a maximum of two days at the estancia. That was what they’d arranged with Jorge. Any longer and their welcome would be worn out.

  “We’ll be home in three days,” she told Marcus. “Then we’ll look at all those apartments. Maybe the one in Queens? Now I really have to go. I’m exhausted.”

  All three said their good-byes, and Fanny smirked as the other two made kissy faces over their devices.

  Fanny returned her hairbrush to the bathroom. “You know he’s playing you, right? About the apartments?”

  “If you mean that he’s showing me the absolute worst ones? Yes, I know.”

  “So?” Fanny reached for her toothbrush. “Do you find that annoying or endearing? I’d go with endearing.”

  “It’s annoying. But I can fight only one battle at a time. Let’s get some sleep.”

  CHAPTER 26

  By mid-afternoon the next day they had arrived at the estancia. What had seemed like a weeklong pioneering journey by rail across treacherous terrain had been reduced, in the opposite direction, to a single flight and a five-hour drive. Jorge O’Bannion played chauffeur, while Amy and Fanny sat in the back, mostly silent, gazing out at a landscape that appeared surprisingly untreacherous.

  “It is not so far on a map,” Jorge told them at one point as the road looped gently around one more ravine-like tear in the earth, “but like the joke says, you cannot get there from here.”

  Glendaval, the family’s Montana-like lodge, looked as inviting to Amy as an old friend, its front doors flung open to embrace the lightest of breezes. Oscar the gaucho was there to meet them, festooned in his usual poncho, beret, and enviable thigh-high boots. From the moment Jorge opened the car door, the two men became immersed in whatever business a resort owner and a gaucho could be immersed in. They strode off together, and the Abels settled into their old room toward the rear of the second floor. Fanny immediately went to the chest of drawers and found the plastic bag of yerba maté that she’d accidentally left when they’d vacated the room. She placed it next to the thermos and gourd on her bedside table.

  One of their windows faced the apple orchard on the rise behind the lodge. The summer foliage obscured Fanny’s view of O’Bannion’s office, the little log cabin nestled among the trees a hundred yards away. “I can’t tell if he’s there or not,” she complained.

  Amy had positioned herself by the side window. “I think Jorge and Oscar drove off somewhere. Do you want to risk it?”

  Fanny grunted in the affirmative. “It’s probably the best chance we’ll get.”

  “What about the middle of the night? That might be safer.”

  “But then we’d need the lights on, which could be dangerous. Plus, who wants to wait? Plus, we’ll probably be tired after a big meal. Plus, you’ll have had a few glasses of wine by then, knowing you. Plus, Jorge might decide to work late or might have insomnia. . . .”

  “Fine,” Amy sighed. “Let’s go break and enter.”

  Their pretext, if anyone bothered to ask, would be an afternoon stroll. Fanny was in the lead, whistling nonchalantly as they disappeared behind the lodge, walking up the rise and through the first barrier of apple trees. The cabin’s front door was unlocked, which was both convenient and disappointing.

  “I certainly hope he has something worth locking up,” Fanny said, closing the door behind her.

  Amy took the outer office. Her smattering of Spanish might be able to help her with the file cabinet or the contents of the desk drawers or the computer. Meanwhile, Fanny went through to the rustic living room. Neither one knew what they were looking for. Anything mentioning Lola Pisano would be a good start.

  Moving a chair cushion to the floor gave Amy a place to sit cross-legged by the file cabinet in quasi-comfort. It was a short, single wooden cabinet, and her head wound up at the same height as a framed photo sitting on top: Jorge and Lola elegantly dressed for a night on the town. Jorge was beaming. As usual, Lola’s face was turned at an angle to hide the mole. Amy took this as her inspiration. “What are you up to, Lola?�
�� she muttered, opening the cabinet and starting in the front.

  Jorge’s filing system seemed almost as disorganized as Amy’s own. First of all, the folders weren’t alphabetized. The front one was labeled IMPUESTOS. She had no idea. But upon opening it, she saw the forms from the Gobierno Federal de Chile and deduced that impuestos must mean “taxes,” not close at all to the Italian word. Amy scanned the rest of the tabs, hoping, ridiculously, to see something labeled L. PISANO or, better yet, MUERTE DE L. PISANO. No such luck.

  “You don’t make it easy,” Amy said, continuing her one-sided conversation. Lola stared back, glistening in her rings and earrings and a blue-stoned necklace, all intended to be distractions from the quarter-sized dot on her cheek. Behind the tax files were various business folders, some from architects and contractors, some holding financial spreadsheets. Amy didn’t even bother with the spreadsheets. Toward the back were files of promotional material, much of which Amy had already seen. Her pulse quickened when she saw the folder labeled MOTOCICLETA, “motorcycle.” Jorge and Lola had both said the word, but the folder contained nothing but a ten-year-old sales receipt and maintenance records.

  “Tell me something, Lola,” she begged the photo. But all Lola did was stare, half hidden in the protective luster of her jewelry. The blue stone seemed almost to wink. Was it a necklace, Amy wondered, or a pendant on a silver chain? And what was in the center of the blue stone? A little starburst? Amy stood up from her cushion, grabbed the frame, and took a closer look. Then she leaned toward the doorway to the next room. “Mother?” she whispered.

  Fanny emerged, wearing a pair of winter woolen gloves she’d brought to safeguard against leaving fingerprints. “Tell me you found something, dear, because all I have are fingernail clippings and an old yachting magazine.”

  Amy bit her lip. “Remember that turquoise pendant Lola Pisano wore? On the silver chain, with the starburst in the middle?”

  Fanny took the photo and looked. “Of course. She was wearing it at the second ranch. I remember when I signed some contract for her, as a witness. She was also wearing it in the rainstorm, after her death.”

  “Right. But the first time I saw it was in this room.” Amy pointed. “It was right there, by Jorge’s computer. He saw me looking at it. He said it was an O’Bannion family heirloom and that he was going to give it to Lola the next time they met.”

  “That was very sweet of him.”

  “Then, when we arrived at Torre Vista, I saw him at the station, giving it to her.”

  “You’re just full of jewelry facts, aren’t you?”

  “And yet Lola is wearing the same pendant in that old photo, which had to be taken some time ago.”

  Fanny had another wisecrack all prepared. But this stopped her. “So it wasn’t an O’Bannion heirloom. If anything, it’s a Pisano heirloom. Hold on!” And she scratched her head with a gloved finger. “No. Sorry. I don’t have any possible explanation for this.”

  “Do you think Lola was actually here?” Amy asked. “At the same time we were?”

  “You mean in secret?” Fanny glanced out the window at the tree-obstructed view of the estancia. “It’s possible. There’s a back road leading up here. But why?”

  Amy thought out loud. “Maybe Jorge and Lola were plotting something and didn’t want to be seen together. But she accidentally left her pendant. When I noticed it, Jorge made up his heirloom story to explain away a piece of woman’s jewelry in his office. Then, when I saw them at the Torre Vista station, he wasn’t giving it to her. He was returning it.”

  “That fits with the facts,” Fanny conceded. “It creates more questions than answers, but it fits.”

  “Oscar’s daughter, Juanita, says she saw a car driving toward the estancia. But when we checked with the staff, they hadn’t seen anyone arriving. This would explain it, a secret meeting.”

  “Well, it looks like we found a clue.”

  “I know.” Amy felt a surge of pride. “And it was right here in front of me.”

  “Congratulations,” said Fanny with less enthusiasm. “Not that I want to look a gift clue in the mouth, but aren’t clues supposed to clear things up? This one does just the opposite.”

  A long, thoughtful pause fell between the two Abels, and it was in this silence that they first heard the faraway, throaty whirl of the helicopter.

  * * *

  When Amy and Fanny walked out onto the front meadow, the sheep had scattered, replaced by the familiar form of the Bell 407, its blades slowed to the leisurely speed of a ceiling fan. Jorge and Oscar were at the pilot’s door as it swung open, and Kevin Vanderhof, the younger, hazel-eyed Canadian, stepped out to greet them. Amy and Fanny stopped at a respectful distance, not wanting to seem to eavesdrop, then did their best to eavesdrop. From what they could see, Kevin had arrived alone.

  The King Fisher pilot saw them and, with a wave, invited them over. “Amy,” he shouted into the breeze. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Flirt with him,” Fanny barked in her ear as they crossed the meadow. “You can never tell.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you, either,” Amy said, sweeping back her hair with one hand, straightening her glasses with the other, and feeling a bit foolish. “I hope there’s no emergency this time.”

  “Quite the contrary.” Jorge O’Bannion welcomed them with an ingratiating grin. “When I hired the helicopter in Torre Vista, it gave me an idea. Not all guests will want to ride horses, especially older guests.” He had almost looked at Fanny as he said this. “The King Fisher people and I are working out an arrangement to share their machines, perhaps to lease my own at some point.”

  “They sent me here to scope out the sights,” Kevin said.

  “Marvelous idea,” Fanny agreed. “For those older travelers.”

  “I’m taking Mr. O’Bannion and his man up to look around. If you’d care to join us . . .” It took Amy a second to realize he was talking to her and not to her mother. “If that’s okay with Mr. O’Bannion.”

  “If you would be so kind.” O’Bannion made a courtly bow. “You’ve already done our land excursion. I think your input would be invaluable.”

  And just like that it was settled. Amy would accompany the pilot, Jorge, and Oscar on their joyride, while Fanny would stay at the estancia and rest up after her day of travel.

  “Perhaps you can do some more nosing around,” Jorge suggested. “Smell out the possibilities.”

  Fanny promised him that she would indeed do some nosing around.

  On Kevin’s insistence, Amy took the copilot’s seat. All four would be connected through their headsets.

  “Torre Vista may be the more scenic,” Jorge announced as the rotors reached full speed and the King Fisher became airborne. “But we will see.”

  “Absolutely,” said Kevin. He took his eyes off the instruments just long enough to wink her way, leaving Amy to deduce that there must not be that many young, eligible, English-speaking women in this neck of the woods.

  Once past the sheep meadow, the helicopter rose above the sea of small-leafed bushes, rooted stubbornly in the dust, and an optical illusion took over, giving them the impression of a green and fertile plain below. Jorge and his gaucho chatted back and forth, pointing at landmarks and discussing options. Every minute or so, Jorge would have new instructions or questions for Kevin. “Go north through the canyon.” “How far are we from the estancia now?” “How low can you fly above the ravine?”

  It was scenic enough, thought Amy, feeling a little guilty about feeling so jaded. She had seen much of this landscape at ground level. Flying over it at seventy miles an hour almost trivialized the vastness. Oscar and Jorge talked some more. Jorge translated it into English. “Oscar wants to know how far we are from the river.”

  Kevin pushed a few buttons on his navigation screen. “Pretty close. Do you want me to swing by?” The pilot made a show of tilting into a ninety-degree turn and zooming out toward a sandy plateau. Amy braced herself on the windo
w and tried to ignore another wink from Kevin.

  After a few minutes in the air, all the landscape had started to look familiar. Some parts were more familiar than others. Like now, Amy thought. Right below their flight path was a meandering animal path, carved through the scrub by generations of guanacos and wild horses. Had they actually ridden along that path? she wondered. It seemed like ages ago, all of them following Oscar as they tried to locate the spot where Fanny had seen her disappearing corpse. In front of them was a sandy cliff and the spot just below it....

  Amy glanced behind her. “Oscar?” she said, catching the gaucho’s attention. “Perdona.” Of all the times she’d wished she spoke Spanish, this had to be in the top five. “Este es el lugar. . . .”

  “Sí,” he answered, then trained his eye back on the animal path, actually a small, concentrated collection of paths, well trodden by the horses and the police in their fruitless search. It might have been Amy’s imagination, but Oscar seemed more focused now, focused and perhaps a little puzzled.

  “Do you see something?” Kevin asked Amy. Before she could answer, Kevin was slowing down to circle the spot. He circled the general area twice.

  “Why are you stopping here?” It was O’Bannion, almost shouting.

  Kevin eyed Amy, who gave him no response, just a blank stare. “Sorry, sir,” he replied, then gained altitude and straightened his course. Within seconds the Rio Grey came into view, a fast-flowing, deep-looking black ribbon of water flowing east, away from the lengthening shadows.

  “You want me to land by the river?” Kevin asked. “Should I circle? Sir?”

  No one answered. Through the headsets, Amy could hear a hushed, rushed conversation in Spanish from the seats behind her. The words were impossible to decipher, but the tone . . . Jorge O’Bannion’s voice sounded defensive, perhaps a little belligerent, while Oscar’s tone . . . Amy couldn’t quite figure it out.

  Kevin was already circling. “Should I land, sir?” he asked. “Do you want me to follow the river? Whatever you want. We have plenty of fuel.” Again no one answered.

  Amy tapped Kevin on the shoulder and caught his eye long enough to mouth silently, “What are they saying?”