Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  “Don’t be so mean. You can’t eat all that. I’m going to give them some of mine. “Aquí.”

  The boys scrambled over each other to reach the food, elbowing each other out of the way. “Quickly,” one boy whispered, “before the manager comes!” They shoved their hands onto the tourists’ plates, grabbing at rice and chicken bones. María ran over with her bowl and presented it at the table. She didn’t want to miss out.

  “We can’t feed everybody!” one girl whined. “Look, wait in turns, you guys! We’ll ask the waiter for some extra bananas.”

  María kept smiling patiently, still holding her bowl in front of her. Grace came forward and did the same. “I’m hungry,” she said quietly.

  “Oh my Gosh! This little girl speaks English.” The seventeen-year-old emptied the leftovers of her rice into Grace’s bowl. “Where do you live? Dónde vives? Everybody? Check out her eyes! Oh my God, this little girl has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen! They’re like, golden. Dónde vives?”

  Grace wanted to tell her that she lived in Wyoming, but she couldn’t remember the words in English; her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She wanted to explain that she was American but she knew they wouldn’t believe her—they would laugh just the way her friends had laughed. Instead she held up her teddy and said, “Se llama Amarillo.”

  “This little girl is so cute. What’s your name, sweetie?”

  Grace? Adela? She didn’t know what to say. “Grace,” she whispered.

  “Do you live at the dump?” the teenager asked.

  “She leeve with me,” María replied in English, barging forward. “At my ouse.” She took Grace by the hand and dragged her away, the other hand holding her bowl, now full with rice. María smiled again at the Americans. “We see you tomorrow? No give food to boy. You give to us,” she pleaded. “We more ungary than boy. We good, boy bad.”

  The boys started to jeer and yell. One screeched, “Boy ungaree!”

  “Come back tomorrow,” the teenager said to Grace and María. “And have dinner with us. Okay? We invite you to dinner. You can eat anything you want. Understand?”

  María smiled again and pulled Grace away. Grace’s eyes lingered longingly.

  “And . . .” the American shouted after them, “I’ll buy you both a pair of shoes.”

  Tomorrow, Grace decided, at dinner, she’d tell the girls who she really was.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sylvia

  “Here we are again,” Melinda said, managing a half-smile. She glanced up at the departure board in the São Paulo Airport.

  “Delayed,” Sylvia mumbled, as she stared at the flashing letters for their flight to Panama. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.

  “I hope we don’t miss our connection to Managua,” Melinda said.

  Sylvia felt the hollow in her chest. Each second that ticked by was a moment further away from being reunited with Grace in Nicaragua. Those seconds were crucial. Her eyes scanned the airport continually. Every woman she saw made her wonder if she could be Ruth in disguise. Every pair of sunglasses, every hat, made her get up from her seat and walk over to scrutinize the person.

  “I was so hopeful,” Sylvia murmured. “I really believed we were just going to swan into the Copacabana and find Grace right there. Dumb, I guess.”

  “So, still no word from Agent Russo?”

  Sylvia shook her head.

  Melinda was nibbling her nails. “Nothing at all from her police contacts in Chinandega? Or from the attaché in Panama? Did you check your messages?”

  “Three times already.”

  “So no news at all?” Melinda insisted.

  Sylvia sighed and stretched her arms. “Just what she told me. That the head honcho’s away on vacation and he’s the one—trust our luck—who’s fluent in English. But Agent Russo promised they’re on the case. They have my number—I gave them yours, too. They know we’re going by our own steam to Nicaragua. The local police there should be on their way to this Boom beach place, to Playa Aserradores, to find Grace. Hopefully, they’ll have found her by the time we arrive. If not, they’re going to send over their agent from Panama.”

  Melinda rolled her eyes. “The FBI doesn’t have anyone in Nicaragua?”

  “No, they don’t have an attaché there.”

  “Damn them for not having just flown us straight there in a helicopter—this journey is going to take so goddamn long.”

  Sylvia asked herself if she had made the right decision. “Well last night when we spoke, they were kind of offering us a ride in that oh-so-vague, Latin way, without giving us specifics—not even how long it was going to take to get organized, so I thought we’d better just get going. Not wait around. Tommy said empty promises seem to be part and parcel of the culture here.”

  “No, I think you’re right—we had to get on with it,” Melinda answered.

  “I mean, maybe they would have pulled something out of the bag. Perhaps if they’d had an attaché in Nicaragua things might be a lot more straightforward. It’s not all seamless like in the movies—that’s for sure.”

  Melinda narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “Hey, you don’t think this is some wild goose chase, do you? A little game to get us all flying up to Nicaragua—Ruth’s sick little joke?”

  “It’s all we’ve got.”

  “You think it’s true?”

  “For some reason, don’t ask me why, but I think for once she’s telling the truth,” Sylvia said.

  “But surely this Lucho guy has a cell phone? Why didn’t Ruth give us a contact number to call? Maybe this really is her idea of a joke. I mean why didn’t she give us this Lucho’s number? Or a phone number of the place Grace is at?”

  Sylvia bit her lower lip. “It sounds out of the way—maybe they don’t have a network there. Not even landlines.”

  “They do. I told you, already. It is remote but like I said last night, there are a couple of small surfer lodgings nearby, and a restaurant. That beach where Grace is, like Ruth mentioned in her note, is popular with surfers from all over the world. That guy Lucho could well be a surfer. I told you last night, Sylvia, don’t you remember? I called them all.”

  Sylvia’s eyes stared ahead of her, fixing on the maze of people milling about the airport like worker bees. “That’s right. You said. Sorry, Melinda, it seems you have to repeat everything to me a thousand times.”

  “Nobody has seen Grace, anyway, and nobody had heard of Lucho, but I did leave my number,” Melinda said. “I Google Earthed that area. There’s a bunch of massive beaches, winding estuaries full of mangroves—there’s a nature reserve called Estero Real, not far.”

  “Maybe Ruth didn’t want to scare this Lucho guy off,” Sylvia reasoned. “If she warned him we were coming, he’d know something was up and he might abandon Grace. She probably convinced him she was Grace’s mother or auntie, or something. I mean, most people are not okay with kidnapping, however laid back they might be. But my guess is he doesn’t even know a thing or he would have reported it to someone, or contacted the police. Surely? Maybe he’s even expecting Ruth to return, who knows. Let’s just pray to God he’s not some pedophile or something.”

  “I don’t think so, Sylvia, honey. I know it sounds like a grand sweeping statement, but Latin men are usually great with kids. They make good au pairs, apparently. If he’s a surfer dude, he’s probably fine. But what confuses me is how come Grace hasn’t said anything. I mean, if she’d told someone, that someone would have informed the police. I can’t imagine that Grace would let Ruth get away with pretending she was her mom, or even her aunt. Grace is smart and gutsy. And she worships you—I can’t envisage her being okay with that.”

  Sylvia shifted her eyes back to Melinda. “Maybe Ruth’s just telling a half truth, telling people she’s a friend of mine and looking after her while I’m in the hospital or something. Or perhaps she threatened Grace in some way. What a witch! You know what gets me most? I know I sound like a broken record with this . . . but
that note keeps going round and round in my head. The way she was so nonchalant, so . . . so . . . by the by. Oh, ‘shame it didn’t work out with Tommy . . . he’s cool and, sorry things were a bit jumbled.’ Jumbled? What a psycho! As if she had nothing to do with it—no part to play—let alone the fact that she is responsible for ruining everybody’s lives!”

  Melinda took Sylvia’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently. “I know, honey. But at least she did write that note. Assuming it’s not bullshit. We have to give her credit for that, as insane as she obviously is. So you really think it was Ruth who posted that anonymous message on the Lonely Planet? As a kind of trap?”

  “It would make sense.”

  “Why? So she could try and seduce Tommy? But she didn’t know that Tommy would be traveling alone, did she?”

  “You know what I think? As you say, Melinda, she has some level of conscience—that’s why she wrote the note. I think she may have planned to tell us where Grace was when she posted the anonymous message. Then she found Tommy alone, thought he was cute and made a move on him.”

  Melinda let out a half-laugh. “You know what? You are such a ridiculously nice person, Sylvia! Here’s this psycho who tries to take your whole life away from you, and you give her the benefit of the doubt?”

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “You believe she planned it all ahead of time?”

  “Well thinking about it again, yes, I do. ‘Shame it didn’t work out with Tommy.’ What does that tell you, Sylvia? Sounds to me like she had some fucked-up fantasy of her and Tommy running off into the sunset. And Grace too, as one big happy family. And when she realized—at that crazy seduction dinner—that he wasn’t interested, despite all the effort she had gone to with her expensive new nose, she became pissed off and bailed completely. Gave up, in a sense, and revealed Grace’s whereabouts. We hope she revealed her whereabouts, anyway. What makes her really nuts is that she believed it was all a possibility. Then she stole the iPhone, realized you were on your way, based on the messages she found from you to Tommy, and knew that the FBI was in contact with you.”

  Sylvia looked down at the floor. “I don’t know how much was planned. I think she kind of made it all up as she went along, including the kidnappping and the theft. I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s an opportunist. The nose job was maybe a mixture of trying to be invisible, plus something she always wanted to do. I remember her complaining about how long her nose was, that it was too ‘strong a nose.’ ”

  Melinda sniggered. “Wanted to get rid of the weasel look.”

  “Yeah, ‘weasel’ describes Ruth perfectly, with her keen beady eyes. I should have listened to Grace. Before she got seduced by the Dorothy shoes, and candy. First impressions are always right.”

  “Don’t hit me for saying this, but Ruth is kind of fascinating. I mean, what makes a person like that tick?”

  Sylvia thought about it for a beat. “Money. Power. Control. If she can’t get it on her own merit, she steals it. Like her fake credentials from Harvard and Yale.”

  “The ironic thing is she’s smart enough to have done all that. Shame her focus was all skewwhiff,” Melinda replied.

  “At least the Brazilian police are really on her trail after her little stint at the Copacabana. It seemed to have really bugged them that she didn’t pay that bill. Kidnapping—a crime of passion for a motherless woman, but not paying a bill? Ooh, that’s really naughty. Anyway, they have her photo, matched with her DNA and fingerprints. It’ll be so much harder for her, now, even if she has an armful of fake passports.”

  Melinda laid her hand on Sylvia’s arm. “So what about Tommy? What are you going to do about him? Are you going to tell him where we’re going?”

  “That’s a point. I need to check my e-mails. In all this time since we’ve been in Brazil, I still haven’t even looked. He said he left me several. Melinda, can I borrow . . .Oh yes, I almost forgot, I don’t need your cell, I have Tommy’s iPhone.”

  “I am so buying you an iPhone of your own. I can’t believe how negligent you’ve been going around with that ten year-old dinosaur. What happened to the go-getter New Yorker who looked after movie stars, who cut deals and oversaw big contracts? You used to be so with it, Sylvia. Sorry, I’m being judging.”

  “Yes, you are. Some of us feel that there’s life outside of work.”

  “Hello? I’ve left my goddamn job! What does that tell you?”

  “I know, and I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. For Grace.”

  Melinda stood up and stretched her arms above her neck. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Hey, Sylvia, how much time do we have before our next flight?”

  “Another two hours.”

  “Okay, you stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  “I won’t budge from this seat. But only if you promise to bring me a coffee and something good to eat. I’m starving. Nothing spicy or weird, just something wholesome and American. I’m feeling kind of homesick.”

  “Already? We just got here.” Melinda laughed. “You think this is funky? Honey, we’ve only seen five star so far.”

  “That hotel last night was pretty grotty, you have to admit.”

  “Wait till we get to Chinandega where it’s really basic—they’re still suffering from the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch.”

  “But wasn’t that ages ago?” Sylvia asked.

  “1998, I think. It left, like, three million homeless and thousands dead, mostly in the north and northwest, and they’ve never recovered since. The flooding was really intense. I remember all about it because I once gave to a charity set up there—I can’t recall its name—something to do with Jesus or Christ. There’s a big network of Christian aid agencies still working there. A lot of those poor Nicaraguans are living off the landfills just to survive. Something incredible, like sixty-five percent of the workforce is unemployed. Or more. After Haiti, I think Nicaragua’s the poorest nation on earth. Very few kids get to go to school, the illiteracy rate is really high, especially for women and girls. Poor things get earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanoes—the works. Some of them live on dumpsites.”

  Sylvia heaved a sigh. “Horrific, isn’t it? I saw a documentary about a dump like that in India. I didn’t realize they had the same problem in Nicaragua too. Poor children.”

  “I know. It’s just so criminal the way half the world lives in such extreme poverty. And we think nothing of spending four or five dollars on a single coffee—money that would feed a whole family. Okay, enough of my doom and gloom. When you’re done with your e-mails you can surf online about the area of Chinandega, the beach part that’s away from the city. Like I said, I Google Earthed it to get an idea of where we’d be going. You can even see the swell of the waves and lots of green. There’s also a whole chain of active volcanoes not far. It’s pure forest and farmland there. That part looks really beautiful.”

  Sylvia stared ahead, not focusing, just letting the airport blend into a fuzzy blur. She rested her head on her hands, spreading them out like claws across her scalp. “You know, Melinda, the more I think about it the more I think you’re right. If there were all these foreigners by the beach, why didn’t Grace confide in someone? I mean, she’s a brave little thing, it doesn’t make sense.” Tears flooded back again. Tears of hope. It was intermittent, the emotions rolling up and down—the fear, the hope, the currents of excitement that Grace was alive and okay.

  Melinda put her arm around her. “Look, she’s going to be fine. She’s been on a horrible journey but has pulled through. We have to have faith. Like you say, she’s brave. Grace is a fighter. Just stay calm. It’ll be okay, I promise. Look, I’m going to find us something to eat. Being hungry doesn’t help morale. I’ll be right back.”

  Sylvia pulled out Tommy’s iPhone from her purse. Another thing polluted by Ruth. This lovely phone that Grace had given him for his birthday—that they’d had engraved—touched and handled by that bitch—her grabby, thieving hands all over it. Ruth was no fool, tho
ugh. She would have obviously wiped it over for fingerprints—but still, she’d been using it as one of her tools. Sylvia scrolled through the messages. Two old ones from Agent Russo. Four from Tommy, sent to her computer, which of course she hadn’t seen. She looked at the latest and went backwards. The most recent read:

  Darling,

  Agent Russo wants me to go to the police for questioning. She’s not accusing me of anything but I’m reading between the lines – maybe I’m being paranoid but . . . if I don’t watch my back I could get slung in a Brazilian jail. I think they suspect I’m linked to Ruth in some way and stole your money. I really don’t think that would help anyone if I’m arrested, least of all Grace.

  I know you’re furious with me. And I know you’ve gone to find Grace in Nicaragua. I heard about the note from Ruth and that she gave back my iPhone. I’ll keep in touch by e-mail . . . I’m sure the FBI, police whatever, will be joining you there, or maybe they’ve even got there already. Anyway, for that reason I’m not going to come in case they pounce on me – then I won’t be any use to anyone. Plus, I know you don’t want to see my face right now. I have a better plan, just in case this is all a hoax – I’m going to find Ruth. I don’t know how or where but I’m working on it. If Grace isn’t in Nicaragua and Psycho Woman, as you so rightly call her, is taking the piss, then the only way to find Grace is through her, anyway. I know you’re angry with me, and I don’t blame you, I was really thick to not be more on the ball . . . but please, I beg of you, keep in touch and let me know the second you find Grace.

  You are my light,

  Tommykins

  Sylvia scrolled down to the one sent earlier:

  My darling,

  My heart is heaving with pain. I feel sick about what happened, guilty as if I betrayed you and Grace. I feel that way. But I swear nothing happened. Nothing. For some reason, she set out to destroy us. Please don’t let her win. Please don’t let her take you away from me. I don’t know where you are. I’m at the Copacabana looking for you. I’m desperate.