The delay in San Francisco made for a close call, and by the time they reached the gate, final boarding had just begun. Herculea found her aisle seat near the wing of the plane. Over the din, she asked Kent where he was seated.
“Would you believe it? They’ve put me in the horse’s ass of the plane again.” Kent rolled his eyes.
“You must be kidding.” Herculea giggled in disbelief.
“Wish I were. Have a good flight.” Kent winked and retreated to the plane’s tail, dragging his suitcase behind him.
He’s so good natured, she thought as she sat down, nodding politely at the passenger next to her, stuck in the much maligned middle seat. Chewing the last of her fruit snack, Herculea settled into the seat, inhaling a deep, yoga-style breath, mentally preparing herself for another long flight.
Hours later, the lights were out on the plane, encouraging the passengers to sleep. Usually unable to fall asleep on a flight, Herculea had managed to drift into unconsciousness. As she slumbered, a vivid dream played in her mind.
A colossal wind blustered mercilessly onto the shore, causing a blinding sandstorm to erupt. Furiously wiping grains of sand from her eyes, Herculea struggled to see in front of her. Even with the angry wind, the sand still felt wet and heavy, and she plodded over it in worn sandals, not knowing where she was going. It was night, and the sky was an unrelenting shade of onyx. No light shone anywhere. Even the moon was the faintest sliver of alabaster and did nothing to illuminate the sky.
In the distance, she discerned the high-pitched, musical sound of a woman’s laughter. Herculea held her breath, listening intently to discover the laughter’s origin. She veered to the left, and the laughter grew louder. Thirsty and cold, Herculea began to run towards the only human sounds she had heard since starting to walk over the inhospitable sand. Close behind her, violent waves crashed onto the shore, spraying her back with gritty salt water. She convulsed from head to toe, feeling the most primitive chill of her life course through her. Shivering, she continued to rush towards the laughter.
Suddenly, she sensed a human presence. The laughter had ceased, replaced by shallow breathing. Still unable to see in front of her, Herculea’s other senses kicked into overdrive, and she knew that there was a woman standing just feet away from her.
“Hello.” Herculea spoke nervously, licking her dry, salt-stained lips.
The wind replied with a venomous howl, sweeping more sand into her burning eyes. She sputtered as some of the granules of sand flew into her mouth, parching her throat even more.
“Hello.” She tried again. “I’m lost.”
“Lost? You are on my island.” Declared the feminine voice mere steps away.
“What island?” Herculea asked, disturbed by the hollow sound of the woman’s voice.
“You do not make any inquiries on my property. I interrogate you. What brought you here?”
“I—I don’t know.” Herculea stammered, beginning to panic.
The strange woman sounded deceptively calm, as anger clearly bubbled beneath the surface.
“You are trespassing.” She said in a warning tone.
“I’m s-sorry. Really, I don’t know how I got here. I d-don’t even remember where I was before I was here.”
Herculea made one final effort to see the woman, but all she could distinguish was a curvaceous hourglass shadow. She squinted and, for a moment, a flicker of silver lit up just above her head. Herculea could not be sure, but it looked like a lock of hair. Suddenly, it dawned on her. This was the Silver Goddess, and she was on the Island of Vinova. This had been Herculea’s destination, and she had her potential research subject live in the flesh. But the woman was so unfriendly, more witch than goddess.
“Are you the Silver Goddess?” Herculea inquired in a low whisper.
“You don’t ask the questions. I already told you that. Can you see me in this black night? It’s always darker than a cave here after sunset. You really did choose the wrong time to trespass.”
“I can’t see you. I just saw a flash of silver…I guess that was your hair.”
“So you cannot see me. I didn’t think a mere mortal like you would have my night vision abilities.” The Goddess said disdainfully.
“I should never have come here. I’m sorry. Maybe you could just help me get off your island. I promise that I won’t bother you again.” Herculea pleaded, desperate to be somewhere, anywhere, where the glow of natural light would warm her surroundings, not to mention her chilled body.
The laugher Herculea had heard in the distance harshly resumed. “Off my island?” The Silver Goddess mocked. “Off my island? There is no way off my island once you dare to trespass. Now you shall become like me. Won’t you join me?”
“May I offer you a beverage? Some wine or spirits?”
An unfamiliar voice snatched Herculea from her nightmare, and she sat bolt upright, peering around her. In an instant, she realized that the voice had come from one of the flight attendants, pushing around the beverage cart.
“Perhaps a soft drink?” The uniformed attendant offered gently.
“Just water, please,” Herculea managed, swallowing and feeling her throat as desert-like as it had been in the dream.
The flight attendant handed her a room temperature bottle of water accompanied by a clear plastic cup with ice.
“Thank you,” Herculea said, as her head started to throb.
She searched through her purse for some aspirin and took a deep swig of the water, washing down two pills with it. The nightmare had been almost three dimensional in its alternate reality. As her temples pulsed uncomfortably, she could still smell the seaweed and brine in the air, still hear the cackling echoes of the Silver Goddess.
Herculea was not a superstitious person, but that nightmare had hurled her more than a little off kilter. Usually, she adopted a psychological approach to dream interpretation, believing like Freud that our nightmares are the result of deeply held fears. That must be the explanation for this dream, she reasoned.
But what if it were a premonition of some sort? No, Herculea knew better. Educated and reasonable, she could not entertain the idea that her nightmare had contained a vision of the future. Still, her mind would not be peaceful. As Herculea poured the last of the water into her cup, all she could think of was how pitch black the island had appeared in her dream. Darkness everywhere, she thought with a shudder.
*****
It was night when the plane landed in Rio de Janeiro. The pilot cheerfully announced in English and Portuguese that they had safely reached their final destination. His wishes for a “pleasant stay in Brazil” rang in Herculea’s ears as she wrestled her duffel bag out of the tightly packed overhead compartment. She was exhausted. And still dehydrated. Even though she had slept on the plane, the enormity of the journey and the murky task ahead made her yearn for a comforting bed. As soon as she got off the plane, she would look for Kent and take a taxi with him to the hotel. From there, once she had recovered her natural vitality---and bravery---she would set out on her own to locate the Silver Goddess. With any luck, she would conduct a cogent interview that would produce material suitable for a cultural anthropology memoir.
Herculea had published numerous articles and contributed to several textbooks in her field. That was standard procedure for a tenured professor. But she had never published a full length book on her own. Shoving aside the disturbing dream and walking straight ahead off the plane, she focused all her mental energy on that singular goal: to publish a book of her own.
In the hotel room, Herculea fell asleep almost immediately. After dumping her bag, unpacked, onto the armoire, she retreated immediately to the king sized bed. Setting her cell phone onto the nightstand beside her, she checked one more time for messages. She tried not to be too disappointed to see that Pedro still had not contacted her, not even a quick text message. She obviously had misread him on their one and only date. He was a Lothario, no doubt, and probably charmed women every night of the week. Ma
ybe he had even been expecting sex that night. She was glad she hadn’t succumbed to his fiery charms. Not hearing from him after a kiss was upsetting enough.
Herculea buried herself under the covers and curled up into a ball. Fitted with a cheerful patchwork quilt and mountains of plush pillows, the bed beckoned the weary traveler to surrender into unconsciousness. And she did just that.
The next sound Herculea heard came twelve hours later as late morning sunlight poured through the drapes. She awoke, startled, to the distinctive sound of a phone ringing. Confused, she looked at her cell phone on the nightstand and saw that the noise was not coming from there. It was the hotel phone. It must be Kent, she thought. His room was situated directly across the hall from hers, and polite as ever, he probably wanted to call rather than knock on her door, she surmised.
In a groggy voice, Herculea answered, “Hello?”
A baritone voice answered her in lightly accented English. “Good morning, Miss Sanchez. You have a package here at the front desk. Would you like to come get it, or do I send a bellman up to deliver it?”
Taken aback, Herculea scanned her mind wondering who the package could be from. The only people who knew what hotel she was in were her colleagues. Could the dean have sent a package related to her research? It seemed far-fetched. Always on a tight budget, the dean would have given her any necessary materials in person before she left.
“Are you certain the package is for Herculea Sanchez?” She emphasized her unusual first name.
The Spanish surname Sanchez was common, and it would not be surprising if there had simply been a mix-up regarding the first names.
“Yes, it is for Herculea Sanchez.” The man confirmed.
Furrowing her brow, Herculea requested, “Well, then, yes, please send it up to my room.”
She hung up the phone and darted out of bed. Rushing to her duffel bag, she dug out a wrinkled satin robe and threw it on, tying the sash tightly around her waist. There would be no time to dress or shower, and she would have to greet the porter in her robe.
A knock sounded at the door, and Herculea marched over to answer it.
“Good morning, Miss Sanchez. I have a package for you.”
The young Brazilian bellman, handsome in his navy uniform, immodestly raked his eyes over her body before clearing his throat and offering the package. Ignoring his shameless gaze, Herculea fixed her eyes on the package, a small, rectangular box wrapped in pink with a notecard on top.
“Thank you, Senhor.” Herculea grasped the package and handed the bellman some coins as a tip.
“Obrigado.” The bellman brazenly took one last look at Herculea, disheveled dark hair cascading over her slinky robe, and walked away.
The box looked to contain some sort of jewelry, perhaps a wristwatch or necklace. On the other hand, it could be a ballpoint pen. Herculea frowned, lightly shaking the box, as she tore off the notecard and read the words printed in capital letters: “SEE YOU SOON, BEAUTIFUL.” There was no name or signature, just those four bold words. Unwrapping the box and lifting off the lid, Herculea revealed a sapphire choker set in solid gold. The necklace was stunning and glittered enticingly in the morning light. But who was it from?
Herculea walked across the hall, rapping firmly on Kent’s door. Kent answered almost immediately, and Herculea nearly fainted. Wrapped only in a terry cloth towel from the waist down, Kent was dripping wet. His frame was even more muscular than it looked under his usual khakis and button down shirts. His solid board of a chest was covered in dark gold hair that gave Herculea the urge to reach out and twine her fingers through it.
Flaming red, she looked up into his eyes and was surprised to see that he was ogling her body as well. Suddenly wishing she had freshened before she came so impulsively to his door, Herculea’s scarlet cheeks grew even hotter.
Kent swallowed visibly and audibly, his eyes moving to her face as he managed, “Good morning. Did you, um, sleep well?”
Returning to her senses as she met Kent’s familiar blue gaze, she replied, “Like a baby. How about you?”
“Um, yes, very well indeed. Did you want to get some breakfast?”
“Yes. But first I wanted to show you this.” Herculea handed him the gift box. “Open it,” she prodded.
“Is this for me?” Kent asked, looking confused.
“No.” Herculea frowned, instantly knowing that the gift had not been from Kent. “No, it was delivered to my room this morning. Someone brought it to the hotel.”
Kent opened the box, his eyes widening as he inspected the shiny jewelry inside. “Who gave you this?”
“I don’t know. Someone anonymous who wrote this notecard.” Herculea placed the card in his hand.
“See you soon, beautiful?” He read on a questioning intonation. “But who could this be from here in Rio?”
“That’s what I was wondering. I have no idea.” Herculea shook her head.
“I’m no jewelry appraiser, but I would say this looks authentic. These are genuine sapphires, and the gold could be 18 Carats,” Kent said in amazement.
“I think I should call the front desk and see if they can give me any more information.” Herculea took the box from Kent and started to walk away. “I’ll meet you in the dining room in a half hour for breakfast, okay?”
Giving her a stern look, Kent replied, “Yes, I’ll meet you there. Be careful, Herculea.”
The warning was spoken in an avuncular fashion, but the look in his eyes betrayed far less platonic feelings blended with almost palpable concern.
Inside her room, Herculea rang the front desk. She recognized the voice of the man who answered as the one who had woken her up earlier in the morning. “This is Herculea Sanchez in room 518.”
“Yes, Miss Sanchez. How may I help you?”
“I received the package. Do you know who it is from? “
The phone line was silent except for the delicate crackling of sound waves.
The man sighed deeply and finally responded. “I am not at liberty to tell you that.”
The line went dead a second later.
Herculea was flabbergasted. The man’s response had been completely unacceptable---and a little scary. Herculea slipped out of her robe and shuffled over to the bathroom. Hurriedly, she lathered guava shampoo into her grimy hair, soaping her skin with furious circular motions. She needed to keep her promise to Kent and make it to breakfast in less than a half hour. But first she would go to the front desk and confront the employee who had hung up on her.
There would be no time to blow dry and style her hair. She would have to let it air dry, even though it would look like a riotous mess in the Brazilian humidity. Choosing a cotton dress and slipping into a pair of matching flip flops, Herculea quickly ran a brush through her thick waves and ran out of the room towards the elevator.
She hated elevators. They made her claustrophobic, and she had spent far too much time indoors recently. Longingly, Herculea shut her eyes to drown out the strident beeping of the elevator and replace it with the soothing whir of ocean waves. This trip doesn’t have to be all business, she told herself. In fact, I’m long overdue for a vacation. Maybe in the afternoon I could take a taxi to the beach and stretch out under the sun, even do a few yoga poses on the sand.
The elevator door opened at lobby level, jolting Herculea back to reality. She ran towards the front desk. The lobby was vast and reminded her of the ostentatious dance hall Pedro had taken her to. It had not even been a week ago, yet it felt like an eternity. She tried to get her bearings in this astrodome of a lobby that jutted out to all four corners of the hotel. She didn’t know what direction to take, and there didn’t seem to be any signs.
A slightly amused voice spoke to her from behind. “Do you like the necklace?”
Immediately recognizing the deep-timbered Spanish accent, she whirled around and found herself face to face with Pedro.
Chapter 5
Pedro took several methodical steps forward until he was practical
ly mouth to mouth with Herculea. Astonished, she rubbed her eyes to see if it was really Pedro standing before her, or just a mirage formulated in her head as a result of too much travel and too little nourishment.
“I asked you if you like the necklace,” Pedro coaxed, cocking his head to the side and favoring her with a confident grin.
Herculea was speechless. The room began to spin around her, and she desperately needed a drink of water. What was he doing here? He was relentless in appraising her, just as he had been since the moment they met at the gym back in San Francisco.
“The necklace was from you?”
His eyes sparkled more brilliantly than the sapphires as he easily replied, “Of course. So much better than a text message, don’t you think?” He winked at her as his grin broadened.
“What?” She asked in confusion.
“After the night we shared, I knew that you are no ordinary woman. So I had to do something extraordinary for you. I thought about sending flowers to your office, but that is much too cliché. And of course a text message or voicemail wouldn’t be good enough. So, I selected the necklace for you. The colors complement your honey skin beautifully.”
Herculea listened to his excessive flattery in stark disbelief. All this time, she had been neurotically checking her phone and had even dismissed him as uninterested. But now, here he was at her hotel in Brazil, showering her with romantic compliments and an expensive gift.
“But how did you know I was here?” She asked, still unable to grasp the fact that Pedro was there in the flesh.
“You told me you were going to Rio.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell you where I was staying,” Herculea argued.
Pedro waved his hand dismissively. “I had a feeling you were here.”
“You had a feeling? But that’s crazy. This is Rio de Janeiro. There must be hundreds of hotels here.”
“Herculea, do not waste your time on unimportant details. I found your hotel, I found you, and now can continue where we left off last week.”
Murder on the Riviera Page 8