Heaven Is High (8 page)

The letter demanding, not requesting, Binnie's presence on Friday had irked her beyond reason. As a consequence she had prepared two letters, one for a Dennis Linfield in Eugene, and one for his superior, Walter Sokolosky, in Portland. She handed them both to Bailey. “Mail that one tonight and this one tomorrow. I want them both delivered by Friday and that should do it. Certified, return receipt on both of them.”

“Barbara, you don't have a clue about what you'll be stepping into,” he said morosely. “If your pal Nicholson is Marcos's pal, drugs are probably involved. People get shot nosing around in the drug trade. Did you read that stuff about Marcos?”

She had read it, and she had even been in his shop that featured imported clothes and handcrafted items from Central America. Bailey's report had also said again that he was likely a drug dealer, never charged, but rumored to be the one to go to.

Ignoring his words, Barbara handed him another sheet of paper. “My flight schedule, going and coming back. I'll drive to Portland this evening, catch that crack-of-dawn flight in the morning, and by evening be in Belize.”

“By way of L.A. and Mexico City,” he said with deepening gloom as he looked over the schedule.

“If I'm not back by next Thursday, send in the marines,” she said. “Or at least tell Dad where I was last seen.”

“He doesn't know?”

“I told him I have to research some old records, that I'm off to L.A. in the morning.” Did a part lie qualify as a total lie? She didn't want to answer her own question. She thought a moment, then said, “I called Martin and told him to sit tight until he hears from me. No problem there. I guess that's it for now. I have a ton of stuff to Xerox, and I have to pack, then drive to Portland.”

“Okay,” he said. “You have any idea where to start when you get down there? I could give you some pointers.”

“Good,” she said. “As much as you can in five minutes. Shoot.”

“Schools, high school and college for old friends. Santos employees, current and retired. That convent school where they were sent. Priest. Library.”

He went on with several others, and each one felt like another weight tied to her neck when she was already thrashing around in deep water. Too much for such a short time. But she listened and added the possible information sources to those she had thought of herself.

“How about a private investigator?” she asked, interrupting him.

He shook his head. “If you knew the score, maybe. But you don't. For all you know the guy could already be in someone else's pocket, ready to blow you out of the water. You go in there, start asking questions, hire a PI, bingo, you're a target.”

“Okay, I get the picture. Now beat it. I have a lot to do before I take off.”

His gloomy expression did not lighten as he pulled on a windbreaker that had been designed for someone a size or two bigger than he was. He picked up his duffel bag and slouched to the door where he paused to shake his head at her before leaving.

“All I need,” she muttered, locking the door. “Mr. Doom and Gloom to wish me a bon voyage.”

8

On Thursday evening, after Barbara had showered and changed her clothes, she eyed her bed longingly but resisted. The dining room opened at eight thirty, the desk clerk had told her. And she could not wait until eight thirty or later for something to eat. She went down to the lobby, looked in on the pool area, and bypassed it. Too many people, too much music, too many loud children. The bar was dim with fewer people, but she wanted air and went on to the terrace adjoining the bar.

She had been cooped up all day, had breathed in the air others breathed out in airplane cabins, or had been assaulted by an incessant din of voices and music, and too many odors of hot oil and fast food in terminals. She sat down and took a deep breath, gazed at the waterfront where boats gently rocked, then closed her eyes, savoring fresh ocean air, unfamiliar plant and flower fragrances, air different from any at home. The air felt good, not too warm, not too windy. It smelled good, clean, not recycled through countless lungs.

“Miss, would you like to order?” A voice roused her. A waiter stood at her table. He was very dark and had a friendly smile.

Skin color seemed to range from light Mediterranean or Spanish warm tones to the deepest black, and so far everyone had spoken English.

Barbara picked up the menu on the table, but after a moment, she put it down again. “What would you recommend in a dry white wine? Most of the wines on the menu are unfamiliar to me.”

She saw a man rise from a nearby table and approach hers. “Henry, hold on a second,” he said. Then he smiled genially at Barbara. “He'll push the most expensive French wine on you and it will be near the bottom of what's actually best. May I recommend one? It's an excellent white from Argentina, somewhere between a fume blanc and pinot gris, the best of both. And less than half as expensive as the one Henry would have you choose. You are a weary traveler, having had the most atrocious food possible all day, and you should not be faced with a difficult decision on your arrival.”

Barbara grinned at him. That was exactly right. He was six feet tall, trim, well tanned with sun-bleached hair and a charming smile. Probably mid-fifties, she guessed. Presumptuous, but not aggressively forward, and meanwhile he seemed to know the menu, and he certainly knew the waiter. Henry was laughing quietly with a chagrined expression, waiting for her decision.

“I'll have what the gentleman suggested,” she said. “Thank you,” she added, nodding at the man still standing by her table.

“May I join you?” he asked. “Share a bottle of wine?”

Her hesitation was brief. “Of course,” she said.

“Good. And, Henry, a platter of sizzling shrimp and empanadas.”

Barbara picked up the short bar menu, which did not include shrimp.

“He can see that it happens,” her companion said lightly. “Can't you, Henry?”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “Will there be anything else?”

Barbara shook her head, and so did her new companion.

“Gabe Newhouse,” he said, extending his hand. “Fellow American.”

She said her name and shook his hand.

“Now we're officially introduced,” Newhouse said. “Excuse me a second, I left a few things on my table.” He went to the other table and returned with some pieces of mail that he put down before pulling out a chair and sitting to the right of her, in such a way that they could both look out over the waterfront.

“You live here?” Barbara asked, nodding toward the mail.

“No. Just a mail drop. Actually I live out there.” He pointed to the bay. “Third boat from the left.” The boat he pointed to was a yacht at anchor. “I make it a point to put in here frequently to pick up mail, provision the boat, buy a book or two, just spend a little time on land to remind myself why I prefer to be out there. If I ever decide I want to be a landlubber again, someplace like Belize would be my first choice, however. Quiet, laid-back, not overrun by tourists or gambling casinos. One major drawback. It's hurricane-prone. And the bouncing broncos most likely will eradicate the other attractions, if they have their way.”

“That's too fast for me,” Barbara said in protest. “What are the bouncing broncos?”

Henry arrived then with a wine bucket and opened the wine. He offered Newhouse a sample for his approval, poured for them both. “The shrimp will be along in a minute or two,” he said.

“The broncos are one of the reasons I've delayed my departure past time,” Newhouse said. “That and provisioning the boat. Who was it who said she wasn't ready to die yet because she wanted to see how it all came out? Tallulah Bankhead? Dorothy Parker? I forget. The broncos are very enthusiastic young men with too much time on their hands, and with very rich daddies. At least two of them qualify as such. The third one is a working stiff, a photographer they hired. They have an agenda to develop one of the offshore islands as a tourist destination playland, a water wonder world. That's the first delaying playlet.

“Also,” he continued, “there's an amusing little scandal going on, involving a government official, his mistress, his wife, and a former mistress who is demanding money she claims he promised her. Every day I change my mind about who will win that one.

“And finally, there's a real Shakespearean drama coming to a head soon. I want to see how they all end.”

“Oh, my,” Barbara said. “I understand about the development. California, here we come. And lovers and philandering government officials hardly even make the tabloids any longer. But what drama?”

“It has all the right elements for great drama,” Newhouse said. “Brothers who were bitter enemies until one was murdered. Gunned down on the road on his way home. A fortune in land and holdings of various sorts. A beautiful princess. Her uncle has seized the property to which she is the legitimate heir, and she has vanished in the wilderness out of fear for her life.”

Barbara nodded gravely. “Shakespearean to the core. Is there a handsome prince ready to come to her rescue?”

He shook his head. “It doesn't seem likely. The elusive Mrs. Thurston might be very hard for such a prince to find. Her wall of brambles is the jungle itself. She's been teaching out in the jungle for years, and she knows where and how to hide. No doubt she has a multitude of people out there to help. I believe that Uncle Julius is hard at work trying to find her.”

“My,” Barbara said, smiling. “If you could weave all three stories into one novel, add a touch of magical realism, it sounds as if you'd have a major bestseller.”

“No way. I'm not a writer. Just nosy.”

Henry came back with a serving cart. He set plates on the table, finger bowls of water with lime slices, and towels at the side. Carefully handling a metal dish, he put it on the table and lifted the lid. Shrimp were sizzling with an aroma that made Barbara's mouth water. He put a platter of empanadas down and poured more wine.

“Finger food,” Newhouse said, picking up a shrimp by the tail.

The wine was excellent and the shrimp, redolent with garlic, lime, and something undefinable, was almost sinfully good. Barbara drew in a long breath of contentment. “This is wonderful, Mr. Newhouse. Thank you for your advice.”

“You're most welcome. Just one more bit of advice and then I'm done with that. Before you stroll around in daylight, do get a wide-brimmed hat, and use sunscreen. Pale from a northern climate without much winter sunshine, you'll burn without realizing how fierce the tropical sun can be.”

“Noted,” she said.

“The first week on
My Bettina
I nearly burned to a crisp,” he said, nodding toward the yacht at anchor. “And I'm from Southern California.”

Barbara was taken by surprise by his words. “You're G. M. Newhouse? The director?” Bits and pieces of discordant memory came to mind. There had been a scandal involving him and his wife at the time. She was Bettina, his leading lady in several films. Drugs had been involved, an affair or more than one, threats.… It was too fractured, and she had paid too little attention to find a coherent narrative now.

“Retired director,” he said with a broad smile. “But tell me, and please say no, do you happen to have a play tucked away in your suitcase?”

She laughed. “Nope. And I have no aspirations whatsoever toward becoming an actor.”

“Whew! God is merciful.”

“You still think in cinematic terms, don't you?” she said. “The bouncing broncos, the official with too many women, the damsel in distress with an uncle who may or may not be murderous. Wanting identifiable endings.”

“Afraid so,” he said. “Habits are so easily acquired, so hard to break. But tell me about you. You're a professional woman, I assume. Not a medical doctor, unless it's psychiatry. Not a teacher. What?”

“Attorney. Why did you assume professional?”

“Everything about you; an air of competence, independence, traveling alone to a foreign country, no hint of coquetry, curiosity. That all spells professional. Corporate lawyer?”

“Defense attorney.” She sipped her wine, then added, “I just finished a difficult case and needed a few days away, someplace warm and sunny and not touristy.”

She recalled Bailey's warning that she did not know what she was stepping into, and now this friendly man, who had gone out of his way to talk with her, to choose her wine and snacks, turned out to be possibly involved, however indirectly, with drugs. At least her incomplete memory of past scandals might indicate such was the case. He apparently had the freedom to cruise among the islands, anchor wherever he wanted. Moreover, she thought, he seemed to be fishing for information perhaps a bit more than casual strangers chatting in a bar warranted.

“Did you win the case?” he asked.

“My client was innocent and was acquitted,” she said. “I've enjoyed your films immensely, Mr. Newhouse.”

“Thank you, but, please, it's Gabe. In Los Angeles, it's first-name basis instantly, and on the second encounter, it's ‘darling.' ” He was eyeing her closely. “You're not from New York, Northeast, or the Midwest. Not the South, of course. That seems to leave the Northwest, but not where the sun shines in the winter. I believe it does in Idaho and Montana. Am I getting warm?”

She laughed and sipped her wine. “How long do you stay out on the yacht at any one time?”

“Days, weeks, months. Until we run out of water or wine or something else. It varies. I threw away my day planner when I retired.” He twisted around to glance at the bar. “I think the broncos will join us soon. They come to report their adventures of the day, just as if I'm the uncle who demands an accounting. Or to show off a little. Possibly both.”

She heard the voices then. Several men seemed to be talking at once in a rapid-fire dialogue.