Death Runs in the Family (25 page)

The whole effect seemed to invite you in to park yourself, and never leave. I, personally, could have spent my life in it. This amazing room was pretty much deserted, though, with only two older, prim-looking women sitting and reading books.

Discretely tucked away in one corner of the stone wall was the registration desk. A young man of about twenty, dressed in white from head to toe, gave me a warm, beckoning smile. I sashayed over, glad I’d broken down and bought the pricy, floppy-brimmed hat. I maneuvered a flop over one side of my face and giggled as I approached him.

“Hi,” I said, in my best valley girl voice, trying to sound younger than my thirty-four years. “What a cool place! This is sooooo me.” His face wore a quizzical look, but he nodded, encouraging me to go on. “Do you speak English, dude?” I took a chance the younger generation was still using the word ‘dude,’ or he would think I was stuck in a time warp.

“Of, course, miss.” His answer was smooth and polished, with only a hint of a Portuguese accent, the smile never slipping. “How may I help you?”

“Well, I see some, like, older ladies sitting in your lobby, not that there’s anything wrong with being old, right?

But not for me for a long, long time, if my plastic surgeon has anything to say about it.” I draped myself on the counter and batted my eyes at him, although upon reflection, how he could have seen them under my low, floppy brim, I’ll never know.

“Yes?” He grew pensive, not sure if he was talking to a potential hotel guest, a nutcase, or maybe both.

“So I was wondering—dude—before I check in and all, are there any younger girls here I can hang with and have some laughs, you know, in their mid-twenties or so? I don’t want to be in a place that’s not happening, you know?”

“Ah!” his smile returned in full force. We both had glossed over the mid-twenties bit, him probably thinking I’d either had a very tough life or forgotten about ten years somewhere along the line.

“We have two younger women here,” he replied, smoothly. “One who is what they call a snowbird from Canada and is with us four months out of the year.”

“And the other?”

“She is from Florida, I believe.” He smiled at me, spreading his upturned hands out and shrugging his shoulders. “Naturally, I cannot say anything more. We respect our guests’ privacy.”

“Naturally. She’s been here four months, too?”

“No, about a week.” He smiled. “But she is the quiet type and does not go out much, only to take the tan in the garden next to the beach.” I could see him struggle with the loss of a potential sale. “I am sorry, but we are not too happening at the Bougainvillea. It is more like the bed and breakfast, not the hotel of full service. We are quiet here. Possibly it is not—”

“Would it be all right if I looked around? Just to see if it’s what I want.”

His manner became starched and withdrawn. “I would be delighted to send one of the staff with you to show you a room. There are twelve of them, all facing the ocean, six upstairs, six down. The only rooms available are on the second floor—there are two—and the price is eight-hundred and fifty U.S. dollars a night. His voice had a slight challenge in it when he recited the price.

“Well, I just love it,” I said sweeping the lobby with my eyes. For the moment, I was telling the truth. And I love a challenge.

“Oh, what the hey, I’ll take a room for the night.” I reached inside my handbag, removing my wallet. “Cash is all right, isn’t it? I left my credit cards in my luggage outside.”

“I will still need to see your passport,
Señorita
.”

“Oh, right.” I hauled out the fake passport I carried for such emergencies, in the name Mildred Pierce. It’s the title of one of my favorite black and white movies from the ‘40s starring Joan Crawford before her wire hanger days.

Business out of the way, I strutted down the understated but magnificent corridor, with plants on either side dripping from hanging pots, and surrounded by enough artwork to fill a gallery.

A young man, even younger than the desk clerk—so now we’re talking twelve-years old—marched before me wearing a bellboy’s uniform of burgundy and tan trimmed with gold and topped off with a matching, gold braided hat. I felt like I was in an old Phillip Morris commercial from the 1950s’
Your Show of Shows
.

He opened the door for me, with a preposterously big smile on his face and stepped aside. The cross ventilation from the opened door caused a breeze to rustle my own set of gossamer curtains which led out to a stone and cobalt-blue tiled terrace. On one side of the terrace sat my own hot tub and bar. Ahead was a phenomenal view of the ocean. A wall of glass doors, now open, could otherwise slide into pockets at either side during a hurricane or inclement weather. I crossed over and stroked the teak framing and glanced at the unobstructed view of the Atlantic. All rightie, I could live here.

I turned back and concentrated on the interior. The suite was opulently furnished in a tropical, teak, stone, and bamboo sort of way, calming but cheerful at the same time. Different sizes and shapes of mirrors lined walls that didn’t have Brazilian art clinging to it. Cushioned furniture in rust, wine, and black, with matching throw pillows and lamps, had been coordinated to live together as only an interior designer can coordinate.

In one corner, near the dining area, a live Macaw sat in a large cage, silent, non-moving, and staring. It wasn’t until he flapped his wings that I knew he was real. A hanging sign, written in several languages, said do not feed or tease. Environmentalists would have a field day about an establishment putting a bird into a room with strangers. I planned on saying something about it myself upon my departure.

I dismissed the costumed kid with a ten-dollar tip, hoping it would spread like wildfire about the big tipper, who had just come to town. It might prove useful later on.

The adjacent bedroom had a king-size bed festooned with feather pillows and comforter. I threw myself down on the soft bed, sending carefully arranged pillows flying.

I felt a wave of depression come on. Richard was probably right. I had gone wiggy. And then there was Lila. Man, the thought of my mother’s reaction to what I’d done sent me down so low, I had to take a mental elevator to get there.

Mom was going to have a cow—six, probably—when she saw all the time and money I was throwing around in my search for the elusive Kelli. Everybody else, including the police, thought Kelli was dead, a victim of Spaulding’s vendetta.

But not me, no matter what anyone said. I shook my head in disbelief at my own behavior. I suspected what I was doing was almost certifiable. Or was it? The feeling, the intuition about her being here was so strong, I couldn’t help myself. Scenes had played over and over again in my mind of the short time I’d spent with Kelli, every nuance, every gesture, every possible hidden meaning. And there was the “Girl From Ipanema” song I couldn’t get out of my head.

From what little I’d learned about her, she sent out partial truths mixed with lies, especially if she wanted something. Reviewing it all, I came to believe I knew her better than most other people. And what she wanted, in my opinion, was a change of identity, fifty million dollars, and Ipanema.

Somewhere along the line, I might have to stake my reputation on this belief. Oh, wait a minute. I’d just done that.

Realizing the pickle I’d gotten myself into, I let out a deep, soul shuddering sigh. Maybe, once again, she’d duped me and didn’t even have to be around to do it.

Despairing, I rolled over on my back, spread eagle, and stared up at the twenty-foot high, teak ceiling. Tears roll down the sides of my face and into my ears. I’d alarmed my brother, disappointed my mother—again—worried my uncle, and probably made my boyfriend mad as hell. In short, I was going to get it from all sides. And for what? Even if she was alive, she could go anywhere fifty million dollars could take her. I had to face it. Kelli, at the tender age of twenty-two, was way too wily for me.

After about fifteen minutes of feeling sorry for myself, boredom took over. I was lying on a soggy pillow, my eyes burned, my ears were wet, and I was starving. Expelling a whumph sound, I fought off the surrounding feather-stuffed bedding, got up, and checked my watch. Eleven-thirty a.m. Nearly lunchtime. But first, a barre. That’s what was the matter with me. I was no longer centered, spiritually, mentally, or physically.

With a somewhat lighter heart, I left the hotel to collect my small valise from the trunk of the car. Returning to the

room, I yanked out my dance clothes with a determined air. I would center myself if it killed me. I threw the leotard on, abandoning the tights in the warm weather, all the while noting again the stunning view of the ocean in the distance and the tops of the palm trees in the gardens below.

I may be doggy doo tomorrow when I return home, but today I was in a plush hostelry on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Deal with it, Lee. So I dealt.

I tied the belt around my waist and stepped out barefoot onto the terrace. The stone flooring felt cool and welcoming to my hot feet. Detouring for a split second to the mini-bar next to the hot tub, I snatched a small bag of peanuts from the top shelf and ripped it open. Munching happily and feeling better, I padded over to the railing of the balcony and gave myself over to the panoramic feast before me.

Then wondering about the landscaping of the gardens below, I glanced downward. My reaction was so sharp, my startled movement so violent, peanuts went flying in every direction from the small, plastic bag.

For there she was, lying on her side, sunning herself on a chaise lounge.

Kelli.

Chapter Twenty-One

An MIA Sighting

I dropped to the floor, as flat as possible. Then I craned my neck up and over the lower rung of the railing, straining my eyeballs to get a view of the prone figure below. I was panting, just like a gerbil I met once whose wheel was her obsession. Kelli was my obsession, so I guess it was only fitting I’d pant the same way.

Just then, my phone started beeping its reminder. I had missed the first hour of the scheduled call to Richard, and there’s nothing like being yelled at by an irate, self-righteous baby brother to make you feel like an idiot. I wasn’t going to let it happen again.

I crab crawled backward across the terrace to the beeping phone inside the living room. Just as I reached for it, it rang.

Dang
, I thought,
Richard is becoming annoyingly like Mom, Frank, and Tío. What’s with everybody in the family, anyway? Checking up on me every three minutes. You’d think I didn’t have the sense God gave a lemon.

I looked at the incoming number.
Lila! I might have known.

“She’s here,” I blurted out, not even saying hello. “She’s right below me in the garden asleep on a chaise lounge in the sun!” I tried to contain my excitement and the volume. It was tough.

There was a slight pause, as my mother digested this information. “You mean, Kelli, of course.”

“Well, duh! Not Amelia Earhart!” I was giddy in my victory. It was short-lived.

“There is no need to be sarcastic, Liana. It is not appreciated.”

“Sorry, Mom, but I mean…really, I…sorry.”

“Never mind, dear. You’re sure it’s her?”

I dropped down again and did my crab crawl across the terrace and back to the railing, speaking in a hoarse whisper the entire way. “Absolutely, even though she’s got a major tan and her hair is a different color. I know one of your friends changes her hair color the way I change handbags—”

Mom clucked in disapproval. “Marsha is never satisfied, poor thing.”

“Personality overview aside, all I know is, whatever Marsha’s color of the week is, it always looks pretty natural.”

“A good colorist is the key.”

We’d beaten that one to death, so I went on. “Kelli has hers dyed a dark brown, but the cut and curls are the same. And her skin tone is much darker—”

“Probably one of those self-tanning lotions.”

“That’s my thinking.” I strained my neck up again and looked down, taking everything in with more care. Kelli was still lying on the chaise lounge, on her side, arm stretched out under her head, exactly in the same position she’d been on my couch a short time ago.

“There’s no doubt about it, Lila. It’s her. Or is it, it’s she? I can never remember.”

“Liana, do nothing and call the police. Watch her from a distance but do nothing. Understand?”

The beauty of cellphones is, if you don’t like what someone is saying, you can pretend you can’t hear them, the reception went suddenly and inexorably kaplooey. It’s one of the supposed downsides to a modern convenience I embrace wholeheartedly.

“What’s that, Lila? You’re going in and out now. I can only hear every other word. Hello? Mom? Hello?” And so a sputtering and exasperated mother found herself disconnected from a headst
rong daughter. Wasn’t the first time.

Before I did anything, I backed up from the railing again. Out of Kelli’s probable sightline, I sat on my haunches and thought things over. One thing for sure, my chaffed knees and hands were going to need soothing lotion after this back and forth routine on the
stone floor. Maybe a total body massage. Yummy.

I crawled forward again and looked down at Kelli, who was in such a sound sleep, she wasn’t even stirring. I set the phone on vibrate, tucked it into the belt of my wraparound leotard, and stood up. I took a chance and went inside for my sandals. Knotting a pareo around my waist to make the ensemble look more beachy and presentable, I threw on the floppy hat before running back out to the railing. I held part of the brim over my face, just in case, and peeked down. Kelli was still in the same position as before. Maybe she’d had a busy, long night spending all that money. Maybe she had a hangover. All good for me.

I tore out the door, loped down the stairs and through the side passageway leading guests to the street and the beach beyond. A perk for the ground floor rooms was their own private garden. Comprised of sand-loving tropical trees, bushes and flora, this well-tended garden had access to the sea while providing a certain amount of privacy from passersby. From the sidewalk, what you saw was a wall of greenery, with a small, centered wooden gate leading to each garden.

Behind the gate, small wrought iron tables, chairs, and lounges were placed both in and out of the sun, for the guests’ preference. Each of the six gardens was separated from the others by the same green bushy things, which created the illusion of privacy but in reality, provided handy-dandy viewing if you leaned in and parted them a little. I love stuff like that.

A quick but stealthy zip around the street side of each garden showed me no one else was using theirs except for Kelli. While the beach across the street was crowded, hardly

anyone was using the sidewalk. It was lunchtime, and the sun was climbing to its hottest of the day, maybe the reason there was no one else around. Or maybe it was my lucky day. I have so few of those; it was hard to tell.

Returning to my original spot, I peered through the tall, green bushy thing, making sure Kelli was still lying on the chaise. Freeing myself from the lacy tendrils, I followed the sandy path back to the street. Then I hung a left. The sand was silent beneath my sandals as I entered Kelli’s garden and crept closer to my sleeping prey.

Kelli was wearing a neon pink bikini, modest by today’s standards. Her deep golden tan—manufactured, surely—set off the brightness of the fabric even more. She still lay on her side, eyes closed, fingers reaching out soft and delicate from the outstretched arm beneath her head. The cushioned, white and tan lounge chair was lowered to lie flat and looked about as comfortable as any bed I’ve seen.

A pair of hot pink, high-heeled leather thongs rested on one side of the lounge. On the other side and flat on the ground, lay a large cloth and leather beach bag in gorgeous shades of hot pink, orange, and yellow, so high end it screamed, ‘You have no idea how much I cost, so go ahead and try to buy me. I double-dog dare ya.’ A matching headband encircled a hot pink panama straw hat on the ground nearby, hot pink sunglasses thrown carelessly on part of its brim. We were into pink, I gathered.

Flickering sunlight from the breeze-stirred palm fronds created moving patterns of light and shade on her sleeping body. Between the cool, light wind from the ocean and the sounds of the surf, I think the savage breast could have been

soothed in just about anybody. Anybody except me. I was still hopping mad. Take my cats, indeed.

“Hello, Kelli,” I said, tossing the ruby and silver ring onto the ground near her. It landed with a clunk. “I brought you your ring.” My voice, even though I’d tried to keep it soft
in this peaceful paradise, sounded like an announcement coming from an overhead speaker at a carnival.

She didn’t move. At first, I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me. I saw a slight quivering of a muscle in her outstretched arm and then a fast movement toward the beach bag lying nearby.

But I was faster. One step forward, and my foot stomped on the clasp of the bag. Kelli froze, hand mid-air. I bent over, keeping an eye on the still woman, and picked up the bag.

“Looking for your sunscreen? I’ll get it for you.”

I opened the bag, noting its heaviness. Inside was an old World War II German Mauser. Just like the one Richard mentioned reading about online.

Pushing the well-oiled gun aside with a bit of Kleenex, I rooted around and found a small bottle of sunscreen. After I pulled it out, I threaded the large-handled bag over my arm, resting it firmly on my shoulder. I tossed the bottle on the ground where the bag had been.

“There you go.”

Kelli sat up slowly, reluctantly, almost like a little girl being caught playing hooky at the movies instead of being in school. She didn’t look up, just kept her head down, her body hunched over, arms interlocked, hands clasped together and placed on her closed knees.

“How did you find me?” Her voice sounded thin and small, almost contrite.

“You do a lovely version of ‘The Girl From Ipanema.’”

My voice, in contrast, had a triumphant edge to it I couldn’t keep out.
Vindication,
I was thinking.
Maybe I am as smart as a fifth grader. Maybe I’m almost as smart as you, Kelli.

“I’m not going back,” she said. This time her voice had no contrition, only conviction.

“Oh, yes, you are. You’re going back, and I’m taking you.”

She looked up at me for the first time; her blue eyes vivid against the dark hair and deep tan.

“Fifty million dollars is a lot of money. I’ll split it with you. You can do a lot of things with twenty-five million dollars.” She studied me with frank openness.

“No thanks. I see what happens to your business partners. I’ll pass.”

She looked down at her bare feet and wiggled her toes. A small smile passed her lips.

“I thought you’d say that. I don’t know why you hate me so much.”

“Kelli, if there was an Olympic medal for standing, sitting, or leaping gall, you’d win the gold.”

As outraged as I was feeling, I tried to keep my voice level and calm. I further resisted the urge to bite her on the knee but wished Tugger was there to do it for me.

“They were all against me,” she sighed after a moment. “All those men. I had to do what I did.” The expression on her face had an innocence a nun couldn’t duplicate.

“You’re one piece of work, aren’t you? But spare me the blameless
routine. I know it was you who shot your husband, even though you tried to hang it on Spaulding. And I mean your legal husband, Eddie, and not Nick. Although how Nick managed to stay alive around you, I’ll never know. Who’s this new guy? The dead man who was pretending to be your father? You’ve got them crawling out of the—”

“He wasn’t pretending to be my father,” she interrupted. “He was.”

My eyebrows shot up into my hairline.

She noticed my reaction and snickered. “Don’t look so shocked. Not every man who sires a kid deserves a father of the year award. My scumbag of a father didn’t, for sure.”

“You’re sitting there trying to defend murdering your own father?”

She didn’t answer but stared at me coolly for about a half a minute. I thought she was going to bolt, and I prepared myself to tackle her to the ground, if necessary. By God, I found her, and I wasn’t letting her get away.

Instead the only movement she did was to grab each breast with a hand, or as much as her small hands could hold. “You see these?”

“They’re hard to miss in neon hot pink.”

“I’ve had them since I was eleven years old. Eleven. That was the summer my loving father made a deal with his boss at the used car lot. A weekend with me in exchange for a promotion and a little extra cash. So dear, old dad took the deal and never looked back.”

She gave out a chortle then turned away, but not before I saw a hardness come over her features I’ve only seen on actresses vying for a Golden Globe award. It left as quickly as it came, but remained in her eyes, as she faced me again.

“Now you really looked shocked. His boss did things to me I still have nightmares over.” Her voice changed from anger to bitterness. “And he kept doing them for two years—every time his wife was out of town—until I was thirteen and had the sense to threaten to go to Child Endangerment.” She released her breasts from her grasp and lay back down again, still angry, still bitter.

“My father tried a few times after to do deals with other men, but by then I knew better, not like when I was a little kid.” She shook her head in disgust. “That’s the kind of lowlife my father was, pimping his own eleven-year old daughter.” She let out a high-pitched cackle, which led into a small sob. “And that’s why I often consider these things more of a curse than a blessing.” She glanced down at her chest.

“Where was your mother?” I stammered, hardly able to get the words out.

“She took off when I was three. I don’t know where she is. Who cares? I don’t need anybody.”

“How did your father get you involved in this Spaulding scam? It was his idea, right?”

Another cackle, less high-pitched but just as off-kilter. “Oh, please. He wasn’t smart enough. I’ve spent my life surrounded by stupid men trying to control me, use me.” She leaned forward, a wicked smile crossing her face.

“It was all my idea. I brought dear old dad in on it when I knew I’d probably need to get out of the country in a hurry. The police wouldn’t be looking for a father and child. I got the fake passports maybe six or seven months ago. I waited until things were right to use them.”

We had a plethora of fake passports going on around here, my Mildred Pierce being only one of them. I felt a flash of resentment.
How dare she? With me, it was different. After all, I was a PI. I had a legitimate reason for… Wait a minute… Never mind.