The Undertaker's Widow Page 10

  "Do you sell your belts out of your shop?"

  "I don't actually have a shop. That's just a figure of speech. I make the belts in a small factory. I sell through specialty shop customers and catalog sales. But I also work with a few fashion designers. They show me their designs for the season and I make belts that are appropriate for the collection." The woman pointed at her belt. "This is part of Gretchen Nye's spring collection. Do you like it?"

  "I noticed it when you sat down. It's very nice."

  "Nice?" the woman answered with mock indignation. "You're supposed to say that it's a startlingly innovative combination of style and color that knocked your socks off. Nice doesn't sell Gretchen Nye originals at two thousand a pop."

  Quinn laughed. "I did mean to say that it was startlingly innovative. It came out wrong."

  "You're forgiven."

  The flight attendant brought the woman's drink just as the plane began taxiing toward the runway. She swallowed most of it, then sat silently during takeoff. Quinn could see that her knuckles were white from tension. As soon as they were airborne, she downed the rest of her Scotch.

  "No matter how many times I go through that, I still get scared," she confided to Quinn. "A friend of mine was killed in an air crash."

  "That's terrible."

  "Yeah. It really shook me up. I'm a mess every time I fly."

  The attendant passed by and the woman ordered a second drink. So did Quinn.

  "Are you vacationing on St. Jerome?" the woman asked.

  The question reminded Quinn that Laura was not with him and he lost the relaxed feeling he had been experiencing since his conversation with the woman began.

  "Business, I'm afraid. Though I'm going to take advantage of the beach."

  "What kind of work do you do?"

  "I'm a judge."

  The woman looked impressed. "I've never met a judge before."

  Quinn smiled. "Well, this is what we look like."

  She laughed. "Where are you a judge?"

  "Portland, Oregon."

  "I hear that Portland is a beautiful city. I'd like to visit someday."

  "I like it."

  Suddenly, the woman looked confused. "You can't be a judge on St. Jerome, can you?"

  "No. I can only hear cases in Oregon."

  "That's what I thought. So what kind of business do you have on the island?"

  "I'm speaking at a legal seminar. I only hope I can keep my audience interested. My lecture is going to seem awfully dull compared to those white sand beaches outside the hotel."

  "I'm certain you'll hold their interest, Judge . . . Say, I don't know your name. Mine is Andrea. Andrea Chapman."

  "Richard Quinn," he said as they shook hands. "Dick, actually. And please don't call me Judge. That's for the courtroom."

  "Okay, Dick. Are you staying at The Palms?"

  "No. I'm at the Bay Reef Resort."

  "Oh, the new one. They were just finishing it the last time I was on the island."

  "It looks beautiful in the brochures. Are you going to St. Jerome on business?"

  "God, no. This trip is strictly R and R. A friend of mine owns a villa on the island. He lets me use it when I need to get away."

  "A boyfriend?"

  Andrea giggled. "Freddy is gay. Flaming. But he's a great friend and one of my best customers. We met at a leather goods show in Milan about five years ago. He owns a catalog business and he really pushes my belts."

  "Is the villa near my hotel?"

  "No. It's on the other side of St. Jerome. You should see it. The place is unbelievable. The floors are these different-colored marbles, the walls are all glass, and the view is to die for. It's right on the ocean on this cliff. When I wake up and pull the drapes it's like I'm floating in space."

  "It sounds fantastic."

  "It is." Andrea leaned over toward Quinn and dropped her voice an octave. "There's a story behind the villa. The way Freddy got it. Some Guatemalan drug lord owned it, but he was busted in Rhode Island of all places. He gave it to this lawyer in Boston that Freddy knows as part of his fee and Freddy bought it from the lawyer for a song. I don't think the lawyer ever saw it. He just wanted cash."

  Andrea lowered her voice even more.

  "The last time I used the place, I found a stash of coke hidden behind a phony panel in the bathroom. It scared the hell out of me."

  "I can imagine. Did you turn it over to the police?"

  "On St. Jerome? You're kidding? I wouldn't go within a mile of an island cop if I was being murdered. St. Jerome is great, but everyone--and I mean everyone--in the government is on the take. If I told the police about the dope, I'd either be in jail or penniless now."

  "So what did you do?"

  "Flushed it as quickly as I could. Then I scrubbed down the toilet bowl to make sure there wasn't a trace of the stuff left. It was my last day on St, Jerome, thank God. If it had been my first, I would probably have been on the next flight out. As it was, I didn't sleep a wink. I kept expecting Governor Alvarez's Gestapo to kick in the door and throw me in prison."

  Quinn laughed. "If you were so frightened, why did you come back?"

  "You wouldn't ask that if you'd been on St. Jerome before. The place has got to be the most beautiful island in the world. Besides, Freddy swore to me that the place is clean now. He was just as scared as I was when I told him about the coke. Can you imagine what it would cost an American to buy his way out of a drug beef?"

  Chapman paused. "Say, are you going to be working all the time?"

  "Not the first two days."

  Quinn realized where the conversation might be going and his wedding ring suddenly felt very heavy on his finger. He decided to make his marital status clear to Andrea.

  "My wife was supposed to come with me, but something came up at the last minute. She's a lawyer, too, and there was a business emergency."

  "That's too bad. I bet she would have loved St. Jerome. There's a lot to do if you know your way around."

  "Such as?"

  "Do you snorkel or scuba dive?"

  "No. I'm a lousy swimmer."

  "You don't have to swim great to snorkel. And there are these fabulous reefs where you can see all these tropical fish. You've never seen such bright colors," Andrea said excitedly. "Electric blues, iridescent greens. It's wilder than a Missoni fashion show."

  "That sounds terrific. Are any of these reefs near my hotel?"

  "Oh, sure. But the best one is on my side of the island, away from the hotels, where Freddy's villa is, off Cala de Almas Desoladas."

  "What was that?" asked Quinn, who spoke no Spanish.

  "The Cove of Lost Souls. Freddy said it's called that because of a ship that was wrecked on the reef in 1700 something. The captain was in love with a beautiful woman. They were going to be married. On their wedding day, the bride was kidnapped by pirates. The captain chased the pirates to St. Jerome just as a terrible storm struck the island and the captain's ship and the pirate-ship were wrecked. Everyone died, including the Captain and his bride.

  "Freddy told me that if you go to the cove at night, sometimes you can hear the souls of the captain and his bride calling to each other across the water. Isn't that sad and romantic?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "There's more, though. Freddy says that there have been mysterious disappearances in the cove. Not often. Once or twice, every ten years or so. They occur when lovers come to the beach at night on the anniversary of the shipwreck. They swim out toward the reef. One minute they're there, the next they're gone. The locals think that the lost souls on the reef are harvesting other souls to keep them company."

  "It's probably cramps," Quinn said with a smile.

  "See, that's the lawyer in you talking," Andrea scolded Quinn. "Lawyers are so unromantic." She paused as if debating whether to say more. "Do you want to hear something spooky?"

  "Sure."

  "The last time I stayed on St. Jerome, a day before I found the coke, I went down to the cove at sunset
and waited around to see if I would hear the lost souls calling. At first, I just heard what you usually hear on the beach at night, the surf and the wind. Soon after the sun went down, the temperature dropped and I got cold. I was just starting to leave when something very strange happened."

  Andrea paused. She looked distant.

  "What's the matter?" Quinn asked with concern.

  "I was remembering the voices. Only they weren't really voices. It was more like a moaning sound and it was so sad."

  Quinn was weaned on logic and had the overly rational mind of the contract lawyer, which has no cubbyhole where the supernatural can dwell comfortably.

  "Do you think it might have been the wind?" he asked tolerantly.

  "I knew you'd say that. Everyone I tell this story to says the same thing. If you'd been there, though, you'd know that it wasn't the wind. That sound ..." Andrea shivered. "It was inside my bones." She shook her head. "I just don't know how else to describe it. And the way it made me feel. At first I was really scared, but suddenly I felt so lost and alone."

  Andrea paused thoughtfully.

  "What if it's true? It would be so tragic. The two lovers, so close to each other, but separated by the raging sea for eternity."

  Quinn could not think of a thing to say that wouldn't sound patronizing, so he was silent. He did not want to insult Andrea. He liked her. She was so different from Laura. Quinn thought of the way Laura would react to Andrea's ghost story and laughed.

  "You don't believe me. I know. No one does."

  "I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you."

  "Oh, that's okay. No one takes my experience at the cove seriously. I'm used to it. Say, I just got an idea. You could hear the lost souls yourself. I could take you to the cove."

  "I don't know."

  It had been some time since he had spent a day alone with a woman other than Laura and the thought of it made him uncomfortable, especially with the way things were between them.

  "Oh, come on. You'd love it. And it's not a place that the tourists get to see. They pretty much stay near the hotels. Freddy told me that the governor likes it that way. There's a lot of poverty away from The Palms and Bay Reef. Freddy said that poor people are bad for tourism, so Governor Alvarez only paved the road on one section of the island. You have to drive on a dirt road to get to the villa and the cove. It goes through these shantytowns."

  Quinn knew he was being foolish. He didn't believe for a moment in the lost lovers, but the cove and the reef with the tropical fish sounded fascinating, and he did have two days with no plans. Spending one of them in the company of an attractive woman suddenly sounded like a good idea.

  "The invitation sounds tempting," Quinn hedged.

  Andrea turned slightly and put her hand on his arm.

  "I insist. I'll even teach you how to snorkel. You'll love it. What do you say?"

  ttj > >

  "I'm not taking no for an answer. There's no way I'm going to let you leave St. Jerome without learning how to snorkel. I can pick you up at the hotel around four, tomorrow afternoon. That will give us both time to get over our jet lag and catch up on sleep. It takes about three-quarters of an hour to get to the cove from the hotel. I'll bring a picnic basket. We can swim for a while.

  I have snorkeling equipment and Til give you a lesson. Then we'll eat and wait for the sun to go down."

  Andrea grinned mischievously. "I just got a great idea. If we hear the sound of the lost souls and you can't explain it, you have to treat me to dinner. But it's my treat if you can come up with a rational explanation. What do you say?"

  Quinn made a decision. He would go and have a good time. Maybe an evening with Andrea would help him get rid of his melancholy mood. But Quinn did not want anyone connected to the conference seeing him drive off with Andrea: judges had to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.

  "Why don't you give me directions to the cove and I'll meet you there? I'll rent a car."

  Andrea's smile widened. "So, you'll come?"

  "I'll come. And, if you win, we can invite the ghosts along. I'll even spring for their dinners."

  Quinn's first glimpse of St. Jerome was filtered through gauzy white clouds. A patch of sugar-white sand, a strip of crystal-clear blue water, groves of swaying emerald-leafed palms. When the plane dropped beneath the clouds and Quinn had an unobstructed view of the island, he was certain he had found paradise. After the steady diet of gray and rain he had dined on in Portland, the sight of the sun, the palm trees and the clear blue water was exhilarating.

  The exhilaration ended when the hatch of the airplane opened and Quinn was engulfed by a thick soup of hot, sticky air. He had rarely experienced such all-consuming heat. It bounced off the railings of the portable, metal steps that descended to the tarmac, melted the black asphalt and stirred the tar into a sucking mixture that threatened to wrench his shoes from his feet during the walk from the plane to the one-story terminal building that shimmered before him in the undulating waves of heat. Only the breeze from the sea made the heat bearable.

  The lime-green paint on the exterior walls of the terminal had been savaged by the salt-heavy sea air. On one wall hung a huge poster of a smiling, mustachioed man in a military uniform. Quinn could not read the Spanish words on the poster. A large tear almost disconnected the top of the poster from the bottom. It looked to Quinn as if the damage had been done with a knife. Lounging against the wall next to the poster were two soldiers carrying automatic weapons. Quinn could not help noticing several other soldiers who were similarly armed.

  "Why all the heavy artillery?'' Quinn asked.

  Andrea lowered her voice.

  "The soldiers are here to protect the tourists. Governor Alvarez lets drug smugglers use the island for a fee. About five years ago, he executed six dealers who tried to cheat him. They were members of a South American cartel. A few weeks later, six tourists were gunned down in an ambush in retaliation. The island's economy is dependent on tourism. The massacre had a disastrous impact."

  "You're making St. Jerome sound pretty dangerous."

  "Oh, you don't have to worry. There hasn't been any trouble since. Freddy told me that a lot of money changed hands and Alvarez worked out the problem."

  "This Alvarez sounds like a petty criminal."

  Andrea looked alarmed. She cast a quick look around to see if anyone had heard the judge's comment.

  "You don't criticize Governor Alvarez here," Andrea warned. "Enjoy the beaches and forget politics. It's not a healthy subject for discussion on St. Jerome."

  Louvered windows let air into the terminal, but it was still hot. Quinn looked for the baggage carousel before noticing two black men in shorts and sweat-stained shirts taking luggage off a cart and stacking it near one of the interior walls. He found his bags and looked around for customs.

  The dominant language on the signs inside the terminal was Spanish, the official language of the island, but there were translations in English, French, German and Japanese. Quinn heard most of these languages being spoken by the tourists who queued up in front of the customs officials. The heavyset, sleepy-eyed man who checked Quinn's passport spoke broken English. After a few perfunctory questions, he smiled at Quinn and welcomed him to St. Jerome.

  "The Bay Reef Resort is supposed to provide a shuttle service between the airport and the hotel," Quinn told Andrea.

  "Don't worry about me. Freddy's driver will pick me up."

  A brand-new air-conditioned van with the Bay Reef logo was waiting at curbside.

  "I'll see you at the cove at four tomorrow," Quinn said before boarding it.

  "At four."

  The air-conditioning in the van made Quinn forget about the debilitating heat. Two middle-aged couples were the only other passengers on the shuttle. From what Quinn could hear, they were Australian and they were on holiday together. Quinn turned his attention to the royal palms with their thick tan trunks and broad green leaves that shaded the highway. Beyond the palm trees, waves rushed acro
ss a white sand beach. Everywhere Quinn looked he saw the sea or lush tropical vegetation. St.

  Jerome was every bit as beautiful as the brochure from the Bay Reef Resort had promised.

  After a fifteen-minute ride, a high white stucco wall appeared on the ocean side of the highway. They drove alongside the wall for a mile. Then the van pulled up in front of a guardhouse and waited while a black man in a clean, white short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks opened a gate topped by black spikes. The bold black letters on a copper sign affixed to a column next to the gate identified the enclave as the Bay Reef Resort.

  The van drove for a short distance down a wide road lined with pink bougainvillea and more palms, then stopped in front of a one-story white stucco building. To the left, Quinn could see the beginning of a line of elegant shops. To the right was a row of two-story suites. High hedges blocked Quinn's view in both directions.

  Quinn got out of the van and identified his bags for a porter, who directed him through an arched portal toward the reception area. Quinn noticed that there were almost no doors in sight. The reason was soon obvious. As he stepped through the archway, the breeze that blew in from the ocean cooled him.

  There was a red and yellow terrazzo floor and a dozen varieties of flowering plants in the lobby of the Bay Reef. Beyond the reception area was a wide flagstone terrace. Guests in shorts and bathing suits were eating lunch at tables covered with white cloth under the shade of sea-grape trees. The trees were strung with lights that illuminated the open-air restaurant after the sun set.

  After he checked in, a porter showed Quinn to his suite. A king-size, four-poster bed dominated the bedroom. The sight of it made Quinn sad. He had requested it after seeing pictures of the suite in the brochure for the resort. Before Laura's abrupt withdrawal from their trip, he had imagined the pleasure they would both take in making love in that bed.

  Quinn tipped the bellman, put away his clothes, and switched on the air conditioner and the overhead fan. The judge was tired from his nine-hour flight, but he did not want to nap. As soon as he showered and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, Quinn wandered onto the balcony. Oleander, coconut palms and more sea grape were planted liberally along the edge of the beach, providing some shade for the bathers who lounged around, soaking up the sun. To the left, Quinn could see the thatch-roofed bar at the end of the flagstone terrace. Brown-skinned waiters and waitresses cruised back and forth between the bar and the guests with drink-laden trays. The ocean near the resort was dotted with sailboats, catamarans and splashing, laughing vacationers. Quinn checked his watch. Laura's plane would be in by now. He walked inside, lay down on the bed and called Laura at her hotel.