by Carrie Doyle
Carmen’s mansion was even more impressive in the daylight, Plum thought as they walked through the house to the backyard. Sunlight streamed into every room in the house, and in the public areas—which were mostly open-walled rooms—the aquamarine sky was the backdrop. Carmen was seated on a lime-green cushioned chaise by her pool, flipping through a glossy fashion magazine. She wore a leopard-print string bikini that barely covered her impressive bosom. A gold necklace with a shiny jet stone dangled between her breasts. When she rose to greet them, she didn’t bother to tie a wraparound over her spectacular body, which somewhat riled Plum. She wished she could fetch a hazmat suit for Carmen. Her wish became fervent when Carmen double kissed Juan Kevin hello and clasped his hands tightly.
“It is very nice of you to stop by and say hello,” said Carmen.
She offered them lemonade and then returned to lie on her chaise while Plum and Juan Kevin sat next to each other on the chaise next to her.
“Carmen, I have a delicate question,” began Juan Kevin.
“You may ask me anything, Juan Kevin.”
Perhaps Plum was imagining it, but she thought Carmen was undressing Juan Kevin with her eyes. That said, Carmen was wearing tinted sunglasses, so it was difficult to tell.
“We have been told you returned to the Casa Mango with Nicholas Macpherson and Martin made a scene. Why didn’t you tell us that?”
“I didn’t?”
“No,” said Juan Kevin.
“It was very terrifying, so I think I wanted to forget it. Yes, we went back to have a nightcap, and then Martin came—Juan Kevin, he is ruining my life. He follows me. He taunts me…”
Her voice became choked with tears. Juan Kevin handed her a handkerchief, and she slid off her sunglasses to dab the yet-to-be-manifested tears. Plum couldn’t decide if she was more startled by the fact that Juan Kevin carried a real handkerchief (who does that?) or by the fact Carmen was again turning on the waterworks to garner sympathy.
“I know he does,” said Juan Kevin. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said. “He deprives me of any joy. Not that I would be joyful with my beloved Emilio no longer in this world, but I strive for small happinesses. But it was not to be. Martin appeared, yelled, and made a scene, and Nick drove me back to my car. I am cursed…”
“You can’t think that,” said Juan Kevin.
Plum glanced around the expensive compound that could house an entire village and wanted to refute this lady’s claim of being cursed. But she kept her mouth shut.
“Long ago I met a woman who read my coffee grinds. She told me there would be very big highs and very big threats to me. She said to beware of the evil eye. I wear this resguardo to ward them away, but it doesn’t help,” she said, lifting the stone part of her necklace.
“I am sorry you feel under threat,” said Juan Kevin.
Plum wanted to roll her eyes.
“Thank you so much for your tenderness, your caring,” she said sweetly. “I only hope one day that Martin will leave me in peace and I can dream of happiness and a future.”
A young, uniformed maid with a pleasant, round face came and placed a tray of cookies on the side table. Plum excitedly noted they were coconetes like the ones Lucia made. Carmen glanced down at them, and all at once her face morphed from sweet victim to angry devil. She began berating the maid in Spanish and picked up the tray and threw it at her. The cookies all went scattering. The maid started crying and bent down to gather the cookies as quickly as possible. It all happened in Spanish and so fast that Plum had no idea what had ensued.
“What’s going on?” asked Plum. “Are you on a diet?”
Juan Kevin was speaking rapidly in Spanish, trying to calm Carmen down and console the maid. Finally, some sort of truce was brokered, and the maid slipped away with the discarded cookies, and Carmen sat down, steaming.
“What was that all about?” asked Plum.
“She tried to kill me,” said Carmen. “No doubt she works for Martin.”
“Kill you with carbs?” asked Plum.
Carmen’s face became vicious. “I am very allergic to coconut. I touch it, I die. My staff has been given strict instructions, and this new maid brings me this?”
“Carmen, she didn’t know. She said it was her first day, and she was so proud to bring you cookies that her mother made as thanks for the employment,” said Juan Kevin.
Carmen appeared unmoved. “Her employment will be terminated.”
There was an awkward silence, and Plum knew that Juan Kevin would use it as an excuse to leave even though there were still more questions to ask of Carmen. But he surprised her.
“Carmen, what did you think of Nick’s friends when you met them at the bar? Did he speak of any tension?” asked Juan Kevin.
Carmen shook her head. “No. But I didn’t particularly care for the Indian one.”
“Deepak?” asked Plum.
“I don’t know his name. He was very disapproving of me, I could tell. His aura was condescending.”
“How so?” asked Juan Kevin.
“It just was. It is very hard for me. Everyone wants something or judges me. I have a very difficult time. Life is hard for me.”
A look of bitter amusement came across Juan Kevin’s face. “Carmen, you cannot be serious. I’ve known you since you were little, and life was much harder for you then. Come on.”
Carmen turned and slid off her sunglasses to glare at Juan Kevin. “I need to rest now. This has been a big scare. Please show yourselves out.”
He paused before acquiescing. “Of course.”
Carmen returned to her magazines.
Plum was amazed that Juan Kevin had confronted Carmen, albeit in his low-key Juan Kevin way. Maybe he could finally see the cracks? The temptation to criticize Carmen was low-hanging fruit, and Plum decided she would not initiate the conversation unless Juan Kevin did. When they were securely in his car and had left the gated estate, Juan Kevin finally spoke.
“That was a side of Carmen that has not been revealed to me before,” he said. Although he was addressing her, he kept his gaze firmly ahead.
Several catty responses flooded Plum’s head, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t want to be the one to point out Carmen’s shortcomings. “Oh, really?” she asked with feigned casualness.
“Yes,” he said. “I never knew her to be…cruel like that. I did not like the way she addressed her maid.”
Plum sighed and shifted in her seat. “I felt bad for the girl. Not to mention, those cookies are actually delicious.”
“Carmen seems to have forgotten who she was and from where she comes.”
“Most people try to do that,” said Plum, thinking of her depressing childhood and her indifferent parents. For some people, forgetting where they came from was the only way they could survive.
“It’s acceptable if they do it as a way to improve themselves. But not if they do it to demean others.”
He didn’t continue, and Plum decided not to press him. But she did feel a tiny bit vindicated.
A quick call to Lucia revealed that nothing was happening in the office, so Plum was in no rush to return. Plum and Juan Kevin had agreed to interview Robert Glover, and they made their way to Juan Kevin’s office. It was a small, cream building with a Spanish-tiled roof situated on an impeccably landscaped plot between the hotel and the entrance to the resort. There were clusters of coralillo bushes lining the entrance, with their showy, reddish-orange flowers in bloom.
Inside, the atmosphere was clean but sterile. There was the requisite damp smell that imbued even the most corporate of workplaces in the tropics. Modern, white desks were arranged neatly with matching chairs and sleek laptop computers. Juan Kevin had a separate office visible through a glass picture window. The ceiling was stucco, like cottage cheese that someone had stabbed. Framed aerial photograp
hs of Las Frutas adorned one wall, and opposite it hung a large resort map pockmarked with pushpins.
“Air-conditioning?” exclaimed Plum when she entered. “You are too fancy.”
“Never let them see you sweat,” he joked.
The office was empty except for an attractive young woman with large, brown eyes and an agreeable face who sat at the first desk. She wore a tailored blue suit, and her dark hair was tucked behind a headband. Delicate gold hoops dangled from her ears.
“Patricia Martinez, Plum Lockhart from Jonathan Mayhew’s office,” said Juan Kevin.
After pleasantries were exchanged, Juan Kevin asked her where Robert Glover was.
“He went with Captain Diaz,” she responded.
“Captain Diaz?” asked Juan Kevin. “But we were to interview him.”
A worried look flashed across her face. “The police charged him with trespassing.”
“No one was supposed to call the police until I spoke with him,” said Juan Kevin sternly.
“A misunderstanding,” said Patricia. “I’m sorry.”
“What do we do now?” asked Plum.
Juan Kevin shook his head. “Not sure. I don’t want to go to the police station now. Captain Diaz won’t allow me to speak with him until he’s been processed, which could take hours.”
“I’m sure,” agreed Plum.
“I’ll go on my way home from work.”
“You don’t live at the resort?” asked Plum with surprise.
“No,” he said. “I live in Estrella.”
“Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s not. I just assumed.”
“Paraiso is a big island. Despite its vastness, Las Frutas can feel very small if you both work and live here. I prefer to have my independence and a life away from the resort.”
Plum wanted to press further about what that meant, but Patricia was waiting expectantly at her desk, so Plum decided to drop it for now.
“All right, well, if you don’t mind dropping me back at my loaner cart at the hotel, I’ll head back to the office.”
“I can take you,” said Patricia. “I’m heading to the post office.”
“Thank you,” said Plum. “Juan Kevin, let me know if anything comes up. And what happens when you interview Robert Glover.”
On the ride with Patricia, Plum tried to casually elicit information about Juan Kevin. She secretly hoped Patricia would tell her how he had been talking about a new American redheaded beauty who had moved to Paraiso. Or at least that she’d reveal something about his ex-wife. But unfortunately, Patricia was very professional and offered little information other than to extol his praises and say that he was a very efficient and fair boss. Plum was slowly gleaning that Paraisons were discreet by nature, which was currently irritating.
Chapter 20
The following morning, Plum woke early. She had forgotten to close the blinds, and the sun was streaming through the window and puddling on her bed. It promised to be another glorious day. She made coffee and toast with guava jam and breakfasted on her balcony as she watched the sun ascend in the sky. The air was clear and fresh, and Plum couldn’t help but compare it to the polluted sludge she had inhaled for years living in New York. Surely this was a more wholesome and salubrious lifestyle.
After applying plenty of sunblock, Plum donned a floral dress with a cinched waist and slipped on wedged sandals. She had been waging a battle with her fake eyelashes, which were desperate to melt off in this climate, so she decided to pull them off for now. She blinked and thought her eyes didn’t look so bad. Her hair was still a problem, and after a half-hearted attempt with the straightening iron, she surrendered and let it go free. A spin in the mirror met with her approval. It was strange. She had always hated her curly hair. But now it didn’t really bother her. It actually looked okay.
Plum drove her slow cart down to work. It was early enough that very few people were venturing to the beach. It was mostly joggers, bikers, and landscape workers dotting the scenery. On impulse, she decided to take the scenic route and wander around lanes that were not on her direct route. She still hadn’t mastered the network of roads and neighborhoods within the resort and felt compelled to familiarize herself with them.
She glided by villas in all shapes and sizes and wondered if she would ever live in one. That is, if she decided to stay at Paraiso. They were expensive, but perhaps if she wrangled more business for the firm, she would do well enough with her commissions. Although she remembered what Juan Kevin said about not making Las Frutas his entire life and thought there might be some merit to that. Most professionals didn’t reside in their place of work. There was a separation of church and state for a reason, and it could be something she needed to consider.
Plum began playing a game with herself that she hadn’t played in years. As she cruised along the sunny lanes, she pretended she was picking out a villa where she would live with her family. She had done this when she was on the school bus during her miserable childhood. It had helped her ignore the fact that she was sitting alone, friendless, on a journey that would not end in a welcome in either direction. She had watched her classmates leave their cozy homes, embarrassed that their mother had kissed them goodbye or that their father had waved to them, while she had burned with envy. In her irrational mind, she thought that maybe it was the dingy house that had made her family so gloomy. So, she had fantasized.
She came to a stop in front of a two-story, white house. It wasn’t the largest or fanciest house in the neighborhood, but Plum was instantly struck by how much she liked it. Every window was framed by light-mint shutters, and the front door was the same color. All the greenery flanking the house accentuated the whiteness of the manor. It was tropical and whimsical and, most of all, happy. That was what Plum wanted. Before, it had been to get to the top of her profession and amass tons of money. But being happy seemed a better goal. Plum sat gazing at the villa, lost in thought, until someone called her name, and she was brought back to the present.
“Vicki Lee Lockhart? Is that you?”
She squinted at the man coming toward her, who had exited the house of her fantasies. He was vaguely familiar but in a generic way, as if he had been her accountant or one of the suits in the Mosaic Publishing corporate office. His light-brown hair was swept neatly to the side in a way one of the Brady Bunch boys might wear (Bobby or Peter—not Greg; pre-hippie years) and he had horn-rimmed glasses framing his eyes. He was plain but not unattractive; the smile on his face definitely improved his appearance.
As he grew closer and leaned into her golf cart, his identity dawned on her with increasing horror.
“Brad Cooke?” she asked.
He laughed. “Yes! Wow, it’s been too long! What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“You do? Last I heard you had some big publishing job in the city.”
“I did, but I decided it was time to step off the corporate ladder for a while, take a break. I was offered a job here for a ridiculous amount of money, I just couldn’t say no. It would have been foolish.”
“That’s great!” he said.
A preppy, blond woman in a smock dress came out of the house with a baby in her arms and walked down the path toward Brad and Plum. She had blue eyes, a smattering of freckles on her nose, and her hair held back in a green headband.
“This is my wife, Meredith, and my daughter, Winnie,” he said, turning to the woman. “Meredith, this is Vicki Lee Lockhart.”
“It’s actually Plum Lockhart now. I went back to the name my parents had originally intended for me,” lied Plum. She had repeated that story so many times that it felt like a truth to her.
“Oh, right, I guess I heard that,” said Brad.
“Nice to meet you,” said Meredith. She turned to her husband. �
�Is this the woman I’ve been hearing about for all these years?”
“Yes, can you believe it? This is her!”
Plum’s stomach instantly dropped, and she wanted to press the accelerator on her cart, mow them down, and flee the scene. She wanted carnage. The only thing stopping her was that the sluggish cart didn’t have enough horsepower, and she would probably only sprain Brad’s ankle before she was taken into custody. She could not believe that, after all these years, Brad Cooke would still be bad-mouthing her to his perfect wife, no doubt listing Plum’s deficiencies and maintaining that it was she who had thrown the gum in his hair.
“I didn’t throw the gum in your hair,” Plum insisted.
He smiled. “Of course, I know that. It was all a ruse.”
Plum sat up straighter. He was mocking her. “I suffered greatly because of those false accusations.”
He appeared taken aback. “I’m sorry,” he said with warmth.
“It was Mandy Garabino.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I know it was. I asked her to tell you I liked you, and she got jealous and framed you.”
“What?”
“Yeah, you were the elusive hot girl everyone wanted to date, but you wouldn’t talk to anyone,” said Brad.
“It’s all I heard about when I met Brad and his high school friends: Vicki Lee,” said Meredith. “You’re a local celebrity up there.”
“I am?” squeaked Plum. This couldn’t be; it was revisionist history. She was an outcast. She’d been ridiculed and ostracized.
“Yeah, you never gave us the time of day,” said Brad. “It’s really good to finally talk to you.”
“You too,” squeaked Plum. This conversation was surreal. Was she dreaming?
“Funny that here we both are in a foreign country.”
“And this is your house?”
“Yes, we live in Chicago, but Meredith used to come here as a kid, so we bought a house with her parents. It stands empty most of the time, but we try and come down when we can.”
“Well, if you ever want to rent it, I’m in the biz,” said Plum.
