The Secret Rival

by Rachel Woods

  Moments later, Vivian stretched out on top of him. Wet from the ocean and yet warm from the sun, the sensual combination drove him crazy as they kissed. Caressing her ass with one hand, he trailed his other hand along the spine of her back, to the strings of her bikini top.

  A jaunty African tribal drumbeat cut through the air.

  Leo groaned. “My cell phone.”

  “You going to answer it?” asked Vivian as the drumbeat continued.

  Completely uninterested in whoever was calling, Leo refocused his efforts on untying the strings.

  Seconds later, the drum beats ceased. Vivian pressed her mouth on his as Leo pulled the strings of her bikini top, and—

  The tribal drumbeats started again.

  Leo cursed.

  Head lifted several inches, Vivian said, “Someone’s persistent.”

  Reaching beneath the chaise, Leo moved his fingers through the warm sand and closed his hand around the phone. Wishing he'd left the annoying device inside the beach cottage, he glanced at the screen.

  “Who is it?” asked Vivian, resting her cheek against his chest.

  Frowning at the name on the caller-ID, he said, “An old friend from prep school. Wes Weschenfelder.”

  “Wes Weschenfelder?” Vivian giggled. “That’s his real name?”

  “His name is Wilhelm Weschenfelder, but everyone calls him Wes,” Leo explained. “He’s the founder of a non-profit organization, based in Malawi, dedicated to rural education. I haven't heard from him in years.”

  “Wonder want he wants?”

  “Probably another donation,” said Leo, cutting the phone off and pulling Vivian into his arms. “I’ll send him a check.”

  Hours later, over dinner, Vivian asked him, “Have you given any more thought to the message from Wes?”

  “Not exactly.” Leo took a sip of Ice pilsner.

  Vivian asked, “Are you going to help him out?”

  Exhaling, Leo leaned back in his chair.

  After several rounds of sex on the beach—which had nothing to do with vodka, peach schnapps, and orange juice—he and Vivian had taken a nap, and upon waking, Leo checked his phone and realized that Wes had called him a third time.

  The message Wes had left him was curious and disturbing.

  He wanted help getting answers surrounding the brutal murder of a school principal who worked for his organization. You’ve got more connections and resources over here than I do so anything you can do to help would be greatly appreciated. Hope to hear from you soon.

  “Not sure I want to get involved,” Leo said. “I’m a reporter, not a cop, but maybe I can get him in touch with the local district commissioner, who might be able to light a fire under the local cops.”

  “I think you can do better than that,” said Vivian.

  Leo started to protest, but Vivian held up a finger.

  “While you were in the shower,” said Vivian. “I called a colleague in Malawi—Sarah Dowa who works for the Malawi Times—to see if she’d heard anything about the principal’s murder. She told me that five other people, besides the principal, have been killed—and in the same manner.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Leo. “That’s why you didn’t join me in the shower? You wanted to call some friend in Malawi?”

  Vivian frowned. Leo had seen the gleam of interest in her eyes when he’d recounted Wes’ strange message to her. He wasn’t surprised that she was thinking of the principal’s murder from a journalist’s perspective. After all, she was an investigative journalist and was always on the hunt for her next story. Leo liked to sink his teeth into an investigation, as well, but he didn’t want to think about murder or corruption or crime while they were in paradise. He wanted to enjoy their weekend getaway with no distractions, before it was over and they had to go back to writing about the shady exploits of crazy dictators and ruthless warlords.

  “Sarah said the murders were gruesome and brutal.”

  “Gruesome and brutal in what way?” asked Leo. “After all, what’s brutal to one person might be benign to another.”

  Vivian gave him a look. “Can you be serious?”

  Sheepish, Leo apologized and leaned forward to listen.

  “Sarah didn’t have the details because the local police are keeping a lid on their investigation,” said Vivian, “possibly at the request of local politicians with deep pockets.”

  Leo took another sip of beer. “So the cops and local politicians may be covering something up.”

  “I think we should look into things,” said Vivian. “This might be a much bigger story. And since we’re scheduled to leave tomorrow, we can just change our flight plans.”

  Groaning, Leo said, “I was hoping you would be open to making our weekend getaway a week-long vacation.”

  “Maybe next time,” said Vivian, giving him a sexy wink. “But, tell you what? I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How?” asked Leo as Vivian stood, walked around the table to him and sat on his lap.

  Gyrating slowly against his erection, she said, “How does a week’s worth of sex in one night sound?”

  3

  Lilongwe, Malawi

  “For some reason, the local authorities don’t want anyone to know what really happened to Francine Xarras,” said Wes, leaning back in the chair behind his large desk.

  Instruct-Africa, Wilhelm Weschenfelder’s non-profit foundation dedicated to educating children in rural African villages, was a sprawling complex of offices on the top floor of a ten-story building located in Lilongwe, the capital city of Malawi.

  On the drive into the north area of the capital, Vivian gazed at the broad avenues and large, glass-and-chrome towers. She’d been to Malawi once before, where the story she’d been working on had taken her to Capital Hill to interview one of the country’s government ministers.

  Sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, Vivian crossed her ankles and surreptitiously surveyed her surroundings. Wes’ office was beyond spacious, with a 180-degree view of the city through a ceiling-to-floor glass wall. Vivian would describe the decor as “safari chic” with lots of animal skin and tribal accents.

  The non-profit founder was handsome, with striking green eyes and close-cut blonde hair. He was dressed casually, as though to downplay his wealth, but Vivian knew the leather driving shoes were most likely hand-made and cost thousands of dollars. The T-shirt, though made of some soft-cotton blend, probably had a label that elevated its price from twenty bucks to two hundred. The slacks, belt, and sports jacket were, no doubt, from some designer label, Gucci or Prada.

  Vivian smiled to herself. Leo was the same way with his dusty, ragged, careworn jeans that cost more than most people made in a month. More than their clothes, the two men exuded wealth, as though privilege floated around them like a pheromone. Their bearing, stature, mannerisms, speech, and a host of other non-verbal gestures spoke of their place within the upper echelons of society.

  “What did the cops tell you?” asked Leo.

  Wes said, “The police are blaming Francine’s murder on a band of outlaw village thugs, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. The cops are hiding something.”

  “Why do you think that?” Leo asked.

  “Do you have some evidence to the contrary?” asked Vivian.

  “Francine’s purse was found near her decomposing remains,” said Wes. “Her wallet was still inside of the purse and contained several hundred dollars, credit cards, and her passport. She was also wearing an expensive watch. How could she have been robbed when nothing of value was taken?”

  Vivian glanced at Leo and recognized his pensive stare. She knew he was as suspicious as she was about the police’s claims.

  Wes said, “There are two witnesses that tell a far more gruesome story than what the police claim

  happened to her.”

  “Who are the witnesses?” asked Vivian.

  “Gus Stewart, the director of the foundation,” said Wes, “and Matilda Ross, the assistant d
irector.”

  “What did the witnesses tell you?” Leo asked.

  “I think the witnesses should speak for themselves,” Wes said. “I’ve asked them to make themselves available to talk to you if that’s okay with you?”

  Nodding, Vivian said, “We’d like to hear what they have to say.”

  Wes pressed a button on his phone and asked his assistant to have the aid workers come to his office.

  Several moments later, Gus Stewart and Matilda Ross entered the office. As Wes did the introductions, Vivian appraised the director and his assistant. Slight and short, with a long, craggy face, bald pate, and shifty eyes, Gus slinked toward the sitting area and slid onto the couch. Shoulders slumped, he hunched forward and seemed to be avoiding everyone’s gaze.

  Matilda Ross, a tall ravishing redhead in a batik-print wrap dress, sauntered to the couch, crossing the office as though it was her own personal runway, leaving a fragrant trail in her wake. Vivian recognized the expensive perfume—Natural Woman, a sensual, earthy scent, which had been created by Au’Naturale Cosmetics, the company owned by Leo’s mother.

  After a small pirouette, Matilda sank gracefully and crossed one long, slim leg over the other.

  “I’d like you both to tell Leo and Vivian what happened to Francine, please,” requested Wes.

  The workers nodded, but hesitated, their eyes darting toward each other, as though they were each waiting for the other to speak first.

  “Mattie, why don’t you start,” suggested Wes.

  Matilda straightened her shoulders, a move that thrust her ample breasts forward, and said, “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. I wasn’t there when those awful men murdered Francine.”

  “You weren’t?” Leo asked. “I thought—”

  “I became hysterical when the men ran toward the truck,” said Matilda, her large brown doe eyes focused on Leo. “I jumped out of the Range Rover and ran into the trees. I was convinced the men would kill us and I wasn’t really thinking anything except that I had to get away. I didn’t want to die.”

  “Neither did Francine,” mumbled Gus, hands clasped, head lowered. “She was willing to ransom her life, but those savage animals killed her anyway.”

  Leo asked, “So, Ms. Xarras wasn’t robbed?”

  Glancing up, his eyes blazing, Gus said, “Francine was butchered!”

  The raw emotion in the director’s voice reverberated around the office, and Vivian waited a few moments before she asked, “Can you tell us what happened to Francine?”

  After a shaky sigh, Gus said, “We were leaving the compound, and—”

  “But, we didn’t know why we were leaving,” said Matilda, tossing her long mane of red hair. “I was asking Francine about some rumor she’d heard, and—”

  “What was the rumor?” asked Vivian.

  “Something ridiculous about vampires,” said Matilda. “She said we were leaving because the villagers thought we might be vampires.”

  Leo glanced at Wes. “Was that true?”

  “I never heard anything about any vampire rumors,” said Wes. “As I told you, I was contacted by the United Nations and told that I should temporarily move my staff to the capital because of conflict and tensions between warring factions.”

  “Who told Francine about the vampire rumor?” Vivian asked.

  Matilda said, “She’d heard it from some cop. Judy Shenango’s brother.”

  “Judy Shenango is one of the teacher’s aides at the village school,” supplied Wes. “Her brother is Kenyatta Shenango. He’s on the Lilongwe police force.”

  “What happened after Francine told you about the vampire rumors?” Leo asked.

  “There was some sort of roadblock,” Gus continued. “Or, we thought it was a roadblock. We thought we would have to pay a bribe. The driver got out of the car and went to negotiate with the villagers. But something went wrong …”

  “What went wrong?” asked Leo.

  Shaking his head, Gus said, “There was some kind of argument and then they …”

  “They cut the driver’s head off,” said Matilda. “It was horrible. That’s when I lost it, and I had to escape. I know it was wrong. Maybe I should have stayed and tried to help but—”

  “There wasn’t anything you could do,” said Wes, before turning to Gus. “Please continue.”

  Gus said, “The villagers came toward the SUV. They were shouting. They pulled Francine out of the Range Rover. And then they … “

  “Go on,” Vivian gently prompted.

  “They stoned her,” said Gus. “And when she was unconscious, they … stabbed her … and cut her heart out of her chest … and then they … they burned her heart as they formed a circle around her and chanted the same word over and over …”

  “What was the word?” asked Vivian.

  “Anamapopa …” whispered his Gus. “That’s what they were saying. Over and over. Anamapopa. Anamapopa. I can’t get that word out of my head.”

  “Do you know what the word meant?” asked Leo.

  Shaking his head, Gus looked away.

  Disturbed by the macabre story, which seemed somewhat familiar to her for some reason, Vivian asked, “Did the two of you tell your story to the police?”

  Gus nodded. “I don’t think they believed me and without Matilda to corroborate my account of Francine’s horrible demise … the police believe I made up the story because I was unable to protect Francine, but that’s not true.”

  After Gus and Matilda left, Wes asked, “Well, will you help me find out what the hell happened to Francine?”

  4

  Sunbird Hotel

  Lilongwe, Malawi

  “I was thinking about the murder of Francine Xarras all night,” announced Vivian after Leo kissed her good morning and then sat across from her at the table in their suite at the Sunbird hotel.

  “Not all night,” countered Leo, pouring himself a cup of coffee into a bone china cup.

  Vivian frowned. “What?”

  “I’m pretty sure you weren’t thinking about murder when we were banging our brains out—”

  “Get serious, Mr. Bronson,” said Vivian, smiling at him.

  Leo grabbed a muffin from the basket of pastries Vivian had ordered from room service. “How can I, Ms. Thomas, when you are so sexy?”

  Vivian couldn’t help but giggle. Would their silly inside joke of calling each other by their last names continue once they were married, she wondered? Would Leo call her Mrs. Bronson?

  “As I was saying,” said Vivian, “during the times when we weren’t banging our brains out—”

  “When were we not banging our brains out last night?” Leo asked.

  Vivian sighed and asked, “Are you finished?”

  Leo nodded and laughed.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Because if you need more time …”

  “No, no…tell me,” said Leo. “What were you thinking when we weren’t—”

  Vivian threw a strawberry at him, which he dodged and then jumped up from the small table to find.

  “You shouldn’t waste food,” said Leo. “People in Africa are starving, as you well know, considering the stories you’ve written about famine and—“

  “Leonard, if you ever want to bang me again, then—“

  “I’m listening; I promise,” Leo said, hands raised in surrender. “Tell me why you were thinking about Francine Xarras’ murder?”

  “I was thinking about that word that the director said he heard the villagers chanting,” said Vivian, spreading butter across a piece of toast. “Anamapopa.”

  “What about it?”

  “I kept thinking I’d heard the word before, and that what happened to Francine seemed familiar to me,” said Vivian. “So, I checked some old notes this morning while you were sleeping and I found a Word file named Anamapopa. You’ll never guess what that word means, and no, it has nothing to do with sex.”

  Throwing down his napkin, Leo grinned at her. “Well, then you’r
e right. I’ll never guess.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes and said, “Anamapopa is a local term that means ‘bloodsucker’ … in English, it’s translated as … vampire.”

  “Vampire?” Leo frowned. “The villagers were shouting vampire?”

  “Gus Stewart said that after the villagers killed Francine, they made a circle around her dead body and shouted anamapopa while pointing at her,” Vivian reminded him. “I think they killed her because they thought she was a vampire.”

  “This is Africa, not Transylvania,” said Leo. “You’re saying a group of tribal vampire hunters killed Francine?”

  “A year, or so, ago, I wrote a story about vampirism in Mozambique,” said Vivian. “The same thing happened there. Rumors of vampirism broke out, and mobs of villagers attacked and killed those they believed to be vampires.”

  Leo shook his head. “What made the villagers think the people they killed were vampires? No reflection in the mirror? Sleeping in coffins? Shapeshifting into bats?”

  Ignoring Leo’s sarcasm, Vivian said, “I found some of my notes from the story. There was a professor I talked to for some background. Villagers don’t think of vampires as the undead going around sucking blood.”

  Leo asked, “Who do they think of as vampires?”

  “Vampires are humans who extract blood from villagers using needles or foreign medical devices,” said Vivian. “Something as innocuous as a stethoscope could rouse suspicion from a superstitious villager.”

  “So, the vampire doesn’t say, I vant to suck your blood,” said Leo, adopting a cheesy Transylvanian accent. “He says, I vant to draw your blood.”

  “Will you be serious?”

  Raising his hands, Leo said, “This really is fascinating. Please, tell me more.”

  Vivian gave him a withering glare before she said, “The villagers think these vampires use magic and technology to render their prey helpless and immobile.”

  “Magic and technology,” said Leo. “Interesting mix.”

  “According to the professor, the villagers believe that vampires will spray some sort of chemical mist in their faces,” said Vivian. “It’s really an aerosolized antiseptic or antibiotic.”