Cassidy Kincaid Mysteries Box Set

by Amy Waeschle

  “Yes,” the detective said. “But from what you say, he came ashore in San Juan del Sur of his own free will and did not come back.”

  “So he could have been kidnapped in San Juan.”

  “Yes.”

  They both sat in silence for a moment. Cassidy knew that if some kind of crime or kidnapping had occurred in Nicaragua more than two weeks ago, Reeve was probably . . . she couldn’t finish the thought. He had called her for help. And she had ignored him, too consumed with her own pain to answer the phone. A feeling of doom pulled at her already raw emotions. What would she tell Rebecca? And her stepmother Pamela?

  She squinted at the bright daylight outside the office, the low sun heating the air to a sultry inferno that made her head dizzy and her legs feel like they were on fire. Somehow, she made it to the bus stop, boarded the correct bus, and collapsed into the nearest empty seat. The ache in her chest that had begun to throb in the detective’s office now expanded to her shoulders, thighs, even her ears were ringing. It was too bright, too loud. She curled into a ball, tucking her head down, and tried to close it all out.

  When she arrived back in Tamarindo, the bar at Crazy Mike’s Friday night happy hour was gearing up. Rico stood at the front desk, flirting with Aliana. He was shirtless, wearing board shorts, and holding a giant longboard. When he saw Cassidy, his eyes lit up. “You coming out?” he said, tilting his head towards the beach. “Some good rides gonna be had out there,” he added.

  Cassidy paused. She had intended to take a long shower and hole up at a corner table so she could get some more work accomplished. A very real deadline for a paper she was writing loomed like a big, black cloud. The bar would be too noisy, she realized. And, after a peek towards the waves, which were lit by a soft sunset glow, she decided that a dose of salt was what she needed. The paper could be put off for one more day.

  Cassidy paddled the longboard outside the breakers and sat up to wait. Shading her eyes against the low-lying sun, she took in the other surfers lined up like birds on a wire. The peaks were messy and sloppy, breaking here, then there, outside or inside, but she had no complaints. Behind her, the distant mountains, colored purple and black, with hazy clouds stacked above them, presided over the landscape like a royal court.

  A wave came her way, and she swung the big board around, paddled a few strokes, and dropped in. Down the line, a Tico had joined her. Normally, this would be bad etiquette, but the wave’s face didn’t stay open long enough for him to get in her way, and they both swung their boards over the lip before it closed out, and paddled back out. It was Macho, his squiggly curls dappled with tiny drops of seawater that reflected in the sunlight like golden beads.

  He grinned at her, revealing his bright, white teeth. “Buenos tardes,” he said.

  “Tardes,” Cassidy echoed—keeping it short on purpose. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone and was afraid he would bring up Reeve, or the visit to his apartment he had promised. She didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to know any more about it. The two of them reached the lineup and sat up. Cassidy twisted her hair into a messy bun and secured it with an elastic she pulled off her wrist.

  A handful of Tico surfers joined Macho, who engaged them in banter, and soon they were all laughing. Cassidy couldn’t catch it all, but thought she heard something about “she’s hot,” and “the club later,” and “off tomorrow.”

  “My fren,” Macho said to her in his soft accent. “You should have come to Avellanas with me. We surf the rivermouth. Muy bueno!” he added, then spun for a wave. She watched him paddle, his friends heckling him as he did, then drop in and turn the long board down the line. In an impressive display of footwork, he cross-stepped towards the nose, then held the board there for a moment until his balance failed and he fell headfirst into the water. His Tico friends all called out insults. Cassidy took a wave, its lip a beautiful lime green from the sun’s low light. She trailed her hand in the wave, the water feeling slippery, like liquid silk. On her way outside, she watched two Ticos paddle into a wave together, on the same board, then stand up. To her surprise, the one on the back lifted up the one in front, placing him on his shoulders. The peanut gallery hooted, and the Ticos riding wobbled, then crashed down, the board shooting towards the shore.

  She rejoined the lineup, curious to see what would happen next. Rico and Eddie had arrived—both giving her a nod. Eddie was next and paddled into a wave. He rode it straight into the beach while doing a headstand. Cassidy couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Pura Vida!” one of the Ticos called out at top volume, shoving his fist into the air when Eddie rolled off the board and quickly turned it around to paddle back out. Eddie returned the fist-to-the-sky gesture and was back in the lineup moments later.

  “Okay, Cassi-dee,” he said. “Your turn.”

  “What?” Cassidy replied, confused.

  Eddie tapped his board. “Vámonos,” he said, “I keep you safe. Lo prometo.”

  She realized that he wanted her to ride with him. “What about my board?”

  “It be fine,” he said. “Just leave it here. It won’t go anywhere.”

  Cassidy paused. The Ticos started a chorus of gentle heckling. “Fine,” she said, undoing the Velcro on her leash. She slipped into the water and then climbed onto Eddie’s board. He had already turned it around so they were facing the beach. They waited for a wave, and when one came their way, she and Eddie started paddling. The board was a giant, and she realized that Eddie’s chin was laying on the back of her legs, making his face only inches from her butt. The awkwardness of this disappeared when Eddie shouted “Up!” and she popped up just as the wave lifted them up and shot them toward the beach. She felt Eddie’s hands on her waist but didn’t have a moment to feel weird about it because then he said, “Listo?” and lifted her up.

  Cassidy whooped with terror or maybe it was just surprise as she landed sidesaddle on Eddie’s right shoulder. Her left hand found his, which worked to balance her. The view of the beach from up there gave her a grand perspective. She could see over the restaurant to the rows of small houses lined up behind it, and into the jungle beyond.

  Then they both fell off the board, Cassidy cartwheeling through space and landing in neck-deep water. Cassidy came up laughing and found Eddie standing nearby, grinning.

  “Esta bien?”

  She nodded, wiping the hair out of her eyes.

  He offered her the board, but she decided she would rather swim back. Eddie gave her the shaka sign and jumped onto the board, paddling fast for the horizon.

  Cassidy reached the outside and scrambled onto her board.

  “You going out with us tonight?” Eddie said, giving her a little splash. “Hotel Simpatico is throwing a pool party,” he said with a grin.

  “You must come!” Macho said, and Rico joined in. “They have diving contests. And jello shots!”

  Cassidy laughed and shook her head. The sun was approaching the horizon, coating the water with a coppery sheen. Out of the shiny distance, a boat approached from the south. Cassidy followed it with her eyes as it neared—it was a small motorboat with a simple canopy, the silhouettes of surfers lining the gunnels. She realized that it was Bruce, shuttling surfers home from an excursion. Cassidy ignored the little warmth in her gut, realizing that she had been wondering all day when she might run into him again. He idled the boat a hundred yards or so from the lineup as the surfers grabbed their boards and hopped over the side.

  “Cap-tain Keo-O!” Macho and Eddie and the other chanted.

  Bruce replied with a shaka—his white grin visible in the low light.

  Cassidy shaded her eyes and watched Bruce make sure that all of his guests were safely paddling towards the shore. He scanned the lineup, and when he spotted her, he grinned and nodded for her to approach. Cassidy paddled over and sat up on her board when she reached the boat.

  “Is there anything you don’t ride?” he asked, nodding at her board.

  She realized that his default mus
t be to tease. “I just tandem surfed for the first time, actually, so I can add that to my résumé,” she said with a grin.

  “Any news on Reeve?” he asked, his face turning serious.

  She sighed, and rubbed the deck of her board with a scoop of seawater. “Just dead ends,” she replied. “Apparently he attacked a taxi driver.”

  Bruce frowned. “Where was this?”

  “Somewhere in Tamarindo.” She recalled the police report. “At night. About two months ago.”

  “Huh,” he said, pursing his lips.

  “He paid a fine, and that was it.”

  Bruce shrugged. “Guy gets drunk, taxi driver tries to cheat the guy . . . it can get ugly I suppose.”

  “Say,” Cassidy said. “When’s your next Nicaragua trip?”

  “Tomorrow, actually. A bunch of repeat clients. Five days.” He looked at her strangely. “Why?”

  “Do you have room for me?” she asked, feeling a weird sensation in her gut.

  Bruce seemed surprised, or maybe it was something else. He seemed to think about her idea one beat too long. “Well, technically, yes, but this is a private group. I’d have to clear it with them, and I’m not sure . . . ”

  “Forget it,” Cassidy interrupted. “I don’t want to tag along on someone else’s dream trip. That would be weird.”

  “You can take a bus to San Juan, you know,” Bruce said.

  “I know.” She had looked up the schedule. Eight hours. Or longer because it was a weekend. Then eight hours back. If she was the kind of person who could read on busses, it might not be so bad. She could kill two birds with one stone, tackle some more editing. But that would be disastrous; she had thrown up in cars as a kid so many times while trying to escape into a book that her father stashed airline sickness bags for her in the backseat. These days, she usually used vehicle time to catch up on sleep, but she certainly wouldn’t need eight hours of it. And then she would have no idea where to go in San Juan. She needed Bruce to show her.

  “I can ask them. I see them tonight anyway for our pre-trip meeting. They might be cool with it.”

  “Okay,” Cassidy said. “If you really don’t mind.”

  “Nah, all they can do is say no.”

  “Tell them I can pay my way, too.” She looked him in the eyes. “If that helps.”

  Bruce nodded. “I’ll let you know tonight.”

  Cassidy nodded and spun her board around to paddle back toward the lineup. She heard Bruce’s boat’s engine accelerate as he sped off into the setting sun.

  Two of the surfers from the boat were bobbing nearby in the lineup.

  “I wonder where he goes,” one of them said as Bruce’s boat disappeared. “Playgrounds? I’ll bet it’s insane from a boat. You could surf it at first light.”

  “I bet he’s got secret spots up there, too,” the other one said.

  “Man, I’m gonna have to talk to Brianna, see if she’ll let me go on one of his boat trips next year,” the first one said.

  “Keep dreaming,” the other one replied. “You know what she’ll say.”

  He splashed the other surfer, then slid his body prone and began paddling for a wave. The other surfer followed, catching the wave behind it.

  The lineup thinned, but Cassidy traded waves with the Ticos until it was almost dark. She thought about Bruce’s trips to Nicaragua and the text from Rebecca: you have the money. The bus trip to Santa Cruz and back had been a less than enjoyable experience. In the back of her mind, she knew she had been thinking of taking a bus to San Juan del Sur and back, or renting a car. But after today, she wasn’t so keen. Waiting all day in the searing heat at the border crossing in a line of cars, all pumping out exhaust? No thank you. Hitching a ride on Bruce’s boat, riding some epic waves along the way: that sounded much more pleasant. Still, she was supposed to be back in Eugene in three days, and the Nicaragua trip was five. She made her own schedule, so it wasn’t like anyone would report her if she showed up a few days later, though there was a pressing guilt that bloomed every time she spent time on something that wasn’t work.

  But Reeve had called her for a reason.

  Finally, she took her final wave in, a black wall that she had to surf by sound because it was so dark. On the shore, while wrapping up her leash, she could hear the music and the din of conversation wafting over the sand from the restaurant.

  Macho shook dry his wild curls, and Eddie stopped to give her a fist-bump. “Pura Vida,” he said. The others gave out a war cry of “Pura Vida!” and all headed towards the bar. Cassidy followed.

  Seven

  By the time she had returned her board and changed out of her rash guard and board shorts, the bar was packed. Soon she was hobnobbing with the camp’s guests, surf guides, and instructors alike. She met Carrie from Minnesota, a twenty-something who had stood up for the first time surfing, “thanks to Eddie’s amazing teaching,” she told Cassidy, giving Eddie a high five. She avoided a bachelor party from Florida, where every guy in the group had blonde hair, quick eyes, and large tiki-art tattoos on an arm that at some point slid around a waitress. The serious couple that had been on her trip to Witch’s Rock and Ollie’s Point with Bruce was there, too, but the woman seemed to be avoiding her. It was twenty-one-year-old Genevieve’s birthday, so Cassidy joined in with the rest of the partygoers with a rousing version of “Feliz comple anos” and even received a sample of the cake, a delicious coconut-and-orange delight made by a local French bakery. Over several beers and a shot of tequila—compliments of the bachelor party—she learned that this fiesta was the culmination of a week at Crazy Mike’s, either for lessons or guided surf tours. Most of the guests she spoke to were leaving the following day.

  “I saw you out there with the instructors this afternoon,” Carrie said.

  Cassidy laughed. “Yeah, what a hoot.”

  “You’re really good,” she said, peering at Cassidy, as if trying to understand why this was so. “How long have you been surfing?”

  “Uh,” Cassidy replied, her buzzed brain slow to shift gears. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since the empanada in Santa Cruz. “Twenty years, maybe?”

  “Oh!” Carrie replied, her eyes popping wide open. “I guess I have a long way to go, then.”

  The party was winding down. Cassidy watched the surf guides pose for their last pictures with the guests, who gave them gifts of bars of surf wax, T-shirts with surf logos, and for Eddie, who apparently played guitar, a packet of new strings. After giving out certificates to the guests, the surf guides sang some kind of fight song, or maybe it was the national anthem. Cassidy didn’t know.

  “Vámonos,” Macho said to her, pulling on her hand. They followed the other surf guides on their way towards the street.

  “Where are we going?” Cassidy said, downing the last of her beer.

  “You want to see Reeve’s place, sí?” Macho said.

  A lead brick dropped into her gut. She forced in a breath. “Sure,” she replied, but her voice sounded pinched.

  “And then we party,” he added with a smile, curving his hand around her waist.

  Outside the bar, the air felt fresh, and she could hear frogs chirping their crazy sci-fi noises from the ditch lining the street. The guides all mounted bikes, and Macho motioned for her to get on his handlebars.

  “What?” she asked, looking at him in alarm. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple.

  “C’mon,” he said as the other two started pedaling away.

  “I’m too big,” she said. “You won’t be able to see!”

  He dismissed her concern with a noise like a flat tire. “My brother and I do it all the time,” he said. “You put your feet here,” he pointed to the nubs of metal poking out from each side of the front wheel’s hub. “Eet no problem.”

  Cassidy eyed the bike, a late-model single speed with bare handlebars and splattered with many layers of dried mud. Accepting her fate with a sigh, with Macho’s help, she climbed on.

  Then Macho wa
s off, and Cassidy had a front-row seat as they sped down the muddy street.

  They raced down the dark main road, passing pedestrians strolling, dodging a jeep with music blaring. Cassidy gripped the handlebars to either side of her and tried to keep her feet from slipping off the tiny nubs of metal. She felt like an elephant riding a unicycle. After catching up with Eddie and Rico, the three egged each other on with insults and their infectious laughter. They rode past the circle and up a hill, and then turned north, back in the direction of the main town area. The streets were dark, but Cassidy could see low buildings with tin roofs and a few cars parked here and there. If Tamarindo had a rough side of town, they had found it. The area felt subdued compared to the beach. Even though there was reggae music thumping from somewhere, there was little activity. They stopped in front of a several-story-high apartment building. Cassidy slid off the bike, and the three Ticos stashed their bikes alongside the entryway, tucked between the walkway and the overgrown patch of jungle occupying the neighboring lot. They entered a narrow stairway and came out on the second floor hall.

  The floor was bare concrete, and the walls, though painted white, were scuffed with gray marks. One section was covered in a watery tan blotch of splatters, as if someone had thrown out their dirty dishwater but had missed. She heard a woman’s voice shouting from one of the units above them. There was also the faint sound of singing coming from farther off down the street.

  “Cúal?” Eddie asked Macho.

  Macho walked slowly, his dark eyes darting from one side of the hall to the other, until he stopped in front of the door at the end, on the side opposite the beach.

  Cassidy paused. It looked like an ordinary door to an ordinary—if slightly seedy—apartment, like many others she imagined Reeve living in over the years. When he wasn’t on the street or in jail. What should she do? Knock?

  The Ticos didn’t seem to know what to do, either, and started chattering, their excited giggles filling the cramped hallway.

  Cassidy knew Reeve was not in the room behind the door.