by D R Lowrey
“And twelve days.”
“Twelve days too long, probably. Past your expiration date. You should feel good to be alive.”
“Tequila?” Nigel offered to Stanley. “How about three?”
“That’s all well and good,” said Mrs. Sandoval, “but that doesn’t answer the question of ‘why here?’” She flipped a third, or was it a fourth, tequila shot. She wanted answers and wanted them while she was still conscious.
“The map,” said Annie. “The map, it would seem, has something to do with this place.”
Ah! The map. Nigel detected an opening. “Ahem,” he said. “I may have some pertinent—”
“But a map of what?” asked the detective. “Cam believed that Mr. Sandoval knew something about this map. What about it, Mr. Sandoval? What do you know about this mysterious map?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Pennies from Heaven
A few seconds ago, Mr. Sandoval had been relaxing on one of the comfortable salon chairs, falling in and out of sleep. Suddenly he was set upon by a trench-coated detective asking questions for which he had no answer. “I don’t know about any map,” he said, shaking his dented head. “There’s so much I don’t remember.”
“You obviously remember this gentleman,” said the detective, indicating Jack Watt sitting opposite. “And the two of you knew the deceased. If I’m to believe the story as presented thus far, the three of you once tramped around South America together, searching for relics. And now, these many years later, by sheer coincidence, the three of you end up on this estate. And, lo and behold, one of you is dead and the other two know nothing about it. More than odd, if you ask me.”
“Odd?” asked Mr. Sandoval.
“More than,” said the detective, “if you ask me.”
When asked about his past life, Mr. Sandoval adopted the expression of a third grader asked to recite his multiplication tables through the twelves when he’d only ever got to the tens. “We were all on that Amazon expedition, but my memory is fuzzy about those days. Got hit by a fish, you know. How long has it been? Twenty years? Very fuzzy.”
Fuzzy recollections about some long-ago jungle junket were all well and fine, but surely, they could wait an hour. Nigel, on the other hand, had up-to-the-minute blockbuster stuff, no fuzz attached.
“Mr. Sandoval has had a hard day. We’ve all had a hard day. I suggest—”
To Annie a hard day meant more questions needed to be asked. “So it falls on you, Mr. Jack Watt, to tell us what took place in that jungle twenty-odd years ago. This should be interesting.”
Jack Watt had spent the last ten minutes staring glumly at the floor before hearing his name. Now he reacted like a man with cookie crumbs on his mustache. Before speaking, he slid a hand down the lower part of his face. Had he a mustache harboring cookie crumbs, that mustache would have been cleared of morsels.
Jack, a clean-shaven man, let slip a wry smile. “I guess I have no choice but to tell my story, do I? It’s not that I wished to conceal the truth, you understand, but some truths are better left unsaid. At least, that’s what I thought. But, under the circumstances, I’ll lay my cards on the table.
“I first met Mr. Sandoval when he was seeking financial backing for his Amazon expedition. Being an amateur archaeologist with a surplus of cash, the thing was right up my alley. I agreed to underwrite the whole expedition with the sole condition that I was along for the ride.”
“Excuse me,” said the detective. “May I ask where this surplus of money came from?”
“Kapok.”
“Kapok?”
“Well, at first. My dad was big into kapok. I took over the company and expanded into jute.”
“Jute?”
“Maybe I should just tell the story. Your skimpy grasp of the plant-derived commodities market might prove burdensome. Anyhow, the expedition started with high hopes and dry feet. A leaky boat took care of the dry feet, and our guide, the late Mr. Eel, made short work of the high hopes. Usually, rivers have two directions—upstream and downstream. Eel had a talent for going side-stream. Our anthropologist—Dig was his name—became doubtful about the mission’s prospects and abandoned the expedition at one of those river villages. Getting back to civilization cost him an arm and a leg.”
“River bandits?” said the detective.
“Cannibals,” said Jack. “Anyway, the rest of us continued on. Not only did the mission’s prospects dim with each passing day, so did our expectations of ever returning to civilization. Mr. Sandoval and I pledged to one another that if one of us didn’t make it back, the other would take care of the widowed wife. Two days later, Mr. Sandoval disappeared. He and Eel had gone ashore to pee, and only Eel returned. Eel organized a search effort, which turned up nothing.”
“He went ashore to pee, you say?” asked the detective.
“Well, that was the number one thing, I suppose.”
“And the number two thing?”
“Number two,” said Jack Watt. “May I proceed with the story?”
“Please do, but let’s stick to the meaningful facts.”
“It didn’t dawn on me at the time, but if Eel had perpetrated a foul deed, he needed only assign himself the relevant search sector to ensure the body would not be found. Just the sort of shenanigans you might expect from a guy named Eel. After a couple of days, we ended the search and left the area to notify the authorities.”
“You didn’t follow up on the pact to take care of his widow?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.
“As it turned out, I couldn’t. For unknown reasons, all the contact information for Mr. Sandoval was bogus. All the expedition’s contracts and documents had false addresses and phone numbers. Likewise, his personal effects, outside of a couple photographs, had no personal data. The man wanted to be a mystery and had done a good job of it. I was at a loss as to how to get in touch. It wasn’t until I received an affidavit a few months ago that I had any information as to his widow’s whereabouts. That’s when I got in touch.”
“What about Eel? You had recent contact with him?” asked the detective.
“None. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Didn’t care.”
“But he likely also received an affidavit request,” said Annie.
“I suppose.”
“Did you know anything about a map?”
“Never heard about a map.”
“Right,” said Annie, crossing her arms the way skeptical inquisitors often do. “So, a few months ago, you had no idea this place existed, and now you’re here and married to Abuelita. What’s more, you just happened not to mention that you were part of Mr. Sandoval’s expedition. That’s quite a turn of events. Care to explain?”
“Not especially, but I suppose it looks bad if I don’t. You see, before receiving that affidavit, the only item I had relating to Valdy was this picture.”
He pulled from his pocket the picture he had so enthusiastically ogled upon first arriving at the asylum and held it up for all to see.
Upon viewing the photo, the men folk did funny things with their breath—some inhaled, some exhaled—all while suppressing a whistle. The female contingent, except for Abuelita, looked skeptical, as if suspecting trick photography.
“Pretty hot, eh?” said Abuelita.
“Epic,” whispered the detective.
“Hot indeed,” said Jack Watt. “My sentiments exactly. Of course, what I didn’t know when I saw the picture twenty years ago was that it had been taken thirty years before. I thought Jack must have had a young wife stashed away. Fast forward to my receiving the affidavit sent from this address. I remembered our pact, and I remembered that picture. Remembering the picture was easy because it was taped to my mirror.”
“Before, you mentioned a wife,” said the detective. “Didn’t she object to you having that picture?”
“If she’d been alive, she’d have given me hell about it. I haven’t been struck by lightning, so I suppose she’s moved on. Anyway, I contacted Galena—that’s her
name. I call her Little Hen, ya’ll call her Abuelita. I contacted her, but I didn’t tell her exactly who I was. My identity, I figured, could be a touchy subject given the circumstances of Valdy’s disappearance. I sort of introduced myself as a friend of a friend with some interest in establishing ongoing contact, if you get my drift.”
“So, from that beginning, we’re to believe a romance blossomed?” said the detective.
“If that makes it easy for you, sure.”
“But Mr. Watt, the picture you’ve shown us today—May I see it again?” Jack held up the photo and then pulled it down quickly as the detective moved in for a closer look. “Yes, wow. This picture does not, how to say this gently, accurately depict the woman you married, if you understand my meaning.”
“What is he saying?” crowed Abuelita.
“I get your drift,” said Jack.
Expecting Jack to elaborate, the crowd cleared a flight path between him and Abuelita. Jack just winked.
“Okay, let me wade a little deeper,” said the detective. “It’s all well and good to want to marry a photograph. May I see the photo again?” Jack held it at arm’s length toward the detective before pulling it back, causing him to stumble forward. “Oh, yeah. We can all appreciate that, but at some point, you must have become aware that a photo is not real life. Certainly, not in this case. Let me see that photo again for a comparison.” Jack moved the photo in a large circle causing the detective’s jowls to flutter as his head followed the movement. “Yabba-Dabba. When did you become aware of this great discrepancy?”
“What’s he talkin’ about?” said Abuelita. “Is he sayin’ I don’t look like myself? I need me one of them golf ball guns. I know just where to aim it.”
“Calm down, dear. Let me handle this,” said Jack, moving to Abuelita’s side. “When Jack Watt makes a commitment, Jack Watt sticks to it. If I promised an expedition buddy to take care of his widow, then you can be damned sure Jack Watt will take care of his widow. And if I tell a woman I’m going to marry her, then you can be damned sure I’m going to marry her. And if that woman/widow happens to be”—Jack placed his hands over Abuelita’s ears—“a gargoyle, then so be it.”
Abuelita looked up adoringly at her husband. No objects were thrown. She was either too enraptured by her husband’s rare physical contact, or she didn’t know what a gargoyle was.
“But, of course, that’s all academic now,” continued Jack. “We’ll get this fixed up and sorted out, and I’ll be on my way.” He held up a shot glass and smiled as if conducting a toast.
Mrs. Sandoval turned to Jack Watt. “I must say, no matter how much tequila I drink, I still can’t get my head around this thing. You said you pledged to take care of Mr. Sandoval’s widow?”
“That’s right. I’m sorry it took so long, but I think everyone here can agree I made a good faith effort,” said Jack. “But, of course, as it turns out, with Mr. Sandoval’s return, my dear Little Hen already has a perfectly good husband. As much as I hate to face facts, our marriage cannot be. Annulment, I believe, is the process for this sort of thing. Just one of those things that didn’t work out. I am crushed, rest assured, but I shall always have my memories,” he said, looking one more time at the photo before shoving it back in his pocket.
“But,” said Mrs. Sandoval, “she’s not the widow. I’m the widow.”
“What?” spat Jack Watt.
“What?” said Mr. Sandoval, taken by surprise at having produced a widow.
“I mean, I was,” said Mrs. Sandoval. “I mean, I would be the widow if he were dead. Abuelita, you’ll be pleased to know, is not Mr. Sandoval’s widow but his ex-wife. I’m the second wife. I’m the widow…if he were dead, I mean.”
“Now I’m confused,” said Jack. “You’re not Mr. Sandoval’s sister?”
“Absolutely not! That would be against the law. Besides, I’m too young to be his sister.”
“But I didn’t know you were his wife. I mean, I didn’t know he’d married twice. So, this means…?” Jack Watt staggered as if he’d gulped from the vessel with a pestle to discover the brew was not true.
Abuelita puckered her mouth and airmailed a lamprey’s kiss.
Jack tried to return a smile, but the smile never got past the larval stage.
“Time for celebration,” said Nigel, clasping Jack’s shoulder. “The annulment has been annulled. I never sufficiently congratulated you on your recent betrothal. I’m sure you two lovebirds will be ecstatic together. ‘Til death do you part, in sickness and in health’ and all that rot. One other thing,” said Nigel, pulling Jack closer. “That little directive about throttling down the passions? Forget about it. The old gray mare has come through with a clean bill of health. Consider the sanctions lifted, the embargo repealed, and the harbor open for business. Harvest those oats, young man. Show those spring bunnies a thing or two. All the best to you and the missus. Care for a tequila? Here, take a bottle. Don’t drink it all in one gulp.” Nigel placed the bottle in the stunned man’s lap.
Jack’s mouth, hanging open as it was, suggested a funnel might be of use.
“Mr. Watt, or is it Mr. Wynn?” asked Annie, provoking barely a blink from the ossified newlywed. “You seem to have accumulated two names. What is it? Watt or Wynn?”
Jack Watt resurfaced to an extent, though his jokey self had been supplanted by a soul-shattered version. “Mama named me Jack Earl Watt. Mack Wynn was a pen name I used for my amateur archaeological work. You see, I didn’t want those in the jute business to know I was moonlighting. They frown on that sort of thing…the jute traders do. So, for anything archaeological, I was known as Mack Wynn. Otherwise, I’m Jack Watt.”
Interesting as all this was, it didn’t soothe Nigel’s lip, which he’d been biting since kapok was the buzz. “Now that that’s all sorted out,” he said, “I have some news—”
“But,” interrupted the detective, “none of this explains the murder or what happened today. We have a crazed country singer with demonstrated proficiency of the possible murder weapon, screaming about a map. But nothing definitively ties her to the murder. How did Ms. Logan get involved with Mr. Anguilero?”
“We’re back to the murder? Come on,” said Nigel, thinking they’d all had enough of murder for one day.
“What can you tell us?” asked Annie, turning to Stanley, who’d returned to his perch on the stairs.
“Cam collected South American animals for her zoo,” said Stanley. “She knew this man as a guide and an animal wrangler and, I suppose, for other things. How they came together here recently, I haven’t a clue.”
“I’ll tell you my theory,” said Annie. “Sometime during the ill-fated Amazon expedition, Eel learned about Mr. Sandoval’s supposed treasure map. Supposing it a quicker path to riches than an aimless river safari, he whomped Mr. Sandoval on the head with a fish and left the two of them to rot in the jungle. With the map now in his possession, and the fish-whacked Mr. Sandoval out of the way, the treasure was within his reach. Or so he thought. The scheme developed a major hole when it was discovered that Mr. Sandoval had left no valid contact information.”
“Are you saying that this Eel person would have contacted us?” asked Mrs. Sandoval.
“Not at all. Eel needed the contact information to make sense of his map. Treasure maps don’t come with coordinates, and Mr. Sandoval’s was no exception. Maps of this kind rely on local familiarity of a particular area. A map that marks a treasure based on its location relative to a rock or a tree is worthless if you don’t know which rock or which tree. This is the situation that Eel found himself in. He had a map, but without the necessary context, had no way to use it.”
“But he found out where we live,” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“Precisely. Fast forward to a few weeks ago. Eel receives a document from this very house claiming to be from Mr. Sandoval’s wife. Suddenly, he has a possible reference point for his map. Not only that, he has Cam, an old friend living in the area who might serve as a guide, a
mong other services. Suddenly, Eel had a pathway to the treasure.”
“Indeed he did,” said Nigel. “If you will allow me—”
“But why was Cam Logan so desperate to get the map?” asked Stefanie. “She doesn’t need the money. She should be burying treasure, not digging it up.”
“Not the case,” said Annie. “Certainly, she made a lot of money, but money goes through that woman like poop through a seagull. I looked up the ownership of her estate in New Antigua. She recently sold it.”
“Cam-a-Lot? She sold Cam-a-Lot?” asked Stanley.
“Sorry, Stanley, but yes. I suspect she’s sold other properties as well. If she’s in dire financial straits, a tax-free pot of untraceable money would be just the thing to keep her in the lifestyle to which she’s accustomed.”
“Won’t happen,” said the detective. “We have the place surrounded and the roads barricaded. It’s just a matter of time before she’s apprehended.”
As eager as Nigel was to spill his big news, something about Jack’s story tugged at him. That something was pretty much everything. “Excuse me,” he said, turning to Jack. “The other day you related a rather interesting autobiography of yourself. I’m not certain what I’ve heard today squares very well with that account.”
“Fool!” yelled out Abuelita. “Stupid fool.”
“You’re addressing me, ma’am?” said Nigel. She was prone to such outbursts, but the context baffled.
“You see anyone else who fits that description?” she replied.
Several were within eyeshot, but Nigel withheld.
Abuelita cracked a grin like the kind carved into pumpkins. “You hear that, Jack? He swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. What’d I tell you?” She spit out a cackle straight from the depths of her well-used gallbladder.
“That’s really something,” howled Grumps, slapping his knee. “I’ve got a bridge for sale. It goes straight to Brooklyn.”
Even Stefanie’s leper husband seemed in on the joke. “When Jack told me that story, I said, ‘Nah, even dimwitted Nigel couldn’t believe such a thing. He may look like an ass, but he must be smarter than one.’ But once again, I overestimated you.” Laughter had not been part of this man’s repertoire, but now he was whooping like a hyena. Most unpleasant.
