Amaz'n Murder

by William Maltese

  “Why don’t I suggest a break? They’ll not begrudge this old lady a respite, do you think?”

  “Actually, I’d prefer we reach the ranch ASAP. Do you mind?”

  Mind? They couldn’t get there fast enough, as far as Carolyne was concerned.

  “Okay, back to Teddy’s father.” Carolyne pushed a burnt twig out of the way but got a sooty whiplash from another.

  “He died at home, three days later, and Teddy didn’t know what to do,” Melanie said. “He figured: no health insurance, no funeral. He sat and waited for some miracle. Finally, Public Health was alerted that the Wentlock house had a peculiar odor.”

  Conversation was interrupted when the group drifted together to maneuver a particularly smoky area. They were greeted on the other side of the opaque screen by two men with hand-held cameras and another man, decidedly irate, less than five-feet-two in height who screamed, “Cut! Cut! Cut! Who in the hell are you people?” He had a pseudo-English accent, and whoever had kidnapped Charles and Teddy had “sounded” British. Not a ring on any finger, though. Would he, bound to think Teddy and Charles destined to die while tied and gagged to that jungle tree, have bothered to strip himself of incriminating jewelry? No finger seemed to have any lingering telltale indentation or tan line to indicate any ring had recently been removed.

  “Who the hell are you is the real question,” Roy lobbed right back.

  “Does Kyle Georni know you’re trespassing on his property?” the short man challenged.

  Roy grabbed him by an open collar and threatened to make him airborne.

  Apparently, so manhandled, the little man had second thoughts about his ability to control the scene. “I’m Richard Callahan, movie director. Directing a Galin Balstrom video at the moment.”

  “Who is Galin Balstrom?” Roy wanted to know.

  “I sure as hell have never heard of him, either,” Teddy was equally unimpressed.

  “Are you and Balstrom the ones responsible for this?” Carolyne waved her arm in a way that encompassed the smoke and destruction; it didn’t seem a coincidence that there were cameramen with cameras still running.

  “Impressive, yes?”

  Her slap knocked him off his feet.

  They commandeered his transport for the ride to the Georni Ranch house, and Carolyne made no apologies when she learned the filming in progress would be pro-ecology, all proceeds donated to the Greener World Society.

  “You sometimes have to burn to build.” Richard rubbed his sore jaw. The whole side of his face, like some cave wall, held the petroglyph-like imprint of Carolyne’s open palm.

  “With thousands of acres burned daily, you have to set your own fire?” Carolyne was dubious. “We could have been roasted alive.”

  “I didn’t know you were anywhere close.” It was a good argument; there was no way anyone could have known they were headed back. What wasn’t as good was his: “We couldn’t risk filming where those in charge figure our message bad-mouths their livelihoods.”

  “You’re just like those reporters who recreate crimes in order to pass them off as the real thing!” Carolyne labeled.

  Richard was aghast. “I’m an artist! I did Honeymoon at Loon Lake.” That got no reaction. “I did Galin’s Cola commercial.”

  Carolyne remained unimpressed. “I don’t drink soda,” she lied. At that very moment, she would have gladly traded Richard Callahan, his cameramen, and their cameras, for one frosty bottle.

  Richard left off trying. Kyle Georni would take care of these interlopers. The last thing Richard had expected, cheerfully out that afternoon to orchestrate and film the burning of the Amazon, had been the near incineration of six people who looked and acted as if they’d escaped from some loony-bin.

  Kyle, though, wasn’t interested in extolling Richard’s film credentials, nor Richard’s clout in New York and Hollywood film circles. He paid no attention to Richard, or to the cameramen, except to dismiss them: “Galin is in his room, asking for you.” Kyle’s accent was pure Portuguese.

  “You look a sight!” was Kyle’s description for every member of the ill-fated expedition? “What are you doing back so early? Find that plant for which you were looking?”

  “Melanie launched right in. “Firstly, someone came around and.…”

  Carolyne interrupted: “I think you should call your friend Jean-Michael, or, at least, someone with some police authorization; we can tell it all once and not bore you.”

  “You’re back because of trouble, then?” Kyle divined.

  “Major trouble,” Carolyne defined.

  Charles had something on his mind. “Do you think I might use a bathroom?” His dysentery over, he wanted to wash away all residue.

  Kyle gave instructions to get them all settled. “I’ll send word as soon as Jean-Michael gets here. We’ll all meet in the den.”

  Once in her assigned room, Carolyne wished Jean-Michael would take his sweet time. The bed looked so inviting, she was tempted to plop right down in it and fall asleep. Only the stains she’d leave on the snowy bedspread, not to mention on the ironed sheets, decided her in favor of the bath water, drawn for her by Mary, the maid.

  Wasn’t it heavenly, her big toe dipped through the tingling bubbles for that first exalted contact of weary flesh with hot water? Her whole foot followed the submerged toes; and, then, in slipped her ankle, her calf, until the water rose almost to her knee, the soap to mid-thigh. Slowly, she joined her first leg with the second, took hold of the sides of the tub, and shivered with unadulterated pleasure as she slid along the sloping porcelain to bury herself to her breasts in sweet-smelling foam. She felt reborn.

  After long, luscious minutes, she emerged from water that was so muddy it had killed the suds.

  “My God!” It was Medusa staring back at her from the mirror she’d carefully avoided until now. Frantically, she turned for help to the heavy-set Indian woman who she expected had turned to stone but who turned out to be not only alive but with access to a large pair of shears.

  Carolyne wanted her hair back to its henna red. She would have settled for her natural salt-and-pepper. What she got, once Mary had done her work, was a short, spiky, two-tone coiffure that would have done a punk rocker proud. Was Galin Balstrom looking for a back-up singer? Was Richard Callahan hiring extras for his next heavy-metal video?

  She thanked Mary for doing all that could be done with the material available, and had almost reached the bed, that drew her like a magnet drew an iron filing, when she was summoned to the den. Jean-Michael Teruel had arrived, and so had the local police chief, Rodrigo Barco; that meant nine for the room since Galin Balstrom, Richard Callahan, and the cameramen hadn’t been invited.

  The den was an impressive, masculine room, filled on every side with stuffed examples of the wildlife that had once roamed the area. Here were the dead peccaries, tapirs, armadillos, and civets that Melanie’s father had seen alive but Melanie never had; there were more of the taxidermy animals in storage.

  Carolyne—she suspected it was a matter of seniority—was designated her group’s general spokesperson, although it was understood everyone would get his or her say. She proceeded in her most objective manner.

  She’d gotten to where Roy had pointed out the geological significance of the river rock upon which Gordon’s head, one way or another, had collided; the door banged open to frame a very pregnant, very distraught young woman.

  “Gordon is dead?” The clutching of the woman’s fists to her breast was thespianism at its most dramatic. Her Portuguese accent got even thicker, with “Please!”

  “Dead!” Kyle confirmed.

  The woman dropped to the floor in an immediate swoon. There was no one close enough to catch her, although Charles made a valiant attempt.

  Everyone but Kyle rushed to offer assistance. He finally got up, walked over, and looked down on the busy efforts to revive her. “Gentlemen, ladies. May I present my sister, Alexandra Mata Jornella Georni: Gordon Wentlock’s pregnant whore.”
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br />   CHAPTER SIX

  “Are we talking an evening of surprises, or what?” Carolyne decided she shouldn’t have made it a question but a statement.

  Melanie had just surprised her fellow expedition members by turning over to Police Chief Rodrigo Barco the digital chip—assumed lost when crossing the river—that contained the pictures she’d taken of Gordon Wentlock’s body.

  “You said the pictures were gone,” Teddy accused.

  “I lied,” Melanie readily admitted. She wasn’t about to apologize for a deception which had worked. “If someone was out to be rid of the pictures, I wanted that someone.…” She gave Felix a we know to whom I refer look. “…to think he’d succeeded. Once he thought the photos deep-sixed, he’d hopefully not need to make any more effort to get to them.”

  Rodrigo Barco offered his congratulations on Melanie’s cleverness, in having substituted unused for exposed chip, as far as her backpack, and he promised to have the pictures printed out, via his sources, immediately.

  Even Carolyne had to admit that Melanie’s ruse had been damned clever. She would have preferred Melanie trusting her with the truth; but, she was prepared to accept this all’s well that ends well scenario.

  Teddy was less pleased. “You couldn’t even trust me?”

  “Of course, I could trust you,” Melanie smoothed, “but why bother with explanations, even to you, that I knew I would have to repeat here?”

  From there, the meeting continued. Later, drinks were served, then the evening meal. Melanie asked the whereabouts of the video star and crew and was told they’d opted, whether by choice, or by assignation wasn’t specific, to eat in their rooms; no one asked about Alexandra Mata Jornella Georni, although it was about her that most everyone really wanted to know.

  After dinner, there was cognac and cigars for the men, sherry for the ladies, and more talk for everyone. Although, the latter steered clear of the more gruesome events.

  When everyone finally called it a night, it was with Jean-Michael and Rodrigo’s assurances that they would keep in touch. A helicopter would be sent at first light to recover Gordon Wentlock’s body, if it were still in storage. Also, a closer look would have to be given the emerald that Melanie had picked up at the murder site, since it was possibly evidence in the disappearance of John Leider.

  Carolyne entered her room with full intention of making a beeline for her bed. It just so happened, though, that Alexandra Georni sat directly on the target area.

  Carolyne was confused: “I’m sorry, do I have the wrong room?”

  “No! No!” Alexandra hurriedly crossed the distance to shut the door. She moved with exceptional grace for such a pregnant woman; her swoon had been as equally graceful. “I must know about Gordon; Kyle won’t tell me.”

  To the contrary, Kyle had already told her what Carolyne considered the most important detail. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh!” was accompanied by a flood of real tears.

  “I didn’t realize Kyle had a sister. Were you here when we came through before?”

  Alexandra wiped her eyes. “Actually, I wasn’t.” She chose a chair and gracefully eased into it. “I was staying with a friend, where I thought I was safe. She wasn’t a friend, though, and I wasn’t safe. Are you sure Gordon wasn’t faking his death?”

  Carolyne knew a dead man when she saw one. “I’m afraid, my dear, there’s no chance of that.”

  Alexandra tucked a stray, glossy black strand of hair back into the knot tied slightly off center at the nape of her slim neck. Her big brown eyes looked bigger through the magnifying lenses of more tears. She looked very vulnerable.

  Carolyne wasn’t about to tell her that Gordon had made a pass at Melanie and gotten himself beaten up because of it. Only if the cad had still been alive would Carolyne have seen it kind to warn Alexandra away.

  “I was sure he loved me.”

  “I’m sure you thought so.” Carolyne remained unconvinced and must have let her sarcasm show through.

  “He told me we were going away together as soon as he got back.”

  Why not before he left? was what Carolyne wondered.

  “He wanted me to see Rome and Paris with him; just the two of us.”

  “When you said ‘away’, you meant far away.” Carolyne multiplied what they would have paid Gordon, based upon how much his other customers had paid him for guide services rendered. She didn’t calculate that was nearly enough for three to set up housekeeping at the Hassler or George Cinq. More likely, he would have headed off alone, financed by whatever—stay away from my sister and her baby—funds he would have managed to squeeze from Alexandra’s brother.

  “Now, he’s dead.” Alexandra still didn’t sound as if she believed it. “I’m alone with a brother who now hates me and is disturbed by any thoughts of my baby. I must get away.”

  “Men can be very forgiving.” Carolyne hoped that was the case with Kyle.

  “Forgiving?” Alexandra’s eyes flashed. “Who is my brother to forgive me? Who asked him to interfere?”

  Carolyne had no answer, except that she had no desire to get involved in a family feud, especially when she agreed with Kyle that Gordon had been a jerk. What’s more, Kyle would have a say as to whether the expedition would or wouldn’t be allowed back in.

  “Kyle had him killed; I know he did.” Alexandra’s conviction was that of a woman deprived of her beloved by an evil brother. “Kyle’s arm reaches a long way. From here to there, for him, is nothing.”

  Carolyne already had Kyle on her list of suspects with motives. She saw him as a rancher with designs on jungle for additional pasture—no matter his assurances to Roy that he was ecology-minded. What ecology advocate would burn down several acres so some goofy rock star could prance among the ashes and sing about saving trees?

  “Won’t your brother be looking for you?”

  “He’s already found me.” However, Alexandra got the message. “You’re right, he shouldn’t find me here. He could get violent if he thought you sympathetic.”

  As soon as Alexandra left, Carolyne collapsed on the bed and fell asleep without thinking, even without undressing. This didn’t guarantee a good night sleep. She woke up, more than once, and thought she was in the jungle with jaguars, natives, killers, high cliffs, deep waters. Her bed was too soft, after minimal mattresses of dead leaves over hard ground. Her clothes were uncomfortably binding, but she was too tired to remove them. Her room was too sound-proofed by thick walls and thick doors; the architect and builder had not only wanted all house occupants insulated against harsh equatorial heat, but guests, especially, undistributed by early-morning activities that inevitably accompanied the workaday world of any functioning ranch.

  When she got up, she was surprised by the time. Her eyes and head were achy, her nose and throat were dry, and her mouth tasted like cotton balls. Her condition wasn’t helped by the bathroom mirror, cruel as usual, that revealed a hairdo arranged by restless tossing and turning; she couldn’t straighten the flattened, nor comb down the spikes. She let a hot shower do her corrective styling.

  She returned to freshly laundered, ironed clothes laid out on her made bed. She selected a pants and blouse, and then risked another check of the looking glass. No beauty awards! She ruffled still-damp hair and added a touch of lipstick and rouge to highlight her tanned complexion. “Take it, or leave it, humanity!”

  She’d stayed at the ranch before and knew the routine. Breakfast was a catch as catch can buffet on the terrace and in an adjoining room; it lasted from early morning until the transition to the midday meal served at noon.

  There was still plenty of food when Carolyne found Melanie at a patio table with an attractive blond boy.

  “Get a plate, Carolyne, and join us,” Melanie invited.

  Upon closer examination, the boy was a young man, somewhere in his early twenties. He had lines at the corner of his black eyes, and more at the edges of his pouty lips; he wouldn’t likely age well. At the moment, though, he posse
ssed a somewhat “used” attractiveness that Carolyne found appealing.

  “You don’t look like a rock star,” Carolyne commented after introductions; it must have had something to do with his hiking boots, shorts, and khaki shirt.

  “Wait until I put on leather drag, spike my hair, and hang my neck with gold chains.” Galin’s voice was a gravelly rasp that even Carolyne considered sexy.

  “You’ve not heard any of his songs, then?” Melanie sounded like a long-time fan, but she’d not displayed any foreknowledge upon confrontation with Richard Callahan on that burnt stretch of land.

  “He starred in a television cola commercial.” Carolyne knew that much.

  Galin saw through that, though, his resulting smile as attractive as the rest of him; his teeth were white against bronzed skin of the kind few blonds managed in the tropics. “You’ve talked to Richard.” It wasn’t a question.

  “So true.” Carolyne tasted scrambled eggs that were just the way she liked them. “Speaking of Richard, has he been anywhere but around here, during any of the last few days? A couple of our party had an unpleasant confrontation, not long ago, with an as yet unidentified ‘Brit’.”

  “He’s not actually English, you know?” Galin said and smiled. “That accent of which he’s so proud is purely affectation.”

  “I know,” Carolyne admitted to never having been fooled. “Nevertheless.…”

  “Sorry, but I’ve seen him everyday,” Galin disappointed.

  Carolyne shrugged off the setback. “So where is everyone?”

  “Richard and the camera crew are off to photograph the desolation, one day after,” Galin said. “I think Richard actually wanted up and out before you came after him with another backhand.” He couldn’t repress his attractively large grin.

  Melanie ran farther down the roster: “Kyle and Roy ate early for a powwow with Inspector Barco; Alexandra remains unheard from and unseen; Teddy is at the pool; Felix took a Jeep into town; Uncle Charles, would you believe, actually hitched a last-minute ride on the helicopter that left early this morning to collect Gordon’s body—if the body is still to be found. My uncle never ceases to amaze me!”