Clint Faraday Mysteries collection A Muddled Murders Collector's Edition

by Moulton, CD

  Several of the gringos were showing a very uncomfortable reaction to that news. Carlos slid down in his seat. Clint filed in his mind that they definitely thought Carlos was Panamanian all the way. He hadn’t bothered to tell them he wasn’t. He was running a bit of a scam himself. Did that mean he knew what was going on?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  “Be that as it may. You will NOT involve the Indios in this scheme! I can and will put a stop to it! I personally like some of you, but it’s known far and wide here that you don’t involve the natives in this stupid greedbag kind of crap no matter who you are.”

  “Paulo Lariez, sitting right over there, can probably have any of us he wants taken out with one word, huh?” Vern said with a happy grin.

  “Probably. I think you’d get along pretty well with him. Want to meet him?”

  “Sure! We’re soon going to be neighbors. I’m not leaving Panamá.”

  “Your wife was MURDERED here!” Monica cried.

  “Yeah. That wasn’t even a Panamanian who did it. It was your socalled watchdogs. I’m perfectly well aware of what I was to her. There’s no love lost. I’m a little sad, but mostly because I’ll miss all the travel and such the money brought. She was never very good in bed. Too spoiled.

  “C’est la vie! I can live damned cheap here!”

  Clint grinned to himself and waved for Paulo to come over. He came to be introduced to everyone. Only Vern seemed to get any joy from it. He said, “Nice to know a real godfather! It’s quite a trip!”

  Paulo looked quizzically toward Clint, who suppressed a giggle. Paulo said, “Whatchala! You maybe got a beef with what I do for a livin’ turkey?”

  “Do you actually do anything?”Clint asked.

  “Well, I first shave in the morning then hang around all day scaring the piss out of people who don’t know me. It is, as my new friend here says, quite a trip!”

  He looked directly at Clint when he said he shaved in the morning. It immediately lightened up considerably. The night was really much more pleasant after that. Paulo refused to hear a word about money. “I have money up the ass. It isn’t good for anything after a certain point. I’m over the part where I want to get all the money in the world. It buys hell, not paradise.”

  That made most of them uncomfortable for a while, but changed the subject. They talked about Panamá. Most of them found it too laid back. They liked the dynamism of big cities and would go crazy if they had to stay in the small town atmosphere much longer.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Vern pointed out. “Batty got out. He’d be the city type.”

  “Oh, he’ll be back tomorrow,” Yvon said. “The ones he was ... er, afraid of have been caught.” She’d said too much by the look on her face.

  Very interesting! The look on Carlos’ face was even more interesting. Did anyone in that gaggle have the least idea of what anyone else was up to?

  This could be fun except that the types involved in this one made it dangerous to everyone else around. Acting on suspicion too often led to acting against the wrong person and bringing enmity where there should have been at least a bit of cooperation.

  “Wanda” came in in full drag and greeted all of them like long lost friends. He gave Clint a very meaningful look when Carlos was trying to explain that he had the best connections here to get things done, that he never told anyone he would do it himself. He’d always delivered on anything he said he would do.

  Probably true – and he raked off a bunch on each deal.

  Later, Wanda got Clint aside and said Carlos had been smoozing Andrea Barrios from the interior department and Benet Norenda from natural resources so he was very likely doing his job. He simply let them think it was him and not a bunch of corrupt government flunkies.

  Clint left early for San Andres. It was just past Frontera and the Arriba Blanca part was just past Frontera toward Puerto Armuelles, but near the Costa Rican border. Frontera was, of course, right on the border and had a checkpoint. A big one. A lot of truck commerce crossed there.

  He found Juan and his wife, Yajaira, working in the large palm oil grove they had made a good living off of for years. Orisa was down by the stream doing the laundry. It was her job to take care of the house.

  The Indios have assigned tasks around the house. They start working at 6 or 7 years of age. They were taught cooperation and responsibility from a very young age. Clint thought about the way children were raised in the states and among the white and black population here. The children sometimes had “chores” to do – for which they got an allowance. If they didn’t do the chores they would be penalized – like watch the TV in your room for an hour. They would whine and still get the allowance.

  The Indios were each a part of the family. A family works together and doesn’t complain. There is a responsibility that is natural to them.

  Orisa was in the creek up to her waist, beating the clothes on a large rock. Clint greeted her and she came out to talk.

  “Orisa, I have to know about something. I know you made a promise to keep a secret, but that was to keep it from your family and friends, right?”

  She thought for a minute or two, then agreed.

  “I promise to keep it a secret from your family and friends. I will not betray your word.”

  “It was my family and friends and people from the government.”

  “I wouldn’t tell them anyway. I’m not with the government, but I do work with the policia, sometimes. I won’t tell them. It’s something I have to know because a person in the group might cause problems for all Indigenos if it isn’t what he’s been telling everyone. He’s a mentirosa. Mala!”

  “I didn’t trust him and I knew the woman was a mentirosa. Her eyes told me that. They would look over my head or to the side when she said all those things I could have if I didn’t tell anyone about the dirt,” she replied. “I don’t know how they even knew about it, but they said it was poison and they had to clean it up before people started getting sick from it. I said it had always been there and everyone knew you could get sick if you were around it much.”

  “Did you learn their names?” She didn’t, except maybe he called her Mon or Von or something.

  “Where is it?”

  “Not far. Just go down the quebrada for about a kilometer and there is another one that comes from over that way. When there’s lot of rain the dirt comes on top of that one. The place it comes from the rocks is maybe three hundred meters up that one.”

  “Thanks! I’ll keep your secret. I just want to be sure they’ll clean it up and not make it spread all over,” Clint started down the creek.

  “Should I call them and tell them you are here? They gave me a celular that only calls them and said I should never let my family know about it. It’s part of the secret.”

  “I’m not from the government so I don’t think it’s what they meant.” She nodded and went back to the laundry.

  Clint climbed down the little ravine to where the other quebrada joined it. There was a bit of oily residue on some of the rocks. He didn’t need to know where it was exactly, but went to find oil slowly oozing from a little crack in the bedrock the stream ran across a little above the present level of the creek. It was a very slow ooze and the water wouldn’t reach it unless a rain swelled the rivulet. The one below where Orisa was doing the wash was living water (never dried up), while this one was a run-off creek. Clint thought for a few minutes, then went back to continue following the main quebrada down into the valley where it met the river.

  The river wasn’t navigable in the normal sense, but would be used for whitewater kayaking and rafting in the rainy season.

  He took a long time getting back to the road. He felt he knew pretty definitely how the discovery was made. Orisa had been exploring and found them there doing something.

  He went to the stream, then to the casa, where she was cooking dinner. She invited him to stay, but he said he had to get back out to Puerto Armuelles.

  “Orisa, what wer
e they doing there when you found them?”

  “They had some kind of machine. They would make a little bomb – I heard that and went to see – and the machine would make a kind of map.”

  “It made the map right there?”

  “Jon. It had a printadora.”

  He thanked her and went to the road. The bus came along about twenty minutes later and he went to the main highway, then on to Puerto Armuelles on the next bus to there. He got back to town just in time to see Batty going into his office with Yvon.

  Von or Mon. Seeing it was with Batty and Batty had been used to get him here, it would be Yvon.

  But Yvon was pretty tight with Monica. Maybe Batty was using the two of them. Whatever, he was getting closer. He would like to see readouts of those sonic maps they’d made out there. Was it a standard scam where a bunch would invest in what looked good on paper? A sort of naturally seeded oil well they could phony up some sonic maps of ... that wouldn’t be necessary in most cases. They could be taken to where the oil was oozing up through the rocks and show them the actual sonic maps they’d made of their “find.” Odds were tremendously that they couldn’t read them and would be easy to convince there was a huge pool of oil down there that would only take a bit of extra drilling to get.

  He decided he’d like to talk to that engineer. Bill Arnold. Then he’d want to talk with a couple of these people. One thing was certain. This was a volcanic area. There wasn’t any large pool of oil there.

  His cell phone buzzed and he answered. It was Marko.

  “I tried to call you for about two hours. Was your phone off for some reason?”

  “I was in the mountains. No signal until about half an hour ago. What’s up?”

  “Just thought you’d like to know that Bathner is back. He left that engineer, Arnold, in the Hotel California in Panamá City.”

  They chatted a moment more. Clint rang off and got a little grin on his face. Talking to Arnold was going to be a lot easier than he’d hoped!

  He went to his hotel, packed a small bag and headed for the bus station. David had a bus every hour to Panamá City. He just had time to make the last one if it wasn’t full. If it was he’d stay in David and take an early bus in the morning. Or see if the midnight bus was full.

  He got the bus about ten minutes before it left. It was a luxurious double-decker and had several seats open. He took out a phony moustache and sprayed a little reddish color on his hair when they were getting close to Santiago. Wanda (not that one), a friend at the terminal in Panamá City, reported that there were four people boarding the David bus who didn’t seem to quite fit the bus tourist type. He took out some glasses that were just yellowish enough to make his eyes unclear. He looked like an older brother or something.

  The stop in Santiago was interesting because the bus for David had those four gringos who were going to Puerto Armuelles to look it over. They’d heard it was beautiful there, and cheap.

  Oh? And take a bus instead of a plane to David?

  Well, planes had records that were actually checked. Buses had the information, but no one would look for it except in special cases.

  “Why not fly over?” he asked Ralph Conners innocently.

  “Oh, because we want to see the countryside. We’ll probably fly back. There isn’t much to see.”

  “No. Not until you get closer to David. It’s sort of typical cattle country for a ways more here.”

  Which information was clear before they took the trip – not to mention it was night. What were they going to see from a bus except in the towns? And why the secrecy? Ralph looked just the least bit uncomfortable. He changed the subject to the rainy season and was it really raining every day for twenty or thirty days?

  “There will be short rains almost every day, but not steady for more than one or two days and that rare. It’s, as I tried to explain to a rather obnoxious tourist, a rain forest country. He griped because it was hot, and that was only because he was standing by a wall in the full sun – and looked like rain.

  “Lord! If people want sun all day every day go to Arizona or New Mexico or something!”

  “Ha, ha! I certainly have to agree with that! Personally, I like a little rain to cool things off and if I only wanted a lot of heat I’d GO to Arizona or somewhere.

  “It isn’t all that hot here from what I’ve seen the last few days. It’s – what? – about ninety degrees in the middle of the day? Hell, in Texas it’s over a hundred for months in a row! I guess some people just want to gripe.”

  “Yes. He was the type who wasn’t happy unless he was whining or ranting about something. Well, your bus is loading. Bien viaje!”

  He went to talk a bit with Amanda at the food counter, got a bag of patacones and a piece of chicken and went back to the bus as it started loading. They arrived in Panamá City just before midnight. He saw Jose’, a friend from David who drove a cab. He was meeting some people at the terminal who were coming in from San Andreas in about an hour to take them to David. They had a lot of money and not much sense, but that suited him. A big bus was a lot more comfortable than a taxi. He didn’t understand the thought patterns of such people.

  “Gringos, probably?” Clint said, nodding.

  “Si. From Chicago. They were here about six months ago and I took them all over. A hundred balboas per day and they bought gas and meals. Couldn’t turn that down! I don’t know why they want a taxi from here to David. I can see why they might want one to take them around in David. They could fly there cheaper and a lot more comfortable than five hours in a taxi.”

  “No records. They don’t even have to give you their passport number or anything.”

  “I sorta figured that was it.”

  “They go anywhere but David when they were here before?”

  “Concepcion, Boquete, Frontera, Calderas, Puerto Armuelles. Everything out there on that side. La Barqueta. Volcan, Cerro Punta.”

  “Oh. the Browning family? I met them.”

  “No. Mr. and Mrs. Brooks and Mr. and Mrs. Carlson. That’s another thing. I’m to call them Mr. and Mrs. and they call me Jose’. They have a lot of money, so they’re better than the people here.

  “They aren’t snobby or anything. They can joke and have fun, but they’re used to being called by their last name. It’s what they’re used to. They talk about money and investments all the time and I couldn’t care less about that stuff.”

  They talked about other things and Jose called another cabbie over and said to take Clint to Hotel California. He’s not a tourist, he’s a very close friend. It cost four dollars instead of twelve.

  Clint had reservations he’d called in and was given a room across from Arnold. He went into the bar a few minutes before it closed and had a beer. There wasn’t anyone interesting in the bar. He went to bed.

  In the morning he had his breakfast in the restaurant and met several people from Germany and the states. They chatted about the country and he made suggestions about places to see. No one mentioned Puerto Armuelles and he didn’t suggest it, though he usually would.

  A bit later a small nondescript man came in carrying a briefcase he opened to take out a laptop and use the air internet. Natalie, the waitress, pointed to him. That was Arnold.

  Clint waited until Arnold rolled out some papers on the table to walk close to pay his bill. Arnold looked up and nodded at him. He nodded back and said he knew what those papers were! Sonic mapping! Was he with the international survey team who were supposed to be covering the country with all kinds of satellite mappings and sonic mappings and such?

  “I was with a project last year. We didn’t find much. There’re some few small deposits of metals and some cinnabar toward the mountains near Costa Rica. Not much of value.”

  “Oh? In Chiriqui? I hear they found some zinc there.”

  “Zinc? I suppose it’s possible around the old volcanos on the western end, but most of that will also be in Costa Rica.” He looked a little suspicious. “We were more in, er, Colón a
nd Bocas del Toro.”

  “Well, there wouldn’t be much in Colón, but Bocas might have some old pirate treasure or something,” Clint replied with a laugh. Arnold agreed that was the case. Very little of anything. He asked if Clint was doing surveys.

  “Not me. I’m checking up on some things for friends who want to invest here, but more to live here than to make money. Most of them have found that money is one hell of a demanding mistress.

  “I’m Clint Faraday, retired detective who gets more jobs here than he ever did in Florida.”

  He really looked wary then, realized it and said, “Er, a detective? I most certainly hope you’re not investigating ME? Ha, ha. That would be about as dull a job as you ever had in Florida or anywhere else, I’m sorry to say. I WISH I had the gumption to do something I’d be investigated for! Life would be so much more exciting!

  “Is there much here or ... oh. Not divorce and that kind of thing, I hope? Maybe insurance fraud?”

  “No. Criminal. Mostly murders.”

  “Murders!? Here? These people are mostly non-violent and wouldn’t commit murders that would take more than an hour to solve.”

  “So far it’s among tourists to the greatest extent. That helps solve them because it’s tourists knocking off other tourists, usually to hide something or because of money. There are a hell of a lot of scams. Some of the murders I’d just as soon not solve. It’s not like the states. The worst schemers don’t seem to ever catch on that they’re likely to get knocked over about screwing somebody out of their life savings. They always think they’re so clever they won’t get caught. The last fact they learn is that a lot of the time there’s somebody who’s more clever than you. They’ve got you figured, then they’ve got you dead.

  “Well, I suppose nothing will ever change. I’ll have a lot of work here. I try to find the scam and prevent the rest of it, but that happens about a third of the time. I usually don’t hear about it until somebody’s had their throat cut or something on the order. Those are deep sonic charts. I doubt there’s anything you could get out that deep. Maybe some natural gas, but that’s too expensive to go after in an area that has that much rock. There’s a dome of something that looks ... I’d say sulfur in that kind of dome. You couldn’t make a profit on it.”