He shrugged. “I manage.”
A wealth of pain hid behind his words, but Marla didn’t get the chance to pursue it. A squat concrete building loomed ahead, identified by a sign, Indian souvenirs. Besides the usual gift shop and a storage shed, this compound also had a gasoline pump. Who’d stop here for gas? Marla wondered, glancing at the deserted road. Vail veered into an unpaved lot. Shifting the sedan into park, he shut off the ignition and turned to her.
“Let’s go check out this place.”
Marla wished she’d chosen a shorts outfit when she emerged from the car. Laden with humidity, the warm air filled her lungs. Creeping toward its zenith, the sun blazed a trail overhead. Insects droned in the background like a hungry chorus. Curving around the rear of the shop ran a slough on which were docked several airboats. Thick tropical vegetation lined its banks. Yellow water lilies sprouted from the shallow water, whose stillness was broken by an occasional ripple as a fish leapt into the air. A gentle breeze ruffled the hairs on her skin as she followed Vail inside the shop.
The sweet smell of orange-blossom perfume drifted her way on waves of air-conditioning. Marla stepped past painted heads made from coconuts, a selection of colorfully dressed Indian dolls, and stuffed miniature crocodiles. Beads hung on a rack by the cash register, which was manned by a bronze-skinned woman who smiled as they approached. High cheekbones accented a face devoid of makeup. It was difficult to assess her age, Marla decided. Ebony hair, twisted on top of her head in a braid, was sprinkled with gray, although the woman’s complexion remained wrinkle free.
“May I help you?” The Indian put aside her sewing and regarded them with undisguised curiosity.
“We’d like an airboat ride to Blue Heron Hammock,” Vail announced. Even though his posture reflected casual ease, his commanding tone indicated a man used to giving orders.
The woman responded to his authority, rising immediately. “One minute, please,” she said, vanishing through a door that presumably led to a back office.
While they waited, Vail placed a hand on Marla’s shoulder. Her eyebrow lifted in surprise. He was seemingly unaware of his gesture, but she felt the warmth of his hand seep into every bone of her body.
A muscular man accompanied the Indian woman back into the shop. His hands were greasy, and he wiped them on a rag, which he then stuffed into his jeans pocket. Tattoos were etched onto his bulging forearms. Marla couldn’t discern their design because her eyes were drawn to his face. A timeworn expression shone from his bottomless dark eyes, the crinkles beside them suggesting he possessed a sense of humor. He stood, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, like a warrior on the prowl.
“I’m Sammy. You wanna ride?”
“That’s right,” Vail said. “Have you got a boat available?”
“Sure, if you’ve got the dough. It’ll be twenty dollars each for the round trip with a ten-minute stop at the village.”
Detaching himself from her, Vail withdrew three twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and thrust them at the man. “I’ll make it thirty dollars each for extra time.”
“How much extra?”
“A half hour should be enough.”
“Who you going to see?”
“A friend.”
“This friend, he expecting you?”
“Not really. I was referred to him by someone else. Maybe you know him ... Santero Manuel.”
The Indian’s eyes brightened. “Ah, now I understand.” He glanced between Vail and Marla, his eyes sparkling. “This your woman? Santero Manuel can make you a blessing, no?”
Marla almost laughed aloud when Vail’s face turned a bright shade of crimson. “We’ll see,” he muttered, striding toward the rear door.
As they climbed into the flat-bottomed boat with its aluminum hull rising out of the water, Marla considered asking the santeria priest for some blessings herself. Help me find Bertha’s killer, please. Then get Stan and Carolyn Sutton off my back. There were lots of things she could pray for, but mostly Marla relied on herself rather than divine intervention. She wondered how Vail felt about religion. Off duty, he didn’t display any religious symbols that she noticed. Marla’s feelings about her own heritage were mixed, and she never wore a Star of David or other outward sign of her faith. Meeting a santero should be an enlightening experience, she decided.
Vail stood aside so she could precede him to one of the three rows of black-plastic benches situated behind a wide, curved windshield. She took a seat, reaching into her purse for sunglasses. Thus able to see despite the glare off the water, she examined the pilot’s chair that towered over the flat deck behind them.
“I’ve never been on one of these,” she confessed to Vail. He levered his large body down beside her, but she made no effort to scoot away when their hips touched. If this thing took off like she thought it might, she might need to grab something solid, like his beefy arm.
“That’s a 240-horsepower airplane engine driving the propeller shaft,” he told her, nodding at the apparatus.
A metal frame, forming a semicircle around the propeller, held the pilot’s seat in place. Sammy, having reached his elevated perch, donned goggles and earphones. Oh joy, thought Marla, we’re really in for a thrill ride . Clutching the bench when the powerful engine kicked into life, she risked a glance in Vail’s direction. His face held a look of heightened anticipation, his full attention being centered on the waterway ahead. Sammy flipped some switches, stepped on the throttle, and eased out on the stick with his left hand. Just like airplane controls, she recognized. The twin air rudders shifted, and the boat slid forward.
“This is fun!” Marla said, as they cruised around the back of the gift shop and passed a cluster of banana plants. She spotted a baby alligator sunning on the bank and tapped Vail’s shoulder to show him. He grinned but didn’t speak because the roar of the engine drowned out all other sounds. Sammy stepped on the gas, sending the boat into a broad sideslip until they were heading south, away from the shop. Their speed increased so that Marla’s eyes teared despite the sunglasses and her hair whipped about her face. Vibrations from the motor rumbled through her bones as they cleared the narrow river bordered by tall grasses and custard apple trees. Soon they were making a straight run down the wet grass prairie. The horizon was visible on all sides, its sheer immensity stealing her breath.
They bumped over a mound of black muck, and she felt the seat rise beneath her, then drop as the boat skimmed over the blanket of grass. Occasional hammocks dotted the landscape like islands in a swamp. She watched a flock of white ibis take flight as the noise of the engine neared them.
The boat hit another clump of mud and her attention redirected itself forward. Up ahead came an area of higher ground, and they were aiming directly for it. Blue Heron Hammock, she figured.
Reaching the oasis, Sammy cut the motor and side-slipped the airboat into a slough beside a wooden dock. Marla felt a rush of silence and an eerie calm as the boat’s vibrations ceased.
Sammy put aside his earphones. “I wait here.”
Vail stretched his tall limbs. “A half hour, remember?”
Grinning, Sammy gave a thumbs up-sign.
“Come on,” Vail urged, taking her elbow and guiding her off the boat.
Stepping onto the wooden dock, its planks weathered and rife with splinters, Marla surveyed the scenery. “This is lovely,” she murmured, indicating the flowering plants and fruit trees. Purple hyacinths lined the banks where a blue heron stood feeding in shallow water. A strong floral scent mixed with the smell of decaying vegetation.
“It’s peaceful, isn’t it?” Vail proclaimed, his keen gaze absorbing every detail. His body tensed as his eyes fell upon the only two visible inhabitants of the village. One was an old woman weaving a wad of material; the other was a man chopping wood. Neither was the priest figure they’d expected.
“Let’s see what that woman h
as to say,” Marla suggested, aware of Sammy’s eyes on their backs. She strode forward, assuming a pleasant expression. The older female sat near a display of colorful Indian blankets strung on a clothesline. She didn’t waver from her task as they approached but remained with her head bent, a frown of concentration on her face. The black hair knotted tightly on her head made her profile appear sharp and angular. Her fingers kept up their steady work without interruption.
“Excuse me,” Marla said sweetly before Vail got in a word. The woman might react better to another female than to him. “We’re looking for Santero Manuel.”
The Indian tilted her head slightly and yelled to the man busy chopping wood across the clearing. Marla couldn’t understand what she said and wondered where everyone else had gone. Obviously, this wasn’t where the Indians resided, so it must be just another tourist attraction. Maybe at some point it had been a real Indian camp, but most of it was overgrown by now with only one chickee hut left intact, its palmetto-thatched roof sagging where a new cypress pole was needed. Sawgrass reached nearly to the roof, which lacked new fronds. Not much shelter from rainstorms there, she concluded. A smoldering fire, a half-rotten wooden table, and a small pile of logs completed the village decor. Surrounding the hammock rose fields of sawgrass, ready to overwhelm the island should it be abandoned.
“Greetings,” Vail said to the wood chopper. Marla heard the wary note in his voice and couldn’t blame him for his caution. As the muscled man approached, she shivered involuntarily. Dressed simply in a T-shirt and baggy pants, he nonetheless appeared menacing with an ax in his hand and a scowl on his swarthy face. Stringy hair fell to his shoulders, bluish highlights in the jet-black strands.
“Is the santero expecting you?” he gritted.
Marla kept silent, letting Vail take the lead. “We didn’t call ahead,” he said in a sardonic tone. “But we’re here on an urgent errand. We need to see him today.” A muscle worked in his jaw, and he glanced at her. Marla smiled back, reassuring him this trip would be worthwhile.
The Indian seemed to draw some conclusion by her reaction. “This way.” He pointed to a trail leading into the bush. They followed him to a clearing beside a murky pond where the village site was hidden from view. Along the way, he dropped his ax. The gesture prompted Vail to relax his posture.
At the water’s edge, a short man wearing a cotton guayabera shirt squatted beside a plastic bucket. A fishing pole lay on the ground along with various supplies. Having an aversion to live bait, Marla had never been drawn to fishing. Her lip curled at the sight of worms squiggling in the bucket.
“This is Senor Manuel,” said the wood chopper. Giving them a curt nod, he strode back toward the village.
The santero rose and faced them. His shirt hung half-open at the bottom, showing a sprinkling of wiry gray hairs on a generous belly. An unlit cigar stuck from his mouth. His eyes, a piercing charcoal, considered them appraisingly. “So why have you come to see me?” he asked in accented English. “Let me guess. You would like a blessing for your union, no?”
“That’s not it,” Vail cut in quickly, avoiding her amused glance. Introducing himself and Marla, he stated their purpose: “We’re here to talk to you about Carlos.”
The santero’s expression saddened. “Ayee, poor soul. I made a prayer to Ochun in his name.” He eyed them curiously. “You are familiar with the origins of santeria?” When they indicated a negative response, he gestured to the riverbank. “Please, sit I would like for you to understand.” Removing the cigar from between his thin lips, he stuck it in a pants pocket.
With a grunt, Vail lowered himself to the hard ground, and Marla followed suit. Reeds rustled as a breeze blew up, gently swaying the sawgrass over the swamp. A raucous bird cry broke the otherwise peaceful stillness. Her hands splayed on the dirt as she settled into a comfortable position.
Assuming a perch on a nearby log, the santero directed his sharp gaze on them. “Santeria evolved from the religious beliefs of African slaves, many of whom came from the Yoruba people in what is now called Nigeria. They needed to hide their culture from white slave owners so they turned to Christianity. Through contact with Roman Catholics, the religion evolved into a fusion of elements from both belief systems. We worship African deities and Catholic saints together. Ochun is our beloved virgin.”
“What is your role?” Marla asked curiously.
“I help my people to rid themselves of illness, to get a better job, to keep a husband from wandering. Whatever is needed, I try to do, although sometimes faith is the best therapy.”
Vail shifted his large body. “Did Carlos come to you for spiritual guidance, or were you just fishing companions?”
The santero, seated with his knees folded, fingered his glass-bead necklace. “Carlos was a good man,” he said, his expression sobering. “He sent dollars home to his widowed mother still living in Cuba. I don’t know what she’ll do now that he’s gone. Carlos has ... had a sister, but she’s struggling to raise two young ones on her own.”
“Did he seem bothered by anything recently?”
A thoughtful gleam entered the Cuban’s eyes. “Ayee. He was troubled at our last session. Fishing was our excuse to get together,” he said, answering Vail’s previous question, “but he’d always want to talk. I think he didn’t want to appear superstitious, but he couldn’t disregard santeria either. In this case, he was disturbed by a request made to him.”
“How is that?”
“Someone wanted him to do a deed that made him feel uncomfortable. His conscience troubled him. It just meant leaving a door unlocked, but he was worried about the reasons why. He’d always been an ethical man, and this decision plagued him.” He paused. “Carlos came over on the Mariel boatlift in 1980. He took this job as janitor soon after. He’d always sent dollars home, but the need increased after his papa died last February. I think that’s why he agreed to the request despite his reservations.”
Marla leaned forward to catch Vail’s next words. “Who made the request?” Vail demanded.
“A woman.”
“Description?”
The santero shrugged. “He said she looked good for her years.”
“Did he mention her name? Or where she worked?”
“No, senor. Carlos didn’t actually say the words, but I believe he was afraid she planned to burglarize the place. Your salon, eh?” he directed to Marla.
“That’s right, but we have nothing valuable in our salon. What could anyone take ... hair solutions and accessories? I suppose you could sell them at a flea market.”
“Carlos wondered what to do. He wanted the extra dollars to send home, but his heart told him this deed was wrong. He asked me for an amulet against evil spirits.”
“And in the end, he complied with the woman’s wishes. Did he mention a final meeting between them?” Vail grated, idly scratching at an insect bite on his arm.
“He said he might go away for a few days just so he wouldn’t be associated with whatever she’d planned.” The santero bent his head. “I could only offer advice. I gave him an amulet and warned him to follow his instincts.”
“If he had done so, he might still be alive.” Vail compressed his lips.
Not a person to sit quietly for long, Marla piped in. “By any chance, did he say what color the woman’s hair was?”
Senor Manuel withdrew his cigar and stuck it between his teeth. “Ayee, he’d said light-haired females always had their way with him.”
A few questions later and it was clear they wouldn’t gain any new information. Thanking the santero, they rose. Marla brushed dried grass needles off her butt and realigned her sunglasses. Her skin felt prickly with sweat. The breeze wasn’t enough to cool them under the blazing sunlight Throat parched, she yearned to return to the gift shop, where she could purchase a cold soft drink.
They were climbing into the airboat when the santero
waved to them. “I just remembered something else,” he called.
“What’s that?” Marla and Vail chimed in unison.
“Carlos mentioned one more thing the woman said: “ ‘I’m doing it for him.’ “
Chapter 16
What do you think Carlos’s words meant?” Marla asked during the drive home along the east-west corridor.
“It appears the woman wasn’t working alone.” Vail hadn’t said much during their thrill ride back to the souvenir shop. Mouth clamped shut, he’d stared straight ahead, hair tossing into his face while Sammy pushed the throttle. The Indian seemed determined to unnerve them and rode his pilot’s chair like an aeronautical acrobat.
“Darlene and Roy?” Marla said now, mentioning the first names that popped into her mind.
“I’m not so sure.”
Marla gave him a suspicious glare. “Why do you say that?”
“We shouldn’t overlook other possibilities.”
She liked his use of the word we. “Darlene has light hair. She’s hiding her relationship to Roy, and she has easy access to storeroom supplies. I’d say she’s the most logical suspect.”
Vail raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
She couldn’t tell by the gleam in his eyes if he were serious or not. “I have dark brown hair,” she reminded him.
“If I’m not mistaken, you carry an array of wigs in your salon. You were alone with the victim, and you served her the contaminated drink. I’m just not sure how you’d know about poisonous plants when you seem to have a black thumb where greenery is concerned.”
“No kidding. I’m not a maven in that department.” Any plants left under her care died a hasty death. Marla noticed how he’d touched upon means and opportunity but failed to mention motives. Presumably he could have her damning photos, meaning the clever man was trying to trick her into a defensive blunder.
Groping for a response, she averted her gaze out the side window. Her glance carried beyond the wire fence blocking off the road from a canal and rested on the water’s coating of brown slime. “Unlike Darlene I don’t have a partner in crime,” she pointed out. “Darlene could have paid Carlos to leave the back door unlocked as a red herring and put the poison into Bertha’s creamer herself, or else Roy entered that night and did it. Oh wait, he was in Naples then.” She frowned, thinking.
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