A Wild and Lonely Place

by Marcia Muller

  While he dialed a wind suddenly came up, setting the trees to bending and swaying. Rain began to splatter down on the tiles of the terrace and the roof of the veranda. Almost immediately the air became cool and fresh, bringing with it the scents of ozone and the sea. In the distance lightning flashed.

  “Schechtmann,” Mr. Altagracia said into the receiver. “Wake him.” He covered the mouthpiece. “His staff recognize my voice. It’s shameful how I terrify them.”

  After a moment his head cocked. Again he smiled wickedly. “Klaus, Klaus—such language. If you think I do not know what schweinhund means, you are seriously mistaken. And I was about to do you a favor.…

  “No, it cannot wait until morning. I have a visitor, a Miss McCone. From what she has told me, I gather you are expecting her.…Ah, now I have your interest. By seaplane? No, by boat.…At around four-thirty this afternoon, on the beach near your compound. Somehow she found her way to me, and we have been talking.…That’s right. She is a determined young woman, but I believe I have persuaded her to be sensible. Here is what we propose: you will allow us to come there and see the child. If Miss McCone feels she is in good health and happy to be there, she will go home and report to her client that it is in the child’s best interests to remain with her father.…Very good, Klaus, but it must be within the hour.…

  “Klaus, if my bible-thumping daughter were here, she would take a bullwhip to you for using such a word in reference to her sainted father.…I know the child is asleep, but wake her. Children are extremely flexible—a character trait about which you know nothing.…Yes, I assure you that Miss McCone will depart as satisfied that all is well.…No, by helicopter from here. A pilot friend of here is coming.…Very good, Klaus. We’ll be there directly.”

  Mr. Altagracia replaced the receiver and smiled serenely at me. “That man,” he said, “is entirely to trusting of this old ‘pig dog.’”

  * * *

  The rain had stopped by the time we drove away from the Altagracia house in Zebediah’s old Jeep, but lightning still illuminated gravid clouds on the horizon. Halfway down the puddled driveway the old man slammed on the brakes, forcing me toward the dashboard.

  “Do you see that cannon over there?” he asked.

  I looked where he pointed. Through an overgrown tangle of trees and shrubs I spotted it, floodlighted and aimed at a forty-five-degree angle toward the sea.

  “That cannon,” he said, “was used by your countrymen in their Revolutionary War against the British. I bought it and had it shipped here at great expense shortly before I began my own revolt against the Empire. Unfortunately, I was not required to fire a single shot. I keep it in working order, however, and fire it every November seventeenth to commemorate Jumbie Cay’s independence.” Once more he smiled wickedly, his teeth gleaming against his dark skin. “It will give me great satisfaction to fire the shots that will free Jumbie Cay from its present-day oppressors. In fact, I am looking forward to it.”

  “I can understand that.” Regina’s assessment of her father had been way off base; he was anything but an old fool. Quite mad, perhaps, but definitely nobody’s fool.

  * * *

  The road we took skirted a salt pond that shone silver in the lightning’s flash. The wind blew puffs of foam from it and chased them across the pavement. I clutched at the dash as we banged in and out of potholes, trying to make out something of the terrain.

  Inland the island appeared hilly and barren, strewn with rocky outcroppings and sparsely covered with scraggly vegetation. We passed an occasional cinder-block house, but most of them looked to be falling into ruins. A tiny settlement containing a gas station, market, and tavern displayed a faded sign that proclaimed it Altagraciaville, Capital City of the Republic of Jumbie Cay. My companion didn’t comment on it, and I followed his lead.

  The night had turned steamy and insect-ridden once more. The repellent I’d sprayed on had long before ceased to work, and the bugs’ stingers penetrated the cloth of my borrowed shirt. Mr. Altagracia didn’t seem bothered by them; I supposed if you lived here all your life you developed an immunity.

  When we thumped into a particularly deep pothole and I made an involuntary exclamation, the old man said, “After I evicted the British from my island, I took over the responsibility of maintaining the roads. When I sold it to Mr. Schechtmann, I informed him that the responsibility had transferred to him. You see how seriously he takes it.”

  “I feel how seriously he takes it.”

  “We’re quite close to the compound now. You will recognize the site from the pictures my daughter showed you, of course.”

  The framed photographs on Regina’s walls had proved invaluable to me. “I think so. It’s on a rise and the beach below is crescent-shaped, with a stone jetty at either end. Beyond the western jetty is another beach with rocks that contain tide pools. It’s above the tide line now, but at four-thirty this afternoon it was under water.”

  “Good.”

  “What about access to the beach from the compound?”

  “You needn’t concern yourself with that.”

  “But Habiba—”

  “Yes, I understand. The buildings…Wait, we’re there; you’ll see.”

  My stomach knotted. I pushed my hands downward against my thighs as if by doing so I could restrain my rising tension. Soon I’d come face-to-face with Klaus Schechtmann and Dawud Hamid. Soon I’d see the little girl.

  Mentally I telegraphed a plea to her: Remember. Please remember.

  We rounded a sharp curve and then I glimpsed luminescent breakers offshore. Buildings came into view: white, stark, and wedge-shaped, with the larger edges thrusting aggressively toward the sea. Their sides and backs were monolithic, with small doors and no windows. The largest building perched at the top of the rise, and a series of smaller ones descended steplike toward beach level.

  Zebediah Altagracia said, “The main building contains the betting operation, as well as communal living and dining areas. The smaller ones are sleeping cottages. They are built on a grade, and a path in front of them leads to the beach. From there it is a short walk to the western jetty.”

  I nodded, studying the layout.

  A stucco wall some ten feet high enclosed the compound; a guardhouse sat beside an automobile gate. Mr. Altagracia slowed the Jeep and blinked his lights; the guard opened the gate quickly, but the Jeep’s bumper still grazed it as the old man imperiously drove through.

  “Fools,” he muttered. “Who would want to break in here, anyway? The people who work for them are only too glad to get out.”

  The driveway was lined with tall coconut palms; in spite of their size they appeared to be recent transplants, and the rest of the landscaping also looked raw and new.

  “Another foolish idea,” Mr. Altagracia said, motioning at the palms. “Klaus had those trees brought in full grown, plunked into holes, and never gave a thought to the soil conditions. They already look sick, and they’ll be dead by Christmas.”

  “Schechtmann had this compound built?”

  “He imported an expensive architect from the States, one who didn’t understand the Caribbean. Look at those buildings: airless eyesores, warts on the face of this island. Now his landscape architect is about to commit similar atrocities—to say nothing of killing a multitude of perfectly good plants.”

  As we drew close to the main building, I had to agree with him. Its wedge shape, at least when viewed from this vantage, looked crude and ungainly. When we got out of the Jeep and crossed to the small door I felt vaguely menaced, as if I were about to enter a cold tomb from which there was no exit.

  Mr. Altagracia ignored the bell and banged impatiently on the door with the flat of his hand. When it didn’t open right away he banged again. Footsteps approached and a man’s voice said something in angry German.

  The old man nodded to me and said loudly, “Yes, my bible-thumping daughter would surely take a bullwhip to him for such language.”

  I recognized the short, co
mpact man who glared out at us as Klaus Schechtmann. Not so much from his physical appearance—the few details I had were sketchy. But there was a stinginess and smugness to his mouth that fit with what I knew of him, as well as a sly, greedy cast to his pale blue eyes. He wore a black silk bathrobe that was supposed to convey he considered our visit so unimportant he hadn’t bothered to dress. He had groomed his gray-blond hair and beard, though.

  Schechtmann continued to glare at Mr. Altagracia for a moment, then moved his eyes to me. Their expression altered subtly. Automatic response to all women, I thought, because the look was sexually speculative; he probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it. I met his gaze with a cold one of my own. His little mouth tightened and he turned back to Mr. Altagracia.

  “This is the McCone woman?”

  “Miss McCone to you, Klaus. You must mind your manners.” The old man took a firm grasp on my elbow and pushed past Schechtmann into an entryway with stark white walls that slanted upward at such an angle that I felt we were at the bottom of a funnel. “Where is the child?” he demanded.

  “All in good time, Zeb.” Schechtmann shut the door and motioned for us to follow him. “First her father wishes to see Miss McCone.”

  He led us down a small hallway and through an arch into a large room with a window wall that showed the lightning flashes on the sea. Its furnishings were oddly shaped, fashioned of black and green-veined marble, with brass trimmings and black leather cushions. They must have been costly, but they looked uncomfortable as hell. A man in a burgundy robe that was the twin of Schechtmann’s sat in one of the chairs, his dark head bent over a snifter of amber liquid that he was contemplatively swirling.

  He must have heard us come in, but he held his pose a few more beats before he looked up. Dawud Hamid hadn’t changed much since the pictures concealed in Habiba’s window seat were taken; his face had a few more lines, his hair had flecks of gray, but his mouth was still sensual, his eyes still brooding and intense. And he was still vain and self-involved; the way he held his head and the flick of his wrist as he tossed off his drink told me that.

  He set the snifter on a table beside him. Leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs, and stared arrogantly at me. “My mother,” he said, “she sent you?”

  “I’m working under contract with the consulate’s security firm. Naturally your mother is concerned about Habiba.”

  “How touching.”

  His tone made me want to shake him, but I said mildly, “It’s true.”

  “Why? She arranged for Speed to bring Habiba here.”

  “Habiba and Mavis. She didn’t intend for your wife to end up dead in San Francisco Bay.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. Not sorrow or regret or any of the normal emotions that even an estranged husband might feel, but the fear an entrapped animal displays. Then he blinked and extinguished it. “Mavis’s death was an accident—and her own fault.”

  “Oh?”

  Schechtmann said, “Mrs. Hamid was drunk. She staggered and hit her head as she went overboard.”

  “And you didn’t try to save her.”

  He shrugged indifferently. “We were already well under way.”

  “Wrong. You were still in the marina. Mavis’s foot was caught in one of the mooring lines in the Freia’s slip.”

  “Whatever. As I said, it was an accident.”

  “Did Habiba see this accident?”

  No response.

  I glanced at Hamid. His posture had altered slightly and he was watching his business partner.

  I asked Schechtmann, “Weren’t you concerned that you might be connected with Mavis’s death? That the Freia’s crew might talk?”

  “The crew are well paid.”

  “Still, others knew you’d taken Mavis and Habiba: Malika Hamid, the consular staff, Leila, Eric Sparling, Fig Newton.…”

  Schechtmann sighed impatiently. Hamid was paying close attention now.

  “Perhaps,” I added, “you wanted Mavis’s body found where it was. In the case of a suspicious death the authorities always think first of the spouse, especially an estranged one.”

  “What are you driving at, Miss McCone?”

  “Well, if Mavis was murdered—and the possibility hasn’t yet been ruled out—Mr. Hamid would be a natural suspect; if it wasn’t for his diplomatic immunity he’d have been arrested for another murder in California.”

  Hamid’s breath came out in a hiss.

  I added, “In that case, he certainly wouldn’t want to return to the States, might not even feel comfortable venturing off this island. Your hold on him would be strengthened, as it is by having his daughter here in the compound.”

  “This is sheer fantasy,” Schechtmann said. “Why would I want a hold over my own business partner?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he knows too much about your organization, or your past. Maybe you’re afraid you’ve placed too much trust in him, and you want it as insurance.”

  Schechtmann tried to look amused, but his eyes were cold and wary. I’d struck a nerve.

  Mr. Altagracia’s fingers tightened on my elbow. “Please excuse my young friend,” he said. “She has an extravagant imagination, and her judgment is clouded at best. Some of the clouds may be dispelled by allowing her to see the child.”

  Schechtmann smiled ironically, nodded, and turned military-fashion. I half expected him to goose-step from the room.

  “Prussian, isn’t he?” Mr. Altagracia said.

  Hamid had overcome his shock at my earlier pronouncement and now was looking thoughtful. He got up, took his snifter to a wet bar, and poured a couple of fingers of Remy Martin. As he swirled and tasted it, his motions were measured and somewhat theatrical. In his elegant robe he could have been an actor in a Noel Coward drama.

  I wondered which of the many roles he’d played in his life was the real Dawud Hamid: indulged but closely leashed son; neglectful husband; loving but absent father; international sophisticate. And then there was obsessed admirer. And killer.

  Hamid seemed to sense what I was thinking. He glanced at me, eyes hooded, then turned to stare at the window wall facing the sea. The lightning had stopped, and the wall was a black mirror. I watched his reflection. His eyes met mine in the glass, then slid away.

  Sounds in the entryway now: clipped adult footsteps and the barefoot patter of a child. I turned expectantly.

  Habiba entered, Klaus Schechtmann’s hand firmly on her shoulder. She wore a yellow flowered nightgown, and her hair was tousled, her eyes sleepy. On her left wrist was a Garfield-the-cat watch, and on her thin forearms were bruises that looked like finger marks. When she saw me she stopped, her lips forming a little O.

  Schechtmann nudged her forward. “Say hello to Miss McCone, Habiba.”

  Her mouth formed my first name, savoring it as she had on that not-so-distant evening in my MG, but no sound came out. I went to her, squatted down, and took hold of her hands. “How are you, Habiba?”

  Her eyes flicked toward Schechtmann. “Fine.”

  “Are you happy here?”

  “…Yes.”

  Mr. Altagracia moved between Schechtmann and us.

  “Are you glad to be here with Uncle Klaus and your dad?”

  Her brow puckered. She glanced toward her father now. He hadn’t acknowledged her presence, still stood with his back to us, but he was observing everything in the window glass. I moved slightly, turning Habiba so he could only see her profile.

  “I know you’ve missed your dad,” I said. “You told me, remember? You showed me the parrot bracelet he gave you, and then we went for a ride, and Mr. Renshaw escorted the lady back to her castle.”

  “I remember.”

  Schechtmann pushed around Mr. Altagracia. “Miss McCone, please stick to the reason you came here.”

  Habiba’s bony shoulders flinched.

  “So can I tell your Grams that you like it here?” I asked her.

  “…Yes, tell Grams I’m fine.”

  “I’m so gla
d.”

  She pulled her hands free of mine, threw her arms around my neck, and hugged me. Mr. Altagracia coughed loudly as she whispered, “Help me!”

  “Of course. You miss her. But maybe she’ll visit you soon.”

  Schechtmann was moving toward us. I broke Habiba’s hold on my neck and pushed her back till she was looking directly into my eyes.

  And I winked.

  She started to smile. Bit her lip.

  I said, “You don’t know how worried we’ve all been—your Grams, Mr. Lateef, Mr. Renshaw, me. Do you know how I got here? I swam from a boat to the beach where the tide pools are, just past the jetty. Have you seen those tide pools?”

  “My new nanny showed them to me this morning.”

  Thank God. Schechtmann was right behind her now, his hands reaching for her shoulders. “Well, I’m glad you saw them. I didn’t. When I got here at four-thirty it was high tide and they were under water. I guess this morning at four-thirty they won’t be.”

  She bit her lip again. “I guess.” And then she yawned very realistically.

  I let go of her hands. Stood and smiled down at her. “Well, now that I know you’re okay, I’ll go home and tell your Grams that you want to stay here. Shall I do that?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Tell me once again—are you really happy?”

  “I’m really, really happy.” She raised her wrist and glanced at the Garfield watch. “Uncle Klaus, I’m sleepy. Can I go back to bed now?”

  As they left the room hand in hand, Habiba looked over her shoulder and winked at me.

  Nineteen

  Zebediah Altagracia brought the Jeep to a stop and shut off its lights. We were perhaps half a mile from the entrance to the compound on a sandy track that cut across open ground toward the sea.

  “This is as far as I can go,” he said in a low voice. “The road turns into a footpath a few meters from here. Follow it until you see a stand of mangroves, then go toward them. They’re on the shore above the tide pools.”