“Too much.” I gave them a smile.
“Where else you get water?” the second one said. “Long walk.”
“Not that thirsty.”
I looked closer and saw that a thin wire was draped down from the dipping handle and was almost invisible on the ground as it continued away for a few feet to where it was attached to a broom handle.
“Last chance, señor,” the first boy said. “Long walk to water otherwise.”
I shrugged and walked beyond them to where the tracks joined the main line, and continued on to the train station at Pedro Miguel.
At the request of William Nelson Cromwell, I had a party to attend.
Ahead, outlined against the sun, was the figure of a man, as if he were waiting at the end of the track for me. I stumbled over an upraised rail as I squinted to see if I could recognize him, and that took my eyes away from the figure.
When I looked up again, he was gone.
An hour before sunset, I arrived by carriage at the ranch Cromwell had informed me was in joint ownership with Sandoval. It had taken roughly thirty minutes of travel from Ancón at the edge of Panama City, going north along the east side of the canal route, with the mountains on my right rising from the narrow and almost nonexistent lowlands, showing a beautiful glow of green in the long rays of light at that time of day.
Because I was early, I arrived in the last light of the day, and from a distance, I could see the large tile-roofed villa and a collection of buildings around it. The hack took me up a tree-lined drive to a circle at the front of the villa. After I disembarked, he took the carriage to the stables. All the hacks would remain until the party ended and then, with lanterns, begin a procession back to Panama City.
During my travels with the Wild West show, I’d been to castles in the mountains of Austria. The main doors to this mansion matched the finest European entrances in grandiosity and size. With both doors open wide, a carriage with a team of horses could have driven into the entranceway of the villa.
The butler—a Panamanian of medium size and medium mustache, wearing a tuxedo—opened only one door for me and gave me a shake of his head, but with a hint of a smile.
“Mr. Cromwell warned you about me?” I asked.
“He said you would need a polish.”
I followed the butler down wide, cool hallways decorated with watercolor paintings. By the lack of pretentiousness, I guessed Cromwell had little to do with the decorating, and instead had let Sandoval make the choices. The butler opened a door for me, revealing a large bathroom suite with all the amenities of modern plumbing.
“Of particular note,” the butler said, “is a shaving brush and razor. I have been requested to stress this convenience for you.”
He stepped into the bathroom with me. It was cavernous, so I did not feel cramped by his presence, but I was curious.
“Privacy is not a Panamanian custom?”
“I have also been instructed to take your clothing and have it laundered and waiting for you at the end of the evening inside your carriage.” He pointed at a suit hanging from the hook, with black polished shoes beneath. “Lastly, I’ve been requested to oversee the accessories. Bow ties can be delicate.”
“I’ve worn tuxedoes before. I am able to tie it myself. You can take the clothes, but the boots and hat stay with me.”
“You’ll shave?”
I had been thinking about Raquel. “If the boots and hat stay.”
“Excellent.”
I unbuttoned my outer clothing. “Who is your employer? Sandoval or Cromwell?”
He blinked a few times. He seemed like a good-humored man, and I took this as a sign of disapproval of my question.
“Señor Sandoval is my employer. This evening, as I assist you, I am merely following instructions from Cromwell.”
With just a few innocuous words, he made it clear. Señor Sandoval deserved his respect. Cromwell did not.
“You know Saffire then?”
A smile. “Who does not?”
“You were here the night her mother disappeared?”
His smile vanished. “You will find that Señor Sandoval’s staff does not discuss this matter.”
“Saffire is convinced her mother did not run away. Señor Sandoval’s staff is not interested in helping the girl?”
“Señor Sandoval’s staff does not discuss this matter.”
“What was her mother like?”
“Señor Sandoval’s staff does not discuss this matter.”
I was down to my underwear. I folded my trousers and shirt and handed him the pile.
“You’ll find socks and underwear with the suit,” he said.
“Wonderful. I’ll keep mine.”
“As you wish. There is a veranda at the rear of the villa. Please find your way there when you are ready.”
He locked his eyes on the scar across my upper body.
“The last butler who bothered me put up a good fight,” I said. Deadpan.
He smiled. “Of course.”
I took my time to shave as I bathed, and dusk arrived by the time I pulled myself from the cooling waters. I toweled, enjoying the refreshed sensation. There were hair lotions at the sink, and I did my best to tame the uneven strands, frowning in the mirror at my lack of success.
I turned to the minor complication of properly wearing a tuxedo. I began with the ruffled white shirt, and that’s what gave me the first inkling of trouble. I could barely button it across my chest, the collar pinched my neck, and the sleeves were at least a couple inches short.
With luck, the bow tie could conceal if I left the top button undone.
Then came the trousers. The waistband was ridiculously loose, and the cuffs of the trousers slopped onto the floor. The shoes were equally oversized, and I felt like a clown.
The only reason I tried on the jacket was because I silently predicted it would be equally unfitted, and I was proven correct. The sleeves as short as the sleeves of my shirt.
I had no idea when my own clothes would be returned to me, so it appeared my choices were this tuxedo or wandering in underwear, cowboy boots, and hat or not leaving the bathroom.
The choice was easy.
I’m as willing as the next man to deny vanity, but the truth is, most of us do care how strangers judge us in social settings. Better to spend the evening locked in the bathroom than meet the highbrow guests of Cromwell and Sandoval in this kind of discomfort. Especially if Raquel Sandoval was among those guests.
Before I could remove the ill-fitting clothing, there came a knock on the door and a familiar voice. “Are you dressed?”
“Go away, Muskie. Send the butler back with my own clothes.”
Of course Miskimon would be here to baby-sit me. Could the evening get any worse?
“Muskie?” a female voice said with a giggle. “He calls you Muskie?”
“Holt is predictably tedious,” Miskimon answered. “Please don’t encourage him in any way, as he finds himself far more humorous than the world does.”
“Go away,” I said. Good for me that I’d locked the door.
I heard slight clicking at the handle, and Miskimon pushed the door open a moment later. I glimpsed him putting a lock pick into his inner suit pocket. Interesting skill, but perhaps not that surprising.
He stepped inside, followed by the owner of the feminine giggle.
He wore an elegant tuxedo, perfectly fitted. She wore a hoop dress with plunging neckline and a triumphant smile. She was shoulder height to Miskimon, with a face that some might call plain, yet she sparkled with vivaciousness. Her short dark hair elegantly framed her face, and her glittering necklace was a perfect complement to her attire.
Miskimon flicked his glasses as he surveyed my fashion misery.
The woman held a large flat box. She pushed shut the bathroom door behind her with her foot, then curtsied with the box still in her hands. “I’m Odelia Cordet, a good friend of Raquel Sandoval.”
There was something familiar abo
ut her, but my discomfort took precedence over puzzling that over. “I’m James Holt, a cranky cowboy who firmly believes in the concept of privacy.”
She giggled and spoke to Miskimon. “He’s adorable. I don’t understand why you say the things about him that you do. We’ll have a fun evening with him…Muskie.”
“See what you have wrought?” Miskimon sent me a glare.
“Am I the only one who understands that this is a bathroom?” I said.
“Put him out of his misery,” Miskimon told her. “I prefer to spend as little time with him as possible.”
She handed me the box. “It will fit, I promise. I’m a good judge of a man’s size.”
So we had met before. But when?
I opened it to find dark clothing. The jacket was on top, loosely folded.
She giggled again as I took off my ill-fitting jacket to show the ridiculously small shirt beneath.
I tried the new jacket.
She clapped her hands. “Excellent.”
I looked through the box. A shirt was the next layer. Beneath that, trousers. Beneath that, protected by a layer of wax paper, polished shoes and accessories.
I looked from her to Miskimon. “Thank you. I wouldn’t be opposed to an explanation of all this.”
“Later,” she said. “You must get dressed. Carriages are arriving in droves.”
“Of course.” I waited for her to pull Miskimon back out of the bathroom. The pause grew awkward, at least from my perspective. “All I need is privacy. The privacy customary to a bathroom.”
“We’ll wait here,” she said. “I must see that scar. I really must see it. Sioux warrior?”
The only person in Panama who had seen it, aside from the butler, was Muskie, back at the National Hotel. Now I glared at him.
He shrugged. “Stories about you are far more interesting than stories about me. And, I find, a decent revenge for your usual behavior to and around me. Some of the stories I spread are even true.” He turned to her. “About that nose of his. Colonel Goethals tells me that—”
“Out.” I ground the command through a clenched jaw. “Both of you. Out.”
The view from the veranda would be spectacular during daylight hours. It was on the eastern side of the villa, opening to a short stretch of lowlands to the foothills and the mountains behind. During my carriage ride here, I had seen cattle dotted on those foothills where jungle had been cleared away for grass.
This evening, though, the spectacular view was on the veranda itself. With lanterns providing soft light, ceiling fans providing an artificial breeze, and a quartet of string players providing a delicate touch of classical music, the sense of entitled privilege had been properly bestowed on the gathering.
And what a gathering it was. The expansive veranda would have been appropriate for a hotel ballroom. If my count was correct, and it usually was, there were fifty people milling about in clusters of two or three or four, and still there was room to spare for the dozen or so servants walking about, carrying trays of bite-sized food and glasses of various wines.
Those clusters only emphasized my role of pariah, as I was the only person in the room not engaged in conversation. I stood alone, at the far rail of the veranda, one question paramount in my mind.
How soon could I make my exit?
I had expected this ostracized solitude when it became clear that I was here to ask questions about Saffire’s mother. I’d introduced myself to the first couple and been received cordially enough until the question. The curt response came that of course she had stolen the jewelry, and then the couple turned their backs to me.
It was as if their disdain for me was carried on the slight breeze the fans wafted through the veranda. Each subsequent time I introduced myself, the body language and facial expressions of those in the new cluster made me feel like my suit had been smeared in cow manure. I couldn’t imagine the scorn that would have been heaped on me had I worn my rough-hewn clothing. Or the absurd tuxedo Cromwell had provided.
All of which only amplified my usual discomfort in crowds. The only thing that sustained me was allowing my mind to drift to my own ranch and imagining the peace I would feel on my own much smaller veranda knowing that the bank no longer had a hold on me through the mortgage. I was enduring this for my daughter.
Moreover, I was nearly finished. I had fulfilled Cromwell’s request to establish myself as someone asking questions on behalf of Goethals. All that remained of my duties—after making the obligatory investigations at the site of the locks—was to go to the site of the Chagres dam for final questions about the accident there. Then I could go home.
The only reason I had not departed Cromwell’s party already was because I wanted a conversation with Ezequiel Sandoval. This was not for Cromwell or Goethals but for Saffire, to see if I could learn anything that might give her hope for her mother’s return. It was unlikely, but speaking to Sandoval would clear my conscience of any final obligation to the girl. Ezequiel was elusive, however, and had managed to stay a few clusters away from me during my first hour of this soiree.
I had been able to observe him, however. He was a bull of a man, with a full head of white hair and a strong face unmarred with the jowls seen on so many of the self-indulgent rich. While easily in his early sixties, he exuded the confidence of a man who controlled a country, which I had no difficulty believing was true. If, as I’d learned, there were only fifteen or so families that made up the Panamanian aristocrats, he was clearly a man among them with influence, and most of them were gathering around him on the veranda.
As for his daughter, Raquel, I had caught her eye as she spoke in one of those clusters, and surprise had crossed her face first, then coldness. This was even before I began my odious task of posing the useless question I’d been consigned to ask.
I wasn’t fool enough to approach her after that.
Twice, I felt the hostile eyes of a waiter upon me as he circulated among the guests with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. A younger Spanish man with a thin face blunted by a mustache, he looked vaguely familiar, but, like my first impression of Odelia Cordet, I couldn’t place him. I stopped wondering almost immediately. I had other things to worry about.
I spotted Miskimon returning to the veranda and was surprised at the wave of relief that struck me. He’d stepped away at some point with Odelia for what I presumed was a stroll.
Miskimon took a solitary point in the opposite corner of the room. It was a marker of my own misery that I decided he could provide me comfort.
I moved to his side, and he barely gave me any indication that he knew I was there, but I was content. I could pretend that he and I were together and let the conversations ebb and flow around us.
I broke the silence only because I did have some curiosity that he could satisfy. “About the clothing that you brought for me—”
“Don’t believe it was my doing.” His gaze remained on a far spot. “I rather enjoyed the thought of you in that ill-fitted suit. With one look everyone here would understand how much of a buffoon you can be.”
I was miserable enough to give that a low chuckle. “It wasn’t necessary to put me in an ill-fitting suit to accomplish that. I do believe I’ve helped Dante discover a tenth circle.”
“Hmmph.”
I took that as the nearest he could come to expressing a degree of sympathy. “The suit?”
He finally turned his head to me. “This is not the place for an explanation. Trust me on that. Let’s just say for now it involves a lawyer named Raoul Amador, who was given the task of arranging the formal wear for you.”
“Which leads to me wondering how you knew I’d need it and why you decided to help.”
“How much more clear do I need to be that this is not the place for an explanation? And for the record, I did not help. It was at Odelia’s insistence we arrived early with proper attire for you.”
“Ah. Odelia.”
“What are you implying with that tone?”
I noticed
a smudge of lipstick on Miskimon’s neck, just below his ear. The perfect opportunity to try to rattle him, but he was my life preserver in a miserable ocean of hostile waters, and I did not want him to walk away.
I shrugged. “If you asked twelve separate people the same question about their view of an event, what are the odds that all twelve will have identical answers?”
“You have been a busy beaver.”
That lipstick was much too tempting a target. “As have you.”
“I?”
“I would assume that you are only here with Odelia because of some sleuthing role at Goethal’s request, so I am impressed at how far you will play the role of a smitten escort.”
“At the risk of dignifying your inference with a question, why would you assume that?”
Instead of pointing out the lipstick, I decided that the target was too easy and shifted the conversation.
“T. B.,” I said. “The initials stand for what two names?”
“Hmmph.”
More silence. Until I tried to broker a peace of sorts.
“You don’t strike me as a person who enjoys crowds,” I said. “Don’t take that as an insult, for neither do I. In fact, I’ll confess you are a place of refuge for me right now. While you might not enjoy conversation with me, I am clinging to your presence so I can pretend that I am not a complete outcast at this event, wandering from couple to couple without a single friend.”
The ensuing silence was long. Had I actually managed to offend him in some way?
Finally, he removed his spectacles and rubbed them with a handkerchief, then replaced them before squarely giving me his full gaze. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
I sensed a degree of seriousness and responded accordingly. “What’s that?”
“Yesterday morning, when we had our discussion at your hotel suite and you offered me a handshake…”
He’d rebuffed me. Yes, I remembered. “I’m a big boy. You made your feelings clear. I suppose I deserved it.”
“You did not. For as long as I can remember, I find myself wiping things clean, endlessly, often forgetting I am doing it. I’m compulsive about straightening picture frames on walls and pieces of paper on a desk. I’ve learned to live with it and only regret it on the occasions when I note that my behavior adds discomfort for someone else. And, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had an aversion to…contact. Much as I wanted to accept your handshake yesterday morning, I allowed my weakness to stop me.”
Saffire Page 20
