Black Widow

by Randy Wayne White

  26

  TUESDAY, JUNE 25TH

  The Hooded Orchid was on an early-to-bed, early-to-rise schedule. Senegal and I signed the guest book before noon the next day. She was assigned Room 7, one of two dozen doors spaced along the cloister on the inland side of the monastery. I was in Room 36, a stone cubicle on the seaward side: an iron convent bed, a chair, a tiny bathroom, a pad of Persian carpet, a cross, and an incense burner in the “meditation corner.”

  Couples were forbidden to “interact,” we were reminded—as if putting us in different buildings wasn’t reminder enough. Orientation was at 4 p.m.; attendance mandatory. Until then, we were asked to stay in our rooms and rest.

  I didn’t feel like resting. I unpacked and headed outside.

  A few minutes later, I was standing at the edge of the cliff that had scared me dizzy the night before, imitating a tourist who’d never seen the place. The rope I’d secured to the tree was hidden in the rocks. I had to peek over the safety railing to confirm it was still there.

  I also was surprised to confirm that a police boat and two fishing boats were anchored at the base of the cliff. They had a line and a grappling hook attached to something that looked like a chunk of brown sponge. A man’s body. No . . . the man-sized body of a teen.

  Surf was breaking under the rocks, geysering upward through spume holes. From where I stood, the geysers appeared stationary, like ice sculptures. I knew better. The boats were standing off because of the rocks and whirlpool currents. Not an easy place to retrieve a body—what was left of the body, anyway, after a night crashing among rocks.

  I had seen the boats from our helicopter on the flight in, but didn’t get a good look. I was seated next to Senegal, but said nothing because we were crammed among four other new spa arrivals. I wouldn’t have said anything anyway until I was sure. Now I was.

  This was how Isabelle Toussaint’s staff dealt with trespassers—convenient, clean, and utterly ruthless. For those with blood on their hands, high cliffs and deep water are efficient disinfectants. It is something that accomplished criminals know.

  Extortionists are motivated by greed, but these were killers. Blackmail was a sideline—one of several, I suspected. How many people had gone off that cliff? If Montbard hadn’t contacted the harbor patrol, I doubted if the boy’s body would’ve been found.

  It was freeing, in ways, watching the grappling hook do its work. It changed the rules. It expanded the limits of my own conduct. I’m not a policeman; was never trained in the protocols of assembling evidence. But I know how to deal with killers. After years in the trade, I am competent.

  Freeing, yes. But I was also aware that somewhere a mother was grieving. The teen’s family would turn from his coffin with scars they would carry to their own graves. Through association, I was now vested in their loss—I had heard the boy’s screams. Only sociopaths and the righteous feel unconstrained by convention. I was suddenly at liberty to take righteous action.

  A few days before, I’d tried to make Shay smile, saying her blackmailers had no idea who they were dealing with.

  Now it was true.

  “Excuse me, sir. The Lookout’s off-limits to guests. You need to return to your room.”

  I turned to see the man I’d mistaken for Ritchie. Similar size; muscles under the white shirt with its Hooded Orchid logo. Otherwise, there was no resemblance on this afternoon of sunlight and low silver clouds. He had shoulder-length black hair, a geometric chin, and spoke articulate English with a French accent. His name tag read: FABRON MMT.

  Was Fabio a derivative of Fabron? He looked a little like the guy I’d seen on the cover of romance novels. Maybe he’d picked it out himself, like a vanity license plate.

  Standing behind Fabron, like a shadow, was a tiny woman in a blue maid’s uniform, her expression blank. She remained disinterested as I smiled, put my arms out, palms up, to let the man know I felt confused and foolish. I also didn’t want him to get close enough to spot the rope. “Off-limits? Geez, sorry. Didn’t know. Maybe you should put up a sign or something—”

  “We don’t use signs. Guests are expected to know monastery rules. We expect the rules to be followed.”

  A smooth, condescending manner—Fabron had something else in common with Ritchie.

  I said, “Monastery? I was under the impression my lady friend and I were at a health spa, not a church retreat.” A joke—I chuckled. Fabron didn’t. The woman’s expression remained blank, as if she didn’t hear.

  “Whatever impression you got, sir, it’s wrong. This is a monastery, a sacred part of the spa grounds. That’s how we refer to it. Maybe you weren’t paying attention at orientation. Occasionally, guests find it’s helpful to go through orientation twice.”

  At the front desk, a woman with a German accent had been just as arrogant—suspicious, too. Same with the attendant who’d shown us to our rooms. From their reactions, I could tell they recognized Senegal, but it had only fueled their rudeness. Maybe people came to a place like this as atonement for personal excesses. If the staff treated guests as subordinates, it was probably encouraged.

  Interesting. What were the staff’s limits? I was curious.

  “Your name’s Fabron?”

  The man blinked at my stupidity. "Yes. That is why I chose to have it on my name tag.”

  “What’s M-M-T stand for?”

  “Male Massage Therapist, sir.”

  “Back rubs, huh?”

  The man reacted, but caught himself. “Ask all the questions you want at orientation. What I’m telling you is the Lookout’s off-limits. Must I tell you again?”

  Fabron turned, expecting me to follow.

  I didn’t.

  When he glanced back, I touched the safety railing, and pointed at the boats. “Looks like I’m not the only one who missed orientation, huh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a body down there—a man. Do you think the spa’s gonna give the guy his money back?” I still wore the harmless smile.

  Fabron’s nostrils widened, but it backed him down a notch. “One of the locals drowned. Too bad, but you know how it is—islanders don’t receive swimming lessons. They go out in homemade boats, anyway. They are stupid. Spend time on this island, you will learn it’s true.”

  I looked over the railing again. “If that guy was in a boat, it was an invisible boat. He didn’t need swimming lessons, Fabio. What he needed was flying lessons. Do you know who it is?”

  “No.”

  “Then show some respect. You don’t know anything about the man.”

  Behind him, the woman in the maid’s uniform smiled.

  I squinted at my watch, expecting the man to react. When he didn’t, I said, “But thanks, anyway, for the reminder.”

  “Reminder, sir?” He said it in a flat voice.

  “My lady friend and I got to the spa about an hour ago. I don’t want to miss orientation—sounds like it might be unhealthy.”

  I didn’t need any more enemies on the island, but I had made one.

  I GOT A GLIMPSE of Beryl late that afternoon as I hurried toward the health spa. The facilities were housed in a modern building of stone and wood, down the mountain from the monastery and Isabelle Toussaint’s estate.

  Beryl was in the quadrangle with three other women. She wore jeans and a white knit blouse. The others wore the familiar white scrubs that, I realized, were belted at the waists, and more like togas. They were walking single file around the quadrangle—walking meditation, it was called. No talking.

  At orientation, we were told that for the first forty-eight hours we could speak only to staff members. Otherwise, conversation wasn’t permitted. New guests were referred to as Novitiates—a monastic touch. As Novitiates, we were expected to remain silent or we would be asked to leave. I was tempted to ask if we would be banished by helicopter or pushed off the cliff. By then, I’d told Senegal about watching the boats retrieve the body. As if reading my mind, the woman had nudged an elbow into my ribs to k
eep me quiet.

  After our morning together, I’d begun to appreciate Senegal Firth. She had a cool head and a first-rate intellect. Because of the circumstances, she’d loosened up a little, creating a space for me behind her mask of aloofness. Senegal had also decided to make the best of the situation even though she’d battled against coming to the Orchid.

  “As long as we’re here,” she’d said, “I’ll use the time to shed a pound or two and treat myself to whatever it is the spa offers. The staff may be bastards, but they do seem to have a sound approach to fitness. Lots of exercise and simple food. The last few months have been bloody rough, and I’ve let my health slip a bit.”

  I liked the woman’s attitude and decided to take the same approach. Less food, tougher workouts, harder runs—I could scope out the area while I was jogging. But I had no interest in treatments offered by the spa.

  Turned out, though, I had no choice.

  At orientation, all new arrivals had been assigned “body analysis” appointments. They were required—as were “purifying treatments.” Because I was a little late for my first appointment, I had been jogging across the quadrangle when I noticed the women in white, and I singled out Beryl.

  Beryl’s chin lifted when our eyes met. She acknowledged me with a stricken shake of the head. I got the impression that something bad had happened . . . a sense of emergency, and she was eager to talk. A moment later, she touched three fingers to her cheek and tapped three times, communicating something else. What?

  I touched my face in reply, but I also shrugged—I don’t understand— then winked. I’ll figure it out.

  As I filled out forms in the spa’s waiting room, I gave it some thought. Three . . . Why was the number significant? Beryl, Shay, Corey, and Liz had been seduced by three men. It was three days until Shay’s wedding rehearsal . . . The women had only three days to wire more money to the blackmailer’s account. As maid of honor, Beryl had three days before she had to return to Florida. It had been three days since I left Sanibel . . .

  What else?

  That’s all I could come up with.

  Shay and Beryl had already given me all the details they could about the three men. I didn’t need to be reminded we were running out of time. Beryl was smart. Why would she risk communicating something I already knew?

  She wouldn’t.

  Maybe it had something to do with a reply to the e-mail I sent from Jade Mountain. That morning, before Sir James drove Senegal and me to the Saint Lucia airport, I’d stopped at the reception office to check for replies, but the Internet was down. No way to check now.

  To hell with the rules. I had to talk to Beryl.

  27

  A DOOR OPENED and a woman, mid-thirties, with corded forearms stepped into the spa’s waiting room, drying her hands on a towel. White towel, white shorts, white blouse showing a hint of cleavage. An attractive woman who would’ve been striking if it wasn’t for the frown and sterile, professional manner. Her name tag read: NORMA FMT.

  “Mr. North? Ready for your body analysis?”

  No, but I followed the woman, anyway.

  Along with the body analysis, the Orchid required new arrivals to have a sea-salt cleansing treatment, then spend two hours alternating between a sauna and a cold-water dip pool—“sweat lodge rotation,” it was called.

  As an outsider, I was considered unclean. I couldn’t argue the point. I also couldn’t talk my way out of the treatments. There could be no interacting with other guests until I’d jumped through their hoops.

  Making conversation as I followed the pretty woman down a hallway, I said, “I noticed all the rooms in this building are named for flowers. Orchids, I guess.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that confusing for newcomers?”

  “Everything’s confusing for Novitiates. That’s why we number the guest rooms. Keep it one-two-three simple for you people.”

  “Us people, huh? Like we’re kinda dumb. I don’t blame you. I bet you get some weirdos in here occasionally.”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Anyone ever ask what F-M-T stands for?”

  The woman’s reaction was unexpected, but it revealed how fast news traveled. “You already asked Fabron that question. You didn’t believe the man? Or are you testing me?”

  I said, “Oh . . . F as in female. Like in female massage therapist. I get it.” Fabron would’ve also confirmed I wasn’t very bright.

  He had told the woman more than that.

  Norma opened a door to a room that smelled of eucalyptus, steam, and body lotion. There was a massage table, wall speakers mounted flush, and a stainless table stacked with sheets and towels. “Get yourself undressed, Mr. North. You’re about to learn there’s a lot more to massage therapy than a back rub. We’re professionals. Health care-trained, like doctors.”

  Her condescending manner was consistent with the rest of the staff, but it was still irritating. What were Norma’s limits?

  “Like physicians, you mean?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No kidding? I’m surprised.”

  “Novitiates usually are.”

  I said, “It’s not because of that. It’s because I read an article—some medical journal, maybe. You can get a massage certificate in two weeks, some places. Or you can get a certificate over the Internet, watching videos. Even where it’s regulated, it only takes a little more than a month.”

  The woman knew it was true. I smiled at her reaction before adding, “How’d you like a doctor with a month of medical school try to take out your appendix?”

  She was arranging towels to show my opinion didn’t warrant attention. “If you got something against massage, mister, why come to a place like this?”

  “Because I like back rubs.”

  Norma’s eyes became slits—two dark creatures peering out. Like Fabron, she had boundaries that were seldom tested.

  “You’ve got a hostile streak in you, Mr. North. A sure sign of poison in your system. Lots of built-up toxins and free radicals.”

  I said, “That sounds unhealthy. I’ve never been a fan of radicals, particularly when they’re free.”

  “You’re one for jokes, but I know what I’m saying. Herbal tonics are the best way to flush those toxins, so why not have yourself a drink before I start?”

  There was a carafe of tea-colored liquid on the counter, iced, and garnished with a sprig of blue flowers. Looked like the same flowers I’d seen the previous night. Montbard had said the flowers were rare.

  I said, “No thanks, bottled water’s fine. I prefer to flush my toxins in private,” pushing the boundaries, but what the hell.

  The woman’s frown communicated irritation, but also suspicion. “It makes no sense. You’ve no respect for what we do—massage purifying the body—so why pay all that money to stay here?”

  I shrugged, opening a bottle of water.

  “You’re not wondering why I’m even bothering to care? I see a lot of clients in this room. Asking why they’re wasting their money isn’t something I usually do.”

  “I already told you, Norma—I enjoy back rubs.”

  Still frowning, the woman gestured toward the table. “Slip out of those clothes and lie on your stomach. I’ve got another appointment soon.”

  My list of enemies at the Orchid was growing.

  NORMA WAS WRONG. I don’t have a problem with massage. I have a problem with members of the massage industry who promote pseudo-science and quackery-for-profit.

  Some “therapists” make claims so outlandish they would be funny—if they weren’t dangerous. They claim to massage away lymphatic toxins, alter body polarity, restore positive energy, correct meridian imbalances, heal through therapeutic touch, treat disease with reflexology, calm hyperactive pets and children via manipulation or aromatherapy. It is quackery without anatomic or scientific foundation, yet it goes unchallenged even in states that claim to regulate the business. What many dismiss as goofy, new-age fun is actually a
n intentional con.

  There are good universities where students work their butts off studying the science of sports medicine, a respected field that includes therapeutic massage. The fact that these professionals are confused with “massage therapists” is unfair to the discipline and dangerous to the public. The frauds, of course, love it.

  I’d told Norma I’d read an article about massage. Truth was, I’d read a lot on the subject because of something unfortunate that happened to a female friend. The reading included a book on “voodoo science” by Dr. Robert L. Parker, professor of physics, University of Maryland. Dr. Parker had isolated seven red flags that signal bogus science. Many of those red flags were obvious in the Orchid’s spa literature. I’d thumbed through the stuff in the waiting room.

  The spa offered standard massage fare, along with typically murky claims for shiatsu healing, hot-stone chakra balancing, and the “reintegration” of soul and body.

  There were also flags of much brighter red.

  Aromatherapy: Essential oils balance the patient’s biological background while neutralizing toxins such as free radicals and other causes of disease . . .

  Lymphatic Massage: Acu-probe safely applied by experts. Causes lymph to flow, and improves detoxifying function of the kidneys . . .

  Colon Hydrotherapy: Detoxifying external and internal massage. Warm herbal water is used to gently flush the colon of intestinal stasis . . .

  Body/Mind Integration: Patients share innermost thoughts with their therapist during massage, particularly toxic feelings of anxiety, guilt, and negative past-life experiences . . .

  Sexual Energy Massage: Using an ancient technique, ching chi is released from the genitals through digital manipulation that re-channels libido and eliminates toxins created by undirected sexual energy . . .

  Rechanneling libido was one of the Orchid’s few legitimate claims. But rechanneling libido isn’t uncommon in the trade—a nasty little secret the massage industry tries to conceal.

  A LADY FRIEND of mine who adored massages told me about an experience at a ski resort. An expensive hotel with a spa that had a sterling reputation—according to the spa’s literature.