Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures Page 11

  “What bakes you say they have low self-esteeb?” Jen bristled. “I dever thought I was uddattractive.”

  “I didn’t mean you.”

  Becky continued. “The doctors asked Chichi to do it, too, but he turned them down. He thought it was degrading.”

  At least, that’s what he’d told Becky.

  “I’m not surprised about Luis bothering someone, though.” Becky talked about Luis’ temper. She said that one of the women he’d been assigned to had belittled him and he’d slapped her, knocking a tooth out.

  What? I took a breath.

  “That’s got to be a crock,” Jen said. “He’d have beed fired.”

  “And in jail,” Susan added.

  “No. Because the woman didn’t complain. She didn’t want a scandal. But Chichi knows what happened. He’s the one who had to make sure Luis stayed away from her.”

  “And now this Luis guy is stalking your friend?” Susan asked.

  Well, she wasn’t exactly my friend. But I nodded.

  “He sounds dangerous. She should complain to hotel management before she gets hurt. If even that story is half true, he shouldn’t be working here.” Susan stood, went into the kitchenette. “Anybody want food? I’m ordering.”

  Becky wasn’t interested; Susan got her a frittata anyway. Jen ordered a cheese omelet, tortilla soup, and a banana milkshake. I asked for shrimp salad and tried not to think about Greta and the man I’d heard her send away. He’d had a Mexican accent, but that didn’t mean he’d been Luis, hired to make her feel attractive. Or that he’d felt belittled by her rejection. Or that, when she’d called and told him to come back, she’d faced his uncontrolled rage.

  I tried not to think about any of that. Or about the humiliation Luis would feel when he realized that Melanie had been in his room, taken back her stolen underwear, and taunted him by leaving some kind of message.

  I sat on the easy chair, considering the kind of rage that might drive someone to violence. What it would feel like to smash a fist full force into someone’s jaw? Or press a knife through a person’s skin, tissues, muscles. Again, I saw the remnants of Greta’s face. Each ribbon of flesh had required its own cutting. Like a roast beef or London broil—one deep slice hadn’t been enough. Whoever had killed Greta had spent time with her, destroying the parts that were uniquely Greta. Not just ending her life, but obliterating her identity. Was Luis capable of that kind of fury?

  And what about Claudia? Had she also spurned Luis? Had he killed her, too?

  Maybe not. But maybe.

  And if Luis was that violent, then what did that mean for Melanie?

  “Earth to Elle.” Susan shook my arm. She pointed to silver trays on the dining table. Jen was using a soup ladle to pour milkshake into her mouth.

  “Where’s Becky?” I didn’t see her.

  “Gone. Chichi called to apologize, and all’s been forgiven.”

  I went to the table. Sat. Before I’d taken a bite of my shrimp salad, someone knocked at the door. I thought it might be Becky, angry with Chichi again. Or a nurse to check on Jen. Or a maid. But when Susan opened the door, Sergeant Perez stepped in.

  Oh Lord. What now?

  I put my fork down, not hungry anymore.

  “We interviewed every maid who was working the night of the murder. It didn’t take long, as the night-shift housekeeping staff is small. There were only three on duty.” He sat at the table, across from me, and glared. “Señora Harrison, none of the maids were in the suite next door at the time you claim to have seen one.”

  He watched me, his gaze challenging, as if he thought I’d lied. What motive would I have? What was he thinking? I recalled the night of the murder, leaning over the railing after Alain left, seeing the woman sobbing on the terrace and in the room behind her, a maid. Susan stepped over to me, stood behind me.

  “You still insist that you saw a maid in the room?”

  Insist? I glanced at Susan.

  “Mrs. Harrison has already told you what she saw, Sergeant.” Susan’s hand was on my shoulder. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  “I only looked for a few seconds,” I said. “But I saw a maid in the room, turning down the bed.”

  Sergeant Perez leaned toward me, squinting. “Well, if that’s the case, señora, what reason would the maid have to deny it? She would be conducting her normal duties.”

  “Are you asking Mrs. Harrison to read a maid’s mind?” Susan snapped. “How is she to know why? Maybe the maid is afraid to get involved. Maybe she saw something she doesn’t want to admit to. Maybe she thinks she’ll lose her job.”

  “Your suggestions are very creative, Señora Cummings. But none of them is possible. All of the maids were accounted for during the hours surrounding the murder. Two were assisting in the Presidential Suite after a mishap with the plumbing. And the third was stocking carts for the morning—in the presence of her supervisor.”

  Perez’s eyes moved from me to Susan, back to me. He produced a small envelope, removed a few photographs. Spread them on the table in front of me.

  “Do you recognize any of these women?”

  I looked. They were dark-haired, dark-eyed women. Youngish. Maybe in their twenties. Had I seen any of them? I wasn’t sure.

  “Don’t worry, Elle,” Susan told me. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

  “Señora,” Perez cautioned her, “do not interfere with my questions.”

  I studied the photos, had no idea if I’d seen any of the women. Said so.

  “Are those the maids?” I asked.

  “Only four are maids. The others work at the police station.”

  “What the hell?” Jen asked. Her mouth was full of omelet.

  Susan spoke at the same time, irate. “Are you trying to discredit Elle? Why? She told you she didn’t see the maid’s face.”

  “Elle’s dot a liar. She saw what she says she saw.”

  “I am not implying that anyone is lying, señora.” Perez didn’t look at Jen; his eyes remained fixed on me. “I am merely checking to make certain that the facts are indeed as reported.” He gathered up the photos. Looked at me. “Anything you wish to change, señora?”

  I shook my head. There was nothing to change. I pictured the night and shivered, recalling Claudia’s warning, “The one who killed me will kill you.” But that hadn’t been real, wasn’t important. The important parts were Greta, her phone calls, Alain’s visit, the other man. Had he definitely been Luis? Should I mention Luis to Perez?

  Perez was getting up. Curtly apologizing for his intrusion. Still eyeing me as if I’d done something wrong.

  Had I? Should I tell him about Luis? I had no solid proof that Luis had been there. He probably wasn’t the only guy entertaining female tourists. And even if he had been, I had no proof that he’d killed Greta. Implicating him would get him fired, not to mention arrested. Did I want to be responsible for that?

  But if he were guilty, how were the police to find out when the only witness withheld what she knew?

  I wrestled with my thoughts, argued with myself. Tried to rehear the man’s voice, which was useless since I couldn’t compare it to Luis’s. Had only heard his through a microphone announcing volleyball scores. The visitor had had a Mexican accent, but that didn’t necessarily identify anyone. We were, after all, in Mexico.

  Still, Becky had said that doctors were paying Luis to keep company with their patients. It made sense that her visitor was, at least might have been, Luis. I had to tell Perez. I wouldn’t name Luis. I’d merely suggest that one of the men visiting Greta might have been a hotel staff member with a tendency to court cosmetic surgery patients. Perez could follow that lead.

  “There is something else,” I began. But Sergeant Perez wasn’t there.

  “You say something?” Susan chewed, her attention in some magazine.

  “Elle, be ad effigg sweetheart,” Jen’s arm extended in a grand gesture. “Brigg be by pills? I’b dyigg.”

  Damn. I’d missed
yet another chunk of time. While I’d been drifting, Sergeant Perez had gone.

  Jen was napping and Susan on the phone giving instructions to her husband when I ventured back to the beach. I wore a wide sun hat and shades, skulked from palm tree to palm tree, trying not to run into Melanie. I looked for Luis. Didn’t see him. Took a seat at the bar near the supply hut.

  Susan had told me to steer clear of Luis. When I’d told her that he might have been with Greta the night she’d died, she’d scolded me.

  “Stay out of it.”

  Had she really said that? “But what if Luis is the guy who came to see Greta? We know he has a temper. What if—”

  “Elle.” She’d raised her hand, stopping me. “The police will check the hotel’s phone records. They’ll see what numbers Greta called and they’ll follow up. You’ve done your part. They’re aware of Luis’s past.”

  Susan had gone on, lawyerlike, advising me not to jump to conclusions, not to offer more information than I needed to. Not to get more involved than I already was. “We aren’t in our own country, Elle. Keep your head down.”

  Maybe she’d been right. Still, as I sat at the bar, I pictured Greta waiting for Luis on her terrace. She’d been irritable when she’d called, maybe because she’d been needy enough to have him come back—and humiliated that he’d made her wait for him. Maybe she’d complained. “What took you so long? Did you have to break away from some lonely old woman?” Maybe she’d smelled someone else’s perfume on him. Or maybe she’d just been cantankerous, picking on him for misusing an English word, like saying, “I feel great affliction for you” instead of affection. Something like that. And when she’d mocked him, maybe he’d lost his temper.

  “Señora?” the bartender was waiting for my order.

  “Bloody Mary, por favor.” I smiled, tried to seem normal. Looked around again for Luis. Saw Melanie approaching. Damn.

  She took the seat next to me. “It didn’t work,” she greeted me. “He didn’t take the hint.”

  I looked at her. Behind her sunglasses, I saw strain in her eyes. Her jaw was tight, her bony body tight. I hadn’t taken Melanie seriously, had thought she was an annoying clinging kook. But knowing what I did about Luis, I reconsidered.

  “He’s threatening me. I got a note.” She fumbled around in her beach bag, pulled it out. Handed it to me.

  “You’ll be sorry, bitch.” The writing was in big block letters.

  “You have to show this to the police.”

  “I have no proof that it’s from Luis. Besides, my grandmother is better. We’re leaving in a couple of days.”

  I thought of Greta and Claudia. “Even so. Do not be alone with him. In fact, don’t go anywhere near him. And double lock your door at night.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. It’s so creepy. All morning, he’s been pretending not to look at me, leading water aerobics and volleyball. But he’s been watching me the whole time. I can feel it.” She rubbed gooseflesh off her arms.

  My Bloody Mary came. I reached for it, but saw the puddle of blood around Claudia’s head. The blob that had been Greta’s face. Why had I ordered this grotesque drink? I signed the tab and climbed off my barstool.

  “Where are you going?” Melanie sounded panicky.

  I had no idea. The beach? “I’m not really thirsty. You can have it.”

  She assessed it. It was fancy, with a celery stalk, olives, and a hunk of lime. “Are you sure?”

  “Enjoy.” I backed away.

  “But, Elle, I’m freaked out. Honestly, I don’t want to be alone. Will you be on the beach? Save me a seat?”

  I took a breath. Felt trapped. But Luis was not to be taken lightly. And two women had already died. Yes, I assured her. I would save her a seat.

  Halfway down the path to the beach, I saw Charlie. He was stretched out on a lounge chair, a towel over his face, but I knew who he was. Knew every inch of his body. The swell of his chest. The tuft of soft hair just below his belly button. I stopped, stared. Was he really there? Could other people see him? No, I had to be hallucinating.

  “What are you doing here?” I said this aloud. “What do you want?”

  He didn’t look up. But I heard him, as surely as I’d heard my own voice. “You tell me why I’m here, Elle. You brought me here.”

  What? No, I hadn’t. Unless I’d unintentionally conjured him up, in which case he wasn’t really there at all. Well, of course he wasn’t. Charlie was dead. I was standing on the beach, talking to a man who wasn’t there.

  And yet, I saw him, sprawled out on the lounge, his face under the towel. Madam Therese’s voice echoed in my head, “The dead are drawn to you.”

  He wasn’t there. Wasn’t real. I was under too much stress, wandering away from reality too much. Dissociating. Losing touch—That was it: touch. I’d touch the guy. If he was real, I’d be able to feel him. I reached a hand out, extended it toward his foot. It was familiar; the second toe longer than the big one. I’d massaged those feet so many times, pressing on the soles, squeezing, pushing toes back and forth, hearing Charlie purr. I knew them well. But ghosts’ feet wouldn’t be solid. If the feet were Charlie’s, my hand would pass right through them. I hesitated, my hand inches from his left arch.

  “Señora?”

  I spun around, withdrew my hand as if I’d been caught pick-pocketing.

  A mustached vendor smiled hopefully, held out a case of silver jewelry. “Some earrings for you today, señora? Maybe a beautiful pendant? A bracelet?”

  “No, gracias,” I breathed, backing away.

  “No? Maybe tomorrow, then.” He moved on down the beach.

  I glanced at the man who might be Charlie, lying perfectly still, sprawled on a lounge chair, the towel over his head, and I kept moving, heading back toward the hotel. I didn’t stop until I got to the cabanas, and then I looked back. The man was still there, but he’d been joined by a woman. Her face was draped with a scarf.

  Clearly, the man wasn’t Charlie. He was just a guy with similar toes and the same kind of build. As usual, I was inventing things. It was to be expected, wasn’t it? My dissociative disorder was worse when I was under stress. And I was under plenty.

  I stood beside the cabanas at the back of the pool, taking deep, cleansing breaths. The usual salsa music pumped through the speakers. People swam and splashed in the water, rode the alligator slide, lazed on chairs reading books, sipped drinks. None of them seemed bothered by murders or disturbed by a sinister undercurrent. No one else was plagued by images of a shredded next-door neighbor and dead almost-ex-husband. I needed to exercise and work off my stress. Take a swim. Or go down the waterslide. But I was too on edge to decide. My senses were on high alert, my body ready to spring into action.

  I might have walked to the ocean except that, at that moment, Luis came out of a cabana and strutted right by me in his Speedo, displaying his six-pack, his rippled back. Without hesitation or thought, I took off after him.

  “Luis.” I grabbed his arm. And as I did, it occurred to me that I didn’t know what I was going to say. I hadn’t thought it through.

  He turned, checking me out. Beaming a knowing grin. “Yes, señora? How can I help you?”

  “We need to talk.” I dragged him back to the cabanas, deciding to be direct.

  “What can I do for you, señora?” His eyes traveled up and down, paused at my thighs. My breasts.

  I felt invaded, resented his open leering. Had the urge to smack him. Instead, I took him to a shady spot under a palm, beside a cabana tent. It was secluded. No one could hear us.

  “Have we met, señora? I do not recall your name.”

  “We haven’t met. But I have to talk to you.”

  “Of course, I understand.” He leaned close, spoke in a husky voice. “You know, señora, you are a very attractive woman. I’ve noticed you and thought I would like to get to know you better. How come you never play games in the pool?”

  What? He stood too close, breathed onto my neck. “That’s
not what I want to—”

  “I understand if you don’t want me to know your name. It’s okay. I will call you Bonita, how is that? A special name just for you.” He took my hand. “Sadly, Bonita, I must go to an appointment now. Perhaps we can arrange to meet privately later?”

  Privately? Oh God. Luis and his outlandish ego assumed I wanted his romantic services. My face sizzled. Did I look that lonely? That desperate? I bristled. No, I steamed.

  “No, Luis. Let’s talk now.” I pulled my hand away, asked straight out if he knew Greta Mosley or Claudia Madison.

  “Who?” He put his hands on my arms, began stroking.

  I removed his hands, repeating their names, reminding him of their suite number.

  His eyes didn’t waver. “Why is this important to you? Bonita, you and I can find more to talk about than other women—”

  “They’re both dead, Luis. I’m asking if you knew them.” What was he doing? Why wouldn’t he take his hands off me? He was much younger than I was and not my type. What made him think he could touch me?

  I removed his hands, but they returned to me, persistent and mosquitolike. One went to my face, the other to my hand. “No, I didn’t know them.”

  “Really?” I swatted his fingers off my cheek, angry now. “Don’t lie to me. I know that you were with Greta Mosley the night she died.”

  His eyes narrowed. He glanced over his shoulder, back to my chest. “Okay. What is this about?”

  “So you admit you were with her?”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “Do the police know this?”

  He sighed. “Señora, everybody knows it. Some of the women who come here are lonely. It’s part of my job to lift their spirits. I help the doctors by making their patients feel beautiful after their procedures. The women have a good time with me. Look, they didn’t assign you to me, but tell you what—this afternoon, after the volleyball game—we can meet for a drink.” His eyes traveled my body. Down and up again.

  Really?

  “Luis,” I kept dogging him, couldn’t stop myself. “This is important. Do you know anything about what happened to them?”