Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (17 page)

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?”

Luis’s eyebrows lifted. “Me?” He pointed to his chest, crossed himself, mumbled something about Jesus. “Where did you get this idea, señora? Why are you asking me these things? I am all about love, señora. Only about love.”

“So you didn’t hurt them?” I heard my question as if from far away. What right did I have to corner Luis? Where was all my anger coming from? And why was it aimed at him?

“Hurt them? Are you crazy? I told you. I shared love with them. I made them happy, that’s all.” He started to walk away.

“The same way you make Melanie happy?”

He stopped. Frowned. “Who?”

“Melanie. The woman you’ve been stalking.”

“Stalking?” He took a step back, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I know you’ve been calling her and following her. I know you tried to break into her room.”

He took a step back. “You’re crazy, señora. I don’t know anyone named Melanie. And besides, what’s it to you? Why are you asking me all these questions? You know what—Forget the drink. Stay away from me, señora.” He turned to go.

“Wait.” I couldn’t stop myself. I tapped his shoulder, pointed to the bar. Melanie was finishing the Bloody Mary. “That’s Melanie. With the big sunglasses and the ponytail.”

He squinted toward the bar. “The skinny one? In the red bikini?”

“Why have you been bothering her?”

He shook his head. “Señora, I haven’t bothered anyone. I don’t even know her.”

He seemed sincere. But of course he would. Luis was a practiced liar, paid to profess adoration to women, to praise their beauty no matter what they looked like.

“If you lie to me again, Luis,” I squinted at him, “I can involve your manager—”

“Okay, wait. Looking closer, I recognize her from the activities. She plays basketball or volleyball with us. Maybe also salsa class. But I haven’t bothered with her. Why would I? She’s not a patient of the doctors, so they wouldn’t pay me, and she’s too young to tip well.”

He was blatantly lying. “Luis, stop denying it. I know you threatened her and snuck into her suite. I know you stole her underwear.”

“I what?” He recoiled. “You’re crazy.”

“I was there, Luis. I saw her come out of your room with her fists full of panties.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stood, staring at me, eyes burning. Then he stepped toward me. “Say that again?”

I didn’t back away. I stood my ground, righteous and indignant. “I said I know for a fact that you had Melanie’s underwear in your room because I saw her take it out.”

“You know about this, señora? You were there when someone broke into my room?”

Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Damn. I’d said too much.

He leaned close to me, pointing a finger toward the bar. “Is that who did it? That woman—your friend, Melanie? And you were there, too?”

I felt his breath on my face. The heat of his eyes. “No, I was outside.”

“Really? You know what she did in there?”

“Yes.” I met his eyes, trying not to be intimidated. But no. I had no idea. “She took back the things you stole.”

“What things? I took nothing of hers. I don’t even know her. But someone—that
persona loca
destroyed my room. She ripped my clothing. And worse. Like an animal, she used my floor like a bathroom.”

What?

“I thought it was some
vagabundo
, so I did nothing, but now—” He stopped, ran a hand over his head, looked around, took deep breaths. Finally, he glared at me. “Señora, I don’t know you. You came up to me, a stranger, and asked me if I had something to do with two murders. And then you accused me of stalking someone who in fact has defiled my property. Tell me: What is this about? Why do you want to make trouble for me?”

I had no answer, so said nothing. My surge of aggressiveness was fizzling out. I couldn’t stop thinking about Melanie peeing on his floor.

His finger aimed at my chest. “Forget it. I have to go now. But, first, I am warning you, señora. Stay away from me. You and your
amiga lunática
. I mean it.” He stomped off.

I stood still for a moment, replaying what he’d said. Trying to make sense of it. Melanie had ripped up his clothes? Had that been her “message”?

Not possible. Luis had to be lying. He was twisting the facts, blaming the victim, making Melanie seem guilty. I wasn’t going to let him.

“Luis,” I hurried after him, hooked my hand through his arm. “How’s this? If you stay away from Melanie, we’ll stay away from you. Otherwise, she’s going to the police.”

He took my hand from his arm and squeezed it tight. “No, Bonita. No police.” His eyes drilled into mine as he crushed my fingers. “You know something? You’re a good-looking woman.
Take some advice. Be careful who you mess with.” He smiled, leaned over and kissed me tenderly before releasing my strangled hand and rushing off toward the pool.

I stayed there, cradling my fingers, watching Luis disappear among tourists in brightly colored wraps and bathing suits. What had I been thinking, cornering him that way? Revealing what I knew about him? The man was dangerous. My hand—the way he’d squeezed it? And kissed me at the same time that he hurt me? I shuddered. He’d enjoyed hurting me, had mocked my pain with his kiss. Why had I meddled with him? The problem had been Melanie’s—it hadn’t even involved me. Until I’d stepped into the middle of it. Damn.

I looked around the pool, didn’t see him. I simmered. Thought of reporting him to management. But what was I thinking? He’d accuse me of helping Melanie break into his room and vandalizing his things. Oh God. Had he been telling the truth about Melanie? I pictured her ripping sleeves off his shirts, tossing his drawers. Squatting on the floor.

Oh Lord. Yuck. But had that been her “message”? If so, the message hadn’t done much good; Luis hadn’t understood what it meant, let alone who’d sent it.

Until I’d told him.

“So, did you have a good time, Elle?” Melanie appeared out of nowhere. She smiled, stood so close that her body brushed my arm.

I didn’t know what to say. “A good time?”

“Just now. With Luis. I saw you together. I didn’t know you were friends.” Her voice was lilting, oddly cheerful. “But I saw how he parted from you. Such a sweet kiss.”

What was she thinking? “I was just talking to him.” And telling him that you’d vandalized his room.

“Of course, you were.” She rolled her eyes. “I understand—”

“Oh, please, Melanie. It wasn’t like that.”

She lost the smile. “Don’t even deny it, Elle. I saw you together.
Look, I know how it is with Luis. He’s charming and sexy.”