The Undertaker's Widow (14 page)

“Honey, I have really bad news,” she had said in a midday call from her office to his chambers. “A group of businessmen in Florida are putting together a condominium deal like the one in Maui. They heard about the job I did for Eddie Meyers. They have some of the same problems. The deal is going to be finalized this weekend and I have to fly to Miami tomorrow afternoon so we can meet on Wednesday. Then they want me with them during the negotiations through Saturday.”

There had been stunned silence on Quinn's end. The conference on St. Jerome was from Thursday to Sunday
Quinn was speaking on Thursday morning. He had planned it so that he and Laura would leave on Tuesday and have every day but Thursday to themselves. If Laura had to be in Miami from Tuesday to Saturday, there was no way she could come with him.

“Can't someone else go in your place?” he had asked, but Laura had told him that the clients insisted on her handling the matter personally and were willing to pay a large retainer to secure her services.

“Turn them down,” Quinn had snapped, unable to hide his anger and disappointment. “There must be hundreds of lawyers in Miami who can review their damn contract.”

“I know you were looking forward to this vacation,” Laura had answered calmly. “So was I. But this will give me a foothold in Florida. Do you know how many condo deals are made there?”

“I don't care, Laura. This vacation … I was hoping so much …”

Quinn could not finish the sentence.

“I'm sorry, Dick. I'm not in this just for myself. You were a partner at Price. How could I explain turning down a fee like this and losing the potential business?”

Quinn wanted to remind her that she was also a partner in their marriage. Instead, he hung up after assuring Laura that he understood in a tone that let her know that he did not.

The line of boarding passengers started to thin. To distract himself, Quinn took the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of him and found the crossword. Completing the crossword before takeoff was a ritual that Quinn followed whenever he flew.

“Excuse me. I think the window seat is mine.”

When Quinn looked up he saw a woman standing in the aisle. She was about five feet four and wore a white T-shirt under a red sports jacket. Her jeans were
secured at the waist by a brightly colored red and yellow fabric belt with an unusual silver buckle that resembled a seashell.

“I have 2A,” she explained, showing Quinn her ticket.

“Sorry,” Quinn said as he stumbled awkwardly to his feet. As the woman edged by him, she smiled apologetically. Quinn guessed that she was in her mid-twenties. She was not wearing makeup and she looked tired. Her straight black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Here and there, strands had escaped to add to the picture of an exhausted traveler. The woman had a small nose, full lips and almond-shaped brown eyes that were a little bloodshot. The overall effect was vaguely oriental. Just as the woman sat down, the flight attendant brought Quinn his drink.

“Can I get you anything?” the attendant asked the woman in the window seat. The woman looked at Quinn's drink.

“Is that a Scotch?” she asked him.

“Yes.”

“Then make mine the same.”

The attendant left to fill the order.

“I need a stiff drink,” she told Quinn while flashing a tired smile. “I just got off a nonstop from Italy.”

“Vacation?” he asked to be polite.

“I wish,” she answered with a pleasant laugh. “I was in Bologna checking out leather suppliers for my business.”

“What do you do?”

“I'm the president of Avalon Accessories, creators of the best custom-made belts in the known universe,” the woman answered proudly. Then her shoulders sagged dramatically. “But sometimes I wish I had a partner. All the travel kills me. If I'm not in the shop, I'm on a plane.”

“Do you sell your belts out of your shop?”

“I don't actually have a shop. That's just a figure of speech. I make the belts in a small factory. I sell through specialty shop customers and catalog sales. But I also work with a few fashion designers. They show me their designs for the season and I make belts that are appropriate for the collection.” The woman pointed at her belt. “This is part of Gretchen Nye's spring collection. Do you like it?”

“I noticed it when you sat down. It's very nice.”

“Nice?” the woman answered with mock indignation. “You're supposed to say that it's a startlingly innovative combination of style and color that knocked your socks off. Nice doesn't sell Gretchen Nye originals at two thousand a pop.”

Quinn laughed. “I did mean to say that it was startlingly innovative. It came out wrong.”

“You're forgiven.”

The flight attendant brought the woman's drink just as the plane began taxiing toward the runway. She swallowed most of it, then sat silently during takeoff. Quinn could see that her knuckles were white from tension. As soon as they were airborne, she downed the rest of her Scotch.

“No matter how many times I go through that, I still get scared,” she confided to Quinn. “A friend of mine was killed in an air crash.”

“That's terrible.”

“Yeah. It really shook me up. I'm a mess every time I fly.”

The attendant passed by and the woman ordered a second drink. So did Quinn.

“Are you vacationing on St. Jerome?” the woman asked.

The question reminded Quinn that Laura was not with him and he lost the relaxed feeling he had been
experiencing since his conversation with the woman began.

“Business, I'm afraid. Though I'm going to take advantage of the beach.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I'm a judge.”

The woman looked impressed. “I've never met a judge before.”

Quinn smiled. “Well, this is what we look like.”

She laughed. “Where are you a judge?”

“Portland, Oregon.”

“I hear that Portland is a beautiful city. I'd like to visit someday.”

“I like it.”

Suddenly, the woman looked confused. “You can't be a judge on St. Jerome, can you?”

“No. I can only hear cases in Oregon.”

“That's what I thought. So what kind of business do you have on the island?”

“I'm speaking at a legal seminar. I only hope I can keep my audience interested. My lecture is going to seem awfully dull compared to those white sand beaches outside the hotel.”

“I'm certain you'll hold their interest, Judge … Say, I don't know your name. Mine is Andrea. Andrea Chapman.”

“Richard Quinn,” he said as they shook hands. “Dick, actually. And please don't call me Judge. That's for the courtroom.”

“Okay, Dick. Are you staying at The Palms?”

“No. I'm at the Bay Reef Resort.”

“Oh, the new one. They were just finishing it the last time I was on the island.”

“It looks beautiful in the brochures. Are you going to St. Jerome on business?”

“God, no. This trip is strictly R and R. A friend of
mine owns a villa on the island. He lets me use it when I need to get away.”

“A boyfriend?”

Andrea giggled. “Freddy is gay. Flaming. But he's a great friend and one of my best customers. We met at a leather goods show in Milan about five years ago. He owns a catalog business and he really pushes my belts.”

“Is the villa near my hotel?”

“No. It's on the other side of St. Jerome. You should see it. The place is unbelievable. The floors are these different-colored marbles, the walls are all glass, and the view is to die for. It's right on the ocean on this cliff. When I wake up and pull the drapes it's like I'm floating in space.”

“It sounds fantastic.”

“It is.” Andrea leaned over toward Quinn and dropped her voice an octave. “There's a story behind the villa. The way Freddy got it. Some Guatemalan drug lord owned it, but he was busted in Rhode Island of all places. He gave it to this lawyer in Boston that Freddy knows as part of his fee and Freddy bought it from the lawyer for a song. I don't think the lawyer ever saw it. He just wanted cash.”

Andrea lowered her voice even more.

“The last time I used the place, I found a stash of coke hidden behind a phony panel in the bathroom. It scared the hell out of me.”

“I can imagine. Did you turn it over to the police?”

“On St. Jerome? You're kidding? I wouldn't go within a mile of an island cop if I was being murdered. St. Jerome is great, but everyone—and I mean everyone—in the government is on the take. If I told the police about the dope, I'd either be in jail or penniless now.”

“So what did you do?”

“Flushed it as quickly as I could. Then I scrubbed
down the toilet bowl to make sure there wasn't a trace of the stuff left. It was my last day on St. Jerome, thank God. If it had been my first, I would probably have been on the next flight out. As it was, I didn't sleep a wink. I kept expecting Governor Alvarez's Gestapo to kick in the door and throw me in prison.”

Quinn laughed. “If you were so frightened, why did you come back?”

“You wouldn't ask that if you'd been on St. Jerome before. The place has got to be the most beautiful island in the world. Besides, Freddy swore to me that the place is clean now. He was just as scared as I was when I told him about the coke. Can you imagine what it would cost an American to buy his way out of a drug beef?”

Chapman paused. “Say, are you going to be working all the time?”

“Not the first two days.”

Quinn realized where the conversation might be going and his wedding ring suddenly felt very heavy on his finger. He decided to make his marital status clear to Andrea.

“My wife was supposed to come with me, but something came up at the last minute. She's a lawyer, too, and there was a business emergency.”

“That's too bad. I bet she would have loved St. Jerome. There's a lot to do if you know your way around.”

“Such as?”

“Do you snorkel or scuba dive?”

“No. I'm a lousy swimmer.”

“You don't have to swim great to snorkel. And there are these fabulous reefs where you can see all these tropical fish. You've never seen such bright colors,” Andrea said excitedly. “Electric blues, iridescent greens. It's wilder than a Missoni fashion show.”

“That sounds terrific. Are any of these reefs near my hotel?”

“Oh, sure. But the best one is on my side of the island, away from the hotels, where Freddy's villa is, off Cala de Almas Desoladas.”

“What was that?” asked Quinn, who spoke no Spanish.

“The Cove of Lost Souls. Freddy said it's called that because of a ship that was wrecked on the reef in 1700 something. The captain was in love with a beautiful woman. They were going to be married. On their wedding day, the bride was kidnapped by pirates. The captain chased the pirates to St. Jerome just as a terrible storm struck the island and the captain's ship and the pirate ship were wrecked. Everyone died, including the captain and his bride.

“Freddy told me that if you go to the cove at night, sometimes you can hear the souls of the captain and his bride calling to each other across the water. Isn't that sad and romantic?”

“Yes, it is.”

“There's more, though. Freddy says that there have been mysterious disappearances in the cove. Not often. Once or twice, every ten years or so. They occur when lovers come to the beach at night on the anniversary of the shipwreck. They swim out toward the reef. One minute they're there, the next they're gone. The locals think that the lost souls on the reef are harvesting other souls to keep them company.”

“It's probably cramps,” Quinn said with a smile.

“See, that's the lawyer in you talking,” Andrea scolded Quinn. “Lawyers are so unromantic.” She paused as if debating whether to say more. “Do you want to hear something spooky?”

“Sure.”

“The last time I stayed on St. Jerome, a day before I
found the coke, I went down to the cove at sunset and waited around to see if I would hear the lost souls calling. At first, I just heard what you usually hear on the beach at night, the surf and the wind. Soon after the sun went down, the temperature dropped and I got cold. I was just starting to leave when something very strange happened.”

Andrea paused. She looked distant.

“What's the matter?” Quinn asked with concern.

“I was remembering the voices. Only they weren't really voices. It was more like a moaning sound and it was so sad.”

Quinn was weaned on logic and had the overly rational mind of the contract lawyer, which has no cubbyhole where the supernatural can dwell comfortably.

“Do you think it might have been the wind?” he asked tolerantly.

“I knew you'd say that. Everyone I tell this story to says the same thing. If you'd been there, though, you'd know that it wasn't the wind. That sound …” Andrea shivered. “It was inside my bones.” She shook her head. “I just don't know how else to describe it. And the way it made me feel. At first I was really scared, but suddenly I felt so lost and alone.”

Andrea paused thoughtfully.

“What if it's true? It would be so tragic. The two lovers, so close to each other, but separated by the raging sea for eternity.”

Quinn could not think of a thing to say that wouldn't sound patronizing, so he was silent. He did not want to insult Andrea. He liked her. She was so different from Laura. Quinn thought of the way Laura would react to Andrea's ghost story and laughed.

“You don't believe me. I know. No one does.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you.”

“Oh, that's okay. No one takes my experience at
the cove seriously. I'm used to it. Say, I just got an idea. You could hear the lost souls yourself. I could take you to the cove.”