The Undertaker's Widow (15 page)

“I don't know.”

It had been some time since he had spent a day alone with a woman other than Laura and the thought of it made him uncomfortable, especially with the way things were between them.

“Oh, come on. You'd love it. And it's not a place that the tourists get to see. They pretty much stay near the hotels. Freddy told me that the governor likes it that way. There's a lot of poverty away from The Palms and Bay Reef. Freddy said that poor people are bad for tourism, so Governor Alvarez only paved the road on one section of the island. You have to drive on a dirt road to get to the villa and the cove. It goes through these shantytowns.”

Quinn knew he was being foolish. He didn't believe for a moment in the lost lovers, but the cove and the reef with the tropical fish sounded fascinating, and he did have two days with no plans. Spending one of them in the company of an attractive woman suddenly sounded like a good idea.

“The invitation sounds tempting,” Quinn hedged.

Andrea turned slightly and put her hand on his arm.

“I insist. I'll even teach you how to snorkel. You'll love it. What do you say?”

“I …”

“I'm not taking no for an answer. There's no way I'm going to let you leave St. Jerome without learning how to snorkel. I can pick you up at the hotel around four, tomorrow afternoon. That will give us both time to get over our jet lag and catch up on sleep. It takes about three-quarters of an hour to get to the cove from the hotel. I'll bring a picnic basket. We can swim for a while.
I have snorkeling equipment and I'll give you a lesson. Then we'll eat and wait for the sun to go down.”

Andrea grinned mischievously. “I just got a great idea. If we hear the sound of the lost souls and you can't explain it, you have to treat me to dinner. But it's my treat if you can come up with a rational explanation. What do you say?”

Quinn made a decision. He would go and have a good time. Maybe an evening with Andrea would help him get rid of his melancholy mood. But Quinn did not want anyone connected to the conference seeing him drive off with Andrea: judges had to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.

“Why don't you give me directions to the cove and I'll meet you there? I'll rent a car.”

Andrea's smile widened. “So, you'll come?”

“I'll come. And, if you win, we can invite the ghosts along. I'll even spring for their dinners.”

Quinn's first glimpse of St. Jerome was filtered through gauzy white clouds. A patch of sugar-white sand, a strip of crystal-clear blue water, groves of swaying emerald-leafed palms. When the plane dropped beneath the clouds and Quinn had an unobstructed view of the island, he was certain he had found paradise. After the steady diet of gray and rain he had dined on in Portland, the sight of the sun, the palm trees and the clear blue water was exhilarating.

The exhilaration ended when the hatch of the airplane opened and Quinn was engulfed by a thick soup of hot, sticky air. He had rarely experienced such all-consuming heat. It bounced off the railings of the portable, metal steps that descended to the tarmac, melted the black asphalt and stirred the tar into a sucking mixture that threatened to wrench his shoes from his feet during
the walk from the plane to the one-story terminal building that shimmered before him in the undulating waves of heat. Only the breeze from the sea made the heat bearable.

The lime-green paint on the exterior walls of the terminal had been savaged by the salt-heavy sea air. On one wall hung a huge poster of a smiling, mustachioed man in a military uniform. Quinn could not read the Spanish words on the poster. A large tear almost disconnected the top of the poster from the bottom. It looked to Quinn as if the damage had been done with a knife. Lounging against the wall next to the poster were two soldiers carrying automatic weapons. Quinn could not help noticing several other soldiers who were similarly armed.

“Why all the heavy artillery?” Quinn asked. Andrea lowered her voice.

“The soldiers are here to protect the tourists. Governor Alvarez lets drug smugglers use the island for a fee. About five years ago, he executed six dealers who tried to cheat him. They were members of a South American cartel. A few weeks later, six tourists were gunned down in an ambush in retaliation. The island's economy is dependent on tourism. The massacre had a disastrous impact.”

“You're making St. Jerome sound pretty dangerous.”

“Oh, you don't have to worry. There hasn't been any trouble since. Freddy told me that a lot of money changed hands and Alvarez worked out the problem.”

“This Alvarez sounds like a petty criminal.”

Andrea looked alarmed. She cast a quick look around to see if anyone had heard the judge's comment.

“You don't criticize Governor Alvarez here,” Andrea warned. “Enjoy the beaches and forget politics. It's not a healthy subject for discussion on St. Jerome.”

Louvered windows let air into the terminal, but it was still hot. Quinn looked for the baggage carousel before noticing two black men in shorts and sweat-stained shirts taking luggage off a cart and stacking it near one of the interior walls. He found his bags and looked around for customs.

The dominant language on the signs inside the terminal was Spanish, the official language of the island, but there were translations in English, French, German and Japanese. Quinn heard most of these languages being spoken by the tourists who queued up in front of the customs officials. The heavyset, sleepy-eyed man who checked Quinn's passport spoke broken English. After a few perfunctory questions, he smiled at Quinn and welcomed him to St. Jerome.

“The Bay Reef Resort is supposed to provide a shuttle service between the airport and the hotel,” Quinn told Andrea.

“Don't worry about me. Freddy's driver will pick me up.”

A brand-new air-conditioned van with the Bay Reef logo was waiting at curbside.

“I'll see you at the cove at four tomorrow,” Quinn said before boarding it.

“At four.”

The air-conditioning in the van made Quinn forget about the debilitating heat. Two middle-aged couples were the only other passengers on the shuttle. From what Quinn could hear, they were Australian and they were on holiday together. Quinn turned his attention to the royal palms with their thick tan trunks and broad green leaves that shaded the highway. Beyond the palm trees, waves rushed across a white sand beach. Everywhere Quinn looked he saw the sea or lush tropical vegetation. St.
Jerome was every bit as beautiful as the brochure from the Bay Reef Resort had promised.

After a fifteen-minute ride, a high white stucco wall appeared on the ocean side of the highway. They drove alongside the wall for a mile. Then the van pulled up in front of a guardhouse and waited while a black man in a clean, white short-sleeved shirt and tan slacks opened a gate topped by black spikes. The bold black letters on a copper sign affixed to a column next to the gate identified the enclave as the Bay Reef Resort.

The van drove for a short distance down a wide road lined with pink bougainvillea and more palms, then stopped in front of a one-story white stucco building. To the left, Quinn could see the beginning of a line of elegant shops. To the right was a row of two-story suites. High hedges blocked Quinn's view in both directions.

Quinn got out of the van and identified his bags for a porter, who directed him through an arched portal toward the reception area. Quinn noticed that there were almost no doors in sight. The reason was soon obvious. As he stepped through the archway, the breeze that blew in from the ocean cooled him.

There was a red and yellow terrazzo floor and a dozen varieties of flowering plants in the lobby of the Bay Reef. Beyond the reception area was a wide flagstone terrace. Guests in shorts and bathing suits were eating lunch at tables covered with white cloth under the shade of sea-grape trees. The trees were strung with lights that illuminated the open-air restaurant after the sun set.

After he checked in, a porter showed Quinn to his suite. A king-size, four-poster bed dominated the bedroom. The sight of it made Quinn sad. He had requested it after seeing pictures of the suite in the brochure for the resort. Before Laura's abrupt withdrawal from their
trip, he had imagined the pleasure they would both take in making love in that bed.

Quinn tipped the bellman, put away his clothes, and switched on the air conditioner and the overhead fan. The judge was tired from his nine-hour flight, but he did not want to nap. As soon as he showered and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, Quinn wandered onto the balcony. Oleander, coconut palms and more sea grape were planted liberally along the edge of the beach, providing some shade for the bathers who lounged around, soaking up the sun. To the left, Quinn could see the thatch-roofed bar at the end of the flagstone terrace. Brown-skinned waiters and waitresses cruised back and forth between the bar and the guests with drink-laden trays. The ocean near the resort was dotted with sailboats, catamarans and splashing, laughing vacationers. Quinn checked his watch. Laura's plane would be in by now. He walked inside, lay down on the bed and called Laura at her hotel.

“Hi,” Quinn said as soon as they were connected. “I just wanted to make sure you got in okay.”

“No problems here. How was your flight?” Laura asked.

“The flight was fine.”

“Does St. Jerome live up to your expectations?”

“Yeah, it does. It's even more beautiful than I thought it would be. The resort is unbelievable.”

“You know I want to be with you, don't you, Dick?”

Quinn wanted to tell Laura that she would have turned down her new clients or had someone else from the firm handle the business if she really wanted to be with him, but he did not want to start a fight. So he said, “I know, honey.” Then he added, “I really miss you,” which was true.

“I miss you, too. Maybe we can get away together soon. Just the two of us.”

Quinn wanted to remind her about the Crease trial and his other cases, which would eat up most of the year, but he didn't.

“That would be great,” he answered with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Laura answered before she hung up.

Quinn replaced the receiver and lay back, staring at the long-bladed ceiling fan that spun slowly overhead. It dawned on him that he had not mentioned Andrea Chapman or their plans for the next day. Quinn wondered why it had slipped his mind. He felt vaguely guilty about not mentioning Andrea, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Quinn walked onto the balcony again. He missed Laura terribly. There were so many happy couples frolicking on the beach. The sight of them made Quinn feel worse. He wished he were with Laura lying in the sun, reading a trashy novel and getting smashed on banana daiquiris. But Laura was working and he was alone.

The heat and light of the sun woke Laura Quinn. It was a pleasant change from the alarm clock that usually shocked her out of bed in Portland. She stretched and turned so she could see the clock on the hotel nightstand. It was eight-thirty. Laura could not remember the last weekday when she had been in bed at this hour.

Laura rolled onto her back and contemplated a lazy morning. Her client had left a message saying that she would be contacted at ten. That left her time to shower and have a leisurely breakfast. She got out of bed wearing the T-shirt and panties she'd slept in. It was hot in Miami, but Laura had switched off the air conditioner so she could enjoy the warmth after the cold and gray of the Oregon winter.

Laura found a space on the hotel carpet that was wide enough for her to do some stretching and proceeded to go through the routine she followed every morning at home. Repeating the familiar exercises made her think of Quinn, who was usually shaving and showering while she worked out. She missed her husband, and her good feelings were replaced by pangs of guilt.

Laura completed fifty crunches and twenty pushups. The Florida heat and the exercise had covered her in a thin sheen of sweat. She stripped and went into the bathroom. Quinn had sounded so lonely during the call from St. Jerome, but it was his reaction when she told
him that she could not make the trip to the island that haunted her. He had sounded betrayed and abandoned and, she admitted to herself, he had every right to feel that way.

Affection for Quinn had crept up on Laura. Bushwhacked and ambushed her. It was something she never anticipated when the two of them were teamed to work on the Remington litigation. Quinn was someone who rarely entered Laura's thoughts before the
Remington
case. He was nice-looking, but not handsome enough to moon about. He was also shy and clumsy. Laura knew that Quinn had been a varsity basketball player in college, but she still had trouble imagining him playing with grace. Of course, Quinn was very smart, even brilliant at times, but so were most of the lawyers at Price, Winward. You didn't get invited to join the firm unless you were a superstar in law school and you didn't make partner unless your talent sparkled in the real world.