A Clandestine Affair Page 2

  “Mr. Cochburn said I should call you if I need supplies from town.”

  “Mr. Cochburn told you that, did he?”

  “Yes, he’s the attorney I talked to when I made the rental arrangements.”

  “I know who he is. I just don’t see why he doesn’t level with folks he’s sending out here.”

  “Then you don’t deliver supplies?”

  “I deliver them, all right—mail and supplies twice a week, like I said—but good luck trying to call, unless you got one of them satellite phones. Other than that, cell service is about as dependable as a FEMA roof in a hurricane.”

  Jaci hadn’t considered that possibility. “What do people on the island do in case of an emergency?”

  “Tough it out. Guess that’s all part of the beauty of having no distractions,” he said, clearly mocking her earlier optimism. “That’s it up ahead. Not much to see this time of the night, but the house is pretty impressive if you arrive by day, especially while you’re too far away to see its dilapidated condition.”

  The narrow dock they were approaching was lighted, but beyond that all she could see was a tangle of tree branches and one light shining from the top of a rambling Spanish villa.

  “That’s the old woman’s apartment,” Bull said, as if reading her mind. “Surely Mr. Cochburn told you about her.”

  “He didn’t mention any of the tenants.”

  “She ain’t a tenant. More of a permanent fixture, and crazy as they come, that one.” He circled his finger by his right temple to make his point. “Spent too much time sniffing the white stuff, if you know what I mean.”

  “Are you talking about Alma Garcia?”

  “Yeah. So you do know about her.”

  Absolutely. Jaci knew about Carlos Lazario, as well. In fact, they had been the deciding factors for her moving onto the island instead of just hiring a boat to take her out for a day.

  Alma had been the nanny for the Santiago family. Carlos was said to have been Andres Santiago’s right-hand man and bodyguard. Reportedly neither Carlos nor Alma had been on the island at the time of the disappearance, but they were now, thirty years after the fact.

  Jaci was eager to talk to them, but didn’t plan to tell them why she was here. Better to let them think she was just a tourist in pursuit of a little R and R. It would make snooping easier.

  “Carlos, the old caretaker, he’s been here forever, too,” Bull said, surprisingly talkative now that he’d gotten started. “He’s all right, but don’t mess with him if you can help it. He’s tired of tenants. Says all they do is cause trouble. Seems like that’s true of the ones he gets out here. Me, you couldn’t pay me to spend the night. They got bogs out in that swamp that can suck you in and bury you in the mud quicker than you can sing a chorus of ‘Margaritaville.’”

  Another little problem Mr. Cochburn had failed to mention. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll make certain to stay out of the swamp.”

  “Yeah, and I guess you know there’s no electricity out here except for a generator. You can hear it running all over the island, kind of a constant low drone. Gotta be some kind of dark at night if it ever goes off.”

  The wind picked up and Jaci pulled her light jacket tighter while Bull docked and tied up the boat. He helped her out, then unloaded her luggage, dropping it on the edge of the dock.

  She stood for a moment, soaking up the atmosphere. Every crime scene she’d ever visited had its own feel about it. Cape Diablo was no different, except that her instant reactions to the place were even more pronounced than usual.

  The island had a sinister aura about it, as if the place itself might hold evil. More likely she was letting the seclusion get to her. A good forensics expert wouldn’t be influenced by that, and neither would she. But first impressions did matter.

  A gray-haired man stepped into the clearing near the dock, a black Lab following a step behind. For a second it seemed that the man had appeared from nowhere, but a closer look revealed a slightly overgrown path that led back to the boathouse. The two- story structure was at the edge of the clearing, just as described in the police report. Only the reports had not mentioned how spooky the run-down place looked in the deepening grays of twilight.

  “Welcome to Cape Diablo.” The man’s tone didn’t match his words.

  “Thanks. I’m Jaci Matlock, the new tenant.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And that’s Carlos Lazario,” Bull said.

  So that was Carlos. He didn’t look that bad for a recluse who’d spent almost half his life on a secluded island. He was unfriendly as she’d expected. She’d have to play this just right to get him to talk to her about the past, or even let her in the boathouse.

  Carlos scanned the pile of luggage. “All this?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “I tend to overpack,” she said, tossing the laptop over her shoulder and picking up the two smaller bags. “I can carry my own luggage,” she said. “I’ll come back for the rest.”

  “I’ll bring ’em,” Carlos said, “but don’t go expecting me to wait on you.” He turned to Bull. “Did you get my order?”

  “I got it right here.”

  “Good.”

  Bull reached inside an old cooler at the front to the boat and took out a package wrapped in brown paper. “It wasn’t easy to come by,” he said, handing it to the man.

  “I appreciate it.”

  “You be careful, Carlos. You don’t need any trouble at your age.”

  “I’m not going looking for any.”

  The verbal exchange between the two men bordered on the surreptitious, and Jaci would have loved to know what was in the package.

  Carlos tucked it in the pocket of his tattered black jacket, then bent and picked up the two heaviest pieces of luggage with seemingly little effort. He was strong for a man his age.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  “Sure you want to stay?” Bull asked, climbing back into the boat.

  “I’m sure.”

  But an icy tremble slithered down Jaci’s spine as she started up the shadowy path toward the house. The crimes might have occurred thirty years ago, but the air seemed alive with dark and possibly deadly secrets.

  The situation was a forensic student’s dream, unless…

  Unless it turned into a nightmare.

  Chapter Two

  Alma stood near the edge of the courtyard watching the new tenant as the young woman completed a series of lunges and squats. Her skimpy black running shorts revealed long, tanned legs, and a white jogging bra stretched across her perky, ample breasts.

  Even with no makeup, and her auburn hair pulled through the back of a baseball cap and flowing loose behind her like a horse’s mane, Jaci Matlock was striking.

  But then, it was easy to be striking when you were Jaci’s age. Mid-twenties, Alma suspected—young, but still older than Alma had been when she’d first come to Cape Diablo.

  She had been striking, too, though she would never have dressed in such scandalous attire. She’d worn white peasant blouses and full cotton skirts that only revealed her ankles when the fabric was billowed by ocean breezes.

  Her hair had hung to her waist, straight and black as onyx. Her complexion had been flawless, always carefully protected from the sun by large-brimmed straw hats woven by her grandmother back in their tiny Central American country.

  Her face was gaunt now, her once flawless complexion weathered and wrinkled until she was only an unrecognizable shadow of the beautiful young woman she’d once been. Even her hair had betrayed her, lost its gleam and become wiry and prematurely gray.

  When Alma had first come to the island, she’d missed her family and friends terribly. Worse, the isolation had frightened her. The wind whispering through the branches of the trees had reminded her of the wailing of women whose husbands and sons had never come home from battle.

  But Cape Diablo had been the pathway to her future, the awakening of her dreams. Dreams that had withered and died almost as
quickly as the seaweed that washed up on the beach to bake in the noonday sun once the tide had receded.

  All because of the events that had transpired one dark night.

  The secrets were old and tattered now, threadbare like her white festival dress. And yet they ruled the island like angry demons. The spirits dwelled in every crevice of the crumbling mansion, and had seeped between the tiniest grains of sand.

  “Beware, Jaci,” she whispered as she backed into the shadows beyond the courtyard wall. “The curse of Cape Diablo shows no mercy.”

  CARLOS PULLED THE WORN fishing hat low on his forehead as he squinted to read Raoul’s letter for the second time that morning. The note hadn’t come by regular mail delivery. His late brother’s only grandson never used the post.

  Instead, it had been hand delivered by a courier who’d arrived by speedboat while Carlos was checking his stone crab traps. He’d read it and stuffed it in his pocket while he finished emptying the night’s catch.

  Carlos reread the note now, carefully this time, to make sure he had not overlooked Raoul’s arrival date. But no, it wasn’t there. All he’d written was that he was coming for a short visit.

  But he would arrive soon, possibly tonight. Raoul never gave a lot of advance notice for his rare stopovers at the island.

  Carlos folded the note and stuck it back in his shirt pocket, grimacing as he did. The last time Raoul had been to the island was to tell him that Raoul’s grandfather had died. He’d come and taken Carlos back to the mainland to pay his last respects to his only brother.

  Emilio’s death had hit Carlos much harder than he’d expected. Not that he’d seen him much over the last thirty years. Emilio had never understood the ties that bound Carlos to this place after the terrible tragedy, and Carlos hadn’t dared explain.

  Feeling torn between his desire to see his great-nephew and his concern for what might have prompted the unexpected visit, Carlos left the shade of the mangroves and walked across the sandy beach behind the big house.

  Courtesy demanded he let the señora know that Raoul was coming, though he wasn’t sure she’d recognize Raoul or realize he was Emilio’s son. She seemed confused about a lot of things these days—another source of worry for him.

  Occasionally a tenant questioned him about the old woman who stared at them from the third-floor window, or from behind the courtyard wall, yet avoided talking to them even if they encountered her on the beach.

  Carlos merely shrugged when they asked, refusing to offer an explanation. The señora belonged to the island and the house. The vacationers were the intruders, and he had had nothing but trouble from them over the last few months. The visitors had become more deadly than the drug smugglers who’d always used the island for their nefarious business.

  And now there was a new one. Jaci Matlock. She seemed nice enough, but there was an intensity about her that worried Carlos. Not that she’d asked many questions when she’d arrived last night. It was more the way she’d scrutinized him when he’d carried her things inside the apartment. And the way she’d stared at the villa, as if she was making notes in her mind.

  Or maybe he was just growing paranoid in his old age. He was seventy-three and felt it in his joints and bones. Nothing like the days when he’d been strong and daring, fighting for his hero right up until General Norberto was killed and his dictatorship overthrown.

  The old memories set in, more comfortable in his mind than thoughts of Raoul or the island’s new inhabitant. The sun grew hot on Carlos’s back as he walked. Even though it was mid-October, the heat penetrated his thin shirt as if his skin was bare.

  The heat didn’t really bother him. He’d grown used to it years ago. The sun and the island were like old friends, he thought as he paused to watch a blue heron step along the shore, searching for its breakfast.

  Carlos’s heartbeat quickened as he spotted something that looked like a human bone bobbing around in the retreating tide. He waded in and slapped both hands into the water. On his second try, his fingers closed around the wave-tossed object.

  Driftwood. Only a piece of driftwood.

  He stared at it for long minutes, then flipped it back into the water. Paranoia was definitely setting in.

  “Good morning, Carlos.”

  He jumped at the sound of his name, and turned around to find Jaci Matlock standing a few feet away. He had no idea how long she’d been there, or if she’d seen him frantically groping for the driftwood, only to return it to the churning waters of the gulf.

  “Good morning, Miss Matlock.”

  “The island is even more beautiful and peaceful than I pictured it. And the villa is fascinating.”

  “It’s a crumbling relic.”

  She bent to pick up a sand dollar that had washed ashore. “Your traps were full this morning.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw you empty them.”

  “Then you must have been up with the sun.”

  “I’m an early riser.”

  “I didn’t see you on the dock.”

  “No. I was on the beach, using my binoculars to watch a couple of dolphins frolic.”

  But at least for a while her binoculars had been focused on him. Paranoia or not, his suspicions about her presence on the island grew. “How did you find out about Cape Diablo?”

  “My mother suggested it. She lives in Naples, and apparently some of her friends vacationed here. They raved about the quiet, secluded beach and the marvelous view of the gulf. They also bragged about the crabs. May I buy a few from you? They’d make a nice dinner.”

  “I don’t supply food to the tenants.”

  Tamale came running up to join them, going straight to Jaci. She knelt in the sand and he jumped excitedly, licking her hands and face.

  “Come along, Tamale,” Carlos said.

  “Tamale, what a neat name for a dog.”

  “It’s just a name. First thing that came to mind when some guys dumped him from a boat a few yards from shore and never came back for him. That was almost a month ago.”

  “Lucky for Tamale. He seems at home here.”

  He walked away, but Jaci joined him, her willowy shadow dancing with his plumper and slightly stooped one. The silence rode between them until they’d almost reached the cutoff to the overgrown garden and the arched opening to the courtyard.

  “How long have you lived on Cape Diablo?” she asked.

  He looked at her for a second and met her penetrating gaze before glancing away. “Too many years to count.”

  “You must love it to have stayed so long.”

  “It’s home.”

  “I’m interested in seeing the villa. What time are the tours?”

  “Tours?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cochburn said you give tours of the villa to tenants staying here. Actually, I tried to rent one of the apartments inside the big house, but he said they were closed temporarily for repairs.”

  “I don’t know what Mr. Cochran told you, but there are no tours.”

  “Then perhaps you could show me around.”

  “No. The villa is off-limits to visitors at this time.”

  “Because of the damage from recent storms?”

  He nodded, though her assumption was false. The villa had become too dangerous over the last few weeks and the tenants too upsetting for the señora. “I must insist that you not enter the villa during your stay.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  He expected more argument, but she skipped ahead for the last few yards, kicking through the surf and playing chase with Tamale like a small child. Her mixture of innocence and intensity left him more confused than ever about her reasons for coming to Cape Diablo.

  She stopped when she reached the overgrown garden surrounding the courtyard, and stooped to pick a late bloom from a bush all but strangled by a lush crop of weeds.

  When Andres had lived here, there had been enough servants to keep the house and gardens in impeccable condition. It still saddened Carl
os to see it in such disrepair, but what could one old man do?

  He caught up with Jaci just as she stepped into the courtyard.

  “Why is it the swimming pool has been left in such a state of disrepair?” she asked. “It’s seems a shame not to use it when the setting is so enticing.”

  “With all the gulf to swim in, why would one need a cement pool?”

  “Yet someone built it here.”

  Yes, and if it were up to Carlos, he’d have had the hole filled in so that there was no sign it had ever existed. The señora wouldn’t hear of it.

  “What kind of fish do you catch around here?” Jaci asked.

  Thankfully, she’d let the subject of the pool drop. “Flounder, redfish, pompano—too many to name.”

  “I’d love to try my hand at catching some of them. Would you consider taking me out in your boat? I’d pay you, of course.”

  He knew it was a mistake to leave his boat out in the open for renters to see. They always thought it should be at their disposal, the way they thought he should be. “I’m having a little trouble with my motor right now. If I get it fixed, I’ll let you know.”

  He didn’t know why he’d said that, but maybe taking her fishing wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give him a chance to check her out, see if she was just a tourist as she claimed, or another of the curious here to search for answers to the Santiago mystery, or go ghost hunting.

  He waited for Jaci to enter the gate, then headed to the main house to search for the señora. He saw her standing at the window, staring down at him. The look on her face was anything but pleasant. And this was even before he told her of Raoul’s visit.

  “I DON’T WANT HIM HERE,” she said, speaking in Spanish though she spoke fluent English. She’d learned it as a young girl and now mixed the two languages as if they were one.

  This was exactly the reaction Carlos had expected. He dropped into one of the uncomfortable antique chairs in Alma’s sitting room and prepared himself for a bout of her childlike pouting.

  “He’s my brother’s grandson,” he countered.