Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 (15 page)

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Fiction

Tap-Tap

by David Dean

2010 was a good year for 2007
EQMM
Readers Award winner David Dean, who received nominations for two awards for his
EQMM
stories: “Awake” (7/09) was nominated for the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s Derringer Award in the category of Best Flash Story and “Erin’s Journal” (12/09) was nominated for
Deadly Pleasures
Magazine
’s Barry Award for Best Short Story. This new story was inspired by a vacation the author and his wife took to Belize not long ago.

Brandon read Julia’s words on the screen and felt something, the knot of his heart perhaps, uncoiling like a serpent within his chest. His vicious hangover, momentarily overcome, retreated like a whipped, angry dog to skulk at the dark edges of his consciousness. The message was from the previous Friday evening, but as he had taken Monday as a sick day, he was only now discovering it. She made no mention of their fight prior to her leaving, or of missing him at that moment. In fact, she made no mention of him at all. Instead, she rendered a breezy accounting of her impressions, so far, of Belize and the resort she had been sent to scout. The message was clearly intended to be passed on to the upper echelon after it completed its job of wounding her one-night lover. This being accomplished, Brandon clicked on Forward, selected the appropriate addresses, then tapped Send.

He sat for several moments in the blue light of his computer and stared out his office window into the street. Outside, a steady, cold rain fell and the sidewalks were empty; cars planing past like water-skiers. The office around him was deserted and he expected no walk-ins and had no appointments. In honor of this, his mood, and his hangover, he turned off all the lights of the small ground-level office and sat in artificial twilight.

He wanted to hate Julia now, but instead found himself wondering how to stop her from ending their relationship—a relationship that had hardly begun. Perhaps she was simply punishing him for his inquisitiveness—his possessiveness; he didn’t know. How could he?—they barely knew one another. In an act of self-flagellation, he read through her words once more, carefully mining them for any hidden reference to her feelings for him:

“Hi all, guess what? It’s hotter than blazes here! Who would have thought it, Central America in August, huh? Duh! Next time (if there is a next time) I’m coming in January . . . please!”

Brandon could picture Julia as he scrolled through her words—her wide, laughing mouth that could be so generous in passion and so set in anger; her long, fragile neck, the hollow at the base of her throat beaded with droplets of sweat. He could hear her trilling, nervous laughter as she wrote the words he was reading; could visualize her whipping her silken brown hair from her narrow face to reveal the large dark eyes—eyes that showed far too much for her ever to be safe.

He shook his head as if to clear it and continued reading: “Well, as you know, it takes two planes to get here. There are simply no direct flights from PHL to BLZ . . . period. That’s a big drawback for a lot of folks. The airport is, well, picture the Atlantic City bus station—before it was remodeled! Ha, ha!

“Now comes the fun part—the puddle-hopper to Dangriga! I never knew I had a fear of flying until now! On the other hand, for clients who are into extreme sports, this is just the ticket. It’s more like a ride at Six Flags than a mode of transportation, but trust me, it’s the only way to get around here if you’re in a hurry, as most vacationers are, to get to your destination.

“Dangriga is nothing to write home about, so I was glad the driver from the resort was there when I arrived. The people here seem nice enough, though god-awful poor. The ride to the hotel was another thirty minutes over very bumpy roads! Again, there’s a big part of our clientele who
are not
going to buy off on this kind of thing . . . it’s too much like work and not very comfortable. The driver was very pleasant and did his best to make me welcome. The staff did the same when we arrived. Everyone here speaks English—big plus!—it’s the national language (former British colony don’cha know), though several other languages are spoken as well, it seems. Note: The people in this district are mostly Garifuna, they tell me. They are descended from African slaves who escaped from St. Vincent Island in the 1700s, stole some ships from the Spanish, and sailed them here where they have lived ever since. Quite a story, isn’t it? They are very proud of their heritage and have their own colorful customs. Who knew? On Thursday they will have dancers and musicians perform in their native costume. Big plus. It may be kind of poor around here, and certainly remote, but it’s still
authentic!
They have me fooled, anyway.

“Now to the accommodations: The design is pretty much as their photos promised. It gives the appearance of an African village (now I understand why) nestled against the Caribbean Sea. Most of the cottages are spacious, with white-washed stucco walls and thatched roofs—a little bit like Ireland, oddly enough. Each has a lovely porch beneath the overhang furnished with wicker chairs. This is a great idea as it rains a lot here this time of year, so you might as well settle down with a book, or laptop in my case, and enjoy the sea view. Which brings me to another slight disappointment—the sea, while still that lovely green we
turistas
are so fond of, is rather flat and uninteresting. It seems the resort is built on a sheltered, very shallow, bay. The beach is a problem too, I’m afraid—very gritty; almost yellow; not very clean. In spite of their location, this
is not
a beach destination—sorry. And the bugs, OMG! You cannot be out at dusk or dawn! The no-see-ums will drive you to madness. You should see the welts on me!”

Brandon thought of Julia’s smooth whiteness against the dark blue of his sheets; her sleek, unblemished skin; her cheeks and throat flushed with passion. He shuddered with the immediacy, the force of the memory, then glanced shyly around the empty room. Their boss, Donna, would return tomorrow from her niece’s wedding in Fort Lauderdale, but until then he was alone. He noticed the voice-mail message light pulsing on her phone. It was her private line and she had not given him the code to retrieve her messages. In the dimness of the office, its persistent beacon seemed to flash a warning from across the room. He turned away and resumed Julia’s narrative.

“The resort’s lobby, gift shop, dining area, and bar are all beneath the same roof—a large building designed just like the cottages but on a grander scale. Kind of one-stop shopping, I guess. On the plus side, it’s all very charming and well kept up and clean, but on the down side there’s not much to choose from, be it gifts, food, or drink. The chef here does a great job, but it’s surprisingly English—lots of mayo on everything . . . I ask ya! Still, there are several excellent fish dishes to balance things out.”

Brandon leaned back in his chair remembering Julia eating hungrily from a can of fruit cocktail; dredging the diced fruit with a spoon. Once, she stopped to smile shyly at him from the other side of his bed, then returned to her task with childlike absorption. He smiled at the memory and at the thought of her slender, almost famished-looking frame. How well she hid that fragility beneath her business suits, her office armor, her ambition and drive.

Outside his window the cars plowed by, throwing up cascades of dirty water; a man on the opposite curb teetered uncertainly beneath a black umbrella that seemed close to collapse. He could not cross without getting drenched and Brandon briefly wondered why he didn’t just do it and get it over with; then returned to the pulsing words on his screen.

“Lastly, for now anyway, the two owners (and our potential partners) leave something to be desired. It’s not that they aren’t nice; they both have excellent manners as everyone here seems to, and are intelligent; that’s obvious enough when you talk to them, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on. One is Hispanic and comes from San Pedro. That’s way inland where most of the people are of Guatemalan or Mayan descent. This one is Hernando Fuentes. He’s very sweet but drinks a bit, I think. I can smell it on him when he sits
too
darn close! He seems harmless enough, though; he’s always talking about his wife and children.

“The other one is Claudell Paige, and he is Garifuna. He is a large, heavy man and seems to be the driving force behind the lodge. I think Señor Fuentes is the money. Mr. Paige laughs and jokes with all the employees and they appear to like him very much. He grew up in the nearby village of Hopkins just as they all did. Señor Fuentes, on the other hand, keeps a low profile. He is very small and thin and spends most of his time with the bartender—get the picture? Most of the staff here hardly acknowledge him. Curious, isn’t it?”

Brandon already did not like Fuentes. Happy family man, my ass, he thought jealously.

“Anyway, they’re an odd couple, and an uneasy one too, if you ask me. Still, I’m not exactly sure what troubles me here—it’s a little bit of a lot of things, I think. The location, while beautiful, is just . . .
off,
if you follow me. While the facilities are charming and unique, an air of . . . something . . . desperation, maybe, hangs over the place. Of course, when you see some of the poverty here, the desperation becomes understandable—they have to succeed!

“Then again, it might just be me, as I haven’t been sleeping well at all here. The rooms and beds are comfortable enough, but I keep getting awakened by someone knocking at my door in the wee hours! Naturally, I don’t answer it, but no one ever answers me back when I call out either. I’ve tried looking out the window to catch them at it, but I can never see anyone. I’m a little worried it might be bandits, but the management says they have a security man on duty all night. It’s very peculiar and a little unsettling, and the staff denies all knowledge of anything. One of them suggested a lizard might be in my room and the rest laughed. I guess that was a sample of the local humor at the expense of the turista. Ha! Ha!

“Tomorrow I take an excursion inland to visit some Mayan temple ruins. I’m really looking forward to getting away from here for a while. I’ll send more then.

“The no-see-ums are beginning to find me so I’ve got to take shelter. The sun is setting, and I must say, in spite of my misgivings, that it is truly beautiful here. The entire horizon is blood-red and a lone fisherman is out on the water in his dugout—that’s right, the locals actually use hollowed-out logs carved into little canoe-like boats. Amazing, isn’t it, in this day and age? He’s just standing out there like a stork—I don’t know how he doesn’t fall in. For some reason it makes me feel very lonely and out of place here. Ta, all. I’m looking forward to coming home. Julia.”

Brandon read the last few sentences once more—were those words really meant for him? They could almost be read that way. Was it him that she was really lonely for? This thought gave him hope, and for the first time in over a week he felt a tingle of excitement, a renewed interest in life. They were young, after all, he reasoned, so it was only natural they have their fights. And when Julia returned, they could make up, as young couples the world over and for time immemorial have—they would kiss madly and confess their remorse. The forgiveness that followed would be joyous and cathartic and he could hardly wait! He jumped up and rushed over to her desk to search for her return date. He felt quite certain she was due back any day now. Maybe he could pick her up at the airport.

He felt the damp breeze before he heard the man cough and looked up guiltily in the midst of rifling through Julia’s desk. It was the man with the umbrella and he was, as predicted, soaked. The damaged umbrella hung from his hand like something he had tried, and failed, to save from drowning.

“Yes,” Brandon said, startled. “How may I help you?”

The visitor wore glasses and had to prop the umbrella in a corner in order to wipe them dry with his handkerchief. His tired-looking grey suit was made several shades darker by the rain; his thin hair was plastered to his narrow skull. “This is Resorts Investments, isn’t it?” he asked politely.

Brandon nodded his head even as he gauged the man. Without understanding why, he knew that he was neither a potential client nor a salesman. “How may I help you?” he repeated. The hangover crawled, dark and ugly, across his vision and back into his brain.

“Does Julia . . . that is, is this the office where Ms. Julia Catesby was employed?”

Brandon tried to digest this. “Was?” he came to at last.

“Are you a coworker?”

“Yes,” he answered like a man in a dream. “I am a . . . coworker. Why?”

The man appeared to consider this, then withdrew something from his inner jacket pocket. He held it out for Brandon to see. “I’m from the State Department, our office in Philadelphia.” Brandon could see that the older man’s ID confirmed this. “Are you her employer? We’ve called here several times and left messages,” he said.