In Their Blood (11 page)

Enrique reached for Selma’s hand and his lips barely grazed it. “How are you this evening, Selma? I must say you look lovely.” Then he turned to shake Dwight’s hand. “My apologies for not getting back to you, Dwight. I know you left me several messages, but I had a number of crises I needed to deal with. I hope it was nothing urgent.”

“No, no problem, Enrique. Thanks so much for joining us for dinner tonight.”

Liliam was standing beside her husband dressed in a sleeveless, gold top cut low enough to reveal her magnificent cleavage. Her blonde hair was lightly lacquered and combed so that it fell across one eye. Dwight slid off the barstool and kissed each of her cheeks in the European fashion. “So nice to see you, Liliam. I’m glad you were both able to make it.”

“Our pleasure.” She gave him a smile that seemed for him alone.

“Shall we go to our table?” Enrique said.

Dwight had expected the four of them to linger over cocktails and then enjoy a leisurely dinner, but Enrique was already leading the two women out of the bar. Dwight fumbled with his wallet and left
a twenty. With no time to wait for change, he hurried after his guests.

Enrique felt as though he’d been shanghaied. Liliam had called him at the office and announced the dinner plans. At first, he had told her to cancel— to say he had a previous engagement. But after the fourth phone message came in from Dwight, he realized sooner or later he’d have to submit. He imagined Dwight would be hitting him up for a contribution to his campaign. Enrique would just as soon have mailed him a check and been done with it.

He gave his order for a small filet and a baked potato. Dwight had already ordered one of the more expensive Cabernets on the wine list and sent it back after pronouncing it “too vinegary.” Enrique supposed he’d be allowed to pick up the tab even though the wannabe judge had invited him and Liliam to dinner. Enrique didn’t really mind. As long as this could soon be over. He’d told Liliam to please not order dessert.

Enrique hadn’t been here since twenty years ago when the restaurant was called Dominique’s and was renowned for its exotic fare. He and Rachel had sat at a table in a back room, which Enrique could no longer identify. They’d changed the layout when Shula’s took over the space, and for that Enrique was grateful. Maybe he wouldn’t be reminded of that night. But he was. He couldn’t help feeling her presence.

The lights had been dim, dimmer than tonight. It had been late and they’d been practically alone in the restaurant. They’d come directly from the office, where they’d been reviewing the final financial report. Rachel wore a jade-colored suit that brought out her emerald eyes.

Enrique remembered how good he was feeling that night. He had
finally gotten his father’s approval to begin construction on his own hotel in the Caribbean. He’d call it the Olympus. And although his father had disapproved of his plans, Enrique was confident that once the Olympus was up and running, his father would be so impressed with Enrique’s business acumen he would finally have to take him seriously.

Enrique had longed to share his good news with Rachel, but he knew the prospect of success wouldn’t be nearly as seductive as the success itself, so he concentrated on the evening and her beauty.

Enrique ordered the rattlesnake salad and Rachel laughed. Called him naïve. “You don’t believe they really use rattlesnake?” she said.

“Of course they do.”

“It’s chicken.” And she stuck her fork into the mound of diced meat on his plate and tasted it. “I’m right. Try it yourself.” She had smiled at him. “You see? Things aren’t always what they seem, Enrique.”

“No appetizer?” Dwight said.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you want an appetizer, Enrique? I understand the stone crabs here are excellent. Of course, if you’d rather not—”

“We love stone crabs,” Liliam said. “That would be wonderful.”

Enrique’s cheeks ached from the polite smile he’d been attempting to maintain. He played the mental game his father had taught him when he was a young boy in Cuba. They’d be hiking through the mountains and little Enrique’s feet would be so hot and blistered he could barely walk. “Think about other things,” his father would say, “not your distress.
Los pájaros, los árboles, las flores.
” The birds, the trees, the flowers.

“A toast.” Dwight held up his wine glass. “To friends and neighbors. I want to thank the two of you for all your help in getting through this very difficult time.”

The four of them clinked glasses. Enrique took a sip, then settled his glass on the white tablecloth. “Hopefully things will acquire some semblance of normalcy for Elise now that Jeremy’s staying home,” he said.

“Yes,” Liliam said. “Though I’m very disappointed the two of you won’t be our neighbors.”

“For the time being,” Dwight said.

Liliam raised her eyebrow. “You’re still planning on moving to Lotus Island?”

“I would say it’s inevitable.” Dwight signaled to a waiter. “Could we get some more bread here?”

“Are you buying property?” Enrique asked.

“No,” Dwight said, biting into the last roll. “What I meant was, while I’m proud that my nephew has stepped up to the plate, unfortunately, I have my doubts about his follow through.”

“Well, he certainly appears to be turning over a new leaf,” Enrique said. “I saw him last week at PCM. I understand he’s working there and taking night classes at MIU.”

Dwight frowned.

“I didn’t know Jeremy was getting a job,” Selma said. “That’s great.”

“A job? Taking classes?” Dwight shook his head. “Isn’t that just like Jeremy?”

“How do you mean?” Enrique said.

“I believe he really wants to do the right thing,” Dwight said. “But he’ll never last at the job or school or the guardianship.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” Enrique said.

“I don’t mean to be. In fact, I’ll do everything I can to ensure his success. But you don’t know my nephew the way I do. Jeremy’s never been able to commit to anything for very long.”

“Perhaps these new circumstances will change things,” Enrique said.

“I pray you’re right,” Dwight said. “I pray you’re right.” He took a roll from a fresh bread basket before passing the basket to Liliam.

“Thank you, Dwight. Aren’t the onion rolls delicious?” Liliam broke off a piece and buttered it. “I still hope you’ll get to be our neighbors. It’s so hard to find people one has things in common with. Not that I have anything bad to say about Rachel and D.C., may they rest in peace.” She crossed herself. “But it’s funny how you can be neighbors with people for so many years and not really know them.”

The waiter set a huge platter of stone crab claws down on the table.

“My goodness,” Selma said. “Don’t these look lovely?”

“Were you close with your sister-in-law, Selma?” Liliam asked.

Selma glanced at her husband. “Not really.” Her red lipstick was smeared below her lip line. “Rachel was always very busy— her children, her career.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Liliam said. “Some of these career women act like what they’re doing’s more important than the rest of us.”

“I didn’t mean to sound like Rachel ever talked down to me,” Selma said. “She was always nice and encouraging. In fact, she’s the one who suggested I volunteer at the nursing home and it’s been very rewarding.”

“That’s wonderful, Selma.” Liliam said. “I find my charity work gratifying, too.”

“Aren’t you one of the key people at SWEET?” Dwight asked.

“Key people?” Liliam smiled. “You flatter me.”

“What’s SWEET?” Selma asked.

“We’re an organization devoted to helping the sugar workers,” Liliam said.

“An organization my brother was quick to denounce as a cover for the sugar lobbyists,” Dwight said.

“That’s something I never understood,” Liliam said. “Why was
D.C. so set on hurting me and Enrique? We always made an effort to be nice to him and his family.”

“He wasn’t trying to hurt us, Liliam.” Enrique said.

“But Liliam’s right,” Dwight said. “My brother’s ravings against the sugar industry could have had a disastrous impact on Castillo Enterprises.”

“We’re a diversified set of businesses,” Enrique said. “We’re not dependent on revenue from any one source.”

Liliam’s brows were knitted. “But Dwight makes an excellent point, doesn’t he,
querido
?”

“As I said.” Enrique tried to keep his voice even. “Castillo Enterprises is diversified.”

“Even your real estate business wasn’t immune to my brother’s programs,” Dwight said. “If his proposal to lift the Cuban embargo was to be enacted, that would damage your hotel business. You’d have all this new competition from Cuba. I’m just saying, Enrique, you’re in an awkward position here.”

“What do you mean?” Liliam stopped eating her crab claw. There was crabmeat all over her hands.

“Unfortunately, the police investigation hasn’t been closed,” Dwight said. “Even though the police have a viable suspect, one of the detectives has decided to prolong things. She’s digging around, trying to find a suspect with a motive.”

“Prolong things?” Liliam said.

“What worries me,” Dwight said, “is there’s so much pressure to find the murderer that the police may cook up a scapegoat.”

“You mean they might think someone from Castillo Enterprises was connected to the murders?” Liliam said.

A slow rage spread over Enrique, a gas leak ready to ignite.

“We’re family people, business people,” Liliam said. “Not murderers.”

“I’m just saying, you can never be too careful,” Dwight said.
“But I want you both to know I’m in your court, so to speak.” He gave a half-smile. “I have the ear of some very influential people. I’m sure I can persuade my contacts there’s no connection between, well let’s say, certain people who may have been hurt by D. C. Stroeb’s activities and the deaths of my brother and his wife.”

Liliam glanced at Enrique.

“And please,” Dwight said. “Don’t think anything of it. I do this because you’re my friends. My friends and one day, I hope, my neighbors.”

Enrique gripped the edge of the table, only the greatest effort keeping him from overturning it.

He took a long, deep breath.

Los pájaros, los árboles, las flores.

Chapter 13

The stables. The dungeon. The hellhole. Jeremy had come up with an assortment of names for the place where he now spent a disproportionate amount of his waking hours boxing workpapers. He’d been in the file room for almost two weeks, and each day his frustration grew at having only minimal human interaction. His investigation was going nowhere. Not at PCM. Not on the campus of MIU.

An edge of paper sliced through Jeremy’s finger. He brought it up to his mouth to suck out the sting. Marina flashed through his mind. Marina with her martini balm and round red mouth. He hadn’t seen her since that night at the bar. At least, not in the flesh— only in his imagination.

He entered the information from the next binder into the laptop. If they’re destroying all of these papers, why did he need to keep a list? It didn’t make sense to him, but there was no one to ask. Gladys would usually make an appearance once a day and drop off a couple of granola bars accompanied by “tsk tsk” and “I can’t believe he’s making you do this.”

He threw a binder into a carton and picked up another. Many of the papers he’d been discarding were well over twenty years old. They were written in pencil and over the years had smudged or faded. The pages of this one were tattered and its binding coming undone. The disintegrating papers left a powdery film over his hands, jeans, and tee shirt. Dust to dust. He’d stopped wearing his new suits
and shirts after the first couple of days when he realized the only contact he’d have with members of his mother’s firm would be with its ghosts.

He slammed the drawer shut, then pulled open the top one in the next cabinet. The cabinet teetered and pitched toward him. Jeremy braced himself against it until it settled back into place. Jeez. One of these cabinets could kill someone.

He opened the drawer more cautiously. Castillo Enterprises. Some of the workpapers went back thirty years, though they didn’t appear to be in any particular order. Enrique had said Jeremy’s mother had been on the audit a while back and then again recently. Jeremy was overcome with a need to see her name, to touch papers written in her own hand. He went through the binders; some were dated fifteen years ago, twenty years ago, eleven years ago. Nothing with his mother’s name on it. Then he saw it. Eighteen years ago. His mother’s even, confident handwriting. Rachel Stroeb, audit manager, the cover said. And beneath her name, Site Visits. He gripped the thick binder tightly and stared at her name, sensing her presence in the room with him. Carefully, so it wouldn’t come apart, he opened the binder and flipped through the pages. Hotels and properties owned by Castillo Enterprises, each with photos, description, analyses, and a conclusion. He turned to the thickest section: Olympus, a hotel on some island called St. Mary’s in the Grenadines. His mother’s crisp Pentel strokes said “total loss.” What had she meant by that? There was a photo— the skeleton of a structure, like a forgotten Greek temple. Beyond it, purple cliffs and endless azure waters. A man stood in the corner of the picture, his back to the camera, perhaps to show scale.

The door to the file room slammed. Jeremy, as though he’d been caught with a dirty magazine, threw the binder into one of the cartons. Irv Luria appeared from behind a tall gray file cabinet. “So you’re still here.” Irv said, thumbs hooked on the pockets of his
pants, his round belly protruding beyond his suit jacket. “Well, come on. Let’s grab some lunch.”

It was not even eleven in the morning, but Jeremy was happy for this reprieve, even if it meant spending time with Irv Luria.

To Jeremy’s surprise, Irv took him up to the private club on the penthouse floor that the partners had memberships in. The Osprey Club. Paneled walls, hushed rooms, great views of downtown, Biscayne Bay, and the buzzards that perched on the roofs of nearby buildings. This was the pinnacle his mother had achieved. But Jeremy had told his parents he wanted no part of this world filled with hovering waiters, linen tablecloths, and the clink of expensive crystal. Or had the truth been, he just hadn’t believed himself capable of attaining it?