Thunder in the Night (Crimson Romance) (19 page)

The call for our flight came over the loudspeaker in a tinny, garbled voice and we obediently lined up.

“Look,” Mart’s hand grasped my arm and his eyes burned with intensity, “I’ve got a lot to tell you. Things I just learned this morning, but we don’t dare discuss it on the plane. We could be overheard.”

I nodded and Ishani faded quickly from my thoughts.

“We’ll talk once we’re home. Over dinner?” he suggested.

“Sounds good.”

“Okay. I’ve got to run. I want to be close to Clark on this flight, so I can keep an eye on things. Maybe do a spot of eavesdropping. So, if I don’t see you, we’ll meet up at the airport in Rochester.”

I bobbed my head and shuffled along as the line advanced.

Mart dropped a quick kiss on my forehead and was gone.

He gave kisses and he got kisses, I thought. Which meant more?

• • •

To me, flying is like being in my living room on a rainy afternoon. I can’t go outside, so I have to curl up with a good book and settle in.

I didn’t have a book, but I did have my notes and, as the hours ticked by, I composed another blog entry. This one, a teaser for a longer article to run in the food section, detailed the varied cuisine we’d enjoyed. I like to eat, but writing about food just makes me hungry.

Still, focusing on hunger was preferable to focusing on the image whirling in my mind. Mart with Ishani, looking so intense, so connected.

Well, Ishani was back in Belize and I was here with dinner plans, I reminded myself. And I was a big girl, not a teenager jabbed by Cupid’s first arrow. Plus, I had a job to do and just now that meant saying farewells, collecting phone numbers, and arranging lunch dates with my new acquaintances.

In the Rochester terminal, I watched all my fellow trekkers scatter off toward home then turned to Mart, waiting for me with my suitcase as well as his own.

As we emerged from the airport entrance, I was surprised to see one of the zoo’s maroon vans parked at the curb. The trendy zoo logo was splashed on the side and the engine idled as a driver patiently waited behind the wheel.

“Is this for you?” I asked Mart and he laughed at my assumption. “Oh, no. Only Clark and Sylvia get picked up. My car’s in the parking garage.” He pointed at the looming concrete structure. “Is your car there, too, or do you need a lift?”

I’d taken the bus out last week and welcomed the ride. “Sure, thanks! How come the Websters don’t use their own car?”

“He’s the director, silly,” Mart kidded me. “Since the trek was technically zoo business, he used a zoo vehicle for transportation.”

We moved past the van and into the crosswalk. It was much cooler here at home than it had been in Belize and I turned up the collar of my light cotton jacket. I looked over my shoulder in time to see Clark and Sylvia emerge and make a beeline for the vehicle. I kept watching while they stowed their luggage in the back and climbed inside.

Since I wasn’t looking where I was going my toe stubbed on a bit of uneven pavement and I stumbled. Mart caught my elbow when I would have fallen.

“Gosh, Allison! Be careful! What’s so interesting, anyway?” He shot a glance backward.

The van had pulled away from the curb and, instead of moving out onto the street, had circled around onto a service road which disappeared behind the terminal.

“That’s odd, hmm?” I questioned. “Where are they going?”

Mart shrugged, trying to make the gesture come off casual. The vertical line between his eyebrows gave him away, though. He thought it was strange, too.

I quickened my pace and tugged at his sleeve. “C’mon! Let’s get to your car and follow them!”

“Follow them?”

“Look, we know he’s just returned from a trip to a foreign country. He came along on the trip at the very last minute. And he’s been communicating with smugglers.” I ticked off my reasons on my fingers.

The daylight vanished as we entered the parking garage and I blinked at the sudden change of light.

It seemed to me urgency was called for here, so I gave his arm another yank, swiveling my head in both directions as if I knew what kind of car to look for. It was even cooler in the garage. Cold, actually, and I stomped my feet to keep warm.

“If we see nothing, there is no harm done. If we see something … .” I let the sentence trail off, putting both hands out, implying there could be a big payoff.

He jerked his head to the right. “This way.”

I trotted along behind him past an endless row of automobiles. The air was heavy with the odors of oil and exhaust and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. The contrast to the land we’d just come from — with its fresh air and unspoiled landscape — was tremendous.

“Here we are.” Mart stopped beside a brown, two-door compact car. As he popped the trunk and pitched our suitcases inside, I stood with my hand on the passenger door, tapping my feet.

The engine didn’t start when he turned the key, but just grinded and grinded.

“It’s been sitting here for a whole week,” Mart said in explanation, trying again. “It’ll catch this time.”

Eventually, after a lifetime or two, it did.

We left the garage behind and were soon on the service road where we last saw the zoo van. When we turned the corner around the terminal, the airport’s runways stretched off into the distance on our left. On the right was an area designed for loading cargo. Big gaping doors revealed a beehive of activity within. Forklifts zipped hither and yon. While men and women with clipboards and headphones stood together in conversation. And everywhere, boxes and crates rose in high stacks.

Mart stopped the car near the open doors and almost immediately a uniformed young man appeared at the window.

“May I help you, sir. This is a restricted area.” He was polite, but his tone was firm.

Mart was ready with a story. “Yes. Well, I’m here to pick up the shipment for the Rochester Zoo. It was on flight 822,” he said matter-of-factly, referring to our plane.

The man consulted his clipboard and I held my breath, leaning across the seat so I could see and hear better. After flipping a page back and forth and back again the security guard shook his head. “No, that was already picked up. Just a few minutes ago.”

“What?” Mart feigned surprise surprisingly well. “I was distinctly told … . Well, never mind. I’d just better be on time for the next load. How often do the Belize packages arrive?” The question slipped glibly out, causing barely a ripple of suspicion in the workman but an inward gasp from me.

The man thought a moment then shrugged. “Once a week? Twice? Hard to say.”

Mart nodded. “Thanks. I’ll have to check with the director so this mix-up doesn’t recur.” Lifting his hand in a wave, he executed a three-point turn and we headed back to the main road, merging onto the freeway.

“Does the zoo receive shipments from foreign countries on a regular basis?”

Mart kept his eyes firmly on the road. “Hmm. Well, naturally we’re constantly receiving packages for everything from office supplies to veterinary tools. From a foreign country? Produce for some of the animals. But Clark certainly wouldn’t be the man to pick it up. That’s hardly in his job description.”

“What do you think, then? What’s up?”

“I don’t know what to think, quite frankly.”

We lapsed into silence then Mart said with a note of humor, “Allison, I’ve been driving for ten minutes and I don’t know where you live! Am I going the right way?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next day, I was back at work, struggling to turn all my notes into lively and informative sentences for readers of the
Rochester Breeze
. I was having a hard time separating all the unscheduled adventures and intrigues from the official ones on our itinerary.

When Mart and I had stopped for dinner on the way home from the airport, he’d added even more intrigue into the mix.

“You know, I forwarded your Tikal pictures to the feds,” he told me.

“And I heard today they’ve been forwarded again, to Washington.” Mart’s eyes were big.

I dipped a French fry into ketchup. We were at the Big Burger Barn, eating off plastic trays. “What will happen there?”

“They’ll run them through the facial recognition system,” he said, faltering, “or something like that, and try to put a name to the face.”

“But I didn’t get any really good pictures,” I said. “None straight on anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Mart said, reaching for another fry. “So now we wait to hear if they can ID the guy.”

Today, I’d spent most of the morning in idle chit-chat around my desk. My coworkers were understandably eager to hear about the trip and I was more than willing to tell them about the wonders of the rain forest and the ruins.

“And how were the Underwoods? I heard they were along,” Angela, the copy editor, asked.

“Yes, they were there.” I shifted in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Do you know them?”

“Not personally,” she said.

“But everyone knows them,” Steve, from advertising, said, and of course that was true.

“Dan and Elaine Underwood own the biggest industry in town,” Angela reminded me.

“He doesn’t seem like a captain of industry, though,” I said, picturing the white-haired old man, face gleaming in the heat.

“That’s part of his charm, I guess,” Angela said. Her voice held all the frustration of an overworked, underpaid employee who will never make it into those upper tax brackets.

“He is charming in his own way,” I admitted. “We spent plenty of time together, too.” I told them all about our day at Altun Ha and the climb up the temple steps.

“I thought I might look up their wedding notice. Do a human interest story,” I concluded. “What do you think?”

A discussion ensued and opinion was split. Some staff thought a feature on the Underwoods would make fascinating reading. Other folks thought the idea was awful.

In the end, of course, the editor made the decision.

“That sounds like a nice, uplifting companion piece,” Brian told me when I proposed it. He smiled with his words. Knowing I didn’t want to do nice uplifting articles as my life’s work, the irony of my suggestion struck us both.

“But you’ll cut me more slack on this zoo piece, right?” I pressed for permission and he nodded.

“Just do the Underwood thing first,” he said, instructing me to set up an interview with the couple and write a short piece on their travels. Obediently, I called and arranged to see them at their home later that afternoon.

The Underwood’s house was huge, styled after a French chateau. It perched on the bluff overlooking Kirkwood Lake and was approached by a gracefully curving driveway that circled around the entrance. Out front, bordered by the drive, was a carved stone fountain featuring a replica of the Three Graces.

I let out a long, low whistle as my old car rattled up the road. Good thing I’d worn one of my best outfits — a graphic print wrapdress, topped by a knee-length navy trench.

Dan greeted me at the door, taking me by surprise. I’d expected a butler. Or a maid in one of those little white hats.

“Allison!” He swept me into a friendly hug, then stepped back to let me in. “Elaine’s going to meet us in the study. This way. All recuperated from the trip?” He kept up a steady stream of chatter as we walked.

“Yes, but it’s good to be home, isn’t it?” I said. Could you feel at home, I wondered, in a house this big?

My head swiveled from side to side as I struggled to take in the elegant surroundings. We passed a marble open stairway and on the landing, a life-size portrait of Elaine held court. In the painting, she was attired in a green evening gown, and held a single white rose.

I stopped for a closer look.

“How lovely!” I exclaimed, interrupting one of Dan’s lengthy stories.

He followed my gaze up the stairs, and sighed. “Yes. The artist truly captured the old gal.” His voice had gone soft for just an instant, but it was long enough to let me see how much he truly cared for Elaine.

“How long have the two of you been married?” I asked as we resumed walking.

“Forty-two years,” Elaine piped from a doorway about twenty feet away.

“I knew that. I was going to say that,” Dan said.

“Yes, dear.” Elaine gave me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, then waved us inside and we entered the book-lined study. A huge stone fireplace dominated most of one wall, its mantle covered with photographs.

Curious, I moved closer to inspect them. There was a picture of the Underwoods on their wedding day, Dan wearing tails, Elaine in a very plain, very sophisticated floor-length gown. Her long filmy veil swirled around them like fog. Another photo showed them with a former president, and one featured an old, gray-muzzled dog who was obviously a well-loved family member. But the one that grabbed my eye was of Dan and Elaine in the recent past.

They were standing underneath a tall tree like you see in travel brochures of Africa. Standing between them, one arm wrapped casually around their shoulders, was a young man with auburn hair and dark, close-set eyes. Like them, he was dressed in safari garb, but, unlike them, he was not smiling. His features wore a blank expression, as if he was carefully holding back any emotion, enduring the picture-taking while his mind was somewhere else.

I remembered Elaine telling me they’d gone on other zoo treks, so I thought I knew who the man must be.

“Tommy Mendoza?” I asked, picking up the picture and bringing it closer.

“Yes!” Elaine confirmed my guess. “That was taken a few years back.” Her voice dropped off and she added sadly, “Before the … accident. Such a tragedy.”

I returned the picture to its place and glanced at Dan. He didn’t seem too broken up at the memory.

“He was an all right guy, I suppose. Followed orders. Did his job. Can’t say I was especially fond of him, though. He used to cheat at cards, greedy bugger.”

My eyes grew wide with this tidbit of knowledge.

“So you claim, dear, but you’ll never convince me!” Elaine took the dead man’s side.

“Well, you … you were like all the gals about him. Don’t know what any of you ever saw in the man.”