Rum Luck Page 3

“Don’t you mean a family-friendly tropical beverage establishment?”

  “Shut it, Miguel.”

  Ben found the short walk to the bar surprisingly pleasant. His aches and pains faded as he stretched his muscles, and the ocean air cleared his head, though he did find himself lagging behind Miguel and Victoria. At one point, he found that he’d unknowingly come to a halt in front of a glass-fronted bookstore bustling with tourists and locals. The idea of lying on the beach with a good murder mystery seemed enticing until he remembered there had been a real murder, here, last night, in a bar he’d bought on impulse, the one he now had to run. He’d have little time to read.

  He knew deep down that buying the bar was insane, and he started walking once more, determined to do everything in his power to get out of the deal and out of Costa Rica. His pace was brisk until he pictured himself slinking back to Toronto, which made him think about why he’d left in the first place and all the events that had led to his signing the deed to the bar. Had they all happened for a reason? That seemed silly, and yet . . . Perhaps something good could be salvaged from this mess. Something better than the nothing that waited for him in Toronto, at least.

  Was there such a thing as a fresh start?

  He quickened his pace and caught up with the others. He spotted the bar’s massive dome of palm fronds rising up from the fine, pale sand, and as they got closer, he realized that, right now, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy an ice-cold beer in his very own bar. Instead he found a powerfully built man in a suit yelling at a terrified police officer in Spanish.

  The uniformed officer appeared to be trying to appease the man—was he a detective?—while taking down caution tape as fast as possible. The man spun around and kicked over one of the bar chairs. It landed with a crash.

  “Hey, that’s my chair!” Ben yelled. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

  The man strode over to him, “You watch your mouth, or I will—”

  A growl emanated from the back of Miguel’s throat. His posture stiffened, and his eyes turned blank and cold. Perhaps Miguel’s military training lay closer to the surface than Ben had realized. Even so, the other man’s stare remained fixed on Ben.

  “Threatening my client, Detective? Do you have a name to go with that badge number?” Victoria asked casually, her eyes on the golden insignia hanging from a chain around his neck.

  His eyes flicked over to Victoria. “Detective Vasquez.” He turned back to Ben. “I am investigating the brutal death of Mr. Antonio Guiterrez. A death that you seem to have profited from rather handsomely.” The veins in his forehead bulged.

  “Ms. Victoria Holmes, Mr. Cooper’s attorney.” She reached out her hand. Vasquez made no move to take it. “I never met Mr. Guiterrez, but I can tell you that we have a great deal invested in helping the authorities find whoever committed this horrible crime.” She lowered her hand, the offered handshake unrequited. “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough, Ms. Holmes,” Vasquez said, his eyes still locked on Ben. “Establishments like this often require the assistance of the police. Not that my friendship did Mr. Guiterrez much good, in the end.” He turned as though to leave, then looked squarely at Victoria. “In Tamarindo, connections only get you so far, and then they get you dead.” He stormed out of the bar, climbed into an unmarked police car, and sped away.

  “What the hell was that about?” Miguel unclenched his fists.

  “I’ve met cops like him before,” Victoria said. “First they pick the perpetrator, then they find the evidence. One way or another.”

  They stepped inside Ben’s new purchase. Thick, knotted beams from an ancient rainforest rose out of the ground and branched outward like the ribs of an umbrella, holding a vast, soaring dome of palm fronds aloft over the entire cantina. The tables and chairs looked as if they’d been hewn from the same ancient wood, the chairs strung with old hemp rope. The vast bar counter was a single slab of timber worn smooth by thousands of glasses, its rich, swirling grain deep enough to drown in.

  Terracotta tiles stretched through the spacious dance floor to the pristine, soft sand beach, where a scattering of lounge chairs lay nestled beneath towering, emerald palms. Surfers skidded over the crashing waves and dozens of yachts and fishing trawlers bobbed at anchor in the shelter of the bay. To the north, jungle-capped hills rose from the sparkling ocean.

  “Nice bar,” Victoria said. “I feel quite motivated.”

  “Thanks.” Ben smiled.

  “Motivated to clear your name and get you out of this deal as quickly as I can.”

  He looked around the bar again, noticing for the first time the chair legs held together by duct tape and hope, the torn posters of scantily clad women astride motorcycles, and the layers of grime on every surface. Sunbeams were streaming through holes in the rotting roof. A pale, pudgy tourist in a bright yellow Speedo frolicked in the distant surf. Ben’s shoulders bowed.

  A young woman in a tidy black apron walked out of a hallway beyond the bar.

  “I think you have enough legal problems already,” she said with the musical inflection of a faint Spanish accent.

  Victoria tilted her head. “You must be one of those famous lawyer-waitresses I’ve heard so much about. Otherwise, you’re sadly mistaken if you think I can’t get the sale overturned faster than a table in a bar fight.”

  The server ignored the slight, looking instead at Ben. Where had he seen her before? And why was Miguel trying to hide behind a bar chair?

  “Hello, Miguel,” she said with a wry smile. “It’s nice to see you again so soon. You left without saying goodbye, you know.”

  “You work here?” Miguel blurted. “I mean . . . hello, Ana. It’s good to see you, too. Uh, last night was great. Sorry I ran, er, left.” By the time he finished mumbling, he was staring at his shoes.

  A half smile lifted the corner of Ana’s mouth. “Yesterday was my day off. Today, I am here as the bartender. As for tomorrow, that is up to the new boss.”

  “I think we can work something out,” Ben said. “Ben Cooper. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand over the bar and she took it gently.

  “It is good to see you too, Ben. You probably do not remember meeting me last night. I am Ana Guiterrez Rojas.”

  Ben’s hand froze mid-shake.

  “Guiterrez?” Miguel asked, eyes widening.

  “Yes. Antonio Guiterrez was my uncle.” Ana delicately extracted her hand from Ben’s grasp.

  “Ana,” Ben said, “I don’t know quite how to say this, but the police consider me a suspect in your uncle’s death.” He steeled himself for her reaction.

  She laughed. “You could not even take a sombrero from the wall last night. Do they really believe you could kill Uncle Antonio?”

  Ben felt relieved. Insulted, but relieved.

  “You convinced the police to let Ben go, didn’t you?” Victoria said.

  “After I tell them what I saw last night, one of the officers said they would let Ben go in the morning, when he was sobered up.”

  Being back in the bar was making Ben’s head swim with vague memories, each fading as he tried to bring it into focus. He was left with only a sense that something important had happened here last night, something he should be able to recall, beyond signing the deed. The harder he tried, the more his brain itched.

  “What happened last night?” Ben asked.

  Ana gestured to a circle of semi-clean chairs. “Have a seat, please. It is a long story.” She disappeared into the kitchen, emerging moments later with a pitcher of ice-cold sangria and a handful of wine glasses. She moved quickly and gracefully across the bar, her slender arm easily bearing the weight of the heavy jug.

  She sat down in a chair, poured them each a glass, and downed hers. She poured herself another, then began, “I spent last night here, as I usually do on my days off. Miguel and I started talking and then we go to my place—around ten? Yes, ten.”

  Miguel turned crimson.

  Ana continued, “I came b
ack to the bar after Miguel left. Even on my nights off, Antonio had me come back to help him close. It was around midnight. Antonio was here by himself. He tell me he had sold the bar to some drunk from Canada and that Uncle Jorge would call about the money early today.” She smiled at Ben. “Congratulations, you own the bar now.”

  “Uncle Jorge?” Had Ben sent his life savings to the Costa Rican mafia?

  “Antonio’s brother. He lives in Canada, where he has a travel agency. Antonio has a sailboat that he used for fishing charters, sometimes. The tourists can make a—what is it?—an online bill payment to Jorge’s company, and he send the money to Antonio’s account.”

  “That’s convenient,” Victoria muttered.

  “Much harder to stop than a credit card payment, if he change his mind.” Ana’s smile belied the hard glint in her eyes.

  “So, what? I punched Jorge’s account into my phone, pushed a few buttons, and sent him sixty thousand?” Ben asked.

  Ana shrugged. “More or less.”

  How was that even possible? Then he remembered the pink silk ribbons, artisanal quinoa salad, and ice sculptures of amorous doves—but a few of the reasons why he and Tara had removed the spending limits from their joint account in the weeks leading up to the wedding. He groaned.

  “And Antonio would sign over the deed, just like that?” Ben asked.

  “He would if he see you make the transfer on your phone. Besides, Antonio did not make it easy on the people who owe him money.” Ana’s face wrinkled in disgust for a moment, then she perked up. “This one time there was a fisherman from Vancouver, who decide he wanted to go fishing at two at night and then changed his mind when we got out to sea. He . . .”

  As Ana poured herself another glass of sangria, Ben caught Victoria’s eye and furtively mimed talking into a telephone with his thumb and pinkie. She rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly, but slid her phone from her purse and left it perched on the arm of her chair.

  Ben rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Ana pointed over her shoulder. As she did, Ben snapped Victoria’s phone off the chair and stuffed it into his pocket. “Be careful, it is a bit of a mess,” Ana said, then continued her story.

  He shouldered his way through the bathroom door. Ana wasn’t kidding. The lid to the toilet was chipped and cracked, the shattered mirror over the basin was held together by clear tape, and the paper-towel dispenser looked more like a modern art project. The walls had gaping holes where the drywall was caved in. This wasn’t where Antonio was murdered, was it?

  Or was this Ben’s handiwork? He’d done the same to the bathroom in a Burger Duke years ago, although he thought he’d learned his lesson after that one. Apparently not, given his latest purchase; punching up a bathroom seemed downright responsible compared to blowing sixty large on a ramshackle beach bar.

  He shook his head and remembered his mission. He slid a plastic card from his near-empty wallet and dialed the number on the back. After a few painful moments spent navigating menus and punching in his client number, he finally tracked down a living, breathing person.

  “Greater Canadian Financial, how may I help you?”

  “I’d like to check my bank balance,” Ben murmured, hunched over the handset.

  “Eight dollars and seventeen cents,” the agent said.

  He closed his eyes as the shattered bathroom swam around him. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek as the tinny chords of Latin dance music wafted in through a cracked window. “I’d like to issue a stop payment.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

  “I’ll need to ask you a few more security questions,” the agent said. Ben took a deep breath, then rattled off his birth-date, address, and other personal trivia. If nothing else, he needed to reset his online banking password. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

  “One last question, sir,” she finally said. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “Pardon?” Ben asked.

  “That’s your personal verification question. It’s required for major transactions.”

  That was not Ben’s personal verification question. It was . . . The color of his childhood cat, Baron Von Whiskers. Something like that. He might not remember the exact question, but he would remember the answer. He said as much.

  A keyboard clacked. “Sir, we called you last night to verify a large payment leaving your account. You answered all of our security questions, and then you changed your online banking password and your personal verification question.”

  Through the fog, Ben could almost hear the distant, muffled ringing of his phone. He had confirmed the transfer, and then . . . “What if I can’t remember the new answer?”

  “No problem, sir. Just visit any of our twelve hundred branches across Canada with two pieces of photo identification, and you can change your verification question.”

  That wasn’t going to work.

  This was like one of those horrible classroom discussion questions. Did Drunk Ben want Sober Ben to have a way out of this mess? Or would Drunk Ben try to force Sober Ben to spend the rest of his life running a bar in Costa Rica, next to a ready supply of alcohol? Would it be the Lady, or the Tiger? The Bottle of Rum, or the Prison Cell?

  He tried his luck with the usual suspects. Astronaut. Firefighter. Race car driver.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You are now locked out of your account for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Ben hung up, splashed some water on his face, and returned to the seating area as Ana finished her tale.

  “. . . Deserted island and a rowboat. That was the only time Antonio did not get paid.”

  Victoria glanced over at Ben. He shook his head slightly.

  “What happened later that night, after Antonio told you Ben had bought the bar?” she asked.

  “We chatted for a bit and then I went home. I was sleeping when the police called.”

  “Was there anything about that night that struck you as unusual?” Victoria asked.

  “Only he seemed a bit jumpy. He did not tell me about selling the bar until I ask him if anything is wrong.” Ana shook her head. “I am surprised he sold the bar so cheaply. He had wanted to sell for years, but always said that he would die behind the bar before he got less than a hundred thousand. He dreamed of spending his last few years on his sailboat. Maybe he thought he could get by with less money, now that he was older.”

  “Was Ben around when you were closing up?” Victoria asked.

  “Antonio said Ben had stumbled down the beach, singing. Well, kind of. I could hear him, far away from us.”

  Ben had a sudden, vivid memory of belting out “Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me!” while staggering down the deserted beach, a half-empty bottle of rum in hand. Worse still, he only knew that one verse. He’d sung it over and over.

  He searched his mind again for other fragments knocked loose by Ana’s account. Nothing. “Do you know where I got all these cuts and scrapes?”

  Ana paused for a moment before pointing at Ben’s face. “You got the bruise on your cheek from trying to take the sombrero and the cut on your lip from drinking a beer without taking off the bottle cap first. Other than that, you looked all right when I left.”

  Ben’s face deepened in color.

  “Is there anyone who would have wanted to harm your uncle?” Victoria asked as she casually slid her notebook from her briefcase.

  “Only about half of Tamarindo. Tourists come and go, but there are a lot of expats who stay here for years. Some of them come here for reasons other than surfing and tanning.” She took another long pull of sangria. “Drugs are everywhere. Colombia is close by. Antonio tried to keep the dealers from doing their business in the bar. When he caught them selling, he threw them out, but they always come back a few days later. Diay?”

  Miguel had taught Ben some Costa Rican slang on the flight down. Diay was a term of equal parts surprise and annoyance that effectively meant, “Well, what c
an you expect?” Efficient, that.

  “Did it ever get violent?” Victoria asked.

  “Sometimes. Antonio kept a bat behind the bar that he used to settle arguments.”

  “Is it still here?”

  “The police took it.” Ana poured herself yet another drink.

  Victoria looked thoughtful.

  “Do you think a drug dealer could have done this?” Miguel asked.

  “Bad for business. This . . . this felt personal.” Tears welled in her dark brown eyes. She took a deep breath.

  Miguel’s hand inched toward Ana’s before awkwardly pulling back.

  “Did Antonio ever get the police involved?” Ben asked.

  “They do what they can, but a lot of money is tossed around. A police officer sees a crooked judge throw out his arrest a few times and he wonders why he misses out.”

  Miguel’s eyes darkened. “You make it sound like they have no choice.”

  “Oh, they have a choice—plato o plomo.”

  “Silver or lead,” Victoria muttered.

  “Get paid, or get killed. Diay, most of the police are honest even so, but it only takes a few.”

  “What about Detective Vasquez?” Victoria asked.

  “Uncle Antonio liked Vasquez. He’s one of the few who is not afraid to go after the drug dealers. Antonio would call him if there was a problem he could not solve with his bat,” Ana said. “Vasquez can be a real son of a bitch, though. He once break a rookie’s nose, teaching him to use the baton. He works alone, now.”

  Victoria jotted a few notes down in her agenda. “Any current or former bar staff with grudges?”

  “I cannot think of any. There are only the three of us now. I tend the bar, Luis is the busboy, and Oscar does some cooking and looks after the place.”

  Ben glanced around the bar once more. A small bright blue bird flew in through one hole in the roof and out another. He was going to have a little chat with Oscar.

  “We grumble now and then, but who does not?” Ana said.

  Miguel nodded. He sometimes said you don’t have to worry when soldiers complain. You worry when they stop complaining.

  “Did the police mention anything else?” Victoria asked.