Rum Luck Read online

  Not for the first time, he debated reporting his phone stolen. He’d used the hotel’s business center to check his phone bill online, but no new calls had been made. Either the phone was powered off somewhere or had been wiped clean and sold on the black market. He drummed his fingers on the hotel desk for a few moments, finally electing to hold off another day or two.

  Traveler Advice rated the Diria as one of the finest beachside resorts in Tamarindo; it was certainly among the more expensive. Tara had chosen it, as she had decided most of their wedding details. At least Ben had got more use of the hotel room than she had of the chocolate-bourbon wedding cake or the three-piece jazz band. Presumably.

  God. How many times had he and Tara practiced that ludicrously elaborate swing-dance to the aptly titled “Love Me or Leave Me”? How many walls had he spun into before he finally learned how to segue an under-arm turn into an exchange in triple time? And how many years would go by before he forgot those utterly useless dance steps?

  But he did own a bar now. So there was that.

  It took real effort to be melancholy in a place like Tamarindo, particularly when staying at the Diria. His room’s walls and bedding were cheerful hues of red and yellow and yet, as bright as they were, they paled against the view from the window. Swaying palms reached toward the terracotta balcony, patterning the rippling blue of the hotel’s vast pool, and the golden beach and its long row of white lounge chairs with bright blue umbrellas. An enterprising local paused between chairs to drop a straw into an ice-cold coconut for one of the many sun seekers. Ben and Miguel might be facing imminent financial ruin, but at least they’d live the high life for one more week.

  Ben looked over his wrinkled list once more. They needed to pick up a lot of supplies before Enrico arrived. It’d taken Miguel all of five minutes to persuade his uncle to sign on. He was wrapping up a road tour that evening in nearby Brasilito and would be ready to begin his week of pretend-ownership tomorrow afternoon. That didn’t leave them long to prepare, but at least they’d know soon whether this scheme had even a faint hope of success. Or if they’d need to put up flyers saying, “Bar for Sale. Cheap. Warm Beer. Only One Murder.”

  He glanced at the bedside clock. Almost two in the afternoon. Time to meet Miguel. Ben headed to the hallway, his leather sandals flapping against the clay tiles. He knocked, and Miguel opened his door a few inches, enough for Ben to spot the puddle of clothes poised to ooze into the hallway and envelop the ice machine.

  “Two minutes,” Miguel said through the crack before closing the door.

  For all his confidence, Miguel was clearly ashamed of his messiness. Ben had offered to lower the cost of the trip by exchanging his honeymoon suite for a basic room with two queen beds, but Miguel had insisted on booking a room of his own. He wouldn’t even let Ben pay half the extra cost. Before, when Ben had spent a week on Miguel’s couch after breaking up with Tara, Miguel had kept the door to his room locked. Who cared that much about a mound of wrinkled shirts, anyway?

  At precisely two o’clock, Miguel strode out of his room, impeccably dressed in linen slacks and a brown V-neck T-shirt from some up-and-coming Toronto fashion designer. It occurred to Ben that, if Miguel actually allowed anyone to disturb his messy room, he might transform into a pudgy, polyester-wearing slob.

  The two walked down the stairs, through the lobby, and out the large wrought-iron gate at the front of the hotel. The midday heat had descended upon Tamarindo, and Ben could feel it radiating from the asphalt as they crossed the road to the parking lot where they had left the rental car.

  At least, where Ben thought they’d left the rental car.

  They searched for a minute or two before realizing that the car was at the center of a small crowd. Ben’s stomach sank. Something told him those people hadn’t gathered to admire the economy hatchback they’d driven from San José. He pushed through the crowd to discover someone had spray-painted Gringo on the side of the car, with the o drawn as a menacing skull and crossbones. Ben doubted the car rental people would believe the little hatchback had looked that way when he and Miguel picked it up at the airport depot.

  Miguel was already asking questions in Spanish. The onlookers were muttering among themselves and angrily gesturing at the car. Ben tightened his grip on the keys before he realized the crowd was furious with the vandal, not with either of them.

  “They’re really mad with the guy who did this. This isn’t how Ticos treat their guests,” Miguel said, using the slang term for native Costa Ricans. “I told them where we’re staying. They’ll let us know if they see anyone hanging around the car.”

  Ben rubbed at the paint. Dry. It must have been sprayed some time ago. He’d seen the car on their way back from the bar last night, but hadn’t noticed any graffiti. It made sense for a vandal to strike when most people are asleep, but who tags a car at four in the morning?

  “I don’t think this is a coincidence,” Miguel said, putting Ben’s thoughts into words.

  “Me neither.” He stared at the skull and crossbones. It was the second threat in less than twenty-four hours. Third, if he counted Vasquez’s not-so-subtle insinuations. That was three more threats than he’d expected on this particular holiday.

  With utter disregard for his spotless clothes, Miguel lay down on the ground and slithered beneath the hatchback. The crowd’s muttering grew as various pings and rattles echoed from the undercarriage. Miguel finally slid back out, drenched in sweat and caked in dust.

  “The brake lines are intact and no one planted any explosives or tracking devices.” He rubbed grease from his hands.

  Ben was shocked. A threatening letter was one thing. A bomb planted beneath your car was a whole other level. “Don’t you think you’re being a little bit paranoid?”

  “It’s not paranoia if someone’s actually out to get you.” Miguel’s gaze was distant.

  Ben couldn’t argue with that. He was struck by a sudden nostalgia for his comfortable, predictable life in Oakville, where he only ever looked under his car to check that his neighbor’s cat wasn’t sleeping underneath. Still surrounded by the small crowd, Miguel hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. Despite himself, Ben tensed.

  Nothing happened.

  “Battery’s dead. We’ll need a bump start,” Miguel said.

  “Do you think anyone here has jumper cables? Because we don’t.”

  “No, a bump start. The car is a manual. If these guys give us a push, I can pop the clutch and get the engine spinning.”

  Miguel explained the problem to the onlookers. Within moments, they had bent to the task of pushing the car. The rental belched to life on the third attempt, tossing a cloud of gray smoke and gasoline into the air.

  “Gracias!” Ben waved goodbye to the crowd as he slid into the passenger’s seat. “Where on earth did you learn to do that?” he asked Miguel.

  “Oh, you know. You pick these things up over the years.”

  Ben took the hint and dropped the subject. For once, he was glad to have a lengthy shopping list. It would give them time to recharge the battery.

  Victoria walked along Tamarindo’s main street, phone in hand. Her little blue dot drew ever nearer to the cartoon push pin that marked the Pacific Park building, home of Castillo, Arias and Associates. She silently cursed the beautiful weather roasting her in her woolen suit. One last errand to run before she could pack it away. Until she landed in Toronto, at least.

  She felt a pang. It wasn’t right, leaving Ben behind like this. But business was business. Even so, a small part of her wondered whether Mansion had engineered an excuse to drag her back into the office before she grew accustomed to freedom from indentured servitude. Or wearing sundresses.

  She turned right, surprised to find herself strolling alongside a rutted dirt road. A bank plaza and an upscale Asian Fusion restaurant sat next to hostel bars and a parking lot crammed with the reprobates that made up the local fleet of unregistered taxis. That, or a not-at-all underground stree
t racing club. You could almost touch the high water mark where the last financial crisis had halted Tamarindo’s development. The gleaming white Pacific Park tower came into view once she passed a barbeque joint. The sign out front promised new, lower prices. Lower than what?

  She stepped inside the sprawling marble-coated lobby and glanced at the directory. Castillo, Arias and Associates. Main floor. Easy enough. Until she almost walked headlong into the law firm’s locked door.

  She pushed the buzzer next to the heavy wooden door and waited. Nothing. She pressed it once more. This time there was a faint murmuring from inside that sounded much like “. . . if we just stay quiet . . .” in Spanish.

  Victoria cleared her throat. “I can hear you in there,” she said through the door.

  The intercom crackled to life. “Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Is this Castillo, Arias and Associates?”

  There was some hushed discussion. “Yes,” the voice admitted.

  “This is Victoria Holmes of Holmes, Holmes and Wright.”

  Another pause. “I am sorry, but we have no record of your appointment.”

  “If there’s no record of it, how do you know I’m here for an appointment?” Victoria asked.

  Silence.

  “I hope your windows are wide enough for you to fit through, because I’m not leaving until I speak with one of your partners.”

  Ben and Miguel ran their errands without incident, save for the occasional shopkeeper’s puzzled look at the car’s graffiti, Miguel’s dirty clothes, and Ben’s ripening bruises. No one asked any questions. Ben couldn’t tell whether they were being polite or simply didn’t want to get involved.

  He’d winced while signing for the expensive speakers and audio mixing equipment that Miguel insisted they needed to bring Enrico’s music to life. Ben had suggested they use the speakers they already owned, but might as well have proposed serving vintage champagne in an unwashed coffee mug.

  Most of their other purchases were reasonably priced, particularly the construction supplies. With a fresh coat of paint and some other minor fixes, two of the storerooms could accommodate their pretend-owners. Oscar had promised to tackle the repairs that evening after the kitchen closed, and Ana had agreed to look after the furniture, bedding, and finishing touches. No one would mistake the cantina for a boutique hotel, but it would be comfortable enough for a man who’d spent half his life on the road.

  They arrived back at the bar late that afternoon. Ana met them outside, and the three of them started offloading the new audio equipment.

  “Nice paint job,” Ana said, opening the door to the back seat.

  “Thanks,” Ben replied. “It would make the car menacing, if there wasn’t a hamster wheel where the engine should be.”

  She laughed. Then she saw Miguel. “What happened?”

  “It’s a new look.” Miguel looked down at his dusty, grease-stained designer T-shirt. “Haute Hobo.”

  “Very funny.” Ana grabbed the heavy audio mixer and started up the path. “Notice anything new about the place?”

  Ben looked up. Antonio’s old sign had been replaced with a hastily carved wooden plaque that read, “Enrico’s.” Beneath it, a smaller wooden oval read, “Industrias Cantina en la Playa.” His face broke into a huge grin.

  “Bar on the Beach Enterprises.” Miguel shook his head.

  “I am sorry about what I said earlier. It really is a good idea,” Ana said awkwardly. “Ta bueno? It’s okay?”

  Ben smiled warmly, his eyes shining. “Thanks, Ana. The signs look great.”

  After a couple more trips, Ben, Miguel, and Ana had successfully emptied the hatchback, depositing the construction supplies in one of the storage rooms and the audio equipment at the edge of the dance floor. Ben gazed at the pile of electronics and wires, trying to figure out how they went together. He might as well have tried to build a time machine.

  “Do either of you know how to hook this thing up?” he asked.

  “I booked a DJ for later tonight,” Ana replied, her arms wrapped around the last bag of drywall compound. “He will set up the system and try it out for us.”

  Ben gladly walked away from the jumble of electronics.

  When they’d stashed everything, they staggered to the lounge area for a well-deserved breather. They had only thirty minutes before the bar opened and each of them would be on their feet for the next seven hours; longer, if they hoped to reverse the tide of money flowing from the bar.

  Ben tried to pour a pint of beer, but managed only to produce a glass overflowing with foam. Ana nudged him out of the way and filled a pitcher for the three of them. Ben took a sip. Ana was right—the beer was getting warmer by the day. Two steps forward, one step back.

  Victoria walked in as they were sitting down, her high heels clicking on the tile. Ben wondered why on earth she was in her business suit before realizing she must have come straight from the meeting at the nearby law office to hand over his case. Hopefully the new lawyer would keep him on as a client for more than a day and a half before ditching him for someone more important. Or solvent.

  He knew he was being petty, but it seemed that was the way it went with Victoria these days. It had been so different, back when they were at university. They’d met in one of Ben’s electives in economics and become fast friends, staying up late together to work through assignments, talk politics, and discuss the personal hygiene of the more eccentric professors. But that was a long, long time ago, before Victoria became a lawyer and he went off to make something of himself, only to end up making databases at Tara’s uncle’s IT firm.

  Perhaps when you billed by the minute, you started to tally up how much all those minutes were actually worth.

  She looked poised as always, if flushed from the heat. She gave the pitcher of beer a disdainful glance and strode to the back of the bar without breaking stride. To Ben’s surprise, she emerged with a glass full of ice and a bottle of amber rum.

  “Rough day at the office?” Miguel asked, eyes locked on the bottle.

  Victoria dropped her briefcase to the ground, flopped into the chair, and filled the glass. “How could you tell?”

  “Let me guess,” Ben said. “They’re not going to take my case?”

  “I stopped in at both law offices in town. Neither is accepting new clients,” Victoria said. “At least, that’s what they told me through drawn blinds.”

  “They wouldn’t even meet with you?”

  “Eventually. It took some persuading.” Victoria took a long drink from her glass. “They all looked terrified. Oh, the lawyers were polite enough, but they rushed me out the door as fast as possible. They would have rather turned off the lights and hidden under the boardroom table than meet with me.”

  Ben frowned. “Does this make any sense to you, Ana?”

  She shook her head. “The lawyers around here deal with real estate and business, mainly. I have never heard of anyone turning away a new client, even a criminal.”

  Ben resented—and resembled—that remark. “Makes me wonder if they received some fan mail of their own.” A crystal-clear image of last night’s death threat flashed into his mind, unbidden.

  Victoria rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me someone would actually be scared off by some third-rate arts-and-crafts project.”

  “It depends,” Miguel said. “What if the threat showed up in their kids’ school bags?” His words hung in the air. Ana shivered.

  “We have enough problems right now without letting our imaginations run wild,” Ben said, his imagination running wild.

  “Speaking of imagination,” Victoria said, “I quite like what you’ve done with your rental car. Personally, I prefer half-naked women clutching flaming swords atop unicorns, but it’s a solid first effort.”

  Ben explained what had happened. Ana’s eyes widened when he mentioned Miguel had crawled under the car to check for explosives.

  “You think this is related to Antonio’s murder, don’t you?” V
ictoria said.

  Ben and Miguel both nodded.

  “I am not so sure. I do not know what it is, but there is something familiar about that graffiti. I think it is . . .” Ana paused. “Sorry, I cannot place it.”

  “Let me know if it comes to you,” Ben said. “Anything new from the police?”

  Ana shook her head. “The coroner’s report should be ready tomorrow. As for the officers, they still think it’s a robbery, except for Vasquez—” She stopped abruptly.

  “—who thinks Ben killed Antonio,” Victoria finished.

  “Yes.” Ana studied the floor.

  “Did they say anything about the letter?” Ben asked.

  “No one mentioned it. Now I think of it, I am surprised they didn’t.”

  Ben sighed. “Who knows if Captain Reyes even turned it in? He might well have tossed it in the garbage the moment he left the bar.”

  “Sometimes I think the police are just waiting for the murderer to turn up at another bar down the coast, pockets stuffed with bloody colones,” Ana said.

  “What?” Victoria asked. “Bloody cohones?”

  Miguel snorted beer. “Colones, Victoria. The Costa Rican currency?”

  “Close enough,” she muttered. “This whole situation is bollocks.”

  Ben glanced down at his bare wrist before he realized he needed to pick up a replacement watch, preferably one that hadn’t been pre-smashed for his convenience. He glanced up at the wall clock instead. “Ten minutes till opening. We need to get going. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the office weeping into a stack of unpaid bills.”

  Miguel and Ana agreed to finish setting up the bar.

  “I’ll come with you,” Victoria said.

  On his way to the office, Ben gave a nod to Oscar, who’d emerged from one of the storerooms with paint brush in hand. Most of their exchanges had been limited to grunts and gestures—Oscar spoke little English, and Ben little Spanish—but he seemed to be holding up well after Antonio’s death. Ben made a mental note to speak to him about the cooking, though. The sauce on Ben’s last burrito had the flavor and consistency of glue. He was afraid to check behind the wallpaper in the guest rooms.