Black Widow (31 page)

“Bosses?”

“That mean-ass German woman at the desk. And the other one — the one who owns everything you see around here. Maybe you don’t know who I mean. The White Lady.”

She used it as a proper noun, capitalizing the words with an inflection that mixed respect and fear. White Lady.

I nearly asked,
Are you talking about the Maji Blanc
? Instead, I said, “I don’t know who you mean. A friend suggested we come here — a last-minute thing. What’s the owner’s name?”

“Doesn’t matter. She owns the place, that’s all I’m saying. I do my job.”

“Sounds as if you don’t like her. Tough boss, or a bad tipper?”

Norma said, “If that’s a joke, it’s not much of a joke. The White Lady’s never come in here for a massage. Never will, either.” She put it out there, hinting at something, but she wasn’t going to let it go much further.

“A spa owner who doesn’t get massages? That’s not much of an endorsement. She must have something to hide.”

Norma shrugged. “I never said that.” Done talking about it.

“Well, if she’s anything like the woman at the front desk,
I
wouldn’t like her. There’s not much chance I’ll last a week here. This spa business seems like a bunch of silly bullshit, to be honest.”

“The wrong person hears you say that, man, you’ll be out of here faster than you think.”

I smiled at her expression of concern. “You say that as if I should be afraid.”

“Maybe you should be afraid. You seem like a nice man — unusual, in my line of work. Could be, you should be real careful about what you say and do around here.”

“Friendly advice?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m flattered, but why?”

“Because of the boy you saw them hauling from the sea this morning. You showed respect. He was my . . .” The woman turned, and began folding towels. “. . . he was my nephew. The damn people who work here, they pretended not to even notice his body floating down there, but you took the time. You showed respect.”

I said, “I’m very sorry.”

“Me, too. You don’t know. He was a fine young man. Had a compass in his head that kept him steady — like you. I wished I’d known him better, but I . . . I didn’t get the chance. That boy could have been
something
.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Paul, but—” Norma paused for several seconds as she concentrated on towels. “ — but people called him Rafael, so I guess that was his name.”

It was a complicated subject, apparently. I decided not to press. “My name’s Marion. Friends call me Doc. Okay?”

“You’re a real one?”

“No. A nickname.”

“Then you watch yourself . . . Doc. There
is
somethin’ different about you, and the bosses don’t miss much.”

“You lost me.”

“Senegal Firth — you two don’t fit. She doesn’t like men . . . not nice men, anyway. Sometimes that’s the only way the cold ones can let go. And I heard you’re from Florida. Yesterday, a very pretty woman about my age showed up. She’s got a spa business same place you live — Florida. Kind of strange, a pretty woman checking in alone.”

“A lot of people live in Florida.”

“Maybe so. But the woman asked Miss Bunt — that’s the German manager — she asked Miss Bunt if a man named Ford was here. Dr. Marion Ford. And your name’s Marion North — right
. . . Doc
?”

As I began to reply, she held up a hand. “All I’m saying is watch yourself. Don’t ever go walking outside the monastery walls after midnight. Hear?
Ever
. And take care what you say and do, especially around the staff.”

“The White Lady? Or do you mean the Maji Blanc?”

Norma’s eyes burrowed into mine. “How’d you find out that name?”

“I can’t remember. I always forget who gives me information — probably because of all the toxins in my body.”

I saw Norma ready to smile, but not quite there. I reached and squeezed her hand. “The White Lady’s no lady, Norma. But you are. Thanks for the advice. What would happen if she knew you’d warned me?”

Norma gave a weary shrug
— Who cares? —
before replying, “I’d lose my job and a place to live. That’s all. And I’m going to be leaving soon, anyway.”

“Quitting?”

“In a way.”

“I didn’t know the staff lived on the grounds.”

“Not all of us. It’s a seniority deal. You come by helicopter, so you wouldn’t’ve seen them, but there’re cabins down the mountain, maybe a quarter mile by road. I’ve got a pretty nice place, set off by itself. I like it. Got it fixed up nice. Getting fired and losing that cabin — that’s the worst they could do to me.”

Norma was wrong.

BERYL TOLD ME, “Corey’s dead. She died Sunday morning, the day after you left. The doctors aren’t sure what happened, an aneurism, maybe.”

We were standing in a closet so cramped that my lips were next to her ear. Candlelight bounced shadows around the adjoining room, showing a stone floor and Beryl’s bed, where the pillow, the mattress, were still imprinted with her weight.

I whispered, “
Dead
?”

“I know . . . unbelievable. When she was in intensive care, they think one of the procedures maybe caused a blood clot. She was fine, sitting up, talking . . . then she said something about a pain in her head, and closed her eyes. That was it. She never woke up. I’m still in shock. Damn it, I won’t let them get away with it.”

Beryl didn’t sound in shock. She sounded cold, in control — a woman who was experienced at concealing rage. But she didn’t bother hiding her impatience with me.

“The party boys are responsible — and whoever took the video. From your phone message, I expected to find them working here. So where are they?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I’ve seen them, but it wasn’t here.”

“Then
where
? Why come to this freaky place if it wasn’t to deal with those three? I think you’re wasting my time.”

This was the same woman who’d come into the lab wearing a towel, eyes smoky as the candlelight that now illuminated her nose and eyes in a flickering triangle. Cold voice, cold eyes. Finally, I was meeting the Ice Queen.

I said, “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Damn right it’s more complicated — as of Sunday morning. They killed Corey the same as using a gun. And she didn’t do anything — not compared to the rest of us. But they blackmailed her anyway, and she’s dead. If we don’t pay up by Friday, they’ll try to destroy my life, too. And Liz’s life. Shay’s already such an emotional wreck, I’m worried she might be next.”

The first thing Beryl had told me was that Shay’s wedding had been postponed for two weeks, then gave me the bad news about Corey, when I asked, “
Why
?”

The funeral was on Friday — the day of the rehearsal dinner. It had to be the all-time worst week in Shay’s life.

I put my hands on Beryl’s shoulders and squeezed, trying to reassure her. Trapezius muscles, beneath pale skin, felt like rope left too long in the sun. When my fingers began exploring for knots, she shrugged my hands away, and said, “Those bastards. We have to find them. I’m
going
to find them.”

I said, “Take it easy. I’m working on it.”

“You’ve had three days to work on it. We’re running out of time.”

In more ways than Beryl realized. It was nearly midnight.

AN HOUR EARLIER, for the benefit of the hidden camera, I’d made a show of getting ready for bed. The only thing I’d brought to read was the article Sir James had given me on the Knights Templar. I took it from my bag, adjusted the reading lamp, and lay on the bed.

The Knights Templar was a fraternity of warrior monks founded in 1118 by André de Montbard and Hugh de Payen. These two knights, along with seven companions, presented themselves to Godfroi de Bouillon, ruler of Jerusalem . . .

I paused to clean my glasses. André de Montbard? If James Montbard was a descendant, how many generations separated the two men? Twenty-five? Thirty? In the U.S., the time span was incomprehensible. In Great Britain, ancestral records and properties might date back even farther.

It was their intention, they told the monarch, to organize an order of able monks to protect pilgrims traveling to Jerusalem — the Knights Templar. Because the Templars took sacred oaths of honesty, chastity, and loyalty, they soon became the trusted guardians of travelers to the Holy Land, and also the world’s first international bankers. They accumulated enormous wealth during the Crusades.
By the 1300s, the Templars controlled more wealth and land than most kingdoms, and they had the largest sailing fleet in the world. There is evidence the Templars were already doing trade in the Americas.
When the Templars began to exceed the Vatican’s power, Pope Clement V ordered all members arrested. Some were burned at the stake, but most escaped, preserving their order, and their secrets, by founding a new secret fraternity, the Freemasons.
The Templar sailing fleet disappeared, as did their vast treasure holdings, which included artifacts from the Holy Land taken as spoils of war.
Some historians believe they loaded their vessels and sailed west toward the land they had discovered two hundred years before Columbus . . .

No wonder Sir James Montbard, the Freemason and amateur archaeologist, wanted to have a look around the monastery. Lots of linkage. But it had the fantasy flavor of a conspiracy theory. If I ever meet more than three people who can keep a secret, I’ll give conspiracy theories serious consideration.

Interesting, but I had things to do.

Before turning out the reading lamp, I took a sleepy look around my room, then tossed a shirt over the clock radio, covering the miniature lens. I spent the next twenty minutes in the dark, expecting spa employees to arrive with an excuse to check the room.

Nothing.

I got dressed, poked my head outside, then took a few things from the pack I’d hidden overhead in the gallery bay. Among them was the little Uniden handheld VHF, which I clipped to my belt. Montbard said he would attempt radio contact at 6 p.m., 9 p.m., and midnight, but I hadn’t been able to risk retrieving the VHF until now.

By 11:30, I was working my way through shadows to the opposite cloister, jumpy as hell, spooking at every sound. It was supposed to be safe inside the monastery walls. Even so, I expected dogs to come tumbling out of the darkness.

The three fingers Beryl had flashed earlier — the meaning had popped into my head as I suffered through a sauna treatment, sweating imaginary toxins I hadn’t allowed Norma to purge.

“The guest rooms are numbered,” Norma had told me. “It’s one-two-three simple.”

Three.

I was in Room 36, Senegal was in 7. Beryl was telling me her room number — 3. Obvious, in hindsight, as most puzzles are.

NOW BERYL AND I were huddled in her closet, out of the range of the lens hidden in the smoke alarm — a useless precaution if someone had been monitoring the place when Beryl opened the door wide, saying, “
Doc
?” and I stepped into room.

Any second, I expected to hear pounding at the door.

Yes, nearly midnight, and we were running out of time.

I touched my cheek to Beryl’s cheek, and whispered, “You’re obsessing on the three guys, but it’s more complicated than you think. Trust me, I’ll do something if there’s an opportunity. I’m more concerned about you. We have to get you off this mountain. Soon. They’re already suspicious.”

"Who?”

“Everyone, including the woman who owns the place. She’s the blackmailer. You don’t think she knows who she’s blackmailing, for Christ’s sake? The staff’s scared shitless of her. Think about that.”

Beryl was too angry to think about it. “The woman with the bizarre robes, the hood, all the makeup? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No. I’m convinced.”

“
Isabelle
? I’ve met her four or five times — at least twice at the trade show in Paris. There’s nothing scary about Isabelle — unless you’re afraid of dyke nuns. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“Afraid of nuns?”

“You tell me. Afraid of the party boys, I can understand. If you don’t have the balls for confrontation, okay. But afraid of a middle-aged woman who dresses like Madonna? I think Shay chose the wrong man for the job. The three who came to the beach cottage that night, they’re the blackmailers. If you’re afraid of them, just admit it.”

I took a breath and released it slowly, letting Beryl know that my patience had its limits. Some people strike out at anyone and everything when they’re angry. Beryl was in attack mode.

“I wasted an entire day walking around this nuthouse with people in robes. Now you tell me a woman who grows orchids and markets face cream is the one who took the video. Do you really think Isabelle sent those sick e-mails? That she gets her rocks off by filming people screwing?
Please
.”

“You haven’t done the research, Beryl. I have.”

“
Research
? My God — you really are just a biologist, aren’t you? The rumors about you being a dangerous character — a drug smuggler, a government agent,
whatever —
what a laugh. Shay was feeding us a bunch of bullshit. How could I . . . how could anyone’ve believed that a guy who looks like a science teacher is dangerous?”

“I never asked anyone to believe anything.”

“Really? I’m not so sure. Your secret trips, the mysterious men who come to the lab — did you invent those stories? Or did Shay? She’s good at making up stories, I know.”

I had just checked my watch but now, instead of replying, I looked at it again. 12:18 a.m. Once again, I’d missed the radio appointment with Sir James. Outside, thunder rumbled through the forest canopy. There was a whistle of gusting wind. I listened until I’d confirmed it was the sound of a squall approaching, not the distant howling of dogs.

I said, “We can talk about your best friend, Shay, another time. Let’s concentrate on you. You can’t spend another night here. It’s too dangerous. I know a man who owns an estate on Saint Lucia. You can stay there until you catch a flight out.”