Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (5 page)

Ugh. I threw back the covers and stalked into the living room, slamming the thermostat down to seventy-five on my way to my kitchenette and the coffee pot. You’ve heard of a one-butt kitchen? Well, believe me, that’s what I’ve got.

But so what? My bed is huge.

I couldn’t stay grumpy. Last night’s better memories had me back to a purr before the coffee was ready. But the feel of Viktor’s soggy beard against my arm kept intruding, the pull of a weight so massive that even the salty gulf had trouble supporting it, let alone a Fantascapes troubleshooter a hundred and fifty pounds lighter.

Think Flint. Hot bod. Slow grin.

Next time. Oh, yeah!

The Lexus ate up the road on the way south. My blood sang
. Over the drawbridge and down the Trail to the Sheriff’s office we go.
It was a good day to be silly. I breezed into the Sheriff’s Department and gave my statement. The detective, a solid cop of middle years, had been at Marybeth’s and Jake’s wedding, so I managed to get the scoop on the remainder of last night. It wasn’t much. No body. No gun, no knife, no package. All they’d found was Viktor’s wallet, stuffed with one hundred dollar bills, giving ample motive for an attempted mugging. But thanks for coming in, I was told. Since neither the Russian nor I could provide a description of the mugger, catching him was highly unlikely. So Kirichenko had been sent on his way with an admonition not to carry around so much cash, and that was pretty much that.

Why was I not convinced? But it was good to know Viktor was well-heeled. If he wanted four interlocking Fabergé eggs that opened like pages of a book, he was going to need every cent.

As I drove back toward the center of town, I wondered what Mom would serve for supper. Sunday night at the Halliday House, our home in the woods, is a tradition, though it often resembled a board meeting more than a family get-together. How could it not when we were a family business? Come hell or high water, we all dined together on Sunday night. Doug even made it down from Orlando about once a month.

I stood on my brakes as a Cadillac cut me off, darting from the lane on my right to a left-turn lane into a shopping center. I gritted my teeth, reminding myself this was Florida in the Season when at least a third of the drivers on the road had no concept where they were or how to get where they wanted to be. Good old Route 41, the Tamiami Trail. Most people think Tamiami is a name left behind by the Calusas or borrowed from the Seminoles. I’ll let you in on a secret—it’s short for Tampa to Miami, the cities at each end of the Trail.

My cell phone sounded its cheery tinkling chime. “Did you get any sleep?” I asked Flint, keeping my voice cool while certain parts of me slithered into a tango.

“
Couple of hours. How about pizza and a movie? Tonight.” Evidently, the sergeant wasn’t much given to small talk.

I opened my mouth to say I was busy, consigned my family to limbo instead. I told him I’d love to. Mm-m-m, great. Things were back on track.

Mom was understanding when I called her. Too much so. Almost like . . .
thank God Lainie’s got a date. We’d begun to worry.

The next time my cell rang, I was up to my neck in bubble bath. If it was Viktor, I was going to shred his blasted eggs before they got off the drawing board.

It was Max Arendsen. Direct from Cuzco, bypassing Paolo Jimenez. “Miss Halliday, Fantascapes came highly recommended, but let me tell you two mix-ups is completely unacceptable—”

Uh-oh.
“Tell me what’s happened, Mr. Arendsen. I assure you Fantascapes will take care of it.”

“
The authorities in Cuzco say we have no permit for the Inca Trail.”

“
Mr. Arendsen, I spoke to the UGM personally nearly two months ago, confirming the guide’s request. It’s got to be some kind of mistake. Bureaucratic nonsense.”

“
Yeah, well, when I told them that, I got the blank stare,” Max Arendsen snapped. “And when they repeated they couldn’t find the paperwork, I figured cash might work. Damned near got tossed in jail for my so-called effrontery. Hildy and I are scheduled to take the train to Kilometer 88 day after tomorrow, so what now?”

Max Arendsen could be forgiven if his voice rose on the final sentence. If I were the client, I doubt I would have been so polite.

“
Mr. Arendsen, I’m going to catch the next plane to Peru. I should be in Lima tonight so I can make a few calls to the right places first thing tomorrow morning. If all goes well, I’ll be in Cuzco by noon. Meanwhile, adjust to the altitude, enjoy the sights. You won’t believe the size of the stones at Sacsayhuaman. It must have taken an army to move them into place.”

He actually chuckled. “You’re good, Ms. Halliday, I’ll give you that. You may actually pull this off. To Hildy’s disappointment, I might add. She’s been a sport about it, but I’m afraid she didn’t fancy this trip the way I did.”

“
Make that present tense, Mr. Arendsen. The best is yet to come. I’ve seen Machu Picchu and I guarantee it. As Fantascapes guarantees its arrangements. Come Tuesday, you’ll be on the Inca Trail.” Given the inevitable combination of government red tape and intractable obstinacy, I was really sticking my neck out with that one. I could picture Dad shaking his head.

After I hung up, I closed my eyes for ten seconds, wondering what I’d done to piss off the gods of good fortune. Since Peruvian adventures were one of Fantascapes’ favorite offerings, I knew the flight schedules by heart. Less fortunately, making the 4:42 out of Miami was going to be tight. A brief call to Dad to report the bad news. A call to our faithful flight mechanic who lives across the street from our local Class D airport. A call, just as brief, to Flint.

So much for my love life.

Since I keep a bag packed with essentials and travel clothes in a special spot at one end of my closet, I was out the door in under thirty minutes. (Why, at the last minute, I squeezed in my hiking boots, I can only chalk up to one of my weird premonitions.) The drive to the airport took all of five minutes. (Golden Beach is a
very
small city.) The Fantascapes Beech Bonanza was fueled and ready when I got there. I climbed in, threw my bag in back, settled in the pilot’s seat, and closed the door. Slipped on my head phones and mike, checked the instrument panel. Kicked over the engine. While Bella warmed up—I’ve heard it’s sexist these days for machines to be female, but Bella and I are old friends. She’s got a bit of age on her, but it was all Dad could afford back then, and she’s like that old shoe with the good fit. I graduated from a Cessna Skylane to Bella and never looked back. (If I failed to mention my flight lessons, I apologize. Just something to keep me out of trouble over my college summers, Dad said.)

And I’ll let you in on a deep, dark secret, though I’ve never admitted it to a single soul since my teenage self chose her name. Bella is really BellaDonna. I’ve always enjoyed the private joke of flying a beautiful lady who is also the most deadly plant known to mankind. Laine Halliday and BellaDonna, a lethal combination, even if I’d never fired my gun at anything but a paper target.

Anyway, while Bella warmed up, I filed an IFR plan with Flight Service for Golden Beach (HHA) to Miami International (MIA), then did a visual check of our waterfront airport directly behind the restaurant where Flint and I had our adventures last night. It wasn’t somnolent on a Sunday afternoon—we have a lot of weekend pilots—but at the moment both ground and air were clear. I taxied out to Runway 2 and gave Bella the gun. She zoomed off, straight and true, over the gulf.

It was a short flight south to the Viola Intersection where I picked up Fort Myers Approach. I spoke into my two-way. “This is N73 Charlie Romeo at Viola Intersection, turning onto Victor Airway 579. Destination, Victor Airway 7 to MIA.”

“
N73 Charlie Romeo, acknowledged.”

Basically, a flight from Golden Beach to Miami is a run of a hundred miles south and ninety miles east, but Bella and I were doing it along well-defined flight corridors that cut the sharp corners. I was handed off to Miami Approach in no time at all, the only tricky part of the flight fitting little Bella in between all the Air Buses, 747s and sundry other monster-sized airplanes circling, taking off, and landing at Miami International. Sure, it was Approach’s job to tell me when and where, but I always ended up wondering if the controller had had a fight with his or her spouse that morning or if someone in the family had died, or . . .

Troubleshooters aren’t supposed to have nerves, but I was always glad to be on the ground in Miami.

I taxied to my usual parking spot on the airport’s fringes, flashed my best smile at the mechanic who would care for my baby until I got back, then cadged a ride to the main terminal. I may not have arrived the required two hours early for an international flight, but I flew out of Miami often enough to make me a familiar face. Some joker might suggest a strip search, but I doubted it. That sort of thing was left to machines these days.

I skidded to a halt at the solid mass of people waiting in the security line. Ah, the latino temperament—at least half the passengers were checking in late. For the first time since Mr. Arendsen’s call, I felt tension drain away. Sure, it was just another assignment—something I’d done so many times I’d lost count—but the pressure for perfection never let up. It was Laine Halliday to the rescue, no excuses allowed. So it was a relief to know that for a few hours I could relax, because there was absolutely nothing I could do except stay in line, board the plane, eat, drink, and watch the sun set over the Pacific. By shortly after nine o’clock, I’d be in Lima. I’d catch some sleep at an airport hotel, make my phone calls in the morning, and be in Cuzco for lunch.

So far, so good. The Arendsens need not fear. Fantascapes’ troubleshooter was on the way.

My first phone call the next morning was so successful I decided not to rattle any more cages at the moment.
An unfortunate mistake, Ms. Halliday. It will be dealt with immediately
. But not so unfortunate an error, my contact in the tourist ministry added silkily, if it brought the lovely Laine Halliday back to Peru. Even if I were unkind enough to go straight to Cuzco.

“
Carlos, my angel,” I returned in my best imitation of sultry, “next time I’ll stop in Lima, I promise.
Hasta lo vista y muchas gracias.

Cuzco, the Rome of the Inca Empire, lies in a deep bowl ringed by high plateaus and precipitous hillsides. Its red tile roofs topped original Inca walls and lesser structures created by rolling stones down the mountain from the great fortress of Sacsayhuaman. Cuzco abounds in genuine Inca walls, perfectly fitted without mortar, plus buildings created in the Spanish style by descendants of the Conquistadores, and bastard examples of cultural amalgamation, such as the sad fate of the great Inca Temple of the Sun.

Thirty minutes after landing, I walked into the office of our preferred local tour company, Inca Explorations. I’d dressed for the occasion in the same clothes I would have worn if I’d taken Carlos up on his offer of Pisco Sours and
seviche
at one of Lima’s finest old hotels. Slinky black slacks, gathered at the waist and falling full over my shiny black leather half-boots. A matching hip-length jacket, buttonless over a sparkling white silk shirt fastened at the neck by a black lace jabot. My bronze hair was slicked back in an Evita Peron chignon; my earrings solid gold, and looked it. Big City Girl. Not from Cuzco. Certainly not from Golden Beach, Florida. For the men of Peru, the holders of power, I was suitably feminine. I was also a Somebody, with power of my own.

Damn right.

The Inca Explorations office is on a narrow street, flanked by Inca stonework, not far from Cuzco’s central Plaza de Armas. I was expected. Apologies, apologies. Abject apologies. A grave mistake. A phone call had come, ten days ago, canceling the Arendsen’s trek. Undoubtedly, a nasty joke. Perhaps a competitor? But since Fantascapes was such a good friend to Peru’s tourist industry, an exception had been made. All would be ready for the Arendsen’s departure tomorrow morning.

I stared at the ageless owner of our favorite local tour company, a
mestizo
who possessed a name so unpronounceable by a non-Quechua that nearly everyone settled for Roberto. “You’re saying someone
canceled
our booking?”

“
Si
.” Minus the headfeathers, Roberto was doing a nice imitation of an antique wooden cigar-store Indian.

“
That’s absurd.” But I’d have to accept it and move on or the Arendsens were going to be taking the tourist train to Machu Picchu without ever setting foot on the storied Inca Trail. “Sorry,” I said, summoning a weak smile, “I’ll deal with that problem later.”

I inquired after Roberto’s wife and children and a favorite guide who had recently retired. Sympathized with some juicy political maneuverings between the high Andes and the alleged idiots on the coastal plain in Lima. When all the amenities had been properly observed, we went over the Arendsen’s schedule for the next week—four days on the Trail, three days at Machu Picchu, then back to Cuzco on the late afternoon tourist train.

I shook Roberto’s hand, thanked him for deftly juggling his guides and porters in order to save Fantascapes’ bacon, and headed back to the hotel where I was scheduled to meet the Arendsens for a late lunch. (I’d learned to switch to Spanish time when operating in Peru. Otherwise a girl could embarrass herself looking for food three hours before the kitchens were ready to serve.)