Clint Faraday Mysteries collection A Muddled Murders Collector's Edition (68 page)

“
I don’t
condone it, but I don’t condemn it either. You did what you thought
you’d have to do.”

“
It never
occurred to you that you could just kill yourself somehow and he’d
never know?” Arthur asked with a sneer.

“
Of
course he’d know,” Doc said. “It would be public knowledge. It’s
posted on medical records that a person has HIV if he dies,
regardless of how. The confidentiality is for the living only. It
would be made known so anyone he had relations with could get
tested.”

“
It’s a
bad situation no matter what,” Clint said. “I feel this is best all
around.”

“
It just
doesn’t seem right!” Arthur said.

“
It’s the
best solution for everyone involved. We sometimes have to select
among only bad choices,” Sergio said.

“
It
wouldn’t be done like that at home!” Arthur insisted.

“
We’re
not home. They don’t do things here like they do at home!” Bobby
said.

“
Thank
God!” Wilma agreed. The rest nodded agreement.

Clint went home half an hour later. It was
too late for fishing today. He hoped the next morning would be as
nice as today.

Bah!
Humbug!

“
Feliz
Navidades!” Silvio called from his boat as he passed Clint’s home.
Clint was on the deck having his coffee. He waved and returned the
greeting to the family of Indios in the boat. They were headed out
to the mainland side of Bocas del Drago where Silvio’s father and
uncle had a large finca on the peninsula. Judi Lum, his nextdoor
neighbor, called them to her dock to hand out little mementos to
the children and to present Maria, Silvio’s wife, with a large
pineapple upside-down cake. She baked them to present to her good
Indio friends on Christmas every year.

Clint went inside to put on his formal
Christmas clothes, khaki shorts and a white tee shirt (he always
dressed that formally here) with flip-flops. He went to town to
talk with Jim and friends a bit.

Jim was a regular at The Golden Grill who met
with several friends most days at a table on the end. It was a
great place to people-watch, across from the parque. Jim’s been on
Bocas 17 years.

“
Another
Christmas in Bocas!” Jim greeted. “I think it’ll stop raining
pretty soon.”

Bob came from the inside. He lived there. He
greeted everyone and looked lost. He was a good friend of Doug and
Christie, who owned the place, and would bus the tables just for
something to do. The Grill wasn’t open on Christmas day. Almost no
place was, but they gathered there anyhow. None of them had family
here and they shared interests.

Dave came by with three Indios. He was
carrying a guitar and said he was going to the big party at
Silvio’s father’s place. The Indios invited Clint to go. He was
undecided, then declined.

The trouble with the parties of that type was
that there were always a few who drank too much, then they would
wrestle and, it looked like, fight. It was only a contest among
friends, though they would beat each other to bloody pulps. It was
a sort of custom. Clint didn’t understand it or like it.

Tim rode up on his bike. Dave said goodbye to
the group and walked off, ignoring Tim. He found Tim to be a rude,
vulgar blowhard. Tim had the habit of coming into a group when he
knew one or two and dominating the conversation. He would as much
as ignore the rest of them. Clint had once done as Dave suggested,
Googled him, and found most of what Tim bragged about was stuff
that never happened.

Tim ignored the greetings from Bob and Clint
and spoke directly to Jim. “I had to come in to get some fresh
bread, but the panaderia’s closed. Where is there anything
today?”

“
The
China has bread,” Jim answered.

“
I like
to get the fresh stuff!”

“
Well,
I’d better go,” Clint said. “See you, Bob, Jim.” He walked off with
Tim telling Jim how he always had fresh bread back in Vermont or
wherever.

So go the hell back to Vermont!

Sally Benton, a tourist from England, greeted
him. He talked a few minutes with her. A gaggle of Indio urchins
came by trying to get him to buy some handmade bracelets or
trinkets. He didn’t buy anything, but gave each of them a dime.

He walked on. Two young black kids came and
demanded, “Darme un quarter!”

Clint noticed for the umpteenth time how the
Indios had something to trade for money or would work for it. The
blacks demanded money. He told them to get lost.

Cultural differences. The Indio work ethic.
They worked from the time they were eight years old.

He would walk the circle (well, elongated
oval) around to sixth street, then back across to the other side of
town. The rain wasn’t enough to bother him. He spoke with a number
of people and returned to the main drag at Hawaii, a supermarket.
He turned and headed back toward Saigon. He was passing through the
colorful cemetery where a number of people were visiting to place
fresh flowers on the graves when his phone buzzed. Sergio, the
violent crimes police captain.

“
Yo,
Serg! Merry Christmas!”

“
Bah!
Humbug!” Sergio replied. “It’s not the best time for a murder! I’m
the only one here!”

“
Murder?
Where this time?”

“
Solarte.
Care to come along?”

Clint sighed. He didn’t have anything else to
do so said he’d be at the station in five minutes.

“
What do
we have?” Clint asked.

“
I don’t
know. Maybe just one of those family things, but this one is rich
so we have to go through the forms,” Sergio replied. “They could
have waited a day!”

“
Cause of
death?”

“
I’d say
probably cyanide from the description of the body.”

Dr. Astrades, the ME, was along. “I’d like to
give cyanide to the one who had to do this on Christmas! One day a
year without this kind of shit is too much to ask?”

“
Yup!
‘Fraid so!” Clint returned. Doc gave him the finger.

They went around to the back side of the
island where there were some very fancy houses. Most of them were
owned by gringos, but some, like this one, were wealthy
Panamanians. The Indio kids came to the boat to hug Clint. Their
parents all greeted with the “Feliz Navidades!” call.

Clint asked them what had happened. They
didn’t know. They weren’t welcome at “That place.”

So. The people weren’t liked by the Indios.
As amiable as the Indios were normally, that could say quite a
lot.

“
People
are arrogant assholes?” Clint asked Basilio. “Type who are
‘better-than-thou’?”

“
Better
than God.”

“
Just as
dead as they’d be if they were trash like us,” Moises said
sourly.

Sergio and Doc said they were going on to the
house. Clint could come up after he talked with his friends. They
knew Clint could get information from the people much easier and
faster than they could. The people didn’t like or trust officials
of any kind, far too often with damned good reason.

Clint chatted with several people. The kids
hated “those super-rich, super-religious, super assholes” in the
big fancy super-stupid house.

The house was certainly very much overdone.
Verandahs, lower level party patio, brick bar-b-que, wrought-iron
tables with glass tops, cupolas, etc. A very fancy steel and
concrete fence with spiked tips and razor wire. There was a big
fancy 38' boat on a dock that was certainly farther out and longer
than the zoning would allow. They’d cut a lot of mangroves along
the shore, which was totally illegal.

The kids said they were super-pious types.
They went around thumping their Bibles and reciting their rosaries,
then bribed officials the next day to go over the law. They treated
the locals like serfs. They had more money than the president, but
they were all sour and totally miserable in their personal lives.
They had nothing but money and money doesn’t love anyone. The
locals pitied them because they were so empty inside. They had
things, but didn’t have anyone who cared about them, so they had
nothing. The Indio philosophy.

Clint went through, noting the layout and
overdone everything. Ostentation of this degree was rare. Four,
count ‘em, four chapels.

He looked back from the house steps down the
hill toward the dock. Looking back, it was a peaceful, beautiful
view. The house and crap were dischord.

There was a row of shoes beside the door and
a notice that shoes were to be removed before entering the house.
Slippers were provided on the shelf inside the door.

Sheesh!

Clint slipped off his flip-flops and went
inside where he slipped on slippers from individual plastic bags
with the size marked on them. They were laid out very neatly along
a shelf to the left inside the door. Another notice stated that the
slippers were disposable. Toss them into the canasta under the end
of the bench when exiting.

Double sheesh!

“
This is
HORRIBLE!” Maribel Vasquez cried. “My husband MURDERED in his own
home! Oh, WHY did he insist on living out here in the jungle with
that bunch of SAVAGES all around who wanted to kill us all because
they are so JEALOUS of the nice things we have? Oh, WHY couldn’t we
live in Panamá City? WHY did he have to come HERE where these awful
pagan savages HATE us because we’re so SUPERIOR to them? Oh, WHY
wouldn’t he LISTEN to me and stay in Panamá City where we know so
many important people and can trust them? Oh, WHY?!

“
We DO
know almost everyone important in the government, you know. My
uncle is a very well-known representative and my brother and sister
are important lawyers. (This in a more normal snobby
voice.)

“
Oh,
WHY?!” (Back to the dramatic crap.)

“
Because
you couldn’t feel so superior to anyone when you were among your
own type,” Clint replied. “Is this group the only ones who were
here last night? Was anyone else on the grounds?”

“
Just
those PAGANS from that dirty village who come no matter what we do!
We can’t keep them OUT! They have some way to get past the fence to
STEAL everything we have!”

“
No one
from that village comes here to steal anything from you. They see
what you have and what it’s brought you and don’t want any part of
it. I take it you here are our only suspects?”

“
SUSPECTS?! SUSPECTS?! It was those ... those evil PAGANS
down there! WE aren’t SUSPECTS in anything!”

“
They
have no access to cyanide,” Doc said with a very sour look at them.
“You have. That makes you suspects.

“
Clint,
would you like to see the scene?”

Clint followed him to the stairs as Maribel
was about to faint from the INSANE idea she could be a suspect in
anything like this HORRIBLE HORROR!

“
That’s
your suspect list right down there,” Doc said. “The wife and two
kids and her mother.”

“
There’s
one more. I think this one is going to turn into a case where we
have to use some of the more modern CSI techniques than you have
here.

“
We’ll
make do with the older tried-and-true stuff. Can you seal the room
to where no one can come in for about an hour and let me
detect?

“
I know I
don’t have any real authority here, but I think I’ve seen something
that’s you’re too close to to see.”

“
You have
authority. Sergio hired you as an aide and consultant. I
countersigned the form. Where in this room is there anything? It’s
damned near sterile!

“
Clint,
if you need to know, he died between eleven and twelve last night.
You have authority. Go for it!”

“
Which
will work against them, I promise. My clues were in that lawn and
in the village.”

Doc shrugged and showed Clint what he’d
found. Carlo was laid out on the bed in a peaceful manner and had
taken a drink of juice that was laced with sodium cyanide. He was
dead in less than a minute. Nothing in the room had been disturbed.
The juice was on the lamp table by the bed. Vasquez was dressed in
tan pajamas and a mahogany-red smoking jacket.

“
Who
found the body?” Clint asked.

“
The
wife. She came to see what was wrong when he didn’t come to
breakfast precisely at seven thirty,” Doc answered. “Apparently his
habits were as strict and formal as everything else here.” He waved
and went out.

Clint looked through the drawers, finding
everything neat and orderly. The huge armoire had several expensive
suits hung with plastic covers on all of them, shirts ditto, a rack
of ties, belts, socks had every item precisely placed. The drawers
had underwear, handkerchiefs, etc. in neat stacks. The tieclips,
lighters, penknives, pens, cigarette cases and lighters had places
and were in them. The writing desk had pens, paper, pads, a
computer, printer, ink cartridges, CD trays ... everything
precisely in its place. Everything sterile.

That described the whole house. Sterile. Like
a picture in a magazine. A house, NOT a home. People resided here,
they didn’t live here.

Clint turned on the computer and read the
list of recently used programs, then to the MSWord program to see
the list of recent documents. He tried to bring up some of them,
but Vasquez apparently erased them from the documents file. The
latest was simply “document 1" and no record kept. The earlier ones
were named, such as “House 21" which was dated Dic. 21,
2008:14:52