Authors: Robert W. Walker
Cuba Blue (19 page)
She didn’t skip a beat. “I can’t stand that plastic smile he’s suddenly wearing. You called him, didn’t you!”
“Sweetheart, I’ve had no contact with the man since—”
“You did more than just call him. You scared him, didn’t you! And you told him to take me off this case.”
“No! I’ve not spoken to him since your promotion. But I tell you—”
“You might’ve given me a fair chance. But you…you couldn’t be satisfied with that, could you? Could you?”
Tomaso stepped away from her, located his favorite courtyard seat, climbed into it, calmly crossed his legs, and said, “Quiana, perhaps someone called Gutierrez, but I didn’t. Now come sit, and we’ll talk about this.”
Taken aback, she calmed down. His sudden relaxed demeanor invited her to sit alongside him. When she did so, their eyes met in a truce.
“What?” she asked.
“Some detective you are!
Think
! You know I’d do nothing to sabotage you. Have I ever betrayed you?”
“This is different, and we both know it. This isn’t a recital or a school grade or an entrance exam you can fix for me. God, this is a triple murder! And how I hate it when you interfere, making me appear stupid and childish. I hate it!”
Her anger reignited, Qui stood and rushed from the courtyard.
“Wait a minute,” he called after her. “We still don’t know who called Gutierrez! Sheeze….” His words fell on empty air, she was no longer in the courtyard.
Qui felt a pang of anger for losing her temper on her father’s birthday. Passing through the kitchen, she realized only now that Maria Elena had overheard their squabbling. This brought on a dose of discomfort. “You can’t leave him like this,” the other woman pleaded, “not on his birthday. Besides, I know your father. He no longer interferes like you think. We talked about it, Qui, and I swear, he didn’t make any calls.”
“Well…if that’s the case…I stand corrected. But I need to get away for a while and think things through. I’ll be back later.”
In spite of Maria Elena’s words, Qui turned toward the lobby door, hesitating a moment, glancing through the window at her father. “Like hell that old man made no calls.” She knew someone had influenced Gutierrez.
19
At the same time
Having entered the lobby of Tomaso’s bed and breakfast, Dr. Arturo Benilo involuntarily exclaimed, “
Madre Dios
, you are too beautiful, my beloved.” His heart had skipped a beat, so shocked was he at the sight of Rafaela’s life-size photograph hung in an ornate frame like a painting here in the lobby. More stunning than he’d remembered, she was the most attractive woman he’d ever known.
This photo must have been taken when all three of us were friends
.
Aiy, Tomaso, you always did know how to take a picture,
he grudgingly acknowledged.
Rafaela’s likeness graced the center of a huge mosaic—images of women that Tomaso had photographed over a lifetime, homage to beautiful Cuban women. Without question, Rafaela, blonde, blue-eyed, proved the most dazzling. As if staring from across time, and yet as if no time had passed, her vivid eyes peered lucidly, deeply into his. Her smile, so familiar. Tomaso had captured her precisely as how Benilo remembered, the image haunting Arturo deep within his soul.
She lives in this photo
….
Voices shook him from his reverie, but he wasn’t ready to let go of Rafaela’s likeness. However, a second glance and it was just a photo, beautiful yes, but all magic gone.
Must’ve been the lighting,
he speculated,
else she really was here for a moment
. As he walked closer to Rafaela’s image, he again heard raised voices, the loudest, angriest that of Tomaso’s daughter, the quixotic Quiana.
A door suddenly flew open and Qui, her face flushed, came eye to eye with Dr. Arturo Benilo. Perplexed, she demanded, “Wait a minute. What’re you doing here?”
“You invited me, remember?”
“Oh…yes, so I did. But I’m not sure how comfortable you’ll be.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Like you have trouble following a woman’s lead, doctor,” she said sarcastically, realizing his eyes were doing a little fox trot of their own, comparing her mother’s features with hers.
“You’re angry. What’s got you so upset?”
“You probably know perfectly well what he’s done, so why do you ask?” The thought that the call might have come from Benilo flitted through her mind.
“Is it Montoya? Did he give you a ring last night during dinner?”
She quickly studied his eyes to determine if he was deliberately dense. “No, it’s my father! He’s interfering in my life again!”
“You mean your case? A thing to worry
any
caring father.”
“But that’s just it. It is my business…my case, my life!”
“Don’t make your case your life,” he warned.
She ignored this and paced in a little circle of frustration.
Tomaso came through the door, and Qui turned to him and added, “My case, get it! My decision. Not yours.”
“I thought we settled this misunderstanding?”
“You’re my father, not my boss! I can take care of myself.” Then she turned on Benilo and added, “Now, you come to take his side—”
“Whoa! I’m not taking anyone’s side. I don’t even know what’s going on.”
“—and I already know you want me to drop the case. Every man I know wants me to drop the case—what is with all of you? Do you think I’m stupid, can’t do my job?”
“Did I come to the wrong door? I thought I was invited to a birthday party.”
Tomaso erupted in laughter.
“This isn’t funny! I’ve worked too hard to get this far.” Rushing out, she turned at the sound of both men stomping after her. “Both of you are exasperating. First, you see conspiracies in every dark corner, then you laugh? It doesn’t make sense.”
Tomaso lifted his hands in supplication. “Come back and let’s enjoy our dinner and our guest.” He smiled and nodded at his old friend.
“Come on Qui, no more talk of the case,” Benilo mildly pleaded. “It’s your father’s birthday. I brought a special wine from my collection.” He held up the bottle, beckoning her to join them. “I promise, no talk of conspiracies.”
“It’s a murder case, pure and simple… Well, OK, not so simple, but it’s not some huge governmental conspiracy either!” She secretly wanted to believe this.
“But, Qui,” Tomaso shook his head, “three foreigners murdered and dragged from the sea?”
“You’re doing it again!” Qui spun around, pushing through the exit, the door slamming shut. One of her father’s flower arrangements, which had hung from the door crashed to the terracotta tiles. Glass that’d held each flower in its own small vase shattered, spilling petals and solution, darkening the tiles.
Even the caged Cartacuba birds became quiet in the sudden silence.
“Damn, Tomaso, she really is like Rafaela,” Benilo said once the whirlwind had ceased.
“You don’t need to tell me that!”
“But you have to love that kind of spirit. You see it so seldom these days.”
“Yes, as exasperating as it is.” The two old men stared at one another for a moment and then laughed. “She’s like a force-5 hurricane when angry, that one,” finished Tomaso.
“How many times did you come to her rescue as she was growing up?”
“More than she wanted. She could always take care of herself.”
“How often did you have to rescue others from her own wrath?”
“All too often. By the way, I must thank you, Arturo, for getting me into such hot water with her.”
“What? Me?”
“She thinks I made a call to Gutierrez to ease off, which I suspect came from you.”
“Hold on. I didn’t call him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Good question.”
“We should talk about this.”
Tomaso replied, “Over dinner and that bottle you brought.”
“French. A Bordeaux. It needs to breathe.”
The two old friends spoke easily with one another. It was as if the nearly thirty years of silence between them had melted into mere days.
Benilo held up the bottle. “Enough for two old men to celebrate a long overdue reunion.”
“Come then!” Tomaso slapped him on the shoulder and led him toward the courtyard door. “You’ll meet Maria Elena, who’s prepared a feast, and Yuri, who keeps the old place operating and repairs everything in sight, including my computer and digital cameras.”
“Sounds like a fellow I could use around my lab.”
“And if you can stand it, I’ll tell you tales of Quiana that will curl your hair.”
“What about her having left in a huff? Aren’t you worried?”
“Bahhh… we’ll have her share of the wine and birthday cake. Don’t worry. She’ll come back later when she has danced off her anger—”
“Ahhh…she dances.”
“In more ways than I can count, yes.”
“Will she be all right? I’m sorry for this turmoil.”
“Nonsense—she’ll be back, I tell you. Perhaps she may even apologize. She doesn’t like Gutierrez’s new attention, or intentions, or something of the insincerity in the man.”
The two laughed at this. They’d known Gutierrez for a long time, and each had always thought him a fool.
They walked easily, comfortably into the courtyard. The afternoon sun drenched them with rays filtered through the Royal Palm and lemon trees, where Tomaso poured each a glass of lemonade.
Benilo lifted his glass for a toast. “To Quiana and Rafaela’s spirit.”
Tomaso clinked glass against glass, adding, “Yes, to two beautiful Cuban women.”
This was the image that Maria Elena saw through the kitchen window. She smiled at the sight. She’d never met Dr. Benilo, but she’d heard so much from Tomaso, stories he’d shared with his daughter, Qui.
Yuri, too, had looked up from his work to see the reunion of two old friends. He thought,
At least something good has come of Quiana’s case
.
JZ drove lazily along the ocean front highway, listening to
The Buena Vista Social Club
as it blared from the car radio. On a lark, he’d signed a one-month lease on a cherry red ’57 Ford T-Bird convertible from the Havana
Rent-a-Classic
. The salesman had tried to push a huge pink-winged Cadillac on him that went for twice the money and twice the gas, which was scarce at the best of times and cost a fortune. While attractive for an oversize fifties car, it reminded him of something a Miami pimp would drive, so he’d passed on it, renting the smaller car instead. Having wanted to drive the classic T-Bird for years, the expense and difficulty of finding fuel seemed a small price to pay. No joke, Cubanos proved the best mechanics on the planet, attested to by the T-bird. The vintage ‘relic’ drove like a dream come true.
As JZ cruised the coastal highway in Miramar, he saw a black Peugeot parked along a peninsula overlooking blue sea and sky. As he approached, he thought how serendipitous it’d be to run into Qui Aguilera here, but he knew every Cuban cop drove the same model that she sported around in. He recalled how she’d so easily manipulated her car through the narrow side streets of Havana to arrive at the Varelas the night before. Seeing a figure in a light-colored dress that swayed in the breeze made him even more hopeful that it could be her; in the next instant, he saw that it was Qui. She pushed off from her car moving toward the water, her walk like her dance movements, rhythmic and seductive. JZ guessed she had no idea the effect her every step had on a man.