she notice if he had on an emerald ring?” Hob asked.
“She didn’t mention it when she told me the story. But when I asked her she said yes, she thought so.”
“And what about the name?”
“The only words Dolores was able to make out were Annabelle saying, ‘Arranque—please, don’t!’ It was after that he slapped her.”
“Arranque?”
“That’s what she heard. Or thought she heard.”
“You’ve done very well,” Hob said. “It’s a long way from a positive identification, but at least I’ve something to go on.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Bertha asked. “I’m positively aglow with excitement.”
“A coffee would be nice.”
Hob followed her into the tiled kitchen. While she prepared the pot, he said, “Annabelle, told me she had been going with Etienne. Do you know anything about that?”
“Of course I do,” Bertha said. “Milk? Sit down right there and I’ll tell you. Etienne is the French name of a Brazilian boy who is staying on the island. The first thing you should know about Etienne is that he’s beautiful.”
“And the second thing?”
“That he’s rich. Or rather, potentially rich. Give me a cigarette and let me tell you the tale.”
When Annabelle and Etienne met at a party at Ursula Oglethorpe’s new townhouse near Santa Gertrudis, it was lust at first sight. These two beautiful, uninhibited people were made for each other—at least for that month. And it was springtime in Ibiza, with everyone sick of winter and prepared for summer romance. Etienne had just flown in from Rio de Janeiro. He and Annabelle looked at each other over fluted glasses of champagne, and the game was on.
They did all the fun things together: went to the discos, picnicked on the beaches, drank in the quaint little bodegas of the old city, visited Tanit’s cave, looked at the sunset from Vedra, walked along the old Roman wall and saw the cruise ships far below in the harbor like tiny toys on a wrinkled green sea.
When the pleasures of the island began to pall, they availed themselves of Etienne’s unlimited airline pass and went on a trip to Biarritz, Santander, Juan-les-Pins, and then across the Atlantic to Jamaica and even Havana. When they came back, something seemed to have changed. An experienced eye like Bertha’s could tell that a certain disenchantment had set in. Annabelle never told Bertha exactly what had gone wrong. But within a week, she was seeing Stanley Bower and no longer seeing Etienne. Soon after that, Stanley left for Paris. Etienne had retired to his father’s villa in the mountains above San Juan and had not been seen much of late. And that’s where the matter stood.
9
After showering and changing into the easy-fitting white garments customary for a summer evening, Hob left his finca and drove into Santa Eulalia. Finding a parking place only with difficulty, he walked back to Sandy’s, through the violet sunset. Inside Sandy’s, one platoon of the usual crowd was there. Sandy’s record player played baroque melodies of the Renaissance. Ice tinkled in Bloody Marys and gin fizzes. Diffracted light shone through woven straw baskets shielding low-wattage lightbulbs.
Hob pushed his way through the crowd, dense in the small room, and checked the mail piled up on the counter next to the bar. He wasn’t expecting anything, but you could never tell. He was surprised to find a flimsy blue envelope postmarked Paris. Opening it, he found a money order in the amount of ten thousand francs and a note. It was from Jean-Claude. The note said, with Jean-Claude’s customary succinctness, “Here is a partial payment on latest agency deal. Nigel has filled you in on details by now. He is also taking care of the other matter.”
Nigel in Paris? What agency deal? What other matter? Hob’s pleasurable reaction to the arrival of unexpected money—one of the greatest pleasures known to modern man—was clouded only by the unpleasant feeling that
K.M. Mahoney
David Lehman
Anna Quindlen
Elizabeth Rose
Vanessa Vale
Elizabeth Massie
Rachel Eastwood
Melanie Jackson
Kathryn Thomas
Alastair Reynolds