Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗
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How could I forget?
“Did you get my passport back?”
He cleared his throat. “No. I’m calling about Irene Vargas.”
“What about Irene?”
“She wants to see you.”
My heart sank to my ankles. I had to tell that lovely older woman about how her granddaughter died? “Oh?”
“Please come up to the hotel, we have a car waiting for you.”
“A car?”
“To take you to the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“I thought you heard me when I was on the phone at your villa. Someone broke into the Vargas’s room and beat them. Badly. Señor Vargas is dead and Señora Vargas is in critical condition.”
I searched for words.
“She may not have much time.”
“I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.
“What’s going on?” André asked from the doorway to the patio.
“Someone murdered Marta’s grandfather and her grandmother may die. She wants to see me.”
“Now? We just ordered lunch.”
I stared at him.
André winced. “That came out wrong.”
It sure had.
“What I meant was this day has been one crisis after another. You need to take care of you.”
“Later.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
I shook my head. “You have ceviche coming.”
“Mia can eat it. And your shrimp. Or she can put them in the fridge and we’ll eat them later.”
I walked up to him and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, but you know Mia. She hates to eat alone.” Then I called out to the patio. “Mia, I’m going to see Marta Vargas’s grandmother. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“What about lunch?” she replied.
“Save it for me.”
I hurried into my bedroom, dug through my hastily repacked suitcases, found a straw clutch, and jammed my phone and the villa’s key inside. Then I slipped my bare feet into a pair of sandals and called to Mia and André, “I’m leaving. I’ll call you.”
True to his word, Señor Silva had a car waiting for me.
The driver took me to a small hospital where a nurse led me to a bed cordoned off by curtains. Multiple monitors beeped every few seconds.
Just yesterday, Irene Vargas had been healthy and strong. Now she looked tiny and weak.
The parts of her face that weren’t covered with bandages were purple with bruises. Her left wrist was in a cast and tubes ran into her right arm. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
Who would do such a thing?
“Señora Vargas. Irene. It’s me, Poppy Fields.” I took the chair on the right side of the bed and gently clasped her fingers. Her skin felt papery thin and I imagined I was holding bones.
Slowly, Irene turned her head in my direction.
“You came.” She regarded me through eyes so swollen it was a wonder she could see me.
“Of course.”
“Daniel is dead.” Her voice, barely a whisper, carried more sadness than was possible for woman to bear.
I tightened my grip on her fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
“And Marta too.”
I nodded and my eyes filled with tears.
“These men that Marta got mixed up with.” Irene closed her eyes but the tears kept coming. “They are ruthless.”
I knew that. If I hadn’t, the beaten-near-to-death grandmother in the bed in front of me would have been all the evidence I needed.
“Marta got caught in the middle.” Her fingers stiffened. “Did she give it to you?”
“Marta didn’t give me anything.”
“They will think you have it.”
Fear crept across the antiseptic white floor tiles and wrapped around my ankles. “Have what? And who is they?”
“The Cartel—” she paused and her face tightened as if one of her wounds especially pained her “—and Mérida.”
I’d heard about Mexican cartels—everyone had—but who or what was Mérida? Fear slinked past my ankles, climbed over my knees, and coiled in my stomach. “What are they looking for?”
“They will think Marta gave it to you. You must get out of Mexico. Today.”
Easier said than done without a passport. “What does everyone think Marta gave me?”
“You need to run.”
“The police took my passport.”
The few visible parts of Irene that weren’t bruised paled. “I am so sorry my family brought you into this. You must rent a boat and sail up the coast. Do something. Get out.” Her fingers within the confines of my hand turned ice cold.
“Irene, you need to rest.”
She replied with a miniscule jerk of her chin. “Marta thought she could outsmart…” She turned her head away and a sob shook her fractured body. When she looked back at me, her face was wet with fresh tears. “Did she look peaceful?”
“She did,” I lied.
Something like a smile flitted across Irene’s battered face and she squeezed my hand. “You are a terrible actress.”
I’d heard that before. More than once.
Beeeeep. One of the machines went crazy.
The nurse who’d led me to Irene rushed into the tiny space and pushed me out of the way. Two more nurses joined her.
I let go of Irene’s fingers and retreated to the hallway.
Beeeeep.
There was a spate of rapid fire directions and then silence.
I didn’t need to speak Spanish to understand what had happened. Irene Vargas was dead.
I returned to an empty villa. Empty except for a note that said, We’re going parasailing Back by five.
So much for being there for me.
I glanced at my phone. One o’clock.
The villa’s emptiness swirled around me like a killing fog. My throat tightened and tears gathered on my lashes. I’d watched a woman die, held her hand as she told me—with her dying breath—I was a terrible actress.
Loneliness, which had been sneaking around since my arrival, plonked down on the couch, put its feet on the coffee table, and asked for a beer.
Nope. No way. No how was I sitting around the villa with loneliness.
Also, my stomach was making grumbly noises
I walked up to the hotel and found a table at the patio restaurant. The waiter magically appeared with chips, salsa, and guacamole. Ordering a margarita was oh-so tempting but day-drinking alone seemed more pathetic than watching television with loneliness.
I ordered mineral water and a fish taco.
“May I get you anything else?” he asked.
“Poppy! Are you here by yourself? May I join you?” Brett Cannon pulled out a chair before I could reply. “Those look good.” He jerked his chin toward the basket of tortilla chips. “Lunch?” He shifted his gaze to the waiter. “Modelo, por favor.” His Spanish sounded worse than mine.
I’d come to the patio to escape loneliness. Loneliness might have made me cry or hogged the remote but it wouldn’t have annoyed me half to death. Not like Brett Cannon.
Brett stretched his legs out underneath the table, leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his neck. “I heard through the grapevine that you had some excitement.”
Excitement? Not the adjective I’d use. “A woman died.”
Brett helped himself to a chip and dipped it into my guacamole. “I heard she overdosed.”
“You’re very well informed.”
“Just looking out for my investor’s interests.”
“Did you also hear that the police have taken my passport and that I’m furious. My mother will be furious.” Chariss wouldn’t care except for the legal bill. “James Ballester will be furious. Can you imagine the publicity we could generate?” I squared my fingers like a view-finder. “I can just see the headlines. Heck, I could write the copy. “Poppy Fields, daughter of Hollywood star Chariss Carlton, was detained in Mexico while staying at—”
“Stop.”
I kept going. “Ms. Fields only crime seems to have been taking pity on a woman being beaten by a member of the Sinaloa drug cartel. The cartel member was also staying at—”
Brett choked on his chip.
“Ms. Fields was staying at the same resort where international star Marta Vargas died of an overdose—”
“Stop!”
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