Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

Brett’s cavalier attitude about Marta’s death bothered me. Plus, he was eating my chips. I kept going. “In a related story, Marta Vargas’ grandparents, Irene and Daniel Vargas, were found murdered at the same resort—”

The waiter interrupted me, depositing three perfect tacos in front of me and a beer in front of Brett. “May I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you,” I replied.

“Anything for you, sir?”

Brett tipped his head and drank from the bottle. “Another beer.”

When the waiter moved on to another table, Brett shifted in his chair and leaned toward me. “Look, I’ll see what the resort can do about getting your passport returned.”

I didn’t hold out much hope that the resort would do anything. “I called my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer?”

“Ruth Gardner with Gardner, Wilson & Bray.”

Brett paled.

I glanced at the time on my phone. “In fact, Ruth is due to call me in a few minutes.”

“You left early last night.” Brett’s changing the subject wouldn’t change the situation.

“I was tired.” Not exactly polite, but I’d had a rough day and he’d sat down uninvited.

“You missed a great party.” He took another swig of beer.

“I dealt with the aftermath.”

Brett coughed. Hard. As if the beer had met the wrong pipe in his throat. “Any idea what drug Marta Vargas took?”

“No.” I returned my second taco to the plate. I’d lost my appetite.

“Such a shame.” He shook his head. “She was a great actress.”

The likelihood that Brett had ever watched a telenovela or seen a Mexican film was nil.

Active dislike for the man at my table swept through me. “How is the resort going to handle the PR of an overdose and two murders in its opening week?”

A cloud settled on Brett’s face. “The reporters have better stories. We’ll keep it quiet.”

Did he really think he could keep murder quiet in the age of instant news? “There are hundreds of people here.”

“And very few of them know what happened.”

My phone rang.

“Jaws?” asked Brett.

“The ringtone? I thought it was perfect for a lawyer.” I picked up my cell. “I’ve got to take this.”

Brett tilted his face toward the sun. “I don’t mind.”

I did mind. I pushed out of my chair and walked away, pausing at a low wall where I perched and stared out at the water. “Ruth?”

“Poppy,” she replied. “What happened?” Ruth didn’t waste her clients’ time or money with niceties like asking after their health or family.

“I’m in Mexico and the police have taken my passport.”

The scratch of her pencil on a legal pad carried through the phone line. “Why?”

“An actress named Marta Vargas overdosed in my villa.”

“Did you provide her drugs?”

“No.” If anyone else asked me that I’d be offended but Ruth was being thorough. “I let her spend the night because she appeared to be afraid of her boyfriend. When I went to wake her this morning, I found her dead.”

“Doesn’t sound like too much of a problem.” More scratches on the pad. “What’s the police detective’s name?

“Hector Gonzales. I’ve got all his information back at the villa.”

“I’ll call you if I need it. Anything else?”

I looked around, making sure no one could hear me. “Just so you know, not long ago, I found my boyfriend dead of an overdose.

After a near-endless silence, Ruth asked, “What was his name?”

“Jake.”

“Last name?” A hint of impatience crept into her voice.

“Smith,” I supplied.

“What did he do for a living?”

“Something with the music industry.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“No.” I glanced over at my table where Brett was polishing off my chips and eyeing my remaining tacos. “I never really knew.”

“Okay. Let me get to work on this. If I get your passport, how quickly can you get out of Mexico?”

“James Ballester is down here. In La Paz. He said I could borrow his place whenever I needed it.”

“Good.” The staccato beat of her pencil tapping against the pad was so loud it almost seemed as if I sat across a desk from her. “Ask him to keep it ready.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you later.” She hung up without a good-bye.

The to-do list was short. Call James. But, as wonderful as James was, he wouldn’t (couldn’t) keep a secret from Chariss. If I told him what had happened since I arrived, Chariss would know within an hour. I could hear her now, “You’ve come up with a whole new genre, Poppy. Screwball-tragedies.”

I looked back at my table. Brett had helped himself to one of my tacos. I didn’t care. My appetite was completely gone and I was due to have dinner with Mia, André, and Mike in a few hours anyway. I waved at Brett, made an apologetic face, and pointed at the phone. Hopefully he’d think my call required me to do something so important I was willing to forego his company.

I followed the soapbush-lined path back to the villa, stopping to smell jasmine being trained up trellises. The resort really had spent a fortune on landscaping.

If the sunscreen, sunglasses, lip balm, and damp towels strewn around the living room were any indication, Mia and André had returned. “Hello,” I called.

“Shhh.” André’s head popped up from the couch. “Mia’s taking a nap.”

André was stretched out on the sofa as if he thought Mia had the right idea. I shoved his feet out of the way and sat down.

He eyed me critically. “You look pale.”

“I feel pale.”

“How did things go with Marta’s grandmother?”

“She died.” Somewhere inside me tears and sobs and real sadness waited, but I was too overwhelmed to feel.

André sat up, draped an arm around my shoulders, and pressed my head against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Someone beat her.” I covered my mouth with my palm. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t explain the bruises or the blood or the swelling or her pain. “When she died, I was holding her hand.”

“Do you want to skip dinner and stay home tonight?”

“More than anything.” Longing crept into my voice. “Do you think Mia would consider cancelling?”

“On Mike? No.”

“But—”

“Besides, remember Operation Cheer Up Poppy?”

“Ugh.”

“I’ll see if she’ll go without us. And if she won’t, maybe we can arrange for dinner here.”

Which meant a night of watching Mike and Mia casting bedroom eyes at each other with no way to escape. “That sounds good in theory but—”

“But the Mia and Mike show?”

“Yeah.” Mia and Mike. Friends with benefits. A mutual admiration society of two. They could be a tad wearing.

“Listen, I’ll go to dinner. It’s not worth the argument. But, I’m not going dancing. Will you come back here with me after we eat?” I asked.

“And deprive myself hours of watching Mia and Mike on a dance floor?”

He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.