Gone Missin' by Peggy O'Neal Peden

Author:Peggy O'Neal Peden [Peden, Peggy O’Neal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2021-09-13T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-ONE

The ride to the spa was uneventful. The driver’s name was Jésus. I asked him to take us by Zihuatanejo Fishing Charters before we went to the spa, but no one was there. A note on the door gave the phone number. Jésus speculated that they were out fishing this time of day and assured me the concierge would arrange a day of fishing for me and the señor.

As we drove into the mountains, heat shimmered off the asphalt, an endless mirage ahead of us. Jésus did not remember Bitsy. He also didn’t speak much English, just enough to tell us he couldn’t help us. We didn’t speak much Spanish. Maybe this trip really was a waste.

‘Ah, sí, Señora Carter. Sí. No, I do not know.’

‘Have you heard anyone else talking about her? Does anyone at the spa have any idea what might have happened to her?’

‘No, señorita. I do not know.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘No one knows, but … banditos?’ He shrugged. ‘It is not wise to go alone.’ He had my attention. Observation or warning?

I showed Bitsy’s picture to Jésus. ‘Bonita, sí, but I do not know.’

Sam had leaned back against the cushioned side of the Mercedes and seemed to be asleep. So far, he was no help at all. Jésus talked about the spa and the region as we rose higher into the mountains, his mixed Spanish and English nearly incomprehensible in either language.

I made notes as I asked Jésus the names of the other drivers. Who might have been around the spa the day Bitsy arrived? Jésus didn’t know. Too long ago. How could Bitsy have gotten into town for the fishing trip? Jésus didn’t know. What did he think happened? Jésus didn’t know. Something about the set of his jaw made me wonder if he didn’t know or didn’t want to talk about it.

I considered trying to slip into our casita unseen just to see how Bitsy might have done it, but I was here to ask questions. To get answers to those questions I would have to meet people, build some trust, develop relationships. Might as well start at the front desk.

The suite was in my name, so I did all the talking at the registration desk, showed my travel agent’s IATA identification card, gave the hostess a business card. Sam hung back, still looking half asleep. He hardly seemed to be there at all. So much for the protection of traveling with a man, not to mention a police detective. I might as well have been alone.

Juanita was at the reception desk. Her English was accented but excellent. ‘Ah, yes, Ms Hale, your casita is ready.’ I had asked to be in the same suite that Bitsy had stayed in, and the resort was happy to comply. I filled out the usual papers. ‘Just follow Manuel.’ Manuel appeared, smiling, beside us.

Manuel led us back to the entrance where our luggage had been loaded on a golf cart decorated in the hotel’s signature azure blue, yellow and orange.

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