Drowned Under Page 19

  “Friends? Where did they make friends?”

  “Sauna? Sometimes it works for me. I reminded reception they needed to be back at the ship by five and had another cup of tea at the inn over there, where I have an arrangement.” He pointed to one of the outbuildings with fresh paint and a porch. “After the four hours were up, I headed back into town.”

  “But you’ll wait for us, right?”

  He nodded, beeped the car locked, and headed for the inn.

  “An arrangement,” I said. “What the hell does that mean? Never mind, I pretty much know what it means.”

  Doc put his hand on my back. “You want to tell me exactly why we’re really here, before we go in?”

  I wasn’t telling him anything else, in case he was keeping an eye on me. “To find out if the Manzonis ever left here, and if so, where they went. It doesn’t really make sense that they dismissed Gary, does it?”

  “It is a spa. They might have decided to stay.”

  “Let’s see, shall we?”

  We headed for the large middle building, passing signs with arrows that read “Hot Springs,” “Relaxation Center,” “Library,” etc. It all looked well-organized and harmless, except for the asylum for the criminally insane vibe. “Follow my lead,” I told Doc, as we walked up creaky wooden stairs and entered the airy reception area, dominated by soothing pastels and predictable Impressionist prints. Most baby boomers were imprinted with Monet’s “Water Lilies” in their youth, I figured.

  More soothing cursive pointed to Reception, where a serene-looking woman with a loose white updo and a long turquoise shift dress, smiled. “Welcome to The Fountain,” she said. “I’m Marion. Are you here on behalf of one of our visitors?”

  “Maybe. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” If I started out acting like the Manzonis had disappeared here, I might not get maximum info. “I specialize in senior citizen travel. I’ve heard rave reviews about your foundation, so I’m considering putting it on my list of Tasmanian destinations.”

  “Are you listed with the Australian Travel Agents’ Association?”

  “No. I’m from the U.S. Brooklyn. I have a long-standing relationship with Darling Cruises. Even with strong recommendations, I feel a responsibility to my vulnerable senior clients to see the facility myself.”

  “It’s quite interesting, what you did there.” A tall man with thick gray/blond hair, a pink button down Oxford shirt, and khakis appeared. His accent was about as Oxbridge as it was possible to fake.

  “Mr. Butler? I’m Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” Did he go a tiny bit pale when he heard his name, or did I imagine it? “I just read an article about you in the local paper. Congratulations on your research funding.”

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Redondo.” He had a low, evangelical tone to his voice. He turned to Doc. “And you are?” He wasn’t the only one waiting for this answer, since I realized I still didn’t know Doc’s first name.

  “H.A. Mathis. I’m the ship’s doctor. I believe we may have met before on board?”

  “Ah, yes, I have been known to do a seminar or two for them, over the years. We may well have crossed paths. You see, Ms. Redondo, my research is all about the effect of the infantilization of senior citizens. If they are your focus, you must value them, and yet you called them ‘vulnerable,’ like children or at-risk youth. You attempt to screen their accommodations for them as if they are toddlers. You may feel it is caring, but it is insulting and reductive. Here at The Fountain, we treat seniors like the capable, competent, highly skilled, and experienced adults they are, rather than as creatures who need to be coddled. They make their own decisions, they are never talked down to.”

  It would have been nice if he’d treated me like a competent adult rather than a pre-teen as well, but I took his point.

  “Yes. The Fountain of Youth is respect. Got it. I agree, Mr. Butler.”

  “Dr. Butler.”

  “Oh, I apologize, are you an M.D. as well?”

  “I have a PhD in Gerontology.”

  Of course he did. “Well, I agree with you, they are tougher and smarter than any of us, but of course some of them are physically frail and I need to see whether the facility can handle any type of physical problem my clients might encounter while here. So, would it be possible for us to have a tour of the facilities?”

  “May I see your AARP card? That’s the American version of our ARPA, correct?”

  “I’m thirty-two.” Both he and Doc weighed that statement, damn them.

  “Well, then I’m afraid not. We have a strict rule for employees, guests, and visitors, of a minimum age of fifty. That way, none of our clients are patronized and they don’t have to feel self-conscious in the sauna, the pool, or elsewhere. It’s horrible how modern culture judges older bodies.”

  “Yes, absolutely. But I can’t recommend the facility if I haven’t seen it.”

  “Well, that is your choice. Where did you say you were from?”

  “Brooklyn,” the receptionist said.

  “Brooklyn? I believe we have a Brooklyn travel agent who does referrals already.”

  “Let me guess? Peggy Newsome at Patriot Travel?”

  The updo woman ran her finger down a ledger, then nodded in agreement. “Yes! She’s recommended a large number of clients. Is she a colleague of yours?”

  “Peggy Newsome would recommend a tick farm if she got a kickback.”

  Pierce Butler moved forward and shook his head, as though to a three-year-old. “And again, see how patronizing your tone is, when talking of a middle-aged woman? Perhaps you feel threatened by her greater experience? Youth is a brief gift. It is not earned.” No, it’s not, I thought, but often a stiletto to the balls is.

  I could feel Doc’s hand on my arm. The phone rang. The receptionist answered it, then gestured to Butler. He gave a curt bow. “Lovely to meet you both,” and backed into his office, closing the door.

  I considered how to handle the receptionist. “I love the color of that shift. Did you get it in Hobart?”

  “Actually, a day trip to Melbourne. They have the most fabulous clothes in Melbourne.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. Any chance you’d share the name of the store?”

  “You know it’s probably in my phone. Would you allow me a moment?”

  “Absolutely.” I turned the guest book around and took pictures of the last five or six pages as fast as I could. “Block her!” I hissed to Doc, who moved between me and the hallway.

  I pretended I was finishing up a call when she returned. She handed me a card that read Christine’s. “It’s too expensive for me, really, but they have sales twice a year.”

  “Thank you so much. Just one more question and we’ll be out of your hair. Could you tell me how long the Manzonis stayed here?” I spelled the name for her and told her the day they arrived. She did a quick look and I could tell by her face she was lying. “They must have taken a quick tour without checking in,” she said. “It was nice of them to recommend us on such a short visit.” She looked back toward the office, then set a smile on her face.

  “Thanks, Marion. Give our regards to Dr. Butler.” I shoved Doc out.

  I’d just texted Gary when a figure sprung from behind the building. It had a pompadour. Ron Brazil stopped just behind a shrub and gestured to me. Doc hadn’t seen him. I said I was running to the ladies’ room and ducked behind the building.

  “They’re onto me,” he said. “They’re about four minutes behind. I’ll try to distract them, but you have to take Howard. I’ll text you when it’s safe to meet up.”

  He lifted Howard out of the Hello Kitty backpack and handed him to me.

  “Have you changed his diaper?”

  “I’ve been running for our lives. Get the hell out of here!”

  He put the backpack on and kept running toward the road. I patted Howard’s head,
rearranged the towel again. “Sorry, Howard. You’re going to have to be quiet even longer.” I found a new scrunchie and eased it over his nose. He curled into my purse and I zipped it up.

  Gary pulled up just as I returned. This time, I insisted Doc take the front seat and I slipped into the back, putting my precious cargo on the floor, where no one could see it wiggle.

  “So, more sightseeing?” Gary said. Doc looked at me.

  “Is there still time to get to the Salamanca Market before it closes?”

  “Just. It’s Christmas. Most of the vendors will stay late today.”

  As usual, the trip back seemed shorter. I developed a dry cough, just in case I had to cover for Howard. At one point, there was a thud. I hoped it wasn’t a wombat.

  I asked Gary to stop in front of the Grand Chancellor and told Doc I was going to run in and cash a few traveler’s checks, then head to the Market.

  “Want company?” Doc asked.

  “No thanks, I’ll be more efficient on my own. I’ll see you at the Drunken Admiral?”

  Gary rolled his eyes.

  “I saw that.” I got out, keeping my bag and Howard behind me.

  “Let me know if you need a ride anywhere else?”

  “I will, thanks, Gary.”

  I waved bye to both of them and ran for the Grand Chancellor lobby, eager to get Howard some water. For an animal activist, Brazil wasn’t very nurturing. I stuck a mini water bottle into Howard’s mouth as soon as I got into a secure stall. I was pretty much out of bacon.

  As I held him, I worried that he didn’t look so good. I hoped Ron Brazil would text me soon. With Howard securely back in my Balenciaga, I stepped into the lobby and saw the Unfortunate Shorts guys, enemies of all endangered animals, casing the lobby.

  They must have figured Brazil handed Howard off to me and followed the town car. Was there a back way out? I headed toward the underground garage, but one of them spotted me.

  “Hang on, Howard.” I ran out the side door, toward what, I had no idea.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I could practically feel the goons breathing down my neck as I ran down the hotel steps and considered trying to jump on one of the dozens of small boats in the harbor. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a museum. Uncle Leon pinged into my mind. He knew someone there. I headed to the parking lot, serpentining, then ducked behind a Jeep. I heard footsteps go by—the wrong way. I pulled up the notes section of my BlackBerry, found Amanda Heep, taxidermist, Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, and made a dash behind a brick wall and into the sandy courtyard.

  There was a sign for holiday hours—the museum was closing early. Damn. A security guard with the most contagious grin I’d ever seen was headed toward the entrance with a padlock. Careful of my Balenciaga, I slipped in before he got there.

  “Happy Holidays! My name is Cyd Redondo. I’m looking for Amanda Heep. Any chance she’s still here?”

  “Maki, nice to make your acquaintance.” He chuckled. “Our Mandy? She never leaves. Hold on a tick, I’ll give her a ring.”

  “Great. Maybe I should I wait out of sight, so I don’t confuse anyone?” I moved behind a rack of art cards in the gift shop while he picked up the phone. I glimpsed ugly shorts flapping outside the door. “You can go ahead and lock up if you want, I’d hate to disturb your schedule.” I ducked down further.

  He did. “You’re too polite for an American. Canadian, are you?”

  “I wish. We’re not all bad.”

  The red-haired thug banged on the door. Maki pointed at the hours, shooed him away, then went back to mumbling on the phone. By the time he gestured me up the stairs, my pursuers appeared to be gone.

  Ever since I’d read From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler I’d wanted to be in a museum after hours. I wished I were on my own, without the weight of an entire species in my handbag, but I needed to hurry for Howard’s sake. Maki walked me past Tasmanian devils, snakes, roosters, wombats, and kangaroos and straight into the Tasmanian Tiger Gallery. I gasped.

  “They’re something, aren’t they? It’s a feckin’ tragedy what happened.”

  Howard wiggled. Could he smell his ancestors, or was he was just sick of being squished? I patted him through the red leather.

  “So they’re really extinct?”

  “Enh. That’s what they say. I say maybe, maybe not. You hear rumors now and then, spottings and such. Remote areas. We live in hope. It’s our tiger you know, Tasmania’s. Mandy’s the one to talk to. Her mother lived in a zoo with ’em.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid. She’ll be right down.”

  As soon as he disappeared I took a real look at the room. The full grown, stuffed thylacine in the middle looked fierce and hyena-like. Two skeletons with their jaws extended, showed what Howard’s teeth would grow into. I was glad I’d met him in infancy.

  There was a video playing of “The last thylacine in captivity.” That’s what they thought. The tiger, pacing back and forth in that tiny, confined space, was maybe the saddest thing I’d ever seen. Howard starting wriggling in earnest. I couldn’t let him see this. He’d be traumatized for life. Then I found a picture of four babies, huddled together in a cage. They were the spitting image of Howard. I felt like crying and slumped to the floor to stop myself. In that moment, not even Ron Brazil aka Grey Hazelnut wanted to save Howard more than I did. My awe of what he was and what he meant, and my terror of letting him down shot up exponentially. How could I handle this responsibility all on my own?

  “Ms. Redondo?”

  A slight woman who might have been fifteen, if not for the laugh lines around her gray eyes and the dark circles under them, was at the doorway. Her hair was the same reddish brown color as mine, but perfectly straight and pulled back in a ponytail halfway down her back. She had better cheekbones. She was wearing a dark green smock with muck all over it, over cuffed jeans, boots, and a sleeveless blue cotton shirt. She looked like a cross between a fairy and a blacksmith.

  It takes practice to rise from splayed despair to four-inch heels, but I collapsed on the floor a lot, so I managed to rise without killing Howard. My head popping up from behind the skeleton display must have startled her. She backed into a glass case and shook her head.

  I came around and held out my hand. “Cyd Redondo. Redondo Travel. Thanks so much for seeing me.”

  She hesitated, then gave a solid handshake back. “Amanda Heep. Mandy.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. My Uncle Leon gave me your contact info.”

  “Leon Redondo?”

  “Yes. He said you were someone I could call if I got in a jam.”

  Maki poked his head in. “Everything all right, Mandy?”

  “Yes, absolutely. You can lock up and go home, I’ll take Ms. Redondo upstairs.”

  “Thanks so much, Maki. Happy Holidays!” He waved at me and ducked out. Amanda motioned me forward. At that moment, of course, Howard decided to do one of his keening things. She froze. I froze. She stared at my purse, which was bulging a little. I pulled it closer, Howard side in.

  “Seasickness. I have no control over my bowels, apparently.” She was still frozen. “Are you okay?

  “It’s just I’ve heard about the Redondos all my life. It’s like seeing a mythical creature, I guess. I apologize.” We were both still aware of my crying, shifting Balenciaga. Then Howard started pushing his nose against my Spanx.

  “What do you really need?”

  “Asylum,” I said. “And bacon.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Howard let out a howl. Mandy jerked me toward the back stairwell. “Come on.”

  After a breathless three floors, complete with an extinct marsupial soundtrack, we arrived in her office, which was half diorama and half torture chamber. Partially finished animals stood amidst bits of feathers, fur, screwdrivers
, and jars of tiny glass eyeballs. I grinned.

  Mandy closed and locked the door. “It doesn’t creep you out?”

  “No way. My uncle used to take me with him to work at the Natural History Museum. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.”

  “I did all my homework here, too. Please. Sit down.” I grabbed one of the wooden spinning stools and she sat on the edge of her desk. She took a deep breath. “That really, really sounds like a creature that doesn’t exist. So it can’t be, right? Because if one did exist, no one would keep it in a purse. Would they?”

  My purse leapt into the air. I barely caught it before it hit the floor. Howard was making it harder and harder for me to keep my promise.

  “Can I show you something?” Mandy reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a huge photo album. It was less dusty than the other books in the room. She wiped it off anyway and eased it open.

  “My Mum grew up in the keeper’s cottage at the Beaumaris Zoo.”

  “The one in the video?”

  She nodded, then pointed to a picture of a teenaged girl with a ponytail and a leopard on a leash. And there the same girl was, inside the thylacine cage. “She was the one who broke into the zoo to try to keep them alive. Later she became the taxidermist for the museum. That’s how she met Mr. Redondo, at a convention in Paris. 1966. It was her first time out of Tasmania and she fell in love with, well, with Paris. She never got back. It was her one adventure. Here’s a picture of her and your uncle.”

  It was a black-and-white snapshot. The two were standing with a group of undernourished men in glasses and worn suits in front of Montmartre, beside a peacock which looked real, but considering it was a taxidermy convention, might be stuffed. Mandy’s mother sported an Audrey Hepburn bob and Uncle Leon had, as ever, a sharp-looking, tight-fitting suit. They were laughing and leaning against each other.

  Of all the Redondo boys, Uncle Leon was the one who looked most like my late dad. Seeing him there in ’66 made me realize my dad must have looked a lot like that when he married my mom. I got a knot in my throat. Amanda had the same look on her face.