Bossa Novas, Bikinis, and Bad Ends Page 3

  “Oh, come on, Gini,” Janice said. “He was just being polite.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gini said, “Miss I’m-Nothing-Special. All men react to you like that. I hope you know it’s the only reason we keep you in our group. We get more applause with you there.”

  Janice dribbled some of her margarita on Gini’s hair.

  “Wonder where Maria is,” Mary Louise said. “It’s been an hour and a half since we left her. That’s not like her. She was right on time this afternoon.”

  “We should call her room,” I said. “Maybe she got involved in something and can’t get away.” I pulled out my phone and asked the man at the desk to dial Maria’s room. There was no answer.

  “She’ll turn up,” Janice said. “It’s so lovely here. I don’t mind waiting.”

  We were listening to the music and enjoying the quiet of the late evening when the door of the hotel burst open and the lobby was filled with uniformed police. Miguel hurried by our table. Tina stopped him as he went by.

  “Miguel, what’s happening?”

  “It’s Maria,” he said, pausing for a moment. “She’s . . .”

  “Tell us,” Tina said. “We were waiting for her. Is she all right?”

  “She’s . . .” he stammered. “There’s been a . . . She’s dead.”

  Pat’s Tip for Traveling with Friends: Make sure

  one of you knows a few words in the language

  of the country you’re in.

  Chapter Three

  What’s Another Murder Among Friends?

  Gini jumped up, knocking over her chair.

  “What do you mean she’s dead?” she asked. “We just saw her a couple of hours ago. How could she be dead? What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know,” Miguel said. “I have to talk to the police.” He hurried to the lobby.

  The police officers surrounded Miguel, who was talking rapidly to the one who seemed to be in charge. Miguel pointed to us, and the man he had been talking to headed toward our table, led by Miguel.

  “Sit down, Gini,” Tina said in a low voice. “Cool it, everybody.”

  Miguel spoke first. “Forgive this intrusion, ladies,” he said. “There has been an unfortunate occurrence in our hotel. One of our employees—Maria, your translator—has been found dead in her room, and Senhor Pereira, chief of police here in Rio, would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course we don’t mind, Senhor Ortega,” Tina said. “We’d be glad to help in any way we can.”

  The police chief, who was about our age, with dark hair starting to gray at the temples, observant brown eyes, and a slim, muscular body, bowed and said, “I understand you were with Senhora Oliveira this evening. I thought perhaps you could give me some information about her—anything that seemed suspicious to you or could shed some light on her death.”

  We all looked toward Tina, our official spokesperson, the most articulate of our group. Even Gini waited for her to answer the officer.

  “We would be glad to tell you anything that would be helpful, Senhor Pereira,” Tina said. “Maria was our guide and translator and she took us to a—a—I don’t really know what to call it. It was a house with women—psychics, Maria said—who told us our future—and—” She paused, not sure how to proceed.

  “One of the women told Maria someone wanted to kill her,” Gini said, leaping right in, the way she always does.

  The police chief’s attention turned to Gini. “And you are?”

  “Oh, excuse me, senhor,” she said. “I’m Gini Miller. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it was so startling to hear the psychic—or whatever she was—say that. She told Maria that she had taken something from the person who wanted to kill her and that she had to give it back or she would die.”

  “How did Senhora Oliveira react to this?” Captain Pereira asked.

  “Like you’d expect her to,” Gini said, impatiently. “She was terrified. She believed this woman.”

  “Do you remember the name of the psychic who told her this?”

  “No,” Gini said. “Nobody told us any of their names, but she was the only woman there whose head was shaven. She was amazing looking.”

  “Did Senhora Oliveira give you any idea of who this person might be who wanted to kill her?” the police chief asked.

  “No, she was shaking all over. I got the feeling that she knew what the woman meant, but she wouldn’t tell us. How did Maria die? Did someone kill her?”

  “We won’t know until the medical examiner finishes with her.”

  “I mean, was she shot or stabbed or something?” Gini asked. She has the soul of a journalist. She always needs to know all the details of the circumstances she finds herself in. I find out more stuff just hanging out with her.

  “I can’t tell you any more right now,” Pereira said. “Any information about Senhora Oliveira’s death has to be confidential at the moment. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Gini said, but I knew she still had a million questions. She would never give up.

  The police chief looked around the table at the rest of us. His eyes lingered on Janice’s face the longest, of course. How could he help it?

  “Did any of you notice anything that might be helpful to us?” he asked.

  “It seemed like she knew who would try to kill her,” Tina said. “That’s just a feeling I had. Nothing she told us about. She started to say something in the car coming back to the hotel, but she stopped. She just met us this afternoon, so she didn’t really know us. I’m sure she wasn’t going to reveal any secrets about her life.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Pereira said. He turned to Miguel.

  “Would you please assemble your staff in your office, Senhor Ortega,” he said. “I would like to ask them some questions.”

  “Of course,” Miguel said. “If possible, senhor, I would like to keep the guests of the hotel out of this as much as possible.” He pulled out his phone to call his people.

  “I cannot promise you anything, Senhor Ortega,” Pereira said. “At this point everyone is a suspect, including your guests.”

  “I understand,” Miguel said.

  The police chief went into the lobby to instruct his officers.

  While Miguel was talking on the phone to assemble his staff, a stunning woman a little younger than we were got out of the elevator and ran up to Miguel. She had blond hair, which I’m sure started off life a lot darker than it was now. Her skin was pale olive, smooth, and wrinkle-free. Her eyes were dark with long lashes, definitely Asian. Her figure was slim with small breasts, almost nonexistent hips, and long legs. She wore a white silk dress with a mandarin collar. She looked annoyed.

  “What is happening, Miguel?” she said. “I couldn’t sleep with all this noise. What’s going on?”

  Miguel, equally irritated when he saw her, snapped at her, “There’s been a death, Sumiko,” he said. “Maria is dead. Go back to bed. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  “Dead?” she said. “What do you mean ‘dead’? Maria was too young to die. What happened to her? Did someone kill her? Tell me, Miguel. I’m not a child. I’m not going back to bed. I need to know what is going on here.” She snatched the phone out of his hand and held it behind her back.

  Miguel grabbed her roughly and tore the phone out of her hand. “I’ll tell you all about it later, Sumiko,” he said. “This is not the time to argue with me. I want you to leave me alone.” His voice was low and angry.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Miguel,” she said, pulling away from him.

  “Nice loving couple,” Gini said to me out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Do you think that’s his wife?” I whispered back to her.

  “Well, if she is, they have a very unfriendly relationship,” Gini said.

  Miguel noticed us talking to each other and reverted to his hotel manager’s expression and voice.

  “May I present my wife, Sumiko?” he said. “Sumiko, these
are the Happy Hoofers, the dancers I told you about who are going to perform for us.” He introduced each one of us by name.

  Sumiko glanced at us briefly, unsmiling.

  “How many of them are you planning to sleep with, Miguel?” she said. “That blonde first?” She pointed to Janice.

  I grabbed Gini’s arm before she could punch this unpleasant woman.

  Without waiting for an answer, Sumiko turned and walked into the lobby to speak to the chief of police.

  “She’s upset by all the turmoil,” Miguel said apologetically. “She’s not usually this rude. Please excuse her.” His frown said he did not forgive her. He moved a short distance away and continued to make calls on his phone.

  We leaned in closer to each other so we could talk without his hearing us.

  “Well, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Tina,” Gini said, and we all stifled our laughter.

  “Yeah, Tina,” Mary Louise said, teasing her. “Can’t you get us a job where everyone stays alive until we go home?”

  “You’re a rotten bunch,” Tina said, laughing in spite of herself. “Next time I’ll make sure one of you gets it.”

  “I think it should be Gini,” Janice said. “She’s the biggest troublemaker in our group.”

  “Definitely Gini,” I said, ratting out my best friend. “She probably killed Maria so we could be mentioned in The New York Times again.”

  “Well, you have to admit, it would be a great story for Alex,” Gini said. Alex Boyer is her boyfriend who used to be the bureau chief in Moscow for the Times. She met him when we danced on our Moscow to St. Petersburg cruise. They fell in love, and he transferred back to the Times’s New York office so he could be near her. He’s a fantastic guy. Very smart, loving, kind. He’d do anything for Gini. They’re planning to marry one of these days, but right now, they are having a great time together. He wants to help her adopt the little girl in the orphanage in India.

  We all love Alex because he loves Gini so much. Gini was married before but divorced her husband because he wanted her to stay home and clean the house instead of making prize-winning films and traveling around the world. His idea of an exciting time was watching football on the couch with beer and potato chips.

  “I think Alex would be a little annoyed to have to visit you in jail all the time,” Tina said. “But come back to the here and now, Hoofers. Do we stay here and dance as if nothing has happened or give up our fee and go back home? I need a vote.”

  “For heaven’s sake, let’s go back home,” I said. “I’m sick of people getting murdered all the time. Every time we dance somewhere, someone turns up dead. I want to go back to good old New Jersey where people die of old age.” I know. I was being my safe, unexciting, boring self, but therapists are supposed to be sensible.

  “Are you nuts?” Gini said. “Come on, Pat. We can’t go home until we find out what she died of. We’re all assuming someone killed her because of what that psychic said, but maybe she just died of a heart attack. We don’t know anything, really. We might as well dance. That’s what we do.”

  “Do you really believe she died of a heart attack, Gini?” I said. “A healthy, active, relatively young person who obviously had nothing wrong with her when she took us to that house. I don’t think so.”

  “Probably not,” Gini said. “But don’t you want to stick around until we find out what happened to her?”

  “Yeah, Pat,” Janice said. “Anyway, aside from the murder, you don’t want to leave Rio until we’ve been to the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain, do you? All we’ve seen so far is a bunch of strange ladies dancing and falling on the floor.”

  “Listen, Pat,” Mary Louise said, “it took me a week to persuade George that I could go to Rio and not get killed. We have to stay. Please say yes, oh wise one.” She put her hands together in a prayerful pose.

  I can never resist Mary Louise. She’s so sweet and dear. I’m always glad she gets a chance to get away from George once in a while. He’s such a . . . such a . . . man!

  “Oh, all right, you bloodthirsty Hoofers,” I said. “But next time we go someplace where everybody lives to be a hundred and two.”

  “Oh, that’ll be easy to find!” Gini said.

  “Then we’re agreed?” Tina said. “We stay and dance for our supper? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Everybody, including me, nodded yes.

  “We’re the Happy Hoofers,” Mary Louise said. “We dance through anything.”

  “Pat,” Tina said. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure, Tina,” I said, not at all sure of anything.

  Tina got permission from the police chief for us to go back to our rooms and get some sleep, with the understanding that we would be available to answer more questions the next day. Tina asked Miguel who would replace Maria as our translator and guide.

  “I’ve asked Natalia, one of our entertainers, to show you our city,” Miguel said. “She speaks perfect English and knows this city backward and forward. She said she would be delighted to be your guide.”

  “Thank you, Miguel,” Tina said, herding us all into the elevator and off to a good night’s sleep.

  Pat’s Tip for Traveling with Friends: It’s

  faster to ask directions from a native of the

  country than to wait for someone to find

  them on her smart phone.

  Chapter Four

  Thank You, God

  After a quick breakfast the next morning, we were scooped up by an effervescent, totally ditzy marvel of a woman named Natalia, who twinkled up to us, bright and lethally cheerful at that hour of the day.

  “My little Hoofers!” she exclaimed, shaking hands with each one of us, then giving us a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. To tell you the truth, I’m a little put off by this much familiarity so soon after meeting someone, but I squashed my unfriendly feelings and welcomed this flibbertigibbet of a woman with the rest of my friends.

  “I am Natalia!” she said. She seemed to talk only in exclamation points. She was a tiny little person with reddish blond hair swept up on top of her head, a face made up to startle the sun, and silver and onyx earrings that almost reached her shoulders. She was wearing a turquoise blouse with very tight white leggings and stiletto heels that no one else could possibly walk in, but she seemed to dance in place in them. I had my doubts about how good a guide she would be.

  “You would like to see the Christ on top of Corcovado Mountain?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she fluttered us all out to a waiting van and climbed into the front seat next to a man she introduced as Ramon. He was a sturdy, trusty-looking man who smiled at us and said, “Welcome to Rio, senhoras.”

  “Vamanos, Ramon!” she said patting his arm. “To Corcovado!”

  Then she turned to face us in the back of the van. “You will love our city,” she said. “It is so beautiful.” She paused. “Just don’t go out by yourself at night.”

  “Why not?” Gini asked. “Is there a lot of crime in Rio?”

  Natalia made a face. “Not exactly a lot,” she said. “But not exactly a little either.”

  “We don’t have to leave the hotel to find it, evidently,” Gini said. “Did you hear about Maria? She might have been murdered. Nobody has admitted that yet, but . . .”

  Natalia looked down at her blouse and flicked at something on the front.

  “Um—yes,” she said. “I did hear about Maria. That’s why I’m with you today instead of her. She’s—uh—you know—dead.” She examined her fingernails and sighed. “Terrible thing.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill her?” Gini asked. You can see why I love this woman. She always asks the questions everyone else is thinking but doesn’t have the nerve to express.

  “Turn left up here, Ramon,” Natalia said, squirming in her seat to look out the front window.

  “Natalia?” Gini said.

  “Let’s not talk about that just now,” Natalia said. “We are going to take the t
rain up to the top of the mountain and when you see that one hundred and twenty-five-foot statue of Christ, you will marvel.”

  She started talking faster and faster.” Did you know that one time a man—his name was Felix Baumgartner—from Austria—climbed up to one of the Savior’s hands on ropes and parachuted off it to the ground? Ninety-five feet! We couldn’t get over it. It was such an outrageous thing to do. People said it was sacrilegious. Every time I go up there I just am so amazed that anyone would try a stunt like that. Imagine! He jumped right off. Turn at the next corner, Ramon. No, not there. The next one.” She kept babbling on, waving her perfectly manicured hands around, poking at her hair, straightening her blouse.

  Gini nudged me and twirled her finger around near her head. She mouthed, “What a ditz.”

  Tina, our always gracious Tina, said, “We’re really looking forward to this, Natalia. I’ve heard about it all my life—how moving an experience it is. We appreciate your making the time to take us there.”

  Natalia almost fell over the back of the seat with relief. “It is my pleasure!” she said.

  Ramon pulled up in front of the entrance. Natalia bought tickets and ushered us all aboard the red and white, two-car train that would take us to the top of the mountain. As we rode up the steep trail through a thick forest, we occasionally saw some intrepid hikers climbing up the path that ran alongside the tracks. I could not imagine making this seventeen-minute train trip on foot in this heat. Gini was busy taking pictures of the city of Rio spread beneath us. The rest of us were listening to Natalia give a brief history of this mountain and the statue at the top.

  “Corcovado Mountain is 2330 feet high,” she said, “and its name means ‘hunchback’ because of its shape—like a cone. Long before the statue of Christ was erected on this mountain, Emperor Pedro II loved riding a donkey to the top of it. He decided to build a railroad track with steam trains that would take other people up there to enjoy the view, without having to ride a mule. The statue of Christ was created in France by a sculptor named Paul Landowski, who shipped it in parts to Rio, where it was assembled in 1931. Just the head alone weighs thirty tons and each of the arms weighs eighty tons. It was an amazing feat.”