Authors: Kate Wilhelm
Even as she admired the display, she was aware that behind some sliding glass doors to the verandah, men were standing, keeping an eye on them. Maybe they were afraid David would pull a gun from his bag and start shooting, she thought. Or maybe they suspected she might try to steal a bloom, or a whole plant.
“This is a special flower,” Ronstadt said, stopping to indicate a hanging orchid that at first glance looked almost transparent. One of the single large blooms, it was a pale violet pink, with two parallel streaks of bright red on the petals.
“We'll start with it,” David said. He opened his case and brought out a camera, took the tripod from Ronstadt, and set it up, then took the screen and unrolled it.
Barbara had thought he wanted it behind the flowers, but he asked her to hold it to one side of the one he was studying. “The idea is to diffuse the light, soften it. Let's have a look,” he said after positioning her with the screen.
He returned to the camera and peered at the orchid through his viewfinder, motioned her to move to the left. “Just an inch or two,” he said, and looked again. He made adjustments, motioned her to move again, and finally he snapped four or five shots. Then he started the whole process over from a different angle. He was meticulous, painstaking, maddeningly so, she thought after several more shots had been taken. Her arms would be sore, were already protesting with warming muscles. His concentration was so intense that she felt she had become no more than another tool of the trade, a variation of his tripod, and she doubted that he was even aware of Ronstadt any longer.
The next orchid Ronstadt selected was so dark it was almost black, a velvety dark red, sensual, with an elusive fragrance, mildly spicy.
“We have at least two hundred and fifty native orchids here,” Ronstadt said. “I mean in the country. This collection contains most of them, and we find and add more from time to time. Mrs. Santos was a collector, you know. She spent days at a time out in the forest and never failed to bring back a rare and beautiful plant. Never.”
David appeared oblivious to his monologue.
“Mrs. Julius Santos?” Barbara asked.
“No, no. Augustus Santos's wife. She died years ago, but she started the collection. And she brought me in to identify some of her plants, although she was very good herself. Never trained, but self-taught and dedicated. She found that one.” He pointed to the dark red orchid that apparently was giving David a hard time as he arranged and rearranged the screen, adjusted his camera and readjusted it.
“So you've been tending them for all those years?” Barbara asked. What she wanted to do was put the damned screen down and relax her arm, but she continued to hold it exactly where David told her to.
“Yes. I was teaching at the university and she called and asked me to come have a look. I was stunned. Stunned. It was already the finest private collection possible, and she said she had only recently started. We explored the forest together often, running down hints that one or the other had overheard, or had suggested. Often, she brought her two little girls along, and they both became very adept also, very knowledgeable.”
Jesus, Barbara thought, she wanted to get this man alone and ask a thousand questions. He knew the history. He had been part of the history. Now he worked for Julius Santos. Did he know his history, also? What did he know about Augustus Santos's death?
David snapped a dozen or more shots and they moved on down the verandah. The next spray of flowers was twelve inches from top to bottom, gold and copper colored, with an extravagantly frilled edge.
“We found this one together,” Ronstadt said happily. “It was on the edge of a lagoon, and it continues to be a water hog. It requires watering three times a week.”
“After Mrs. Santos's death, it seems that Mr. Santos continued to maintain the collection,” Barbara said. “Was he a connoisseur also?”
“No. Actually he had little interest in them, but when she was so ill, near the end, she asked him to allow me to tend them just as I always had, and he honored her request. I fear that Mr. Julius Santos, without that sentimental attachment, will no longer do so, and may actually sell off the whole collection. It is worth many thousands of dollars, of course.”
He continued to talk as David focused his camera and took his shots. Ronstadt, retired from the university, was the director, he said, of the botanical gardens in Belize City, and he was trying to find funds to make the acquisition, if it materialized, as he assumed it would. “But we are a poor country,” he said, his voice tinged with sorrow, “and I fear it will not happen and they will leave the country, perhaps go to a millionaire's estate in France, or even in the United States.”
They moved on to the next favorite of his, and he continued to talk about the orchids, David continued to work, and Barbara continued to struggle to hold the screen.
Then, her gaze wandering past David, she glimpsed, peering out from one of the glass doors, the man who had called himself Nicholson in Eugene, and who had represented himself as an official from the Drug Enforcement Agency. He vanished almost as fast as she caught the glimpse.
She nearly dropped the screen, and she ducked her head, hoping the wide brim of her hat had shadowed her face enough to make him doubt his recognition of her.
“My dear Ms. Holloway, are you all right?” Ronstadt asked.
“Barbara, what's wrong?” David said, leaving his camera. He took the screen and studied her face.
“I'm fine,” she said. “My arm muscle cramped for a second. It's fine now.”
“No, it isn't,” David said. “You're too hot, and that's a punishing position to hold in this heat. I have enough of this one. I'll get some wide-angle shots while you rest a few minutes. You and Dr. Ronstadt move back away from the rail, where it might be a little cooler.”
“I'll bring you a glass of water,” Ronstadt said. “One not yet acclimated doesn't realize how dehydrating and debilitating this heat can be.” He hurried away, and Barbara stood close to the house, where she was not visible to anyone looking out the windows and doors. Although her gaze was fixed on watching David remove the lens from his camera, open the second bag, and bring out a different lens, her mind was racing with the implications of what she had seen.
Nicholson must have recognized her, or why would he move out of sight so quickly? None of the other men who watched had cared if they were seen, but he had vanished in a flash. He knew whom he had seen. But why here? In Santos's camp apparently. Working for him? A double agent of some kind? Simple corruption?
You don't have a clue what you're stepping into.
Bailey's words of warning came to mind again. He got that right, she thought. He damned well got that right.
And Ronstadt. What was his position here? Apparently he believed that Julius Santos was master of the estate, in charge, that it would be his decision to sell the orchids. Was Ronstadt a faithful retainer, loyal to the Santos name, unaware of the problem with Anaia? Barbara felt as if she was whirling about in the dark without a clue about an exit.
Ronstadt returned with a tall glass of cold water and assured her it was safe, bottled water. He still looked concerned, as if he wanted to hold the glass for her, to fan her, or escort her to a chair or something. He was behaving almost exactly the way her father would have in this situation, she thought with both surprise and confusion.
“Dr. Ronstadt,” she said, thinking of the pleasure Frank was finding in writing his book about cross-examinations, “I'd like to make a suggestion. Since you are so intimately aware of the history of so many of the orchids, and as someone professionally qualified to write a book about them, why don't you do so? Write a book, giving the history of various orchids, who found them, where, with complete scientific identification concerning taxonomy, of course, but a more personal account than just that. Your personal account. I assume you have taken many pictures of your own over the years and certainly they would be included, or perhaps a professional photographer such as David could supplement your own photographs.”
He looked bewildered and even intimidated by her suggestion. “But who would purchase such a book? Who would publish it? Why would a publisher want to publish it?”
“There are niche markets,” she said, remembering a similar conversation she'd had with Frank. “Professionals in the field, of course. Supplementary reading for classrooms, and a small but significant lay audience. Not a massive bestseller, of course, but a steady seller for what is called the backlist for enthusiasts. It certainly would be a beautiful book, ideal for gift-giving to like-minded people.” More slowly she added, “It would not make much money, I imagine, but there is compensation that has nothing to do with money. It seems that a labor of love communicates exactly that message to others, who reciprocate in a like manner. I believe doing such a book would bring you great happiness, Dr. Ronstadt.”
He looked away from her, and for several minutes neither spoke again. David was kneeling, evidently taking shots of the orchids in pots on the verandah floor. He had ranged back and forth, shooting upward, straight down the verandah, in many different positions, snapping fast, moving on, again with the same kind of concentration he had shown in the close-up shots. He had gone the short distance to the corner of the verandah and had aimed his camera down the west side, and then returned.
Finally Ronstadt looked at her again, and he said, “I'm an old man, Ms. Holloway. Seventy-two. Such a work should not be rushed. I'm afraid there would not be time to do it properly.”
“Then perhaps you should start right away,” she said.
He studied her intently, the many folds and creases of his face seemed to have deepened, or his face was reflecting his inner conflict. He nodded. “I should start,” he said softly, wonderingly. Then he smiled the same big welcoming smile that had greeted their arrival. “Yes. I should get started. Ms. Holloway, thank you. Thank you. I must get started right away.”
David came to them shortly after that. “Ready for a couple more?” he asked Barbara.
“Of course. Arm's all rested up. Which way?”
“Let's try the east side. It's too hot over there. The sun's blazing down on the west verandah.”
He changed the camera lens to the original one, and they walked back toward the table where the broncos and Santos were talking. The broncos had bottles of beer, and Ben was leaning forward with a very earnest expression. Bobby looked a little bored, and Santos was leaning back in his chair with an unreadable look on his patrician face. They walked past without speaking and went around the corner to the east side of the verandah, where the same kind of overwhelming profusion of orchids awaited.
This time Ronstadt insisted on holding the screen, and Barbara was glad to let him do it, content to be an idle observer. She did not look again at the sliding doors. They seemed to open to every room in the building, and they were all screened. Depending on how much the air cooled after sunset, it could be quite pleasant even without air-conditioning, if that were the case.
David took close-ups of three more orchids that Ronstadt directed him to, explaining a bit of the history of each one as David made his adjustments, took the shots. At last David stepped back from the camera and stretched.
“I guess that's it,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We've gone ten minutes over the hour. Not bad. Let's see if it's time to skedaddle.”
Santos rose and glanced at his own watch when they returned to the table. Again he bowed to Barbara. “Please, you've done your work, now perhaps you would like a cooling drink?”
She was still holding the water glass, emptied, and put it on the table. “No, thank you,” she said, retrieving her beach bag. “Dr. Ronstadt was kind enough to give me a drink of water.”
The broncos stood and Bobby drained his bottle of beer. “It's really good local beer,” he said to no one in particular.
“Mr. Santos, we appreciate this opportunity to talk to you and explain our project,” Ben said. “Thank you very much. If you'd like a copy of David's photographs, we'd be happy to send them.”
Santos shrugged. “Perhaps Dr. Ronstadt would like copies. It's been my pleasure, gentlemen. I trust we shall meet again.”
He did not accompany them to the Jeep, but remained standing by the table and watched. Ronstadt carried the tripod and Barbara the screen, again rolled up. He opened the door for her as David put the camera bags on the floor and the broncos settled into the backseats.
“Ms. Holloway, it has indeed been a pleasure to meet and talk with you. And, Mr. Grinwald, I would very much like to have prints of your photographs. I learned a great deal today about how to take photographs and I am indebted. Thank you.”
“I'll need an address,” David said, standing at the driver's side door.
“The botanical gardens in Belize City is sufficient. I don't have a card with me, but the hotel has the proper address, if that isn't too much trouble.”
“I have a folder with the address,” Barbara said. “I'll give it to David.”
Again he thanked them, and then to Barbara's surprise he took her hand and kissed it. He backed away from the Jeep as David started the engine, and he continued to stand watching them as David made a U-turn and drove back out the driveway.
“What the crap, Barbara,” Bobby said, “I thought Santos was going to sling you over his shoulder and haul you off to the nearest bed. And now Ronstadt falling all over himself like that. These guys down here must really dig American women,”
“We're wasted on American men,” she said lightly.
The narrow road was as deeply shaded as she had suspected it would be without direct sunlight, and it was more ominous than ever, darker, more menacing. At least the howler monkeys weren't screaming. No sooner had that thought reassured her than the howling started in the distance. It was not echoed this time, and it was far enough away not to be ear-piercing, but it was even more uncanny in the gloom than it had been with brighter light.