Nealy threw the dish towel at her.
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Aruba, the hub of the Dutch Caribbean.
Hatch stepped from the taxi, jacket in hand, his shirt and collar soaked with his own perspiration. He paid the driver, turned his travel bag over to a porter, and mopped at his brow.
Hatch took a moment to survey his surroundings. He loved Aruba because it was filled with pastel-colored buildings, windmills, divi-divi trees, golf courses, modern resorts, romantic restaurants, garden courtyards, and sugar-colored sand. A wonderful place to kick back and relax. Not a place to vacation alone.
Aruba, a desert island cooled by winds so strong that the island was dotted by the famous wind-bent divi-divi trees. Hatch looked over his shoulder. He could see the beaches to the southwest part of the island and the palm-lined oases washed by crystal-clear waters. He'd jogged the seven long miles of incredible white-sand beaches hundreds of times, his eyes on the calm waters that were so perfect for windsurfing, para-sailing, jet skiing, sailing, and diving. All of which he'd done each and every time he'd visited the island.
Hatch closed his eyes, trying to picture Nealy and himself in these lush surroundings. Maybe when the Belmont was over he would suggest coming here for a little R & R. He blinked. This was no time to get sidetracked. He was here on a mission: to find Willow Bishop, who, according to the latest monthly report from the firm's detective agency, was working as a master chef at the island's most prestigious hotel and resort, managed by a friend of his.
He needed to get into some island attire so he would blend in, but first he needed a shower. Then he would call down to the manager, whom he'd represented several times over the years. Claude Yokim loved to talk and no doubt would share what he knew about his new chef.
“Hatch, is that you?” a man every bit as tall and muscled as Hatch said as he clapped him on the back. “What are you doing here, buddy? Why didn't you call ahead? Listen, the penthouse suite is yours. How long are you staying?”
“A day and a half at the most. This was a last-minute business thing. Figured I'd come myself and save the firm a lot of hours. I was going to shower and give you a call. How about a drink, in say, thirty minutes. I'll meet you at the Tiki Bar.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Yokim said. “Do you have dinner plans? We have a five-star chef.”
Bingo! A familiar rush of excitement coursed through Hatch's veins. “You're kidding me! How did that happen? What's his name? Anyone I know?”
“He's a she, and her name is Willow Ryan. She was cooking at the Ritz Carlton and I snagged her away on orders from two of the owners of this fine establishment. I had to pay her some big bucks, but it was the best move we ever made. We have reservations months in advance. So, are you free for dinner?”
“I am now. See you in thirty minutes.”
Yokim snapped his fingers. A bellhop appeared out of nowhere. “Take Mr. Littletree and his baggage to the penthouse.” The minute Hatch stepped into the elevator Yokim motioned to the concierge. “In thirty minutes I want you to send up our biggest fruit basket, a case of Foster's beer on ice, and a dozen yellow roses.”
“Yes sir. I'll take care of it.”
“I'll be in the bar if anyone needs me.”
“Yes sir.”
Instead of heading for the bar, Yokim detoured and made his way to the kitchen. “Willow, I'm having a guest for dinner. I've been bragging about you to him. I want him to leave here eating his heart out. Tell me, what can you create that will make him drool and blow his socks off at the same time?”
“Can you give me fifteen minutes to plan something, Claude?”
“Take all the time you need. I'll be in the bar with my friend. Just have one of the cooks bring me out a menu when you have it ready. By the way, how's that playboy husband of yours?”
“Just as indulgent as he was the day I married him two and a half years ago, and I wish you would stop calling him a playboy. He's on my case, Claude. He wants to sail around the world and wants me to go with him.”
“I'll double your salary. I'll kill myself if you leave. Anything you want, a Porsche, diamonds, a tiara. Name it.”
The chef smiled. “Now look what you did. You didn't wait for the rest of what I was going to say. I get seasick. That means I'm not sailing around the world, Claude. I like that double my salary business, though, and a new Porsche sounds lovely. A girl can never have enough diamonds. However, my husband gives me those, so you're off the hook on that one.”
Claude stared at the young woman standing in front of him. He forced a sickly smile to his face. “Done. Shall we add ten more months to your contract to safeguard my investment?”
“Whatever you want, Claude. Drop the contract by the kitchen before I leave this evening and I'll sign it. You have to get out of here now so I can think and plan a menu for you. This friend must be pretty special.”
For the first time, Claude noticed how cold and calculating his chef's eyes were. They became more so as he expounded on his and Hatch's friendship. His stomach turned into a giant knot when she asked, “Just how rich is rich? Richer than my husband?”
A devil perched itself on Claude's shoulders. “Ten times over, Willow. And he's a widower.”
“How interesting. You'll have to bring him back to the kitchen after dinner. I'll look forward to meeting him.”
“Yes, I'll do that. Work on that menu, Willow.”
The chef made shooing motions with her hands. Claude retreated from the kitchen to make his way to the bar, where he ordered a double scotch on the rocks. How in the hell was he going to explain the salary increase and the Porsche to the owners?
“Hey, buddy, you look like you're at a wake. Did something happen in the last half hour?” Hatch asked, sitting down at the table across from Claude. “C'mon, we have some serious drinking and catching up to do here. Foster's,” he said to the bartender.
“In a way, I suppose. I think I just caught my dick in the wringer. The owners aren't going to be too happy with me, but they're the ones that insisted she be hired in the first place.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“The chef. I screwed up. She's a money-grubbing bitch, but I can't afford to lose her. You know this is a dog-eat-dog business. This is what happened . . .”
“You're not kidding you got your dick in the wringer,” Hatch said, signaling for a second beer. “Where in hell did the Ritz Carlton get a five-star chef anyway?”
“Hell, I don't know for sure if she's a five-star chef or not. The owners said she was. She said she was. She cooks like she's one.”
“Don't you have to have certificates, diplomas, and attend those fancy cooking schools in Europe? Aren't they supposed to hang all that stuff in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, they are. When I asked about them, she said she kept forgetting to bring them in. When I brought it to the owners' attention they told me to leave it alone. Everything is the bottom line, you know that. I know when not to rock the boat, and I know who signs my checks and hers, too. The woman brings in customers by the drove. I told you, our dining room is booked six months in advance because of her. Because of her this resort is the best on the island. If she goes, we become just like the rest. It's amazing how important good food and wine are to some people. That's another thing, she's an expert on wine. Listen, you'll judge for yourself tonight at dinner.”
“She's married, huh?”
“Yeah, some land developer. He's well-off but not as well off as you. I'm not even sure he's rich. She says he is. She married him here at the resort. Didn't know him long at all. He was coming here every night to eat and finally asked to meet her and wallah, three weeks later they got married. She says he doesn't want her to work but that's bullshit in my opinion. She's got a story, but I don't know what it is.”
“What was her name before she got married?” Hatch asked, draining his second bottle of beer.
Claude shrugged. “Some long Polish-sounding name. Willow Wojoloskey or something like that. Why?”
Hatch reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph Nick had given him. “Is this your chef?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that's Willow. Where did you get that picture?”
Hatch told him.
“Oh, Christ, does that mean you're taking her back to Santa Fe? If you do that, I might as well start looking for another job.”
Hatch shook his head. “No, that's not what it means: I just want to be able to tell the kid where his wife is. What he does with that information is up to him. You said she got married here. Was the minister real?”
“Hell, yes, he was real. Man, we went all out, compliments of the house.”
“That makes her a bigamist then. The kid doesn't know this, but his mother told me when Willow went to see her she told her she was cutting off Nick's trust fund. Willow worked at that farm, knew and heard what was going on. She probably set her sights on Nick and thought she'd hit the mother lode. When she found out his ma was cutting him off, she split. The kid has a right to know, Claude. He needs to get on with his life.”
“You're right about that. Jesus, I hate the thought of updating my résumé. I'm too old for this shit,” Claude said, ordering another round of drinks.
“I can steer you onto something if you're interested, Claude. A friend of mine, Metaxas Parish, owns among other things, six restaurants. Real high-end. I told you about him. He's one of the richest men in the world. I know for a fact he's looking for someone to take over and manage the restaurants. If you're interested, I'll put in a good word for you.”
“I'm definitely interested. Thanks, Hatch.”
“Do you by any chance have any of the pictures from your chef 's wedding? You guys must have taken pictures.”
“We have a whole album. Now that you mention it, she didn't like the idea, but the owners insisted. It's in the office. Do you want to see it?”
“Not right now. Have someone take it up to my room. I'd like to borrow it if you don't mind. I will return it to you.”
“Sure. Wait here a minute. I'll be right back.”
Hatch leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach. What was this going to do to Nick? The kid was tough. He'd been a real trouper these past few years. He never once complained, even when he was dead on his feet. The big question was, how tough was his heart? Willow was his first real love. He'd be wounded to the quick. How astute of Nealy to see through the girl. It was that woman thing. His wife had had it, too. She'd seen through her rich childhood friend Callie, but none of her other friends had. Sela was always on the money. Just like Nealy. Damn, they were alike in so many ways and yet unlike in others.
Claude returned to the bar at the same time as one of the chefs bearing a single sheet of white paper.
“Ah, our menu. Let's see what culinary delight our little witch is going to prepare for you. By the way, this might be a stupid question, but does she know about you? On the off chance she does, shouldn't we come up with another name when I introduce you?”
“I don't know if Nick ever mentioned my name to her. We've never met face-to-face. Introduce me as Hank Mitchum. Hank is one of my partners. On the other hand, Nick might have talked about the firm and the partners to her. Introduce me as Steve Alexander to be on the safe side. So, what's for dinner?”
“She's giving us choices. We check off what we want. How does this sound? Salat pilpelim. That's a sweet pepper salad. Kallaloo. It's a green soup made with young green leaves of plants like tannia and taro. Basically a seafood and pork dish as a main course or boiled fish with onion sauce and fungi. It's a Caribbean dish and real popular here. Fried plantains, pigeon peas with rice served with little meat pies. Another Caribbean dish. Persimmon pudding with fresh whipped cream for dessert or Charlotte à la Framboise. It's a raspberry Charlotte. Oh, here at the bottom she added saumon aux poireaux. Filet of salmon with stewed leeks. Does anything appeal to you?”
If he hadn't been sitting in exactly the position he was sitting in, half-turned to the doorway of the Tiki Bar, he wouldn't have seen the kitchen door crack open just enough for someone to peer through the narrow opening. Willow?
“Not really, Claude. I'm not into all that fancy-dancy cooking. What are our chances of getting a good T-bone steak with a twice-loaded baked potato and a green salad?”
“I'd say they're pretty good.” Claude scribbled their choices underneath the chef 's menu before he drew a large X through the rich dinner choices. He added the words “FOR TWO” at the very bottom of the page, then signaled the bartender to take the menu to the kitchen. “Now what?”
“Now we wait for dinner,” Hatch said, holding up his empty beer bottle for the waiter's inspection.