Chapter 11
They sat across the table from each other in a small inn some might have considered quaint. It was said to have impressive gardens, but the darkness had prevented them from ascertaining the truth of those words.
Instead, they shared a quiet meal inside. It hurt Carlotta to admit the truth, but she had to confess that Linus Shepherd was right. Not to his face, of course. She wasn’t an idiota but she did feel somewhat renewed after the meal. She’d needed the calories, the energy, the hope that good, honest food could supply, and had left it to Shepherd to question their waitress regarding Sofia. The server, comfortably broad-hipped and solicitous, knew nothing but agreed to pass the inquiry along to the rest of the staff.
Lapping the last suggestion of gravy from her fork, Carlotta glanced across the table, only to find Linus watching her with raised brows and tilted lips.
“How was the steak?”
She gave him a casual shrug and pushed her plate aside. “Not as good as Mama’s.”
“Lucky for the silverware.”
She raised a regal brow.
“For a minute there, I thought ya was gonna eat the fork.”
She tossed her head. “It is not my concern that you prefer women who look like the…escobas.”
“Like brooms?”
“So flaco they could be used to sweep the floors.”
He leaned back in his chair, grinning, stomach as flat as a tortilla. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Anger brewed within her, but maybe it was infused with a dram of insecurity. Still, she brushed her hair behind her shoulder and reminded herself that she didn’t care what he thought. “I will never be one of those…” She paused to purse her lips. “…estrecho chicas you prefer.”
He chuckled, leaning sideways a bit to rest an elbow on the arm of his chair. “How do you know what I prefer?”
“I could fit Kelsey Durrand through the ring on my little finger,” she said and lifted the indicated digit.
“I’ll tell her ya said so.”
She shrugged again. “You may tell her whatever you so wish. I do not care what your ameguita thinks of me.”
Humor kicked his lips up another notch. “You think Kels is my girlfriend?”
“I care not of that either,” she said and, arching her back, stretched her shoulders.
“Keep doin’ that, and we’ll have to call in a medic,” he said.
“¿Qué?”
“That,” he explained and nodded toward her chest.
She glanced down. “Because of my pechos?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “Because of your pechos.”
“They are just the parts of the body, sí,? Like the elbow or the ear.”
“So ya just wore that heart attack outfit ‘cause it’s so damned comfortable?”
“This? No,” she admitted. “I wear it because it make men do as I wish. I just do not understand why.”
He snorted but didn’t argue.
“All I wish for is to find my sister. It is well worth the aching feet and rude stares.”
“All right.” The grin slipped a bit but didn’t disappear completely. Even when he’d teetered on death’s front door, he’d not lost his sense of humor. And perhaps, if she were being entirely honest, she’d admit that she admired that. “Let’s see it.”
She frowned.
“The postcard,” he said. “Let’s have another look.”
“Oh. Sí,” she said and began searching, pulling a paperback, an embroidered hand towel, and a screwdriver from her bag.
“What all do ya have in that thing?” he asked.
She didn’t deign to answer, but returned to her search, scrambling her possessions toward the bag’s opening before they disappeared again.
“Was that an electric saw?”
“Here,” she said and, placing the postcard on the table between them, shoveled the rest back into her satchel.
Shep shook his head and picked up the note.
He skimmed it for the second time. Then began again at the beginning, reading aloud. “Dearest Carlotta.”
“There!” she breathed, bending close and stabbing the cardstock with her index finger.
He looked up, perhaps surprised that she had already found a flaw.
“You don’t like your name?”
“Of course, I like my name. It is the beautiful name. But it is not what she calls me.”
“What does she call you?”
She paused, half wishing she hadn’t begun down this road, but her sister’s safe return was all that mattered. “Mandón,” she said.
He repeated it slowly with a quizzical lilt.
She nodded and wiped the condesation from her empty beer mug. “Your country, it is short on the hops, perhaps?”
It took him a moment to catch her meaning but in a second, he motioned toward a waiter.
“Yes, sir?”
“Another beer for the lady, please.”
“Oh, no,” she demured, then shifted her head slightly, “unless you wish for one.”
His glass was still half full and, for a second, she thought he might laugh at her, but he remeained atypically somber.
“Two,” he said, and the waiter hurried off.
Silence fell between them. He studied her in the quietude. “Bossy?” he guessed finally.
She fiddled with her spoon. “I have no idea of what you speak.”
“Mandón,” he said, and now his grin did break free. “If I ain’t mistaken, it means bossy.”
“Perhaps it could be translated such,” she said. “But this is not how Sofia mean it.”
“No?”
“No. It mean…motherly, wise.”
“If I remember my Spanish right, it means—“ he began, but she was already waving away his ridiculous interpretation.
“It does not matter. The point is here, she calls me by my given name.”
“So?”
“So, it is yet the other clue.”
“Another clue?”
“Sí. That she wishes to return to our home.”
He gazed at her. Perhaps, she thought, there was a bit of disbelief in his expression.
“It is the name she used for me when we were but children.”
He waited.
“Living with our parents in the safety of our little hacienda. But she no longer calls me such.”
“Uh-huh. So, how about this?” he asked and lowered his gaze to the note again. “My apologies for failing to inform you of my plans. What does that mean?”
“She could not inform me because she was taken against her will, of course, but she cannot admit this.”
“Okay. This? A friend afforded me a chance to visit New Orleans. I couldn’t pass—“
“Huh!” she spat. “Friend? What friend? I have contacted all whom were taking the classes with her.”
“Maybe she met someone outside’a school.”
“When? How?” She shook her head. “She does not have time for such frivolities. Always she has the nose in the book.”
“Things change. Maybe she needed a break.”
“She did not.”
“Carlotta—“
“And look at this,” she said, stabbing the postcard again. “You know how I’ve always wished to see this place. What does this tell you?”
“That she’s always wanted to see New—“
“But she has not! Do you not see? She had not yearned for New Orleans. And this about the lodging…never has she enjoyed staying at inns. They are too…what is the word?”
“Expensive?”
“No. What is it called when…” But she stopped suddenly to suck in a sharp inhalation.
“What is it?”
“Long ago, we traveled with Papa to Salvador. The inn at which we stayed…it was the ugly thing. But in the courtyard, there were many trees. Upon each tree was a dozen orchids.”
“Alright.”
“Sofia said the only thing that made it worth leaving home was the cattleya.”
“Cattleya?”
“Orchids. Lovely orchids.”
She expected him to argue. Or question. Or scoff. But he did not. “Your average Comfort Inn ain’t gonna have real extensive gardens, Lotta.”
She scowled. “What of those…what do you call them…breakfasts with beds?”
“Bed and breakfasts?”
“Sí. They would have gardens, would they not?”
“This ain’t exactly my kettle’a fish. But wouldn’t a bed and breakfast be kinda…. Personal? Don’t the owners live at them B&Bs?”
She nodded, seeing his point. “This devil would wish to take my sister somewhere she would go unnoticed.”
“With good desserts and beautiful gardens.” There might have been a fair amount of skepticism in his voice, but she ignored it.
“Sí.”
“Gotta tell ya, Lotta, in my experience, kidnappers ain’t quite so cordial.”
He was right. Of course, he was. He had nearly died as a captive in her country. But the circumstances were obviously different here. Different, yet the same. “He is most likely wealthy.”
“Then why would he—”
“And wishing to stay at fine establishments.”
“Even though he’s holdin’ a girl against her will.”
“Sí. He is the spoiled one and—“
“Are you hearin’ yourself, Lotta?” he asked. Then shook his head. “No kidnapper is gonna risk exposin’ an abducted person to others. Think it through.”
She sat in silence, wishing she could do just that, but the world had gone mad. “You yet believe I lie.”
His was a face where happiness lived. But worry troubled his brow, tightened his lips. “I don’t know what to believe.”
It hurt her soul to defend her veracity, but for Sofia, she would do just that. “I swear on my mother’s grave that I speak the truth.”
He watched her, cerulean eyes searching, then nodded. “Okay. All right.” He took a deep breath, released it slowly. “Maybe he’s in love with her.”
“What!” She reared back. “What love? He loves her so he has stolen her life?”
“Maybe love ain’t the right word,” he admitted. “Infatuation. Could be he’s obsessed with her.”
“With Sofia?” She snorted. “She is but a child.”
“Children grow up, Lotta. Maybe you’re seein’ her like she was and not how she is,” he suggested, but she shook her head.
“You do not know my sister. She is without interest in the distractions. She is sweet, innocent.”
“Maybe that’s it then.”
“Maybe what is it?”
“Intelligence, sweetness, innocence. They’re all qualities that could appeal to a man.”
What man? She wondered. In her experience, men did not value those assets so much as pouty lips and flirty words. “It makes no difference,” she said, pushing the possibility from her mind. “All that matters is that we find her.”
“I’m afraid we’re gonna need more information to do that. Even if you’re right and she’s in the Miami area, she could be anywhere.” Lifting his phone, he conjured up a digital map and tapped it with a blunt fingertip. “Fort Lauderdale, Hialeah, Key Biscayne, Cooper City. Hell, there’s even a Hollywood and a—“
“What you say?” Her voice was barely a wisp of breathlessness to her own ears.
“I said she could be—“
“What is this Key Biscayne?”
“It’s an island. A—“
“Not the pie.”
“What?”
“The clue of her favorite things! She meant for me to think of the dessert then know the truth. Don’t you see?” she rasped and took his hand in hers. “Sofia is on this Key Biscayne!”