Really Dead Page 2

  “Where are you?”

  “Still in Machu Picchu.”

  “You never call when you’re away. What’s wrong?” Mel was a very direct thirteen-year old.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Dad wouldn’t have told her even if there was. “I just wanted to tell Dad about a spectacular hike I took this morning while it’s still fresh in my mind.” I hoped Mel would believe me and wouldn’t hear the fear in my voice.

  “Shouldn’t you be writing it down instead? I figure that’s what travel writers do, write about travel — not call home to talk about it.”

  “Thanks for the career advice, Mel. I’ll make a note of it, in writing. Now will you please get Dad for me?”

  “GANDY!” Mel screamed, without bothering to take the phone away from her mouth. “It’s Aunt Ria. Something’s wrong. She’s calling from Peru.”

  “Mel, nothing’s wrong, okay?” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or me.

  “Like anyone would tell me about it even if there was. Want to tell me about the birds you’ve seen while they’re still fresh in your mind?”

  Birds were the last thing on my mind but they gave me something uplifting to talk about while I waited for Dad. “I saw a Blue-crowned Motmot on the hike up the Inca Trail.”

  “You did?” Her interest in anything ornithological outweighed her sarcastic streak. “Did you get its call for me?”

  “I was able to record it for about two minutes. You were right, they do sound a bit like owls. And, you’ll be pleased to know, I even got a close-up of it swinging its strange looking blue tail feathers back and forth like a pendulum.”

  “Male or female?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t flip it over and look between its legs.”

  Mel sighed heavily. “You can tell a bird’s sex by its plumage, Aunt Ria. Everybody knows that!”

  I knew it too, but wanted to keep Mel’s mind off questioning the real reason for my call. “I tried to get a close-up of a Cock-of-the-Rock but he flew away before I could get him in focus. You can see his big orange head, but you can’t really tell what he is.” Thankfully, Dad picked up an extension somewhere in the house just then.

  “Ria?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “You two want me to hang up now, right?” Mel asked. “Then you can talk about whatever’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong!” Dad and I said in unison. I hoped he was telling the truth.

  “Yeah, right. Don’t forget to get me some shots of Blue-footed Boobies when you’re in the Galapagos. Maybe you should, I don’t know, write yourself a note so you won’t forget?”

  “Goodbye, Mel,” Dad and I spoke in unison, again.

  I heard the click of her hanging up. “What’s wrong?”

  Dad laughed, a healthy laugh. “And you wonder why Mel’s the way she is? Genetics, Ria. You can’t fight ’em.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m great. I went and got topped up with a quart last Friday so I’m feeling downright perky.”

  Dad’s lighthearted description of getting a necessary blood transfusion didn’t alleviate my constant worries. “Why did you call?”

  “Because someone named Roger Kerr has been trying to reach you. I gave him your work number and told him that you’ll be back in Toronto in a couple of weeks, but he says it can’t wait, that he needs to talk to you as soon as possible.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Roger Kerr. Did he give you any idea why he was calling?”

  “Well, I think that’s fairly obvious, don’t you? He was calling because he wants to talk to you.”

  Dad was right about those genetics. There was no denying, or fighting, the sarcastic gene in my family. “Your genius-level IQ continues to underwhelm me. Now get serious.”

  “Sorry, my IQ was functioning properly, but my ESP was apparently malfunctioning at the time. The only thing he was clear on was that he needed to talk to you urgently.”

  “His name isn’t ringing any bells for me.”

  “Well, he won’t stop ringing my telephone bell. And speaking of names, he didn’t use your full name. He asked for Ria, not Maria, so you definitely know him.”

  I had absolutely no idea who Roger Kerr was or why he was calling me so urgently. I pulled my notebook out of the backpack I’d dropped on the floor when I’d scrambled to call Dad. “What’s his number?” The pen that was jammed in the spiral coil that held the notebook together gave me a fight, but I managed to free it while Dad found his Braille notes and ran his finger over them to get the number for me. “Where’s area code two-eight-four?”

  “You’re the travel expert. Don’t you recognize it?”

  I’d travelled so much that the world was like a giant Sudoku puzzle of area codes, printed on a constantly twisting Rubik’s Cube. “No. I guess I’ll find out where he is and who he is when I call. Are you really okay?”

  “Yes, I really am, so stop worrying.”

  Dad stopped talking so abruptly that I knew he had more to say. “But?”

  “But nothing. It’ll wait until you get back.”

  “What will wait?”

  “It’s probably nothing — but, have you spoken to James recently?”

  “Who?” It had been over three months since I’d heard from my brother.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “I’m not sure, but Victoria’s been decidedly distant lately. I just wondered if you knew what was going on between them.”

  “I’d be the last person he’d talk to about that! I’d give him an earful and he knows it.” As much I loved my younger brother, he was a jerk of a husband. Even Glenn, who’d been James’ best friend since kindergarten, had let a few comments slip that made me wonder if he was finding it harder to forgive some of his buddy’s sins. “Last I heard he was all wrapped up in putting together a new show, and you know none of us exist when he’s doing that. Why don’t you call him and ask him straight out, if you’re worried?”

  “I don’t want to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted.”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Oh, look! A pig just flew by.”

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit….”

  “And the highest form of intelligence, or so my father says. Listen, I’m sure James will be in touch once he rejoins the human race.”

  “I guess so. And that should be fairly soon. They must be close to finishing their location shoot.”

  Talking about James’ production twigged something in my brain. “Dad, the man who called me, are you sure about his name?”

  “Fairly certain, why?”

  “Could he have said Rob Churcher? It sounds a lot like Roger Kerr.”

  “Possibly.”

  It couldn’t have been him, could it? Rob Churcher? Nah! Or … fluke of all flukes … were the gods of timing finally smiling on us? Were we both single at the same time? Maybe he was calling to ask me out? That didn’t make sense — there wouldn’t have been any urgent need for me to call him back (unless he was only going to be single for a very, very short time). Then there was that other pesky little issue — was I single? Damned if I knew. Even though our week in Machu Picchu had technically been only our sixth official date, Glenn and I had settled into domesticity with alarming alacrity. That settling had unnerved me and was probably one of the reasons why I’d refused to “define our relationship” when he asked me to.

  “Who’s Rob Churcher?” Dad brought my thoughts back into the here and now.

  “He’s just a guy,” I heard myself say.

  “I was able to deduce that from the timbre of his voice.”

  “He works for James; he’s a cameraman.” An incredibly sexy cameraman whom I’d never seen playing Lego with my little brother. I’d only known him as a full-grown man.

  “And?”

  “And nothing.”

  “Hmmm, it sounded like there was a lot of something in that nothing, but I won’t push. Instead, I’ll a
sk — how was the week with Glenn?”

  “It was okay.” I didn’t want to talk about Glenn.

  “Read that, I don’t want to talk about Glenn, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Go make your call, Ria. You know that I’m here for you, if and when you want to talk. Don’t forget to pick up a sampoña for Mel.”

  “I won’t.” I made a note to remember to buy a Peruvian flute because I knew my brain was short-circuiting and I’d probably forget. Mel would have been proud of me for writing it down.

  After giving my courage an injection of carbonated caffeine I was able to make the call. I sat on the edge of the hard chair in front of the small desk in my hotel room and looked at myself in the mirror. I’d resisted the urge to brush my hair and put makeup on. Even if — and it was a big if — the man on the other end of the line did turn out to be Rob, he wouldn’t see that my freckles were more pronounced after being in the sun, my cheekbones were sticking out too much because I wasn’t eating enough calories to make up for the ones I was burning, and there were more grey hairs spreading out between my ridiculously red ones than I’d noticed before. I wasn’t smiling so I didn’t have to deal with counting my crow’s feet.

  “Thank you for calling The Butler BVI. How may I direct your call?” A woman with a rich Caribbean accent lyrically asked me.

  The Butler BVI? Since when did we own a hotel in the British Virgin Islands? I must have heard her wrong. “I’d like to speak to Roger Kerr, please.”

  “Just a moment please.”

  Damn. Dad hadn’t heard wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we don’t have a guest going by that name.”

  “What about Rob Churcher? Is he there?”

  “I’ll put you through to his room.”

  Hot damn!

  “Hello?” A female voice answered.

  Was that his wife? “Is Rob Churcher there?”

  “Hang on.” The woman dropped the phone on something hard and the resulting bang painfully pounded my eardrum. “Rob! Phone’s for you. Thanks for the shirt.”

  I heard a door close, then another one open and the last swirl of a toilet flushing.

  “Hello?” Dad had been right; there was no mistaking the timbre of Rob’s voice as feminine or even effeminate.

  “Hi, Rob. It’s me. Ria,” I added quickly. “My father said you were looking for me.”

  “Hey, Ria!” He sounded happy to hear from me. That was a good sign … of something. “I knew your dad would be able to find you. Where are you?”

  “Machu Picchu.”

  “For work?”

  “Yeah, and you? You’re working on James’ Caribbean shoot?”

  “Yeah.” Rob cleared his throat. “That’s actually why I was calling you. Ria, something’s going on here and I think James is involved.”

  My disappointment at hearing that his call had something to do with my annoying brother was quickly replaced by concern. “What do you mean something’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated and I can’t really get into it on the phone.”

  “Is James in trouble?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you think he will be?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “How bad?”

  “Really bad.”

  Our conversation was turning into a game of Twenty Questions with very few answers. “Can you get a little more specific?”

  “Hang on, someone’s at the door,” Rob put the phone down, presumably on the same hard surface that the woman before him had, but he did it gently.

  From the sound of it several people had been at Rob’s door, all of them male, and all of them had come into his room.

  “I’m on a call, just give me a minute,” Rob said to his visitors. “You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Okay, so the thing is, I was kind of hoping that you’d be able to put me in touch with a friend of his. The guy’s name is Greg or Glenn, or something like that.”

  “What for?” I said with more irritation than Rob deserved.

  “Like I said, there’s something going on.” Rob, too, started to sound a bit miffed. “James told me what his area of specialty is and I think James needs some help in that area right now.”

  Why would James need the help of the investigative journalist who covered the crime beat for Canada’s largest national newspaper? Whose specialty was solving murders, sometimes with the police, sometimes before them? “You’re not saying that James is involved in a murder!”

  “I could be wrong. I mean, I’m not even sure it happened, but I think it did.”

  “Well, either there’s a dead body or there isn’t.” How could anyone be unsure about something like that?

  “We only found a piece of it.”

  That stopped me cold. “You found a piece of a body?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  My protective-big-sister genes instantly revved up to full speed and pushed the most obvious question (Which piece?) to the back of my mind. “James wouldn’t kill anyone!” He had done an awful lot of incredibly dumb things to grab attention over the years, he was the middle child after all, but even for him murder would be taking it too far.

  “I think you’re right, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t involved.”

  “Jalopy’s loaded and call time’s in five!” someone yelled very close to Rob. “Let’s go, dude!”

  “See this thing I’m speaking into? I’ll be out in two minutes!” He waited until some banging and male grumbling stopped before speaking to me again. “I really have to go. If you could call the guy and get him to contact me …”

  “What do you want him to do?”

  “Come down here, like now, but without telling James why he’s come. Whether James admits it or not I’m pretty sure he’s going to need someone who’s on his side, someone who can find out what really happened.”

  Glenn was like family to James, but I was real family. If James needed someone on his side I was more suited to the job than Glenn. I didn’t have his investigative expertise, but I definitely had more experience taking care of and protecting my little brother. In fact, more often than not, Glenn had been the one to get James into trouble when they were teenagers. I’d been the one they’d come to to fix it. “Are you really, really sure about this? You’re being pretty vague. Can’t you give me anything solid?”

  “How’s this for solid — why would somebody who supposedly left the island of her own accord leave her foot in a tidal pool and hide her luggage at James’ place? And why, when I tried to talk to him about it, did James threaten to fire me?”

  For the second time in as many days, I made a snap decision to change my flights. “I’ll come.”

  “You?” Rob’s disappointment travelled through the phone lines with digital clarity.

  “Yes, me.” He could have tried to sound pleased at the chance to see me.

  “But —”

  “James will know something’s up if Glenn suddenly shows up. Let’s just say Glenn’s not great at making spur of the moment travel decisions.” To put it mildly. “I doubt he’d even do it. And James won’t be as suspicious if I show up.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I hoped I’d be able to come up with a believable reason for a surprise visit by the time I had to face James. “Where are you?” I gripped my pen so tightly that my fingertips turned white.

  “At one of your hotels, on Soursop in the British Virgin Islands. James isn’t staying here, though. He’s rented a villa on Virgin Gorda. He’s … ah … he’s not alone there, if you get my drift.”

  Oh, goody. James was at it again. I wouldn’t blame my sister-in-law if she pulled a Lorena Bobbit and cut off a piece of James’ body. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I sat staring at myself in the mirror for quite a few minutes after our call ended. What had the woman in the mirror just agreed to? Glenn was the investigator, not her! I gave my head a shake. I was worrying about nothing, it was a misunderstan
ding. It had to be. But Rob had sounded seriously worried. And something bad must have happened for James to threaten to fire his oldest and most trusted employee.

  It took me less than half an hour to jam all my stuff into my carry-on bag. (Unlike Glenn, I’d mastered the art of travelling without checked luggage.) I managed to catch the next bus to Aguas Calientes and jumped on the train up to Cusco just as it was about to pull out. Four hours later I was walking the streets of Cusco, trying to find the perfect sampoña for Mel. My journey from cloud forest to rain forest began in earnest (and a whole lot of airplanes) the next morning.

  I felt like the bouncing ball in a cartoon sing-a-long as my flights took me from Cusco to Lima, San Salvador, Miami, and then San Juan. The last flight, from San Juan to Virgin Gorda, was on the smallest plane and I had to sit squished into a little seat beside the biggest big jerk.

  He was dressed entirely in beige — beige sunhat, beige short-sleeved shirt, beige Bermuda-length shorts. Even the knee-high socks he wore beneath his open-toed sandals were beige. His skin was pasty white. His entire face was tightly scrunched up — lips pursed, eyes almost closed, hooked nose wrinkled. I tried striking up a conversation with him but he just glared at me, snorted, pulled his sunhat down further on his head (hiding the few tufts of short pitch-black hair that had been visible), quickly licked his lips with a lizard tongue, and then shifted in his seat to turn his back to me. So I replied in kind by snorting, turning my back on him, and exaggerating my movements just enough to be able to accidentally jab his scrawny bicep with my elbow.

  I stared out the window and tried, for the umpteenth time and flight, to come up with a reason for my visit that James would believe. The conniving side of my brain refused to work, because the travel writer side had gone into overdrive. Four thousand feet below me the Caribbean lived up to its advertised magical colour, darkening only when covering a coral reef. Two mammoth cruise ships were in St. Thomas’ harbour, their passengers probably enjoying the duty-free nirvana of Charlotte Amalie. St. John was the next island, most of it covered in the lush green of Virgin Islands National Park. The next big island was Tortola — we’d crossed into British territory. Only slighter smaller than St. Thomas, its population density was significantly less. We passed over a small grouping of pebble-sized islands and started our descent.