Poison

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The door of the ancient hotel swung back. It glided on hand-hammered hinges forged from the black-man’s anvil, two-hundred years before. He had been a powerfully built Haitian who prided himself on his skills with hammer, fire and iron; an illegal. But his forefathers had tamed this island; wrestled the mountainside back from the forest, broken the stone, built houses and called it home. Then came the Spaniards, and things would never be the same.

A shaft of sun slanted in from that opened door, from street-side, revealing the dust that clung like silky hoarfrost to the wormy mahogany planks. A woman stepped through. An imposing silhouette in the block of light, she commanded the dais like an actress commands a stage. She cast a discerning eye. The men returned her gaze. Jaws sagged, conversation was forgotten; drinks and cigars left untouched. She scanned the room; her walking stick cracking down. There was no mistaking the scorn she held for the drinking establishment. And then her eyes fell on Lindsey Rey.

The woman turned; dismissed the rotund man in uniform who had been standing at her back. He stood to one side, still watching, carefully, as she swiveled a hip and took a step down. The cut in her tight skirt opened dramatically and there was a collective murmur from the men as a delicate knee and a long pale, curvaceous thigh muscle shimmered momentarily in sheerest silk. She is throwing the hound-dogs a bone, Lindsey thought as the woman slowly sidestepped down the stairs, the sound of undergarments whispering; very distinct. With three sensual strides, she was at the side of Lindsey’s table.

“Miss Rey,” she exhaled. “Thank you for your efforts.” She c****d her head; studied Lindsey with one discerning eye. “You are more attractive than your image. I would be envious to have you attend my bedside.”

There was a startled cry from the men at the tables. The woman turned on them; a rapid shotgun-blast of Spanish. Lindsey didn’t speak the language, but it wasn’t hard to guess:

“You are eavesdropping on a private conversation! Mind you own f*****g business!”

The men were stunned, some half-rising, not used to being insulted by a woman. But this woman was a Mirabal.

Lindsey took a breath; fearing a confrontation and failing, at first, to notice the little man in the gray uniform who had slipped in from behind. His hand flicked to a pocket and when he smoothly withdrew, his fingers were firmly clenched around the grip of a small, dark pistol. Lindsey’s eyes widened and she felt the blood drain from her face.

The men quickly regained their chairs, eyes on the pistol, and the man who tapped it seductively against his thigh. Peace restored, the woman turned to Lindsey: “I am Muriel Mirabal, granddaughter of Maria Teresa Mirabal; the youngest sibling. The youngest of The Butterflies.”

“Yes,” Lindsey replied, swallowing hard. “I got your e-mail!”

Muriel was, perhaps, the most striking woman Lindsey had ever met. She was not beautiful in the classic sense, but she was classic! More handsome, Lindsey thought, what with a narrow face and long straight nose. Muriel’s lips were full and heavily coated with blood-red, moist lipstick and the one eye that Lindsey could see, was dark with eye shadow. Her other eye was obscured by a narrow veil that slashed diagonally across her face from the wide brim of a glossy black straw hat that she wore at a rakish angle atop glistening blue-black hair that had been severely pulled into a tight bun at the back of her skull.

Muriel wore a short bolero jacket over a crisp white blouse and her tight skirt hugged her curves all the way down her thighs, ending at the top of the black leather riding boots that were severely laced, cupping well defined calf muscle. She had the body type that would excite a 1930’s Hollywood producer, sending him scrambling for a long-term contract. And in her right gloved hand, Muriel held a walking stick: black lacquered ebony and topped with a green emerald that was too ostentatious to be fake. It matched the one in the broach at her throat.

“Miss Rey,” Muriel said in heavily accented English. “Your coming is much appreciated.” Lindsey smiled up at her and nodded; relieved to see that the gun had disappeared. “Do you ‘peak ‘panish?”

“No,” Lindsey apologized with a sinking feeling. It would be difficult to write a story if the two of them couldn’t communicate effectively.

“It is of no consequence,” Muriel continued. “I have the good English, yes?”

“Yes.” A smile returned to Lindsey’s lips. “Please, Miss Mirabal, join me. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“You are kind.” And Muriel paused to pull a long pin from her hat and, removing it, placed it on a chair. Lindsey noticed that the eye which had been mysteriously hidden, was just as large and lovely as the first. There was the slightest whiff of Chanel No. 5 mingled with the homey scent of lanolin. Sitting opposite, Muriel smiled with satisfaction. “Welcome to the Republica Dominicana, Miss Rey.”

“Thank you. I’m most happy to be here.” Lindsey looked past Muriel to where the men were gulping drinks again, smiling widely and trying, with some difficulty, to return to their business conversation. It did Lindsey’s ego no good to realize that Muriel’s presence had attracted much more attention than she herself had been able to muster. The bartender appeared, a tiny pear-shaped man who seemed as old as the hotel, and who groveled at the edge of their table.

“A martini,” Muriel instructed without looking up, and with a flick of her fingers, sent him scurrying. Turning her attention to Lindsey, she searched her face as if trying to determine how much she could, or should, confide. Finally, after weighing the odds, Muriel came to a decision. “Miss Rey, I live a nightmare.” She peeled off her gloves.

“Please, call me Lindsey.” She reached for her notebook. “Your e-mail was... intriguing... to say the least. I had a very hard time convincing my boss that it might be true. But you wrote so passionately and with such desperation, I have to believe you are an honest woman.”

“Thank you, Lindsey. You save my sanity. And for that, please, the Virgin touch your soul. I myself am cursed. A spirit lives in my house and within my body...”

Muriel pursed her lips as the little man delivered her drink. She removed the olive and setting it to one side, took a tentative sip. Lindsey wrote down her quote. A spirit living inside a person’s body would peak the interest of her editor as well as her readers.

“May I call you Muriel?” Muriel flashed blood-red lacquered finger nails dismissively and Lindsey continued. “Muriel, I feel for you; your dilemma. That is why I am here. But I don’t fully know what’s happening to you. Nor do I know how I can help. I understand that something very odd is going on at ‘Ojo de Agua’ and that it is affecting you greatly, but how does my writing an article about it help?”

Muriel took a moment to sip her drink and ponder the consequence of what Lindsey had asked. As Lindsey watched, she began to change her opinion: Muriel was after all, beautiful; sadly vulnerable and very beautiful. An undeniable... irresistible combination. She studied a woman close to her own age, who was dark, mysterious and, like this country, full of secrets. Lindsey had the heartfelt feeling again. The feeling that she was onto the biggest story of her career.

“I need to talk with you... privately,” Muriel insisted, turning a shoulder to the men at the next table. “Where are you staying?”

“Here,” Lindsey replied. “Upstairs.”

“Here?” Muriel’s chin rose, eyes widening. “At the ‘emingway?”

“Sure. It’s nice enough and the Newspaper is footing the bill.”

“No... no. This will not do!” Muriel tossed a linen napkin into the center of the table. “I cannot tolerate this place. Men... men and puta. I cannot speak freely here. You must return with me to ‘Ojo de Agua.’ You will be my guest.”

“But the Paper is paying!” Lindsey protested.

“It holds no consequence.” And the lacquered finger nails flashed in Lindsey’s face again. “You will come with me to Ojo de Agua and be my house-guest there... for a week, two weeks, for however long it may take. I will summon Roberto!” And with a flourish that startled the men and had them sputtering into their drinks, she was out onto the street.

Well crap, Lindsey thought to herself. At least I haven’t unpacked my suitcase.