Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) (4 page)

At last, we arrived. George’s palatial hacienda was tucked into the jungle a half-mile from the main road. Actually, it was more like a compound—three barns, a fenced horse pasture, surveillance cameras rigged at every corner.
 

Our car approached the main house, a sprawling ranch of typical Central American design—white stucco walls, red-tiled roof, expansive, open porch with a thatched overhang. The drive encircled a white marble fountain and led right up to the edge of the porch.
 

Four dogs, some kind of German Shepherd mix, came tearing around from the back of the house. Dogs will naturally guard a home, but their level of training speaks volumes about their effectiveness. The driver got out of the car and with a quick hand command, they retreated. Hm. Well-trained. The driver opened the back door of the car and offered me his hand to get out. One firearm in a shoulder holster, and one, I was sure, at his ankle.
 

I was ready to do my job, but honestly, I could have spent another hour snuggled up next to Dalton in the back seat.
 

I kept a grip on my handbag. My carry-on, in the trunk, would no doubt be ransacked while we ate. No problem. Nothing but clothes and my toothbrush in there.
 

George stood on the porch, his arms wide with welcome like Ricardo Montalbán in Fantasy Island. Now here’s what I pictured. Old man with a potbelly, yellow teeth, and the dark leathery skin of one who’s lived in the tropics for years. He’d combed his hair from one side of his round head, up and all the way over the top in an attempt to cover a shiny bald spot.
 

I tried not to stare as we crossed the porch. The white sport coat was just too much. He took my hand in his with a smile that beamed with delusions of being a rich and attractive playboy. All financed by exploiting animals. I hated him instantly. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

“You must be thirsty, my friends. What can I get you to drink?” He turned toward a wooden cabinet stocked with bottles and glasses.

Dalton didn’t miss a beat. “Scotch, if you’ve got it.”

“And for the lady?”

“Oh, my. It’s been a long day.” I put my hand on my tummy. “I’d better eat first.”

“Suit yourself,” he said and splashed some Scotch into a glass for himself.

I stepped to the edge of the porch and scanned the grounds. One of the barns must have been where George housed the legal species. Snakes and frogs and such. Must have been where Dalton came to make buys.

Another car came up the drive, black, nondescript. It rolled to a stop and waited for the butler to emerge and call off the dogs before a tall, grey-haired man in his late fifties got out. Apparently, we weren’t the only guests for the evening. George’s driver got behind the wheel and drove the car away.

“Ah, Felix,” George waved him in. “He’s from Germany,” he said with no further introduction. He dropped a few ice cubes into a glass, filled it with gin and a splash of tonic, then handed it to the man as he stepped onto the porch. So they were already well acquainted.

I moved next to Dalton and slipped my hand in the crook of his elbow, shyly hiding behind him the way a Brittany would do. Dalton introduced himself, then me. He obviously didn’t know the man. Interesting. He didn’t look like a henchman. He looked like someone’s opa in a wrinkled polyester suit. His eyeglasses were made some time circa 1964, thick lens, greasy around the edges. Probably another buyer. When he shook my hand, I noticed a nasty gash notched in the fleshy webbing at the base of his thumb. Snake bite.
 

We settled into rattan chairs facing the fountain. I smiled. Felix smiled. Dalton took a swig of his Scotch.
 

The sun was setting fast, I noticed, and the drum of the rainforest insects increased, filling the awkward void. Soon, I heard the rumble of another car coming up the drive. Again, the dogs came running and were called off. A stocky man in his late fifties (early sixties?) got out, smoothed his white shirt, and took a cigar from the pocket. He took his time puffing to get it lit before crossing to the porch and barging in like a bull through the gate. “Where’s my drink?”
 

It was Joe Nash. I was sure of it.

“Carl, you old bastard. You know Maria hates cigars in the house,” George said with a chuckle.

 
“I’ll eat out here with the dogs, then,” he said with a grin, took another puff.
 

“Carl, is it?” Dalton was on his feet, shoving his hand out. “John Fuller. Nice to meet you.”

Nash nodded, his eyes immediately on me, looking me up and down. “And who do have we here?”

“My wife, Brittany.” Dalton gave me a pat on the butt, nudging me toward Nash.
 

I suppressed my impulse to twist his arm off at the shoulder socket. Somehow I managed a grin and stepped forward to shake hands with Joe Nash, the legend. And called him Carl. Surreal.

George handed him a drink. Bourbon maybe. “Pura vida, mi amigo,” Nash muttered, the cigar twitching with each syllable.
 

Carl, Carl, Carl.
I drilled his name into my brain. The rich collector. So all three guests were buyers.

Headlights shined through the trees—another car coming up the drive. This time a hunky, cowboy-looking guy got out and sauntered our way. Introductions were made. Kevin, from Australia. Around thirty. Deep, husky voice. Easy on the eyes. Nice fitting jeans, white T-shirt. His wavy hair was cut short with a tiny curl at the back of his neck. He started talking about the weather, the ride over, how beautiful the rainforest was. My mind drifted in the direction of adultery, my fingers gripping that curl. Something about that Australian accent.

It seemed he was the last of those expected. The men made small talk, the boring small talk of those who aren’t sure why they’re together. They sipped their drinks, Nash absent-mindedly chewing on the cigar, until finally the butler arrived with news that dinner was to be served.
 

“Shall we?” George gestured toward the entrance to the main living area and the dining room, I presumed. The guests filed in. Joe—I mean Carl!—stepped to the edge of the porch, clipped the burning end off his cigar, and stuffed the chewed end back into his mouth. He gave me a wink.

The house had an open layout with white marble floors and oversized leather furniture. Ceiling fans slowly circled overhead. As we moved toward the dining table, a door opened and closed down a corridor toward the back of the house and two toy spaniels with oversized ears scampered toward us—clickety, clickety, click. “Ah, my wife Maria and her—” George glanced down at the dogs and curled his lip “—entourage. Frick and Frack.”
 

Maria glided into the room, steady and comfortable on four-inch heels. Gobs of jewelry dangled from her neck, wrists, and ears. A beauty, and at least fifteen years George’s junior, she was definitely a native tica. Wavy dark hair and creamy skin. George didn’t make an effort to formally introduce her, so I knelt to pet the dogs.
 

“Look at those ears,” I said. “They’re so cute.”

“Papillons,” George muttered as he gestured for us to be seated.

“French for butterfly,” I said as I rose.
 

He didn’t respond so I turned to Maria. “The ears, like a butterfly.”

She gave me a blank look. Perhaps she didn’t speak English? Without thinking, I said, “Mariposas—” Then it hit me. It would be an advantage if they didn’t know I spoke Spanish. (Or German for that matter. Or French.) Too late. Or was it? I looked right at Maria. “Did I pronounce that correctly?”

Maria smiled at me. “Sí, mariposas.”

I shrank into a timid shrug. “I thought it would be fun to learn some Spanish while I’m here.”

She gave me an amused grin and said nothing. She turned to her other guests.

We were seated around a table the size of my apartment. The place settings were bone china and real silverware. Our first course, a plate of cheeses and fresh fruit—mangoes, red bananas, starfruit—was already placed before us. The butler popped a cork on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I recognized the label. “Excellent choice,” I said to George. “You have impeccable taste.” Doesn’t hurt to butter him up.
 

The butler circled the table filling our wine glasses, the ladies’ first, then back for the men. Dalton declined. Both elbows on the table, he shoved a hunk of cheese in his mouth. I thought to myself, would a Brittany scold him for his table manners? Probably not. I smiled at him. “You really should try this, honey. It’s Kim Crawford.” I handed my glass to him. His face was frozen in a blank stare. He grabbed it by the rim, like a beer glass, took a gulp, and swallowed. Cretin.

Kevin, the conversationalist, piped up. “What’s so special about Kim Crawford?”

“Indeed,” said George, his eyebrows raised. “What’s so special about her?” His question sounded like a challenge. He flashed his toothy smile. Felix and Kevin gazed my way. The butler paused, waiting to hear what I had to say. I could feel Dalton tense up next to me.

I hate Barbies
crashed into my thoughts
.
And I’m charming, dammit. Except when I’m not. Like when I try too hard to be charming. I wasn’t raised in some rich family with uppity parents and nannies with British accents who taught you the proper fork to use or how to properly compliment your host. I’ve seen the world, though, just not from a Lear jet. My dad and I lived out of a backpack. I slept in a hammock. I had no idea there was such a thing as silk sheets. (And, man, would I love a set.) But wealth and prestige wasn’t the only way to know wine. It was about sheer passion. And I have a passion for wine. If Poppy loves wine, then Brittany loves wine.

“Not her,” I said to George. “Him. He’s a winemaker from New Zealand’s Marlborough region. He’s known worldwide for this very wine.” I turned to Kevin the Australian. “From down near your neck of the woods.”

“Yeah, those Kiwis sure know how to squeeze a grape.” He winked and took a swig.

“So do you own a pet store in Australia?” I asked, trying to direct attention from me.

Kevin glanced at George and shook his head. He crammed a piece of mango into his mouth.

“How about you, Felix? What brings you to Costa Rica?”

“Business,” he said as though he were oblivious to any expected social nuance.

Okay. Shutting up now.

“Brittany,” George said. “May I call you Brittany?”
 

I nodded.
 

He gestured toward my wine glass. “Please, tell me more about this vintage.”

He’s testing me, like Mr. Martin said he would. Am I really the rich Texas wife? The tiniest thing can give you away. Well, it ain’t Barbies but here goes…
I swirled the golden liquid around in the glass, then tucked my nose into the glass to take a sniff and savor the bouquet. I drew in a long sip, slurping so it would aerate on my tongue. Then I swallowed. “Bold fruit with a hint of melon. Finishes with a crisp acidity.” I set the glass down. George was grinning. “My compliments,” I said. “With its unique herbaceous flavor profile, it pairs quite well with the mango.”

I thought Dalton was going to swallow his tongue.

George let loose a bellowing chuckle. “John, that’s quite a lady you’ve got there.”

Dalton grinned. “Don’t I know it.” He squeezed me to him and kissed me on the temple.

The kitchen door swung open and the chef came in pushing a rolling cart, atop which sat a silver domed platter. He wheeled the cart up next to George and with the sweeping gesture of a magician, lifted the lid, revealing a giant slab of prime rib, floating in its own bloody juices.

My stomach flipped. The thing is, I don’t eat meat. Ever. Mr. Martin’s words rang in my head.
Keep your cover. Roll with it.
Crap! What do I do?
I was prepared to kiss an old man. To play the rich, trophy wife. To carry a leather bag even. But I cannot, will not, swallow a piece of meat.
Oh my god, I’m going to blow this op right now. And I just got here.

The chef sawed away at the hunk of flesh, cutting it into slabs a size no man should consume in one sitting. Of course, being the visiting lady, I was served first. The thing lay limp on the plate in front of me, visions of my eighth grade biology class banging in my head. Thirty-two thirteen-year-olds dissecting a cow lung. For some twisted reason, the others thought it was great fun to saw off spongy pieces and fling them at each other, to see if they’d stick. I promptly barfed on Sonny Davis’ shoes, then spent the rest of the afternoon in the nurse’s office, searching for a new career goal as my dream of being a veterinarian had vanished in one hands-on lesson.
 

I tried to vanquish the thoughts as I politely waited for everyone else to be served. I searched for ways to bow out. A coughing fit? Sudden case of indigestion? A phone call? How could I get the cell phone to ring right now? This moment was always awkward for me.
Thanks, but I’m a vegetarian. What? Are you crazy? Just try it, you’ll love it.
People never got it. There was no way I could bring it up here, now. It would raise too much suspicion. Brittany was from Texas. A genuine beef-fed American.
 

Dalton had his fork in one hand, his knife in the other, sawing off another bite as he chewed an oversized hunk he’d already shoved in.

You have to do this, I told myself.
 

I got a piece on my fork, forced myself to open my mouth, shoved it in and clamped my mouth shut before I could change my mind. George hovered over his plate and gnawed off a piece, the juices dripping down his chin. He used a white cloth napkin to slop up his face. I was inspired. I picked up my napkin and, in a swift move I’d perfected as a child, as I wiped, I spit the meat into the napkin, then eased it into my lap.
Tah dah!
I only had to do that about twenty-seven more times without attracting attention.
 

Like angels descended from Heaven, two little butterfly-faced pups appeared, drooling on my shoes. My saviors. I slipped one bite to the floor at a time where it disappeared instantly.