What could he possibly expect to learn from this laconic old man? Why had he ever said yes to Alice Gustafson in the first place? Rocking and puffing, Gaines studied the pictures for a time, then handed them back, shaking his head.
'Don't mean nothin' t' me.'
'I didn't think they would,' Ben said. 'You got some cold Coke in there?'
'I do. Just short a havinice in the can if you know what I mean.'
'Oh, I know exactly.'
Ben used the back of his hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from his forehead.
'Cans are in the cooler. Jes leave a dollar on the counter. I'm enjoyin this bowlful too much t'git up.'
The Coke, icy as advertised, washed away a bit of Ben's consuming feeling of futility. He left a five by the antiquated register, took Madame Sonja's renderings, and headed back to his car. Would Alice Gustafson accept oh, well, I tried? Doubtful. More likely, she'd want her money back.
Just start with what you know.
Ben opened the driver's side door, then stopped and returned to the porch with the brochures and his absurdly long list of RV models.
'Mr. Gaines, I'm also looking for a mobile home,' he said.
'A what?'
'A mobile home. You know, like an RV Would have been here somewhere around the time this fellow was killed. Maybe from up north, maybe really big, maybe gray with darker gray or maroon markings. Here are some brochures of possible candidates.'
'That would be a thirty-nine-foot Winnebago Adventurer,' Gaines said matter-of-factly, without bothering with the brochures. 'Oh-four or oh-five, I would guess. Ohio plates. Pulled in fer a fill. Took more'n seventy gallons.'
Ben felt his heart skip a beat.
'Tell me about it.'
'Not too much t'tell. The couple drivin' her didn't seem like the RV type.'
'How so?'
'Oh, you know. Too young, not country enough, movin' about quicker'n most RV owners move. Bought three sandwiches and three chips even though there 'uz only two of 'em.'
'Can you describe them?'
'I got a memory for cars 'n' trucks. Not people. She 'uz quite pretty, though. I do remember that. Cute bottom on her. Pardon me for sayin' that. I may be old, but I ain't dead.'
'It's perfectly okay, Mr. Gaines. Is there anything else you can remember about the RV or the people?'
'I didn't notice until it was pulling away, but I don't think there 'uz windows in the back. As you'll see from them brochures, that ain't the usual.'
'No windows. Are you sure?'
'If'n I said it, then I'm sure. What is it? You deal with people that sez what they don't mean?'
'I've been known to, yes.'
Ben was aware of his pulse snapping in his fingertips. This whole business about the Adventurer could be nothing, but in every fiber he believed it was the RV described by Juanita Ramirez. He began rapidly processing ways he might use the limited information he had just gathered. How many people in Ohio buy a thirty-nine-foot Winnebago mobile home? Did the manufacturer keep records? How far would seventy gallons have taken such a beast? The questions weren't much, but after nearly a week of abject frustration, they were palm trees in the Sahara.
'Mr. Gaines,' he said, 'you've been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of about this RV? Anything at all?'
'Nope. Except — '
'Except what?'
'I s'pose it might help if'n I gave ya the license plate number.'
'The what?'
'They paid for their gas an' supplies with a credit card — a Visa, I think twuz. I got burned once real bad by a trucker with a stolen card, so now I always write down the license number on the credit card slip.'
'And you still have the imprint?'
'A course I do,' Gaines said. 'You wouldn't think much a me as a businessman if'n I didn't.'
CHAPTER 7
And will not the bravest and wisest soul be least confused or deranged by any external influence?
Time is a flexible concept in Rio. Unless you are talking business meetings, and serious business meetings at that, half an hour late means perfectly on time.
'I love it,' Natalie whispered to herself, smiling at the description in the VARIG magazine.
If anyone ever needed eight days away in a city where half an hour late meant on time, it was she. Images of dancing with a mysterious stranger at an all-night salsa club and running on the spectacular black-and-white mosaic sidewalks of Copacabana had dominated her thoughts since the invitation from Doug Berenger to replace him and present a paper at the International Transplant Congress. Now it was about to happen.
For a time, she had flipped through the Air Shopper and made a mental list about what she might buy for her mother and niece and a few of her friends. For her girlfriends and Hermina, it had to be jewelry made of Brazil's legendary precious and semiprecious stones; for Jenny and Terry, polished agate bookends? for Doug, perhaps a high-end replica of the Christ the Redeemer statue.
She set the guidebook aside and peered out the window of the 747, trying to catch a glimpse of the city through scattered clouds. Night had settled in, but even after fifteen hours of flying, she wasn't particularly tired. Out of daylight savings time for their winter, Rio was just two hours ahead of Boston, and thanks to the luxury of business class, she had been able to get plenty of sleep. The married heavy equipment salesman sitting next to her, a veteran traveler, had made several ill-disguised forays into forming a connection, had been politely rebuffed each time, and finally had retreated into a Grisham novel, which it looked like he might finish before they landed.
Because of what they had been told was a problem of dense traffic, the plane had been circling Antonio Carlos Jobim Airport for most of an hour. Of all those on the flight, Natalie decided, she probably cared the least about the delay. With the help of a couple of glasses of Merlot, her type A personality had been downgraded to possibly an A minus. Antonio Carlos Jobim. What other city in the world had an airport named after a composer — and a jazz composer at that?
'…the girl from Ipanema goes walking…'
Natalie checked to ensure that her travel documents were in order, and was debating between opening her laptop and closing her eyes when the plane banked to the right, then leveled off. She felt the landing gear grind into place and then engage. Moments later the orders for landing were given in English and Portuguese. Her ear felt tuned to the language, thanks largely to nine days of study, tapes, and as many conversations with her mother as she could handle. There were differences between Brazilian and Cape Verdean Portuguese, some of them striking, but she had always had a knack for languages, and had made quite a bit of progress.
Eight days in Rio. She had always believed that living well was the best revenge. Maybe she should send postcards of thanks to Cliff Renfro and Dean Goldenberg.
The landing was flawless, and customs was much better organized than she had anticipated from her experience in Sao Paulo. Her guide to Rio had prepared her for winter temperatures in the mid to high fifties, and also suggested that she buy a cab voucher inside the airport rather than trust the meters. She pulled on a light leather jacket as she entered the main terminal, and easily found the taxi kiosk. As she was putting the change and the voucher into her wallet, she began to feel light-headed and vague. The sensation was unpleasant and
