Heaven Is High by Kate Wilhelm Page B

“Come with us. It’s the world’s best and biggest collection of orchids. At the Santos estate. Julius Santos agreed to let us photograph the flowers for the brochure David’s going to put together.” He nodded toward David Grinwald, who had not said a word.
    Barbara picked up her wineglass, more to have something to do than because she wanted more wine. Julius Santos, Uncle Julius, Mrs. Thurston hiding in the wilderness, a murdered father.… She felt almost light-headed as the pieces fell into place. The Santos Shipping Company closed temporarily. Because Augustus Santos had been murdered? Anaia’s father murdered? Anaia Santos Thurston? Her uncle searching for her? She put the glass down again without taking a sip.
    As Henry approached with a pitcher of beer and steins, she reached into her purse for her room key, with her room number visible on a plastic tag. Gabe shook his head at Henry, motioned toward the shrimp and wine, and then toward himself.
    â€œBarbara,” he said, “it has been delightful chatting with you for even this short a time. It will go on my tab.”
    He was regarding her with the same amusement he had shown toward the broncos, but also with an intensity that had not been evident before.
    â€œI’d rather not,” she said, holding up her room key, but Henry was already walking away. “Thanks,” she said to Gabe. She looked over the three younger men and nodded to them. “Good luck with your project.”
    â€œDavid, how long will it take to get out to the Santos plantation?” Ben asked.
    â€œHour and a half probably,” David said. “Maybe a little longer. It’s not clear how far off the highway the place really is.”
    â€œBarbara, if you decide to come along, we’ll meet in the lobby at around noon,” Ben said. “How can you resist? A fabulous collection of orchids!”
    â€œYou should go, Barbara,” Gabe said. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Something to tell your friends about back home.”
    â€œI’ll decide after a good night’s sleep,” she said as lightly as she could.
    She thought she could feel Gabe’s eyes on her as she left the terrace and the bar. She stopped at the front desk where she asked the clerk if there was a telephone directory for outlying areas.
    â€œIt’s all in one directory,” the clerk said with a smile. “There should be one in your room. The areas are separated by districts, but it’s easy to navigate. If you want an outside line, just dial nine first.”
    She thanked him and went up to her room, telling herself it couldn’t be this easy. There was a catch. She was kidding herself thinking pieces could fall from the sky for free. “Like manna,” she muttered as she unlocked her door and entered her room. The problem was that she didn’t believe in manna, or any other miracle, she added to herself.
    She found the directory in a drawer, sat at a table by the wide sliding door to a balcony, and started searching. In a place called Belmopan, Anaia S. Thurston was listed. Belmopan, she repeated to herself, then remembered it was now the capital of the country, in the western area, nearly to the border with Guatemala.
    She pulled the telephone close enough to dial. She felt almost dazed by this development, unbelieving, waiting for the catch to blindside her.
    She got an answering machine, and after hesitating only a moment, she said, “Mrs. Thurston, my name is Barbara Holloway. I’m from Eugene, Oregon, in the United States, and I must talk to you about the death of your sister Shala. She died three years ago in Haiti.”
    She added the hotel name and her room telephone number. “I’ll wait here for your call,” she said and hung up.
    It was a long wait. She ordered a pot of coffee and sat on her balcony for a short time as it became dark. Lights reflected in water, lights in windows,