Читать книгу A Death in Bali - Nancy Tingley - Страница 14

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6

“Let’s get a beer,” Randall said as we walked out. “That place we went last night?”

“Good idea,” said Seth. “You up for it, Jenna?”

I hesitated, but, with the picture of that spear in my mind, didn’t want to walk to the hotel alone.

Seth reached for me. I stepped off the curb to avoid his reach and the hole in the sidewalk in front of me. I wasn’t sure which offered a greater threat.

He smiled. “I was trying to steer you away from that hole. I wasn’t sure if you saw it.”

“Oh, thanks. I did.” Embarrassed by my suspicious and libidinous mind, I answered the opposite of what I really wanted to say. “Sure, why not?”

The bar wasn’t far, and as we entered I laughed at the cliché—the bamboo walls, rattan furniture, palm trees in the corners and separating tables. Christmas lights illuminated all, while a pulsing beat announced the dance floor at the back of the club. “Is this your kind of place?” I asked them.

“When in Bali . . .” Seth responded, smiling.

“I think I’m overdressed,” I said. I was wearing a T-shirt and pants, but halter tops and skimpy shorts about the size of butt floss seemed to be the costume of choice.

Seth said, “If it makes you feel better about fitting in, you could—”

I cut him off, “Don’t go there. You could, too.” I pointed. A number of the men, clearly those who worked out, didn’t wear shirts. Some had T-shirts thrown over their shoulders. Others had them tied around their waists. Some had clearly left their clothing behind in their hotels. The weather was hot, but not that hot.

“That looks pretty tasty,” I said. Seth looked over his shoulder. I smiled. “Must be a margarita. What did you think I meant?”

He didn’t respond, but said, “More likely a rum drink. Seems to be their specialty.”

“What do you want?” Randall shouted over the noise.

“I’ll have one of those,” pointing at the blended, icy drink, “but without the rum.”

“Better with the rum,” Seth said.

“Not tonight.”

“Maintaining control?” He had a twinkle in his eye, which I both liked and simultaneously wanted to quash.

“Trying to stay awake. Rough day.”

“In Bali? How does one have a rough day in Bali?”

“You’d be surprised.” I scanned the room, which was not quite packed. There were empty tables, but people were standing three deep at the bar—pickup time. I pointed to a table and we headed that way, while Randall went toward the bar. Two young women who appeared to have taken lessons from their hippie mothers were the only dancers, their sarongs psychedelic, their arms flung upward, their hips rotating at half-speed.

“He didn’t ask you what you wanted.”

“We’ve been traveling together for a few weeks already. He knows what I want.”

I had a momentary thought that maybe they were a couple, though Seth’s flirtation with me didn’t seem to get a rise from Randall. I watched the people coming through the door, probably an influx from the performance. I suddenly remembered the bombing at the Balinese nightclub in 2002, and the thought made me place Flip here, rather than in his home.

“So, why a rough day?”

I ignored the question, watching Randall struggling to pick up the three drinks. Most of his troubles were caused by my oversized blended monstrosity. Practically an entire fruit bowl hung from the rim of the glass. I jumped up and ran over to help him. The glass in my hands was full, so I stopped to take a sip. As I raised my head I saw the Wild Man. He saw that I’d noticed him, but didn’t turn away.

“That man is staring at me again. The one in the red shirt.”

He looked over, “The one from the performance, standing on the sidelines.”

“Yes, and he’s still staring.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“What do you mean?” I tried to take another sip of the drink, but a spike of pineapple went up my nose.

“You’re a looker, as my father would say.”

I laughed. “Thanks, Randall.”

Randall set down his and Seth’s drinks. Seth, distracted by all that was going on behind us, paid no attention. He nodded to someone at the bar. I turned to look and saw half a dozen women in his line of vision as well as the Wild Man still looking our way.

“See someone you know?” I asked.

“No.” He picked up his drink and, without meeting my eyes, took a sip.

I was beginning to realize that murder made a person skittish and suspicious. Being in a Balinese nightclub also made one a bit edgy. This bar was a bad idea, but the thought of walking home alone continued to spook me.

“At the bar they’re talking about a murder,” Randall said.

“Here? In Ubud?” Seth asked.

“Yep. A tourist, in his rented house.”

“An expat,” I said.

“How was he killed?” Seth watched me.

“No one seems to be sure. Probably shot, was the consensus.” Randall wiped his wet hands on his pants.

“Spear,” I said, having cleared a space between the pineapple, the kiwi, and an apple. I took a sip while they stared at me. “I found the body.”

Randall’s mouth dropped open, but it was Seth who asked, “You found a murdered body and you didn’t say anything to us?”

“It’s not exactly a great opener for someone you’ve just met. Oh, hi, I’m Jenna and I’ve just come from a murder scene. Or maybe I could have brought up Indonesian weaponry, or how blood congeals in the patterning on a damascened blade.” I shivered.

“Would have been a rush for Seth. He studied criminal law.” Randall sipped his beer.

“‘Rush’ might not be the right word, but I’m sure you would have caught my interest. Guess that’s what you meant when you said you had a rough day.” He leaned forward. “Are you okay?”

I took another sip so he wouldn’t see the tears that welled up at his concern, and got ice on the tip of my nose. I wiped it away. “It’s also the reason that that man over there, the one in the red shirt, is making me nervous staring at me.”

Before I could say anything, Seth was halfway across the room, headed toward the Wild Man. The man’s expression went from startled to smiling in an instant. He raised both hands palms forward in a gesture of pacification. Seth’s back told me little.

“Was it awful?” Randall asked.

I thought for a moment, trying to condense the experience into words. “It was so unlikely. I’d gone to have lunch with him.” I paused, searching. “Then finding him, seeing him like that. Disconcerting. Sad. Horrifying. Bloody. Awful, yeah, awful sums it up.”

“You haven’t processed it,” he said matter-of-factly as he leaned forward and set down his glass.

“I’m avoiding processing it. Processing isn’t really my thing. Pressing forward is more my modus operandi.”

“Ah,” Randall said.

We watched Seth and Wild Man chatting. Seth leaned on the bar. The man appeared to offer him a drink. Seth shook his head, motioning toward our table and his full glass.

As he slid back into his chair, he said, “He says you look like an old girlfriend.”

I waited for more, but when it didn’t come, I asked, “And?”

He took a sip of his drink. “Not much else. He’s Australian. Friendly enough guy.”

I should have confronted the man myself. Maybe Seth already knew him. Maybe it was the Wild Man he’d been nodding to a few minutes earlier. I tried to quell my suspicious brain. From Randall’s reaction when I asked him about the man, it seemed clear that they hadn’t met before. And since Randall and Seth were traveling together, you would assume if one knew him, the other would, too.

“Do you want to tell us about the murder?” Seth asked.

“Give her a break,” Randall said protectively. “She’s tired. She doesn’t want to think about it.”

“He’s right. I’m tired. I need to finish this and get home to bed.” I looked at the size of the drink in my hand. I thought I discerned rum, but I’d told Randall no alcohol. Maybe he’d ignored me.

Seth frowned at Randall before saying to me, “From your coming with us to the performance tonight, then here, I’d say you’re avoiding thinking about it. It might do you good to talk.”

He was right. It might be good. “I can give you an abbreviated version of what happened.” And I did.

A Death in Bali

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