Cheap Trills, page 22
The honking was almost overwhelming and the smell today, for the first time, featured more cage droppings than frangipani. In the distance, you could occasionally hear a wave of bird sounds. Maybe it was laughingthrushes. We passed an exit off the road, filled with tourists.
“What’s that?”
Lu looked back. “The entrance to the Monkey Forest. We must go. The monkeys would love your Balenciaga.”
I could see tourists—cameras out—and statues, covered in monkeys, as we sped past. Lu pulled in beside a line of stalls and nodded to Mom.
I stayed in the car with the chicks. Suddenly, my birdternal instincts went on high alert. And then, I saw a familiar Land Rover in the sideview mirror.
I ducked down as far as I could, as the Rover passed by and continued toward the competition ground. I edged up just in time to see a cowlick sticking up from the passenger seat and catch a few letters on the license plate.
If Bunty and the poachers were here, this plan better work.
I just wished Hazelnut had given me a place to meet him—his having to find me was the one fly in the ointment.
I checked the sideview again and clocked flashes of red, as Lu and Mom ran across the road and added their purchases to the back of the Kijang.
Lu got into the driver’s seat. “Stage one completed.”
I looked back at Mom, who was grinning and holding a gold Kate Spade clutch with a bow on the front. I’d created a monster. She leaned forward and put it under the seat, then saw my face in the mirror. “What happened?”
“I just saw the poachers go by.” I turned to Lu. “Maybe we should get started?”
“Got it. We’re not far from the rendezvous point.”
While she drove, I kept my eyes peeled for the Land Rover. Finally, she pulled into a small stand of trees and gave a honk.
Amisha came forward with seven of my Tupperware compatriots, all dressed in the same sarongs and traditional blouses Mom, Lu, and I were wearing. I checked the chicks, lay my Balenciaga carefully on the floor of the passenger seat, then moved to the back to help Mom and Lu put the steamers inside each of the red knockoff Balenciaga purses Lu had bought.
There were a few details a real Weekender tote aficionado would find lacking, but from a distance, the knockoffs looked just like my Balenciaga, right down to the fringe. It was a surreal experience to see nine of them in one place. We distributed them to the delight of the women.
Then we handed out the wigs. These were less popular—partly because Lu had gotten them from a craftsman who made Rangda “demon wigs” for the traditional dancers. I showed them how Mom and I did our updos, and a few minutes later, nine clones stood before me.
I turned to the women and placed my palms together in front of my chest. “Om Swastyastu.” I started to try to explain the drill in my halting Indonesian.
Lu tapped me on the arm and said something in Balinese that ended in “Pierce Brosnan.” All the women nodded. A couple sighed. Lu looked at me. “We’ve all seen The Thomas Crown Affair, we understand. Carry the purses, put one down, pick another one up, keep moving, blah, blah, blah. Right?”
“Right. Exactly right. Please tell them the bags are theirs. I wish I could afford to give them real ones. And I’ve also purchased the steamers for everyone. If they’re lost during the exercise, I will replace them. Make sure they know that if someone grabs for the bag, they should let them have it. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Lu translated. Amisha came to stand beside me.
I leaned in to whisper, “Do they know it might be dangerous?”
“They do. Only the brave sell Tupperware in Indonesia. They’re much more worried about being redheads.”
“It’s no picnic,” I said.
We organized a staggered departure for the competition grounds and hid Mom’s outfit and Balenciaga under a caftan, so as not to give the Cyd for a Day gag away.
As we got closer, we could hear the crowd cheering. The competition was about to begin.
“So everyone knows what they’re doing? Mom, you’ve got your watch set, too, right?”
“Yes. Don’t worry.”
“Lu?”
She held up her phone and nodded.
Mom had to stay near me, since we would both be needed for feeding if Hazelnut didn’t find me in forty-seven minutes. Lu pulled up to the grounds.
I picked up my bag. “I want to check on the chicks one more time.”
Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “There’s the Land Rover. We don’t have time.”
Lu let Mom off about twenty feet down the road. I saw her struggling a bit on the grass in her borrowed kitten heels.
I opened the Kijang door and was overwhelmed by the astonishing songs of dozens of birds, which was almost drowned out by screaming and whistle blowing. It had a Disney’s Cinderella meets Raging Bull at a referees’ convention feel. But the birds cut through and they were something. I caught Mom’s eye. She smiled. She felt the same.
At least no one was going to hear Huey, Dewey and Louie. Many of the spectators stood or sat with their own birdcages. Past them on the other edge of the field, all eyes were on a large metal structure, open on all sides, its vaulted ceiling covered by a fabric tarp. It was filled with empty stools. Birdcages on hooks hung above them. Several men were walking inside the structure, going from cage to cage. I still had my mini-binoculars in a side pocket. I focused in on one gorgeous bird with a bright orange neck.
I asked the bird owner next to me who the men were.
“Judges.” There was movement in the tent and cheers as one of the men placed a red flag on one of the stools. “Red wins!” the man said.
The crowd went wild. As soon as the cheers died down, a new group of owners moved in with their cages, then backed away and began to shout and blow on their bird whistles.
The new birds all looked similar. In fact, they all looked like Burung’s bird, Mitzi. It must be the spotted doves. I wondered if I would see Burung. I wasn’t sure I wanted him in the mix of the operation. I had no choice when he saw me and waved.
“Cyd!”
I waved back. He jogged over. “You came!”
“I did! How is Mitzi?”
“She is an angel. Will you listen for her?”
“Of course.”
He touched the whistle around his neck, then ran back toward the tent, yelling words and blowing signals only Mitzi the dove could understand.
I looked over. My mom wasn’t in sight.
The cowlicked West Bali poacher, however, was. We saw each other at the same time.
Chapter Fifty-four
Being spotted was part of my plan, but not this way. I thought of Stu Capistranis, taking two bullets for those birds without a murmur, sent a quick text saying Go! to Lu and Amisha, clutched my Balenciaga to my side, and walked like hell.
The poacher was on the other side of the field, headed straight for me, when a clump of men with cages arrived, forming a brief wall of tweeting and flapping between us.
I ran to the market across the street and ducked into the darkest stall, filled with scarves and tapestries, but that didn’t shake him off. I wrapped something aqua and silky around me and held my breath.
Nothing. When I peeked out, he was stopped across the street, looking around. Then he turned and headed back onto the field, following a mini-me, flaunting her Balenciaga, headed toward the tent.
Should I stay here? Given the look the stall owner was giving me, maybe not. I overpaid for the scarf, threw it over my hair and bag and exited, trying to keep an eye on the man until I was sure he was headed in the other direction. Then, I saw the other poacher, the bowl haircut one, at the edge of the field. Just then, two more Tupperware compatriots entered the grounds from different sides. They passed each other in the middle of the field and exchanged purses. The bowl haircut guy looked in both directions, then followed one of them.
Henrik followed the other.
Damn. I’d hoped he’d left the island. He started running, then flew through the air and landed facedown in the mud. I saw a “I Support the Right to Arm Bears” hat above a pair of crutches. Stu! Stu was here and had tried to save the woman he thought was me.
Henrik struggled up and spotted Stu. There was no way he was outrunning Henrik on crutches. Then I saw a slightly taller me, Balenciaga swinging, walk between the two men. On shaky kitten heels. Henrik followed her.
Stu crutched after both of them. I couldn’t chance it. I couldn’t let Henrik get my mom, no matter whose existential nanny I might be.
I texted Lu Headed to field, put my phone in my bra, and rammed myself into a largish tour group headed for the tent. I caught sight of another Balenciaga on the other side, being followed by the cowlicked poacher. At least he was handled for the moment.
I couldn’t see Mom, but I spotted Stu’s hat and followed that. Had they gone into the temple? At least I was wearing a sarong and didn’t have to stop and buy one to enter.
I heard a scream. For a second I thought it was my mother. Then I realized it was me.
Someone had picked me up around the waist and was carrying me backward. I could smell American cigarette smoke. I kicked back into their shins as hard as I could. Then something damp and sickly sweet covered my mouth.
When I woke up my Balenciaga was gone.
Chapter Fifty-five
Where were the chicks? Where was my mother?
I was on the ground in some kind of crumbling lichen-smeared structure. It wasn’t the temple where Alistair had left Mom, as the carvings were different, and there were more banyan trees. The sounds were different, too—fewer songs, more buzzing and screeching.
I assessed my situation. I was gagged and my hands were tied behind my back, with something that felt like a bungee cord. Had I been hoisted by my own pursetard? My fingers couldn’t quite reach the fasteners. I scooted around to look in the other direction, just in case my purse was there, and saw about fifteen monkeys, of all sizes, staring at me. One of them was wearing sunglasses.
I was in the Monkey Forest.
Okay. I remembered monkeys were ruthless about stealing things from the tourists, and would look everywhere for food if they could find it. Then, I spotted a half-peeled banana lying under a palm frond, about four feet away. It would probably be compost by the time I assed my way over, but it was worth a try.
I finally got hold of it with my hands, rubbed it all over the bungee cord, and squished the rest in one fist. Then I scooted around with my back to the monkeys and waved it as much as I could. Come and get me, you little bastards, I thought. Please.
They did. In seconds, I had about six monkeys crawling on me, plus an audience. Let’s just say, what they lacked in hygiene, they made up for in enthusiasm. And dexterity. In what seemed like two hours, but was probably thirty seconds, they’d unhooked the bungee cord, grabbed the banana, checked my hair for mites, and scampered away.
I flexed my fingers, took out my gag, wiped my banana-hands on it, and tried to stand up. I was still groggy from whatever my kidnappers had given me, but after a few minutes, I got my jungle legs.
I pulled my phone out of my bra. No reception.
I remembered from my research that the Monkey Forest was west of the city, so I just had to go east. I reached for my father’s compass and remembered that my bag was gone. Which reminded me my mother was gone. The chicks were gone. I had failed everyone and everything.
I wasn’t going to cry. I couldn’t help Mom or the chicks if I couldn’t get out of here. Then I saw a flash of red through a green archway and followed it. The monkeys were throwing my Balenciaga back and forth.
“Put that down!” I didn’t swear, since they had just saved my life. Instead I went primal scream and threw sticks at them until they finally dropped it and backed off.
Oh thank God, I thought. I picked the bag up. It was empty. Completely empty.
Then I looked closer. The hardware was fake. This was one of the knockoffs.
Was it Mom’s? Was she around here, somewhere? I shouted for her and tried my phone again. Still no reception.
I tried to figure out where the sun was, and which direction was east, but there were too many trees in the way. I saw something that looked almost like a trail leading away from the crumbling temple and headed down that, calling for Mom about every five feet.
I’d gone about fifty jungly yards when the beeping went off. It was the worm alarm. That didn’t decrease my stress. Then I stopped. I smelled Virginia Slims.
“Cyd? Cyd! Thank goodness. We have been looking all over for you.”
“Madge?”
Madge Dupree stood there in her Chico sundress and jeweled flip- flops, smiling at me.
“Where’s Mom. Is she okay? There were people after her.”
“Bea Ann’s looking after her. She sent everyone to look for you. I’ve got a car.”
I almost collapsed with relief. She reached out her hand and helped me over the banyan root. I’d been much closer to the road than I realized. Scooters were going by and there was a Kijang with a driver waiting. Madge opened the car door. “You get up front where it’s comfortable.”
I said hello in Indonesian to the driver and got in. “Thank you, Madge. I don’t know how long I would have wandered around out there.”
“Don’t be silly.” She placed her purse in between the seats. “Do you know what happened? Your mother said she saw some man carry you away?”
“I guess. I don’t know. They knocked me out.”
“So you don’t know who might have done it?”
“A lot of people might have. Who actually did it, no.”
Madge nodded at the driver. We pulled off the road into a driveway.
“Where are we? Is this where Mom is?”
“Yes, I just need to make a call and let them know it’s us.”
She climbed out of the car and moved to the back. My banana-drenched hands were sticking to everything. I hoped Madge might have a packet of Handi Wipes and pulled her purse onto my lap. I didn’t find any Handi Wipes. What I did find was dead Gerald Boynton’s passport.
Chapter Fifty-six
Had the driver seen my reaction? Had Madge?
Scott had said Gerald’s killer tried to make his death look like a robbery gone wrong. Had Madge killed him? Was that possible? I’d been so relieved to see her in the jungle, I hadn’t even wondered how on earth she’d found me—unless she’d been there when someone dropped me off. And if she was the killer, where was Mom? I grabbed a set of keys and a couple of other items out of her purse and tried to rearrange my face as the driver got back in the car, followed by Madge.
“Mom’s okay, right?”
“Your mother is always okay, Cyd. She has a charmed life.”
Normally, I might’ve begged to differ. “Have you and Bea Ann had fun?”
“I’ll let Bea Ann tell you about it.”
We arrived at a large open house, surrounded by fountains and frangipani trees.
The driver parked, then came around to “help me out.” Madge gestured me up the stairs. At least I still had my phone in my bra and my almost empty Balenciaga.
I entered the room, filled with a huge flat-screen TV, to find Bea Ann tied up in the corner, her reading glasses askew. It was all I could do not to punch Madge in her smug face in that moment, but I stopped myself, for Bea Ann’s sake, and played dumb instead.
I ran over to her. “Holy crap, Bea Ann! What happened, who did this to you?” As I hugged her, I tried to loosen the ties around her wrists. They were already loose. She winked at me.
I looked at Madge. “What’s going on? Where’s my mother?”
“What difference does that make? She doesn’t want your help, she told you.”
I hung my head and put my hand over my heart/phone. I hoped I’d hit the right button.
I moved toward her. “You killed Gerald Boynton, didn’t you?”
She looked shocked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s just say I have proof. I just don’t have the why.”
“He was an asshole! And a moron. That’s why.” Madge put her hands on her hips. “He had one simple job. He was supposed to put the money in my carry-on. Simple. You know what he said?”
“No idea. What?”
“He said all middle-aged American women looked the same. How was he supposed to tell the difference? Can you believe that? And when I went to collect the money from him he lied and said Bridget had it. I’d gone through her luggage and the whole room. It wasn’t there. He’d stolen it, all right. And I was going to have to explain.”
Explain to whom?
“Then, I asked Gerald why he sat by your mother instead of me. What was it about her, if we all looked alike? You know what he had the nerve to say to me? That at least your mother still had a waist. A waist! That bastard. Everyone goes through menopause.”
“That’s pretty brutal.”
“Yes, it is. So I shoved him and he fell backward and hit his head. He deserved it.”
“And you took a few things to make it look like a robbery?”
“Of course.”
“Still, that wasn’t my mother’s fault. Where is she?”
“Bunty is taking care of your mother until you tell him where the money is.”
Bunty. How many times had Mrs. Barksy reminded me her son was Homecoming King, Class of ’69? Had this whole damn trip been orchestrated by him? The idea of Bunty anywhere near my mom made me hysterical. Hysterical enough to put Madge’s keys between my knuckles and shove them into the driver’s face when he got close, throwing him off balance long enough for me to execute an inside kick, cross, and left hook, which knocked him out.
Madge ran at me with a huge vase. I dodged to the right and shot her in the eyes with her own Binaca. She dropped the vase and threw her hands up long enough for Bea Ann to stick out her leg and trip her. I jumped on Madge’s back.
Bea Ann threw me her used restraints.
