Vistaria Has Fallen (The Vistaria Affair/Vistaria Has Fallen #1)
Tracy Cooper-Posey
Chapter One
Calli gripped the bars in the window, stretched up on her toes and looked out upon the carefree people celebrating La Fiesta de la Luna fifteen feet below. When she had arrived on the island, a scant five hours ago, she’d had no time or patience for the festival Vistarian citizens celebrated for the three nights of the first summer full moon. It wasn’t her choice to be here. If she had been given a choice, she would still be home in Montana, sitting in her big armchair, the latest The Economist on her iPad. Dragging her suitcase through the swirling revelry had annoyed her.
Now, though, she would give anything to be in the square, mingling with them. She wanted to be free. Instead, for the last three hours and twenty-five minutes, she had been in this jail.
She put her back to the window and faced the bars of the dingy cell in which she stood. It was barely a cell. Two short walls of bars penned her in a three foot square corner. Although, when she looked at the rest of the room, she welcomed the bars.
The holding cell of the Lozano Colinas city police barracks was on the second floor of an adobe building on a large, rectangular, cobble-stoned public square. The walls of the room had once been white. Now they were a dirty yellow-gray from years of dirt and smoke. It was a hot, airless room.
Five men occupied the room. They wore green army uniform pants with red stripes along the side seams and dirty white collarless dress shirts. Their green jackets hung over the backs of their chairs. One jacket hung from a nail driven into the wall.
It was clear they resented being on duty on the first night of the festival, for they were holding their own party. Bottles of whiskey and black rum with colorful labels dotted the round table with the battered, stained wood surface. Half-a-dozen old tobacco tins sat between them as ashtrays for the cigars and thin yellow, harsh-smelling cigarettes they smoked.
The four swarthy, sweating men played cards, laughed and spoke in loud voices. From their gestures and expressions, Calli guessed the conversation was ribald. Many of the comments were about her, for they would glance at her, then speak in the bastardized Spanish that was common here. A deep belly laugh followed.
Their cigarette smoke fogged the air and the big, multi-colored Vistarian currency cluttered the table.
In the corner opposite her cell, the leader of the group—possibly a sergeant—sat on a stool with a woman on his knee. He gripped her waist as he whispered into her ear. Her clothes were similar to those Calli had seen in the few short minutes she had been on the streets outside the airport tonight. The woman wore a white off-the-shoulder blouse, a dark cummerbund and yards and yards of long skirt in panels of glowing, multi-colored silk that floated about her tanned legs. With her dark, straight hair wound into a bun on the back of her neck and a spray of the odd blue Wisteria tucked behind one ear, plus hoop earrings, the woman looked wonderful.
Every woman dressed that way had been intriguing. They moved with the sophisticated confidence of sensual, mature women, their hips swinging. Calli had never mastered that confident poise.
The sergeant’s hand pushed inside the woman’s blouse. Beneath the cotton, his fingers cupped her breast, the thumb moving as he stroked the nipple. The woman gave a small, low laugh. Her shoulders arched to give him easy access.
Calli swallowed. It seemed La Fiesta de la Luna shared Mardi Gras’ lack of inhibitions. A fear-filled thought struck her. Is that why the soldiers stare at me that way?
She looked back at the card game and caught another furtive glance thrown her way. A low comment. A chuckle that moved around the table.
Yes, she decided. They were sizing her up.
She brushed at her pants, wishing she had worn shapeless sackcloth for the flight. The jeans and tee-shirt were perfectly respectable in Montana. The waist-band sitting at her hips was conservative compared to what her students wore.
Now she was conscious of the ribbon of flesh that sometimes appeared beneath her tee-shirt. The shirt was a favorite and fit snugly from too many washings.
Calli turned away from the table. She watched through the tiny, barred window. She would stare at the endless carousing on the street for hours if it meant she didn’t have to look at the men behind her. Her knowledge of Latin American countries came from books, yet her gut said watching the soldiers would invite trouble.
How could she get out of this mess? They hadn’t offered a phone call before throwing her in here. There had been no paperwork of any kind. How would anyone—Minnie, Uncle Josh—even know she was here?
They would worry when she failed to arrive at her uncle’s house here in the city. Although, with the festival in full swing, would they be able to trace her?
Calli sheered away from the worry. Instead, she watched the dancing and merriment below. The square was the heart of the festival. Hundreds of people appeared willing to party endlessly. Entertainment to while away her night. She wouldn’t be sleeping, that was for certain.
He entered the room silently. Calli didn’t notice him at first. He caught the soldiers off guard, too. “Atención!” one shouted. The men scrambled to their feet, knocking over stools. Strained grunts and comments sounded and a soft, feminine cry of dismay.
Calli whirled, alerted.
The man standing by the door with one hand on the handle wasn’t in uniform. He didn’t even look Latino. Dark red hair and midnight blue eyes. Pale skin that went with that coloring. He looked more Irish than her great-grandmother, who had emigrated from county Kildare.