Heir (eBook)

Chapter 3

On September 13, a Friday, Galen flew from San Antonio to Houston; and there, after an hour delay, transferred to a flight to Lima, the capital of Peru. In Lima there was another delay for the connecting flight to Cusco, which tacked on another two hours to his journey to central Peru. He had been lucky to get the reservations with two connections at such short notice, but the travel agent told him that lots of cancellations were taking place.

“Friday the 13th is not a good travel day,” she had said. “There are lots of spineless folks around.”

He stared into the agent’s broad smile and decided she was teasing.

“You’re not afraid?”

“I’m not superstitious.” Galen handed her the platinum credit card and requested a First-Class seat.

As he awaited the arrival of the smaller Peruvian aircraft that would take him to Cusco, he surveyed his fellow passengers. Seated closest was a group of jean-clad teenagers. To his right, a weary-looking mother was having a particularly difficult time keeping a two-year-old child from running everywhere. There were also a splattering of men and women in business suits, some with briefcases, some with laptops.

Against the far wall was a starry-eyed couple, the young man’s arms entwined around his girlfriend’s body like ivy binds itself to a tree trunk. Watching them, Galen recalled what it was like to be young and in love. When he married Allison, he had believed their love would be forever. He had never suspected that his “forever love” would die and leave him alone. You never forget your first love, he thought, especially when you face forever without her.

When Flight 234 arrived, he followed the line of passengers through the breezeway and onto the airplane. A smiling flight attendant in a gray and blue uniform pointed him to his assigned seat on the fourth row in the front of the plane. He found that the seat next to him was already occupied by a blonde with a flawless complexion.

She offered a friendly hand. “I’m Sheree Dodson.”

“My friends call me Galen.”

As she buckled her seatbelt, he studied her more closely. He guessed she was in her late thirties. She was a striking-looking woman, slender, with dancer’s legs and a cloud of long hair that she wore pulled back.

“Are you visiting Peru on vacation?” he asked.

“Actually, I live in Cusco. My factory is there.”

“You sound like an American.”

Her smile was almost too wide for her face. “My Boston brogue always gives me away.”

She motioned to the stewardess and asked for a bottle of water, and without taking a breath jumped back into the conversation. “I live in San Antonio now, but I come to Peru regularly. I have an apartment here too.”

“What do you do?” he asked as the plane began its ascent.

“I’m a fashion designer. You?”

“A private detective.”

“I’ve never met a detective,” she said.

“That makes us even. I’ve never met a fashion designer before.”

When the stewardess arrived with the water, Galen asked for black coffee.

Sheree removed a prescription bottle from her purse and shook two tablets into her palm. “Have you been told to drink only bottled water?” After he nodded, she popped the pills into her mouth and washed them down with a gulp from the bottle.

He let his eyes travel slowly down her slim body. She wore a silk blouse with an embroidered trim on the collar and on the hem of the short skirt. “Did you design what you’re wearing? It’s nice.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She smiled again and Galen sensed that she liked him. Before he could think of something captivating to say, she glanced outside at the fluffy clouds. When she turned back, she grimaced in pain.

“Are you okay?”

“It takes a while for my arthritis medicine to work,” she explained. “My condition is getting worse. This time I’m not going to Peru on business. I’m going for a cure.” She held out her hands, revealing stiff fingers, partially curled. “I can’t cut my sample patterns with scissors anymore.”

Galen felt a spark of pity. She was too young to be plagued with such an affliction.

She broke into his thoughts with a question. “Have you heard of Sister Magdalen?”

He admitted that he hadn’t.

“She’s quite famous in Peru,” she continued. “I don’t think the media in the States have discovered her yet. Last month I talked to a woman who used to be blind. She went to a crusade and Magdalen laid hands on her and removed the darkness.”

She droned on and on, with excitement in every word. Galen tried to appear attentive, but he was uncomfortable with this talk of miracles. He didn’t believe in miracles. He shifted in his seat and accepted the steaming cup of coffee the stewardess handed him.

Sheree’s eyes searched his face. “You look skeptical.”

“Sorry, I’m not much of a believer.” He took a sip and pushed it away in disgust. “Instant coffee,” he muttered. He was a purist when it came to coffee. Other people drank it; he used it like a transfusion. Bitter tasting coffee was enough to ruin his day.

“Why don’t you come with me to her crusade next week? Seeing is believing.”

“I’m hoping to be back in the U.S. by then,” he replied gently.

“Anyway, I’d appreciate a prayer that God will heal me.”

“Sure.” He had no idea what else to say.

Then the conversation fell flat, as it always did when someone tried to thrust religion on him. Sheree gazed out the window again.

“I’ve come here to find a possible heir to Sarah Wesley’s estate.” The words spewed forth before he could stop himself. It was a lapse in professionalism, but it was an attempt to detour the conversation away from religion.

Her eyes brightened with renewed interest. “Tell me more.”

He did. For fifteen minutes he told her about the President’s long-lost daughter who had run away with her boyfriend in a show of teenage rebellion. The young man had dumped Jenna in Peru, leaving her to survive on her own. Because she had been too embarrassed to return home, she resorted to prostitution. Years later the American embassy in Lima contacted President Wesley after Jenna requested sanctuary. She had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and wanted treatment by American doctors.

Immediately President Wesley had sent agents to escort her home. A year later, Jenna died only six months after the President was assassinated.

Galen told Sheree about the diary. He also explained how his affection for Sarah had grown during the days he was with the Secret Service. Now his fervent desire was to help her find the only remaining Wesley heir.

Sheree had listened attentively without speaking. When Galen paused, she reminded him that, being an American, she knew much of the story already. The deaths of the President and his daughter had been in all the newspapers and on TV news.

“How long were you in the Secret Service?” she asked.

“Fifteen years.”

“Why did you leave?”

“President Wesley died on my watch.” That was only partly true. He had been unable to continue after his wife was killed too.

Then came the surprise. “I have a meeting tomorrow with my partners; then I’d like to assist you with your investigation. I know the town. I speak the language.”

“You really want to?”

Her eyes were hypnotic. “What facts do you have to go on?”

“Not much. Jenna changed her name to Benita Alverez, probably so her parents couldn’t find her. There was also a rumor that Benita had a baby, but no one knew for sure.”

Sheree took a deep breath and her eyes widened into large blue pools. “Do you believe in God coincidences— things that happen at the right time — things that couldn’t happen unless God makes them happen?” She was too excited to wait for an answer. “I knew a Benita Alverez many years ago, Galen. She was my neighbor.”

“It’s a common name, though.”

“This Benita Alverez was a prostitute,” Sheree added in a whisper, looking embarrassed.

“This was in Cusco?”

“Yes.”

Galen reached into his coat for a photograph of Jenna. “Is this her?”

“Yes. She had an apartment next to mine. It was paid for by some rich guy. After a while, he moved her into an upscale high-rise and I never saw her again.”

“Did she have a child?”

“Not when I knew her.” Sheree breathed deeply and changed the subject. “I’ve decided you’re an old-fashioned guy. Most people carry their pictures on their...