SAYULITA, NAYARIT
MEXICO
Samantha Ponce wondered what Señor Winterthur did for a living. Probably another Hollywood type. Who else could afford the prices, especially for a house you might actually use only two or three months out of the year? Sturgis, like many of the owners on this stretch of Sayulita, had run through the money left to him by his parents. Most of Sayulita was that way: the children and grandchildren of successful businessmen who originally bought here, who’d mostly pissed through their inheritances and were unable keep up with the sizable maintenance bills associated with the big villas. Sayulita was at the beginning of a slow-motion changing of the guard. Samantha and a few other prominent real estate agents stood to make tons in the coming decade.
It was a man and a woman. They walked slowly, holding hands. Samantha watched as they drew closer. They looked young. The man had short-cropped hair and a baseball hat. He was tall, and wore khaki shorts and a red polo shirt. The woman had long black hair. She looked dark, perhaps Mediterranean. As they reached the rocks below the house, she waved.
“Señor Winterthur?” she asked.
The couple waved, saying nothing, then started climbing the winding wooden stairs that led from the beach up to the house.
“Per perdone,” he said in Spanish, extending his hand, “I am so sorry. I am Joseph Winterthur. This is my wife, Laura.”
Samantha detected an accent, a foreign sound, not too strong. She shook hands with the couple.
“It’s quite all right,” said Samantha in English, with a soft Spanish accent. “I got to spend the afternoon at the most beautiful place on earth.”
“Boy, isn’t it ever?” said Winterthur, looking back at the beach and shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s stunning.”
“Where did you come from?” asked Samantha. “I hope my directions didn’t get you lost.”
“Well, to be honest, I think it was Laura’s fault,” said Winterthur. “We ended up at a place down the beach. We decided to walk. It was well worth it.”
“I do that walk once a week,” said Samantha, “even in winter.”
Winterthur laughed. Samantha glanced at Winterthur’s wife. She’d been silent to that point. She stood, staring out at the beach. She reached into her pocket and removed a cell phone, then snapped a photo.
Winterthur was handsome. His hair was cut very short, but he was powerful, with a chiseled, severe face. Laura Winterthur was small and gorgeous. She had very dark skin and bright, light blue eyes. Samantha stared at her for several moments.
“Where are you two from?” asked Samantha.
“New York City,” said Winterthur. “I’m an investor.”
“Well, let’s look around the home,” said Samantha.
“It won’t be necessary,” said the woman, her first words. She had a much stronger accent than her husband. It was Russian. She smiled, her teeth as white as snow. A small gap was visible between her two front teeth, which made her even more intriguing. “We’ll take it.”
“You are aware that the asking price is ten million dollars?” asked Samantha. “Now you didn’t hear this from me, but I believe Señor Sturgis would probably be willing to move a little lower.”
“It won’t be necessary,” said the woman. “We’ll pay cash. We’d like to close this afternoon. Now.”
Samantha did a slight double take, then nodded.
“That … should be possible,” said Samantha. “Of course, it will take a day for the wire to clear.”
“When I said we’ll pay in cash, I meant cash,” said the woman. “Otherwise we’ll look elsewhere.”
“I think that will be fine,” said Samantha.
The woman turned and looked one more time at the beach.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind,” said the woman, “could we bother you for a ride back to our car?”