Dos Equis (17 page)

evidence, at last count, JP had connected Frances Huber to nine elderly women throughout Canada and the United States who

had died from unnatural yet outwardly unsuspicious causes.

I could find no record of Frances Huber’s ever being employed again. And yet, the woman was living in a lovely, art-filled

home in Zihuatanejo, where she lavishly entertained handsome young men. I feared my nose was about to become permanently

wrinkled. I smelled something very rotten down Mexico way.

Chapter 12

Checking myself out in the sunshade mirror of the coal black Lincoln Towncar I was “chauffeuring,” I had to smirk at the image staring back at me. The look was pure eighties porn star. I was the hunky driver, replete with a jaunty chauffeur’s cap, tight uniform, and an abundant Tom Selleck moustache. I was directing the big rental out of Zihuatanejo, onto the relatively new,

four-lane,
Carretera Nacional 200
highway. The road would take us over the hill that separates the traditional fishing village from the more modern resort of Ixtapa.

My gaze shifted to the rear-view mirror. I adjusted it to get a better look at my passenger. Not surprisingly, Sereena had

managed to embody her character perfectly. She was the vision of
Costa Grande
chic, a Mexican Riviera sophisticate. She wore a sleeveless, white linen pantsuit that showed off a devastating décolletage, while still maintaining an irrefutable veneer of elegance. She’d pinned up her dark hair into a mass of seemingly random tendrils, all held together with an appallingly

expensive, bejewelled hairclip that regularly burst into mini-fireworks as the colourful gems reflected the sun. Her eyeglasses were of Jackie-O-on-a-yacht proportion. Her manner channeled
Ugly Betty
’s Wilhelmina Slater.

Inside, my heart was beating like Seabiscuit at the finish line. For in my mind, as soon as we crossed over the invisible line that took us from the charming, dusty, sometimes unkempt environs of Zihuatanejo, into the cool, sleek, contemporary Ixtapa, we were stepping into enemy territory. Frances Huber lived in Ixtapa. And, if everything went according to plan, this would be our first official contact with a killer of old women.

Like most people who came here, Frances focussed all her attention on Ixtapa, rather than its poor neighbour. Ixtapa isn’t

even a town. It’s a planned tourist resort administered by a federal agency called FONATUR. Although Ixtapa and Zihuatanejo

are only seven kilometres (about four miles) apart, in most other ways they are worlds apart.

The uninitiated and unadventurous usually stay put in Ixtapa. Some make the trip over the hill to check out the quaint,

authentic Mexican village for a
cerveza
or two, then quickly head back. But if you dig deep enough, there is a whole other face to Zihuatanejo. This hidden face quite easily surpasses Ixtapa in terms of beauty, sophistication, and authenticity. Hidden in the bays and hills of the small city are some incredible small luxury hotels, ranked amongst the best in the world, and five-star restaurants with astounding views to match their menus.

From what I could gather, Frances first came to Ixtapa the year her mother died. It was a charter trip, direct from Edmonton, a short vacation with a now (of course) ex-friend. They stayed at the modest Dorado Pacifico hotel on Playa Palmar. They

drank plenty of margaritas, attended the hotel’s weekly fiesta, and had their hair corn-rowed on the beach. Frances fell madly and deeply in love with the area. It was the first of its type she’d ever visited, but she didn’t need to see anywhere else. This was her place. She’d returned every year since, vowing to one day own a home there. She kept her pledge. Frances now owned

a small villa in the hills, near Marina Ixtapa, with a sliver view of the bay. It appeared that, for Frances, business was

booming.

Sereena and I said little to one another as I took the Towncar off the highway onto Paseo Ixtapa. After countless hours of

planning, our scheme was set. Although I’ve never known Sereena to be nervous, the energy in the car was definitely wired.

We passed the hotel zone and headed towards the marina. Once there, I again directed the car up a hill. The higher we went,

the rougher and narrower the twisted road became. On either side of us, scruffy trees were dry and mottled; tourist properties gave way to modest apartments, then small homes, then larger homes. I knew exactly where I was going. I’d driven by several

times before.

Senora
Huber’s residence was on a small, unpaved, cul-de-sac, with four other driveways leading to small
casitas
with undersized or non-existent yards. Up here, it was all about the view through the trees.

I checked my watch. (Oddly enough, Zihuatanejo and Saskatoon are in the exact same time zone.) It was 3:20 p.m. Perfect.

I positioned the car so that most of its rear end was across Frances’s driveway. We were effectively blocking the spot she’d normally pull into after returning from her bi-weekly run to the local supermarket. She was, thankfully for me, a creature of habit. As were—I’d learned in my research—many successful serial killers.

I stepped out of the vehicle. I adjusted my cap and moustache, then lifted the car’s hood. Sereena stayed put, assuming mock impatience. And doing very well at it, I might add.

Once again, my heart did a dance when, right on time, shortly after three-thirty, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Frances Huber was approaching.

Even though she couldn’t possibly miss seeing the situation, Frances did not even attempt to park on the side of the road.

Instead she pulled up to the driveway and nearly nose-kissed our car with hers, as if in a slow motion broadside. She gave her horn a little tap. When I didn’t respond, she rolled down her window and called out: “Hey buddy, you’re blocking my

driveway.”

I lifted my head from where I was pretending to toil on something I barely recognized; I think they call it a motor.

“
Buenos diás, signora
,” I greeted in my best thick accent. Then I shrugged helplessly, as if to say: “I’m sorry, but I cannot start my car, and am working on it as fast as I can.” In reality, I was more likely to be saying something like: “I’m sorry, but I know nothing about fixing cars. Do you have CAA?”

It was damned hot out, and I could feel the sweat on my lip begin to loosen the spirit gum holding my magnificent mustache

in place. I ducked under the hood again, back to my manly pursuit. A moment later, I heard Frances’s car door open. I snuck a peek out of the right side of my aviator sunglasses. Frances was not dressed for company. Her hair was a blowsy mane, barely held in control by a sun visor. She wore a loose, sleeveless, white shirt that did little to hide her ample bosom but showed off a surprisingly slender waist. Her elastic-waisted, khaki, short-shorts were built to accommodate her made-for-waltzing hips, but not the skinny legs that held them up. Her dusty feet were encased in bright orange Crocs.

“What seems to be the problem,
amigo
?” she asked, sounding friendly enough. “I’ve got a couple of bags of groceries in the car.” She added with a chuckle: “And they’re as happy about sitting around in this heat as I am.”

As Frances neared the Lincoln, the rear door swung open. Like one of those slow-motion gam-shots you often see in movies,

out stepped glorious Sereena.

Frances stopped in her tracks to properly behold the vision.

“I’m sorry,” Sereena began in a throaty purr, “but Manuel doesn’t speak much English.”

“Oh well,” Frances replied. “That makes us even. I don’t speak much Spanish.”

Sereena babbled some Spanish at me that meant nothing to my ears. In response, I obediently went back to my work beneath

the hood.

“I apologize for this, Miss…?”

Frances stumbled a bit over her words, but finally got out: “Frances…I’m Miss Frances Huber.”

“Sereena Orion Smith,” Sereena introduced herself, holding out a slender hand with sparkling friends on two of her fingers.

Frances shook, revealing a hand that was, unexpectedly, equally as slender and manicured.

“Wouldn’t you know it? The car quit just as we were passing what I am now assuming is your driveway?”

“You got that right.”

Sereena let out a sound that she meant to be a light laugh. I knew it was as authentic as Frances’s French-tipped nails. “I’m afraid to tell you, we are entirely marooned. Would you believe it? My cellphone doesn’t seem to work up here. We may as

well be on the moon for all the good it’s doing me.”

“Not all American cellphones work in Mexico,” Frances helpfully volunteered. “You have to get the kind that work

anywhere internationally.”

“Oh really? Well that’s very good information to know. Thank you. Frances, I hope you don’t mind my saying, but I love

those shoes you have on. What a splendid colour. And so comfortable looking. Wherever did you get them?”

“Uh, they’re Crocs.”

“Crocs? Is that with a K?”

“C.”

I could see out of the corner of my eye that Frances was beginning to look a little befuddled, not quite sure what to make of Sereena.

“Manuel,” Sereena demanded my attention.

I popped up my profusely sweating head. She rattled off more words that ended up with her spelling out C-R-O-C-S to me in

Spanish.

I nodded, committing none of it to memory.

“You know, it’s getting awfully hot out here. If you want, you can come in to the house and use my phone,” Frances offered.

“Really? Oh, you are a lifesaver, Frances. And Manuel will bring in your groceries.” Without waiting for confirmation,

Sereena ordered me in what I thought was a rather imperious tone of voice, to do exactly that. I shot my friend a quick frown.

Hauling groceries was not part of the plan. Her reaction was an arched eyebrow and more unintelligible-to-me Spanish.

The good news was that, fortunately, I didn’t think Frances was catching on to the fact that Sereena was actually translating everything she was telling me in Spanish before she even said it. It was the only way I could successfully come off as a non-English speaking Mexican chauffeur.

Frances wordlessly showed me where the bags of groceries were. Once I was loaded down, she led us up the driveway to

her front door. As she unlocked it, I was glad to see that the locking device was a simple one. We stepped inside.

“Oh, Frances, it is so deliciously cool in here,” Sereena enthused (something she rarely does in real life about anything).

“However do you do it? You must spend a fortune on air conditioning.” “Nah, not really,” Frances told her, directing me with a flip of her wrist to where I should deposit the groceries.

The kitchen was a long, narrow, dungeon of a room that ran along the road side of the house. It was a perfect place for me to be unobtrusive, yet still see and hear the women through a small serving hatch opening in the wall. It was also the perfect spot to watch Sereena handle Frances like a Hell’s Angel handles a hawg.

“I spent a lot of money on window coverings that actually block the heat. And, up here, there is plenty of bush cover. Low-

overhangs over the biggest windows do the rest.”

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. It’s quite obvious you’ve been local here for a long time.”

Frances smiled, obviously delighted with the description. “Oh, no, not that long. But you learn things. And I didn’t build the house. I bought it this way. Ixtapa is known for its sunshine and heat. Good for the tourists, but not so much for those of us who live here.”

“So you live here all year round then?”

“More and more. I still keep a small place in Edmonton— that’s a city in Canada, where I come from.”

Sereena nodded as if fascinated.

Frances moved to the front of the room. She pulled aside her aforementioned window coverings to reveal an expansive wall

of glass. “I’ll just open these up so you can see the place a little better.”

When the room was flooded with natural light, it did look quite impressive. Not huge, but nicely laid out. The windows

made the most of a view that was trying its damnedest to catch a glimpse of Palmar Bay.

Sereena deserved an Academy Award. She dramatically pulled in her breath, as if overcome with delight at the room and its

view. Then, without more than a moment’s hesitation, she zeroed in on what we’d hoped we’d find in Casa Huber.

“Is this a Jose A. Soto?” she asked breathlessly, standing next to a rather large charcoal over an antique shelf.

Frances’ smile widened as she slowly approached Sereena and the artwork. “You know Mexican art?”

I have to say, I was impressed too.

“Oh well, just a little. I’ve never seen a Soto up close before.” Then her eyes darted to another canvas across the room.

“Rufino Tamayo?”

“No, but close. It’s a Franco Mondini-Ruiz, from San Antonio. Don’t you just love it?”

“I do, I truly do. I should have known it was Mondini-Ruiz. I have one of his pieces as well in one of my homes.” Sereena

tossed in the last bit in such an offhand manner, it didn’t even seem boastful.

“Oh well, then you must see the little Carl Hoppe I have in the hallway to the bedroom.”

“Could I?” Sereena demurred. “Oh, but Frances, we’ve already taken up so much of your time.”

“That’s okay. I love talking about my art.”

She was talking as if she’d painted them all herself.

“Tell you what,” Sereena began. “If I could use your phone to call my mechanic first? Then, maybe, if you don’t mind, I’d

love to see the Hoppe?”

Sereena dialled a number and spoke into the phone, spouting all manner of lovely sounding words. When she finished, she

said to Frances as if as an aside: “He says this often happens with this car in extreme heat like we have today. He says after a rest, it should be okay. I’ll have Manuel go give it a try.”

Inviting me back into the front room, Sereena repeated the same message to me in rapid fire Spanish. I gave her a curt nod