Dos Equis (19 page)

amongst the cast of friends invited by Toraidio to fill up the space. Sereena would be the only one with a prior relationship with Frances, as well as close acquaintance of the evening’s host.

I had little fear that Frances would recognize me as Sereena’s chauffeur, even if she saw us together. Yes, my disguise was

that good. (Plus, it helped immensely that Frances hadn’t once looked me in the eye the entire time we were in her house.)

We went a little overboard with Mom’s costume for the night. I learned that even fake jewels and furs can cost a pretty

penny. But it was worth it to see my conservative, Ukrainian, farm-woman mother, all dolled up, befitting her character for the night. She was in a fitted blouse, covered in sequins the colour of wet sand, and silk, off-white palazzo pants that just swept the floor (and hid the horrifying flats she insisted on wearing…something about bunions). Despite the heat, we’d wrapped a faux

fox stole around her sturdy shoulders. Her freshly manicured fingers were encrusted with cubic zirconium. Her ears are not

pierced, so we had to go with chunky matching clip-ons. At the last minute, we added a small tiara to top off her new teased-out do. This was quite a departure from my mother’s usual get up of a freshly pressed, plain housedress, worn beneath a

flowery apron, thick nylons, a tightly permed coiffure, and black, horn-rimmed glasses.

Errall, too, pulled out all the stops. She brought out her inner lipstick lesbian grandeur, with a tight, peachy-raspberry hued sleeveless tunic. It looked drop dead gorgeous with her dark tan, and hugged every angle of her well-toned physique. She

balanced precariously atop suicide stilettos, and she’d let her glossy hair dry naturally, leaving it all pointy and pokey around her chiselled face. I was no slouch myself, in a ginger coloured jacket, off-white trousers, and a turquoise open neck shirt that somehow made my eyes appear the same colour.

A diminutive maid invited us to enter the house through large wooden doors with wrought iron inlays. Already the house

was alive with music and the smells of Spanish tapas cooking in some far off kitchen. Like many Mexican houses on the beach

or near water, this one was made up of a sequence of integrated interiors and exteriors that casually flowed from one to

another. We were led down a wide hallway through a repeating series of archways, the walls a rough stucco. At the end was a

massive rotunda that was half indoors, half outdoors. At its centre were three trees, their gnarled yet graceful-looking roots intertwining like an artistic snarl of snakes, reaching from half way down the thick trunks to a hole in the tiled floor. Here the walls were a muted adobe, but the solid, chunky furniture and the room’s varied accessories, including pillows, ceramics, and chair cushions, were an explosion of typical Mexican colours: magenta, orange, blue, yellow, red.

“Well, well, well,
bonita senorita
!” came a deep voice, rich with texture and age.

From the midst of a gaggle of guests already arrived and tittering over cocktails, emerged Toraidio Garza. He approached,

arms outstretched, as if begging for my mother’s hand in marriage. His eyes were sparkling, his neat white moustache curled up at the edges where his toothy smile forced it to do so.

My mother’s cheeks reddened as she stared at the man, unmoving, uncertain what to do. Toraidio helped her out by reaching

down for her hand and, placing it firmly against his lips, whispered sweet Spanish nothings in her general direction.

I was certain Sereena had briefed our host on our plans, but just in case, I said, “I’m sorry, Senor, but my mother only speaks Ukrainian.”

“Then we shall speak the universal language of love!” he pronounced. Oh gawd.

“Tell me, Madame, what is your favourite song?” he turned his face sideways to me, as if asking me to translate.

I sighed, turned to my mother, and feeling more than a little embarrassed, asked her the question in my rusty Ukrainian. This was especially discomfiting, given that I knew full well that she understood every word he was saying. Well, the English ones anyway.

My mother actually giggled, and shrugged her shoulders.

Toraidio took it in stride. “Then perhaps a little something like this…”

And that was when he began to croon “That’s Amore” to my mother. He actually sounded pretty good. Like Dean Martin.

When he was done, he gave my mother a big hug and topped it off with a kiss right on the lips.

Let me say it one more time: Oh gawd.

Toraidio next turned his charms onto Errall, who, although polite, was less bowled over. This did not sit well with our host.

He leaned in and whispered something in her ear. When he was done, Errall stepped back, gave Toraidio one of her arched

eyebrow looks, and smiled enigmatically. She grabbed my mother’s hand, and with a “We need to find drinks,” led her off in

the direction of the bar.

I, too, was taken aback when suddenly, Toraidio took both my hands in his, and, squeezing them tightly, gifted me with a kiss on each cheek. He pulled back and said, “So, you are the Russell Quant my Sereena has told me so much about.”

Just then,
his
Sereena pulled up next to us. She was ravishing in a lingerie-style, lavender, Elie Saab dress. “I see you two have met.”

He laid an affectionate arm around Sereena’s shoulders and gave her a surprisingly gentle peck on the cheek. “Oh, my

beautiful girl.” He gave me a serious eye. “The one that got away.”

Uncharacteristically, Sereena said nothing.

“And it was not for a gentleman’s lack of trying, I should tell you,” the man told me in earnest. “But she was always so busy.

Flitting from here to there, like a gracious angel, bestowing the gift of her presence on all who loved her.”

I tried to recall, but I was certain Toraidio featured little, if at all, in any of the tales I’d heard my neighbour tell. I suppose she might have mentioned him in passing, something like: “…and then I weekended with my Mexican lover, before heading on

to Lisbon for the summer regatta.” I searched Sereena’s face for more, but it told me nothing.

A server came by offering champagne, which we all accepted.

“I must tell you, Russell,” Toraidio said, “Sereena doesn’t believe me in this, but the paintings you had delivered here for tonight, are actually quite good.”

Champagne bubbles up the nose are as uncomfortable as they sound.

A server was immediately at my side with a cloth. I used it to clean off my spritz. What was this man talking about? Over the past few days, I had tasked my mother with filling the two dozen or so blank canvases I’d purchased from a shop in town, with whatever she wished. If we were hosting an art show, we needed art. Mom was happy to have something to keep her busy and

out of the sun. I set her up in a shady corner of Errall’s condo with some paint and brushes and let her have at it. To be truthful, I hadn’t even given them much of a look before the delivery men came to pick them up. My mother had no artistic talent as far as I knew. But I wasn’t worried. I’d seen pieces which I would not have been surprised to hear were painted by a three-legged, blind Border Collie, sell at auction for great sums. I didn’t need Frances to love the art. I needed her to want it. Two very different things.

“Come,” Sereena ordered us.

We followed as she headed to the opposite side of the room, dodging crews of new arrivals to the party. Despite the quickly

filling room—I guess Toraidio had plenty of acquaintances who never missed an opportunity to attend a fake art show—I found

Errall and shot her a look. It was still early, but I didn’t want to miss the arrival of Frances Huber. Errall shook her head, then went back to conversing with a rather muscled-looking woman in a skimpy jumpsuit. I didn’t have time to wonder where she’d

dumped my mother.

Sereena stopped in front of one of the largest paintings, all of which were displayed throughout the room. It was so big, it rested on two separate easels.

“This piece in particular,” Serena told me, “has Toraidio ready to prostrate himself in front of it.”

“What she says is true, Russell,” he proclaimed, his eyes fully engaged with the swirling colours on the canvas.

I said nothing, taking a first close look at my mother’s handiwork. For a moment I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it,

overwhelmed by the bright masses of colours (Ukrainians are much like Mexicans in their love for strong primaries). I stepped back. If I bent my head just right, and squinted a bit, I began to see what I could only describe as a gathering of clouds—but without a single cloud-like colour in use. What made it intriguing, was that Mom had primed the canvas using dark and dirty

pigment before layering on the candy-like confections. The contrast was jarring, yet oddly compelling. At the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas, in gold lettering, was the signature: a single K.

I couldn’t make up my mind about the piece. Maybe I was too close to the artist. “Are you serious, Toraidio? You actually

like this?”

“No,” he said, quite seriously. “I love it.”

Still befuddled by what I was hearing, I felt a tug on my sleeve. In my ear I heard the words that brought me rushing back to reality: “She’s here.”

Chapter 14

As if meticulously choreographed, from our various corners of the room, thrumming with the noise of about sixty guests,

Anthony, Jared, Sereena, Errall, Mom, and I exchanged looks of…worry? Anticipation? Excitement? Although imperceptible

to everyone else at the party, everything in the room had just changed. Frances Huber had arrived. It was time to engage the enemy. But before that happened, I had one very important task to take care of.

Leaving Sereena and Errall with Toraidio, I stepped into the outdoor section of the rotunda. There were quite a few people

milling about and admiring (really?) my mother’s art here as well. I needed privacy. I pushed aside an Aztec pattered drapery covering a nearby archway that led into another open-air room. Although much smaller than the rotunda, the space was equally inviting. There were large chairs surrounded by striking painted gourds, terracotta urns, baskets, and earthenware pots. Rustic tin wall sconces and religious art decorated the walls. I sidled over to the farthest edge of the room where the sound of the party was least invasive. I pulled out my cellphone and dialled a number. As I waited for an answer, I enjoyed a stunning view of Playa Las Gatas, far below the rough-hewn hilltop that held aloft Toraidio Garza’s grand house.

“Russell?” came the answer.

I smiled at hearing the familiar voice. “It’s me, JP.”

JP was the seventh member of our team. His role, in many ways, was the most important. And the most dangerous.

I had vociferously argued against JP’s taking the responsibility he now had. I was the trained professional. I had the most

experience with this type of thing. I was the one who had planned this whole escapade. It stood to reason that if anyone should be in peril, it should be me. I was ultimately defeated by logic.

JP argued that he had as much, if not more, motivation to want to see Frances Huber brought to justice. Jane Cross was not

only his employer, but also his sister-in-law, and the mother of his nephew. Although he didn’t admit it, I knew he still

believed that if he’d made an extra copy of the damning MOM file, none of us would be doing what we now had to do. All that

was true. But it wasn’t enough to convince me. His final argument did.

As far as I could tell, Frances Huber had three weaknesses. Fine art. Young men. And a deep craving for respect. She was

the ultimate wannabe. Frances had come from nothing. Now she wanted it all. And she would do anything to get it. The money

she’d gotten as a result of her mother’s death turned out to be not nearly enough to buy herself the life she so desperately desired. So she found a way to make more. Murder. It probably only took a few jobs before she began rolling in the green. But her penchant for the good life, fine art, and male suitors, left her constantly requiring cash infusions to maintain her addictions.

I knew that to catch this woman, my plan would have to be well thought out, elaborate, and multi-pronged. I would attack from every angle. If one way didn’t work, I’d get her from another, until I pierced her soft underbelly, with my sword of retribution!

Okay…maybe that’s a bit too
Clash of the Titans
, but my intent was no less true.

To make this work, I’d have many irons in the fire. I’d involved all my friends and even my mother. Someone needed to keep

a close watch on the entire operation from a bird’s eye view. And, most importantly, someone needed to keep an even closer

eye on every move our quarry made. It only made sense that that someone be me. And as the person who knew the most about

this (next to me), JP knew it. He insisted I would be much too busy, and that he be the one to search Frances Huber’s house.

What to do?

This new Russell Quant I’d discovered over the past year, was less foolhardy. He was more apt to make sound decisions,

based on intelligent consideration, rather than rash ones based on foolish pride or masculine bravado. So I did what needed to be done.

I told JP to bugger off. I was searching Frances’s house.

But then he enlisted the support of our other team members. They agreed with him. I was lost. Only after much discussion,

and rehearsal of what to do, how to do it, and when to bail, did I relent. Unhappily.

There was one more thing.

I was very concerned about the safety of this man.

Because this was a man I was most certainly falling in love with.

JP was waiting outside Frances’s house in Ixtapa. He carried with him a knapsack, which held a portable scanner and a

laptop with an external hard drive for electronic storage. Although he likely would have seen Frances leaving for the party, we agreed he wouldn’t make a move until he heard from me, confirming that that she was five kilometres away, with us in