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Authors: Anthony Bidulka

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Zihuatanejo.

“It’s a beautiful night for a break-in,” JP’s voice rolled into my ear. It was his attempt at breaking the tension that, most definitely, was hanging in the air like a polluting smog.

“JP…”

“I know, I know, but say it anyway.”

“Be careful.”

“What could go wrong? I got my scanner. I got my James Bond balaclava. I got my wonderpants on…”

What did I just hear? “Your what?”

“My wonderpants,” he responded easily. “You know, the pants everyone has. They always feel comfy; they’re always in

style. And let me tell you, Mr. Quant, if you could see me from behind right now, you’d faint dead away.”

What? Could it be? Wonderpants belonged to me. Well, at least the term did. Or I thought it did. But wait. This guy was a

known thief. Did he…did the bugger actually steal my word from me too? “Hold on a second,” I began, sounding quite harsh,

I’m sure. “Did you hear me talking about wonderpants, and now y…”

“Over and out, amigo.” And he was gone.

He hung up on me! To be fair, we did have more important things to worry about at the moment than wonderpants.
Slightly

more important.

It was time to jump into the fire.

It was a heated argument. And not very private. I would say something to my mother. She would reply back. All discourse in

Ukrainian. With each volley, our voices grew louder and angrier. In reality, we were discussing last year’s crops near Howell.

Howell is the town near where Mom still lives on the family farm. She was also telling me, in excruciating detail, what she

was planning to plant in her oversize garden this coming spring. She had high hopes for cucumbers this season.

I was taking a chance that no one in the room understood Ukrainian. I was feeling confident. It was mostly full of well-to-do Mexicans, who spent time in Zihuatanejo, but most likely came from Mexico City or one of the other inland metropolises. Even so, I was only really concerned with one person—whom I’d ensured was within listening distance before beginning the

squabble. Every so often, Errall, sitting between me and my mother on a low-slung couch, would ask me—in English—what

the “old hag” was saying.

“Oh, she’s making a big deal about the cost of dinner at Tentaciones.” Tentaciones was an elegant establishment perched

atop a hill in the Zihuatanejo hotel zone.

“What? Did she want us to come to this thing without eating?” “She didn’t think I should have chosen such an expensive

restaurant when she could have cooked for us at home for a fraction of the price.”

“Bah! Has she tasted her own cooking?”

Even though Mom knew this was all an act, she couldn’t help frowning at that last comment. Mom prides herself on being an

excellent cook, especially when butter, lard, or a deep fryer are involved.

“You’d think with all her millions, she’d stop acting like a pauper,” I complained bitterly.

“Well I don’t care about that,” Errall responded with a sniff. “But why should we have to live like paupers right along with her?”Mom began another tirade. This time she told me about her tabby cat named Mittens, who, yet again, looked as if she was pregnant. If history proved repetitive, the cat would likely deliver at least six new kittens before summer. Mom wondered if Barbra and Brutus might enjoy a kitten as a sister.

I turned to Errall, and said with no shortage of exasperation, “Now she’s asking how much the wine was, and why we

couldn’t just drink water like she did.”

Showing fine form as the incensed daughter-in-law, Errall glared at Mom. She muttered something not very nice under her

breath, raised herself off the couch, and stormed off towards the bar.

I glanced up to check if we still had Frances’s attention. We did. Catching her eye, I gave her an embarrassed smile. She did a little empathetic eye-roll of understanding, before meandering away. Perusing the room, I quickly found Sereena. I touched the side of my nose. She made her move.

“Frances, I’m so glad you made it,” Sereena slid up next to the woman, weaving her thin arm around Frances’s. I followed at

a discreet distance.

“Oh, Sereena. Thanks for inviting me. I had no idea these kind of homes even existed way out here.”

“Oh? You mean up in the hills?” Sereena asked innocently, as they slowly walked together through the crowd. Frances

didn’t know it, but Sereena was doing more than directing the conversation.

“I mean here in Zihuatanejo.” She pronounced it “see wah tah nay JO” instead of “see wah tah nay HO.” “I always thought

this place was…” She glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. I hurriedly looked away, as if

entranced by another conversation. Satisfied, she continued on in a conspiratorial whisper. “…a bit of a backwater. It’s so

grimy and dirty in town. And that marina compared to the one in Ixtapa, like night and day, right?”

Over the years, Sereena had perfected a seething smiled that fooled most people. She used it now.

“That’s a lovely dress,” Sereena commented. “It really sets off your skin tone.”

Frances glanced down at her outfit. She’d obviously gone to some trouble to look especially good tonight. The dress looked

fresh out of the store. Her hair, piled on her head in a slightly old fashioned bun, looked like she’d come to the party straight from the old-lady salon. Although Frances Huber could afford the money for good clothes, she knew little about dressing for

her body type. I couldn’t help wishing I could sic Anthony on her. Was it wrong to want my serial killer to have a bit more

fashion sense?

Speak of the devil. “This is bloody fantastic, Toraidio.” Anthony’s more upper-crust-than-usual British accent punctuated

the air. He and the evening’s host were standing nearby, studying the same large painting of my mother’s that Toraidio was in love with. “Why haven’t I seen this artist’s work before? Are you hiding him from me? Keeping him all to yourself, are you?”

“Actually, my dear friend, the artist is a woman. A beautiful woman at that.”

“Is that so? Well, where is she? Come on, old chap, trot her out. I will meet her. I want to discuss this piece. And the price.”

“What do you think?” Sereena whispered in Frances’s ear, as they neared the painting. “Isn’t it extraordinary?”

Frances missed less than a beat. “Yes, it really is. Who painted it? Do you know?”

“Oh god, yes. It’s a K.”

“K?”

“She doesn’t reveal her full name to the public. Very mysterious. Only those of us who own a piece are let in on the secret.”

Frances’s eyes widened at this. She stared at Sereena’s powerful profile. “You know then?”

“I do.”

“What is it? What does K stand for? Who is she?”

Sereena let a small chuckle tumble through her dark-ruby lips. Her head moved slowly into position, only stopping when she

was nose to nose and eye to eye with the other woman. “Oh Frances. If I told you that…I’d have to kill you.”

For a millisecond, Frances looked alarmed. But she quickly relaxed and smiled. Realizing that Sereena was not about to

break the stare, Frances was the first to look away. “I’ve collected so much art over the years. Maybe I have one of her pieces and don’t even know it.”

“Look around,” Sereena instructed. “Her style is very distinct. Besides, the price of her work is significant. I don’t think you’d have forgotten buying a K.”

“Oh. I suppose not.”

“There is something particularly thrilling about tonight’s show,” Sereena said in a stage whisper.

“Oh? What? Can you tell me that?”

“Look at the size of these pieces. You rarely see a K anywhere near these dimensions. Obviously the prices will be even

higher, but my god, Frances, to have one of these…well, I’m not surprised to see Mr. Gatt here.”

“Who’s that?”

Sereena indicated Anthony with a tick of her nose. “Anthony Gatt is one of the most renowned and respected collectors of

modern art in the U.K. I’m not surprised he’s got his eye on that particular piece. It’s quite obviously the crown jewel of the lot.”

Frances took a step closer to the canvas. “Oh, well, for sure. I

love it too. What’s this one called?”

“Korova,” Sereena told her, rolling her “r”s like a czarina.

I shook my head. We asked Mom to give each of her paintings a title. Time was running short, as was, I guess, her creativity.

She decided to name each one after an animal. In Ukrainian.
Korova
was cow. Nearby, I could see
Svenya
(pig),
Skoons
(skunk), and
Kachka
(duck).

“Korova,” Frances repeated slowly. “Interesting.” She waited a beat and shot Sereena a questioning look. “Will you be

bidding on it?”

Sereena sighed. “If only.” She let out another small laugh. “Alas, my art budget for the year has expired. If only I’d known about this piece before I bought the Juan Luna in Manila last month.”

“Oh poppycock, Garza!” Anthony was spouting nearby. “Why all the pretense? Let me write a cheque this minute, and you

can be done with it. Besides, you have all these other pieces to worry about.”

Frances leaned into Sereena. “You would have bought this one instead?”

Sereena let out a sound as if she were about to dig into a particularly good bit of dessert. “Oh yes, most definitely.”

At that moment, carrying a half-full glass of champagne in her hand, Errall approached the two women. She held out a hand

to Sereena. “You’re Sereena Orion Smith, aren’t you?”

Shaking unenthusiastically, Sereena gazed at Errall with little apparent interest.

Errall kept on. “I saw the feature they did on you in
Better Homes and Garden
s. You have a beautiful home. Well, it’s more like a castle isn’t it?”

Sereena answered with a curt: “It is.”

“The artwork in particular. I was blown away.”

“Well, thank you, Miss…?”

“Strane. Errall Strane.”

Sereena nodded to Frances. “I don’t know if you’ve met. Errall, this is my friend, Frances Huber. Frances, Errall Strane.”

Errall’s mouth dropped open. “Frances…Huber?”

Even from my vantage point behind a particularly leafy palm, I could see a shade of alarm enter Frances’s eyes. The two

women shook hands, the entire time, Errall studying Frances’s face as if preparing to sculpt it.

“I know you,” Errall finally said.

Frances abruptly pulled her hand away. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Are you an art collector too?” Sereena suggested helpfully. “Perhaps you know each other that way. You see, Frances is a

major patron of the arts.”

Frances smiled at Sereena, bathing in the compliment.

“No,” Errall replied, never taking her eyes off Frances. “You did some…work…for my sister a few years ago, and…I

guess, indirectly, for me as well.” Errall said the words slowly, in a way that communicated more than the words themselves

meant.

Frances’s face grew rigid. She began to fidget.

“I want to thank you again for…your good work,” Errall continued. She might as well have added: “Wink, wink, nudge,

nudge.”

I had to give it to Errall. She was yanking Frances’s chain quite nicely. Sereena was building her up, and Errall was ripping her down. It was perfect. I wanted Frances Huber to feel as uncertain and wobbly on her feet, as if she were standing in Lima during earthquake season.

Frances gave Errall a tight smile, then turned back to Sereena. “I think I need to visit the little ladies room. Do you know where it is?”

“Of course, darling.” Sereena pointed out the way to
el cuarto de baño
.“Shall I keep an eye on the painting for you?” she added with a knowing smirk that only fellow
patrons of the arts
would understand.

Frances hesitated, then said, “please,” before hurrying off. She was just about at the archway that led to the washrooms when Errall called out her name.

Frances turned, frowning when she saw who it was. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are. I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”

“I understand,” Errall said. “I only have one question for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Are you still in the business?”

Frances appeared temporarily mute.

With a show of disdain, Errall flicked her head toward the main part of the rotunda where most of the guests were, including her argumentative “mother-in-law.” “As you may have surmised, I’m in dire need of your special services.”

Still silent, Frances’s eyes grew narrow as she focused on Errall’s face.

“Tell you what,” Errall said brightly, reaching into her purse. “Let me give you my card. It has my phone number on it. If

you’re interested, call me.” She handed Frances the card.

Without looking at it, the older woman palmed the card and walked away.

Errall spun on her heel, and did the same. She found me doing my Peter-Sellers-
Pink-Panther
bit behind a nearby potted plant, winking as she passed by.

Chapter 15

Once upon a time, Jared Lowe was the toast of Manhattan, Milan, and Madrid. He was a rarity. A male supermodel. Generally

male models are seen as little more than accessories to their more flashy and sought after female counterparts. Yet, for a brief time, Jared worked as many jobs and made as much money as Claudia Schiffer, Naomi Campbell, or Kate Moss. Jared was

smart enough to know that time was not his friend. Age and tastes would soon catch up to him. Building a healthy nest egg along the way, he and his husband Anthony lived the good life, planning to mine the fashion industry for every ounce of adventure and gold until the magic carpet ride was over. Tragically, a deranged psychopath brought the joy ride to a dead stop sooner than expected. Love, to this deranged man, meant tossing acid into his beloved’s face. Into Jared’s face.*

Although the piercing golden-green eyes and lion’s mane of copper curls remained unchanged, many years and surgeries and

therapists later, Jared was left with a face considerably less perfect than it once had been. When people first met him, Jared saw the struggle in their eyes. They strove to appreciate the beauty left behind—for that is what pleases us all. But the still-visible scarring couldn’t help but distract them. They tried in vain not to give in to their flawed concept of what true beauty is.

BOOK: Dos Equis
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