Dos Equis (23 page)

“Didn’t your mom try to stop him?”

“Nah. She was just happy not to be the one to wake up the next morning with a bloody nose and black eye.”

“Oh Frances, that’s terrible.”

“Well, I shouldn’t blame her completely. By then she was a pretty good drunk herself. She was usually passed out by time it

got really bad. They say it’s a disease, you know.”

“Alcoholism?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think so. She didn’t have a disease. She had a self-induced ticket out of hell. If I could have, I’d have done it too. I should have, come to think of it. I should have just gotten drunk. I probably still would have gotten beat, but at least I wouldn’t have cared. Or remembered.”

It wasn’t until I looked down, that I saw I was clenching my fists so tight, my fingernails were digging painful dents into the skin of my palms. Frances was telling the truth. I just knew it. By the look in Errall’s eyes, so did she. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, steeling myself. I didn’t want to feel sorry for this villain. I couldn’t allow it.

“How did it end?” Jared asked.

“He gave David such a good licking one day, we had to take him to the hospital. After that, the police got involved. Dad

went to jail. I never saw him again. He died there.”

“And David?”

“He died too.”

There was silence at their table. If Frances had been paying attention, she’d have noticed a curious hush at our table as well.

It was Frances who spoke first. She sounded surprisingly jubilant, perhaps fuelled by all the wine she’d consumed.

“Something good always comes from bad. I learned that the hard way. Don’t you forget it, sweets.”

“What good possibly came out of all that?”

“My mother. It was like a wake up call for her. She totally turned her life around. She got sober. She became one of those

enter-pree-noors. She made loads of money. Even left me some when she died. And look at me. Here I am, living the good life

in Mexico. Having a delightful lunch with a beautiful man.”

But Jared was smarter than Frances Huber. He did not forget what he was meant to do at this delightful lunch. “Oh well,

that’s nice of you to say, Frances. But you don’t have to. I know my days of being a beautiful man are long over.”

She looked at him steadily. “They don’t have to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“How’s your wine? Want some more?” she asked, holding up the three-quarters empty bottle over his still-full glass.

“Oh, no, I’ve had too much already. You go ahead.”

Frances empted the rest of the wine into her glass.

“What I mean is that I could help you. I could get you those surgeries you need.”

Jared looked appropriately taken aback. “Frances, what are you saying?”

“We’re friends now, right?” Her hand covered his, as if she’d just taken possession of a new purchase. “Right?” she

repeated.

“Of course.”

“Friends help friends, right?”

“If they can.”

“How much do these surgeries cost? Come on, tell me. Give me ball park.”

“Frances, this is ridiculous. We’re talking about $75,000 of procedures. Never mind all the pre-and post-care costs.”

She whistled through her teeth. “Okay, okay, so what, a hundred grand in total? One-twenty-five maybe?”

Jared nodded haltingly. “I guess.”

Frances pulled herself forward in her chair. She leaned over the table and kissed Jared lightly on the mouth. When she

pulled back, she smiled, her cobalt eyes shining. She said, “Let me see what I can do.”

Frances Huber went home that afternoon and made two phone calls. The first was to Sereena. She asked the price of the

painting named
Korova
. Sereena told her that Anthony Gatt had a standing offer of $50,000 on the work, and was anxiously waiting to hear back from Toraidio about when he could take delivery. The second was a business call. To Errall Strane.

Chapter 17

The coal embers that were Frances Huber’s eyes grew even darker when she saw that Errall was not alone. An extraordinarily

beautiful hostess led Frances down the steps and into the sand where Errall and I were already seated at a candlelit table. The setting, La Marea beachside restaurant at The Tides resort in Zihuatanejo, was exquisite. The sand, the candlelight, the sound of the ocean crashing not twenty metres away. Much more suitable for a cozy, romantic dinner, than for our purpose: Buying

Death.

Frances plunked herself down into the chair held back by the hostess. She barked at Errall: “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s my husband,” Errall replied calmly. “And he knows everything I know.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Besides,” she added with a hint of a smile. “It’s Russell’s mother we’ve come to…discuss.”

About then a trio of waiters descended upon us. They offered cocktails, cool water with our choice of condiments (sliver of

cinnamon, frozen cranberries, lemon rind, a sprig of cilantro, and on and on), and to discuss the menu and specialties of the night.

Once they were gone, Frances asked me with a pointed directness, as if daring me to say something she didn’t like: “Tell me

what you
think
you know.”

“Well,” I began with a show of hesitation. “I don’t know if you’ll remember this exactly. About five years ago, you…

helped…my wife’s sister with the problem of their mother.” If she asked for particulars, JP and I had researched enough of

Frances’s handiwork for me to bluff my way…but only so far.

“Like I told you when we met, we really appreciated what you did for us.” Errall sounded exceptionally sincere. She even

convinced me. “I want to thank you again.”

I could see Frances bob her head. Just a tad. She was not immune to back patting. She probably didn’t get much of it in her

line of work. I could imagine that, typically, when she finished her business, the client wanted nothing more than to pay the bill and see her backside.

“So everything…worked out for the best then?”

“It did,” Errall let her know with a sedate level of enthusiasm. “My sister and I could not be happier. Well, let me rephrase that. My sister is happy. I still have my mother-in-law to deal with.”

“I see,” she responded slowly. Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed as she studied both of us with great care.

“Maybe you heard my mother going on about things at the art show the other night?” I prodded.

She tilted her head in the affirmative. “A little, yes.”

“Well, she’s simply become impossible. My father—he was a multimillionaire Russian industrialist—left her with scads of

money. Yet she keeps me—and Errall—on a ridiculous budget. As if we’re still children, and need to be told what we can buy

and what we can’t. Do you know we still have to live with her in one of
her
houses? We’re not
allowed
to buy our own. She won’t even give us enough money to buy separate vehicles. We always have to use one of hers. And of course we have to tell

where we’re going and when we’re coming back, because we’re using
her
car! Can you believe that? I mean, what choice do we have when she won’t give us the money to buy our own? It’s complete idiocy!”

Errall carried on. “She regularly goes through my closets to make sure I haven’t bought anything new that she doesn’t know

about. If she finds anything she didn’t approve—even something as small as a Gucci scarf or Louis Vuitton handbag—she

accuses me of stealing!”

We went on like this well into the service of our wine and main courses. It was actually quite a lot of fun.

“I hate going on and on about her like this,” Errall said with a sniff when her motor ran down. “I mean, it’s not like she’s my mother. But I just worry so much about Russell. Dealing with her every day is giving him ulcers. I know what relief you gave me and my sister. And it’s not as if Kay’s enjoying her life. She has three homes and hates every one of them. The whole time we’ve been here on vacation, all she does is complain about the food, the heat, the language she can’t understand. Wouldn’t

you agree, Russell?” Errall patted my hand in an icky way, meant to communicate her so very deep caring for my well-being.

“She’s miserable. She really has no quality of life anymore.”

Frances very patiently listened to our story. It helped, I suppose, that while she did, she was also gobbling up every last

morsel of the expensive meal and more than her fair share of two bottles of wine.

“So what do you think?” I asked plaintively. “Can you help me too?”

“Well, first off, I need to explain to you how my business works.” Even though the nearest occupied table was a good four

metres away, Frances spoke in subdued tones. “The event is called an Ending. We would arrange it very much how you might

arrange a funeral for a loved one. I insist on dignity and respect for the loved one, both during the planning period and, of course, during the actual Ending.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” we both readily agreed.

“This is a business. I provide a service. You will pay a prearranged Ending fee once the service is provided.”

We nodded our understanding.

“Although there are no formal signed agreements, as I’m sure you can both well understand…?”

“Yes, yes, we understand.”

“Like any other business, I do have my insurances to guarantee collection of my Ending fee. But I’m certain we don’t have to discuss that sort of thing in this case?”

We shook our heads. I think we’d just been threatened. Pay up…or else.

“Good, then. Here is how I prefer to proceed. Once we have agreed on the Ending fee, I will begin with my research on the

loved one in question. I will visit her place of residence, study her habits, routines, identify the areas of her regular day-to-day life that may be open to, shall we say, mishap, mistake, or misstep. Once I have done that, I will select what I feel is the safest, most humane, pain-free, and efficient method of carrying out the Ending.

“Now, be warned. This may take days. It may take months. It really depends on the kind of life the loved one lives. The

circumstances that affect my work can be many and varied. I only act when I am absolutely certain I can carry out my duties in a way that is satisfactory to all parties involved, including myself.”

“Will you tell us when you’ll do it?” I asked.

“And how?” Errall added, sounding quite intrigued with the repulsive feats of horror being described to us.

“Not necessarily. Sometimes, the best opportunity presents itself in unplanned moments. If you insist on knowing these

things, it would, I’m afraid, affect the price.”

I looked at Errall as if pretending to gauge her feelings on the matter. Inside, I was thinking: there is no way in hell, lady, that I’m going to give you carte blanche to wipe out my mother without telling me first. It was really the only way I could guarantee Mom’s safety. It was the only way I’d go ahead with this.

“Money is no object,” I said. “I would prefer to know. It’s not that I don’t appreciate and trust your methods and decisions, I’d just…I would like to know when and how it’s going to happen for my own private reasons.” I felt sick to my stomach

saying the words.

Frances nodded her assent. “I can understand that.”

“Thank you.”

“So what do you charge for something like this?” Errall asked.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” she told us, looking straight in our faces without blinking an eye.

Let’s see: Jared said his surgeries would cost $125,000, the painting an extra fifty. After paying for assured nookie in the sack with a grateful boytoy, and contributing to her reputation as a patroness of the arts, Frances was still managing to build in an extra seventy-five grand pure profit. Minus whatever expenses she might incur in doing her “research.” Not bad, if you

didn’t care that you had to knock someone off to earn it.

“That’s pretty steep,” I said.

“You have my number,” Frances said quite tranquilly, making to get up from the table. “Feel free to contact me if you’d like to go ahead.”

“No! No, wait!” Errall almost yelped, giving me a pleading look. “Russell, what’s the problem? A quarter million is just a

drop in the bucket of what’s coming to us. Don’t you remember how…miserable…she is…with life. We’re doing her a favour,

really. And Frances is a busy woman. Right, Frances?”

Frances sat back down. “I am.”

I waited a respectful thirty seconds, then said, “Okay. So what do we do now?”

“Maybe a little more wine?”

We arranged another bottle, and fell further into the dark hole of planning The Ending of my mother. Also known as: her

murder.

“You said she has three homes. Where does she spend most of her time? Or better yet, where will she be going after this

vacation?” This was tricky. There was no way I was actually going to let Frances Huber start investigating my mother. First of all, everything we’d told her about her was a lie. Second, learning that her new “loved one” was an elderly Saskatchewan

woman, just like Hilda Kraus, her most recent victim, would likely send up some red flags for her.

“Actually, we’re going to be here in Zihuatanejo for another couple of weeks. Do you think…?”

Frances smiled. “You want things to happen sooner rather than later.”

“Yes!” Errall heartily established.

I said. “I know you mentioned that sometimes this can take a long time. But if you could just try…? Just see what you think.”

She nodded. “Oh good. The wine is here.”

As disgusted as I was with Frances Huber, and having to spend an evening with her, the good thing was that JP, busy at work

in her house, was getting plenty of time to collect data to send this sociopath to hell.

That evening, when we were finally done with Frances, I began what would become a nightly tradition. I headed down to the

Ixtapa Marina. Fresh from his evening of information thievery, JP was waiting for me in his kayak. The same kayak he used to get back and forth from his temporary fishing boat home and the coastline below Frances Huber’s house. I—albeit a little