Dos Equis (24 page)

nervously— got into the kayak. We rowed ourselves back to the little fishing boat that bobbed up and down in Bahia del

Palmar like a cork. Once there, we cuddled under a blanket of stars, and fell asleep to the gentle sound of water lapping at the wooden edges of our oasis in the sea.

I was back in my chauffeur get-up when Frances arrived at Toraidio’s house the next morning for her appointment with him and Sereena. As the maid led her into the rotunda, I was making busy as if packing up paintings to be shipped back to the artist or new owners. Astoundingly enough, nine of mom’s paintings sold to Toraidio’s friends who’d attended the party.
Korova
, the largest of the bunch, and subject to a minor bidding war between Anthony and Frances, remained un-wrapped. It still sat atop its double easel.

Frances was wearing a beige pants suit that would have been more appropriate at a business meeting. One taking place

somewhere a lot cooler. And about fifteen years ago. She’d tied a Hermes scarf around her neck. Instead of looking jaunty, it seemed to swallow up her already disappearing chin.

“What loveliness is this?” Toraidio exclaimed, making nice work of gliding the distance to greet his visitor. “Mademoiselle

Huber, isn’t that right?” He reached for her hand and held it up as if to kiss it. “I must admit, I barely recognize you. How do you do it?”

Frances couldn’t hold back a girlish giggle. “Do what?”

“How do you manage to look younger and lovelier each time I see you? Before you know it, you’ll be nothing but a girl in

her petticoat.”

Oh groan.

Sereena joined the fawning man and his helpless conquest.

“Frances, how good to see you again. Toraidio is right. You do look wonderful.”

“I understand you’ve come to see
Korova
again?” Toraidio said, leading her down the steps into the rotunda proper, still holding her hand as if it were his fondest possession.

“Yes. Sereena was to tell you not to sell it. You haven’t, have you?” she asked, as she allowed herself to be positioned

directly in front of the huge, bright canvas.

“Your request was highly unusual, I must tell you. But for you, mademoiselle, anything.”

Frances was warming nicely to the attention of Toraidio, basking in it like a walrus on a sun-baked rock.

“I understand the price is at fifty-thousand…” she smiled at him with her best naughty ingénue look, “…and one dollar?”

“Fifty-
one
-thousand!” the voice reverberated around the rotunda like a struck bell.

All of us swivelled our heads to watch Anthony as he made his grand entrance. He was wearing a truly splendid royal blue

jacket, over white pants and shirt, and a pair of plum-coloured suede Donald J Pliner slip-ons. And, for some inexplicable

reason, he carried a magnificent walking stick with the head of a

Crested Caracara, Mexico’s national bird. What a guy.

“Mr. Gatt, how nic…” Toraidio began, but was ruthlessly cut off.

“Garza! How dare you pit me against another bidder without telling me? Fifty-one-thousand. That is my new offer!” He

glared at Frances, then back to Toraidio for a decision.

Toraidio gave Frances a distressed look. “I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle Huber. I did not know he…”

Now it was Frances’s turn to cut him off. She was no dummy. Although I hated to admit it, she was proving herself a shrewd

businesswoman. “You can stop right there. I know you knew that both of us would be here at the same time. You want the best

possible price for the painting. The higher the price, the higher your commission, am I right? I get it. You don’t have to double talk on my account.”

To keep things smooth, Sereena slinked her way to Toraidio’s side and slid an arm through his. She looked up at him, as if

beholding an adorable scamp, and said, “Oh dear Toraidio, I think our Frances has your number.”

Frances pumped up her already impressive cleavage, glad that Sereena acknowledged her judiciousness. She also enjoyed

being referred to as “our” Frances. She gave Anthony a silent, measured look, then turned back to Toraidio. “I’ll give you fifty-five.” Anthony made a sound, as if he’d just swallowed a canary.

Toraidio’s eyes lit up.

She’d read Anthony perfectly. If he had money to burn, his counter offer would have been something much more significant

than a one thousand dollar increase.

Toraidio looked at Anthony with an inquiring look.

“This is a travesty!” Anthony railed. “I simply cannot raise that kind of money with no notice. Certainly not while I’m in

Mexico. Give me ten days and I’ll see…”

“In cash.” Frances stated. “By the end of the week.”

Toraidio seemed to be hovering on a heavenly cloud. He smiled sweetly, and confirmed: “Cash?”

Frances nodded, agreeing to the terms.

Anthony huffed, puffed, then turned on his heel and stomped out, all the while pounding the heel of his walking stick

violently against the floor with great effect. I was certain that as soon as he turned his face away from us, he’d be smiling all the way to the front door, congratulating himself on a bravura performance.

When he was gone—or nearly so—Toraidio and Sereena spontaneously broke into applause, calling for celebration. The

look on Frances’s face was nothing less than rapture. She was a hawk with its mouse, Salome with John the Baptist’s head on a platter, Matthew McConaughey with an Academy Award. She had won, over a mighty foe, not only the painting, but the respect

of two people whose admiration she coveted.

As Sereena and Toraidio collected champagne and glasses, Frances moved into a quieter corner and pulled out her cell-

phone. Although she was blissfully oblivious to me, a mere employee, I couldn’t very well move along with her. But I did hear a few snippets of a steamy one-sided conversation. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Jared was in danger of being wined,

dined, and bedded by one very happy murderer.

Chapter 18

That afternoon, while everyone else was off doing their own thing, JP and I ensconced ourselves on his boat, with a cooler full of cold drinks, some junk food, and a mound of paper. JP had been working hard. During the hours when he was not inside

Frances Huber’s house collecting data, he was burrowing into her life, analyzing it. He’d invited me on board to show me what he’d come up with so far. He seemed pretty excited about it.

“Okay,” he began, donning a pair of spectacles I’d never seen him wear before. They made him look unaccountably sexy.

And smart. “You know how I was able to find nine obits or newspaper articles about dead old ladies that matched the ones I

saw in the MOM file?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, take a look at these.” He handed me a stack of files. He had a big, Winnie-the-Pooh-eating-honeycomb smile on his

face.

“What are these?”

He grabbed the top file back from me, and opened it on the makeshift table top in front of us. The fishing boat wasn’t exactly decked out for business meetings, but an ice cooler did the job just fine. Inside the file was a ream of paper. He sat back, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. With a tick of his chin, I understood that I was to start reading.

The first document was a copy of a newspaper article. It recounted the long life, and eventual death, of Constance

DeRochers (née Ballyntyne). She was ninety-one at her passing, and a longtime resident of Aliso Viejo, a city in Orange

County, California. The article was written from the perspective of a warning, informing elderly readers about the many

dangers of living alone. Apparently, a weak and sickly Constance had been found drowned, in her own bathtub. She wasn’t

discovered until two days after she’d expired. I’d seen the article before, and quickly moved on to the papers accompanying it.

Here was the gold.

The other pages in the file were all copies of documents JP had found in Frances Huber’s home, scanned, then later printed

off at a shop in town. The first was a duplicate of Constance DeRochers’s obituary, listing her date of death. Then came an

Aeroplan statement. It detailed Frances’s flight to John Wayne Airport in Orange County, just a little over two weeks prior to the death and then a return flight the day after. Added to that, he’d found a VISA statement showing payment for the same

flights, car rental, hotel, and meals in and around Aliso Viejo for the same time period. Next was a copy of Frances’s bank

statement from the month immediately after the death. It showed a deposit of $175,000. Phone bills for the months prior to and after the death, showed multiple calls made to an Orange County residential phone number, as well as to several other Orange County businesses. JP had done some follow up. He’d learned that the residential phone number belonged to Alicia

DeRochers. She was the sole daughter of guess who? The recently deceased Constance. He went even further. In the months

immediately after her mother’s death, Alicia purchased a brand new Jaguar, and paid for a five-star trip to St. Lucia.

I glanced at JP. He was now stretched out on a nearby platform that did double duty as a storage chest and couch. His shirt

was off, and he looked as if he had nothing better to do than soak up the rays of an intense Mexican sun. But I wasn’t fooled. He was alert as a leopard, his eyes fastened on me like salsa on chips. I winked, then returned to studying the files.

Each one was much the same as the last. They varied only in the victim’s name (always an elderly woman), manner of death

(accidental this, accidental that), and location (spread across North America). But in every instance, Frances Huber was there.

Sometimes only for a few days, sometimes for a month or more. Then, as sure as a drag queen kicks off her heels once out of

the limelight, as soon as Frances returned home, a big, fat cheque would land in her bank account. From just these cases we

knew about—who knew how many more there were—Frances had made well over two million dollars in less than seven

years.

More than two hours had passed by the time I’d finished reviewing the files. I checked and double-checked details and facts, made sure dates and times meshed. JP had done an extraordinary job. I was both impressed and proud of him. And I was

excited. We had her. When I looked up, I was surprised to see that at some point, JP had changed into a fetching pair of swim trunks. He’d covered himself in Ombrelle 15 SPF, and had fallen asleep in the sun, like a hunky June bug.

I didn’t have any swimwear with me, but I didn’t care. We were bobbing up and down on the ocean, with no other boat

nearby. I stripped down to my underwear. They were Le 31s that I order online from Simons Department Store in Montreal:

orange with bright blue piping. Cute as any Speedo, in a pinch. (Not that I’m promoting Speedo wear by anyone, other than a

few blessedly perfect men.) I lay down next to JP, so that my head was at his hip, and the same in reverse. My feet dangled off one side of the boat, his off the other.

“You’re really something,” I said into the air, letting the words float about on a lacy breeze.

“I know.” He was awake.

I elbowed him. He sighed.

“I can’t take all the credit,” he said after a minute. “I was just doing what you told me to. This was all your idea. You told me what to look for. I just did the grunt work.”

“JP, those files are works of art. That’s more than grunt work. Much more.”

If it’s possible, I think I heard him smile.

“I brought you a cold bottle of water.”

He reached over and took the bottle, downing half of it. His eyes were behind classic aviators, but I knew he was watching

me closely.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, when he was done with the water.

“There’s more where that came from.”

“I meant for the compliment,” he said. “Coming from you, that really means a lot. I know we josh around, but I respect you,

Russell. You’re a good detective. And an even better man.”

I didn’t say anything for a bit. My throat seemed to have something in it.

“And you can’t fool me, Russell. I know you’re worried about all this. About us.”

My only response was to run a finger along the side of his face, around his ear.

“I know you’re worried about our safety. You think you talked us into this, and now you’re second-guessing yourself.” He

waited a bit, then kept on. “I can’t talk for your mother, Russell, but for what it’s worth, I think she’s safe enough. You’d sooner die than let anything happen to her. Hell, she’s probably safer here with you in Mexico playing bait for a murderer, than living alone on that farm of hers. And the rest of them, Russell, well, I think it’s kind of like hypnosis.”

“Hypnosis?” I didn’t get it.

“You can’t make anyone do anything they really don’t want to do. Errall, Sereena, Jared, Anthony, Toraidio…they’re having

the time of their lives. They get to help you out, bring a killer to justice, avenge Jane, work on their tans, and drink margaritas, all at the same time. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

“I know you’re right,” I relented, glad to be talking about this out loud with someone other than the voice in my head. “But I can’t help but feel responsible for what happens to them.”

“Russell, they’re your friends, not your children. I love that you care so much. But that’s as far as it should go. Love them.

But accept their decisions as their own. We’re a team in this. We’re not your subjects, your royal highness.”

“Oh har har.” I made light, but I felt immeasurably better. “And what about you, JP? You haven’t talked about yourself.”

“That’s different. I
am
your loyal and faithful subject, happy only when doing your bidding.” Funny guy.

“Good. As long as we have that clear.”

He added after a beat, “I’m in this for me, Russell. You know that. The danger I accept is mine to take on. I want nothing

more than to bring this bitch down. For Jane. Hear me roar, Quant, because I’m the new PI around town. Like it or lump it. It’s your call.”