Margaritas & Murder (11 page)

The tourists trailed after their leader, who held aloft a red umbrella so those in the back could see where he was. He guided them across the street to La Parroquia. The name indicates it’s a parish church, but it seemed more like a cathedral to me. It’s the city’s most famous landmark, and images of its fluted spires and turrets grace nearly every postcard sold in San Miguel. I had bought three views of it that morning to send as greetings to friends in Cabot Cove, although if all the complaints I’d heard at the party about the Mexican postal service were true, I would likely be back home long before the cards arrived.

“So you like my purchase?” Olga asked, peeking into her shopping bag where her new pastel platform sandals were nestled in tissue paper. Their long strands of soft cord were meant to lace up the calf and draw the eye from the foot to the ankle to the leg.

“Very elegant,” I said, watching the groom select a colorful balloon for his bride. His sky blue tuxedo contrasted with the drab clothing worn by the vendor, whose back was to me. The groom said something to the man, who laughed, his shoulders bouncing up and down, causing the balloons to dance gaily on their strings.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to walk in those shoes on the cobblestones?” I asked Olga.

“Not really,” she said, her brow knitted. “I’ll have to save them for an evening when I know we’re taking a cab to a restaurant.”

“Or wait to wear them in New York,” I said.

The photographer beckoned to the bridal couple, who posed with their balloon. There was something about the vignette that kept my attention riveted.

“At that price, I’ll make sure I wear them somewhere,” Olga said, patting the tissue paper back in place. “I’m glad you found such pretty earrings, but I’m miffed you didn’t let me buy them for you.”

“You’re very generous,” I said, “but I can’t think of a single reason why you should buy me earrings.”

“I wanted to replace the ones that were stolen.”

“You weren’t responsible for that, Olga. But now that you’ve raised the topic, do you see those people?”

“The bride and groom? How sweet! He gave her a balloon.”

“Do you recognize anyone there?”

“I’ve never seen them,” she said.

“That balloon man,” I said. “I think I’ve seen him before.”

“He must have been here when you went to the police station the other day.”

“No. I would have remembered that.”

“Why does it matter?”

“If I’m not mistaken, he may be the man who robbed us.”

“Omigod! Do you want me to get the police?” She started to rise, but I put my hand out to stop her.

“I can’t be certain,” I said. “It was night and I never saw the
bandido
’s face.”

“Then what makes you think he’s the one?”

I shrugged. “It’s more a feeling than a positive identification,” I said, hesitating. “But the hat is right, and he’s wearing a plaid kerchief around his neck.”

“That’s pretty common around here, Jessica.”

“So Chief Rivera said.”

“Well, let’s let the police question him; then you’ll know.”

I shook my head. “I can’t go to the police on a hunch. It wouldn’t be fair to the man.”

The vendor glanced over his shoulder, perhaps conscious that he was being observed. His eyes met mine briefly and he turned away.

Olga shivered. “He has such cold eyes. What should we do, Jessica?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” I said, patting her arm. “Chief Rivera said there was no hope for recovering my belongings, and even less for bringing the thief to justice.”

“Has the incident spoiled the trip for you?”

“Of course not, Olga. It was a momentary distraction. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“Well, aren’t we a pair,” she said, relaxing back on the bench. “I worry about you and you worry about me. I think it’s time we moseyed on home.”

“Yes. You don’t want to miss Vaughan’s call,” I said.

“That, and I want to look through the copy of
The World’s Best Bartenders’ Guide
we bought today. I’m going to experiment tonight and make us margaritas.”

“That’s getting into the spirit of Mexico,” I said.

Olga laughed and picked up her shopping bag. “Literally and figuratively.”

I glanced back to see where the balloon vendor was, but he’d left the park.

“I wonder . . .” I said to myself as I followed Olga down the path.

At the corner I spotted him again. He was across the street waiting for a bus to pass by. His back was to me, but I could see his shoulders moving up and down, his balloons bouncing merrily in the warm afternoon air as they’d done when he’d talked with the groom. It was only then that it struck me. The balloon man hadn’t been laughing. He’d been coughing.

“W
e’re leaving first thing in the morning,” Vaughan had told Olga. “By the dawn’s early light, if I can get Woody moving that fast. We should be home tomorrow night by seven, eight at the latest. I’ll call you if there’s any change in plans.”

Olga had been singing all day. She’d tried on her new sandals and modeled them for Maria Elena and me, strutting across the courtyard and striking a pose under the colonnade, just as she had in her runway days when she was a high-fashion model.

“She is still so beautiful, yes?” Maria Elena said to me.

“Inside and out,” I agreed.

“She has been very kind to me and my family. And Mr. Buckley, of course, he has been most kind. My brother Hector, I think he has a secret love for her. But many men do. I see how they gaze at her when she is not looking. In New York, it is the same, yes?”

“I would imagine it is,” I said, “but I don’t live in New York anymore, so I don’t get to see them as often as I used to.”

Olga stepped out of her new sandals and came into the kitchen. “Ladies, you are going to have to excuse me. I have a date at the hair salon. José is fitting me in, and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Once Olga was gone, Maria Elena showed me how to access my e-mail, and I spent the afternoon in Vaughan’s media room answering correspondence, checking in with my agent, and dropping a note to my dear friend and Cabot Cove’s favorite physician, Seth Hazlitt. I gave him a brief rundown of my activities in San Miguel and sent the Buckleys’ regards, which I knew they’d want me to do. I omitted the incident with the
bandido
. I didn’t want to upset him. There would be time enough when I got home to recount the lurid details. He would sputter, but he’d also see that I was none the worse for the experience.

I have learned over the years that I can live through the unpleasant, put it behind me, and move on. Others may dwell on ugly events, may let them color the rest of their lives, but I will not. Life is too precious to waste on worry and regrets. The death of my husband, Frank, taught me that lesson many years ago, and I’ve taken it to heart.

When Olga returned, coiffed and elegantly made up, she opted to wait dinner for Vaughan. She had Maria Elena set the table under the colonnade instead of in the dining room, where they usually took their evening meals. I declined her invitation to join them and ate early, planning to retire to the guest room with a book I’d brought with me. I wanted to give my hosts the opportunity for a private reunion.

“It’s really not necessary,” Olga said. “Vaughan and I always enjoy your company.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” I replied, “but I carried this hardback with me all the way from New York and promised myself I wouldn’t leave San Miguel until I’d finished reading it. At the rate I’m going, you may have to keep me as a guest for a month or more.”

“That wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”

“You enjoy your dinner with Vaughan. He can tell me all about Woody and their exploits over breakfast.”

The guest room had been decorated with a visitor’s comfort in mind, down to a chaise longue in the corner and a bath en suite, as they say in hotel brochures. I took advantage of the latter, soaking in scented bubbles and choosing a loofah from the array of bath items Olga had considerately placed in a basket by the tub for her guests. Scrubbed, perfumed, and in my nightclothes, I settled down on the chaise to discover that Maria Elena had left a cup of tea and a plate of crescent cookies next to my book while I was in the bath.

At seven, I heard the telephone ring and the patter of Olga’s sandals on the floor as she ran to answer it.

At eight, Maria Elena knocked at my door and asked if I wanted more tea.

I looked up from my book. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” I said. “The cookies were delicious.”

She started to say something, changed her mind, and closed the door softly.

At nine, Olga went into the media room and selected an album of orchestral pieces by Debussy. The music flowed through the house, and although there wasn’t a speaker in my room, I could hear the strains of the composition through the door. I smiled, picturing the Buckleys clinking wineglasses and toasting Vaughan’s safe return.

An hour and a half later, the music was shut off and the rumble of thunder took its place. I set my book aside, went into the bathroom, cleaned my teeth, ran a brush through my hair, and flipped the light switch off. My mind was filled with the chapters I’d just read, and I was surprised to hear another knock on my door.

“Come in.”

“Jessica, may I talk to you?”

“Certainly, Olga. Is something wrong?”

“Vaughan isn’t home yet. He hasn’t called and I’m worried.”

“I thought I heard the phone earlier.”

“It wasn’t Vaughan. Someone from
Noticias
called and started asking for Vaughan. I cut him off, said to try back tomorrow. I didn’t want Vaughan to phone and find the line busy. What’s the point of a subscription anyway, when we’re here so rarely?”

“It’s a funny time to call for a subscription,” I said.

“At home those sales calls interrupt our dinner two or three times a week.”

“I’m just surprised to hear it’s the same in San Miguel.”

Olga shrugged. “Vaughan said he’d call if there was any change in their itinerary. I haven’t heard from him and it’s starting to rain.”

“If there’s bad weather in the mountains, that alone may have slowed them down. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong. Cellular service isn’t perfect. My phone didn’t work when Juanito and I were stranded.” I regretted my words immediately.

She looked confused. “Who? Oh, yes, the young man who drove you from León. Heavens! Don’t remind me. You don’t think they were attacked by
bandidos,
do you?”

“My guess would be they got a late start and forgot to call. Or perhaps they tried and couldn’t get through.”

“The phones are not as reliable as in the States.”

“There you are. They’re probably frustrated at not being able to contact you.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Don’t give it another thought.”

She shifted from one foot to the other. “Are you enjoying your book?”

“Very much, but I’ve read enough for tonight. Would you like me to wait with you till Vaughan arrives?”

“Would you? He makes me so mad. He knows I’m a worrier. They should have pulled off the road into a gas station, or somewhere else with a telephone on a land line. I know I’m being a wimp, but I won’t feel right till he walks through the door.”

“I understand. We can watch a movie if you like. It might help to pass the time. There’s quite a collection in the media room. I was looking at all your videos this afternoon.”

“I don’t think I can sit still for TV. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. I’ll get dressed and meet you downstairs.” I pulled on the first thing that came to hand, my jogging suit, slipped a cardigan over my shoulders, and closed the door behind me.

I found Olga pacing barefoot in the kitchen, her new sandals discarded in the corner. “Did you have anything to eat yet?” I asked.

“I can’t eat till Vaughan gets home,” she said. “Besides, it’s probably all dried out by now. Maria Elena put dinner in the oven to keep it warm, but that was hours ago. I told her not to wait up. Who knows what time he’ll arrive?”

“Have you called the police?”

“Do you think I should?”

“You did when I was late,” I said, not bothering to point out that it was almost morning when we were found. “Woody’s station wagon is not exactly the latest model. If they’ve broken down on the road and their phones don’t work, they’ll be grateful for help.”

Her face brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. I was picturing the worst-case scenario. That old clunker—isn’t that what Sarah calls it?—it’s a breakdown waiting to happen. Just because the outside doesn’t have holes in it doesn’t mean the engine’s without rot. That must be it.”

She dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the
delegación,
using her newly learned Spanish. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said to me, “I hope someone there speaks English. My Spanish isn’t very good. I don’t even know how to say ‘traffic accident.’ ” She turned her attention to the voice on the other end of the line.
“Sí. Mi nombre es Olga Buckley. Mi marido pierde,”
she said slowly, rolling her R’s. “Oh, dear, he’s speaking too fast.
No entiendo
. I don’t understand.
¿Habla inglés? Soy Americana.
”

There was a long pause while the dispatcher went to find someone who spoke English.

“I don’t want to disturb Maria Elena,” she said to me, “but I may have to if they can’t find someone I can talk to. You know, I really didn’t think about this when Vaughan and I decided to buy the house. We assumed we’d take classes, learn Spanish at our leisure, and practice on everyone around us. I don’t know why I didn’t think about what would happen if there was an emergency. I can’t believe we were so foolish.”