Margaritas & Murder (12 page)

“It seems to me that Maria Elena is the perfect person to help in an emergency, and you were very sensible to hire her. But I’m not sure we can call Vaughan being late an emergency. Not yet, anyway.”

Olga nodded, gave me a brief smile, and listened intently to the voice on the telephone. The police had provided someone who spoke a little English. Olga spoke a little Spanish. In fits and starts, and in both languages, they carried on a conversation. She didn’t know Woody’s license plate number but was able to provide a good description of the car, of her husband, and of Woody, and a brief explanation of why they were on the road at night. “
Ellos
—oh, what’s the word for ‘driving’?—
manejan
—that’s right—
manejan de Laredo
, uh
, de Monterrey.
”

The policeman promised to send someone out to look, and they rang off.

“Do you think he really will? Send someone out?” she fretted.

“We have to wait either way. I’m going to put on some water for tea. Would you like a cup?”

She nodded. “Use water from the pitcher in the fridge. We don’t drink anything from the tap.”

I brewed two cups of tea and we carried them into the living room. A large glass table sat between matching modern sofas covered in a narrow copper and teal stripe. Floral pillows in several shades of purple were tucked at either end. A pair of wooden armchairs with ocher cushions flanked the fireplace. Behind one was an elaborately carved chest placed against the wall. On its top, a colorful ceramic jug—probably the creation of another local artist—rested on a fabric square, embroidered in red in a design that also incorporated tiny mirrors. The mirrors reflected all the hues in the jug, making the fabric appear to be multicolored itself. A sisal rug covered part of the Saltillo-tiled floor. The room was elegant but spare. By far the biggest impact came from three large canvases that formed a triptych on the far wall, a historical panorama of San Miguel from the mountains down to the city. From the left to the right, they depicted rural life under the cruel Spanish overseers, then a revolutionary battle, the faces of the combatants contorted with the strain of wielding heavy weapons against their oppressors, and finally the city that grew up after the peace. Together they made a powerful statement, yet each could have stood alone as a complete painting.

“Those are by Sarah Christopher, I gather.” They were much more somber and dramatic than the canvases on display in the dining room, but the style was unmistakable.

“You can see what a talent she is,” Olga said. “We’re missing her gallery opening tonight.

“She said she isn’t satisfied with them and wanted to give our money back and take them away. But we love them. And we’ve already had two offers to buy them at double what we paid for them.”

“Her work is a good investment.”

“It is, but that’s not why we support her. Vaughan teases me that I always wanted to be a patron of the arts, but in a sense we really are. She was struggling in the beginning, not in terms of money so much—her father still helps when she’s tapped out—but in terms of recognition.”

“Which will translate into money eventually,” I said, “if it hasn’t already.”

“It has. When we discovered her, we bought these three early works and the more recent ones you saw in the dining room and hall, and then we threw a big housewarming party for ourselves. We invited a crowd of people from the expat community as well as her instructors at Bellas Artes and people we’d met at Instituto Allende in our Spanish class. There must have been as many people as we had for you the other day, but they were all inside because it was pouring. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

“So she got a lot of business from your guests.”

“It’s what we wanted to happen, not to boost our investment but because we wanted to see her succeed. She’s not a dilettante. She’s a genuine artist. She works from morning till night and usually has at least two paintings in progress.”

“I imagine being young and a woman makes it more difficult to break into established art circles,” I said.

“Not so much here in San Miguel,” she said, “but you’re right when it comes to the outside world—New York, for instance. We sponsored her first showing at a gallery on Madison Avenue where we know the owner. The critics who came—and only a few did—were lukewarm about her talent. They were looking for something more avant-garde. Paintings like hers, rendered with sensitivity and insight, not to mention having recognizable figures in them, didn’t suit their expectations.”

“That must happen fairly frequently,” I said. “There are so many talented artists, and so few are able to break out and make a name for themselves beyond their own community.”

“I still think she has a chance to do that, but now it’s going to take more politics than talent. She has to pursue it. And it takes time away from the art. That’s where most artists fall down—in promoting themselves. We can’t be her agents, although we were happy to sponsor her initial show.”

“I would think she’d be very grateful to you,” I said, remembering that Sarah’s behavior at the party didn’t strike me as appreciative in any way that would be appropriate.

As if reading my mind, Olga said, “She’s very self-centered, as many artists are, if I can get away with generalizing like that.”

Olga’s nerves were not on display as we sipped our tea and talked about art and San Miguel. I didn’t know if she was putting on an act for my benefit or if she had determined not to make herself crazy with fretting. I was aware, however, that the evening was lengthening and we hadn’t heard from either Vaughan or Woody, much less the San Miguel police.
If the car broke down early in their trip from Monterrey,
I reasoned,
they may be contending with unfamiliar territory, as well as local authorities with little concern for their travel schedule. However,
I argued with myself,
the Mexican people I’ve met were willing to go out of their way to help a stranger. Surely someone would have volunteered to make a telephone call to assist stranded visitors.

With no clear idea of what had happened and a mounting sense of unease, I felt the best thing I could do to help was to keep Olga occupied until we heard something, or until my voice gave out. I guided the conversation around to people we both knew in New York and whom I had seen on my last book tour.

“Your videotape from the
Today
show,” she moaned. “We completely forgot to watch it, Jessica.”

“There’s no hurry,” I said.

“But you brought it all the way from New York.”

“Only because it was easier to pack it than find a way to send it home. I’ll leave it with you. You can mail it back whenever you like, or even wait till we see each other again. My agent’s secretary always gets video clips of my media appearances. Last year she sent them all to me on a single DVD.”

“Technology seems to evolve so quickly these days, doesn’t it?” Olga said. “We’ve got a lot of movies on videotape, but now they’re all being issued on DVD. Which reminds me—I found the perfect place for those gorgeous bookends you brought. Did you see them?”

“In the media room.”

“But they’re holding up
books,
” she said, smiling.

A tap at the front door interrupted us. Olga bolted from her seat and raced to answer it. Apparently her calm façade had been a ruse.

“Mrs. Buckley?”

I recognized the voice of Chief Rivera and hurried to join her.

“Mrs. Fletcher. Nice to see you again,” he said, saluting me with his index finger. Javier Rivera wore a polo shirt and blue jeans. A damp raincoat was draped over one arm.
He must have been called away from home,
I thought. Behind him were two young officers in blue slacks and white shirts that stuck to their skin where the rain had made large wet patches.

“May I come in?”

Olga pulled the door wide, her face suddenly pale.

The chief came inside but left his escorts in the courtyard.

“Did you find them?” I said, giving voice to what Olga was afraid to ask.

“Let me ask the questions, please. Can we find a place to sit down?”

Olga led us into the kitchen. Its homey warmth was usually comforting, but tonight a sour tang from leftover food hung in the air and made the room feel cold and unwelcoming. She picked up the sandals she’d left on the floor and ran a hand over the table as if to wipe away a nonexistent spill.

Rivera held a chair for her and cocked his head toward me. I pulled my chair next to hers and she reached over to grip my hand.

“Mrs. Buckley, can you tell me where your husband went and why, when he was expected back, and why you called the authorities?”

Olga cleared her throat and gave Rivera a summary of the reasons for the mail run; she told him that her husband and Woody Manheim, who was driving his own car, were supposed to have left Monterrey at dawn and should have been back by seven, that they hadn’t called, and that she was sorry if she shouldn’t have called the police. But she was worried when it got late, she said, so she called and asked the police to check the road in case the car had broken down and they needed help.

Rivera stood nearby and listened carefully, nodding his head to indicate that he understood and to encourage her to continue.

“Did you find them?” she asked, jumping up and putting a hand on his arm, her eyes pleading. “Are they all right?”

His gaze met hers, and she backed away. “Yes and no,” he said softly.

“What does that mean?” I asked, getting up to stand next to Olga.

“It means we haven’t found them yet.”

“But you found something, didn’t you, Chief Rivera?” I said.

He didn’t answer. Instead he said to Olga, “I think you’d better sit down, Mrs. Buckley.”

“I don’t want to sit down. Tell me what it is. Tell me what you found.”

Rivera reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. “Do you recognize this?” he asked gently.

“Omigod,” Olga whispered, her knees giving way.

Inside the clear plastic was a cotton handkerchief with crocheted edging and an embroidered O in the corner. It was the handkerchief Olga had pressed into Vaughan’s hand the morning he’d left, the one she’d given him as a remembrance of her. It had once been white, but now it was hard to tell what the original color had been. It was stained a dark crimson by blood—a lot of blood.

“W
e found the car and the handkerchief. There was no sign of either man.”

“Does that mean they’re alive?” Olga asked.

“I can’t promise you that,” Rivera said. His eyes were sympathetic.

“Is it a kidnapping?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m thinking.” He turned to Olga. “But there’s no way to confirm it unless they contact you, Mrs. Buckley.”

Maria Elena took the blanket from her own shoulders and wrapped it around Olga, rubbing her hands up and down Olga’s arms. She’d been roused from her sleep by the sound of voices in her kitchen and a flashing red light from the police car in the street sweeping over the walls of her room. She’d entered just as the police chief pulled the bloody handkerchief from his pocket. She was visibly upset, but she focused on the needs of her employer, wiping away her own tears while trying to comfort Olga.

“Will they deliver a ransom note?” Olga asked.

“More likely a telephone call. They’re not going to want to be seen near the house. Sometimes they even e-mail these days. I would’ve expected to find something in the car. My guys gave it a thorough going-over, but there wasn’t any message, nothing at all, other than a bunch of boxes of magazines and catalogs and a few stray pieces of mail.”

“Wasn’t there more mail than that?” I asked.

“No. They probably took it to rummage through for checks or cash.”

“Where did you find the handkerchief?” I asked.

“Under the front of the car. Someone may have deliberately placed it there to keep the rain from washing away the blood. It looks to me as though they wanted it found to make their point.”

Olga shivered.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked the police chief.

“We can’t do anything tonight. It’s pitch-black out there, and the rain has already washed away any evidence we might have found at the scene—footprints, stains, things like that. I’ve posted two men to stay with the car to make sure
it
doesn’t disappear. I’m surprised they didn’t take it along with its occupants.”

“What’s the next step?” I asked.

“I’ll go back out first thing in the morning to see if there’s anything we might have missed.”

“I’d like to go with you,” I said.

“I don’t see the point, but if it will make you feel better, all right.”

I thought back to my introduction to him. He’d indicated he wouldn’t mind enjoying the sort of challenges the police in Mexico City regularly confront. But the events of this evening made changing jurisdictions unnecessary to satisfy his thirst for action. He was faced with the likely kidnapping of two American men—and, I had to silently add, the possibility of murder—which was undoubtedly more challenging than logging the lost belongings of a tourist from the States who’d been the quarry of a highway bandit.

But his expression said that he wasn’t enjoying this. The thrill of working on a serious case had a dark side—the necessity of dealing with victims or, in this case, the family of victims. It meant delivering bad news and watching people suffer. Chief Rivera obviously took no pleasure in such tasks. But he was a professional, and I was certain he would do what was required of him. He knew the ins and outs of law enforcement, spoke the language, and had been in Mexico long enough to have developed contacts. I hoped that he could put those attributes to good use and would find Vaughan and Woody—alive.

“I should go with you, shouldn’t I?” Olga asked. “Vaughan might have left me a clue that no one else would recognize. It would be just like him to do something like that.”