Margaritas & Murder (15 page)

I watched as he typed in commands on the keyboard, turning the TV into a computer screen.

“This e-mail program has an address book, a calendar, and the usual folders for storing old mail, new mail, and keeping track of mail you’ve sent. I’ll write it out for you,” he said, “but once we go over it a few times, it’ll be second nature to you.”

“Do I need to know their password?”

“No. It’s programmed into the computer. Just double-click on this icon and it comes up automatically.”

“I don’t need to go on the Internet first?”

“Nope,” he said, concentrating on the screen. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything here. Just an announcement of a local concert and an old message from Woody about their upcoming trip.” He closed the e-mail window. “This is how you shut it down.”

Eric set aside the remotes I was to use and pointed out labels Vaughan had affixed that explained the functions. We went over the instructions a few times until I was confident that I understood the procedure and could find and open their e-mail.

“I hope the cops find these guys before they have a chance to collect any ransom,” he said as we went downstairs.

“Me, too,” I said. I thanked him again and walked him to the door, intending to go back upstairs to the media room to pull up Woody’s e-mail to Vaughan. But the telephone rang. I hurried to the kitchen, where Maria Elena had picked up the receiver, her eyes wide, fear in her face. She listened for a moment and shook her head at me, said a few words and hung up.

I let go a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“It is someone from the television station in Mexico City,” she said. “I told her we are not talking to the news.
¡Ningún comentario!
”

“No comment,” I said, smiling.

The phone rang again. Another reporter was told
“¡Ningún comentario!”

“We have already seven calls from reporters. See? I write down their names.” She held up a pad she’d placed near the telephone. “But nothing from the
bandidos
.”

“Perhaps they’re waiting to see what the other newspapers print,” I said. “You may want to write down the telephone numbers of the reporters in case Olga does want to comment when she gets back.”

“
Bueno.
I will do that,” she said. “Are you ready for
la comida
? I am making empanadas and a stew for us, and for whoever will come.”

“Give me a few minutes,” I said. “I have a little more to do on the computer.”

I went back upstairs to look at Vaughan’s e-mail from Woody, but kept an ear cocked for the ring of the phone. The sound held both hope and frustration. The press was going to be persistent, but we couldn’t refuse to answer the phone if there was any possibility that the kidnappers would try to make contact.

I pulled up Woody’s e-mail. It was a simple message, merely the time he would be at the house to pick up Vaughan and a suggestion to bring along cash to pay for the gas and for “tips”; the quotation marks were Woody’s. His P.S. said, “Don’t back out on me, buddy. I’m counting on you.”

I opened another folder to see if there was anything helpful in earlier mail Vaughan had saved, and I discovered that the Buckleys had used e-mail to extend the invitations to the party they’d hosted for me. Instead of e-mailing the entire group of people all at once, they had divided the task, each taking a portion of their invitation list and sending personalized messages.

The Fishers’ response had been terse, merely saying that they would be happy to attend. Woody’s RSVP was more effusive, telling Olga he could never resist any request she made but that Philip unfortunately had previous plans. From my one brief exposure to Philip in front of the police station, I imagined the Manheim men were happy to go their own separate ways when the opportunity arose. Sarah Christopher’s reply was predictably flirtatious. I wondered if she thought her words were for Vaughan’s eyes only or if she enjoyed the idea that Olga might see her message and read more into their acquaintance than was actually the case.

Maria Elena hovered by the door to the media room, waiting for me to notice her, but I was engrossed in reading the Buckleys’ e-mail.

“Señora Fletcher,” she called out, “I have made lunch. Would you like me to bring it to you on a tray?”

“Oh, excuse me, Maria Elena,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were there. No need to bring lunch up. I’ll be down in a few minutes. You go ahead without me.”

It occurred to me she might be uncomfortable watching me invade her employers’ privacy. She might wonder whether Olga would be angry with her if she found out. After all, Maria Elena was responsible for the house and all its contents. The Buckleys trusted her. Yet here was a guest not just looking to see if there was a message from the kidnappers but delving into their private correspondence and personal messages. Was she worried about losing her job, which would also mean losing her home? I resolved to put her mind at ease at the first possible moment.

Olga had asked me to stay to deal with the police and to field messages from the kidnappers should they try to communicate with her. I considered that I was “on the case” and meant to apply whatever instincts and talents I had on her behalf and Vaughan’s. If that meant reading their mail, interviewing their friends, and delving into intimate matters they might not be so eager to have exposed, so be it. We were pursuing criminals. Vaughan’s life was in jeopardy. This was not a time for niceties.

I opened the calendar—it was empty—looked for a record of documents that had been viewed recently, and opened one called “JBF party invitations.” It contained the names and e-mail addresses of all the people the Buckleys had invited to the cocktail party, together with a column of check marks next to those who’d been expected to attend. I printed it out. It was doubtful that everyone at the gathering knew about the mail run, but I would give the list to Chief Rivera if he thought it would be helpful.

The chief had said the kidnapping wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment attack, that it would have been planned in advance. How many people knew when Woody and Vaughan were going on the mail run and when they would be returning? Probably all the families with post office boxes in Laredo and at least a few of the people I’d met at the party. I made a mental list of those who could provide some answers, including Maria Elena.

I also needed to pay a visit to the editor of
Noticias
. Exactly when had he received that note about the ransom? Philip was on my list as well. Woody’s son might be able to fill in some gaps in my information. After that, I’d have to see. Not speaking Spanish was going to limit my ability to investigate. But there might be ways around that. I had overcome language barriers before. I hoped I could do it again, in time to save my publisher and friend.

I closed the document with the names of the party attendees and also closed the list of e-mail messages. The computer made a loud dinging noise. I pulled my fingers from the keyboard as if they’d been scorched.
What did I do?
I thought, looking down at the keys. Had I inadvertently pressed a wrong key? I looked up and a chill skittered along my spine, raising goose bumps on my arms. A small box filled the center of the screen.

“
Hola,
Señora Buckley,” it said. “We have your husband.”

C
hief Rivera was not at his desk when I called, but he was expected back later in the afternoon.

The kidnappers had made contact, but our exchange had not been productive. When I realized the little box was an instant message, I had jotted down the name of the sender, “Pelican,” clicked on the REPLY button, and typed in, “Is Vaughan all right?”

The message came back immediately: “The ransom is one million dollars American.”

“Please allow Vaughan to call home so I may hear his voice,” I wrote.

“We will tell you where to leave the money.”

I typed back: “I must have proof that Vaughan is alive and unharmed.”

“You will receive instructions tomorrow.”

“Tell me! Is he all right?”

There were no more messages.

I shook my head in frustration. It was as if they didn’t understand what I was writing, as if they had a preplanned message and that was all I was going to get.

Pelican. A bird. Was there any significance to the name? SMA is landlocked. Why did the revolutionaries choose to use the name of a seabird? Did the sea represent freedom to them?

I reached for the phone and dialed Olga’s cell phone number. She would be in the air by now, but I’d promised to call right away. I left a brief message that the kidnappers had made contact, that I would learn more tomorrow, and that I would call again later. I went downstairs to tell Maria Elena.

“I am at your disposal,” she said. “Señora Buckley, she asked that I help you in any way that I can. The house is open to you.”

I had expressed to Maria Elena my concern that she might be reluctant to allow me access to the Buckleys’ private correspondence, explaining that I hoped something I saw might hold a clue as to Vaughan’s captors or his whereabouts.

“Whatever I know, I give to you with my whole heart,” she said.

We sat at the kitchen table with the local telephone directory, a map of San Miguel de Allende, and a pad of paper. Between answering phone calls, we were making lists of who might have known about Woody and Vaughan’s trip and writing down directions to help me find my way around town. Now that the kidnappers had communicated, after a fashion, I didn’t need to stay home to wait for their call. I was free to follow leads of my own.

“I do not talk about Señor and Señora Buckley to anyone,” she said. “Not even to my brother, unless it is to tell him he is needed for some work. But Señor Buckley, he is so excited to go, he talks about it to everyone.”

“I was afraid of that,” I said.

“I hear him on the telephone with Señor Woody making plans. His voice is like a young man,” she said, smiling at the memory. “They plan to go three times and have to change their minds, but then they finally make the date this week.”

“Why did they postpone the trip before?” I asked.

“Señora Buckley, she did not want him to go. Twice he makes the appointment and she talks him out of it. Once, because you come, and he would not think to leave and not be here to welcome you.”

“Does Vaughan have a desk that he uses? I didn’t see one in the media room.”

“In the living room, from an antique store in New York City. I will show it to you.”

I didn’t remember there being a desk in the living room and soon discovered why.

Maria Elena lifted a heavy ceramic jug from the carved Spanish chest next to the fireplace and swept away the embroidered cloth that had protected the top, depositing both on the glass coffee table. She pulled open the doors that formed the front panel of the chest and lifted the lid, revealing drawers on either side, an open space between, and a recessed desktop with horizontal slots for papers.

“I’m learning more about Vaughan on this trip than in all the years I’ve known him,” I said. “It seems he likes to hide things behind closed doors.”

“The señora says she does not want him to do business while they are here.”

“So, he buys a desk that doesn’t look like a desk,” I said.

“If you need anything else, please call for me,” she said, leaving to answer the phone.

The desk drawers were mostly empty, with only a few pens and pencils, some flyers for local events, and his checkbook. Blank sheets of paper and envelopes filled the narrow slots, but under the blotter I found what I was looking for—a calendar page for the month. The date of the mail run was marked in pencil, as was the day of my expected arrival in San Miguel. There were two places where entries had been erased, presumably the previously planned trips that Vaughan had put off.

The phone rang again. Maria Elena’s list of press calls was up to fifteen.

 

The offices of
Noticias
were in a small building off El Jardin, having moved from their previous location on the outskirts of town. Computers had been hooked up and the copier plugged in, but boxes stacked against two walls had yet to be unpacked, and from the looks of the desk of the editor, Guillermo Sylva, I guessed they might never be. Piles of newspapers, magazines, catalogs, and papers littered his workspace. It was a wonder he ever found anything he was looking for.

“I told you, Señora Fletcher—I gave the note to the police. They were on my doorstep when I came in this morning.”

“I’m not surprised, Señor Sylva. It seems you may have known about the kidnapping before anyone else did.”

He grinned. “I had to remake the whole front page. I was up till three with the printer. But we got the story in, and published on time. No one can say
Noticias
doesn’t cover the hard news.”

“Do you have a large staff?”

He pointed at his chest. “I’m the reporter, editor, and publisher,” he said, “but I get help from volunteer stringers.”

“The newspaper is a weekly, isn’t it?”

He gave a sharp nod.

“You’ll pardon me if I say so, Señor Sylva, and I don’t mean to offend you, but I had the distinct impression that
Noticias
was more of a social newspaper, one that gives greater focus to calendar items like concerts and art exhibits and to real estate listings than to hard news.”

“That criticism has been leveled before, Señora Fletcher, but it’s not true. I attended journalism school in the States. It’s why the new owners hired me, and why I convinced them to open an office closer to the center of action. We’re working hard to counter those critics, to be a full-service newspaper, to cover all the news, while at the same time keeping what our loyal readership wants.”

“And what your loyal advertisers want,” I added.

“Of course,” he said. “Or we’d be out of business.”