Margaritas & Murder (18 page)

“The police are already asking questions,” Hector said. “They were down at the market talking with the people.”

“Sometimes people are hesitant to talk with the police,” I said. “That’s why there’s a possibility you might learn something that they can’t.”

Maria Elena cleared her throat. “I could bring my washing to the
lavandería
at El Chorro,” she said. “There is a lot of talk there.”

“Exactly!” Olga had taken me to see the communal laundry across from Parque Benito Juárez when we’d spent the morning playing tourist. “That’s a brilliant idea,” I said.

She beamed.

“I can ask at the cantina,” Hector said. “The men at the bar, they always talk about politics and crime and their bosses.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “But be careful. You don’t want to raise suspicions or make yourself a target.”

“Tomorrow I will go down to the garden center where the men, they wait for landscaping work.”

“Another good place,” I said.

“And I will tell Father Alfredo. He knows everyone. I will do it,” he said, thumping his fist on the table and standing. “I start tonight.”

“Thank you both,” I said.

“And Señora Fletcher,” he said, “I am sorry to yell at you. Sometimes, it is difficult—”

“I understand,” I said, interrupting him. “It’s all forgotten.”

“Your supper will be ready soon, Señora,” Maria Elena said after her brother left. “Would you like some wine or some tea? I have hot water ready.”

“Tea would be lovely,” I replied. “I’ll be in the media room.”

I went upstairs and checked Vaughan’s e-mail. The kidnappers had said they would contact me the next day, but I wanted to be certain they hadn’t changed their mind. While I was there, I read my own e-mail, surfed the Internet for information about Mexican revolutionary groups, and looked to see if there were any stories about pelicans and symbolism. I placed a call to Olga, getting her voice mail once again.

Maria Elena was ladling stew into a large casserole when I returned to the kitchen.

“Thank you for the tea,” I said, rinsing the cup at the sink.

“De nada,”
she said. “I have made for Senor Woody’s son a
birria
. It is a traditional dish, very filling. I have it for you for dinner as well.”

I insisted on eating in the kitchen, although I think Maria Elena would have preferred to serve me in the dining room. I tried Olga once more before I left, but she was either out of range or didn’t have her cell phone turned on.

Maria Elena placed the casserole in a box along with corn tortillas wrapped in foil, put the box in a shopping bag for me, and called a cab to take me to Woody’s apartment. “Perhaps he can return the pot when he is finished eating.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” I said.

It didn’t look as if Philip had been back since Chief Rivera and I were there earlier. I knocked on the door, and when there was no answer I entered the empty apartment and by the light of the one dim lamp headed straight for the kitchen. I flipped on the overhead fluorescent, unpacked the box with the stew, and found a container to transfer it to so I could take the rinsed pot back to Maria Elena. When I opened the refrigerator to put the stew in, I was pleased to see that others had been there before me. Should Philip come home anytime soon, he would not have to cook for himself for a while.

I think every culture in the world connects death with food. In times of bereavement, when words fail us, it’s the only way we know to comfort each other, to
nurture
the people in mourning. When my husband died, my friends and neighbors filled my refrigerator and freezer with all manner of baked goods and casseroles. It was ironic, when you think about it, because it was a time when I had no appetite at all and didn’t really want to eat or even to talk to all the visitors who flowed in and out of my home. I wondered if Philip felt the same way, if he had disappeared to avoid all the well-meaning people who came to feed him and to offer their condolences.

I pulled a piece of paper from the spiral notebook in my bag and wrote him a note saying that the stew was from Maria Elena and the Buckleys and expressing their sorrow at his loss. I left it on the kitchen table and turned off the light.

In Philip’s bedroom, I opened an armoire that served as both closet and dresser. All his clothing, other than what had been left on the floor, seemed to be there, as well as a backpack and a suitcase that occupied the top shelf. A similar piece of furniture in Woody’s room showed signs of his having packed; the top shelf was bare, and several empty hangers dangled in the middle of the rod. Neither man had an extensive wardrobe. They obviously lived modestly on Woody’s military pension.

In the living room, I sat on the sofa and looked around, listening to the noises from the apartment upstairs, muffled voices and the cries of a baby, accompanied by music and laughter from the sound track of a program on television.

The one lamp, on the table next to me, cast a circle of light in the center of the room but left the corners in shadows. The illumination would not be enough to allow comfortable reading, but it was sufficient to make out the titles in the stack of publications on the cocktail table: an assortment of sports-related magazines, one on guns, another on bullfighting, a catalog from a university in the States, another from an auto parts company. I found a copy of
Noticias
with an ad for an art gallery circled. When I picked it up, a postcard fell out from between the pages. It was from a local bookseller informing Woody that his order had arrived and was being held for him. I put it in my bag.

Nothing I’d found in the three rooms gave any hint of where Philip might have gone or when he might return. I eyed the computer. Maybe it held a clue. I pulled a stool out from under the table that held the television and the monitor, turned on the computer, and put my hand on the mouse. The monitor made a buzzing noise and the screen slowly came to life. Following the same directions I’d used for Vaughan’s computer, I signed on to Woody’s e-mail. Several of the messages were in Spanish. Between the noises from upstairs and my concentration on the screen, I didn’t hear the door open.

“Who are you and what are you doing?”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, turning and placing a hand over my racing heart. “You startled me, Philip.”

“I’ll do more than that. I’m going to call the police,” he said, squinting at me. “And how do you know my name?” He looked unkempt, with several days’ growth of beard and dark crescents under his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled as if he’d slept in it.

“We’ve met before,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m so sorry about your father.”

He seemed at a loss how to respond. “I don’t remember meeting you,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Are you a friend of my father’s?”

“We met the other day, in front of the police station. I was with Olga Buckley.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He walked to the sofa and threw himself down, closing his eyes.

“I brought you some stew. It’s in the refrigerator. Maria Elena, the Buckleys’ housekeeper, made it. She was very fond of your father. Would you like me to heat it up for you?”

He shook his head.

“There’s other food that people have brought for you.”

“Not hungry. Just want to sleep,” he mumbled.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “The police were here looking for you.”

“Out. I’ve been out.”

“Were you staying with friends?”

“Yeah.”

“Who were you staying with?”

“What time is it anyway?” He squinted at his wrist. “I’ve lost my watch.”

“Mine was stolen,” I said. “I think it must be around nine o’clock.”

“Why were you on my computer?” His voice rose as he fought to stay awake.

“I was trying to see if I could figure out where you were.”

“Why? What does it matter? I was there. Now I’m here.” His eyes drifted closed again.

“Philip, pay attention. Who knew which day your father was coming home from the mail run?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Mrs. Buckley must have known, possibly the Fishers. I knew. Maybe a few others. Who cares? It’s too late now.”

“Why do you say the Fishers would know?” I asked. “Why would he tell them in particular? I thought they didn’t have a post office box in Laredo.”

“They don’t.” He rubbed his nose with his hand.

“Philip, stay awake a little longer.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake. What did you want to know?”

“The Fishers. Why would Woody tell them when he was returning?”

“Maybe he didn’t, but Roberto asked me for the hotel number in Monterrey. He wanted my dad to pick up a few things for him.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff. I don’t know. He always gave Dad a shopping list. Gotta sleep. Too tired to talk.”

“All right. One more question and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Okay. Just one.” He pulled his feet up on the cushion and lay on his back, one arm shielding his eyes from the light of the lamp.

“The day we met, you and Woody were coming out of the police station. What were you doing there?”

“Telling the cops.”

“Telling the police what?”

“Uh, uh, uh. That’s more than one question.” He smiled, but his eyes remained closed.

“What did he tell the police?”

“About the mail run. He told them every time he went.”

“Why did he do that?”

“For protection,” he said through a yawn. “He said they’d keep an eye on the house. Watch out for him on the road. Like back home, when you go on vacation and let the cops know you’ll be gone and stop the mail and the newspapers.”

“So he reported his trips to the police?”

He snorted. “Lot of good it did him, huh? They ignored it as usual,” he said, his voice trailing off.

“I wonder,” I said. But Philip didn’t hear me. The sound of his breathing had deepened, his chest rising and falling gently as sleep claimed him.

“Y
ou know, I can see this as the basis of a real murder mystery,” Roberto said, reaching for his second corn griddle cake and slathering it with salsa.

He had knocked on the door as I was having breakfast, and when Maria Elena offered him coffee, he joined me at the table and proceeded to help himself to the corn cakes on the platter. She and I had exchanged surprised glances, but when I shrugged, she placed a plate and silverware in front of him.

“I beg your pardon?” I said, frowning at him.

“Woody,” he said. “His death would make a great story.”

“Story?”

“Here’s a man most of us regarded as a good-humored buffoon.”

“Well . . .”

“No, really, let me finish. Loud, cheery, always ready with a story. He had how many years in the military? There must have been a brain there somewhere. But he certainly was no intellectual. Retires to SMA, draws the women to him like flies. You wouldn’t believe how many of these ladies he’s squired around town. I never could see his appeal, but . . .” He trailed off.

“Maybe it had something to do with his cheerful disposition,” I offered.

“Whatever. Here he is. He becomes the local mailman, in a sense, going on these forays to Laredo every month or so—I always wondered if he had a woman there too—and gets hijacked and murdered on the way home. It’s perfect.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘perfect,’ ” I said.

“Who would want to kill such a nice guy? That’s the mystery.”

“You think it was premeditated? You think whoever kidnapped Vaughan planned to kill Woody all along?”

“I’m not thinking of Vaughan.”

My expression must have mirrored my disgust, because he hastened to say, “I mean he doesn’t figure into the story. Olga will ransom him; everything will be fine. No, I’m thinking this is Woody’s story.”

I was thinking he was very quick to dismiss the danger to Vaughan.

“We can keep Vaughan in it if you want.” He waved his hand as if this was of no consequence. “The story has great potential,” he continued. “I hate to make use of a friend’s misfortune, but when something falls into your lap you’d be a fool not to take advantage. We could really leverage this, you know, build up the mystery, put in some clues.”

Thinking that I’d met many calculating people in my life and Roberto was right up there with the best of them, or rather the worst of them, I couldn’t resist asking, “What did you have in mind?”

“You and I could team up to solve the murder and write it up for your next novel.”

“You’ve been giving this quite some thought,” I said.

“Well, sure. Haven’t you? I’d like a co-credit, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, sure that the irony in my voice was lost on him.

“Did you take any notes yet?” he asked. “Because I have a lot of ideas.” He reached into his breast pocket, drew out a small leather-bound book, and paged through it.

“At the moment I’m more interested in finding Vaughan Buckley alive and returning him home,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to work on the murder mystery yourself.”

“Let me tell you what I have so far,” he said, oblivious to what I’d just said.

“Where’s Dina this morning?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

“She went to Woody’s apartment to help Philip pack his father’s belongings.”

“Is Philip ready to do that?” I asked. “He hasn’t even made arrangements for the funeral yet.”

“These young people have to be guided about what’s right. He can’t hang on to his father’s things. It’s morbid. Better to box them up right away. We can help him dispose of them.”

“I don’t know,” I said, wondering how the Fishers got away with putting their noses into everyone’s business. “I’d give him more time to mourn. Making decisions on what to keep and what to let go can be made later.”