Margaritas & Murder (20 page)

He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and sighed.

I sat silently, awaiting his answer. From experience, I’ve learned that people often find silence disturbing and will rush to fill the void. This was a policeman, however, and I had to assume he knew all the tricks of interrogation. Nevertheless, I waited. I had time. He was the one who wanted me gone.

After a while he shrugged. “It is possible,” he said. “I do not remember the conversations of every person who comes to the
delegación
. There are so many. We are busy all the time.”

“It would seem to me that if people are in the habit of reporting their travels to the police, then they expect that information will be acted upon.”

“I cannot be responsible for what people think.”

“Are you saying that the police don’t do anything? That it’s a waste of time for people to report their travel plans to you? If that’s the case, why don’t you tell them not to bother?”

His nostrils flared at my remarks, and I knew he was annoyed, but he maintained his bored demeanor. “I don’t say it’s useless. Perhaps we will send a car to go down the street. That is all.”

“And did Señor Manheim ask you to do that for him while he was gone?”

“Perhaps.”

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

He gave me an exaggerated shrug. “He say he was going. That is all.”

Pleased to see that he admitted having spoken with Woody, I pressed on. “Did he tell you that Señor Buckley was traveling with him?”

Another shrug.

“It’s not so long ago. You must remember the conversation. Did he tell you Señor Buckley would be with him?” I repeated.

“Maybe, maybe not. I think maybe he did.”

“When someone comes here to inform you that he is taking a trip and will be away for a while, does that information stay here?”

“Who else here, besides you, may have been aware of the trip?” I asked patiently. “Another officer? The chief?”

He dropped his feet from the edge of the desk to the floor. “I do not have to answer your questions, Señora. I am busy.
¿Comprende?
Very busy.” He scowled and signaled with the back of his hand, dismissing me. “You may leave now.”

I surmised from his response that he had, indeed, told others that Woody and Vaughan were leaving for Laredo and had undoubtedly included the date of their trip. If that information got into the wrong hands, either inside or outside the police station, it could account for the kidnappers’ knowing where and when to mount their ambush.

I leaned back in the chair, consciously relaxing my shoulders, hoping my body language would convince him I wasn’t leaving until he was more forthcoming. “I’ll be happy to let you get back to your work,” I said, “but before I go, I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to give me your assessment of how your investigation into the kidnapping is going. Mrs. Buckley is returning today and will want to know. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request.”

His eyes turned calculating. “We have some good news,” he said, cocking his head and raising one eyebrow.

I sat up straight. “You do?” Had he been toying with me all this time? Did he know where Vaughan was? Were the investigators close to a rescue?

“Sí.”

“What is it? What have you found?”

“It is what we have not found,” he said. “The dogs, they did not find the body of your friend in the mountains.”

My elation plummeted. He watched my face, and a small smile played on his lips. He was enjoying manipulating my emotions, and I was dismayed that I had allowed him the pleasure. “I didn’t think they would,” I persevered. “But what of your investigation? Do you have any leads on who the kidnappers might be?”

“We are working on it,” he said, resuming his mask of indifference.

“And?”

“I do not discuss such things with civilians,” he muttered.

Especially with female gringo civilians,
I thought.

It was obvious that I wasn’t about to learn anything else from this officer. I bade him good day and took my time gathering my purse and jacket before leaving. Once outside the office, however, I couldn’t contain my frustration. I strode down the hall and descended the stairs to the street, rounding the corner so quickly I nearly bumped into a man in a blue shirt who was lounging against the building.

It was uncomfortably hot in the sun, and I considered crossing to El Jardin, where the abundant trees provided a cool awning. But I wanted to stop by Sarah Christopher’s studio before finishing my intended rounds that day. Maria Elena had written out instructions on how to get to the artist’s lodgings. I found the street and walked downhill from El Jardin in the direction of the Parque Benito Juárez, where Olga and I had strolled together. Halfway between the two parks I saw Sarah standing outside a huge carved wooden door. Dressed in a loose tan smock with large patch pockets at the hips and streaks of blue paint down the front, she was speaking with a well-dressed Mexican man. They both turned to me as I approached.

“Hello, Jessica,” she said.

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “This is Paulo Pedraga. He is an art dealer from Mexico City. Paulo, meet Jessica Fletcher. Jessica is an author.”

“Sí?” he said, smiling broadly at me.

“She writes murder mysteries.”

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Señora,” he said, raising my hand to his lips.

I smiled back. “It’s nice to meet you as well.”

“Paulo is attempting to sell some of my paintings,” she said.

“Yes, but she will not give me the best ones,” he said, frowning at her.

“All my paintings are my best ones,” she said archly.

“This may be. But like the characters in George Orwell’s
Animal Farm,
some are more equal than others.”

Sarah said something in Spanish. He nodded sharply and turned to me.

“Ladies, you must excuse me,” he said. “I have several stops to make in San Miguel. A city full of artists. What could be better for a dealer than that?”

Sarah replied tartly in Spanish. He laughed and promised that he would return later that day.

“Come on in,” she said, wiping perspiration from her brow with a handkerchief. “I made some fresh iced tea. It’s too hot to stand outside in the sun.”

There was something different about her today, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She was subdued, a weary expression on her face. It made her appear older than I had originally perceived her to be.

We crossed a narrow courtyard and entered her house. Inside, it was considerably cooler than on the street, the building’s stone structure providing natural air-conditioning. Sarah’s studio was on the main floor in what would ordinarily have been the living room. It was a large space completely given over to her work, with tall windows open to the courtyard on one side and to an alley on the other.

She was obviously hard at work. Two wooden easels held paintings, each with a piece of wrinkled canvas thrown over it to hide the unfinished composition from prying eyes. The easels stood on either end of a rough planked table, on which were cans of turpentine, linseed oil, and a jug of what appeared to be dirty water. Used coffee cans, mayonnaise jars, and assorted other kitchen containers held brushes, palette knives, and half-squeezed tubes of paint. A vase of flowers stood next to a plate with leftovers from a recent meal, and a pile of soiled rags sat on a laptop computer. She had one tall stool, which must have served both the easels, and a smaller table strewn with an array of bottles, pens, paints, and thin brushes, as well as a carton containing paper with a pile of miscellaneous items dumped on top—keys, wadded tissues, a wallet, a bracelet, coins—as if she’d emptied her pockets into the box. Stacks of paintings, some clearly unfinished, leaned against the walls. Pen-and-ink drawings rendered in blue and red were hanging at angles, tacked up on a long wall.

An arched opening at one end of the room led to the kitchen and dining room, both a riot of colorful tiles, fabrics, and accessories. A radio, set to loud, played Latin music. Sarah switched it off on her way into the kitchen.

I glanced around for a chair. Apart from the stool, the only place to sit was a battered upholstered sofa, the seat cushions concave with age and covered with serapes, their different patterns both clashing and blending with each other and with the large and small pillows casually thrown against the back. I decided not to chance it, having too often struggled to rise from an overly soft seat or one where the springs were long gone. I remained standing and inspected the work on the walls.

When she returned from her kitchen with two tall glasses of iced tea garnished with mint leaves, I said, indicating the paintings, “It looks like you’re in a particularly productive mode, Sarah.”

“I’m trying to gather enough work for a show, but it’s tricky,” she said. “My productivity ebbs and flows, like the tides and phases of the moon. When I get into a particularly industrious mood, I try to take advantage of it, knowing it will fade and I won’t produce anything worthwhile.” She set the tea down on her worktable, pushing the plate out of the way, and fetched a chair from the dining room for me. “For some reason, tragedy always spurs me on,” she said, leaning on the high back of the chair. “Maybe I use my work as an escape.” She dropped her chin and shook her head. “I still can’t believe it,” she said.

I knew instantly what she was referring to. “Yes, it is shocking.”

“No one told me that Woody had been killed,” she said, her voice hard, her eyes boring into mine. “I had to hear it on the radio.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No. I only knew he and Vaughan had been kidnapped.”

“I’m so sorry you weren’t informed right away, Sarah. I assumed someone would tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” She slapped her hand on the top of the chair. “Damn!” she said, pacing to the window. “He must have resisted, tried to fight them off. Mr. Macho Man, Woody was, full of bravado, self-professed soldier of fortune. Damn!”

“I know you were particularly close to him,” I offered.

She swung back to glare at me. “Close? Like in lovers?”

“I had the impression that you and he might have had a romantic relationship, but maybe I was wrong.”

“You’re right, Jessica. You were wrong. Woody was a friend, that’s all. He might have wanted more at one time and tried to initiate it, but I discouraged him. He was too old for me, not so much in age as in attitude. Anyway, I like younger men. I know I hurt him by feeling that way, but he had many women to choose from. He didn’t suffer long.”

“But you remained good friends,” I said.

She shrugged. “Sure. Why not? He was a good guy. His heart was in the right place, unlike most of the expats around here. They have no appreciation for the people whose country they’re happy to inhabit. All they care is that nothing gets in the way of their privileged lives now and then. They should try living for a day like the majority of poor Mexicans,” she snorted, “like the people who work for them. If they did, they might see things differently.”

She delivered her expression of empathy with conviction. I knew only a little of the plight of poor Mexicans, my knowledge confined to what I’d read about uprisings that had taken place over the years and the government’s attempts to quell them. Rebelling against in-place governments by impoverished citizens certainly wasn’t unique to Mexico. It happened in myriad countries around the world, cries for justice and equality too often deteriorating into outright revolution, bloodshed, and thousands of shattered lives.

“You’re very passionate about this subject,” I said.

“You can’t live here, Jessica, and not be,” she said in a tone leaving no room for debate. “At least I can’t.”

“I’m not surprised, given the subjects of your paintings, like the one you sold to Olga and Vaughan.”

Her expression registered discomfort for a moment; then her face cleared. “Don’t you want your tea?” she asked, pushing the chair in my direction with one hand and handing me the glass with the other.

I took the tea, turned the chair around to face her, and sat quietly, sipping. Sarah perched on the stool, her glass of tea untasted in her hand.

“How did you happen to come to San Miguel?” I asked. “You’re too young to be retired and trying to stretch a pension like a lot of the other Americans. Was it the art community that drew you?”

“I used to live in Texas. I moved to San Miguel fifteen years ago because of a man I’d fallen in love with.” She held the cold glass up to her face, rolling it against her cheek. Her eyes closed, seeing visions from her past, not the guest sitting in front of her. I watched the emotions flit across her face, pleasure morphing into distress. Abruptly, she focused on her hand, gulped half the tea, and set the glass down heavily on the table. “He was Mexican, handsome, bright, and committed to his cause,” she said, turning to face me.

“Which was?”

“Freedom, of course,” she replied. “What other cause is there? He fought the oppression of the people by the government. He was full of fire and zeal, and eventually I was, too, because of him.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, not sure I should.

“He was murdered, too.”

“How dreadful.”

“He led a demonstration in a small village south of here. It wasn’t much of a rebellion. Workers at a factory went on strike to protest their pitiful wages and lack of benefits. The government sent troops to quell what they considered a dangerous riot.” She guffawed. “Dangerous riot, indeed. He stood at the head of the strikers and shouted the demands they were making. Soldiers opened fire and gunned him, and some of the strikers, down in front of me.”

“You were there?”

She nodded. “I had his body brought back here to San Miguel and arranged for his burial.”