Margaritas & Murder (22 page)

“Oh, my,” I said as what was written sank in. “Oh, my.”

“I
t’s not much, I know,” Dina said, patting the box of Mexican wedding cookies she’d set on the table, “but I made them myself. I like a sweet when I’m upset, so I thought you would, too.”

“That was very considerate of you,” I said, regretting that the chop Maria Elena had cooked for my dinner was cooling on the plate and wondering how it was that one of the Fishers seemed always to show up when a meal was being served. Dina had arrived and taken the chair opposite mine at the table under the colonnade soon after I’d started eating. I’d put down my fork and knife, of course, not wanting to be rude. But now my food was cold and she showed no signs of leaving. Reluctantly, I asked the question I knew she was waiting for. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Sure. Do you have enough? I don’t want to impose.”

Maria Elena set another place at the table and put a plateful of food in front of our guest. I hoped she wasn’t serving Dina the portion she had intended for herself.

Dina dug into the food, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and looked around.

“Anything wrong?” I asked.

“I need something to drink.”

“What would you like?”

“A margarita would be nice.”

“I don’t know how to make one, but Maria Elena may.”

“Oh, you don’t have to bother her,” she said, standing. “I’m a whiz at margaritas. I’ll make it myself.”

She entered the kitchen and made straight for the cabinet in which Vaughan kept his liquor bottles and barware. I heard the refrigerator door being opened and shut. Moments later she was back at the table with two cocktail glasses filled to the brim with a light green concoction.

“I’m afraid I forgot to tell you that I didn’t want one for myself,” I said. “I’m sorry you went to the trouble.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said cheerfully, setting a glass down in front of me. “I’d never drink alone. Besides, the coolness of the margarita is a great counterpoint to the spicy food. Every good chef will tell you that.” She took her seat, shook out her napkin, draped it across her lap, and lifted her glass.
“Salud,”
she said, clinking her glass against mine.

I took a sip of the drink and put it down. It was very good, but I wanted to keep a clear head for my evening appointment. Idly, I speculated on the timing of Dina’s visit. Why had she shown up now? What did she want—other than food?

“Have you heard from Olga?” she asked, tucking into her meal again.

“Yes, I have. She’s on her way back here.”

“That’s terrific,” she said. “Did she get the money?”

There was not the slightest chance I was going to discuss the Buckleys’ finances with her. “I didn’t ask,” I said truthfully.

“I’m sure she did. They must be swimming in it if she could put a million together so fast, don’t you think?”

My mother taught me as a little girl that when someone asks a rude question, don’t answer. Simply pose a different question of your own. Her advice has come in handy many times, and I employed it again. “Where is Roberto this evening?” I asked.

“He’s writing. He said you and he are going to collaborate on a book, and he’s been glued to the computer all day.”

I wasn’t about to tell her that I hadn’t agreed to her husband’s suggestion, nor that it was never likely to happen. Instead I said, “My publisher may have something to say about that. I’m under contract, after all.”

Dina was ready with an answer. “Since your publisher could be a victim of his captors, that may all be moot.”

She was the second person that day to assume the kidnappers would kill Vaughan, and like Sarah, she seemed unfazed by the prospect. While I had to acknowledge that it was not out of the realm of possibility, I was far from accepting their predictions. I put down my knife and fork, my appetite completely gone. “I’m hopeful Vaughan will be returned unharmed,” I said, “but in any case, the contract is with his firm and would still be binding.”

“You have to be realistic, Jessica. After all, this is Mexico. We hear about these kinds of things all the time, though granted, not in SMA. Still, people are killed every day all over the country.” She lowered her voice and shot a glance toward the kitchen. “You can’t really trust these people, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Everyone I’ve met has been trustworthy,” I said, deliberately excluding the
bandido
who’d waylaid me on my way to San Miguel.

“Well, be that as it may, it’s not always the case.” She took a piece of a roll, sopped up the gravy on her plate, chewed thoughtfully, and sipped her drink, finishing it quickly. “I understand you were at Woody’s the other night,” she said. “How is Philip doing?”

Her question surprised me. “Weren’t you there this morning helping him pack?” I asked. “That’s what Roberto said. In that case, you would know better than I.”

“I went there, but he wasn’t home. If you’re not going to finish that,” she said, indicating my drink, “may I?”

“Go ahead,” I said, handing her my glass.

She smiled. “Yum. Anyway, I called Philip yesterday to tell him what time I’d be there, but the place was locked when I arrived.”

“Maybe he’s not ready to dispose of his father’s belongings,” I said, thinking that it may have been the first time Philip had ever locked his front door. “After all, the funeral hasn’t even taken place yet.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. What did you think of his apartment?”

“Woody’s?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine it served him and Philip well.”

“Did you find anything of interest?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything of interest,” I replied. “I was merely delivering food Maria Elena had prepared.”

“C’mon, Jessica. Everyone knows you’re investigating the murder. It’s the buzz all over town. I’m surprised they haven’t put it in the paper yet.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear, Dina.”

“Well, I can certainly believe that.”

Maria Elena came to the table and eyed my plate, which was mostly untouched. “Would you like something else, Señora?”

“Not for me, thank you,” I said. “Dina?”

“No. I’ve gotta go,” she said, finishing my drink. “Thanks anyway. Dinner was good.”

Maria Elena cleared away the dishes and the box of cookies after Dina left, and I sat thinking about this strange visit. It would appear that she was probing to find out something, but what? Was she simply a neighborhood gossip on the hunt for tidbits she could pass along? I knew people like that back home. They enjoyed knowing what others did not, and felt superior when they could contribute to the community grapevine or, as was often the case, the rumor mill. But this was not a practice I cared to participate in. Nor was I especially pleased to learn that the expatriate community in San Miguel was convinced I was investigating Woody’s murder. Of course, Dina could be exaggerating, a trait not uncommon among heavy drinkers, which she seemed to be. Either way, and regardless of public or private opinion, my priority was clear. Helping to free Vaughan was much more important to me, especially now that people were automatically counting him out.

“The wedding cookies are very—how do you say it?—typical of my country,” Maria Elena said, setting a small dish in front of me on which she had placed three of the little pastry balls dredged in powdered sugar. “Is that correct?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘authentic.’ ”

“Sí! They are very authentic. But it is not the proper occasion.”

I picked up a cookie and leaned forward to taste it, trying to keep from spattering powdered sugar on my blouse.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“I think under the circumstances it would be a good idea,” I said. “Will you join me? We need to talk.”

Maria Elena returned from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. She placed one in front of me and studied my face. “Señora, you cannot go alone,” she said, sitting down. “I will go with you.”

“The instructions were very specific that I come by myself.”

I had shared with Maria Elena the “fortune” that the little canary had picked out for me. It was a message telling me to be at a certain place at ten o’clock that evening and not to call the police. Olga wasn’t back with the money yet, and I had no idea what time she would arrive, but I feared that if I failed to keep the assignation, Vaughan’s life might be forfeited.

Maria Elena chewed her cheek, her eyes worried. “I am afraid, Señora. Hector told me Father Alfredo said they must be desperate men to do what they did. These men, they could be planning to kidnap you, too, and hold you for ransom.”

“I suppose that’s a possibility,” I allowed, “but you said La Filomela is a cantina.”

“Sí. It is very popular, always crowded. Many tourists go there.”

“I doubt they’d be planning to abduct me from a public place.”

“If they will take you away, no one will see that you are missing. This place, it is
too
busy.”

“I imagine they chose the cantina for that precise reason—because no one will notice them coming or going. And if tourists go there, the presence of an American woman won’t be unusual. No one will find it strange that I’m there.”

“What will I say to Señora Buckley if you are taken? She will think that I did not look out for you. Maybe she will think that I am involved, that I am responsible.”

“She will think no such thing,” I said. “She trusts you, and so do I. As for tonight’s meeting, it’s a chance I have to take. I don’t believe they have another kidnapping in mind.”

“How can you know? This is so terrible.” She wrung her hands.

“Well, I can’t be absolutely positive, but a man followed me for much of today, and at no time did he attempt to harm or capture me.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “You were followed?”

“I’m fairly certain I was.”

She gripped the edge of the table. “I will call my brother now. He will come with you to protect you.”

I put my hand on her arm. “You’re very kind, and please don’t think I’m not grateful for your concern,” I said, “but calling Hector is not a good idea. For all we know, the kidnappers may have someone watching the house at this very moment or eavesdropping on the telephone line. Whoever sent me this message said to come alone. If he sees me with your brother, he may think I’m trying to trap him and he might not approach me. If so, we’ll have lost an opportunity to save Vaughan.”

“Then I can take a message to the police for you. The kidnappers, they will not think to follow me. The police can send someone to stand at the bar or sit at a table. I saw that on television once. They pretend to be customers. The kidnappers, they will never know. You could suggest it.”

“I could,” I said, “but Chief Rivera is out of town, and I’m not confident his deputy would even listen to me. Besides, if he did, I can’t be sure that he wouldn’t grab the first opportunity to arrest someone. Any action by the police could worsen the danger for Vaughan. No, I can’t risk his life to safeguard mine.”

“But what will I tell the señora when she comes home?”

“You can tell her I’ve gone out to look for Vaughan.”

She shook her head sadly. “I will pray for your safety.”

“Thank you, Maria Elena. I need all the help I can get.”

L
a Filomela, the Nightingale, was on a small street on the other side of town, a considerable distance from the Buckleys’ home. There was nothing in its dark interior to explain its popularity. The décor was nondescript, the lighting dim, the air smoky. Long wooden tables, their edges polished by the elbows and forearms of countless customers, filled the room. A continuous bench ran along the wall opposite the long bar. Patrons who wanted to sit were forced to share the company of whoever occupied a table first, squeezing onto the bench or pulling up a chair wherever there was space to place a glass. The only other choice was to drink standing up, since the bar had no stools. The compulsory mingling meant a stranger might easily be made to feel at home, or just as easily be made acutely aware of her solitude in the heart of a crowd.

How are they ever going to find me in this crush?
I thought. I pushed my way past a group of students who were jockeying for the attention of the bartenders, and looked for a place to sit. The members of a mariachi band were unpacking their instruments in the corner away from the door, and I was fortunate to find space at the end of a table near them when a couple got up to leave.

The chair next to mine was empty, and I rested my jacket on it so that people would think I had someone with me and look elsewhere for a seat. The other people at the table were young, three couples in their twenties, regaling each other with stories that evidently were hilarious, judging from their loud laughter. Amid their merriment, my mind drifted to Vaughan. Was he all right? Was he sick with worry that his life was over, that he would be killed? Was he pleading for his life like the terrified prisoners in Iraq who had been paraded on international television before their cruel captors beheaded them? An involuntary shiver went through me. Where could they be keeping him? Was he tied up in a cellar somewhere? Were they giving him food and water? The editor of
Noticias
had said San Miguel was a small town that couldn’t keep a secret. Why had nothing surfaced about Vaughan so far? Was he being held outside San Miguel? I would have to visit the newspaper office again to see if the editor had learned anything. And why was Chief Rivera off somewhere when Vaughan was still missing? This was his big case.
Why is he not combing the streets and neighborhoods instead of leaving that oaf Gutierrez in charge?

The musicians began to tune up. The first notes of the guitar were plucked, then joined by a chorus from the trumpets and a sharp downbeat from the fiddle. I always find it interesting that most people reserve the word
violin
for the instrument used when classical music is being played, but call it
fiddle
when the music is that of country people. Truth be told, the sound of a mariachi fiddle is a far cry from the violin concertos of Beethoven and Brahms, but it does have a spirited kinship with American country-and-western music and with Louisiana’s Cajun and zydeco bands, where the “fiddle” personality is more fitting.