Margaritas & Murder (25 page)

“It is God who has led her to you,” Father Alfredo said.

“No doubt,” Vaughan said, taking note of the priest. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

I introduced them. “Father Alfredo helped me find you, Vaughan, but we need to get you out of here before the kidnappers come back,” I said. “Do you think you can stand?”

“Not yet,” Vaughan said, rubbing an aching shoulder. “But I doubt they’ll be back. My Spanish isn’t great, but I pieced together what they said. They were locking me up to give themselves time to get away. They were afraid the police were right behind them.”

“I hope this is true, that the authorities find them,” Father Alfredo said. “I am very angry. I was deceived. This was not what I expected to find. The men, they say they are not criminals. But this”—he pointed to Vaughan—“this is inexcusable. To be poor is not a crime, to struggle and take desperate measures to feed your family, this is regrettable but understandable. But to treat the life of another as if it has no value, to tie him up and leave him like an animal going to slaughter, that is criminal. I am ashamed of myself for believing they were doing no great harm.”

“Not your fault, Father,” Vaughan said. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He looked at me, his eyes questioning. “Did Woody make it?” he asked.

I shook my head.

His chin dropped to his chest. “I was afraid of that. The damned fool, waving that gun around.”

“What happened there? Do you remember?”

“We were delayed getting back. We were supposed to get an early start and be home before dark, but Woody got into a hassle over the hotel bill with some guy who spoke no English. I told him we should just pay it and get on the road, but he insisted we were getting cheated. We had to wait around for the manager to arrive before it could be resolved. And, of course, the charge was legitimate. The manager was very accommodating—he even paid for our breakfast—but he was correct. We owed the money. Woody kept arguing until I pulled him away. By that time it was almost noon.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I think I’d like to try to get up now.”

Father Alfredo and I each took an arm and assisted Vaughan to his feet. He swayed momentarily, then gained his balance and straightened up. “That feels good,” he said, taking a deep breath.

We supported him, walking in a small circle around the chair and holding his arms, till he shook us off. He took a few steps by himself before his legs gave out. Father Alfredo and I jumped forward, catching him before he fell and putting him back in the seat.

“Darn legs fell asleep, cramped in that box. They’re still tingling.”

“Give yourself a little more time,” I said.

“I’ll be fine once the blood in my legs starts pumping again.” He rubbed his thighs with his palms.

Father Alfredo drew me aside. “I’m going to check outside to make sure we are still alone,” he said.

“Be careful,” I said. “I’m not entirely convinced they won’t return.”

“I am of the same mind. If they do, I will signal to you to give you time to take your friend out the rear door.” He went to Vaughan and patted his shoulder. “You rest,” he said. “We will try to get you moving again soon.”

“Thank you, Father,” Vaughan said.

The priest slipped out the front door and closed it silently behind him. I turned to Vaughan. He was fading, the excitement of being rescued giving way to the exhaustion of having reached the end of his ordeal. He drowsed in the chair, but I couldn’t let him fall asleep. Staying in the warehouse was not an option. We needed to get him home.

I shook Vaughan’s shoulder.

“I’m awake,” he said. “I’m just thinking about Woody.”

“Let’s try walking again,” I said. “You can tell me more of what happened.”

He leaned on my arm and stood, taking small shuffling steps until he felt more secure on his legs.

“Tell me something,” I said. “Olga thought you would call if you were going to be late. If you had, I’m sure she would have insisted you stay away another day rather than risk the road after sunset.”

“Oh, my sweet Olga,” he said, smiling for the first time. “She warned me not to go. I meant to call home, wanted to, but Woody refused to stop. He kept insisting he could make up the time. And the cell phones were useless in the mountains.” He leaned heavily against me and closed his eyes. I thought he might fall asleep standing up.

“Talk to me, Vaughan,” I prompted him. “Tell me about the kidnapping. How did that happen?”

He opened his eyes. “I’m not sure.” He took a few tentative steps and stopped again. “We came upon an accident, at least that’s what we thought it was. Somebody lying in the middle of the road. Woody pulled over to help, and they jumped us.”

“How many were there?”

“Four men. They seemed to be arguing about what they were doing. I thought they were going to let us go. Then Woody got into a scuffle with one of them. He drew his gun and this guy jumped on him, trying to wrestle it away. I heard a shot and Woody fell down.”

“So it was Woody’s own gun that killed him?”

“Yes. I don’t even know if the men were armed.”

“What happened then?”

“It’s a little hazy now. I think I screamed at the men to get help. I tried to stem the bleeding, but all I had was Olga’s handkerchief.” He looked down at his hands as if still seeing the blood. “I threw it under the car. One of them must have knocked me unconscious. That’s all I can remember till I woke up in here with a blindfold over my eyes and a lump the size of Central Park.” He probed the back of his head with his fingers. “It still feels pretty swollen.”

“How long were you in the crate?” I asked, urging him to walk again. “Did they keep you there the whole time they had you?”

“No. Most of the time I was tied to a chair, listening to them arguing about what to do with me.”

“Did they feed you?”

“Sometimes. I wasn’t very hungry. I kept thinking about Woody, hoping he got help, and worrying about Olga, sure she was worrying about me.” His steps were getting stronger as we circled the warehouse.

“Did you know Woody was carrying a gun?”

“I had no idea. I like to think I wouldn’t have gone with him had I known that—we’ve always been very much against guns, Olga and I—but I can’t honestly say that’s true. I wanted to go. He made the trip sound like something only brave young men undertake, a great adventure.”

“And was it?”

“Not really. He handed me a bill of goods. I think he just wanted company. It’s a long, mostly boring drive. Of course, it ended up being more of an adventure than either of us bargained for.” Vaughan shook his head. “He acted like a cowboy, waving that gun around. I told him to calm down and do whatever they asked. But he wouldn’t listen. I can’t figure out why. He liked to fancy himself a macho man. Maybe it was the influence of the Mexican culture. Maybe he just missed the excitement of his military career or wanted to relive his youth. I remember thinking at the time that he knew what he was doing. I was admiring him. Until, of course, he got shot.”

“Did he say anything to you after he was hit?”

“No. I kept talking to him, but he didn’t respond. He was unconscious. Maybe he was already dead. I don’t know. I just remember yelling. Yelling at the men. Yelling at Woody. And then everything went black.”

Father Alfredo had returned while we’d been making the rounds of the room. He stood near the door, quietly listening to Vaughan’s story. We stopped in front of him. He took Vaughan’s hand and patted it. “God has spared you,” he said. “I will pray for you tonight, and for the souls of the men who mistreated you.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Did you see anything outside?” I asked.

“It was quiet. I think we should try to leave,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, turning to Vaughan. “I’ll feel a lot better once we have you home and we can report back to the police. Do you think you can walk a short distance?”

“I’ll try.”

I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder, turned off the lights in the warehouse, and opened the door. We stepped outside into the cool night, pulling the door shut behind us. Something was not right. There was a hum in the air that hadn’t been there earlier. I strained to see into the dark. My eyes had adjusted to the lights inside the building, and I couldn’t see ahead of me.

“What is it, Jessica?” Vaughan whispered.

“I’m not sure,” I whispered back.

We heard a click and a blinding searchlight poured over us, fixing us where we stood, as unable to move as butterflies pinned to a board. I squinted against the glare, shielding my eyes with my arm, trying urgently to see beyond the perimeter of the brilliant whiteness. The light was followed by the sound of a dozen rifles being cocked. Vaughan and I huddled together. Father Alfredo began to pray behind us.

“Put your hands up.” The voice coming through the bullhorn was speaking English. “And keep them up.”

As we raised our hands, a uniformed man stepped out of the darkness into the pool of light. It was Captain Gutierrez.

“Oh, thank goodness, it’s you,” I said.

Gutierrez touched a finger to his cap. “Señora Fletcher. I did not think to find you here.” He gestured for us to put our hands down. “Padre.” He nodded to Father Alfredo. “I see we are too late to rescue Señor Buckley.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “You’re just in time. We want to get him home. His wife will be waiting, I’m sure.”

Ignoring me, Gutierrez addressed Vaughan. “My apologies for your suffering, Señor,” he said. “I am Captain Gutierrez.”

“Captain,” Vaughan said, “I am very pleased to see you.”

“May I escort you to the car?”

“Thank you,” Vaughan said. “I would appreciate that.”

Gutierrez assisted Vaughan to the patrol car, glancing back to give me a puzzled look. He helped him into the front passenger seat, then held the rear door open for Father Alfredo and me. The driver was one of the men we’d seen outside the cantina.

The captain closed the door and bent down to talk through the open window. “My officer will drive you home. Tomorrow, when you are refreshed, we will come to your home to ask you some questions.”

“I appreciate your consideration,” Vaughan said. “I’ll be happy to talk to you then.”

“I can assure you, Señor, we will find out who is responsible for this.”

I leaned forward. “Captain?”

“Sí, Señora?”

“I think I can help you there.”

W
ord travels quickly in San Miguel de Allende. The following day the house began to fill up as friends and acquaintances crowded in to welcome Vaughan back. Bearing all manner of Mexican dishes that I recognized—tostadas, tamales, enchiladas, fajitas, sweet empanadas, wedding cookies, and flan—and even more that I didn’t but that looked delicious, they filed into the house, depositing their gifts in the kitchen with Maria Elena. In short order the dining room table was laden with dishes and platters and trays of food, and as many as possible of the bouquets of flowers that had been arriving every hour, it seemed.

Olga had greeted Vaughan’s return the night before with ecstatic exclamations, embraces, tears of joy, and palpable anxiety about his condition. He had refused her appeals that they call a doctor, saying all he wanted was a hot bath and a good meal. After effusively thanking everyone—the police, Father Alfredo, Maria Elena, and me—and urging us to help ourselves to food and drink, Olga had ushered Vaughan upstairs to their suite, where she’d run a steamy bath for him, and as he’d soaked, plied him with more food than the poor man could possibly consume, along with pots of tea that she’d spiked heavily with brandy. She’d thrown out his soiled clothing, made a fire in the bedroom fireplace, and used an old-fashioned iron warmer to heat the sheets so that the bed would be cozy and comforting when he climbed beneath the covers. Her ministrations and a good night’s sleep had done wonders for her husband, who, looking refreshed, came downstairs in the morning to an enormous breakfast and a continuous welcoming reception from San Miguel.

The church bells had sounded longer than usual, a mark that the celebrant at La Parroquia had learned the news. The mayor came to the house in person this time, together with a photographer, to pump Vaughan’s hand, congratulate him on his courage, and present him with the key to the city. The editor of
Noticias
showed up with his own camera to take a few pictures, jot down a few quotes, and obtain the promise of a longer interview once Vaughan felt up to it. He accepted an invitation to stay and share in the festivities. A television station in Mexico City sent a camera crew who wanted to film Vaughan back at the warehouse, but Olga put her foot down. The TV reporter had to content himself with filing his story standing in the courtyard in front of the house.

Arm slung around Olga’s shoulder, Vaughan spent most of the morning on the telephone with the press, and also with well-wishers and friends from New York and elsewhere in the States, all giddy with delight at his rescue.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I heard him say. “Jessica found me. I don’t know. I haven’t even had a chance to ask her. Yes, she’s a good friend as well as a bestselling writer.” He waved at me. “Not at all. We have no plans to sell our house in San Miguel. We love it here.” He winked at Olga. “Well, the first order of business is to improve my Spanish. Yes, it would have been helpful to speak with my captors, or at least to be able to understand more of what they were saying. . . . No, I don’t think they spoke any English. . . . Well, I listened, and I was able to make out some of the discussion, but I didn’t try out my rudimentary Spanish. For one thing, I didn’t want to discourage them from talking in front of me.”

It was wonderful to see him happy. He was thinner and there were still traces of the pallor that had suffused his face when we’d found him, but he was visibly relaxed, relieved to be in familiar surroundings, even jovial in recounting his misadventures. In fact, I thought I detected a hint of him basking in all the hoopla and attention that attended his homecoming.