Margaritas & Murder (27 page)

There was a shocked pause and then everyone started to talk at once. Only Sarah remained silent, her eyes distraught, watching the tears roll down Philip’s cheeks.

“I knew it. I just knew it,” Philip sobbed.

“T
he poor fool,” Vaughan said, leaning back in his lounge chair under the colonnade. “I can’t believe he ended up, in effect, arranging for his own death.”

It was another beautiful day in San Miguel de Allende, the sun shining, the church bells ringing, the birds singing in the acacia tree in the courtyard. Vaughan, Olga, and I had been sipping our morning coffee, reading the special edition of
Noticias,
reviewing the events of the previous day, and making plans for the future.

“It looks like he intended to share part of the money with the kidnappers,” I said, “give Sarah what she needed to keep the Revolutionary Guanajuato Brigade well funded, and have enough left over to send Philip back to college.”

“I guess a military pension doesn’t afford much more than a modest lifestyle, even here in Mexico,” Olga said. “He seemed like such a nice man . . .”

Vaughan raised one eyebrow and peered at his wife.

“Even if I couldn’t bear to be around him,” she finished.

“He had been leading a double life for a long time,” I said.

“What tipped you off?” Vaughan asked.

“Roberto talked about people living in San Miguel and never learning Spanish. I thought it strange that a man who had been in military intelligence, like Woody, would settle in a country and not speak the language. And Olga, you confirmed that for me.”

“I did.”

“Yes. The man you met with in New York, the one from the State Department, knew Woody from an assignment in Mexico.”

“That’s right, Jessica. I remember thinking it was typical military
un
intelligence, sending an operative who didn’t speak Spanish to Mexico.”

“Exactly. And while our government makes a lot of mistakes, that wouldn’t have been one of them,” I said. “When I was at Woody’s apartment, I looked at his e-mail. Half the messages were in Spanish, as were his replies. And a local bookstore sent him a postcard saying the book he ordered was available. It was a book on military operations—and the title was in Spanish.”

“So the sign on his car saying he didn’t speak Spanish was all part of this elaborate ruse to keep people from knowing he did,” Vaughan said. “Why would he bother?”

“People in intelligence often get so involved in living undercover, they find it difficult to break away, even after the operation is over.”

“I wonder what he did for American intelligence here?” Olga mused.

“He infiltrated revolutionary cells,” said a deep voice.

We all looked up to see Chief Rivera walking toward us across the courtyard.

“Maria Elena let me in on her way out. I hope you don’t mind if I join you this morning,” he said. “I have some lingering questions of my own.”

“Not at all, Chief,” Vaughan said, rising. “Can we get you some coffee?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Rivera said, taking a chair.

Vaughan went into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug.

“I tried to talk Maria Elena into staying and having coffee with us,” Olga said, “but she said she was going to La Parroquia to give thanks for Vaughan’s return and, not incidentally, to thank Father Alfredo for his part in the rescue. I asked her to invite him to dinner. You’re welcome to come, too.”

“Gracias,”
Rivera said. “Please ask me another time. My son has a baseball game this afternoon, and we’re all going out to dinner to celebrate his team’s victory, whether they win or not. By the way, I thought you’d want to know Gutierrez picked up some men in the warehouse district, who we believe might be our kidnappers. He’s questioning them now.”

Vaughan blew out a long breath. “I think that’s going to help me sleep better,” he said.

“I thought it might.”

“How did you know Woody infiltrated revolutionary groups here?” I asked the chief.

“That’s where I was the other day,” he said. “Took a little trip up to Texas to find out something of his background, although I have to say I couldn’t connect the dots until you broke the code.”

“Was it just the language thing that made you suspect Woody?” Olga asked.

“No,” I said. “There were other details that were not critical by themselves but added to the big picture. For instance, Woody never put off his mail run for anyone. Guy Kovach said Woody refused to wait for him. ‘The mail must go through,’ he would say. Yet he waited through three postponements with Vaughan. Why? Because the whole trip was planned around Vaughan, taking him captive, and extorting a million dollars. If Woody was also a kidnap victim, you could hardy suspect him.”

“So that irrational argument with the hotel clerk the morning we were to leave for home was just a way to make us late?” Vaughan asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “He timed it so that you would come upon the simulated accident at a precise hour. He was used to planning military tactics, so he knew exactly how long to delay to get you to the kidnap site on time. That was important because otherwise he couldn’t be assured that there wouldn’t be others on the road, perhaps even a police patrol.”

“But there
could
have been a police patrol,” Olga said. “He couldn’t have prevented that.”

“True, but he knew their routine. He kept track of the police assignments by visiting the station house each time he went on a trip and checking out the duty assignments on the big board. They were used to seeing him report his upcoming trips. It never occurred to them that he might be there to gain information as well.”

“You’re making me cringe,” Rivera said. “We were all pretty naïve.”

“You couldn’t have known,” I said. “His visits were not something out of the ordinary. Plus, those motives are hard to spot.”

“Let me ask you about the artist,” the chief said. “We took her prints as you suggested and sent them to the lab that examined the letter. Threatened with exposure, she broke down and confessed. She told us a whole long story, but the bottom line was that she lost a lover in a political demonstration some fifteen years back and that converted her from a bystander to an active participant.”

“Fifteen years ago, about the same time that you told me you first began to see signs of activity from the Revolutionary Guanajuato Brigade,” I said.

He shook his head. “Right again.”

“As you said, she didn’t do much more than issue statements and threaten; she never took any action. I think she was more romantic than revolutionary. She painted her own face as an insurgent in many of the works she’d completed over the years. Recently, she’d begun to regret that. I think that’s why she wanted to buy back the paintings in your living room, Vaughan. I’ll bet if we look carefully, we’ll find her face among the peasants holding the pitchforks and knives.”

“I’m grateful she confessed,” Olga said, “because I have to tell you, Jessica, that I was afraid your accusation wouldn’t hold up. Lots of artists work in pen and ink, especially in this town. How could you be certain that her ink, and not some other artist’s ink, was used to write the letter?”

“It was a guess, I’ll admit, but an educated one. When you were away, the instant message from the kidnapper demanding ransom came from someone who styled himself ‘Pelican.’ I wracked my brain trying to figure out the significance of a seabird to the revolutionary cause.”

“And so did I,” Rivera said. “My wife and I spent an evening on the Internet trying to track down that one.”

“And did you figure it out?” Vaughan asked.

I laughed. “Not exactly. But when I was at Sarah’s and looked at the table with the array of pens and ink for her new projects, it became clear. The special materials for her pen-and-ink drawings were from a company called Pelikan. I thought that kind of irony would appeal to her.”

“Caught in her own trap, in a way, like Woody,” Vaughan said. “The one I feel sorry for is Philip. I had a feeling he had a crush on Sarah, but he turned his back on her last night. What do you think will happen to him now?”

“Dina told me that Woody had a life insurance policy,” Olga said. “It’s not large, but it’s enough to let Philip go back to school, for at least a year or two. After that, he’ll have to earn his way. By the way, they’re leaving San Miguel for a while.”

“The Fishers?” Vaughan asked. “I thought Roberto loved it here. Everyone thinks he’s a native, or so he says.”

“He loves it, but it hasn’t been as easy for Dina. She’s going into a rehab program.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I have to say if I were married to Roberto, I’d probably need rehab, too.”

“Vaughan. Be nice.”

“What about Sarah?” I asked Chief Rivera. “Will she go to jail?”

“Don’t know,” he replied. “The American consulate is already making noise about sending her back to the States. Apparently her father is a wealthy man with connections.” Rivera got to his feet and thrust out his hand to Vaughan. “Good to have you back in one piece. I hope the rest of your time in San Miguel is more peaceful.”

“Thanks, Chief. You’ve got a rain check for dinner. I hope you’ll cash it in and bring your wife and son.”

“I’ll check with them and let you know.” He turned to me. “Señora Fletcher, the next time you’re in San Miguel, I expect a visit. Captain Gutierrez hasn’t stopped talking about you for two days. He says he’s going to name his cat after you, because he’s sure any cat named Jessica Fletcher will never let a mouse get away.”

“And here I thought he didn’t like me,” I said.

We all laughed, and as if they heard us, the church bells of San Miguel de Allende began to chime, the sound now friendly and warm. I looked at the ring on my finger and thought of my
bandido
. Somewhere in the city was a father with a bad cough and two small children to care for, and I silently wished him well.

Read on for a sneak peek at
the next exciting
Murder, She Wrote
original mystery,

Coming from New American Library in
October 2006

“We’re down to the Rattlers’ last out, folks, and the tension is palpable in Thompson Stadium—bottom of the ninth, the score three-two, with the Texans on top, two outs and the tying run on base. If the Rattlers fail to pull it out here, it will be back to the showers and another year before they get a chance to win a league championship and bask in the glory.”

“Shortstop Junior Bennett, number fourteen, is up next, Ralph, but he’s oh-and-three for the day against this left-handed pitcher. Think they’ll leave him in?”

The camera focused on a heavily perspiring young fan wearing a number-14 Rattlers jersey over a Hawaiian shirt. He held up a sign that read JUNIOR FOR MVP. Ralph Trienza checked the TV monitor before lifting his red-and-green ball cap to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Wishful thinking on the part of that young man, don’t you think, Doug?” he said, as the camera swung back to the two announcers. “Junior’s been in a slump for a month, and Washington’s been trying to let him play through it. But there’s a lot at stake today. If I was a betting man—- and I am—I’d have to go with a right-handed pinch-hitter here.”

“I’m with you, Ralph. Washington has Ty Tamos on the bench. Ramos has had a good year. He’s batting three-ten, three-twenty-five against left-handers. That’s a pretty convincing argument.”

“Might not be enough to satisfy H.B., though. Ty’s got that strained hamstring that kept him from starting today. But Washington said in the pregame that Ty’s available for pinch-hitting.” Trienza looked into the camera. “You’re watching KRM-TV, and I’m Ralph Trienza, with Doug Worzall, coming to you from Thompson Stadium in Mesa, Arizona, with the score three-two and a lot of folks wondering what manager Buddy Washington will decide to do. We’ll find out in a minute, but first a few words from our sponsor.”

“Who’s H.B.?” I asked my friend Meg Duffy as the bright light trained on the announcers was switched off, and the monitor reflected a commercial for Thompson Tools and Hardware. With our seats next to the broadcast booth behind the visiting team’s dugout, we could watch the game and listen to the local station’s play-by-play at the same time.

The organist struck up “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” and a dozen cheerleaders ran out onto the field, behind the first-base foul line. They performed an acrobatic dance routine that ended with each cheerleader holding up a letter on a card, which together spelled out THOMPSON TOOLS. A boy on the end held both the
L
and the
S
.

I was in Arizona visiting an old school friend, Meg Hart Duffy, and her husband, Jack—Judge Jack Duffy to his legions of fans
and
detractors in the Family Division of the Superior Court, Hudson County, in the state of New Jersey—who had invited me to join them in Mesa, where they’d rented a house for the baseball season. The Rattlers were a Double-A team in the Pacific West division, and we were rooting for them to win. But even more, we were rooting for Ty Ramos to get to play in what was the final day of the season for the Rattlers. Ty was the Duffys’ foster son.

“H.B. is Harrison Bennett, Senior, the team’s owner,” Meg said in answer to my question.

“Is he related to the shortstop?”

She nodded, and her eyebrows flew up. “Junior is his son. And you can see why it’s been hard for Ty to get time on the field when they both play the same position. Buddy Washington tries his best—he knows Ty’s the better player—but the orders come from above, and Junior gets preference. it’s been very frustrating.”

“I imagine it would be.”

“Jack won’t come to watch the game if Junior’s playing. He even did some research to see if Bennett’s actions were a breach of league rules, but there’s no regulation about an owner’s conduct if he has a son on the team. It may be unethical, and certainly not good for the team, but it isn’t illegal. Too bad for us.”