Margaritas & Murder (8 page)

“Something like that, Woody.”

“I’ve been doing it for close to three years now,” Woody said proudly. “Never been stopped. Had a few close calls, though,” he said, chuckling. “I could tell you some stories.” His expression sobered. “But I never told Olga about those.”

“I think she may have heard about them anyway,” Vaughan said.

“What is the mail run, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said.

“They’re driving up to Laredo to pick up mail for those who have post office boxes there,” Sarah Christopher said. She was a sturdy woman in her thirties, or maybe early forties, with dark brown eyes, soft cocoa-colored skin, and thick black hair worn in a cloud of curls around her face. “Some people don’t trust the Mexican postal service. I for one.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because important mail doesn’t always make it here. Between the corrupt government, customs, and the postal workers, you’re lucky if anything gets through,” she said. “I had a box of paint confiscated once. I don’t know what they thought might be in the tubes. Drugs are smuggled out of this country, not into it.” She gestured with her hands and I noticed she had blue stains on her fingers. “I had to fill in reams of forms, and when the new order finally arrived almost a year later, the local post office wanted to charge me the equivalent of five hundred dollars in duty. For a set costing half that amount. I’ll never do that again.”

“My heavens,” I said. “I can understand why you were upset.”

“I don’t bother with MexPost anymore,” she said. “If Vaughan picks up a package for me in Texas, the border guards will barely give it a glance. He’s got that honest face.” She gave Vaughan a wink and a smile. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat.

“A lot of retirees, like me, don’t want their pension or Social Security checks going through Mexico City before they get here,” Woody added. “They tend to disappear, and it’s the devil to get a replacement. Much simpler to have them mailed to an address in the States.”

“From what I’ve heard, a letter from the U.S. can take three weeks or six months to arrive, Jessica,” Vaughan added.

“And you’d better not forget to tip the mailman on Postman’s Day or you may
never
see it,” Sarah said.

“When is that, anyway?” Vaughan asked.

“November,” Roberto said. “But I give my guy a little extra more often. You’ve got to know when to tip. That’s the way to get good service in Mexico.”

“There’s no such thing as far as I’m concerned,” Sarah said. “Everyone has his hand out. If they were paid a decent wage to begin with, then maybe you’d get good service. Anyway, Vaughan, you don’t stay in San Miguel long enough to wait for something to be delivered by MexPost.”

“You can always use FedEx or UPS,” Roberto put in.

“
You
can use them,” Woody said. “It costs a fortune from here.”

“What’s it going to cost
you
in gas and tolls?”

“We’re amortizing the cost over more than twenty families with P.O. boxes. It doesn’t amount to much.”

“If you ask me, it’s just an excuse to get away for a few days,” Roberto said. “I’ve been here fourteen years and I get my mail just fine.”

“We don’t get much mail, dear,” his wife reminded him.

“We get a postcard from your brother every now and then.”

“Only when he’s traveling. Otherwise he calls us on his cell phone.”

“Well, we get other mail.”

“I’m looking forward to the trip,” Vaughan said. “Kind of like being with the Pony Express, riding across the range to deliver the mail. Besides, I had my secretary open a post office box for me in Laredo. There should be a manuscript waiting, and I don’t want to miss that.”

His companions laughed. “Didn’t take you long to learn the way of things,” Woody said. “Reminds me of a story when I was stationed at Fort Bliss.”

“No, Woody, spare us,” Sarah said in mock dramatic fashion, the back of her hand on her brow.

“Well, if you don’t want to hear it . . .” He was clearly offended.

“Save it for tomorrow,” Vaughan said. “We’re going to need stories to entertain each other on the long ride, and telling them will keep you awake. I don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Aren’t you going to spell him with the driving?” I asked Vaughan.

“He can’t drive my car,” Woody said.

“Does he need a Mexican driver’s license?”

“It’s not as easy as that. It’s the Mexican laws. They don’t want anyone outside your family driving your car. If we got caught with Vaughan driving, they’d take my car away. Permanently.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“It would be no loss with that old junker you have. Did you get the radio fixed yet?” Sarah asked Woody.

“I’ll have you know that junker, as you call it, has over a hundred thousand miles and still gets twenty miles to the gallon. It’s in great shape—no rust, tires are good, engine’s completely rebuilt. There’s just a few little quirks, like the radio.”

“I rest my case,” she said, rising and waving at us. “I’m going to get some dinner. Vaughan? Join me?”

Vaughan got to his feet. “Thanks. I’m not hungry right now. I’ll have something later,” he said.

Sarah looped her index finger in the gap between buttons on Vaughan’s shirt. “I’ll just have to find you later,” she said. “I’m hungry now.”

It was the first time I’d ever seen Vaughan blush. He was always cool and in control, but evidently Sarah’s brazen flirting made him uneasy.

“My gallery opening is in three days,” she said. “Actually three nights. I hope you’ll be home in time for it, but if not, you can come to my studio and I’ll show you what you missed.”

Vaughan cleared his throat. “I’m not sure of our schedule,” he said, “but in any case Woody and I have to check out his vehicle before we take off. Right, Woody? Would you all excuse us, please.”

Woody took the hint and lumbered out of his chair.

“I take it they’re not an item anymore?” Roberto said when the others left.

“Woody didn’t show up at her last opening, so she dumped him,” Dina said. “She’s too young for him anyway.”

“Why don’t we follow Sarah to the buffet?” I said. “We can come back and talk over dinner.”

While we’d been chatting, the caterers had set up tables across from the colonnade. The Fishers took plates and joined the line that had formed, and I fell in behind them. The guests at the party were a convivial group, chatting and laughing in knots of three or four. Most of the men wore guayaberas, like Roberto’s, and the women were casually elegant, except for obvious displays of jewelry. For the most part they appeared to be members of the expatriate community—conversation was in English—but I was happy to see that here and there were some faces that reflected the Mexican population.

It struck me as strange that people would move to a foreign country and make no effort to become part of the greater community, shunning the local residents and instead forging a miniature version of what they’d left at home. What I enjoy most about visiting a country—or any new place, for that matter—is meeting the people, learning about the culture, and participating in a society different from my own. I knew Vaughan and Olga felt the same way.

Roberto turned to wave at a gentleman behind me. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Guy. Are you avoiding me?”

“Got better things to do than keep track of where you are,” the man replied, frowning. “But now that I see you, I’ve got a great tip for you.”

“Your last tip cost too much. I sold it at a loss.”

“That was your second mistake,” the man said. “By this time next year, that baby will be through the roof.”

“And I suppose I have to ask what my first mistake was?” Roberto said, his annoyance apparent.

“That’s Guy Kovach,” Dina whispered to me. “Unbelievably rich. He throws money around like rice at a wedding. His wife, Nancy, is always dripping in diamonds.” Her voice held a combination of disdain and awe. “He’s a big-time stockbroker from New York.”

I nodded but was taken aback. The man under discussion would never have passed muster in a staid Wall Street firm. He was heavyset, with a florid face and wavy brown hair. He wore a gold chain around his neck, gold bracelets on both wrists, and on his thick fingers were several rings, one with a large diamond set in it. If we hadn’t been in central Mexico, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was wheeling and dealing in a Las Vegas casino.

“You didn’t buy that stock through me,” Kovach said, pointing a thick finger at Roberto. “You thought you’d sneak around and get it on the Internet and avoid paying my broker’s fee, didn’t you? Well, your cheapness backfired. You get what you pay for, Fisher. Remember that.”

“I make plenty of money without your tips.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kovach said, grinning. “We’ll do business yet.” He left the line and walked to the other end of the buffet table.

The Fishers and I filled our plates from the wonderful-looking platters and took our seats under the colonnade, but without the rest of the group. I was disappointed to find that Sarah hadn’t returned, nor had Vaughan or Woody.

Maria Elena emerged from the French doors and began clearing away the dishware and glasses that had been left on the low table. Roberto drained his glass and put it on her tray.

“Would you like another drink, Señor Fisher?”

“Señoras?”

“I’ll have another piña colada,” Dina said. “I’m not driving.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” I said.

Maria Elena returned to the kitchen, and I heard her give directions to someone, presumably for Dina’s drink.

A man’s voice responded in an angry tone, and she replied in kind. He raised his voice a notch and she matched it.

“Are you enjoying San Miguel?” Dina asked, ignoring the argument.

“Very much,” I replied. “Olga gave me a mini-tour today. We walked everywhere. The house is so conveniently located.”

“We don’t live in town, but we have three acres.”

“Three and a half,” her husband said.

“Three and a half,” she echoed.

The disagreement in the kitchen was getting louder, and I saw a few guests turn our way with curious expressions.

“What made you decide to move to Mexico from Detroit?” I asked.

“The good life,” Roberto said.

“You can live very well down here for not a lot of money,” Dina added. She looked to her husband for confirmation.

I heard shushing sounds from the kitchen. The angry combatants lowered their voices, but fragments of the squabble continued to be audible. “Excuse me,” I said. “Let me find out if something is wrong.”

“Don’t bother. It’s just a sibling spat,” Roberto said.

“What do you mean?”

“Maria Elena is having a fight with her brother. Hector doesn’t like taking orders from his sister.”

“ ’Course, it’s a lot more expensive now than when we first came here,” Dina mused, as if unaware of the controversy inside.

A man dressed in black stomped through the French doors. He whipped a white apron from his waist, rolled it into a ball, and flung it behind a miniature palm.

Maria Elena ran after him, retrieved the apron, and growled something through gritted teeth.

“She says he’ll never work here again if she has any say about it,” Roberto translated.

“Oh, dear,” I said. “And Vaughan spoke so highly of him.”

“The Latin temperament heats quickly, but it cools quickly, too,” Roberto said. “They’ll forget about it tomorrow.”

Dina forged ahead. “Inflation is going up, eroding the dollar, not to mention that the place has become far too popular,” she said. “Roberto always says there are too many expats now.”

“That’s true,” her husband said, reentering the conversation. “Loads of Americans and Canadians. I liked it better when we had more of the place to ourselves.”

I didn’t remind him that he was an expatriate himself.

“You’re thinking I’m an expat, too, and shouldn’t talk.”

I laughed. “Guilty as charged,” I said.

“Well, it’s true. What attracted me to Mexico was that it was exotic. I wanted to immerse myself in its culture. The newcomers are different. They don’t even bother to learn Spanish—maybe a word or two, but that’s all. Look around you. I’ll bet half the people here can’t speak any Spanish.”

“I was thinking the same thing only a little while ago,” I said.

“They know how to ask for the bathroom,” his wife said, giggling.

Roberto shot her an irritated look and she lowered her head, then raised it and looked around. “I wonder where my drink is.”

“Many of the expats operate shops here,” Roberto continued, “and a lot of the locals speak English, too. The newcomers can deal with English speakers every day. There’s even an English-language newspaper.”

“Noticias,”
Dina said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Noticias.
That’s the name of the newspaper in English,” he said

“Oh. I take it you speak Spanish well?”

“Fluently,” Roberto replied. “They tell me I sound like I was born here. Of course, that may be a little flattery, but I get by very well.”

“Not me,” Dina added. “I barely know a word.”

“Not ‘I,’ you mean,” he said.

“Not I,” she said. “Bob took lessons . . . I mean, Roberto took Spanish for two years before we moved here, and he still takes classes from time to time.”

“You must be a quick study,” I said.

“Gotta be able to converse with the locals. Only way to get along if you live here. I didn’t move to Mexico to surround myself with Americans. You’ve got to work on it.” He frowned at his wife, who was craning her neck to look into the kitchen.

“It must have been very difficult to make such a big change in your life,” I said.

“Not if you approach it methodically. I’ve conducted a detailed study of the Mexican culture,” he said. “And I’ve written extensively about my findings. I’d be honored if you’d read some of it while you’re here and give me your thoughts.”