The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

“In the finest tradition of Agatha Christie, debut author Ace brings us the closed-room drama, with a dollop of romantic suspense and historical intrigue.” —
Library Journal

“Cait's enjoyable first outing should earn her a well-deserved encore.” —
Publishers Weekly

“If you're a lover of classic mystery, this Cait Morgan novel is for you . . . murder with touches of Christie or Marsh but with a bouquet of Kinsey Millhone.” —
The Globe and Mail

“A sparkling, well-plotted, and quite devious mystery in the cozy tradition, all pointing to Ace's growing finesse at telling an entertaining story.” —
The Hamilton Spectator

“Perfect comfort reading. You could call it Agatha Christie set in the modern world, with great dollops of lovingly described food and drink.” —
Crime Fiction Lover

“A really good story . . . suspenseful mystery.” —
Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

For the man who saved me from a scorpion,
poolside in Bucerias. My hero.

THE JUMBLED MOUND THAT BUD
had dumped out of his pockets sat on the breakfast bar of our vacation condo. I said, lovingly of course, “You need a manbag.”

“I think the correct term is a
murse
,” replied Bud, looking endearingly smug.

“Fashion-speak from a retired cop who owns just three jackets?” I gave him a friendly poke.

He grinned. “Now all that dead weight's gone, I'm off to get supplies. I saw a bodega across the road when we arrived, and I need a beer, or three. You'll let me back in, right?” He grabbed a handful of cash as he made for the door, grinning.

“So long as there are treats for me too.” I was still recovering from being squashed into an unreasonably narrow seat on our flight from Vancouver to Puerto Vallarta, followed by an hour in a tiny car where “air conditioning” meant opening the windows. Treats were definitely in order.

“Okay. I'll see what I can find to make you smile. Back soon,” was Bud's parting shot.

I grappled with the shutters in the main room, which eventually flew open to reveal a narrow road and some white stucco buildings below, beyond which glittered the Bay of Banderas. I hoped that the ominous clouds gathering on the horizon wouldn't spoil our exploration of the resort's supposedly “lush” gardens. Our first real vacation. A whole week of just Bud and me. Wonderful!

As I repeated the shutter-wrestling process in the bedroom, I spotted Bud leaving the bodega holding a promisingly bulky carrier bag. He popped into a flower shop next door. I smiled inwardly as I unpacked my suitcase. A distant bell chimed noon.
Idyllic.

It was the scream that drew me back to the bedroom window.

I looked out again to see a wailing woman holding open the door to the florist's store. Though the lights inside the store provided only partial illumination, I could make out the shape of a body lying on the floor. Its throat was being gripped by a kneeling male figure—he looked up and mouthed something at the screaming woman. I couldn't hear what was said, because just then a pickup truck roared by. But in that instant I recognized the face of the figure who was throttling the person on the ground.

It was Bud.

Slack-jawed, I stood at the window as the scene below me played out. Two men in almost farcically elaborate blue and gold uniforms rushed out of the bodega next door to the flower shop: a short, portly guy, and a tall, lean one. The short one attended to the still-screaming woman, who was now swaying and clutching at the air, while the tall one pulled open the door she'd allowed to swing closed. A weapon had magically appeared in his hand, and he pointed it into the building. In the gloom, I saw Bud raise his hands and clamber to his feet, then turn, ready to be handcuffed, which he was. I felt as though I were watching a movie: fascinated, yet disconnected.

The tall man, who was quite obviously a cop, dragged Bud out of the store into the midday sun. I could see that Bud's shirt, arms, and knees were covered in blood. Not his, I hoped. The tall cop appeared to bark instructions at the short one, who propped Bud's distraught discoverer against the side of the building. He ran off and returned a moment later in a police car that must have been parked around the corner, at the end of the building. As Bud was manhandled toward the vehicle, he pushed out his bloodied chest, pulled himself up to his full five ten, turned his face skyward, and shouted with all his might, “Jack . . . Jack . . . Petrov . . . Cartagena . . .” Then he was gone—shoved unceremoniously through the back door of the sedan. The tall cop spoke to his shorter colleague, waved his arms around a bit, then took off his hat and jacket, tossed them into the trunk, and jumped into the driver's seat. The car shot off down the road, throwing up dust and small stones in its wake, its wailing siren slicing the humid air.

I breathed in for what seemed like the first time in many moments. I found I still couldn't move. I was trying to process what I'd seen. What on earth had just happened? None of it made any sense. Well, given the circumstances in which he was discovered, what had happened to Bud
did
make sense . . . but how had he managed to get himself into that position in the first place? He'd only been out of the apartment for five or ten minutes!

I tried to give my attention to the scene in the street below. A switch flipped somewhere in my brain, and I worked out that pretty soon there'd likely be the arrival of a coroner, or the Mexican equivalent, then the body would be removed, the crime scene secured, and an investigation would begin.

I knew, instinctively, that the person on the floor was dead. It seemed to me the tall cop had been pretty sure that Bud had done it. There would be an investigation into
why
Bud had done it. But there could never be a resolution to such an investigation, because Bud
couldn't
have done it.

I sat down, hard, on the edge of the bed and wondered what to do. My instinct was to run to the short policeman, who was managing the gaggle of people milling about outside the florist shop, and tell him who I was, who Bud was, and that Bud couldn't possibly have killed anyone. My own background as a professor of criminal psychology at the University of Vancouver might not carry much weight, but I was sure that Bud's long career in law enforcement would speak volumes. We'd worked together for quite a while, when I'd been his hired “victim profiling” consultant, and we'd been dating now for a few months short of a year. So
I
knew him.
They
didn't. All I had to do was go down there and point out the mistake they'd made.

But I remained seated on the edge of the bed.

What had Bud shouted? It must have been important. I didn't need my useful, but largely secret, eidetic memory to recall what he'd called out.

“Jack. Jack Petrov. Cartagena.”

I concentrated. I didn't know anyone called Jack Petrov. Nor, as far as I knew, did Bud. The only Jack I could think of was Jack White—Bud's old mentor and colleague, who'd given us the use of the apartment where I was sitting. He and Bud had worked together for decades. It was not only his condo that we'd been loaned for a week, but also his little car, which we'd driven from the airport. Jack was looking after Marty, Bud's tubby black Labrador, on his acreage in Hatzic, back home in
BC
. As I visualized Jack's kind, pale face and his tall, spare frame, which always seemed to be in motion, I could feel an indulgent smile play on my lips. I decided that since I couldn't ask Bud himself what to do, Jack was the next best person to speak to.

But how? I dragged my cell phone out of my carry-on bag and checked the directory. No, of course I didn't have Jack's numbers back home. I spotted Bud's phone on the counter, where he'd dumped it with all his other bits and pieces. I didn't like the thought of checking his phone, but it seemed the only option. I scrolled through names and acronyms, most of which meant nothing to me, then, finally, I found “White Cell” and “White House.” I dialed the house to start with. After several rings, I disconnected and punched the button to call the other number. An instant later, I heard Jack's voice, echoing on speakerphone.

“Hi—Jack here. I'm driving. Sheila's in the truck with me, so be careful what you say, whoever you are.”

I could hear giggling and Jack's adorable, if sometimes overly fussy, wife saying, “Oh, you're wicked, Jack White. Don't say that; it could be anyone.”

I could picture them both quite clearly. The perfect pair. Happily heading out somewhere in the truck on a Sunday afternoon. My mouth dried as the seriousness of Bud's situation jangled my nerves.

“It's me, Cait,” I managed to squeak out.

“Ah, get there okay? Everything alright with the car and the condo?” Jack sounded cheery.

“Um . . . yes. Everything's fine. Well . . . no, it's not really. Look, Jack, something terrible has happened and I don't know who else to turn to.” As the words left my lips, I knew I sounded pathetic and useless. I hated myself for it.
Buck up, Cait!

“Hang on a minute,” replied Jack. After a pause, “Okay, I've pulled over. It sounds like you need my attention. This can't be good news. Where's Bud? Is he okay?”

I took a deep breath. “No, Jack, he's not. He's been hauled off by the police. I think they believe he killed someone.”

The words hung in the air. I heard Sheila gasp and Jack curse.

“Tell me exactly what happened, Cait.” Jack's tone was grim.

I did. Briefly.

When I finished, Jack said, “And his exact words were Jack, Petrov, and Cartagena, right?”

“Yes. Does it mean something to you?” I hoped it did, though I couldn't imagine what.

“Sure does,” said Jack. “It means you have to clear out everything, and I mean absolutely
everything
, that you and Bud brought to the condo, get it back to the car, and drive back to the airport. The apartment must look as though neither you nor Bud has ever been there. Find a cloth, a towel, anything, and wipe down the surfaces and objects you've touched. Lock up behind you. And do it fast.
Now
.”

“Do
what
?” Jack wasn't making any sense.

“Look, Cait, just do as I say. It's important. What Bud shouted out was a message, to me. You did exactly the right thing calling me, because the message wouldn't make any sense to most people. But it makes sense to me. There must be no connection between you and Bud at all.”

“Now wait a minute, Jack. I'm not leaving Bud here, alone, in the hands of the police, suspected of a crime he didn't—
couldn't
—commit. No way!”

Silence again. Then, “Jack, she's not used to this. She might not even know. You should tell her.” I could hear Sheila quite clearly, despite the fact that she was trying to whisper in the background.