The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (10 page)

“But we don't need to know all of that to work out who that awful man is, right?” commented Ada. “We know
he
did it, and we know how, where, and when, so an autopsy won't help at all. I'm pretty sure everyone here wants to help Al crack the case before the Federales get involved. We don't see much of them around here, but when they do anything at all, it's all flash and bang, sticking their noses into things that don't concern them, and off they finally go. We should all pitch in.”

Nip this in the bud, Cait!

I sat down again and gave them each a meaningful look. “I know you want to help, but in a case like this, which hinges on gathering and interpreting information, the more people who get involved, the more opportunities there are for miscommunication, or misunderstanding. As psychologists we learn about various theories relating to the human psyche: the way the individual operates within groups and society, and the way that all of this might have some bearing upon behavior. If Al and I are trying to work out who this man is, and why he killed Margarita, I need to understand what it was in Margarita's life—whether that be an incident from many years ago, or a trigger word she might have innocently used that day—that set her killer in motion. If he is a hit man, who might have hired him, and why? If he's not, then how did they know each other, and why kill her now? I suspect that the best way you can help is to start by telling me what you knew about Margarita. That would be good. But I really would prefer it if you would let me help Al alone. Is that okay?”

Ada looked crestfallen. “I suppose,” she said quietly.

“Margarita never got over the deaths of her mother and her siblings,” said Frank, diving right in. “They died when she was about ten, I think. That's what her father, Juan, said. Their house burned down. The mother died,
and
her two brothers, and Margarita was left with that terrible scar.”

“Scar?” I was curious.

Ada jumped in. “Of course, you never met her. Poor Margarita had a very bad burn scar up her neck and onto her face. There was no way she could hide it, so she didn't bother trying. Some people reacted to it quite badly. I know a couple of brides who were happy for her to do their flowers, but didn't want her taking photos at their weddings. Sad really. I mean, she couldn't help it.”

I took my cue. “About her being a photographer—how did that play a role in her life?” I couldn't imagine how being a florist would put Margarita in danger, but photography offered a whole host of possible scenarios.

Frank answered. “She'd always taken photos of her arrangements, and her gardens, you know, to show them in albums, to help her sell her services. I think I'm right in saying she had a keen interest in nature photography in general, right, Ada?” Frank's wife nodded. “Then, when they built the new resort about six years ago, she took the store opposite. The one where she was killed. They have weddings at the resort,
and
they need their own floral decorations
and
garden maintenance. She had all those contracts. She kept the gardens looking good, brought in flowers for the public areas, looked after the plants inside, and, when brides were planning their weddings there, she was right on the spot. I think it was then that she saw the chance to do a bit more business, and she started being a wedding photographer. I'm pretty sure she was doing well at it. We've never heard any complaints, have we, dear?”

“Oh no,” replied Ada. “She was very good at the photography thing. She had this way about her: you never felt as though she was in the way. Afterwards, when you saw the photos, which were always very good, crisp and clear, you wondered why you hadn't noticed her. But it wasn't just a job to her: she took her cameras—big, lumpy things—with her wherever she went. I know she took some wonderful shots of the flower market in
PV
, for example. You should check out her website.”

Ah-ha!
I pounced.

“I wish I could, but I didn't bring my laptop, and I can't work out how to get the wireless keyboard to work with the
TV
here.” I was hoping Frank might be able to help.

“I think it's the same as ours,” said Ada. “I can show you. Frank's not good with that sort of thing.” She smiled indulgently at her husband. “I'm the one who does all that stuff, aren't I?”

Frank nodded. “Why don't you get her to show you? I can't be bothered with it all. Can't see what's wrong with picking up the phone, or writing a letter. It was one of the things that annoyed me about the beer business at the end: a bunch of twelve-year-olds telling me we had to build an ‘online platform,' whatever that might be!”

Ada smiled again. “Our son is a software designer for video games, so he and I keep up to date on technology quite a bit, when we talk using our webcams. Frank's not quite so involved.” She got up and brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap. “Come on, let's see what Henry's got here.” She walked inside.

“Games! Games!
That's
what my son does for a living. A grown man, with children of his own. It won't last . . .”

I walked away from the irate Frank. Now about sixty-five years old, he'd quite possibly been born that age.

Ada was standing in front of the
TV
, the remote in her hand, scrolling through a menu I hadn't even been able to find—
maybe Frank isn't the only one a bit out of synch with modern technology
—then she pushed a few buttons and said, “Yes, it's the same as ours. Let me show you.”

A few minutes later I was happily surfing the net. It was a relief: I was a big step closer to retrieving Jack's email.

Ada made sure I understood how to switch from
TV
to internet, and I turned everything off. “I'll start when you guys have gone,” I said, as kindly as possible.

“She wants us to leave now, Frank. Put that cigar out, and she can get on with her investigating,” called Ada to her husband.

I felt badly. I didn't mean to kick them out, but I was desperate to get to that email. I looked at my watch. I only had five minutes before I was due to meet Al.
Damn and blast!

“Don't worry, you've got plenty of time, dear.” Ada's voice was pitched to soothe, but I heard annoyance as an undertone. “When people around here say that something will happen at a certain time, it's just a vague suggestion. You'll get used to it. Most things happen eventually, just not when you thought they would. Like I say, you'll get used to it. In the end, it won't even annoy you, though you've just arrived, so you're still thinking like a Canadian rather than a Mexican.”

“There aren't really a lot of Mexicans here, are there?” I ventured. “Considering we're in Mexico, that is.” I wondered how Ada would react.

She smiled. “You mean that the Hacienda Soleado is a bit like a theme-park version of the country, right?” I nodded. “We're all imports here, dear, and we've decided how
we
want it to be, and we've made it that way. When we bought into the place and started building our houses, we all made an agreement that this would be our own vision of the world as it should be. All the best bits of Mexico, without any of the horrible things, you know. That's how we like it. We're a bit of a mixed bag, I suppose. We're Canadian; Greg is from Australia originally, though he hasn't lived there for a very long time; Dorothea, Henry,
and
Dean and Jean are all American—oh, you haven't met them either, have you? Nice couple. African American. Three grown sons, all in the service. He had some sort of job with the government, something to do with supplies. Dean's always very vague about exactly what he did—maybe it was a very boring job. They moved around a lot over the years with his job. Funny life, I should think. He says he enjoys being away from a desk. He helps Greg with the logistics for the
FOGTT
, you know, the Friends of Good Tequila Trust. He's very . . .” she searched for the right word, “effusive. Always telling jokes. Big man. Big character. Big laugh. She's not so talkative, but very nice. Keeps herself to herself a lot. They only moved here last Christmas. They bought out a nice couple from Seattle who said they wanted to move back there to be closer to the grandchildren, but, I don't know, there was something fishy about all that. I think they needed the money so sold up fast. Anyway, when Dean and Jean arrived he threw himself into the tequila business, didn't he, Frank?” Frank nodded dutifully. “Frank isn't involved that much, really, just enough to stop his brain from frying in the heat, but Dean seems to love it. Taken to it like a duck to water. And Jean? She goes into
PV
to do that tae kwon do boxing thing. Volunteers at the American hospital in
PV
too. Like I say, very nice. Their house is called Casa Nova. Dean thinks that's hilarious.” She raised her eyebrows as she spoke. “So, yes, Hacienda Soleado is a bit, well,
fake
, if you like. If you go down to the seafront, you'll find that the village there is a little more authentic. It's small, of course, and dwarfed by the new resort. I suppose these days you really have to go way up into the hills to find the old way of life. Along the coast here it's newer developments, tourism and a mish-mash of expected Mexican-ness, and then poverty: the ones who play up to the tourists attract the pesos, the ones who want nothing to do with them live a subsistence lifestyle that we outsiders always look at and pity. But it's their choice, right?”

For a woman who liked a mani-pedi, and a good murder mystery, Ada Taylor seemed to have quite a lot to say for herself. I imagined that her desire to chat, and impart information, was often stifled by the domineering presence of Dorothea, and that her down-to-earth approach to life had been honed by decades of child rearing and husband wrangling.

“Come on, Frank; let's go now, dear!” she called.

Frank harrumphed his way toward the front door. “Told you she could sort out all that technology stuff for you,” he said, with guarded pride. “How about we meet you at the Amigos del Tequila later on for a bite? You could bring us up to date after your meeting with Al.” Frank looked hopeful.

“I'd enjoy that,” I said, half-truthfully, “but I don't quite know what Al has planned for me, so I can't say.”

“How about you take our cell number, and we can keep in touch?” suggested Ada.

“Good idea,” I said. We exchanged numbers.
Thank goodness Bud made me buy a cheap roaming plan for our week here.

We waved to each other as they set off toward Casa Canuck. As soon as it seemed polite, I nipped inside, shut the door, and pulled up the internet on the
TV
screen. A few clicks and I managed to access my email. I waded through the long list of sales offers from plus-sized clothing companies—it's so depressing when most of your inbox looks like that—and finally, there it was! Jack's message.

I opened it and read as fast as I could, which, given that I'm a speed-reader, was pretty quick.

Hi Cait—I won't beat about the bush. This is bad. I've spoken to an old
CSIS
colleague of mine in Ottawa, and he's promised to get in touch with an associated operative in the area, with whom I can liaise when I arrive. Funny thing is I know the person, kind of, and I never knew they were “in the business.” Good cover. Ottawa's not happy about the situation. None of us are. I'm on a flight at 3:00
PM
tomorrow. I should be at my condo by about 9:00
PM
. I'll phone you when I get in. Meanwhile, here's some advice: don't get involved, keep your head down, stick to your cover story, and don't let anyone know what you do for a living, especially your role as a consultant with the Integrated Homicide Team here in the Lower Mainland. Henry thinks you're a friend of ours, that's me and Sheila. Stick to that. Be vague. Act as though you're on vacation. If you mix with the folks at the hacienda, be careful not to give yourself away. Steer clear of the cops and the crime scene, and, above all, make absolutely no effort to contact Bud, or even find out anything about him. I'm guessing that this murder will become a hot topic there: stay out of the conversations. If you need to, just hunker down next to Henry's pool and read a book or something. I trust you to do this. I know it's what Bud would want. He's following protocol, and you need to follow it too. Bud will hope that you've left. He'll probably think you have. So be as good as not there. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Bud's probably pretty safe if he's at the local cop shop. Once he's in the general population, if anyone finds out who he is, given his role in the gang and drug-running task force, he could be in grave danger. No one can know his name, or his background. I'm sure you understand. If you go anywhere near him, the chances of someone making a connection increase. So don't. I know the next day or so is going to feel like a long time. Call me if you want. See you soon. Jack.

So that was that. There was no information about Bud, his “colleagues,” or what the heck was going on with regard to possible
CSIS
involvement, nor was there a single useful suggestion from Jack that might save Bud.
Nothing.
What was the point of telling me to keep out of it until he arrived? Especially now that I knew Jack wouldn't be arriving at all! There were
no
contact details,
no
names. Not a number or an email address. Nothing that would allow me to follow up on Jack's actions. Just a series of warnings to steer clear of Bud. And that one ominous comment about how Bud would be in danger if he was dumped into the general police holding system. The thought had been gnawing at me since Al had handcuffed Bud, so it didn't help at all to see that Jack felt it necessary to spell it out.
Damn and blast!

What could I do? I hadn't outed myself—Al had done that for me. The cat wasn't just out of the bag, it was running willy-nilly around the place, yowling as it ran! I
couldn't
stay out of it now. No matter what Bud might have expected, and no matter what Jack had hoped, I was on the case. Not so much on it as up to my neck in it, in fact.