The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (14 page)

I interrupted, puzzled. “I thought you said Rutilio had a restaurant?”

“Yes, but he always has cheap roses in plastic collars that he gives to the ladies at their table when the check is being paid. You know the sort of thing? It gives him a chance to speak to all the women.”

“Ladies' man?” I asked. I was guessing that Rutilio was the chef in the red shirt I'd seen standing in the lane behind the crime scene that morning, but I hadn't met the chap yet.

“You could say that,” replied Al enigmatically. “Likes himself, and, to be fair, he's a pretty handsome guy. But a ‘ladies' man'? I believe that's what he'd like to think—but he's not known for having lots of girlfriends, locally. Though what he and the tourists get up to, I don't know. No complaints on that front, though. I've had some problems with his restaurant sign annoying the locals. It's a giant fluorescent portrait of his face, and it shines out in the night. The local fishermen say it frightens their catch away from the shore, and the folks who live close to the restaurant have complained ever since he erected it about a year ago. I think I've managed to calm things down, and now he's promised to turn it off at 1:00
AM
each night.”

“So, flowers?” I pressed on. “I don't have a suggestion as to why the killer wanted flowers.”

Al sat forward in his seat. “I thought he might not be alone here. I thought it might suggest he had a woman with him.” Al's words made my heart beat faster. I sipped at my beer bottle, but it was empty. I looked at the bottle and made a sad face. Luckily, Al bit.

“Another?” he asked.
As I suspected, the perfect host.

I smiled. “Thanks. I'm more thirsty than I thought.” He got up and left the room.
Phew!

When Al returned with my second beer, he looked grim. “I've been thinking,” he said.
Damn and blast! How can I stop him doing that?
“If the perpetrator did have a woman with him, maybe they were staying somewhere local.” He sat at his desk and picked up a pad and pen. “I'll check it out in the morning,” he said as he wrote.

“As you see best,” I replied. “I think it's more likely that the killer sought out the flower shop with a purpose. He was simply giving himself a cover story, as you suggested, not expecting to be found on the scene. By the way, am I correct in understanding that Serena went to Margarita's store because she'd offered to take photographs of the storekeepers' wedding anniversary celebration? And that's also why you and Miguel were on the spot, in dress uniforms?”

Al smiled and looked at me. “Like I said, you're good at finding things out, Cait. Yes, that's all true. Serena had made the arrangements. We were all to meet at the bodega; she'd baked and decorated a surprise cake, and Margarita was to record the event for posterity.”

“So you and Miguel were inside the bodega when the suspect was in the flower shop?”

Al nodded. “We were a little late, but the best shade for parking down there is near the spa, at the opposite end of the building to the bodega. We thought we might catch Serena at the spa before she left, but she was already out in the street when we arrived. She'd bumped into Frank Taylor and was trying to get him to join in, so we ended up beating her to the bodega. Miguel and I went in just before the killer left. He held the door open for Serena and Frank to enter. Yes, I was
that
close to a good friend when she was murdered,
and
to the man who did it, but I could do nothing to save her. I couldn't stop him.” He took a deep drink from his bottle. His frustration was palpable.

My mind was racing. Roberto and Maria at the bodega, Serena and Frank, Miguel and Al—none of them could have killed Margarita, because they'd all been in the company of others when the poor woman's throat was slashed. Allowing for the time it would have taken her to bleed out, she must have been attacked about two or three minutes before Bud entered her store.
That
was a real problem. At that time, not only had Serena been in the street with Frank, but two cops had also been there. No one could have left the flower shop without being seen within the critical time frame.
Wonderful!

“If Margarita was a wonderful plantswoman, with a spotless reputation and a quiet personality, who lived the sort of life that didn't bring her into contact with anyone who might wish to do her harm, then this is an unsolvable puzzle,” I said. Aloud as it turned out.

“As you say,” said Al thoughtfully.

“What else can you tell me about the victim?” I asked.
You're a victim profiler, Cait. Get on it!
“She wasn't
just
a woman with a fabulously green thumb; she was also a photographer. If she was out and about with her camera, she might have photographed something she shouldn't have,” I suggested. It was an avenue worth exploring.

Al thought for a moment, then said quietly, “Margarita and I knew each other quite well. I think it might be because we both felt we didn't fit in too well with other people. Her scar, my mixed background. I can't say we were close, but I did know her better than most. Maybe not as well as Callie Booth knew her, but I knew her in a different way. Birds, landscapes, and plants were Margarita's favorite things to photograph. She did weddings and social functions for the money, but her cameras were almost a part of her. She was always ready to shoot, so, yes, you have a point. Maybe she did, inadvertently, photograph something she shouldn't have.” He sucked on the end of a pen.
Yuk! You'll put anything in your mouth!

“Where did she go, Al? How did she live her life? Where might she have been, on a regular basis, to spot something out of the ordinary?”

Al sat back. “Her life was pretty simple, but it was dictated by what she was doing on a particular day. She might be out gathering flowers at her own hacienda early in the morning, before their blooms opened in the sun, then she'd jump onto her bicycle and take them directly to her store. If she'd ordered flowers that she didn't grow herself, for a function or a wedding, she'd cycle to the store, collect her little van, and get to the big flower market in
PV
very early, then do all the arranging back at her store. On days when she didn't have a special occasion, she'd fulfill her contractual agreements with the Rocas Hermosas Resort, tending to their gardens and plants, or delivering displays she'd made to other locations. Her store was open to the public from 10:00
AM
until noon, then from 3:00
PM
until 6:00
PM
each day. She never took a siesta, she worked. Out in the heat of the sun, or in the torrential downpours we have here in the summer months. If she didn't have contract work, she'd cycle back to her place when the store was shut to work on her plants there. When she closed up, she might drive to some final places with arrangements. I know she did that for the Amigos del Tequila deliveries, because it meant she was less likely to run into her father. He works at the Hacienda Soleado all day, tending the agave there, but he is finished by 4:00
PM
, so she'd only go there when he had gone home. Then she'd drop the van back at the store and cycle home. She cycled most places because she loved it, and because it was cheaper than putting gas in her van. People around here have to be careful with money because there's not much of it and their income can be highly seasonal. I swear, she loved her bicycle more than any person. Especially her father.”

I jumped in. “So what's the story there? Do you know the cause of the rift between Juan and his daughter?”

Al drew closer, becoming more conspiratorial. “Honestly, I don't think either of them came to terms with the loss of Margarita's mother and brothers: she and her father were distant from that point on. He hardly visited her when she was in hospital recovering from her burns. At least, that's what she told me. He's never spoken of it. Juan being both the mayor of the municipality
and
the one responsible for the agave crop at the Friends of Good Tequila Trust property meant that he and Margarita were at loggerheads over the past year or so. You see, as mayor, Juan has a responsibility to the whole community for certain aspects of municipal life, one of those being the water supply. Our water comes from a collection of ‘public' springs up on the hillside, springs that were designated by one of our far-sighted forefathers, Juan Carlos García García, as being essential to the public good. But, as the man also responsible for ensuring a good crop of agave at the Hacienda Soleado, Juan is employed by one of the biggest water users in the municipality. Agave don't need much water to survive and thrive, but making tequila uses a
lot
of water, and Margarita accused him of putting the interests of his employers, the
FOGTT
, ahead of the interests of the local community. She was also very angry that Juan had sold off such a large portion of his land to the developers who built the Rocas Hermosas, a resort down on the seafront, then went and sold off even
more
to the
FOGTT
.”

I was pretty sure I was missing something. “Hang on a minute. Are you telling me that Juan owned the land where the Rocas Hermosas Resort is built?” Al nodded. “
And
he owned the land where the Hacienda Soleado is now?” More nodding. “
And
he's the mayor?
And
the jimador at the
FOGTT
property?” He nodded again. “How come? I know this is a small place, but one man seems to own a lot, or
have owned
a lot,
and
has a lot of power. How does that happen?” Scenarios featuring rampant corruption were racing through my mind, so I thought it best to ask.

“Ha!” cried Al. It seemed it was quite his thing! “Of course. You don't know. A quick history lesson will explain . . .”

As I thought to myself,
oh yes, please let it be quick
, my tummy rumbled, agreeing with my brain that I needed to do something other than suck on a beer, so I put down the bottle, almost untouched.

“Okay, here are the facts: the French arrived, they married, and they bred. General Phillipe Dubois was a very well-connected French general, and he married the daughter of the most powerful family in this area. It was a good political match. When the French were defeated, Dubois was allowed to stay, with all of his lands intact, because of the influence of his wife's family. He dropped his ‘Dubois' name and adopted her family's ‘García.' There are a lot of people in Punta de las Rocas with García somewhere in their name because Dubois, aka the husband García, and his wife, García, had six sons and five daughters, all of whom stayed and were granted land of their own from within the family's huge holdings. Most of
them
also married and had children, who also stayed. We Spanish adopt both the name of our father's and of our mother's families. Around here, it's possible to run into a few people whose name contains García twice. It can become confusing. The eldest son of the original couple, Juan Carlos García García, never married and never had children of his own. He traveled a great deal, especially in the southern states of America, and he was recognized as a talented negotiator and diplomat, involved in both local and international politics. He kept the family's fortune in one piece through revolutions and wars, and by the mid-twentieth century he was in a position to grant that the lands held at that time by the children of the García family would become their own property, which they could then dispose of as they wished. Juan García Martinez, in other words Juan Martinez, our mayor, has inherited land from at least five deceased family members. You see, back then people had more children than they do now, so, as there have been fewer offspring to inherit, and as siblings die, the land is now becoming consolidated into fewer hands. Margarita inherited
her
land from her mother's side of the family when she reached the age of eighteen. It was, at one time, three parcels of land, which all happened to abut each other, which isn't always the case.”

I was beginning to get a hint of something that might have caused problems in the locality. “Are people now angry with each other if they inherit a parcel of land they can't access because they have to cross another person's land to get to theirs?”

“Very perceptive,” replied Al. “When it was all about brothers and sisters I guess it could get a
bit
heated, but now we have people who haven't been closely related for a couple of generations needing to work together to make the land viable. Access is just one issue. The other is water.”

“Water?” I was surprised.

Al nodded. “It's all well and good attracting the tourists, but they use so much water it's alarming. I swear they just sit in those condos on the front and leave the taps running all day. Within the last few months, before the rains started, it became a real hot-button issue hereabouts. You see, it's been dryer than usual for the last couple of years, so those with one of the dozens of hillside springs on their property are doing much better than those who rely on the rains or the communal springs. It's been tough for a lot of people, and Juan hasn't helped at all, some say, because he hasn't tackled the subject of a sustainable water supply for all.”

“His daughter thought he should put the needs of the community ahead of his personal finances? That selling his land to developers just put greater pressure on the local water supply?”

Al nodded. “I'm in law enforcement, so I'm not supposed to have an opinion. If I were pressed . . .” He raised his eyebrows, and I nodded. “I'd say that our mayor, the estimable Señor Juan Martinez, doesn't care about anyone but himself. He'll sell every square inch of land he owns one day very soon, then disappear into the sunset with a well-padded bank account.”

“Will he inherit Margarita's property?”