The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (22 page)

Rutilio picked up his chair and sat with us again. He nodded at his brother, then said to me, “I am sorry, Cait. It is not your fault. You did not know what you said.” He wasn't wrong.

Miguel continued in this calming, conciliatory vein as he whispered, “My brother is finding the business difficult at the moment. It will pass. He is an excellent chef. The bank—they think he should close the place. Or else have somebody buy into the business with him. But he is a hard-working man, my baby brother—” he smiled at his sibling indulgently, “and he has a plan. He is open here now for more hours than before, so he has more customers. The business, it is looking better, but our mother, she worries about him. He works so much, she thinks he needs help. Not just the girls to serve, but a helper in the kitchen. She has been . . . talking about it to him for a while, but he says he can do this alone. Mothers worry; this is their job. And our mother has always worried so much about Rutilio. All his jobs in the past have not worked out well. People did not understand that he needed to have authority, and to be creative, as he is here with his food, so they made life difficult for him. But now he has found his place. Of course, we have helped him all we can, and we understand that it takes time for a restaurant to work out. But the bank? They are not family. So now he must work even harder. My poor brother only managed to get to bed a couple of hours before he had to return here this morning. We all know how hard he is trying, but it has been very difficult for us all since my sweet Angélica Rosa was taken.”

Throughout Miguel's loving testimonial to his brother's work ethic, Rutilio munched and nodded his head sadly. I detected the smell of burning martyrs wafting across the table, and wondered about the extent to which the family had supported this much-loved son, who was, apparently, sadly misunderstood by all. I also wondered why he hadn't gotten to his bed earlier the night before. All he'd had to do after Al and I left was brush down the grill, which couldn't have taken
that
long. I suspected that Rutilio was not quite the man his brother thought him to be.

Our little group became silent, and the rest of the customers settled down again. It seemed that the normal balance had returned. Rutilio finished his food, rose, took his leave, then returned with his a tray of tequila bottles and glasses.
You're kidding!

“Last night, you were tired, and you had to rush off with Alfredo; it is understandable that you could not drink with me. But today? Today you are the Canadian on vacation again. Let us drink!”

Obviously Rutilio thought that being hospitable toward me and pouring tequila down my throat were synonymous. I couldn't do it. Bud was depending on me. I looked at my watch and stood up. Miguel looked confused.

“I'm sorry, Rutilio, you are very kind to offer, but I have to go to Margarita's store, and then to the police station. Until we discover who this evil murderer is I cannot rest.”

Although he looked disappointed, Rutilio deflated with grace. “But of course. I know this is important to Alfredo. We can drink and celebrate when he has handed this devil to the Federales.” He gave a little bow and took his tray of bottles back to the bar.

“There will be nothing to pay,” said Miguel, as I hovered, uncertain what to do next.

“But I
must
pay,” I said. I didn't want to be in debt to Rutilio for anything.

“He is my brother, you are my guest. It is normal. Do not question him about this.” Miguel was being as firm as I could imagine it was possible for him to be.
No wonder Rutilio's not making any money.
“You said you wanted to go to Margarita's store?” Miguel asked. I nodded. “Let us go. Then I will take you to the office, where you can meet up with Captain Alfredo.”

I knew very well that Al had said he'd meet me at Rutilio's place, but I needed to get away from the man and his attempts to get me to drink, so I gathered my bits and pieces, shoved everything into my purse, and strode off toward Margarita's store once more. I was glad to move. The shade of the red parasol under which we'd been eating had been helpful, but the humidity was beginning to build, and the sea breezes seemed to have died down. I felt less than fresh, and walking at least allowed me to move through the air, cooling me down a little.

It was only once we were standing in front of the door to the flower shop that it occurred to me to ask Miguel if he had a key. He looked hurt that I'd asked, but I thought it a reasonable question. He pulled open the door and stepped aside to allow me to walk in. As soon as I did so, I knew something was wrong. Even without the benefit of man-made lighting, I could see that the little shop, so neat and tidy the night before when I'd visited with Al, had been completely trashed. I gasped, which made Miguel panic.

When he switched on the lights, and we both stood where Margarita had lain, the destruction was painfully obvious. Flowers, buckets of water, and unrolled spools of colored ribbon and tape were all strewn about the place. A neat row of albums that had been sitting on a shelf above Margarita's workbench had also been flung on the floor. The dead woman's photographs were now all puddled with water, stomped on, curled and ruined. A copy of a local newspaper with the headline “Beware Girls,” warning of the next Rose Killer cycle, was crumpled in a corner, soaked and, ironically, strewn with roses.

“Who would do this?” asked Miguel plaintively.

“I'm guessing whoever wanted Margarita's photographic equipment,” I replied. I nodded toward the empty space beneath the workbench. “She had a lot of black cases and containers stored under there. I saw them when I was here with Al last night. Now they're all gone.”
Interesting.

“I must tell Captain Alfredo,” said Miguel, sounding alarmed. “He will know what to make of this.”

“Maybe you could also check if Bob and Maria heard anything?” I said, as Miguel pulled out his phone. He nodded, looking grim.

I wondered what Al
would
make of this. He believed he had Margarita's killer in a cell at his police station. I wondered who he might think had drugged the Booths and stolen Margarita's cameras. I added the search that had been made of my temporary digs to that list of mysteries, but I couldn't tell Al about that. Not now. The only time to tell him would have been when he collected me that morning, and that ship had sailed. As Miguel stepped outside to make his call, I took my chance to survey the damage in more detail. I didn't want to interfere with the crime scene, but so long as I didn't touch anything, and I tiptoed between bits of debris, I didn't think there was much I could do to spoil this one.

The moment I had seen the space where the cameras used to be, it seemed to confirm the possibility that Margarita had seen and photographed something that had put her in danger. It made sense. If someone had been seen in any sort of a compromising situation—with someone they shouldn't have been with, or at a place they shouldn't have been—they might have discovered that Margarita had found out and photographed them. Who knows, maybe she was even blackmailing them? Considering the scene again, it looked as though someone had been checking through Margarita's photographs, discarding them as their search turned up empty. The photos on the floor were clearly not going to contain any incriminating images, because they'd been left behind by the searcher. As I looked at the images she'd captured, it was clear that Margarita favored nature over humanity: none of the photos showed any people, just seascapes, landscapes, the odd bird, bunches of flowers, and grasses bending in the breeze. Had the intruder taken the photographic equipment to access anything that Margarita had not yet printed out? That had to be it. It seemed more likely than ever that Margarita had some photo that someone wanted to get their hands on. I returned to the question of blackmail.

Bob and Maria had been quite convincing when they described how Margarita would say odd things to people. Maybe that was the florist's way of telling them she had something over them? Or maybe they already knew that, and she was being spiteful, pushing them as far as she could in public. The tragic loss of her family, estrangement from her father, terrible scarring, being bullied at school, and, if Bob and Maria were to be believed, an angry streak could all point to the sort of psychopathy that might lead a loner with a camera to become a voyeur with a fat bank balance. Margarita, indeed, bore all the hallmarks of a woman who could, quite easily, turn to blackmail. Or maybe she wasn't in it for the money; maybe power was her motivating force.

Without the opportunity to check through all the photo albums, or take the cameras, at the time of the murder, last night would have been the killer's first chance to get the evidence out of the shop. I wondered where those cameras were at that moment. Possibly being pored over by a person desperate to make sure they had, indeed, collected all the evidence against them, or maybe at the bottom of the sea, having been tossed off a cliff somewhere along the coast.

I told myself I was running away with the theory that Margarita was a malicious person maybe a little too far, and too fast. I had little real evidence to support it, other than the psychological picture I'd built up of the woman. A woman driven to succeed in order to fill the void she'd created in her own life by not trusting people, or giving them a chance to really get to know her.
Hmm . . .

“Don't touch anything!” Miguel was back.

“I haven't,” I replied.
I wouldn't
, was on the tip of my tongue.

“Captain Alfredo says we are to lock up the store, and I am to take you back to your house,” he added officiously.

“But I wanted to . . .”
quick, think, Cait,
“. . . take another look at his crime scene photographs, back at the station.” I was desperate to see Bud again.

Miguel hesitated. “But Captain Alfredo said . . .”

I smiled. Beamed, in fact, and gently touched Miguel on the arm. “I'm sure that Al won't mind. He let me look through the case file last night, and even read me his notes. He won't mind me taking another look, I'm sure. I can wait there for him, at his office. It will save you the trouble of driving me all the way out to the Hacienda Soleado. I'm guessing he wants you to go back to the station to check on the prisoner, right?”

Again Miguel hesitated. “You are right. I have to go to give the prisoner some food, and to make sure that he is still secure.” He puffed out his chest. It was obvious that he was proud that Al put such trust in him. “If it was alright for you to see the file last night, I am sure it will be alright today. He has added nothing to it.”
He will soon!

Having managed to get Miguel to agree to take me to the police station, I didn't want to waste any time, or give him the chance to change his mind. I stepped out into the dazzling sunlight once more, so he could lock the door behind us—for all the good that seemed to do.

We walked toward the spa, which seemed empty, and there was Miguel's car. Not a police car, but his own personal vehicle. At least, I assumed that was what it was. I must have looked puzzled.

Miguel smiled. “It is a good undercover car, yes?”

I smiled and nodded. If you could call a battered, aging, pale blue Honda Civic that. I certainly never would have guessed it was being driven by a cop. Miguel pulled open the back door, reached inside, shut the door again, and slapped a magnetic decal onto the passenger door. “Now, it is not undercover anymore,” he said, grinning like a magician who has just performed a spectacular trick. The badge matched the one on Al's white sedan, and Miguel seemed very proud of it. “This way we save money,” he explained. “Captain Alfredo allows me to claim expenses for the miles I do when the badge is on, when I am on official business, but I take the badge off and I can drive to collect my daughters from school in Bucerias from wherever I might be.”

I got into Miguel's car. He carefully shut the door for me, then took his own seat, and we set off for the police station. He proudly pointed out the blue flashing light that he could put onto the roof of his vehicle if he had to drive to an emergency, but he explained that didn't happen very often. He was a careful driver, taking more time than Al would have done to deliver us to our destination, but I was glad for that little delay because it allowed me to observe Miguel alone, without his brother's presence dominating him. His car was full of symbols of his Catholicism. A rosary hung from the rear-view mirror, a little prayer card was taped to the dashboard, and a plastic model of the Madonna wobbled precariously above the glove box on the passenger side.

“You're a man of faith,” I said gently.

Miguel nodded. “It is my faith that sustains me. In difficult times, in happier times. I named my firstborn for the angels and the roses, and now she sleeps with the angels, and every week her mother and I place roses on her grave. She is with her God. She was a good girl, an innocent girl; I know she is with Him.” His faith might have been firm, but his voice shook with emotion as he spoke.

“Al told me that you revived a local custom and held a crucifix of Requiem Masses in her memory. That speaks highly of your dedication.”

“This is true,” said Miguel gravely. “We held them on December 7,
the day before the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Poor Margarita, she helped us a great deal. She made the floral arrangements for the church here in Punta de las Rocas, and she came with me to the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Puerto Vallarta to make her displays there. They were beautiful. Roses, of course. White ones, for the purity of my poor daughter. In all four churches. She sent the flowers with my wife and daughters for them to arrange in the church where they worshipped, and when my other brother,
not Rutilio
, came to collect our mother, to drive her to her home village, they had bunches of flowers to take with them.” I felt the man's anguish.