The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (23 page)

“It must have been a very sad day for you all, Miguel.”

“It was sad, though not as sad as the day we knew we had lost her. It was a day to allow us all to remember her and celebrate that she was at peace with God. I, and all my family, discuss this often: my baby is at one with her Master. We should be happy for her. So it was also a happy day, in a way. Everyone in Punta de las Rocas attended one of the two local services. It was wonderful to know. Margarita closed her store to be able to help me in Puerto Vallarta, and Rutilio even closed his restaurant for the day. He was so sad. So angry with whoever had killed my baby. He lost interest in his business at that time. It is why he is still struggling now. It is why he had to give up his apartment in Bucerias and move in with my family. We love to have him, of course. Our mother is pleased to have her baby with her. When God closes a door, He opens a window. It is always this way. We must pray to see His plan for us. If we pray enough, His Will becomes clear.”

The poor man.

Upon our arrival at the unusual municipal building that served three purposes, Miguel let us in through the rear entrance to the police office, thereby avoiding the cells where Bud was housed. I was grateful for that because I didn't want Miguel to see Bud and I meet face to face—it had been difficult enough to mask my emotions in front of Al; I didn't want to have to go through that whole performance again. I asked for directions to the washroom and found it to be clean and well decorated with dried flowers. I wondered if the arrangements had been supplied by Margarita.

Refreshed, I rejoined Miguel in Al's office and sat down, picking up the case folder from Al's desk, as though to study it.

“If you need to get on with other duties, like feeding the prisoner, don't let me stop you,” I said, quite casually.

Miguel thanked me, nodded, then went off in the direction Al had taken when he'd gone to his apartment the night before. When he returned, some time later, he looked at me and said, “I do not know why I am feeding that dog. He does not deserve it.”

I pushed my internal edit button and managed to say, “You must look after him properly, or the Federales will want to know why you didn't.”

Miguel laughed. “The Federales? They will show him a thing or two. He won't be silent with them, as he is with us, for long. They have ways of ensuring they get the truth.” His ominous words stung my heart. He might have been a religious man, but Miguel didn't seem to carry charitable feelings toward Bud. Maybe he was more the eye for an eye type of Christian than the turn the other cheek kind.

“There was a phone call that I answered,” I lied. “I don't know who it was, or what they said exactly, but I heard the words ‘niño enfermo' and ‘escuela.' Does that mean something to you?”

Miguel looked panic-stricken. “My girls. The school. There must be a problem. I must go. You will come with me.”

“Oh, no, Miguel, I'll stay here and work on this case file. You go and attend to your girls.” He didn't seem keen to leave me. I smiled warmly. “I'll be fine. I'll just stay here and, if necessary, I know where the washroom is. I'll wait here for Al and tell him where you are when he comes to collect me. Don't give me another thought.” I hated to trick him and cause him to worry about his daughters, but it was my only chance to get to see Bud.

It was clear that the poor man was desperate to get away, and I all but steered him to the door. As soon as I saw him disappear in his car down the track toward the road, I tried the handle of the door that led to the area where the cells were located. It was open. I pulled at it, peered inside, and saw Bud, sitting on his straw mattress on the floor, eating bread. It was the most wonderful sight!

I rushed in. Bud looked up and dropped his bread. “It's okay, we're alone,” I shouted, as I flung myself against the metal cage. Bud didn't move. He looked behind me, all around, and motioned that I should be quiet. We both listened. As I strained my ears, I noticed that he looked gaunter than he had the day before. His silvery beard had grown in a little, and he looked older. I know it's not possible to acquire prison pallor in a day, but I could have sworn he was paler than when we'd flown in to Puerto Vallarta.

“Are you sure?” he mouthed.

“Yes,” I replied quietly. “Are you okay?”
Stupid question, Cait!

“I'm fine,” he replied very softly, pushing himself upright as he spoke. “You?”
Oh Bud!

I reached through the bars to touch him, and we held each other as best we could, just for a moment.

“You've been smoking,” he said.

I pulled away.
What?
“You're here, locked up in a Mexican prison, accused of a murder you didn't commit, about to be carted off to Guadalajara, where the cells are full of drug dealers who'd love nothing more than to see you dead in a matter of hours, and all you can say is that I've been smoking?
Are you
nuts?
” I was beside myself.

“You promised you'd stop, Cait. I need you to be healthy, to be alive, to live with me. I
need
you, Cait Morgan. That's what I'm saying. I've . . . I've been thinking about us, about life, a lot in here, Cait. It didn't come out right. I
love
you.” He smiled. I smiled back. I could feel the tears welling, but I refused to lose control.

“Bud, I don't know how long we've got, so I have to tell you a lot of stuff—ready?” He nodded.

I filled him in. He nodded as he listened.

When I finished he asked, “So nothing by way of a name from Jack about who he might have gotten in touch with?” I shook my head. “And no one's approached you to make themselves known to you as someone who is working with
CSIS
, or the
FBI
, or the Canadian Gang Task Force?” Again I shook my head. He cursed under his breath. “What do they know, or think they know, about me?”

“You speak enough English to be able to say ‘No police,' and you're possibly a hit man working on behalf of someone else. That's it. By the way, why did you say ‘No police' to Serena?”

“If you mean that woman who started screaming fit to burst, what I said was, ‘No. Police.' I meant I
was
the police, but she didn't get that, I guess. I thought it best to follow protocol and go silent. It keeps it out of the official channels that way, so thanks for getting hold of Jack, even though that might not have helped. Tell Sheila to tell him I say get well soon.” He looked thoughtful.

“I'm doing my best to work out who did it, Bud. I've got a lot of leads, but, I don't know, there's something weird about this place. It's lovely, and it's got the normal tensions you find when there's a rich immigrant population rubbing along with a poorer indigenous one, but there's something under the surface. Something's not
right
. It reminds me of
Alice in Wonderland
, or
Through the Looking-Glass,
where nothing is as it should be, or what it seems. At least, that's what it feels like at the Hacienda Soleado. It's all
off.
Everyone seems so
keen
to help Al identify you before the Federales show up. He's a nice enough guy: bright, diligent, ambitious, but I cannot fathom what it is about him that makes everyone want him to succeed in front of the Federales. Like I said,
weird.
”

We both sighed. I looked at poor Bud. “Bud, what can I do? I have to get you out of here. Are you sure you shouldn't talk? What about when Al ships you off to the Federales? What if I haven't been able to solve it by then? It could be terribly dangerous for you.” My heart was pounding.

“As long as no one knows who I am, I'll be as safe as the next guy,” replied Bud. I suspected stoicism and heard a slight tremor in his voice. “You're doing a great job, Cait, and I know it isn't something I should ask you to do, but I know you'll do it anyway, so if you're digging, dig carefully. You're dealing with a killer. Have you got something you could carry as a weapon?”

I pulled the flashlight that Tony had given me the night before out of my purse. “It's heavier than my hairspray,” I said. I hadn't mentioned the break-in at the place where I was staying, because I didn't want Bud to worry. “I'll use it if I have to,” I added, looking as fierce as possible.

Bud smiled sadly. “Cait, please be careful.
I need you
. Not just now, when I'm in trouble; I need you forever . . .”

“Hey—I told you there's to be no talk of marriage until September at the earliest, a year from when you first mentioned it. So don't start with it now. This isn't the time, or the place.” I grinned the best I could. “What's that?” I'd caught the sound of tires on gravel. It suggested Al's parking technique. “Gotta go. Love you.” I took one last look, dashed out of the door I'd entered through, and hung a right, which brought me to the community hall area of the building. I looked around, desperate to find a reason for being there, and stood in front of a large, framed piece of parchment that bore a huge red wax, beribboned seal. It was at eye level, so I gave it my attention and read it through.

A moment later, Al was at my shoulder. I jumped. “I didn't hear you arrive,” I said, feigning shock. “You seem to enjoy making a habit of startling me.” I grinned.

Al smiled back. “You like it?” he asked, nodding at the framed parchment.

“The lettering is very beautiful, and it looks old,” I replied.

“It is our charter from the Dubois García family, or, as you can see,” he pointed at a portion of the writing, “the García García family. They were quite wonderful, and we have to thank them for all that Punta de las Rocas is today.”

I looked at the spot he was indicating and nodded. As he spoke I pretended to listen, but I allowed my eyes to play over the delightful piece of history, which spoke of land ownership, of the unusual idea of property passing from woman to woman as well as from man to man, and of how all García García offspring were to be treated equally. Clearly, as Al was telling me, the family had been well intentioned and farsighted in their plans for their municipality.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he finally asked.

“How do you mean?”
Careful, Cait.

“At Rutilio's, or at Margarita's, or here, in my office?” He seemed angry for some reason.

I considered my reply. “I think I'm beginning to understand Margarita a little better, and I think that the theft of the photographic equipment from her store is significant.” Knowing that Al had had feelings for her made it impossible for me to get an objective answer from him about whether the woman might have been capable of blackmail, so there was no point asking.

“We had some luck on that aspect,” he said.

“Really? What? Have you found something?”

“I think so,” said Al. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a digital memory card, the type used in cameras. “I was on my way back from the hospital when Miguel phoned me about the theft. Tony and Callie are still in a dangerous state, the doctors say, and Juan asked me to leave him with Margarita—which I don't understand, but I am not a father. I drove to Margarita's store, saw the damage, and had a thought: if someone stole the photographic equipment, maybe they just made the rest of the mess to make it appear as though they didn't know exactly what they wanted. I also knew that Margarita always kept some photographic supplies in her van. I got the keys and found this in the glove box. Would you like to see what's on it?”

“Absolutely! Do you want to put it in my camera to look at her photos?”

“Good idea,” replied Al. “Let's do it back in my office. It's cozier there, and the light is better.”

I agreed, and moments later we were head to head, looking at expertly composed photographs of birds at rest, wild flowers on the cliffs, waves crashing against rocks. The pictures were beautiful, but none of them showed an illicit embrace, a drug deal going down, or an illegal, or even worrisome, act of any sort. In fact there were hardly any photographs with humans in them at all. Clearly Margarita had loved sunrise, and sunset. Most of the shots were taken at that time. In a few, she'd used her bicycle wheels to frame an otherwise plain subject. With some it was the contrast of blurred images in the foreground with sharp ones in the distance that made a shot work, with others it was the reverse. She was a good photo­grapher. As I clicked through her work, I could tell it was a difficult process for Al, but I kept going.

“Oh look, someone's got a van just like Margarita's,” I said, as I clicked through three or four shots that had clearly been taken in rapid succession. The shots showed the waves, touched by the first light of day, crashing against the huge formation of reddish rocks that sat off the shore, forming a point, which had inspired the naming of the area. In the background of the shot was the winding coastal road, upon which there was a little white van, just like the one that Margarita drove. “It's a shame it got in the way,” I added. Clearly the photographer had thought the same thing because she had taken at least half a dozen more shots even after it had driven out of sight, the light on the water different in each one.

“She was so good at this, but there's nothing out of the ordinary here,” said Al sadly, as we realized we were looking at the first photographs we'd seen for the second time. “I had thought that maybe she'd seen something or someone she shouldn't have . . .” He struck his desk with his fist in frustration. “If only that man would talk!”

Clearly he'd given
some
thought to the possibility that Margarita had known something, or photographed something, that might have led to her murder. But, equally clearly, he also still firmly believed that Bud was the one who had killed her.

If I am going to help Bud, I need to think!