The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (3 page)

“Yes, Jack. I'm on it.” We disconnected from each other, and the silence closed in around me.

I looked around, stood up, and got busy shoving toiletries back into my suitcase not an hour after I'd taken them out. I felt as though the firm ground upon which I'd believed my relationship with Bud was built was disappearing from beneath my feet. Bud was
Swedish
? Cleared by
CSIS
? Jack had said that one of Bud's passports bore his real name. Was “Bud” not even Bud's real name?

I wondered if this was how Alice had felt, when she went sliding down the rabbit hole.

PUTTING THE APARTMENT BACK TOGETHER
took me longer than I had thought it would. I grappled, alone, with the luggage that Bud and I had hauled up to the condo together, and awkwardly dragged it all the way back to the car. As the cases thumped down the stone staircases, I realized that my bag weighed almost twice as much as Bud's. That said, it was a good deal more attractive. His was navy with orange plaid—
so ugly
—and mine was black and white houndstooth—
very classy
. I was pretty sure I'd managed to make my way about unnoticed. The resort was quiet. I guessed that was due to the time of year: before the schools let out for the summer, but after most of the snowbirds had departed for their other homes. With all the action that was taking place at the crime scene in the street, the parking garage, which was on the other side of the resort, was hardly going to be the center of attention.

By the time I pushed the keys into the ignition of Jack's borrowed car, I was sweaty and breathless. Forcing myself to focus on the matter in hand, I reversed the route Bud had driven us along earlier in the day, but now, instead of joyfully heading toward a vacation promising togetherness and relaxing hours in the sun, I was running away from a crime scene at the behest of Jack White, a man I hardly knew at all. I could feel my turmoil presenting itself as an acid tummy, as I stuck to the speed limit and let the idiots in the fast lane scream past. By the time I got back to the airport, parked the car, and hauled two suitcases plus my carry-on tote back into the main terminal, I was a wreck—physically, and mentally.

I checked the Arrivals board and noted that a flight from Vancouver was due to land in just over two hours. I looked around and spotted a small coffee shop where I could wait. Managing to avoid making eye contact with the hordes of salespeople trying to offload timeshare condos quickly became a priority, so I kept my head down, rolled the luggage along as best I could, and grabbed a couple of innocuous-looking wraps, a chocolate bar, a bottle of water, and a bucket-sized cup of coffee.

Finally, surrounding myself with baggage, I plopped onto a plastic seat that faced a wall decorated with photographs of the seawall promenade, the Malecón, in Puerto Vallarta. Ironically, one of them featured a whimsically surreal sculpture entitled
In Search of Reason
, by Sergio Bustamante. Looking at the triangular-headed figure at the base of a ladder that led unsupported into the sky, where two smaller figures teetered, I thought I understood what the artist had been trying to say. When nothing makes sense, you'll do anything, however dangerous or hopeless it might seem, to find a way to reach the freedom that reason, and understanding, offers. I felt trapped in a bubble of un-reason. Of non-sense.

What I'd seen earlier in the day only made sense if Bud had been helping someone who'd been gravely injured.
Okay.
What I'd then been told about Bud, by someone who'd known him for a heck of a lot longer than I had—decades, in fact—only made sense if . . . if Bud didn't trust me enough to tell me about his work, or his true self.

I dwelled on that as I munched on a chicken and salad wrap. It might as well have been shredded paper and shoe soles wrapped in carpet for all the pleasure I got from it, which, for me, is unusual. However bad food might be, I always at least
notice
it, but this? It was gone before I'd realized I was eating it. Of course I was trying to manage the shock of seeing Bud in such a terrible situation, but my mind wasn't reeling because of that. It was whirring and clicking because I was wondering if, once again, I'd chosen to open up to someone, to let someone into my heart, who was less than truthful about themself.

I'd done it with Angus all those years ago in Cambridge, when I was studying for my master's degree in criminology. He'd been handsome and charming, but as soon as he knew I was his, he'd subjected me to the pain, and shame, of beatings and—possibly even worse—a complete undermining of my self-confidence. Getting hauled out of my own home in handcuffs, accused of having beaten him to death, after finding him dead on my bathroom floor a few weeks after I'd officially kicked him out just highlighted how bad a choice I'd made, in more ways than one.

Had I done it again? Picked a “wrong-un,” as my mum had always liked to refer to the boys I'd brought home—
they'd all been “wrong-uns” according to her, of course.
Given that at forty-eight years of age I am still single, maybe she'd been right. No question Angus had been bad. Bad through and through. And certainly bad for me. But Bud? No. Not Bud. Whatever Jack had said, I
know
Bud.

Since Bud's wife, Jan, had died so tragically, we'd talked and talked. About nothing at all, and about all the important stuff. I know Bud Anderson through and through. I believe that. I
know
he is a good man. A man who'd dedicated his life to law and justice, and not a man who would harm, hurt, or deceive me. He is warm, funny, and loving. Okay, so he has pretty questionable taste in clothes—well, no taste at all really, material things not mattering to him. And Bud
can
be very sure of himself, in a quiet way. Years as a police officer will do that for you. There's an air that never leaves you. I see it in all his retired colleagues. True, he sometimes doesn't agree with my point of view on certain matters, but everyone's entitled to their opinion, and we usually end up with a truce that holds—until the next time the topic comes up. My being a criminal psychologist and his being a cop sometimes leads to some juicy up and downers: usually ending with us both having to agree that psychology might explain some activities, but it doesn't excuse them.

Crumbs from the wrap had landed on the shelf that is my more-than-ample bosom. As I wiped them off, I dragged myself to a more reasoned outlook.

Bud was being held by the Mexican police for a crime I knew he did not commit. As I stirred my coffee with my chocolate bar—
don't judge till you've tried it!
—I came to a decision. I would do as Jack had asked, and show up at the Hacienda Soleado, but, beyond that, if a chance presented itself for me to help Bud in any way, I'd take it. The first comforting taste of melting chocolate spurred me to realize that I could use the time I was stuck at the airport to recall the exact events surrounding Bud's arrest, rather than dwell on my anxiety about not knowing his real name, or where he was born—or the fact that
CSIS
had issued him multiple passports over the years.

I took in my surroundings. The airport concourse was as noisy and chaotic as you'd expect—groups of people jostled past each other, looking up, or back . . . anywhere but the direction in which they were moving; announcements were being made over a
boing
-ing loudspeaker system; and the shrieks of invisible children echoed off the marbled and tiled surfaces. I drained my coffee, pocketed the remaining wrap, shoved the bottle of water into my bulging carry-on tote, and headed toward an exit. I had to pass one of those we-sell-everything stalls as I left, and I knew that they'd have cigarettes there. I'd promised Bud I'd give up smoking, and I'd done really well on the nicotine gum for the past three weeks. I even had a big stash of it ready to get me through our vacation. I hesitated and imagined lighting up, taking that first long draw. I rationalized that I was under tremendous stress, and that Bud wouldn't know . . . but I realized that my addiction was just winning out over my willpower. So I gave in. I bought five packs of my regular tiny, super slim light cigarettes—just to be on the safe side; they don't sell them everywhere, and in Mexico, who knew where I might find them again
—
and all but ran out of the building to find a spot where I could get my fix. I found a bench and lit up.

Once the dizziness subsided, and I managed to get used to the strangely bitter taste, I felt much better just holding a cigarette. I couldn't help but smile when I realized that I kept glancing around, thinking that Bud might suddenly materialize and give me at least a filthy look. I told myself not to be stupid, and that's what finally got me to the right place to be able to settle down mentally and recall, in detail, everything I'd experienced that morning. It's not a process I totally understand—it's just something I've always been able to do. If I close my eyes to the point where everything goes a bit fuzzy, and hum to myself, I'm able to recall, in every one of my senses, what I've experienced. Of course, the psychologist in me knows that it's not a perfect ability: sometimes I get it wrong, and sometimes I misinterpret what I've seen, smelled, felt, heard, or even tasted. We all do that, all the time, with every stimulus we perceive—we apply our own knowledge, our own attitudes and expectations to it all. And that's what we “remember.”

I was partially shaded by the trunk of a towering palm, and a slight breeze cooled the sweat that the sun and humidity had squeezed out of my still-pale skin. May and the first two weeks of June in Vancouver had been the usual—wet and mild, but certainly not sunny. I made sure I was touching every piece of luggage before I screwed up my eyes, and then I was back in Jack's condo in the Rocas Hermosas Resort . . .

I AM PULLING AND PUSHING
at a red-painted wooden shutter as the door of the condo closes behind Bud, heading to the store. When the shutter creaks and flies outwards, the light dazzles me. My eyes adjust, and I immediately look out to the sea, which heaves and glints beneath the midday sun. I smell its salt in the air; I feel the freshness of the breeze on my skin.
Delightful!
I don't like the look of the dark clouds in the distance. I've been looking forward to exploring the “lush gardens and multi-level pools” promised by the resort's website, so don't go and rain on me today! I look down at the scene beneath our borrowed condo. I have opened the French doors inward to their full extent, and the shutters are now wide open. There's no balcony, just a chest-high rail that prevents me from falling to the ground thirty feet below. I can't look straight down, it makes me nauseous and dizzy, so I only glimpse the green, shrub-filled beds that surround our complex. I can, however, look out, and I see the red-brown, dusty stone road that lies between our temporary home and the buildings that sit between us and the sea. Two low white stucco and glass buildings with flat roofs sit back to back, parallel to each other, with a lane between them.

The building facing our condo houses three establishments. On the left is Bob's Bodega—it takes up about half of the building. It's almost totally glass-fronted, with large double doors and a clear view inside. I can see racks of groceries, toiletries, vegetables, and breads, as well as items of clothing, swimwear, and row after row of bottles of booze.
I hope they've got some ice-cold beers in a fridge somewhere.
The right-hand wall of the store houses the counter area, where I can see a cash register. I cannot see anyone inside. Next door to the bodega, beyond a pillar of stucco, is a florist shop:
MARGARITA FLORES
is painted in vivid yellow on the sign. It is a very narrow store. Most of its frontage is the single glass door, with a glass panel on either side. The panels are covered in photographs of floral displays, a few of which are faded. That's a shame—they look like pretty arrangements, but without color, they lack appeal. The door is backed with some sort of covering that makes it dark, impossible to see inside. I guess it's to stop the light from getting to the stock and wilting the blooms

On the far right of the building, filling the rest of its length, is Serena Spa, with a gold and brown painted sign above a glass door. The glass walls, which are interspersed with stucco columns, are covered with photographs. Some show lurid, highly decorative manicures—how anyone can function in the real world with nails that long is a mystery to me. Others display women with beatific expressions whose perfect bodies are being massaged with glistening stones. On what planet is it pleasant to have boiling hot rocks dumped on your back? There are also models with glamorous hair and alarmingly large white teeth, grinning inanely at passers-by—porcelain veneers have a lot to answer for. As I am looking, and thinking, a woman comes out of the door of the spa and waves back to someone inside.

It's the woman who screamed when she saw Bud. She's wearing loose white capri pants, flip-flops, and a royal blue tee. The color looks good against her tanned skin. Her long, dark hair is pulled up, hanging loosely in a ponytail. She must be about thirty, is slim, and moves as though she's in good shape. Lithe. She's speaking to the person inside the spa, and she's holding . . . what is it? It's a cake box. I can't imagine this woman eats a lot of cake. She's too slim to indulge in that sort of thing often. Just as she turns away from the spa, I see Bud go into the bodega. The sunlight flashes on the glass door as he pulls it open. A seagull cries above me, and I glance up. The woman in the capris calls to someone on the same side of the street as our complex. I cannot see the person, I do not look down, but the woman in the capris is beckoning to them with her free hand, and smiling. She's got a kind face, I suppose, and I shouldn't judge her too harshly for having the willpower to stay slim. I can see that she's starting to cross the road toward our condo.