The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (5 page)

That's when I call Jack. While we are on the phone I hear a distant siren—probably the vehicle sent to collect the corpse. And that's it. That's all I can recall that might help Bud.

I opened my eyes, adjusted my sunglasses, and lit another cigarette. I realized I'd managed to catch quite a bit of sun on my nose: it was a little tender. So, other than getting sunburned, what had I achieved? I gave my recollections some analytical thought.

Between the time I saw Bud enter the flower shop and the moment I heard the woman scream about three minutes must have elapsed, that's all.

Had Bud fought someone off inside the store? Had he had to kill to save his own life in there? Who lay dead on the floor? How had they died? When had they died? Was there maybe even more than one body in there? And why did Bud have his hands around the person's throat when he was discovered? What had he said to the screaming woman? Would he really not say a word to the police?

Damn and blast! Questions . . . more and more questions!

I looked at my watch. The flight from Vancouver was due to land soon, so I grappled with the luggage again and made my way toward the entrance of the airport. It was busy. I managed to push my way inside—always more difficult when you're trying to get in to the arrivals area—then I hung about, waiting until I could see the pale, stressed faces of Canadians looking forward to a week of sun and margaritas begin to appear. I took my cue, managed to grab a cab without too many problems, made sure the driver knew where I was going, and we set off. This was my third trip along the Jalisco/Carretera Federal Highway 200 that day, and I was beginning to get the lay of the land. Unfortunately, this was by far the most rapid version of the trip, so I buckled up, tried to hang on, and hoped the cabbie would at least slow down a bit when we came to the Punta de Mita exit.
He didn't.
The reddish-brown hills covered in scrubby green and the fields of blue-green agave planted in rows streaked past in a blur beneath the clear blue sky. The air rushing into the cab smelled of dust, exhaust fumes, and just a little of the sea. I missed Bud's smell. I missed Bud. And I was terrified by my imaginings of what might be happening to him.

BY THE TIME WE ARRIVED
at the Hacienda Soleado, I was glad to get out of the cab. Bud says I'm a hopeless passenger because I'm a control freak—maybe he has a point. I wrestled with my conscience about a tip—“Drive slower!” didn't seem appropriate—then I balanced the two suitcases and my carry-on tote as close as possible to the doors of the delightfully rustic adobe building that Jack had told me to look out for. The sign beside the door announced
AMIGOS DEL TEQUILA
. I pushed open one of the heavy wooden double doors and felt the tingle of air conditioning on my damp skin. Lovely!

The place was deserted. In front of me was a long, high bar, behind which were a myriad of glittering bottles, a great number of which were of a similar design—stumpy, with dimples and fat stoppers. Dotted around the cool, red-tiled floor were high marble-topped tables and leather-upholstered bar stools; the white plastered walls were adorned with atmospheric photographs of rows of giant blue agave set in a luminous landscape. I took a moment to decompress.

“Hello?” I called. My voice echoed.

Somewhere beyond the bar a door swung open and smacked against a wall.

“Coming!” A young man appeared around a corner: a tousled mop of unruly blond hair, a lopsided grin, chef whites, and a pair of large hands being wiped on a red cloth. “Can I help?”

I smiled. “Yes, I hope so.”

“I'm Tony, Tony Booth,” said the charmer, waving a still-damp hand. “I won't shake.” He grinned. “Prepping the meat for tonight. Not quite finished.” His accent was American. He didn't look Mexican at all.
Odd for a chef at a Mexican restaurant—in Mexico.

I suddenly felt nervous. I'm really not used to living a lie. “I'm Cait. Cait Morgan. I'm here to collect the keys for Henry Douglas's place. Do you know about that?” I couldn't be sure that Jack had managed to get through to his friend, or, indeed, that word would have reached the hacienda.

“Yep. Henry called about half an hour ago. Nice for you to be able to get away at such short notice. He said you're a prof. Is that right?”

I forced a smile. “Yes, that's right. At the University of Vancouver.”
Stick to the truth whenever possible, Cait.

“Gimme a sec . . .” said Tony, as he disappeared in the direction from which he'd arrived. He was about thirty, in good shape, with a breezy manner and a surprisingly good tan for a chef—they're usually so pasty. Tony Booth looked as though he'd be more at home on a longboard, riding waves off the Californian coast, than in a Mexican restaurant's kitchen.

“I wrote down the security code,” said Tony jauntily, as he handed me a single key on a leather lariat and a scrap of paper with four digits written in what I trusted was red ink.

“Thanks,” I said, as cheerily as I imagined a person would if they were arriving for a week's vacation.

“Henry's place is Casa LaLa—you know, 'cause he's from
LA
? He thinks it's funny. But I guess you know all about his so-called ‘sense of humor'?”

“Henry's a friend of a friend, really,” I replied. Rather sheepishly as it turned out.
Embrace the lie, Cait.
“But the friend that he's a friend of is quite a . . . unique character.”

Tony looked puzzled and a bit concerned. I wondered what my face was doing as I tried to be convincing in my role.

“I guess you could say that about Henry too—well about
all
the
FOGTT
s.”

“
FOGTT
s?” That wasn't an acronym I'd ever heard before.

Tony smiled and nodded. “The Friends of Good Tequila Trust. That's what these guys are called—the owners here. They each own a share of the place, each have a house on the hacienda; they've each paid their money, and, when we finally make a profit, they'll each get their cut. I don't think it'll be long now: the way this place is set up, and with some good
PR
in Puerto Vallarta, I reckon the next season could see us break through. The Tequila Soleado they make here is doing pretty well back home in the States.”

I tried to look as though I was interested in what the young man was saying, which a casual visitor, whose partner hadn't been locked up for a murder he didn't commit, probably would have been.

“So what do you do here, exactly, Tony?” was all I could pull together by way of small talk.

Tony looked down at his chef whites, resisting the temptation to make a smart crack. “Um, I'm the chef.” He smiled and waved his arms as if to signify “Ta-da.” I mirrored his smile and felt my eyebrow arch at the inanity of my own question.

“Sorry—it's been a long day already,” I said, by way of an excuse.

“Hey, don't worry! I also design the menu and do the shopping at the local markets, so I know how long days can be. If I'm not down in
PV
—that's what we all call Puerto Vallarta around here, saves us a lot of time in a day,” he grinned, “if I'm not there by 6:00
AM
, I'm not gonna get the best stuff, so I'm up and at 'em every day.” He looked proud.

“And what sort of dishes appear on your menu, Tony?”

“Depends on what's good, and what's freshest, of course,” he replied, “but today we'll be having . . . hang on a minute.” He scrabbled in the deep pocket in the front of his apron. “Here you go, today's menu. All small plates, you understand. Open 5:00
PM
to 11:00
PM
, daily.”

The young chef handed me a grubby piece of paper upon which he'd scribbled, almost illegibly, “Roasted ancho, or green tomatillo, salsa with blue corn chips; red snapper ceviche; smoked mussel ceviche tostadas; barbequed pork quesadilla; mushroom empanadas; chicken mole tamales; hahas.” I was familiar with most of the items that were listed.

“I didn't realize I was so hungry.” I smiled, as my tummy rumbled aloud. “What's a ‘haha'? I don't think I've heard of them.”

Tony smiled. “The
FOGTT
s love them. Sort of a coconut, pecan, and chocolate macaroon, and they're rich, small, and very popular with coffee. I won't be making them for a couple of hours yet. Will you come to eat, or at least nibble, this evening?”

With my mouth watering, and the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen making things even worse, I realized that I didn't have a plan. Not a clue about what I was doing, or where, when, or what I was going to eat. It also occurred to me that I was going to be hunkering down in the house of someone who'd left their place for the summer and hadn't expected any guests, so there might not be so much as a bottle of water in Henry's place.
Damn and blast!
I should have thought ahead and brought supplies.

As I stood there, silently accusing myself of rank stupidity and imagining the pathetic little cardboard-flavored chicken wrap I'd stuffed into my pocket, both of the huge doors behind me flew open and a voice bellowed, “Where's Juan? Tony—have you seen Juan?”

I turned and was confronted by a huge figure, black against the brilliant sunlight outside.

“They should bring back the death penalty. It's disgusting that they can get away with this sort of thing! Where's Juan?”
Bossy voice, booming—someone used to getting their own way.

As my eyes adjusted, and the figure stepped forward, I recognized the large woman dressed in orange I'd seen outside the florist's store earlier in the day.

“I'm sorry, Dorothea,” said Tony, fluttering to the woman's side, “I haven't seen him all day. But it
is
Sunday, so he'd probably be in church, or at home . . .”

I took another look at Dorothea. She towered over me, at about six feet to my five three—
five four on a tall day
—and was proportionately large in every way: a big orange hat was stuffed onto a headful of red curls; a voluminous, full-length orange cheesecloth dress was gathered beneath her huge bust. Her flabby, heavily freckled arms were bare—
not a good look
—and, below puffy ankles, her feet were encased in, of all things, gold ballet flats. She looked like one of those wobbling toys that's never supposed to fall down . . . though she looked alarmingly top-heavy and seemed to teeter on her tiny feet.

As I was sizing up Dorothea, it seemed she was doing the same to me.

“Who are you?” she asked imperiously, peering at me over her sunglasses.

“Cait. Cait Morgan.” The peering was working. I felt intimidated.

“Well, Cait, that's nice for you. Why are you here? Those your bags outside? Staying somewhere here? Friends with one of the
FOGTT
s? Have you seen Juan? Do you even know who he is?”

It was like being fired at by a machine gun. I decided to give as good as I'd got.

“Vacation. Yes. Casa LaLa. Henry Douglas is a friend of a friend. No, and no.”

I smiled as sweetly as I could when she seemed taken aback.

She gave me a look that informed me she was ignoring me. “So, Tony, no sign of Juan? We have to get hold of him. Can't you phone him?”

“You know he never answers the cell phone he has,
and
you know his house doesn't have a phone,” replied Tony, as patiently as a saint. “Why do you need him . . . on his one day off?”

Dorothea gave me a sideways glance. “There's news he must hear. Not good news. Haven't you
heard
?” She seemed incredulous.

Tony shifted uncomfortably. “No, Dorothea, I haven't heard anything. You know that Sundays are busy for me. I've been out at the market, then in the kitchen all morning. What's happened?” His patience seemed to be wearing thin.

I judged Dorothea to be a woman who would always want to be whispering some tasty tidbit of gossip to a confidante—loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear.

As she planned her next words, she brushed imaginary motes from her arm and adjusted her hat. She was preening.

“It's awful. Juan's daughter, Margarita.
Dead
.” She uttered her final word with all the dramatic import you'd expect from a Wagnerian diva, shaking her head tragically, her arms falling limply to her sides, as lifeless as the woman about whom she was speaking.

“
What?
Margarita? Dead?” Tony sounded shocked. “What happened?”

Dorothea took off her sunglasses and looked me straight in the eye. “I'm not sure I should talk about it in front of a stranger.” Her gaze was not kind. Her face made me think of a frowning pug.

I sensed a critical moment. “Oh, don't worry, I'm just leaving,” I said, as pleasantly as I could. “I'm going to be here for the next week, Dorothea, so if this tragedy is a local one, I'm sure I'll hear all about it from someone else.” I knew she wouldn't be able to resist.

She gave it a split second's thought and took the bait. “You're right, so you both might as well hear it from me.” Dorothea drew conspiratorially close to us. I noticed that she wasn't just completely outfitted in orange, but she actually smelled of the fruit too.
Weird.

“It's terrible.
Godawful
. Don't panic, my dear,” she said, looking down at me, and even daring to pat me on the shoulder, “they've got the guy who did it. She had her throat slit, poor woman. He just walked into her store, bold as you like, in broad daylight, and slit her throat. Serena saw him do it. And Al and Miguel caught him red-handed. Literally. He was
covered
in poor Margarita's blood. Oh my sweet Lord. Just awful.”

“You say someone saw a man slit this Margarita's throat?” I couldn't help but jump in.