The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (6 page)

“Well,
as good as,”
replied Dorothea grudgingly. “Serena opened the door to Margarita's place and there he was, strangling her on the floor.”

“I thought you said he cut her throat?” Tony seemed confused.

“Yes.
And
he strangled her.” Dorothea spoke with authority.

“Who
is
he? Why would anyone want to kill Margarita? Let alone cut her throat
and
strangle her?” Tony was asking all the questions I wanted answered myself. Excellent.

Dorothea looked annoyed. “I don't know who he is.” She sounded terribly disappointed. “No one's seen him around before, and Miguel told us he didn't say anything. Nothing at all. He'd been in Bob's Bodega just before he did it. There he asked, in Spanish, for roses. Which Bob didn't have, of course. The man picked up some beers, some chocolate bars, some chips, paid in cash, and left. Seems he went right into Margarita's store next door and killed her, just like that. Oh, by the way, dear,” Dorothea addressed me directly, “just so you know, Margarita is the daughter of the guy who looks after all the agave plants here, our jimador.
”
She emphasized the H sound at the beginning of the word
—even her breath smells of oranges.
“Margarita's a florist . . . well, I guess you'd call her a plantswoman, really. Lovely girl. Real green thumb, you know the type. Can grow anything. And she did great flowers. Did that arrangement over there, in fact.” As she made her surprisingly generous comments, she waved her arm toward a tall, slim vase holding one perfect Bird of Paradise flower, a palm frond, and some stones. It didn't look as though it would take an enormous artistic talent to put those elements together, but I reasoned that maybe simplicity was a virtue.

“I can't believe it. She was just here—yesterday,” said Tony, shaking his head. “She brought over her accounts for Callie to work on last night. I know that Margarita and Juan didn't get along, but this'll hit him. She's still his daughter, after all. Hey—I'd better call Callie. She's got a meeting with another of her accountancy clients down in
PV
this afternoon, so she won't have heard. It'd be best if she got the news from me. Callie and Margarita get . . . 
got
along real well. Oh, this is awful. My poor wife'll be beside herself. So, what's the full story, Dorothea? Callie's bound to ask. When did all this happen?”

“Eleven. Almost on the dot.
Terrible
,” replied Dorothea, pushing an escaping curl of suspiciously red hair under her hat.

Luckily, given that I wasn't supposed to know what had happened, I managed to stop myself from telling her that everything had kicked off just after noon—
I heard the clock strike twelve myself.
I began to wonder why Dorothea would lie about Margarita's time of death. My thought process was interrupted by the arrival of two more people I'd spotted at the crime scene: the tall, thin man in the Tilley hat and the short, slim woman who'd greeted him so warmly outside the florist's store. They entered the restaurant together, and rather less dramatically than the flamboyant Dorothea.

“Ah, you're here, Dorothea. Of course,” said the woman.

“Yes, Ada. I thought Juan might be here. He should be told what's happened.”

“I see . . .” said Ada. She looked at me and offered her hand. “Hello, I'm Ada Taylor, and this is my husband, Frank. Are you, umm . . . ?” Her non-question hung in the air.

I shook her hand—
cool skin, well moisturized, firm grip; she smells of a light, floral scent.
I smiled. “I'm Cait Morgan. I'm going to be staying at Casa LaLa, Henry's place, for a week.” I was getting quite used to using my unknown host's name.

“Nice to meet you. Though what a day you've chosen to arrive,” replied Ada. She gave Dorothea a sideways glance and added, “I expect you've heard the bad news?” Her expression told me she was in no doubt about my answer, and her accent had already informed me that she was Canadian.

I nodded. “Yes. It sounds awful. Though Dorothea here was just telling us that the police have got their man. Do you know where they've taken him?” I had to take this chance to find out what I could.

Ada opened her mouth to reply, but Dorothea jumped in before she had a chance to utter a word. “Off to the local cells, Miguel said. Came into Bob's Bodega all flustered, saying they'd have to keep him there for a few days. He didn't like the idea of working extra hours to keep an eye on the murdering . . .” She paused and shook her head, as if to rid herself of the expletive she'd mentally managed to delete. “Apparently, some major drug thing went down this morning, and all the prisons from here to Guadalajara are full of gun runners, drug dealers, and the like. Hang the lot of 'em, I say. Though hanging's too good for some. They've completely spoiled the country for people like us.”

“You have a point, Dorothea, but maybe they've spoiled it even more for the Mexicans themselves?” responded Ada quietly. “They're the ones who
really
suffer. We can all come and go as we please, after all. This is their home, dear.”

Dorothea shrugged, as though the undeniable problem that Mexico faces when it comes to drug-running, and the terrible violence that accompanies it, was designed to specifically inconvenience her, and her alone.

“Hey, we don't talk about all that stuff, right, Ada?” said Frank Taylor. He'd removed his Tilley hat to reveal an almost bald head, which still sported a crescent of well-trimmed gray hair. He wiped the top of his head with his free hand, then held it out toward me. I hesitated for a moment before shaking it warmly.
Firm shake, kind brown eyes, a rather officious, outdoorsy air, and an incongruous whiff of cigars.

“Hello, Frank. Nice to meet you.” I smiled. “So why aren't the
local
cells full of the drug-runners?” I wasn't going to be sidetracked, so I looked directly at Dorothea as I spoke.

“Oh, it's too old. Quite cute, but old.” Dorothea's reply was intriguing.

“What Dorothea means to say,” added Frank, “is that we have some municipal jail cells in our very own police station, which, unusually, is housed within our very own town hall. I don't know how much Henry's told you about our little haven, but it's got quite the unique history you know—”

“Oh, come on now, Frank,” interrupted his wife. “Cait's obviously come here on vacation. Let the poor woman get on with it. I'm sure she doesn't want one of your lectures on Punta de las Rocas's history. Want a hand to Henry's place with those bags you've got outside? How long are you staying, by the way?”

I decided to go with the flow of the conversation, for the moment. “Oh, just a week,” I replied.

“All that baggage outside for a week!” replied Frank. Ada gave him a sideways glance that clearly communicated, “Don't be so rude!” Frank had the good manners to look sheepish.

I didn't have to respond, because our group was joined by yet another arrival. And this was someone I was relieved and terrified, in equal measure, to see.

The policeman I'd come to think of as Big Al entered the restaurant. No longer in his fancy uniform, his light gray pants and short-sleeved, crisp white shirt seemed much more practical, though his heavy gun belt and the glittering gold epaulets on his shirt definitely marked him out as law enforcement. He was hatless, and pulled off his sunglasses as he walked in.

He stopped just inside the doors, allowing them to close behind him. He squinted for a moment, then nodded to each of us. As his gaze rested upon me, I noticed a puzzled expression pass over his face like a shadow. “I can't find Juan. Any of you guys seen him?” His voice was a light tenor, not unpleasant. What was most surprising was his accent—not a hint of Spanish about it. As I took in his appearance, I noted other unusual features: his hair was fine and light, his eyes were a definite green, and he had excellent even, white teeth. I put him in his mid-thirties.
Really not a bad looking guy, if you like that sort of thing . . . very young, of course
. But that accent? Those eyes? How could a municipal cop in Mexico look and sound so American? I was beginning to realize how un-Mexican the whole place felt. I reminded myself that this was a hacienda owned by a group of ex-pat investors, but, surely, the cops would be locals?

“None of us has seen Juan,” replied Dorothea on behalf of the group.

“I thought he might be at home, or in church?” offered Tony, who'd been quiet for a while.

“I tried both places. No sign. Thought he might be here,” replied Big Al.

“Unlikely, on his day off,” responded Frank Taylor, his wife nodding her agreement.

Big Al nodded and put his hands on his hips. “I guess you know what all this is about?” he asked, looking directly at me. Once again he had an unusual look on his face. Clearly the man was thinking about something other than our main topic of conversation. He might be facing a grim task, but he was distracted.

I felt a blush well up from somewhere deep inside me.
Oh dear!
“Dorothea told us,” I replied, as truthfully as I could. I'm not really cut out for lying to policemen.

“Al, you don't know who our guest is. She's going to be staying at Henry's place for the next week,” announced Dorothea, with obvious glee. As I looked at her again, I felt some sympathy for the woman begin to creep over me. Dorothea seemed compelled to make herself the center of attention, which spoke to my internal psychologist of a child who'd been ignored or, maybe because of her size, had been the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. Either way, I felt I should make an effort to temper my judgmental attitude toward the woman.

Big Al shook his head and held up his hand, indicating that Dorothea should be quiet. She was, but she looked crestfallen. Tapping his teeth with the end of an arm of his sunglasses, Big Al looked sternly at Dorothea. “Don't tell me, Ms. Simmonds. Don't tell me!” He returned his attention to me. “I've seen this woman's face somewhere before, but I can't quite remember where it was. Just give me a moment . . .”

I could feel my heart thump in my chest. What if he'd looked up from the crime scene and spotted me in the window? What if I'd already given away my link to the resort on the coast, and my connection to Bud?

We all waited while Big Al narrowed his eyes and sucked on the arm of his sunglasses.
Yuk!

“Got it!” he exclaimed. Every face conveyed anticipation. I suspected mine portrayed something closer to fear, however hard I tried to look like the rest of the group. “I know exactly who she is.” He smiled at me, enigmatically, as he spoke, looking me up and down. “This is Doctor Caitlin Morgan, a professor at the school of criminology at the University of Vancouver. A specialist in criminal psychology, she's done some fascinating work in the still-controversial field of victim profiling. I must say that her arrival here, today of all days, is . . . very interesting.”

His words hung in the air as all eyes turned toward me.

I'M RARELY SPEECHLESS. I THINK
the general opinion among my students would be that I'm
never
lost for words. But as the group took in the announcement about who I was, and what I did, I felt my mouth dry up. I swallowed, hard, and mustered a weak smile.

“How on earth do you know all that about me?” I asked the now much more menacing policeman.
Had
he seen me at the condo window? Even if he had, how would he know who I was?

As Al peered at me, he nodded. “I know a great deal more about you than that,” he replied ominously.

“
Really?
” I squeaked.

“But I am being rude.” He smiled.
Shark teeth.
“I know who
you
are, but you don't know who I am. Allow me to introduce myself,” he saluted, hand to his forehead, “Alberto Jesus Beselleu Torres, captain of law enforcement for the municipality of Punta de las Rocas. If folks around here are feeling especially formal, they call me Captain Al. Of course, if someone's feeling intimidated by my presence, they tend to call me Captain Torres. At your service, Doctor Morgan.” He stood to attention and bowed at the waist.

“Oh, please, Cait. Call me Cait. I'm not that keen on being
Doctor
Morgan inside the university, let alone when I'm away from the place. So please, everyone,” I tried to catch each member of our group with what I hoped was a winning smile, “it's just Cait. Cait Morgan. Thanks.” I tried to maintain the smile as I added, “So how did you come to know who I am?”
No point beating about the bush.

Al relaxed his formal stance and smiled broadly, and more genuinely, I thought. “I wish I could say I possess cop-telepathy, Cait, but I recognized your face from a photograph on your university's website. I am taking some criminology classes at the university in Guadalajara, and yours is a very good school, with a reputation to which our little department aspires. Your work on victimology, and the theories that came out of your school some years ago on geographic profiling, is fascinating.”

Again, I could feel a blush rise on my cheeks. I'm not very good at accepting compliments.
Not really used to them, I suppose.

“Thanks,” was all I could summon.
Thank heavens that's the only place you've seen me,
was what flitted through my mind.

“So what brings such a well-known criminologist to our little out-of-the-way bit of paradise?” Al asked the obvious, if undesirable, question.

“She's a friend of a friend of Henry's,” butted in Dorothea, aiming to re-establish her position as local know-it-all as rapidly as possible. “Isn't that right, Cait?” She beamed at me, glowing with proprietorial pride.

“Yes,” I replied. Monosyllabic responses seemed safest.