The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (8 page)

We walked outside, the wooden doors closing heavily behind us, and we both shoved sunglasses onto our noses. Al wheeled my suitcase, I wheeled Bud's.

“You don't travel light, do you?” Al observed, smiling.

THE EXTERIOR OF CASA LALA
promised rustic comfort inside: vivid pink bougainvillea clambered up the adobe walls, almost reaching the terra-cotta tiles of the roof. Geckos scuttled as we approached. However, once inside, it was clear that Henry Douglas, the home's owner, had a preference for the minimalist approach to decor.
Shame—in my book clutter is joy.
White walls floated, unadorned, between a very dark wood ceiling and floor. The furnishings, such as they were, popped in cream or white against the flooring. I found the bedroom, with its en suite facilities, dumped Bud's suitcase into the closet, and then riffled through my own to find something that wasn't in need of an iron. Fifteen minutes later I was fresh from the shower, with clean hair pulled back into a ponytail, sporting cream capris, a cream and lemon over-shirt, and cream sandals. I transferred everything I thought I might need from my carry-on tote to my cream crocheted purse—a Christmas gift from my crocheting/knitting sister in Australia, who knows that all my fingers become thumbs when needles or hooks are involved—and allowed myself a few more moments to explore the outdoor areas of my temporary home.

I noted that almost every flat surface inside the house, as well as the stark metal table on the stone patio outside, had a heavy glass ashtray on it. Clearly Henry was a smoker. But it still didn't seem right to me to smoke inside his home, so I plopped myself onto an angular steel chair next to the patio table and lit a cigarette. The outdoor space was even more minimalist than inside: stuccoed walls, painted in vivid, clashing colors, and one giant blue agave in a painted pot were all that surrounded the small, perfectly square pool. It all seemed somehow familiar.
Got it!
Luis Barragán, the famous architect from Guadalajara whose garden designs were almost a legend. Given that Barragán had died in the 1980s, and this renovation of an old building hadn't been undertaken until a few—maybe five—years ago, based on all the technology that was wired into every minimalist corner, it must be the owner's homage to the man. Or that of his designer. It was oddly pleasant, this vivid nothingness, with the shadows cast by one wall onto another providing ever-moving angles of shade against light. I was seeing the design in the light that Barragán had grown up with, had designed for. I hadn't understood it before. It reminded me that context is critical.

That had been the case that morning. The woman who'd screamed had seen Bud in a situation where she believed he was killing her friend, so she
saw
a killer. I, on the other hand, knew that if Margarita had suffered a slashed throat, then Bud had been on his knees with his hands around her throat trying to save the poor woman.
Context.
And context comes from knowledge that you do, or do not, possess. Sitting at that table I understood, as never before, that Barragán's designs worked for gardens within the context for which they'd been conceived. As light played against shade, the striking palette of the walls allowed my brain to conjure up floral displays, without there being any. I had gained a unique insight from a new experience. I might not be able to go around telling everyone that I knew that Bud was innocent, but I could, maybe, change the context of his discovery.

I unscrewed the top of a bottle of chilled water, scrabbled in my purse for a notebook and pen, put my reading specs on, lit another cigarette, and got to work. Before I called Jack White, I needed to get a few things straight. I wrote down a list of key points from my recollections at the airport.

I now knew that Margarita had had her throat slashed and realized that if Bud had thought he could help her, she must have received her injury moments before he stepped into her flower shop. The severing of a carotid artery means that the heart pumps blood out of the body fast.
Very fast.
With a reduced, or no, supply of blood returning to the heart, the body shuts down very quickly. Depending on whether she'd received a nick to one carotid or had had both completely slashed, she'd have been dead in anything from one and five minutes or so. The killer must have been very close by when Bud discovered her.

I'd been looking out of the window when Bud entered the bodega, and I hadn't noticed any activity inside Margarita's store at that time. I had seen Bud go inside her store. I had to assume that Margarita was already fatally injured by that time, and that Bud had immediately tried to help her. So the killer had struck sometime during the period when Bud was inside the bodega. That meant that either the killer had been hiding somewhere inside Margarita's shop when Bud was hauled off, or they had exited by another door.

I again pictured the street where it had all happened. I hadn't been looking at the scene every moment, but I could make up a timeline of activity. I could also list everyone I'd seen in close enough proximity to the flower shop that they could be a legitimate suspect.
And
I could eliminate some people from that list. That would be a start. I checked my watch. I had fifty minutes before I was due to meet Captain Al at Tony's Amigos del Tequila restaurant, so, rather than making more lists, I decided to call Jack. I was anxious to find out what was happening at his end of things, though I felt a lot less stressed knowing that I had a plan in place to help Bud.

Before I dialed Jack, I gave some thought to what I should, and shouldn't, tell him. Given that he'd been all in favor of me fleeing the country, I couldn't imagine he'd be enamored of the idea that I was now going to work on the case with the police. I decided to make up my mind when I got a sense of his mood, so I glugged my water, then called him.

Sheila answered the phone. She sounded breathless. In the background I could hear barking, and I was pretty sure I could pick out Marty's operatic woofs within the din.

“You sound busy,” I observed.

“Oh, Cait . . .” was all Sheila managed before she burst into tears.

The pit of my stomach knew even before my brain did that this wasn't a good sign.

“Sheila—what's wrong? What's happened?” It was foolish to speculate, but it's amazing how many disastrous scenarios you can run through in the time it takes someone to blow their nose.

“The ambulance just left. I couldn't go with them because of the dogs. Sandra is on her way over to look after them, then I'm going to meet Jack at the hospital. They're driving him to the
ER
at Abbotsford Hospital. It's his heart. Oh, Cait, I'm so frightened.”

So was I. But for different reasons.

I took a deep breath. I owed it to Sheila to give her what she needed, instead of looking for help for Bud.

“Sheila, if Sandra's coming, could she bring her daughter with her—you know, the eldest one? She could look after the dogs, and maybe Sandra could drive you to the hospital? I'm not sure you should be behind the wheel right now.” Sheila's wonderful, and capable, but a bit prone to fuss. I could imagine how much of a state she must have been in at that moment. “Can't you leave the dogs alone for a while? I'm sure they'll be fine if they've been fed. Just put them out in their compound like usual.” I knew the dogs would cope—Marty loves to run and play with Jack and Sheila's three animals—but I hadn't counted on her response.

“That's just it, I can't. Daisy, you know, our biggest girl, went and got herself caught on the compound fence somehow, and Jack was cutting her out when the whole thing collapsed and he fell down the bank to the creek. It wasn't until the dogs came rushing in that I realized anything was wrong. If it hadn't been for them, I wouldn't have looked for Jack until his dinner was ready, and by then he might have been . . . oh dear. Anyway, the dogs are all completely freaked. When I found Jack, it was clear that he'd done more than broken his arm—”

“Jack's broken his arm?”
Poor thing!

“Yes, I could see the bone . . .”

My toes curled at the thought. Put me in a room with buckets of blood and I'm fine, but there's something about bones poking through flesh, or even the thought of it, that turns my stomach and makes my feet go all tense and tingly.

“I didn't notice his ankle. They think it's broken too. It was his face that frightened me, Cait, not his body. He was gray. And yellowish.
Terrible.
I thought he was . . . oh dear. So I called 911. I stayed with him. The dogs were all over us, licking him and fussing. Of course they were clambering all over me, too. Oh, Cait, I didn't know what to
do
. By the time the paramedics got to us, I thought for sure they were too late but they said he's stable. They aren't sure how big a heart attack it was, because he might have lost consciousness due to a concussion. But the dogs? They're going nuts. I can't leave them, because the fence is down. I swear they wanted to get into the ambulance with Jack.”

Knowing that Marty had almost been killed by a bullet when he tried to save Bud's wife, I could well understand how four dogs could become more than a little fractious if their beloved human was injured and taken from them. I got Sheila's point. Bless her, she was putting the dogs' needs ahead of her own, because she must have yearned to be in that ambulance beside the man she loved.

I faced a dilemma. Jack White had cheated death after a nasty accident, it seemed. The man I loved was still locked up for a crime he hadn't committed. Jack had been a lifeline for Bud that I'd been counting on. Did I dare ask Sheila if Jack had managed to do anything on Bud's behalf before he'd been injured? I was torn. Poor Jack. Poor Sheila. My poor Bud. I made a decision.

“Sheila, I'm so sorry to hear what's happened. And I'm sorry I'm not there to help. I know your friends will rally around to support you—and I know you have a lot of friends. You deserve them: you guys are so giving and selfless. But—I have to ask—since I'm not going to be able to talk to Jack, do you know if he managed to speak to anyone about Bud? Is there
anything
he told you? I'm sorry to ask, Sheila, at a time like this, but I have to.
For Bud's sake
.” I felt guilty, yet driven.

Sheila blew her nose again. “Don't be silly, dear.
Of course
you have to ask. All I can tell you is that Jack sent you an email. He said that it was best to get everything in writing, so he did all that before he realized that Daisy was tangled up in the fence. She's fine, by the way. No damage. Lord knows how she managed it. So check your email, and there'll be something from him there. I know he booked a flight to Puerto Vallarta tomorrow afternoon, but, of course, he won't be coming now. And . . . oh, there's Sandra coming up the drive now, dear. I have to go, okay?”

“Go, Sheila. Give Jack my love—give him
our
love. And don't give us another thought. Tell him I'm on it. I'm more than capable of sorting this out. He's not to worry about Bud, or me, and he's to concentrate on getting better. And Sheila, that goes for you too,
right
?”

“You're a good girl, Cait. I'll let you know how Jack is when I can. Bye for now.”

Being referred to as a “girl” made me smile, but that was all I had to smile about. Of course, I felt sorry for Jack, and I hoped he was going to be alright, but honestly, this additional disaster could not have happened at a worse time.

I sprang up, darted inside Casa LaLa, and checked for a computer. Bud and I had agreed to not bring any equipment on vacation except our phones, so it was all well and good that Jack had sent me an email, but I had no way to access my accounts.
Typical!

I checked what might be referred to as the usual places for any sort of computer, and even hunted in the cupboards and drawers—
you're clutching at straws now, Cait Morgan
—but I couldn't find a computer anywhere. All I came up with was a wireless keyboard, tucked into a drawer in the unit that sat beneath the huge flat-screen
TV
, which was suspended on the wall in front of the cream leather sofa.

I managed to work out how to turn on the
TV
, fiddled about with the remote control, and finally established that there
was
some way to get the keyboard working with the
TV
, and that maybe, if I just hung in there, I could find a way to get to the internet and then my email. But it wasn't to be—
of course!
—because just then someone knocked at the door.

I put down the keyboard and tried to look as smiley and polite as possible as I opened the door. There stood Frank and Ada Taylor with their hands full of carrier bags. Frank's Tilley hat was perched on his head at a jaunty angle, and Ada was looking almost manically cheerful.

“We brought supplies!” announced Frank jovially.

All I could do was invite them in, take the bags, thanking them profusely and telling them that they “shouldn't have,” and pack everything into the fridge and cupboards. They were so sweet, and Ada was the epitome of the sort of woman you rarely notice, until you spot the fact that order reigns supreme thanks to her efforts. She reminded me of Sheila, but without the element of “fusspot.”

“We know you're meeting Al later, but we thought you could do with a proper welcome,” said Ada, shutting a cupboard door one last time, and presenting me with a dish of nuts, and some sliced fruit.

My polite gene kicked in. “Would you like a drink?” I asked. I grinned as I added, “Some very kind Canadians I know have supplied me with juice, wine, soda, and beer—so you have a choice.”

Frank and Ada smiled at my attempt at humor.

“Juice for me, thank you, dear, though I usually prefer tea. Unfortunately, we didn't have an unopened box I could bring you, I'm so sorry. I find tea very soothing and even cooling, don't I, Frank? I'll have juice for now,” replied Ada. “Shall I help myself?”