Margaritas & Murder (10 page)

I thought Vaughan might end up sorry that he had insisted on accompanying Woody, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “I’ve always thought there’s a book in everyone. Stories about people are innately fascinating. But putting them into a readable form—that’s the hard part.”

“Yeah, well, if he likes the stories, can’t he just find someone to write them up for me? You, for instance.”

“Me?” I said. “That’s kind of you to think of me, but I’m much too busy writing my own stories to take on anyone else’s.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I’m sure I can find someone,” he said, shoveling in a forkful of eggs.

“Perhaps you will,” I replied, concentrating on a piece of toast.

Vaughan and Olga returned with smiles on their faces. Vaughn had an arm draped around his wife’s shoulder and she leaned against him.

“I’m ready to go and there you are, starting on breakfast,” Vaughan said.

“Nope, nope,” Woody said, leaning over the plate to finish the rest of his dish as he pushed up from the chair with his legs. “I’m ready.” He swiped Olga’s napkin over his lips. “All set,” he said, taking a last gulp of coffee.

Outside, an old man and a burro plodded up the cobblestone street. The animal, whose muzzle was as white as his master’s whiskers, carried a pair of panniers, straw baskets filled with red and green chiles, the sides stained with streaks the colors of the peppers.
“Buenos días, señoras, señores,”
he called out, touching the brim of his sombrero.

“Buenos días,”
we replied.

We walked the men to the car, which Woody had left parked illegally on the street. It was an old station wagon, dirty but undented. It had probably been a bright blue when it was new, but even through the grime I could see that the color had faded over the years. The seats were covered in what looked like imitation curly sheepskin tied with strings that dangled down the back. A placard on a side window read
NO HABLO ESPAÑOL
. In the rear of the wagon, Woody had a series of cardboard cartons and plastic tubs with names printed on them in black marker. He grabbed Vaughan’s small overnight bag, swung it into the backseat next to his own, and climbed behind the wheel.

Olga drew a white handkerchief with a crocheted edge from her pocket and pressed it into Vaughan’s hand. “Something to remind you of me,” she said.

Vaughan took the delicate scrap of cotton and traced the embroidered O on the corner with his thumb. He smiled at his wife. “You are
never
far from my thoughts, sweetheart. Thank you for understanding.”

“Go now,” she said, “before I have a change of heart.”

Olga linked her arm with mine as Vaughan took the passenger seat. She blew him a kiss and tightened her grip on me as the engine roared to life and the men drove off, waving.

“Nancy Kovach told me Guy used to go on the mail run with Woody last year,” she said, as the car rounded a corner and was gone from our sight. “She called herself ‘a mail widow.’ She said that’s what she was for the days that they were gone. ‘A mail widow.’ I don’t like that term.”

“I don’t either,” I said as we turned back to the house. “I don’t either.”

V
aughan called from Monterrey that night.

“We’re staying in a Best Western,” he said. “It’s clean and there’s a bar nearby. That’s all I care about. I want a nice big martini with my steak dinner. I deserve it.”

Woody had reserved only one room to save on the cost, but Vaughan had threatened that his snoring would keep Woody up all night if each didn’t have his own room. So they’d taken a second one, with Vaughan agreeing to cover the difference.

“But you don’t snore,” Olga said.

“Shhh. I don’t want him to hear you.”

“Is he right there?”

“No, we’re just resting up before we find a place for dinner. But he can probably hear through walls. He certainly can talk through them.”

Olga giggled.

“I had to get away,” Vaughan said. “The man is a nonstop talker. He should have exhausted his vocal cords by now.”

“And don’t forget loud,” Olga added. “I’m surprised you still have your hearing.”

“I know everything there is to know about his military exploits, his failed marriage, his disappointing son, his buddies at the border, his love life . . .”

“He has a love life?”

“Yes. You didn’t know about the attentive widows of San Miguel? Not to leave out a certain lady of artistic persuasion. You’re not up on the local gossip, Olga.”

“That’s what I need you for. They all bare their souls to you so you’ll publish them and make them famous.”

“As a matter of fact, he’s been pressuring me to put out a book of his stories, and he wants Jessica to write them for him.”

“See? Your wife’s brilliance shines again.”

“Tell Jessica I may commit her to his project just to shut him up.”

“If you do, don’t complain to me when she wants a new publisher.”

“Well, I’m paying the price for my need for adventure, sweetheart. I hope you’re happy.”

“I never wanted you to suffer, Vaughan. Well, maybe just a little.”

“I’m suffering, just being away from you.”

“Ahh. If that’s the conclusion you draw after one day, I’m going to send you off on more trips.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling.”

Olga replaced the phone in its cradle with a smile.

After Woody and Vaughan had left that morning, we’d spent the remainder of the day exorcising her demons in the spa at Casa de Sierra Nevada, the cosmopolitan little hotel only a short walk from the house. Between the full-body massage, the facial, the manicure, and the pedicure, there was not a place on our bodies that had not been pummeled into submission, kneaded till it cried uncle, and given a high polish. We were more than relaxed; we were close to being rag dolls.

Collapsed on two armchairs under the colonnade, our feet sharing an ottoman, we sipped iced tea and made a dinner of the leftovers from the party, which Maria Elena ferried to us on platters from the kitchen.

“Isn’t this guacamole heavenly?” Olga said, scooping up the dip with a cracker. “I am passionate about avocado, and the Hoffmanns’ recipe is perfection.”

“I’m partial to these
molotes
myself,” I said, taking one of the little cornmeal dumplings filled with shredded pork. “Who knew I would fall in love with Mexican food?”

“Did you try the quesadillas yet?”

“No. Which ones are they?”

“Those little triangles. They’re like a Mexican version of a grilled cheese sandwich, only using tortillas and in this case, I think, chicken and peppers.”

“I’m getting an education in Mexican cuisine just from your party,” I said. “It was a wonderful party, in case I forgot to thank you.”

“You didn’t forget. You’ve already thanked me, and it’s I who should thank you. I don’t know what I would have done with myself alone today if you hadn’t been here to keep me company.”

“I imagine you would have done pretty much the same things that we did together.”

“But it’s more fun when you can share them,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “Oh, excuse me. I’m going to make up tonight for all the sleep I lost this week worrying about Vaughan.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” I said.

“We took care of me today,” Olga said. “What would
you
like to do tomorrow? You name it, Jessica, and I’ll arrange it. Anything—anything at all.”

“It seems to me I got the benefit of all the things you wanted to do today,” I said. “But since you’re offering, let’s see. I’d like to play tourist for a few hours, visit the landmarks, pick up a few gifts for people back home. But if that’s not your cup of tea, I can always do it another day when you and Vaughan have plans.”

“No such thing,” she said. “I’ll be delighted to play tourist with you as long as we can go shopping afterward. We’ll consult the visitors’ guides and plan out a morning of sightseeing. I’m not sure if there’s a museum, but I know there are plenty of galleries if you like to ‘appreciate’ art. Then we’ll have a nice
comida
. I know just the place.”

“And
comida
is?”

“
Comida corrida
is a formal lunch, a midday meal with three or four set courses—soup, pasta, main course, dessert. They make the greatest flan. We won’t want dinner after that, but we may need a little siesta—big meals always make me sleepy—but we can rest up in El Jardin. It’s a stone’s throw away.”

“That lovely park near the police station.”

“Yes. Then, if we haven’t exhausted ourselves, we go shopping,” she said, grinning. She pointed her toes and rotated her feet so she could study them from different angles. “I think I’d like to find a new pair of sandals, something a little sexier than what I’ve been wearing. Have to keep Vaughan on his toes. Can’t let his eye wander. I think he’s feeling his age.”

“What makes you say that?” I said. “He’s more handsome and energetic than men half his age.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Olga said, smiling coyly. “And he still attracts a lot of women. I’m thinking of one in particular. You may have noticed her interest.”

“Sarah Christopher.”

Olga saluted me. “I knew you’d see through her. A little obvious, isn’t she?”

“I don’t think you have a thing to worry about,” I said.

“She’s having a good time practicing her wiles on him.”

“Unsuccessfully, I might add. Vaughan all but ran in the opposite direction when she flirted with him last night.”

“She makes him uncomfortable—for now. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

“He knows how lucky he is to have you for his wife.”

“And I want to keep it that way. I don’t like being jealous, Jessica. I’m used to being indifferent to all the women who throw themselves at him. I trust Vaughan and I know he loves me. But somehow with Sarah it’s different.”

“Perhaps it’s not only Vaughan who’s feeling his age.”

“You know, J. B. Fletcher, sometimes you’re
too
observant,” she said, arching an eyebrow at me. “Let me keep
some
of my secrets, please.” She pulled a pillow from behind her back and hugged it to her chest. “You’re right, of course. I don’t envy who she is, mind you, but I’ll admit to being jealous of her age.” She sighed. “I never used to feel that way. I was always determined to gracefully accept whatever changes aging brought. I take care of myself, but I won’t go to extremes to appear to be anything but what I am. Still, lately I’ve been wondering what I’d do if I had the chance to start all over again. Would I make the same decisions? Would I go off in another direction altogether? I dream about being young again.”

“There’s no harm in dreaming,” I said. “Most of us have thoughts like that from time to time. The key is not to give them too much importance in your life today. After all, we can’t change what was; we can only change what will be. Besides, it’s never too late to take a new direction. Look at you and Vaughan. You’ve found a home in Mexico. You’re learning a new language, making new friends, even discovering new artists whose work appeals to you.”

Olga laughed, as I’d hoped she would. “She is talented, isn’t she? Too bad she has a crush on my husband.” She took a sip of her iced tea and set it down with a bang. “I’m going to spend Vaughan’s money on pretty sandals tomorrow.” Her eyes were full of mischief. “Something that will make him come panting after his wife. Will you help me pick them out?”

“I think I’d better leave that choice to you,” I said. “But you can help me buy a new pair of earrings. I saw the perfect pair in a shop window we passed yesterday.”

“It’s a deal.”

 

“This area of central Mexico was inhabited by nomadic Indians before a Franciscan missionary, Juan de San Miguel, founded a community here in the fifteen hundreds and called it San Miguel de Grande. He and his fellow friars converted the Indians to Christianity and taught them how to grow crops and weave fabrics. Ranches were established and tanneries built. The town became a commercial center, a successful market in which textiles and cattle were bought and sold. It was also a stopover for those seeking their fortunes from the silver deposits discovered in Zacatecas. But its real claim to fame is that it played an important role in Mexican independence.”

Olga and I sat on a bench in El Jardin and eavesdropped on a tour guide as he gave his speech to a clutch of visitors he was leading through the park. Children were chasing each other around the gazebo or begging their mothers for balloons or treats from the sellers of cotton candy and ice cream. A woman sold roasted corn on the cob on a stick. A three-man mariachi band serenaded a couple in wedding dress having their photograph taken.

We had already spent the morning walking around San Miguel. We’d paused by the
lavandería,
watching women bent over cement tubs taking advantage of El Chorro, a natural spring that bubbles up, to do their wash and laugh and gossip with their friends. We’d strolled through the Parque Benito Juárez across the street, where flower growers from the countryside had set up an informal nursery, adding the brilliant colors of their bouquets and potted plants to the lush landscaping of the park. We’d admired the student paintings at Bellas Artes, a prestigious art school. We’d toured and shopped (Olga didn’t want to chance tiring before that), had eaten a huge meal, and were happy to simply sit and digest while the parade of characters that daily crosses the stage that is El Jardin entertained us.

“A brave revolutionary general, Ignacio de Allende y Unzaga, a citizen of San Miguel, joined his army with the followers of Father Don Miguel Hidalgo of the town of Dolores to rise up against the Spanish ruling class. The patriots eventually gathered a force of eighty thousand. Sadly, it was not enough. They were defeated and the leaders were executed for their part in the revolt. It was many bloody years before independence was achieved, but the people never forgot their heroism. Today we call our town San Miguel de Allende in honor of the general.”