Margaritas & Murder (7 page)

“I guess the local officials decided a guy from Spanish Harlem wouldn’t have the illegal connections down here, and so they promoted me into the job.”

“And you’ve cleaned up Dodge City.”

“Workin’ on it.”

“Is it common for the military to share office space with the police in Mexico?” I asked.

“You mean the soldiers?”

“I was surprised to see them here.”

“The federal government is big on cooperative efforts, partly so they can get a handle on criminal issues. The army is everywhere. But it also means having troops in place if needed.”

“What might they be needed for?”

“Tons of stuff. The drug trade is always a concern, plus illegal immigration and revolutionary groups.”

“I didn’t realize there were any revolutionary groups in this area.”

“Most of them are in the south, but there are little pockets all over the country. The local ones call themselves the Revolutionary Guanajuato Brigade. They’ve been operating in this area for around fifteen years. Probably three guys with a copy machine. They specialize in statements to the press, but that’s about it. I haven’t seen any evidence of paramilitary operations, but if the administration wants a show of federal strength, that’s fine with me.”

There was a sharp rap on the door, and a tall, muscular man poked his head in. “Jefe?”

“C’mon in. We got another
bandido
victim here. Mrs. Fletcher, this is Captain Ignacio Gutierrez, my second in command.”

“Complació para encontrarlo,”
he said, barely sparing me a glance.

The chief frowned. “You take care of it,” he said in English, “since you got your eyes on my job.”

Gutierrez grunted and backed out of the room.

There was an awkward moment of silence. I bent my head to complete the questions on the form, which were in both languages.

“Here you go,” I said, giving it back to him. “It’s just a brief summary of my encounter with the robber. If I think of anything else, may I give you a call?”

He scanned the account, holding the sheet in one hand as the other groped on the desk for a business card. “Brief, huh?” he said, as his hand landed on a tray of cards and extracted one. “I see he wore a plaid
paliacate
.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, as I took the card he extended to me.

“Kerchief. You’re sure it was
plaid
?”

“It was dark, but I’m pretty sure it was plaid.”

“This kind of stuff doesn’t mean a thing,” he said, dropping my form on his desk with a flip of his hand. “Everyone and his brother wears a kerchief down here. Same with the cowboy sombrero.”

“I was just trying to be accurate.”

“The coughing, now that’s new. Never heard of a
bandido
with the flu before.”

“It might be pneumonia or tuberculosis.”

His brows rose. “It might.”

“I’m glad I’ve given you something to go on,” I said with a straight face.

His gaze was piercing. “Can’t tell whether you’re kidding or being serious.”

“I think I’ll let you figure that out,” I said, rising. “You’ve got a baseball game to get to.”

He stood up and grabbed his Yankees cap. “I’ll walk you out.” He patted his pockets, pushed aside some papers on his desk, and looked under a book.

“Top drawer on the right,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Your keys. I saw you put them in the top drawer on the right.”

“Oh, yeah?” He narrowed his eyes at me, opened the drawer, pulled out the keys, and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. “Let’s go.”

He put his cap on when we reached the sidewalk in front of the building. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Stay out of more trouble while you’re here.”

“I hope to,” I said.

“By the way, I forgot to ask what you taught at Manhattan University. What was it? English? History? You look like an English professor to me. Am I right?”

“I did teach English at one time.”

“I knew it.”

“But that was on the secondary level.”

“Oh.” Disappointment crossed his face.

“No, Chief. When I taught at Manhattan University, it wasn’t English.”

“What was it, then?”

“It was criminology.” I managed to smother my smile until I was across the street and heading toward the corner where I was to meet Olga. But I enjoyed having surprised him, and as I walked away I pictured the expression that must have been on his face.

“I
arrived in the middle of the night, so I hadn’t had an opportunity to see what the house looked like from the outside. It was quite a surprise this morning.”

“It’s a modest-looking street, Jessica, but behind those rough walls are some of the most elegant homes in San Miguel, and right up the block is the one of the best small hotels in the world, Casa de Sierra Nevada.”

“I think we passed it this afternoon on the way to El Jardin.”

“You must let Olga and Vaughan treat you to dinner there. The food is out of this world.”

“Perhaps I can make it my treat instead, Cathie. I was hoping to take them out as a thank-you for hosting me.”

“That’s the perfect place. I happen to know they love it.”

Cathie Harrison was one of the guests at a gathering the Buckleys had arranged to welcome me. A pretty blond lady, she and her husband, Eric Gewirtz, and their son, Robbie, were spending the summer in San Miguel, while their daughter, Jena, took classes at the Universidad del Valle de Mexico. “We’re all learning Spanish together,” she said, “but Eric couldn’t resist bringing a basketball with him. He coaches the game at home. He and Jena have even gotten up a team with some of the local students. That’s where they are right now, playing basketball. I hope they make it here before the party is over.”

“I’ll look forward to meeting them,” I said. “I understand Eric helped Vaughan set up his media room.”

“The ‘boys’ toys,’ I call them. They like to surf the Internet on a huge screen, play music too loud for anyone’s comfort, and watch European sports on the satellite dish even though they have no idea what the rules of the games are.”

I laughed. “Is that what they do?”

“I’m convinced of it.”

“Excuse me, Cathie,” Olga said, taking my arm. “May I pull Jessica away? I have some people who are dying to meet her.”

Olga escorted me to the other end of the stone-tiled courtyard. It was a square space, enclosed on all four sides by the two-story stucco structure that was the Buckleys’ home. Two tall carved doors that marked the main entrance to the house were flanked by long windows, their rust-colored shutters thrown open against the pale yellow walls. A small balcony, red flowers dangling from boxes affixed to its wrought iron railing, jutted out above the entry. On the opposite side of the courtyard, a short passageway ended in the heavy wooden door leading to the street. To the right of the exit was a wall fountain, a brightly painted ceramic face with water spewing from its mouth into a semicircular basin covered in mosaic tile. To the left, an acacia tree gracefully shaded the corner, as well as several of the myriad tropical plants that grew in terra-cotta pots of various sizes strategically placed to give the impression of a lush landscape. The patio was spacious and elegant, ideal for entertaining, and Olga had filled it with her friends and neighbors for a cocktail party in my honor. We greeted them as I squeezed through the crowd trying to keep up with her.

“So nice to meet you, Jessica.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“Jessica Fletcher! How exciting. Is this your first trip to Mexico?”

“It’s my first trip to San Miguel.”

“I’ve read every one of your books, Mrs. Fletcher. Would you mind if I brought one by for you to autograph?”

“I’d be delighted, but call me Jessica, please.”

“Hello. We wondered if you were here. Welcome to SMA.”

“SMA?”

“San Miguel de Allende.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Oh, you must meet Roberto. He’s a writer, too.”

“Is he here?”

“Heard about your introduction to Mexico last night. Sorry about that.”

“That’s kind of you to say, but no real harm done.”

“Great party, Olga.”

“Stay a while. There’s a mariachi band coming later.”

“She’s a wonderful hostess, isn’t she?”

“Who’s the caterer, dear?”

“A company called Who’s Cooking. I’ll give you their card.”

“It’s J. B. Fletcher, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Nice meeting you.”

Olga drew to a halt just before a colonnade that ran along one side of the building and provided shelter from the sun. Under the arched ceiling, and to the right of a pair of open French doors leading to the kitchen, was a series of rattan chairs and sofas on which guests lounged and helped themselves to hors d’oeuvres and rainbow-colored cocktails offered by Maria Elena and a couple hired for the occasion. As she delivered the new drinks, Maria Elena removed the empty glasses and placed clean napkins on the glass top of the low table in front of the guests.

Olga turned her back to the group and pretended to show me a miniature date palm. “The couple on the sofa are Dina and Roberto Fisher,” she said softly. “ ‘Roberto’ used to be plain ‘Robert’ back home. His wife still slips occasionally and calls him Bob. I’m told he sold his pharmacy to some big chain and they’ve been living on the profits. He’s taken on a whole new persona down here. One or two of his treatises on Mexican culture appeared in some obscure academic publication, so he now considers himself a published author. Would you mind terribly talking with him?”

“Not at all. Why would you even ask?”

She sighed heavily. “Because he says his next project is to write a murder mystery. Vaughan saw a few pages of the latest attempt and told Roberto that they were awful.”

“Really?” I said. “Vaughan’s usually so diplomatic.”

She sighed. “Not this time, I’m afraid. Roberto gets under his skin. He accused Vaughan of being jaded, said that someone with sensitivity would understand what he’s trying to do. As you can imagine, things have been a bit tense between them.”

“I’m surprised you invited them.”

“I’m trying to smooth things over. We’re only here a short time and it’s a small community. Roberto and Dina have a lot of friends. I don’t want us to create a division where there was none.”

“That’s wise of you. Does Vaughan agree?”

“He’s promised to behave, and he knows I’ll hold him to it.”

“How can I help?”

“I realize it’s an imposition, but Roberto has talked of nothing but Jessica Fletcher since he heard you were coming. I hope you won’t hate me for putting you together.”

“Don’t give it a second thought, Olga. I meet many would-be mystery writers in my travels, and I’ll be happy to talk shop with him.”

“You’ll have my undying gratitude, and his wife’s, too, I’m sure.”

“I’ve always wanted your undying gratitude. Lead me to him.”

We turned back toward the colonnade and went through an arch into the shaded passage, where Vaughan was talking with several of the guests. He rose when he saw us and held a chair for me. “Ah, the guest of honor. Ladies and gentlemen, my friend and colleague Jessica Fletcher. Let me introduce you around, Jessica. This handsome couple is Roberto and Dina Fisher, longtime residents of San Miguel, although originally from . . . Detroit, was it?”

“Correct, Señor.” Roberto was a small man with a pencil-thin mustache and suspiciously dark hair for his age, which I judged to be his sixties. He held a green drink in his hand and was dressed in a blue version of the same type of traditional Mexican shirt the police chief had been wearing earlier. I dredged up the name, guayabera, from memories of my last visit south of the border many years ago. Short-sleeved, it had a pleated front and four pockets and was worn outside the trousers. His wife was also dressed in Mexican attire—a white cotton blouse and skirt with hand-embroidered flower motifs at the collar, waist, and hem. She wore her silver hair pulled into a chignon.

Roberto put his drink down on the cocktail table and got up from the sofa to shake my hand; his wife waved from her seat. “My husband is a writer, too,” she trilled.

“You are?” I said, greeting him. “Well, we must compare notes sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Roberto said with a satisfied grin. He sat again, nudged his wife, and shot Vaughan a now-we’ll-see look.

“This lovely lady, Jessica,” Vaughan continued, “is responsible for the paintings you’ve been admiring in our house. Sarah Christopher.”

“What a pleasure to meet such a talented artist,” I said. “I’m enjoying your work.”

“You must come visit my studio sometime,” she replied.

“It would be my pleasure.”

“And that gentleman is former major Woody Manheim, late of the US Army, whom I understand you encountered this afternoon.”

“Please don’t get up,” I said. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Manheim.”

“It’s Woody, my dear,” he said, raising his glass to me. “We’re all very informal down here. Can I call you Jessica?”

“Please do.”

“May I get you a drink?” Woody asked. “The bar-tender makes a mean margarita.”

“Thank you, no,” I said. “Later, perhaps.”

“We were just talking about our plans for the next few days, Jessica,” Vaughan said. “Woody and I are going on the mail run.”

“Oh, yes, you mentioned that last night.”

“This is where I make my exit,” said Olga, who’d been observing the introductions. “I have to check on the caterers.” She gave her husband a stern glance and walked away.

“The wife’s not too happy about this, is she?” Woody said.

“She’s just worried about us,” Vaughan said.

“And all your assurances of our safety have gone right over her pretty head, is that it?”