Margaritas & Murder (9 page)

“That would be very nice,” I said.

“Roberto is a scholar,” his wife added, turning to face me.

“Yes, in fact, I’ve had two articles accepted for publication by the
Reddington Journal of Mexican History and Culture
.”

“It’s very exclusive,” Dina said. “You know it, of course.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that particular publication,” I said.

“Oh, I was hoping you were. We haven’t seen it yet, but they cashed the check and wrote a very nice letter,” she said.

They
cashed the check? It sounded as though Roberto had paid them to publish his articles.

“They’re coming out in the fall,” he said, “but you don’t have to wait that long. I sent Vaughan a copy. He probably threw it on his bookshelf somewhere. He doesn’t care for my writing. But I’m not discouraged. ‘It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness.’ The philosopher Seneca said that.”

“In his
Epistles,
” I said, surprising myself that I remembered.

“Oh, here’s my drink,” Dina said, as Maria Elena placed a tall glass in front of her. The white concoction was topped with a piece of pineapple and a maraschino cherry.

Maria Elena laid a straw on the table next to it.
“Lo siento que tomó tan largo,”
she whispered.

“That’s okay,” Dina said. “It didn’t take that long.” She plucked off the piece of pineapple that had been balanced on the rim and popped it in her mouth.

“No offense,” Roberto said to me. “I know he’s your friend. But Vaughan is more interested in the business of making money than in intellectual ideas.”

I knew Olga wanted me to make the Fishers feel at ease, but I couldn’t let his comment pass. “I think you’re mistaken,” I said. “Vaughan Buckley is one of the best-read men I know. He’s knowledgeable in a wide variety of subjects, and he loves politics and poetry, biography, science, and everything in between.”

That included, I was sure, “intellectual ideas,” and very likely the Roman philosopher Roberto had just quoted. But I didn’t say that. Roberto Fisher was evidently a man very taken with himself. I understood now why Olga was so hesitant to introduce me to him.

I felt a headache coming on. The conversation had been difficult, what with the argument in the kitchen between Maria Elena and her brother and the odd way Dina seemed to bounce in and out of the conversation, most of the time lost in whatever had been her last thought.

“I hear you’re writing a murder mystery,” I said to Roberto, hoping to lure him onto a safer topic.

“Yes. I’d like to pick your brain about that.”

“Who gets killed and why?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet, but it takes place in San Miguel. I know all the back streets and shady areas here, so I can really set the atmosphere.”

Olga came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. “Did you people enjoy your meal?” she asked. “The Hoffmanns have just set out the desserts, so I hope no one’s dieting.”

“Who?” Roberto asked.

“The caterers, Donna and Alfred Hoffmann. They moved here recently and everyone is talking about how wonderful they are.”

“Of course, the Hoffmanns.”

Olga looped her arm in mine and pulled me to my feet. “Come along, now, Jessica. I insist you try their mango mousse. You don’t mind, do you, Roberto? Dina? You’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

“Sure,” Roberto said. “You’re going to be here for two weeks, right, Jessica? We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”

Two whole weeks! Well, at least the Fishers live out of town,
I thought.

“I insist you come out and see our place,” Dina said as we returned to the buffet.

I try not to have unkind thoughts, but I admit I was thinking at the moment,
Maybe Vaughan will let me come along with him and Woody on the mail run.

T
he Buckleys’ guest room was as comfortable as it was elegant, with a four-poster bed and crisp white linens. I slept very well the night after my first full day in San Miguel de Allende. The next morning, however, my rest was interrupted by the sound of voices raised in an argument. I tried not to eavesdrop, but Vaughan and Olga were in the hall outside my door.

“Don’t you have any consideration for my feelings on this?”

“For godsakes, Olga, we’ve been over this a hundred times. I promised him I wouldn’t cancel this time. I’m committed to going. I can’t renege now. What kind of man gives his word and backs out at the eleventh hour?”

“A smart one.”

“You want me to say I can’t go because my wife’s a nervous wreck and is nagging me to stay? That doesn’t put
you
in a very nice light.”

“If you need to use me as an excuse, go right ahead. Your life is more important than my reputation.”

“Olga, sweetheart, I can’t do that. And I’m not risking my life. I’m merely going for a drive.”

“Don’t try to snow me, Vaughan Buckley. I know all your tricks. You’re going on an
adventure
. You said so yourself. I heard you compare this trip with the Pony Express. Aren’t you a little old for adventures?”

“I’m not dead yet, thank you. And a little excitement never killed anyone.”

“So you admit you’re expecting something to happen.”

“I admit no such thing.”

“Is this to impress your girlfriend?”

“What are you saying?”

“You don’t think I see how Sarah rolls her eyes at you. I may be farsighted, but I’m not blind. Is all of this to show her how
young
you really are?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. But I’m flattered that you’re jealous.”

“Don’t change the topic.”

“Me? You brought her up.”

“Vaughan, be reasonable. Look what happened to Jessica, and she wasn’t transporting bank drafts and checks and valuable packages. You’ll be a sitting duck for any thug who knows the routine or keeps an eye on the border.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Woody has driven this route many, many times. He’s even brought his son along at times. He’s certainly not going to risk his flesh and blood.”

“Let him take his son this time if it’s so safe.”

“The boy doesn’t want to go, and I do.”

“What about our time together? You could be stuck at the border for days, Vaughan.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“And that’s assuming they even let you back in the country with all that booty.”

“We’re not pirates carrying treasure. We’re merely picking up the mail—letters, magazines,
bills,
most likely. And I’m hoping to collect a manuscript from a promising new author. It’s nothing of value to anyone other than the recipients. There will be no problem getting back into Mexico. Woody says he knows all the border guards and they know him.”

“Who says the border guards are honest?”

“Give the man a break. He spent thirty years in military intelligence. He knows which ones to trust.”

“Vaughan, I’ve never asked you to sacrifice anything for me. I’m asking you, begging you, not to go. Tell Woody whatever you like. Make up a story. But please, don’t take this trip.”

“He’s going to be here any moment, Olga, and my bag is already at the door.”

Their voices faded as they walked downstairs.

The sun had barely peeked over the horizon. Even so, I’d been awake for a while, my circadian rhythms still on Eastern time. But I hadn’t gotten out of bed, believing that if I lay still with my eyes closed, I might be lucky enough to drift off and catch another hour’s sleep. However, circumstances conspired against me. With the reverberation of competing church bells, what sounded like a rooster crowing, and the Buckleys’ quarrel, all hope of revisiting the land of Nod evaporated. I rose, showered, dressed quickly, and made my way downstairs to the kitchen.

Vaughan and Olga were seated at a table in front of open French doors that led to the colonnade and the courtyard beyond, where the stone pavers glowed pink in the early sunlight. The sound of birds chirping in the acacia tree provided background music to the lovely cool breeze that wafted inside. The beautiful morning was wasted on the Buckleys, who sipped their coffee in silence, each consumed with thoughts of the upcoming trip, and of each other.

Maria Elena bustled around the kitchen, stirring a pan of eggs and tomatoes on the stove and checking the toast she was baking in the oven. “Good morning, Señora. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Would you like some coffee to start?”

“Good morning,” I said. “Coffee would be wonderful.”

“Good morning,” Vaughan said, rising and forcing a smile.

“Oh, Jessica, did we wake you? I’m so sorry,” Olga said, looking up from the newspaper that was folded on the table next to her cup.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I’m still on New York time. It usually takes a day or so before I’m acclimated to a new schedule.”

“Come, take my seat,” Vaughan said. He held his chair for me. “I have to get something upstairs.”

As he walked swiftly from the room, I reached over and squeezed Olga’s hand. “He’ll be fine,” I said.

“Oh, Jessica, this is such a mistake. I’m just furious with him. A grown man going off on a lark, in a country he knows nothing about, where Americans are ripe pickings for criminals.”

“Sometimes you have to let people make their own mistakes and learn from them. Vaughan is not a reckless man. He wouldn’t intentionally put himself in danger.”

Maria Elena slid plates of the eggs in front of us. “My brother, he has a gun, Señora Buckley. If you like, I can call him to come. He can ride with them for protection.”

“
Muchas gracias,
Maria Elena, but I’m afraid that if I even so much as suggested such a thing, my husband would take my head off. I appreciate the offer, though.” She shook her head. “If I had a gun myself,” she muttered, “he’d never even get out of the house.”

“How long is the ride to Laredo?” I asked.

She sighed and rolled her shoulders, trying to release the tension. “About thirteen or fourteen hours if you don’t stop,” she replied. “They’ll probably be gone for at least three days, maybe more. Vaughan says they’ve booked a hotel in Monterrey for tonight, so they can get to the International Bridge first thing in the morning.”

“Will they stay overnight in Laredo, too?”

“That depends. I heard Woody say something about having to register his car in the States again. Since they don’t know how long that will take, it’s possible they’ll be stuck there longer.”

“Things will go smoothly for them, I’m sure,” I said, “and they’ll be back here before you know it.”

“This was supposed to be our vacation,” she said. “Some vacation, with Vaughan away and me chewing my nails worrying about him. Am I crazy to feel this way? Tell me.”

“I don’t say you shouldn’t worry about him, mind you. But if you and I plan something special for while he’s away, we can make the time go quickly.”

“I know I’m being selfish, Jessica. Vaughan was really looking forward to this trip and I’ve ruined it for him. But I can’t help it. I have a horrible feeling something will go wrong.”

“Have you ever had ESP before?”

“What do you mean?”

“Extrasensory perception.”

“I know what the initials stand for,” she said, her brow furrowing, then clearing as understanding dawned. “Oh, you mean have I ever worried about something and seen it come true?”

“Have you?”

She gave me a wry smile. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

She laughed.

“I’m being silly, aren’t I?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Now I feel worse. I’ve made both of us miserable.”

“Why don’t you go wish Vaughan a safe trip? He’ll feel better knowing that you’ll be all right in his absence.”

“I think I’ll do that,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Thank you, Jessica. You’re very understanding. I’m sorry you have to put up with such a crybaby.”

“Nonsense,” I said, waving her away. “May I look at your newspaper?”

“Of course. We’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.”

Maria Elena smiled at me as she cleared away Olga’s untouched breakfast and put the plate in the oven to keep warm.

I had just turned to the editorial page when Woody came through the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said in a voice loud enough to chase the birds out of the tree. “Wonderful day for a road trip.” He breathed in deeply and pounded his chest with a fist. “I love this weather. Perfect for driving. Of course, once we get out of the mountains, it’ll heat up. But that’s why it’s good to get an early start. Nice chill in the air this morning.”

“Good morning, Woody,” I said. “Will you join me? Vaughan and Olga will be down soon.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, taking the chair Olga had abandoned. “Got some more of your wonderful coffee there, Maria?”

“Buenos días, Señor Woody,”
Maria Elena said, bringing him a cup of steaming coffee. “Would you like some eggs?”

Woody assessed the food on my plate and nodded. “I’ve already eaten, but knowing what a good cook you are—you might give me just a little taste.” He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

“Solamente un momento,”
she said, running to the stove and returning almost immediately with a plate of eggs and tomatoes for Woody.

“What kind of roads will you be traveling on?” I asked.

“Mostly highways. In fact”—he drew his wallet from his hip pocket and counted out some bills—“we’re going to need money for the tolls, about thirty-five dollars’ worth, I figure. I like to get that ready in advance.” He folded the bills and tucked them in his breast pocket. “It’s not a bad trip, just tedious,” he said, digging into the eggs. “That’s why I like to have someone along to help pass the time. Took my son once. What a mistake. The boy complained the whole way. I was ready to cut him off without a cent by the time we got back.” He slurped some coffee and continued eating and talking. “Glad I picked Vaughan, though. Bet he’s got a lot of stories he can tell about the book business. And he hasn’t heard most of mine yet. Give me a new audience to practice on. Someone once told me I should write a book about my experiences. Maybe I can interest Buckley in publishing them. What do you think?”