But I did hear Parisa ask for a Bloody Mary, and I didn’t blame her.
“Fascinating place, you know,” Max said, and started in on the history of the indigenous people—he called them the Yelapanese, though whether that was a real word or one he’d made up, I had no idea. We heard about First Contact, supposedly with a military man who was a cousin to Cortez, the early missionaries, and the treaties with the King of Spain. Since we were eating, we were a captive audience, and the history was interesting, if too detailed.
“Whatever their intentions, those old Spaniards recognized paradise when they found it,” Max continued. “The Mexican dry forest—monsoons half the year, tolerable in winter and spring.”
Parisa sipped while he recited average temperatures for late January—sixty-two point one degrees for the low and eighty-three point eight for the high.
“For you, that is,” he said with another cackle. “Much cooler for us. Sixteen point seven and twenty-eight point eight.”
The old Fahrenheit-Celsius bait and switch.
“You must sleep with the guidebook under your pillow,” I said, and a smile flitted across Parisa’s face. “I love how it’s all so local. No chain restaurants or hotels. The people who live here run the businesses. Everything we’re eating is grown or caught right here.”
“Except the beer,” Adam said.
“What do you two do back home?” Max asked.
“I run a local foods market,” I said.
“She’s the heart and soul of the place,” my beloved added. “And the brains. I run a wilderness camp for kids. What about you?”
“Financial planner,” Max said, confirming my guess. When I glanced at Parisa, he answered for her. “My wife’s job is to make me look good.”
Turned out the Porters had signed up for the same afternoon tour as we had, along with the two women we’d seen on the boat and a handful of other tourists. At the edge of town, away from the bay, we boarded a small bus painted in vivid shades of green. To blend in, I supposed, as if any wild bird or animal would be fooled.
The Porters sat across the aisle from us. To my surprise, Max did not continue his recite-the-guidebook routine as we wound through the forested hills, deferring to the actual guide who sat behind the driver on a tall stool and told us all about the region’s flora and fauna.
The bus stopped for lunch in a hillside village. Somehow, we managed to get separated from the Porters and sat with the two women, Jackie and Jill, who turned out to be mystery-writing buddies from Washington State.
“We flew into Puerto Vallarta from L.A. with them,” Jackie said. “I don’t know who’s worse, him or her.”
“Oh, him, for sure,” I said. “Though maybe only because she doesn’t talk as much. Are you scouting for victims for your next book? And how do you write together?”
Over chips, salsa, and cold beer, the two women chatted about their books and writing process. Turned out one lived in Seattle, the other in Spokane, but distance didn’t slow them down, thanks to email.
“It’s good that we live three hundred miles apart,” Jill said. “Keeps us from killing each other.”
After chips came gazpacho, the thick tomato-cucumber soup garnished with fresh cilantro. I could hear Parisa’s exclamation of disgust from twenty feet away, and revised my opinion on which Porter the mystery writers should dispatch.
Back on the bus, our guide announced a side trip upriver to the Cocodrilo Sanctuary.
“Crocodiles,” Max said loudly, in case anyone couldn’t figure it out themselves.
I had honestly never considered the breeding habits of crocodiles before, nor even seen one live, but they were fascinating. As long as they stayed inside their fenced, jungle-like swamps. The guide explained how this facility helped preserve the biodiversity of the species through a selective breeding program.
“Crocodile Nazis,” I heard Max say. “Good place to get your crocodile boots.”
“In our next book,” Jackie joked in a low voice.
Another function, the guide said as he cradled a baby croc in his arms, was education. Did we know how powerful a cocodrilo’s jaws were? “Thirty-seven hundred pounds per square inch. Greater than any other living animal.” He let that sink in, then lunged forward, holding out the baby, who snapped its jaws and we all screamed. “But, they prefer chicken.”
On the boat ride back down the cool green river, I sat next to Parisa, the two of us between Jackie and Jill.
“You like all this outdoor stuff?” Parisa asked, and I nodded. She shuddered. “Don’t go out on your own. It isn’t safe. Don’t you live near grizzly bears?”
“Yes, and I do hike on my own, even though my mother and sister tell me not to.” Somehow, that led to me pulling out my phone and pulling up wedding pictures.
“You and your sister could be twins,” Jill said.
“I have a cousin who looks so much like me,” Parisa said, “that people are always confusing us, even though Calgary is a big city and we don’t spend much time together. I hate it.”
I thought it quite wonderful to look so much like one of the people I loved most, but I kept my mouth shut.
Back in Yelapa, we all collapsed into beach chairs. The beach sellers must have been waiting, because the moment we were settled with drinks and snacks, they swarmed us. The colorful pottery was stunning, and I bought a set of serving bowls, though carrying them home would be tricky. The silver jewelry didn’t tempt me. But the pie. Oh, the famous Yelapa pie. I chose coconut cream, Adam banana cream, and we traded bites.
I was about to wave “no” to the little man carrying a bundle of sundresses when a fringed knee-length number in shades of blue caught my eye. Alas, it caught Parisa’s, too, and before I knew it, Max had paid the man full price for it and two more, not even pretending to bargain.
“There’s another one in the same fabric,” Adam pointed out, but it didn’t have the fringe so I shook my head. The man picked up his load, considerably lighter now, and trundled down the beach.
A moment later, Max stood. “Gotta stretch after all that sitting,” he said, and wandered off.
We swam, napped, and devoured fish tacos. When the sun finally set, the tourists cheered, and the locals laughed and shook their heads as if we were crazy. Loco.
∞
The next morning, Adam and I got up early and headed inland to a village where he’d lived briefly. The road was winding and narrow, like the mountain roads back home. I loved every bumpy minute, peering into the jungle for the birds we’d seen yesterday, grabbing Adam’s hand when a tree-climbing snake stared back at me.
We strolled the cobbled streets Adam remembered fondly and found the house he’d shared with three other crazy Americanos. We toured the church with its shrine to a saint I’d never heard of. On the main street, in search of lunch, we spotted a sidewalk café next to a hole-in-the-wall clothing shop.
“Grab a table,” I said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I ducked inside and let my eyes adjust after the bright sunlight. A rack of sundresses stood in the middle of the room. I was reaching for an orange-and-yellow print when the hanger moved and I spotted a woman on the other side of the rack, flipping through the dresses.
“Hey,” I said, but she turned away. Her hair was held with a silver clip today, not the usual ribbon. She’d already bought three dresses on the beach—why did she need more? But then, a woman like Parisa always wanted more dresses, didn’t she?
I felt hot and wiggly, embarrassed. Like I should have known she wouldn’t want to talk to me when she had the choice. I didn’t want a dress anymore. I just wanted to leave.
“I’m sure it was her,” I told Adam five minutes later, after a long draw on my beer. We were sitting in the ubiquitous white plastic chairs at one of the ubiquitous white plastic tables, dipping the freshly fried chips into salsa redolent with peppers and herbs. Tinny music from an old boom box filled the air. “Why would she ignore me like that?”
“Str
ange. I thought they were going fishing. Granted, shopping does seem more her style.”
“Yeah, but after what she said about going out alone? And she would never take that bus if she didn’t have to.”
“No other way to get up here,” Adam said. “Unless she hopped a cargo truck.”
Which is how we got home, after we downed too many tacos, walked too far up a dry riverbed, got lost, and missed the bus. We didn’t see Parisa or Max, or anyone we knew, and that was just fine.
∞
“Did you hear?” Jill said. She was standing on the front porch of the lemon-yellow casita next to ours. I’d taken a quick shower after our delightful misadventure, and kinda wished I hadn’t been so hasty in the clothing shop—a cool cotton coverup would be perfect right now.
“They found a woman’s body near the river mouth,” she continued. “She was partially eaten by a cocodrilo. Her body is so badly damaged they can’t identify her.”
My stomach felt like a cocodrilo had bitten it. According to Jill, who spoke fluent Spanish and heard the story from the girl at the beachfront café who’d been interviewed by the policía estatal, no one remotely matching the victim’s description had been reported missing.
We didn’t see Max or Parisa that evening. The mood among the tourists was subdued and I imagined that the Porters, like many others, had stayed in for the night. After dinner, we returned to our front porch, and the sun set with only a handful of solemn witnesses.
We didn’t see them the next day, either. In truth, we didn’t see much of anyone except each other. When we left the casita, it was to grab a quick bite, then hike up the stone trails carved into the hillside to the swimming hole, where we swam and splashed in the waterfall. Though the death of the unidentified woman highlighted the dangers of foreign travel, there was nothing we could do and no point letting it interfere with our plans.
Early one morning, we went fishing with a local crew, returning to shore just as other vacationers were ordering their jugo de naranja and huevos rancheros. That night, we ate dorado we’d caught ourselves, and pronounced it the most delicious dinner ever. We went kayaking again, and Adam talked me into parasailing. We visited with the mystery writers and other tourists, lounged in the sun, and enjoyed not-so-restful siestas in our casita.
One afternoon, Adam decided to actually nap during siesta time, but I was feeling restless. Instead of staying on the beach, I took the trail behind the haciendas up the hillside and over, down toward the river. The trail was well-used and I wasn’t worried, even though I had it to myself. Jungle flowers dotted the dense greenery with color. I heard birds I couldn’t see, and my skin drank in the cool, damp air.
I strolled along the river, eyes and ears alert for snakes and cocodrilos. The river began to widen and I saw an opening in the thick growth where it met the ocean.
This must be where it happened. Where the unknown woman died. I shivered. There was no crime scene tape, no cocodrilo bones, no signs of death or mayhem. The sense of gloom was all in my head.
I turned to leave and slipped on a pocket of mud. I reached out to catch myself on the nearest tree and as my hand hit a branch, my fingers snared something else.
A black chiffon ribbon.
∞
Calling the police in a foreign country isn’t as easy as you might think if you’ve never done it before. Adam’s leftover Spanish wasn’t up to the job, and when we told the waitress what we wanted and why, she grabbed her throat and her eyes rolled back in her head. While Adam tended to her—you don’t run a wilderness camp without some serious medical training—I scanned the beach for other help.
Jackie and Jill were sitting under an umbrella with books in hand. Jill made the call with ease, while Jackie went in search of the young waitress’s mother.
The policía arrived by boat and interviewed me at a table under the palapa. We spoke in English, thank goodness, since my Spanish hadn’t progressed much beyond cerveza and dorado. And you don’t usually need to talk about beer and dolphinfish when you’re being interviewed by the police.
“Gracias, señora,” the uniformed detective said and rose, signaling the end of our conversation. I noticed how easily he managed the plastic chairs in the sand. “We’ll notify the embassy, and if we need more información, we’ll—what’s your phrase? Be in touch.”
“What’s going on?” Max’s voice interrupted. “You two lovebirds get caught doing something you shouldn’t have?”
The detective faced him. “Your name, señor?”
“Max Porter. My wife and I are visiting from Calgary. That’s in Canada. What’s this about?”
A flicker of recognition that needed no translation crossed the detective’s face. “We are just asking questions, señor, about the body found by the river. No need to be alarmed.” He gestured toward us. “We missed this observant American couple when we did our initial interviews. We missed you and Señora Porter as well, did we not?”
He drew out the first syllable of “Porter,” gesturing with one hand in a manner so cordial that he might have owned the place. For all I knew, he did.
“We don’t know anything worth saying,” Max replied. The day was hot and a thin bead of sweat formed behind his ear.
“Nonetheless, I should like to speak with you.”
“Ah, sweetheart, here you are,” Max said. “These men would like to chat about the poor woman found in the jaws of the crocodile. Such a tragedy.”
Parisa crossed the sandy beach easily, wearing a pair of black leather flip-flops instead of her usual cork-soled platform sandals. As she tilted her head to listen to her husband, I noticed that her hair was held back in a silver clip. I’d seen one like it somewhere. Maybe in one of the beach sellers’ trays.
We ordered beer and snacks and sat under an umbrella out of earshot as the officers spoke with the Porters. What Parisa might have known about the cocodrilo’s victim, I had no idea. But I knew she’d been in the jungle near the river. I only hoped she’d seen something that would help the police solve the mystery.
The Porters didn’t come down to the beach that evening. We saw them the next morning when we came in from snorkeling, sitting at their usual table talking intently. To my surprise, they didn’t call out to us. We waved but didn’t stop. It was our last full day in Yelapa, and we wanted to catch another glimpse of the reedy-voiced Mexican parrotlet and take another swim beneath the waterfall.
The late afternoon sun had turned the inlet into a sea of diamonds when we joined the mystery writers for margaritas before dinner. They were bubbly and full of chitchat, and I knew I would enjoy reading their books when we got home.
Max and Parisa joined the crowd on the beach in time for dinner. She was wearing the blue dress I had wanted. I had to admit, it looked great on her. Everything did.
“It would have looked even better on you,” Adam whispered into my ear. How did he always know what to say?
For our last night, the tables were covered with bright cloths, a candle and a jar of hibiscus flowers in the center. I tucked a red blossom into my dark hair. A creaky sound system cranked out a motley mix of Mexican songs, reggae tunes, and classic rock.
The Porters were seated a few tables away. I kept sneaking glances at them. Something puzzled me, but I couldn’t say what.
No chips and salsa tonight. We started with ceviche, the snapper so fresh it was practically still swimming, seasoned with lime and chiles, garnished with cilantro leaves. After that, we had our choice of cochinita pibil, the classic slow-roasted pork shoulder with onions pickled in citrus juices, or cilantro salmon with a tomato-habañero salsa. We chose one of each to share.
“The only problem with vacation is that it ends,” Adam said. “Look. Even Parisa’s enjoying herself.”
I laughed. That’s what was different. She was actually talking to Max, her features lively, instead of studying her nails or staring off into space. A bottle of tequila sat on their table, and Max was clearly indulging.
O
ur dinner came and we dove in, savoring every fresh, spicy bite. I glanced at the Porters. Max had a hand on Parisa’s leg where her dress had ridden up and I knew what had confused me earlier.
No fringe.
And Parisa was eating.
She was eating cilantro.
I pushed back my chair and found Jill. Bless the woman, she asked no questions but made the call, translating my words for the police dispatcher. The American witness had new information that could identify the victim in the Yelapa death, she said, information that would also prove it had been a crime and identify the killer. They should come immediately.
They did, in two marked boats that drove right up on the shore. Half a dozen officers jumped out, armed, uniformed, and stony-faced. The detective we’d met earlier took Adam and me aside and quizzed me. Then he fired instructions at his men. Two officers spoke to the waitress, who pointed and gestured, giving directions, and the men marched down the beach to where the locals’ tiny houses clung to the hillside. Several barefoot children—where had they come from?—ran ahead, laughing and shouting.
It seemed the officers were well-known and not unwelcome—friends and relatives.
Around us, the other visitors ate and drank, though I could feel curious glances sweep over us. No one left. Something about armed officers standing on the perimeter of a space tends to keep people put.
A few minutes later, the two officers returned with the little man who sold dresses to tourists.
“Si, Señor Detective.” He confirmed that Max had followed him off the beach and bought the second blue dress, the one without the fringe. No, he hadn’t asked why. Why would he?
Why indeed?
Señor Detective gestured and his men took Max by the arms. “I am arresting you, Señor Porter from Calgary, for the murder of your wife.”
“What? What are you talking about? This is my wife.” Max tried to wave a hand toward the woman in the blue dress without fringe, the woman in flat sandals with a clip in her hair instead of a ribbon. The woman who could eat cilantro without making a face. The woman I’d seen browsing in an art gallery in Puerto Vallarta the day before Max and Parisa arrived on the same flight as Jackie and Jill. The woman who hadn’t recognized me in the village shop because she had never seen me before.
Carried to the Grave and Other Stories Page 8
