by Cathy Ace
The place was deserted. In front of me was a long, high bar, behind which were a myriad of glittering bottles, a great number of which were of a similar design—stumpy, with dimples and fat stoppers. Dotted around the cool, red-tiled floor were high marble-topped tables and leather-upholstered bar stools; the white plastered walls were adorned with atmospheric photographs of rows of giant blue agave set in a luminous landscape. I took a moment to decompress.
“Hello?” I called. My voice echoed.
Somewhere beyond the bar a door swung open and smacked against a wall.
“Coming!” A young man appeared around a corner: a tousled mop of unruly blond hair, a lopsided grin, chef whites, and a pair of large hands being wiped on a red cloth. “Can I help?”
I smiled. “Yes, I hope so.”
“I’m Tony, Tony Booth,” said the charmer, waving a still-damp hand. “I won’t shake.” He grinned. “Prepping the meat for tonight. Not quite finished.” His accent was American. He didn’t look Mexican at all. Odd for a chef at a Mexican restaurant—in Mexico.
I suddenly felt nervous. I’m really not used to living a lie. “I’m Cait. Cait Morgan. I’m here to collect the keys for Henry Douglas’s place. Do you know about that?” I couldn’t be sure that Jack had managed to get through to his friend, or, indeed, that word would have reached the hacienda.
“Yep. Henry called about half an hour ago. Nice for you to be able to get away at such short notice. He said you’re a prof. Is that right?”
I forced a smile. “Yes, that’s right. At the University of Vancouver.” Stick to the truth whenever possible, Cait.
“Gimme a sec . . .” said Tony, as he disappeared in the direction from which he’d arrived. He was about thirty, in good shape, with a breezy manner and a surprisingly good tan for a chef—they’re usually so pasty. Tony Booth looked as though he’d be more at home on a longboard, riding waves off the Californian coast, than in a Mexican restaurant’s kitchen.
“I wrote down the security code,” said Tony jauntily, as he handed me a single key on a leather lariat and a scrap of paper with four digits written in what I trusted was red ink.
“Thanks,” I said, as cheerily as I imagined a person would if they were arriving for a week’s vacation.
“Henry’s place is Casa LaLa—you know, ’cause he’s from LA? He thinks it’s funny. But I guess you know all about his so-called ‘sense of humor’?”
“Henry’s a friend of a friend, really,” I replied. Rather sheepishly as it turned out. Embrace the lie, Cait. “But the friend that he’s a friend of is quite a . . . unique character.”
Tony looked puzzled and a bit concerned. I wondered what my face was doing as I tried to be convincing in my role.
“I guess you could say that about Henry too—well about all the FOGTTs.”
“FOGTTs?” That wasn’t an acronym I’d ever heard before.
Tony smiled and nodded. “The Friends of Good Tequila Trust. That’s what these guys are called—the owners here. They each own a share of the place, each have a house on the hacienda; they’ve each paid their money, and, when we finally make a profit, they’ll each get their cut. I don’t think it’ll be long now: the way this place is set up, and with some good PR in Puerto Vallarta, I reckon the next season could see us break through. The Tequila Soleado they make here is doing pretty well back home in the States.”
I tried to look as though I was interested in what the young man was saying, which a casual visitor, whose partner hadn’t been locked up for a murder he didn’t commit, probably would have been.
“So what do you do here, exactly, Tony?” was all I could pull together by way of small talk.
Tony looked down at his chef whites, resisting the temptation to make a smart crack. “Um, I’m the chef.” He smiled and waved his arms as if to signify “Ta-da.” I mirrored his smile and felt my eyebrow arch at the inanity of my own question.
“Sorry—it’s been a long day already,” I said, by way of an excuse.
“Hey, don’t worry! I also design the menu and do the shopping at the local markets, so I know how long days can be. If I’m not down in PV—that’s what we all call Puerto Vallarta around here, saves us a lot of time in a day,” he grinned, “if I’m not there by 6:00 AM, I’m not gonna get the best stuff, so I’m up and at ’em every day.” He looked proud.
“And what sort of dishes appear on your menu, Tony?”
“Depends on what’s good, and what’s freshest, of course,” he replied, “but today we’ll be having . . . hang on a minute.” He scrabbled in the deep pocket in the front of his apron. “Here you go, today’s menu. All small plates, you understand. Open 5:00 PM to 11:00 PM, daily.”
The young chef handed me a grubby piece of paper upon which he’d scribbled, almost illegibly, “Roasted ancho, or green tomatillo, salsa with blue corn chips; red snapper ceviche; smoked mussel ceviche tostadas; barbequed pork quesadilla; mushroom empanadas; chicken mole tamales; hahas.” I was familiar with most of the items that were listed.
“I didn’t realize I was so hungry.” I smiled, as my tummy rumbled aloud. “What’s a ‘haha’? I don’t think I’ve heard of them.”
Tony smiled. “The FOGTTs love them. Sort of a coconut, pecan, and chocolate macaroon, and they’re rich, small, and very popular with coffee. I won’t be making them for a couple of hours yet. Will you come to eat, or at least nibble, this evening?”
With my mouth watering, and the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen making things even worse, I realized that I didn’t have a plan. Not a clue about what I was doing, or where, when, or what I was going to eat. It also occurred to me that I was going to be hunkering down in the house of someone who’d left their place for the summer and hadn’t expected any guests, so there might not be so much as a bottle of water in Henry’s place. Damn and blast! I should have thought ahead and brought supplies.
As I stood there, silently accusing myself of rank stupidity and imagining the pathetic little cardboard-flavored chicken wrap I’d stuffed into my pocket, both of the huge doors behind me flew open and a voice bellowed, “Where’s Juan? Tony—have you seen Juan?”
I turned and was confronted by a huge figure, black against the brilliant sunlight outside.
“They should bring back the death penalty. It’s disgusting that they can get away with this sort of thing! Where’s Juan?” Bossy voice, booming—someone used to getting their own way.
As my eyes adjusted, and the figure stepped forward, I recognized the large woman dressed in orange I’d seen outside the florist’s store earlier in the day.
“I’m sorry, Dorothea,” said Tony, fluttering to the woman’s side, “I haven’t seen him all day. But it is Sunday, so he’d probably be in church, or at home . . .”
I took another look at Dorothea. She towered over me, at about six feet to my five three—five four on a tall day—and was proportionately large in every way: a big orange hat was stuffed onto a headful of red curls; a voluminous, full-length orange cheesecloth dress was gathered beneath her huge bust. Her flabby, heavily freckled arms were bare—not a good look—and, below puffy ankles, her feet were encased in, of all things, gold ballet flats. She looked like one of those wobbling toys that’s never supposed to fall down . . . though she looked alarmingly top-heavy and seemed to teeter on her tiny feet.
As I was sizing up Dorothea, it seemed she was doing the same to me.
“Who are you?” she asked imperiously, peering at me over her sunglasses.
“Cait. Cait Morgan.” The peering was working. I felt intimidated.
“Well, Cait, that’s nice for you. Why are you here? Those your bags outside? Staying somewhere here? Friends with one of the FOGTTs? Have you seen Juan? Do you even know who he is?”
It was like being fired at by a machine gun. I decided to give as good as I’d got.
“Vacation. Yes. Casa LaLa. Henry Douglas is a friend of a friend. No, and no.”
I smiled as sweetly as I could when sh
e seemed taken aback.
She gave me a look that informed me she was ignoring me. “So, Tony, no sign of Juan? We have to get hold of him. Can’t you phone him?”
“You know he never answers the cell phone he has, and you know his house doesn’t have a phone,” replied Tony, as patiently as a saint. “Why do you need him . . . on his one day off?”
Dorothea gave me a sideways glance. “There’s news he must hear. Not good news. Haven’t you heard?” She seemed incredulous.
Tony shifted uncomfortably. “No, Dorothea, I haven’t heard anything. You know that Sundays are busy for me. I’ve been out at the market, then in the kitchen all morning. What’s happened?” His patience seemed to be wearing thin.
I judged Dorothea to be a woman who would always want to be whispering some tasty tidbit of gossip to a confidante—loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear.
As she planned her next words, she brushed imaginary motes from her arm and adjusted her hat. She was preening.
“It’s awful. Juan’s daughter, Margarita. Dead.” She uttered her final word with all the dramatic import you’d expect from a Wagnerian diva, shaking her head tragically, her arms falling limply to her sides, as lifeless as the woman about whom she was speaking.
“What? Margarita? Dead?” Tony sounded shocked. “What happened?”
Dorothea took off her sunglasses and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m not sure I should talk about it in front of a stranger.” Her gaze was not kind. Her face made me think of a frowning pug.
I sensed a critical moment. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m just leaving,” I said, as pleasantly as I could. “I’m going to be here for the next week, Dorothea, so if this tragedy is a local one, I’m sure I’ll hear all about it from someone else.” I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.
She gave it a split second’s thought and took the bait. “You’re right, so you both might as well hear it from me.” Dorothea drew conspiratorially close to us. I noticed that she wasn’t just completely outfitted in orange, but she actually smelled of the fruit too. Weird.
“It’s terrible. Godawful. Don’t panic, my dear,” she said, looking down at me, and even daring to pat me on the shoulder, “they’ve got the guy who did it. She had her throat slit, poor woman. He just walked into her store, bold as you like, in broad daylight, and slit her throat. Serena saw him do it. And Al and Miguel caught him red-handed. Literally. He was covered in poor Margarita’s blood. Oh my sweet Lord. Just awful.”
“You say someone saw a man slit this Margarita’s throat?” I couldn’t help but jump in.
“Well, as good as,” replied Dorothea grudgingly. “Serena opened the door to Margarita’s place and there he was, strangling her on the floor.”
“I thought you said he cut her throat?” Tony seemed confused.
“Yes. And he strangled her.” Dorothea spoke with authority.
“Who is he? Why would anyone want to kill Margarita? Let alone cut her throat and strangle her?” Tony was asking all the questions I wanted answered myself. Excellent.
Dorothea looked annoyed. “I don’t know who he is.” She sounded terribly disappointed. “No one’s seen him around before, and Miguel told us he didn’t say anything. Nothing at all. He’d been in Bob’s Bodega just before he did it. There he asked, in Spanish, for roses. Which Bob didn’t have, of course. The man picked up some beers, some chocolate bars, some chips, paid in cash, and left. Seems he went right into Margarita’s store next door and killed her, just like that. Oh, by the way, dear,” Dorothea addressed me directly, “just so you know, Margarita is the daughter of the guy who looks after all the agave plants here, our jimador.” She emphasized the H sound at the beginning of the word—even her breath smells of oranges. “Margarita’s a florist . . . well, I guess you’d call her a plantswoman, really. Lovely girl. Real green thumb, you know the type. Can grow anything. And she did great flowers. Did that arrangement over there, in fact.” As she made her surprisingly generous comments, she waved her arm toward a tall, slim vase holding one perfect Bird of Paradise flower, a palm frond, and some stones. It didn’t look as though it would take an enormous artistic talent to put those elements together, but I reasoned that maybe simplicity was a virtue.
“I can’t believe it. She was just here—yesterday,” said Tony, shaking his head. “She brought over her accounts for Callie to work on last night. I know that Margarita and Juan didn’t get along, but this’ll hit him. She’s still his daughter, after all. Hey—I’d better call Callie. She’s got a meeting with another of her accountancy clients down in PV this afternoon, so she won’t have heard. It’d be best if she got the news from me. Callie and Margarita get . . . got along real well. Oh, this is awful. My poor wife’ll be beside herself. So, what’s the full story, Dorothea? Callie’s bound to ask. When did all this happen?”
“Eleven. Almost on the dot. Terrible,” replied Dorothea, pushing an escaping curl of suspiciously red hair under her hat.
Luckily, given that I wasn’t supposed to know what had happened, I managed to stop myself from telling her that everything had kicked off just after noon—I heard the clock strike twelve myself. I began to wonder why Dorothea would lie about Margarita’s time of death. My thought process was interrupted by the arrival of two more people I’d spotted at the crime scene: the tall, thin man in the Tilley hat and the short, slim woman who’d greeted him so warmly outside the florist’s store. They entered the restaurant together, and rather less dramatically than the flamboyant Dorothea.
“Ah, you’re here, Dorothea. Of course,” said the woman.
“Yes, Ada. I thought Juan might be here. He should be told what’s happened.”
“I see . . .” said Ada. She looked at me and offered her hand. “Hello, I’m Ada Taylor, and this is my husband, Frank. Are you, umm . . . ?” Her non-question hung in the air.
I shook her hand—cool skin, well moisturized, firm grip; she smells of a light, floral scent. I smiled. “I’m Cait Morgan. I’m going to be staying at Casa LaLa, Henry’s place, for a week.” I was getting quite used to using my unknown host’s name.
“Nice to meet you. Though what a day you’ve chosen to arrive,” replied Ada. She gave Dorothea a sideways glance and added, “I expect you’ve heard the bad news?” Her expression told me she was in no doubt about my answer, and her accent had already informed me that she was Canadian.
I nodded. “Yes. It sounds awful. Though Dorothea here was just telling us that the police have got their man. Do you know where they’ve taken him?” I had to take this chance to find out what I could.
Ada opened her mouth to reply, but Dorothea jumped in before she had a chance to utter a word. “Off to the local cells, Miguel said. Came into Bob’s Bodega all flustered, saying they’d have to keep him there for a few days. He didn’t like the idea of working extra hours to keep an eye on the murdering . . .” She paused and shook her head, as if to rid herself of the expletive she’d mentally managed to delete. “Apparently, some major drug thing went down this morning, and all the prisons from here to Guadalajara are full of gun runners, drug dealers, and the like. Hang the lot of ’em, I say. Though hanging’s too good for some. They’ve completely spoiled the country for people like us.”
“You have a point, Dorothea, but maybe they’ve spoiled it even more for the Mexicans themselves?” responded Ada quietly. “They’re the ones who really suffer. We can all come and go as we please, after all. This is their home, dear.”
Dorothea shrugged, as though the undeniable problem that Mexico faces when it comes to drug-running, and the terrible violence that accompanies it, was designed to specifically inconvenience her, and her alone.
“Hey, we don’t talk about all that stuff, right, Ada?” said Frank Taylor. He’d removed his Tilley hat to reveal an almost bald head, which still sported a crescent of well-trimmed gray hair. He wiped the top of his head with his free hand, then held it out toward me. I hesitated for a moment before shaking it warmly. Firm sha
ke, kind brown eyes, a rather officious, outdoorsy air, and an incongruous whiff of cigars.
“Hello, Frank. Nice to meet you.” I smiled. “So why aren’t the local cells full of the drug-runners?” I wasn’t going to be sidetracked, so I looked directly at Dorothea as I spoke.
“Oh, it’s too old. Quite cute, but old.” Dorothea’s reply was intriguing.
“What Dorothea means to say,” added Frank, “is that we have some municipal jail cells in our very own police station, which, unusually, is housed within our very own town hall. I don’t know how much Henry’s told you about our little haven, but it’s got quite the unique history you know—”
“Oh, come on now, Frank,” interrupted his wife. “Cait’s obviously come here on vacation. Let the poor woman get on with it. I’m sure she doesn’t want one of your lectures on Punta de las Rocas’s history. Want a hand to Henry’s place with those bags you’ve got outside? How long are you staying, by the way?”
I decided to go with the flow of the conversation, for the moment. “Oh, just a week,” I replied.
“All that baggage outside for a week!” replied Frank. Ada gave him a sideways glance that clearly communicated, “Don’t be so rude!” Frank had the good manners to look sheepish.
I didn’t have to respond, because our group was joined by yet another arrival. And this was someone I was relieved and terrified, in equal measure, to see.
The policeman I’d come to think of as Big Al entered the restaurant. No longer in his fancy uniform, his light gray pants and short-sleeved, crisp white shirt seemed much more practical, though his heavy gun belt and the glittering gold epaulets on his shirt definitely marked him out as law enforcement. He was hatless, and pulled off his sunglasses as he walked in.
He stopped just inside the doors, allowing them to close behind him. He squinted for a moment, then nodded to each of us. As his gaze rested upon me, I noticed a puzzled expression pass over his face like a shadow. “I can’t find Juan. Any of you guys seen him?” His voice was a light tenor, not unpleasant. What was most surprising was his accent—not a hint of Spanish about it. As I took in his appearance, I noted other unusual features: his hair was fine and light, his eyes were a definite green, and he had excellent even, white teeth. I put him in his mid-thirties. Really not a bad looking guy, if you like that sort of thing . . . very young, of course. But that accent? Those eyes? How could a municipal cop in Mexico look and sound so American? I was beginning to realize how un-Mexican the whole place felt. I reminded myself that this was a hacienda owned by a group of ex-pat investors, but, surely, the cops would be locals?
