by Cathy Ace
Al looked less concerned. I suspected that, like me, he was registering the dislike this couple had for the dead woman as more a reflection of their own values than of Margarita’s. I decided to probe a little further.
“What do you mean, she kept secrets?” This could be fertile territory.
Again the couple chattered to each other. Half sentences, not needing to finish them.
This time Maria spoke, more gently than her husband. “It is difficult to say. But she always looked like a woman who knew something that she was not going to share. A look in her eyes that said ‘I know,’ but she did not say what she knew.” Interesting.
“Can you give me an example of what you mean?” I needed to know if Maria had really seen Margarita say, or do, something that might have given someone cause to be afraid of her knowledge.
This time the couple didn’t confer; they said “Si” simultaneously, then laughed. Bob gestured that his wife should speak first.
“One day last week she was inside our bodega when Greg arrived. You know Greg?” she asked.
“I haven’t met him yet, but I know of him,” I replied quickly.
She nodded her understanding. “He arrived at the bodega in a hurry. He needed some snacks for people who were coming to his house, and he came to us. He likes that we have a very good supplier of nuts, and, having been a nut farmer for most of his life, he is very fussy.” I could feel myself wondering where this story would go. “He was paying Bob, and he said that it was a good thing that he could come to us to provide supplies he could rely on for good quality, and Margarita said she knew how important good, reliable quality was to him. But she said it in a way that I didn’t think she meant snacks. Her eyes, her expression. She was saying something she was not saying. This is what I mean.” Very interesting.
Bob spoke up. “It was the same one day when we were outside the store closing the doors at night. She had come back to her place for something and asked if she could get some milk. Of course we opened the door and gave her the milk. As we were locking the door again, Dorothea walked by, on the way to her car, I think, and Margarita held the milk to the sky and said, very loudly, ‘Milk from the local animals, you cannot do better. The best quality, very fresh. Local milk, local cow.’ Dorothea laughed a funny laugh and went on her way. Margarita had a face that was sly when she spoke this way. She was mean. She kept secrets. And she did not go to church except when Miguel’s daughter died. She attended the Requiem Mass with Miguel that day, but it was unusual for her.”
Al looked puzzled and silently chewed on the end of the straw that poked out of his glass of water.
“And you say that she’d been spiteful since she was a child?” I asked. I had to keep going.
A quick conference resulted in Bob replying, “Yes, but maybe this is understandable. It was very sad when her mother and her brothers died. When she went back to school, the children were very mean to her. One of our boys was in school at the same time. He was older than Margarita, and he tried to stand up for her when some of the others made fun of her scar. But she beat our boy, who was helping her, then told him he was to leave her alone. He tried to help her again, another time, but again she turned against him. We spoke to him about it, but our boy said she did not want to be helped. So it went her whole life. Margarita never asked anyone for help. She did everything for herself, by herself. That is not good. In life you need family and friends. She needed a husband. It was sad, but she was a very lonely person because she chose plants, not people.”
It appeared that Al could be silent no longer. “She had some friends, Roberto. I think that Margarita and I were friendly, and Callie and she were good friends.” I didn’t dare frown at him. If it had been Bud butting in, I would have done.
Maria smiled. “Ah, Callie Booth. She is a nice girl. Very young, very modern. She is from America, where they do not lead very religious lives. Maybe this is why they were close.”
I could see that the couple was getting a bit restive, and I suspected that running the bodega meant that their days began early. Also, Rutilio was sending our food from the grill, but I wanted to ask one more question.
“This has all been most helpful,” I said, “but I have one more question. If your name is Roberto, why is your store called Bob’s Bodega?”
The couple giggled in unison. Maria covered her face and slapped her husband on the arm.
Bob raised his hands in mock submission. “Ah, that is me.” He grinned. “It costs less to have the man paint ‘Bob’ rather than ‘Roberto’ on the sign. We saved a little money,” he leaned toward me and whispered, “. . . and it makes the foreigners feel happier to come into the store, I think. They like that I am ‘Bob.’”
As our food arrived, the little couple took their cue to leave. Al insisted that their coffee was to be our treat, and they happily went on their way as I tucked into my mixed grill, which, in Rutilio’s Restaurant, comprised a chicken breast, a pork chop, a small steak, a skewer of grilled peppers and mushrooms, and a couple of pieces of grilled sweet corn. I was really hungry!
Eating didn’t allow much chance to talk, and it was clear that Al was as famished as I was. We both sat there, eating quickly and silently, nodding and smiling occasionally as the food on our plates disappeared, and I gradually began to feel more human. After about fifteen minutes, both our plates were empty, and a young girl wearing a full red skirt and a white, peasant-style blouse whisked them away. I realized I’d hardly touched my margarita, and I could see that the ice had almost completely melted. The guests at the outside tables were starting to drift away. It was gone ten o’clock.
“Let’s take our drinks outside and smoke,” suggested Al.
“We have to smoke outside?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. I don’t think there’s anywhere left on the planet where you can smoke inside a restaurant.
Al smiled. “We only have to move to the next table.”
He rose, and I followed. He offered me a chair, which I accepted. I sipped my drink. It was still cold enough for me, because I’m not a big lover of icy drinks—my European upbringing is to blame for that—but it was strong. Too strong. And sharp. A lime margarita would not have been my choice.
“Good, right?” asked Al.
I decided to be honest. “It’s a bit acidic for me, and it’s very strong.”
Al grinned. “I guess Rutilio was a bit heavy-handed with the tequila because you’re such a special guest.”
“Is yours as strong?” I asked. Al had already knocked back two drinks that looked to be the same as the one I was sipping at.
Again Al smiled his slightly lopsided grin. “I might be of mixed race, but when it comes to tequila, I am Mexican through and through. It might sound terrible, but I was drinking tequila when I was very young. I would slip off with my father to the bars where he played his guitar—I told you he was a mariachi player of some note, and that is how my mother met him. Did you know that mariachi was invented in Jalisco State?” I nodded that I had known that little nugget. “When we were in the bars I would drink tequila with water. Just the young tequila, not the very strong stuff, of course, because I was just a child. My father and mother would argue about it. It stood me in good stead when I went to university.” As he reminisced, he drew deeply on his cigarette and smiled warmly. “The number of drinking games I won, the number of times I beat someone at a game of pool because the other guy was so drunk—it made me some money, my ability to drink tequila. Maybe you think that’s very bad of me?” His eyes twinkled.
“Not really,” I replied. “I’m Welsh. The Scots have Scotch, the Irish have Guinness, the English have bitter, but the Welsh don’t really have a national drink, which, I think, is because we’ll drink anything and everything, so long as there’s a lot of it. The Welsh tend to drink quite a lot, Al, we just don’t make a song and dance of it. Well,” I corrected myself, “maybe we do make a bit of a song of it, because hymns and rugby anthems are likely to be sung when enough has been
drunk, but that’s about it.” I decided that knocking back the margarita was the only graceful way I was going to get myself a more pleasant drink. As I did just that, Rutilio appeared at our table.
“Good meal?” he asked. Al and I praised his abilities at the grill, as he drew up a chair and made himself comfortable. He waved as patrons left their tables, and two young girls cleared around us, obviously used to their tasks. I suspected they were the previously wayward sisters of Serena the Screamer, as I found myself thinking of her. It made me smile.
Rutilio called to one of the girls in Spanish, “Bring the bottles.” She did. The tray she bore looked alarming: a dozen empty shot glasses and four of the stubby, dimpled bottles I’d seen at Tony’s restaurant earlier in the day.
Rutilio opened one of the bottles with clear liquid in it. “And now, as my guest, Cait Morgan, you will learn about tequila,” he said. “We will begin with this, the youngest. I am guessing, like most visitors, you know nothing about tequila?” It seemed he was keen to teach me, and I felt my heart sink. I don’t need this; I need to get my head around what I’m learning about Margarita.
As Rutilio filled three glasses from the bottle, Al’s cellphone rang. He answered, listened, said “Si” a few times, finally clamped it shut, and popped it back into its little holster. He stood and said, “I must go. It is Tony and Callie. They have been found. They are back at their apartment. Callie had a minor accident in her car, and Tony went to collect her. She is not hurt, which is good. She was upset by the news about Margarita and lost control on the highway. It sounds as though her car is in bad shape. She wants to talk to me. About something Margarita said to her. Tony says she is getting herself cleaned up. I must go. Do you want to come, Cait?”
The words “pope” and “Catholic” flew across my mind, but I managed to edit that and said aloud, “Absolutely! Sorry, Rutilio, maybe I can come back some other time to learn about tequila?”
Rutilio leaped to his feet and bowed with mock gallantry. “Anytime you like. But I have poured these glasses now, so raise them with me, and here’s to a safe journey and a good meeting.” He picked up one shot glass, Al picked up another, and I felt I had no choice but to pick up the remaining one. The two men didn’t knock back their drinks, but, instead, took down the liquid in two savoring mouthfuls. I did likewise, my lips burning, then my tongue, then my throat. Tequila’s really not my thing.
I forced a smile as I thanked Rutilio for a wonderful meal. Al insisted upon settling up, and as he paid, he winked at Rutilio and asked in Spanish, “What, no flower for the lady?”
Rutilio shrugged and replied gruffly, in his mother tongue, “It is the summer. The season when the tourists are looking for a bargain, so they do not spend much money. That means I have to save every peso I can, so no flowers for the women until October when the rains stop, and the people with the money come back again.”
Al shrugged in response. As we left, he whistled a tune that had been playing on the loudspeakers at the restaurant, and lit a cigarette. I wasn’t at all convinced that he was in the best shape to drive, and I thought I’d be doing myself two favors if I could talk him into letting me see the crime scene. I decided to give it a go.
“Since we’re so close to Margarita’s store, is there any chance I could just take a quick look inside? I was thinking that I might gain some insights by seeing her place of work. I wouldn’t need long.” I dared a sweet smile, and Al hesitated. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’ll need. Or don’t you have the authority to open up the crime scene?” That should do it.
“Of course I have the authority,” replied Al huffily, “and I have the keys with me. I don’t have to hand them over to the Federales until they take the prisoner, so, yes, let’s go. I think it would be good for you to see Margarita’s store.” He strode off toward the building that housed the crime scene. Hurrah for ambition and pride!
Time to Smell the Roses
IT SURPRISED ME THAT THERE was no tape across the door to Margarita’s flower shop, but I was completely shocked when Al opened the door and turned on the lights. I’d expected a pool of blood to cover the floor, as I’d seen at the time of Bud’s discovery, but there was almost none.
“Where’s all the blood?” I asked. It seemed a reasonable question.
“Ah, yes,” replied Al, clearing his throat. “That was Miguel. After the photographers left, and Margarita’s body was gone, he collected the knife, which we found next to her, then, it seems, he decided to mop the floor. His brother brought him a bucket and brush. He thought it would prevent the flies from congregating. Miguel has been trained in crime scene preservation, but he found the blood . . . upsetting.”
I could tell by Al’s expression that he was feeling a mixture of emotions—embarrassment and anger were clearly uppermost, but I could also sense pity. It was clear that he indulged Miguel, to a certain extent, and I was pretty sure it was because of the man’s own recent tragic loss of a daughter. It’s an aspect of murder that I’ve become too familiar with—the way it completely changes the lives of all those left behind, and how they are treated by others. Right now the main reaction in the local community was shock, but I knew very well that once I managed to work out who had really killed Margarita, there would be more ramifications.
I allowed my eyes to adjust to the light. Margarita had installed low-energy directional lamps, the type that take time to reach full luminosity. When they do, they replicate daylight, without giving off too much heat, which is ideal for a floral store where color and temperature are critical elements. Obviously a woman for whom detail was important. The store was very small, and the whole room had been whitewashed. To the right was a workbench, allowing space to build arrangements; to the left was a small counter with a cash register. The rest of the room was almost entirely full of flowers in layered rows of buckets, all painted white, leaving very little floor space. My heart sank as I realized that there was no back door. The entire back wall housed a refrigerated unit with sliding double doors—the sort that holds drinks in grocery stores but, in this case, held more buckets, a few of which contained flowers. Damn and blast—I was counting on a back entrance!
The store was cool, but the smell was almost overpowering—a mixture of floral fragrances, which was to be expected, but there was an undertone of chemicals.
“Did Miguel use bleach when he cleaned?” I asked.
Al looked puzzled. “He didn’t say he did, but who knows?” He sounded exasperated.
“If he did, he’ll have compromised any blood forensics,” I said.
Al sighed. “I know, but that doesn’t matter, right? I have the guy.” He sounded testy. Careful, Cait. “What does this place tell you about Margarita?” I could tell that Al was beginning to get impatient with me, so I decided to “do my thing”—just a little bit.
“Okay, let’s see . . . her attention to detail is everywhere: the lighting, the temperature, the layout allowing her to see and access her entire stock, the white décor to allow the colors of the flowers to stand out, as well as her cleared workspace and her super storage ideas—see how she’s stacked photographic equipment underneath her workbench?” Al nodded as I pointed to the neatly piled black plastic cases. “She’s got schedules pasted to the wall: the planner shows she’s well organized and plans ahead, but it also shows that she has no personal time—the hours where work tasks are allocated run from 6:00 AM until 7:00 PM, and she has ‘home work’ planned in for the evenings. Margarita clearly lived to work, rather than working to live. One thing—I can see she had a wedding planned for the day after tomorrow at the Rocas Hermosas Resort, the name is Sullivan, and they ordered ‘24 rosas rojas con gyp,’ which I believe is red roses with gypsophila, or baby’s breath. Maybe you could get hold of the family and tell them they’ll need to make new plans?”
Al nodded and took out his notebook. “That’s thoughtful, good point,” he said, scribbling down the details and glancing at the wall planner.
“There
is nothing personal here. Everything is related to the plants, the flowers, the business, and her professions as a plantswoman and photographer. There are no photographs of her, or of her family members—dead or alive—and there isn’t even a mirror. This place is all business. She is all business. Her plants are her life. In fact, I get no sense of Margarita the person in this store, just Margarita the businesswoman.”
I took the five steps needed to get to the refrigerated units at the back of the shop and peered in. “Are these the type of roses that Margarita grew, or would she have ordered these at the market?” I nodded toward the two buckets of red, and one bucket of yellow, long-stemmed roses that were accompanied by a huge bucket full of baby’s breath.
Al smiled. “She didn’t grow those.” He looked around and spotted a photograph on the neat cork noticeboard. He pointed. “These are Margarita’s roses,” he said proudly.
The photograph showed pink, shrubby roses, with full, slightly nodding heads. Some canes were trained onto arches. It was as though I could smell them—a true rose scent.
“Constance Spry,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“It’s the name of the rose. Constance Spry, named after the famous English flower arranger. She was quite the woman in her day and really popularized the concept of floral arrangement as an art. How wonderful! Obviously Margarita knew her field: it was Constance Spry who changed how people thought about floral arrangements. She introduced unusual materials, containers, and shapes. She herself was very involved in the cultivation of old English roses, and when David Austin introduced his first English Rose in 1961, he named it after her. This is that rose: classic, a true rose pink, with a true rose scent. Beautiful.”
Al looked surprised. “You seem to know a great deal about roses, and those who arrange them,” he said quietly.
