The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

by Cathy Ace

  Al pulled up in front of Margarita’s store. “Do you want to go inside?” he asked Juan in Spanish. Juan’s gruff dismissal needed no translation.

  “I’ll pick you up here later,” said Al, as I hauled myself out of the car. I nodded and waved, then headed for Bob’s Bodega. I pulled open the glass door and walked in. Bob was behind the counter, and Maria was arranging bottles of sunscreen on a shelf. They greeted me like an old friend.

  I cast my eyes about. There was a wooden double door in the back wall of the store. One side had stacks of boxes in front of it; the other was clearly kept free for access to the back lane. The entire store was open to the public, so nowhere for either of them to change out of blood-soaked clothing, unless they’d done it in the lane behind the store, which Rutilio would have seen from his vantage point. It was what I was afraid of, but, in a way, I was pleased. I didn’t want either of these warm, round little people to be on my list of possible suspects anymore, and now they weren’t. I explained that I’d just popped in to say hello because I was going to have something to eat at Rutilio’s, and they waved me happily on my way.

  As I rounded the end of the building, I decided to walk along the lane. I had no reason to creep, but I did. Margarita’s van was parked where she’d left it. It certainly wasn’t a hybrid, but it was a curious shape. Walking closer I realized it had a refrigeration unit on the roof. Of course, she’d want to transport her precious flowers in a chilled environment. I examined the door at the back of her store. It sat flush within the wall, its edges a bit dented, and a few black scuff marks bore testament to its use. There was no lock, or handle, so there was no way of opening the door from the outside. It was clear that Margarita would have had to open it from inside the refrigerated unit, which meant it didn’t present a security risk, but also meant that it didn’t offer a viable entry point for the killer. Unless the victim herself had opened this door from inside the store for her killer to enter by—which seemed very unlikely to me—they must have gone in through the front door. But no one did! Damn!

  The little door was set into the wall about a foot off the ground, and was itself about four feet tall. As I’d observed the night before, it was narrow, no more than eighteen inches wide. Al had needed to duck and turn sideways to get through it. I guessed it was just about right to load in flowers in buckets without allowing too much cold air to escape, hence the step at the bottom—that’s where all the cold air goes when you open a fridge door: it literally falls out onto the floor. Again, Margarita’s attention to detail at work; she must have had the unit specially designed.

  I walked toward Serena Spa. The back door was wedged wide open, and the rear entrance was covered with a beaded curtain, which swayed in the ocean breeze. I peeped inside. The spa smelled awful: a mixture of potent aromas, none of which were pleasant. I could see through to the front of the store and could hear Serena singing to herself. To the left, against the back wall of the building, there was a small room with a massage table inside. I guessed that was where Dorothea had been at the time of the murder, though I wondered how the relatively small table had coped with her size. A narrow corridor led to the front, and I supposed that was where Ada had been. Either of them could have left without the other one knowing if the door to the massage room had been closed, which I reasoned it would be when in use.

  Finally, I turned toward the sea, heading for the front of Rutilio’s Restaurant, and I was rewarded with a waft of ocean air that cooled and refreshed me. Even my eyelids were sweating, so I took off my sunglasses and wiped them dry. I was glad I hadn’t bothered with makeup that morning. What was the point?

  It was a beautiful view. Seagulls swooped in the luminous blue sky, the surf made its siren call as it caressed the shoreline about twenty feet away, and I could feel the healing and rejuvenating power of the ozone in the air. I should be sharing this with Bud!

  “Ah, Cait Morgan! Cait Morgan?”

  I wiped my eyes again, but this time not because they were sweating. I pushed my sunglasses on and observed the man who was hurrying toward me. Miguel was shorter than me, and fatter. He puffed as he rushed. He was holding out his hand in greeting and smiling broadly. Although he was a heavy man, his gun belt was buckled at the tightest hole, his pants were way too big for him, and the collar and shoulders of his shirt were loose. You’ve lost a fair bit of weight since you started wearing that uniform.

  “Hello, hello, I am Officer Miguel,” he said, shaking my hand with both of his. “Come, come. Captain Alfredo said you would be hungry. My brother will feed us.” He waved me toward a seat at a table that was just outside the now fully-opened glass front of the restaurant, beneath the shade of a jolly red parasol. I sat facing the glittering sea, delighting in the breeze and noticing, as yesterday, that clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  The gaily striped tablecloths, the painted wooden chairs, even the plastic lobsters on the walls looked so much better in the sunlight. The piped mariachi music was the same as the night before, but it seemed more tuneful by day, less dissonant and mournful.

  “You have returned! How wonderful!” It was Rutilio.

  Seeing the two brothers together merely highlighted that there can be huge differences in terms of what can come out of one gene pool.

  “This is my brother, you know. My little brother,” announced Miguel proudly. “He is so handsome, so clever with food. He is a great businessman. He is the best little brother in the world.” He beamed with genuine affection at Rutilio, who puffed out his chest and basked in the compliments. The expression on Rutilio’s face exactly matched that of the huge neon sign that stood at the end of the building. The sign, which was a giant version of the chef’s face, was as tall as the man himself, and it showed him beaming with pride. They’d even done a pretty good job with the teeth, though I imagined that the local fishermen might have a point when they said that the giant fluorescent face frightened the fish after dark.

  For the second time I looked at Rutilio’s huge menu. I was so hungry I felt I could eat everything listed, but I settled for a snapper salad, which seemed to be the only item that didn’t feature some sort of wrap, shell, or tortilla chip. I didn’t want to fill myself up with that stuff. I also declined beer in favor of bottled water. Clear head, Cait!

  Miguel offered me one of the local cigarettes, which I declined as politely as I could. He eagerly accepted one of mine, which he found extraordinary: he’d never seen the super-slims that I favor. He dragged hard and smoked almost half the thing in two puffs. He smiled politely, but it was clear that he thought I was mad to smoke them, especially when I explained that they cost the same as regular cigarettes. He had clearly expected them to be only half as much, since they are just half the size of normal cigarettes.

  I was keen to get past the chit-chat and find out what Miguel knew about Margarita, but it seemed he was desperate to tell me about the devil that he and Al had arrested for her killing. Miguel had apparently been charged with keeping an eye on Bud earlier that morning, and he took great delight in describing how he’d stared Bud down. Yes, right!

  I had to get him to talk about what I wanted to know, and I thought that the arrival of the food would give me the chance. What I hadn’t counted on was that Rutilio didn’t just bring the food—he decided to take a break and sit with us, munching on a giant burrito as he did so.

  We ate in silence for a few moments, then I said to Rutilio, “Al told me you were in the lane behind the flower shop yesterday, Rutilio. I expect you were glad that your brother was on the scene too, or you might have had to get involved yourself.”

  Rutilio wiped his lips with his napkin and smiled. Unfortunately, the refried beans from his burrito were still smeared across his huge teeth. “Yes, my brother captured the man. He is a hero. Me? I was here, in my kitchen, my other home. I could hear screaming, so I ran. What could I do? I would have done more, but my brother had done it all. By the time I arrived, he had the man. And we are all grateful for him. Our mother
kissed him last night.”

  “Yes, she did,” chimed in Miguel. “Usually she only kisses Rutilio, because he is the baby, but last night she kissed me too. It was as though I was the pretty baby.” He laughed and slapped his leg. Interesting.

  “So you didn’t see anything, before you heard the screams?” I directed my question at Rutilio, but it was Miguel who answered.

  “What would he see? The devil was in the bodega, then he went to kill her. He was never behind her store, only in the front.”

  “Yes, this is true,” said Rutilio. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged it off. “Oh, I’m just trying to get the full picture, you know, who saw what, who was where when it happened.”

  “But why?” asked Rutilio.

  “Because I wondered if the killer might have said something to someone that might explain his actions.”

  “He said ‘No police’ to Serena,” said Miguel.

  “He did?” Rutilio and I spoke in unison. We each sounded as surprised as the other.

  Miguel nodded. “Yes, this is what she told me when I helped her. She told me he looked at her with his evil eyes and threatened her. ‘No police,’ he hissed. That’s what she told me.”

  “So he speaks English?” asked Rutilio.

  “At least that much,” replied Miguel. “I told this to Captain Alfredo this morning when I remembered it, but he does not think that is much to go on, though he believes the man might understand enough English that we always speak in Spanish in front of him, if we have to speak at all.”

  “He might speak Spanish too,” I said. Miguel and Rutilio both smiled. “Why are you smiling?” I asked.

  “Not many non-Mexicans speak Spanish,” said Rutilio. He shook his head. I decided to let his comment pass.

  “So no one saw, or heard, anything that might suggest why this man killed Margarita?” I said, then sipped my water. Both men shook their heads. Nothing.

  “So what about Margarita herself? What can you tell me about her?”

  “She was a good woman,” said Rutilio.

  Miguel nodded. “She was a hard worker,” he added.

  They applied themselves to their food, shaking their head in disbelief at the loss of a woman they clearly had hardly known at all.

  Timing Is Everything

  I DECIDED THAT I’D ALLOW the brothers their chance to enjoy their food, but my mind was whirring as I nibbled my fish and leaves. The fish was well cooked, and the dressing on the salad was heavy, but tasty. I took a moment to observe the other patrons and noted that the fare of wrapped, rolled, fried, and crunchy dishes was being eaten with gusto all around me. The same two girls who’d been serving the night before were chatting and bringing food to the tables. I wondered who was preparing the food, given that Chef Rutilio was sitting right in front of me.

  “Do you have an assistant?” I asked. I thought it was an innocent enough question, and I certainly didn’t expect the reaction it drew from the brothers.

  Rutilio stood up, pushing back his chair so hard that it fell over, causing quite a stir among his customers. Miguel buried his face in his hands and started shaking his head. I was confused.

  “An assistant? You think I need an assistant to run my business?” Rutilio waved his arm around his domain. He seemed incensed. He’d gone from cheery and chatty to incandescently angry in a heartbeat. Wow! “I need no help! I am Rutilio. I make the menu. I make the food. I am this restaurant!” I half expected him to start beating his chest.

  Customers began to look as alarmed as I felt. The two serving girls giggled nervously and started to attend to their tables, fussing and calming their patrons. Miguel motioned to his brother to sit and be quiet. I glugged my water. What was all that about?

  Rutilio picked up his chair and sat with us again. He nodded at his brother, then said to me, “I am sorry, Cait. It is not your fault. You did not know what you said.” He wasn’t wrong.

  Miguel continued in this calming, conciliatory vein as he whispered, “My brother is finding the business difficult at the moment. It will pass. He is an excellent chef. The bank—they think he should close the place. Or else have somebody buy into the business with him. But he is a hard-working man, my baby brother—” he smiled at his sibling indulgently, “and he has a plan. He is open here now for more hours than before, so he has more customers. The business, it is looking better, but our mother, she worries about him. He works so much, she thinks he needs help. Not just the girls to serve, but a helper in the kitchen. She has been . . . talking about it to him for a while, but he says he can do this alone. Mothers worry; this is their job. And our mother has always worried so much about Rutilio. All his jobs in the past have not worked out well. People did not understand that he needed to have authority, and to be creative, as he is here with his food, so they made life difficult for him. But now he has found his place. Of course, we have helped him all we can, and we understand that it takes time for a restaurant to work out. But the bank? They are not family. So now he must work even harder. My poor brother only managed to get to bed a couple of hours before he had to return here this morning. We all know how hard he is trying, but it has been very difficult for us all since my sweet Angélica Rosa was taken.”

  Throughout Miguel’s loving testimonial to his brother’s work ethic, Rutilio munched and nodded his head sadly. I detected the smell of burning martyrs wafting across the table, and wondered about the extent to which the family had supported this much-loved son, who was, apparently, sadly misunderstood by all. I also wondered why he hadn’t gotten to his bed earlier the night before. All he’d had to do after Al and I left was brush down the grill, which couldn’t have taken that long. I suspected that Rutilio was not quite the man his brother thought him to be.

  Our little group became silent, and the rest of the customers settled down again. It seemed that the normal balance had returned. Rutilio finished his food, rose, took his leave, then returned with his a tray of tequila bottles and glasses. You’re kidding!

  “Last night, you were tired, and you had to rush off with Alfredo; it is understandable that you could not drink with me. But today? Today you are the Canadian on vacation again. Let us drink!”

  Obviously Rutilio thought that being hospitable toward me and pouring tequila down my throat were synonymous. I couldn’t do it. Bud was depending on me. I looked at my watch and stood up. Miguel looked confused.

  “I’m sorry, Rutilio, you are very kind to offer, but I have to go to Margarita’s store, and then to the police station. Until we discover who this evil murderer is I cannot rest.”

  Although he looked disappointed, Rutilio deflated with grace. “But of course. I know this is important to Alfredo. We can drink and celebrate when he has handed this devil to the Federales.” He gave a little bow and took his tray of bottles back to the bar.

  “There will be nothing to pay,” said Miguel, as I hovered, uncertain what to do next.

  “But I must pay,” I said. I didn’t want to be in debt to Rutilio for anything.

  “He is my brother, you are my guest. It is normal. Do not question him about this.” Miguel was being as firm as I could imagine it was possible for him to be. No wonder Rutilio’s not making any money. “You said you wanted to go to Margarita’s store?” Miguel asked. I nodded. “Let us go. Then I will take you to the office, where you can meet up with Captain Alfredo.”

  I knew very well that Al had said he’d meet me at Rutilio’s place, but I needed to get away from the man and his attempts to get me to drink, so I gathered my bits and pieces, shoved everything into my purse, and strode off toward Margarita’s store once more. I was glad to move. The shade of the red parasol under which we’d been eating had been helpful, but the humidity was beginning to build, and the sea breezes seemed to have died down. I felt less than fresh, and walking at least allowed me to move through the air, cooling me down a little.

  It was only once we were standing in front of the door to the flower shop that it occurred
to me to ask Miguel if he had a key. He looked hurt that I’d asked, but I thought it a reasonable question. He pulled open the door and stepped aside to allow me to walk in. As soon as I did so, I knew something was wrong. Even without the benefit of man-made lighting, I could see that the little shop, so neat and tidy the night before when I’d visited with Al, had been completely trashed. I gasped, which made Miguel panic.

  When he switched on the lights, and we both stood where Margarita had lain, the destruction was painfully obvious. Flowers, buckets of water, and unrolled spools of colored ribbon and tape were all strewn about the place. A neat row of albums that had been sitting on a shelf above Margarita’s workbench had also been flung on the floor. The dead woman’s photographs were now all puddled with water, stomped on, curled and ruined. A copy of a local newspaper with the headline “Beware Girls,” warning of the next Rose Killer cycle, was crumpled in a corner, soaked and, ironically, strewn with roses.

  “Who would do this?” asked Miguel plaintively.

  “I’m guessing whoever wanted Margarita’s photographic equipment,” I replied. I nodded toward the empty space beneath the workbench. “She had a lot of black cases and containers stored under there. I saw them when I was here with Al last night. Now they’re all gone.” Interesting.

  “I must tell Captain Alfredo,” said Miguel, sounding alarmed. “He will know what to make of this.”

  “Maybe you could also check if Bob and Maria heard anything?” I said, as Miguel pulled out his phone. He nodded, looking grim.

  I wondered what Al would make of this. He believed he had Margarita’s killer in a cell at his police station. I wondered who he might think had drugged the Booths and stolen Margarita’s cameras. I added the search that had been made of my temporary digs to that list of mysteries, but I couldn’t tell Al about that. Not now. The only time to tell him would have been when he collected me that morning, and that ship had sailed. As Miguel stepped outside to make his call, I took my chance to survey the damage in more detail. I didn’t want to interfere with the crime scene, but so long as I didn’t touch anything, and I tiptoed between bits of debris, I didn’t think there was much I could do to spoil this one.