The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

by Cathy Ace

  The moment I had seen the space where the cameras used to be, it seemed to confirm the possibility that Margarita had seen and photographed something that had put her in danger. It made sense. If someone had been seen in any sort of a compromising situation—with someone they shouldn’t have been with, or at a place they shouldn’t have been—they might have discovered that Margarita had found out and photographed them. Who knows, maybe she was even blackmailing them? Considering the scene again, it looked as though someone had been checking through Margarita’s photographs, discarding them as their search turned up empty. The photos on the floor were clearly not going to contain any incriminating images, because they’d been left behind by the searcher. As I looked at the images she’d captured, it was clear that Margarita favored nature over humanity: none of the photos showed any people, just seascapes, landscapes, the odd bird, bunches of flowers, and grasses bending in the breeze. Had the intruder taken the photographic equipment to access anything that Margarita had not yet printed out? That had to be it. It seemed more likely than ever that Margarita had some photo that someone wanted to get their hands on. I returned to the question of blackmail.

  Bob and Maria had been quite convincing when they described how Margarita would say odd things to people. Maybe that was the florist’s way of telling them she had something over them? Or maybe they already knew that, and she was being spiteful, pushing them as far as she could in public. The tragic loss of her family, estrangement from her father, terrible scarring, being bullied at school, and, if Bob and Maria were to be believed, an angry streak could all point to the sort of psychopathy that might lead a loner with a camera to become a voyeur with a fat bank balance. Margarita, indeed, bore all the hallmarks of a woman who could, quite easily, turn to blackmail. Or maybe she wasn’t in it for the money; maybe power was her motivating force.

  Without the opportunity to check through all the photo albums, or take the cameras, at the time of the murder, last night would have been the killer’s first chance to get the evidence out of the shop. I wondered where those cameras were at that moment. Possibly being pored over by a person desperate to make sure they had, indeed, collected all the evidence against them, or maybe at the bottom of the sea, having been tossed off a cliff somewhere along the coast.

  I told myself I was running away with the theory that Margarita was a malicious person maybe a little too far, and too fast. I had little real evidence to support it, other than the psychological picture I’d built up of the woman. A woman driven to succeed in order to fill the void she’d created in her own life by not trusting people, or giving them a chance to really get to know her. Hmm . . .

  “Don’t touch anything!” Miguel was back.

  “I haven’t,” I replied. I wouldn’t, was on the tip of my tongue.

  “Captain Alfredo says we are to lock up the store, and I am to take you back to your house,” he added officiously.

  “But I wanted to . . .” quick, think, Cait, “. . . take another look at his crime scene photographs, back at the station.” I was desperate to see Bud again.

  Miguel hesitated. “But Captain Alfredo said . . .”

  I smiled. Beamed, in fact, and gently touched Miguel on the arm. “I’m sure that Al won’t mind. He let me look through the case file last night, and even read me his notes. He won’t mind me taking another look, I’m sure. I can wait there for him, at his office. It will save you the trouble of driving me all the way out to the Hacienda Soleado. I’m guessing he wants you to go back to the station to check on the prisoner, right?”

  Again Miguel hesitated. “You are right. I have to go to give the prisoner some food, and to make sure that he is still secure.” He puffed out his chest. It was obvious that he was proud that Al put such trust in him. “If it was alright for you to see the file last night, I am sure it will be alright today. He has added nothing to it.” He will soon!

  Having managed to get Miguel to agree to take me to the police station, I didn’t want to waste any time, or give him the chance to change his mind. I stepped out into the dazzling sunlight once more, so he could lock the door behind us—for all the good that seemed to do.

  We walked toward the spa, which seemed empty, and there was Miguel’s car. Not a police car, but his own personal vehicle. At least, I assumed that was what it was. I must have looked puzzled.

  Miguel smiled. “It is a good undercover car, yes?”

  I smiled and nodded. If you could call a battered, aging, pale blue Honda Civic that. I certainly never would have guessed it was being driven by a cop. Miguel pulled open the back door, reached inside, shut the door again, and slapped a magnetic decal onto the passenger door. “Now, it is not undercover anymore,” he said, grinning like a magician who has just performed a spectacular trick. The badge matched the one on Al’s white sedan, and Miguel seemed very proud of it. “This way we save money,” he explained. “Captain Alfredo allows me to claim expenses for the miles I do when the badge is on, when I am on official business, but I take the badge off and I can drive to collect my daughters from school in Bucerias from wherever I might be.”

  I got into Miguel’s car. He carefully shut the door for me, then took his own seat, and we set off for the police station. He proudly pointed out the blue flashing light that he could put onto the roof of his vehicle if he had to drive to an emergency, but he explained that didn’t happen very often. He was a careful driver, taking more time than Al would have done to deliver us to our destination, but I was glad for that little delay because it allowed me to observe Miguel alone, without his brother’s presence dominating him. His car was full of symbols of his Catholicism. A rosary hung from the rear-view mirror, a little prayer card was taped to the dashboard, and a plastic model of the Madonna wobbled precariously above the glove box on the passenger side.

  “You’re a man of faith,” I said gently.

  Miguel nodded. “It is my faith that sustains me. In difficult times, in happier times. I named my firstborn for the angels and the roses, and now she sleeps with the angels, and every week her mother and I place roses on her grave. She is with her God. She was a good girl, an innocent girl; I know she is with Him.” His faith might have been firm, but his voice shook with emotion as he spoke.

  “Al told me that you revived a local custom and held a crucifix of Requiem Masses in her memory. That speaks highly of your dedication.”

  “This is true,” said Miguel gravely. “We held them on December 7,

  the day before the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Poor Margarita, she helped us a great deal. She made the floral arrangements for the church here in Punta de las Rocas, and she came with me to the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Puerto Vallarta to make her displays there. They were beautiful. Roses, of course. White ones, for the purity of my poor daughter. In all four churches. She sent the flowers with my wife and daughters for them to arrange in the church where they worshipped, and when my other brother, not Rutilio, came to collect our mother, to drive her to her home village, they had bunches of flowers to take with them.” I felt the man’s anguish.

  “It must have been a very sad day for you all, Miguel.”

  “It was sad, though not as sad as the day we knew we had lost her. It was a day to allow us all to remember her and celebrate that she was at peace with God. I, and all my family, discuss this often: my baby is at one with her Master. We should be happy for her. So it was also a happy day, in a way. Everyone in Punta de las Rocas attended one of the two local services. It was wonderful to know. Margarita closed her store to be able to help me in Puerto Vallarta, and Rutilio even closed his restaurant for the day. He was so sad. So angry with whoever had killed my baby. He lost interest in his business at that time. It is why he is still struggling now. It is why he had to give up his apartment in Bucerias and move in with my family. We love to have him, of course. Our mother is pleased to have her baby with her. When God closes a door, He opens a window. It is always this way. We must pray to see His plan for us. If
we pray enough, His Will becomes clear.”

  The poor man.

  Upon our arrival at the unusual municipal building that served three purposes, Miguel let us in through the rear entrance to the police office, thereby avoiding the cells where Bud was housed. I was grateful for that because I didn’t want Miguel to see Bud and I meet face to face—it had been difficult enough to mask my emotions in front of Al; I didn’t want to have to go through that whole performance again. I asked for directions to the washroom and found it to be clean and well decorated with dried flowers. I wondered if the arrangements had been supplied by Margarita.

  Refreshed, I rejoined Miguel in Al’s office and sat down, picking up the case folder from Al’s desk, as though to study it.

  “If you need to get on with other duties, like feeding the prisoner, don’t let me stop you,” I said, quite casually.

  Miguel thanked me, nodded, then went off in the direction Al had taken when he’d gone to his apartment the night before. When he returned, some time later, he looked at me and said, “I do not know why I am feeding that dog. He does not deserve it.”

  I pushed my internal edit button and managed to say, “You must look after him properly, or the Federales will want to know why you didn’t.”

  Miguel laughed. “The Federales? They will show him a thing or two. He won’t be silent with them, as he is with us, for long. They have ways of ensuring they get the truth.” His ominous words stung my heart. He might have been a religious man, but Miguel didn’t seem to carry charitable feelings toward Bud. Maybe he was more the eye for an eye type of Christian than the turn the other cheek kind.

  “There was a phone call that I answered,” I lied. “I don’t know who it was, or what they said exactly, but I heard the words ‘niño enfermo’ and ‘escuela.’ Does that mean something to you?”

  Miguel looked panic-stricken. “My girls. The school. There must be a problem. I must go. You will come with me.”

  “Oh, no, Miguel, I’ll stay here and work on this case file. You go and attend to your girls.” He didn’t seem keen to leave me. I smiled warmly. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just stay here and, if necessary, I know where the washroom is. I’ll wait here for Al and tell him where you are when he comes to collect me. Don’t give me another thought.” I hated to trick him and cause him to worry about his daughters, but it was my only chance to get to see Bud.

  It was clear that the poor man was desperate to get away, and I all but steered him to the door. As soon as I saw him disappear in his car down the track toward the road, I tried the handle of the door that led to the area where the cells were located. It was open. I pulled at it, peered inside, and saw Bud, sitting on his straw mattress on the floor, eating bread. It was the most wonderful sight!

  I rushed in. Bud looked up and dropped his bread. “It’s okay, we’re alone,” I shouted, as I flung myself against the metal cage. Bud didn’t move. He looked behind me, all around, and motioned that I should be quiet. We both listened. As I strained my ears, I noticed that he looked gaunter than he had the day before. His silvery beard had grown in a little, and he looked older. I know it’s not possible to acquire prison pallor in a day, but I could have sworn he was paler than when we’d flown in to Puerto Vallarta.

  “Are you sure?” he mouthed.

  “Yes,” I replied quietly. “Are you okay?” Stupid question, Cait!

  “I’m fine,” he replied very softly, pushing himself upright as he spoke. “You?” Oh Bud!

  I reached through the bars to touch him, and we held each other as best we could, just for a moment.

  “You’ve been smoking,” he said.

  I pulled away. What? “You’re here, locked up in a Mexican prison, accused of a murder you didn’t commit, about to be carted off to Guadalajara, where the cells are full of drug dealers who’d love nothing more than to see you dead in a matter of hours, and all you can say is that I’ve been smoking? Are you nuts?” I was beside myself.

  “You promised you’d stop, Cait. I need you to be healthy, to be alive, to live with me. I need you, Cait Morgan. That’s what I’m saying. I’ve . . . I’ve been thinking about us, about life, a lot in here, Cait. It didn’t come out right. I love you.” He smiled. I smiled back. I could feel the tears welling, but I refused to lose control.

  “Bud, I don’t know how long we’ve got, so I have to tell you a lot of stuff—ready?” He nodded.

  I filled him in. He nodded as he listened.

  When I finished he asked, “So nothing by way of a name from Jack about who he might have gotten in touch with?” I shook my head. “And no one’s approached you to make themselves known to you as someone who is working with CSIS, or the FBI, or the Canadian Gang Task Force?” Again I shook my head. He cursed under his breath. “What do they know, or think they know, about me?”

  “You speak enough English to be able to say ‘No police,’ and you’re possibly a hit man working on behalf of someone else. That’s it. By the way, why did you say ‘No police’ to Serena?”

  “If you mean that woman who started screaming fit to burst, what I said was, ‘No. Police.’ I meant I was the police, but she didn’t get that, I guess. I thought it best to follow protocol and go silent. It keeps it out of the official channels that way, so thanks for getting hold of Jack, even though that might not have helped. Tell Sheila to tell him I say get well soon.” He looked thoughtful.

  “I’m doing my best to work out who did it, Bud. I’ve got a lot of leads, but, I don’t know, there’s something weird about this place. It’s lovely, and it’s got the normal tensions you find when there’s a rich immigrant population rubbing along with a poorer indigenous one, but there’s something under the surface. Something’s not right. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland, or Through the Looking-Glass, where nothing is as it should be, or what it seems. At least, that’s what it feels like at the Hacienda Soleado. It’s all off. Everyone seems so keen to help Al identify you before the Federales show up. He’s a nice enough guy: bright, diligent, ambitious, but I cannot fathom what it is about him that makes everyone want him to succeed in front of the Federales. Like I said, weird.”

  We both sighed. I looked at poor Bud. “Bud, what can I do? I have to get you out of here. Are you sure you shouldn’t talk? What about when Al ships you off to the Federales? What if I haven’t been able to solve it by then? It could be terribly dangerous for you.” My heart was pounding.

  “As long as no one knows who I am, I’ll be as safe as the next guy,” replied Bud. I suspected stoicism and heard a slight tremor in his voice. “You’re doing a great job, Cait, and I know it isn’t something I should ask you to do, but I know you’ll do it anyway, so if you’re digging, dig carefully. You’re dealing with a killer. Have you got something you could carry as a weapon?”

  I pulled the flashlight that Tony had given me the night before out of my purse. “It’s heavier than my hairspray,” I said. I hadn’t mentioned the break-in at the place where I was staying, because I didn’t want Bud to worry. “I’ll use it if I have to,” I added, looking as fierce as possible.

  Bud smiled sadly. “Cait, please be careful. I need you. Not just now, when I’m in trouble; I need you forever . . .”

  “Hey—I told you there’s to be no talk of marriage until September at the earliest, a year from when you first mentioned it. So don’t start with it now. This isn’t the time, or the place.” I grinned the best I could. “What’s that?” I’d caught the sound of tires on gravel. It suggested Al’s parking technique. “Gotta go. Love you.” I took one last look, dashed out of the door I’d entered through, and hung a right, which brought me to the community hall area of the building. I looked around, desperate to find a reason for being there, and stood in front of a large, framed piece of parchment that bore a huge red wax, beribboned seal. It was at eye level, so I gave it my attention and read it through.

  A moment later, Al was at my shoulder. I jumped. “I didn’t hear you arrive,” I said, feigning shock. “Yo
u seem to enjoy making a habit of startling me.” I grinned.

  Al smiled back. “You like it?” he asked, nodding at the framed parchment.

  “The lettering is very beautiful, and it looks old,” I replied.

  “It is our charter from the Dubois García family, or, as you can see,” he pointed at a portion of the writing, “the García García family. They were quite wonderful, and we have to thank them for all that Punta de las Rocas is today.”

  I looked at the spot he was indicating and nodded. As he spoke I pretended to listen, but I allowed my eyes to play over the delightful piece of history, which spoke of land ownership, of the unusual idea of property passing from woman to woman as well as from man to man, and of how all García García offspring were to be treated equally. Clearly, as Al was telling me, the family had been well intentioned and farsighted in their plans for their municipality.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” he finally asked.

  “How do you mean?” Careful, Cait.

  “At Rutilio’s, or at Margarita’s, or here, in my office?” He seemed angry for some reason.

  I considered my reply. “I think I’m beginning to understand Margarita a little better, and I think that the theft of the photographic equipment from her store is significant.” Knowing that Al had had feelings for her made it impossible for me to get an objective answer from him about whether the woman might have been capable of blackmail, so there was no point asking.

  “We had some luck on that aspect,” he said.

  “Really? What? Have you found something?”

  “I think so,” said Al. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a digital memory card, the type used in cameras. “I was on my way back from the hospital when Miguel phoned me about the theft. Tony and Callie are still in a dangerous state, the doctors say, and Juan asked me to leave him with Margarita—which I don’t understand, but I am not a father. I drove to Margarita’s store, saw the damage, and had a thought: if someone stole the photographic equipment, maybe they just made the rest of the mess to make it appear as though they didn’t know exactly what they wanted. I also knew that Margarita always kept some photographic supplies in her van. I got the keys and found this in the glove box. Would you like to see what’s on it?”