The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

by Cathy Ace

  Miguel shot to his feet. “My brother could not have done this. I was cleared because I could not have driven from the place where the poor girl was dumped to the church I attended in Puerto Vallarta—where many people saw me. My brother has the same alibi—he was at another service here.” Miguel looked terribly distressed.

  “What time was the Mass said here?” I asked Al, who I knew had attended with Rutilio.

  Al looked puzzled. “It was at 7:00 PM, the same as in Puerto Vallarta.”

  “But Punta de las Rocas, and the whole of Nayarit, is an hour behind Puerto Vallarta. When it’s 7:00 PM here, it’s 8:00 PM in Puerto Vallarta. Rutilio had a whole extra hour to get back here from the dump site and still be at the church in time for the 7:00 PM service. You’re all so used to the difference it didn’t occur to you. I didn’t even know about the time difference until this morning, which was why I was stuck. I couldn’t work out how Rutilio could have been in two places at once that day, though I knew, by then, that it was him who’d killed Margarita.”

  “This is rubbish!” shouted Rutilio, leaping up from his seat. “I would not kill my niece. I would not kill all those other girls. Why would I do that? You have no proof. There is nothing that points to me!” Rutilio grinned at me with his big teeth. Look out, Cheshire Cat—here I come!

  One of the cops motioned with his weapon that Rutilio should sit, and he did, grumbling.

  I sighed. “Rutilio—you are a classic narcissist with sociopathic tendencies. The giant face sign you have? The way you present yourself as the star of your own show at the restaurant? The roses you like to give the women with their checks, so that you can flatter them and have them focus on just you? By the way, I know that’s why, for the first time, you had to try to get the red roses from Margarita for this latest kill—you told me yourself, you don’t have your own roses during the summer months. For the rest of the kills, you used the ones you had in bulk at your restaurant. I know you used Margarita’s van, because it’s refrigerated. The refrigeration is what threw off the coroner’s ability to come up with an accurate time of death—it messes with the onset of rigor mortis. Sometimes rigor sets in more quickly because of it, sometimes it is delayed. After all the press coverage about the confused time of death, you might have put two and two together and worked out that, somehow, the refrigerated van could help you mask when you were really killing. You didn’t target specific girls; you’d just drive until you found one who was ready to accept the offer of a ride home from a man driving a cop car. Enough young people walk in these areas, because they don’t own a car or even a bicycle, so it wouldn’t take too long. Your niece’s death was an accident. You covered it up. Your first ‘real murder,’ when you resorted to plying a girl with drink and drugging her, was to clear your brother, and you, of suspicion. So why more deaths, Rutilio? Why continue? My assessment would be that you did it just because you could. And because you liked it. It had become ‘your thing,’ and you don’t have many of those, do you? You had to give up your apartment in Bucerias and move back to live with your mother and your brother’s family. None of your past jobs have gone well for you—you have always been ‘misunderstood’ by employers. Even your own business, the restaurant, is failing. You are getting older, and whatever looks you once had are fading. It was one way you could reassure yourself you were a real man—not in a sexual way, but by showing you had power over people. You are your mother’s ‘pretty baby.’ She and your brother have unwittingly enabled you to remain free of responsibilities. They have backed you up when you’ve said that past misfortunes have not been ‘your fault.’ You display a classic inability to take responsibility for any of your own failures.”

  Finally there was a gasp from Miguel. “No!”

  “Yes,” I replied. “When I saw Rutilio on the day of Margarita’s murder, he was standing against a white wall, holding a glass of water and what I thought were two chopsticks in his hands, at exactly the time that Bud was trying to save Margarita’s life. I could just about spot his white chef hat against the white stucco wall.” I looked at the killer and saw his mask slip even further as I spoke, a snarl beginning to twitch at his lips. “Initially, it was difficult for me to make out the white hat against the white wall, but I did. Now I know that what I’d thought were two sticks you were holding were, in fact, two red roses, but I couldn’t make out the red of the flower heads, because they’d disappeared against the red of your chef jacket, just like poor Margarita’s blood, which must have been all over it at the time. You put on a clean jacket in your kitchen before you joined the crowd in the street outside Margarita’s shop. And the knife? You might have had one in your pocket when you went to her shop, but I think it might be discovered that the knife used to kill her was Margarita’s own. Florists have all sorts of cutting implements to hand; all you had to do was reach out and make one swift slashing motion.”

  The men with guns were now even more alert. Rutilio’s mask of bravado had completely disappeared, but he still seemed to have his toothy grin because his dry lips had stuck to his teeth.

  Al and Miguel were on their feet. But I wasn’t done. “Here’s how it went, Rutilio. You sauntered into Margarita’s shop on Sunday morning, needing two red roses because you knew it was your time to kill again. She wouldn’t sell them to you, right? She’d picked up a special order for a wedding, and they were all spoken for. You insisted, and your insistence and anger raised her suspicions. When I was in her shop with Al, I noticed that she had two buckets with red roses in them, and one with yellow. I even noticed that she had twenty-two red roses and twelve yellow. When would a florist buy in anything other than full dozens of roses? Two red roses were missing from Margarita’s stock. When I returned to the shop with Miguel, I saw a newspaper, laying sodden on the floor, warning girls to be careful because it was Rose Killer time. She’d worked out that her van was being used without her knowledge. I think the penny dropped that she’d even photographed it in use. She probably accused you of taking her van. She must have mentioned that Callie had raised the issue of the extra mileage, because that’s why you went after the Booths. When it comes to their drugging, I suspect it went much as Al suggested, but with you, not me, getting Tony to accept a drugged drink, waiting until he went to bed, then getting Callie to accept a drink from you in her already hazy state. But you got your doses wrong. You’re used to drugging young women who are small in stature—Callie Booth is a healthy, fit woman, as I saw from her wedding photographs, and she has a bigger body mass than you were used to dealing with, so your usual dose didn’t work on her. Tony was a fit, muscular man, and I’m betting you gave him some extra, just to make sure. You certainly meant to kill them both. It was you who headed to the flower shop to search for evidence. Knowing that Margarita had photographs of her van being driven without her permission, you didn’t want to take a chance. You had no idea what they would show—maybe your face?—but you couldn’t risk them turning up. That’s why you checked through all her photographs, then took all her equipment. By the way, you scuffed the back wall with the black plastic cases when you pulled them out through the little door at the back of the fridge. We wouldn’t have the photos that we do if Al hadn’t known about Margarita’s secret stash of extras in her glove box. The time and date stamp will prove the van was being used by someone other than herself at a critical time.”

  There were stirrings around the room. Ada Taylor was looking especially perplexed.

  I pressed on. I was almost done. “The ‘long hours’ Rutilio worked at the restaurant, Miguel? They were a great cover. For example, on Sunday night, all he had to do was scrape down his grill, then wait until the coast was clear at the Booths’, drug them, and head back to search Margarita’s store. He still had time to drive off, kill another poor young woman, dump her body, return the van to its usual spot, and come home to bed. Al, you know that Bud was in your cell on Sunday night and couldn’t have been out there killing this latest poor young woman. If the medical examiner k
nows what to look for, I’m sure they’ll be able to determine her actual time of death. In any case, Bud was in Canada on Saturday, and in prison on Sunday, so clearly he didn’t kill this poor woman. And, if you’re still in any doubt about Bud not being the Rose Killer, in my purse there’s a camera containing photos of an event Bud and I attended in Vancouver in December last year, with a giant dated banner in the background, that will prove that he wasn’t here for that killing either. Captain Soto, I promise you, Rutilio is your man. He is the Rose Killer, he is the man who slashed Margarita’s throat, and he is the man who drugged both Tony and Callie Booth.”

  I sat down and waited for it to all go off, which it did. Miguel was up on his feet, as were Al and Juan. All three made for Rutilio, who fell to the floor and curled up into a ball. He started to cry and wail. “It was an accident, my brother, an accident. Angélica Rosa drank too much. I couldn’t get her to breathe. I did my best. It was an accident! But, brother, when I saw how you felt—that she was pure and safe with God, that you were celebrating that she was with her Maker, at peace—I knew it was alright to take the others. I saved them, my brother. Like your daughter, Juan, all of them were saved.” Is Rutilio really trying to make it sound as though his multiple murders had been some sort of sacrificial act? I wonder how that will play out in a Mexican courtroom.

  Captain Soto instructed his guards to break up the melee, which they did, quite quickly. It’s amazing what a few automatic weapons can achieve when pointed at a person.

  In a matter of moments, Bud’s handcuffs were off, and he was being addressed, very formally, by Captain Soto. Rutilio was being hauled away by the Federales. Dean and Jean George were making a beeline for me, smiling from ear to ear.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to them quietly. “I didn’t know you were ‘the operative’ that Jack White had referred to until we were here. Dean, when you threw me that challenging look, the penny dropped. But who do you work for?” I still didn’t know who they really were, only that they weren’t who they said they were.

  “US government,” said Dean quietly, and conspiratorially. “Let’s leave it at that. Working with Mexican authorities, multiple border authorities, and US officials. I got a call from some ‘friends’ in Ottawa—I’ve been watching your back. I informed them of your arrest, and I’d been cleared to take action before the Federales took you two away. And, like I said earlier, don’t beat yourself up about it. We were pretty well ready to move on this group. We might have lost a few drivers in the wind, but I just heard from my superior that we’ve got everyone important, both sides of the border, in custody.”

  I couldn’t help but be curious, so I pressed on. “I’m pretty sure I’ve worked it all out. I’m guessing it’s pretty big?” I asked. I turned to find Bud at my shoulder. I smiled and hugged him. Good grief, he smelled awful!

  “So, will someone tell me what’s been going on here?” Bud asked.

  “It’s the tequila,” I explained. Dean and Jean nodded. “The Hacienda Soleado is selling more bottles of tequila than they have barrels in which to age it properly. Tequila starts life as a clear liquid, is aged a little in vats, or for longer in barrels, and is then sold at a much higher price for the older spirit. Callie Booth spotted the discrepancy between the number of bottles of the older stuff being sold and the number of barrels owned by the FOGTTs in which the tequila needed to be aged. I’m guessing they’re coloring it and selling younger tequila as añejo?”

  Dean nodded. “They’re breaking any number of the very strict laws governing the production of tequila on this side of the border, and because so much of it is sold in the US, it’s creating all types of fraud cases over there. We were sent in because it’s the Americans who are running the show down here.”

  “Greg’s not Australian, is he?” I asked, knowing the answer. He couldn’t be—he was too Australian to be real. Dean shook his head. “It’s him, Dorothea, and Juan?” I asked.

  Dean nodded. “Juan’s the one with all the local contacts; he knows which palms to grease to get the right certification. Of course, once it’s off the hacienda it’s a lot safer to transport than drugs: you get caught with a truckload of tequila that’s been incorrectly labeled, there’s deniability . . . not the case when you’re talking about drugs.”

  “It’s why we’re here as a team,” Jean said. “They wanted a couple on the case, so we could get to know what systems they were using, which locals were involved. And when poor Margarita was killed, and the Federales were bound to be called in, I just knew that something would happen to spoil our set up. They interfere. I guess that’s their job, to be fair. We’d tried to build an atmosphere where everyone here supported Al as much as possible in everything he did, so outside forces were rarely called on. I was angry when I first met you—not with you, but because of the situation. I’m sorry I was hostile. You see, we’ve been at it a long time, on both sides of the border. It’s not just these guys, and it’s not just this plant, you see. It’s big. Big money. At least the call from Ottawa gave us a chance to get everything sorted out.” She gave me a huge hug.

  “The Taylors—do they even know what’s going on?”

  Dean smiled and shook his head. “They don’t have a clue. They’re in their own little world. We’ll protect them. Henry Douglas—the guy whose house you’ve been staying in? He’s away in LA too often to have noticed anything. It’s just Greg, Dorothea, and Juan, plus the officials who’ve been on the take. In a way, I’ll be sorry to leave this place. We’ve liked it here. By the way, Cait, the reason I couldn’t tell you where we were when Margarita was killed was because we were having a meeting with a local . . . resource . . . down on the beach at that exact time. Sorry that I,” he squeezed his wife’s hand, “that we must have seemed suspicious. I didn’t dare break cover sooner than today—Al locking you up last night gave us just enough time to get things all lined up in case this happened.” He gave an embarrassed smile.

  At least I better understood what had been going on with the Georges. As I looked around I could see Captain Soto, Al, and a weeping Miguel moving toward Al’s office. I turned to Bud and whispered, “Just one more minute, and I’m all yours, okay?” He shrugged.

  I called to Al and gestured for him to come to me for a moment, which he did, carrying my purse. “Here’s all your stuff, Cait. Mr. Anderson’s things are in there too.”

  I took the bag and thanked him. “Sorry to butt in, Al, but one quick thing?” He nodded. “When are you going to tell the people around here about your rights to the García land?”

  Al blushed and shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean . . .” he stammered.

  I sighed. “Your Gram Beselleu? Her maiden name was Dubois. I looked it up. Juan Carlos García García, or should I say García Dubois, is not just ‘the father of Punta de las Rocas’ as you put it so passionately yesterday, he’s also your great-grandfather, right?” Al nodded. “Are you due to inherit a lot of land?”

  “I believe I might have a better claim than Juan does to the land that Margarita inherited from her mother’s side of the family. Not that Margarita and I were closely related—it goes way back, and . . . well, it’s complicated. The charter is clear—every child has their right. And I am one of those children.”

  “So it wasn’t just fate that brought you here?”

  “Not exactly. I didn’t know at first, but I researched the area, and, of course, I knew my gram’s maiden name, so I did a bit more digging. I was always pretty good at research.” Al studied his shoes. “I don’t think this is the time to make myself known as a García Dubois. I’m not even sure I’ll stay. You know, maybe I’m not cut out to be a cop. Given everything that was going on in Punta de las Rocas, right under my nose, and I knew nothing! I’m feeling pretty useless right now, Professor Morgan.”

  I smiled. The poor guy looked pretty sorry for himself. “It’s still Cait, okay?” He nodded. “Listen, I’ve learned in my life that not everything’s for everyone. With Juan Martinez
out of the picture, you might not just get your hands on that beautiful shoreline and save it for posterity, but there’s likely to be an opening for mayor around here too. You’d make a good mayor. You should think about it. You love history, art, and literature—who knows, with time, maybe this wonderful old hall could become some sort of cultural center for the tourists who are thirsty for a taste of the real Mexico.”

  Al nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. He said quietly, “I’m sorry about accusing you.”

  I cut him short. “It’s alright. I understand.” And I did. I didn’t like it, but I understood it. “I’m off. We’re off, okay?”

  Al held up his hands. “Go. Stay. Do as you please. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Cait, but I wish it could have been . . .”

  “You don’t have to say it, Al, I know. Different circumstances? Context, right?” Al nodded. “Good luck, and goodbye,” I called as I waved. I grabbed Bud by the arm and we both, finally, stepped out into the sunlight together and walked away from the strange building.

  Bud threw his arms around me and held me tight. “I am so glad to be out of that place,” was all he said, then he kissed me. It was a very bristly experience, but it was wonderful.

  As we finally pulled apart I said, “So . . . who are you?”

  Bud smiled. “What, not used to the beard?”

  I hit him on the arm—not too hard. “You know what I mean, Bud. If that’s your name at all. Who are you?”