Closely Akin to Murder

by Joan Hess

  “You’re not really going out there?” Caron said in a shocked voice. “What if Chico’s waiting to push you over the rail?”

  “He’s halfway to the border by now.” I managed to avoid any lurking obstacles and went out onto a spacious balcony. Two chairs implied the current occupants, allegedly the hookers from Honduras, still enjoyed the view, if not room service and the solicitous attention of Ernesto Santiago. The railing was four feet high. Throwing a body over it wouldn’t have been easy, but Ronnie and Fran had been operating on a mixture of alcohol, marijuana, and adrenaline.

  “Mother,” called Caron, “can we please go to the hotel? Being held hostage All Day Long has given me a headache.”

  As I came back across the room, I realized that I’d been too worried about Caron to consider the consequences of putting all my cash in the bag. I had only a few coins, mostly pennies and nickels. Furthermore, taxis were no longer lined up in the street to take guests down the hill to the beaches and nightclubs. It would take more than a signal from a phantom concierge to bring a taxi to the gate of the Hotel Las Floritas.

  “We need to find a telephone,” I said to Caron as we trudged up the path. “I’ll call Farias’s office and ask for a car to be sent.”

  “Or we can drive. As far as I know, my luggage and purse are still in the trunk of the Cadillac. I’ll get into all kinds of trouble if I don’t return the Dickens book to the school library. Being held hostage for a day is one thing, but Miss Ferrenclift will make sure I have detention every morning until I graduate.”

  “Do you know where the car is?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t promise the keys are in it. I was a little distracted by the knife that moron kept waving at me.”

  Instead of going out the gate, she led the way across the parking lot to a road that curled behind the restaurant to a service entrance. The Cadillac was partly concealed by a shed that was likely to have contained lawn equipment. I was about to open the driver’s door when I saw the beady red glow of a cigarette above us on the terrace.

  I hissed at Caron to be quiet and gestured for her to duck behind the car. We converged at the trunk.

  “Now what?” she whispered. “I have no desire to stay here the rest of the night.”

  “I don’t know.” I slumped against the bumper and regarded the moon. Considering how the trip had gone thus far, I was surprised the craggy face wasn’t spitting at me. The police had been here less than an hour ago to conduct a cursory inspection; they would not have returned so soon. Chico would not have lingered to admire the view one last time. The most probable explanation was that one of the other residents had decided it was safe to move back into a bungalow. And what an upstanding group they were.

  Caron jabbed me. “Why are we sitting here? I am going to Absolutely Die if I don’t take a shower before too long. That mattress was so nasty that I can feel things crawling all over me. What if I have fleas?”

  “Did you see anybody else when Chico took you to the bungalow?” I asked.

  “Don’t be absurd. Did you hear what I said? I am infested and in danger of catching the bubonic plague. I want you to promise that you’ll have my body flown back to Farberville so Inez can put flowers on my grave every Sunday.” She paused to savor the macabre scene, then sighed. “She’s kind of forgetful, though. Maybe it would be better to have me cremated so you can keep me in an urn on the mantel.”

  “We don’t have a mantel,” I pointed out, “but I could make a shrine on the bookcase in my bedroom . . . or in the front window at the Book Depot.”

  “It would be an improvement.”

  The appropriately bizarre conversation might have continued had a male voice not said, “Señora Malloy, we have been searching everywhere for you. I see you have found the senorita. Is she unharmed?”

  “Mother!” Caron gasped, clutching my hand.

  “It’s all right, dear,” I said as I stood up. “This is Señor Farias, known on an informal basis as Jorge. I suppose he would like us to move so he can collect his Cadillac.”

  Farias nodded at Caron, then glared at me. “Only a few minutes ago was I informed of your arrival at the bar on Calle Madero. It seemed obvious that you would come here. Adolfo arrived in time to see you and your daughter walk across the parking lot and down this road. Rather than approach you, he waited for me. Please explain what has taken place.”

  I gave him an abridged version, concluding with, “Chico left the bungalow ten minutes before we did. Knowing that you were looking for him, he must have felt it was risky to take the Cadillac.” I was too embarrassed to mention what he had taken—from my purse.

  Farias rumbled under his breath. “You should not have violated our agreement, Señora, but all has turned out well. You have your daughter, I have my car, and Manuel will have a vacation in the hospital. I will assign another driver to take you to the airport in the morning. Unlike Manuel, who is inexperienced and at times negligent, this driver will be armed.”

  “I’m not sure we’re leaving in the morning,” I said with such crispness that I startled myself. Seconds earlier I might have asked to be taken directly to the airport, abandoning my luggage at the hotel. “There’s still the problem with Comandante Quiroz. Besides, I may decide to take a closer look at what happened the night Oliver Pickett was killed. Ronnie’s version of the events may not be as accurate as she thinks. In any case, I’ll keep you informed of my plans. Could you please arrange for us to be taken to the Acapulco Plaza? Caron is hungry and in need of a shower.”

  “Of course,” Farias murmured. He signaled the figure on the terrace, who leapt over the wall and came jogging toward us. He was older than Manuel, more muscular, and presumably more experienced. “Adolfo will take you there immediately. Please accept my apologies for all that has happened today. If Manuel had been less eager to open his apartment door early this morning, none of this would have occurred.”

  Caron and I got into the backseat. As we headed for the hotel, she continued to describe her ordeal, requiring of me only sympathetic clucks and tut-tuts. Adolfo glanced at her in the rearview mirror several times, puzzled by her increasingly melodramatic narrative. I myself winced when she characterized Chico as a demented neo-Nazi troglodyte with a track record to rival that of Genghis Khan, but I kept my mouth shut.

  It was after nine o’clock when we entered the suite, once again accompanied by a bellman. He may have expected a tip, but all he received was a warm expression of gratitude. Caron selected an impressive number of items from the room service menu, then headed for the shower. After I’d placed the order, I called the desk to ask for messages. The list was long: Dr. Vera Gray, Gabriella Farias, Pedro Benavides, Comandante Quiroz, and Peter Rosen. It was too late to try Benavides, impossible to deal with Quiroz due to our inability to communicate (charades are tough on the telephone), and unnecessary to call Gabriella, since her father would have given her an update by now.

  It wasn’t too late to call Peter—in the literal sense, anyway. He and I were both fond of watching old movies or reading until midnight. Despite some lapses in my short-term memory, I was aware I’d promised to call him with a more extensive accounting of my investigation. So he could lecture me. So he could condescend. So he could demand that Caron and I catch the next flight back to Farberville. The conversation would be as appetizing as a taco without sour cream.

  My remark to Farias that I might not leave in the morning had arisen from bravado, at best. In my mind, Acapulco was hardly a potpourri of posh hotels, sunny beaches, mariachi bands, and frozen margaritas; it was a frightening place. It was tempting to call Peter and meekly listen to him, then slink home. I could still try to help Ronnie somehow or convince her to rely on the private detective. Sure I could.

  I decided to delay making that decision until I’d returned Ronnie’s call. Brussels was six or seven hours ahead of the local time. She would be in her hotel room, although not necessarily delighted with my timing. After half a dozen rings, she answered with
a hoarse, “Hello?”

  “This is Claire,” I said. “I have some questions for you, but first—do you have information for me?”

  “Yes, I do. Let me turn on the light and get the faxes.”

  I waited patiently, since the cost of the call was covered by her credit card.

  “Here we are,” she continued, her voice more distinct. “I had a report from a private investigator in Los Angeles. He ran Chad Warmeyer’s and Debbie D’Avril’s names past the Screen Actors Guild and dug up what he could. People in the industry were more superstitious than any aboriginal tribe, and the two were tainted by their association with Oliver’s death. Chad never again worked in Hollywood. Debbie was reduced to making porn movies. In 1973, the police raided the set—a motel room—and found a large quantity of cocaine. She skipped bail and has not been heard of since.”

  “How tall was Chad Warmeyer?” I asked.

  Papers rustled in the background as Ronnie thought. “It’s hard to remember, but he was shorter than Oliver Pickett. I don’t think Oliver would have hired an assistant taller than he. Like Zeus, he preferred to look down on his flunkies. I’d have to say Chad was no more than five-seven. Why do you ask, Claire? Have you encountered him in Acapulco?”

  “Not unless he had a secondary growth spurt,” I said, reluctantly discarding the tiny blip of a theory. “Do you have any memory of the people staying in the bungalow directly across from Oliver’s on the night of the murder?”

  “That would have been the last one on the right. Ours was on the right, too, but closest to the restaurant. The last one . . .”

  I struggled not to prompt her with Chico’s description or his story about deep-sea fishing. “Yes?”

  “Oh, I’ve got it. It was a Mexican movie star well past her prime. She wore tight sequined dresses and paraded around the hotel with a hairless little dog that resembled a rat. I’d never heard of her, and there’s no way I could produce her name after all these years.”

  “Who accompanied her?”

  “Various men went in and out of her bungalow, but the only other person staying there was her personal maid, a young woman, maybe twenty years old.”

  “And on New Year’s Eve?”

  “The movie star left with one of her escorts. The only reason I noticed was that she was wearing a mink coat and sweating. Later, Fran made several vulgar remarks about the maid glaring at us from the porch. She was going to invite her over for a drink, but I managed to talk her out of it. We were having enough problems with the hotel manager. Have you located him?”

  “In a manner of speaking, but he wasn’t helpful,” I said tactfully, since there was little point in alarming someone who was over seven thousand miles away and more skilled in analyzing mutant viruses than murder. “Do you remember any of the other guests?”

  “Not with any clarity,” Ronnie admitted. “A honeymoon couple was next to us; they rarely came out of the bungalow. Chad Warmeyer had his own, while Debbie stayed with Oliver and Fran. There was a young French family . . . the wife kept trying to persuade Fran and me to babysit. We never did. An hoary old toad who ogled us when his wife wasn’t watching. It’s so hard to remember, Claire, especially at four o’clock in the morning.”

  I held back a retort concerning the difference between major and minor inconveniences. “Those packages of food and medicine that you received while in prison—did you ever wonder who sent them?”

  “You have to understand my state of mind back then. I was barely functional, mentally and physically. I did my assigned work, sometimes weeding in the garden, sometimes scrubbing clothes in the laundry, and then I sat in my cell and wished I were dead. The only respite was on Sundays, when we were taken to mass and allowed out for an hour in an exercise area. I always looked for Fran so I could beg her forgiveness, even when it became preposterous to think she might still be there.”

  “Fran’s mother may have bribed officials in order to get her out of Mexico. I’d like to talk to her and Fran, but I have no idea how to find them on my own. Oliver Pickett’s estate went through probate, and Fran may have received the proceeds. Can you have an investigator go through the court records to see if there’s an address?”

  After a moment of silence, Ronnie said, “I can’t risk arousing the investigator’s curiosity. Oliver Pickett is still considered one of the most prominent directors of this century. Chad and Debbie were insignificant, and their presence in Acapulco was hardly newsworthy. These days they’d have sold their stories to the tabloids—and my yearbook photo would have been on the cover with a headline about a Hollywood Lolita’s obsession with a famous director. It still may happen if you don’t find this blackmailer.”

  I was frustrated, but I understood her paranoia. It was as if she’d been in the witness protection program for more than twenty years, perpetually worried that she might let something slip out about her past. She’d been obliged to create a fictionalized childhood and never contradict herself, never forget what she’d told this or that person, never panic when asked an innocuous question. No wonder she’d taken refuge in a laboratory, where formulas and equations were more important than nostalgia.

  “I have a tenuous lead here,” I said. “If it doesn’t come through, I’m pretty much at a dead end. I haven’t talked to the police officer who investigated the crime, but I doubt he’ll have any useful information.”

  “Did you find Jorge?”

  “Through a stroke of luck, yes. He certainly didn’t come forward voluntarily, even though he was aware I wanted to interview him.”

  Her voice thickened with hesitancy. “Then do you think—could he—could he be the one? He seemed so nice back then. No matter how imperious Fran was, he smiled and nodded and followed her orders.”

  “He issues the orders these days,” I said, mulling over her accusation. “He owns a very large and prosperous tourist agency and lives in a mansion. It’s always useful to have an extra half million dollars, I suppose, but he has plenty of potential blackmail victims right here in Acapulco.”

  “I’m glad he’s done well for himself,” Ronnie said with a shaky laugh. “I must get some sleep now. My keynote presentation is tomorrow, and my work is so controversial that I’ll have to defend myself all afternoon. What you’re doing means a great deal to me, Claire. If you hadn’t agreed to help me, I might have . . . taken the cowardly way out.”

  I wished her success with her presentation and replaced the receiver. Great, I thought as I flopped back on the bed and closed my eyes. My cousin, recently returned from the grave, had placed her life in my fumbling fingers. Her research center probably had more lethal potions than Acapulco did street vendors.

  Caron came out of the bathroom. “I washed my hair until I ran out of shampoo. You’d think a hotel like this could provide more than one little bottle of some weird Mexican brand that smells like cactus sap. Has room service arrived yet?”

  “It should be here any minute,” I said. I listened to her go into the living room and open the minibar. “If it’s okay with you, we’re going to stay another day and go home as planned.”

  Cellophane crinkled as she opened one of the world’s most expensive bags of potato chips. “No, I don’t care. I was so busy being held hostage all day that I didn’t have any time to read. Mr. Simpson’s such an old fart that he’ll probably give us a pop quiz on Monday.” The television set came on. “What is wrong with these people?” she added tartly. “Can’t anybody speak English?”

  It was good to know she’d survived the day without any permanent psychological scars. Or even temporary.

  On that note, I dialed the number of the Farias Tourist Agency, wondering if Jorge would renege on his promise to upgrade me to a limo. The woman who answered spoke no English, so our conversation was brief.

  Then, after a craven delay while I called Inez’s mother and apologized for Caron’s failure to appear at the Farberville airport, I squared my shoulders, scowled at myself in the mirror, and called Peter.

>   CHAPTER 7

  The following morning, I spread out my notes on the coffee table in the living room where I wouldn’t disturb Caron. Martyrs need their sleep. Meddlers need their caffeine (and their fresh croissants), but I was at the mercy of room service.

  I called the Farias Tourist Agency and asked for Gabriella. When she came on the line, I cautiously inquired about Manuel. Jorge Farias had blamed him for what had happened, but I knew where the culpability lay—on the table in front of me. Chico had not assaulted Manuel out of random spite or a yearning to drive a Cadillac, nor had he kidnapped Caron in order to discuss contemporary trends in literature.

  “He’s doing well,” said Gabriella. “He suffered a mild concussion and loss of blood. He has a terrible headache and remembers only a little of what happened, but the doctor said that was to be expected. Papa and I will visit him later this morning. I am told you and your daughter are not leaving today. Adolfo is parked outside your hotel should you wish to go somewhere.”

  “I will before too long,” I said, looking at the list of messages from the previous day. “Comandante Quiroz called, but he doesn’t speak English and I don’t see how I can call him back. Will you please find out what he wants?”

  “Yes, Señora.”

  “And while you’re on the line with the police department, arrange an interview for me with a comandante named Alvarez. He’s supposed to be back today.”

  Sounding less enthusiastic, she agreed. Room service arrived while I was waiting, and I scribbled a tip at the bottom of the bill. My credit card had neared its limit during the back-to-school sales, but I could probably squeeze a hundred dollars out of it. We were leaving in twenty-four hours, and there were four restaurants in the hotel if we couldn’t face room service.

  Gabriella called me back ten minutes later. “Comandante Quiroz offers his apologies for the distress he may have caused you. The undercover officers who followed you yesterday have been reassigned, and you are free to leave Acapulco at any time.”