Margaritas & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I’m going to San Miguel de Allende to visit friends. They’re sending someone to pick me up in León. My flight leaves this evening—at least I hope it will.” It hadn’t occurred to me till just then that I might have to stay overnight in Mexico City if the “technical problems” were not resolved. I wondered if I should buy an extra toothbrush just in case.

  “This is terrible,” the driver said.

  “What’s terrible?”

  “I have no one for you in San Miguel. In León, maybe yes, I could find someone to help you. But you don’t stay there.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine. My friends will take good care of me.”

  “You be careful going to San Miguel,” he said, shaking a finger. “The country is no safer than the city.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, leaning forward and extending my arm. “Since I won’t be needing it, here’s your card.”

  “No, Señora. You keep it. You must go back to the airport tonight, yes? I will drive you. That way you’ll be safe. Some taxis are not reliable. What time is your flight?”

  I told him.

  “Give my card to the desk at the hotel. They will call. I will pick you up right away. In Mexico we are very modern. I have the latest in technology.” He held up a cell phone.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

  “But to be sure, you tell me what time to be at the hotel, and I will be waiting for you.”

  With Manuel Dias providing running commentary on the places we passed along our way, we set out for the zocalo. The roads into the city funneled traffic from the wide boulevards of the outskirts, where he kept a heavy foot on the accelerator, to the clogged narrow streets around the downtown square. He guided us forward in agonizing inches, squeezing through impossible openings and cutting off myriad vehicles to move ahead. Other drivers shouted at him, furious, and he responded with equal vehemence. I was grateful I didn’t understand what was being said and was convinced that the only reason the angry exchanges of the frustrated drivers didn’t result in violence was that no one had enough room to open a door. The trip took over an hour, and I soon began calculating how much time I could realistically afford to spend in Mexico City before braving the traffic back to the airport to catch my flight. Manuel let me off on a side street around the corner from the front entrance of the hotel, instructing me to meet him at the same place when I was ready to leave. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to move from that spot till I got back.

  Vaughan’s recommendation was a good one. The rooftop restaurant on the terrace of the Hotel Majestic not only overlooked the bustling zocalo—reputed to be one of the largest public plazas in the world, second only to Moscow’s Red Square—but afforded a spectacular vista of the city beyond. The hostess ushered me to an empty table by a stone wall from which, by leaning forward, I could observe the goings-on in the plaza below or, by sitting back, rest my gaze on the city beyond it. The hot sun poured down on the terrace, but white umbrellas shaded the tables and a steady breeze made the air comfortable.

  I ordered pollo almendrado—almond chicken—and a glass of orange juice. While I waited to be served, I peered over the wall and watched a group of youngsters dressed in traditional costumes doing an elaborate dance for a throng that encircled them in the square. The boys wore white pants and shirts with multicolored bands at their waists; the girls were in white dresses with black aprons and wore small headpieces with red ribbons that fluttered as they twirled around. Even from my perch seven floors above them, I could hear snatches of the music and the steady beat of a drum. A burst of applause greeted the end of their performance. They bowed to the audience, then ran to surround the man who had kept time with the drum, presumably their instructor, before he lined them up two by two and led them out of the square.

  I opened my shoulder bag, pulled out a guidebook I’d bought in New York, and identified other buildings that bordered the zocalo. To my left was the Metropolitan Cathedral, a jumble of architectural styles that nevertheless resulted in an impressive baroque building with a pair of towers flanking one of several grand entrances. My book said it was begun in the sixteenth century to replace a cathedral built by Cortés and that it incorporates not only stones from the ruins of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, an Aztec god, but also a wall of skulls of Aztec sacrificial victims. Taking up the entire east side of the plaza was the National Palace, built in the seventeenth century and home to government offices and Diego Rivera’s celebrated murals depicting the history of Mexico. I glanced at my watch to see if there would be enough time to view the murals or stop at the cathedral. Maybe if I ate quickly, but it didn’t look promising.

  All thoughts of having a quick lunch evaporated a few minutes later when a mariachi band—two trumpets, two guitars, a violin, and a vocalist shaking maracas—stepped onto the terrace. I watched those around me look up happily as the band played the first notes of a song, the spirited music coaxing smiles from even the most serious diners. The waiter brought a basket of bread and kept my glass filled with juice until my chicken was served. I ate and listened to the band members as they threaded their way between the umbrellas to serenade each of the tables, my foot keeping time with the lively beat.

  The music helped ease the tension of my hectic last few weeks. It was nice to be on vacation. I love to travel, but book tours can be exhausting—a real “if this is Tuesday, it must be Boston” experience. While I enjoy meeting new people, especially readers, seeing new places, and learning about them, it’s always a pleasant prospect to contemplate a few weeks with nothing specific to do but sit back and relax. No notes to take, no schedules to meet, no rush to catch another plane. Vaughan and Olga were the perfect hosts. They had a busy life of their own, and they insisted I was to use their home as if it were mine and join them—or not—as I wished. They had promised that I wouldn’t be in their way. “We’ll even ignore you if that’s what you want.” Which, of course, wasn’t what I wanted at all. What I did want was time. Time to renew our acquaintance. Time to stretch out with a book. Time to take leisurely walks in a charming town. Perhaps some gallery or museum visits, or a concert I could treat them to. Just a peaceful vacation with old friends. It sounded wonderful. But I was in for a rude awakening.

  Chapter Three

  “The airport is closing?”

  “Sí, Señora. We close so we can clean the terminal.”

  “But my ride to San Miguel de Allende isn’t here yet.”

  The terminal agent shrugged. My problems were not his problems.

  The flight to León had taken off an hour late. I arrived at Del Bajio Airport at eleven p.m. and thankfully found my luggage a half hour later. One by one, other passengers on the flight had picked up their bags and disappeared into the night. I’d searched in vain for someone holding a cardboard placard with my name on it and had waited patiently at first, convinced that whoever was picking me up was merely running late. After an hour, pacing in front of the airport’s glass doors, I had my doubts. I hesitated to telephone the Buckleys. When I’d called from Mexico City to tell them about the second delay, Olga had assured me it was no problem. Carlos would be there to pick me up. He was a little flaky, she admitted, but he’d always come through for them. They would be out earlier in the evening at a party but were planning to be home to greet me. In fact they would leave the front door unlocked, just in case they got delayed. My guest room, straight ahead at the top of the stairs, was already made up. They’d see me in the morning.

  Reluctantly, I dialed them again to tell them of my predicament, but they weren’t home. I left a message on the answering machine.

  “There is a bench outside, Señora. You are welcome to sit there till your driver comes,” the agent said.

  I had visions of sleeping—or not sleeping—on a bench outside the airport terminal. And how would I recognize Carlos if he eventually showed up? I didn’t even know his last name, much less what kind of car he drov
e.

  “Can you call a taxi to take me to San Miguel de Allende?” I asked.

  “They’re all gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Sí, Señora. The passengers from your flight, they take them all. There are no more taxicabs here. They know we clean the terminal now.”

  “Is there a hotel within walking distance?”

  “All the hotels in the city are full.” He shrugged again. “It is the tourist season.”

  A man who’d been mopping the floor called across the terminal to the agent, who cocked his head to one side. A brief debate ensued, but I had no idea what they spoke about. “Hokay,” the agent finally said, turning to me. “Pablo’s son will drive you.”

  My faith in the goodness of people soared. It has often been my experience that when someone needs help, someone else will step forward to offer it. In my travels, I’ve learned that people are the same the world over, some good, some not. But most are generous, friendly, and willing to provide assistance, even if they haven’t been asked. It certainly was true of my hometown of Cabot Cove. People in Maine can be standoffish to those they don’t know. But if someone needs help—even a stranger—they will be the first to extend a hand. I gave the man with the mop a grateful smile. “Gracias,” I said.

  “De nada,” he said, leaning his mop against the wall and drawing a cell phone from a holster hooked to his belt. He spoke into the phone, frowned, and raised his voice. Holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he looked up at me and raised both hands, showing ten fingers. “Diez minutos.”

  Ten minutes. I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “You can wait on that bench,” the agent said. “I will tell you when Juanito, he is here.”

  I thanked the agent, rolled my suitcase over to the wooden bench near the terminal entrance, sat down, and rummaged in my shoulder bag for the notebook in which I’d written Olga and Vaughan’s San Miguel street address and telephone number. I tore a blank sheet from the book, wrote the Buckleys’ address on it, and tucked the book back in my bag.

  Juanito arrived fifteen minutes later. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. A lanky boy with jet-black hair sticking up in spikes on the top of his head, he wore blue jeans, sandals, and a green Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt. He looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed, and given the yawn he tried to stifle, I suspected that might actually have been the case. I felt two things: sorry that his father had had to awaken him to accommodate me and grateful that I would not have to spend the night in the airport.

  Juanito jingled his car keys in front of my face. “San Miguel de Allende? Sí?”

  “Sí,” I said.

  He grabbed my bag and rolled it out the door before I had a chance to get to my feet. I followed him outside to a dusty white convertible with large black patches on the fenders and a tear in the top. The trunk made a squealing noise when he opened it. He flung my bag inside and slammed the lid shut with both hands, bouncing on it to add his weight and make certain it stayed closed. He held open the door to the rear seat, and I slid in. There was no seat belt, but given the vintage of the car, I would have been foolish to expect one.

  When he climbed into the driver’s seat, I asked, “¿Habla inglés?” hoping he spoke English.

  “No, Señora. ¿Habla español?”

  “Not really,” I muttered, shaking my head. My Spanish was more than rusty. It had gaping holes in it, like Juanito’s car. I leaned forward and handed him the paper on which I’d written Vaughan and Olga’s address.

  He nodded, folded the sheet twice, stuck it under a rubber band holding the fabric of the sun visor in place, started the engine, and we roared out of the airport. But we didn’t go far. Juanito pulled into the first gas station we came to, a squat building illuminated by a bare lightbulb over the door, with two ancient gas pumps in front. Several men sat on barrels outside the door, smoking and drinking beer. Juanito went into the office, returned with two cans of oil, and poured them into the thirsty engine.

  The men ignored Juanito and his vehicle until something interesting caught the attention of one. He lurched to his feet and stumbled in the direction of the car, calling over his shoulder to his companions, who laughed. At the door to the backseat, he hunched down to get a better look at Juanito’s passenger, the fumes from his alcoholic breath filling the car. My hand crept into my shoulder bag and my fingers encircled a can of hair spray I’d picked up in the Mexico City airport while waiting for the flight to León. It wasn’t Mace, but it would do in a pinch.

  “Buenas noches,” I said with a tight smile.

  The man growled something I knew I wouldn’t want translated and leered at me.

  Juanito yelled at him, pulled two crumpled bills from his pocket, and stuffed them in the man’s hands, nearly knocking him over in his efforts to push him away from the car.

  Fortified, we left León and headed toward San Miguel. At first I was grateful to be on the road and I tried to ignore the speed at which Juanito drove. It occurred to me he may have been trying to reach our destination before the car ran out of oil again. But I was wrong. He stopped again a half hour into our trip to replenish the oil supply. After that, we were on our own. There were no more service stations. There were no more paved roads. We were in the mountains.

  I wondered if Juanito had taken a shortcut or if this was actually the highway to San Miguel de Allende. It certainly didn’t look as if it accommodated a lot of traffic. The road was a narrow and winding roller coaster carved into the sides of low hills, with rocks and brush for borders, rarely steep for very long but with enough twists and turns to challenge the bravest fun seeker. Later the land flattened out, allowing Juanito to press harder on the accelerator. The countryside flew by, our headlights reflecting off the flanks of many a cow grazing nearby or occasionally wandering onto the road itself.

  It seemed to me that the farther away from León we got, the faster Juanito drove. We passed through tiny towns, hurtling down the main thoroughfare of each one. Speeding up rather than slowing down when locals appeared by the side of the road, we raced along the dry trails, leaving a plume of dust in our wake.

  I clung to the top of the front seat and braced my hand on the door, struggling to stay upright in the rocketing car. Desperate, I tried to remember the Spanish words meaning “please slow down”; I settled on yelling “Por favor, no mas rapido” over the roar of the engine and praying that Juanito would understand. He answered me in rapid-fire Spanish, the only word of which I grasped was “bandidos.”

  Bandits! He was worried about bandits.

  He looked around to reassure me, grinned, and held up what to him must have been a trusty weapon. It was a baseball bat. Good heavens! I could see the headline: AMERICAN TOURIST AND MEXICAN BOY FACE OFF AGAINST BANDITS WITH A CAN OF HAIR SPRAY AND A LOUISVILLE SLUGGER. After that, I held on and squeezed my eyes shut, opening them only to peer at my watch every few minutes, a wasted exercise because it was too dark to see the dial.

  “San Miguel,” Juanito sang out some time later.

  I looked up. The car had crested a hill, and there, nestled in the valley below, were the sparkling lights of a good-sized city.

  “Wonderful,” I said, relieved that this harrowing ride would soon be over. The town looked as if it wasn’t too far off, and I estimated we could be at the Buckleys’ in fifteen minutes or so. I wondered what their house would look like. We had never discussed that. Would it be a Spanish-style stucco with dark beams jutting from the eaves? Or would it be built of brick or stone with long, narrow windows, or perhaps with filigreed iron balconies? I pictured Olga in a long caftan, floating through a room with high ceilings and whitewashed walls dominated by oil paintings. She was an elegant woman, tall and slender with a deportment that suggested royalty, a perception that Vaughan delighted in, knowing the real woman. Many people were intimidated by her at first, but that didn’t last long if they took the time to look beyond first impressions. She was warm and sweet, and made an effort to see to the
comfort of everyone around her. Of course, I also knew her silly side. She was a great mimic and had a devilish laugh that was infectious. Her house would be—well, I couldn’t think what it would be. I knew one thing: It would be a welcome sight regardless of its architecture and décor.

  The fifteen minutes came and went. The lights of San Miguel in front of us became lights to the side of us, and eventually lights behind, as Juanito maneuvered the car down the tortuous mountain road. By that time I was too tired to be fearful of his driving anymore. Instead, I daydreamed—or should it be nightdreamed—imagining myself already at our destination. I saw myself tiptoeing up the stairs to Vaughan and Olga’s guest room, trying not to awaken them, sinking into the freshly made bed and sleeping deeply. Just the thought of cool sheets and a soft pillow relaxed me. The ride had been an adventure I could recount in the morning over coffee. Vaughan loved a good story, and I thought of ways I could embellish it for his amusement. Not that it required much embellishment. But my vision was instantly shattered when we rounded a curve to find a boulder in the center of the road.

  Juanito swerved to the right, the wheels of the car climbing the rocks bordering the shoulder. I slid across the bench seat and slammed into the door. Thank goodness it didn’t open. We careened ahead, balancing on two wheels, the low-hanging branches of trees reaching through the open window, grabbing at our clothes and scraping the top and sides of the car, sounding like the screeching of chalk on a blackboard. Juanito cut the wheel sharply and the car righted itself, jouncing over the rough surface, and came to a stop before two trees, the headlights riding up and down their trunks in smaller and smaller waves as the car’s movement settled. Suddenly, it seemed, the only sound I heard was the hiss of steam escaping the radiator. The engine had died.

  Juanito, his face ashen, released a stream of Spanish curses and pounded the steering wheel with both hands.

  “Juanito, are you all right?” I asked.