Margaritas & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “May I get you anything else, Señora?” Maria Elena asked me.

  “No, thank you. I think I have everything I need.”

  I took Vaughan’s arm and he escorted me up a flight of stairs, pausing outside the door to the guest room.

  “She’s a lovely woman,” I said.

  “Maria Elena?”

  “Yes. She was a wonderful help translating what the police were saying.”

  “Lucky for all of us. My Spanish is limited, although Olga and I are taking a class at the Instituto Allende.”

  “She’s a terrific cook, too. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until she brought in—what were they exactly? They were wonderful.”

  “Those were empanadas, Jessica. My favorite. I can eat them by the dozen.”

  “I think they’ll become my favorite, too.”

  “I’ll bet they tasted even better now that you know you’ll be around to eat them again.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Kidding aside, Jessica, are you all right? That was a traumatic experience you had this evening.”

  “I’m fine, Vaughan.”

  “I know you’ve been in a lot of scrapes over the years, but this . . .”

  “I promise you, I’m perfectly well. Now, tell me, how did you meet Maria Elena? From what I understood, you’re only here a short time, and you don’t stay for very long when you are.”

  “Her brother Hector helped us with the renovations. He said his sister was a recent widow and was looking for work. We were lucky when she agreed to live here full-time. We told her to make the house her own when we’re away, entertain if she wants, just enjoy the amenities. I have a wonderful media room, complete with satellite TV, computer hookup, and a multimedia surround-sound system.”

  “You do?”

  Vaughan laughed. “I’m an electronics buff. It’s a passion of mine.” I must have looked surprised because he added, “Never knew that about me, did you?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I can’t be an effete snob all the time, Jessica. I have to do something manly every now and then. I installed most of the equipment myself, with a little help from a fellow I met here, Eric Gewirtz. He’s a computer expert, down with his family for the summer. Nice guy. Really knows his stuff. Would you like to see the room? It’s just down the hall.”

  “Of course I would. This is a part of your personality you’ve been keeping secret from me. What does Olga think of your passion?”

  “She’s been tolerating it for years, but while our apartment at the Dakota has thick walls, it isn’t soundproofed.” Vaughan ushered me inside a large room and closed a padded door behind us. “Welcome to my playroom. That’s what Olga calls it. It’s an apt name. I can tinker with my toys and play my music any time of the day or night without disturbing the neighbors, or my wife.”

  “It’s impressive,” I said, turning in a circle to take in Vaughan’s installation. One wall was floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall cabinetry in three parts. The center section was composed of several panels of beautiful wood doors. Flanking them were exposed shelves neatly filled with compact disks, DVDs, videotapes, and of course books. Two columns of shelves held stacks of black equipment behind dark glass.

  Vaughan patted the closed doors. “I had them use cocobolo for the cabinets. It’s Mexican lumber similar to rosewood. I’ve tried to use native materials wherever I could. Since we’re taking advantage of the Mexican economy, I figured I should contribute to it as well.”

  “Very admirable,” I said.

  “Come sit. I’ll show you how everything works.”

  Vaughan led me to a long sectional sofa facing the shelves. Made of soft gray suede, it ran the entire wall, ending on one side in a chaise longue. Two large ottomans pushed together doubled as a cocktail table and held a silver tray containing half a dozen remote control devices. The wall opposite the door was draped in black velvet.

  The décor was decidedly masculine, but I could see Olga’s touches in the colorful pillows that were piled up on the chaise and scattered along the back of the sofa, and in the wildly patterned rug that sat atop the gray carpet.

  “Let’s see. What can I show you first?” Vaughan said, picking up a remote. In response to the buttons he pressed, the double doors in the center of the cabinet slid silently to the sides to reveal a television with a huge screen.

  “It’s an HD cinema wall, plasma monitor,” he said proudly, “with component video to minimize distortion and composite video carrying luminescence, chrominance, and raster synchronizing information.”

  “Are we still speaking English?” I asked, laughing.

  “Wait till you see it,” he said. “It also has Dolby digital AC3 surround sound.” He pushed another button. A picture bloomed on the screen—a video of a man in a white sombrero and an ornamented Mexican jacket leading a magnificent dappled gray horse. Lively music poured from speakers positioned in every corner of the room.

  “Isn’t it great?” Vaughan shouted over the music. “That’s an Ezequiel Peña DVD. He’s a mariachi and ranchera singer. Can you hear the violins coming out of that speaker and the trumpets from this one?”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said. “Can you turn it down a bit?”

  Vaughan smiled sheepishly and lowered the volume. “I like it loud,” he said, “but I understand that not everyone does.”

  “It’s a remarkably sharp picture,” I said.

  “It can serve as my computer monitor, too,” he said, switching off the DVD to a blank screen. “I’ve got a cordless keyboard on that shelf over there that’s a gem. I just put up my feet and surf the Internet.”

  “All the comforts of home,” I said, reaching for a different remote. “What else can these marvels of technology do?”

  “Try it and see.”

  I pushed a button and the lights dimmed; I pushed another and the velvet hangings drew aside to reveal a bank of broad windows.

  “You can’t really tell now because it’s still dark outside, but the drapes eliminate ninety percent of the ambient light,” he said. “Makes a big difference in the picture.”

  I pressed the button to close them again, raised the lighting, and put the device back with its brothers.

  “Those are infrared—pretty common,” Vaughan said, reaching for a silver case, “but this one operates on radio frequency, so it works through doors and walls. I can control the music in every room in the house from right here.”

  “I have one remote at home, and I’m not sure what all the buttons do,” I said. “How do you keep track of it all?”

  “Easy. Look here. I put instructions on the back.”

  He handed me the remote. I held out my arm and squinted at the tiny type, but it remained illegible.

  “I can’t read this without my glasses,” I said.

  “Here, try mine,” Vaughan said, handing me his reading glasses. “It’s really not as hard as you think once you know which remote controls which equipment, and I’ve labeled each one.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I said.

  “You sound like Olga. But it’s fun once you get the hang of it. Maria Elena knows how to operate all this stuff. I gave her lessons, hoping she would use it for her own entertainment.”

  “And does she?”

  “I doubt it. I’m afraid she only lives in her own rooms and the kitchen when we’re not here. I wish she’d take advantage of the rest of the house. It’s silly just to keep it dusted for the two or three times a year we can get here.”

  “I think I can understand that, though. It’s not hers.”

  “True. But I was hoping she wouldn’t feel that way. We wouldn’t want this house if she weren’t here to help us out.”

  “It’s beautiful. I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of it tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow, it’s almost here. I’m sorry. You must be beat, and I’ve kept you from your bed with my toys.”

  “I loved seeing them. You’ll have to show me how to get my e-mai
l tomorrow.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Vaughan shut off the equipment and closed the door on the playroom. In the hallway I remembered something that had struck me earlier. I put a hand on his arm. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What did Olga mean when we were talking about the bandido and she said, ‘Let that be a lesson to you’?”

  “Nothing at all to worry about. I’m going on the mail run. That’s all.”

  “What’s the mail run?”

  “It’s too long a story before bed. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. For now, just get a good night’s rest—what’s left of it—and sleep late. You had a rough trip here, but the worst is over. The rest of your vacation is going to be nothing but relaxation and fun.”

  I bid him good night and was soon sound asleep in the guest room, Vaughan’s words echoing in my brain. But the worst wasn’t over, as I would soon find out.

  It was yet to come.

  Chapter Six

  The San Miguel police station was on the north side of a lovely park in the center of town. Called El Jardin, or the garden, it was a neat square, with municipal buildings on one side and La Parroquia, an elegant Gothic-style pink stone church with slender spires, on the other. Carefully tended laurel trees provided shade over the park’s pathways and green iron benches, every one of which was occupied by men and women, old and young, chatting, sipping coffee, reading newspapers, and watching the excitement on the faces of children as they jumped up and down at the approach of a balloon vendor. El Jardin was the city’s geographic hub, but it was also its social center, and we stopped often so Olga could introduce me to people she knew and point out others whose acquaintance she’d made in the short time she and Vaughan had been homeowners.

  “There’s Jim Sullivan and Deb Gerrity. They run a gallery over on Correo, not too far from here. Deb’s daughter, Emilie, is a prima ballerina with the American Ballet Theatre. That pretty lady with the dark hair, over there, is Lee Barette. She was a postmaster up north—she won’t let me say ‘postmistress.’ Now she’s teaching yoga to the retirees. I found her name on a bulletin board at one of the cafés. She lets me sit in, in a manner of speaking, whenever we’re down here.”

  “How nice,” I said.

  “It is. Other than walking around town, her class is the only exercise I get.”

  I laughed. “I would say walking around town is nothing to sniff at. It was quite a hike from your home to here, but I think you took the long way around.”

  “True, but I wanted you to get a feel for the city.”

  “I did, and it’s wonderful. Thank goodness you insisted I put on these sneakers.”

  “I don’t even pack a pair of high heels,” she said, peering down at her sandaled feet. “If my former modeling agent could see me in Birkenstocks, she’d cringe. I must look like a yokel in these clodhoppers.” She self-consciously ran a hand through her hair.

  “Not at all,” I said. “You’re far too beautiful for people to notice what’s on your feet. And if they do, they’ll simply consider it a new fashion statement.”

  “Aren’t you a dear, Jessica. I wasn’t really fishing for a compliment, but you gave me a lovely one anyway.”

  Olga and I had had a leisurely brunch at home—Vaughan had gone off early for a tennis game—after which she had trotted me around to some of her favorite places. We’d stopped at a bakery to pick up bolillos, a kind of Mexican hard roll. Then she pulled me into a bookstore to see if they stocked my mysteries in Spanish or English. They did. In both languages. We admired the artwork in the windows of several galleries, one of which handled Olga’s favorite artist, Sarah Christopher, the creator of the colorful oil paintings hanging in her home. And we purchased postcards to send off to New York and Cabot Cove. It seemed to me we’d made a big circle before climbing uphill to the square.

  The day was warm but not uncomfortable. Olga wore a flower-patterned wrap dress that emphasized her long, slim body. She’d tossed a cashmere cardigan over her shoulders, tying the sleeves in front like a scarf. I had on my favorite lightweight pantsuit, the soft taupe one that refuses to wrinkle, and the gym shoes Olga had pressed me to wear: “I don’t want you twisting an ankle your first day out.” After negotiating the cobblestone streets—the sidewalks were too narrow to walk two abreast comfortably—I was happy that I’d followed her suggestion.

  “I hope I haven’t worn you out.”

  “Not me. I’m the original trouper. I love a good long walk.”

  “Well, you’re in the right place now. Living in New York, we’ve gotten used to doing without a car. Having one here would be more of a burden than a convenience. There’s nowhere to put it.”

  “I noticed the house doesn’t have a garage.”

  “Parking space is at a premium, but honestly, everything we need is within easy walking distance.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” I said. “I’ve been managing without a car my entire life.”

  “So you have. Of course, it’s handy to have one from time to time, but if we want to explore a bit farther out, we can take a taxi, or one of our new friends will give us a lift. Everyone is so welcoming. We already have a wide group of friends down here. You’ll meet more of them later.”

  Our walk ended in front of the police station, where we ran into a large, bushy-haired man with a broad grin on his face coming out of the building. Behind him was a stocky young man wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt. He appeared to be in his early twenties.

  “Well, if it isn’t the gorgeous Mrs. Buckley. Fancy meeting you here, of all places.” His booming voice had people on the street turning to see who he was. The young man turned his back and pretended not to know him.

  Olga cringed. “Hello, Woody,” she said, her voice distinctly lacking in enthusiasm.

  “How’s the great white hunter? Ready for a little adventure?”

  Olga ignored his questions. “Jessica, this is Woody Manheim and his son, Philip.”

  Woody frowned. “Boy, turn around and say hello.”

  “I’m not a boy, Dad.”

  “Then act like a man. Don’t embarrass me.”

  Olga interrupted the scolding. “Woody, this is our guest, Jessica Fletcher.”

  Woody’s face lit up. “Sure, sure, I recognize you,” he said, pumping my hand. “Saw you on the Today show. Pleased to make your acquaintance. How’s that Katie Couric? Is she as nice as she seems on TV?”

  I assured him she was.

  “Pretty thing. Can’t compare to our beauty queen here, though, can she?”

  “Dad,” Philip said with a groan.

  “Woody, could you lower your voice, please?” Olga said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Sorry. Was I shouting?”

  Olga nodded, pulling the sleeves of her sweater closer.

  “You’re impossible,” Philip said with disgust. “I’m outta here.” He walked away without acknowledging Olga or me.

  “Kids!” Woody winked at me and shrugged. “Hearing’s not what it used to be,” he said, making an exaggerated effort to speak more softly.

  I had a feeling Woody had been loud all his life regardless of the state of his hearing.

  “I never met a real live celebrity before,” he said. “Not much of a reader. You know how it is—so much to do, so little time. But you looked great on TV.”

  Olga was tall, but Woody towered over her. Broad in the shoulders, the waist, and the hips, he would have been intimidating but for the pleasant expression on his face. Evidently, he greeted everyone with the same hail-fellow-well-met gusto, and it was hard not to smile back, although I don’t think his son would have agreed with my assessment.

  “Jessica, don’t let us keep you,” Olga said. “I’ll meet you over there when you’re through giving your police report.” She pointed to an ice cream stand on the corner of the park.

  “Nice to have met you,” I said to Woody.

  “Oh, I’ll see you l
ater at the beauty queen’s party.” He cut a glance at Olga and guffawed.

  “Woody, may I talk to you a moment?” she said, leading him away.

  There was no door to the station house, only an arched opening leading to a flight of stairs. As I mounted the first step, men in brown uniforms, carrying rifles and with bandoliers crisscrossing their chests, clattered down the staircase. I flattened myself against the cool wall to keep out of their way, but there seemed to be unending numbers of them.

  “Señora, Señora, this is not a good place to stand,” said a voice to my side.

  “My apologies,” I said to a stern-faced man in a loose-fitting white shirt and a baseball cap. “However, I have an appointment with . . .” I held up the card provided by the officers who had rescued Juanito and me. “I’m to see Javier Rivera. I understand his office is up there.” I nodded toward the second floor. “Do you know him?”

  “I do. Let me assist you.” He pushed past me, shouted something in Spanish, and the crowd of men stopped where they were and squeezed to the right to allow us to pass. We climbed quickly but faced a new squad at the top of the stairs, and my escort had to repeat his instructions so we could enter the hall. Once we were safely on the next level, the stairwell filled again with descending men.

  “Soldiers,” he called over his shoulder. He led me past a series of offices and a huge magnetic board showing the police duty roster, with silver disks to represent officers and crisscrossing rows indicating shift times and areas of the patrols. It hung next to a map of the city marked with colored pins. At the end of the hall, he drew a ring of keys out of his pocket to unlock a door on which a sign read, EL JEFE DE POLICÍA. “Have a seat,” he said once we were inside. He hung his ball cap on a hook on the wall, revealing a salt-and-pepper crew cut, took the chair behind the desk, and dropped the keys into a drawer.

  “Are you the chief of police?”

  “Javier Rivera at your service,” he said. “Don’t look so surprised.” He caught my glance at his clothes and shrugged. “I’m usually more formal, but my son is playing baseball this afternoon and I’m leaving here”—he squinted at his watch—“in an hour. So whatever it is, make it quick.”