Margaritas & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I won’t keep you long,” I said. “I’m a little surprised to be reporting to someone as important as the chief of police. Is this standard procedure?”

  “For the moment. My second and I are the only ones on the squad who speak intelligible English. Others say they speak the language, but you couldn’t tell it by me. Since the city has a sizable English-speaking population, we need to be able to communicate clearly. We’re setting up lessons for the officers, but it’ll be a while before that bears any fruit.” He sighed. “So tell me. Why are you here?”

  “My driver and I were on the road from León to San Miguel when a ban—when a thief waylaid our car, took our money and some of my jewelry, and ran off.”

  “A bandido, you were going to say. A familiar story.” He pulled out a blank form from a pile of papers on his desk and handed it to me along with a pen. “What time of the day was this?”

  “Didn’t your officers give you a summary?”

  “I’ll ask the questions. What time of day was this?”

  “Actually, it was at night. I’d say around one or two in the morning.”

  He tipped his chin down, raised his brow, and peered up at me through thick black lashes. “Don’t you know better than to travel at night in Mexico? You should be grateful you weren’t shot, or worse. That was a very bad decision, Mrs. . . ? I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher. Yes, Chief, I understand that, but my flight was delayed, and the person who was supposed to pick me up at the airport—”

  “No excuses,” he said, interrupting. “There’s no good reason to be driving around these roads in the dark. You appear to be an intelligent woman. You must have heard about crime in Mexico. Stories like this have been printed in every paper in the world. Tourism is down all over the country as a result. Why didn’t you just stay in a hotel overnight?”

  “I was told the hotels in León were all filled.”

  “They always say that, but if you’d gone to one, they would have found you something, even if they’d had to kick one of their staff out of bed. Who drove you, then, if your original driver never showed?”

  “The son of one of the men who worked at the airport.” I felt foolish as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I knew he was going to pounce on that. I had taken a risk by trusting Juanito, but I’d thought it was a small one. That his father had awakened him at midnight to drive a stranded stranger struck me as a generous act, not a nefarious one. Still, I had given Chief Rivera something else to seize upon, another reason to scold me. I headed him off. “Now, I know what you’re about to say, but there you’re wrong. Juanito was not in league with the bandido. I’d bet my life on that.”

  “Which was exactly what you did,” he barked.

  “Please let me finish. He was a very reliable young man who watched out for me as best he could. In fact, he was very protective.”

  “Driving a brand-new car, no doubt, with seat belts and air bags. Hmmm?”

  “That’s an entirely different matter.”

  A small smirk came and went on his lips. He waved at the form in my hands. “Just fill that out and we’ll see what we can do, but I have to inform you that we never find stolen articles. Whatever this guy took has probably been fenced three times by now. And the thief himself is likely to be miles away.”

  “I wasn’t expecting that you would recover my belongings. But it might be helpful to you to have a description of the robber. Do you do any investigation at all, or am I wasting my time?”

  “Now don’t get your back up. We’ll check into it. Just stating the facts.”

  “I wonder if could ask you a question?”

  His eyes were wary. “Sure.”

  “How did you know to address me in English when I was downstairs?”

  “Easy. First of all, we have a very big expat community down here, which you must have noticed by now. Half of them are across the street in the park. Americans and Canadians are retiring here by the dozens. You’re blond, wearing a brand-new pair of Nikes, and carrying a handbag that wasn’t made in Mexico. Plus, you weren’t afraid to buck the tide of uniforms—a very American attitude—and you were trying to get into a police station, not out of it.”

  “Interesting. Do you mind if I ask you another?”

  “Shoot.”

  “When did you leave New York?”

  He snorted. “How’d you figure that one out?”

  “Let’s leave aside your brashness for the moment.”

  “What you really mean is rudeness.”

  “Yes, well, you speak English with a New York accent. I used to live in New York City, so the sound of New Yorkers is not unknown to me.”

  “No kidding. Where?”

  “In Manhattan.”

  “What were you doing there? You don’t sound like a native New Yorker to me.”

  “I was teaching at Manhattan University.”

  “Interesting. Where did you live?”

  “I had an apartment at Penfield House.”

  “Nice address,” he said.

  “Nice way to change the subject.”

  The smirk appeared again.

  “If your accent were not enough,” I said, “your New York Yankees baseball cap over there was a sure giveaway.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing. A lot of people are Yankees fans.”

  “Not where I come from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Cabot Cove, Maine.”

  “Maine? They don’t even have a baseball team.”

  “Not a major-league one. But Boston’s not too far away. And they do.”

  “Who are you talking about? The Red Sox? No comparison. Not even close. Shouldn’t even say their name in the same breath as the Yankees.”

  “When I left New York yesterday . . .” I paused. My goodness, was it only yesterday? I thought. So much has happened. “When I left New York, if I’m not mistaken—and I don’t believe I am—Boston had a three-game lead in a four-game series.” I smiled in triumph. “You can look it up if you don’t believe me. It’ll be on the Internet.”

  Chief Rivera’s smirk faded. “They’ll make it up. It’s still early in the season. The Yankees have depth. They always come out on top.” He scowled at me. “Now who’s changing the subject?”

  I nodded. “What did you do in New York, Chief? Were you a policeman there, too?”

  His face relaxed. “Twenty years with NYPD.”

  “I’ll bet speaking Spanish was a real help to you as a policeman in New York.”

  “In the Latino neighborhoods. I speak Spanish with a Mexican accent, but I can put on a Puerto Rican, Dominican, or even Cuban accent when I need to.”

  “How did you find a job down here?”

  His expression became contemplative. “When I retired from the force, I couldn’t take the quiet. I was used to the action, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “The wife got disgusted, divorced me, and moved upstate with the kids. They’re in college now. I bounced around for a while. Then I read about a job opening in Mexico.”

  “And you already knew the language.”

  “Not only that. I knew the area, too. My parents were from Guanajuato originally. We used to come back for a family visit every couple of years. Anyway, at the time Mexico was hiring cops by the dozen to combat the increase in crime. When the tourists started avoiding the resorts, the government knew they’d better do something, and fast. I guess they must’ve run out of local talent and gave me a shot at it. But it’s no big deal in San Miguel. It’s relatively safe.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Not in my experience, it wasn’t.

  He noted my expression. “Well, there are always exceptions, but San Miguel is no Mexico City.”

  “And you wish it were?”

  “Not really. But I wouldn’t mind putting some time in in the big city. I don’t think there’s much of a chance of that. My wife, the new one, that is—I met her down here—she’d kill me if I even sugg
ested it. It’s her little boy, my stepson, I’m taking to play baseball.”

  “And I’m keeping you. I’ll fill this out right now.” I picked up the pen and started writing quickly. “Were you made police chief right away?” I asked as I recorded the details from the night before.

  “No, not at first. But my predecessor got caught with his hand in the till, so to speak. He was moonlighting as a bandido.”

  I raised my head, startled.

  “I guess the local officials decided a guy from Spanish Harlem wouldn’t have the illegal connections down here, and so they promoted me into the job.”

  “And you’ve cleaned up Dodge City.”

  “Workin’ on it.”

  “Is it common for the military to share office space with the police in Mexico?” I asked.

  “You mean the soldiers?”

  “I was surprised to see them here.”

  “The federal government is big on cooperative efforts, partly so they can get a handle on criminal issues. The army is everywhere. But it also means having troops in place if needed.”

  “What might they be needed for?”

  “Tons of stuff. The drug trade is always a concern, plus illegal immigration and revolutionary groups.”

  “I didn’t realize there were any revolutionary groups in this area.”

  “Most of them are in the south, but there are little pockets all over the country. The local ones call themselves the Revolutionary Guanajuato Brigade. They’ve been operating in this area for around fifteen years. Probably three guys with a copy machine. They specialize in statements to the press, but that’s about it. I haven’t seen any evidence of paramilitary operations, but if the administration wants a show of federal strength, that’s fine with me.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door, and a tall, muscular man poked his head in. “Jefe?”

  “C’mon in. We got another bandido victim here. Mrs. Fletcher, this is Captain Ignacio Gutierrez, my second in command.”

  “Complació para encontrarlo,” he said, barely sparing me a glance.

  The chief frowned. “You take care of it,” he said in English, “since you got your eyes on my job.”

  Gutierrez grunted and backed out of the room.

  There was an awkward moment of silence. I bent my head to complete the questions on the form, which were in both languages.

  “Here you go,” I said, giving it back to him. “It’s just a brief summary of my encounter with the robber. If I think of anything else, may I give you a call?”

  He scanned the account, holding the sheet in one hand as the other groped on the desk for a business card. “Brief, huh?” he said, as his hand landed on a tray of cards and extracted one. “I see he wore a plaid paliacate.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said, as I took the card he extended to me.

  “Kerchief. You’re sure it was plaid?”

  “It was dark, but I’m pretty sure it was plaid.”

  “This kind of stuff doesn’t mean a thing,” he said, dropping my form on his desk with a flip of his hand. “Everyone and his brother wears a kerchief down here. Same with the cowboy sombrero.”

  “I was just trying to be accurate.”

  “The coughing, now that’s new. Never heard of a bandido with the flu before.”

  “It might be pneumonia or tuberculosis.”

  His brows rose. “It might.”

  “I’m glad I’ve given you something to go on,” I said with a straight face.

  His gaze was piercing. “Can’t tell whether you’re kidding or being serious.”

  “I think I’ll let you figure that out,” I said, rising. “You’ve got a baseball game to get to.”

  He stood up and grabbed his Yankees cap. “I’ll walk you out.” He patted his pockets, pushed aside some papers on his desk, and looked under a book.

  “Top drawer on the right,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your keys. I saw you put them in the top drawer on the right.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He narrowed his eyes at me, opened the drawer, pulled out the keys, and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. “Let’s go.”

  He put his cap on when we reached the sidewalk in front of the building. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Stay out of more trouble while you’re here.”

  “I hope to,” I said.

  “By the way, I forgot to ask what you taught at Manhattan University. What was it? English? History? You look like an English professor to me. Am I right?”

  “I did teach English at one time.”

  “I knew it.”

  “But that was on the secondary level.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment crossed his face.

  “No, Chief. When I taught at Manhattan University, it wasn’t English.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “It was criminology.” I managed to smother my smile until I was across the street and heading toward the corner where I was to meet Olga. But I enjoyed having surprised him, and as I walked away I pictured the expression that must have been on his face.

  Chapter Seven

  “I arrived in the middle of the night, so I hadn’t had an opportunity to see what the house looked like from the outside. It was quite a surprise this morning.”

  “It’s a modest-looking street, Jessica, but behind those rough walls are some of the most elegant homes in San Miguel, and right up the block is the one of the best small hotels in the world, Casa de Sierra Nevada.”

  “I think we passed it this afternoon on the way to El Jardin.”

  “You must let Olga and Vaughan treat you to dinner there. The food is out of this world.”

  “Perhaps I can make it my treat instead, Cathie. I was hoping to take them out as a thank-you for hosting me.”

  “That’s the perfect place. I happen to know they love it.”

  Cathie Harrison was one of the guests at a gathering the Buckleys had arranged to welcome me. A pretty blond lady, she and her husband, Eric Gewirtz, and their son, Robbie, were spending the summer in San Miguel, while their daughter, Jena, took classes at the Universidad del Valle de Mexico. “We’re all learning Spanish together,” she said, “but Eric couldn’t resist bringing a basketball with him. He coaches the game at home. He and Jena have even gotten up a team with some of the local students. That’s where they are right now, playing basketball. I hope they make it here before the party is over.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting them,” I said. “I understand Eric helped Vaughan set up his media room.”

  “The ‘boys’ toys,’ I call them. They like to surf the Internet on a huge screen, play music too loud for anyone’s comfort, and watch European sports on the satellite dish even though they have no idea what the rules of the games are.”

  I laughed. “Is that what they do?”

  “I’m convinced of it.”

  “Excuse me, Cathie,” Olga said, taking my arm. “May I pull Jessica away? I have some people who are dying to meet her.”

  Olga escorted me to the other end of the stone-tiled courtyard. It was a square space, enclosed on all four sides by the two-story stucco structure that was the Buckleys’ home. Two tall carved doors that marked the main entrance to the house were flanked by long windows, their rust-colored shutters thrown open against the pale yellow walls. A small balcony, red flowers dangling from boxes affixed to its wrought iron railing, jutted out above the entry. On the opposite side of the courtyard, a short passageway ended in the heavy wooden door leading to the street. To the right of the exit was a wall fountain, a brightly painted ceramic face with water spewing from its mouth into a semicircular basin covered in mosaic tile. To the left, an acacia tree gracefully shaded the corner, as well as several of the myriad tropical plants that grew in terra-cotta pots of various sizes strategically placed to give the impression of a lush landscape. The patio was spacious and elegant, ideal for entertaining, and Olga had filled it with her friends and neighbors for a cocktail party in my honor. We greeted them as
I squeezed through the crowd trying to keep up with her.

  “So nice to meet you, Jessica.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Jessica Fletcher! How exciting. Is this your first trip to Mexico?”

  “It’s my first trip to San Miguel.”

  “I’ve read every one of your books, Mrs. Fletcher. Would you mind if I brought one by for you to autograph?”

  “I’d be delighted, but call me Jessica, please.”

  “Hello. We wondered if you were here. Welcome to SMA.”

  “SMA?”

  “San Miguel de Allende.”

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  “Oh, you must meet Roberto. He’s a writer, too.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Heard about your introduction to Mexico last night. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but no real harm done.”

  “Great party, Olga.”

  “Stay a while. There’s a mariachi band coming later.”

  “She’s a wonderful hostess, isn’t she?”

  “Who’s the caterer, dear?”

  “A company called Who’s Cooking. I’ll give you their card.”

  “It’s J. B. Fletcher, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Nice meeting you.”

  Olga drew to a halt just before a colonnade that ran along one side of the building and provided shelter from the sun. Under the arched ceiling, and to the right of a pair of open French doors leading to the kitchen, was a series of rattan chairs and sofas on which guests lounged and helped themselves to hors d’oeuvres and rainbow-colored cocktails offered by Maria Elena and a couple hired for the occasion. As she delivered the new drinks, Maria Elena removed the empty glasses and placed clean napkins on the glass top of the low table in front of the guests.

  Olga turned her back to the group and pretended to show me a miniature date palm. “The couple on the sofa are Dina and Roberto Fisher,” she said softly. “ ‘Roberto’ used to be plain ‘Robert’ back home. His wife still slips occasionally and calls him Bob. I’m told he sold his pharmacy to some big chain and they’ve been living on the profits. He’s taken on a whole new persona down here. One or two of his treatises on Mexican culture appeared in some obscure academic publication, so he now considers himself a published author. Would you mind terribly talking with him?”