by Marla Cooper
“If this were television, I would just say ‘Enhance,’ and you could magically make him be in focus and even smile for the camera.”
“You mean like this?” Brody clicked a couple of buttons, and the picture got brighter and a little sharper.
“Wow, that’s cool! Now make him look straight at us!”
“Ha. Nice try. I think this will help, though. You can at least tell what he looks like.”
Twenty minutes later, armed with a stack of printouts, we set out on our dual missions: finding suitable accommodations and identifying the man in the picture. We stopped by the police station, but the detectives were out detecting, so we left a message. We swung back by the church but found it locked up tight while everyone was at the cemetery. We stepped into a couple of shops to see if anyone recognized the picture of the mystery priest but didn’t get anything more than confused shrugs. I asked a couple of random passersby if they’d ever seen our man before, but suddenly no one spoke English anymore, and by the time I stammered out something in Spanish, they were already halfway down the street.
“Maybe we could put his face on a milk carton,” Brody suggested.
“Right. With a caption that says, ‘Have you seen this priest?’”
Brody shook his head. “I’m not even sure which is weirder. The fact that this isn’t really Father Villarreal, or the fact that Father Villarreal is dead.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “Who would kill a priest?”
Brody shrugged. “Maybe someone confessed something they shouldn’t have.”
I stared at the photo, studying the mystery man’s features. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was that it was no misunderstanding that had placed him there on the same day Dana had died, and another idea started to take shape in my head.
“Brody, what if this guy killed Father Villarreal to keep him from showing up at the wedding?”
“But why kill him? Didn’t you say someone had already called the church and canceled?”
“Yeah, but what if Father Villarreal found out? Maybe he realized somebody was planning to go in his place and he tried to stop it from happening.”
Brody looked dubious. “I don’t know—that’s pretty far-fetched.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but what about this whole thing isn’t crazy?”
Since we weren’t getting anywhere with the search for the man who had introduced himself as Father Villarreal, we turned our attention to the last few rental options remaining in the entire town of San Miguel.
We started with the most promising: a three-bedroom near the center of town that promised “incomparable views.” The pictures I had seen online looked pretty nice, but in reality the house could generously be described as a hovel. The views were incomparable, but that didn’t mean they were good. It just meant that you couldn’t really compare the tiny slice of sky you could see out the window to an actual view. The first of the small, dank bedrooms was serviceable, but the second held a single bed with a sagging mattress centered under a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
“Where’s the third bedroom?” I asked the grizzled middle-aged man giving us the not-so-grand tour.
He jerked his chin toward the foldout couch sitting sadly in the corner of the cramped living room. “No extra charge for sheets!”
“Okay, thanks,” I replied, edging toward the door. “We’ve got some other places to check out, but we’ll think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long! It won’t last,” he said, looking amazed that we were walking away from such splendor.
I was willing to take my chances.
The next place was better—although I couldn’t help but notice that it smelled like a combination of freshly scrubbed mildew, Marlboro Lights, and pine-scented air freshener. Brody wrinkled his nose while I concentrated on breathing through my mouth. They’d get used to the smell after a while, right?
Sadly, I had to put it down as a “maybe.”
We arrived at the third house on my list, just a few blocks away on Calle Recreo. With its plain adobe walls, it looked like every other house in San Miguel from the outside, and there was no telling what would be on the other side of the door. I knocked a couple of times and looked at Brody hopefully. “Cross your fingers.”
“Can’t be any worse than the other two!” he said encouragingly.
A tiny woman who introduced herself as Marisol opened the door. “Oh, you’re early!” she said. She had a towel thrown over one shoulder and was holding a broom and a dustpan in her hand. “Sorry, I was just getting it cleaned up. The family that just checked out brought their kids, and they made a bit of a mess.”
“Thanks for agreeing to show it to us on short notice,” I said, smiling as we stepped through the wooden door into the garden. “We’re in a bit of a pinch.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” she told us. “This place usually books up months in advance, but there was a last-minute cancellation.”
I felt a flood of relief as she showed us around. It was more modest than the villa, but it was nicely furnished with heavy wooden antiques. There were a few more floral prints than I would have preferred, but it was comfortable and cheerful, and it even smelled good, like mint castile soap and sunshine.
On the landscaped patio, an orange tabby lounged on the warm tile, making me miss my two fluffballs back home. Thank God Laurel was taking care of them while I was gone. I didn’t know what I was going to do when she started traveling with me for work, because she was their favorite pet sitter.
“I don’t know who he belongs to, but he loves hanging out here, so I guess you could say he comes with the place,” Marisol told us. I knelt to stroke him and he flopped onto his side, stretching so I could scratch his tummy. Maybe I was being unduly influenced by my newfound feline companion, but I liked the place, and I thought Mrs. Abernathy would, too.
I looked up at Brody, who was giving me a big smile and a thumbs-up behind Marisol’s back.
“We’ll take it!” I said, relieved to have at least one thing settled. While she drew up the paperwork, I quickly called to cancel the motel outside of town, eliciting some grumbles from the surly desk clerk. He’d get over it, and much more quickly than Mrs. Abernathy would have gotten over a room with a bed that vibrated if you inserted a couple of pesos.
Feeling lucky, I showed Marisol the picture of the impostor priest, but like everyone else we’d shown it to, she shook her head. Still, I’d averted the immediate disaster and could now focus on the other pressing matters at hand: hunting down the fake Father Villarreal, dropping by the jail to visit the bride’s sister—oh, and figuring out who’d offed one of the bridesmaids. A wedding planner’s work is just never done.
We dashed back to the villa to share the good news, and while it didn’t stop me from having to have “the talk” with Mrs. Abernathy again—the one where she demanded to know who that man who’d married Vince and Nicole was while I explained that I didn’t know—it did give me a good excuse to cut it short so I could go tell the others our plan. I found the newlyweds in their room, and told them the happy news that they wouldn’t have to share a motel room with the mother of the bride.
Next, I visited Kirk’s room. After hearing him call, “Come in,” in response to my knock, I swung the door open to find him sitting on the floor amid a sea of items, some his, some distinctly feminine. The boxes I had filled and taped shut were open, their contents spread out on the floor.
“Um, Kirk, I wanted to tell you to start packing.” He was clutching the pashmina shawl Dana had brought for cool evenings, looking like he had no idea what to do next. “But on a related note, you might want to stop unpacking.”
I dropped my bag and joined him on the floor, sitting cross-legged among the vacation necessities. Poor guy. I’d meant to check in with him to see if he needed any help getting Dana’s affairs sorted out, but I’d been too busy solving everyone else’s problems.
He looked at me with the saddest expression on
his face. “I wasn’t ready to let go of her things. I promised Dana’s parents I’d send them, but then I realized I’d never see any of this stuff, or her, ever again.” He thrust the silky fabric toward me. “See? It still smells like her.”
I politely pretended to inhale in the pashmina’s general vicinity, but it just didn’t have the same effect on me it seemed to be having on him.
He hugged the soft fabric to his chest and closed his eyes. “I just wanted to feel close to her one last time.”
“Why don’t you keep the pashmina?” I suggested, with a gentle tone that I hoped would mask my urgent need to start packing my own belongings. “I’m sure her parents won’t mind. If they do, we can tell them she left it at the church.”
He nodded somberly, folding it in his lap.
I had a sudden instinct to tell him everything—including the fact that his fiancée wasn’t the person he thought she was. I knew he’d be shocked to hear about the blackmail, the one-way ticket, and the condoms, but maybe learning the truth would help ease his suffering. Or cause more of it. Not knowing which reaction was more likely, I went for a good old-fashioned subject change instead.
“Meanwhile, I’ve got good news. I mean, better news, at least. I found a rental house for Mrs. Abernathy and the newlyweds, and since Brody and I will be staying with a friend, there’s enough room for you, too, if you want. I mean, I’m not sure when they’ll release the body to you—” His face blanched at my reference to his girlfriend as “the body.” Oops. I decided to keep going rather than dwell on the moment. “But there’s plenty of room if you’re sticking around.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Kelsey.”
“No worries. You need me to help you pack these things back up? Maybe we could swing by the post office in the morning and get them in the mail.”
“I can do it,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m sure this seems pretty maudlin.”
I shook my head. “No worries. I know this has been a shock. You take all the time you need.” I caught myself and amended my statement: “Okay, well, all the time you need between now and ten A.M. tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 20
The next morning, Brody and I made it down to breakfast early and got a head start on the chilaquiles Fernando had prepared. No way was I going to miss my last opportunity to enjoy his cooking before relocating to Evan’s house.
“Oh, Fernando, I wish I could take you with me,” I said, shoveling the egg-and-tortilla mixture into my mouth. “I’m sure going to miss this.”
He smiled and ducked his head, obviously pleased by the compliment. “If you would like, I will send some tamales with you.”
I nodded my head in agreement, mouth too full too speak.
Brody laughed. “You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t try to sneak back into your kitchen every time she’s hungry. Be sure she gives you the keys before she goes.”
The others trickled in gradually, having spent the morning getting ready to move out. Kirk seemed to be in better spirits than the night before. He thanked Mrs. Abernathy for the invitation to stay with them in the rental house on Calle Recreo, but he’d lucked out and found a last-minute cancellation on a single room in a small guesthouse nearby.
Too bad for him. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Then again, maybe he suspects.
“All right, everyone,” I said. “I hope you’re all packed. I have cars coming to get us at ten o’clock.”
Nicole sighed dejectedly. “I can’t believe we’re stuck in San Miguel,” she said. “We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon right now.”
“Darling, your sister needs you right now,” said Mrs. Abernathy, patting her daughter’s arm.
“I know,” Nicole said. “It’s just so frustrating.” I had no doubt that both she and Vince were frustrated, in every sense of the word. It was bad enough that they couldn’t go on their honeymoon, but here they were stuck with Mrs. Abernathy and they couldn’t even sneak off to a hotel for the night. Definitely a mood killer.
“Maybe we could just go for a day or two,” Vince suggested, looking hopeful.
Nicole bit her lip and looked at her mom. “It does seem like a shame to have that hotel room on the Riviera Maya going to waste…”
“I could have her back by Monday,” Vince said, sitting up in his seat.
Mrs. Abernathy shook her head. “No one’s leaving here until Zoe can leave, too.”
“I’m not talking about just abandoning her,” Nicole said. “We’d come right back.”
Mrs. Abernathy sighed. “Your father will return in a couple of days, and maybe then we’ll talk about it. But I need you here right now.”
“It’s not like we’re even helping,” Nicole said. “We’re just sitting around.”
Mrs. Abernathy looked incredulous. “Don’t you think that’s a bit selfish, considering your sister is in jail?”
Vince jumped to his bride’s defense: “Mrs. Abernathy, all Nicole’s trying to say is that there’s nothing we can do for Zoe. If there were, you know we wouldn’t even consider it.”
“Be that as it may,” Mrs. Abernathy said, “it is partially Nicole’s fault. The least she can do is stand by her sister.”
“My fault?” Nicole stared at her mother in amazement.
“Yes. If you hadn’t invited Dana to be in your wedding, none of this would have happened.”
Ah, how I was going to miss these delightful family get-togethers.
“So,” I said, dropping my napkin onto my plate. “Shall we go get packed up?”
Brody followed my lead. “Yes, look at the time,” he said, pushing back his chair.
We hastily retreated to our rooms, where I did my checkout ritual: put my bags by the door, looked under the bed for loose items, inspected the closet, opened each drawer, then double-checked under the bed again. Granted, it was a little neurotic, but one time I left behind my favorite pair of shoes, and I’ve never quite gotten over it.
Satisfied that I hadn’t forgotten anything, I closed the door behind myself and joined the rest of the group by the front doors right as the church bells struck ten. Packing Mrs. Abernathy, Nicole, Vince, and Kirk off into their shiny black town car was the most satisfying thing I’d done in days.
Feeling the thrill of independence, we dove into the other vehicle—me with a box of fresh tamales warming my lap—and gave the driver directions to Evan’s house. I felt slightly giddy with my escape. Even though I still had a job to do, I wasn’t going to be under the same roof as Mrs. Abernathy anymore, and that lifted my spirits considerably.
When we reached our destination, Evan met us at the car and greeted me with a kiss. “Here,” he said, “let me help you with your bags.”
Brody followed us inside, dropped his bags on the floor, and shook Evan’s hand. “Hey, thanks for letting me stay here.”
“No problem,” Evan said. “I’ve never hosted a crime-fighting duo before. Should be fun.”
“It is,” I said. “It’s a laugh a minute. Now, about that cocktail…”
“Cocktail?” Evan said. “Who said anything about cocktails?”
“I did. Just now.” Sheesh. Men. They never listen.
“I think I’ve got some wine around here somewhere,” Evan said.
“I’m kidding,” I said. “It’s too early. However, I do have a long-running fantasy about being greeted at the door with a pitcher of margaritas after a hard day, so, you know, something to keep in mind.”
“Ha. Okay, I’ll see what I can work out,” Evan said. “Raúl is off for a few days, but I was thinking maybe I’d cook us up some steaks tonight.”
Who was I to argue with that logic?
“Sounds great.” Brody nodded in agreement.
“Meanwhile,” I said, “we’re going to go rustle up an appetite at the police station.”
We hadn’t told them about Father Villarreal yet, and we needed to follow up on the LionFish data Brody had dropped off. I didn’t know if they’d bothered to look at it, a
nd I wanted to light a little fuego under them if they hadn’t. I also wanted to check in on Zoe and see how she was holding up—not to mention remind myself of why I was doing all of this.
At the station, Officer Ortiz—having been summoned by a bored-looking receptionist whom we’d interrupted from the important task of painting her nails—met us at the front desk and led us back into the office he shared with Officer Nolasco.
“Hola,” I said, giving a wave to the older cop. He responded by snapping a folder shut and shoving it in a desk drawer, then turning the notepad he’d been writing on facedown so we couldn’t see it.
“What do you want?” Officer Ortiz asked, plopping down in his desk chair. We’d interrupted his lunch, from the looks of it, and I couldn’t help but notice that he was more interested in his sandwich than he was in us.
Officer Nolasco mumbled something in Spanish, which Officer Ortiz helpfully translated for us: “Make it quick. We have work to do.”
“Well, first of all—primero,” I said, looking hopefully at Nolasco to demonstrate that I was trying, “we wanted to show you this. Una fotografía.” I pulled out a picture of the mystery priest and handed it to Ortiz.
“What is this?” he asked. “Who is this man?”
“That man impersonated a priest and performed my client’s wedding ceremony,” I said, stabbing the picture with my finger for emphasis.
“So?” Ortiz shrugged.
“So he claimed to be Father Villarreal!”
“You must have misunderstood him,” Ortiz said. “Your Spanish, it is not so good.”
I gritted my teeth as I laid out the whole story for them. When I was finished, the officers exchanged looks and shrugged. I don’t know why I’d expected my announcement to be a big, dramatic moment—too many reruns of Law & Order, maybe—but the men were unimpressed.
Ortiz stood as if to dismiss me. “I cannot see any crime that has taken place here.”
“Isn’t it possible that this guy, whoever he was, had something to do with Dana’s murder?” I asked.
