Holy Guacamole! (30 page)

After dessert, we drove to the police station in Uncle Javier’s car, a huge, beautifully maintained vehicle that was probably twenty years old. It was so comfortable that I could easily have gone to sleep in the back seat if Adela hadn’t whispered an embarrassing question in my ear. She wanted to know if I had a black eye.

Her question was evidently heard in the front seat because she received a sharp reprimand in Spanish from her aunt. It had something to do with my
esposo.
Possibly Aunt Julietta was saying that my husband might have hit me and that it was impolite for Adela to embarrass me by asking.

In order to clear Jason’s good name, I replied to Adela, but loudly enough to be heard by the relatives in the front seat, that during the investigation made by my friend and myself into the murder of Vladik, I had been assaulted by an evil man, who was now in jail. They were all sorry to hear of my misfortune but glad to hear that my attacker had been arrested. Uncle Javier, whose last name I can’t remember, told me that I should try not to interfere in police business in the future for the sake of my own safety. He had a point, one that Jason would have made had he not been in Austin with his graduate student, Mercedes.

At Five Points we were told that Sergeant Guevara had gone home. I asked for Lieutenant Matalisse, who had, after all, mentioned that he had hours of paper work ahead of him. He scowled at me when we were escorted into his office. “I’ve set the wheels in motion on the doctor,” he said.

“This is another matter. You’ll remember you said Sergeant Guevara was looking for the guacamole maker. This is she—Adela Mariscal. She’s a graduate student in music at the university. She sang one of the witches’ parts in the
Macbeth
performance. Then I introduced her aunt and uncle, who, I explained, were visiting when they heard that the police were looking for Adela. Adela had then called me, so we’d all come over after dinner at Casa Jurado.

The lieutenant shook their hands and directed them to seats. He asked me if I ever ordered the chicken mole, a favorite of his. I said I didn’t care for unsweetened chocolate and hot chiles on my meat, but I did love the wonderful spinach enchiladas, among other outstanding dinners. The lieutenant had never ordered the spinach enchiladas, which was no surprise to me. I hadn’t talked Jason into trying them either. It must have been a male thing.

“So you think the family guacamole recipe killed this man?” Aunt Julietta asked, evidently tired of the polite conversation. I sympathized. Adela was looking more and more stressed as we talked. “Generations of our family have eaten that guacamole with no sickness.“

“That may be so, ma’am, but there was something weird in that guacamole. Our toxicologists analyzed it along with the rest of the victim’s stomach contents.”

“That must be an unpleasant job. Who would wish to examine such things?” Aunt Julietta remarked.

“My niece is prepared to give you her recipe. In fact, she has written it out for you,” said Uncle Javier. “Please examine it. There is nothing in it to be blamed for a man’s death.” He nodded to Adela, who, with a trembling hand, passed the recipe across to the lieutenant.

Lieutenant Matalisse studied the list of ingredients. “Looks innocent enough, but the recipe is no guarantee that she didn’t put in something more she didn’t mention to you folks—wait. What’s this?” He pointed to the last ingredient.

“That is the preservative,” said Aunt Julietta, as if preservation was its only role. “You will know that the avocados turn black and—untasteful—if they are allowed to sit out of their skins. That is my special herb for preventing this tragedy. Otherwise, a big guacamole could not be served. You understand?”

“Could it make someone sick?” asked the lieutenant, not to be bamboozled by talk of exotic herbs he’d never heard of.

“Perhaps. But one would have to eat very much guacamole for sickness to occur.”

“He did, right?” The lieutenant turned to me.

“Yes, he tried to keep it all for himself.”

“But my niece could not have known he would do this. It would not be gentlemanly to do so,” said Uncle Javier. “Therefore, if he experienced illness, he brought that illness on himself. My niece cannot be held responsible for his gluttony, which is one of the seven deadly sins. He should have considered the
deadly
element in his sin.”

“I’ll have to ask the toxicologist about this stuff,” said the lieutenant. “In the meantime, young lady, you stay at the university until we get this cleared up.”

“My niece is a student. She will stay at the
universidad
until the end of the semester, traffic on the bridges being dangerous and time consuming. I, a lawyer, will see to it. American police are known to be reliable, so my niece, as you see, is cooperating.”

“
Gringo estupido,
” muttered Aunt Julietta as we left headquarters after friendly farewells to the lieutenant.

The Investigation Moves Elsewhere

Obviously things were
going on Saturday night and Sunday morning in which I was only peripherally involved, which was fine with me. Adela’s uncle dropped me at my car on the university campus, and I drove home, very carefully, then fell into bed and read the fourth book in First Ladies Detective Agency series:
The Kalahari Typing School for Men.
It was quite as delightful as the first three books, and I found the title wonderfully amusing, since I pictured in my mind groups of small desert tribesman, virtually naked, squatting in the sand, typing. That was not the case, as I learned. The typing school in question was held in a church in the capital of Botswana and served men in Western clothing.

I had only one interruption Saturday night. Luz called to say the lieutenant wanted the name of the nurse with whom I had spoken at the hospital. “Irma,” I said, remembering her name tag. That was the best I could do, other than reminding Luz that the nurse had worked the night shift on this weekend and the last. Glad as I was to realize that my information was leading to a stirring of police interest, I went back to my book and was asleep by ten o’clock, through no fault of the book. I fell asleep smiling, and that was directly attributable to the book.

The next morning, thoroughly refreshed, I fixed myself breakfast—including eggs, in which Luz evidently didn’t believe or which she didn’t know how to cook, if her toast-only offerings the last two mornings were any indication. Then I settled down to read the Sunday paper. I was either getting used to reading one-eyed, or I was seeing more out of my black eye. I’d been careful
not
to look in the mirror when emerging from the shower.

“INS Considers Deporting Russian Strip-Club Owner,” the Borderland section proclaimed. They included a picture of Boris Ignatenko, looking more ghoulish than ever in black and white, being escorted into a federal court-room. His lawyer argued that for a Russian army deserter deportation was akin to the death penalty, which would be overly harsh, considering the crimes of which he was accused. It would seem that Boris preferred to be tried in this country. Since I had been one of his victims, I was less inclined to view his predicament sympathetically. Before I could talk myself into a more tolerant frame of mind, I was saved by my telephone.

When Vivian Brockman identified herself, I groaned inwardly, expecting that she intended to chastise me for focusing police suspicion on her husband. That was not the case, however. Vivian, sounding rather flustered, had called to ask if I knew what was going on with the investigation of Vladislav Gubenko’s death. I replied that I hadn’t heard anything lately, adding silently,
which is to say today.

“Well,” said Vivian, “this has been a very peculiar twelve hours. Last night we received a call from the police. They said they were checking the whereabouts afterward of everyone who had been at the opera party. I told them I had been at home asleep, and Peter had been called out for emergency surgery. Of course, I offered to put Peter on, but they said that wasn’t necessary. Then Peter received a call early this morning from the hospital. I checked the caller ID after he left the house. He was very upset with the caller, so of course, I asked what it had been about. ‘I have to go to Cincinnati,’ he said. Naturally, I asked when, wondering if I’d have to iron shirts for him, since the maid doesn’t come until Monday. To my amazement, he said, ‘Right now.’ Can you imagine? Why would the hospital be calling to send him to Cincinnati? He said he didn’t have time to explain, threw some clothes in a carry-on bag, and left. That’s quite unlike Peter.

“
Then,
” she said dramatically, “well, actually a half hour may have passed, but the police arrived at my door. I was still in my dressing gown. They wanted to talk to Peter, so of course, I told them that he had left for Cincinnati. They had all sorts of questions for me: How long ago? Where in Cincinnati? For what reason? Traveling how? By plane I assumed, but I couldn’t even say that for sure. And finally, they wanted a description of his car. At least I could give them that, but they wouldn’t tell me why they were looking for Peter. The only thing I could think of was our artistic director’s death, which they’d talked to me about, indirectly, the night before.”

She sighed, a long-suffering sigh, and said, “I’d really like to know what’s going on.”

I thought I knew. Vivian had told the police that Peter was at the hospital. Luz had asked me for the nurse’s name, and Irma had told them sometime last night that he hadn’t been at the hospital. They’d probably also interviewed Luz’s neighbor, and her ex-husband, who had heard Peter talking about getting rid of Vladik. Peter’s call from the hospital might have been from Irma, telling him that people, namely, Carolyn Blue and the police, had been asking if he’d been at the hospital a week ago Saturday. Peter had put two and two together and fled. Then another question occurred to me: Was it my duty as a friend to forewarn Vivian, or my duty as a citizen to keep my mouth shut?

Since Peter had already fled with the police at his heels, I decided that nothing I said would either hinder or facilitate his capture. “Carolyn,” said Vivian. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Vivian. I’m afraid I have some rather frightening news for you.”

“Frightening? Don’t tell me another Opera at the Pass member has died.”

“Not that I know of, but when Peter told you he was at the hospital performing surgery the night Vladik died, he wasn’t telling the truth—or at least that’s what one of the night nurses in Emergency says. Perhaps it was she who called this morning to warn him that the police were making inquiries about him.”

“I wouldn’t have thought any of the nurses liked Peter well enough to forewarn him of anything. They even complain to me about his domineering personality. As if I didn’t know. I’m his wife, for goodness sake. I just tell them to ignore him.”

“That’s probably hard for a nurse to do—ignore a doctor.”

“Still, he must have gone to a different hospital, and I misunderstood. I was, after all, half asleep when he said he’d been called in. Peter may be difficult, he may even have hated that opera, but that’s hardly reason for him to—well, so the police think he killed Vladik? That’s ridiculous. He’s a doctor. It would be quite outside his area of expertise and his moral obligation as a doctor to deliberately kill someone.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

“They’d have to have some other evidence, but of course they don’t, because people like us don’t kill our associates. It’s unheard of.”

“The thing is, a tall person carrying a doctor’s bag was seen entering Vladik’s condo that night. The witness saw his car too and said it was long and dark, which isn’t much of description. What’s Peter’s car like?”

“I suppose one might describe it as long and dark, but I’m sure there are many long, dark cars in El Paso. Still, this is very—very upsetting. If Peter was actually foolish enough to kill Vladik over that silly
Macbeth
performance, he needn’t expect me to bail him out of jail. But if he simply disappears, what am I to do? I suppose the first thing is to call our lawyer and find out what my financial situation would be if any of these eventualities actually—my goodness, Carolyn. I think I’ll have to get off the phone.”

Poor Vivian,
I thought. A husband in jail or on the run from the law was going to play havoc with her lifestyle. Not a very charitable thought on my part, but her primary concern didn’t seem to be her husband’s guilt or innocence, but rather how it would affect her.

News Al Fresco

I
t was a
lovely day—clear, sunny, with temperatures in the high 60s. Feeling indolent, I took my book and cordless telephone to a lounger on the patio to enjoy more of the
Kalahari Typing School
without having to go inside should anyone care to update me on the search for and investigation of Dr. Peter Brockman. I was closing in on the end of the book and beginning to think of lunch when the telephone finally rang. My caller, Luz, said, “Hi. I’m down at headquarters. Just finished listening to the interrogation of your doctor.”

“So they caught him before he could leave town?”

“How did you know what he was planning?”

“His wife told me. And why wasn’t
I
invited to listen in?”

“Maybe because you don’t have cop connections, and I do,” she replied, laughing. “Actually, I did call you when Matalisse called me, but your phone was busy. I just barely made it to Five Points myself. So, do you want to hear what he said?”

“Of course I do. In fact, why don’t you come over for lunch? We’ll have snacks and sangria.”

“I don’t mind snacks, but that damned bottled sangria is enough to make you puke.”

“I make my own,” I retorted, a bit huffy. “From a recipe one of Jason’s colleagues gave us. It’s delicious.”

“I’ m on my way.”