Holy Guacamole! (31 page)

I went to the kitchen and prepared several dips, chile con queso and guacamole, and the cream-cheese-jalapeno-fruit canapés I’d fixed for the ill-fated opera party. There was a certain symmetry in finishing with the food I’d prepared when this case started, not that I’d mention that thought to Luz, who was as likely to howl with laughter as agree. She arrived as I was mixing the sangria base with red wine and soda water and pouring it over ice.

After carrying our lunch to the patio, we settled down to eat and talk, but not before Luz sampled my sangria and actually said it was good. “Great,” she added, reluctantly. “Martino’s used to have good sangria; my dad always let me have a little glass even when I was a kid, but I haven’t ordered it there in years. After I had my first Martino’s margarita, I forgot all about sangria.”

“Was the sangria as good as mine?” I asked, jealous of their recipe.

“I don’t know. That was years ago. Anyway, let’s talk about the case. First, let me tell you about the old lady across the street. Matalisse sent someone out to interview her. Turns out she didn’t tell us the whole thing. Brockman has this personalized license plate: PBMD and some numbers, and it has a light. She saw it—can you beat that? Old as she is, she could read it two houses away. Maybe she’s got a spyglass. Anyway, she figures out the MD, but what does the PB mean? Since she doesn’t know his name, she starts thinking up stuff—“pretty bad” MD, “pediatric butcher” MD, “peeler of bunions” MD. She was still making up names when the doctor came out. So we have a witness who can place him there at the right time. No vanity plates in Texas with those first four letters.

“They also talked to Francisco and evidently got an earful from Mrs. Escobar number two. First, she thought they were accusing Francisco, and she had a fit. Then, she caught on that it was Brockman they were interested in and gave them a lecture on what an important community figure he is, blah, blah, blah. Poor Francisco; she doesn’t sound like much fun, but at least he got some kids out of the marriage. Anyway, Matalisse sent the troops to Brockman’s house this morning, but then you know that.

“They’d caught up with the nurse the night before—she said he wasn’t there—and with his wife, who said he was. Case was looking good.”

She poured herself more sangria, looked questioningly at me and poured me another glass. We both dipped some chips and filled small plates with those and canapés.

“He was gone when they went to his house, and he might have got away, but he ran into some bad luck at the airport.” Luz started to laugh and stuffed a canapé into her mouth. “Now, this is my kind of lunch. Anyway, he parks in long-term parking and heads for the terminal, gets in, and they shut it down. Security thinks there’s someone in there with a gun. Then Matalisse’s guys, with your picture of Brockman, arrive, and they get in because they’re looking for a murder suspect. Poor Brockman’s screwed. Cops, airport security, even sniffer dogs all over the place.

“He hasn’t got a prayer of going unnoticed. He can’t even chance waiting in line to get a ticket to somewhere. They find him in the men’s room in the booth next to the guy with the gun, who wants to hijack a plane to Cancún. How dumb is that? Most people who want a vacation in Cancún save up their money. Not this guy. He steals a gun from his brother-in-law and heads for the airport.”

“Does El Paso International have flights to Cancún?” I asked.

“How would I know? I’ve never been to Cancún.

“So the gunman and Brockman are hauled off. I don’t know what happened to the gunman, but they want hand and butt prints from Brockman. He thinks that’s pretty dumb and says, ‘Why not?’ But he won’t take down his pants. No way. They’ll have to get a warrant for his butt. So they take a picture of his butt and a print of his hand. Guy from the basement who looks at prints comes up to give his considered opinion. He says he’s no expert on butt prints, but it looks about right to him, and the hand is a good match. Says this in front of Brockman, who thinks they’re just scamming him. Then they ask if he was in Gubenko’s house a week ago Saturday. He say no. Where was he? they ask. Driving around thinking he’d like to get a divorce from his wife, he tells them.”

My telephone rang, and Luz leaned back in her chair while I took the call. It was Vivian. She wanted me to know that her husband had been arrested, and the police told her that he had confessed. I was amazed. Luz hadn’t mentioned a confession so far.

“I know that you’ll be anxious about support for those Russian girls, Carolyn,” said Vivian. “Now that Peter’s been arrested.”

“Goodness, you shouldn’t have to worry about
that,
” I protested.

“I know I don’t have to, but my husband being accused of murder does not relieve me of my social responsibilities. Especially if he’s guilty. That would make Peter responsible in part for their plight, so I wanted you to know that my lawyer assures me I’ll still own Peter’s half of the partnership, no matter what happens to him. I should be able to provide one day’s work a week for the two girls, but probably not two.”

“That’s—that’s so thoughtful of you, Vivian—to worry about others when you—you’ve had such distressing news.”

“Not at all,” said Vivian. “And now I must say goodbye. There are so many things to do. It’s very inconvenient that this happened on Sunday when the banks are closed.”

“His wife?” asked Luz when I clicked off the phone.

“Yes, she was calling to let me know that he’s been arrested, but that even if he goes to jail, she’ll still own half of his medical partnership and can provide part-time employment for the two Russian girls.”

Luz grinned. “That’s real wifely. I tell you what. I’ll never understand gringos. No wonder he was thinking about divorcing her.” She drained her glass and said, “Is there any more sangria?”

Hearsay Confession

Gringos? Obviously Vivian
and I were both gringos in Luz’s eyes. But was it a pejorative term? I understood that it referred to citizens of the United States, but not Mexican American citizens. “Would a black U.S. citizen be a gringo?” I asked curiously.

“Why?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have figured Brockman for having a black wife.”

“He doesn’t,” I agreed. “I was just wondering about the word
gringo.
You called Vivian a gringo. Is that an insult?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You must be drunk.”

“I am not,” I retorted indignantly. “What were we talking about?”

“Brockman saying he wanted to divorce his wife—that was what he was doing when Gubenko died, driving around thinking about dumping his wife.”

“Oh, I doubt that he’d really consider divorcing Vivian, especially if her name is on the partnership papers,” I said thoughtfully. “He just had to tell them he was doing something while Vladik was dying. On the other hand, he may well have been irritated with her.” I poured the last of the sangria into Luz’s glass and excused myself to make another pitcher. She didn’t protest.

When I returned and refilled my own glass, I said, “The police did call the Brockman’s house last night to ask their whereabouts the night of the murder. Vivian said she was at home and he was doing emergency surgery. What I think happened is that Irma, that nice nurse, got worried about her job—Peter’s on the hospital board—so she called him this morning to tip him off that she’d been questioned by the police about his hospital alibi.”

“Well, he was on the run, for sure, and we don’t know how he found out we were looking for him. Listen to me. I’m not part of that
we
anymore.” She stared into her glass moodily.

I ignored Luz’s sudden retirement angst and added, “Vivian called to tell me about the police wanting to talk to him this morning, and before that about a call from the hospital earlier, after which he said he had to go to Cincinnati and left without even explaining
why
he had to go to Cincinnati.”

“Makes sense. So we’ll assume that Irma tipped him off and he ran. Now where was I?” She took another sip of sangria, leaned forward to rub her knee, then said, “Once he had to give up the surgery alibi, they played him the tape of the old lady, talking about the tall doctor with Brockman’s license plates, going into Gubenko’s condo. Her saying Gubenko must have called him because he was sick.”

Oh dear,
I thought.
More confusing pronouns. Who in that sentence was sick and who was called?

“So he says, yeah, Gubenko did call him on his cell phone while he was driving around thinking about divorcing his wife, and he went over there, but Gubenko was still alive when he left. He gave him a suppository to stop him from puking.

“Matalisse, who’s leading the interrogation, with Guevara sitting there looking mad as hell, says, no. Nothing in the anus on autopsy. Brockman says maybe the Russian never got a chance to use the suppository. Matalisse says, they didn’t find any suppositories, but there’s pillow feathers and puke on the sleeves of the doctor’s coat, which they got from his closet with a search warrant. The anus check on autopsy was a lie, the feathers too, but they did find puke on the coat. The wife got all upset when they wanted to take it away because she was supposed to send it to the cleaners but hadn’t because she was flustered by ‘harassment from one Sergeant Guevara’ and forgot all about the coat.”

“Do they have Vladik’s DNA on the coat?” I asked, wishing that she’d stop using the word
puke.

“Nah. Takes time for DNA, and we just got the coat.”

“But the man’s a doctor. Couldn’t some patient, other than Vladik, have thrown up on Peter’s coat?”

“While he was driving around thinking about divorcing his wife?” Luz laughed. “By then he must have figured we had him, because he said, and I quote, ‘Oh very well, Lieutenant, but you’ll have to agree that Vladik forced me into an unconsidered action. I’d simply come to tell him that he’d be losing his post as our artistic director, both because of his sickening
Macbeth
and because of his conduct at the party afterward.’

“I’ll tell you, Caro, Brockman is one arrogant asshole, but Matalisse didn’t let on. He said, ‘I knew there had to be a good explanation.’

“‘Exactly,’ says the doctor. ‘Professor Gubenko, once he finished vomiting as a result of gorging himself on guacamole, said that if we fired him, he’d sue. And then he’d sue because we poisoned him at the party. I had the most terrible vision of Opera at the Pass having to declare bankruptcy and disband because of a man who put on the worst
Macbeth
imaginable.’

“Matalisse nodded like he couldn’t help but agree. Then the doctor tells us that in a moment of madness and loyalty to El Paso opera lovers, he was moved to stop Gubenko from making threats, so he put the pillow over his mouth. Imagine his surprise when the Gubenko up and expired, he said. No amount of attempts at artificial respiration could bring him back. What a load of crap that was.”

My telephone rang, and Luz muttered, “Just when I get to the good part.”

It was Dolly Montgomery. “Oh, Caro, I have the most exciting news. I just hope I’m not too late. Howard has been on the phone continuously since I told him you were looking for part-time work for the Russian girls, and he’s managed to get a grant. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s to write a book called
Shakespearean Criticism: A Comparison of Russian Scholarship from the Communist and Post-Communist Eras.
And of course, he wants the young women to do the translating if they’re still available. I so hope they are.”

Now there’s a catchy title,
I thought. What I said was, “My goodness, Dolly, this couldn’t have come at a better time. Vivian just told me that Peter’s office may not be able to offer more that one day’s work a week, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they’d be happy to give Howard those days as well.”

“That’s wonderful.” Dolly, all atwitter, thanked me several times and then apologized for hanging up so soon, but she wanted to give Howard the good news.

Luz didn’t even ask me about the phone call. “So Brockman thinks he has Matalisse on his side, what with the artificial respiration story and all that. That’s when Matalisse turns the tables on him. He says, ‘So you’re saying you just wanted him to stop making threats, but had no intention of smothering him?’

“‘None whatever,’ says the doctor.

“‘You didn’t foresee that a man that sick to his stomach might aspirate his own vomit and die?’