Margaritas & Murder (16 page)

“It must be difficult competing with daily news outlets when you publish only once a week.”

“Difficult, but not impossible. We try to take a different tack, find a new angle, do a news analysis or come up with some interesting sidebar the other media haven’t picked up on yet.”

“But not this time.”

“It’s not often I can scoop the Mexico City dailies and the online papers that cover SMA, but this time it was a doozy.” He fiddled with a paper on his desk and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Of course, they’ll beat me to the news of Señor Manheim’s death.” He raised his head. “I see you’re not surprised. That’s interesting. I heard it on the scanner this morning. How did you find out?”

I ignored his question and asked another of my own. “Why do you suppose the kidnappers chose you to publish their demands, rather than another paper?”

He shrugged. “Maybe because we’re the only official paper in SMA. The others are from out of town. They know all the expats read
Noticias
. That way the families of the victims would be able to read about their demands.”

“Wouldn’t it be more logical for them to contact the families first, before they sent their demands to you?”

“Maybe they did,” he said, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers.

“You know they didn’t,” I said. “Mrs. Buckley received a call from
Noticias
last night. That was you, wasn’t it? I thought it was an odd time to call about a subscription.”

“I was going to try to get a comment from her about the kidnapping, but when she said her husband would be home later, I realized she didn’t know.”

“Then the note mentioned Vaughan by name?”

He nodded slowly. “Both of them. Manheim and Buckley.”

“And you didn’t inform Mrs. Buckley about it.”

“I wasn’t about to tell her that her husband had been kidnapped. No! That’s a job for the cops, not me.”

“Did you try to corroborate that the note was genuine?”

“I knew the cops had found an abandoned car. I heard it on the scanner. I knew it was a gringo car. Part of the description was a sign in the window saying the driver doesn’t speak Spanish.”

“Perhaps the revolutionaries heard about it on the scanner, too. Maybe they took credit for something they didn’t do.”

“Maybe. But then how would they know the names of the two men?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but something isn’t right. I’m told that the local revolutionary group is more interested in making political statements than in committing crimes.”

“Kidnapping two Americans is a heck of a statement, don’t you think? Look, Señora Fletcher, there are revolutionary groups active all over this country. The powers that be can’t keep up with them. Quash ’em over here, they pop up over there. As long as there’s corruption in the government and in the legal and judicial systems—and that’s still the case, despite the best efforts of those in the current administration—the rebel groups have a reason to go on. Maybe our local revolutionaries just figured it was time to take a bolder stand, make a bigger splash.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “May I see the note?”

“I told you, the police took it.”

“A sharp editor like yourself, Señor Sylva, would have made a copy of the note, knowing the police would demand the original.”

What came from him was more a bark than a laugh. “You’re pretty sharp yourself,” he said, taking a key from his pocket, unlocking one of his desk drawers, and pulling out a file folder. “Would you like a copy of it?”

“That would be very helpful,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from them again?”

“Not yet,” he said, getting up and turning on the copier, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if I did.” He took a sheet of paper from the folder.

“What’s that mark on the corner?” I asked.

“Just an ink smudge.”

“Did you make it or was it on the original?”

“Not me. I don’t use a fountain pen. By the way, is there a reward?”

“Not so far. I think Mrs. Buckley will want to ask the police if they think it’s a good idea first. We don’t want to do anything to jeopardize Vaughan’s position.”

“It’d make a difference. People will come forward with all kinds of information if they think there’s something in it for them.”

“Are you including yourself?”

“No way. The board would never let me accept a reward.” He waited while the copy machine warmed up. “Listen, I’m doing you a favor,” he said. “How about doing one for me?”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I’d like to interview you for the paper, Señora Fletcher. We have a lot of authors in town, but none who’re famous for solving crimes. Plus, you’re a friend of the victim. That gives you a unique perspective. I want an exclusive, nothing the other papers can get. Give it to me and I’ll even share any information that comes my way.”

“What information do you think you’d get?”

“You never know. San Miguel is a lot like a small town. It’s hard to keep secrets here. If someone knows what you’re doing, he’ll tell somebody else. And that person will tell another. Word gets around. And when it does, it sometimes comes to me.”

“I’ll make a deal with you, Señor Sylva. You share information that helps me find Vaughan Buckley, and I’ll present myself at this office for an exclusive interview.”

He smiled and put the paper in the copy machine. “Okay, but there’s more.”

“What else do you want?” I asked.

“I want to sit down with Señor Buckley. I want to learn what happened in his own words, a blow-by-blow description. I really want to talk with him.”

“So do I, Señor Sylva. So do I.”

T
he police station was only a short distance from the newspaper office, and I walked there after my visit with the editor, taking a shortcut through El Jardin. The park was small as parks go, and after a few visits its features were beginning to look familiar: the gazebo; the children skipping and chasing each other; the benches filled with people, newcomers and natives alike, reading, chatting, snoozing in the shade of the tall laurel trees.

My eyes scanned El Jardin, looking for a bouquet of balloons that would indicate the balloon vendor was there again. I’d become increasingly convinced that he was the man who had robbed me the night I came to San Miguel de Allende. The balloon vendor was thinner than my assailant had been, but I recalled that the
bandido
had looked as if he were wearing layers of clothing. Take them away and you take pounds off his appearance. The cough, of course, was the giveaway. Not that everyone with a cough could be considered under suspicion.

A little girl, no more than two years old, ran up to me and wrapped her arms around my knees, squealing with delight. She was wearing a cotton dress, too large for her slight frame, the fabric thin from many washings and the hem frayed.

“Hello,” I said. “Who are you?”

She grinned back at an older boy of about five, who was chasing her. Releasing my knees, she darted behind me, and the two children ran in circles, the baby using my body as a shield. I heard a man’s shout and the pair of imps ran away, the little one laughing and waving at me. I smiled and waved back, enjoying the youngsters’ exuberance, their innocent enjoyment of a simple game.

I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if Frank and I had had children. It was never our intention to be childless. We started our marriage with every expectation that our lives would mirror those of our friends and family. It just didn’t turn out that way. At first we were consumed with our failure, jealous of others’ easy fertility, angry at our inability to accomplish something everyone around us was capable of doing: producing offspring. But as the years passed we made peace with our disappointment, settled into a comfortable routine, and found our joy elsewhere, in sweet times together, listening, learning, loving. I have no regrets. We had a tender and close relationship, one I cherish in memory.

Musing on the ironies life presents, I walked to the corner with the ice cream stand and waited for traffic to subside. It was late in the day, and the tourist buses were returning to the park, jockeying for position at the curb to let their passengers off. One bus came so close to where I stood I had to take a step back to avoid being hit by the side mirror.

What happened next took place in an instant. The little girl raced to the corner and turned to taunt her brother, dancing backward toward the street. Her tiny sandal caught in the curb and she tumbled into the gutter just as a bus was pulling out. I heard screams but never stopping to think, I ran in front of the bus—its horn blaring—scooped up the child, and jumped back onto the sidewalk. I was surrounded by people, cheering me, all talking at once, pounding me on the back. The little girl was frightened by the commotion and began to cry. She reached her arms out to her father. I delivered her to him and looked up into his tearful eyes. It was the balloon vendor.

 

I found Chief Rivera on the telephone, leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the desk. He wore his Yankees baseball cap backward, the bill turned around to the nape of his neck. He waved me to a seat and finished his conversation.

“We found the gun,” he said, dropping his feet to the floor and hanging up the phone.

“The gun that killed Woody?”

“Yeah.” He took off the cap and ran a hand over the top of his crew cut. “I was just talking to the ballistics guy over in Guanajuato. Says it looks like it might match the bullet the coroner pulled from the vic—uh, Mr. Manheim’s body. We’re waiting for the confirmation.”

“That was quick,” I said.

“Sometimes we can be efficient,” he said with a small smile.

“Where did you find it?”

“The gun? About thirty feet from the body, in some brush. Can’t believe we missed it this morning.”

“Strange that the kidnappers wouldn’t keep it.”

“I agree.”

“Will you be able to trace the gun?” I asked. “Is there any chance it was registered?”

“The serial number wasn’t scratched off, so we lucked out there,” he said. “No record of registration in Mexico, however.”

“In that case,” I said, “it must be illegal. I understand the Mexican government has strict rules when it comes to firearms.”

“You understand correctly. You get caught with an unregistered weapon, they can put you away for thirty years, no questions asked. That’s not to say there aren’t a lot of contraband arms floating around. They pour over the border. This may be one of them, but we’ve got to wait to find out. I’ve got the basic data going to ATF in the States, just to cover all bases,” he said, referring to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, which keeps track of registered weapons.

“What kind of gun is it?”

“Beretta nine-millimeter pistol.”

“A gun like that is standard military issue back home,” I said. “Did you find any fingerprints?”

“We got two full and a partial. Nothing back yet.” He held up two hands as if to ward me off. “Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve told you all I can. Why don’t you leave the rest of this investigation to us?”

“The kidnappers are demanding a ransom,” I said.

“It was only a matter of time. How did they contact you?”

“An instant message on the computer.”

“That’s new.”

I shook my head. “It was lucky I was online at the time; otherwise I would have missed them.” I told the chief about the sender’s name, the lack of response to my queries about Vaughan, and my hunch that they were simply delivering a prepared statement.

“Could be. They probably don’t speak English. They’ve already botched their mission and lost one piece of bait, possibly both. They could be bluffing.”

“What do you make of the name Pelican?” I asked.

“Don’t know. It’s a bird that can carry a lot of fish in its beak. Maybe it’s a symbol of some sort.”

“That’s what I was thinking, but a symbol of what?”

“You can’t always figure these things,” he said. “Some people like to be obscure, play with your mind. It gives them a kick.”

“I guess. Do you mind if I ask you a question?” I said.

He started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You’ve already asked me a hundred questions,” he said, throwing up his hands. “What’s one more? I wish my staff were as hot on the case as you are.”

“I don’t mean to interfere,” I said. “I just want Vaughan Buckley found unharmed.”

His face became serious. “We have the same objective, but you do realize it doesn’t look good with one already dead.”

“You’ve had men up in the mountains all day without finding any trace of Mr. Buckley. Am I right?”

He looked at his watch. “Haven’t heard from the pilot yet. The helicopter might still be searching the area. We won’t get the dog till day after tomorrow, the earliest.”

“If I don’t miss my guess,” I said, “they won’t find him there. At least they won’t find his body.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The vultures. They discover a corpse a lot faster than a helicopter. We saw only two birds, and they were both fixated on Woody.”

“I hope for your friend’s sake that you’re right.”

I gave Chief Rivera the guest list from the party and explained that I had downloaded it from Vaughan’s computer. “I don’t know how helpful that will be,” I said, “but I thought you should have it.”

He put the papers in the top file on his desk. “You never know when some piece of information will prove useful,” he said, standing and stretching. “It’s been a long day. I’m going home for supper. Would you like a lift back to the Buckleys’ house?”

“Oh, that would be very nice of you. Thanks.”

We walked down the hall to the magnetic board that displayed police personnel and patrols. Rivera moved a disk with his name to the off-duty slot. At the bottom of the stairwell a small contingent of soldiers was loitering in the vestibule, as if awaiting instructions. Chief Rivera didn’t speak again until we were outside and away from the building. “Their major has been chewing nails all day,” he said. “The Revolutionary Guanajuato Brigade has eluded him several times, but this is the first time they’ve gotten him in trouble.”