Margaritas & Murder (17 page)

“So he’s tried to find them before?” I asked.

“He didn’t put a lot of effort into it. The members of the brigade, such as it is, apparently move around, don’t stay in one place for very long.”

“If I remember correctly, you thought they were harmless. ‘Three men and a copier,’ you said.”

“Up until now they never did anything other than issue these inflammatory proclamations, you know, calls to rise up against the government, that sort of thing. It was enough to put them on a Wanted list but not enough to warrant an all-out campaign to stamp them out. Now the feds are holding the major’s feet to the fire, wanting to know why his soldiers haven’t hauled them in before.”

We walked around the corner and down several streets, stopping at a wide archway sealed by solid wooden panels. Chief Rivera took out a large key, unbolted the doors, pushed them back, and kicked a stone in front of each to hold it open. I followed him into an unevenly paved square where a dozen police and unmarked vehicles were haphazardly parked. He opened the passenger door of a gleaming black sedan, and I got in.

I put on the seat belt and waited for him to come around the car. “Something is bothering me,” I said when he was settled in the driver’s seat.

“What’s that?”

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that previously peaceful demonstrators have suddenly turned violent?”

“It would, except they put the statement in the paper demanding ransom and knew the names of the missing men.”

“Speaking of that ransom demand, did you know about that this morning when we went to the scene of the crime?”

He snorted. “I wondered when you were going to ask me that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t share all my secrets with you, Mrs. Fletcher. Sometimes you learn more by keeping quiet than by speaking.”

“I’ll assume I was among your suspects, then,” I said. “Am I still under suspicion?”

“I don’t cross anyone off till I’ve made an arrest. But you’re far down on my list, at least for the moment.”

“That’s comforting.”

He started up the engine, left the car idling on the street while he relocked the doors to the parking area, and got back behind the wheel.

“How long do you figure Mrs. Buckley will be away?” he asked as we bounced over the cobblestones.

“She didn’t say,” I replied, “but I doubt it will be more than a few days. She’ll want to be here when Vaughan is released.”

“You’re an optimist.”

“I have to be. I can’t conceive of anything else. Vaughan Buckley and I have been colleagues and friends for more years than I care to count. If these people are holding him for ransom, they’re going to have to produce him before any money changes hands.”

“Under the circumstances, I’d say they’re the ones setting the rules.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “Have they gotten in touch with Philip Manheim?”

“He claims they haven’t. I saw him this afternoon for about ten minutes. We sent a priest with the officers to give him the news. Weird kid. Seemed more angry than sad at the loss of his father. And his friends looked like something out of a gang war movie. Toughs with an attitude. D’you know him? The kid, I mean?”

“I’ve met him, but we’ve never had so much as a conversation. I wasn’t impressed with his manners. But young people are sometimes like that around their parents’ acquaintances.”

“I’m keeping an eye on him. He left the house right after I did and, according to my guys, hasn’t been back since.”

“He has a lot to deal with right now,” I said. “Maybe he went to stay with friends. It can be painful to be alone when someone you love dies.”

“I don’t know how much love there was between them.”

“Sometimes it isn’t obvious to the casual observer,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“I guess you’re right. I’m going to swing by his house if you don’t mind. News media were staked out on the street earlier. Even a couple of TV crews. I’m hoping they’re gone by now.”

“How awful for him. I can certainly understand why Philip would want to leave.”

He drove to a part of town I hadn’t walked through yet, the streets narrower and not quite so picturesque as the one on which Vaughan and Olga lived. I knew which building was Woody’s by the tilted TV remote van parked outside, two wheels up on the sidewalk to keep it out of the way of any traffic. On top was a huge telescoping antenna; it looked as if it might make the truck topple over at any moment.

Chief Rivera pulled a bubble light from under his seat, rolled down the window, and slapped it on his hood. He plugged the cord into the cigarette lighter and I saw the reflection of the beam on the building.

“I’m going in to see if he’s back,” he said, opening the door.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked, releasing my seat belt.

His raised eyebrows hinted that he was going to object, but instead he said, “Suit yourself.”

I followed him into the small courtyard of Woody’s building. It was apparent that more than one family lived there. Stone staircases to the right and left led to upstairs entrances. Laundry was strung on a rope from one of the upper apartments to the wall across from it. Two doors were at ground level behind the stairs. A man with a camera on his shoulder was filming another man who stood before one of them, which I assumed was the entrance to where Woody had lived.

The reporter finished talking and lowered his microphone, and the cameraman flipped off the bright light attached to his equipment.

Rivera flashed his badge and asked the reporter something in Spanish.

“If he’s in there, we never saw him,” the man replied in English.

“Wrapping up now? I don’t want that truck blocking the street.”

“We have to transmit the feed, but we’ll be gone in ten minutes.”

The door to Woody’s apartment was unlocked. I didn’t know if Philip had forgotten to lock it or if he always left it open, as many of my neighbors do at home—despite Mort Metzger, our sheriff in Cabot Cove, strongly discouraging that custom. He always says it’s an unfortunate fact of twenty-first-century life that we live in times too dangerous to allow anyone to walk in unannounced. It saddens me that the innocent days of trusting the good intentions of neighbor and stranger alike are gone. Nevertheless, I recognize the truth of that and have regretfully followed Mort’s advice. I lock my doors even when I’m home.

Chief Rivera knocked on the door and called out “Anybody home?” before he swung it open and entered one end of a short room. Woody’s apartment was cramped and dim. A single lamp had been left lit, but it did little to illuminate the dark corners and massive furniture that crowded the center of the space. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but it was apparent that Woody and his son kept the place neat, except for a pile of magazines that sat on a coffee table in front of a well-worn, overstuffed leather sofa. A serape that was usually tucked under the cushion covered the seat, but one side had come loose, revealing a crack in the leather. Woody had been a large man, and his furniture reflected his size. A pair of matching armchairs flanked the sofa, all three pieces facing a television set that sat on a rough wooden table against the wall, next to a computer monitor.

I touched Rivera’s arm and pointed to the computer. “Philip might have e-mail that could tell us where he went,” I said.

“I’m within my rights to come in and see if he’s here, but I don’t have a search warrant, and I’m not about to start stretching the law. He’s not missing yet. We just want to talk with him again.”

“He could be out making arrangements for the funeral,” I offered. “When will you release the body?”

“Not till I get the results of the autopsy.”

Four doors led off the living room. I followed the chief as he poked his head in the kitchen and pushed open the bathroom door. There were two bedrooms, and it was easy to see who belonged in each one. Woody’s was spare and neat, a testament to his years in the military. His bed was made, and the only item on his dresser was a small tray for coins and other contents of his pockets. Philip’s room was plastered with posters of rock bands and buxom movie starlets. His bed, a mattress on the floor, was a pile of grubby linen. Clothes had been dropped and left where they landed. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a teenager’s room look like this, but Philip was already out of his teens. His sloppiness must have galled his father, and maybe that was his intent. Or perhaps it was just the absence of a feminine presence to shame him into cleaning it up.

“Kid’s a slob,” Chief Rivera said. “He’d never get away with that in my house.”

“I wonder why he still lived with his father,” I said.

“Probably couldn’t find work. The government doesn’t want foreigners taking jobs a Mexican can do.”

“Do you know if his mother is living?”

“I didn’t do the interview,” he said. “Gutierrez will probably know.”

On our way out, I caught sight of a picture near the entrance that I hadn’t noticed earlier when my eyes were adjusting to the lack of light. It was a Sarah Christopher painting from what I now thought of as her “revolutionary” period. It showed several figures arming themselves for battle. One of them, a woman, looked familiar. I moved closer to the picture and squinted up at the face. Her features were contorted from the effort needed to lift a heavy sword, but one thing was unmistakably clear: The picture was a self-portrait of the artist.

W
onderful cooking aromas filled the house when I arrived back at the Buckleys’ after Chief Rivera dropped me off. I found Maria Elena at the stove and her brother sitting at the kitchen table. Their faces were somber, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. Hector hastily scrambled to his feet when I walked through the door. I knew at once they had learned about Woody.

“Such sad news about Señor Woody, Señora Fletcher,” Maria Elena said, wiping her eyes. “We hear it on the radio.”

“I’m so sorry you had to learn about it that way,” I said. “The police asked me not to say anything until they spoke with his son.”

“Does Señora Buckley know? It will be terrible to tell her.”

“Yes. She knows.”

“Poor Philipo,” she said. “His papa was such a nice man. He always compliments me on my cooking. I’m making some food to send to the boy. Do you think that will be all right? It is our custom.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it even if he doesn’t say so right away. If you like, I can bring it to him this evening when I go there. I’ll be sure to tell him you made it for him.”

“That would be most kind.” She gestured toward her brother.
“Dispénseme,”
she said. “Señora, this is my brother Hector. He works for Señor Buckley sometimes.”

Hector bobbed his head to me. “I helped to repair the house for them,” he said.

“Mr. Buckley has spoken very highly of you,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I think highly of him as well or I wouldn’t want my sister to come work here.”

Maria Elena frowned at him. “Be nice.”

“It’s true,” he said, looking at her. “You are my responsibility now. I don’t entrust you to just anyone.”

“He is just leaving, Señora,” she said.

“Please don’t leave on my account,” I said. “In fact, I’ll join you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.” I pulled out a chair and sat. “Please sit down,” I said to Hector.

He took the chair opposite mine, a wary expression in his eyes.

Maria Elena wrung her hands, worried that her brother would be rude to her houseguest. He was a proud man, and a bit of a hothead. I’d seen that side of him at the Buckleys’ party when he’d stormed out of the kitchen, but I wasn’t concerned. I had an idea I wanted to discuss. The editor of
Noticias
had said San Miguel was like a small town, where rumors and gossip spread quickly. He was going to keep his ears open, but his readership was mostly in the expatriate community. Hector might be able to track down rumors circulating among the Mexican residents.

“I’d like to ask your help in finding Mr. Buckley,” I said.

Whatever he thought I was going to say, this wasn’t it. His face registered surprise, then anger. “I have nothing to do with this crime,” he said, jumping up. “I would never hurt Mr. Buckley.”

“I think you misunderstand,” I said. “I simply thought that since you live here, you might be able to find out some information.”

“You ask me this because I am Mexican? You Americans assume we are all alike. Everyone is not to be trusted. Even in our own country, you accuse us of trying to cheat you.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said, feeling myself getting heated as well. “On the contrary, if you let me finish, you’ll realize I’m asking for your assistance. Vaughan Buckley needs all the help we can provide.” I sat back and shook my head. “But if you can’t control your temper any better than that, I doubt we can get very far. I don’t want to make circumstances any more difficult for Vaughan than they already are.”

Maria Elena released a furious stream of Spanish at her brother.

He looked at her sheepishly and sank back down in his seat. “
Lo siento mucho, Señora.
I am sorry to interrupt you. Of course I want to help Señor Buckley. What is it I can do for him?”

I took a breath and said, “You can listen. That’s all I’m asking. Just listen.”

“I am listening,” he said.

I shook my head. “That’s not what I mean,” I said, thinking,
I must be tired. I can’t even express myself clearly anymore.
“I talked with the editor of
Noticias
today,” I continued. “He said San Miguel is like a small town, where it is hard to keep a secret. People talk.”

Both Hector and Maria Elena nodded.

“It seems to me it would be difficult to hide a kidnap victim in San Miguel, particularly a tall American, without someone hearing or seeing something. What you can do is simply offer opportunities for information. If you’re with a group of people, in a shop or in church or at work, talk about the kidnapping and see if anyone has any theories about who might be responsible.”