Margaritas & Murder (23 page)

I twisted around in my chair to watch the musicians, grateful for the distraction. If the note from the canary proved to be a hoax—if no one showed up and I sat in the bar for hours—at least the music would be compensation for the effort. It was hard to stay miserable in the face of mariachi music, with its bracing tempo and exhilarating feel. I only wished Vaughan and Olga were there to enjoy it with me.

The members of the band were not attired in the traditional mariachi costume, or
traje de charro
. Instead of the short jacket and tight pants, trimmed with embroidery or silver buttons, and the large formal sombrero, they were bareheaded and wore blue jeans and plaid shirts. They looked as if they’d just gotten off work and decided on the spur of the moment to get together to play music and celebrate. In fact, the whole cantina was in a celebratory mood—and I was its lone false note. The band struck up a new song and began walking down the line of tables playing requests, the crowds parting as they approached, everyone eager to hear them.

A buxom waitress in a black miniskirt and a hot-pink peasant blouse exposing both her shoulders came to the table. She held a small tray on which was an array of bottles. “
Cerveza, Señora?
” she shouted over the music.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Beer. Corona, Sol, Dos Equis, Casta, Pacífico, Simpatico, Brise, Negra Modelo, Tequiza, Indio,” she said, rattling off the brands available.

“What would you suggest?” I asked, wondering if the kidnappers were even now watching my every move.

“Try the Casta,” a masculine voice next to me suggested. “It’s a nice ale. You’ll like it.” He said something to the waitress, who deposited a bottle and a napkin in front of me.

“Limón?”
she asked.

“She wants to know if you want lime. Say yes.”

“Sí,” I said.

The waitress pushed a wedge of lime into the open neck of the bottle.

My advisor tossed a bill on her tray, and she departed.

“You don’t have to pay for my beer,” I said, turning to see who my benefactor was and opening my bag to find my wallet.

“Please put away your money. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to San Miguel,” said the man who had just taken the seat next to mine. “Is this your jacket? I almost sat on it.” He was a wiry man in his forties, his thick black hair slicked back from his forehead, his handsome features marred by deep acne scars on his cheeks. Despite his thin physique, his arms were sinewy, raised veins visible against his dusky skin, the tips of his fingers calloused but the nails clean. I speculated that he worked with his hands, but in what capacity I wasn’t sure. The educated tones of his lightly accented English indicated that he was something other than a laborer.

I took the jacket and laid it across my lap, wondering if this was the person I’d been saving the seat for. “The least I can do is thank you and introduce myself,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, visiting here from the States.”

“I know who you are,” he said. “You can call me Alfredo. I am here on behalf of a friend of yours, or more accurately one who would be a friend.”

“And who is that?” I asked.

“His name doesn’t matter. You have met him before, when you first came to San Miguel.”

“And why isn’t he here himself?”

“He is not well. And also, he does not speak English. But this man, who would be your friend, has sent me with a gift. He said you will know who he is when I give it to you.” He gently took my hand, reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper tied with string, and dropped it in my palm.

“What is this?”

“Open it and you will see,” he said. “You were a heroine to him recently. My friend, he gives you this gift.”

I untied the string and carefully folded back the paper. What little light there was in the cantina reflected off the gold circle set with tiny rubies. “Oh, my,” I said, my eyes welling up. It was the ring my late husband, Frank, had given me when we were courting, the ring I’d been heartbroken to lose, the ring that had been stolen by the
bandido
.

“Thank you,” I whispered, putting on the ring, rejoicing in its familiar touch, a memento of the love with which it had originally been presented. So foolish we humans are to attach importance to material possessions. This ring was not worth risking my life or that of my young driver, Juanito. I had recognized that immediately. Yet this little loop of gold was a link to my past, a keepsake of our years together, Frank’s and mine, and I treasured it.

“You saved his child from being killed by the big bus,” Alfredo said. “He is very grateful. He said he cannot return the other items you kindly gave him. They were bartered for food for his family. He is very sorry for that.”

I swallowed hard and turned to Alfredo. “He told you about the robbery?”

“It has been weighing on his mind. What is it they say? ‘Confession is good for the soul.’ He needed to make amends.”

“I understand,” I said. “Please thank him for me. And tell him I forgive him.”

“He will be most relieved to learn how kind the señora is. However, he sent another message to you, and perhaps you will not be so pleased with this one.”

I braced myself. “Is it about Vaughan? Vaughan Buckley?”

“If that is the name of your friend who was taken away. Yes, it is about him.”

“He’s not—” I couldn’t bring myself to voice my fears.

“Dead? No, no. I assure you, he is still among the living.”

A long breath whooshed out of me. “Thank goodness for that. Is he uninjured? Do you know who’s holding him or where he is? The police are looking everywhere. It’s urgent that you tell me what you know.” Waves of questions swamped my mind. I was close to finding Vaughan now. Here was our first break, someone who knew who the kidnappers were, perhaps where they held Vaughan.

“Patience, patience, Señora. I am only the messenger, not a part of the plot, nor one of the hostage takers. I only know what I am told and what I have been told to tell you.”

“Your friend is the balloon vendor. Am I correct?”

“He thought you recognized him. He is afraid to come forward. There is no one else to take care of his children.”

“And is he part of the plot, one of the hostage takers? I can forgive him for theft, but I cannot conceive that he would dare to think that returning my ring would make up for killing one man and kidnapping another, putting their families through such anguish.”

“He has killed no one,” Alfredo said. “He was not even there.”

“Then I don’t understand. How does he know that Vaughan is all right?”

“He was not at the scene, the night of the kidnapping, but he blames himself all the same. You see, our friend, he was supposed to be there that night. A man they call El Grande had recruited him, had promised him money, but our friend, he was too sick to go. The others, they hired another at the last moment, and it was he . . .” He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase the information. “He was young and hotheaded. And the man who was killed, he behaved in a manner that was threatening. No one was supposed to be hurt. It was all a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding! Now listen to me,” I said. “Taking a man’s life is not simply a misunderstanding. Whoever this person was, he shot Woody and left him to die. Maybe if Woody had received medical help right away, he would have lived. They’re all responsible, everyone who participated in the plot.”

“No one can say you are wrong, Señora. But accidents will happen. Who knows what God is thinking when he takes a life? The men, they were promised money. No one was to be hurt. Just hold them a few days, get money from the rich American, and let them go. They are very upset now. They have to take care of the tall one, and they have no money. They don’t want to harm him. They only want what they were promised.”

“Are you telling me that kidnapping wasn’t their idea to begin with, that someone paid them to hijack Woody and Vaughan?”

“But that is just the problem, Señora. They have not been paid. These men, they are not the professional criminals like the ones in the big cities. They are simple people. They try to provide for their families. It is just the way things are. Sometimes temptation is too much to resist. It is sad, but it is true. It was not their idea to kidnap anyone. El Grande, he convinced them no one would be hurt and there would be money enough for everyone.”

“And who is El Grande?”

“This they did not tell me.”

“Did they tell you where they were holding Vaughan Buckley? Can you take me to him?”

“That is why I am here.”

“When can we go?”

“It is too soon,” he said. “We wait till the guards are gone, till our friend, he takes his turn at watch. He will pretend to sleep, and we can rescue your friend.”

Maria Elena’s worries came immediately to mind. “How do I know I can trust you?” I said. “How do I know you aren’t using this as a ruse to kidnap me and hold me for ransom as well?”

“You are wise to be suspicious. And I can only assure you of my good intentions, and my hopes for your friend to be restored to the bosom of his loving family, just as you have preserved the family of the balloon seller.”

I studied his face. There was kindness in the eyes and sadness, too, a resignation to the evils of mankind and an understanding of the forces that generated them. “Who are you?” I asked, although I suspected I knew.

“One who would help my people.”

“And your people are all people.”

He nodded.

“Thank you, Father,” I said.

He smiled. “You are welcome, my child.”

A
n hour later, Father Alfredo and I quit the bar. I was grateful to escape the smoke, the jovial crowd, even the lively music, to step outside and breathe in the damp night air. On any other occasion, I would have enjoyed La Filomela. A melting pot of San Miguel where tourists and natives alike mingled, it presented an opportunity to meet friendly people and soak up the musical culture of the city in an informal, unceremonious atmosphere.

Tonight, however, I was anxious to leave. Even as patrons trooped in with bulky cases holding musical instruments and formed impromptu ensembles to perform together, even as they passed around their instruments to others eager to take a turn playing, and even after discovering that the priest himself played guitar and sang traditional songs in a hearty baritone, nothing could draw my mind from Vaughan, from the need to find him before his captors lost patience and took out their frustration on him. I wanted to free him, to bring him safely home to Olga’s arms.

“I am glad you had the opportunity to see a little of our musical heritage,” Father Alfredo said as he guided me past a group of men lingering outside the cantina. “Perhaps you can take home some nice memories of Mexico, not only the bad ones.”

“Mexico is a beautiful country,” I said, “and there’s a lot to admire in this city and its people. But I’m afraid I really couldn’t concentrate this evening on what it has to offer.”

“I understand,” he said. “However, we needed to wait. Much nicer to pass the time with music and friends than to cower in the dark till the change of watch takes place. You will grant me that, no?”

I smiled. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

We turned off the cantina’s street and wandered down a cobblestone mews. In the narrow passage the buildings loomed over us, their roofs seeming to reach out for each other. Father Alfredo took my arm. “Watch your footing here,” he said. “It is difficult to see.”

There were no streetlights in this part of the city, but once my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I could make out a few details. We were in an area of San Miguel where the buildings showed signs of age, with patches of stucco and paint having fallen away, and metal balconies rusted, in some cases barely attached to the wall. Large cracks in foundations became homes for straggly weeds. Overhead, laundry lines were strung from window to window, a few with forgotten items hanging stiffly. We skirted baby carriages, bicycles, and shopping carts left in the street, passed an old man sitting on a battered wooden chair smoking, and greeted a group of teenagers gathered on a corner, teasing each other. Sounds from open windows drifted over us, the peculiar warble of a television program, voices calling to each other, a couple arguing, a baby crying, a woman singing, laughter, music, and conversation. Life in this neighborhood was lived in full view, often on the street, not behind closed doors and in elegant courtyards as it was in the Buckleys’ more affluent part of town.

We entered a broader avenue, which appeared to be an industrial area. The buildings were spaced farther apart, one story now instead of two, some with chain-link fences girding them. The ground beneath our feet was no longer paved, the hard-packed dirt easier to walk on. There were no sidewalks. An unseen drunk started singing loudly. A dog howled in reply. I looked over my shoulder to see the man lurch across the street toward an open doorway. Father Alfredo hummed softly to himself.

“Which building are we going to?” I asked.

He cocked his head and lowered his voice. “See the brick one over there, the one with the fence?”

“Have you been in this building before?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know its layout?”

Another shake.

“How will we get in?” I asked.

“I have the key for the gate,” he said, reaching in the pocket of his black slacks.

“Do you need a flashlight?” I asked. “I have one in my purse.”

“Hold on to it. You may need it yourself. I will go first. If I am seen, I will step forward to talk to them. You stay in the shadows. They must not see you. Once we are certain it is our friend who is on guard duty, we proceed. If not, we must abandon the scheme. It will be too dangerous otherwise.”

This time it was my turn to shake my head. “I’m not leaving here without Vaughan,” I said. “I’ll sneak around the back and see if there’s a way in from there. I’ll signal to you if I find anything. If it’s not our friend on duty and the guard is alert enough to catch you, engage him in a discussion, create a diversion while I look for Vaughan.”