Murder Makes a Pilgrimage (29 page)

“I wonder if those two were able to find out anything helpful about the other tour members.” Mary Helen tried valiantly to change the subject.

Eileen stared.

“All right. If you must know, I didn’t tell you primarily because I forgot.”

“That makes me feel a great deal better,” Eileen said with her usual smile. “How do you think we can ask Bootsie if she saw anyone when you can’t tell anyone you saw someone?”

“I don’t intend to.” Mary Helen cut through the meandering sentence.

“You don’t?” Eileen blinked in surprise.

“No! I think we tell the
comisario
about the cough in the window and let him deal with it.” Mary Helen hurriedly threw on her clothes. “Get your raincoat, Eileen,” she said, “and let’s go.”

For the tenth time Comisario Ángel Serrano wondered if he should have insisted that the Americans be brought to the police station for interrogation. He had hoped that questioning them here in the hotel manager’s office would create a false sense of chumminess and that one of them might slip up on a detail, anything that might give him a crack in this case.

Now he asked himself if the stark walls of the police station interview room might have put a little fear into them, let them know this was not just a cozy chat. Would the American Embassy take exception if he brought them all in? He didn’t need any more officials on his tail.

Ángel loosened his tie and ran his finger around his tight shirt collar. He had been at this for more than two hours. His
throat was dry, and his patience wearing thin. One of these Americans was the murderer. He was sure of that, but which one?

He had begun the morning with Jose Nunez, aka Pepe. After a few minutes of questioning, Ángel agreed with the man’s uncle. Pepe had neither the brains nor the guts for murder.

He had partied until three o’clock on Saturday morning, fallen into a dead sleep, and not awakened until Sister Mary Helen telephoned him in his room to tell him she had found Lisa Springer’s body.

At the word
body
Pepe lost all his color. For a few tense seconds Ángel feared the young man might faint. He sent Officer Zaldo for water and a brandy. Ángel figured that if Pepe had killed Lisa, Sister Mary Helen would have found his unconscious body right beside hers.

Next Ángel had met with the Bowmans, Bud first, then Cora. He questioned them about their whereabouts at the time of Lisa’s murder in a dozen different ways and each time received the same answer. The Bowmans had had a nightcap in the
hostal
lounge, a brandy for each. Then they had gone directly to their room.

“Bud’s not much of a dancer,” Cora said, “and I was tired anyway.”

Once in bed Bud fell right to sleep and didn’t move until morning. Cora reported hearing a heated argument in the hallway shortly after she’d turned off the light.

Either the Bowmans had rehearsed their deception perfectly, or they were telling the truth. Angel tended to believe that they were. He put the pair at the bottom of his suspect list.

He had a bit more luck with the Fongs. Rita stuck to her original story. “As I told you, Comisario, Neil and I were arguing about his drinking.” Giveaway lines of tension pulled
her mouth into a tight little grin. “Wine makes him sick. He is allergic to it. When I reminded him, he lost his temper, shouted, and stalked off. Before I could say ‘I told you so,’ he was in our bathroom throwing up and moaning about his head.” Her black eyes shone like hard, polished jet. “I was disgusted, but he was in bed with me until morning.”

Ángel found Neil Fong an interesting character and, in contrast with his wife, a very poor liar. Even as Neil repeated his original explanation, which concurred with his wife’s, his face paled and he began to blink.

“Are you allergic to wine?” Ángel asked.

“Yes.” Neil blinked repeatedly. “No.”

“Is it yes or no? Your wife says you are.”

“I know she does, but I’m not.” Neil’s glasses slipped down his nose.

It was difficult for Ángel to imagine this mild man losing his temper and shouting, but according to his wife and Cora Bowman, he had.

“Was that what you two were arguing about in the hallway the night before Señorita Springer was murdered?” he asked.

Neil’s face froze. Ángel could almost see the man struggling with his conscience.

“No, it’s not,” Neil said at last, his voice a whisper.

Ángel’s hopes soared. Was this the breakthrough at last? He tried not to pounce. “What was it then that made you shout at her?”

“Rita kept kicking me under the table all night.”

“I remember you said that.” Ángel’s hopes plummeted like a roller coaster. He hid his disappointment.

“I said that, but I told you that it was because she wanted me to go to bed. That was not the real reason.”

“What was the real reason?” Ángel held his breath.

“We were fighting about Lisa Springer.”

“What about Lisa?” His surge of elation returned.

Neil Fong’s eyes blinked at an incredible rate of speed. “Rita thought that I was flirting with Lisa. Rita always thinks I am flirting with other women. I love my wife, but she is a very jealous and a very suspicious woman. I have had to let several capable hygienists go because Rita thought that I had something going with them.”

“And was she correct?”

“No. They were just nice women, easy to talk to and attractive.”

“Do you have affairs with women?”

Neil Fong looked more astounded than offended. “Look at me, Inspector,” he said. “Do I look like the kind of man dozens of women flock after?”

Silently Ángel studied Dr. Fong. He was a slight, short man with a flat nose, glasses, and a tendency toward baldness. Since he could think of no tactful way to say, “I see your point,” Ángel said nothing.

“This time Rita got it into her noggin that I was going after Lisa Springer.”

“Did she have a basis for her suspicions?” Ángel asked, then watched the doctor squirm. Once again he was calculating his reply.

“Did you go after Lisa Springer?” Ángel persisted.

All the color left Neil Fong’s face. “I did spend some time with her while we were on the plane.”

“Anything else?” Ángel was sure there must be.

“Friday afternoon, after we arrived, Rita wanted to bathe and nap. I needed some exercise. I decided to walk around town sightseeing. It’s more fun to go with someone, so I invited Lisa to come along, and she did. She was company, and that’s all.”

Ángel said nothing.

Neil stared at him over his half glasses. Like a Chinese
Benjamin Franklin, Ángel thought. The silence lengthened. Neil made a tent with his long, thin fingers, then turned his stare to his fingernails and examined them minutely. Still, Ángel said nothing.

“I know you’re waiting for me to say something about Rita,” Neil said finally.

Actually Ángel wasn’t. He thought that Neil might confess that he and Lisa had taken a small hotel room for the afternoon.

“Rita was very angry when I came back. Furious, actually. Accused me of God knows what. ‘I’m a doctor, for God’s sake,’ I told her. ‘Would I have sex with a girl I hardly knew?’

“ ‘Doctors, even dentists, know about condoms,’ she shouts. ‘And malpractice,’ I shouted.

“My wife, you see, Comisario, thinks I was infatuated with that young girl.”

“Were you?”

“Of course not! Attracted, yes. Infatuated, absolutely not. To be honest, Lisa didn’t turn out to be much fun at all. She seemed preoccupied. And she had all the self-absorption of the young,” Neil added.

“Did you tell this to your wife?”

“I tried. I could not convince her that we hadn’t had sex. When she gets like that, there’s no use.”

“Like what?”

Neil Fong looked wary. “Rita did not kill that girl, if that’s what you’re getting at, Comisario. She’s jealous and verbally abusive, unreasonable even, but she would never physically hurt anyone. She gets you with her tongue, but she would never harm anyone’s body. She’s practically a physical fitness freak, for God’s sake.” He shook his head furiously. “I know she didn’t do it.”

“How can you be so sure?” Ángel wondered: Did Dr. Fong protest too much?

“I was in bed with her all night.”

“Could you have dozed off?”

“Not likely. After I was sick, and I was sick for quite some time”—Neil reddened—“I got into bed, and we spent quite a while making up, if you know what I mean.”

“Then what your wife says is true? You were violently sick?”

“I was, but after I got rid of everything, I felt lots better.”

Ángel nodded. “I see. Then you are allergic to wine.”

Neil blinked. “The wine is not what makes me sick. It’s the fighting. The tension wreaks havoc on my stomach. Much as I try to control it, up it comes.” He smiled and peered over his half glasses at Ángel. “I guess if I’m allergic to anything, I’m allergic to Rita.”

When Fong left, Ángel immediately crossed him off the suspect list. Too poor a liar. Rita Fong, however, was a different matter. Ángel guessed that she was high on her husband’s list, too.

A sharp rap on the door startled him.

“
Perdón
, Comisario.” Officer Zaldo stood at stiff attention.

“Come in, Esteban.” Ángel hoped he sounded genial. For some reason Zaldo’s military precision put Ángel’s nerves on edge.

“Our next suspect has not yet arrived, Comisario,” Zaldo announced. “Shall I bring you coffee?”

“Gracias,” Ángel nodded. A cup of coffee would be perfect. “Who is our next suspect, Esteban?” he asked.

“Señorita Williams,” Zaldo said with an air of importance that rankled Angel.

The
comisario
had just taken a mouthful of coffee when the door flew open, and María José burst into the room.

“I am sorry, sir.” Zaldo followed her, his face crimson with anger.

“It is not your fault.” Ángel waved aside Esteban’s explanation and turned his eyes on his niece. “María José, what is the meaning of this?”

“Tío,” she said, ignoring both men, “tell me again. What shape was the murder weapon? That may be what we can use to break this case. Something of an unusual size and shape that only one person owns.”

Ángel could feel his temper fizzing up. “María José,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “I am in the middle of interrogating suspects. You are impeding police business.”

María José’s face froze. “Impeding!” Her eyes were large. “How can I be impeding? I am trying to help.” She shot Zaldo a contemptuous look. “I would think with help like—”

Realizing where she was headed, Ángel cut her off. “I have half a mind to ask Officer Zaldo to arrest you,” he said. “Perhaps a night in the cells would teach you to think. It might even improve your manners.”

“I am sorry about not knocking before I came in, Tío.” she said, although Ángel suspected that she wasn’t sorry at all. “I thought that someone should look into the weapon.”

“You may go, Esteban, and thank you.” Ángel dismissed his subordinate before his niece insulted him further.

“María José,” he growled, “Esteban Zaldo is my deputy. He is the one who should be investigating murder weapons. How do you suppose—”

“Esteban Zaldo is a dolt!” She snapped off his sentence. “He is tall and strong and dumb. Since we were youngsters in school, he has bullied people.”

“Esteban is not the criminal.” Ángel’s shirt collar chafed, and his coffee was getting cold. He struggled to keep himself in check. “You cannot burst in on a criminal investigation and insult my police—”

“Esteban probably did not notice.” She cut in again.

“María José”—Ángel, fighting to keep his temper, gave
it one more try—“I want to get on with what I am doing. This afternoon, after dinner, we will meet—”

“After dinner?” She interrupted him for the third time, and Ángel Serrano lost his battle.

“Enough,” he shouted at the top of his voice, shocking María José into silence. “You listen to me, young lady.” He watched her back go up at his choice of address and waited, daring her to comment. Wisely she said nothing.

“I told you I will talk to you after dinner about the weapon. If you intend to be of help to me, the first thing you must do is obey orders. Is that clear?”

Her mouth clamped tight, María José nodded. Her eyes could have burned him.

“Dismissed!” he shouted. Amazingly she swung on her heel and left.

Ángel leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself before Heidi Williams was ushered in. He must clear his mind, recapture his patience. He hated to lose his temper. It made him feel hot and sticky all over. María José had no business driving him to it. She had no business at all insulting a police officer. Above all, she had no business being smarter than one!

Heidi Williams made a striking contrast with Ángel’s niece. Where María José was dark and definite, Heidi was like a neutral smudge: hazel eyes, caramel-colored hair, and a plain, chubby face. Her expression was open, almost innocent, and she was much too plump, Ángel thought, to be wearing red slacks. He wondered why her mother hadn’t told her that.

“Sit down, señorita.” Ángel smiled.

Heidi immediately backed, like a child, into the chair. She popped her chewing gum.

Ángel’s nerves tensed. “You may be the key to this whole case.” He spoke gently.

Rather than act frightened, Heidi perked up. “Me?” she asked in a pleased voice. “How can I be the key?”

“You knew Lisa better than anyone else. You were with her in the bedroom. Maybe something that was said or done—”

“I’ve already told you everything I remember.”

Another interrupter, Ángel thought wearily. “I am going to ask you some of the same questions all over again, Heidi. Maybe they will jog your memory.”

With very little prodding, Heidi told him about Lisa’s leaving the room on Friday afternoon to go sightseeing with Dr. Fong. “Lisa said that he was a drag.” Ángel assumed that “drag” meant a bore. He wondered what Rita Fong would think of Lisa’s appraisal. He nodded for Heidi to continue.

She told him again of fighting with Lisa on Friday evening, of making up, of Pepe escorting them both to the banquet, of dancing, and of their midnight walk. She ended her story as she had before: Lisa found a note from an admirer shoved under the door.