The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (11 page)

I was about to meet the cop leading the inquiry into discovering Bud's identity, and I'd promised to help him do just that, while I was being implored—
okay, instructed
—by Jack to do the exact opposite.

What could possibly go wrong?

I CLOSED UP CASA LALA
and headed down the slight incline of the rocky track that led to Amigos del Tequila. It was well past 5:00
PM
, but the sun was still pretty high, and the humidity was almost unbearable. As I walked, I kicked up dust. It stuck to my sweaty legs.
Lovely!
I don't do humidity. What was I thinking, agreeing to come to Mexico at this time of year? If I'd said no, then Bud wouldn't be in this predicament.

I was at the adobe restaurant and bar in a matter of moments. It had seemed to take a lot longer when I was dragging the bags up to the house, even with Al's help. Once again I pushed open the doors to the building where I'd made my fateful decision to help out the cops, and, once again, the place was deserted.

“Hello?” I called.

Nothing.

I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. Wait outside for Al? Settle myself on a stool and wait for someone to show up? Peer into the back of the building from where Tony had emerged that afternoon? I decided to peer.
I admit I'm not the world's most patient person.

Beyond the bar was a short corridor, which led to the washrooms, then the kitchen. I pushed open a pair of swinging doors, stepped into a small but gleaming kitchen, and shouted, “Hello?” Still nothing. Now that
was
odd. Surely Tony wouldn't just leave the whole place completely unattended?

I walked farther into the kitchen. No one in sight. The humming of refrigeration units buzzed in the air, and a wonderful aroma of herbs, spices, and cooked meat filled my nostrils. My tummy grumbled. Nuts and fruit weren't able to hold me for long, it seemed. Covered containers of ingredients stood ready to be used,
mise en place
, and a couple of pots were bubbling on a gas range.
Definitely odd.

There was a door in the far wall of the kitchen that I assumed led outside, so I opened it and stuck out my head. I immediately spotted the blue pickup truck that had roared past the crime scene just as Bud had been discovered. I wondered who it belonged to.

“Hello?” came a voice from inside the bar.

“In here,” I called in response, as I allowed the back door to close again.

Al's head appeared through the swinging doors. “Where is everyone?”

“I don't know,” I replied. “Is this normal, for there to be pots boiling and food prepped, but no one here?”

Al shrugged. “I don't know. It seems odd to me. Haven't you seen Tony? Callie? Anyone at all?”

“Not a soul,” I replied.

Al drew his gun. It didn't make me feel any more comfortable about the situation. He gestured for me to walk toward him, while he approached me and whispered, “Have you looked out back?” I nodded. “Anyone there?”

“Not that I could see, but there's a blue truck there. Does that belong to Tony?” I tried to make my question about the truck sound innocent.

Al moved across the kitchen a lot more stealthily than I had done—
I'm not really built for stealth
—and pushed open the back door, peering outside.

“It's Juan's truck, the blue one. I'm surprised he's still here at the hacienda—it's well past his finishing time, and I thought he'd be pretty keen to get away after I gave him the news about his daughter. Tony's truck isn't out there,” he whispered over his shoulder. “Nor is Callie's car. If it wasn't for the fact that the place is wide open, and there's food cooking on the stovetop, I'd say they'd left the property altogether. I'm going to check their apartment upstairs. You stay here.”

He came inside, allowing the back door to close, and disappeared up a narrow staircase that led from the kitchen. I've watched enough movies in my time; I didn't follow him. Instead, I stood my ground, registering the news that Margarita's father's truck, at least, had been at the scene of her murder, within the right time frame. I ran through some possible reasons for why the place currently resembled a restaurant version of the
Marie Celeste.
Quite a few involved extraterrestrial or paranormal interventions, but none of those made any sense. Had Juan caused harm to the couple who ran the restaurant? Or was he just wandering his fields? Of course, if one of the Booths was responsible for Margarita's murder, then it
did
make perfect sense that they'd have done a runner—but the food on the stove was bizarre. If Tony, or Callie, or both of them had planned an escape from justice, why would they bother putting anything into a pot, let alone turn on the heat?

Standing there on my own, with steam and spices in the air, I realized I was literally dripping with sweat. It was running down my back. I walked across the kitchen and turned off the heat under the pots. My curiosity kicked in and I lifted their covers. Water. Boiling water. That was all. The words “curiouser and curiouser” popped into my head unbidden. Immediately I replaced the lids; I felt as though my nasal passages were on fire. My eyes were stinging, and I started sneezing.
Gas? Poison?
I grabbed a nearby roll of kitchen paper: what it lacked in absorption and softness, it more than made up for in proximity. I thought my head was going to explode. I had to get out, away from . . . what on earth was it? I knew that I recognized what I'd inhaled, but I couldn't fix on it.

I pushed open the back door to catch what little fresh air and breeze there might be. I fanned myself with my hand, did the best I could with the kitchen roll, and gradually the sneezing subsided. But my eyes? They were a right mess. I must have looked as though I'd been crying my eyes out.

“Their stuff's all over the place upstairs, but there's no sign of them,” announced Al, who was suddenly about three inches away from me. I nearly jumped out my skin.

He looked alarmed when I turned to face him. “What's wrong?” he asked sharply.

“There's boiling water in the pots,” I replied, my voice thick with mucus. “And pepper.”
That was it—pepper.

“What? Pans full of pepper and water? I don't like this. It's weird. It doesn't feel right.”

You're not kidding!

I managed to keep my mouth shut, but I nodded my agreement. “What do you suggest we do?” I asked.

“I'm going to get hold of the
FOGTT
s. They can decide what they want to do for themselves. Tony and Callie run this place on their behalf. Come into the bar with me and give me a few minutes to make some calls. Maybe you can grab a drink? You look like you could do with it. Let me check the washroom, then maybe you can take the chance to wash your face with some cool water. Pepper's nasty stuff.”

“Yes, cool water, good idea,” I replied, sniffling.

In the washroom I stood and looked in the mirror at the mess that was me. I wanted to cry. Instead, I had some choice words with myself, washed and wiped my face—mascara's overrated anyway—and then headed to the bar to grab a cool drink and catch up with Al's news.

I was surprised to find no Al, but instead a man I guessed was Dean, of the Dean and Jean pairing described to me by Ada. Seeing him now, I realized he was the African American guy I'd seen arrive on the crime scene. I guessed that his wife, Jean, would turn out to be the woman in the tennis outfit I'd seen rushing toward the flower shop.
Dean and Jean. Casa Nova.
Oh dear.

If I'd had any doubt about the man's identity, it didn't have a chance to linger. He came toward me, offering a massive hand and an equally large smile. I put him at about six feet five, around two hundred and fifty pounds, and somewhere between sixty and sixty-five. His head was shaved, or, at least, completely bald, and he was wearing the most lurid Hawaiian shirt you'd ever want to see. If my eyes hadn't been sore already, that shirt would have done the trick all on its own. His voice was a deep bass, and it resonated in the empty bar.

“You must be Cait Morgan. I'm Dean George. Dean is my name, not my occupation, you understand.” He grinned
. I wonder how many times he's said that.
“Al's outside talking to the rest of the
FOGTT
s, or at least those he can reach on the phone. I just happened to be arriving. Gonna meet my child-bride here. You'll like her. Everyone does.” He was still holding my hand, but now in both of his, and I was beginning to get a crick in my neck from looking up at him. It occurred to me that Punta de las Rocas seemed to be inhabited by very tall people: Ada was the only person I'd met who was of what
I
thought of as normal height.

“Oh my
goodness me
, honey-pie! What
on earth
is going on here today? Our little piece of paradise is quite out of sorts. First poor Margarita, dead! Now Tony and Callie, disappeared! What
is
the world coming to?” For a moment, I thought that Scarlett O'Hara had floated in.

The woman who was walking toward us was quite a vision, but there were no crinolines involved. Her hair was snowy white and cropped very close to her head. She was about five-two, weighed around ninety pounds, and, despite being close to sixty, didn't have a wrinkle on her face. There was almost nothing to her, except a waft of jasmine, a hint of coconut, and an aura of gracefulness and quietude that seemed to surround her. Dressed completely in white, she carried herself with a casual elegance. All you noticed were her eyes, and her voice. The rest was almost insubstantial, and certainly inconsequential.

She reached up to her husband's neck, which was just about as far as she
could
reach, and he bent his head, so she could kiss him on his bald pate. “Now don't you worry, honey-pie,” she said, doing her best to look her husband in the eye, “Captain Al will get all this sorted out.” She looked at me. Her expression changed. “Are you the woman who's
supposed
to be able to help him?”

Jean George's ethereal charm had evaporated. Her tone was dismissive, to say the least, and I was being treated to an expression that her husband couldn't see, which I suspected was the point. She had decided to be hateful toward me, that much was clear.
I wonder why.

“Oh, come on now, honey,” boomed Dean. “Al speaks very highly of Cait. He said she's known all around the world for her work. We're lucky to have her. You know we all want Al to crack the case before the Federales get here, don't we?”

Jean nodded and smiled coquettishly at her husband.

As she did so, it struck me that Dean had used almost the exact same words as Ada had done when speaking about the case. I guessed that was because they were friends, and co-investors, and they'd all been at the crime scene—so the topic must have come up at some point.

Al joined us. “Dorothea, Ada, and Frank are on their way. Greg's not back from
PV
yet, you guys are here, and, of course, Henry's not around at all. I'm taking Cait with me to the station, where we're going to get to work. You all are going to call anyone who knows either Tony or Callie to try to find out what's going on here, and you can all decide what to do with that food in the kitchen before it goes bad. I'll call you later to find out how you're doing, or you can call me if you locate Tony or Callie. I'm not going to hide the fact that I'm concerned. If we can't get wind of them, I'll set the wheels in motion for state-wide law enforcement to be on the lookout. But
we
need to find out where they are, if we can.”

Dean and Jean nodded. “I always think it's best if folks do their own housekeeping, before they involve outside elements.” Dean grinned. Directly at me.
Odd.

Al addressed me. “Come on, Cait. This has been one hell of a day, and it doesn't look like it's going to get easier as it gets older. I'll show you our ‘facilities.' I'm not bragging when I say I have the best-looking police station in all of Mexico. So let's go. You alright now?”

I nodded, and we headed toward the door. We got there just as Frank and Ada arrived.

“I've explained everything to Dean and Jean,” said Al, as he propped the door open with his body. “I haven't the time to go through it all again. They can explain.” With that he all but pulled me outside.

“Come on, Cait,” he said abruptly, as he politely held open the passenger door of the dusty white police car for me to get in.
A bit different than when you shoved Bud in here,
ran through my mind, but I smiled and buckled up.

The tires spat gravel as we sped off down the hill in the gathering gloom. I wondered if it would ever be possible to get used to the way the sun just drops out of the sky at southern latitudes. For some reason, I've always found it deeply unsettling.

I checked my watch. It hadn't long turned 6:00
PM
, but I was tired—feeling the stresses of the day, no doubt—
and
I was hungry. But at least the air was cooler now, and the wind that buffeted me through the open car window was
finally
refreshing. Al drove us back to the tarmac road, and we turned left, as though heading toward the Rocas Hermosas Resort, but before we arrived at the side road that Bud and I had headed down so joyfully that morning, he turned left again, onto another track that led up the other side of the hill we'd just descended.

By the time we parked, it was dark. That didn't really matter, because the building at which we'd arrived was floodlit and it was quite a sight. I even heard myself say “Wow!” when I first saw it. I noted that Al smiled.
Proudly.

“What style of architecture is this? Does it have a name?” I asked, puzzled. The white adobe building had a traditionally Mexican tiled roof, but a square gray stone clock tower in the middle, just like something you'd see on a Welsh church of the Norman period. The stone was not local, that much was clear; the local hills were a reddish-gold. Mirrored wings of a two-storied structure jutted out at angles, like the top of a Y pointing toward us, with the body of the building extending straight behind the tower. On the top story, tall shuttered windows were surrounded by decorative iron railings, while below, the first-story windows were totally encased in decorative metal cages. All in all it seemed to be a mish-mash of ancient French and Spanish colonial, with a bit of local styling thrown in.