by Cathy Ace
PRAISE FOR THE CAIT MORGAN MYSTERIES
“In the finest tradition of Agatha Christie, debut author Ace brings us the closed-room drama, with a dollop of romantic suspense and historical intrigue.” —Library Journal
“Cait’s enjoyable first outing should earn her a well-deserved encore.” —Publishers Weekly
“If you’re a lover of classic mystery, this Cait Morgan novel is for you . . . murder with touches of Christie or Marsh but with a bouquet of Kinsey Millhone.” —The Globe and Mail
“A sparkling, well-plotted, and quite devious mystery in the cozy tradition, all pointing to Ace’s growing finesse at telling an entertaining story.” —The Hamilton Spectator
“Perfect comfort reading. You could call it Agatha Christie set in the modern world, with great dollops of lovingly described food and drink.” —Crime Fiction Lover
“A really good story . . . suspenseful mystery.” —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
For the man who saved me from a scorpion,
poolside in Bucerias. My hero.
Seven Days
THE JUMBLED MOUND THAT BUD had dumped out of his pockets sat on the breakfast bar of our vacation condo. I said, lovingly of course, “You need a manbag.”
“I think the correct term is a murse,” replied Bud, looking endearingly smug.
“Fashion-speak from a retired cop who owns just three jackets?” I gave him a friendly poke.
He grinned. “Now all that dead weight’s gone, I’m off to get supplies. I saw a bodega across the road when we arrived, and I need a beer, or three. You’ll let me back in, right?” He grabbed a handful of cash as he made for the door, grinning.
“So long as there are treats for me too.” I was still recovering from being squashed into an unreasonably narrow seat on our flight from Vancouver to Puerto Vallarta, followed by an hour in a tiny car where “air conditioning” meant opening the windows. Treats were definitely in order.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can find to make you smile. Back soon,” was Bud’s parting shot.
I grappled with the shutters in the main room, which eventually flew open to reveal a narrow road and some white stucco buildings below, beyond which glittered the Bay of Banderas. I hoped that the ominous clouds gathering on the horizon wouldn’t spoil our exploration of the resort’s supposedly “lush” gardens. Our first real vacation. A whole week of just Bud and me. Wonderful!
As I repeated the shutter-wrestling process in the bedroom, I spotted Bud leaving the bodega holding a promisingly bulky carrier bag. He popped into a flower shop next door. I smiled inwardly as I unpacked my suitcase. A distant bell chimed noon. Idyllic.
It was the scream that drew me back to the bedroom window.
I looked out again to see a wailing woman holding open the door to the florist’s store. Though the lights inside the store provided only partial illumination, I could make out the shape of a body lying on the floor. Its throat was being gripped by a kneeling male figure—he looked up and mouthed something at the screaming woman. I couldn’t hear what was said, because just then a pickup truck roared by. But in that instant I recognized the face of the figure who was throttling the person on the ground.
It was Bud.
Slack-jawed, I stood at the window as the scene below me played out. Two men in almost farcically elaborate blue and gold uniforms rushed out of the bodega next door to the flower shop: a short, portly guy, and a tall, lean one. The short one attended to the still-screaming woman, who was now swaying and clutching at the air, while the tall one pulled open the door she’d allowed to swing closed. A weapon had magically appeared in his hand, and he pointed it into the building. In the gloom, I saw Bud raise his hands and clamber to his feet, then turn, ready to be handcuffed, which he was. I felt as though I were watching a movie: fascinated, yet disconnected.
The tall man, who was quite obviously a cop, dragged Bud out of the store into the midday sun. I could see that Bud’s shirt, arms, and knees were covered in blood. Not his, I hoped. The tall cop appeared to bark instructions at the short one, who propped Bud’s distraught discoverer against the side of the building. He ran off and returned a moment later in a police car that must have been parked around the corner, at the end of the building. As Bud was manhandled toward the vehicle, he pushed out his bloodied chest, pulled himself up to his full five ten, turned his face skyward, and shouted with all his might, “Jack . . . Jack . . . Petrov . . . Cartagena . . .” Then he was gone—shoved unceremoniously through the back door of the sedan. The tall cop spoke to his shorter colleague, waved his arms around a bit, then took off his hat and jacket, tossed them into the trunk, and jumped into the driver’s seat. The car shot off down the road, throwing up dust and small stones in its wake, its wailing siren slicing the humid air.
I breathed in for what seemed like the first time in many moments. I found I still couldn’t move. I was trying to process what I’d seen. What on earth had just happened? None of it made any sense. Well, given the circumstances in which he was discovered, what had happened to Bud did make sense . . . but how had he managed to get himself into that position in the first place? He’d only been out of the apartment for five or ten minutes!
I tried to give my attention to the scene in the street below. A switch flipped somewhere in my brain, and I worked out that pretty soon there’d likely be the arrival of a coroner, or the Mexican equivalent, then the body would be removed, the crime scene secured, and an investigation would begin.
I knew, instinctively, that the person on the floor was dead. It seemed to me the tall cop had been pretty sure that Bud had done it. There would be an investigation into why Bud had done it. But there could never be a resolution to such an investigation, because Bud couldn’t have done it.
I sat down, hard, on the edge of the bed and wondered what to do. My instinct was to run to the short policeman, who was managing the gaggle of people milling about outside the florist shop, and tell him who I was, who Bud was, and that Bud couldn’t possibly have killed anyone. My own background as a professor of criminal psychology at the University of Vancouver might not carry much weight, but I was sure that Bud’s long career in law enforcement would speak volumes. We’d worked together for quite a while, when I’d been his hired “victim profiling” consultant, and we’d been dating now for a few months short of a year. So I knew him. They didn’t. All I had to do was go down there and point out the mistake they’d made.
But I remained seated on the edge of the bed.
What had Bud shouted? It must have been important. I didn’t need my useful, but largely secret, eidetic memory to recall what he’d called out.
“Jack. Jack Petrov. Cartagena.”
I concentrated. I didn’t know anyone called Jack Petrov. Nor, as far as I knew, did Bud. The only Jack I could think of was Jack White—Bud’s old mentor and colleague, who’d given us the use of the apartment where I was sitting. He and Bud had worked together for decades. It was not only his condo that we’d been loaned for a week, but also his little car, which we’d driven from the airport. Jack was looking after Marty, Bud’s tubby black Labrador, on his acreage in Hatzic, back home in BC. As I visualized Jack’s kind, pale face and his tall, spare frame, which always seemed to be in motion, I could feel an indulgent smile play on my lips. I decided that since I couldn’t ask Bud himself what to do, Jack was the next best person to speak to.
But how? I dragged my cell phone out of my carry-on bag and checked the directory. No, of course I didn’t have Jack’s numbers back home. I spotted Bud’s phone on the counter, where he’d dumped it with all his other bits and pieces. I didn’t like the thought of checking his phone, but it seemed the only option. I scrolled th
rough names and acronyms, most of which meant nothing to me, then, finally, I found “White Cell” and “White House.” I dialed the house to start with. After several rings, I disconnected and punched the button to call the other number. An instant later, I heard Jack’s voice, echoing on speakerphone.
“Hi—Jack here. I’m driving. Sheila’s in the truck with me, so be careful what you say, whoever you are.”
I could hear giggling and Jack’s adorable, if sometimes overly fussy, wife saying, “Oh, you’re wicked, Jack White. Don’t say that; it could be anyone.”
I could picture them both quite clearly. The perfect pair. Happily heading out somewhere in the truck on a Sunday afternoon. My mouth dried as the seriousness of Bud’s situation jangled my nerves.
“It’s me, Cait,” I managed to squeak out.
“Ah, get there okay? Everything alright with the car and the condo?” Jack sounded cheery.
“Um . . . yes. Everything’s fine. Well . . . no, it’s not really. Look, Jack, something terrible has happened and I don’t know who else to turn to.” As the words left my lips, I knew I sounded pathetic and useless. I hated myself for it. Buck up, Cait!
“Hang on a minute,” replied Jack. After a pause, “Okay, I’ve pulled over. It sounds like you need my attention. This can’t be good news. Where’s Bud? Is he okay?”
I took a deep breath. “No, Jack, he’s not. He’s been hauled off by the police. I think they believe he killed someone.”
The words hung in the air. I heard Sheila gasp and Jack curse.
“Tell me exactly what happened, Cait.” Jack’s tone was grim.
I did. Briefly.
When I finished, Jack said, “And his exact words were Jack, Petrov, and Cartagena, right?”
“Yes. Does it mean something to you?” I hoped it did, though I couldn’t imagine what.
“Sure does,” said Jack. “It means you have to clear out everything, and I mean absolutely everything, that you and Bud brought to the condo, get it back to the car, and drive back to the airport. The apartment must look as though neither you nor Bud has ever been there. Find a cloth, a towel, anything, and wipe down the surfaces and objects you’ve touched. Lock up behind you. And do it fast. Now.”
“Do what?” Jack wasn’t making any sense.
“Look, Cait, just do as I say. It’s important. What Bud shouted out was a message, to me. You did exactly the right thing calling me, because the message wouldn’t make any sense to most people. But it makes sense to me. There must be no connection between you and Bud at all.”
“Now wait a minute, Jack. I’m not leaving Bud here, alone, in the hands of the police, suspected of a crime he didn’t—couldn’t—commit. No way!”
Silence again. Then, “Jack, she’s not used to this. She might not even know. You should tell her.” I could hear Sheila quite clearly, despite the fact that she was trying to whisper in the background.
“What don’t I know, Jack? What should you tell me?” I knew I sounded angry. I was.
“Did Bud have any ID on him when he was picked up?” was Jack’s reply.
I sighed impatiently and spread out the mound that Bud had created on the counter. “I don’t think so. His credit cards, his wallet, his passport, his phone—I’m using it now—they’re all here. I think he just had some cash with him.”
“Which passport is there?” Jack snapped.
“What do you mean ‘which passport’? His Canadian passport, of course. How many has he got?” I sounded as puzzled as I felt.
“Well, I don’t know how many he’s got now, or which ones he brought with him or traveled on, but he’s often had several, and I’m guessing that, even though he’s retired, he’s still got his Swedish one.”
I could hear myself splutter, “Why’s he got a Swedish passport? He’s Canadian.”
“You’ve got a British one and a Canadian one, right?” Jack sounded very sensible.
“Yes, but I’m Welsh. I kept dual citizenship when I emigrated, so of course I have a British passport. Bud was born in Canada; why would he have a Swedish one?”
Jack hesitated. “You know that his parents are Swedish?”
“Yes.” I knew in my gut that a shoe was about to drop.
“Bud was born in Sweden and brought to Canada as a baby, but he sometimes used his Swedish ID for his CSIS work. Well, his Swedish one and some alternate Canadian ones with a few different names on them. I think one of them even used his real name.” Okay—so not just a shoe dropping, but an entire collection of heavy boots.
I sat down on the corner of the sofa and felt my multi-purpose right eyebrow shoot toward my hairline. “CSIS? The Canadian Security Intelligence Service? Bud’s a spy?”
“Don’t be silly, Cait.” It was Sheila’s voice cooing at me from my distant homeland. “Look, over the years, Jack and Bud have worked on some cases that needed CSIS clearance, that’s all. Right, Jack?” I pictured Jack nodding at his wife, or else glowering at her. “So they have all these special papers for when they travel doing stuff like that. Of course, Bud’s last job meant he had to use them a lot, but maybe he’s told you all about that?” She sounded hopeful.
“Not a word,” was all I was able to say, though I suspected that my tone alone spoke volumes.
Sheila and Jack cleared their throats. In unison.
“Well, we’re not really supposed to talk about it. I guess Bud stuck to that. Better you don’t know,” said Jack, a little too quickly.
“What, in case somebody arrests me, too, and points shiny lights at me till I talk?” This was all sounding quite ridiculous. Bud, and Jack, working for CSIS? And Sheila knew all about it? And me? Not a thing.
Jack paused, clearly trying to decide what to say next. “So, back to the question of passports. If one of his Canadian ones is there, the chances are that’s the one he traveled on. So he’s got no ID on him. And I know he won’t say a word. Literally.”
“How? How do you know that?” I was beginning to panic. The world I knew was melting around me.
“Petrov, Cartagena, that’s how I know,” replied Jack. “It’s a case we studied during a CSIS training course. How to deal with being picked up by the locals when you’re in a highly compromising situation. Petrov was a Russian operative who was found on the roadside next to a dead street vendor in Cartagena, a port city in Colombia, back in the 1980s. He tried to talk his way out of it, then tried to bribe his way out. It’s used as a case study of what not to do. Rule of thumb: say nothing. That’s what Bud will do. If he hasn’t got a passport, they won’t know where to start. They won’t be contacting any consulates, because they won’t know which one to talk to. That gives us time. Where did they take him, by the way? I’m going to guess they started by dumping him into the cells at the local police station, but do you know if that’s the case?”
I was grappling with everything that Jack was throwing at me. “What? Where? I don’t know. They bundled him into a car and took off. How on earth would I know where? I’m not leaving. I’ll find him somehow. I must. I have to save him—”
“Cait! Stop it!” Jack shouted at me. His voice echoed in the cab of his distant truck.
“Jack . . . shh . . . don’t speak to her like that,” hissed Sheila.
Jack sighed. “Cait, listen. This is serious. Very serious. You must get out of there. Clear out. Completely. Do not connect with Bud, don’t even try to. Find a flight and get back here as soon—”
“I’m not leaving him, Jack, and that’s that. There is no way I’m running away from this. From Bud. I’m staying, and I’m going to help him. When it comes to fight or flight, you’d better realize that we Welsh do not run—we stand our ground, and fight it out if necessary . . . if we can’t talk our way out of it, of course.” I was close to tears, but every molecule of my body was determined that I would stay in Mexico to help Bud. Somehow.
Jack sighed heavily. “Right. New plan. Cait—I still need you to clean up the apartment, clear everything out, drive bac
k to the airport, and wait there until another flight comes in from Vancouver. Then get back in the car and drive to . . . have you got a pen handy?”
“Hang on.” I scrabbled in my purse, hunting for my always-disappearing reading-cheats, and ruing the fact that I needed them at all. Finally, I found them, shoved them onto my nose, and got ready to take notes.
“When you eventually leave the airport, drive as though you’re going back to the resort, but stay on the main road for about a mile beyond the turn you took to get where you are now. You’ll see a sign on the right for the Hacienda Soleado, got it?”
“Got it.”
“Turn there. Once you drive off the main road, you’ll have to get yourself along a pretty poor track, up into the hills, until you come to the place itself. It’s an agave plantation where they make tequila. One of the owners is a buddy of mine and he’s got a place there. All the owners have. I happen to know he left for his home in the States last week. I’ll make some calls. Tell him a friend of mine wants to borrow his place for a week. When you get through the entrance, you’ll see a big adobe building: that’s the tasting room and restaurant. Go there. They’ll have the keys and codes you’ll need, and someone will tell you where to go. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“I’ll get myself down there as fast as I can. In the meantime, just get to Henry’s place at the ranch and lay low. His full name is Henry Douglas. If anyone asks, you are who you are, he’s a friend of a friend, and you’re there for some sort of—I don’t know—academic retreat or something. Okay with you?”
“Yes, okay.” I could hear my voice quiver. “Jack, what happened to Petrov?”
Silence.
“I’ll get this sorted, Cait. The fact that Bud was covered in blood makes me think he was trying to help someone who’d been injured.”
“Of course! ” I blurted out. “It was the victim’s blood, not Bud’s. Why didn’t I think of that?” I felt so relieved, but dim.
“Because you’re not thinking clearly, dear,” came Sheila’s overly soothing tones. “Just do as Jack says, and he’ll come down and help straighten everything out. It doesn’t need to become some huge international incident.”