by Cathy Ace
“That’s enough, Frank,” said Ada quickly. “I hope I haven’t insulted you?” she asked me. The genuine concern on her face deserved a thoughtful response.
“It happens that I’m not gay, Ada, but I certainly don’t take your question as an insult. And Frank might have a point, my career has been the biggest part of my life. That said, not everything’s for everybody.” I didn’t add that the only person before Bud with whom I’d ever been in a long-term relationship had turned out to be a sociopathic alcoholic who’d beaten me and ended up dead on my bathroom floor. Not the time, or the place, Cait.
“And now you live in Vancouver?” asked Ada, still bright. I felt as though she was the one pumping me for information, when it should have been the other way around. I resolved to try to move ahead on a more quid pro quo basis.
“Do you know the Lower Mainland?” I thought I’d check. They both nodded. “I live in a little house on Burnaby Mountain, about half way up, on the way to the University of Vancouver’s Burnaby campus. That’s where I teach. I like it very much.”
“But your accent’s from Britain, isn’t it?” asked Ada.
I smiled. “Yes, it’s a Welsh accent. I’m from Wales, originally.”
Ada looked delighted. “Frank’s granddad was Welsh, isn’t that right, Frank?” Frank nodded patiently. “But he wasn’t a Taylor. Where exactly are you from, dear? Might we have heard of it?”
“I’m from Swansea . . .”
“That’s where that Zeta-Jones girl is from, isn’t that right, Frank? And Tom Jones was from near there too, I know. Fabulous voice. Jones was Frank’s grandfather’s name and he was from . . . I think it was Aber-somewhere. Was that it, Frank, dear?”
Frank didn’t seem to be very engaged. “Yes, dear, that’s right,” he replied. I had no doubt that he’d hardly heard what his wife had said, and that mentally he was somewhere else. He rolled the end of his fat cigar in his mouth, then rested it in the large ashtray on the patio table.
“That murderer was in there killing Margarita when I was right next door, you know.” Frank made the statement with grim determination. “Imagine. I was that close to him that I could have stopped him, if only I’d known.”
Ada shook her head. “Don’t start that again, Frank.”
I took my chance. “How close were you, exactly, Frank? Were you literally next door to the flower store?”
Ada opened her mouth as if to answer on his behalf, but Frank gave her a firm look, picked up his cigar again, and manipulated it in his fingers as he replied. “I’d gone down to the Rocas Hermosas Resort on the seafront, right opposite Margarita’s flower shop. I wanted to see a guy who works in the bar there. He’s great at getting these things for me at a reasonable price.” He looked almost lovingly at his cigar. “Anyway, I’d just left him, and I was wandering through the gardens, waiting for this one to finish at the spa. What was it today, dear? Mani, or pedi, or both? I lose track.”
“Both.” Ada nodded and wriggled her neat French manicure by way of evidence.
“We’d agreed I’d pick her up when she called me. You never know how long Serena’s going to be, do you, dear?”
“No, not really. She’s very much a mañana person, Cait, so you’re never quite sure when she’ll start on you, or finish. Once you’ve got your feet in that basin, well, there’s not a lot you can do about it really, eh?” Ada shrugged. For two retired people, I couldn’t imagine that a small delay when you were getting a pedicure would be a big issue, but Frank struck me as the sort of man who liked a schedule for his days.
“So there I am, hanging around waiting for Ada, when Serena comes out of the spa and calls over to me.”
So far, Frank’s account agreed with my own observations, and augmented them. Serena was the name of the woman in the capri pants who’d come out of the spa. The spa she obviously owned. And it had been Frank that Serena had crossed the road to greet.
“She came toward me, and she had this big cake box with her. Then she told me it was Bob and Maria’s wedding anniversary, and would I join the celebration—”
Ada interrupted her husband. “Bob and Maria are the couple who own the bodega next door to Margarita’s flower shop. Bob’s Bodega. Lovely couple. Married forty years. Wonderful.”
“I was getting to that,” responded Frank. “They own Bob’s Bodega, as Ada said, and they are very nice. Of course I said I’d join her, though I have to admit that I was a bit puzzled about Ada. I mean, if Serena was in the street, what was Ada doing?”
“I told you I couldn’t leave, Frank. Serena had finished me, but I had to wait another ten minutes for my toes to dry properly. There’s no point getting them done if you’re going to ruin them, right, Cait?”
I nodded and smiled, though my personal experience of pedicures is non-existent. Just the thought of someone touching my feet makes me squirm. I suspect I’d knock out someone’s teeth if they tried to grind down my hard skin and paint my toenails.
“While Ada was sitting around waiting for her toes to be ready for the world, I went into the bodega with Serena. That man—the murderer—even held the door open for us. Can you imagine? I was that close to him. There he was. All smiles. And he was just about to kill that poor woman.” Frank and Ada both shook their heads, disbelief and anger on their faces. “Al and Miguel were already in the bodega. They’d known about Serena’s plans for a while, and they’d agreed to get all kitted up in their dress uniforms to make it something special. Of course Bob and Maria were delighted, and they wanted to cut the cake there and then, but Serena said she knew that Margarita wanted to be there for the cake-cutting and had agreed to take photos, so she said she’d go next door to get her since Margarita was late. A minute later we all heard the screams. I’m pretty sure anyone within a mile could have heard her. She’s got one heck of a pair of lungs on her that Serena. Luckily, Al and Miguel were right on the spot, though they were a bit hamstrung by their silly outfits. And that’s when all hell broke loose.”
“I heard the screams too,” chipped in Ada. “It frightened the life out of me. I popped my sandals on, carefully, and rushed out into the street.”
“Were you on your own in the spa?” I asked, quite innocently I thought.
“Dorothea was in the back having a massage,” replied Ada. “Well, I guess by then she’d have been getting dressed after her massage. Serena runs the place alone, and she’d just given me the final coat on my fingers, then gone outside with the cake that she’d brought through from out back.”
“Is there more than one way in and out of the spa?” I asked.
Ada looked puzzled. “There’s a door that goes to the lane behind, but that and the front door, that’s it. Why?”
“No reason,” I lied.
So Ada and Dorothea had been close to each other, but not together, during the critical few minutes between Serena leaving the spa and Bud going into the flower shop. Interesting. Could I picture Ada slashing a florist’s throat? It seemed unlikely. There again, my years in the business of criminal psychology have taught me that you really cannot judge a book by its cover. Some of the most warped, evil minds have been possessed by perfectly average-looking people. I wondered how big a woman Margarita had been. If she was a plantswoman, and used to working the land, the chances were that she’d been physically capable. There was Ada, sipping her juice, about five feet five, around a hundred and ten pounds, looking like your typical well-groomed sixty year old, a happy wife, mother, and grandmother. Not an obvious suspect. Of course, there was still Dorothea to consider . . .
“What brought you two to Hacienda Soleado?” I asked, thinking I’d take my chance to gather a bit of background now that I’d established that at least one of my guests had, indeed, had the opportunity to murder Margarita.
“That was Frank,” replied Ada. “And not just because he could sit about and smoke his cigars all day. In fact, we came here because he was bored, didn’t we, dear?”
“Bored?” I asked.
“Come on, Frank. You know the time was right,” said Ada.
“Yeah, it seemed right at the time, and I got a good price. We met Greg on one of our cruises. We palled up and kept in touch afterwards. He mentioned this place he was investing in. It seemed like a good fit. I get to dabble in the tequila business and use all those years of knowledge about bottling, distribution, and all that, and we live in a home we got to design as we wanted, right here, at the hacienda. We moved in four years ago, and, I have to be honest, it’s worked out great. Greg’s quite a driving force for the business. He and Juan, poor Margarita’s father, organized all of the distillation and bottling construction before we got here. Dorothea was the next investor. She met Greg on a safari in Africa. Then we came along. I get involved in just enough of the business stuff to keep my mind sharp, and we get wonderful weather pretty much all year. We don’t miss the weather in Prince George, do we? Ada’s never bored, are you?”
Ada shook her head. “So long as I’ve got my books, I’m happy.” She smiled.
“Any books in particular?” I asked politely.
“Murder mysteries,” she replied.
Time to Talk
I STOOD TO COLLECT THE glasses we’d used. I didn’t want to hear what either of them was going to say next, because I knew what it would be.
“Ada always solves the crimes in her books before they tell you whodunit,” said Frank.
There you go!
“I bet she could help you work out who this guy really is,” he added eagerly.
Oh dear.
I smiled. “Why thank you, Frank; I’m sure Ada would be a very useful ally in the case, but, of course, if Al is going to be giving me any sort of confidential information—you know, autopsy results and that sort of thing—then I probably shouldn’t share it.” I hoped that would stall them.
“But we don’t need to know all of that to work out who that awful man is, right?” commented Ada. “We know he did it, and we know how, where, and when, so an autopsy won’t help at all. I’m pretty sure everyone here wants to help Al crack the case before the Federales get involved. We don’t see much of them around here, but when they do anything at all, it’s all flash and bang, sticking their noses into things that don’t concern them, and off they finally go. We should all pitch in.”
Nip this in the bud, Cait!
I sat down again and gave them each a meaningful look. “I know you want to help, but in a case like this, which hinges on gathering and interpreting information, the more people who get involved, the more opportunities there are for miscommunication, or misunderstanding. As psychologists we learn about various theories relating to the human psyche: the way the individual operates within groups and society, and the way that all of this might have some bearing upon behavior. If Al and I are trying to work out who this man is, and why he killed Margarita, I need to understand what it was in Margarita’s life—whether that be an incident from many years ago, or a trigger word she might have innocently used that day—that set her killer in motion. If he is a hit man, who might have hired him, and why? If he’s not, then how did they know each other, and why kill her now? I suspect that the best way you can help is to start by telling me what you knew about Margarita. That would be good. But I really would prefer it if you would let me help Al alone. Is that okay?”
Ada looked crestfallen. “I suppose,” she said quietly.
“Margarita never got over the deaths of her mother and her siblings,” said Frank, diving right in. “They died when she was about ten, I think. That’s what her father, Juan, said. Their house burned down. The mother died, and her two brothers, and Margarita was left with that terrible scar.”
“Scar?” I was curious.
Ada jumped in. “Of course, you never met her. Poor Margarita had a very bad burn scar up her neck and onto her face. There was no way she could hide it, so she didn’t bother trying. Some people reacted to it quite badly. I know a couple of brides who were happy for her to do their flowers, but didn’t want her taking photos at their weddings. Sad really. I mean, she couldn’t help it.”
I took my cue. “About her being a photographer—how did that play a role in her life?” I couldn’t imagine how being a florist would put Margarita in danger, but photography offered a whole host of possible scenarios.
Frank answered. “She’d always taken photos of her arrangements, and her gardens, you know, to show them in albums, to help her sell her services. I think I’m right in saying she had a keen interest in nature photography in general, right, Ada?” Frank’s wife nodded. “Then, when they built the new resort about six years ago, she took the store opposite. The one where she was killed. They have weddings at the resort, and they need their own floral decorations and garden maintenance. She had all those contracts. She kept the gardens looking good, brought in flowers for the public areas, looked after the plants inside, and, when brides were planning their weddings there, she was right on the spot. I think it was then that she saw the chance to do a bit more business, and she started being a wedding photographer. I’m pretty sure she was doing well at it. We’ve never heard any complaints, have we, dear?”
“Oh no,” replied Ada. “She was very good at the photography thing. She had this way about her: you never felt as though she was in the way. Afterwards, when you saw the photos, which were always very good, crisp and clear, you wondered why you hadn’t noticed her. But it wasn’t just a job to her: she took her cameras—big, lumpy things—with her wherever she went. I know she took some wonderful shots of the flower market in PV, for example. You should check out her website.”
Ah-ha! I pounced.
“I wish I could, but I didn’t bring my laptop, and I can’t work out how to get the wireless keyboard to work with the TV here.” I was hoping Frank might be able to help.
“I think it’s the same as ours,” said Ada. “I can show you. Frank’s not good with that sort of thing.” She smiled indulgently at her husband. “I’m the one who does all that stuff, aren’t I?”
Frank nodded. “Why don’t you get her to show you? I can’t be bothered with it all. Can’t see what’s wrong with picking up the phone, or writing a letter. It was one of the things that annoyed me about the beer business at the end: a bunch of twelve-year-olds telling me we had to build an ‘online platform,’ whatever that might be!”
Ada smiled again. “Our son is a software designer for video games, so he and I keep up to date on technology quite a bit, when we talk using our webcams. Frank’s not quite so involved.” She got up and brushed imaginary crumbs from her lap. “Come on, let’s see what Henry’s got here.” She walked inside.
“Games! Games! That’s what my son does for a living. A grown man, with children of his own. It won’t last . . .”
I walked away from the irate Frank. Now about sixty-five years old, he’d quite possibly been born that age.
Ada was standing in front of the TV, the remote in her hand, scrolling through a menu I hadn’t even been able to find—maybe Frank isn’t the only one a bit out of synch with modern technology—then she pushed a few buttons and said, “Yes, it’s the same as ours. Let me show you.”
A few minutes later I was happily surfing the net. It was a relief: I was a big step closer to retrieving Jack’s email.
Ada made sure I understood how to switch from TV to internet, and I turned everything off. “I’ll start when you guys
have gone,” I said, as kindly as possible.
“She wants us to leave now, Frank. Put that cigar out, and she can get on with her investigating,” called Ada to her husband.
I felt badly. I didn’t mean to kick them out, but I was desperate to get to that email. I looked at my watch. I only had five minutes before I was due to meet Al. Damn and blast!
“Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time, dear.” Ada’s voice was pitched to soothe, but I heard annoyance as an undertone. “When people around here say that something will happen at a certain time, it’s just a vague suggestion. You’ll get used to it. Most things happen eventually, just not when you thought they would. Like I say, you’ll get used to it. In the end, it won’t even annoy you, though you’ve just arrived, so you’re still thinking like a Canadian rather than a Mexican.”
“There aren’t really a lot of Mexicans here, are there?” I ventured. “Considering we’re in Mexico, that is.” I wondered how Ada would react.
She smiled. “You mean that the Hacienda Soleado is a bit like a theme-park version of the country, right?” I nodded. “We’re all imports here, dear, and we’ve decided how we want it to be, and we’ve made it that way. When we bought into the place and started building our houses, we all made an agreement that this would be our own vision of the world as it should be. All the best bits of Mexico, without any of the horrible things, you know. That’s how we like it. We’re a bit of a mixed bag, I suppose. We’re Canadian; Greg is from Australia originally, though he hasn’t lived there for a very long time; Dorothea, Henry, and Dean and Jean are all American—oh, you haven’t met them either, have you? Nice couple. African American. Three grown sons, all in the service. He had some sort of job with the government, something to do with supplies. Dean’s always very vague about exactly what he did—maybe it was a very boring job. They moved around a lot over the years with his job. Funny life, I should think. He says he enjoys being away from a desk. He helps Greg with the logistics for the FOGTT, you know, the Friends of Good Tequila Trust. He’s very . . .” she searched for the right word, “effusive. Always telling jokes. Big man. Big character. Big laugh. She’s not so talkative, but very nice. Keeps herself to herself a lot. They only moved here last Christmas. They bought out a nice couple from Seattle who said they wanted to move back there to be closer to the grandchildren, but, I don’t know, there was something fishy about all that. I think they needed the money so sold up fast. Anyway, when Dean and Jean arrived he threw himself into the tequila business, didn’t he, Frank?” Frank nodded dutifully. “Frank isn’t involved that much, really, just enough to stop his brain from frying in the heat, but Dean seems to love it. Taken to it like a duck to water. And Jean? She goes into PV to do that tae kwon do boxing thing. Volunteers at the American hospital in PV too. Like I say, very nice. Their house is called Casa Nova. Dean thinks that’s hilarious.” She raised her eyebrows as she spoke. “So, yes, Hacienda Soleado is a bit, well, fake, if you like. If you go down to the seafront, you’ll find that the village there is a little more authentic. It’s small, of course, and dwarfed by the new resort. I suppose these days you really have to go way up into the hills to find the old way of life. Along the coast here it’s newer developments, tourism and a mish-mash of expected Mexican-ness, and then poverty: the ones who play up to the tourists attract the pesos, the ones who want nothing to do with them live a subsistence lifestyle that we outsiders always look at and pity. But it’s their choice, right?”