by Cathy Ace
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.
Al shrugged. “Punta de las Rocas special?” He smiled. “It was designed for a French family with pots of money and a wild imagination,” he said enigmatically. “And it’s my home.” His voice conveyed a surprising amount of warmth.
I was puzzled. “You live here? I thought we were going to the police station.”
“This is the police station, at this end,” Al indicated the wing nearest to us, “and my home—the mayoral apartments are in the other wing—and the municipal hall, which is the main body of the building. Everything, all rolled up into one. The mayor, the intendente, didn’t want to live in his official apartment, so they offered it as a perk for the top cop in the area. That would be me. Captain Al.” He grinned. “Juan Martinez is the mayor. And Margarita’s father.”
“How did he take the news, by the way?” I asked gently. Juan might be a suspect.
Al let out a loud “Ha!” It surprised me. “In a day where everything is off, everything is wrong, that was one of the most wrong parts of it! I finally tracked down Juan wandering in his fields of agaves. I broke it to him as gently as I could, and all he said was, ‘I see.’ I’d just told him that his only daughter had been brutally murdered, but that at least we had the guy who’d done it, and that’s all he said. No questions about who the guy was, or why he might have done it. He just walked away from me, and that was that. What do you make of it all, Cait? What does his reaction mean to you?”
I took a deep breath. I had decided to be honest and open with him whenever I could. I assumed that Al had been inside the bodega when the murder had taken place, because he’d emerged from there when Serena screamed, but I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure about exactly when he, and his companion-cop, Miguel, had entered it, so, until I knew more, Al himself was still a possible killer.
“It could mean any of a number of things,” I replied thoughtfully. “I heard it mentioned, earlier today, that Juan and Margarita didn’t get along. It might be that there was such great enmity between them that he is truly glad she died. It would be unusual, but not unheard of, and it would reflect more on his personality than on the nature of the rift between them, I would suggest. It could be that you witnessed how that particular man deals with shocking news. I know that his wife and sons died in a house fire that scarred Margarita for life, so maybe, in dealing with that loss, he’s built a wall about himself that keeps him safe from the worst blasts of tragedy and loss.” Or it could be that he killed her himself and was playing it cool, I thought.
Al didn’t answer for a moment. When he did, he surprised me. “You’ve learned a lot in a few hours, haven’t you?” he said. “Is that one of your skills? Getting people to tell you secrets about others, or themselves?”
I pounced. “Well, if it is, why not tell me all your secrets now, and get it over with? You could start by telling me a bit about your background, and how you came to be Captain Al.” I wanted to find out something about the man, because he seemed such an unlikely person to be holding his position.
“Sitting here, in the car, by the light of those giant lamps?” he asked.
“Why not? No time like the present. Then it’s done. After all, you do seem to know a lot about me, so it’s only fair.”
Al nodded. “Okay then. Short version. You comfortable?”
“Am I allowed a cigarette?” I dared. I could tell by the smell of the car, and of Al himself, that he was a smoker.
He smiled. “Let’s both smoke,” he replied, “but come to the little table and chairs over there.” He signaled toward the side of the building. “It’ll be more comfortable than this—my mobile office.”
As I hauled myself out of the police car, each of the one hundred and sixty-eight pounds that I carry around every day felt twice that heavy. I’d proudly managed to shed twelve pounds in the six weeks before our vacation, but it didn’t seem to be helping at that moment. Tiredness will do that to you. We settled ourselves on the little plastic seats, lit up our cigarettes, and Al began.
“My ma was quite the woman. Still is. An artist. Loves pottery. She moved to Jalisco State to follow her muse, got pregnant by my dad in Guadalajara. He was a player in a mariachi band. Ma said he was good, but I was too young to ever be a good judge of his skills. She gave birth to me on her way to her family’s home in South Carolina. Her name’s Beselleu. Belle Beselleu. Old family. Money. Her parents threw her out when she showed up at their front door carrying a half-breed, a mestizo. So she left, went back to Guadalajara, and set up home with my father. She told me she married him. From what I can remember it was a pretty good childhood. But my dad died when I was fourteen, and although Ma managed to keep us going for a while, eventually we went back to her parents. By then they said I ‘looked quite white.’ Around here there’s a lot of French blood. When the forces from the French Intervention reached Jalisco in 1865, they mixed up their blood with the locals, as fast as they could. They might not have been in the state for long, but they sure left an impression. My dad had the light hair, greenish eyes, and taller stature that you often see hereabouts. As did I. Still do, of course, and, with my ma’s blood too, I could ‘pass for white.’ That was what my Gram Beselleu, my mother’s mother, used to say. I didn’t like her, but my ma needed to be there, so I did as I was told. As a teen in South Carolina, I was known as Al Beselleu. I stopped speaking Spanish. I even picked up the local accent and manners. And I got myself a good education. Went to university in South Carolina, where I was ‘allowed’ to take Latin American studies. By then, Gram’s health was failing, so Ma got her way with her father. She sure could wrap that man around her pinkie finger.” I caught the twang of his once adopted, but now absent, accent, and half expected him to add a quick “y’all.” But he didn’t.
Al pressed on, lighting another cigarette. I followed suit. “I graduated and decided to take some credits toward a master’s degree at the University of Guadalajara. When I got there, everything felt so natural to me that I stayed. I felt as though I’d come home, which, of course, I had. But by then I’d become so ‘American’ I wasn’t accepted by the locals, so I started using my full name, Alfredo Jesus Beselleu Torres.”
“So did you study Latin American politics? Law?” I was interested in what had brought him to Punta de las Rocas a
s a cop.
“No. I prefer to understand the fascinating and bloody history of my country, the Estados Unidos Mexicanos, through the eyes of its writers and artists. I was an arts grad: art, literature, cultural aspects of the Latin American civilizations from pre-Columbian times to the present day. Whatever the name of the country, whoever might think they’re in charge, those with artistic talent have reflected, and even shaped, the way that the people of this region of the world see and define themselves. That’s what I wanted my post-graduate work to be about: how art can give a people its identity, even as the warring politicos argue about titles, names, ownership, and loot. Non-Mexicans seem to know nothing about our culture. They think it’s all about painted pots and sombreros. But it’s so much more than folk art—and even that’s been dumbed down for the tourists. Sure, many people will have heard of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, but who knows about José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi, who wrote the first Latin American novel? Or about the poetry of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera? There are so many artists who have helped us become who we are. Have given us the fire in our blood.”
As he spoke, I could feel Al’s passion for his topic, but I had to admit that I wasn’t well informed when it came to Mexican culture. I made a note to do some internet surfing when I had a chance, because the point he was making was important: all my research over the years had been carried out with non-Latino cultural subjects. Of course, in the world of academic psychology, we read journal papers from all around the world. As far as I knew, there wasn’t a great deal being done specifically with Latino groups. Given the way that the Latino population was growing in the US, I suspected that might change pretty soon, but for now, maybe gaining some insight into Margarita’s cultural background would help me consider how the theories about human behavior with which I was familiar might play within this novel landscape. True, psychological theory is supposed to be “universal,” but I don’t believe for one minute that we psychologists know all there is to know about the human condition. Maybe artists do know more, in their own way.
“You’re quite right, Al,” I replied. “I came here knowing I wasn’t well versed in Mexican culture, and hoping to have some time to dive into it. But, with this case to consider, maybe we could put that on the back burner for now?” I knew I had to get him back on track, or I’d never get ahead.
Al nodded. “I guess,” he replied. “So, where was I?” Before I could respond, he’d picked up his life story. “Oh yes, I was at the university in Guadalajara. Even though Ma had a trust fund in the US, I didn’t have much money at that time, so I lived in a pretty sketchy part of the city. It’s a great city, but every place has them—the areas where you don’t go out after dark unless you’re making trouble, or at least expecting it.”
I nodded. “Yes, every city has those areas. The Downtown Eastside in Vancouver, for all its creeping gentrification, is still a pretty wild place between dusk and dawn.”
“So you know what I mean,” he continued. “All around me I saw the results of poor education, low incomes, or no incomes, and the pervasive evil of drugs. Instead of sitting in an ivory tower, talking about art and society, I decided to get involved and help. I volunteered with youth groups. I mentored kids who wanted to get out but didn’t know how. After a few years of getting to know the beat cops there, the ones who try to keep kids out of trouble instead of throwing them into the system so they come out ten times worse than they went in, I realized that I could do more good by becoming a professional rather than remaining a volunteer. I did my training, and this post came up. I did some research into the place, you know, its history, how it came to be what it is today, and I decided to apply for the post. They offered it, and I took it. And now, when I get my criminology degree as well, I think it’s a career where I can progress and do even more good work as I move ahead.” Yes, definitely ambitious.
“And are there many young people walking the tightrope between success and sad failure in Punta de las Rocas?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine it.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Serena? The one who found Margarita’s body?”
I nodded.
“Serena has two younger sisters who were on their way down the wrong road. Now they’re both back at school, and they help out at a local restaurant evenings and weekends. They wanted to run off to Guadalajara. Thought it was glamorous. Serena asked me to get involved. They hadn’t broken the law, as such, but they found the young men with the new cars in PV exciting. They liked to dress up and hit the tourist bars along the coast. Serena saw the way they were heading. Maybe now they’ll stay, settle, and not become a part of the flood of young people leaving our villages.”
“Was Margarita ever a wild girl, do you know? Or was she one of the girls who followed the ‘good path’ to womanhood?” I asked.
Al smiled and looked up at the black, starry sky. “You see how that sky looks?” he asked. I nodded. “You can see in it whatever you want. Allow it to be a backdrop for your dreams. Margarita’s nursery was like that to her. She saw the soil as her blank canvas: she worked it, planted all sorts of things, cut and arranged what she grew. She made beauty from the dirt. She wasn’t outgoing or showy. Kept her head down and did her thing, and knew the right and the wrong roads. But what she traveled was her own road. Her scar, the one she got in the fire, very much molded who she was. She told me she was so badly bullied at school that she left earlier than she really wanted to, but she threw herself into learning about the land, plants, and nature in general. It meant she didn’t have to mix with people too much. Then, when she turned eighteen, she inherited her mother’s holdings just up the hill here, so she had her own home, and her own land to do with as she wanted.”
I was beginning to get a picture of Margarita. I still couldn’t see how her role as a plantswoman, however wonderful or knowledgeable she might have been, could have led to her murder.
“I’m sorry to ask, Al, but are you quite sure that everything Margarita grew was—well, legal?”
Al gave me a sad look. “You too? It’s not all about drugs here, you know, Cait.” He sounded disappointed.
“Hey, I had to ask, Al. Believe me, I understand what you’re saying. After all, I’m from British Columbia, where our biggest export is that particularly potent weed-crop BC Bud, which they raise in grow ops in perfectly respectable suburban subdivisions all over the place, not to mention out on lonely hillsides set up for cultivation, where the conditions are perfect for fast growth and turnover.”
Al stood. “You’re right, of course. We have flybys around here. Well, not this area so much, because it’s not such a big deal here, but across the state in general. They use heat-seeking equipment to detect the growth of a ‘certain type of vegetation,’ shall we say? So I happen to be one hundred percent certain that Margarita was only growing what she said she was growing.”
“And what did she grow?” I asked. I was imagining all sorts of exotic specimens.
Al beamed a warm smile. “Roses were her thing. I’ll drive you to her place in the morning. You’ll get a kick out of it. Anyone would. For now, how about we go inside and I pour us a drink?”
“Well, I was rather hoping you could tell me some more about Margarita and the crime scene. I’d like to get a better idea of where it all happened.” I’d really like to know if there is a back entrance to Margarita’s store, through which someone could have entered and exited without anyone, me included, seeing them from the street, was what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t, because Al “knew” that Bud had done it, so the logistics of the crime scene were of no interest to him, and weren’t supposed to be of any interest to me.
“Okay, but let’s go inside. I’m starting to get cold,” replied Al.
Personally, I was relishing the still-warm evening and the chance to be comfortable and not sweaty. I reminded myself that the evening might feel delightful to me, but for someone who was used to much higher temperatures, it might feel a bit chilly.
“Oka
y,” I agreed, and I walked in through the heavy wooden door at the police station end of the building that Al had pushed open for me.
As I peered into the gloom, I could only make out vague shapes. Al threw some switches and the whole building lit up. To my right, someone gasped, and I turned, startled.
There, inside a cage made from thick iron bars, was Bud, lying on the floor on a dirty mattress that looked as though it were made of straw.
“Oh, Bud . . .” was out before I could stop myself. Damn and blast! “Oh, but . . . is that him?” I added, as quickly as my heart was beating. Will Al work out that I blurted out a name, or did I cover my mistake?
“Yes, that’s him alright,” replied Al. “Nasty looking beggar. Could be from anywhere, couldn’t he? What do you think?” His tone made me feel he hadn’t noticed my blunder. Phew!
I looked across at the man I loved and hoped I was managing the micro-expressions on my face well enough that Al wouldn’t be able to work out what was spiraling through my brain.
Bud was in long gray pants and a white, short-sleeved shirt: that’s a spare police uniform. They must have stripped him to preserve forensic evidence. A metal plate and mug were on the floor: they have fed him and given him something to drink. He showed no signs of having been beaten—Al didn’t strike me as that kind of cop, in any case. Bud seemed to have been cleaned of blood: that’s odd, but maybe with the heat, and the flies, it’s best. They’ve probably got a load of photographs of the blood spatter that I saw covering him. He’d been lying in the dark, and I know him well enough to know that he’d actually dropped off—he’s got that look about him. That’s a good sign. Bud blinked in the light: good, that’s giving him a chance to hide his surprise at seeing me. Oh, poor Bud, I love you, and I’m here to do all I can to rescue you!
“What do I think?” I said aloud, in response to Al’s question. “I think you’ve got yourself a killer in a cage, and we’d better work out exactly who he is before you hand him over to the Federales the day after tomorrow. Of course, if I can work out why Margarita was killed, that’ll give us the best chance of establishing who this fellow is. You didn’t say whether you’d circulated a photo of him—have you?” Al shook his head. “Okay, let’s keep it that way. If the Federales know who he is before you hand him over and tell them you’ve worked it out for yourself, it won’t look as good for your career,” I added.