The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

by Cathy Ace

  Al nodded, then said quietly, “Come on. I don’t know if he speaks English or not, but I don’t want us to talk in front of him. Let’s go to my office. Follow me.” He spoke surprisingly sharply.

  “Lead on,” I said, risking a backward glance at Bud once Al had turned away. In that one look I tried to condense all the love, pity, hope, and determination that I felt. I had no idea whether Bud would pick up on such a complex message, in a flicker of an eye, but I’d done all I could to communicate the situation and my plan to him in a couple of sentences. I couldn’t risk trying to tell him that I’d been in touch with Jack, or that Jack was sick. Maybe I’d find a way to do that too, eventually. I followed the jailer of my loved one to his office, and wondered how best to move my investigation forward. I looked at my watch. It had just passed 7:00 PM. I might be in for a long evening. I hoped it would be productive.

  Margarita Time

  IT FELT VERY STRANGE TO be so close to Bud, and yet for him to be so utterly beyond my reach. I followed Al into his office, but I didn’t close the door on the off chance that Bud might be able to hear something comforting.

  The office was neat and tidy, and each wall was lined with tall, old-fashioned wooden filing cabinets. It was a small room, but the ceiling was high. It had the same polished hardwood floors that the entire building seemed to have, as well as a similar ceiling. It was a bit oppressive. Not even the white walls helped. Al had turned on three fans, one in each of three corners, and the cross-draft they created pulled in some cool air from the open barred windows.

  I sat in a worn leather-covered swivel seat. I tried to stop it spinning, but it seemed to have a mind of its own.

  “It does that,” said Al, pulling a folder from a drawer. “Miguel says it’s a haunted chair.”

  “And why would ‘Miguel’ say that?” I asked.

  Al picked up on my double query. “Miguel is my right-hand man. Well, he’s my only man, actually. Just the two of us. And he works the short hours.”

  “Does he live here too?”

  Al smiled. “No, he doesn’t, thank heavens. I don’t say that because I dislike him. Poor Miguel is a good man, but there isn’t just him. He, his wife, his four daughters, his mother, and his brother all live together.” Al sighed. “Poor guy, lost his eldest last year. It’s been really tough for him.”

  “What happened?” He seemed to want to tell me.

  Al looked at the file in his hand and laid it on his desk. He sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face. “It was November 1 last year, el Día de los Muertos. A big deal around here. The Day of the Dead. It’s nothing like most foreigners think. It’s nothing like Halloween. It’s a family day, a day for remembering our ancestors. Miguel’s eldest, Angélica Rosa, was supposed to be with her family that night, but she never arrived. I mentioned a local restaurant earlier, where Serena’s sisters help out?” I nodded. “Well, Rutilio is Miguel’s brother, and his restaurant is directly behind the crime scene—it’s near the Rocas Hermosas Resort; the front side faces the sea. Miguel’s daughter was helping at her uncle Rutilio’s restaurant back then. At that time, Rutilio wasn’t living with his brother. Angélica Rosa said she’d walk home after they closed up. It wasn’t unusual. She was eighteen, and it was a busy evening, with people traveling to and from family gatherings, but she never made it to her father’s house. Of course, Miguel was annoyed at first. He thought she’d gone off to have some fun with her friends instead of being with her family. We soon realized she wasn’t with any of her friends, so we did what we could locally, but we also called it in to the Federales.”

  “Did they find her quickly?” I asked.

  “It took them three days. She was laid out, wrapped in white sheeting, hands folded in prayer, on a bank near the edge of a side road about fifty miles from here. No interference, thank heavens. Miguel was still overwhelmed. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, when he went to Guadalajara to identify her body, they kept him there. Locked him up. The questions went on for days. Terrible. It nearly broke him. By the time they worked out when she’d been killed, and that he probably couldn’t have done it, because he really was with his family that night, he was a mess. They allowed him to come home to his family, but he needed weeks off work, and the Federales kept buzzing around Punta de las Rocas, asking questions about him. There was another killing. Same MO. Luckily for Miguel, he was well and truly out of the frame for that one because he had a watertight alibi. They were able to work out pretty much exactly when the second girl was dumped on the roadside, and they knew it would have been impossible for Miguel to have made it from the dump site in time to be on his knees in front of the altar at Our Lady of Guadalupe, in Puerto Vallarta, saying a Requiem Mass for his dead daughter. It was a big deal around here: he and his family carried out a simultaneous crucifix of Requiem Masses. Miguel’s mother went to her old hometown in the south, his wife to hers in the north, and his brother, Rutilio, was here in Punta de las Rocas, to the west. That sort of thing doesn’t happen too often. It’s one of the old ways of this area. Everyone who lives here went to one of the services; most stayed in Punta de las Rocas with Rutilio, but I know that Margarita went with Miguel to PV. So the heat was off him, at last, and he recovered enough to return to work.”

  “It sounds awful to say, but he was lucky there was a second killing, in a way,” I said.

  A wry smile crossed Al’s face. “I know what you mean. And what you say is sad, but true. There’s been another murder, by the same killer, every month since. Not exactly every month, just over the four-week mark each time, it seems. In fact, if the ‘Rose Killer’ keeps to his schedule, there’ll be another dead teenager within the next few days.”

  “The Rose Killer?”

  “Miguel’s daughter’s name was Angélica Rosa, and the serial killer, because that’s what we now know him to be, puts two red roses in his victims’ hands, between their praying palms. Seven of them to date. State-wide. Gone.” He shook his head. “But enough of this. It’s not a case that I can do anything about. The Federales are the ones charged with finding this monster who somehow convinces girls not known to be off the rails in any way to drink themselves to death, before he lays them out on the side of the road, far, far away from their homes and their distraught families.”

  “They die from alcohol poisoning?” I was puzzled. “That’s very unusual. You have to drink a great deal of the stuff to die from it, and, even then, it’s hardly what you’d call a dependable way of killing someone.”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Al. “Unusual, horrible, and depressing. The theory is that, although there’s no sexual involvement, he likes to watch them get drunk and then die. They found some evidence in the case of the second girl that the killer had force-fed her the alcohol, bringing her round out of unconsciousness several times, making her drink, then waiting until she could drink more, and that he drugged her too. Evil. I only know about the first two cases because, as I said, after that there was no reason for any information to be given to Miguel, and there was never any reason for me to be informed. I only knew what I did from my grieving colleague. Like I said, poor Miguel. It struck so close to home. Just as close as Margarita’s death. Here’s the file, Cait. I can’t see any reason why you can’t have a look at it. After all, we’re on the same side. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said and reached for the folder.

  “How about I get us a cold beer from the official intendente’s refrigerator, in my apartment, while you settle down with that?”

  I nodded, and he was gone. I flicked through the file to see what it contained: some notes, crime scene photographs, that was it. No autopsy report. Not much. I looked at the photographs—the ones showing Bud, covered with blood, were the hardest to take. The ones of Margarita with her throat clearly cut from ear to ear weren’t pleasant to see either, of course, but they were more informative. The notes were in Spanish. I could only just about read them, not because my Spanish abilities were lacking, but because Al
’s handwriting was appalling. As Al entered the room again, I had to make a big decision. I did.

  “How are you doing?” he asked, putting a well-chilled bottle of Pacifico on the table in front of me. I couldn’t resist and took several big gulps. By the time I relinquished my grip on the bottle, there was only about a quarter of the beer left.

  “Thirsty?” asked Al, smiling and still holding his full bottle.

  I smiled back. “Just a bit! These notes—are they written by you? It’s hard for me to tell.”

  “Spanish not up to it?” he asked.

  “I could do with some help,” I replied truthfully. I didn’t go so far as to lie by saying I couldn’t understand Spanish. He inferred it. Not my fault.

  “Most of my notes are about the crime scene, Margarita, and the suspect, as you’d expect. Pass them over and I’ll go through them.” He held out his hand and took back the folder.

  I sat back in my rickety chair and sipped my remaining beer as he spoke.

  “Margarita Rosa García Martinez, age thirty-three, height five feet three inches, weight approximately one hundred and ten pounds, of Hacienda García, Punta de las Rocas, Nayarit. Found expired at her flower shop, Margarita Flores, Rocas Hermosas Resort, Punta de las Rocas. Throat slashed, displaying a deep, ear-to-ear wound. Suspect found on site, with hands around the victim’s throat. Suspect’s name, not known; country of origin, not known. Body and suspect found in situ by Serena Marquez García, of Spa Serena. The suspect had been encountered by Roberto and Maria Guitterez, owners of Bob’s Bodega, when he went into their store to purchase supplies. He spoke a little Spanish to them and paid in cash. They directed him to Margarita Flores as a place where he could purchase roses.” Al paused and looked up at me. “I wondered why he wanted to buy roses. Maybe it was just a ruse, to have an excuse to enter the flower shop? What do you think?”

  I gave some careful thought to my reply. “Yes, that’s interesting. Why didn’t he just buy flowers at the bodega?”

  Al smiled. “That’s easy. I know that Margarita had often told Roberto that she promised to not sell beer if he promised to not sell flowers. It was their little joke.” The smile faded on his face. “She didn’t like it that Rutilio literally gives them away at his place of course . . .”

  I interrupted, puzzled. “I thought you said Rutilio had a restaurant?”

  “Yes, but he always has cheap roses in plastic collars that he gives to the ladies at their table when the check is being paid. You know the sort of thing? It gives him a chance to speak to all the women.”

  “Ladies’ man?” I asked. I was guessing that Rutilio was the chef in the red shirt I’d seen standing in the lane behind the crime scene that morning, but I hadn’t met the chap yet.

  “You could say that,” replied Al enigmatically. “Likes himself, and, to be fair, he’s a pretty handsome guy. But a ‘ladies’ man’? I believe that’s what he’d like to think—but he’s not known for having lots of girlfriends, locally. Though what he and the tourists get up to, I don’t know. No complaints on that front, though. I’ve had some problems with his restaurant sign annoying the locals. It’s a giant fluorescent portrait of his face, and it shines out in the night. The local fishermen say it frightens their catch away from the shore, and the folks who live close to the restaurant have complained ever since he erected it about a year ago. I think I’ve managed to calm things down, and now he’s promised to turn it off at 1:00 AM each night.”

  “So, flowers?” I pressed on. “I don’t have a suggestion as to why the killer wanted flowers.”

  Al sat forward in his seat. “I thought he might not be alone here. I thought it might suggest he had a woman with him.” Al’s words made my heart beat faster. I sipped at my beer bottle, but it was empty. I looked at the bottle and made a sad face. Luckily, Al bit.

  “Another?” he asked. As I suspected, the perfect host.

  I smiled. “Thanks. I’m more thirsty than I thought.” He got up and left the room. Phew!

  When Al returned with my second beer, he looked grim. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. Damn and blast! How can I stop him doing that? “If the perpetrator did have a woman with him, maybe they were staying somewhere local.” He sat at his desk and picked up a pad and pen. “I’ll check it out in the morning,” he said as he wrote.

  “As you see best,” I replied. “I think it’s more likely that the killer sought out the flower shop with a purpose. He was simply giving himself a cover story, as you suggested, not expecting to be found on the scene. By the way, am I correct in understanding that Serena went to Margarita’s store because she’d offered to take photographs of the storekeepers’ wedding anniversary celebration? And that’s also why you and Miguel were on the spot, in dress uniforms?”

  Al smiled and looked at me. “Like I said, you’re good at finding things out, Cait. Yes, that’s all true. Serena had made the arrangements. We were all to meet at the bodega; she’d baked and decorated a surprise cake, and Margarita was to record the event for posterity.”

  “So you and Miguel were inside the bodega when the suspect was in the flower shop?”

  Al nodded. “We were a little late, but the best shade for parking down there is near the spa, at the opposite end of the building to the bodega. We thought we might catch Serena at the spa before she left, but she was already out in the street when we arrived. She’d bumped into Frank Taylor and was trying to get him to join in, so we ended up beating her to the bodega. Miguel and I went in just before the killer left. He held the door open for Serena and Frank to enter. Yes, I was that close to a good friend when she was murdered, and to the man who did it, but I could do nothing to save her. I couldn’t stop him.” He took a deep drink from his bottle. His frustration was palpable.

  My mind was racing. Roberto and Maria at the bodega, Serena and Frank, Miguel and Al—none of them could have killed Margarita, because they’d all been in the company of others when the poor woman’s throat was slashed. Allowing for the time it would have taken her to bleed out, she must have been attacked about two or three minutes before Bud entered her store. That was a real problem. At that time, not only had Serena been in the street with Frank, but two cops had also been there. No one could have left the flower shop without being seen within the critical time frame. Wonderful!

  “If Margarita was a wonderful plantswoman, with a spotless reputation and a quiet personality, who lived the sort of life that didn’t bring her into contact with anyone who might wish to do her harm, then this is an unsolvable puzzle,” I said. Aloud as it turned out.

  “As you say,” said Al thoughtfully.

  “What else can you tell me about the victim?” I asked. You’re a victim profiler, Cait. Get on it! “She wasn’t just a woman with a fabulously green thumb; she was also a photographer. If she was out and about with her camera, she might have photographed something she shouldn’t have,” I suggested. It was an avenue worth exploring.

  Al thought for a moment, then said quietly, “Margarita and I knew each other quite well. I think it might be because we both felt we didn’t fit in too well with other people. Her scar, my mixed background. I can’t say we were close, but I did know her better than most. Maybe not as well as Callie Booth knew her, but I knew her in a different way. Birds, landscapes, and plants were Margarita’s favorite things to photograph. She did weddings and social functions for the money, but her cameras were almost a part of her. She was always ready to shoot, so, yes, you have a point. Maybe she did, inadvertently, photograph something she shouldn’t have.” He sucked on the end of a pen. Yuk! You’ll put anything in your mouth!

  “Where did she go, Al? How did she live her life? Where might she have been, on a regular basis, to spot something out of the ordinary?”

  Al sat back. “Her life was pretty simple, but it was dictated by what she was doing on a particular day. She might be out gathering flowers at her own hacienda early in the morning, before their blooms opened in the sun, then she’d jump onto he
r bicycle and take them directly to her store. If she’d ordered flowers that she didn’t grow herself, for a function or a wedding, she’d cycle to the store, collect her little van, and get to the big flower market in PV very early, then do all the arranging back at her store. On days when she didn’t have a special occasion, she’d fulfill her contractual agreements with the Rocas Hermosas Resort, tending to their gardens and plants, or delivering displays she’d made to other locations. Her store was open to the public from 10:00 AM until noon, then from 3:00 PM until 6:00 PM each day. She never took a siesta, she worked. Out in the heat of the sun, or in the torrential downpours we have here in the summer months. If she didn’t have contract work, she’d cycle back to her place when the store was shut to work on her plants there. When she closed up, she might drive to some final places with arrangements. I know she did that for the Amigos del Tequila deliveries, because it meant she was less likely to run into her father. He works at the Hacienda Soleado all day, tending the agave there, but he is finished by 4:00 PM, so she’d only go there when he had gone home. Then she’d drop the van back at the store and cycle home. She cycled most places because she loved it, and because it was cheaper than putting gas in her van. People around here have to be careful with money because there’s not much of it and their income can be highly seasonal. I swear, she loved her bicycle more than any person. Especially her father.”