by Cathy Ace
I jumped in. “So what’s the story there? Do you know the cause of the rift between Juan and his daughter?”
Al drew closer, becoming more conspiratorial. “Honestly, I don’t think either of them came to terms with the loss of Margarita’s mother and brothers: she and her father were distant from that point on. He hardly visited her when she was in hospital recovering from her burns. At least, that’s what she told me. He’s never spoken of it. Juan being both the mayor of the municipality and the one responsible for the agave crop at the Friends of Good Tequila Trust property meant that he and Margarita were at loggerheads over the past year or so. You see, as mayor, Juan has a responsibility to the whole community for certain aspects of municipal life, one of those being the water supply. Our water comes from a collection of ‘public’ springs up on the hillside, springs that were designated by one of our far-sighted forefathers, Juan Carlos García García, as being essential to the public good. But, as the man also responsible for ensuring a good crop of agave at the Hacienda Soleado, Juan is employed by one of the biggest water users in the municipality. Agave don’t need much water to survive and thrive, but making tequila uses a lot of water, and Margarita accused him of putting the interests of his employers, the FOGTT, ahead of the interests of the local community. She was also very angry that Juan had sold off such a large portion of his land to the developers who built the Rocas Hermosas, a resort down on the seafront, then went and sold off even more to the FOGTT.”
I was pretty sure I was missing something. “Hang on a minute. Are you telling me that Juan owned the land where the Rocas Hermosas Resort is built?” Al nodded. “And he owned the land where the Hacienda Soleado is now?” More nodding. “And he’s the mayor? And the jimador at the FOGTT property?” He nodded again. “How come? I know this is a small place, but one man seems to own a lot, or have owned a lot, and has a lot of power. How does that happen?” Scenarios featuring rampant corruption were racing through my mind, so I thought it best to ask.
“Ha!” cried Al. It seemed it was quite his thing! “Of course. You don’t know. A quick history lesson will explain . . .”
As I thought to myself, oh yes, please let it be quick, my tummy rumbled, agreeing with my brain that I needed to do something other than suck on a beer, so I put down the bottle, almost untouched.
“Okay, here are the facts: the French arrived, they married, and they bred. General Phillipe Dubois was a very well-connected French general, and he married the daughter of the most powerful family in this area. It was a good political match. When the French were defeated, Dubois was allowed to stay, with all of his lands intact, because of the influence of his wife’s family. He dropped his ‘Dubois’ name and adopted her family’s ‘García.’ There are a lot of people in Punta de las Rocas with García somewhere in their name because Dubois, aka the husband García, and his wife, García, had six sons and five daughters, all of whom stayed and were granted land of their own from within the family’s huge holdings. Most of them also married and had children, who also stayed. We Spanish adopt both the name of our father’s and of our mother’s families. Around here, it’s possible to run into a few people whose name contains García twice. It can become confusing. The eldest son of the original couple, Juan Carlos García García, never married and never had children of his own. He traveled a great deal, especially in the southern states of America, and he was recognized as a talented negotiator and diplomat, involved in both local and international politics. He kept the family’s fortune in one piece through revolutions and wars, and by the mid-twentieth century he was in a position to grant that the lands held at that time by the children of the García family would become their own property, which they could then dispose of as they wished. Juan García Martinez, in other words Juan Martinez, our mayor, has inherited land from at least five deceased family members. You see, back then people had more children than they do now, so, as there have been fewer offspring to inherit, and as siblings die, the land is now becoming consolidated into fewer hands. Margarita inherited her land from her mother’s side of the family when she reached the age of eighteen. It was, at one time, three parcels of land, which all happened to abut each other, which isn’t always the case.”
I was beginning to get a hint of something that might have caused problems in the locality. “Are people now angry with each other if they inherit a parcel of land they can’t access because they have to cross another person’s land to get to theirs?”
“Very perceptive,” replied Al. “When it was all about brothers and sisters I guess it could get a bit heated, but now we have people who haven’t been closely related for a couple of generations needing to work together to make the land viable. Access is just one issue. The other is water.”
“Water?” I was surprised.
Al nodded. “It’s all well and good attracting the tourists, but they use so much water it’s alarming. I swear they just sit in those condos on the front and leave the taps running all day. Within the last few months, before the rains started, it became a real hot-button issue hereabouts. You see, it’s been dryer than usual for the last couple of years, so those with one of the dozens of hillside springs on their property are doing much better than those who rely on the rains or the communal springs. It’s been tough for a lot of people, and Juan hasn’t helped at all, some say, because he hasn’t tackled the subject of a sustainable water supply for all.”
“His daughter thought he should put the needs of the community ahead of his personal finances? That selling his land to developers just put greater pressure on the local water supply?”
Al nodded. “I’m in law enforcement, so I’m not supposed to have an opinion. If I were pressed . . .” He raised his eyebrows, and I nodded. “I’d say that our mayor, the estimable Señor Juan Martinez, doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’ll sell every square inch of land he owns one day very soon, then disappear into the sunset with a well-padded bank account.”
“Will he inherit Margarita’s property?”
Al nodded. “As far as folks hereabouts know, he’s Margarita’s only living relative. Certainly her closest, so I believe he’ll get her hacienda and with it one of the most productive and reliable springs on the hill. Margarita also owned two large waterfront parcels, handed down from her mother’s side of the family. She wanted them to stay natural, to remain wild and accessible to all. She loved them very much, and I know she’d go there often, hiding in the sand dunes, or behind huge rocks, photographing birds, plants, and, sometimes, the fish that come close to the shore. Back in the old days everyone wanted hillsides where they could raise agave and animals. Only the ones who wanted to fish were interested in the beaches. Now, of course, it’s a different story. Look along the coastline. It’s not just the beaches that are golden, it’s the land itself. It’s the new gold rush.”
I gave it some thought. There was a clear motive for Juan to kill his daughter: land. A lot of it. He hadn’t seemed overly upset when Al told him she was dead. Was it that dreadful, and that simple—a man had killed his child for the cash he could make? And where exactly had Juan Martinez been when his daughter was killed? Had he been the one driving his truck past the crime scene that morning?
“I don’t think Juan would have hired a killer to get Margarita out of the way,” said Al, thumping his desk, making me jump.
“Why not?”
“If he’d wanted her dead he’d have probably just slit her throat himself. I think he’s got it in him.” Al made the statement wearing a grim expression. I was quite taken aback. “But he didn’t. That guy in there did it.” He sucked his pen again. He’d sounded almost disappointed.
My tummy gave an almighty growl, and I blushed.
Al grinned. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I take you for something to eat at Rutilio’s? It’s Sunday, which is Grill Night, when all he does is salsas, salads, and meat and vegetables on the grill. He reckons the smell of the meat attracts the tourists staying at the Rocas Hermosas Re
sort, and that when they see how wonderful his place is they’ll keep going back all week. I don’t know, but it’s a good night to go. Meat’s not cheap, but he makes it go a long way. You up for it? We could keep talking about Margarita, if you like. Or you could even have one to drink.” He smiled wistfully. “She couldn’t stand them. Margaritas. Margarita didn’t like margaritas.”
“Yes, I get it,” I said softly. “Okay, I’m game, and I am pretty famished. Let’s go.” I tried to sound cheery. It meant I could meet Rutilio, and maybe get a look into the alley behind the flower shop, to check out if the store had a back entrance, which was the only way I could imagine that this otherwise impossible murder had taken place.
I pulled my purse onto my shoulder. “Will we have to pass . . . ?” I nodded in Bud’s direction.
“No, let’s not,” replied Al. “We can go through the back and around to the car that way. The trip won’t take long; it’s only about ten minutes away.”
Yes, I know, I thought. Al flicked the light switches and I imagined Bud being plunged into darkness again. My heart ached for him, but I knew that the only way I could help him was to press on with my investigation. We set off in Al’s car once more and made our way toward the blackness of the sea. In the distance I could see the lights along the Malecón in Puerto Vallarta, glittering like a diamond necklace set in a jet velvet case, and all I wanted to do was take Bud by the hand and enjoy the night air.
Time to Dine
UPON OUR ARRIVAL AT RUTILIO’S Restaurant, the first thing I noticed about our host was his wide, white, and worrying smile. The folds in his tall chef hat looked like an elongated version of his teeth.
“Alfredo!” called the chef to Al, as we entered. Having only seen Rutilio from a distance that morning, this was my first chance to get a close look at him. What I had thought was a red shirt was, in fact, a red chef jacket. His black pants were snug, and I could see the flash of a heavy gold chain that hung about his neck, nestled in dark hair. I understood what Al had meant about Rutilio being good-looking, but to me, he was just a bit . . . too much. His facial hair, which I hadn’t noticed at all from my perch in the condo, was of the type that suggests a man has little else to do with his time than stand in front of the bathroom mirror and painstakingly carve tiny little rims of beard along the contours of his face. He sported a mustache across his top lip that couldn’t have been more than four hairs wide, and it looked as though someone had used a Sharpie to draw a line around his jawline. It gave a very unsettling impression. As he held out a welcoming hand all I could notice was how hairy his arms were. I hope none of those hairs make it into the food I’m about to eat, was my less than charitable thought, and I immediately visualized his back as being chimp-like. Way to go, Cait, there’s no unimagining that one!
“Pleased to meet you, I am Rutilio,” said the grinning chef, shaking my hand.
“Hello. Likewise, I’m sure. I’m Cait,” I replied, smiling politely. I told myself that his hands were soft and slippery because he’d been working with food.
“And what are you doing, Alfredo, bringing an older woman to dinner?” Rutilio asked Al in Spanish. He’d obviously decided I couldn’t possibly speak his language, and I made sure that my expression didn’t give away the fact that I understood every word he’d said. I wasn’t pleased about being referred to as an “older woman.” Okay, I was older than the two men talking about me, but honestly—if forty-eight got me that title, what on earth would I be called when I reached my sixties?
Al glanced at me sideways, then replied in Spanish, “She’s going to help me find out who that guy is who killed Margarita.” It was odd—this was the first time I’d heard Al speak Spanish, and he more than changed his language, he changed his voice. It dropped at least half an octave and took on a harder edge. Interesting.
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Rutilio, adding, in English, “You are the Canadian. You speak oddly, but you will help make Alfredo’s career take off!”
It seemed that the entire population of Punta de las Rocas had Al’s career progression in mind. Very odd. And what did Rutilio mean by “speak oddly”? I don’t speak oddly.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied, quite tartly, “but I don’t know what you mean about how I speak.” Oh shut up, sit down, and eat something, Cait!
Al and Rutilio had the good grace to exchange embarrassed glances. The chef flung his hands in the air and beamed even wider—I hadn’t thought that possible.
“Come. Sit. Eat. I will bring drinks,” declaimed the chef. Since none of the other diners paid any heed to us, I assumed he must treat all his guests the same way. “Tonight we grill. We grill everything. Chicken, beef, pork. Everything. Even the vegetables we grill tonight. But the salad? No. We do not grill the salad!” He laughed loudly at his own joke. He was the only one who did.
Al and I sat at a small table inside the restaurant. The place surprised me. I’d expected something more . . . authentic. Instead, the walls were bedecked with Mexican blankets—which also served as under-cloths on the tables, on top of which were paper covers, with patterns cut into them. The walls displayed sad sombreros and even a few plastic lobsters. Tealight candles danced inside colored jars on each table, and the background music was elevator-style mariachi. I cast my eyes over the giant plastic-covered menu, which offered a dizzying array of burritos, tacos, fajitas, salsas, margaritas, and tequilas—among other traditional Mexican fare. Despite their presence on the walls, there were no lobster dishes on offer. I couldn’t help but longingly recall the much more appealing menu at Amigos del Tequila. Rutilio’s prices seemed fair enough, but the small sheet that was attached for Grill Night displayed one, much higher, set price for the evening’s offerings. I decided what I wanted in about thirty seconds, then raised my head and looked around. I noted that all the tables outside were occupied by pale-skinned tourists like myself, and that there was only one other table being used inside. The couple sitting at it waved to Al, and he waved back.
“Friends?” I asked, knowing full well who they were.
“It’s Roberto and Maria. They own the bodega. It is their wedding anniversary. For them to come here is very unusual. It’s very expensive, by local standards.”
I dared to wave as well, hoping they’d come to speak to us. I was thinking they might give me more insight about Margarita, from a local perspective. I was in luck. The man spoke hurriedly to his wife and came toward our table, smiling. Upon his arrival he nodded at Al, grinned at me, and held out his hand.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Doctor Cait,” he said in delightfully formed English. I stood and shook his hand. I guessed his English must be good, given the location of his store and the fact that pretty much all of his customers must be English-speaking, probably with little Spanish.
“Would you like to join us?” I asked. “Your wife too, of course. I understand it is a very important day for you both, and maybe we can send you on your way with a celebratory drink?” It was clear to me that they’d finished their meal and were almost ready to leave.
“We do not drink, thank you very much,” replied Bob. “My wife would like the chance to greet you.” He turned to his wife, nodded, and gestured to her to join us, which she did.
“I am pleased to meet you, Doctor Cait,” said Maria, smiling. She almost curtsied. Bless her.
As Al brought two more chairs to our table, I noted that Bob and Maria were a well-matched couple, at least physically. Both were about my height and about my girth, short and plump, and they both had kind, gentle eyes. The folds in their faces had been formed by smiling, not frowning, and their hands moved automatically toward each other’s, as though they were joined by a force that kept them close. Maria was a giggler, that was evident within moments. Bob whispered something to her, and she couldn’t stop herself from tittering after that. I wished I could have heard what it was that he’d said, because I could have done with a smile myself. I suspected it was one of those “couple-y” comments that
makes no sense to an outsider, but builds bonds in a relationship and keeps it fresh.
Rutilio arrived with coffee for our guests, as well as chips, salsa, and water. He took our orders and set off to prepare our food on the grill and the margarita that Al insisted I needed. It seemed as though an impromptu little party was about to break out, and, although I felt sorry for the anniversary couple, I couldn’t let that happen. I had to steer the conversation toward Margarita, to find out as much more about her as I could.
“It’s a delight to meet you both,” I said honestly. “I am guessing you already know that I’m going to be working with Al to try to find out who the guy in his cells might be?”
They nodded. Bob spoke, “Yes, we know this. News travels very quickly around here, as Alfredo knows.” I noted that the Mexicans tended to call Al “Alfredo,” whereas the imported residents seemed happier to refer to him as “Al.” As he’d said, he was a man partially accepted by both groups.
I continued, “So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to take this chance to ask a few questions about Margarita. I’m trying to understand her life, you see?”
Bob nodded. “Yes, we all would like Alfredo to be able to show the Federales he is clever,” said Bob. What is it with this community? Why are they all so supportive of Al?
“Great,” I said, “so what sort of a person would you say Margarita was?”
Bob and Maria looked at each other and spoke very rapidly in Spanish, their voices low, their heads close. I found it difficult to catch every word, but I understood enough.
“She was wicked. Very wicked,” said Bob. Having already picked up on what they were saying, I feigned shock. Al looked genuinely horrified.
“You can’t mean that,” said Al sharply. “She was a very gentle woman. She was kind and thoughtful.” He sounded wounded.
“That was what she wanted people to think. Since she was a child, she has been mean. Spiteful, and keeping secrets. She does not like people. She has no husband, no children. She said she did not like children, even. And she did not say Mass.” That seemed to seal it for the short, portly couple with the smiling faces.