The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

by Cathy Ace

  Soto nodded. “Remember, this is not a court of law. I am being . . . polite, by letting you do this.”

  I nodded and continued. “Al, you were right about some of the facts: I did arrive here, in Mexico, earlier than I said I did, and I was in possession of luggage for two people. You did well to spot that, but you drew the wrong conclusions. Bud, I’m guessing you went into the flower shop and Margarita was bleeding out on the floor?” Bud nodded. “You tried to save her because your training kicked in.” He agreed.

  I heard a loud whisper from Dorothea. “What training?”

  I pounced. “Oh, of course, I didn’t tell you how Bud and I met. You were right about that too, in a way, Al; it was through my work.” Al looked smug. “Bud is a retired, decorated homicide detective, who was heading up the Integrated Homicide Team in British Columbia when we met, and he hired me as a consultant. His training as a law enforcement officer kicked in, and he tried to save Margarita.”

  “Why did he not speak up?” blurted out Al, who was visibly shaken.

  “His last job was as a Canadian liaison for an international gang-busting task force, and there are certain protocols you follow when you’re representing your country.”

  Eyes were widening around the room. Soto didn’t look surprised. I guessed his guy had already told him who Bud really was and was now checking with the high-ups in the Ministry about how they should handle things.

  I noticed that Al was sweating.

  “Just because Bud’s a cop, and a very well-respected one at that, it doesn’t mean he absolutely couldn’t have done it—but you have to understand he wouldn’t have done it. Bud—did you see anyone make their way out of a tiny door in the back of the store?” Bud shook his head. “Okay. So, you all thought Bud was the killer. I knew he wasn’t. That gave me an advantage. While you were wondering who the killer was, you were focused on Bud, but I was working out who the real killer was. I learned where pretty much everyone was in the few moments before as well as at the moment that Bud was discovered. I knew no one had entered the flower shop, except Bud, and no one had left it within the critical timeframe. I was able to discount certain people as viable suspects, but I was left with quite a few possibilities, all of whom had opportunity. Of course, there were two critical points I had to consider regarding opportunity—how did Margarita’s murderer get into and out of the flower shop? Once I realized that there were a number of people not in the company of others at the time Margarita must have been murdered, I wondered who could have walked right in through the front door of the flower shop. And who could have then made their way out through the little door that Margarita had built into the back wall of her building, inside her refrigerated units? I had something to work with.”

  I turned and looked at Margarita’s grieving father first. “Juan—you might have killed your daughter to be able to inherit her land and her water. You drove past the crime scene just as Bud was discovered. I saw you in your blue pickup truck. Others said where they were: Greg, you were in PV, but you could have been in Punta de las Rocas. Callie and Tony Booth too. Dean and Jean, no one knew exactly where you two were. Rutilio, you were in your kitchen, Dorothea was out of sight in Serena’s massage room, and Ada was unattended in the salon.”

  “Now wait just a minute, dear . . .” began Dorothea, about to launch into full attack mode.

  I held up my hand. “Don’t start, Dorothea. I’ve had quite enough of your bluster. Your attitude toward the people whose homes you live near has rubbed me up the wrong way. You have no sense of how tough it is for some folks here. You rail about being ‘ripped off’ without the slightest comprehension that people who rely upon income from tourism have to make their money while they can, in a short season, so they can live all year long.”

  “Exactly!” shouted Rutilio.

  I turned on him next. “And you? You’re just as bad as Dorothea. You see people on vacation, spending lots of money, and you seem to assume that’s how they live all year round. You don’t consider how hard they might have to save up to be able to enjoy a couple of weeks of spending as though it doesn’t bother them. Bob, Maria—I think you get it. And, Al, I have great sympathy for the points you’ve made about how visitors don’t respect the local issues, like water usage. You all live in an area that balances on a knife-edge: tourism changes everything—sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. But if an area has decided to embrace tourism, it must then work within a changed environment. I see some of you resolving this, and some of you not. It generates tension in almost everyone. And that tension contributed to this crime. Or, I should say, these crimes. I believe that the killer was under tremendous pressure, which might have contributed to their actions. But it doesn’t excuse them. Another thing you were right about, Al, is that there are links between the Rose Killer, Margarita’s killer, the person who drugged the Booths, and the one who stole Margarita’s photographic equipment. So, Captain Soto, you will get to take the Rose Killer into your custody today—it’s just not Bud Anderson.”

  Captain Soto smiled. I saw a gold tooth glint. Perfect! “So, Professor Morgan, who is the Rose Killer?”

  “I’ll get there,” I promised. “But, first, a couple of sidebars. When I was at the Booths’ home, awaiting the ambulance to take them away, I found some notes that Callie Booth had made about accounts that she was working on. A couple of them were crossed out, as though they’d been dealt with; one looked as though it had yet to be addressed. One of the ‘canceled’ notes related to the price of wax at your spa, Serena. Callie had noticed that your costs for wax had decreased considerably in recent months. I am guessing you’ve found a new supplier and decided to, shall we say, compromise on quality?”

  Serena blushed. “You are right,” she replied. “People do not spend as they used to. Even when there is a big wedding at the resort, not all the women come beforehand for treatments, and to make themselves look nice. These are difficult times. I have to save on what I can.” She smiled at Ada and Dorothea, who were, as I knew, good clients of the spa.

  “Thanks, Serena, that clears that up. Another of Callie’s notes related to the extraordinarily good mileage that Margarita was getting from her little van”—puzzled looks were exchanged—“and the third, the one that looked as though it had not yet been dealt with, mentioned ‘barrels and bottles’ at Hacienda Soleado. Would anyone like to comment on that matter? Anyone?”

  Dean spoke first. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Cait. Nothing. It’s probably an oversight.” I caught a glance he threw to me, and me alone. It was a warning. He was trying to threaten me into silence! I wasn’t going to stand for that.

  “But it’s not ‘nothing,’ Dean,” I replied, staring him down. “Callie Booth discovered that the tequila production facility run by the FOGTTs doesn’t own enough barrels in which to properly age the number of bottles of ‘aged’ tequila it sells. I first suspected that it was this discovery that might have led to Margarita’s death, and to Callie’s and Tony’s poisoning, but—”

  I couldn’t say anymore, because, at that point, Dean George stood and bellowed, “Enough!” He had an amazing voice; I could almost feel his deep bass resonate around the hall.

  With all eyes on him, and the nearby guard dwarfed by his huge mass, Dean George turned to his wife, looked down at her, and whispered, “Sorry, my dear.” He then turned to Captain Soto and said, “Captain, your indulgence, please. You need to take a look at this.” He held out something that was small in his huge hand; the guard took it from him and passed it to his boss. The man with all the braids looked at what he’d been handed, puffed out his cheeks in surprise, rolled his eyes, and allowed the guard to return Dean’s property.

  “Professor Morgan, you need to let this gentleman speak.” Soto waved me into submission. I knew when it was time to cede the floor.

  As someone who reads people, I should have been able to interpret Dean’s glaring at me better than I had. But in my defense, I’d been focused on clearing Bud,
rather than on picking up on micro-expressions. That said, as Dean stood in front of our group, I saw a different person emerge from beneath the folds of his Hawaiian shirt. Jean rose to stand beside him, they held hands, and Dean addressed his expectant audience. Just before he spoke, a light bulb came on in my head. A retired government employee? Evasive when questioned? He and his wife giving each other a cover story? Dean wasn’t the person I’d thought him to be. His larger than life persona was just that, a personality he’d adopted to keep his true identity safe. Of course! Dean and Jean! I’d worked out their identities, but too late to prevent myself from letting the cat out of the bag. Damn and blast! I wondered what damage I might have done.

  Dean commanded our attention, and his voice, softer now but still as powerful, filled the chamber. “My name is not Dean George, and, although this wonderful woman is my wife, her name is not Jean George. Juan García Martinez, Dorothea Simmonds, and Greg Hollins—I’ll call you that for now, Greg, though I do know your real name—you are all under arrest for multiple counts of fraudulent trading of falsely labeled tequila in the USA. I represent the US government, and before you leave this room—no, don’t try to run, Juan, I’m sure that Captain Soto’s troops will have something to say about that—we will be joined by members of the Mexican authorities responsible for the examination and certification of tequila, who will escort you all into custody, where you’ll find that a long list of charges are due to be brought against you.”

  Frank and Ada Taylor couldn’t have looked more shocked, Bud clearly had no idea what on earth was going on, and, of all the faces in the room that displayed disbelief, it was Al’s that drew my attention: he looked as though he was about to burst into tears. I could sense the confusion that must have been running through his mind at that moment. Not only was I undermining him, but Dean George was doing the same.

  Dean continued, “Captain Soto, I need to make a couple of calls, with your permission?” Soto nodded. Dean looked at me. “Don’t worry, Cait, this isn’t your fault. We were almost ready to scoop everyone up, but your comments about the FOGTT accounts mean we’d better do it now, before these three can get word to anyone else and spoil our entire case. I had no idea that the FOGTTs had given their accounts to Callie Booth—they’ve always had a guy we know about in PV do them before. With that information out there, it’s best we do it this way, now. I only hope it wasn’t this case that got the Booths into trouble and Tony and Margarita killed. I knew we were dealing with international criminals, but I didn’t think for one minute they were killers. By the way,” he added, “just so you know, Captain Soto, word has come down to me through . . . various channels . . . that this man is on the side of the angels.” He nodded toward Bud. “I’ve been ready to get your back, sir,” he said directly to Bud, who nodded in response. Dean didn’t sound like a lower-ranked official for whatever agency he represented, and I wondered if his reference to Bud as “sir” was anything other than a general politeness.

  “We had nothing to do with Tony’s death, or Margarita’s!” shouted Dorothea.

  “Shut up, you stupid woman,” spat Greg Hollins. “This is all your fault. I told you to wait with those accounts . . . wait until our regular guy in PV was back from his vacation, but you had to do it, didn’t you? You had to give them to Callie. Why couldn’t you wait? You always have to have everything done the way you want it! Damn you!”

  Greg’s accent wasn’t Australian anymore. New Jersey was nearer the mark, to my ear. Juan Martinez spat out some choice phrases in Spanish, which certainly didn’t need to be translated in order for Dorothea to know what he thought of her. Then all three of the culprits sat silently, glowering at each other, as Dean George walked toward the exit with his phone clamped to his ear, his hands waving, and a lot of “Sorry, ma’am” and “Yes, right now, please, ma’am” audible to the room.

  Captain Soto motioned that I should continue, which I did, though I could tell that I didn’t have everyone’s undivided attention anymore. Frankly, that didn’t matter so long as I had Soto’s.

  “So, there we have the explanation of Callie’s note about the FOGTT bottles and barrels,” I said, maybe a little too brightly. “Let’s get back to Margarita’s gas mileage, which was something else that the eagle-eyed Callie Booth queried. How many of us get into our vehicles and notice the mileage? Not many, I’m sure. But what about how much gas we have? Pretty much everyone. Margarita cycled almost everywhere, using her van only when she needed it. She was careful with money, she had to be, and she’d have noticed if, on any given morning, she’d climbed into her van and there was less gas in it than there had been the night before. Margarita was a woman who paid great attention to detail, but she might easily have missed the fact that hundreds of miles were being added to her odometer. Which they were. You see, the person driving her van without her permission, or knowledge, was refilling it with fuel after they used it. So when she gave her mileage and her gas receipts to Callie, the accountant was puzzled and made a note to speak to Margarita about the anomaly—that she seemed to be driving a lot of miles for the gas she said she was putting in. The notes were near Callie’s phone, and the chances were that Callie had spoken to Margarita about this matter already, then crossed through the note to herself.”

  “Who borrowed Margarita’s van and filled it with gas?” asked Frank, his hand raised. Ada pulled his hand down and tutted.

  “Well, Frank, to answer your question, the Rose Killer was borrowing it, to transport and dump bodies. The same person was driving it the day that Margarita took photographs of her own van—not one like it, but her actual van—when she was out taking daybreak shots of the surf. I don’t think she knew what she’d seen, or photographed, at first. But she eventually put it all together: the pictures, the idea that someone was using her van without her say-so, and a person coming to her store to buy two red roses on Sunday morning. She realized she was looking at the person responsible for killing Miguel’s daughter and all those other girls. The killer’s response, knowing they’d been found out, was to act instantly. That is why Margarita died.”

  “So who is it?” asked Ada plaintively. “Is it one of . . . us?” She looked around the room, wide-eyed. And she wasn’t the only one.

  “Preposterous!” exclaimed Dorothea.

  “No, it’s not,” I said quietly. I looked at Captain Soto and said, “Ready?” He nodded and made a few signals with his fingers, and two of his remaining four guards stiffened to full alert. Anyone thinking of making a run for it would have several automatic weapons to consider.

  “I think that the death of Miguel’s daughter was an accident. A heavy drinking session resulted in her death, and the person she’d been drinking with panicked, identified Margarita’s van as a convenient way to get the body out of the vicinity, and thought they’d got away with it. But the police pulled in Miguel as a prime suspect. A month of Federales buzzing about the area didn’t go down well in many quarters for . . . many reasons. So everyone breathed a sigh of relief when another girl was killed and everyone around here had an alibi—they were all attending one of the crucifix of Requiem Masses that Miguel had arranged. Captain Soto—I assume you had all the men in this area under observation at that time?” Soto nodded. There were a few surprised expressions around the room. “But that day, with everyone heading off in different directions for religious observances, did you ease up a little?” Again, he nodded, ruefully. “The one day that Margarita’s van was available in the daytime because she’d closed her shop, you saw the only daytime abduction of a girl who was killed. Unlike Angélica Rosa, the second girl was drugged. Her exact time of death was suspect, though you knew she hadn’t been dumped before a certain point in time. Let me pose this question. If a young woman was alone, who would she trust enough to accept a ride from? What type of vehicle would she willingly get into? Especially if she felt she might be in danger?”

  There were shrugs around the room. I answered my own question. “A police car. Despite
the rumors about the trustworthiness of the Mexican police force—I’m sorry, Captain Soto, but even you have to accept that the evidence for some corruption is pretty clear”—Soto shrugged—“how could Margarita’s van be mistaken for a police car? It’s white, that helps, and I discovered that Miguel has a magnetic decal that can be attached to any vehicle, thereby transforming it into a ‘police car’ containing a person a girl can, psychologically speaking, trust. And that’s what the killer did: put Miguel’s decal on Margarita’s van and used it to lure in girls who would then be plied with drugged alcohol and allowed to die. But why? There was no interference. No apparent sexual motive. Was the killer doing it for the simple pleasure of watching these poor young women die? If so, why lay them out with such reverence, wrapped in a sheet, their hands in prayer, holding roses?”

  There were mumblings. I turned and looked directly at the Rose Killer.

  “Because that’s what you felt was right to do for your little niece, wasn’t it, Rutilio? I’ve seen how you like to pour your drinks. I’m betting you gave little Angélica Rosa just one too many strong drinks the night of the Día de los Muertos celebrations, she passed out, and you found she’d died. You panicked, loaded her body into Margarita’s conveniently located van. It’s always parked in the lane behind your restaurant, and I’m sure you knew where Margarita kept her keys, and how to get to them. It didn’t occur to you that your brother would be suspected of killing his own child. It was during that period that your business suffered—I suspect you were racked with guilt. You came up with a plan: on the day of the Requiem Masses you took Margarita’s van, and, once you were away from this area, added your brother’s police decal. You might even have ‘borrowed’ one of his spare uniform shirts to complete the look—it would have been easy enough for you to gain access to one. You drove around until you picked up your second victim, then you made sure you dumped the poor woman’s body in a place where the time after which she was dumped, 6:00 PM in this case, would be known. You probably followed a cop car on its normal route, so you knew there’d be a clear, unequivocal timeframe for the dumping of the body, because that was the vital part of your plan. You returned to Punta de las Rocas for the service here, assuring that both you and your brother, in Puerto Vallarta, had watertight alibis.”