by Joan Hess
In that her sinister CIA operative was approaching us, I ignored her. I may have felt a little giddy myself, but I managed an amiable expression. “Yes?”
He was much too young and chubby to have been in a Cold War espionage novel. Despite his conservative gray suit and muted red tie, I estimated his age at no more than twenty-five. The small mustache, no doubt grown to make him appear older, looked as though it might slip off his lip if he smiled. His hair was cropped, his expression wary. His dark eyes met mine briefly, flickered in Caron’s direction, and then widened as he took in the extent of our luggage (Caron insists on packing for any and all contingencies).
“I am Manuel Estoban from the Farias Tourist Agency,” he said in lightly accented English. “May I ask if you are Claire Malloy?”
“Yes, and this is my daughter. Are you our driver?”
“For the next four days, I am at your disposal.” He presented me with a crisp business card, then beckoned to a boy, who began to load the luggage onto a dolly. “The car is down here in the shade. I hope you find it satisfactory, Señora Malloy. I suggest we go first to the hotel so that you can register and unpack. Afterward, I will take you wherever you wish.”
His gleaming black Cadillac with tinted windows and a silver logo on the door was quite a bit classier than my battered hatchback. Caron recovered from her stupor long enough to whistle, then scrambled into the backseat and curled up to take a nap. Feeling like a traitor to the bourgeoisie, I joined her.
The trunk slammed, and seconds later, so did the driver’s door. “Is this your first visit to Mexico?” Manuel asked as he pulled out onto a flat highway lined with pastel buildings, peeling billboards advertising everything from Pepsi to what appeared to be gratuitous sex, and construction projects. The only hint of exotica came from palm trees. Then again, the Farberville airport is bordered by an auto salvage yard, the Airport Arms apartments, and a convenience store that’s robbed on a weekly basis. And there are no palm trees.
“Only a day in Tijuana,” I said. To discourage further conversation, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the leather upholstery. At some point Manuel would have to be told I would not be going to the predictable tourist destinations, but instead to the police station, the newspaper office, the court house, and the prison compound. I had a list of names of those who’d been involved, although it was likely that many of them would no longer be available.
It could all wait, I told myself as the breeze from the air conditioner eased my headache and dried my damp skin. As the road began to climb into the mountains, I occasionally peeked at the spectacular views of the ocean and rocky cliffs interspersed with stretches of sand. Finally the rigors of the predawn flight did me in, and I fell asleep.
“Here we are,” Manuel announced as the car stopped. “The Acapulco Plaza.”
I sat up and looked out the window. The hotel was richly landscaped, with an open-air promenade lined with boutiques, groupings of wicker furniture, ceiling fans, and bellmen in pristine white jackets. Behind us was a boulevard with more shops, sidewalk cafes, restaurants, banks, and travel agencies. Traffic flowed around horse-drawn carriages decorated with flowers and balloons. Within a few blocks, mountains rose so steeply it was difficult to comprehend how dwellings could cling to them or cars crawl up them.
I roused Caron, and we waited at the curb as Manuel arranged for our luggage to be unloaded onto a cart.
“Is this where the guy was murdered?” she asked, frowning at the parrots squawking in an atrium. “We’re right on the beach. I thought you said they threw the body off a cliff.”
“That hotel is no longer open,” I said quietly, aware of Manuel’s proximity.
He spoke to the bellman in Spanish, then turned to me. “You wish that I return later this afternoon or this evening, Señora? Maybe you like to watch the sunset from one of the bars on the hill?”
“We won’t be going anywhere until tomorrow morning,” I said, “but I need to set up some appointments and it might be less complicated if you made the telephone calls.” I gave him a piece of paper with half a dozen names and a notation after each. “These people lived here thirty years ago. Some of them will have moved away or died, but please do what you can.”
“A lawyer?” he said, scanning the list. “A judge? A prosecutor? A police cabo? A limousine driver named Jorge? The owner of Hotel Las Floritas? I cannot understand, Señora. I was told you are here in Acapulco to enjoy the sights of our beautiful city. I am unfamiliar with these names, and I have never had an encounter with the police or a judge.”
“Not even a traffic ticket?” asked Caron.
“No,” he said with obvious distress, his eyes welling with tears. “This is only the first time I have driven for my brother-in-law. He will be displeased if you report to him that I am incompetent and cannot oblige you—but how am I to call a judge and say that an American lady wishes to make an appointment? He will ask why, and then what should I say?”
“Tell anyone you reach that I’m a freelance writer who desires to do an interview for a magazine article,” I said. Although I was not accustomed to issuing instructions to a chauffeur, I realized I could get in the habit quite easily. “Please call me at eight to night in my hotel room to let me know if you have any luck.”
We left Manuel twisting his hands and gazing after us with a despondent expression. The desk clerks seemed to feel that the arrival of guests was the least of their worries, but eventually allowed us to register and gave me a thick envelope from Ronnie. Caron and I accompanied a bellman to a one-bedroom suite on the nineteenth floor. I had not yet changed any money, but he seemed delighted to accept American dollars.
Caron explored the rooms in a matter of seconds, then threw herself down on the sofa. “Now what, Mother? Are we going to watch Jeopardy! in Spanish, or would you prefer to play gin?”
“I warned you that I have work to do.” I changed into shorts and a cotton blouse, picked up the envelope, and tucked my newly acquired (and deeply resented) reading glasses in my pocket. “I’ll be at the bar beside the pool if you need me.”
There were a few children squealing in the linked oval pools that wound beneath stone bridges. Most of the deck chairs were occupied by inert, sunburned bodies clad in everything from terrycloth robes to string bikinis. A heartening number of them were reading fat paperback books. Beyond the terrace was a moderately populated beach with an endless row of thatched huts.
I found a shady table by the bar. A waiter graciously agreed to provide me with a margarita (I’m more eclectic in my tastes than Miss Marple). I signed the tab, then opened the envelope and pulled out the notes Ronnie had promised to send. She’d warned me that her memory of the people and events was spotty; much of her time in prison had been dedicated to erasing images.
All she remembered of the judge was his last name, Zamora, and his disgusted expression as he listened to the prosecutor, Ruiz, read aloud a translated portion of her diary. Both of them had been gray-haired, so it was likely they would have retired years ago, in one sense or another.
Ronnie’s parents had exhausted their financial resources almost immediately, and she had ended up with an inexperienced public defender named Pedro Benavides. He’d been in his early twenties; if he were still in Acapulco, he might be practicing law. Ronnie had written a comment that he’d needed all the practice he could get.
Jorge, the driver whose last name she could not recall, had been of a similar age, with babyish features, a slight paunch, and a purple birthmark on his neck. His English had been limited, but he’d been cooperative, if sometimes disapproving.
Ronnie described Fran Pickett as petite, with dramatically large hazel eyes, a slender nose, and a small, heart-shaped mouth. Her hair hung to the middle of her back when not swept up in an artful pile. She spoke enough Spanish to share private jokes with Jorge. She lived with her mother, who’d remarried, and her stepfather, a retired army officer and an alcoholic. Ronnie could remember only that the mother’s
first name was Bea and they lived somewhere in the Southwest on some sort of ranch. Fran had attended a Catholic girls’ school (operated, according to her, by the Sisters of the Holy Swine), and infrequently visited her father. She’d desperately wanted to live with him in Beverly Hills, but he’d dismissed the idea. She and Ronnie had spent hours concocting strategies while they lay on the beach and Jorge waited in the limousine.
Debbie D’Avril sounded like a typical starlet, with bleached blond hair, a curvaceous body, and a contrived lisp that Ronnie and Fran found hilarious. Not surprisingly, Fran had been fiercely jealous of her relationship with Oliver, and whenever Fran had been alone with Debbie, the two had bickered. They’d had a major quarrel several days before the party, which Debbie had learned about from an unknown source. She’d threatened to tell Oliver, but obviously had not done so.
Chad Warmeyer, the assistant, had been perhaps thirty, lanky, dark-haired, and with unremarkable features. He’d agreed with everything Oliver said, no matter how preposterous, and ignored the two girls, who considered him a pathetic wimp.
Oliver, in contrast, had been overpowering. Despite his slight stature, he’d dominated every conversation and kept everyone scurrying to follow his orders. His shaggy hair had been brown, his eyes passionate, his laughter loud and contagious, his anger explosive. Ronnie had been terrified of him, but also fascinated.
Ronnie had correctly assumed I had little memory of her parents, and included a brief depiction. Arthur had been forty-one at the time of his death. He’d written scores of screenplays, but none of them had elevated him into the highest levels of the Hollywood hierarchy. When Oliver had invited him to Acapulco to discuss a project, Arthur had packed his bags. Margaret had been thrilled, too. She’d been perfectly suited to a life of cocktail parties, tennis tournaments, lunches at the most fashionable restaurants, and appearances at the right premieres.
I put down the last page and gazed at the bay, trying to envision the dynamics of the group. Oliver at the head of the table, of course, with Debbie and Chad at either side to cater to his fancies. Margaret and Arthur Landonwood, equally solicitous. Fran, hoping for paternal approval. Ronnie, alone at the far end of the table, confused by her awakening sexuality as she watched the man who would attempt to rape her.
I eventually returned to the suite to unpack. Caron was in the shower and I was rubbing lotion on my pink nose when the telephone rang. “Hello?” I said, not sure what I’d do if treated to an effusion of Spanish.
“Vaya a su casa,” whispered a voice.
“Excuse me?”
“If you go home now no one will hurt you or your daughter.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend.”
The receiver hummed in my ear. I’d been in Acapulco less than six hours. I’d checked into the suite, read notes and dozed by the pool, taken a shower—and yet unsettled this miniature universe to the extent that I was being threatened. A personal best, I concluded with a sigh. And although I couldn’t be sure of the whisperer’s gender, he or she was not a friend.
I nearly tumbled off the bed when the telephone rang again. I picked up the receiver as if it were a pipe bomb and said, “Yes?”
“Señora Malloy, this is Manuel Estoban. I hope your room is nice and you are enjoying your first day in Acapulco, yes?”
“Everything is fine,” I said. “Did you get ahold of the people on the list?”
“I tried my best, Señora. Pedro Benavides will see you tomorrow afternoon in his law office, but only for a moment. He has a very important matter pertaining to American investors.”
“Very good, Manuel. Who else?”
“Judge Zamora died fifteen years ago, and Prosecutor Ruiz and his family moved away in 1971. Ernesto Santiago has no telephone, but I have learned he continues to live at Hotel Las Floritas, which is now a place where winos and prostitutes rent rooms by the month. The cabo, Nicolas Alvarez, is now a comandante at the Ministerio Público. He is in Mexico City at this time, but will return in two days.”
“Señor Poirot could not have done better,” I said, wondering if I should tell him about the call. The question was resolved when Caron emerged from the bathroom; if she learned about it, she would be in a cab headed for the airport in a matter of minutes.
“Señor who?” said Manuel.
“I’ll explain in the morning,” I said. “Please meet me in the lobby at nine o’clock.”
“Would you and the señorita like to go to Playa Caleta, known as the morning beach? The water is very warm this time of year, and—”
“I’ll see you at nine, Manuel.” I hung up and smiled at Caron, who’d turned on the television and was glumly watching CNN. “What did you do this afternoon?”
“I went down to the beach and walked for a long time. You would not believe the people out there. I’ve never seen so many hairy old men in skimpy bathing suits and pale, dumpy women in bikinis. If I looked like that, I’d have the decency not to parade around. There is Absolutely No Dignity in this world anymore.”
“Getting a little conservative in your old age? Will you be joining a group that tries to have books banned from the school library?”
“That’s not fair. All I said was that people need to use some judgment before embarrassing the rest of us. There ought to be a law.”
And to think that on her first birthday I’d bought her a lifetime membership in the ACLU.
The following morning, I left Caron asleep in the suite, had coffee and a roll in the restaurant, and was sitting on a wicker couch when Manuel’s Cadillac pulled to the curb. He opened the back door for me, but I continued around the car and got into the front seat.
Looking very displeased with me, he took his place behind the steering wheel. “Where do we go, Señora?”
After sixteen years of Caron Malloy, I had no difficulty disregarding his petulance. “To the Hotel Las Floritas,” I said. “I need to see it, as well as speak to Santiago.”
“It is not a safe place. As I told you, it is the home of derelicts. My brother-in-law will be very angry if something happens to this car; it is new and he is very proud of it.” He pointed at the dashboard. “See? It has been driven only three thousand kilometers.”
“If you refuse to take me there, I’ll find a taxi driver who will. When I return, I will call your office and complain to your brother-in-law.”
Manuel’s pout was quite as impressive as Caron’s best endeavors, but he said nothing and pulled out onto the boulevard. Other tourists might have been entertained with a discourse on points of interest and local history, but I was treated only to grumbles.
The road narrowed and the souvenir shops were replaced with grocery stores, racks of shoes, and tiny, smoky restaurants. Branches from mango trees hung over courtyard walls, casting shadows on rusty trucks laden with furniture or boxes of produce. The pedestrians moved slowly but purposefully. As we wound up the side of a hill, potholes began to appear with increasing frequency, until the road looked as if it had been shelled.
“I understand the Hotel Las Floritas was very popular in its day,” I said to Manuel.
He kept his eyes on the road, but relaxed enough to say, “Many famous movie stars like John Wayne and Johnny Weissmuller stayed there often. Your President Kennedy and his wife had dinner there while on their honeymoon. Richard Burton drank in the bar while he was making Night of the Iguana. My brother-in-law has told me that the parking lot was always crowded with limousines. There were wild parties that lasted all night.”
“Did your brother-in-law tell you about the Hollywood director who was murdered at the hotel?”
“A very bad thing, very bad. It happened long before I was born, but . . .” He glanced at me. “Is that why you’re here, Señora?”
I wasn’t prepared to trust him—or anyone else. “I’m writing an article about it.”
“Why?”
“At that time, the details were kept confidential. I want to do the article on the thirtieth anniversary
of Oliver Pickett’s death, if I can find adequate material. If not, I will have had an enjoyable vacation.”
Manuel drove through a gate and stopped in an empty parking lot. “Are you sure it is a good thing to bring alive this old scandal?”
“Yes,” I said mendaciously.
The Hotel Las Floritas no longer lived up to its name. The banyan trees were massive, but there were few flowers along the flagstone path to what I assumed was the lobby. Weeds flourished in cracked stone planters. The vine on the wall in front of us was withered. What had been an open-air restaurant contained three or four tables beneath a rotting thatched roof; the shelves behind the bar were empty.
Yet it was easy to imagine the hotel as Ronnie remembered it. Beautiful people in the restaurant, laughing and drinking as the sun set across the bay. Waiters moving unobtrusively, a mariachi band roving among the tables, butterflies drifting over profuse clumps of orange and pink bougainvilleas.
“Shall I accompany you?” asked Manuel.
I reluctantly returned to the less impressive present. “I’d appreciate it if you help me locate Mr. Santiago. If he speaks English, you can come back here and wait for me. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
Manuel was radiating disapproval as he got out of the car. “Very well, Señora, but please be careful. This is not a place for ladies.”
I allowed him to lead the way up the path to a long one-story building with a covered porch. Autographed photos of movie stars hung on the wall; some of the faces were familiar, others not. A beaming man appeared in so many of them that I suspected he was the innkeeper, Santiago.
Manuel knocked on a door. “Señor Santiago?” When there was no response, he knocked again, then looked at me. “He’s not here.”