The display was housed in three or four adjoining rooms, and included life-sized portraits of Frida and Diego Rivera painted on the women’s and men’s room doors of the gallery washrooms. We wandered past a dinner table set up with high backed chairs on which were painted the guests, including, to my delight, Trotsky.
Frida’s style was borrowed to paint other subjects, and we saw Jim Morrison sitting with a cat and a monkey in one portrait, and Patti Smith as unibrowed Frida in another. The reverse was also true, and Frida was incorporated into Le dejeuner sur l’herbe, popped into a Pietà, and superimposed over the Mona Lisa. The variety was impressive and we found ourselves laughing and exclaiming as we rounded a corner to yet another take on the genius of Frida Kahlo.
One of the women we passed in the hall explained to us the concept of the place we were in. Apparently, as well as a gallery, ArtVallarta offered lodging to visiting artists, and ran classes for ex-pat retirees. It was two or three buildings knocked together, and had been in operation for a dozen years or so. We were lucky to see the Fearless Frida exhibit, because they were in the process of pulling it down that afternoon to make way for a student exhibit.
“When we retire we could come here and take art classes,” I mused as we re-emerged into the bright sunny street. “Did you see that sign for Watercolour with Veronica Rangel? She is the one who painted that magnificent whale hanging in the front foyer of our hotel. Can you imagine being able to learn from her?”
“You planning on retiring any time soon? I have a wedding to pay off still,” Steve teased.
“No, not soon, but eventually, I think I would like to try my hand at living without set boundaries. It’s not as if I have much in the way of savings, of course, but if I commit to eating lentils and lint, I think my RRSP could see us through about nine or ten months. I’m banking on your pension keeping us in the manner to which I would like to grow accustomed, to tell you the truth.”
Steve laughed.
“Yes, I think it will manage that. And remember, now that we’re together, a lot of our collective bills have been halved. One condo fee instead of that and your rent and utilities. One grocery bill, albeit a tad larger. One Internet and cable bill. Don’t worry, Randy, we’ll be able to retire in some sort of style.”
“Marrying you was the most economically sound idea I have ever had.”
“You still have to go back to work next Monday, though.”
“I know, and don’t remind me. There are seventy expository essays awaiting grades on my desk for when we get back from this Shangri-la.”
Steve shuddered in sympathetic horror. “Let’s not even think about work and Edmonton here. We’ll be home soon enough. Don’t let it intrude now.”
I slid my hand into his and squeezed it. “Agreed.”
We made our way back down the hill and aimed for the seafood restaurant with the great ceviche we had been introduced to on the food tour. Although it was barely noon, we thought nothing of ordering mojitos with our lunch. What was it about Mexico that made us so easy-going? If I even thought about having a beer with lunch at home, I could guarantee I’d be napping by two, and yet here we seemed to be half-cut and functioning most of the day. I wondered how it was for people in the all-inclusive resorts, where the drinks and food flowed freely.
I was intent on shopping for treats for Denise and some useful souvenirs for us, so after lunch we wound our way back along the main road. We popped into a textile shop selling cushion covers, rugs and tablecloths, and found a circular tablecloth with the bright squares of colour we’d been seeing in our favourite restaurants.
In a similar store down the next block, I found woven coasters, and a kicky leather wallet, tooled and stamped with the Aztec clock on the overflap. Denise would adore it. I also was taken with a little wooden heart covered in metal charms, which the woman told me were milagros, or miracles, which would bring blessings into our home.
We crossed the bridge by the restaurant we’d patronized a couple of days earlier, and poked about in downtown shops, avoiding the overpowering mass of goods pouring out of The Flea Market next to the river. I was certain that I was expected to barter with the people running the stalls, which was not something I enjoyed or excelled at. Instead, we found a clothing store near the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, where the prices were fixed and the woman owner no nonsense.
She fitted me for an embroidered blouse, and then provided me with a choice of colours in my size. I settled on a black blouse with short sleeves and bright flowers embroidered on the yoke for myself, a cream one with tan embroidery for Denise, and a turquoise one with similar flowers to send to my mother. Steve was taken with the guayaberas, and we ended up buying him a light brown one with creamy embroidery, and picked up a grey one with black embroidery for Iain. Altogether, we spent less than eighty dollars Canadian on exquisitely made, hand embroidered clothing. I tried to keep visions of sweat shops out of my mind as I thanked the proprietress and climbed the short set of stairs back to the street.
We bought two glasses of tuba from the same elderly man with his gourd, whom Phillip, our food guide, had referred to as “Mr. Concepción,” and sat on a wrought iron bench in the city square, under the shade of one of the large leafy trees. A school of dancers were giving a demonstration for the tourists, in cotton skirts and leotards. I presumed one paid dearly for the massive frilly skirts and beaten silver studded trousers of the folkloric dance costumes we had seen pictured on the front of the tourist guidebook in our room. I wondered how many of these students were saving up for costumes of their own.
This whole city was focused on tourism, but I was happy to see that some of the training was aligned with keeping traditional arts and crafts alive. The embroidery, the dance, the music, the beadwork were all part of what made this such a special place, and it was heartening to see that the municipal and governing minds saw that as essential, too. If only our Canadian cities were as dedicated to cultivating and preserving culture.
Steve had finished his drink and walked over to a nearby litter barrel to dispose of the plastic glass. I watched him pull out his phone to take some photos of the dancers. I could tell from his angles that he was lining up a shot of the tall girl in the blue skirt dancing with the shortest of the boys, who didn’t seem to mind at all that his partner towered over him. He was focused on his footwork and brandishing his machismo as he stomped forward, and then turned her into his side. She complied and somehow they looked more connected and attuned than the other pairs more evenly matched in height. I was impressed with both them and their teacher, who had obviously noted the innate talent in the two of them.
While I was watching the whole process of Steve watching them, I detected a change come over his body. He stiffened, and his phone, which he had been holding steady and touching lightly to snap a photo every time the pair turned to face our direction, was brought in closer to his chest, so he could read something.
He was receiving a text message, obviously, but it startled me because we had been so removed from that aspect of our everyday lives for the past five days.
We had actually talked about it before we left, whether or not to stay connected while on vacation. I had just been using my phone as a camera since we’d arrived in Mexico, even though I’d got the data plan in case students needed to reach me. I had rather forcefully mentioned to my classes that it was my honeymoon, and so far none of them had intruded. Of course, Superintendent Keller, Steve’s boss, had insisted that Steve be accessible, on the theory that if a case he was involved in required his insight, he needed to be available. Steve had also purchased a roaming package for texts and calling, but mentioned it only to Keller.
So, if someone was texting Steve, it was work related. As if I couldn’t tell that from the way his shoulders had tensed up in a way that had just recently taken the first two days of the honeymoon to relax.
I sat there, wondering how m
uch I would be told about whatever it was that was about to intrude on my honeymoon. I decided to let him tell me if he wanted to, rather than asking. It would be an indication of how I meant to go forward in our marriage, not impinging on his career in any way.
It turned out I didn’t have to task myself with such martyrdom. Steve trotted back to the bench and offered me a hand to get up.
“We have to find City Hall and connect with an international liaison to the police department right away. Apparently, an Edmonton tourist has been killed here.”
9
I pointed to the big brick building just beyond where the children were dancing.
“That’s City Hall.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
I shivered as we walked from the warmth of the plaza into the cool of the dark brick building; it could have just been the air-conditioning, but I wasn’t so sure. My mind had jumped to the Edmonton couple, the artist and his wife, we had met the day before, and it shook me to think we might have been eating with someone who was later murdered. Steve introduced himself at the front desk, showed his identification in his wallet, and we were asked to wait to the side.
We stood, and I checked out a mosaic on the wall, till a young woman in uniform came down a set of stairs and asked us to follow her. Up the stairs we went, and along a hall of glass walls with busy office cubicles filled beyond. We turned down the other length of the building and came to a rather magnificent foyer, with carved double doors beyond. There were two leather couches on either side of the doors, and a couple of carved chairs by a small table in one corner.
Our guide knocked on the doors lightly, waited a moment, then opened the door and ushered us through it. Several people were in the room and most of them were in uniform. We were welcomed by a man in a guayabera and linen trousers, who introduced himself as the director for tourism, Emmanuel Robles. Señor Robles then introduced us to the mayor of Puerto Vallarta, the Chief of Police, the Director of the Tourist Police, the Canadian Consul from Guadalajara, and two detectives who had been assigned the case.
Although we were about to discuss a fatality, everyone smiled warmly at us as they were introduced. Steve introduced me as his wife, and I couldn’t help grinning a bit when I heard it in the air. I immediately felt foolish for smiling in such circumstances, but the word “wife” still tingled as I quietly took a step back out of the business discussion. It was still going to take some time to get used to that appellation.
The consul spoke to us next, having looked to the others and received tacit nods of approval.
“Thank you for taking time from your honeymoon, as I understand, to help us in this terrible situation, Staff Inspector Browning. We’re hoping that bringing you in at this time will facilitate matters in your own investigation at home, should we conclusively rule out involvement of a Mexican national in the case.”
“I understand an Edmonton woman has been killed?” asked Steve. I just sat back in my allotted chair and tried to be invisible, hoping they’d just forget I was there, as much as you can forget someone in bright coral capri pants.
“Yes, a tourist named Kristin Perry, who had flown in on Thursday evening. She was a student at the University of Alberta, coming for her spring break.”
I felt a slight relief at hearing the victim was someone I had never met.
“They call it Reading Week, but I am afraid not much reading gets done,” explained Steve, and everyone smiled ruefully, staying solemn in respect for the discussion of death hanging over us all. “We may have been on the same flight as the victim. We came on Westjet’s Flight 254.”
One of the detectives flipped her notebook pages and nodded.
“Yes, Ms. Perry was on that flight, along with her friends Andrea McManus and Jeannie Chua. They were sharing a room at the Sheraton Bougainvillea. They had gone out partying the first night, checking out the fiesta night at their hotel and then attending a foam party at the Mandala on the Malecon, and on Friday they had gone on two tours, one a Historic Mexico Adventure through Vallarta Adventures in the daytime, and then on the pirate ship booze cruise. The women met some young men onboard, one of whom they knew from university, and they chummed together throughout the tour. Ms. McManus and Ms. Chua state that they lost track of each other once they returned to the marina, but had agreed ahead of time that, since they all had keycards to their hotel room, they would meet up back there. Each one says that she came into the hotel room without turning on the light, and crawled into bed as quietly as possible.”
“On Saturday morning, they awoke later than they had intended, and Ms. Perry wasn’t in the room. It was hard to tell whether she had slept there the night before or not, since they had been doing without maid service to save on tipping. Her bed seemed rumpled, but they weren’t sure.” The officer flipped a page in her notebook. “They were in a room with two queen beds and a roll-away cot, and Ms. Perry had been in one of the queen beds.”
“They checked downstairs in both restaurants and at the pool bar, asking if anyone had seen their friend, but they were still not overly concerned. Apparently, Ms. Perry was a very self-reliant young woman, who may well have decided to head off on her own for the day.”
“They didn’t call her? Surely they all had smartphones?” Steve asked.
The officer flipped back a few pages in her notebook, and consulted with the other, older, detective for a translation.
“The girls had all decided not to purchase ‘roaming packages’ for their mobile phones to save money, so they were reluctant to text or call her.”
“By Saturday evening, they were annoyed more than worried, thinking that Ms. Perry might have extended a liaison with one of the young men they had met up with. They got dressed and went to the Rhythms of the Night, leaving Ms. Perry a note on the table of the hotel room in an obvious place. She didn’t make the launch time at the marina, and hadn’t appeared to have returned to the room. At this point, they got worried and sent her a text, which went unanswered.”
“Early Sunday morning, three young boys from Vallarta were going fishing off the spit of the island in the River Cuale. They saw a woman lying on the beach on a red towel, with a hat over her head. It was too early for sunbathing, and the woman wasn’t moving. When they got closer they could see that she had a very bad sunburn, and what they had taken for a red towel was actually blood.”
“They swore they didn’t touch anything, and one of them came straight away to the police station while the other two stood watch. We sent officers down immediately to secure the scene and my partner and I arrived at the same time as the coroner. Although the time of death is still not official, the sunburn would indicate that Ms. Perry had been lying there a full day.”
The mention of the spit of sand at the end of the island scratched my memory, as did the red towel.
“I think I saw her,” I said, screwing up my vow of silence. I scrambled for my phone, to see if my photos would back me up and tell us the time. It had been on route to the food tour we had taken. I remembered seeing a sunbather in red, lying on that spit of sand. I flipped back through photos of Steve with various edibles to find the photo I was remembering.
There it was, the solitary girl in the red bathing suit. I clicked the properties of the photo to find the time stamp. It was nine forty-five a.m., just before our food tour of Vallarta.
I had taken a photo of a dead woman while on my way to eat my way across the town. I felt the joy of our vacation slipping away, like water sliding off sunscreen-oiled skin. The honeymoon was over.
10
After I had emailed the photo to Steve and his Mexican counterparts, I was made to feel redundant. We agreed that I would head back to the hotel and Steve would continue to liaise with the police detectives, and meet up with the victim’s roommates, who had been at the police station filing a missing person’s report at the same time as her body had been discovered. One of th
em had required sedation, and both of them were sticking close to their hotel until their flight home, which coincidentally was the same one we were booked on. They had probably chosen the same tour package Steve had booked for us, little realizing how linked we would all end up being with him as investigating officer and them as witnesses. And victim.
The thinking was that Steve could learn what was available from his associates here, and then manage the inquiry for the Edmonton end of the investigation. The thinking and tacit message he was receiving from all the people in the mayor’s office was that this was a situation completely Canadian that had unfortunately transferred itself onto Mexican soil, but otherwise had little to do with Mexico itself. I could understand that. This was a tourist mecca; they didn’t want something like murder besmirching their reputation.
And the odds were in their favour. Most major crimes involved either love or money, and since apparently Ms. Perry’s wallet had been back at the hotel and she’d not had time to form a passionate enough relationship here, if love was involved, it had followed her here.
I dawdled on the way back to the hotel, picking up some fancy chocolates from a tiny shop and raspberries from a street vendor. When I got to our room which, since we were not doing anything so ridiculous as to eschew maid service, was beautifully cleaned and straightened. I got into my bathing suit, swearing to myself never to buy a red one.
I left a note for Steve and headed up to the pool with my hat, and my bag full of a towel, cover up, sunscreen, a book, a water bottle, chocolates, and raspberries. There were three or four people staked out already, but they nodded lazily to me, and I set up toward the long end of the pool, where I could see the green Sierra Madre mountains to the east.
The water felt refreshing after the heat of the streets, and I swam back and forth in the pool, pretending to myself that I was Angie Abdou, the Canadian sports fiction writer and competitive swimmer, cleaving a tight, clean line down the race lane. Of course, I was using a rather ungainly crawl I’d learned at summer camp years ago, and had never mastered the quirky little somersault to turn at the end of a lap, so I probably looked more like Carol Burnett parodying an Esther Williams extravaganza. No matter; it did the trick, and by the time I pulled my dripping body out of the pool and phlumped down on the towel-draped chaise, I felt cleared of the stress that had descended while I was sitting with Steve and the officials in that office in City Hall.
The Eye of the Beholder Page 5