The Eye of the Beholder

by Janice Macdonald

  One had a complete hacienda built over it, with a red clay tiled roof and whitewashed window-wells on either side. Another had a locked glass door, beyond which was a ceramic tiled room with painted statuary of the Virgin and possibly St. Joseph, and a large white plastic bucket between them. Presumably, even in heaven the roofs leaked.

  I was stepping back to photograph a lovely grave with a small blue house at the rear, with an orange flowering bush planted right in front of it. At the base of the bush was a gravestone made to look like an open book. The entire layout pleased me aesthetically, though I had never before considered what I’d like my final resting place to look like. I especially liked the contrast between the blue of the small wall, and the orange flowers.

  I looked around. Many of the flowers visible were made of plastic or silk, and I supposed it was too much to ask roses and peonies to bloom in the desert soil. Some shrubs were viable, though, and a few trees offered shade to the shades. In fact, one tree had grown, gnarled and huge, right in the middle of an older part of the graveyard, and was crushing a smaller, less ornate grave in its wake. I suspected no one came to visit that grave on November 2nd.

  Fernando honked his horn, and we all made our way back to the entrance to climb into the Unimog for the last time. Luz asked us where we all were staying, and conferred with Fernando before climbing in the back with us. She pulled out a second cooler, and handed out beers to everyone except the teens, to whom she offered pop cans. Fernando would drop us all at our hotels, but it was a longish drive back to town, so we might as well have a drink and enjoy ourselves.

  I pulled my scarf up over my hair and ears, and leaned into the warmth of Steve. If we hadn’t been sitting sideways in the back of an open truckbed, I might have been lulled into a nap. Steve put his arm around me and I zoned out a bit. Just before we got back into the city, Luz pointed out Los Arcos, the huge rocks off the shore where seabirds whirled about. They were a national park preserve, she said, and a place people liked to dive. She mentioned that if we were planning to go to Las Caletas or Yelapa on a tour, the boats would stop for a bit in Los Arcos. Steve asked if the boat to the Rhythms of the Night would stop there, and she shook her head. Apparently, it was situated in Las Caletas, but it was the evening run, and aimed more directly across the bay to save time.

  I had forgotten we would be heading out there in just a few hours. We would barely have enough time to change, run a comb through our hair, and grab a cab for the Maritime Terminal where the huge cruise ships docked, which was not to be confused with the marina district where the tour office was located. I had a feeling my photos were going to be my memory guide for this jam-packed day, since my senses were already on overload.

  Soon, Fernando was guiding the Unimog backwards into the small side street of our hotel, and he and Luz helped us out of the back. Steve pressed tips into their hands as he shook them, and I thanked them both profusely and waved to our fellow passengers, who were all staying in the hotel zone past the Old Town and the downtown district.

  “Thank you for letting me ignore you so much of the tour,” Steve said, squeezing my shoulders as we took the small elevator up to our room. “I got some useful information from Luz, I think.”

  “She’s one smart cookie,” I agreed. “I don’t think she misses much.”

  “You take the first run at the washroom to clean up, while I write down some notes,” Steve nodded toward my hair, which I discovered was completely windblown when I turned to look in the mirror.

  “Oh god, how long do we have? Thank goodness no one knows us here.”

  We really didn’t have time to shower, so I opted for wetting down my hair with conditioner under a soaking washcloth while I splashed water on my face and put on some eye make-up. Then I combed the smoothing liquid through my hair, braided it back and rediscovered an approximation of my normal self. My nose was getting red from the reflective glare of my sunglasses, and I added a second layer of sunscreen to it by way of moisturizer.

  I slipped my red and green flowered sundress on and pulled on three red bracelets I’d bought in a shop along the town square in El Tuito. With my red sandals and nose, I was very coordinated.

  Steve looked up approvingly as I posed in the doorway.

  “Your turn,” I ushered him toward the bathroom, and went to look out the balcony window.

  Within minutes, Steve reappeared, looking glorious in black trousers and a gleaming white guayabera.

  “They are going to think you are the maître d’,” I teased, and kissed him.

  We caught a cab easily, and were soon making our way through the maze of gates at the Maritime Terminal. You had to pay a nominal fee to get in to the terminal to get your cruise. There were no cruise ships docked as we got there, but the pirate ship was front and centre, with its crew of dandified sailors entertaining their waiting passengers.

  We Rhythms of the Night folks lined up to hand in our tickets and be counted, and were then ushered around to the far end of the terminal where Vallarta Adventures Boats 8 and 5 were waiting for us. A crew of pleasant young men saw us onto Boat 8, which had two levels of chairs and benches, and before we were even away from the dock, they were bringing around trays of complimentary rum punch.

  Trusting the conditioner and braid, I claimed seats along the portside of the boat, so we could see all of the city as we went past. The crew, aside from the bartender who was still cranking out rum punch, began a show of comic and quite intricate dancing at the bow of the boat, keeping us entertained all across the bay. The focus was to entertain and keep the tourists happy wherever we seemed to go, and this was no exception. We clapped and hooted as they wiggled and danced, as did most of the rest of the crowd we were with. I scanned the group for any of the people we’d spent the day with, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. For a small city, Puerto Vallarta could certainly absorb a lot of visitors. I wondered idly how many people could be housed at capacity if all the hotel rooms were filled. And yet, I had not felt crowded anywhere we had gone the entire week. Perhaps it was another wrinkle on the theory of relativity, based on the relative beauty of a place versus the discomfort you were willing to feel.

  Steve wasn’t drinking, in order to question whoever might recall the three girls from two days earlier, but I had two rum punches on the trip out. I wasn’t sure it was worth Steve staying sober, since the crew seemed too busy to talk to anyone and I wasn’t all that sure they’d recall anyone in particular with several boatloads of similar tourists in between to cloud their memories.

  Steve’s counter argument to that was that these were professionals required to take care of gormless tourists who might wander off at any time, either snorkeling or exploring beaches or small towns, so they might be more likely to have strong recollections of people in order to do their jobs. It was a good theory, but I would rather get my money’s worth in liquor.

  When the boats docked, we were ushered off the gangway onto a long pier. Music was playing, and several young people in amazing costumes were posing on rocky outcroppings as an eerie welcoming. We let the majority of people off the boat, and as we exited, Steve asked a few of the crew members if they recalled the women in the pictures he offered them. Neither the bartender nor the director recognized them, but one of the sailors pointed at them and said “These two, yes.”

  “You remember them being on the tour on Saturday evening? Your memory is very good.”

  “It is because they are dressed the same, but one is so tall and the other so tiny, I remember.”

  “And was the third girl with them? Do you remember seeing her at all?”

  He looked again at the photo of Kristin. I was wondering if she seemed familiar to him since she’d been on the news earlier. He shook his head slowly.

  “No, only these two and their boyfriends.”

  “They were with men?”

  “Not certain whether they came all tog
ether, or got together on the boat, but they were with two college boys. The waiters on land will know if they were together, because they sit them in groups for the meal. You check with the waiters.” He tapped the photo of Kristin’s roommates, and nodded to us, and then excused himself to go coil a rope, or whatever it was sailors needed to do.

  We moved along the dock, bringing up the rear. Although it wasn’t dusk yet, torches were lit along the side of the pathway. We soon caught up with the crowd, who were stopped in groups to take a photo with two characters in feathers and tattoos. I presumed they were part of the dinner show. Another character, dressed like a huge iguana, was sunning himself on a rock up to our right. I would rather have had my photo made with him, but we settled for the pretty women and men to the left. I doubted we’d purchase the photo, but on the other hand, it would be a souvenir of our honeymoon—and who didn’t want a photo of their new husband surrounded by lithe dancers in feathers and wisps of costume?

  The dining rooms were outdoors, built on several levels close to the beach. We were assigned a waiter to follow, and were soon seated on an upper level, with several other tables for two and four. Perhaps this was where they put all the couples, I thought, since I’d seen another area with two or three larger tables set up. It was buffet dining, but a waiter came to our table to take our drink orders and bring us chips and salsa.

  Steve showed him the photo, and he shook his head, but pointed to another fellow whom he called over to our table. Neither of them had seen the girls, but the second fellow paused as he looked at the photo of Kristin. Steve noticed it, too. He asked him if he had seen her anywhere, not necessarily here. The young man shook his head, slowly. Perhaps it was a case of having seen the news and not yet put two and two together. Or maybe he had seen her along the Malecon on his day off.

  “She couldn’t have been out here without her girlfriends having spotted her, right?” I asked Steve. “I thought we’d already established that she didn’t use her ticket because she was already dead.”

  “Not necessarily. The coroner still hasn’t confirmed a time of death. And the girls say she had her ticket. The tour company says all tickets issued were validated, so someone was here on that ticket. She may have been on the upper deck. She may have been on Boat 5 instead of Boat 8. Or she may have been with her friends all along and they could be lying to throw us off track.”

  “You think they could have killed her and left her out on the beach like that?”

  “I don’t rule out anything, Randy. You have to allow your mind to be open to every possibility so that you don’t blind yourself with assumptions. They told us she hadn’t turned up the night before. Until I have a coroner’s report telling me Kristin Perry was definitely dead beforehand, I owe it to her to consider that she may have managed to get here on her own steam.”

  “Another possibility is that whoever killed her scalped her ticket. Or used it to confuse the timeframe.”

  “They said all the tickets were validated. So, if he or she didn’t sell it, maybe the killer came for dinner.”

  That was an unsettling thought. When our waiter came back to the table with water, Steve asked him if solitary people ever came out to dine and see the show, and he nodded and pointed to another level down, where the seats were artfully arranged to give single seats along a table overlooking the small bay.

  Steve excused himself for a few minutes to go question the waiters in that area, while I worked my way through a plateful of delights. Ever since Luz had told us about the strictures against pesticides and genetically modified seeds in Mexico, I’d had a whole new vision of the healthful eating I was doing. Of course, overdoing any kind of eating was likely unhealthy in the long run, but I had a few more cold winter months to work it off.

  Steve didn’t take long.

  “Manuel is the waiter of that area every evening, and he was there on Saturday. He had fewer patrons than usual, only five. Three were men, two were women. Older women, and one of those was a Mexican national,” he specified, seeing my look of mounting interest. “So no blonde Kristin, unless she insinuated herself into another group, or was actually with her roommates who for some reason are lying about it. The three men weren’t all that memorable to him.” Steve checked his notes. “One was in his fifties and read a book with his meal. One was young and Mexican, and Manuel thought he might be a tour salesman, taking the tour to know the ropes. And the other, he doesn’t have much recollection of, though he recalled he tipped him big.”

  “Funny not to have a clear memory of someone who tipped big.”

  “Unless a person didn’t want to be recalled. You dress in nondescript colours, you blend in, you don’t make a lot of eye contact. You are there to use the ticket, maybe to observe the roommates.”

  “But if you want to blend in, why tip so big?”

  “If you are a tourist, unsure of the currency, maybe you just made a mistake?”

  I nodded. That had a logical ring to it.

  Our waiter came up to us with a tray of Mexican coffee, full of cinnamon.

  “May I suggest the ice cream and sopapillas for dessert, and then to make your way to the amphitheatre, Señor?”

  Steve raised his brown ceramic mug to clink mine in a toast.

  “Aside from this investigation clouding things, I’m enjoying this tour with you.”

  “Me too. It’s a very romantic setting, especially now that the sun’s set and the torches are earning their living.”

  “I’m sorry this is getting in the way of our honeymoon, Randy. I promise to make it up to you. Maybe a weekend up at the Jasper Park Lodge in a few months’ time?”

  “Are you kidding? That would be twice what this entire week is costing us!”

  Steve laughed. I smiled. I wasn’t joking.

  “It doesn’t matter, you know. I understand the job comes first.”

  “Maybe before a honeymoon plan, but not before you. Ever.”

  I sipped my coffee, basking in the loving gaze of my husband. Who knew that a married Steve Browning would be even more romantic than a courting Steve Browning?

  The theatre was spectacular, along the lines of the Cirque du Soleil meeting Les Feux-Follets, the Canadian touring show of my childhood. Aztec myths were brought to life, and enacted, with actors like my iguana friend crawling through the audience or ziplining above our heads. After an hour of glorious symbolic spectacle, we were herded back out to the pathway leading to the dock, and boarded our respective boats to head back to Puerto Vallarta.

  Steve and I headed to the upper deck, and watched the lights along the shore while the crew below entertained with manic hijinks. By the time we were ashore, in a cab and back to our hotel, it was ten thirty and I was ready for bed.

  “Just because we’re ready for bed doesn’t mean that twenty-year-olds would feel the same way, right?”

  Steve laughed. “There are clubs that don’t even get started till about ten o’clock.”

  “So, Kristin and her friends going partying after the pirate ship seems believable. And her roommates would likely go find a club as soon as they got back to the Maritime Terminal after this tour, too.”

  He nodded. “Very likely.”

  “Well, they’re going to have to get someone else to investigate Mexican nightlife, Mr. Browning, because we are definitely calling it a night.”

  “On our last full night of our honeymoon, Ms. Craig? You’d better believe we’re heading for bed.”

  On the whole, we probably worked off another entire margarita.

  12

  Our plane wasn’t taking off till four in the afternoon, so we had a leisurely breakfast at Fredy’s Tucan, bidding our favourite waiter goodbye, and then walked the entire length of the Malecon, taking photos of each of the statues in order.

  Steve popped into the City Hall to report his investigative findings to his counterpart on the case,
and I found my way back to the same clothing store where we’d bought our tops and picked up an embroidered dress with the pesos cluttering up my wallet. It would be nice to wear on our first anniversary, to remind us of the lovely honeymoon.

  I met up with Steve by the gazebo in the square, and we walked back toward our hotel to brush our teeth and pack our bags. The concierge had kindly suggested we stack our bags in the back of her office for the afternoon, so we popped on our bathing suits, folded our travelling clothes up into plastic bags, and headed up to the pool deck. The plan was to sun, swim, squeeze the water out of our suits and change in the poolside washrooms, then get lunch somewhere near the hotel before calling a cab to get us to the airport the requisite amount of time ahead of our flight.

  I had finished my book, and intended to leave it in the courtyard bookcase, to spread Canadian content further around the world. On the way back to the hotel, I had steered us into A Page in the Sun, the coffee shop bookstore by the Old Town square, and searched for a book for the plane. I found a thick, secondhand Tana French that would satisfy the task and impulsively added a book on Frida Kahlo that was stacked by the till. It would be a lovely remembrance of our visit to the ArtVallarta gallery. Once back at the hotel, I packed it into my suitcase, and took the mystery up to the pool.

  Steve was absorbing his Maclean’s magazine by osmosis, with it tented over his face as he snoozed. I checked to make sure his chest was still gleaming with sunscreen, and felt a weird little smile come over my face. For the first time, I knew how Scarlett O’Hara must have felt after her marriage to Rhett Butler. There in front of me was the person I was connected to and responsible for. It mattered to me whether or not he burned. My hold on the universe no longer ended at the tips of my fingertips, but slid on, through them, to him.

  Religious nuts who constantly clamour for chastity before marriage should just let their young flock know how much better married sex is than unmarried sex. Every joke about love life getting stale once married was probably just hiding how great it was to be able to just lean into someone while looking in a shop window, and know that you were united. Everything became a part of lovemaking, far more than just the physical act.