Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
PERMANENT VACATION?
All thoughts of having a quick lunch evaporated a few minutes later when a mariachi band stepped onto the terrace. I ate and listened to the band members as they threaded their way among the umbrellas to serenade each of the tables.
The music helped ease the tension of my hectic last few weeks. It was nice to be on vacation. I love to travel, but book tours can be exhausting. While I enjoy meeting new people, especially readers, and seeing new places, it’s always a pleasant prospect to contemplate a few weeks with nothing specific to do but sit back and relax. No notes to take, no schedules to meet, no rush to catch another plane.
Vaughan and Olga were the perfect hosts. They insisted I use their home as if it were mine. They had promised that I wouldn’t be in their way. “We’ll even ignore you, if that’s what you want.” Which, of course, wasn’t what I wanted at all. What I did want was time. Time to renew our acquaintance. Time to stretch out with a book. Time to take leisurely walks in a charming town. Just a peaceful vacation with old friends. It sounded wonderful.
But I was in for a rude awakening. . . .
OTHER BOOKS IN THE Murder, She Wrote SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
A Question of Murder
Copyright © 2005 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
eISBN : 978-1-101-01073-0
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Ted Chichak, with thanks
Chapter One
“I don’t have a formula as such for coming up with the plots for my novels. The ideas come from a variety of sources, really—a snatch of music that triggers a memory, a place I’ve visited, the news. If I find an article in the morning newspaper intriguing, I may clip it and file it away for future reference. Sometimes a person on a plane or train has an interesting face. I’ll begin to imagine where that person is going, why she’s frowning, and who will be waiting to pick her up at the station. Many of us do that, I suppose. It’s human nature to be curious about those around us. I wish I had a more specific, useful answer to your question, but I’m afraid I don’t.”
The question had come from a woman in the front row, one of approximately a hundred people in the handsome room of a private library on Manhattan’s West Side. I was on a panel of mystery writers—“crime writers,” to the British—sponsored by the Authors Guild, of which I’ve been a proud and active member for many years. The guild is the closest thing writers have to a union, and it has initiated many legal actions against publishers when its leaders have felt writers have been treated unfairly. But the guild is more than that, sponsoring countless professional development seminars and panel discussions like the one I was on, and even managing a fund that can be tapped by members who find themselves in dire financial straits. It’s a wonderful organization, and I always tried to make myself available when called upon.
Our moderator ended the session, and my fellow panelists and I spent another twenty minutes chatting with audience members who approached the dais. Finally, I was free to join my companions for the evening, Vaughan and Olga Buckley. Vaughan Buckley had been publishing my novels for many years. Our relationship had progressed from simply being publisher and author to being good friends as well. His wife had been a top fashion model when she met the dashing young editor who would go on to found Buckley House, a prestigious company and one of the last independent publishers that hadn’t been gobbled up by an international conglomerate.
“Nicely done,” Vaughan said as the three of us stepped out onto the hot pavement outside the library. New York was experiencing an early-summer heat wave. “Hungry?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said. “The interviews this afternoon backed up, and I never had lunch.”
“The ecstasy of promoting a book,” Olga said.
“And the agony,” Vaughan said, chuckling. “Tell you what. Since we’ll be in Mexico in another few days, I suggest we begin training our palate with some Mexican food, Manhattan style. They say the best way to combat the heat is to eat hot food. There’s a good restaurant a block from here. Game?”
“Sure,” I said.
We settled in a booth and Vaughan ordered margaritas, no salt.
“I must admit,” I said, “Mexican food has never been my favorite.”
“We don’t have to stay,” Olga said.
“Oh, no. There are always plenty of things on the menu that I like.” I laughed. “You can take the girl out of Maine, but . . .”
“Maybe they serve lobster burritos,” Vaughan offered.
“If they do,” I said, “that’s what I’ll have. So tell me all about this Mexican hacienda you’ve ended up buying.”
Vaughan and Olga looked at each other. Olga responded, “We fell madly in love with the highlands of central Mexico when we visited two years ago.
We went back again, and last year we made a third visit. We were hooked. We decided—”
Vaughan interrupted. “It’s not as much of a joint decision as Olga paints it.”
“You love it there,” she said, pretending to rap her husband’s shoulder.
“Oh, yes, I do love it there. It’s just that when you own a second home—we now have two—and it’s in a lovely place like San Miguel de Allende, you want to spend as much time as possible there. It’s a retirement paradise. But as appealing as that is, I’m just not ready to close up my office and spend all my days with my feet up on a lounge in the shade.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.
He placed his hand on my arm. “Not to worry, Jessica. As long as you keep writing novels, I’ll keep publishing them.”
Olga picked up where she’d left off. “It’s more than four hundred fifty years old. The Mexican government has declared it a national monument—no traffic lights, neon signs, fire hydrants, or fast-food restaurants.”
“All to the good—unless your house catches fire,” Vaughan said.
“Or you have a sudden insatiable urge for a Big Mac,” I added.
“It’s become one of Mexico’s leading centers for the arts,” Olga said, ignoring our teasing. “The Instituto Allende Art School is world famous. The town is overflowing with artists, musicians, dancers, and actors. It’s heaven.” She pressed her hand to her heart to visually reinforce her ecstasy.
“It sounds wonderful,” I said as the waiter placed menus in front of us.
“Do you have lobster?” Vaughan asked him.
“No, Señor,” he said.
“Sorry,” Vaughan said to me.
“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Now, tell me about this house you’ve bought there.”
“Let’s order first,” Olga said.
Our orders placed—I opted for ceviche, chicken fajitas, and a salad with tomatillo dressing—Vaughan said, “The house is very nice, Jessica, but you’ll be seeing it in a few days. It was an incredible bargain. Living is cheap there. That’s why there’s a sizable expatriate community—‘expats,’ they call each other—Americans and Canadians looking to stretch their budgets and pensions. At last count there were almost five thousand of them living in the town and surrounding areas.”
“We’ve already become friends with quite a few,” Olga added. “They’re a lively group, fond of saying that when you retire, you go to Florida to die, or to San Miguel to live. They all seem to be taking classes, getting together for parties, living their lives to the fullest.”
“Well,” I said as our first course was served, “you’ve certainly whetted my appetite for San Miguel de Allende. I’m even looking forward to this Mexican meal.”
“Good,” Vaughan said. “Let’s have wine with dinner to celebrate our having enticed you, Jess, to spend a few weeks with us in Mexico. Maybe you’ll fall in love with the place and buy the house next door.”
“Maybe I will,” I said, tasting the ceviche, a cold chopped seafood cocktail with onions, tomatoes, garlic, avocado, three kinds of peppers, and scallops “cooked” in lemon and lime juice. “Delicious!” I announced. “Bueno!”
Chapter Two
The Buckleys left for San Miguel de Allende before I did. Last-minute additions to my book-signing tour and an interview on the Today show, which was delayed two days due to a deluge of news coverage following the kidnapping and rescue of a world leader attending a conference in Cozumel, wreaked havoc with my travel schedule.
There were compensations. I had an extra day to shop for a special gift for my hosts. The Buckleys were voracious readers, of course, and I’d seen a lovely pair of bookends in Takashimaya on Fifth Avenue that I thought would appeal to them. In addition, the producer who’d arranged my appearance on Today tried to compensate for the inconvenience. Grateful for my “flexibility” regarding the change in plans, she gave me a few extra minutes with Katie Couric—more than originally planned—to talk about my new mystery and the life of a mystery writer. On my way out, she stopped me.
“We don’t ordinarily do this,” the producer said, handing me a videotape with a picture on the box of all the stars of the show, “but we really appreciate your willingness to stick around New York, especially considering the miserable weather we’ve been having. I apologize for the heat and humidity, even though there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“It was no bother at all to stay in town. Besides, I’m leaving tomorrow for sunny Mexico. I have a feeling the weather’s not going to be much different there. A little drier, perhaps. Thank you for the tape. What’s on it?”
“I thought you might like a souvenir of your interview with Katie.”
“How thoughtful,” I said. “I’ll take it with me on the trip. I don’t know if my friends get American television in Mexico, and I know they’d enjoy seeing this.” I didn’t mention that one of those friends was my publisher, who would have more than a passing interest in any publicity that might increase book sales, especially mine.
I was lucky to get a seat on a midmorning four-hour flight to Mexico City. School was out and the tourist season had begun, filling planes to all the popular places. Olga and Vaughan had told me they usually took a bus from the Mexican capital to San Miguel, although they complained about its erratic timetable and the frequent breakdowns in the air-conditioning system.
“Fly to León instead,” Olga had suggested. “You’ll save hours of wear and tear on the road, and we’ll send someone to pick you up.” So I’d booked a connecting flight, and e-mailed the Buckleys my itinerary.
Upon landing in Mexico City, I learned the flight to León would be delayed. “Technical problems,” a sympathetic gate agent said, shaking her head sadly. The plane wasn’t leaving until that night. Since the bus was no longer an option—my luggage had been checked through to León, and there was no way to retrieve it—I resigned myself to the wait.
“Take a taxi to the zocalo,” Vaughan said, when I called to relay the news of yet another delay in my travel plans. “It’s a short cab ride, unless there’s traffic. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes. But make sure you use the official cab stands. Don’t take a ride from anyone who approaches you in the terminal. There have been a lot of tourist robberies in those kinds of taxis.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s good to know.”
“There’s a beautiful café on the terrace of the Hotel Majestic. They have wonderful food and a spectacular view. Have a late lunch, relax, stroll around the square.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“But if you do that, watch out for pickpockets. If you’re wearing any jewelry, take it off and hide it somewhere on your person. And stay away from crowds. Perhaps you shouldn’t purchase anything. You don’t want to be flashing American money.”
“I bought pesos before I left,” I said, a little taken aback by all his warnings. “Maybe I should visit the Zona Rosa instead.”
“I wouldn’t. It’s not the elegant neighborhood it once was. It fell into decay about twenty years ago. It’s being gentrified all over again, but it’s still a shadow of its former self and far too trendy for my liking,” he said. “I hear Olga calling me. Listen, Jessica, just hang on to your pocketbook and have a good time. We’ll see you later.”
I hung up and wondered if I would be better off simply reading my book in the airport, but quickly discarded that idea. It had been many years since I’d visited Mexico City, but I remembered the beautiful architecture, the broad avenues, the wonderful museums, the exotic ruins, and the charming people. It was certainly worth giving the city the benefit of the doubt, I thought, as I joined the lines going through immigration.
The main hall of Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City is an immaculate monument to marble, with sweepers pushing long dry mops across the gleaming floors, every twenty feet it seemed, never allowing so much as a dust mote to land on the colorful stone. It was also jammed with people. The hub not only for flight
s to anywhere in Mexico but also for those to a good portion of Latin America, the airport handles more than twenty million passengers annually. It looked to me as if a million of them were there when I exited customs. They were leaning on the ropes that separated the travelers from those who welcomed them; crowding the souvenir shops, clothing stores, coffee bars, and magazine stands; jostling me as I walked the length of the terminal; and lining up outside at the “official” taxi stand, which was manned by yellow-jacketed staff who held clipboards. I stood in line to buy a ticket and waited in line again until it was my turn to climb into the back of the taxi, a small green car in which the front passenger seat had been removed, presumably to accommodate luggage, which I did not have. I told the driver the name of the hotel on the zocalo that Vaughan had recommended and leaned back against the cracked leather seat for the ride into town.
“Welcome to Mexico, Señora,” the driver said. He pronounced it “meh-hee-co.”
“Muchas gracias,” I said, showing off the little Spanish I knew.
“Do you come for business or pleasure?”
“Definitely pleasure,” I replied, smiling.
“You are traveling alone, yes?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “You must be very careful traveling alone in the city. There are some not nice people—bandidos—who will try to take advantage of you.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He leaned back in his seat, drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to me over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the road. “If you want someone reliable to take you around, show you all the beautiful and historic places, very cheap, you call me. I am Manuel Dias. I don’t let anyone cheat you. I take good care of you. Guaranteed.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I’m not staying in Mexico City. In fact, I’m leaving this evening.”
He clicked his tongue. “We are sorry to lose you,” he said. “Where do you go? Acapulco? Cancún? I have a cousin in Mérida. Very good man.”
Margaritas & Murder Page 1