“Nancy Kovach told me Guy used to go on the mail run with Woody last year,” she said, as the car rounded a corner and was gone from our sight. “She called herself ‘a mail widow.’ She said that’s what she was for the days that they were gone. ‘A mail widow.’ I don’t like that term.”
“I don’t either,” I said as we turned back to the house. “I don’t either.”
Chapter Nine
Vaughan called from Monterrey that night.
“We’re staying in a Best Western,” he said. “It’s clean and there’s a bar nearby. That’s all I care about. I want a nice big martini with my steak dinner. I deserve it.”
Woody had reserved only one room to save on the cost, but Vaughan had threatened that his snoring would keep Woody up all night if each didn’t have his own room. So they’d taken a second one, with Vaughan agreeing to cover the difference.
“But you don’t snore,” Olga said.
“Shhh. I don’t want him to hear you.”
“Is he right there?”
“No, we’re just resting up before we find a place for dinner. But he can probably hear through walls. He certainly can talk through them.”
Olga giggled.
“I had to get away,” Vaughan said. “The man is a nonstop talker. He should have exhausted his vocal cords by now.”
“And don’t forget loud,” Olga added. “I’m surprised you still have your hearing.”
“I know everything there is to know about his military exploits, his failed marriage, his disappointing son, his buddies at the border, his love life . . .”
“He has a love life?”
“Yes. You didn’t know about the attentive widows of San Miguel? Not to leave out a certain lady of artistic persuasion. You’re not up on the local gossip, Olga.”
“That’s what I need you for. They all bare their souls to you so you’ll publish them and make them famous.”
“As a matter of fact, he’s been pressuring me to put out a book of his stories, and he wants Jessica to write them for him.”
“See? Your wife’s brilliance shines again.”
“Tell Jessica I may commit her to his project just to shut him up.”
“If you do, don’t complain to me when she wants a new publisher.”
“Well, I’m paying the price for my need for adventure, sweetheart. I hope you’re happy.”
“I never wanted you to suffer, Vaughan. Well, maybe just a little.”
“I’m suffering, just being away from you.”
“Ahh. If that’s the conclusion you draw after one day, I’m going to send you off on more trips.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, darling.”
Olga replaced the phone in its cradle with a smile.
After Woody and Vaughan had left that morning, we’d spent the remainder of the day exorcising her demons in the spa at Casa de Sierra Nevada, the cosmopolitan little hotel only a short walk from the house. Between the full-body massage, the facial, the manicure, and the pedicure, there was not a place on our bodies that had not been pummeled into submission, kneaded till it cried uncle, and given a high polish. We were more than relaxed; we were close to being rag dolls.
Collapsed on two armchairs under the colonnade, our feet sharing an ottoman, we sipped iced tea and made a dinner of the leftovers from the party, which Maria Elena ferried to us on platters from the kitchen.
“Isn’t this guacamole heavenly?” Olga said, scooping up the dip with a cracker. “I am passionate about avocado, and the Hoffmanns’ recipe is perfection.”
“I’m partial to these molotes myself,” I said, taking one of the little cornmeal dumplings filled with shredded pork. “Who knew I would fall in love with Mexican food?”
“Did you try the quesadillas yet?”
“No. Which ones are they?”
“Those little triangles. They’re like a Mexican version of a grilled cheese sandwich, only using tortillas and in this case, I think, chicken and peppers.”
“I’m getting an education in Mexican cuisine just from your party,” I said. “It was a wonderful party, in case I forgot to thank you.”
“You didn’t forget. You’ve already thanked me, and it’s I who should thank you. I don’t know what I would have done with myself alone today if you hadn’t been here to keep me company.”
“I imagine you would have done pretty much the same things that we did together.”
“But it’s more fun when you can share them,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “Oh, excuse me. I’m going to make up tonight for all the sleep I lost this week worrying about Vaughan.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” I said.
“We took care of me today,” Olga said. “What would you like to do tomorrow? You name it, Jessica, and I’ll arrange it. Anything—anything at all.”
“It seems to me I got the benefit of all the things you wanted to do today,” I said. “But since you’re offering, let’s see. I’d like to play tourist for a few hours, visit the landmarks, pick up a few gifts for people back home. But if that’s not your cup of tea, I can always do it another day when you and Vaughan have plans.”
“No such thing,” she said. “I’ll be delighted to play tourist with you as long as we can go shopping afterward. We’ll consult the visitors’ guides and plan out a morning of sightseeing. I’m not sure if there’s a museum, but I know there are plenty of galleries if you like to ‘appreciate’ art. Then we’ll have a nice comida. I know just the place.”
“And comida is?”
“Comida corrida is a formal lunch, a midday meal with three or four set courses—soup, pasta, main course, dessert. They make the greatest flan. We won’t want dinner after that, but we may need a little siesta—big meals always make me sleepy—but we can rest up in El Jardin. It’s a stone’s throw away.”
“That lovely park near the police station.”
“Yes. Then, if we haven’t exhausted ourselves, we go shopping,” she said, grinning. She pointed her toes and rotated her feet so she could study them from different angles. “I think I’d like to find a new pair of sandals, something a little sexier than what I’ve been wearing. Have to keep Vaughan on his toes. Can’t let his eye wander. I think he’s feeling his age.”
“What makes you say that?” I said. “He’s more handsome and energetic than men half his age.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Olga said, smiling coyly. “And he still attracts a lot of women. I’m thinking of one in particular. You may have noticed her interest.”
“Sarah Christopher.”
Olga saluted me. “I knew you’d see through her. A little obvious, isn’t she?”
“I don’t think you have a thing to worry about,” I said.
“She’s having a good time practicing her wiles on him.”
“Unsuccessfully, I might add. Vaughan all but ran in the opposite direction when she flirted with him last night.”
“She makes him uncomfortable—for now. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“He knows how lucky he is to have you for his wife.”
“And I want to keep it that way. I don’t like being jealous, Jessica. I’m used to being indifferent to all the women who throw themselves at him. I trust Vaughan and I know he loves me. But somehow with Sarah it’s different.”
“Perhaps it’s not only Vaughan who’s feeling his age.”
“You know, J. B. Fletcher, sometimes you’re too observant,” she said, arching an eyebrow at me. “Let me keep some of my secrets, please.” She pulled a pillow from behind her back and hugged it to her chest. “You’re right, of course. I don’t envy who she is, mind you, but I’ll admit to being jealous of her age.” She sighed. “I never used to feel that way. I was always determined to gracefully accept whatever changes aging brought. I take care of myself, but I won’t go to extremes to appear to be anything but what I am. Still, lately I’ve been wondering what I’d do if I had the chance to start all ov
er again. Would I make the same decisions? Would I go off in another direction altogether? I dream about being young again.”
“There’s no harm in dreaming,” I said. “Most of us have thoughts like that from time to time. The key is not to give them too much importance in your life today. After all, we can’t change what was; we can only change what will be. Besides, it’s never too late to take a new direction. Look at you and Vaughan. You’ve found a home in Mexico. You’re learning a new language, making new friends, even discovering new artists whose work appeals to you.”
Olga laughed, as I’d hoped she would. “She is talented, isn’t she? Too bad she has a crush on my husband.” She took a sip of her iced tea and set it down with a bang. “I’m going to spend Vaughan’s money on pretty sandals tomorrow.” Her eyes were full of mischief. “Something that will make him come panting after his wife. Will you help me pick them out?”
“I think I’d better leave that choice to you,” I said. “But you can help me buy a new pair of earrings. I saw the perfect pair in a shop window we passed yesterday.”
“It’s a deal.”
“This area of central Mexico was inhabited by nomadic Indians before a Franciscan missionary, Juan de San Miguel, founded a community here in the fifteen hundreds and called it San Miguel de Grande. He and his fellow friars converted the Indians to Christianity and taught them how to grow crops and weave fabrics. Ranches were established and tanneries built. The town became a commercial center, a successful market in which textiles and cattle were bought and sold. It was also a stopover for those seeking their fortunes from the silver deposits discovered in Zacatecas. But its real claim to fame is that it played an important role in Mexican independence.”
Olga and I sat on a bench in El Jardin and eavesdropped on a tour guide as he gave his speech to a clutch of visitors he was leading through the park. Children were chasing each other around the gazebo or begging their mothers for balloons or treats from the sellers of cotton candy and ice cream. A woman sold roasted corn on the cob on a stick. A three-man mariachi band serenaded a couple in wedding dress having their photograph taken.
We had already spent the morning walking around San Miguel. We’d paused by the lavandería, watching women bent over cement tubs taking advantage of El Chorro, a natural spring that bubbles up, to do their wash and laugh and gossip with their friends. We’d strolled through the Parque Benito Juárez across the street, where flower growers from the countryside had set up an informal nursery, adding the brilliant colors of their bouquets and potted plants to the lush landscaping of the park. We’d admired the student paintings at Bellas Artes, a prestigious art school. We’d toured and shopped (Olga didn’t want to chance tiring before that), had eaten a huge meal, and were happy to simply sit and digest while the parade of characters that daily crosses the stage that is El Jardin entertained us.
“A brave revolutionary general, Ignacio de Allende y Unzaga, a citizen of San Miguel, joined his army with the followers of Father Don Miguel Hidalgo of the town of Dolores to rise up against the Spanish ruling class. The patriots eventually gathered a force of eighty thousand. Sadly, it was not enough. They were defeated and the leaders were executed for their part in the revolt. It was many bloody years before independence was achieved, but the people never forgot their heroism. Today we call our town San Miguel de Allende in honor of the general.”
The tourists trailed after their leader, who held aloft a red umbrella so those in the back could see where he was. He guided them across the street to La Parroquia. The name indicates it’s a parish church, but it seemed more like a cathedral to me. It’s the city’s most famous landmark, and images of its fluted spires and turrets grace nearly every postcard sold in San Miguel. I had bought three views of it that morning to send as greetings to friends in Cabot Cove, although if all the complaints I’d heard at the party about the Mexican postal service were true, I would likely be back home long before the cards arrived.
“So you like my purchase?” Olga asked, peeking into her shopping bag where her new pastel platform sandals were nestled in tissue paper. Their long strands of soft cord were meant to lace up the calf and draw the eye from the foot to the ankle to the leg.
“Very elegant,” I said, watching the groom select a colorful balloon for his bride. His sky blue tuxedo contrasted with the drab clothing worn by the vendor, whose back was to me. The groom said something to the man, who laughed, his shoulders bouncing up and down, causing the balloons to dance gaily on their strings.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to walk in those shoes on the cobblestones?” I asked Olga.
“Not really,” she said, her brow knitted. “I’ll have to save them for an evening when I know we’re taking a cab to a restaurant.”
“Or wait to wear them in New York,” I said.
The photographer beckoned to the bridal couple, who posed with their balloon. There was something about the vignette that kept my attention riveted.
“At that price, I’ll make sure I wear them somewhere,” Olga said, patting the tissue paper back in place. “I’m glad you found such pretty earrings, but I’m miffed you didn’t let me buy them for you.”
“You’re very generous,” I said, “but I can’t think of a single reason why you should buy me earrings.”
“I wanted to replace the ones that were stolen.”
“You weren’t responsible for that, Olga. But now that you’ve raised the topic, do you see those people?”
“The bride and groom? How sweet! He gave her a balloon.”
“Do you recognize anyone there?”
“I’ve never seen them,” she said.
“That balloon man,” I said. “I think I’ve seen him before.”
“He must have been here when you went to the police station the other day.”
“No. I would have remembered that.”
“Why does it matter?”
“If I’m not mistaken, he may be the man who robbed us.”
“Omigod! Do you want me to get the police?” She started to rise, but I put my hand out to stop her.
“I can’t be certain,” I said. “It was night and I never saw the bandido’s face.”
“Then what makes you think he’s the one?”
I shrugged. “It’s more a feeling than a positive identification,” I said, hesitating. “But the hat is right, and he’s wearing a plaid kerchief around his neck.”
“That’s pretty common around here, Jessica.”
“So Chief Rivera said.”
“Well, let’s let the police question him; then you’ll know.”
I shook my head. “I can’t go to the police on a hunch. It wouldn’t be fair to the man.”
The vendor glanced over his shoulder, perhaps conscious that he was being observed. His eyes met mine briefly and he turned away.
Olga shivered. “He has such cold eyes. What should we do, Jessica?”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” I said, patting her arm. “Chief Rivera said there was no hope for recovering my belongings, and even less for bringing the thief to justice.”
“Has the incident spoiled the trip for you?”
“Of course not, Olga. It was a momentary distraction. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“Well, aren’t we a pair,” she said, relaxing back on the bench. “I worry about you and you worry about me. I think it’s time we moseyed on home.”
“Yes. You don’t want to miss Vaughan’s call,” I said.
“That, and I want to look through the copy of The World’s Best Bartenders’ Guide we bought today. I’m going to experiment tonight and make us margaritas.”
“That’s getting into the spirit of Mexico,” I said.
Olga laughed and picked up her shopping bag. “Literally and figuratively.”
I glanced back to see where the balloon vendor was, but he’d left the park.
“I wonder . . .” I said to myself as I followed Olga down the path.
At the
corner I spotted him again. He was across the street waiting for a bus to pass by. His back was to me, but I could see his shoulders moving up and down, his balloons bouncing merrily in the warm afternoon air as they’d done when he’d talked with the groom. It was only then that it struck me. The balloon man hadn’t been laughing. He’d been coughing.
Chapter Ten
“We’re leaving first thing in the morning,” Vaughan had told Olga. “By the dawn’s early light, if I can get Woody moving that fast. We should be home tomorrow night by seven, eight at the latest. I’ll call you if there’s any change in plans.”
Olga had been singing all day. She’d tried on her new sandals and modeled them for Maria Elena and me, strutting across the courtyard and striking a pose under the colonnade, just as she had in her runway days when she was a high-fashion model.
“She is still so beautiful, yes?” Maria Elena said to me.
“Inside and out,” I agreed.
“She has been very kind to me and my family. And Mr. Buckley, of course, he has been most kind. My brother Hector, I think he has a secret love for her. But many men do. I see how they gaze at her when she is not looking. In New York, it is the same, yes?”
“I would imagine it is,” I said, “but I don’t live in New York anymore, so I don’t get to see them as often as I used to.”
Olga stepped out of her new sandals and came into the kitchen. “Ladies, you are going to have to excuse me. I have a date at the hair salon. José is fitting me in, and I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Once Olga was gone, Maria Elena showed me how to access my e-mail, and I spent the afternoon in Vaughan’s media room answering correspondence, checking in with my agent, and dropping a note to my dear friend and Cabot Cove’s favorite physician, Seth Hazlitt. I gave him a brief rundown of my activities in San Miguel and sent the Buckleys’ regards, which I knew they’d want me to do. I omitted the incident with the bandido. I didn’t want to upset him. There would be time enough when I got home to recount the lurid details. He would sputter, but he’d also see that I was none the worse for the experience.
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