Margaritas & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  It occurred to me she might be uncomfortable watching me invade her employers’ privacy. She might wonder whether Olga would be angry with her if she found out. After all, Maria Elena was responsible for the house and all its contents. The Buckleys trusted her. Yet here was a guest not just looking to see if there was a message from the kidnappers but delving into their private correspondence and personal messages. Was she worried about losing her job, which would also mean losing her home? I resolved to put her mind at ease at the first possible moment.

  Olga had asked me to stay to deal with the police and to field messages from the kidnappers should they try to communicate with her. I considered that I was “on the case” and meant to apply whatever instincts and talents I had on her behalf and Vaughan’s. If that meant reading their mail, interviewing their friends, and delving into intimate matters they might not be so eager to have exposed, so be it. We were pursuing criminals. Vaughan’s life was in jeopardy. This was not a time for niceties.

  I opened the calendar—it was empty—looked for a record of documents that had been viewed recently, and opened one called “JBF party invitations.” It contained the names and e-mail addresses of all the people the Buckleys had invited to the cocktail party, together with a column of check marks next to those who’d been expected to attend. I printed it out. It was doubtful that everyone at the gathering knew about the mail run, but I would give the list to Chief Rivera if he thought it would be helpful.

  The chief had said the kidnapping wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment attack, that it would have been planned in advance. How many people knew when Woody and Vaughan were going on the mail run and when they would be returning? Probably all the families with post office boxes in Laredo and at least a few of the people I’d met at the party. I made a mental list of those who could provide some answers, including Maria Elena.

  I also needed to pay a visit to the editor of Noticias . Exactly when had he received that note about the ransom? Philip was on my list as well. Woody’s son might be able to fill in some gaps in my information. After that, I’d have to see. Not speaking Spanish was going to limit my ability to investigate. But there might be ways around that. I had overcome language barriers before. I hoped I could do it again, in time to save my publisher and friend.

  I closed the document with the names of the party attendees and also closed the list of e-mail messages. The computer made a loud dinging noise. I pulled my fingers from the keyboard as if they’d been scorched. What did I do? I thought, looking down at the keys. Had I inadvertently pressed a wrong key? I looked up and a chill skittered along my spine, raising goose bumps on my arms. A small box filled the center of the screen.

  “Hola, Señora Buckley,” it said. “We have your husband.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chief Rivera was not at his desk when I called, but he was expected back later in the afternoon.

  The kidnappers had made contact, but our exchange had not been productive. When I realized the little box was an instant message, I had jotted down the name of the sender, “Pelican,” clicked on the REPLY button, and typed in, “Is Vaughan all right?”

  The message came back immediately: “The ransom is one million dollars American.”

  “Please allow Vaughan to call home so I may hear his voice,” I wrote.

  “We will tell you where to leave the money.”

  I typed back: “I must have proof that Vaughan is alive and unharmed.”

  “You will receive instructions tomorrow.”

  “Tell me! Is he all right?”

  There were no more messages.

  I shook my head in frustration. It was as if they didn’t understand what I was writing, as if they had a preplanned message and that was all I was going to get.

  Pelican. A bird. Was there any significance to the name? SMA is landlocked. Why did the revolutionaries choose to use the name of a seabird? Did the sea represent freedom to them?

  I reached for the phone and dialed Olga’s cell phone number. She would be in the air by now, but I’d promised to call right away. I left a brief message that the kidnappers had made contact, that I would learn more tomorrow, and that I would call again later. I went downstairs to tell Maria Elena.

  “I am at your disposal,” she said. “Señora Buckley, she asked that I help you in any way that I can. The house is open to you.”

  I had expressed to Maria Elena my concern that she might be reluctant to allow me access to the Buckleys’ private correspondence, explaining that I hoped something I saw might hold a clue as to Vaughan’s captors or his whereabouts.

  “Whatever I know, I give to you with my whole heart,” she said.

  We sat at the kitchen table with the local telephone directory, a map of San Miguel de Allende, and a pad of paper. Between answering phone calls, we were making lists of who might have known about Woody and Vaughan’s trip and writing down directions to help me find my way around town. Now that the kidnappers had communicated, after a fashion, I didn’t need to stay home to wait for their call. I was free to follow leads of my own.

  “I do not talk about Señor and Señora Buckley to anyone,” she said. “Not even to my brother, unless it is to tell him he is needed for some work. But Señor Buckley, he is so excited to go, he talks about it to everyone.”

  “I was afraid of that,” I said.

  “I hear him on the telephone with Señor Woody making plans. His voice is like a young man,” she said, smiling at the memory. “They plan to go three times and have to change their minds, but then they finally make the date this week.”

  “Why did they postpone the trip before?” I asked.

  “Señora Buckley, she did not want him to go. Twice he makes the appointment and she talks him out of it. Once, because you come, and he would not think to leave and not be here to welcome you.”

  “Does Vaughan have a desk that he uses? I didn’t see one in the media room.”

  “In the living room, from an antique store in New York City. I will show it to you.”

  I didn’t remember there being a desk in the living room and soon discovered why.

  Maria Elena lifted a heavy ceramic jug from the carved Spanish chest next to the fireplace and swept away the embroidered cloth that had protected the top, depositing both on the glass coffee table. She pulled open the doors that formed the front panel of the chest and lifted the lid, revealing drawers on either side, an open space between, and a recessed desktop with horizontal slots for papers.

  “I’m learning more about Vaughan on this trip than in all the years I’ve known him,” I said. “It seems he likes to hide things behind closed doors.”

  “The señora says she does not want him to do business while they are here.”

  “So, he buys a desk that doesn’t look like a desk,” I said.

  “If you need anything else, please call for me,” she said, leaving to answer the phone.

  The desk drawers were mostly empty, with only a few pens and pencils, some flyers for local events, and his checkbook. Blank sheets of paper and envelopes filled the narrow slots, but under the blotter I found what I was looking for—a calendar page for the month. The date of the mail run was marked in pencil, as was the day of my expected arrival in San Miguel. There were two places where entries had been erased, presumably the previously planned trips that Vaughan had put off.

  The phone rang again. Maria Elena’s list of press calls was up to fifteen.

  The offices of Noticias were in a small building off El Jardin, having moved from their previous location on the outskirts of town. Computers had been hooked up and the copier plugged in, but boxes stacked against two walls had yet to be unpacked, and from the looks of the desk of the editor, Guillermo Sylva, I guessed they might never be. Piles of newspapers, magazines, catalogs, and papers littered his workspace. It was a wonder he ever found anything he was looking for.

  “I told you, Señora Fletcher—I gave the note to the police. They were on my doorstep when I came in thi
s morning.”

  “I’m not surprised, Señor Sylva. It seems you may have known about the kidnapping before anyone else did.”

  He grinned. “I had to remake the whole front page. I was up till three with the printer. But we got the story in, and published on time. No one can say Noticias doesn’t cover the hard news.”

  “Do you have a large staff?”

  He pointed at his chest. “I’m the reporter, editor, and publisher,” he said, “but I get help from volunteer stringers.”

  “The newspaper is a weekly, isn’t it?”

  He gave a sharp nod.

  “You’ll pardon me if I say so, Señor Sylva, and I don’t mean to offend you, but I had the distinct impression that Noticias was more of a social newspaper, one that gives greater focus to calendar items like concerts and art exhibits and to real estate listings than to hard news.”

  “That criticism has been leveled before, Señora Fletcher, but it’s not true. I attended journalism school in the States. It’s why the new owners hired me, and why I convinced them to open an office closer to the center of action. We’re working hard to counter those critics, to be a full-service newspaper, to cover all the news, while at the same time keeping what our loyal readership wants.”

  “And what your loyal advertisers want,” I added.

  “Of course,” he said. “Or we’d be out of business.”

  “It must be difficult competing with daily news outlets when you publish only once a week.”

  “Difficult, but not impossible. We try to take a different tack, find a new angle, do a news analysis or come up with some interesting sidebar the other media haven’t picked up on yet.”

  “But not this time.”

  “It’s not often I can scoop the Mexico City dailies and the online papers that cover SMA, but this time it was a doozy.” He fiddled with a paper on his desk and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Of course, they’ll beat me to the news of Señor Manheim’s death.” He raised his head. “I see you’re not surprised. That’s interesting. I heard it on the scanner this morning. How did you find out?”

  I ignored his question and asked another of my own. “Why do you suppose the kidnappers chose you to publish their demands, rather than another paper?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe because we’re the only official paper in SMA. The others are from out of town. They know all the expats read Noticias. That way the families of the victims would be able to read about their demands.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more logical for them to contact the families first, before they sent their demands to you?”

  “Maybe they did,” he said, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers.

  “You know they didn’t,” I said. “Mrs. Buckley received a call from Noticias last night. That was you, wasn’t it? I thought it was an odd time to call about a subscription.”

  “I was going to try to get a comment from her about the kidnapping, but when she said her husband would be home later, I realized she didn’t know.”

  “Then the note mentioned Vaughan by name?”

  He nodded slowly. “Both of them. Manheim and Buckley.”

  “And you didn’t inform Mrs. Buckley about it.”

  “I wasn’t about to tell her that her husband had been kidnapped. No! That’s a job for the cops, not me.”

  “Did you try to corroborate that the note was genuine?”

  “I knew the cops had found an abandoned car. I heard it on the scanner. I knew it was a gringo car. Part of the description was a sign in the window saying the driver doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “Perhaps the revolutionaries heard about it on the scanner, too. Maybe they took credit for something they didn’t do.”

  “Maybe. But then how would they know the names of the two men?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but something isn’t right. I’m told that the local revolutionary group is more interested in making political statements than in committing crimes.”

  “Kidnapping two Americans is a heck of a statement, don’t you think? Look, Señora Fletcher, there are revolutionary groups active all over this country. The powers that be can’t keep up with them. Quash ’em over here, they pop up over there. As long as there’s corruption in the government and in the legal and judicial systems—and that’s still the case, despite the best efforts of those in the current administration—the rebel groups have a reason to go on. Maybe our local revolutionaries just figured it was time to take a bolder stand, make a bigger splash.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “May I see the note?”

  “I told you, the police took it.”

  “A sharp editor like yourself, Señor Sylva, would have made a copy of the note, knowing the police would demand the original.”

  What came from him was more a bark than a laugh. “You’re pretty sharp yourself,” he said, taking a key from his pocket, unlocking one of his desk drawers, and pulling out a file folder. “Would you like a copy of it?”

  “That would be very helpful,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from them again?”

  “Not yet,” he said, getting up and turning on the copier, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if I did.” He took a sheet of paper from the folder.

  “What’s that mark on the corner?” I asked.

  “Just an ink smudge.”

  “Did you make it or was it on the original?”

  “Not me. I don’t use a fountain pen. By the way, is there a reward?”

  “Not so far. I think Mrs. Buckley will want to ask the police if they think it’s a good idea first. We don’t want to do anything to jeopardize Vaughan’s position.”

  “It’d make a difference. People will come forward with all kinds of information if they think there’s something in it for them.”

  “Are you including yourself?”

  “No way. The board would never let me accept a reward.” He waited while the copy machine warmed up. “Listen, I’m doing you a favor,” he said. “How about doing one for me?”

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “I’d like to interview you for the paper, Señora Fletcher. We have a lot of authors in town, but none who’re famous for solving crimes. Plus, you’re a friend of the victim. That gives you a unique perspective. I want an exclusive, nothing the other papers can get. Give it to me and I’ll even share any information that comes my way.”

  “What information do you think you’d get?”

  “You never know. San Miguel is a lot like a small town. It’s hard to keep secrets here. If someone knows what you’re doing, he’ll tell somebody else. And that person will tell another. Word gets around. And when it does, it sometimes comes to me.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Señor Sylva. You share information that helps me find Vaughan Buckley, and I’ll present myself at this office for an exclusive interview.”

  He smiled and put the paper in the copy machine. “Okay, but there’s more.”

  “What else do you want?” I asked.

  “I want to sit down with Señor Buckley. I want to learn what happened in his own words, a blow-by-blow description. I really want to talk with him.”

  “So do I, Señor Sylva. So do I.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The police station was only a short distance from the newspaper office, and I walked there after my visit with the editor, taking a shortcut through El Jardin. The park was small as parks go, and after a few visits its features were beginning to look familiar: the gazebo; the children skipping and chasing each other; the benches filled with people, newcomers and natives alike, reading, chatting, snoozing in the shade of the tall laurel trees.

  My eyes scanned El Jardin, looking for a bouquet of balloons that would indicate the balloon vendor was there again. I’d become increasingly convinced that he was the man who had robbed me the night I came to San Miguel de Allende. The balloon vendor was thinner than my assailant had been, but I recalled that the bandido had looked as if he were wearing
layers of clothing. Take them away and you take pounds off his appearance. The cough, of course, was the giveaway. Not that everyone with a cough could be considered under suspicion.

  A little girl, no more than two years old, ran up to me and wrapped her arms around my knees, squealing with delight. She was wearing a cotton dress, too large for her slight frame, the fabric thin from many washings and the hem frayed.

  “Hello,” I said. “Who are you?”

  She grinned back at an older boy of about five, who was chasing her. Releasing my knees, she darted behind me, and the two children ran in circles, the baby using my body as a shield. I heard a man’s shout and the pair of imps ran away, the little one laughing and waving at me. I smiled and waved back, enjoying the youngsters’ exuberance, their innocent enjoyment of a simple game.

  I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if Frank and I had had children. It was never our intention to be childless. We started our marriage with every expectation that our lives would mirror those of our friends and family. It just didn’t turn out that way. At first we were consumed with our failure, jealous of others’ easy fertility, angry at our inability to accomplish something everyone around us was capable of doing: producing offspring. But as the years passed we made peace with our disappointment, settled into a comfortable routine, and found our joy elsewhere, in sweet times together, listening, learning, loving. I have no regrets. We had a tender and close relationship, one I cherish in memory.

  Musing on the ironies life presents, I walked to the corner with the ice cream stand and waited for traffic to subside. It was late in the day, and the tourist buses were returning to the park, jockeying for position at the curb to let their passengers off. One bus came so close to where I stood I had to take a step back to avoid being hit by the side mirror.

  What happened next took place in an instant. The little girl raced to the corner and turned to taunt her brother, dancing backward toward the street. Her tiny sandal caught in the curb and she tumbled into the gutter just as a bus was pulling out. I heard screams but never stopping to think, I ran in front of the bus—its horn blaring—scooped up the child, and jumped back onto the sidewalk. I was surrounded by people, cheering me, all talking at once, pounding me on the back. The little girl was frightened by the commotion and began to cry. She reached her arms out to her father. I delivered her to him and looked up into his tearful eyes. It was the balloon vendor.