Margaritas & Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  I dropped my arms and heaved a sigh of relief. “You were almost a victim yourself, Father,” I said, cocking my head toward my would-be weapon.

  “I’m glad you thought to wait before swinging,” he said. “Come inside. There’s no one here.”

  “No one? No guard? No Vaughan?”

  “Not that I could find. The place is deserted. But watch out—there are boxes everywhere.”

  I followed him through the door, reached in my bag for my flashlight, and shined the beam around the space. Wooden crates and stacks of cardboard boxes were scattered across the floor. I pulled aside the straw in an open crate to see a colorful hand-painted ceramic sink. A brief search revealed boxes of handmade crafts—plates and pitchers, clay bird rattles, marionettes dressed like Mexican peasants, pierced metal frames, papier-mâché masks, wooden maracas, tissue-paper piñatas—waiting to be crated for shipment.

  “Are you sure no one is here?” I asked.

  “They are not here now. Whether they will be back at any moment, I cannot tell.”

  “And no sign of Vaughan?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, Señora.”

  I wandered the room. One side was clearly a packing area. Hammers, crowbars, and other tools dangled from nails tapped into the wall. Crates sat empty next to bales of straw. New and half-used rolls of packing tape were threaded on a dowel. Near the front door, I found a light switch. I flipped it up and three widely spaced fixtures—really just bare bulbs—came to life, spilling dim pools of light on the warehouse floor. To my right, two chairs and a table sat next to a large garbage can, the top of which had been left off. A half-empty liquor bottle sat on the floor.

  “Are you sure we should turn on the light? Maybe they were never here. Maybe this is the wrong building,” Father Alfredo said, looking around uncertainly. “We are not here legally, and we don’t want to be noticed.”

  “The key opened the gate,” I said. “How did you get in the building?”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  “Then we must be in the right place,” I said. “And if I’m not mistaken, someone was here recently.” I leaned over the garbage can and aimed the flashlight to examine its contents.

  “What have you found?”

  “Leftover food. It hasn’t been here very long.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It doesn’t smell bad yet, but I’m afraid if you leave the top off overnight, you’ll notice quite a difference in the morning.”

  Father Alfredo clicked his tongue. “They’re going to draw rats with this garbage.”

  “They may have already,” I said, angling my head to catch a soft scratching sound. I swung the beam of my flashlight around the perimeter of the room, looking for an indication of rodents.

  Father Alfredo shuddered. “I am very brave with people,” he said, “but I do not like rats. I think we should go.”

  “I realize you’re concerned about our being discovered here,” I said. “You can wait outside if it will make you feel better. I just need a little more time.”

  “No. No, I would never think to leave you alone.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said, smiling at him. I put my shoulder bag and flashlight on the table and examined each of the chairs, running my fingers over the rough wooden rails on the top and sides. “I’ll only be a minute more.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Fibers. Hairs. Any evidence that indicates Vaughan was here—and I think I may have found it.”

  Father Alfredo drew closer and squinted at the chair. “I don’t see anything.”

  “There’s something sticky on this chair.”

  “Why is that important? Someone with dirty hands, maybe from the food?”

  I sniffed at the chair. “It’s not food,” I said. “And it’s on both sides. It could be adhesive from packing tape.”

  “To repair the chair?”

  “It doesn’t look as if it’s been repaired,” I said, “but they might have used the tape to keep someone in the seat.”

  I retrieved my flashlight and swung it from side to side, box to box. The floor was littered with fragments of straw. I spotted several bales stacked on a pallet, ready to be packed around goods.

  “I think I hear the rats,” he said. “Do you see them?”

  “The packing area is over here,” I said, pointing the beam at the bales. “Why is there a pile of straw down there?” The straw lay beside several wooden crates that looked as if they had been hammered shut, ready for shipping.

  “Maybe someone has been stealing some of the goods,” he said. “Or maybe that’s where the rats—they are making a nest. We must go. I have a bad feeling here.”

  “I wonder,” I said, walking away from him to examine the pattern of straw on the floor. “Look,” I said. “The fragments of straw are pretty evenly distributed, but here something was dragged through it. See these lines that lead from the table?”

  “The boxes, they are heavy. Maybe the men pushed one out of the way. I had to do that to get to the back door.”

  “Show me where you moved the box,” I said.

  “Certainly.” He walked toward the door we’d used to enter the warehouse and gazed around to get his bearings. “This is the one,” he said, patting the top of a wooden case. “I’m sure of it. I stubbed my foot on this corner.”

  The light was too diffuse to see clearly. I knelt down, training my flashlight on the floor and the edge of the crate. “The pattern here is different,” I said. “Over there are two parallel lines. Here’s a clear patch where the bottom of the crate pushed the straw away.” I walked back to the lines in the straw at the other end of the room.

  “You are a very observant woman. This is good,” Father Alfredo said. “It is time to go now. Yes?”

  I took a rough measurement of the space between the lines and went back to the chairs. The distance between the lines matched the space between the two back legs of the chair.

  “They dragged the chair over there,” I said softly to myself. “It must be because it was too heavy to lift.” I followed the lines. “A box would make a much broader mark in the straw,” I mused. “These lines go to the crates in the corner.”

  “Señora?”

  I put one finger up to ask him to wait, as my eyes went to where the chair had been dragged. “There’s only one set of marks. I suppose the chair must have been carried back to the table. It would have been lighter then.”

  “Señora, it is getting late.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” I said, “but let me take a look at those crates first.”

  “All right, but please hurry.”

  I grabbed a crowbar that had been left in the packing area.

  “We don’t need to open them, do we?” he said, following me.

  “That noise we heard earlier was coming from somewhere around here,” I said, tapping on a crate.

  “Why do you want to disturb the rats? I think we should leave them alone.”

  I peered at the tops of the crates. “There,” I said, pointing to a crate hemmed in by three others. “On the front ones, there’s only one set of nails, but on that one, you can see the nails and holes where they were removed once.”

  “Why can’t we just open this one? It’s closer.”

  Using all my strength, I attempted to shove one of the crates out of the way, unmindful of the racket it made as the wood scraped against the stone floor. It barely budged.

  “Careful now. You will hurt your back. That’s too heavy for you,” he said. “I’ll help you.” We pressed our weight against the rough wooden slats until, one by one, we were able to wrestle the crates aside and gain access to the one I wanted.

  I took the crowbar and wedged it under the corner of the top where it had been hammered shut. “Let’s get this open,” I said.

  “Let me,” Father Alfredo said, taking over and levering the bar enough to release the nails with a loud squeal.

  “Now th
is side,” I said. I could no longer hear the scratching, but I was certain this was the right crate.

  Father Alfredo jammed the crowbar under the opposite corner. “I think I have it now.”

  We managed to lift the top a few inches, but it was too dark to see inside the crate.

  “It needs to come off,” I said.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Father Alfredo maneuvered to the other side of the crate and repeated the work with the crowbar. When the last nail gave up its hold with a sigh, the top was freed. He pulled it off and flung it aside; it landed with a noisy clatter on the floor.

  I leaned over the side of the crate and directed my flashlight inside. A heavy blanket concealed the contents. I reached in and pulled up a corner of it.

  “Madre de Dios,” Father Alfredo said, crossing himself.

  He was curled in the bottom of the crate, his eyes shut, his clothes filthy, flecked with straw and I didn’t want to think what else, hands and feet bound with tape. His hair, usually so neatly groomed, was dusty and stood away from his scalp in spikes. His mouth was sealed with more tape, the plastic close in hue to the deathly pallor of his mottled skin and the stubble of whiskers that shadowed his gaunt cheeks.

  “Is he alive?” Father Alfredo whispered.

  “Vaughan?” I said softly.

  He opened his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It took all our strength to lift Vaughan out of the crate. I carried over a chair from the table, the same one in which he’d been bound, then dragged to his wooden prison. He slumped in the seat, his eyes closed, while we worked to release his bindings and delicately tear away the tape covering his mouth. Father Alfredo’s face was a mask of grief as he silently ministered to Vaughan, patiently cutting away the hair where the adhesive pulled at his skin to spare him the pain of ripping the tape off, rubbing his ankles and calves, then his shoulders, arms, and wrists to revive the circulation as each limb was released.

  Vaughn took in a deep breath through his mouth when the last bit of tape was removed. Father Alfredo retrieved the liquor bottle we’d found next to the garbage can. “We have no medicine,” he said, “but this may prevent infection.” He dabbed alcohol on Vaughan’s wrists where the tape had abraded his skin.

  “Ouch, that stings,” Vaughan croaked. “I think I’d be better off drinking it.”

  Father Alfredo offered him the bottle. Vaughan shook his head and gave a slight snort. “Not unless you have a straw.” He gestured to his lips, which were cracked and bleeding. “But I thank you, sir.”

  I watched the exchange, silently assessing Vaughan’s condition. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and I was sure every muscle in his body was sore. He was exhausted from lack of sleep, but his sense of humor was undamaged. He turned to me. “Ah, Jessica,” he said. “I had faith you would find me. But the heroines in your books work a lot faster. What took you so long?”

  “It is God who has led her to you,” Father Alfredo said.

  “No doubt,” Vaughan said, taking note of the priest. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  I introduced them. “Father Alfredo helped me find you, Vaughan, but we need to get you out of here before the kidnappers come back,” I said. “Do you think you can stand?”

  “Not yet,” Vaughan said, rubbing an aching shoulder. “But I doubt they’ll be back. My Spanish isn’t great, but I pieced together what they said. They were locking me up to give themselves time to get away. They were afraid the police were right behind them.”

  “I hope this is true, that the authorities find them,” Father Alfredo said. “I am very angry. I was deceived. This was not what I expected to find. The men, they say they are not criminals. But this”—he pointed to Vaughan—“this is inexcusable. To be poor is not a crime, to struggle and take desperate measures to feed your family, this is regrettable but understandable. But to treat the life of another as if it has no value, to tie him up and leave him like an animal going to slaughter, that is criminal. I am ashamed of myself for believing they were doing no great harm.”

  “Not your fault, Father,” Vaughan said. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He looked at me, his eyes questioning. “Did Woody make it?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  His chin dropped to his chest. “I was afraid of that. The damned fool, waving that gun around.”

  “What happened there? Do you remember?”

  “We were delayed getting back. We were supposed to get an early start and be home before dark, but Woody got into a hassle over the hotel bill with some guy who spoke no English. I told him we should just pay it and get on the road, but he insisted we were getting cheated. We had to wait around for the manager to arrive before it could be resolved. And, of course, the charge was legitimate. The manager was very accommodating—he even paid for our breakfast—but he was correct. We owed the money. Woody kept arguing until I pulled him away. By that time it was almost noon.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I think I’d like to try to get up now.”

  Father Alfredo and I each took an arm and assisted Vaughan to his feet. He swayed momentarily, then gained his balance and straightened up. “That feels good,” he said, taking a deep breath.

  We supported him, walking in a small circle around the chair and holding his arms, till he shook us off. He took a few steps by himself before his legs gave out. Father Alfredo and I jumped forward, catching him before he fell and putting him back in the seat.

  “Darn legs fell asleep, cramped in that box. They’re still tingling.”

  “Give yourself a little more time,” I said.

  “I’ll be fine once the blood in my legs starts pumping again.” He rubbed his thighs with his palms.

  Father Alfredo drew me aside. “I’m going to check outside to make sure we are still alone,” he said.

  “Be careful,” I said. “I’m not entirely convinced they won’t return.”

  “I am of the same mind. If they do, I will signal to you to give you time to take your friend out the rear door.” He went to Vaughan and patted his shoulder. “You rest,” he said. “We will try to get you moving again soon.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Vaughan said.

  The priest slipped out the front door and closed it silently behind him. I turned to Vaughan. He was fading, the excitement of being rescued giving way to the exhaustion of having reached the end of his ordeal. He drowsed in the chair, but I couldn’t let him fall asleep. Staying in the warehouse was not an option. We needed to get him home.

  I shook Vaughan’s shoulder.

  “I’m awake,” he said. “I’m just thinking about Woody.”

  “Let’s try walking again,” I said. “You can tell me more of what happened.”

  He leaned on my arm and stood, taking small shuffling steps until he felt more secure on his legs.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “Olga thought you would call if you were going to be late. If you had, I’m sure she would have insisted you stay away another day rather than risk the road after sunset.”

  “Oh, my sweet Olga,” he said, smiling for the first time. “She warned me not to go. I meant to call home, wanted to, but Woody refused to stop. He kept insisting he could make up the time. And the cell phones were useless in the mountains.” He leaned heavily against me and closed his eyes. I thought he might fall asleep standing up.

  “Talk to me, Vaughan,” I prompted him. “Tell me about the kidnapping. How did that happen?”

  He opened his eyes. “I’m not sure.” He took a few tentative steps and stopped again. “We came upon an accident, at least that’s what we thought it was. Somebody lying in the middle of the road. Woody pulled over to help, and they jumped us.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Four men. They seemed to be arguing about what they were doing. I thought they were going to let us go. Then Woody got into a scuffle with one of them. He drew his gun and this guy jumped on him, trying to wrestle it away. I heard a shot and W
oody fell down.”

  “So it was Woody’s own gun that killed him?”

  “Yes. I don’t even know if the men were armed.”

  “What happened then?”

  “It’s a little hazy now. I think I screamed at the men to get help. I tried to stem the bleeding, but all I had was Olga’s handkerchief.” He looked down at his hands as if still seeing the blood. “I threw it under the car. One of them must have knocked me unconscious. That’s all I can remember till I woke up in here with a blindfold over my eyes and a lump the size of Central Park.” He probed the back of his head with his fingers. “It still feels pretty swollen.”

  “How long were you in the crate?” I asked, urging him to walk again. “Did they keep you there the whole time they had you?”

  “No. Most of the time I was tied to a chair, listening to them arguing about what to do with me.”

  “Did they feed you?”

  “Sometimes. I wasn’t very hungry. I kept thinking about Woody, hoping he got help, and worrying about Olga, sure she was worrying about me.” His steps were getting stronger as we circled the warehouse.

  “Did you know Woody was carrying a gun?”

  “I had no idea. I like to think I wouldn’t have gone with him had I known that—we’ve always been very much against guns, Olga and I—but I can’t honestly say that’s true. I wanted to go. He made the trip sound like something only brave young men undertake, a great adventure.”

  “And was it?”

  “Not really. He handed me a bill of goods. I think he just wanted company. It’s a long, mostly boring drive. Of course, it ended up being more of an adventure than either of us bargained for.” Vaughan shook his head. “He acted like a cowboy, waving that gun around. I told him to calm down and do whatever they asked. But he wouldn’t listen. I can’t figure out why. He liked to fancy himself a macho man. Maybe it was the influence of the Mexican culture. Maybe he just missed the excitement of his military career or wanted to relive his youth. I remember thinking at the time that he knew what he was doing. I was admiring him. Until, of course, he got shot.”

  “Did he say anything to you after he was hit?”