by RP Dahlke
Katy thought of Spencer climbing out a bathroom window to elude an angry mob of American housewives who saw through his French couture scam. Obviously, Spencer didn't think so highly of a thirty-year employee. Or had Wally done something to cause this kind of treatment?
"This must've been a disappointment."
Tears welled up in the older woman's eyes and she angrily swiped at them. "You have no idea. This is the sort of thing he does because he can get away with it. And why should it be any different with us? But my silly husband convinced me that Spencer would come through. I'd kill Spencer Bobbitt with my bare hands, given the chance…" She reddened and tried to back-pedal. "Not that I had anything to do with his latest mess, but it galls to think he's going to wriggle out of a murder charge, too."
Katy looked from Mrs. Howard to the boat and back again. "You said too. Is Spencer in trouble for something else?"
"I… I just meant that the bastard always has a loophole."
"So, what did you and Wally do to deserve this kind of treatment?"
"Me! The only thing I did wrong was to believe Wallace. And Wallace was influenced by Spencer's illegal business schemes. That's what we did wrong."
"If Wallace wants to cooperate with the authorities, I'm sure he could get immunity from any prosecution against Spencer."
"It's too late." And then the older woman's face crumbled and she sobbed into her hands.
Katy reached out to comfort the woman. "Why is it too late, Ida? Tell me what's happened and maybe I can help."
Ida wiped her face with her sleeve, sniffled once, and then looked around. "Oh God. Look at me, crying my eyes out here in the open where everyone can see me. I can't talk about this anymore." Then Ida turned and staggered for her boat steps.
Well, thought Katy, here's an interesting development for the inspector. If Wallace Howard was Spencer's CPA, he would know all the man's dirty secrets. There was no doubt about it—the derelict sailboat was a gift and a message. Now she would have to find out the message.
There was no capital punishment in Mexico, but it wouldn't be hard to imagine someone wanting to see Spencer Bobbitt suffer a long and slow death in a Mexican jail. Could these two people have committed the murder as revenge? And why did Ida Howard say it was too late?
She looked around. It was still a bright blue and sunny day in a beautiful marina full of vacationing sailors and fishermen.
Oh, to be home again. If only she could click her heels three times and be back in her San Francisco following autumn leaves as they cartwheeled down Columbus to her favorite coffee shop. Or be back in her apartment, preparing lasagna as part of her monthly pay-it-forward dinner night out between friends and colleagues.
Checking her watch, she saw she would have to hurry if she didn't want to keep the inspector waiting. Still hot and humid at eight p.m. she took her kit bag to the marina showers, changed into her only sundress, pulled her hair up into a knot at the top of her head, spritzed herself lightly with fragrance and added a little lip-gloss, then exited a side door that led around to the front of the hotel. She was walking to the main street when she saw a familiar figure leaning against a late model black Mercedes under the hotel's portico. Chief Inspector Vignaroli was waiting for her.
Only when she was practically in front of him did he break the concentrated stare he had on the hotel entry. Startled out of his private reverie, he dropped and then crushed the cigarette he'd been smoking and gave her a small formal bow. "Good evening, señorita."
"Hello," she said, now feeling awkward. He was dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie. "You look… uh, nice."
"I am supposed to look like a chauffeur. Please," he said, and opening the back door of the luxurious sedan for her, he waved her into the back seat.
When he was satisfied that she was settled and buckled in, he walked around to the driver's side and got in.
She asked, "Do you really think anyone is going to believe this?"
He looked at her in the rearview mirror and started the engine. "Why not? It makes more sense than having the watchers see you get into a police car."
"Are there watchers?"
"Of course," he said, pulling out into traffic. "And why is my disguise not perfect?"
"You don't hurry enough to be a chauffeur." And he looked at her too much.
He chuckled, the deep rumble leaving a warm spot somewhere in Katy's middle.
A block away from the hotel, he turned onto a highway leading out of town. Then he pulled over, got out, opened her door and beckoned her out.
"Here?" she asked. "Don't you want to talk inside the car?"
He smiled. "I am off duty and hungry. So if you will join me for dinner, I would very much appreciate it. We can talk there, sí?"
He walked her around to the passenger side and opened her door. She hesitated. "Wouldn't you rather be home with your wife and family tonight, Inspector?"
"This is business, Señorita Hunter. And we will be in a public restaurant owned by a family member, so I will expect by tomorrow my entire family will have questions, if not opinions, on the subject."
She nodded, got in, fastened her seatbelt.
"So, where did you borrow this nice car, Inspector Vignaroli?"
"It's mine," he said, with just enough humor in his voice to let her know he was enjoying himself. She wasn't going to ask, as well he knew, how a Mexican policeman could afford a luxury German car like this one.
He hit a button on the dash and immediately the air conditioner quietly lowered the temperature to a comfortable seventy-two. "Let me know if you're cold."
Another button and classical music washed through the interior.
"Chopin okay with you?" The car was headed north, and soon they were climbing higher into a dark, mountainous region.
Katy was beginning to wonder what she had gotten herself into. She was in a foreign country in a married police officer's very expensive private auto heading for God only knew where in the dead of night.
He looked at her. "I see that this is making you uncomfortable. Please rest assured that I am after only two things; one of which is to get us both away from the center of Ensenada so that we can talk in private, and the other is so that we can both enjoy a very good meal."
With each turn of the wheel the headlights twisted away from the road to throw a spotlight into the moonlit sky. She stole a glance at his shadowed face in profile. The high clear forehead, that prominent brow with those perfectly carved black brows and impossibly long eyelashes. In any other circumstance, she would be pleased to be going out to dinner with a darkly handsome man who made her insides go all fluttery.
He caught her looking and nodded. "Are you perhaps just a little hungry? I can promise you will love the food here."
"So, where is this place, Kansas?"
"You'll see." Rounding a corner, he pulled off the road and swung the wheel around until he rolled up next to an adobe building with wide steps leading up to cathedral-size double doors.
Two valets scurried down the steps to open their doors and Raul handed one boy his keys while the other opened Katy's door to offer her his assistance.
The chief came around the car and offered his arm.
They stepped through the entry and were greeted by a beautiful young woman whose dark liquid eyes smiled warmly at the chief and widened when she saw Katy. Even so, she graciously indicated that their table was ready and that they should follow her.
The foyer opened into a garden setting with huge old trees, their thick limbs forming a high, leafy green canopy. Hanging from the limbs were lighted round woven baskets in a variety of sizes. Tables were scattered throughout the garden between plantings of flowers and hedges, giving the atmosphere of privacy.
"Do you approve?" he asked.
"It's incredible." As they were led to a table set apart from the rest she added, "This is a beautiful setting. And from the cars outside, I'd say very popular. Not that I've ever heard about it."
"The marina hotel offers it to their guests. Otherwise, it's word of mouth, and every night all the reservations are filled."
A waiter rushed up and pulled out her chair, set her white linen napkin on her lap, laid two menus on the table and asked if they would like a cocktail.
Raul leaned towards her and whispered conspiratorially, "It is my one vice, once a week, one margarita. Say you will have one, too. I can promise you they are very good."
She smiled and nodded. One drink. And some food because everything smelled so good, she thought as another waiter passed by with something colorful and tasty looking.
When the waiter left with their drink order, she took it all in, the lush, yet quiet setting, the sigh of the breeze gently nudging the lighted baskets into motion. "This is an unexpected treasure. Do you come here often?"
"Not nearly enough."
Remembering the surprised look on the hostess's face she guessed that his presence here with a woman other than his wife was unusual. Now, why would a married man come here alone? She leaned back in her chair, and then because she was also a cop, said, "We could have brought your wife with us tonight, you know. It might have pleased her to be with her husband, even if you are here on business."
His earlier good humor was gone in a flash. He looked around the lighted patio garden, as if seeing it for the first time. "My wife," he said quietly, "would forgive me for coming without her."
Something he said, or the way he said it, touched her. She knew she was prying, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, a small man with a white starched chef's coat spread across his round middle rushed up to them. He stood beaming with arms extended wide, crooking his fingers in a proprietary signal, no dispute allowed.
Raul sighed, scraped back his chair and gave the little man a hug. In Italian, the two conversed amiably, then the chief turned to Katy and said, "This is my uncle, Blake."
Katy flashed the short round man a wide smile and held out her hand. Who wouldn't love this amiable Chef-Boyardee character named after an English poet?
Saying something in Italian, the little man grabbed her hand and gave it a feather-light kiss. Then with a wink and a waggle of his forefinger at his nephew, he said, "Forgive me, señorita, but I am so very pleased to see my nephew has honored us with your presence tonight."
When he left, Raul sat down again, put his napkin back onto his lap and smiled, his good mood now reinstated. Katy, unable to wait another minute, said, "Blake? Not too many Blakes in Italy, I'll bet."
The light was back in his deep gold eyes. "You think that's funny? My father's name is Byron and my aunt is Emily Bronte Vignaroli. She never married, poor thing, and she still blames our grandmother for that mistake. Of course it didn't help that my aunt looks like a horse."
Katy giggled. That got her funny bone, as he must've known it would.
He toyed with his spoon and continued, "My grandmother thought emulating the upper-class English would bring some sort of civilized deportment to our squabbling dinner table. Then my grandfather moved the entire family to Ensenada to start the cannery and my grandmother's dreams were dashed."
"Your family sounds good to me. All of you are educated, gainfully employed, successful. I hear a bit of southern American in your accent. Where'd you get that?"
"I went to law school in Louisiana. Fell in love with the south there and almost stayed."
She sipped a taste of her margarita, wondering if he also had stayed in the States long enough to meet and marry and move back to Ensenada. They probably had five kids. She gave up the useless mental beating and took a sip of her margarita.
"You're right about the margarita, though I think putting this fine tequila into a cocktail is a waste. What is the brand?"
"It's my Uncle Blake's. Named after his daughter, who fortunately has a very nice Spanish name… Angelita."
"It's also very strong. Perhaps we should order some food to dilute it."
"May I make a suggestion?"
When she nodded he ordered the food: veal saltimbocca and spaghetti with meatballs.
Katy noticed a guitarist had taken up a spot on a stool, close enough for the music to drift their way.
Raul considered the musician. "Shall I ask him to leave?"
"No, please. I think it's nice," she said, reaching for a breadstick.
"I'm sorry," Raul said, watching her take the breadstick out of the basket and bring it to her lips.
"Why? I'm not bored. We'll eat then discuss the case."
He traced a forefinger over the checkered pattern of the tablecloth. "You are anxious to get back to your life in San Francisco, are you not?"
"If you're asking whether I still have a job in the SFPD, the answer is yes. I'm expected to report for duty in two weeks and I still have to have my boat trucked back to California."
"I wish I didn't have to involve you, but I have many cases on my desk with all of them crying out for my attention."
"What could be more important than the death of one of your own citizens?"
"That is exactly why I am so grateful for your help in this matter. Your record with the SFPD is exemplary."
"You mean it was until I shot my sister's stalker."
He shook his head sadly. "If it had happened in Mexico, there would have been no paid leave of absence for one who comes to the defense of a potential victim."
"Well, that may be so in Mexico, but not the States."
"My sources tell me that you have the makings of a good homicide detective but you work in vice."
Her job and that promotion from vice to homicide hung in a decision of her department's internal investigation. She pushed the margarita glass away. "Let's concentrate on this job, shall we?"
He pursed his lips as if trying to keep something inside but nodded to indicate she should start.
"Your ruse to fool the American boaters lasted less than the time it took me to sail from one marina to the next. Word is out on who I am and why I'm there. You're surprised? Along with the weather report, rumor is spread throughout the entire American fleet over a cruiser's radio net. I can tell you right now that every boater from here to Acapulco knows about the floater, that my boat was chained to the dock by the police, and after a late night visit from the investigating detective, I'm motoring for Marina Mar, where the main suspect is docked." At his deep frown, she added, "Look, it's not all bad. For now, your witnesses are more interested in covering their own butts than to care about any connection I have with you."
"I'm sorry."
"Please don't apologize again. If you're really sorry you can release me from this job."
When he didn't jump to that idea she continued, "It wasn't a coincidence that I was invited to Spencer's party the first night I got there. I was, however, impressed at the number of Americans who showed up. I think it was his way to thumb his nose at your investigation and to size me up. So, I guess my question is who spilled the beans?"
"Beans?"
"You know what I'm talking about. Spencer knew I was coming."
He started to say something, but a young waiter shuffled over with two hot plates, thrust them onto the table, sighed loudly and shuffled away.
Katy couldn't help but smile. "New waiter?"
"That is my nephew, Alphonso, who is supposed to be in college in the States, but because he was caught drinking on campus, he's doing penance here at his father's restaurant. He hates manual labor, so we expect to see the back of him soon. I can only hope his good behavior lasts until he graduates.
"Please, manga, manga. Enjoy your meal and we'll talk on the ride back."
She was only too happy to dig into the savory saltimbocca; veal layered with prosciutto and cheese in a wine sauce over polenta. When she was finished, she wiped up the last of the sauce with her bread. "That was beyond yummy."
Raul said, "Saltimbocca means jumps in the mouth and it's one of my uncle's best dishes." Then he stood and lifted her shawl off the back of
her chair, and in an intimate gesture that caused her breath to stop, lightly lifted her hair away from her neck to gently lay the shawl across her shoulders.
For a moment, the music from the guitar player, conversation of nearby diners, waiters delivering and retrieving plates of food… it all faded into the background and she was standing there alone with him. Their eyes locked and only with great difficulty was she able to break the connection.
At the door, Katy looked back and gave one last look at the garden with its hanging lighted baskets. "It's like a secret garden. From the outside the walls are simple and plain. One would never know all of this is inside."
He was standing close to her, his voice warm in her ear. "I'm glad you liked it. Shall we go?"
Replete from the very good food and charmed by this magical night, she got into the car, belted up, and sat back to enjoy the moonlit night. At her contented sigh, Raul broke in on her quiet thoughts.
"I think Spencer Bobbitt will attempt to bribe you. You're a beautiful young American, a skillful sailor and you will be a sympathetic ear to many of the people on the list. He will want to have you on his side to make sure your investigation clears his name."
"Now it's my investigation?" The spell was broken. "Booth said he was going to get me an audience with the great man today, but either Spencer has changed his mind, or he's avoiding me. Which only looks bad for Spencer. Now, I have a question for you. Why isn't Booth on the list?"
When Raul didn't say anything, she said, "Booth is too smart, too cagey, to be anything less than Spencer's consigliere. Is he also perhaps working for you?"
Instead of answering her question, he asked, "What do you think of Spencer Bobbitt as a suspect?"
She rolled her lips under as she wondered why he wasn't willing to answer and decided to leave it, for now. "He's a ruthless and cunning barbarian who has lived by his wits for so long I doubt he'd know human kindness if it hit him in the face. Slimy business practices aside, I can't say yet. He checked me out at his party, and I suppose he'll be offering me that bribe soon. I'll let you know. But as for murdering the girl, I don't have enough information yet."