Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  In 1947 David E. Pace set up a business in the back room of a San Antonio liquor store, where he whipped up his picante sauce and other Tex-Mex delectables, which he spent the afternoon selling around town from the back of a truck. From this folksy beginning, Pace Foods became the top producer of Mexican salsas. Campbell Soup paid $1.115 billion for the business in 1994. Those of us who occasionally want to make easy guacamole, chile con queso, or eggs ranchero at home, love Pace Picante Sauce.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,”

  Milwaukee Daily News.

  5

  Adela Distraught

  Carolyn

  My huevos rancheros were very tasty. With the sun high in the sky and the temperature hovering at 70, we raised the green and white striped umbrella on the patio table and ate there, discussing the news report I’d heard on the radio. Jason had liked Vladik, mostly because of their mutual interest in opera, but also because Vladik had as little patience with long academic committee meetings as my husband. Therefore, Jason was understandably upset to hear of Vladik’s death.

  “And it was an undignified way to go,” said my husband. “I’m not surprised all that guacamole made him sick, but I wouldn’t have thought he was so drunk he couldn’t keep from choking to death.” He poured more coffee and took another appreciative bite of his huevos rancheros. “Opera in this town is going to take a hit. We can’t expect any more performances from the university, other than degree recitals and the dinner theater, which pays for itself. Even if the funding revives, they’ve decided they want zarzuela, not the real thing, and God only knows how his death will affect Opera at the Pass.”

  “Maybe it won’t. The board president didn’t like the Macbeth . I heard him say that they should get rid of Vladik.”

  “Stupid,” said Jason sharply. “They may not have liked the staging, but look at the principals he brought in. Can they do that on their own?”

  While this conversation continued, I had other thoughts. Jason and, evidently, the police thought Vladik had succumbed to too much alcohol, or perhaps as the coroner suggested flu, but Vladik definitely hadn’t had the flu, and I too had been sick—only once, but I hadn’t had so much guacamole. The look on Adela’s face when he claimed the whole bowl kept coming back to me. She’d seemed almost panic stricken as she told him that he couldn’t eat it all, that it was for everyone. I had to wonder if others had been ill last night, if something had been wrong with the guacamole, and Adela had known it.

  My suspicions were probably foolish, I told myself, but when a graduate student having problems in the lab called Jason to the university, I decided to pay a call on Adela. I knew the young woman well enough from the fund-raisers at which she’d sung to know that after 9/11 she’d moved from her family home in Juarez to a dorm room on campus. Security at the international bridges had become so tight that it could take hours to cross when the national alert was raised. Our students from Juarez, and there were several hundred, sometimes had to leave home in the middle of the night to insure arriving for morning classes on time.

  I left a vague note on the kitchen table in case Jason got home before I did and drove over to the university dormitory. Because it was Sunday, there were no guards stopping cars without permits from entering the campus, and parking places were easy to find, unlike those near the science building or the library during the week. A student on duty at the first floor desk called upstairs and got Adela’s permission to send me up. She was in her room studying for a history test.

  “Adela, I loved your guacamole and just had to come over to ask for the recipe,” I said disingenuously as I took a seat on her bed. “You know I write a food column.”

  The young woman looked uncomfortable but stammered that she could provide a recipe. “Thank you so much,” I exclaimed. “Do you want to dictate it to me or—”

  “I could write eet down. Ees my mother’s, but she be excited eef you put eet een the newspaper.”

  Actually, Adela herself looked more anxious than excited, so my suspicions were reinforced. I’d have to pursue this further. While she took a piece of paper from the drawer of her desk and began to write, I asked casually, “Were you sick after the party?”

  She looked up and shook her head without speaking.

  “I was. But not much,” I added. She looked relieved. “Still, it made me wonder. I made those canapés ahead of time, and now I’m afraid the preserves or the creamed cheese might have developed bacteria. And then, of course, there’s Vladik. I suppose you heard about him.”

  Adela finished the recipe and handed it to me. “I have not heard from Professor Gubenko,” she said very formally.

  “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry to be the person to have to tell you this, as I’m sure you were fond of him.”

  “I am not!” she exclaimed, and then bit her lip. “I mean—well—he ees good voice coach, but he—he—”

  “He what, Adela?” I asked, concerned. What had he done to her?

  “He promise me the part of Lady Macbeth, and then when I—well, later he breeng een woman from Chile.”

  Good grief, had he lured her into bed with promises of the leading role and then reneged when he’d had his way with her? That was an old-fashioned way of putting it, I suppose; no doubt Gwen, my daughter, would giggle if she heard my phrasing. Young people these days don’t think twice about hopping into bed with one another. Not Gwen, I hope, but a professor and a student—that was another matter. Still, I was getting ahead of myself.

  “I’m sure you were very disappointed,” I said gently.

  “I am furious. Men should not—not make the promise and then—then forget all about eet when—when a person’s career may depend on—well, I was angry at heem. But I get over eet.”

  “Of course, you did,” I agreed. “You were wonderful last night. I imagine he did that witches’ trio just for you. And after all, it may have been for the best. Lady Macbeth is a very difficult role. It demands not just a lovely voice, which you certainly have, but maturity and experience. I’m sure you’ll sing it one day.”

  “You really theenk so?” she asked wistfully.

  “I certainly do, and in the meantime, you distinguished yourself last night.” Good grief. I’d completely forgotten what I came for, which was not to reassure a young singer of her potential, no matter how sincere my reassurances might be. “The thing is—about Vladik.”

  “I suppose he ees sick too,” she mumbled.

  “Worse than that, Adela. He died last night.”

  “Died?” Her face went pale, and her lips trembled. “Ees dead?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. They think he became very sick and aspirated—”

  “What ees aspirate?” she demanded anxiously, wringing her hands.

  “He was throwing up and choked to death on it. At least that’s what the initial police report said.”

  “Police?” Her voice faded. “Oh, dear Holy Mother!” she whispered and dropped her face into her hands. “No one ees supposed to die,” she said, sobbing. “A little sick, maybe si. But no dying.”

  “Adela?” I asked in the calmest voice I could manage. “Did you put something in the guacamole?” She nodded her head, face still covered with her hands, sobs coming faster.

  “What was it?”

  “I don’ know,” she moaned. “I tell Tia Julietta about heem. Never could I tell my mama. She would be so ashamed. I say to my tia I hope his Macbetto ees big failure, an’ his party—eet ees horrible. An’ Tia Julietta, she geeve me these powder. Herbs. Verdad? Just herbs. To make people a leettle sick. So they hate his party an’ he get sick too. But no one meant to die!” she wailed.

  “Ees not my fault. He should not eat all, an’ even eef he eat all, he shouldn’t die. An’ Father Rigoberto, he should not offend the Holy Mother by say I make better the guacamole than her. Ees a curse on me.” Her English and her common sense seemed to deteriorate as she became more upset.

  “Now, I be arrest for kill him. An’ the Tex
as, they kill me for kill Vladik when I only mean for Vladik be a leettle sick, like you gringos say—Montezuma’s revenge. Turistas not die from Montezuma’s Revenge.”

  “Well, Adela,” I said, sighing, “you’re not going to be executed. After all, as you say, you didn’t mean for him to die. His dying was sort of second hand to whatever you put in the guacamole.”

  “You not tell police about Tia Julietta?”

  Personally, I thought her aunt had no business giving an angry, hurt young woman a dangerous herbal potion. What was she, this Julietta? Some sort of witch? “We don’t know that the police are going to start questioning people about the food. Maybe they’ll take his death as completely accidental. But, if they do question you, Adela,” I advised, “I think you should get a lawyer and let him supervise any conversations you have with the police.”

  “Abogado? Si, Tio Javier es abogado.”

  “Maybe an American lawyer would be best. Unless your uncle practices in this country.”

  “Maybe I just go home to Mama’s.”

  “Wouldn’t that look suspicious?” I suggested.

  She began to cry again.

  It occurred to me that if the medical examiner did a toxicology screen on the contents of Vladik’s stomach, which would surely be part of the autopsy, then the police would be questioning everyone who had provided food. That included me.

  6

  Questions Abound

  Carolyn

  Having had my appetite for Mexican food whetted by huevos rancheros at noon, I stopped by Casa Jurado, which is near the university, and ordered two #2 Mexican plates to go, a bag of tostados, and a container of salsa. A taco, a chile relleno, and an enchilada each in the combination plates, not to mention rice and beans, should do for dinner. Needless to say, Jason beat me home.

  “Where have you been all this time?” he asked. “I’ve been fielding telephone calls ever since I got home.”

  “And I’ve been getting Adela’s recipe for guacamole.” I put the recipe and my purse down on the console in the hall. “Look, I brought dinner from Casa Jurado,” I added, holding up the Styrofoam containers and the white paper bag and heading for the kitchen with our dinner.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Jason muttered, following behind.

  “Since when don’t you like the #2 combination plate?” I took two bottles of Dos Equis from the refrigerator, poured them into the frosted mugs I keep in the freezer, and balancing the dinners on the mugs, carried them out onto the patio. Sunset in El Paso is a lovely sight—a bold wash of colors on the western horizon that never ceases to amaze me. Of course, Jason says that it’s the result of dust and other pollutants in the air, but then what can you expect from a scientist? My scientist followed with napkins and tableware.

  “I wasn’t talking about dinner. I meant the guacamole,” he said.

  I eyed my husband sharply. How could he possibly know that Adela had tampered with the guacamole? “You didn’t like it?”

  “It was great, what little I got, but people from the party last night are calling each other to exchange stories about how sick they were when they got home. If I’m not mistaken, you were sick yourself.”

  I hadn’t realized that my one trip to the bathroom had awakened him.

  “Has to have been the guacamole,” he reasoned. “The person who had the most is dead. The rest, who had less, got sick but survived, and those of us who had hardly any are okay.”

  Ah, the scientific mind at work, I thought, doused my taco with salsa, and ate it quickly, before dribbles of tomato and chili could fall all over my blouse or the grease from the meat make the bottom drop out of the taco and into my lap.

  “It must have spoiled,” said Jason. “We had an evening of avant-garde Macbeth and food poisoning.”

  For the time being I didn’t enlighten Jason.

  “Some police sergeant called, as well as the opera aficionados,” Jason continued. He was well into his chile relleno. “Asking questions about who got sick and who provided the food. Of course, I had to tell him about your canapés, but I also mentioned that I thought it more likely the guacamole was the culprit. Pass the chips and salsa, would you? He’s coming by to talk to you.”

  “Really? Are we suspects?” Although I usually prefer wine with dinner, there’s nothing like an icy beer with Mexican food, and Dos Equis is very tasty. I heard recently that it’s coming out in cans. I wonder if people will then sprinkle the can with salt and lime juice as they do Tecate, another Mexican beer. I don’t care much for drinking from cans myself.

  “Suspected of what?” my husband retorted. “The man choked to death on his own vomit.”

  “Maybe they know something we don’t know. I wish I’d thought to get some of the Mexican crepes at Casa Jurado.”

  “They’d be soggy by the time you got them home,” said Jason, and pushed the chips and salsa back in my direction. “Look at that sunset, will you? We never saw anything like that in the Midwest. Wonder what a sunset would look like if you could keep heavy metal particles suspended long enough to have an effect?”

  Needless to say, I had no idea.

  “Did I tell you about this article I read—think it was in C & E News—about how many diamonds you can produce by burning a corpse under high enough temperatures and pressures?”

  “How many?” What a strange idea.

  “Hmmm. Maybe five half carats for a woman, six for a man.”

  “That’s wonderful. We should specify in our wills that our bodies be turned into diamonds. Think how thrilled Gwen would be. Someday she could tell her friends that her earrings were Mother and her bracelet—”

  “It would be too expensive,” said Jason, dashing my macabre fantasy.

  Another round of calls began after dinner—members who had provided food and been questioned by the police. I took one from Barbara Escobar, who was in tears because she had the impression that the authorities thought she’d poisoned Vladik Gubenko with her tuna-salad-stuffed pastry puffs, her motivation—his insulting drug-dealer Macbeth. I assured her that their hypothesis made no sense whatever. After all, I said, she had made the puffs before she’d seen the opera, the theme of which had been kept secret from everyone but the cast. Therefore, she’d had no reason to poison the artistic director until after the performance.

  “You’re right,” she cried. “I’ll sue. Frank, I want you to call our lawyer.”

  I didn’t mention that being questioned by the police wasn’t grounds for a lawsuit.

  Sergeant Guevara and Detective Gomez arrived at our house just after eight. Was the sergeant related to Che Guevara? I wondered after asking if they’d like to sit out on the patio and have a glass of iced tea. I presumed that it wouldn’t be proper to offer beer.

  They opted for the living room, being, no doubt, El Paso natives and, therefore, wimps about any temperature from the low 60s down. Jason and I sat on one blue love seat, and they sat on the other, which was placed perpendicular to ours and bordered a nice rug I’d bought in San Francisco and had shipped home.

  “We understand you made some food for the party,” the sergeant began.

  “Yes, crackers with cream cheese and jalapeno-fruit preserves from the El Paso Chile Company,” I replied.

  “Oh, man,” said Detective Gomez. “You tried their barbeque sauce?”

  “No, is it good?” I am always interested in new food products that don’t require production by me.

  The sergeant glowered at his detective and reintroduced his line of questioning. “Now, folks, we’d like to know what kind of relationship you had with the deceased.”

  It occurred to me that I could shock the sergeant by saying, “Ménage à trois.” Of course, I’d never say that, and if I did, Jason would be horrified. I restrained myself. Jason said he’d served on a university committee with Gubenko.

  “And you, ma’am?” asked the sergeant.

  “We all liked opera,” I replied. “Did you find something lethal in his
stomach contents?”

  “You thinking of taking over my investigation, ma’am?”

  “Well, I realize that you are being facetious, Sergeant, but as it happens I have some experience with investigatory pursuits. Just last summer, my mother-in-law was accused of murder in San Francisco, and I myself helped to find the actual murderer, who, while still on the loose, shot at me, I might add.” A source of anger every time I think of it. “You have my heartfelt sympathy. It must be very trying when miscreants attempt to kill you for simply doing your duty.”

  Jason had rolled his eyes and leaned back against the cushions. The sergeant, who evidently suspected me of some kind of joke, cast me a flinty-eyed glance. “Would you folks call the deceased a heavy drinker?”

  We looked at each other. “I don’t think either of us could say,” Jason answered.

  “Well, you was at the party with him. How many drinks did he have that night, would you say?”

  “Three, maybe four,” I guessed. “Margaritas.”

  “Over six feet, over two hundred pounds. He couldn’t have been that drunk,” said the detective.

  “Especially since he consumed a pound of guacamole while having his three or four drinks,” Jason agreed.

  I’d have preferred that he not bring up the guacamole, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  “Either of you get drunk? Or sick?” asked the sergeant.

  “Carolyn was sick when we got home. I wasn’t,” said Jason, “and neither of us was drunk.”

  “I’m a food columnist,” I added. “I’m more interested in food than alcohol, and Jason was driving. You didn’t have more than two drinks the whole evening, did you, Jason?”

  “Why bother?” he replied. “The champagne was atrocious, and—”

  “Did you notice that they had Tattinger’s for Lady Macbeth?” I asked indignantly.

  “Not in my glass,” said Jason.

  “Well, I guess that wraps it up,” muttered the sergeant, looking disgusted.