The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb Read online

  For a woman who liked a mani-pedi, and a good murder mystery, Ada Taylor seemed to have quite a lot to say for herself. I imagined that her desire to chat, and impart information, was often stifled by the domineering presence of Dorothea, and that her down-to-earth approach to life had been honed by decades of child rearing and husband wrangling.

  “Come on, Frank; let’s go now, dear!” she called.

  Frank harrumphed his way toward the front door. “Told you she could sort out all that technology stuff for you,” he said, with guarded pride. “How about we meet you at the Amigos del Tequila later on for a bite? You could bring us up to date after your meeting with Al.” Frank looked hopeful.

  “I’d enjoy that,” I said, half-truthfully, “but I don’t quite know what Al has planned for me, so I can’t say.”

  “How about you take our cell number, and we can keep in touch?” suggested Ada.

  “Good idea,” I said. We exchanged numbers. Thank goodness Bud made me buy a cheap roaming plan for our week here.

  We waved to each other as they set off toward Casa Canuck. As soon as it seemed polite, I nipped inside, shut the door, and pulled up the internet on the TV screen. A few clicks and I managed to access my email. I waded through the long list of sales offers from plus-sized clothing companies—it’s so depressing when most of your inbox looks like that—and finally, there it was! Jack’s message.

  I opened it and read as fast as I could, which, given that I’m a speed-reader, was pretty quick.

  Hi Cait—I won’t beat about the bush. This is bad. I’ve spoken to an old CSIS colleague of mine in Ottawa, and he’s promised to get in touch with an associated operative in the area, with whom I can liaise when I arrive. Funny thing is I know the person, kind of, and I never knew they were “in the business.” Good cover. Ottawa’s not happy about the situation. None of us are. I’m on a flight at 3:00 PM tomorrow. I should be at my condo by about 9:00 PM. I’ll phone you when I get in. Meanwhile, here’s some advice: don’t get involved, keep your head down, stick to your cover story, and don’t let anyone know what you do for a living, especially your role as a consultant with the Integrated Homicide Team here in the Lower Mainland. Henry thinks you’re a friend of ours, that’s me and Sheila. Stick to that. Be vague. Act as though you’re on vacation. If you mix with the folks at the hacienda, be careful not to give yourself away. Steer clear of the cops and the crime scene, and, above all, make absolutely no effort to contact Bud, or even find out anything about him. I’m guessing that this murder will become a hot topic there: stay out of the conversations. If you need to, just hunker down next to Henry’s pool and read a book or something. I trust you to do this. I know it’s what Bud would want. He’s following protocol, and you need to follow it too. Bud will hope that you’ve left. He’ll probably think you have. So be as good as not there. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Bud’s probably pretty safe if he’s at the local cop shop. Once he’s in the general population, if anyone finds out who he is, given his role in the gang and drug-running task force, he could be in grave danger. No one can know his name, or his background. I’m sure you understand. If you go anywhere near him, the chances of someone making a connection increase. So don’t. I know the next day or so is going to feel like a long time. Call me if you want. See you soon. Jack.

  So that was that. There was no information about Bud, his “colleagues,” or what the heck was going on with regard to possible CSIS involvement, nor was there a single useful suggestion from Jack that might save Bud. Nothing. What was the point of telling me to keep out of it until he arrived? Especially now that I knew Jack wouldn’t be arriving at all! There were no contact details, no names. Not a number or an email address. Nothing that would allow me to follow up on Jack’s actions. Just a series of warnings to steer clear of Bud. And that one ominous comment about how Bud would be in danger if he was dumped into the general police holding system. The thought had been gnawing at me since Al had handcuffed Bud, so it didn’t help at all to see that Jack felt it necessary to spell it out. Damn and blast!

  What could I do? I hadn’t outed myself—Al had done that for me. The cat wasn’t just out of the bag, it was running willy-nilly around the place, yowling as it ran! I couldn’t stay out of it now. No matter what Bud might have expected, and no matter what Jack had hoped, I was on the case. Not so much on it as up to my neck in it, in fact.

  I was about to meet the cop leading the inquiry into discovering Bud’s identity, and I’d promised to help him do just that, while I was being implored—okay, instructed—by Jack to do the exact opposite.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  Power Hour

  I CLOSED UP CASA LALA and headed down the slight incline of the rocky track that led to Amigos del Tequila. It was well past 5:00 PM, but the sun was still pretty high, and the humidity was almost unbearable. As I walked, I kicked up dust. It stuck to my sweaty legs. Lovely! I don’t do humidity. What was I thinking, agreeing to come to Mexico at this time of year? If I’d said no, then Bud wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  I was at the adobe restaurant and bar in a matter of moments. It had seemed to take a lot longer when I was dragging the bags up to the house, even with Al’s help. Once again I pushed open the doors to the building where I’d made my fateful decision to help out the cops, and, once again, the place was deserted.

  “Hello?” I called.

  Nothing.

  I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. Wait outside for Al? Settle myself on a stool and wait for someone to show up? Peer into the back of the building from where Tony had emerged that afternoon? I decided to peer. I admit I’m not the world’s most patient person.

  Beyond the bar was a short corridor, which led to the washrooms, then the kitchen. I pushed open a pair of swinging doors, stepped into a small but gleaming kitchen, and shouted, “Hello?” Still nothing. Now that was odd. Surely Tony wouldn’t just leave the whole place completely unattended?

  I walked farther into the kitchen. No one in sight. The humming of refrigeration units buzzed in the air, and a wonderful aroma of herbs, spices, and cooked meat filled my nostrils. My tummy grumbled. Nuts and fruit weren’t able to hold me for long, it seemed. Covered containers of ingredients stood ready to be used, mise en place, and a couple of pots were bubbling on a gas range. Definitely odd.

  There was a door in the far wall of the kitchen that I assumed led outside, so I opened it and stuck out my head. I immediately spotted the blue pickup truck that had roared past the crime scene just as Bud had been discovered. I wondered who it belonged to.

  “Hello?” came a voice from inside the bar.

  “In here,” I called in response, as I allowed the back door to close again.

  Al’s head appeared through the swinging doors. “Where is everyone?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Is this normal, for there to be pots boiling and food prepped, but no one here?”

  Al shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems odd to me. Haven’t you seen Tony? Callie? Anyone at all?”

  “Not a soul,” I replied.

  Al drew his gun. It didn’t make me feel any more comfortable about the situation. He gestured for me to walk toward him, while he approached me and whispered, “Have you looked out back?” I nodded. “Anyone there?”

  “Not that I could see, but there’s a blue truck there. Does that belong to Tony?” I tried to make my question about the truck sound innocent.

  Al moved across the kitchen a lot more stealthily than I had done—I’m not really built for stealth—and pushed open the back door, peering outside.

  “It’s Juan’s truck, the blue one. I’m surprised he’s still here at the hacienda—it’s well past his finishing time, and I thought he’d be pretty keen to get away after I gave him the news about his daughter. Tony’s truck isn’t out there,” he whispered over his shoulder. “Nor is Callie’s car. If it wasn’t for the fact that the place is wide open, and there’s food cooking on the stoveto
p, I’d say they’d left the property altogether. I’m going to check their apartment upstairs. You stay here.”

  He came inside, allowing the back door to close, and disappeared up a narrow staircase that led from the kitchen. I’ve watched enough movies in my time; I didn’t follow him. Instead, I stood my ground, registering the news that Margarita’s father’s truck, at least, had been at the scene of her murder, within the right time frame. I ran through some possible reasons for why the place currently resembled a restaurant version of the Marie Celeste. Quite a few involved extraterrestrial or paranormal interventions, but none of those made any sense. Had Juan caused harm to the couple who ran the restaurant? Or was he just wandering his fields? Of course, if one of the Booths was responsible for Margarita’s murder, then it did make perfect sense that they’d have done a runner—but the food on the stove was bizarre. If Tony, or Callie, or both of them had planned an escape from justice, why would they bother putting anything into a pot, let alone turn on the heat?

  Standing there on my own, with steam and spices in the air, I realized I was literally dripping with sweat. It was running down my back. I walked across the kitchen and turned off the heat under the pots. My curiosity kicked in and I lifted their covers. Water. Boiling water. That was all. The words “curiouser and curiouser” popped into my head unbidden. Immediately I replaced the lids; I felt as though my nasal passages were on fire. My eyes were stinging, and I started sneezing. Gas? Poison? I grabbed a nearby roll of kitchen paper: what it lacked in absorption and softness, it more than made up for in proximity. I thought my head was going to explode. I had to get out, away from . . . what on earth was it? I knew that I recognized what I’d inhaled, but I couldn’t fix on it.

  I pushed open the back door to catch what little fresh air and breeze there might be. I fanned myself with my hand, did the best I could with the kitchen roll, and gradually the sneezing subsided. But my eyes? They were a right mess. I must have looked as though I’d been crying my eyes out.

  “Their stuff’s all over the place upstairs, but there’s no sign of them,” announced Al, who was suddenly about three inches away from me. I nearly jumped out my skin.

  He looked alarmed when I turned to face him. “What’s wrong?” he asked sharply.

  “There’s boiling water in the pots,” I replied, my voice thick with mucus. “And pepper.” That was it—pepper.

  “What? Pans full of pepper and water? I don’t like this. It’s weird. It doesn’t feel right.”

  You’re not kidding!

  I managed to keep my mouth shut, but I nodded my agreement. “What do you suggest we do?” I asked.

  “I’m going to get hold of the FOGTTs. They can decide what they want to do for themselves. Tony and Callie run this place on their behalf. Come into the bar with me and give me a few minutes to make some calls. Maybe you can grab a drink? You look like you could do with it. Let me check the washroom, then maybe you can take the chance to wash your face with some cool water. Pepper’s nasty stuff.”

  “Yes, cool water, good idea,” I replied, sniffling.

  In the washroom I stood and looked in the mirror at the mess that was me. I wanted to cry. Instead, I had some choice words with myself, washed and wiped my face—mascara’s overrated anyway—and then headed to the bar to grab a cool drink and catch up with Al’s news.

  I was surprised to find no Al, but instead a man I guessed was Dean, of the Dean and Jean pairing described to me by Ada. Seeing him now, I realized he was the African American guy I’d seen arrive on the crime scene. I guessed that his wife, Jean, would turn out to be the woman in the tennis outfit I’d seen rushing toward the flower shop. Dean and Jean. Casa Nova. Oh dear.

  If I’d had any doubt about the man’s identity, it didn’t have a chance to linger. He came toward me, offering a massive hand and an equally large smile. I put him at about six feet five, around two hundred and fifty pounds, and somewhere between sixty and sixty-five. His head was shaved, or, at least, completely bald, and he was wearing the most lurid Hawaiian shirt you’d ever want to see. If my eyes hadn’t been sore already, that shirt would have done the trick all on its own. His voice was a deep bass, and it resonated in the empty bar.

  “You must be Cait Morgan. I’m Dean George. Dean is my name, not my occupation, you understand.” He grinned. I wonder how many times he’s said that. “Al’s outside talking to the rest of the FOGTTs, or at least those he can reach on the phone. I just happened to be arriving. Gonna meet my child-bride here. You’ll like her. Everyone does.” He was still holding my hand, but now in both of his, and I was beginning to get a crick in my neck from looking up at him. It occurred to me that Punta de las Rocas seemed to be inhabited by very tall people: Ada was the only person I’d met who was of what I thought of as normal height.

  “Oh my goodness me, honey-pie! What on earth is going on here today? Our little piece of paradise is quite out of sorts. First poor Margarita, dead! Now Tony and Callie, disappeared! What is the world coming to?” For a moment, I thought that Scarlett O’Hara had floated in.

  The woman who was walking toward us was quite a vision, but there were no crinolines involved. Her hair was snowy white and cropped very close to her head. She was about five-two, weighed around ninety pounds, and, despite being close to sixty, didn’t have a wrinkle on her face. There was almost nothing to her, except a waft of jasmine, a hint of coconut, and an aura of gracefulness and quietude that seemed to surround her. Dressed completely in white, she carried herself with a casual elegance. All you noticed were her eyes, and her voice. The rest was almost insubstantial, and certainly inconsequential.

  She reached up to her husband’s neck, which was just about as far as she could reach, and he bent his head, so she could kiss him on his bald pate. “Now don’t you worry, honey-pie,” she said, doing her best to look her husband in the eye, “Captain Al will get all this sorted out.” She looked at me. Her expression changed. “Are you the woman who’s supposed to be able to help him?”

  Jean George’s ethereal charm had evaporated. Her tone was dismissive, to say the least, and I was being treated to an expression that her husband couldn’t see, which I suspected was the point. She had decided to be hateful toward me, that much was clear. I wonder why.

  “Oh, come on now, honey,” boomed Dean. “Al speaks very highly of Cait. He said she’s known all around the world for her work. We’re lucky to have her. You know we all want Al to crack the case before the Federales get here, don’t we?”

  Jean nodded and smiled coquettishly at her husband.

  As she did so, it struck me that Dean had used almost the exact same words as Ada had done when speaking about the case. I guessed that was because they were friends, and co-investors, and they’d all been at the crime scene—so the topic must have come up at some point.

  Al joined us. “Dorothea, Ada, and Frank are on their way. Greg’s not back from PV yet, you guys are here, and, of course, Henry’s not around at all. I’m taking Cait with me to the station, where we’re going to get to work. You all are going to call anyone who knows either Tony or Callie to try to find out what’s going on here, and you can all decide what to do with that food in the kitchen before it goes bad. I’ll call you later to find out how you’re doing, or you can call me if you locate Tony or Callie. I’m not going to hide the fact that I’m concerned. If we can’t get wind of them, I’ll set the wheels in motion for state-wide law enforcement to be on the lookout. But we need to find out where they are, if we can.”

  Dean and Jean nodded. “I always think it’s best if folks do their own housekeeping, before they involve outside elements.” Dean grinned. Directly at me. Odd.

  Al addressed me. “Come on, Cait. This has been one hell of a day, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get easier as it gets older. I’ll show you our ‘facilities.’ I’m not bragging when I say I have the best-looking police station in all of Mexico. So let’s go. You alright now?”

  I nodded, and we headed to
ward the door. We got there just as Frank and Ada arrived.

  “I’ve explained everything to Dean and Jean,” said Al, as he propped the door open with his body. “I haven’t the time to go through it all again. They can explain.” With that he all but pulled me outside.

  “Come on, Cait,” he said abruptly, as he politely held open the passenger door of the dusty white police car for me to get in. A bit different than when you shoved Bud in here, ran through my mind, but I smiled and buckled up.