Apples For Vinegar Page 13

  He went on. “But now that you bring it up, I was hoping to talk about this whole situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to smell something fishy going on. The information you already got from this guy concerns a kidnapping and murder that happened in Mexico three years ago. And because this is about Foley and Foley is a neighbor, I’m guessing it’s somehow involved with the Ajnabee murder.”

  “I don’t think so. What he’s told me so far doesn’t seem to connect at all to Ajnabee.”

  “Okay, this guy might not be the murderer, but he’s someone I might want to talk to. You honestly don’t know who he is?”

  If she hadn’t just snooped into his briefcase, she would have jumped on his suggesting she was not honest. As it was, she said, “All I know is that his first name is Robert. At least that’s the name he used.”

  “And…”

  “I tried asking his last name a couple of times, but he managed not to answer.”

  “And…”

  “And I think he might have been Ajnabee’s drug distributor. I don’t have any proof of that one way or the other.”

  Josh hesitated as if surprised, although Delyth couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t know the name of Ajnabee’s distributor, or he did know but didn’t want to say whether it was someone named Robert. “Then why do you believe he’s a drug dealer?”

  “Just the way he said he was a friend of Zad’s. It seemed to imply something more. Plus, because it was Suzanne Dussault who gave him my number, I thought—”

  “Why did Dussault give him your number?”

  “Because Helen asked her if any of Zad’s friends could add to my story.”

  “What story? You’re no longer the crime reporter.”

  Delyth didn’t know if it was her guilt over looking at the contents of his briefcase or Josh’s interrogation technique, but she ended up telling him that her interviews with the Duddas and Foley were part of a follow-up on the family-farmers story, and with Suzanne part of a human-interest story about Zad. “I mean, it’s only been a couple of interviews,” she added feebly.

  Josh shook his head a single time then pinched the bridge of his nose. “You two are playing amateur detectives again.”

  “You’re not going to try to stop us?”

  “How can I? I’m only a sheriff’s detective. But please tell me when you discover something important. Like Ajnabee’s distributor.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you should have told me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know that he was the distributor, I just suspect it, and I don’t know who he is.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one.” He drained his wine and poured himself more, then raised his glass toward her. “Here’s to Hel and Del on the trail again.”

  She raised a dubious glass in return. Did he mean it?

  Before they’d actually clinked glasses, he said, “But you have to promise me something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Be careful. I don’t want you getting yourself hurt. And no more sneaking off to meet strange men.”

  “Jealous?”

  He scowled. “Be serious. You could be pushing the wrong people around. Dangerous people.”

  “That’s the life of a reporter.”

  “Not the ones I know.”

  “The good ones then.” She relaxed her defensive muscle for a moment. He was speaking as her friend, as her lover. It was sweet. Especially after what she’d just done. But how far behind would the policeman be? “I promise I’ll be careful and anytime I feel in danger, you’ll be the first to know. Remember, I came to you when I thought Helen was in danger.”

  “It was almost too late that time. But I guess it’s the best I can expect.”

  She walked around the island and hugged him, her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. She inhaled slowly.

  ◆◆◆

  Delyth skipped yoga the next day and, according to plan, met at Josh’s house a half-hour before the call. The interpreter was already there. Josh introduced her as Marta. She was short and round-faced, with sensibly short hair and a pleasant smile. She seemed more a grammar school teacher than a police consultant.

  “Thank you for helping with this,” Delyth said.

  “Josh believes it could be important. That’s all I needed.”

  Delyth pulled out a pad and pen from her bag and placed them beside the phone.

  Josh said he had to set up for the call. Marta offered to help. Together they attached a headphone for him and two headsets, one for Delyth and one for Marta. “This way you can both listen and talk without needing to hold the handset,” he explained.

  “Aren’t you going to record us?” Delyth asked.

  “California’s a two-party consent state. I’d need a warrant.”

  Delyth used a recorder for her bigger stories, the ones where she hoped to get an exact quote when her note-taking couldn’t keep up. And she had recorded phone conversations without the other person knowing about it, although she knew she wasn’t supposed to. She always destroyed the recording as soon as she’d gotten what she needed. Of course, Josh wouldn’t bend the law that way, and she could hardly object.

  After making a few adjustments to the equipment, Josh told her, “Call my cell so we can test it out.”

  Delyth called. “Testing. Testing,” she said when he answered. “One, two, three.”

  “Very original,” Josh said, but no one laughed

  They still had twenty minutes to wait. Delyth paced, poured a glass of water but didn’t drink it, not wanting the need to go to the bathroom to distract her during the call. She left the water by the phone. Thinking about it, though, made her go to the bathroom. Then the butterflies started. She was sure her voice would quiver if she’d tried to talk. She did three-part breathing. She bent from the waist, grabbed her elbows and swayed side to side. She told herself to allow gravity to wash away her jitters like leaves in a waterfall. She wished she could kneel facedown on the floor in the balasana pose, but already Marta was looking at her strangely.

  “I’ll make some lemon balm tea,” Josh said.

  “I’m okay,” Delyth protested.

  “It’s for me.”

  When he delivered the tea, she took a sip. The warmth did relax her, but she didn’t dare have more. Marta downed hers without apparent concern.

  “It’s time,” Josh announced finally.

  Delyth took a deep breath then punched in the number Robert had given her.

  “Hola,” a male voice answered.

  “Hello, this is Delyth. Robert told me to call.”

  Marta translated. Delyth heard her say her own name, apparently introducing herself as well. There was an exchange that Marta didn’t bother translating. Then she pointed to Delyth.

  Hoping to confirm she was talking to the right person, she asked, “Robert said you had something to tell me?”

  “Si,” he replied, but didn’t say anything more.

  “What is your name?” Delyth asked, thinking it was an innocuous question to start with, but Josh and Marta both shook their heads and grimaced.

  The man obviously understood her question without Marta translating it, because he answered, “You can call me San Poncho.”

  Another long pause, Delyth was about to prompt him again when he started his story, slowly at first, but faster as he got into it.

  Marta clicked mute on her headset and translated.

  “I arrange things for tourists.”

  “What kinds of things,” Delyth asked. Marta re-engaged her microphone and translated.

  “Body guards. Sometimes drugs, sometimes girls. Whatever men want. Three years ago an American asked me if I knew a barn in the countryside he could rent for a month.”

  “Do you know the man’s name?” Intent on her question, Delyth ignored Marta’s switching her microphone back and forth.

  �
��He never told me.”

  “Did he say what he wanted the barn for?”

  “I didn’t ask. I called a friend who has a ranch outside of town. He had a shed for his sheep that was empty. He’d rent it cheap. The man wrote down the directions, and paid me one hundred dollars. The next day he came back. He said the shed was good. He showed me a small bottle, and asked if I could arrange for someone to empty it into his friend’s drink. At first I thought he meant a woman friend. I told him I could get him a girl he wouldn’t have to drug. He laughed. He said it wasn’t a woman; it was a surprise for a man friend.”

  “Did he tell you what was in the bottle?”

  “He didn’t tell. I didn’t ask. He offered me five hundred dollars. I didn’t want to share the money, so I said I’d do it myself. I told him which bar to go to. He said they’d be alone so I’d know which drink to spike. It went smoothly. In about a half hour the friend started getting sick. He vomited in the bathroom. When he came out, the man made fun of him saying he had turista, and he should go back to his hotel.”

  Josh held up a legal pad with a single word in large letters.

  ENGLISH?

  “Wait a minute,” Delyth said. “How did you know what he was saying? Was he speaking Spanish?”

  “No. I understand English and speak a little. Not good enough to tell my story.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “The friend seemed to recover after throwing up, but he agreed he needed to leave. The man stayed and acted very drunk. He made lots of noise and after an hour the bartender told him to get out. He left without staggering.”

  He paused. Delyth thought that was the end of his story but he went on. “After a month my friend who rented the shed went to check on it. There was a new lock on the door and something smelled inside. When he cut the lock, he found a dead body.”

  “Was it the man who had the spiked drink?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did the police identify the body? Was there a photo on TV or in the newspaper?”

  “Puerto Vallarta doesn’t like to advertise bad things happening to gringos. Bad for business.”

  Josh held up his pad.

  POLICE?

  “Did you tell the police your story?”

  He gave a snort that ended in a nervous laugh. “They would have accused me of the murder.”

  “Didn’t they question you about renting the shed?”

  “My friend didn’t tell them about that. He said the shed wasn’t being used, and he didn’t know where the lock came from.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “A friend asked me to call, a friend you don’t say no to when he asks.”

  Delyth racked her brain for more questions. She looked over at Josh who was writing on his pad. He held it up.

  TELL

  POLICE

  NOW?

  “Would you be willing to talk with the—” Before she finished her question the line went dead.

  “Whoa,” Josh said as he took off his headphones. “That was quite a story.”

  Delyth drank the cup of tepid tea before she asked, “Do you believe him?”

  “He didn’t really tell us much, at least not much that can be proved. An unnamed man rented the shed where a body was found. That same unnamed man paid him to drug or poison a drink. I think we’re supposed to assume the unnamed man was Foley, and the recipient of the drink was his partner, but that’s all it is, an assumption.”

  “But if Foley paid the ransom to himself…”

  “We don’t know that either. You’re the one who said the payments could have been a coincidence. I think this guy Robert is trying to lead us down a path by dropping breadcrumbs, but there’s nothing at the end of the trail.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You said yourself, to throw suspicion off himself and onto Foley.”

  “But such an elaborate story? And it doesn’t have anything to do with Ajnabee’s murder.”

  “Guilt by association maybe. A man capable of one murder: what better way to lure a reporter to print a story than to make it exotic and compelling? Admit it; if it’s true, it’d be the exclusive of the year. The Times would pick it up.”

  Desperate to salvage some vestige of hope, Delyth asked, “What do you think, Marta?”

  “Hey, I’m just the translator here.” She started winding up the wire of her headset.

  “But was there something in the way he talked that suggested he was telling the truth?” Delyth asked.

  “Not if he’s a good liar,” Marta answered. “I can tell you he’s a good talker but not educated. He uses a lot of street slang. It’s likely he makes his living the way he said. But that puts the rest of his story even more into question. A man like that is as likely to tell you anything in exchange for a few pesos.”

  Thanks a lot, Delyth thought.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Josh said. “I’ll call the police down there and get their version of what happened. Don’t expect much. I have no jurisdiction in the case. Even if the story is true, I can’t do anything about it. The Mexican authorities could tell me where to stick my questions, and they’d be justified.” He scratched his head. “I could say a suspect in a local murder may have been involved.”

  “That true,” Delyth put in a little too fast.

  “No, it’s not. Foley happens to be a neighbor of a murdered man, but he’s not a suspect. As far as I’m concerned, this has nothing to do with the Ajnabee case. I’m doing it…” He rubbed his eyes. “Why am I doing it?” He sighed. “I’m doing it for you. Okay?”

  Delyth felt a flutter in the region usually considered the heart. She dropped her head and smiled although not too much of either. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t get carried away. And Marta, you haven’t heard any of this.”

  “Of course not, Jefe.”

  “Jefe?” Delyth struggled not to laugh. “That’s not your nickname around the station?”

  “No, it’s not. It’s a joke.” He glared at Marta although no one in the room believed him. Then he looked at Delyth. “Promise me one thing. You won’t confront Foley about this.”

  She nodded. She had no intention of seeing Foley, not yet anyway. But Josh didn’t say anything about talking with Foley’s wife.

  TWELVE

  Helen didn’t go to yoga because Delyth wouldn’t be there, and now had time on her hands. She poked her head into Frank’s studio. “I’m taking the girls for a walk.”

  He looked up from the Duddas’ family album open in front of him on his small sketching table. “Wait a minute and I’ll come with.”

  Frank typically didn’t walk the dogs unless his work wasn’t going well. Helen worried that the photos from Karen Dudda’s photo album hadn’t sparked the inspiration he was looking for. She knew it was better not to bring it up; he would if he wanted. “Meet me in front. I’ll get the dogs.”

  She went through the kitchen to the backyard, grabbing leashes on the way out. Both dogs rushed to greet her. Coca Chanel, their chocolate Lab, didn’t have to be told to sit while Helen attached her leash. Mollie, the King Charles spaniel that Helen rescued four months earlier when the dog’s owner was murdered, raced twice around the fence line before jumping at Helen’s knees.

  “Chienne mauvais!” Mollie’s previous owner had been French, and Mollie responded only to French commands. Helen decided it was easier for her to learn a few French words than to teach the dog English. “Assis! Or we won’t go for a walk.” It seemed the dog understood the word “walk” more than Helen’s fractured French. Once Mollie calmed down and allowed Helen to attach a leash, the spaniel got a “Bon chienne” as reward.

  Frank was waiting at the gate when they came around. Helen handed him Coca’s leash, and they set off. At first neither said anything, enjoying being outdoors together. The dogs lead the way, Coco sniffing from side to side like a bloodhound seeking a scent, Mollie employing a more shotgun approach, darting
from smell to smell, sometimes lingering in one spot until Helen pulled on the leash with an “Allons-y.”

  As they ambled by the Cuttleby's new vineyard, Frank commented, “Their grapes are coming along.” The vines were well past bud-break, with small, green leaves on foot-tall sprouts that poked defiantly above the trellises.

  “Just last week, Greenway looked like the dead of winter.”

  “They say we live in a banana belt.”

  Helen knew what “they” said. How could she not, after forty years of shared experiences? But there’s comfort in familiar paths, even conversational ones.

  Their silence broken, Frank asked, “How’s work? You haven’t been complaining lately.”

  Helen hadn’t thought about it, but it had been a pleasant week at school. Jennifer hadn’t made any unreasonable demands. For that matter, Helen had barely seen her principal, much less talked with her. Jennifer was like a pebble in a shoe, the pebble so small that, at times, you didn’t know it was there. “It was fun,” she answered. “I had the kids write essays on whether dogs or cats make better pets.”

  “Which one won?”

  “Dogs, of course. Although rabbits and chickens each got a vote.”

  They approached the orchard across from Mollie’s old home, the murder scene where Helen and Coca had discovered the body. Neither dog seemed to remember or, if they did, to care.

  Helen pointed to the apple trees. This side of town was cooler so the apple blossoms were less advanced than in other areas. Even so, strong winds the night before left behind a dusting of petals surrounding the dark and gnarled trunks. Over the years, the county had shifted from one monoculture to another due to diseases or market forces. Grapes were the region’s latest agricultural reinvention. Helen wasn’t one to lament the latest agrarian cycle, but she would miss the apple blossoms when the trees were all gone. “How long before this is turned into another vineyard?” It was less a question than a lament.

  “That reminds me, I called Jerzy Dudda.”

  “Oh?”

  “I asked if he’d sell me a root ball from one of their old apple trees.”