Margaritas & Murder

Table of Contents

 

 

All thoughts of having a quick lunch evaporated a few minutes later when a mariachi band stepped onto the terrace. I ate and listened to the band members as they threaded their way among the umbrellas to serenade each of the tables.

The music helped ease the tension of my hectic last few weeks. It was nice to be on vacation. I love to travel, but book tours can be exhausting. While I enjoy meeting new people, especially readers, and seeing new places, it’s always a pleasant prospect to contemplate a few weeks with nothing specific to do but sit back and relax. No notes to take, no schedules to meet, no rush to catch another plane.

Vaughan and Olga were the perfect hosts. They insisted I use their home as if it were mine. They had promised that I wouldn’t be in their way. “We’ll even ignore you, if that’s what you want.” Which, of course, wasn’t what I wanted at all. What I did want was time. Time to renew our acquaintance. Time to stretch out with a book. Time to take leisurely walks in a charming town. Just a peaceful vacation with old friends. It sounded wonderful.

But I was in for a rude awakening. . . .

OTHER BOOKS IN THE
Murder, She Wrote
SERIES

 

Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the
QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
A Question of Murder

Copyright © 2005 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.

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“I
don’t have a formula as such for coming up with the plots for my novels. The ideas come from a variety of sources, really—a snatch of music that triggers a memory, a place I’ve visited, the news. If I find an article in the morning newspaper intriguing, I may clip it and file it away for future reference. Sometimes a person on a plane or train has an interesting face. I’ll begin to imagine where that person is going, why she’s frowning, and who will be waiting to pick her up at the station. Many of us do that, I suppose. It’s human nature to be curious about those around us. I wish I had a more specific, useful answer to your question, but I’m afraid I don’t.”

The question had come from a woman in the front row, one of approximately a hundred people in the handsome room of a private library on Manhattan’s West Side. I was on a panel of mystery writers—“crime writers,” to the British—sponsored by the Authors Guild, of which I’ve been a proud and active member for many years. The guild is the closest thing writers have to a union, and it has initiated many legal actions against publishers when its leaders have felt writers have been treated unfairly. But the guild is more than that, sponsoring countless professional development seminars and panel discussions like the one I was on, and even managing a fund that can be tapped by members who find themselves in dire financial straits. It’s a wonderful organization, and I always tried to make myself available when called upon.

Our moderator ended the session, and my fellow panelists and I spent another twenty minutes chatting with audience members who approached the dais. Finally, I was free to join my companions for the evening, Vaughan and Olga Buckley. Vaughan Buckley had been publishing my novels for many years. Our relationship had progressed from simply being publisher and author to being good friends as well. His wife had been a top fashion model when she met the dashing young editor who would go on to found Buckley House, a prestigious company and one of the last independent publishers that hadn’t been gobbled up by an international conglomerate.

“Nicely done,” Vaughan said as the three of us stepped out onto the hot pavement outside the library. New York was experiencing an early-summer heat wave. “Hungry?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said. “The interviews this afternoon backed up, and I never had lunch.”

“The ecstasy of promoting a book,” Olga said.

“And the agony,” Vaughan said, chuckling. “Tell you what. Since we’ll be in Mexico in another few days, I suggest we begin training our palate with some Mexican food, Manhattan style. They say the best way to combat the heat is to eat hot food. There’s a good restaurant a block from here. Game?”

“Sure,” I said.

We settled in a booth and Vaughan ordered margaritas, no salt.

“I must admit,” I said, “Mexican food has never been my favorite.”

“We don’t have to stay,” Olga said.

“Oh, no. There are always plenty of things on the menu that I like.” I laughed. “You can take the girl out of Maine, but . . .”

“Maybe they serve lobster burritos,” Vaughan offered.

“If they do,” I said, “that’s what I’ll have. So tell me all about this Mexican hacienda you’ve ended up buying.”

Vaughan and Olga looked at each other. Olga responded, “We fell madly in love with the highlands of central Mexico when we visited two years ago. We went back again, and last year we made a third visit. We were hooked. We decided—”

Vaughan interrupted. “It’s not as much of a joint decision as Olga paints it.”

“You love it there,” she said, pretending to rap her husband’s shoulder.

“Oh, yes, I do love it there. It’s just that when you own a second home—we now have two—and it’s in a lovely place like San Miguel de Allende, you want to spend as much time as possible there. It’s a retirement paradise. But as appealing as that is, I’m just not ready to close up my office and spend all my days with my feet up on a lounge in the shade.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” I said.

He placed his hand on my arm. “Not to worry, Jessica. As long as you keep writing novels, I’ll keep publishing them.”

Olga picked up where she’d left off. “It’s more than four hundred fifty years old. The Mexican government has declared it a national monument—no traffic lights, neon signs, fire hydrants, or fast-food restaurants.”

“All to the good—unless your house catches fire,” Vaughan said.

“Or you have a sudden insatiable urge for a Big Mac,” I added.

“It’s become one of Mexico’s leading centers for the arts,” Olga said, ignoring our teasing. “The Instituto Allende Art School is world famous. The town is overflowing with artists, musicians, dancers, and actors. It’s heaven.” She pressed her hand to her heart to visually reinforce her ecstasy.

“It sounds wonderful,” I said as the waiter placed menus in front of us.

“Do you have lobster?” Vaughan asked him.

“No, Señor,” he said.

“Sorry,” Vaughan said to me.

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Now, tell me about this house you’ve bought there.”

“Let’s order first,” Olga said.

Our orders placed—I opted for ceviche, chicken fajitas, and a salad with tomatillo dressing—Vaughan said, “The house is very nice, Jessica, but you’ll be seeing it in a few days. It was an incredible bargain. Living is cheap there. That’s why there’s a sizable expatriate community—‘expats,’ they call each other—Americans and Canadians looking to stretch their budgets and pensions. At last count there were almost five thousand of them living in the town and surrounding areas.”