I didn’t know if Felix was back-or if he had even really gone away-and I didn’t have his phone number, so at 6 A.M. the next morning I headed for the downtown corner where the day laborers congregated, on the outside chance someone there would know how to find him.
Dozens of them, maybe a hundred, clustered at the coffee shop, dressed for work. Some knew who they were waiting for; most just showed up and hoped. They hoped they’d get picked, they hoped the work was safe, and they hoped they’d get paid what they were promised. These were the people who fixed roofs, laid tile, put up walls, planted trees-and we called them unskilled workers. Most of the men I knew didn’t know which end of a hammer to hold.
I was the only woman in the coffee shop, except for Gina. At least that’s what was written with a black Sharpie on her uniform. It may have been the last girl’s name. She was barely visible behind a hill of plastic-wrapped rolls. In Spanish, I asked if she knew Felix. She shook her head quickly and moved on to a paying customer. That went well.
A young man shyly approached me to offer assistance. He identified himself as one of the small army of men Felix had brought to work at the Peacock house. I managed to get a cell number for Felix and reached him right away.
“Hola, maestra.”
“Are you still in Mexico?” Damn-that came out too fast.
“Yes. I had to attend an emergency board meeting and I also agreed to deliver an important package for a friend. Don’t get nervous-I’m not a drug dealer. It was a letter to Hugo’s mother and a present for her. He didn’t want to entrust it to the mail.”
I moved away from the throng of men, smiling and trying to pretend I was having a casual conversation. “Hugo’s been arrested for stabbing Guido Chiaramonte.” A ripple went through the crowd at the mention of Hugo’s name, and the men moved away from me, either to give me privacy or to distance themselves from a potential legal problem. I gave Felix the details. “They have Hugo’s fingerprints on the weapon and they think they have a motive. The cops may not know it yet, but Gerald Fraser may have uncovered something even more damning.” I told him Yoly’s story.
“Do you think Hugo could have known her?”
“Everybody knows somebody named Rivera in Mexico. Close your eyes, spin around, and touch someone. It is like hitting a piсata: every third person is named Rivera.”
“Gerald has a letter he wrote to the mother. It’d be more helpful to have one of Yoly’s letters, but this is better than nothing. Maybe her mother worked at that motel. It’s the La Palapa in Alpuyeca. We can at least check to see if the place still exists.”
“Oh, it still exists.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve passed it a thousand times. It’s the only two-story building in Alpuyeca. It’s on the main road from Cuernavaca to the coast.”
“You’re kidding. Well, then we can just call them and see if they know how to contact her.”
Before the words even left my mouth, I knew how ridiculous that was. Did Babe keep tabs on every waitress who passed through the Paradise? His hesitation told me what he thought of the idea.
“I know it won’t be easy, but Hugo needs us. And it may solve a thirty- year- old mystery-two, if the baby and the missing girl are connected. Isn’t that worth a few phone calls?”
“It’s unfortunate you weren’t there thirty years ago when Yoly Rivera went missing. It might have spared her family a lot of heartache.” He chose his next words carefully. “We must be careful not to reopen old wounds if this has nothing to do with Celinda Rivera’s daughter.”
He was right about that part. Why break some woman’s heart all over again?
“My Spanish is good enough for me to get in touch with someone at La Palapa. Maybe there were stories in the Mexican papers. Any chance of you getting info from your media contacts down there?”
“I’ll see what I can do. And I will arrange for Hugo to have the best attorney in southeastern Connecticut- one of those sharks who handles all your white- collar criminals. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.” “I wish I had your faith in the judicial system.” The thought of media contacts reminded me of Jonathan Chappell, that pest from the Bulletin. Maybe I’d break down and talk to him… if he’d agree to do something for me.
CHAPTER 32
The dark, shaggy head bobbed up and down, fumbling for something on the front seat of the old white sports car. Leaning toward the passenger window of the tiny car, Jonathan Chappell looked up at me. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” he said.
“What ever gave you that idea?”
“I don’t take it personally. Most people hate to talk to the press, even a small fry like me.”
Well, at least he didn’t have any delusions. He was scrawny, bookish, and, judging from the fresh acne scars, younger than I expected. He looked as if he should have been writing for his college paper instead of the Springfield Bulletin. A scraggly beard, probably grown to make him look older, was just filling in. He pulled his car around to the right- hand side of the Peacock house.
“Nice wheels.”
“Thanks. Got it on eBay. Still needs a little work. So, your highness,” he said, hands on his non ex is tent hips, “why did you finally decide to grant me an audience? You must want something pretty bad.”
So much for being cagey. “I have some stuff I’d like to show you. There’s a cottage in the back. We can talk there.”
“Okay. Great place,” he said, looking around as we walked across the terrace to the herb cottage. I could see him trying to calculate the property’s value. “Helluva job you’ve done here. It was a dump.” He turned to me. “Were you here that first day when the Mexican guy said you weren’t?”
“Of course not,” I protested, although I had been there the second time he stopped by, crouching in the maze until Felix assured me the coast was clear.
Inside the cottage, we brushed off the rickety chairs and sat down. I started to empty my backpack onto the old wooden table Dorothy must have used to prepare her herbs. Then I stopped. “You have to promise me something.”
“Conditions? I don’t like this already. Where’s the trust?”
I wondered if I should go ahead. “The only reason I’m talking to you is to clear Hugo Jurado’s name. I have a feeling the baby I found and a missing girl may be connected to Guido’s stabbing.” I was having a hard time spitting it out; you’d think I was coming out myself. “There’s something about the Peacock sisters…”
“You mean that they were carpet munchers?”
I winced. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“We went back and forth on that at the paper,” he said, trying to sound like a grizzled veteran. “To me, news is news-’All the print that fits,’ as my junior high school paper taught me.”
Chappell claimed his editor yanked all his best stuff. CRAZED LESBIANS SACRIFICE BABY. HOW MANY MORE DID THEY KILL? I couldn’t tell if he was kidding. “I knew he’d never let those stories run. Hypocrite. He said it was like putting in all the gory details of a child murder-who needs to know? ‘The Bulletin’s not the Enquirer, you know. When does it stop being news and start being pandering?’ “ he said, mimicking the editor I was starting to like. “Damned if I know.” He shrugged. “I spent all of my time in ethics class hitting on the girl next to me. Great rack. She wanted to be an anchor-not a reporter, an anchor.”