Read Online Margaritas & Murder by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online

on the profits. He’s taken on a whole new persona down here. One or two of his treatises on Mexican culture appeared in some obscure academic publication, so he now considers himself a published author. Would you mind terribly talking with him?”
    “Not at all. Why would you even ask?”
    She sighed heavily. “Because he says his next project is to write a murder mystery. Vaughan saw a few pages of the latest attempt and told Roberto that they were awful.”
    “Really?” I said. “Vaughan’s usually so diplomatic.”
    She sighed. “Not this time, I’m afraid. Roberto gets under his skin. He accused Vaughan of being jaded, said that someone with sensitivity would understand what he’s trying to do. As you can imagine, things have been a bit tense between them.”
    “I’m surprised you invited them.”
    “I’m trying to smooth things over. We’re only here a short time and it’s a small community. Roberto and Dina have a lot of friends. I don’t want us to create a division where there was none.”
    “That’s wise of you. Does Vaughan agree?”
    “He’s promised to behave, and he knows I’ll hold him to it.”
    “How can I help?”
    “I realize it’s an imposition, but Roberto has talked of nothing but Jessica Fletcher since he heard you were coming. I hope you won’t hate me for putting you together.”
    “Don’t give it a second thought, Olga. I meet many would-be mystery writers in my travels, and I’ll be happy to talk shop with him.”
    “You’ll have my undying gratitude, and his wife’s, too, I’m sure.”
    “I’ve always wanted your undying gratitude. Lead me to him.”
    We turned back toward the colonnade and went through an arch into the shaded passage, where Vaughan was talking with several of the guests. He rose when he saw us and held a chair for me. “Ah, the guest of honor. Ladies and gentlemen, my friend and colleague Jessica Fletcher. Let me introduce you around, Jessica. This handsome couple is Roberto and Dina Fisher, longtime residents of San Miguel, although originally from . . . Detroit, was it?”
    “Correct, Señor.” Roberto was a small man with a pencil-thin mustache and suspiciously dark hair for his age, which I judged to be his sixties. He held a green drink in his hand and was dressed in a blue version of the same type of traditional Mexican shirt the police chief had been wearing earlier. I dredged up the name, guayabera, from memories of my last visit south of the border many years ago. Short-sleeved, it had a pleated front and four pockets and was worn outside the trousers. His wife was also dressed in Mexican attire—a white cotton blouse and skirt with hand-embroidered flower motifs at the collar, waist, and hem. She wore her silver hair pulled into a chignon.
    Roberto put his drink down on the cocktail table and got up from the sofa to shake my hand; his wife waved from her seat. “My husband is a writer, too,” she trilled.
    “You are?” I said, greeting him. “Well, we must compare notes sometime.”
    “I’ll look forward to it,” Roberto said with a satisfied grin. He sat again, nudged his wife, and shot Vaughan a now-we’ll-see look.
    “This lovely lady, Jessica,” Vaughan continued, “is responsible for the paintings you’ve been admiring in our house. Sarah Christopher.”
    “What a pleasure to meet such a talented artist,” I said. “I’m enjoying your work.”
    “You must come visit my studio sometime,” she replied.
    “It would be my pleasure.”
    “And that gentleman is former major Woody Manheim, late of the US Army, whom I understand you encountered this afternoon.”
    “Please don’t get up,” I said. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Manheim.”
    “It’s Woody, my dear,” he said, raising his glass to me. “We’re all very informal down here. Can I call you Jessica?”
    “Please do.”
    “May I get you a drink?” Woody asked. “The bar-tender makes a mean margarita.”
    “Thank you, no,” I said. “Later,