Sweetheart Deal by Linda Joffe Hull

hands, touched his undoubtedly cold, waxy cheek, and her legs buckled beneath her.
    Felipe, along with a couple of other mourners, rushed to her aid.
    The next thing I knew we were being guided to VIP seats in view of the camera and away from anyone who could have answered my latest in a growing list of questions.
    The ceremony was something of a blur as Elena was revived and seated between Enrique and the town mayor in the front row along with family, key members of the Hacienda de la Fortuna staff, and other local dignitaries. The padre made his way toward the front of the sanctuary with the usual pomp and circumstance. I knelt when everyone else knelt, stood when everyone else stood, and said amen when I was supposed to. I even sang along, to the extent I could, with the Spanish versions of some familiar hymns. As the service continued, I noted that everyone I’d met since arriving was in attendance, from the yoga instructor to a doe-eyed Ivan, who kept stealing gazes at Eloise. I also spotted familiar faces from our afternoon in town, including the manager of the cantina and two or three shop owners.
    As the padre spoke about the fullness of Alejandro’s life and his success as a sales manager, and quoted beautiful and hopeful passages from the bible in both Spanish and English, the giant lump that was lodged in my throat threatened to choke me. I scanned the pews, trying to make eye contact with the numerous women who matched the description of Sombrero Lady (short, stocky, and of indeterminate age) in the hopes one of them would return my eye contact and meet up with me later for a detailed explanation of her suspicions.
    No such luck.
    The mass concluded with the sprinkling of holy water on the coffin. Before there was time to get up and stretch our legs, a Mariachi band appeared to accompany us, our ever-discreet camera crew, and the rest of the mourners to the burial site.
    It wasn’t until we’d arrived at the cemetery and assorted family members were in the process of saying their final good-byes that I caught a glimpse of the photo tucked under Alejandro’s crossed hands.
    A photo of Alejandro and Elena standing together, his arm draped around her shoulder.
    I stepped back over to Felipe, who happened to be standing not far from Frank.
    â€œSo tragic,” I whispered, my eyes on a once-again sobbing Elena.
    â€œIncredibly,” Felipe agreed.
    â€œWere Alejandro and Elena a couple?” I finally managed to ask.
    He nodded. “But it was complicated.”
    Somehow, whatever so-called complications there were did nothing to make me feel better about his passes at me. Particularly given the realities of the situation.
    Before I could mull that over much, the coffin was closed and the burial got underway. Individual prayers were said, the padre led the group in a communal rosary, and relatives went up to throw handfuls of dirt on the coffin. Even the lead police officer on the case shuffled up and tossed in his own handful of dirt.
    â€œIs it customary for the police to come to the funerals of the victims they investigate?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s best not to question these kind of things too much,” Felipe said in the most hushed of tones.
    â€œBecause?”
    I expected a long-winded response about tradition and small-town life in Mexico.
    â€œ A lo hecho, pecho ,” Felipe said instead, dabbing a tear from his eye. “What’s done is done.”

twelve
    â€œI think Felipe is suspicious about Alejandro’s drowning too,” I whispered to Frank as he led me back toward the hotel SUV that had taken us into town for the funeral.
    â€œWhy? What did he say?”
    â€œI asked why the policeman was at the funeral, and he told me it was best not to question things. And then he said, ‘what’s done is done.’”
    â€œInteresting,” Frank said. “Definitely.”
    But before I could elaborate on just how definitely interesting