The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb by Cathy Ace Page A

up into the hills to find the old way of life. Along the coast here it’s newer developments, tourism and a mish-mash of expected Mexican-ness, and then poverty: the ones who play up to the tourists attract the pesos, the ones who want nothing to do with them live a subsistence lifestyle that we outsiders always look at and pity. But it’s their choice, right?”
    For a woman who liked a mani-pedi, and a good murder mystery, Ada Taylor seemed to have quite a lot to say for herself. I imagined that her desire to chat, and impart information, was often stifled by the domineering presence of Dorothea, and that her down-to-earth approach to life had been honed by decades of child rearing and husband wrangling.
    â€œCome on, Frank; let’s go now, dear!” she called.
    Frank harrumphed his way toward the front door. “Told you she could sort out all that technology stuff for you,” he said, with guarded pride. “How about we meet you at the Amigos del Tequila later on for a bite? You could bring us up to date after your meeting with Al.” Frank looked hopeful.
    â€œI’d enjoy that,” I said, half-truthfully, “but I don’t quite know what Al has planned for me, so I can’t say.”
    â€œHow about you take our cell number, and we can keep in touch?” suggested Ada.
    â€œGood idea,” I said. We exchanged numbers. Thank goodness Bud made me buy a cheap roaming plan for our week here.
    We waved to each other as they set off toward Casa Canuck. As soon as it seemed polite, I nipped inside, shut the door, and pulled up the internet on the TV screen. A few clicks and I managed to access my email. I waded through the long list of sales offers from plus-sized clothing companies—it’s so depressing when most of your inbox looks like that—and finally, there it was! Jack’s message.
    I opened it and read as fast as I could, which, given that I’m a speed-reader, was pretty quick.
    Hi Cait—I won’t beat about the bush. This is bad. I’ve spoken to an old CSIS colleague of mine in Ottawa, and he’s promised to get in touch with an associated operative in the area, with whom I can liaise when I arrive. Funny thing is I know the person, kind of, and I never knew they were “in the business.” Good cover. Ottawa’s not happy about the situation. None of us are. I’m on a flight at 3:00 PM tomorrow. I should be at my condo by about 9:00 PM . I’ll phone you when I get in. Meanwhile, here’s some advice: don’t get involved, keep your head down, stick to your cover story, and don’t let anyone know what you do for a living, especially your role as a consultant with the Integrated Homicide Team here in the Lower Mainland. Henry thinks you’re a friend of ours, that’s me and Sheila. Stick to that. Be vague. Act as though you’re on vacation. If you mix with the folks at the hacienda, be careful not to give yourself away. Steer clear of the cops and the crime scene, and, above all, make absolutely no effort to contact Bud, or even find out anything about him. I’m guessing that this murder will become a hot topic there: stay out of the conversations. If you need to, just hunker down next to Henry’s pool and read a book or something. I trust you to do this. I know it’s what Bud would want. He’s following protocol, and you need to follow it too. Bud will hope that you’ve left. He’ll probably think you have. So be as good as not there. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Bud’s probably pretty safe if he’s at the local cop shop. Once he’s in the general population, if anyone finds out who he is, given his role in the gang and drug-running task force, he could be in grave danger. No one can know his name, or his background. I’m sure you understand. If you go anywhere near him, the chances of someone making a connection increase. So don’t. I know the