The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb by Cathy Ace Page B

next day or so is going to feel like a long time. Call me if you want. See you soon. Jack.
    So that was that. There was no information about Bud, his “colleagues,” or what the heck was going on with regard to possible CSIS involvement, nor was there a single useful suggestion from Jack that might save Bud. Nothing. What was the point of telling me to keep out of it until he arrived? Especially now that I knew Jack wouldn’t be arriving at all! There were no contact details, no names. Not a number or an email address. Nothing that would allow me to follow up on Jack’s actions. Just a series of warnings to steer clear of Bud. And that one ominous comment about how Bud would be in danger if he was dumped into the general police holding system. The thought had been gnawing at me since Al had handcuffed Bud, so it didn’t help at all to see that Jack felt it necessary to spell it out. Damn and blast!
    What could I do? I hadn’t outed myself—Al had done that for me. The cat wasn’t just out of the bag, it was running willy-nilly around the place, yowling as it ran! I couldn’t stay out of it now. No matter what Bud might have expected, and no matter what Jack had hoped, I was on the case. Not so much on it as up to my neck in it, in fact.
    I was about to meet the cop leading the inquiry into discovering Bud’s identity, and I’d promised to help him do just that, while I was being implored— okay, instructed —by Jack to do the exact opposite.
    What could possibly go wrong?

Power Hour
    I CLOSED UP CASA LALA and headed down the slight incline of the rocky track that led to Amigos del Tequila. It was well past 5:00 PM , but the sun was still pretty high, and the humidity was almost unbearable. As I walked, I kicked up dust. It stuck to my sweaty legs. Lovely! I don’t do humidity. What was I thinking, agreeing to come to Mexico at this time of year? If I’d said no, then Bud wouldn’t be in this predicament.
    I was at the adobe restaurant and bar in a matter of moments. It had seemed to take a lot longer when I was dragging the bags up to the house, even with Al’s help. Once again I pushed open the doors to the building where I’d made my fateful decision to help out the cops, and, once again, the place was deserted.
    â€œHello?” I called.
    Nothing.
    I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. Wait outside for Al? Settle myself on a stool and wait for someone to show up? Peer into the back of the building from where Tony had emerged that afternoon? I decided to peer. I admit I’m not the world’s most patient person.
    Beyond the bar was a short corridor, which led to the washrooms, then the kitchen. I pushed open a pair of swinging doors, stepped into a small but gleaming kitchen, and shouted, “Hello?” Still nothing. Now that was odd. Surely Tony wouldn’t just leave the whole place completely unattended?
    I walked farther into the kitchen. No one in sight. The humming of refrigeration units buzzed in the air, and a wonderful aroma of herbs, spices, and cooked meat filled my nostrils. My tummy grumbled. Nuts and fruit weren’t able to hold me for long, it seemed. Covered containers of ingredients stood ready to be used, mise en place , and a couple of pots were bubbling on a gas range. Definitely odd.
    There was a door in the far wall of the kitchen that I assumed led outside, so I opened it and stuck out my head. I immediately spotted the blue pickup truck that had roared past the crime scene just as Bud had been discovered. I wondered who it belonged to.
    â€œHello?” came a voice from inside the bar.
    â€œIn here,” I called in response, as I allowed the back door to close again.
    Al’s head appeared through the swinging doors. “Where is everyone?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I replied. “Is this normal, for there to be pots boiling and food prepped, but no one here?”
    Al