Canary Islands Mysteries Collection

Chapter 14

Standing in the shade of the eucalypt at the café end of the plaza, I observe a few customers as they make up their minds to take an outdoor table in the warm spring sunshine, or opt for the seating shaded by the laurel trees. On Mondays, the village centre is always quiet, even at the intersection of the roads coming down from the north and the south and the road heading east, where cafes take advantage of the passing trade, and where villagers go about the business of the day, frequenting the supermarket, the florist, the town hall or the hardware store.

I watch with sudden envy an elderly couple in loose clothing, replete with backpacks and walking shoes, as they head off, probably on their way to the cliff. It"s where all the walkers go. The views are breath taking, the cliff edge accessible in its entirety to those with a good head for heights.

An old man enters the café across the street, and a young woman in a figure-hugging emerald green dress and matching hat hovers on the narrow pavement at the entrance to the children"s playground situated up the hill a short way. She seems familiar. Then I recall the woman in the red, wide-brimmed hat yesterday and wonder if it"s her. She looks dressed for a wedding and is paying close attention to the goings on inside the florist opposite. Perhaps she"s waiting for a bouquet. The woman shifts her weight and I look away.

The wind stirs. I catch a waft of the scent of eucalyptus and inhale. Do all eucalypts smell the same? My neighbour in Ipswich had one in her back garden but it was a spindly, sick-looking thing and obviously unhappy with the environment. Too wet, probably. That is one thing I"ll never miss, the wet. Despite the travails of my life on the island, I love it and the longer I stay, the less likely I"ll fit in if I went back. Yet my existence on the island is dependent on Celestino. Without him, I have means, no income. I"d be forced back to England, back to the cold and the murk and the life of a single mother. What on earth would become of my parents? I feel sick in the imagining. The loss of Celestino is a devastating prospect in every respect, never mind the emotional loss. I never considered myself dependent on him quite so profoundly, but I am.

Shirley seems late. I had assumed she would be on time and wonder what"s keeping her. When I left the house, I knew I had half an hour to spare, so I walked up to the crest of the hill that separates the valley of Haría from that of Máguez, stopping where several roads meet in an awkward intersection. And without a second thought I made to walk up a track in a field of picón accessed through a break in a stone wall. It wasn"t far to the top but I soon turned back, my sandals the wrong footwear for the terrain. I had to lean a hand against a large stone in the wall, rough to the touch, to remove each of my sandals in turn, shaking them free of gravel. Then I waited for a couple of cars to pass before strolling back down to the plaza.

The woman in the green dress crosses the street and disappears inside the florist"s. Is it like Shirley to be late? I have no idea. I consider taking a quick look in the hand-stitched leather shop nearby when I spot Richard, dapper in black, emerging through the trees that fill the plaza. To be polite, I wait. It would look bizarre to suddenly walk off, especially when it"s obvious to all that I"m waiting for someone. I haven"t seen Richard since the last time he was on the island, which, thinking back was about a year ago, around the time my parents moved to Máguez. A year, and in all that time, I haven"t cared to see him again. I"m still feeling stung after he called me a char. The humiliation was so great I forewent my mop and bucket shortly after.

The British couple I worked for had bought and renovated an old farmhouse on the edge of Punta Mujeres and lived in it for a few years before deciding to sell. They found it impossible to find a buyer in the new economic climate so they let out the farmhouse as a holiday rental, following a well-trodden path. Many foreign homeowners choose to own a square of island paradise and establish a holiday let, and Celestino said they often do so without the local government"s knowledge or approval and invariably without paying local taxes. Provide the right conditions and anyone will take advantage, it seems. Lanzarote is not an island for the scrupulous. Is anywhere? Yet the holiday lets provide much low paid casual employment. And just as it is with any migrant group the world over, the Brits prefer to deal with those they know and can trust—their own kind—which means residents like me can find such employment with relative ease. Exceptional ease in my case: Shirley put me on to the job, shoving a flier in my hand one afternoon when we encountered each other at the bank.

After Richard"s insult, I only managed one more shift. It was a Tuesday, and a party of vacationers had just departed. I traipsed through the rooms, stripping beds and attending to dollops of this and that stuck fast to walls and floors, to the handprints on the windows, the grime on the stove, the orange juice that had leaked in the fridge, and the hairs in the shower. All that filth and I earned no extra to deal with it. I felt more demoralised with every minute that passed. It didn"t take long to make up my mind that I"d rather go hungry than suffer another moment. My decision was sealed when I opened the used toilet paper bin—onsite sewerage treatment on the island doesn"t cope with the accoutrements of the toilet—to find streaks of brown and red and a sickly stench so overwhelming I blenched. It took all my resolve to empty it.

Without casual employment, my resentment swelled over Celestino"s determination to live off the earnings from his art. It was a resentment I struggled to quell, ashamed to find myself one of those people who put money before creativity. I resolved to adopt the attitude that it was the price paid when relocating to a tiny island off the coast of Africa. A few weeks later, I managed to climb up a rung of the menial-job ladder. Waitressing is still skivvying, but there is at least some dignity to it.

Sunlight burst through the clouds, dappling the shade in the plaza. Richard stops in his tracks and dips a hand in his pocket as though to make sure he has his wallet. He pats the other and a look of mild relief appears in his face. He"s aged. There"s a lot more salt in his hair, the peppery threads all but gone. He looks drawn, thinner, and his upright gait is laboured. I raise a smile as he nears, and he reciprocates.

"Hello, Paula." He comes to a halt and forgoes the customary greeting by pocketing both of his hands. The newspaper under his arm slips down to his elbow. He braces and extracts a hand to grab it before it falls.

"Waiting for someone?" He makes a show of admiring my outfit and glancing around.

"She"s late."

"She?"

"My neighbour."

"Celestino hard at work then."

"Survive the storm okay?" I reply quickly.

"Thankfully, yes. And you?"

"Fine."

"Can I buy you a coffee?"

"She should be here any moment."

"Then she can join us. We can sit somewhere prominent."

"Really I…"

"That table"s free," he says, looking over at the rows of mostly empty tables outside Antonio"s café. "Come on."

His persistence is puzzling. I glance at my watch. It"s a quarter past eleven. Maybe Shirley has changed her mind.

I choose a seat facing out towards the street, smoothing down my dress as I sit. Richard pulls out the opposite chair. I wave him aside and indicate the one on my right.

"Yes, of course." Richard looks nonplussed but he obliges. With inward attention, he places on the table beside him the day"s newspaper, folded in half, and he spends a few moments cleaning the lenses of his glasses. He doesn"t put them on. Rather, he sets them down carefully so that the rims line up with the paper"s title, as if underscoring it: "Yaiza Mayor Opens Playa Blanca"s New All-Inclusive Resort". There"s the usual cheesy grin for the camera. I make no comment, not wanting to get into a discussion about the effect all-inclusives have on the local economy with someone as ill-informed as Richard.

Antonio approaches and welcomes us both with a warm hello and a menu.

"¿Qué tal?" he says, directing his inquiry at me.

"Bien," I answer, although I don"t feel at all good.

"¿Algunas noticias sobre Celestino?"

"Nada," I say, lowering my gaze, hoping Richard can"t understand the question, at once somewhat baffled at the intense privacy I feel in his presence.

Sensing my unease, Antonio says, "Perdoname," which only serves to worsen the situation, for Richard is sure to know what begging your pardon means in any language.

"¿Café?"

"Si, gracias. Dos cafecitos."

"¿Para él?"

"Sí, para él también."

As Antonio strides away, I turn to Richard. "You still drink espresso, I take it? I ordered for both of us."

"Yes, I know. I heard. I can speak Spanish too."

"Of course." I cringe inwardly. "I was forgetting."

I stop short of explaining that waiting on tables has shown me the complexities of the variations, the accents. I have to work hard at my own fluency to keep up. Interpreting isn"t necessarily that straightforward either, and there was one time only last month when an Englishman sat down, all grandiose gestures and false airs, treating me as though I was a backpacker on a long holiday. His mispronounced Spanish when he tried to order tapas had thrown me and I brought out the little salty potatoes instead of the squid he wanted. Flustered, when he then told me to fetch another two chairs because some friends of his were due to arrive any second, I tried to convince him to move to another table. I communicated to him in Spanish, believing that was what he preferred, and yet he couldn"t, or wouldn"t, understand me. Instead he demanded to speak to the manager and stood up abruptly, spilling a carafe of water on the table. It was a moment of intense chagrin, having to stand there and remain polite to a man I felt like slapping. I was thankful no one I knew was in the restaurant at the time. But I could feel all eyes on me as I went to the kitchen, and could scarcely defend myself when the proprietor, Eileen, sought my version of events.

"I wonder, Paula," Richard says, interrupting my thoughts. "You don"t happen to know of a good gardener?"

"A gardener? Haría is full of gardeners."

"For hire, I mean."

"For your place?"

"I"m finding it hard with my back. Too much bending."

"Have you tried asking at the supermarkets? They might know of someone. “Un jardinero”, or “una jardinera”."

"I can ask."

"But you might not understand what they tell you in reply?" Or them you, I think but don"t say. "Everyone speaks so rapidly."

"I thought I"d ask you first."

"I can"t help you, but if I come across anyone, I"ll let you know."

"That would be wonderful."

Antonio comes with the coffees. He sets them down with deft care, then looks at us both inquiringly.

"Would you like to eat something, Paula," Richard says.

"I"m about to have lunch." I hand back my menu to Antonio and draw my cup closer. "You go ahead, though."

"I"ve some cold meat in the fridge," Richard says, handing back his as well.

"And pumpernickel?" I say, recalling the day I discovered he brought it with him from England.

"Ever the tease." He laughs lightly then his demeanour changes. "What"s all this about Celestino? Antonio wanted to know if you have any news."

Damn. I think it best not to reply and we fall into a moment of awkward silence.

Richard breaks it with, "Pardon me for asking, then."

I sip my coffee and stare at the street, wishing Shirley would hurry up.

"Paula, I didn"t mean to upset you, or to pry. Your private life is your affair." He fiddles with the spoon in his saucer. "I"ve been meaning to get in touch. I hope you don"t mind. It"s just that I have something to ask you. Something else to ask you."

"Ask me or ask of me?" I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the street.

"Ask of, I suppose."

"And what might that be, Richard?"

"My latest work."

"I thought so."

"I need your advice."

"Really? On what?"

"Water storage."

"I don"t know a thing about water storage. You"re mistaking me for Ann." I didn"t mean to sound quite that tart.

He ignores my tone, or is oblivious to it.

"Fresh water storage," he says matter-of-factly. "Aljibes, actually."

"Aljibes?" I can"t help correcting his pronunciation. He said all-hee-bees. "What on earth would you want to know? They"re nothing more than underground water tanks."

"The one at La Corona. It"s ancient. You"re the expert on local historical sites. I was wondering what you knew about that one."

"I"m not an expert."

"Of course, you are."

It"s true I know far more than him, although nowhere near as much as I would like. When I moved here, I made it my business to know all about the island in the hope of securing a job in tourism, only to find my language skills were not up to the mark.

"I know little, Richard. Some Conejeros must have spent a long time digging a ruddy great hole and lining it with cement."

"Is that it? A pity. It"s terribly important."

"I"m sure it is."

"It"s the setting for my latest crime novel. The Aljibe."

"The Aljibe?"

The"Whatever is wrong with that title?"

"Sounds like a Western."

"It does not!"

I can"t help taking pleasure in needling his oversensitivity. "Richard, it should be El Aljibe, at the very least," I say with a wry smile.

"Whatever you think, Paula. Will you come with me one day this week, or not? To La Corona, I mean."

"Richard, I can"t."

"You can"t," he repeats flatly.

I refrain from telling him why. If he"s trying to make me feel guilty, it isn"t working. I sip more of my coffee, tiring of waiting in his company. I begin to consider going home when Shirley corners the plaza. She"s changed into a flowing chiffon dress of lurid orange with matching scarf. She stops suddenly, feet apart, hands on hips, making a show of looking around, her manner suggesting that whoever it is she"s looking for should be right there. She spots me and strides over.

"Sorry I"m late." Her hands grip the back of a chair. "Maria phoned, and then I had to get changed."

I take in the chandelier earrings and accompanying necklace of fake white gold she has on. Garbed in orange, she looks like a fancy cup cake.

Shirley shifts her gaze to Richard, and putting on a prim voice she says, "Richard Parry, isn"t it?" She proffers her hand. "I heard you were back."

"You did?" Richard appears puzzled.

"Richard," I cut in, "this is my neighbour, Shirley."

"I"m not sure we"ve met," Richard says, shaking her hand.

"We have. Once or twice, but not formally. How"s the writing?"

"Very well, thank you."

I stare down at my half-drunk coffee. It"s the way he says things, so abruptly and defensive. A sudden beep startles me and I look over as a car reverses to let a small truck go by. Celestino flashes into my mind and I"m awash with guilt that I"m not out there searching for him, guilt that quickly shades into irritation. Life goes on. Whatever has happened to him, life has to go on.

Shirley opens her mouth to speak when Richard says, "How long have you been on the island?"

"Twenty years. I"m practically a local." She emits a self-deprecating laugh.

I find myself recoiling. It"s a reaction I often have to the claim made by expats that the time they"ve lived on the island earns them the right to a "local" identity. For with it comes an implicit sense of ownership. Here we are, three Brits living in an island paradise, staking a claim like Bethencourt himself. Little wonder the Lanzaroteños, the real locals, call all the migrants "estranjeros", which literally means strangers, for strangers we are and will always be, forever outside no matter what we ourselves think, here by invitation and not by divine right. I"m surprised by the strength of how I feel, and the hypocrisy embedded in it, for I know I have to include myself in the condemnation, despite my marriage to Celestino.

Seated in the plaza of the island"s ancient capital with two Brits who one way or another epitomise the cultural arrogance I despise, I suffer a sense of collective shame over the numbers of estranjeros who flock to Lanzarote, to all of the Canary Islands, or even to mainland Spain, a nation that undoubtedly has made the whole life-in-the-sun dream possible, easy and enticing.

Shirley steps aside to let Antonio pass by behind her.

"I"m going to steal Paula away from you, Richard, if that"s all right. We have a lunch date."

"Where are you off to?"

"Didn"t Paula tell you? Costa Teguise."

"To the Dicken"s Bar?"

"You"ve been there?" Shirley replies.

"There"s a writer"s group that meets there, but no I haven"t."

"Surely you"ve been invited to give a little talk."

"They wouldn"t pay your fee."

"How did you know that, Paula?" Richard says, a look of astonishment appearing in his face.

"To answer your original question, Mr Parry, no, we are not going to the Dickens Bar." And with that, Shirley makes to walk away.

"Have an enjoyable time, then."

"We will."

Richard looks disappointed not to have received an invitation. The man"s sense of entitlement beggar"s belief. I have never encountered in him such neediness. I almost feel sorry for him as I walk away.

Shirley drives a blue Maserati coupe and she drives it fast. She has to sit on a cushion to see through the windscreen and she"s had the foot pedals lengthened. She looks even smaller behind the wheel, child size, and it"s as much as I can do to keep from screaming out, alarmed as I am by the proximity of the walls—low stone or the high white-washed walls of the buildings—that whizz by as we pass. It"s my first time in Shirley"s car and I don"t feel at all safe. My eyes won"t leave the tarmac. As the car hurtles towards the hairpin at the edge of the plateau, I have to resist gripping my seat. Shirley lunges into the bend, the car leaning hard to the left, and once through, she storms down the straight descent towards the sweeping hairpin at the bottom. I remain quiet. I don"t want to break Shirley"s concentration until we make it to the Arrieta roundabout a couple of kilometres further on.

It is Shirley who speaks first. Heading across the coastal plain, she says, "How long have you known Richard?"

I quickly realise Shirley knows little about me beyond the general comments that neighbours make about their lives and the little updates I volunteer concerning Gloria, Bill and Angela. I recall my old neighbour in Ipswich, Carol, the one with the struggling eucalypt, how close we were, and it"s with a measure of nostalgia in my heart that I answer. "He was the first English person I met when I moved here four years ago."

"Aloof, if you don"t mind me saying. Don"t you find him aloof?"

"Not really."

"Stiff then."

I picture his injured back. "Yes, stiff. Definitely." Perhaps his back influences his manner, or is it the other way around? "He comes to the island to write," I add.

"Got that. I heard his wife"s full on. Have you met her?"

"Trish? No, I haven"t."

It suddenly seems odd he keeps his English wife tucked away at home in Bunton.

"Have you read Ico"s Promise?" Shirley asks, continuing with the topic. Her acerbic tone leaves me wondering where the conversation is heading.

Ico"s Promise"Not yet." I feel bad admitting it.

"Don"t bother. It"s a travesty. He did the island such a disservice."

"Surely not."

Although I can perhaps imagine how. Richard"s ability to comprehend the history of the island with any depth or sympathy is limited. He"s too quick to judge, to draw conclusions. I"m surprised to find myself defending him.

"You won"t be saying that after you"ve read it." Shirley says. "He portrayed Ico as a product of unwarranted l**t, a half-breed who promised nothing and gave nothing, and left the island at the mercy of her son, Guadarfia."

"Guadarfía," I say correctly, stressing the penultimate syllable.

"If you insist. Richard had it that this Guadarfeeya, as you say, surrendered to the Spanish since they were genetically his own kind. The way Richard tells it, Ico should have failed that smoke test and died. Where on earth did he come up with it? Every danger something like that would put people off coming here."

"It"s only a book," I say, alarmed at the fast approaching Arrieta roundabout.

"That"s as maybe." She presses down on the brake, coming to an abrupt stop on the white line. "He"s well known. People are easily influenced."

A stream of traffic flows through from the north. Must be the end of a cave tour, I think, recalling the time I shared that experience with Richard. He spent the whole tour talking to me about his dear sweet Ann.

Shirley taps the steering wheel, waiting for a chance to pull out.

"I don"t rate him much as a writer, to be honest. Do you?"

"Haversack Harvest"s okay." I try to come up with something positive to say about the book but my mind goes blank.

Shirley puts her foot down on the accelerator and the Maserati shoots out in front of a red hatchback.

"He has no right to come here and use the island for his own personal gain," she says. "There, I"ve said it."

"Why ever not?" A writer has to get their inspiration from somewhere. Yet I"m horrified to hear my own thoughts reflected back at me, a view shared by Celestino too; a literary gold digger—that"s what he called him. He said he got the term from Domingo.

The moment I have the thought I"m tense. I haven"t dwelt on Celestino"s whereabouts for perhaps half an hour, and now he"s with me, summoned to the forefront of my mind.

On the wider arterial road that connects the northern tip to the capital, Arrecife, Shirley"s fast driving is less confronting. Although she doesn"t care much for cyclists. As we approach the Costa Teguise turn off, my determination to accommodate my neighbour"s driving is given a thorough run for its money as she barrels towards a brace of Lycra-clad men. Determined to frighten, she waits until the last opportunity to slow down, coming up far too close behind and whipping round them with only a whisker to spare.

In Costa Teguise, Shirley"s driving changes. She adheres, if barely, to the speed limit, cruising down the main street past numerous low-rise resorts. Is she showing off her Maserati? At least I have a chance to take in the surroundings. The verges in the holiday town are planted up with rows of stout palm trees, many still modest in height, their fronds dancing in the wind. Ever since I first commuted to work here, I have been of the view that the town"s urban planning has been executed with a measure of taste and presumably in keeping with the architectural principles of Manrique. It all looks pleasant and neat, a tourist idyll on a desert island, just as Celestino depicted it in his Lanzapoly. Yet here is the location of some of the twenty-seven illegal hotels that are the primary focus of Celestino"s wrath. They are too big, too high, too out of keeping with their surroundings and constructed without the necessary permissions. Feeling the force of his chagrin in his absence, it"s as though I"ve entered enemy territory just being here.

My mind flits back to when I worked as a hotel receptionist. Tourists would come in to collect their key and take the opportunity to complain about the concrete skeleton across the road ruining the view from their bedroom window. "b****y eyesore," was the most frequent phrase I heard. Most would note the lack of any workforce on the construction site. And I was then forced to explain that the courts had condemned the building to demolition. Didn"t look like that was going to happen any time soon, they"d say, and I would respond with an apologetic smile, saying that at least there wasn"t any dust. It was the best I could come up with. Celestino had explained the difficulties particular to the Canary Islands, the result of complex political and legal processes involving the various tiers of government that led to a kind of stalemate and thence inaction, the same complexities that provided the ease of illegal construction in the first place, but I hadn"t taken it in sufficiently to offer any comment to disgruntled tourists. Even if I had, I probably wouldn"t have bothered.

Before we reach the parade of shops that contains the Dickens Bar, Shirley turns left down Calle la Rosa, and follows it to the end. Redoto"s restaurant, aptly named "El Viento del Mar", stands alone across a promenade: a low, flat-roofed building hugging the rocky shoreline.

Shirley swings into an angle park, giving the brakes a final hard squeeze, causing me to launch forward and slap back against my seat. When she switches off the ignition and the engine dies, I release my seat belt and waste no time opening my door.

The wind is cool but not unpleasant, carrying with it the fresh salty air of the ocean. I wait while Shirley collects a paper bag from the back seat, and together we cross the promenade, dodging a pair of power-walking octogenarians.

The restaurant appears quiet, the outdoor seating area empty. A path fringed with chunks of basalt leads to the entrance set within a stylish paved porch. A staff member in bistro black is placing a sandwich board to one side. The board advertises the menu del día scribed in bold chalk. The man straightens, and ignoring us, looks up and down the promenade before returning inside. We follow.

We haven"t reached the porch when we hear the commotion. "What on earth," Shirley says and quickens her pace. I"m close behind, removing my sunglasses on my way in and depositing them in my shoulder bag.

The dining area is large, with rows of tables fanning over to where bi-fold doors open out onto a large terrace. Near the entrance, a small bar set back in the wall leads through to the kitchen. An aroma of garlicky fish infuses the air. Confronted by a barrage of emphatic hollering, we come to a halt at the first table, Shirley standing, feet apart, arms behind her back, one hand gripping her paper bag. Staff are gathered in a huddle beside a pillar near the terrace. Before the gathering, a burly man with a full but closely cropped beard is stabbing the air in the direction of a painting hanging in a prominent position on the side wall behind him.

"¡Dígame!"

No one speaks.

"Which one of you did this?"

His staff appear shocked and bemused. There"s a lot of shaking of heads and the raising of open palms.

The offending painting hangs above a deep open fireplace. At first I can"t pay it close attention, my eyes dazzled by sunlight streaming through tall windows in the north facing wall, placing the contents of the side wall in relative gloom. I dearly want to don my sunglasses but it seems rude. I direct my gaze at the huddle of men with sudden sympathy. No one deserves to be yelled at like that.

The irate man is blocking my full view of the work. It isn"t until I turn my back on the glare and he steps forward to intensify his menace that I can properly take it in.

It"s a large, square canvas depicting the smooth and bald mountains of Los Ajaches in the island"s south, their slopes descending steeply to the ocean. In the foreground, on a small beach of black sand, is a congregation of what appear to be tall stakes, arranged in some sort of formation. I want to inch closer, but a staff member glances over and the burly man turns.

"Shirley!" he says and his manner changes as though by a flick of a switch, a broad smile spreading across his face. He shoos away the others on Shirley"s approach. I follow, rounding the tables to my right to gain a better view of the offending artwork.

The man reaches down and plants a kiss on each of Shirley"s cheeks, then he straightens and stares across at me.

"¿Quién es ella?"

"This is my friend, Paula Cray," she says, using my maiden name. "Paula, meet Redoto." She pronounces his name Reedoetoe. I have to suppress a reaction. I have no choice but to greet the man and condone the customary exchange of kisses. At least up close I can better observe him. He has to be in his fifties, judging by the looseness of the skin about his neck, the lines beneath disingenuous eyes, hair thinning about the crown. Average in height and build, he"s garbed in a black leather jacket atop expensive-looking trousers. Wafts of something like Armani fill the air around him.

"Whatever is the matter?" Shirley says in a tone of contrived concern.

"Mira."

He takes Shirley"s hand and steers her to the fireplace.

They stand together for the briefest moment. Shirley"s reaction is immediate, emphatic, almost mocking.

"It"s a fine artwork, Reedoetoe."

"Is it? Is it?" he says, his distress again rising. "From a distance perhaps, but look harder, Shirley. You too," he says to me with an impatient gesture. "And tell me what you see."

Shirley makes a show of peering at the artwork then she steps back, still clutching her paper bag.

"I don"t understand. What"s wrong with it?"

The close proximity allows me to see that the stakes on the little black beach are in fact solar panels, depicted at oblique angles, and fashioned into crucifixes, a pair of panels set on the horizontal serving as wings. I haven"t seen the work before or anything like it. He"s emulated the naturalistic surrealism of Paul Kuczynski with considerable finesse. I love the work of Paul Kuczynski. Who doesn"t? I know it"s his, my husband"s; I recognise the mark in the bottom right corner.

At first, I"m thrown by the style, although it comes as no surprise that he"s veered in the direction of political satire. I hope the work is not indicative of his La Mareta submission or he won"t stand a chance of securing the commission. The location of Celestino"s work in Redoto"s restaurant slowly sinks in and my mind starts racing. If it is his work, and I"m sure it is, then how did it come to be hanging in a restaurant in Costa Teguise? More"s the point, why?

I force upon my face a deadpan expression. Shirley and Redoto seem concerned solely with how the work came to be here. They show no sign of recognising its creator. Thankfully Celestino"s new signature is too obscure, having the appearance of an inscription. Celestino told me it says "guanamene", which means "seer" in his native tongue. Knowing this, I can"t help taking umbrage inwardly when Redoto says, "The work is offensive. Everything is wrong with it, Shirley. Everything." He throws up his hands. "Tell me, who would do such a thing?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Reedoetoe."

"And I have absolutely no idea where this thing came from. Someone put it there."

"And you think it was one of them?" Shirley says, referring to his staff.

"Someone got into my restaurant, removed a painting and replaced it with this." He flicks a hand in the direction of the work as if to seal his point.

Shirley turns away and puts her paper bag on the nearest table. She shoots me a wry look and I join her.

"Art theft?"

"I wouldn"t go that far, Paula," Shirley says quickly and quietly. "The original picture was an amateur rendition of his restaurant. Nothing special. Not like this," she says, nodding at the painting. Raising her voice to a normal level, she addresses Redoto. "It"s bizarre. Normally people steal expensive works of art. They don"t generally come in and hang one unbidden. Perhaps it"s a gift. Is it your birthday any time soon?"

"It is not my birthday and this is not a gift." There"s a soft growl in his voice.

Shirley doesn"t react. "Do you have any idea how they got in?"

"I have no idea at all. There is no sign of a forced entry."

"Which is why you are accusing the staff."

"They all have a key, or access to one."

"Perhaps someone forgot to lock the door," I volunteer.

My comment is ignored.

"I don"t see the point of it, to be honest," Shirley says, clasping the back of a chair, more for effect than to steady herself. "I"d leave it there if I were you. It looks nice."

"I will not leave it there."

He"s struggling to entertain Shirley"s teasing remarks, her frivolity.

"Then sell it," she says, apparently oblivious to the affect she"s having, or indifferent to it. "It"s rather a good painting. Not a work trotted out for the tourist market. A lot of thought"s gone into it. I"m sure it would fetch a good price."

Redoto emits a sharp laugh.

"Will you call the police?" I ask, trying not to sound apprehensive.

"What good would that do?" says Shirley. "Nothing"s been stolen except for that picture. Hang on…" She shoots the artwork an appraising stare, her face breaking into a grin. "What if someone has stolen this marvellous painting from elsewhere and is trying to implicate you in the theft."

Redoto doesn"t respond.

Absently fiddling with one of her chandelier earrings that has caught in her scarf, Shirley goes on. "Do you have any enemies, Reedoetoe? Someone with a vendetta?"

Shirley seems to take enormous pleasure in her new role as sleuth. Redoto isn"t impressed, but at least she has managed to mitigate his fury with her last comment. He looks thoughtful and is about to respond when a woman"s voice calls out with much sarcasm, "Everyone loves Redoto."

"Maria," he murmurs, almost to himself.

We all turn at once to see a woman emerging from behind the bar. She"s voluptuous, all curves and cleavage, the mauve dress she has on clinging to her like skin. My own simple cotton dress suddenly feels like a hessian sack.

"I"ve got what you wanted, Redoto," she says, walking towards us, hips swaying, high heels clicking on the tiled floor.

"Where is it?"

"In the car." Her gaze doesn"t waver.

"Mujer, give me the keys." He holds out his hand and yells for Carlos.

The man who placed the sandwich board outside comes rushing through from the kitchen.

Maria"s response is measured. She dips a carefully manicured hand into her patent leather handbag and extracts her car keys, holding them up like a taunt.

Redoto snatches them and tosses them at the waiter. "Get the fish."

The fish? In his wife"s car? My mind races with possibilities, interrupted when in a quick change of manner Redoto addresses me with, "I"m sorry, Paula, isn"t it? Paula this is my wife, Maria."

Maria gives me a charming smile and extends her hand. The cool touch of her flesh settles on my palm for the briefest moment before Maria pulls her hand away.

Shirley, who took several steps away from the couple during their exchange, approaches and Maria greets her warmly. Redoto watches, his earlier agitation returning.

"Reedoetoe has another restaurant in Puerto Calero," Shirley says aloud, but addressing me. "Maria had to do a mercy dash. The supplier forgot to include the prawns."

I"m reminded of that phone call Shirley said she received from Maria, the cause of her late arrival at the plaza and I"m suddenly aware of the intimacy between the two women. Noting the age gap of some decades, I can"t help marvelling at Maria"s loyalty, for surely from her point of view, Shirley is just an eccentric old widow. Or perhaps that"s a little mean. Obviously, there"s the matter of rapport, of shared history and outlook, of solidarity even. Who knows? Perhaps my thoughts are tinged with envy. I"ve never had a best friend. Not even my old neighbour, Carol, qualified as that. I suddenly want to put as much space between myself and the looming lunch as the island will allow.

"Where are my manners." Redoto is all stuck-on charm. "Ladies, come and sit down." He ushers us to a table nearby and pulls out a chair for his wife. "What can I get you? On the house."

Shirley fetches her paper bag and takes up the chair facing the ocean, leaving me the opposite chair with a view of the bar.

"What is that?" Maria says without sitting, her attention on Celestino"s painting. "It"s horrible."

Outrage pings in my belly. I manage to hide it.

"Maria, don"t," Redoto says with a censorious hand, and he walks away before she can utter another word.

"Whatever possessed you?" she says, raising her voice at his back. "Throwing good money on rubbish."

"He didn"t buy it, Maria," Shirley says. "He was given it."

"Given it?" She sits down with her handbag on her lap. "By who?"

"He doesn"t know."

"Then why hang it there, where everyone can see it?"

"That"s where they left it."

"They?"

There"s no time to offer an answer. Redoto returns with the menus and a bottle of white wine. He pours the wine into three large glasses. Maria waits for him to leave before she speaks again. The momentary diversion is all it takes to change her mood and the painting is forgotten. She smiles winningly and leans back in her seat. "I bought a little something, Shirley. Couldn"t resist it." And she withdraws from her handbag a velvet jewellery box.

The two women coo adoration over a tiny crucifix suspended on a gold necklace. Then Shirley extracts a gift-wrapped package from her paper bag and hands it to her friend.

Maria gasps, her face alight in anticipation. She rips opened the silver paper like a child, tossing it on the floor and flourishing a silk wrap.

"I bought it in Puerto Calero. I hope you like it."

Maria beams and kisses her friend and they both agree it"s a perfect match with the necklace. They twitter on about the difficulties of finding suitable gifts on the island, bemoan the lack of shops and the annoyance of having to fly to Santa Cruz de Tenerife for anything special.

In what appears to be an effort to include me in the conversation, Maria turns and says, "Here on my island the old families, they wanted to have it all. Very bad. They blocked everything."

"Ikea fought for years, didn"t they Maria?"

"Years," Maria repeats grimly.

I"m quick to grasp the allusion. I picture my parents" new furniture with a pang of conscience, wondering what they might have managed to purchase in the pre-Ikea days.

The two women go on to agree that Puerto Calero has been their only salvation. The conversation proves tedious, but at least any lingering concern Maria may have over the painting has vanished. I"m left to the menu and my own private musings. I haven"t decided on my choice of dish when the waiter comes to take our order. Maria chooses a seafood platter and a salad to share and hands Carlos the menu, indicating for us to do the same.

I take a gulp of my wine. I feel strangely diminutive. The other two women make small talk until the food arrives. I allow myself a measure of hope that we"ll get through the meal without another mention of the painting but Shirley, as tenacious as ever, takes two calamari rings, nibbles briefly at one, then sits back and says, "We have a mystery on our hands, Maria."

I have to force myself to eat. It was easier to hide my reactions in the midst of the earlier commotion, but seated round a small table, deflecting Shirley"s speculations on means, motive and opportunity, there"s almost no avoiding revealing my unease. Thankfully Shirley appears oblivious. For she"s taken on the role of a boisterous Miss Marple, running through the likely suspects, focusing on the staff—Carlos, the chef, the kitchen hands—quizzing Maria about their backgrounds. She makes reference to crime novels she"s read, everything from Murder on the Orient Express to The Number One Ladies Detective Agency, and by the end of the meal, she"s had the entire apparent crime figured out in four different and equally absurd scenarios. Maria is amused. Thankfully neither woman mentions the curious signature of the artist or endeavours to unpack the meaning and significance of the artwork.

Murder on the Orient ExpressThe Number One Ladies Detective AgencyShirley saves her more salacious ideas for the drive home. As she roars her way back to Haría, she decides Redoto must be having an affair and Maria has found out. Or could it be vice versa? —Maria doesn"t tell her everything. And what about those crucifixes in the painting? —Funny how Maria never mentioned them. Are they a death threat of some sort? Did she react so strongly to cover her alarm, or her culpability? Or was it Redoto who was reacting wildly to cover his own complicity in a plot to kill his wife?

By the time we reach the village my mind is spinning. I try to contribute, to at least appear to offer an opinion, and I manage to steer Shirley away from her more outrageous speculations. Yet she does have one thing right. She can"t figure out how any of her suspects might have laid their hands on such a painting.

I can"t either. I can"t imagine that painting falling into the hands of anyone associated with Redoto"s restaurant. It just isn"t possible. There"s only one person with ready access to Celestino"s work: Celestino.

Only, I"ve never seen the work before. I"m as certain as I can be that it isn"t a work composed years earlier: a commission or a sale. It"s a new work, a very recent work, a work crafted in the oils he bought six months before with the proceeds from the sale of a commission in acrylics. I couldn"t have known that this is what he intended.