Canary Islands Mysteries - Books 1-3

5. Haría-4

There are days I crave his company, his undivided attention, but I"ve learned to bury the yearning in domestic and motherly routines. I keep telling myself I need an interest of my own, a fulfilling occupation of some kind, but I"ve no idea what that might be. I do my best to follow the issues associated with the island"s tourism but only at a distance. Almost all the in-depth material written on the history and culture of the island is in Spanish and not seeing any role for myself in terms of employment, my enthusiasm has waned. And I"m too full of Gloria"s needs to nurture any pursuits of my own.

I drink my coffee in a few large gulps and leave the pastry untouched. I"m about to stand when in walks my neighbour, Shirley, sashaying to the counter in a long-sleeved velour pantsuit of deep purple, a diamante clutch bag in hand. She has an assertive gait for her age—late sixties I surmise—her figure straight-backed and trim. She"s a whole head and shoulders shorter than me, and she dyes her short fine hair a smoky blonde. I"ve never seen her without one of those matching and garish earring and necklace sets adorning her personage. On this occasion, it"s a pearl and crystal choker with globular pendants. She"s an energetic woman too, the sort with somewhere to go, something to do, someone to meet. A busy body in the literal and metaphoric senses of the word. And despite her age and independent means, she works part-time for a local estate agent, work that suits her personality.

Shirley hasn"t noticed me seated in the back corner, and I decide not to attract her attention. Of all the people in the village, she"s the last person Celestino will have told of his whereabouts. I find her harmless but Celestino loathes her.

Once, as we were arriving home from a trip to Gran Canaria to show Celestino"s family the baby, Shirley pulled up in her Maserati right behind his car, coming to an abrupt stop a few inches from his rear bumper. I was standing on the pavement watching Celestino extract the baby carrier from the back seat. Alarm shot through me. I was about to say something when Shirley said, "Whoopsie daisy," and scurried across the road to her house, disappearing inside before Celestino had manoeuvred himself and Gloria out of the car. He was livid.

Inside the kitchen, I put Gloria, asleep in her carrier, on the floor by my feet. Celestino set about making coffee. It was then he told me the trouble Shirley had caused him after she came to Haría in the late 1990s. The trouble started a few years after her arrival, when he was in his early twenties and had just graduated in fine art, and with both parents recently deceased.

"Shirley claimed that the adjoining property boundary extended well into my backyard and that in fact, my shed was illegal and would have to be demolished." I caught his eye, pointed at Gloria and pressed my fingers to my lips. He lowered his voice. "She argued for months over the boundary, then came the lawyer"s letters and eventually the matter ended up in court. I had to represent myself."

"How did it go?"

"She won. The site plans for her property did in fact include half of my shed. And the plans for mine were so old and poorly drawn that it didn"t matter that the shed in question had existed in that spot for two hundred years. I had to demolish it and move twenty metres of dry stone wall." He stood with his back to the bench. "She was victorious."

"I can imagine."

"Steer clear of her, Paula. She"s dangerous by association. She won that boundary dispute because she was married to Juan Mobad."

The coffee burbled. He waited a moment before turning off the flame. Then he put two cups on the table and poured.

"He died, didn"t he?" I said, taking my cup.

"Good riddance. He was a property-developing shyster implicated in numerous scandals involving the island"s mafia."

"Shirley must miss him."

Celestino sat down in the chair opposite. "I"m sure she does. She blames me too. I never liked Mobad. After the boundary dispute, I worked doubly hard to expose his involvement in a corruption scandal."

"What did he do?"

"Money laundering. He was arrested during a wide scale anti-corruption sweep of the island."

"Did he stand trial?"

"The cases against the others involved were protracted. Before he was due to stand, Mobad was found at the bottom of El Risco, or rather, bits of him."

The way he said it seemed callous. Shirley has never recovered from his suicide. If it was in fact suicide. It"s impossible to tell. Fourteen kilometres of cliff, all of it remote, much inaccessible; if he"d been pushed, there"d have been no witnesses. After his death, Shirley became exceptionally extroverted, her days brimming with distractions. Once in a private moment she confided that if she didn"t keep busy she"d go off the rails.

I wanted to take Celestino"s side—I"m as opposed to corruption as the next person—but I felt sorry for Shirley. Behind Celestino"s back, I forged a cordial if secret friendship with my neighbour. Besides, we had something in common; having married local men placed us both in a cultural void. We were neither properly local nor properly expat. We were allies, despite the history between Shirley and Celestino. Although I was well aware he never wanted "that woman" to ever set foot in his house.

Later, as Gloria became a toddler and a handful, I would even, on occasion, ask Shirley to mind Gloria during her afternoon nap, while I dashed to the supermarket in the fishing village of Arrieta.

It"s a short drive and the supermarket favourably priced, and well stocked too, unlike those catering for a much smaller clientele in Haría. Grocery shopping is much easier without grabbing hands. I"m cautious never to let the childminding occur when Gloria is awake, in case she lets something slip to her father. Come to think of it, I"m amazed I take the risk and admonish myself over the deception, quickly justifying it to myself along the lines of "needs must".

Shirley is facing the window. The men, huddled together at the front table, burst into laughter. I shift my gaze. The woman in the red, wide-brimmed hat lowers her newspaper, revealing a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. There is something furtive about her. I catch her eye and she quickly looks away.

While Shirley exchanges some loose change for the brown paper bag Antonio proffers, I think I might seize the opportunity and slip to the bathroom to escape her notice. But instead of turning towards the plaza, Shirley faces into the café.

"I thought I saw you there," she says loudly and marches over, pulling up a chair. Before she sits she plants a customary kiss in the air beside each of my cheeks and drops a large bunch of keys on the table. One of her earrings, an oversized faux silver hoop, snags on the collar of her velour top. She tilts her head to free it.

"Survive the storm up at Máguez?" she says, searching my face.

"The house is on a rise," I say lightly.

"Rotten luck it came on little Miss Gloria"s birthday. Was she awfully upset?"

"She had a ball, actually."

"People came then? In that weather?"

"No one came. My father kept her entertained."

"Good for him! I expect you all rallied. It"s what families do."

It"s a strange remark, as though Shirley is voicing envy when she"s always maintained she is childless and loving it.

"We did our best, given the circumstances," I say, not wanting to sound evasive or give her the impression family life is a joy, at the same time rueing that I"ve already revealed more than I wanted. We might be allies, but I strive to keep my guard in deference to Celestino.

I"m aware I"ve failed when Shirley says, "And what circumstances are those?" Quick off the mark, she adds, "I sense you mean more than just the weather."

I wring my hands in my lap. "Celestino didn"t show up," I say bluntly.

"To his own daughter"s birthday party! That"s outrageous."

"I"m sure he had good cause."

"That"s as may be but he should at least have made an appearance, come what may."

Noticing that the woman in the red hat has again lowered her newspaper and seems to be paying close attention to our exchange, I drop my voice.

"All I know is I can"t find him."

"You"ve been to the house and the studio, naturally."

"Yes."

"And you"ve tried his phone?"

"It"s dead." I shudder as I say it.

Shirley doesn"t seem to notice. "What time did you say he was due at your parents?"

I didn"t. "At two."

"Two o"clock? Hmm. I thought the party would have been much earlier. You left in the morning, I recall."

I had no idea I have a nosy neighbour. Or maybe Shirley just happened to have been by her front window at the time.

"Now I"m confused," Shirley says, leaning forward in her seat. I lean forward as well, preferring to keep the conversation away from curious ears. "I definitely saw him leave the house between one and two." She pauses. "Must have been about one thirty."

"You did?"

"I"m sure of it. Can"t miss the sound of that old bomb of his."

"Which way was he heading? Do you recall?"

"There"s only one way down our street, Paula."

"But did you see him turn left, or did he head straight into the village?" My thoughts are racing. Left means Máguez, and straight on means his studio, or on down to Arrieta. From there he could have gone anywhere south.

Shirley looks thoughtful. "Right," she says, nodding slowly. "Yes, he definitely turned right."

"Right? But that"s crazy."

Shirley sits back and shrugs. "I wouldn"t know."

"In that direction, he could only have been heading up the switchbacks to Teguise, or down to Tabayesco. Either route would have been a nightmare yesterday."

"Dangerous, true. It"s a wonder he didn"t get himself killed, but then again, he"s a local. Maybe he thinks he"s indestructible."

"Shirley," I say reproachfully.

"I"m sorry. I didn"t mean it. Look, he didn"t, or you would have heard by now."

"Even so. I should check the hospital." I should have thought to do that before.

"If it"ll put your mind at rest." She sounds vague. She eyes me appraisingly before she goes on. "I have to say you look dreadful, Paula. He"ll turn up. They always do."

"Who? Who always turns up?" I say with sudden irritation.

"Just a figure of speech." She furnishes me with a sympathetic smile, collects her bunch of keys and stands. "Pop round for a coffee later. You look like you could do with some company."

"I"m staying with my parents," I mutter. "While Celestino"s missing, I mean. They"re looking after Gloria."

"Bit melodramatic, don"t you think?"

"At least this way I only have to worry about one person, not two."

"Fair enough. Tomorrow then. Promise. You"ve got me worrying now."

I don"t believe her. I watch her swan out of the café and head off down the plaza. I remain seated, taking in her revelation. Celestino left the house at about one-thirty, she said. He should have been heading for Máguez but Shirley insisted she saw him driving towards the mountain. Why would he go in that direction and at that time? He wouldn"t have been heading to Mancha Blanca to deliver that painting to the Swedish doctor at one thirty, for he"d never have made it back to Máguez for Gloria"s party, so I suppose I can rule that scenario out. He might have been heading to Kathy and Pedro in Tabayesco, or to Pilar and Miguel in Los Valles, but both couples and their children were meant to be at the party. And both sensibly stayed home in that storm, when the switchbacks and the sweeping bends would have been treacherous. There could have been a landslide. If Celestino headed that way then maybe he was swept off the road and had hurtled down the mountainside, and now he lay broken in a heap at the bottom. Somewhere obscure where no one could see. A large clean up must be underway, the whole island was inundated. They could easily overlook a lone car half buried by silt, rocks and debris.