Margaritas and Murder (A Cozy Mystery)

Chapter 1

“So, how is the weather there? Wait, don’t tell me. On second thought, I don’t want to know,” Pat said before erupting into a major coughing fit.

I cradled the phone receiver to my ear as I slid open the sliding glass door to step out onto the balcony. The sun was shining, and the warm sea air kissed my cheek. “It’s awful.”

“Liar,” Pat said, her voice muffled as she blew her nose. “But I appreciate the thought.”

A few months before, I had won the grand prize from the Redemption Police Department’s raffle—a five-day, six-night stay at a resort in Los Cabos, Mexico, for two. It even included airfare. I was pretty excited. What a great way to start off 1993.

As a currently single woman with no plans to change that status (no matter how hard Office Brandon Wyle was eying me after I won it—of course, who could blame him, with Wisconsin winters being absolutely brutal), I decided to take my best friend Pat. Unfortunately, she caught a terrible cold the day before we were supposed to leave, so I ended up taking the trip on my own.

“You sound terrible,” I said, listening to her cough. “Are you drinking the tea I dropped off?”

“Drinking it now,” Pat croaked out.

Pat had been one of my first tea clients (I had a custom tea business I ran out of my home) before becoming one of my best friends. My clients swore my teas had healing powers, even though I made no such promises. My clients also seemed to find themselves in a lot of legal jams, so in addition to growing the herbs and flowers that I used to make my teas, I also found myself doing a lot of sleuthing. But, as I had no clients and no tea in Mexico, I should be able to take a break from both tea-making and sleuthing.

“Can you see the ocean?” Pat asked.

I squinted, peering around the courtyard below my room. While I knew the resort was built on the beach, alas, I was not able to see it from my balcony. “Not exactly. But there are flamingos.”

“Flamingos? As in, the tall, pink birds that stand on one leg?”

“The very ones,” I said, watching one strut around its enclosure while two others seemed to be simultaneously napping and balancing expertly on one leg. “I’m right above them.”

“Well, that’s certainly better than my view, which is a gray sky and a bunch of snow,” Pat grumbled. “Though I think I’d still prefer the ocean.”

“At least it’s within walking distance,” I said.

Pat blew her nose before erupting into another coughing fit. “I can’t believe I’m here while you’re there. This is so unfair.”

“I promise to take lots of pictures,” I said. “It will almost be like you were here.”

Pat snorted. “Don’t do me any favors.”

***

After I finished settling into my cute little bungalow decorated in a variety of bright, vivid colors and Mexican art, I headed out to do a little exploring. I was also strongly considering having a margarita. I wasn’t a huge drinker, but hey, I was in Mexico, after all. Surely, that in itself was cause for a margarita celebration.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, and the air carried the scent of the saltwater. It was the perfect temperature for the pair of shorts and tee shirt I had changed into. I found the beach in no time, along with an outdoor bar, and settled at a table under a colorful umbrella that overlooked the ocean. After ordering chips, salsa, and a strawberry margarita, I relaxed into my chair, listening to the gentle rhythm of the waves splashing against the shore as I breathed in the salty air.

Surprisingly, the beach wasn’t as crowded as I’d expected. There were a handful of people in swimsuits sprawled out on towels and another handful swimming. The bar itself was also mostly empty—a middle-aged couple sat at a table across from me, empty dishes in front of them, and a group of tourists, who looked about my age, were clustered around the bar. A single man, wearing a large hat and sunglasses, was nursing a beer in the corner.

Maybe it was just timing—it was late afternoon, and people were probably getting ready for dinner. Once I finished my drink, I was planning on doing the same. The long shuttle ride and even longer plane ride had taken a lot out of me. An early night sounded perfect, and then I would be rested, refreshed, and ready to spend the next day sightseeing.

The waiter deposited the chips and margarita in front of me. I took a sip and munched on a few chips, feeling both excited that I was finally in Mexico (a place I had always wanted to visit) and a little bummed about being alone. In retrospect, I wondered if I should have just canceled when Pat got sick. Of course, that would have meant losing the trip altogether. Or maybe I should have asked someone else to come … though I wasn’t sure I knew anyone who could have dropped everything to vacation in Mexico for six days. An image of Wyle flickered through my head, but I quashed it down. First off, the chances of him getting the time off from the police department with such a lack of notice was highly unlikely. And second, I had no business going on a trip with him. Our relationship was complicated enough without spending nearly a week in Cabo together.

Still … I was starting to wish I had at least asked.

Further down the beach, I noticed a couple walking along the shoreline. The woman’s long, blonde hair was blowing wildly in the breeze. She wore a tiny red bikini with a white, see-through coverup paired with oversized sunglasses and a huge tote bag. The man next to her was tall and swarthy, with dark hair and a barrel chest. He wore a green button-down shirt that hung open, revealing a chest full of black hair, and a pair of dark-green shorts. His head was turned toward the woman, and they appeared to be in deep conversation.

I watched them, feeling a pang of loneliness. Whatever they were talking about was intense. It had been so long since I had that sort of relationship with someone, I had almost forgotten what it felt like. Or maybe that was just the margarita talking. I gave my drink the side-eye, but it seemed nonplussed. For someone who rarely drank, maybe having a margarita before dinner was a bad idea after all.

Suddenly, the man’s arm snaked out, and he pushed the woman. She stumbled, nearly falling into the waves lapping against her feet. He shoved her again and advanced on her, looking like he was shouting. She cowered as the waves splashed against her tanned calves, her hands instinctively shielding her face.

I was on my feet and running toward them before I was even aware of what I was doing. Of course, the sand was soft and nearly impossible to run in; plus, I almost immediately lost both of my flip-flops. Regardless, I forced my legs to pump faster. The sunbathing tourists I passed were staring at me with mouths hanging open, but I paid them no mind.

“Stop that!” I yelled, but neither the man nor the woman even glanced in my direction. I pushed myself harder. I had pulled my hair back into a ponytail, but some of the tendrils had worked their way out and were now blowing across my face.

“Leave her alone,” I yelled again, and finally, the man turned toward me. His arm was up, his fist cocked, as if he had been about to punch the woman, and he snarled when he saw me coming.

“Go away. This is none of your business,” he snapped. He had an accent, but I had no trouble understanding him.

“You shouldn’t be hitting a woman,” I gasped as I approached them, slowing my pace. The woman was still cowering as she stood in the water, but I could feel her eyes peeking at me, nearly hidden behind a veil of hair.

He bared his teeth. “This has nothing to do with you. Walk away.”

I planted my feet in the sand and crossed my arms across my chest. He was right—it definitely wasn’t my business. But that didn’t matter. I could remember only too well the fear a woman felt when someone she thought she loved raised a fist at her. “Only if you promise not to hit her.”

He narrowed his eyes as he glared at me. The saying, “If looks could kill,” floated through my head, but I stood my ground. He certainly wouldn’t hurt me, a stranger and tourist, right?

He took a menacing step toward me, his fist still raised, and for a moment, I felt a rush of panic. Was he seriously going to attack me? On a public beach?