Margaritas & Murder by Jessica Fletcher Page B

taking the chair Olga had abandoned. “Got some more of your wonderful coffee there, Maria?”
    “Buenos días, Señor Woody,” Maria Elena said, bringing him a cup of steaming coffee. “Would you like some eggs?”
    Woody assessed the food on my plate and nodded. “I’ve already eaten, but knowing what a good cook you are—you might give me just a little taste.” He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart.
    “Solamente un momento,” she said, running to the stove and returning almost immediately with a plate of eggs and tomatoes for Woody.
    “What kind of roads will you be traveling on?” I asked.
    “Mostly highways. In fact”—he drew his wallet from his hip pocket and counted out some bills—“we’re going to need money for the tolls, about thirty-five dollars’ worth, I figure. I like to get that ready in advance.” He folded the bills and tucked them in his breast pocket. “It’s not a bad trip, just tedious,” he said, digging into the eggs. “That’s why I like to have someone along to help pass the time. Took my son once. What a mistake. The boy complained the whole way. I was ready to cut him off without a cent by the time we got back.” He slurped some coffee and continued eating and talking. “Glad I picked Vaughan, though. Bet he’s got a lot of stories he can tell about the book business. And he hasn’t heard most of mine yet. Give me a new audience to practice on. Someone once told me I should write a book about my experiences. Maybe I can interest Buckley in publishing them. What do you think?”
    I thought Vaughan might end up sorry that he had insisted on accompanying Woody, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I said, “I’ve always thought there’s a book in everyone. Stories about people are innately fascinating. But putting them into a readable form—that’s the hard part.”
    “Yeah, well, if he likes the stories, can’t he just find someone to write them up for me? You, for instance.”
    “Me?” I said. “That’s kind of you to think of me, but I’m much too busy writing my own stories to take on anyone else’s.”
    “I was afraid you’d say that. I’m sure I can find someone,” he said, shoveling in a forkful of eggs.
    “Perhaps you will,” I replied, concentrating on a piece of toast.
    Vaughan and Olga returned with smiles on their faces. Vaughn had an arm draped around his wife’s shoulder and she leaned against him.
    “I’m ready to go and there you are, starting on breakfast,” Vaughan said.
    “Nope, nope,” Woody said, leaning over the plate to finish the rest of his dish as he pushed up from the chair with his legs. “I’m ready.” He swiped Olga’s napkin over his lips. “All set,” he said, taking a last gulp of coffee.
    Outside, an old man and a burro plodded up the cobblestone street. The animal, whose muzzle was as white as his master’s whiskers, carried a pair of panniers, straw baskets filled with red and green chiles, the sides stained with streaks the colors of the peppers. “Buenos días, señoras, señores,” he called out, touching the brim of his sombrero.
    “Buenos días,” we replied.
    We walked the men to the car, which Woody had left parked illegally on the street. It was an old station wagon, dirty but undented. It had probably been a bright blue when it was new, but even through the grime I could see that the color had faded over the years. The seats were covered in what looked like imitation curly sheepskin tied with strings that dangled down the back. A placard on a side window read NO HABLO ESPAÑOL . In the rear of the wagon, Woody had a series of cardboard cartons and plastic tubs with names printed on them in black marker. He grabbed Vaughan’s small overnight bag, swung it into the backseat next to his own, and climbed behind the wheel.
    Olga drew a white handkerchief with a crocheted edge from her pocket and pressed it into Vaughan’s hand. “Something to remind you of me,” she said.
    Vaughan took