Pushing Up Daisies

'Oh, it still exists.'

'How do you know?'

'I've passed it a thousand times. It's the only two-story building in Alpuyeca. It's on the main road from Cuernavaca to the coast.'

'You're kidding. Well, then we can just call them and see if they know how to contact her.'

Before the words even left my mouth, I knew how ridiculous that was. Did Babe keep tabs on every waitress who passed through the Paradise? His hesitation told me what he thought of the idea.

'I know it won't be easy, but Hugo needs us. And it may solve a thirty-year-old mystery—two, if the baby and the missing girl are connected. Isn't that worth a few phone calls?'

'It's unfortunate you weren't there thirty years ago when Yoly Rivera went missing. It might have spared her family a lot of heartache.' He chose his next words carefully. 'We must be careful not to reopen old wounds if this has nothing to do with Celinda Rivera's daughter.'

He was right about that part. Why break some woman's heart all over again?

'My Spanish is good enough for me to get in touch with someone at La Palapa. Maybe there were stories in the Mexican papers. Any chance of you getting info from your media contacts down there?'

'I'll see what I can do. And I will arrange for Hugo to have the best attorney in southeastern Connecticut— one of those sharks who handles all your white-collar criminals. You'll see. Everything will be all right.' 'I wish I had your faith in the judicial system.' The thought of media contacts reminded me of Jonathan Chappell, that pest from the Bulletin. Maybe I'd break down and talk to him . . . if he'd agree to do something for me.

CHAPTER 32

The dark, shaggy head bobbed up and down, fumbling for something on the front seat of the old white sports car. Leaning toward the passenger window of the tiny car, Jonathan Chappell looked up at me. 'I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,' he said.

'What ever gave you that idea?'

'I don't take it personally. Most people hate to talk to the press, even a small fry like me.'

Well, at least he didn't have any delusions. He was scrawny, bookish, and, judging from the fresh acne scars, younger than I expected. He looked as if he should have been writing for his college paper instead of the Springfield Bulletin. A scraggly beard, probably grown to make him look older, was just filling in. He pulled his car around to the right-hand side of the Peacock house.

'Nice wheels.'

'Thanks. Got it on eBay. Still needs a little work. So, your highness,' he said, hands on his non ex is tent hips, 'why did you finally decide to grant me an audience? You must want something pretty bad.'

So much for being cagey. 'I have some stuff I'd like to show you. There's a cottage in the back. We can talk there.'

'Okay. Great place,' he said, looking around as we walked across the terrace to the herb cottage. I could see him trying to calculate the property's value. 'Helluva job you've done here. It was a dump.' He turned to me. 'Were you here that first day when the Mexican guy said you weren't?'

'Of course not,' I protested, although I had been there the second time he stopped by, crouching in the maze until Felix assured me the coast was clear.

Inside the cottage, we brushed off the rickety chairs and sat down. I started to empty my backpack onto the old wooden table Dorothy must have used to prepare her herbs. Then I stopped. 'You have to promise me something.'

'Conditions? I don't like this already. Where's the trust?'

I wondered if I should go ahead. 'The only reason I'm talking to you is to clear Hugo Jurado's name. I have a feeling the baby I found and a missing girl may be connected to Guido's stabbing.' I was having a hard time spitting it out; you'd think I was coming out myself. 'There's something about the Peacock sisters . . .'

'You mean that they were carpet munchers?'

I winced. 'Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?'

'We went back and forth on that at the paper,' he said, trying to sound like a grizzled veteran. 'To me, news is news—'All the print that fits,' as my junior high school paper taught me.'

Chappell claimed his editor yanked all his best stuff.

CRAZED LESBIANS SACRIFICE BABY. HOW MANY MORE DID THEY KILL?

I couldn't tell if he was kidding. 'I knew he'd never let those stories run. Hypocrite. He said it was like putting in all the gory details of a child murder—who needs to know? 'The Bulletin's not the Enquirer, you know. When does it stop being news and start being pandering?' ' he said, mimicking the editor I was starting to like. 'Damned if I know.' He shrugged. 'I spent all of my time in ethics class hitting on the girl next to me. Great rack. She wanted to be an anchor—not a reporter, an anchor.'

I was betting she never gave this weasel a tumble.

'I can't make any promises,' he said, 'but you should feel better since we already knew they were sweethearts and haven't printed it. No promises about the missing girl either. So now you've got me interested, who is she?'

I hated his style and still wasn't sure I could trust him, but I needed him. I had no choice. I showed him everything: scribblings, notes, and the faded missing persons notice Fraser had given me.

'Pretty girl.'

'I think you'll agree it's unlikely one of the 'sisters' was the mother of the baby. Yolanda Rivera disappeared around here sometime in the early seventies. I think she may be connected to the body. And Guido Chiaramonte may be connected to her.'

'So the baby was wearing a Mexican necklace. O'Malley didn't tell me that. Probably wanted to keep the crackpots and fake confessors away. And a Mexican girl went missing some years ago. Doesn't this give your amigo even more of a motive?' Jon asked.

'It may give someone a motive, but I know it isn't Hugo. He's one of the sweetest men I've ever met. He says he's innocent, and I believe him.'

'Touching. What do the cops say?'

'Nothing. I don't think any of them has made the connection yet. Fraser said Yolanda didn't know the Peacocks. She didn't know many people at all—that's why the original investigation hit a dead end.'

Chappell looked at the pictures again.

'He also gave me this.' I whipped out Gerald's letter to Mrs. Rivera and showed it to Jon.

'That hotel still exists,' I said, pointing to the address. 'I spoke to the current manager, Jaime Gutierrez, this morning. Celinda Rivera, Yoly's mother, did work there years ago, and he thinks she's still alive. He didn't know where she was, but he said he'd ask around. I told him to call collect if he found her.'

'Not bad. So what is it you think I can do for you?'

Was he dense? I chose my next words carefully. 'I don't believe no one knows what happened to that girl. Maybe they didn't think anything of it at the time, or maybe they knew exactly what was going on. If you wrote a story on Yoly, it might jog people's memories.'

There was no response.

'What? Why are you looking at me like that? This is a good story. Are you too busy working on the sequel to the walnut feature? THE DARK SIDE OF HAZELNUTS?' I said, exasperated.

'Relax. I'm just jerking your chain. Aren't gardeners supposed to be patient? Of course I'll write the story. That's what I do. We just have to think how we're going to play this.'

He took out a small tape recorder. 'Start with the day you found the body.'

When I finished, Jon said he needed copies of my research, so I suggested a drugstore about three blocks