The Eye of the Beholder Read online

  The Eye

  of the Beholder

  other Ravenstone mysteries by Janice MacDonald

  Sticks and Stones

  The Monitor

  Hang Down Your Head

  Condemned to Repeat

  The Roar of the Crowd

  Another Margaret

  The Eye

  of the Beholder

  A Randy Craig Mystery

  By

  Janice MacDonald

  The Eye of the Beholder

  copyright © Janice MacDonald 2018

  Published by Ravenstone an imprint of Turnstone Press

  Artspace Building, 206-100 Arthur Street, Winnipeg, MB. R3B 1H3 Canada

  www.TurnstonePress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or ­transmitted in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or ­mechanical—without the prior ­written permission of the ­publisher. Any request to photocopy any part of this book shall be directed in writing to Access Copyright, Toronto.

  Turnstone Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, the Government of Canada, and the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher Marketing Assistance Program.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens for Turnstone Press.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  MacDonald, Janice E. (Janice Elva), 1959-, author

  Eye of the beholder / by Janice MacDonald.

  (A Randy Craig mystery)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-0-88801-649-2 (softcover).--ISBN 978-0-88801-651-5 (Kindle).--

  ISBN 978-0-88801-650-8 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-0-88801-652-2 (PDF)

  I. Title. II. Series: MacDonald, Janice E. (Janice Elva), 1959- . Randy Craig mystery.

  PS8575.D6325E94 2018 C813’.54 C2018-904309-1

  C2018-904310-5

  This book is dedicated to all the various artists in my family:

  Randy the poet, Maddy the singer, Jossie the dancer,

  Roddy the storyteller, Louise the painter,

  and Joyce the architect of dreams.

  I am a better person for having had each of you in my life.

  The Eye

  of the Beholder

  1

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that as the temperatures dip, every western Canadian yearns for a week in Mexico. I certainly did. And this year, thanks to circumstances turning me into the greatest of stereotypes, I was getting my heart’s desire, accompanied by my heart’s desire. It was my honeymoon, in paradise. The only problem was, it was Reading Week.

  Steve Browning, now my better half, had floated the idea the day after we were married, on a Thursday afternoon in January. I was teaching a couple of Communications classes for Grant MacEwan University, and couldn’t take any time off for a honeymoon, so he had sorted out a week’s leave to coincide with our annual February term break, officially known as Reading Week and unofficially labeled Ski Week.

  Steve did all the leg work of booking the flights and hotel, while I got my post-Reading Week lectures set ahead of time, purchased a data package so that my students could get hold of me, and bought and accessorized a bathing suit. None of this “grab some shirts and shorts and your passport and be ready at 5:00 p.m.” nonsense. At our age, a week’s vacation needed to be planned out like the first half of a heist movie. Not that I was complaining. If there wasn’t time for at least one list, I would not have fun, no matter where we were headed.

  And where we were headed was a wonderful place. Puerto Vallarta had been a beautiful family holiday spot for my folks and me during the Christmas of my second year of undergrad. I had fond memories of the little fishing village turned fabulous vacation destination. We had stayed in a modest three-storey hotel, shaped around an inner courtyard pool, with another pool down the walkway, closer to the beach. A breakfast buffet was on offer every morning till noon, and a marimba band played in the bar I was officially legal to drink in, even though it still felt weird having a beer with my mom and dad.

  I had lolled on a deck chair, bartering lazily with beach vendors selling hats, silver jewellery, sun dresses and carved rosewood swordfish. I had eaten my own weight in red snapper. I had fallen in love with mariachi music. And I had burned bright red on our last day there, peeling like a zombie through my second term classes to my horror and my friends’ amusement.

  I wasn’t aware of blathering on about my nostalgic love for the early eighties holiday destinations of my youth, but possibly it was just how tuned in Steve was to my desires, because here we were, well into the twenty-first century, and I was going back to Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico to celebrate my marriage to the sort of man my father was annoyed not to have been able to toast at a formal wedding, and whom my mother had designated “a keeper.” They weren’t wrong. Steve was that and more.

  We had met during a rather traumatic time, when a young woman enrolled in one of my classes was killed and he had been one of the police officers assigned to the case. Our relationship had weathered a few more adventures of the more terminal variety, but, all in all, we had grown closer with every year that passed.

  Steve had asked me to marry him last fall, while I was helping my friend Denise with a class reunion of our grad studies cohort. While several people had gushed on their comment cards that it had been the most memorable reunion they’d ever attended or heard of, I was still trying to put that part of the autumn out of my mind. That was made easier to do with Denise waving bridal magazines in my face.

  She had been advocating for a bijou wedding in the chapel in old St. Stephen’s College, with a handful of guests, and a dinner after at the Faculty Club, possibly in the Papaschase Room. Steve was up for whatever I wanted, and since he had no mother around to demand a full dress uniform extravaganza, I took him at his word. I had looked at dresses Denise was bookmarking in the magazines, and a few my mother sent as email attachments, but nothing seemed right.

  “Think of it as a uniform, hon,” my mother had written, trying to be helpful, “you only have to wear for one day.” Once she put it like that, it all seemed a bit silly. Instead, I pulled out a green velveteen dress that had made Steve’s eyes light up the first time I’d worn it, called Service Alberta to find out how a civil ceremony worked, applied for the licence, and began to cast an eye around the city for a place to meet up with a justice of the peace.

  The pyramids of the Muttart Conservatory seemed perfect, and reasonably priced, seeing as how they were offering us a virtual outdoor wedding in the middle of January. We were allowed to set up in a corner of the tropical pavilion for half an hour in which to exchange our vows and agree to the terms of the union we were entering. They offered us another forty-five minutes to have photos taken, but as we were such a small party, we were out of there in fifteen.

  Denise, Iain and Myra McCorquodale, and Neal Harkness, our JP, convened at two-thirty on the Thursday afternoon. Outside the glass pyramid it was a sunny and crisp -15°C. Here inside, with finches twittering and hibiscus flowering, it was 25°C. Steve and I had written our own vows, but they were modeled on the suggested service offered to us by Neal when we had booked his time.

  Steve looked scrubbed and shiny, having treated himself to a full shave and haircut at the old school barber downtown. His pale gr
een dress shirt was the same tone as my dress, and his tie the exact shade. He wore his charcoal grey double breasted suit that always made me think he was about to break into a medley of Guys and Dolls tunes, but which enhanced his broad shoulders and made the touch of silver hair appearing near his temples seem like an elegant enhancement.

  My green dress pumped up the green of my eyes, which was one of the reasons I loved it. I had decided to let my hair hang loose, using a curling iron to tame only the very ends. My winter boots had been shined and polished and went right to my knees, tucking under the hem of the dress easily. Denise had designated herself in charge of flowers and had produced an extraordinary bouquet for me to carry, with sprigs of white heather, red roses and baby’s breath, and two soft drapey branches of green cedar hanging down, all tied with a white ribbon. Steve’s boutonniere was a red rose with a stalk of heather and a tiny pinch of cedar, and Denise was carrying a cedar bough with two roses, the ends wrapped with a green satin ribbon. It was incredibly elegant without being fussy and exactly what I loved about Denise. I felt like a princess, meeting my prince on equal and happy ground.

  Steve and I took our witnesses out to a splash-up dinner at The Crêperie, a French restaurant tucked into the basement of the old Boardwalk building. The food was delicious, the waiters professional and discreet, and the design principle of little rooms feeding into each other allowed for us to feel completely secluded while other celebrations and first dates happened around us.

  I couldn’t imagine a better way to start my married life with the man of my dreams. And now, to top it all off, just a month late, we were dashing from the cab into the airport, shivering in jackets far too light for the season, to catch our flight to Puerto Vallarta.

  After all, you didn’t wear a parka to paradise.

  2

  The flight had been packed full, but Steve had conveniently booked us the emergency aisle seats by the doors to the wings, so we had a bit more legroom than the rest of the sardines. After four and a half hours, I had read the latest Kate Atkinson, played a word tumble game on my phone, and patted Steve’s arm several times, willing myself to believe it was all true. The landing was uneventful and soon we were snaking along the slow line-up that was Customs and Immigration in Mexico. For some reason, four or five different flights had arrived at the same time. I was thinking they could have staggered that better, but Steve suggested that perhaps five more were on their way.

  Once we retrieved our suitcases, we joined another line to head through the customs inspection red light/green light game, where bags were checked arbitrarily depending on the result of your pressing a button. Steve’s press yielded a lucky green, and we sailed through, and onward past the gauntlet of people waving to entice us to drive with them, with a short detour to a timeshare presentation.

  Steve had arranged for a car to take us to our hotel, and there indeed was a young man standing with a sign saying BROWNING and CRAIG, who broke into a glorious smile as we identified ourselves to him. Maybe he had thought he was waiting for a law firm.

  He led us outside and to the left, where cars were arriving to pick up newcomers, along a different lane than those taxis hauling tired and happy tourists back to the airport. Although I was a little too travel-dazed to understand the process, I could see there was a very well organized plan at work under the seeming chaos of taxis, mini-buses, hotel vans and larger coaches all weaving into an already congested area.

  Our guide waved at a white car with a green seahorse painted on the door, and helped load our suitcases into the ample trunk. We got into the back seat with the cold bottles of water they offered us, while the driver and guide conferred, and the paper with our name on it was exchanged. Our driver, once back in the car, turned to us with a lovely smile and said, “Casa Doña Susana?” to which Steve nodded. “No problem!” our driver shouted, and we were off, into the maelstrom of cars pushing their way out of the airport parking lot.

  The heat had been immediate and intense on the way to the car, but the taxi was blissfully air conditioned. We had left an ordinary winter temperature of -18°C at home, and arrived at a sunny afternoon of 28°C.

  “I could use a shower when we get to the hotel,” I said.

  “What about a dip in the pool?” Steve countered and smiled. That did sound good.

  Our hotel was not directly on the beachfront, but tucked up a block in the Emiliano Zapata neighbourhood, more commonly known as Old Town Vallarta, which was presently known as the Romantic Zone, for being the area most populated by the gay community who flocked to Vallarta. It was associated with another hotel which did have beachfront access, and apparently we would be able to head down with our towels and sunhats and get a lounging chair on the beach if we showed our wristbands.

  The peaceful stillness of the inner courtyard of the hotel was immediate, and even more profound after the hustle and bustle of the street and taxi noise. I stood there, soaking in the warm terracotta tiles, the lush greenery of the potted plants, and the delicate lace of the wrought iron bannisters up the stairway and along the inner balconies.

  One of the maids, dressed in a pale blue uniform with a full skirt and woven sash, smiled and nodded as she went past. Steve tapped me on the shoulder. “The elevator is back there by the concierge’s desk. I have our keycards.”

  We rolled our suitcases into the small elevator and headed up to the second floor. We found ourselves walking only a short distance along the open hall, which wrapped around the atrium where I had just been. Our room was on the south side of the building, offering an “ocean view,” which meant a glimpse if you craned out and looked to the right from our small balcony, but since it was the only view there really was from our little hotel tucked up a quiet side street, I was happy enough.

  Steve pulled out the luggage stand and plopped his suitcase on it, and turned to claim my case, which he hefted onto the wooden bench at the end of our king-sized bed. Then he stood, smiling, my handsome man, looking at me as if I was the rarest bird in the surrounding jungle.

  “Welcome to Mexico, Wife.”

  “Very happy to be here, Husband,” I said, and walked into his arms.

  3

  After a bit, we decided to shower and change into our bathing suits and cover-ups to explore the rest of the hotel, and perhaps walk down to the ocean. Steve had popped our passports, extra cash, and his tablet into the portable safe he travelled with—a steel meshed bag with a locking tie. After he’d secured it to the drain under the bathroom sink and set the spare toilet rolls back in front of it, we were ready to set off.

  Meanwhile, I had slathered sunscreen on my legs, arms, and face, dug out my floppy hat that I normally only wore to the Folk Festival, and slid my feet into my puffy-soled walking slip-ons. I offered to spray sunscreen on to the backs of Steve’s legs, and he obediently stood still. After checking I had the key card, I grabbed my sunglasses and followed him out into the hall.

  First we went upstairs to the pool level. There was a couple sunning on lounging chairs at the short end of the elegant L-shaped pool but no one in the water.

  “Are we sure we want to go exploring further afield right away?” asked Steve. “I could go for some decompressing right here.” I nodded.

  “There are fresh towels over there by the elevator. Why don’t we just chill here for what’s left of the afternoon?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, making me blush. It occurred to me that for the next week, everyone we met would be assessing us by whether we had just made love or were heading back to our room for more than a siesta. That was what you signed on for by admitting you were on honeymoon. “We can go out and explore when we head out for dinner.”

  I set out our towels on chairs respectfully at the other end of the pool to allow the other couple their privacy, and they nodded and smiled at us. Steve pulled off his shirt, and walked into the pool. I scrambled in my purse for a hair clip, and folded my braid up the back
of my head to keep my hair from the water. My sundress got draped over the back of the chaise, and my bag plopped down on my shoes between our chairs. I pulled my phone out for a few quick snaps of Steve and our surroundings, and then I, too, was in the sparkling water, paddling over to the edge where we could see off the top of the roof to other roof tops, a school, a square with a lovely gazebo, and the blue sea beyond.

  “This really is heavenly.”

  “You sure? I could have aimed for one of the all-inclusive places down in what they call the Hotel Zone, but this seemed a bit more intimate, and I liked the adults only aspect to it. There will be a lot of students flooding the place in the next week or so, and I figured you’d rather be away from that scene.”

  “You figured right,” I agreed, and pushed forward to kiss him lightly. “Having a break from students at Reading Week is the real joy. Having a honeymoon with you is just icing.”

  “I figure we have at least tonight and most of tomorrow before they arrive, since most of them will have had to stay for Friday classes. By that time, we should have the lay of the land, and be able to navigate around the worst of it.”

  “You make them sound like locusts,” I teased.

  “You’re the one who once said the university would be so pretty if they didn’t keep inviting all those students in every September,” laughed Steve.

  We made our way to the tiled steps at the end of the pool and climbed out to flop on our lounging chairs. I reached into my bag for my sunscreen to check whether or not it was waterproof. It was, but I set it on the ground by my shoes, within easy reach. The sun was hot, and at its afternoon hottest. The last thing I wanted was to burn on my first day in Mexico and have to wander about all wrapped up in zinc and cotton the rest of the week.