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that had struck me earlier. I put a hand on his arm. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
    “Not at all.”
    “What did Olga mean when we were talking about the bandido and she said, ‘Let that be a lesson to you’?”
    “Nothing at all to worry about. I’m going on the mail run. That’s all.”
    “What’s the mail run?”
    “It’s too long a story before bed. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. For now, just get a good night’s rest—what’s left of it—and sleep late. You had a rough trip here, but the worst is over. The rest of your vacation is going to be nothing but relaxation and fun.”
    I bid him good night and was soon sound asleep in the guest room, Vaughan’s words echoing in my brain. But the worst wasn’t over, as I would soon find out.
    It was yet to come.

Chapter Six
    T he San Miguel police station was on the north side of a lovely park in the center of town. Called El Jardin, or the garden, it was a neat square, with municipal buildings on one side and La Parroquia, an elegant Gothic-style pink stone church with slender spires, on the other. Carefully tended laurel trees provided shade over the park’s pathways and green iron benches, every one of which was occupied by men and women, old and young, chatting, sipping coffee, reading newspapers, and watching the excitement on the faces of children as they jumped up and down at the approach of a balloon vendor. El Jardin was the city’s geographic hub, but it was also its social center, and we stopped often so Olga could introduce me to people she knew and point out others whose acquaintance she’d made in the short time she and Vaughan had been homeowners.
    “There’s Jim Sullivan and Deb Gerrity. They run a gallery over on Correo, not too far from here. Deb’s daughter, Emilie, is a prima ballerina with the American Ballet Theatre. That pretty lady with the dark hair, over there, is Lee Barette. She was a postmaster up north—she won’t let me say ‘postmistress.’ Now she’s teaching yoga to the retirees. I found her name on a bulletin board at one of the cafés. She lets me sit in, in a manner of speaking, whenever we’re down here.”
    “How nice,” I said.
    “It is. Other than walking around town, her class is the only exercise I get.”
    I laughed. “I would say walking around town is nothing to sniff at. It was quite a hike from your home to here, but I think you took the long way around.”
    “True, but I wanted you to get a feel for the city.”
    “I did, and it’s wonderful. Thank goodness you insisted I put on these sneakers.”
    “I don’t even pack a pair of high heels,” she said, peering down at her sandaled feet. “If my former modeling agent could see me in Birkenstocks, she’d cringe. I must look like a yokel in these clodhoppers.” She self-consciously ran a hand through her hair.
    “Not at all,” I said. “You’re far too beautiful for people to notice what’s on your feet. And if they do, they’ll simply consider it a new fashion statement.”
    “Aren’t you a dear, Jessica. I wasn’t really fishing for a compliment, but you gave me a lovely one anyway.”
    Olga and I had had a leisurely brunch at home—Vaughan had gone off early for a tennis game—after which she had trotted me around to some of her favorite places. We’d stopped at a bakery to pick up bolillos, a kind of Mexican hard roll. Then she pulled me into a bookstore to see if they stocked my mysteries in Spanish or English. They did. In both languages. We admired the artwork in the windows of several galleries, one of which handled Olga’s favorite artist, Sarah Christopher, the creator of the colorful oil paintings hanging in her home. And we purchased postcards to send off to New York and Cabot Cove. It seemed to me we’d made a big circle before climbing uphill to the square.
    The day was warm but not uncomfortable. Olga wore a flower-patterned wrap dress that emphasized her long, slim body. She’d tossed a