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Henry called about half an hour ago. Nice for you to be able to get away at such short notice. He said you’re a prof. Is that right?”
    I forced a smile. “Yes, that’s right. At the University of Vancouver.” Stick to the truth whenever possible, Cait.
    â€œGimme a sec . . .” said Tony, as he disappeared in the direction from which he’d arrived. He was about thirty, in good shape, with a breezy manner and a surprisingly good tan for a chef—they’re usually so pasty. Tony Booth looked as though he’d be more at home on a longboard, riding waves off the Californian coast, than in a Mexican restaurant’s kitchen.
    â€œI wrote down the security code,” said Tony jauntily, as he handed me a single key on a leather lariat and a scrap of paper with four digits written in what I trusted was red ink.
    â€œThanks,” I said, as cheerily as I imagined a person would if they were arriving for a week’s vacation.
    â€œHenry’s place is Casa LaLa—you know, ’cause he’s from LA ? He thinks it’s funny. But I guess you know all about his so-called ‘sense of humor’?”
    â€œHenry’s a friend of a friend, really,” I replied. Rather sheepishly as it turned out. Embrace the lie, Cait. “But the friend that he’s a friend of is quite a . . . unique character.”
    Tony looked puzzled and a bit concerned. I wondered what my face was doing as I tried to be convincing in my role.
    â€œI guess you could say that about Henry too—well about all the FOGTT s.”
    â€œ FOGTT s?” That wasn’t an acronym I’d ever heard before.
    Tony smiled and nodded. “The Friends of Good Tequila Trust. That’s what these guys are called—the owners here. They each own a share of the place, each have a house on the hacienda; they’ve each paid their money, and, when we finally make a profit, they’ll each get their cut. I don’t think it’ll be long now: the way this place is set up, and with some good PR in Puerto Vallarta, I reckon the next season could see us break through. The Tequila Soleado they make here is doing pretty well back home in the States.”
    I tried to look as though I was interested in what the young man was saying, which a casual visitor, whose partner hadn’t been locked up for a murder he didn’t commit, probably would have been.
    â€œSo what do you do here, exactly, Tony?” was all I could pull together by way of small talk.
    Tony looked down at his chef whites, resisting the temptation to make a smart crack. “Um, I’m the chef.” He smiled and waved his arms as if to signify “Ta-da.” I mirrored his smile and felt my eyebrow arch at the inanity of my own question.
    â€œSorry—it’s been a long day already,” I said, by way of an excuse.
    â€œHey, don’t worry! I also design the menu and do the shopping at the local markets, so I know how long days can be. If I’m not down in PV —that’s what we all call Puerto Vallarta around here, saves us a lot of time in a day,” he grinned, “if I’m not there by 6:00 AM , I’m not gonna get the best stuff, so I’m up and at ’em every day.” He looked proud.
    â€œAnd what sort of dishes appear on your menu, Tony?”
    â€œDepends on what’s good, and what’s freshest, of course,” he replied, “but today we’ll be having . . . hang on a minute.” He scrabbled in the deep pocket in the front of his apron. “Here you go, today’s menu. All small plates, you understand. Open 5:00 PM to 11:00 PM , daily.”
    The young chef handed me a grubby piece of paper upon which he’d scribbled, almost illegibly, “Roasted ancho, or green tomatillo, salsa with blue corn chips; red snapper ceviche; smoked mussel ceviche tostadas; barbequed pork quesadilla; mushroom