Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

They found a table in the hotel cocktail lounge and ordered two glasses of white wine. “I’m terribly sorry about your mother,” Michael told her. “But why have you been watching me?”

“If you’ve been investigating the Butcher’s crimes you know that my mother and stepfather were vacationing here in February when she was killed. It was a senseless crime. She was struck down in the evening, a block from her hotel, stabbed several times with a large knife. Her purse wasn’t touched.”

“The Butcher.”

“It wasn’t until the second killing, a few weeks later, that the press gave him that name. This time it was an elderly Gypsy, sick with asthma, slain in his caravan at the edge of the city. The third one was Juan Diaz, cut down in the cathedral.”

“After that the Gypsy Nunzio was arrested.”

“And I wanted to believe him guilty, I really did! I wanted to believe anything, so long as my mother’s death was avenged.” She spoke so intently, with such feeling, that Michael studied her anew. There was definitely a Latin tone to both her coloring and features. She reminded him of a fiery actress he’d once seen playing Carmen when he was a young man.

“Pardon me for asking, but was your mother Spanish?”

“What an odd question! Does it show that much? Sometimes she’d tell me I acted like a little spitfire! Yes, Carla was mostly Spanish. My stepfather, John Mercer, is English. I was only eight when my mother remarried and they gave me his name. I still resent that, losing all trace of my real father. And now my mother is gone too.”

“What of your stepfather?”

“He’s back in England. Mother’s death has been a terrible blow to his health, which was never good. He blames himself for not being with her the night it happened.”

“Where was he?”

“Back in their hotel room. They’d been here just a few days, driving from Madrid to the Costa del Sol for a winter vacation. A spicy dinner had given them both upset stomachs and she’d gone out to get some antacid pills. The killer found her on the way back.”

“But why did you seek me out?” Michael asked.

“I didn’t. I was in the lobby of your hotel when you approached me.” She pointed with her finger. “Right out there.”

“I’d seen you at the Gypsy Congress,” he reminded her.

The dark eyes sparkled. “I came here to learn all I could about my mother’s death. Garib told me of your reputation.”

“How do you know Garib?”

She hesitated, then spoke out. “It was a deep family secret that my mother had the blood of Spanish Gypsies in her veins. She told me when I was eighteen and swore me to secrecy. As a Gypsy king you certainly must realize her state of mind. In England they are viewed as mostly illiterate troublemakers who beg for money and set up camp on other people’s land.”

“That’s not entirely a false picture,” Michael admitted. “Back home in Romania things are a bit different, but I have known Roms who were all the things you say. You still haven’t told me how you met Garib.”

“Do you know he’s to be married tomorrow?”

“I’m invited to the wedding.”

She nodded. “His bride and I were at Cambridge together.”

“That’s interesting. I wonder why he didn’t tell me.”

“Should he have? We didn’t even meet until just now.”

She was right, of course. But the fact of her mother’s Gypsy blood stuck in his mind. That meant two of the three victims had been Roms. They chatted awhile longer, but Samantha Mercer could tell him nothing more. When they parted he said he’d look for her at the wedding.

By the following morning all but the local Rom delegates had departed. Michael had breakfast in the hotel lobby without seeing a single person he knew. Garib had phoned his room to extend the wedding invitation once more, and Michael assured him he would attend. The traditional Rom ceremony in the early afternoon was to be followed by a more formal wedding later at a Catholic church. Like many Roms, those in the Seville area had adopted the local religion, in this case Catholic, and attended the parish churches.

The hotel where Carla Mercer had been staying when she was killed was just along the street from Michael’s, and he walked down there to look at it. There was nothing to be seen except for some Gypsy children begging coins from tourists.

The Gypsy encampment was a large place at the edge of Seville, an area of open fields filled with caravans. Many were motorized, but a large number were the traditional horse-drawn wagons used by travelers for centuries. In addition, there were a dozen or so cars, no doubt belonging to friends from the city. Michael had taken a taxi out to the encampment, assuming there’d be someone to drive him back to his hotel.

The first person he recognized as he approached the area of the festivities was Nunzio Sorja, the accused man he’d helped to free from jail. Michael was surprised to see him, though he shouldn’t have been. The encampment was the logical place for Nunzio to go, and Garib had probably arranged it.

Michael greeted him with a handshake. “Are you enjoying your freedom?”