Introduction to “Under the Umbrella of Paradise”

Moonshine on CaraMul. Photo by J. Sharland Day

6:30 p.m., Friday, January 8, 2010, Karaoke-dance night, CaraMul, Mexico.

Just past twilight, dark enough to notice the spotlights ahead to our left, Mac and I walked toward the restaurant, hand in hand, playfully bumping hips, looking forward to dancing at the karaoke-dance event. We slowed our steps, wondering about the lights, the commotion, and the hum of voices we could hear at Mel and Dora’s palapa down the street across from our destination. Something major was going on to warrant the intense illumination and draw in so many people.

“Good God! What a bunch of morbid souls we have living in our community from the sounds of things over there,” I sneered, realizing that the ‘hum’ was coming from a throng of people gathered near the palapa’s bodega. “They’re likely salivating to see what Mel was actually storing all summer in his storage compartment,” I added with disgust but feeling my own curiosity rise.

The closer we got to the restaurant, the more easily we could hear the thrum of hushed exchanges, accompanied by the occasional command in Spanish from one of the half-dozen policía we saw standing guard and giving orders.

Both Mac and I were already assuming the reason for the crowd, besides morbid curiosity, since rumors had been careening from person-to-person all day about the goings-on at the residence. And now our assumptions seemed confirmed when we heard the obvious sounds of digging. At least that was our impression as we suddenly heard whacks from a sharp-sounding instrument on concrete, and then whooshing sounds of soil being tossed out of the sandy earth. Definite shoveling sounds. Soon we were able to detect the unmistakable smell of death as the breeze wafted toward us.

It wouldn’t be long before we all would learn what the workers would find in that confined space. News traveled fast in our small community, especially news that many residents were anticipating and very willing to spread around. With glee, I couldn’t help but think.

Granted, speculations had been hashed over throughout the summer, and theories had blossomed when the timid, pale, pock-faced Dora, wife of the palapa’s creepy owner disappeared. He hadn’t hesitated to spread the word of her running off with a doctor who had supposedly been staying at the park earlier in the season. To make the tale more believable, we were told by friends who had come to visit us in Colorado, the husband would “boohoo” to whoever would listen, with hands to his face, and fingers slightly spread to see if anyone was believing his absurd story.

Really?

“No fucking way!” was my exclamation when we heard the tall tale.

We learned that there were a few good-hearted or naïve souls ready to give sympathy and benefit of the doubt to the husband, but this time those optimists would be wrong.

Just as Mac and I neared the entrance to the eatery, there was a crescendo in volume with the nearby murmurs. We stopped and looked toward the crowd.

“They found her!” someone cried out.

Big surprise, I thought sarcastically, with satisfaction about being right. But that satisfaction was superficial, as I couldn’t help feeling a bit sad for the woman I’d never gotten to know, and wondered what she could have done to deserve this.

I was also sorry about the probable fact that vindication would never be achieved, since this was Mexico, and the likelihood of prosecution here for a U.S. citizen having done something to another U.S. citizen would not be good. Evidence was too easy to destroy, or not looked for very hard in the first place, and greedy officials could be easily bribed to forget lots of things.

Those thoughts stirred a lot of emotions inside of me besides sorrow. Although I didn’t have time to sort them all out at the moment, a couple of things stood out as I wondered how this happened, and could it have been prevented. Besides not being able to understand how a human being could be so callous and destructive, I was pissed off that it occurred here. Our paradise had been sullied once again, and What the Hell! How could that have happened?

I suppressed those ruminations as we continued into the nearly empty restaurant. Many of the on-lookers would likely come streaming in after the theatrics across the street were over to talk about their exciting experience — Dear God! Others would go to their homes feeling sad, confused — whatever — and would not think this was a good time to party. More people, like us, would be glad that the suspense was over, and the dead woman’s husband was going to jail, at least for now, which made it a very good time to celebrate.

Later, after investigations and details unfolded about the couple’s life before arriving in CaraMul five years ago, and what had brought them here in the first place, the supposed reasons for the murder were revealed.

Before we delve into that story, however, there are other stories to tell about our search for the perfect place and other truths that need to be told.

— — — — — — — — — — — —

I am Roxanne McClane, a freelance journalist. My husband Maclin, ‘Mac,’ is a retired contractor. We are residents of CaraMul in the winter months and live in Colorado in the summer. We have three grown children who love to get away from the cold to visit us as often as possible during our stay in Mexico, and a Jack Russel-Papillion dog named Houdini. That furry member of the family is the main reason we travel in our vehicle pulling an RV, which is, essentially our home-on-wheels, instead of us flying to our destinations.

Photo of J. Sharland Day and her husband Jim’s palapa in 2010

I write articles for magazines and newspapers’ Travel sections, which gives us the excuse to find out-of-the-way gems of interest as we meander around searching for newsworthy locations. We have driven to Mexico and through all thirty-one states including Baja Sur and Norte, plus Distrito Federal (Mexico City).

One winter, while traveling from one beautiful place to another for content information and photos for my articles, Mac surprised me by suggesting that we look for a place to settle and call home during the colder months of the year. Ultimately, a tranquil, peaceful piece of paradise is what he sought.

Is there such a place? I would wonder.

This is a novel based-on-fact about our hunt for that perfect locale, our journey, what we discovered, and the surprises we found hidden beneath those supposed idyllic ‘umbrellas.’ Only names have been changed, and unknown details surmised.

Photo of J. Sharland and her husband’s palapa in 2010