El Patrón followed Blanche, and the dog loped behind.
Blanche stepped into a vast entryway, the terra-cotta tiles polished a deep red. A center table blazed with a crystal vase of lilies, allium, and gold branches shot through with sunlight from a far window. Carved benches layered with exquisite blankets lined the whitewashed walls under two enormous oil paintings of Spanish royalty, maybe a duke on the left, the duchess on the right? Blanche glanced at both, their dark gaze, the white ruffs on the duchess’s neck above a tight bodice. As for the duke, Blanche could see the resemblance to El Patrón. The narrow nose, patrician brow, and a piercing look that could surely kill. Blanche took a deep breath. Her host walked ahead. Slowly. He seemed to have a limp. She held her bag tightly.
The house was built around an enormous courtyard of red roses and purple bougainvillea; the flowers grew wild and full but obviously had been tamed with shears into attractive cascades around arches and an altar to Our Lady of Guadalupe. It was jaw-dropping. So beautiful—and Catholic? He prays to Our Lady?
A colonnade with a walkway surrounded the courtyard on the ground level. It created a continuous balcony with stone balustrade on the second level. Blanche felt like she’d been removed about five hundred years. She had to focus on now. More doors led to darker corners of the rambling house. So many doors, so little time. Where is Emilio? Could he be here, or through there? Blanche glanced at all the ins and outs and archways that led off in different directions.
She guessed she was in the heart of the house. She listened for the least clue, but all she heard was a lullaby of luxury. A fountain trilled, a bird in a white wicker cage added to the music. Faint symphony music in the background. It was truly an oasis in the desert. Blanche felt an odd isolation, cut off from the real world. And cut off from help, should she need it. She drew on her inner reserve. It was there, like a warm stone holding her in place. Anchoring her. Haasi was out there. And Emilio was somewhere.
“Tranquila, señorita.” El Patrón was making his way around the patio, while Bella sniffed along behind him. Her host gestured to the seating area. “Por favor, take a seat. What better place to relax than here?”
She could think of a number of better places. The white beach in front of her cabin on Santa Maria Island, that little patio back at their hotel. Even the middle of the teeming Zocalo. All of a sudden, she wanted to be anywhere but here.
“It is very beautiful. Are you a gardener?”
He chuckled, a peculiar growling sound. “No, no green thumb. A thumb of poison. I kill everything I touch, or rather, plant, I should say.” The grin fell away, and his brows knit in a serious look. “I employ people who do things for me.”
Blanche felt the knot twist. She wanted this thing done.
They sat at a U-shaped seating arrangement of couches with crisscrossed straps of leather on the bases and splashes of flowers on the wide cushions. It was much too comfortable, and distracting.
“Please. Enjoy.” El Patrón took a seat on a chair with the sweep of a peacock carved into the high back of gleaming wood. “We will take café.” He shook a small bell on the glass-topped table.
Blanche sat up straight on the edge of the sofa. She took out her notebook, eyeing an elaborate altar off to the side of the patio. “Our Lady of Guadalupe?”
He turned slowly to the statue framed in a niche in the wall with sprays of cabbage roses in silver vases and candles in tall glass holders set on the paving.
“The Church has a long history in Mexico. You must know that.”
“Yes, a conservative history, siding with military leaders and the rich …”
Oh, jeez, shut up Blanche.
He smiled at her, and he didn’t have to say it: She was an indulgent child. Maybe delusional. She desperately wanted to find that neutral, professional track, and stay on it. If she could only control her mouth.
“Well, yes, that is true, but the Church has done many things for the poor in this country. You know, Nuestra Señora appeared to a poor peasant in the north of Mexico City. You should visit the shrine. It is … I think the word you norteamericanos use, often, is ‘awesome.’”
“Yes, so I have heard. We will try to do that.” She tilted her head.
“We? Who is we?”
Already she’d lost it, giving away her position. It happened like that, word by word. She had to be more careful. She needed to keep her distance, but not allow him to do that. She did not want to be the subject of an inquisition. He stroked his pointy beard.
“Uh, an acquaintance, a traveling companion. Busy taking photos in the Zocalo.” She crossed her legs. Pen poised. She smiled. She breathed slowly. What was it her gran told her? Breathe diaphragmatically. She scribbled in her notebook about the Church and the shrine. It gave her a second to compose herself. The writing always did.
A round, little woman wearing a starched white uniform and a black apron appeared in a dark archway. She carried a silver tray laden with china and tiny glasses, a crystal decanter of amber liquid, and coffee service. She put the tray down and offered Blanche a crisp linen napkin embroidered with a rosebud. She hoped that lovely golden liquid was booze; the knot in her stomach started to unwind. Just a bit.
He lifted the decanter. “Sherry? From Jerez de la Frontera.”
She held the small stem glass and watched him take a tiny sip, his eyes closed. She brought the amber liquid up to her nose. The aroma of golden grapes, with a hint of honey. She sipped. Blanche knew a thing or two about sherry, and this was extraordinary.
“Maravilloso,” she said. It was like a stream of sunlight had gone from her lips to her toes.
“Age is more impressive than quantity, don’t you think? Time is the greatest of vintners.” He seemed lost on the southern Spanish coast, five miles from the sea, where the sun kissed the grapes and the cathedral-like wine cellars aged the priceless wine.
Blanche let herself be carried away. For a brief moment.
Time. What had Emilio said? It has no edges to it. All her thoughts went back to him.
She snapped back. She took another sip and eyed her host. He put the sherry down with a slight tap. “Now, what are we about? Where should we begin?”
“At the beginning? In Mexico?”
“Oh, that is quite a long time ago. About four hundred years.”
Blanche nearly drained her glass. Well, maybe I’ll just skip ahead a few hundred years. And have another glass of this marvelous stuff. “What about this beautiful farmland, señor? What is your business here? Crops and such.”
“Ah, I love my grapes. I want to grow this one.” He lifted his glass. “But it is only in Andalusia. It doesn’t travel well to Mexico.” He swirled the sherry in the glittering crystal and studied it. He leaned toward Blanche. “I don’t believe you want to talk about grapes.”
She contained herself, and the sherry helped. “I write travel articles for a small newspaper in Florida.” She held the pen over the notebook. “I would like to capture a bit of your lifestyle for readers.”
“Why me? I am just an old ranchero, living out the days at home.” He waved an arm, taking in the surroundings.
“Some home.” She relaxed, smiling. “It is gorgeous. Did you build all this?”
“This is the original courtyard, built by my great-grandfather. Many greats back. The generations have built on from here. Would you like a tour?”
Would I?
“Yes, I would.”
She stood up and followed. Like stepping off a diving board, she would jump in feet first. She imagined Emilio was locked up somewhere, but she wanted to be realistic. He might not be here at all. She had to keep an open mind and not be charmed away from her mission to look for clues.
One archway led to a salon with every shade of blue. At one end of the room, blue and white tiles surrounded a huge fireplace, hearth to mantel. Blanche whistled softly. “The Moorish influence, from Spain,” he said. Blue linen-covered loveseats were positioned in the center of the room. Blue-an
d-white-striped side chairs with carved arms and legs. A thick cream rug with blue swirls. Blue, blue, blue. A table was blooming over with orchids of every color. The wide window looked out on a vast green stretch of cactus and low shrubs against a vast, bright blue sky. “Stunning,” she said.
“Yes, my ex-wife Carlina decorated this room. She liked to match the inside to the outdoors. I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but it works. Don’t you think?”
“It works.” The flow of blue from inside out to the sky, a bench covered in light animal skin that echoed the tan earth. The flowers. “Oh, definitely, it works. It’s just lovely.”
And ex-wife. Make a note of that, Blanche.
He was almost charming. She floated from room to room. Luxury had a way of doing that, a lovely distraction carrying her from one cloud to the next. There didn’t seem to be anyone around but the two of them.
“I imagine you love living here.” A little on the gushy side. She checked herself.
“Yes. But it can be lonely. And too quiet.”
She didn’t feel the least bit sorry. He’d certainly made his bed, about a hundred of them from what she could figure. Where the hell is Emilio?
They continued the tour, on and on, through the house, to a masculine great room with an inlaid chessboard game table, another fireplace, and huge, tan leather sofas. Stone and stucco and leather. And splashes of deep red. They entered a long, narrow dining room with carved straight-back chairs lined up down the length of a table for thirty, easily. Oil paintings of more Avilas looked down from the walls. Subdued light filtered over the elaborate sideboards with silver service and a wall-to-wall silky Oriental rug. All the luxury money could buy.
At the far end of the dining room, a door stood ajar. The sun shined on great clay urns potted with topiary under a portico that led to a separate building. She could see a door beyond. She started to move forward, and El Patrón put his hand on her arm. She stopped like she’d been burned.
“Señor.” The housekeeper with the lovely calm face was back.
“¿Ana, qué pasa?”
“Teléfono.” She inclined her head slightly and turned to leave.
“I’m sorry. I must take this call. Will you have a seat for a moment? Perhaps in the blue sala, or on the patio?”
Blanche smiled. “Yes, of course. I might look for the ladies’ room while you’re busy on the phone.”
“Of course.” He bowed his head slightly. “Ana will show you.”
Shit-ski to that-ski.
Ana was gone. Blanche waited until El Patrón disappeared down the hallway toward the other end of the house. Her feet seemed rooted to the thick red rug as she watched him go, but now the sherry mixed nicely with her usual curiosity, and she thought quickly to retrace her steps. He’d shown her the salons, the suites, the game room, and the dining room. But he’d steered her away from the kitchen. Why not the kitchen? And where are the storage sheds, the closets, the hiding places?
Blanche hurried through the dining room toward the kitchen. The portico separating the two areas was a blast of brightness after the dim interior, the cool stucco walls, the dukes looking down from their gold frames. She crossed the tile. The door to the kitchen was unlocked. Once inside, she gaped, struck by the modern convenience of hanging copper pots, herbs growing on glass shelves in the windows, an expanse of marble counter space. The ovens nearly covered one wall.
Where is the staff for all this stuff?
She was struck, but not surprised. Why did she feel like he was hiding something? That this gorgeous house, a marvel straight out of Architectural Digest, was just a cover? It was odd; he was odd. She started flipping open doors. Drawers. Slamming them shut. She was making noise, and it felt good. She’d been tiptoeing around the hacienda like in a dream, and now she’d had enough.
She didn’t think about who might be listening.
The more she lurched around the kitchen, the angrier and more frustrated she got. Well, Emilio’s not here, and I’m not getting anywhere … At some point, I have to get out of here.
She had an urge to check in with Haasi and leave now. But she couldn’t do that. El Patrón was expecting her back on the patio.
She unhooked a copper pot from the rack above an island counter and nervously, absently tapped it on the butcher top. She looked around, waiting for inspiration. It was last-ditch. She didn’t have much time. She dropped the pot and went to the pantry. It was empty of food, except for some bags of flour and a couple of cucarachas. A few cans. Blanche shut the door, hard. She ran her finger over a marble countertop. Dust. He doesn’t use the kitchen.
The dog appeared from behind the island counter and cocked her head at Blanche. She was a beauty with fluffs of fur around her sweet face. Reddish brown. A setter and lab mix? She sat, eyes fixed on Blanche, and sniffed. Blanche reached down and scratched the dog’s neck, and Bella stretched one way and then another for more. Blanche laughed. “You old cutie.”
Bella seemed to have enough of the scratching and petting. She got up and started toward the door at the far end of the kitchen. She sniffed some more. Whined a bit and flopped in front of the closed door. It was a Dutch door, the top half open, and Blanche could see beyond the kitchen to a shed. Bella let out a soft, “Gruff.”
“What is it, girl?” Blanche crept up behind the dog.
She didn’t hear the footsteps.
“Señorita? Do you need something?”
Blanche jumped. It was the housekeeper, and the expression had turned from sweet to salty. Her hands were clenched in a knot. She didn’t move.
“Sí. I am looking for el baño.”
The woman’s face softened, slightly. “Not in kitchen. And not out there.” She turned aside and pointed through the portico and back toward the main house. “Por allá. Bella, ven.”
The dog seemed reluctant to move away from the door, and Blanche, but she slowly turned and followed the housekeeper out of the kitchen, Blanche right behind. She wondered at the furry one’s actions, plopping down like that at that kitchen door and then “speaking.” Blanche thumped the dog gently on the head, and Bella arched her neck, begging for more. Do you know something I don’t know? Blanche watched the dog and the housekeeper retreat toward the patio. She had an urge to return to that kitchen door, but her host would surely come looking for her. She decided to find the ladies’ room. The farther she walked away from the kitchen, the more unsettled she became with each step.
A kitchen that’s not a kitchen? A prop? It’s not like he runs out to McDonald’s every day … And Bella. That gentle whine. Was she trying to tell me something?
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE DOCTOR IS IN
El Patrón met Blanche back on the patio after his phone call. She was seated on the edge of the sofa, bending over her notebook. She looked up at the sound of his steps. Hardly any sound at all. He crept along on those long, slithery legs, wearing that gaunt smile. Creep-ola. “Señor, I was just looking over my notes. A couple of things I wanted to ask you …”
“I am sorry, señorita. I have pressing business. Perhaps we can continue another time. How long are you here?”
“In Mexico City? I’m not sure.” She’d been wondering about that herself. Cardenal said he wanted them to stick around. As unofficial witnesses to theft and murder?
“Perhaps we talk one day soon. Tomorrow? Day after? I have contacts in El Centro and must go there from time to time, though, I must say, the traffic and the inconvenience are deplorable.”
She stood up, a bit too quick to her feet, so obvious that she wanted out of there pronto. “You are so kind. Of course. May I call a driver?”
“Certainly.”
“I will call you later and we will talk.”
He was so courteous; she was so courteous. She wanted to scream with frustration more than anger. She hadn’t found Emilio. And she’d be damned if she’d tell him where she was staying. She would, indeed, check in with him later.
The d
river pulled around on the gravel drive. A woman was at the wheel, her hat pulled low over her eyes. She was very small, hunched down in the front seat.
Blanche didn’t hesitate. “¡Adiós!” She jumped into the back seat. She couldn’t even breathe until the car drove out from under the laurel trees. She grabbed Haasi’s shoulder and squeezed. Their eyes locked in the rearview mirror.
“You all right?” Haasi focused on the road, and then looked back at Blanche.
“Could be better. Boy, am I glad to see you. Just knowing you were out there. Somewhere …”
Haasi smiled. “Have to say, I was getting a little nervous. A car drove by and surely whoever it was saw me sitting off in the weeds. I had to move. How’d it go in there? You find anything?”
“A whole lot of nothing. And a very bad vibe, except for the fact he must have had the team from 1,001 Decorating Ideas in there.”
“Really? Nice, huh?”
“Grandísimo.” Blanche whipped off the blonde wig, spun it around, and looked at it. “Not done with you yet.”
“You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?”
“Very funny, Robert DeNiro. No, I’m talkin’ to the damn wig.”
“Now what?”
“I don’t know. I want to get back in there, but I’m not sure how we’re gonna do that.”
“Look, Bang, we need to get this car back, and then somehow get back to normal.” Haasi’s eyebrows furrowed. She puffed out her cheeks. Blanche’s eyes were on the fields and hills and sky. Haasi gave it a full minute. “No, Blanche. Come on. No more fake identities and shady characters and snooping around in dangerous places.”
“I’m just thinking. Something about that dog …” She stared off into the cornfield as Haasi sped along the road.
“Dog? He’s got a dog? What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s just the way she acted.” Blanche smiled and caught Haasi in the mirror. “Cutest dog in the world, so sweet. Don’t know what she sees in him.”
Haasi drove, steady and fast. “I love dogs.”
Trouble Down Mexico Way Page 13