“Play with them. For now. I don’t have many options. Besides, I think other things are happening. He mentioned a project. Such as, an art project. Sound familiar?”
“Yeah, and his lady friend might be just the one who knows all about that.” Blanche had a faraway look in her eye, her thoughts drifting off to places where others had to run to catch up.
“Blanche, please. Just let it be. The policía will take care of it.”
“Oh sure. That’s worked so well ’til now.” Her eyes snapped back to him. “Emilio, you look so tired.”
“I am. I think I want to lie down.” A half-grin played on his lips.
She smiled, a slow, loving, concerned—hungry?—smile. She kissed him gently, and one thing led to another. Escalation. Yes, she felt like she was on an escalator, going up up up. The loveseat wouldn’t do. She took his hand. “Come on. I know just the place.”
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They hardly fit on that twin bed, but they didn’t care since they were so tangled in the sheets and wrapped up together in one bundle, they couldn’t fall off. “Do you feel like a mummy?” Blanche traced her finger over his aquiline nose. She loved that nose.
He laughed. “Pues, sí, I do. I could stay like this for a thousand years.” He smiled a lazy smile at her. “Here we are, returned to the mummy thing.”
“Not exactly like those poor people in the floor of the Palacio.”
“No, nothing like that. I say you are very lively.”
He kissed her again, and she responded. And then when their heads flopped against the one pillow, they lay like that, drifting.
She lost track of time, but then time caught up. She untangled herself and shot up in the bed. “Emilio! I need to pay that woman a visit.”
“¿Qué?” He was half asleep. “Who, Blanche? Lie down, por favor. Do not go visiting that woman. Or anyone.” His arm came out of the blanket and wrapped around her.
She turned and kissed him lightly on the forehead. Looked him in the eye. “You said El Patrón mentioned a project. The lab. Arts. Don’t you see? It does get back to her. And him, this El Patrón.”
“I suppose, but let it alone, Blanche. I’m back and safe, and so are you and Haasi. The authorities can solve the little problems.”
“They’re not solving anything.” She was out of the bed and pulling on clothes. Emilio could see the heat rising in her like he was watching a thermometer. “Those people kidnapped you. And held Haasi and me. And they killed Amparo’s daughter. There’s more there.”
“The daughter of Amparo?” He was half sitting, a look of confusion in his dark eyes.
“Yes, that one. Our new mummy. The Lady of the Pink Hair Clip. These people are crooked as hell. Listen, I want to get over to see Oleantha. Before she tries to clean up her act.”
“Her act? This isn’t some drama play, Blanche. You have to get out of it.”
“I have to find out more about their project.”
“Por Dios.” He fell back on the pillow. “What am I going to do with you?”
“You have done quite enough with me already, mi corazón.” She gave him a kiss on the temple. “I’m going to leave Haasi a note on the door, and I’ll call you later. In the meantime, if your gracious host at the ‘Four Seasons’ hacienda contacts you, see what else you can find out.”
“Ah, Blanche.” He put an arm across his forehead. One eye peeking out at her. “Mi Blanquita. Be careful. Pay your visit and get out and come back. Call me.”
She was fitting the blonde wig over the black curls. The cat-eye glasses. “How do I look?”
He smiled. “Why do you ask me that?” He started after her, the sheet wrapped around his middle, as he stumbled off the bed. She dodged, grabbed her bag, and headed toward the door. But not before she threw her arms around him and kissed his neck and squeezed. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Chapter Thirty
CROOKED BOOK
The doctor wore a blue silk wrap dress with gold buckle, huge gold hoop earrings, and five-inch gold leather heels with wide T-straps. Everything about her seemed “golden.” Blanche watched her through the window of the clinic as she moved around her desk and over to a wall of glass shelves. One chic chick. Blanche was no match for that. She pulled at her jean jacket, smoothed the leg of the slim-fit pants. At least the outfit was newish, secondhand designer, from the resale shop near the hotel. And the wig was top of the line…
Blanche pushed through the door of the clinic as the doctor lifted a bottle of pink liquid and lined it up with the others. She turned and smiled when she saw Blanche. “¡Hola, chica! ¿Como estás?” She descended on Blanche in a wave of heady fragrance. Sandalwood? Clove?
“Doctor Flórez, I just wanted to thank you for the wonderful fiesta. The food, the drinks, the music! It was all such fun. It was a wonderful party.”
“Ah, it was our pleasure,” she said.
“Yes, you and Señor de Avila. So gracious.” Blanche swallowed. She was the worst at keeping a straight face.
“I do enjoy a good party.” She clicked another bottle in place on the shelf and walked to her desk. “I could tell you enjoyed it. Your friend, Haasi, is it? She seemed so calm. And lovely. She talked quite a bit about your journalism and your life in Florida. It sounds so…” She stopped, looked at the ceiling, and waved her fingers in the air. “…idyllic.”
Blanche did not want to talk about Florida; she wanted to talk about Mexico, specifically Doctor Oleantha. There was no question the doctor loved the subject.
“I’d say Mexico is idyllic in its own way. A different way than I’ve ever seen, and I’m enjoying every minute of it.”
Oleantha folded her hands, the long fingers encumbered with many gold rings. An emerald here, an opal there. “I am glad you are enjoying yourself.” Blanche saw a chink in the façade of heavy make-up. The typical warmth of most of the Mexicans she’d met did not shine through.
Blanche seated herself at the bench near the desk. “The fiesta. Tell me, how did you ever pull such an event together? All the flowers, the food. Everything. I’d love to know!”
“It was nothing. Just a bit of planning. And Rodrigo’s money.” She laughed, clicking her nails on the desktop. “And Haasi? Where is she today?”
“She’s taking more pictures at the park. You know, we are actually working on a travel article. That’s part of the reason I wanted to visit with you.”
“A travel article? In the newspaper?” Oleantha glanced in the corner at a woman who had come in and was sifting through a basket of herbs. She leaned in toward Blanche. “Well, maybe just one photo. Or two.”
“For our hometown newspaper, but sometimes they syndicate stories. Haasi would love to photograph you…”
At this, Oleantha actually patted her hair. Blanche was astounded at how far flattery could go with this woman. She had to take advantage.
“I’ll check on that photo op,” said Blanche. “And I have some questions for the article. You’re so involved with the arts, and I’d love to get your perspective. You must have other projects in the works! Right? And it seems Señor de Avila is a bit of a patron.” She was running at the mouth, Bang at her best.
Oleantha smiled, but it was plastic. Fake. “Yes, a patron, our Patrón.” She appeared to be considering the statement. “He has been supportive, no doubt, and I’ve worked closely with him.” She patted her hair again, twisted a ring. “Forgive me. Can I get you something?” She picked up an exquisite china cup on the desk. “Tea, perhaps?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m good.” Blanche opened her notebook, shifting on the bench. She tried to relax. “About the arts. In general. Do you have a favorite period? Or artist?”
“Of course, you have seen the Mayan exhibit at the Palacio? Fabuloso. We have been so fortunate to have this collection. Señor de Avila has been instrumental in bringing it to us. But, I must say, he has relied on my expertise…”
The woman in the corner dropped a glass bottle, and the liquid spread across the tile,
sending the aroma of herbs like cut grass into the air. Oleantha shot out of her chair. “¡Idiota!” She hissed under her breath. She glanced at Blanche. “That is off the record.”
Blanche forced a smile.
Oleantha’s high heels clicked across the floor. She thrust a box of tissues at the woman. It was clear that the doctor was not about to help with the cleanup.
Blanche was already swabbing at the spill. She shrugged her shoulders at the woman, but she didn’t respond. Her face was cast on the floor, her features hidden under the cap. It was odd she didn’t say a word… Oleantha watched from behind her desk, one golden shoe tapping. “Bueno. ¿Ya?”
Blanche was far from finished with the mess, and the interview. She leapt up and dropped the balls of tissue in a wastebasket. The woman scooted out the door. Blanche watched her, a catch in her throat, and she didn’t know why she felt like that. A wave of desperation swept over her. Things were happening around her, fast. Opportunity was slipping away. She was on the edge of discovery, and she couldn’t jump away. Not yet.
“After all, I would love a bottle of water, if it wouldn’t trouble you,” said Blanche.
A tremor of irritation flit across Oleantha’s face. “Certainly.” She disappeared to the back of the clinic.
Blanche quickly lifted the corner of the ledger on the desk. Rows and rows of inventory. Herbs, lotions, treatments. She let the cover drop and scooted backward to the bench. She opened her notebook. Oleantha returned with a bottle of water. Blanche took a welcome swig, wishing it were tequila.
“Art? You were saying, doctor.”
“Yes, the Mayans. Muy interesante, this collection. It will soon move to Paris, and the Palacio director is working on coordinating the showing.”
“Is there a lot of interest in Mexican art in Europe?” Blanche took a moment to contain her expression. She cursed her inability to wear a poker face. Is that where all this stuff is going?
“Claro. Much interest. We have a large market…”
“A large market?”
Oleantha stood up. Blanche kept her eyes on her notebook. “Just wondering,” she blurted. “Have you heard anything about art theft at the Palacio? And from other places around the city?”
Oleantha thrust her chin out and retreated, like she’d been swatted. Blanche was reminded of a small, cornered animal. “Why do you ask? What does that have to do with a travel article?”
Blanche mentally kicked herself in the head. She sucked in her breath. She had to slow down. She smiled. “I’m interested in art, studied it in college. Haasi and I went to the exhibit…” Shut up, Blanche.
“Yes, the exhibit,” she said. Twitchy, in one eye. Her fingers tapping on the desktop.
Clearly, Blanche had reached the end of the interview. A door had slammed shut. She inclined her head as if to extract a line, a hint, a bit more information, but this one was done. Blanche glanced at the ledger before she could stop herself. She thought of a book she’d once read, and Oleantha was that book: She had a very fancy cover and the pages inside just didn’t make any sense. Her work in the clinic did not seem to match her rumored expertise in patching up gangsters and making mummies.
“You might reach out to the director at the Palacio. I’m sure he’d be helpful,” said Oleantha. She picked up her phone.
Blanche packed away her notebook. Before she entirely pissed off the exquisitely strange Doctor Flórez. She kept smiling. “Gracias por todo.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Señorita Blanche, and now I must get to work. Señor Blussberg, I believe, is coordinating the next phase of the Mayan exhibit. He has other details about art. Do call him.”
Chapter Thirty-One
GONNA TAKE A LITTLE TRIP
“Where are you?” Doctor Oleantha Flórez’s voice stabbed at his eardrum, the sound of it like a hot steel poker. He held the phone away, and frowned. He sat up in the front seat and wished he were anywhere but in her vicinity.
“I’m in the truck, like most days, awaiting your orders, Señora Doctor.” He settled his aggrieved stomach by answering as best he could. It would do no good to prolong this conversation. He liked talking to her as little as possible.
“You see her? The small blonde leaving the clinic? Cat-eye glasses, jean jacket? Follow her,” Oleantha hissed. “Teach her a lesson. El cuatro, no el primero. ¿Comprendes?”
“Sí.” El Jefe heaved a sigh. He’d been looking forward to a peaceful afternoon, a nice late comida, an early retreat with Luisa Lu. And now this? It was a job, one which he was getting sick of, and if he tried to get out of it, it would be the last thing he ever did. He put the truck in gear, and drove it slowly while he followed the girl. She was walking at a pretty good clip, and he wanted to make his move at exactly the right moment.
The fourth lesson, not the first. Her call for a no-kill. Instead, a frightening shake-up. Sometimes that shake-up didn’t work out so well. But he tried. He followed the damn orders and hoped he kept his head in the bargain.
It was a quiet, tree-lined street, not a lot of cars. Not a lot of people. He kept the pace at a discreet distance. Up ahead, he saw his opportunity. He swerved toward the curb, grabbed the sack in the back seat, and jumped out the door. The bag was over her head and she was on the floor of the truck in about five seconds. The man was on the heavy side but light on his feet. He was good at his job; he’d had a lot of practice.
The girl sat up on the floor of the truck. She hadn’t said a word, but he could sense her wild fear when he grabbed her. She’d let out a yelp, but he’d jammed the sack into her mouth and told her to shut up. The sack was pretty worthless for anything except to muffle her scream and prevent witnesses from identifying her. Should there be any. He was careful there weren’t. He wore a hat and dark glasses. The license on the truck was another matter, but he was sure he’d avoided that complication. In any event, there were people who were paid to take care of those slipups. That wasn’t his worry. Just pick her up and unload her. Short and sweet.
He told her to shut up, again. He didn’t know a lot of English, but he knew Shut the hell up. She was a smart girl. She didn’t make a sound. At first.
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Blanche was frozen in terror, and then the thaw began. She started kicking the back door of the truck, and the front seat. The back of the truck had been retrofitted. Dark glass all around, a partition between front and back, and no seats in the rear. She tried to stand, but he was driving so fast she couldn’t get her bearings. It wouldn’t do any good. She’d whipped the bag off her head first thing, but she couldn’t see much of anything. The outlines of the streets of Mexico City were vanishing. She had a vague idea of where she was, and what good did that do? Didn’t he stop at lights or stop signs? She’d noticed drivers did little of that. He seemed to be taking a lot of side streets, zigzagging, and she was about to vomit from his driving, if not from fear. She braced herself, rocketing along in a dark capsule, a demon of a vehicle. American-made, no doubt. Thank you, Mr. Dodge Ram.
She sat on the floor, teeth grinding, and dug into the carpet with her fingernails. Carpet! She raked some of the fibers off the floor and put them in her pocket. If she ever escaped, proof, and if she didn’t make it out alive, maybe they’d find the fibers. She’d watched too many cop shows, but crimes had been solved on less. She sat still, deflated and desperate. She still had her brain. She listened hard to the road ahead. The sounds of traffic diminishing and thinning. She’d been in the truck at least an hour. It was hard to tell in the emotion of it, but it seemed they were out of the city and flying down a highway. Maybe on the way back to El Patrón’s shed, and that awful cot. A dirt floor. It wasn’t exactly the best accommodations. She thought of Emilio, and where would he be? Back in Tepequito? He’d be furious, and what good would that do?
What the hell good does any of this do?
Her only hope was Haasi. She’d left that note on the door when she left Emilio, that she was going to visit La Escandolera. To thank her for the lov
ely fiesta, and now this.
Thanks a lot, Doctor Dearest.
It had to be Oleantha who set up this little trip. She’d cooled off toward the end of their meeting, and she’d bridled at the questions. But abduction? Blanche’s mind raced. She’d walked out, and the guy had been right there. Whammo. Blanche had been down this road before. Kidnapped in Florida by those drug-running goons. She was not inured to kidnapping, but this was serious, and she was scared. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was. She had to focus on the positive if she wanted to get out of this. The good thing was, number one, she wasn’t dead. Yet. And number two, if she used her wits she just might save herself. She sat cross-legged on the floor, wedged between the side door and the front seat, and she started thinking. And listening.
They were definitely on a highway. The road was smooth. The semi-trucks blared and the roar diminished to a point in the distance, and then another and another. The sound waves and the rocking back and forth worked on her nerves. Highway 57 ran out of the city. She and Haasi had taken that way to El Patrón’s, and to Carmen and Eddie’s. It hadn’t taken long before the landscape changed dramatically from urban to rural, and the sounds outside the truck were eerily familiar. Oh, she missed Haasi. They were so good at digging themselves out of shit. But Blanche didn’t want to dwell on it. She had to figure it out. She had to stay strong. Well, I am strong. I would love to scratch that mother trucker’s eyes out.
The truck veered off the highway on to a small, bumpy road. Her panic spiked, and then she stopped herself. Panic was wasted energy. She let the anger take over, the fuel that would push her to survive.
She didn’t have much time. The truck would stop, and he would open that door, and pull her out, and then she had no idea what would happen, but it wouldn’t be good. She put the future out of her mind; she had to focus on the present.
Holy crap! She remembered. She was still wearing her purse, a small flat one that fit under her jacket, hidden from pickpockets, murderers, and kidnappers. She prayed she’d brought that cell phone. She fumbled inside. No such luck, and then…
Trouble Down Mexico Way Page 18