Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2)

by J. J. Henderson

  "Hi, it's me, I'm in Santa Fe."

  "Hey, how is it?"

  "Fine. Actually, the whole damn town is so tasteful it hurts. But we're at the bank, where Margaret Clements has the other pieces in a safety deposit box."

  "Other pieces?"

  "From the same lot. Same source as the fakes. Seeing them should help get things sorted out. I'll be looking for—"

  "I don't know if you'll be able to. Well, what the hell, give it a try: steel tool marks, like we discussed, look different from jade saw marks. You'll need a magnifying glass. Also, the iconography might look incongruous or—I don't know, there's really no way to do it without experience, Luce."

  "Well, I tend to trust my instincts on things like this."

  "Don't be arrogant, Lucy. It takes years to learn this stuff."

  "All right, all right. Sorry. I'll play it by ear, OK?"

  "Just don't make any bad calls. The stakes are too high. And it's not your job."

  "Right. Also, I wanted to ask you, you ever heard of a guy named Calvin Hobart?"

  "Calvin Hobart," he mulled, then came into focus: "Yeah, yeah, I remember him from school in Austin. He was a grad student, assistant professor. Went on to make a decent name for himself teaching in Tucson. He knows his stuff, that's for sure. Has a solid reputation. What's up?"

  "Well, he lives here now. He appears to be the man responsible for the Letters of Authentication, such as they may be."

  "Really. Well, damn, I'd sure like to see these rumored letters. Listen, I don't know if he'll remember me, but say hey to him, remind him of Austin '75 and mention my name. And then ask him what the hell he's doing putting his imprimatur on bogus goods, the dumb fuck."

  "Can I quote you on that?"

  "Sure, why not, that's exactly what he's being if he thinks that junk is real. Where did she get it, anyway? Did she tell you that?"

  "No way. Trade secret, she says."

  "I'm not surprised. Probably got a fake factory just humming along somewhere down there. Hey, by the way, was her collection as awesome as I've heard?"

  "Pretty impressive. You oughta see the pad. And listen, I have to say, if there's any kind of scam going on here, I don't think she's part of it. She's too—I don't know— spacey, and yet real, at the same time, to be hustling fakes."

  "That's a pretty ambiguous rap, Lucy."

  "Well, picture this: she's designed her own enormous pueblo-modern pad up on her private mountain, she's got millions of dollars worth of art stashed in a custom-designed cave behind the house, and guess what's sitting right in the middle of her kitchen table?"

  "I don't know, a voodoo doll?"

  "A giant wooden salad bowl, filled with peyote buttons!"

  "Jesus Christ! You're kidding me!"

  "No. There they were, like so many ugly little shriveled-up apples. I couldn't ever mistake the sight, not after the one and only time I tried some. Which happened here, like, fifteen years ago. You ever chew any of those nasty critters?"

  "Sure. Every week at first when I was going to school down there in Austin. We had a Navajo pal and he got them for nothing. But my stomach couldn't take it. So I switched to acid. Much easier to digest."

  "Yeah, but not organic, man."

  "When you're looking to get cosmic, organic doesn't matter. Not puking for six hours straight does. Am I right?"

  "It was righteous puking, though, wasn't it? Could hear echoes of eternity in those retches, as I remember it. Well listen, I guess I should sign off, I'm pretty busy."

  "Just keep your eyes open, honey. And your mitts out of the peyote jar."

  "No way I want to walk that walk again. Hey, love to Beth. Later."

  "OK, Luce. Take care."

  A bank official guided her to a private room in the back, where she found Rosa, Darren, and Margaret seated at a conference table. There were two objects on the table, distinctly different from any she'd seen before. One was a cylindrical ceramic vessel, completely plated all around with a mosaic of small squares of jade, seamlessly joined. The vessel was covered by a lid with a sculpted three dimensional jade head on top, surrounded by richly detailed illustrations carved into the sloping surface of the lid. The second piece was a life-size jade portrait mask, with some indentations where precious stones had probably been removed. Lucy could see that these two pieces, whether real or fake, were the stars of the show. "So here they are," said Margaret. "Still look as real as rain to me."

  "I don't know what makes for fakes in this field," said Darren, "But they look good to me."

  "May I?" Lucy asked Margaret as she sat down and picked one up.

  "Sure, just be careful," Margaret answered.

  "Right." Lucy whipped out her magnifying glass and delicately turned the mask around, upside down, and sideways, checking the surface carefully for the steel cut marks Quentin had described as indications of fakery. She couldn't find any. She wondered if she didn't know enough. She knew she didn't know enough. She knew she couldn't tell the difference between Iranian Jade and Mexican Jade; for all she knew this could be Iranian, which would date it late 20th century. She put it down and carefully lifted the lid off the vessel, and looked it over. Same deal. She put it down. They all looked at her. "Well, I was looking for something that would tell me these were fakes, and I can't find it, so I don't know."

  "What, a "Made in Taiwan" sticker perhaps?" said Darren.

  "Really, Lucy, what are you looking for?" Rosa added.

  "OK, OK, I’ll tell you what I’m doing," she said. "Quentin Washington explained that if you looked closely enough—hence the magnifying glass—you could tell fake jade pieces by the cut marks—the tool marks—that they were usually made with steel tools, and that they left marks unlike the stone tools of the originals. Also sometimes they make the forgeries with jade from foreign countries, and it looks different. Everything else can be duplicated perfectly, but the tone of the jade and the tool marks give them away."

  "And you don't see the right color, or any such tool marks on these?" asked Darren in a lawyerly fashion.

  "No, but—"

  "But what?" Darren said.

  "I don't know enough about the color, or about reading the marks. Plus I don't see why forgers couldn't just start using stone tools too," Lucy said.

  "Hell, Lucy," said Margaret. "Sounds to me like you're downright disappointed these might be real."

  "No, it's not that. I'm just irritated because I don't feel competent," she said. "I thought I would know exactly what I was looking for, and that I would find it. But it seems pretty nebulous now."

  "Maybe that's because these aren't fakes, Lucy," said Darren.

  "Let me try Calvin again," Margaret said. She picked up the phone on the table. "Hello, could you give me an outside line please? Thanks." She paused, then punched in a number. After a moment, she put the phone down. "Still no answer. If they were out jogging, they would have come back by now. The machine's off. I don't know, seems strange, those guys never go anywhere." She looked around the table. "You folks feel like taking a ride?"

  "To Hobart's?" Darren asked.

  "Yeah. Maybe the phone's busted and they don't know it. Stranger things have happened."

  "Sure," said Lucy.

  "He and Hamilton have a gorgeous house, too, so you'll get a kick outta that," Margaret said. "You want to drive, Darren? We should take only one car and I think we'd be more comfortable in yours. We'll just put these two babies in a bag and take 'em with us. Save Calvin the trouble of coming back to town."

  Margaret left the dogs in the back of her truck in the bank parking lot in the middle of town. This was not New York. They headed out. They soon passed the turnoff to Tesuque and continued north, then northwest. The road soared upwards, winding through a sandstone canyon, and in the mid-day glare the high desert appeared desolate, in spite of the piñons, the rocky buttresses, the mountains rising in the deep distances. Lucy and Margaret rode in back, the two bubble-wrapped artifacts in a canvas Santa Fe National B
ank moneybag on the seat between them.

  A few miles out of Pojoaque they turned off the main drag onto a dirt road that curved up towards a rocky rise about a mile distant. "The house is just under the hilltop up yonder," Margaret said. "You wouldn't find it if you didn't know it was there. See, right there," she pointed towards the right side of the butte, where a rambling, wood and adobe structure hugged the hillside. Sun glinted off a tin roof, flashing in their eyes. The sky was utterly empty of clouds.

  As they approached the house, details came clear. A semi-circular gravel driveway with a Range Rover and a pick-up parked to one side. Deep porches under slanted red tin roofs supported by white posts and beams, and an eye-pleasing mix of peaked and flat rooflines. The forward thrust of the building, with flanks flowing back at right angles at both ends, suggested the presence of an enclosed courtyard behind the central wing.

  Darren parked by the dusty green Range Rover, and the four of them got out. As the sound of the last car door slamming shut died away, they were stilled by the silence, which was not so much silence but rather an insistent, indirect whispering, the small soft noise of the wind in the brush, wind in the rocky canyons, wind in the eaves of the house.

  They walked towards the front door, and the sound of their feet in the gravel echoed, unnaturally loud in the desert air. The yard was an exquisite orchestration of desert plants and cactus, so perfectly placed as to seem accidental, naturally occurring, except that the hand of a landscape designer was given away by the presence of a few scatterings of brightly colored flowers, and two small, freeform, rock-lined pools flanking the path leading to the front porch. A pair of Mission-style rocking chairs and a small leather-topped table occupied one side of the porch. Lucy thought she heard a dog whining just before Margaret knocked vigorously on the raised panel door. "They're usually out back by the pool or in the studio, so you gotta beat on this damn door or they won't hear at all," she said.

  "Did you hear a dog?" Lucy asked.

  "No, did you?" Darren said.

  "I thought so. Not a bark, a whine."

  "Didn't hear a thing," Rosa said. "Except maybe the sound of my blood flowing. Damn, it's quiet out here."

  "They've got a poodle. A white standard named Claud. Mighta been him," Margaret said, and beat on the door again. "Hey, Calvin, you there? Ham, you guys home?" She tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. She pushed it open a foot. "Calvin, you home?" she said, leaning halfway into the house. "Hey, Walking Wind, you here?" There was no answer. Margaret pushed the door farther open, and they followed her in, tentatively.

  They were in a large entry area, with arched doorways on both sides. Straight ahead a pair of open glass-paneled doors let onto a patio. Across the patio the blue of a swimming pool sparkled in the sun. "Where are those boys?" Margaret said. Suddenly a large white poodle bounded in through the patio doors, barking and whining. "Hey, Claud, how are you?" Margaret went on, as the poodle rushed over and leaped up, excited to see her. With his hair cut short, he looked like a regular dog, not at all frou-frou. He had large, intelligent brown eyes, and a brown nose. "Good dogster. Now where's your Dad, huh? Where's Mr. Calvin?" She rubbed his ears and head. "That's the living room in there," she said, waving at a doorway. "And yes, that is an original O'Keeffe. They own three."

  "Great house," said Lucy, as she and Rosa paused in the doorway and took in the living room. It had a high, beamed ceiling, a fireplace sculpted out of the wall, the O'Keeffe flower, and half a dozen other paintings on the walls. There were Navajo blankets on the leather sofas, shelves of pueblo pottery and statuary, and killims on the pine floors. It was warm and light and airily comfortable, thoughtfully arranged and accessorized without being the least bit intimidating. Lucy liked the owners of the house before meeting them, always a good sign.

  "Really charming," said Rosa. "I thought Santa Fe style was so passè back in New York, and it’s total overkill down in town, but when you see it done right it looks good again."

  "I'm gonna go outside and let Claud find Calvin for me. Feel free to sit down and relax a minute if you'd like," Margaret said. "These boys are very informal."

  "No, we'll go too," said Lucy. "I'd love to see the rest of the house and grounds anyways."

  "Definitely," said Darren. "I'm beginning to understand why you don't like my furniture and stuff, honey," he said. "I guess I just haven't thought much about it, is all."

  "No, not much, babe," Rosa said. "Maybe Calvin will give you a few lessons."

  They followed Margaret and the whining white poodle out the French doors onto the patio. Claud's barking level abruptly ratcheted up in frequency and volume as he whirled around, leaping into the air. "Jesus, what's wrong, Claud?" Margaret said. "Take it easy, pup. I've never seen this dog so riled up." They came out from under the porch roof into the blinding glare of direct sun, and Lucy slipped her shades on as they walked towards the pool, Claud in a frenzy now. Nobody spoke; nobody had to, because they all knew something was very wrong, and whatever it was waited here, at the pool, drawing them forward. "Oh, Lord," Margaret said, first to reach poolside. "Omigod." The four of them stopped, ranged along the tiled edge of the pool.

  Lucy took it all in in a sun-blasted revelation: the freeform pool with the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl tiled on the bottom; and rippling over it the shadows of the two bodies which floated face down, bloated, wearing bathing suits and roasted to a dark shade of pink by the sun, on the surface of the pool. "Oh no, oh no, oh no," said Margaret, hands to her mouth.

  "Jesus Christ," said Darren. "Jesus fucking Christ. Don't touch anything. Christ. I'll call the police. Where's the phone? Margaret, where's the goddamn phone?" he shouted.

  "Hey, take it easy, Darren," Lucy said. "Don't shout at her!"

  "Is that Calvin?" Rosa whispered. "Are you sure it's him?"

  "Who else could it be?" Margaret croaked. "And Hamilton. See the long hair? Oh, see the long black hair? Oh lord."

  "Damn, this phone's not working," Darren said. He'd found a remote on a patio table. "Rosa, see if you can find a phone. But don't touch—don't—wait, I'll go with you, what if the killer is still—"

  "I don't think anyone's here," Lucy said. "The dog wouldn't have been so wacked out. Come here, pup," she went on, calling Claud. He came over, whining more softly now, and lowered his head as he stood before her. "Poor baby. Poor, poor baby. This poor animal's been guarding them." She petted the dog, then forced herself to look at the bloated bodies. "Waiting for God knows how long. A few days anyway." In an effort to stay calm, she unzipped her bag and pulled out her digital camera. She turned it on, pointed it at the pool, and started snapping.

  "Jesus, Lucy, is that necessary right now?" Darren said.

  "As a matter of fact, yes," Lucy said. "Absolutely." She knew they were all in shock, and that they would miss important things; and that the police, when they came, would probably destroy half the evidence before they even laid eyes on it.

  Margaret had collapsed into a lounge chair. Lucy went over to her. "Are you all right? Can I get you a glass of water or something?"

  "No, I'm fine. It's just—I've known Calvin for at least twenty years. He was the most peaceable man. He and Hamilton were so perfect together." She burst into tears. "Who in the hell would do this? Why?"

  Lucy had another look at the pool. "I don't know, Margaret. I just don't know. They have a lot of art here, and—"

  "But it's not even gone, Lucy. You saw the O'Keeffe. That and the pre-Colombian pieces are the most valuable things they have."

  "Where are those? Where did they keep them?"

  "The pre-Colombians? There's a gallery off their bedroom. Over there." She gestured towards the house, then collapsed further into the chaise. The curtains were drawn on the French doors. Lucy walked around the pool, capturing images of the bodies, the patio, and the exterior walls of the house from several angles.

  "The phone was unplugged," Darren said, as he and Rosa came back out on the patio. "The machine's been co
mpletely erased, of all incoming messages and their greeting. I called the state police. They'll be here ASAP, they're sending a chopper. I think it's best if we—Lucy, what are you doing?" he barked.

  "Taking pictures, what does it look like?" she replied calmly. "I need to take these pictures." She walked away from him and headed into the house.

  Lucy wandered through the living room, pausing to take a couple of shots. She saw nothing amiss. She passed through a doorway under a heavy wooden lintel and entered a long hallway. Windows on her right let onto the patio and the pool. On her left, doors opened on a bedroom, a bathroom, another bedroom, and then an arch opened into the master bedroom and gallery.

  The gallery room included an office area and a number of shelves and display cabinets full of pre-Colombian pieces from different eras. She went directly to the Mayan shelves. There were three pieces which she though probably dated from the same era as those she'd seen in New York—two of the shell carvings, and a jade pendant similar in style to Margaret's mosaic vessel in the car. She snapped a slide of the pendant, up close; as she did so, something caught her eye. She looked more carefully. Were those steel tool marks? She pulled out her magnifying glass, and picked the piece up to look underneath. Damn, she needed Quentin right now. She put it down quickly and picked up the pendant for a look. The same thing. A couple of fakes. Maybe.

  She set the pendant down, shot some close-ups, and then backed away. As she turned to leave, Darren, standing in the doorway, said, "What's up, Lucy?"

  "I don't know," she said. "Just looking."

  "Hey, I'm sorry I yelled out there," he said.

  "I know. It's horrible, and very upsetting. Hey, how's Margaret?"

  "She's better. But how about you?"

  "I'm curious," she said. "I put up the camera like this," she went on, holding it before her eyes, "And I can remove myself from the immediacy of the situation. It's a form of—"

  "Protection?" he finished for her.

  "Something like that," she said. She moved to the door of the bedroom. "You want to have a look around in here?" she said. "What a beautiful room."