The Turquoise Mask

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  Drawers were turned out, their contents left on table or floor. Boxes in a closet had been unpacked, and even the bed had been stripped. While I stood looking about in astonishment, Gavin summoned Maria. She came quickly to look past us into the room, exclaiming aloud.

  “But only yesterday I cleaned in here, Señor Brand. Everything was in order, nothing like this!”

  “Have you had any visitors at the rancho since then?” Gavin asked.

  The woman shook her head vehemently, then paused, looking around for her husband. When he came down the hall she spoke to him in voluble Spanish. He nodded, seemed to agree about something and then shrugged eloquently.

  Gavin explained for my benefit. “Earlier this afternoon, a little while before we arrived, Francisco heard a sound in this part of the house. When he came into the hall to investigate, he saw nothing. The doors were closed, and all was quiet, so he didn’t look into any of the rooms, believing he must have been mistaken. Now he remembers that a little later he heard a car moving away from the hacienda. But when he went to look out a window it was already well in the distance and he couldn’t recognize it.”

  Maria started into the room, greatly distressed and anxious to tidy everything up. I stopped her quickly.

  “Please,” I said. “Can you let it be for now? I would like to look at some of these things myself before you put them away.”

  She glanced at Gavin for his consent and then gave me a troubled nod before she went out of the room.

  My efforts were desultory. In such confusion, I didn’t know where to begin. I found myself picking up a sewing box that had been my grandmother’s, poking in among scissors and spools, before I set it down and turned to something else. Nothing I touched required a small brass key to open it. In neither room had I found a jewel case. Nevertheless, I kept on halfheartedly, knowing that someone had been here ahead of me, and that probably whatever could be unlocked by such a key was already gone. My hands moved almost absently among Katy’s things, but my mind was busy.

  “As far as I know,” I told Gavin, “only three people knew about this. Sylvia gave me the envelope sealed, but perhaps she could have opened it in the past and sealed it up again. And I told Clarita and Juan. No one else, until I told you.”

  “If Sylvia knew, Paul could have known too.”

  “Yes, and Eleanor, I suppose. But then why wouldn’t one or the other of them have investigated here at the rancho sooner?”

  “Perhaps nothing became crucial until the key was put in your hands.”

  Most likely, it was Clarita who had come here, I thought. But I let the matter go and went on with my fruitless search.

  A large cardboard box had been half emptied, and when I poked through the contents which had been dumped on the floor, I came upon a Mexican costume that a man might have worn. I held up the tight trousers of dark blue suede, trimmed with silver buttons down the sides, and started to pick up the embroidered, braid-trimmed jacket, when Gavin took the things from me without ceremony.

  “You don’t want these,” he said, and thrust them away on the high shelf of a huge armoire.

  I wondered at the abrupt removal, but I was emptying out the rest of the box and my attention was distracted. Something made of wood, like a hollowed bowl, fell out and skittered across the floor. I reached to pick it up, turned it over in my hands—and without warning was caught by a wave of cold terror that washed through my fingertips.

  What I held in my hands was a carved wooden mask, and I could only stare at it in a frozen state of shock. The entire face had been painted a smoky shade of blue, with the features outlined with great skill in silver and turquoise inlays. The eyebrows were curves of tiny turquoise stones above the eyes outlined with turquoise and silver. The nostrils were silver slits, but it was the mouth that was most arresting. It was in the shape of an oval—the open shape of a scream—and again the outline was done in silver and turquoise. Staring at the blue face, I could feel my own mouth round to that screaming shape and it was all I could do to suppress the sound that surged in my throat.

  From across the room Gavin saw and came to me at once.

  “What’s the matter, Amanda? What’s happened?”

  When I couldn’t answer at once, he took me by the shoulders and held me gently, and I saw warmth in his eyes and sympathy. “Something’s frightened you again.”

  “Yes!” I held up the mask with hands that shook. “It’s—like the tree. I’ve seen this before and it’s part of the nightmare—it’s connected with that time.”

  Gavin took the blue mask from me and examined it. “I’ve seen this before too—when I was small. Long before your mother died. It seems to me—yes, it used to hang on a wall here at the hacienda. I can remember the very place out in the sala.”

  “But how can I remember it?”

  “Don’t try,” he said, and I had the feeling that he knew more about the mask than he was telling me.

  I paid no attention to his warning. I had to remember, and I took the mask back from him, studying it, forcing myself to meet its evil, slitted gaze.

  The mouth seemed to shout at me from the blue face, crying out in some silent agony that matched my own. Whoever had created this mask had meant it to agonize, and I could agonize with it.

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “It’s just that I have a terrible sense of horror and danger. But I know it has something to tell me.”

  A smaller cardboard box lay on the bed, with a leather book in it. He dumped out the book and put the mask in the box, closed the lid over that dreadful blue face.

  “There—it’s out of your sight for now.”

  I reached for the box, “I’ll take it back to the house with me. There’s something about it I’ve got to remember.”

  “All right,” he said “If you must. And now—here’s the brass lock for your key.”

  He picked up the leather book that had fallen on the bed and held it out to me. I saw at once that it had a brass hasp with a small lock in it. Without ever taking the key from my bag, I knew it would fit. But there was no need. One end of the hasp had been ripped from the leather, and the book was no longer locked.

  “It must be a diary,” I said as I took it from him.

  When I raised the leather cover and looked at the flyleaf, I found Katy Cordova’s name written there in the same strong script I had seen in the letter she’d sent my father. The year of the diary was the year of my mother’s death.

  As I flipped through them I found the pages thick with that same writing. Here was the answer Katy had left for me. Here was the answer to everything.

  A little feverishly, I turned the pages, reading dates, looking for the month of my mother’s death—which was this very month of May, though I didn’t know the date. When I came to the passage about the picnic, I began to read eagerly, forgetting Gavin, forgetting the room about me. Yes, she had written of her plans for the day—she had set down the names of those who would come. My eyes skimmed as I turned the pages and came abruptly, shockingly, to the end of the diary. Only a core of torn edges remained at the central binding. Whatever else Katy had written for that time and the rest of the year had been ripped from the book.

  I held out the leather volume to Gavin. “She was writing about the picnic. She must have written about what happened—but it’s all gone, torn out. Someone came here—probably today—and tore out these pages. Someone who is frightened.”

  Gavin took the book from me and stared at the rough edges where only a word or two of script remained. “It looks as if you’re right. But don’t count too much on what was written here, Amanda.”

  “I’m counting on it—I am! Those pages have to be found.”

  “If there’s anything revealing in them, they’ve been destroyed by now.”

  Limp with disappointment, I sat down on the bed. Now what was I to do? Where was I to turn?

  “Perhaps we’d better go back to town,” Gavin said. “I’ve put off an appointment until late afterno
on, but I do need to be back for it. And I think this is all we can do here.”

  I agreed, my thoughts rushing ahead. “Yes—I’ll go back now. I’ll talk to Grandfather. I’ll show him the mask and the diary. If I can only get him to believe what I believe, perhaps he can help me.”

  “What do you believe?” Gavin asked gently.

  “That my mother didn’t kill anyone. And perhaps she didn’t fall by intent down the bank. Perhaps someone pushed her because she witnessed what happened.”

  Gavin shook his head at me regretfully. “I’m afraid you’re fantasizing. You’re hoping for too much.”

  I snatched the diary indignantly back from him. “This is the evidence! Katy wanted me to know. She felt I had a right to know.”

  “To know what? Don’t you think that if your grandmother had known that Doro was innocent she would have cried it from the hilltops? I remember Katy. I remember her courage. And I remember how much she loved your mother.”

  “She might not if the truth would injure someone else she loved. She might figure that it was better to save the living than to exonerate the dead. But she still wanted me to know.”

  “Come along,” Gavin said. “We’ll turn this mess over to Maria and get back to town.”

  We told Maria and Francisco Hasta la vista and I went with him. I knew he was growing impatient with me, but I didn’t care. I was on my own headlong course, and I didn’t mean to let anything stop me.

  X

  When Gavin left me at the house and drove back to the store, I went at once to Juan Cordova’s study, taking with me the box that contained the mask and the diary. Clarita was not about to interfere, and his door was open.

  “Come in,” he called when I appeared.

  I placed the box on his desk. “Here’s something I want you to see.”

  He did not look at the box because as I came close he was staring at me. “Where did you get those earrings?”

  “Clarita gave them to me. They belonged to my mother. Gavin says you gave them to her.”

  “Take them off!” he said harshly. “Take them off!”

  I understood his pain and I slipped off the Zuni birds, dropped them into my handbag. Then without preliminary I reached into the box and drew out the mask, to place it before him. This time I knew what to expect, and I felt less of a tendency to panic with terror at the sight of it.

  “Do you know anything about this?” I asked.

  For an instant, the sight of the mask seemed to bring him some unwanted memory, and a grimace of pain crossed his face. But he thrust it aside and picked up the mask, examining its detail with his fingers.

  “I’ve wondered what happened to this. An Indian friend made it for me long ago when the children were young. They were always fascinated by it, and we used to keep it on a wall out at the rancho. This is particularly fine work, though of course not traditional. It was made for no ceremony, but because my friend was an artist and wanted to create something original. Where did you find it?”

  “In Katy’s room at the rancho,” I said. “Gavin drove me out there because of the message she left me. When I found this, I recognized it.”

  There was no change of expression in that face that reminded me of a falcon. He merely repeated my words. “Recognized it?”

  “I don’t know why I know it, but I do. And it frightens me. I thought perhaps you could tell me why.”

  “Why should it frighten you? You must have seen it on the wall at the hacienda when you were small, but as far as I know, you never had any fear of it. Our own children used to play with it sometimes when they they were little—even though it was forbidden. I didn’t want a work of art damaged, but you’ll find a few nicks in the wood and in the blue paint, as well as a stone or two missing. I can remember one day when I caught Kirk Landers leaping around with it on his face. In those days he had a gift for pantomime, and he could be very amusing.” Juan sighed deeply.

  None of this meant anything to me.

  “I went down to the arroyo,” I told him. “Paul Stewart took me there. He thought I might remember something if I saw the place where—where it happened.”

  “And did you?”

  “Only the cottonwood tree. I can remember that. Everything else seems wiped away. Why did Grandmother Katy choose that place for a picnic anyway? Why not eat outdoors more comfortably in your own patio?”

  “The walls—she wanted to escape the walls out on the open hillside.”

  “I’ve felt that way too—a little,” I admitted. “But now I want to remember about that place. You told me you’d try to help me. When will you begin?”

  His smile was meant to be kind, but it seemed a little fierce. “Why not now? Sit down, Amanda, and relax. You’re wound up with tension.”

  I put the mask back in the box. Later I would show him the diary. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep the mask for a while. Perhaps it will encourage something to come back to me.”

  “You may keep it for now,” he said.

  I sat in the chair opposite him and waited. For a moment or two he seemed lost in his own faraway thoughts and there was a sadness in the downward droop of his mouth. He closed his eyes, and when he began to speak he did not open them.

  “As you may know, I didn’t go to the picnic that day. When Gavin brought you back to the house, Katy had already come to tell me what had happened. I had been ill and she wouldn’t let me go out to that place afterwards, though she had to go back. I sat here in this room and grieved because I had lost my daughter under terrible circumstances and lost a foster son as well. Gavin brought you to me here. You were white-faced and no longer crying, though your cheeks were streaked with tearstains. You sat on my knee and leaned your head above my heart and we tried to comfort each other. Do you remember any of this?”

  I closed my eyes, like Juan, and tried to seek out memory. Could I recall strong arms about me, a strong, adult heart beating under my cheek? The vision seemed very real, but I didn’t know if this was memory.

  “After a while you began to babble a little. You said your mother had fallen and someone was covered with blood. I held you and tried to talk to you. I told you your mother would never have willingly hurt anyone, but she must have been maddened by anger with Kirk.”

  I opened my eyes. “Were these the extenuating circumstances you mentioned?”

  “Yes, perhaps. I couldn’t explain it all to a child, but I had sent Kirk away when he got the idea that he wanted to marry your mother. She was too young for marriage, and he was too young for responsibility. I told him he must go away and prove himself. When they were both older, we would see. When he came back, nearly ten years had passed and Doroteo had married William Austin. He was not the man I would have chosen, but she was happy with him. I had to recognize that. Then Kirk came home and he would not believe that he had to give her up. He’d undoubtedly had affairs in the meantime, but something brought him back to Doroteo. She wanted none of him and she had our hot Cordova temper.”

  This was not the story Eleanor had told me—of Doroteo using that gun because she had been “spurned.” But this story seemed closer to the possible truth.

  “Don’t you remember?” my grandfather said.

  “Remember what?”

  “Something happened between them one day, when she was angry with him. He had said he would go to your father and tell him of their love for each other when they were young. By then, I think, it would not have mattered to William. But your mother was furious and she struck Kirk in the face. You were there, Amanda. You were in the living room, which is not so very different now from the way it used to be.”

  The sound of a slap seemed to echo out of the past. As if through a mist I could see a beautiful and angry woman flinging out her hand. I had been frightened, but she hadn’t been angry with me. When the man had gone from the house, she had caught me up and held me close to her. Almost I could remember some flower scent she had worn.

  “You are remembering, aren’t you?�
�� Juan Cordova said.

  I brushed my hands before my eyes. “A little, perhaps. Something.”

  “Good. Then we have made a beginning. You mustn’t try too much at once. We’ll attempt it again another time.”

  “But remembering a slap doesn’t bring back anything of that time on the hillside.”

  “It’s a beginning, and it gives you something to tell Paul. I gather that you’re talking to him in spite of my wishes?”

  “Why should I tell him that?”

  “He must understand that Kirk was tormenting your mother. That he drove her to what she finally did. If he must write this book, then I would like him to be gentle with Doroteo. You must remember that Paul knew her in those days. He knew about her wild temper—the blood of the dwarf that has come down to us.”

  I stopped him with an outflung hand. “There’s that phrase again—‘blood of the dwarf’! Eleanor used it to me, and my father once mentioned a dwarf. What does it mean? You must tell me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s time you knew.” He opened an upper drawer in his desk and took out a ring of two keys, examining them with his fingers, as though he could distinguish them better that way than with his eyes. When he came to some conclusion, he dropped the ring back in the drawer and closed it.

  “Not now,” he said. “We will go after dark, when no one will be watching. After dinner tonight you will come to me here and I will show you something. You have the right to know all our family secrets. Perhaps they will be your responsibility someday. But I am tired now. Come to me later. Por favor.”

  I couldn’t let him off as easily as that. “I’ll come, but there’s something else I must show you now.”

  From the bottom of the box I took Katy’s diary and set it before him. I didn’t need to ask if he knew what it was—he recognized it at once and drew it toward him, opened the flyleaf to look at the date of the year.

  “This has been missing,” he said. “She kept diaries for many years—before Doroteo died, and up to the time when she became ill. After Katy was gone, I read them all. But the book for this year was not among them. You found it at the rancho?”