Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05

by Death on the River Walk

  “Thanks, Emily. As always.”

  “Mother,” she spoke swiftly, “you know I’d come and help if I could.”

  I knew that. But Emily and Warren were truly a mom-and-pop operation and it took every moment they had to run their small newspaper. Moreover, they were doubling up on duties. Their wire editor, no spring chicken, had broken her hip in a fall in mid-August and was now in rehabilitation. I’d come at Emily’s call and enjoyed being on the desk, once again a part of the pulse of news. But it was not only fun, it was protecting my investment. I’d used an unexpected (and unwelcome) bequest to help them buy the newspaper. Emily hadn’t wished to take the money. I’d insisted. It was, more than she would ever know, money to which she had every right. I occasionally thought of the testator, Chase Prescott. I could not remember Chase with pleasure, but I knew this use of his money would please him.

  “Mother”—now her tone was firm—“will it do any good to ask you to be careful?”

  “I’m always careful.” It sounded a little disingenuous even to me.

  “Oh, Mother. Okay. If not careful, then cautious. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I smiled as I clicked off the call. Emily’s buoyant voice gone, fatigue struck. As I plunged into sleep, I thought of the questions Emily couldn’t answer for me, the questions I would try to answer tomorrow. Why was Iris hired at Tesoros? Where did Iris get the small painting that she was copying? What was Rick Reyes trying to hide?

  One of the joys of stopping at a bed and breakfast is, reasonably enough, breakfast. La Mariposa didn’t disappoint. I was served eggs scrambled with green chilies and fresh corn tortillas that had a spongy texture and were faintly sweet, like a fine white cake. The orange juice was just squeezed and the coffee a rich, dark Colombian. But I wasn’t on a holiday. I ate swiftly. Back in my room, I talked to Emily and got the address of the copy shop. I called the copy shop for directions. Fifteen minutes later I was on my way, the map on the passenger seat, heading northeast. I knew I was going in the right direction when I passed the public library. The copy shop clerk had said, “You can’t miss it. We call it the Big Red Enchilada.” He was right. A huge multihued building, predominantly golden red, catches the eye, as the architect no doubt intended. But libraries should stand up and shout; they are America’s greatest bargain.

  Three more blocks and I pulled into a strip shopping center. The material was waiting for me, faxed by Emily. Twenty minutes later, I was back on the River Walk at the sidewalk café opposite Tesoros. I glanced across the river.

  It was so early that few people wandered along the River Walk. An occasional jogger loped past. It was so quiet I could hear the swish of the window washer’s squeegee. He worked slowly, methodically. The window glistened in the sun like a new-minted penny.

  I ordered coffee and picked up Emily’s report. There was a brief heading:

  Compiled from Newspaper Archives

  Maria Elena Herrera Garza created Tesoros, now one of the River Walk’s premier art galleries, in 1960. It was a dream that grew out of her father’s heartbreak. Her father, Manuel, was a streetcar conductor who saved every penny, hoping to open a small store downtown that would offer lovely artworks from Mexico. Her mother, Rose, was a wonderful cook who worked for a family that lived in the King William district. The Herreras saved for years and finally opened a tiny store on Crockett Street ten years before their youngest child, Maria Elena, was born. The 1921 flood destroyed that store. Growing up, Maria Elena heard so much about the wonderful store, the store that could have made their fortune, the store that her father was never able to open again. “It was not only stories about the store that captured my imagination. There was The Family Trip. That’s how we always remembered it because it was the only trip we ever made and, as I look back, I am surprised my mother and father used money needed for so many other purposes for that one glorious, unforgettable journey. It was in 1933. We all—my parents, my brothers Julio and Pablo and Ramon and I—crammed into our old rattletrap car and went to Mexico. We traveled through the central highlands and into the states of Puebla and Morelos. We visited old churches, saw pre-Columbian sculptures, but, most of all, we went from marketplace to marketplace and at each there was color and excitement and, always, wonderful art. We didn’t buy, but we looked and admired and my father would tell us, ‘Oh, that is a wonderful piece. We would have put that at the front of the store.’ I was only eight years old but I’ve never forgotten some of the things we saw: a glazed pottery pitcher for pulque that was shaped like a woman’s boot, a brilliant orange-red-lacquered wood chest for some young woman’s dowry, wooden carvings of plumed dancers bright with scraps of shiny rayon and brocade, miniatures of a bullfight, another pulque jar with a leaping lizard for the handle, a wooden stool shaped like an armadillo, a walking stick formed like a tangle of snakes. For years I dreamed of those things. I could see them so clearly and always I pictured them in a store window.” In 1935, her father died from influenza. Maria Elena married Juan Garza in 1946 and became a homemaker. But even in the most modest of circumstances, she always taught her children about art and music and told stories of their grandfather’s wonderful store. Her husband taught school. He died in 1958. Left a widow with five children, Maria Elena took her savings, almost three thousand dollars, and bought a dilapidated old building on the River Walk. The River Walk had opened in 1941 with grand expectations of becoming America’s Venice. But the River Walk in 1960 was a decaying, after-dark dangerous, pale reflection of Robert Hugman’s glorious dream. It was not a choice place when Maria Elena bought, but she could afford that particular building and she was determined to have a store. Call it luck, call it prescience, call it fate, she purchased property that would be in the heart of the River Walk when its glory days finally arrived after the refurbishing for the 1968 HemisFair. Even when the River Walk was still shabby and spurned by most shops, Tesoros was attracting collectors. Maria Elena’s unerring choice of superior artwork attracted a clientele that stretched from Corpus Christi to Dallas. Word spread about the quality of her offerings and, eventually, the breadth of arts she displayed. Maria Elena lived above the shop with her five children, Francisco, Antonio, Manuel, Magda, and Celestina.

  Maria Elena, now in her seventies, is still at the helm of her own commercial destiny, although she has relinquished the everyday running of the shop to her second son Antonio. A daughter, Magda Reyes, buys the merchandise. Another daughter, Celestina, creates the catalogs and directs the advertising. Her oldest son, Francisco, oversees the operation of La Mariposa, considered one of the premier bed-and-breakfasts in the southwest. La Mariposa had accidental beginnings. Occasionally, collectors from far away would schedule visits to San Antonio during Fiesta Week. Hotel rooms sell out months in advance of the ten-day April extravaganza with its famous Parade of the Flowers and Nights in Old San Antonio. When this happened, Maria Elena, of course, invited the visitors to stay in her home. Her hospitality was already legendary, a true reflection of the Spanish welcome, “Mi casa es su casa.” Gradually, a portion of the old building was set aside for a two-story, twelve-room inn. Maria Elena also introduced the concept of a private auction to San Antonio art circles. Once a year, the store’s most prized customers are invited to a one-day auction offering the artworks Maria Elena herself has chosen as masterpieces of the year.

  The business is now estimated to exceed two million dollars a year in gross receipts. It can only be an estimate because Maria Elena refuses to discuss publicly the success of her family-owned store and she still continues to live modestly above the store with her son Manuel. Her other grown children also live quietly. Frank and his wife, Isabel, own an older home in the King William district. Tony and his wife, Susana, have their own apartment on the third floor of La Mariposa. Celestina Garza has a downtown apartment, as does Maria Elena’s widowed daughter, Magda Reyes. Magda is often out of town, as she is the principal buyer for the store, a role Maria Elena reluctantly relinquished a decade ago. />
  In the margin, Emily had scrawled, “Check out who wants money and why. Maybe the third generation doesn’t like Maria Elena’s ‘modest’ lifestyle. Maybe Iris tumbled to something crooked. Although from what I remember of Iris, I’d think she and a spreadsheet would have about as much in common as a nun and a luxury hotel. And, to be accurate, every source emphasizes that Tesoros has an absolutely unassailable reputation for honest dealing. No stolen goods. No fakes. No artworks with suspect provenances. Promises made are promises kept. Mrs. Garza was once quoted as saying the store would always be in family hands because then she would always be certain that only the best and the finest went through her showroom.”

  Emily had scanned several news photos. Maria Elena Herrera Garza beamed out from the center of a family photograph taken two years earlier. My initial impression? A lady loaded with charm.

  Maria Elena’s dark eyes glowed with good humor. Her oblong face was alight with eagerness. Her mouth curved in a merry, infectious smile. A youthful zest almost erased the lines of age.

  I realized I’d responded and was smiling at the photograph.

  She was so interesting, so alive, so vivid that those around her receded into the background. But this was a good photographer. Every face told a story. I looked at each of her children and their spouses in turn.

  Frank Garza. A narrow face with the distinctive Garza chin. Deep-set eyes looked out at the world diffidently, almost defensively. He didn’t smile and his mouth in repose had a forlorn droop.

  Isabel Garza. Honey-bright hair curved around a delicate face. Her brown eyes had a distant gaze. Rings with stones of many colors shone from the hands lying in total relaxation in her lap. She had the air of a confident house cat, beautiful, self-absorbed, capable of unthinking cruelty.

  Tony Garza. Even in a group photo he exuded magnetism, the macho swagger of a matador. His eyes glittered with energy, a hungry, questing, demanding look. His full lips spread in a boisterous smile. He’d be the loudest man at the poker table. A fun companion if his jokes and chatter didn’t distract you from your cards.

  Susana Garza. She was as alive and arresting as her husband, her dark head flung back, her vivid eyes arrogantly defiant, her scarlet lips both inviting and contemptuous.

  Celestina Garza. Sleek black hair drawn back in a tight bun. Gold-wire glasses. Reserved, inquiring, suspicious eyes. A surprisingly prim mouth for a woman near fifty.

  Magda Reyes. The Garza face, long and lean, but artfully applied makeup highlighted her eyes, softened the blunt chin. Bright, cheerful, confident eyes. A bubbly smile. She had an air of good humor, but her firm mouth and bold chin argued decisiveness and determination, qualities quite useful for a buyer of artworks.

  Manuel Garza. He alone had not looked at the photographer. His wide eyes, luminous and loving, were fastened on his mother. The odd mixture of innocence and age made his face the most affecting of them all.

  The other photographs weren’t as interesting, business publicity pictures that had appeared with various news stories. There was only one that mattered to me, a formal shot of a rather stiff Rick Reyes when he joined the staff at his grandmother’s store upon graduation from Texas A&M. I separated that print and the family portrait from the sheaf of papers, carefully folded them and put them in my purse.

  I waved away the waiter with an offer of more coffee, put down a bill on my check. Across the river, Manuel Garza was nearing completion of the first window. The door to Tesoros swung open.

  But I had one more stop to make before I crossed the river to meet Maria Elena Garza, a stop that might make my visit simpler. Or more difficult.

  four

  THE air was sharply cool. I’d left the window unit running in Iris’s apartment. I shivered as I crossed to turn it off. The room seemed even shabbier, dustier, its disarray more ominous. I turned on the lights, opened the blinds. Even so, the room was dingy. Yet, when I stood and looked at the small oil painting still propped on the wooden chair, its colors glistened as if brushed moments ago.

  It was such a small painting to have so great an impact, perhaps twelve inches by eighteen. A weathered wooden cross leaned against a mission wall, next to a stone doorway and massive wooden doors. That was all, wood and stone and sunlight, shades of brown and gray and a faintly apricot peach, evoking a cry to God, humble and hopeful.

  What was a painting of this stature and depth doing in Iris’s apartment?

  Oh, the quick answer was obvious. She was trying to copy the work. Actually, her half-finished effort was well done. But the greater question had no ready answer. At least, I knew I wouldn’t find the answer here.

  I lifted my hand to knock, waited until the tinny blast of trumpets subsided.

  The door opened grudgingly. A blue smock this morning. No makeup. The apartment manager scowled. “You have her key. Why bother me?”

  The mariachis on the television program swung into a rollicking polka. The danceable music made the unkempt room seem even more forlorn. Or perhaps it was the bright sunlight spearing in through opened window blinds, teeming with dust motes, highlighting the scuffed floor, bleaching color from a sofa arm. The blinds looking out into the courtyard were open, as were the blinds on the window facing the alley and another overlooking the parking lot.

  “I came to see you. I know you take great care of this property.”

  She brushed crumbs from her smock, stared at me woodenly.

  I opened my purse, found a fifty dollar bill, clasped it between my fingers and my purse. “I know you have much to do. Your time is valuable. I would only ask a few minutes, Mrs.—” I waited.

  “Hernandez.” Her dark eyes dropped to the bill. She stepped back, held the door for me.

  I sat on the sofa, placed the bill on the side table. Neither of us looked at it.

  She eased into her rocking chair. Her eyes were both sullen and curious, her face cautious.

  I waved my hand around the room, at the windows. “Obviously, you are careful to keep an eye out for anyone who does not belong.”

  She folded her big arms across her chest and, after a moment, slowly nodded. But she didn’t speak. She was waiting.

  I had to be careful. Iris’s searched apartment revealed many things. Perhaps the most important were Detective Hess’s conclusion that either Iris admitted the person who searched the apartment or that the searcher had a key or the expertise to deal with an inexpensive lock. I could be sure Detective Hess had asked this woman about keys and, quite likely, about strangers.

  I doubted the manager had been particularly forthcoming. This was not a forthcoming woman. She might know something, but why would she bother to tell anyone? The detective’s questions didn’t matter to her. Iris didn’t matter to her. I was going to find out if money mattered. It does to a great many people.

  “Now, I don’t know whether Detective Hess—”

  The manager’s face was abruptly stone still.

  “—explained that Iris has officially been listed as missing.”

  “She was fine when she left here.” Mrs. Hernandez spoke loudly. “That last time I saw her. I think it was Thursday. Yes, I’m sure it was Thursday. So there is nothing wrong here.”

  “I’m sure of that. But it occurred to me”—I nodded at the windows—“that you may have seen something that might help. Perhaps Iris sent someone to pick something up for her.”

  Her face didn’t change. That suggested to me that Detective Hess had said nothing about the apartment’s having been searched. It’s been my experience with police that they never reveal anything except for a reason. There would be no reason to tell the apartment manager. I would guess the detective inquired about the presence of any strangers.

  “Mrs. Hernandez, did you see anyone you didn’t know going up the stairs after Iris left on Thursday? Or even on Friday or Saturday?”

  Her eyes flickered toward the table and the bill.

  “I have some pictures here. If you wouldn’t mind looking at them…”


  That interested her. Her heavy face was suddenly attentive, less combative. She took the papers, then picked up the television remote, punched off the program. She was quick, scanning the family gathering, then the publicity photos. She pointed to a picture.

  I saw Rick’s young, serious, ambitious face. And was surprised at the sadness that touched me.

  Her voice was brusque. “That’s her boyfriend. Pretty nice kid. Always says hello and smiles. Here all the time. But I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “Not on Thursday?”

  “No. Iris was by herself. But she was in a hurry.”

  Rick could have been waiting in his car for Iris.

  “You haven’t seen him since she left?”

  “No. Of course, I don’t sit here all day. I have things to do. I have to keep a check on the laundry room, see to repairs.” She glanced at the bill, smoothed a large worn hand across her chin. “I did see a man I didn’t know Thursday afternoon. But that was after Iris left.”

  Just as Detective Hess suggested, Iris may not have been in the apartment when it was searched.

  Mrs. Hernandez relaxed in her chair, began to rock. She spoke with interest. “I noticed this guy. It must have been close to five Thursday. I noticed because most of my people aren’t home from work yet. I didn’t know who he could be going up to see. Unless it was Mrs. Wentz. In twenty-four. She’s old and she doesn’t get out much. But I’d never seen him before. Anyway, he went up the stairs about five and he came down at five-thirty. I know because the news comes on then. So maybe he went to see Mrs. Wentz.”

  I looked at her attentively. Would she hold out the family photo? Who could it have been?

  “He looked all right.” Her voice was steely. “Believe me, I don’t let anybody hang around here that doesn’t look right. Yes, I keep an eye out. I don’t want any trouble here. This man looked fine.”