Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05

by Death on the River Walk

Starved for applause, she bloomed, like a parched plant splashed by water.

  Her small, neat fingers, the nails glistening with colorless polish, danced on the keypad. She opened the double door, stepped inside, and flipped the switch. Once again the bright fluorescent lights illuminated the long room.

  “And Iris works…”

  Celestina was already leading the way to the first table. She bustled importantly to the grand ledger, explained it to me. I listened, but this time I was looking carefully around the room.

  Iris was here on Thursday, involved in an ordinary workday. What led her to hurry from the room, leaving that guarded door open?

  “It’s important to proceed in the proper order. First, the shipment is opened, its contents examined. It’s necessary not only to confirm the invoice but to be certain the materials have arrived undamaged. All of this…”

  No telephone. I scanned the area again. I didn’t see a telephone anywhere. Of course, Iris could have brought down a mobile phone or a cell phone. I couldn’t be certain she hadn’t received a telephone message. But there was no standard, connected-to-a-jack office telephone.

  Celestina was beaming at me.

  “That’s very impressive. A well-designed process. And I see there’s no telephone.”

  If anything, she looked even jollier. “I felt it was unnecessary. Tony was furious, but for once Mother stood up for me. Tony never likes to be away from a telephone.”

  So Iris’s departure probably wasn’t triggered by a telephone call. Then it had to be something here, something in this room. Thursday’s shipment? I walked over to the grand ledger, turned the pages.

  Celestina stood at my elbow. “Yes, Iris was working here Thursday.” A tight frown pulled her brows down. “I came in the next day and found a shipment—some candlesticks—still in the box. She shouldn’t have opened a box if she didn’t intend to finish with it.”

  So Iris left in the middle of a task. Once again, I had a sense of urgency, of something happening, something shocking. But what? I closed the ledger. “Did you see Iris Thursday?”

  “Oh, yes. You couldn’t help knowing she was around. Always laughing so much. And that Thursday at noon, I found her and Rick having a picnic in the showroom. They’d taken over for Susana—she’d gone to a meeting—and I told them the showroom was no place for food. They were laughing and giggling like a couple of kids. Even after a customer came in! That’s no way to run a business. I sent them outside, gave them fifteen minutes. It’s a good thing I keep an eye on things. Of course, no one cares about my lunch hour.”

  Certainly if Iris intended to announce an imminent departure to Rick, she could have done so then. I doubted she’d met a new love and accepted an invitation to Padre between lunch and four o’clock. Which brought me back to this brightly lit room with its carefully cataloged artworks.

  I said admiringly, “You certainly have the best interests of the store at heart.”

  Celestina looked at me gratefully, her tight little features almost lively.

  “Did you see Iris later in the afternoon?”

  “No.” Her voice was sharp. “I’d come back to the storeroom, a customer wanted to know if we had any more of Teodoro Blanco’s ceramic dolls. Susana was here in the hall, furious. She’d just discovered the door open and Iris nowhere to be found. She and I looked everywhere.” She pointed at the doors behind us. “I thought she’d just run upstairs for something. These young people, they can’t follow a routine. And, of course, she was always going off on tangents.”

  “Tangents?” I faced her.

  Celestina brushed a speck of lint from the ledger. She straightened the huge book. Perhaps it was a quarter inch askew on its stand. “Really”—she eyed me carefully—“Iris could be supremely silly. It was hard for her to stay focused. Why, she was as likely as not to decide it was time to sweep out the floor by the recycling bins. Or she’d hear a noise and squeal and say a mouse must be in one of the shelves. I’m sorry to say it, but I imagine her grandmother knows full well that Iris can’t be depended on to remember what she’s supposed to be doing. Why, once I thought she was busy unpacking and I came down to check and she was arranging the tin paintings of the saints in alphabetical order, said it would be easier for us to find them. She was covered with dust and had completely lost track of the time.”

  Supremely silly Iris. I wish I felt amused instead of scared. Iris with her short attention span and over-weening curiosity. What had she found? I was sure of only two things. The object or objects were smaller than a bread box, bigger than an orange. And she’d gone with her discovery to Rick.

  I couldn’t prove this. I couldn’t even make a particularly good case for my theory. But it made better sense than an imaginary trip to Padre Island. And maybe, just maybe, it gave me some ammunition for a confrontation with Rick. It definitely increased my interest in each and every person with access to this storage area.

  Celestina’s thin hand turned the ledger page to today. “But we won’t get any more unpacking done until Iris gets back. Everyone is too busy setting up for the auction.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to pick up the catalog from the printer’s this morning.”

  “Do Iris and Rick do most of the unpacking?”

  “We all do our share. Mother insists. She says we need to remember what we are all about. Even Isabel helps from time to time. That always upsets Susana.” Celestina’s thin mouth curved in a satisfied smile. “Susana likes to think she’s in charge of everything.”

  So I couldn’t knock anyone off my list, but it was a small-enough list: the Garza family.

  “But Tony’s actually in charge of the store.” Outgoing, handsome, charming Tony. I could well understand why Maria Elena had chosen Tony to run Tesoros.

  Celestina’s tiny nose wrinkled as if she smelled something disagreeable. “At least he thinks he is. But Mother keeps track of everything. Tony has such big ideas. Even Susana’s more sensible than Tony. And of course it bothered Frank when Mother put Tony in charge of Tesoros, but Mother acted as if running La Mariposa was terribly important. Mother knew Frank would make a complete botch of the store. Of course, he’s awfully retiring to try and run a hotel. Now Isabel certainly knows how to behave. She can charm the devil if she puts her mind to it. Frank pretends it was all his idea for him to do La Mariposa, but sometimes when he looks at Tony…” She shivered and her little face was suddenly uneasy. “I know Mother keeps an eye on the books, both at Tesoros and La Mariposa. She’d better. Tony’s a gambler, but he knows he’d better keep the accounts straight for Mother. And Frank always needs money. Isabel spends money like it’s water. If it weren’t for me, Mother wouldn’t even know how many problems there are.” She sighed, a prophet scorned.

  And, I thought, a whiny tattletale who’d never outgrown that pleasure.

  “But the auction’s always a great success, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Her tone was grudging. “I suppose it is. But really that was all Mother’s idea. Frank and Tony just keep things going.”

  “Can we go up to the auction room? I’d love to see how it’s organized.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I have to see about the printing—”

  “I can find my way.” I smiled and headed for the door.

  In the hallway, she pointed to the circular staircase. “Straight up to the landing and through that door.”

  Malicious Celestina. Tentative Frank. Spendthrift Isabel. Charming Tony. Prickly Susana. Proud Rick. And I shouldn’t forget Manuel. Sweet Manuel. Sweet and worried Manuel. I must be sure to see him. He couldn’t speak, yet I felt he knew something of Iris’s unexpected departure. I remembered his hands and their swift movement. Yes, I, too, felt Iris left in a hurry.

  I reached the landing, stepped into the back hallway of La Mariposa. As the door closed behind me, I saw the electronic keypad and realized access to the stairs was controlled in the same way as entry to the delivery area. I punched oh-nine-two-one. The handle turned, the door op
ened. I closed it, then glanced at the interior stairway, which offered access to the upper floors of La Mariposa.

  Iris must have come this way on Thursday. I reached the lobby and walked to the desk, the weathered old chili cart. The resident black cat looked up with a measuring gaze. I held out my hand for him to sniff, then stroked his cashmere soft fur. He rewarded me with a gurgle in his throat.

  Rick’s cousin Tom greeted me with a smile from a face I was beginning to know, the oblong Garza face with thick dark brows, high cheekbones and blunt dimpled chin. “Good morning, Mrs. Collins. There’s a message for you.” He turned to the pigeonhole desk and retrieved a white envelope.

  I took it with a smile. “Thank you.” I glanced at the envelope. My name was printed in block letters. Otherwise the envelope was plain, giving no hint of its origin. “When did this come?” I was still smiling, but I looked at him intently.

  “Sometime this morning,” he said casually. “I found it on the counter a few minutes ago.”

  “I see.” That could be true. It could be a lie. I needed to remember that I knew nothing about this young man. He spoke easily about Iris. But I wasn’t ready to trust anyone in the Garza family and I felt certain that this note, whatever message it held, had to be in response to my search for Iris. I was burning to know the contents, but I didn’t want Tom Garza or anyone in his family to know my eagerness. So I held the envelope as if it were of no importance and asked, “Tom, where is the room where the auction will be held?”

  “The auction?” he temporized.

  I realized that no matter Tom’s charming courtesy to guests, the Thursday auction was a closed affair, by invitation only, and my name was not on that select list.

  “When I was visiting with Maria Elena this morning, she insisted I see how everything is coming along. She said the electronic bidders are very impressive.”

  As soon as Tom heard Maria Elena’s name, his manner changed. “That’s all Rick’s doing. He put the bidders in last year and everyone loves it. You know how the auction works?”

  I was familiar with all kinds of auctions, from the raucous to the silent. I fished. “As I understand it, everyone attending the auction has a number—”

  He interrupted eagerly. “Not a number, a letter. It’s really cool. The items are placed on tables around the room. Each table has a keypad with a small screen, kind of like a notebook. The most recent bid shows on the screen plus a letter. Say it’s $2,000P, that means the bidder with the code name P bid $2,000. If the new person wants to raise the bid, they can type in $2,500C or whatever their letter is. The bids are recorded in a central computer, and at the end of the morning the bidders receive an envelope containing the list of the objects they’ve bought. This way no one else attending knows the identity of any bidder.”

  Which mattered to a great many quite well-to-do art collectors who prefer always to remain unknown not only to the general public but to their fellow collectors and who do not broadcast their acquisitions. Neat, yes.

  “This was Rick’s idea?”

  “Oh, sure. He’s really on top of it with everything that can help the store. He’s in the auction room now, making sure there aren’t any glitches.” Tom pointed toward a wide doorway framed with red velvet hangings. “There’s a reception area and our meeting rooms.” A big grin curved his mouth. “All two of them.”

  I crossed the tiled lobby, skirting the huge refectory table, but stopped next to a collection of wooden panels. A card noted they were created by R. D. de la Selva in the 1930s, probably in Mexico City, and were painted white mahogany, the bas-relief scenes depicting Mexicans at work. With my back to the desk, I opened the envelope. On a single sheet of paper, block capital letters informed:

  THE RIVER WALK BEHIND THE KING WILLIAM

  DISTRICT PROVIDES ONE OF THE LOVELIEST

  VIEWS OF THE SAN ANTONIO RIVER.

  2 P.M.

  That was all. No instructions. No hint of what might await me on this stretch of the River Walk. Or who. Was the message purposefully vague to entice me? The printing was uneven, the letters odd sizes. Definitely the writer did not want to be identified. That thought was unsettling. Who wanted to be utterly certain that the author of this message remained unknown? Who could have written it? The list was small indeed: Tony Garza, Susana Garza, Rick Reyes, Tom Garza. But I couldn’t limit the possibilities quite so closely. Although I’d just met Celestina and had yet to meet Frank and his wife, I was willing to guess the entire family knew of me since Officer Hess had preceded me this morning. So, add Celestina Garza, Frank Garza, Isabel Garza. Perhaps one of them knew something about Iris’s disappearance and wanted to talk to me away from Tesoros. I stared at the note and felt the stirring of caution like a storm flag rippling in a rising wind.

  Two o’clock. I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. There was time enough to pursue my interest in the Garza family. As for the summons? I’d do some scouting in advance. I’m always open to new experiences. But I try not to be stupid.

  I tucked the note in my purse and moved toward the red velvet hangings. I stepped through the opening into a reception area. Light spilled in a golden cascade from the shimmering swirl of copper chandeliers, illuminating a floor-to-ceiling mural of a Mexican village square: a woman rolled tortillas, a man led his firewood-laden donkey, children played with ragtag dogs, a family walked toward the church.

  I was startled for an instant that the door to the church in the mural stood open, then realized the doors to La Mariposa’s two meeting rooms had been painted to appear part of the mural. A second door was in a wall around a hacienda. I crossed to the open door.

  As I neared the doorway, the low rumble of men’s voices was overborne by a woman’s disdainful pronouncement. “Rick, it’s the aesthetics you don’t understand. Those wires are hideous!”

  I stood to one side of the door and, unnoticed, looked into the big room. Small tiled tables on wrought-iron legs were placed around the perimeter of the room. In addition, two rows projected into the center of the room from the far-right wall. It was cleverly done. A visitor would travel either right or left along the walls and around the center rows. At the present moment, a low wooden pedestal sat on each table along with a keypad and small screen.

  Bright murals adorned these walls, too. Each wall depicted artisans at work: weavers with bright yarns; potters shaping clay, working at wheels, firing ovens; artists dying straw and sketching scenes to be covered by beeswax to hold the straw; sculptors carving figures from blocks of beeswax and creating bright costumes from silk and cotton scraps.

  I hadn’t met the speaker, but I recognized Frank’s wife, Isabel, from the family photograph: honey-blond hair as shiny as burnished gold, sloe eyes emphasized with strokes of ocher shading, full lips brighter than poppies in the summer sun. A fawn-colored silk jumpsuit clung to her voluptuous figure. Red and blue stones glistened in her rings as she pointed to the silver-sheathed wires snaking across each table, dangling from the back, ending in a tangle of connecting plates.

  “I’ll cover the wires with dark crepe paper on the tabletops.” Rick’s voice was edgy and determined. “The way it’s set up”—he strode to the nearest table, traced the wire—“the lines go over the back of each table and run along the floor to come together.”

  “I’m surprised Maria Elena agreed to this.” Isabel’s full lips pouted. “When Frank and I organized the auction, each piece was the focus of its own place. Now that ugly keypad completely detracts.”

  Frank Garza scratched his salt and pepper hair and affected a surprised look. “You know, Rick, I have to agree with Isabel. The kind of people who come to this—the Harrisons and Joshua Campbell and Mr. King—they’re accustomed to the finest. We don’t want to tarnish a grand tradition. Perhaps it’s time to rethink—”

  Tony Garza leaned negligently against a wall, hands in his pockets. “Don’t let a woman do your thinking for you, Frank. Rick can cover the wires, that’s not a problem, and the concept’s excellent.�
�� Tony pushed away from the wall and reached down to punch the keypad. “Anonymity. Speed. Accuracy. Way to go, Rick.” He gave his brother a contemptuous glance. “Thing about it is, Frank, you’ve never had a real head for business, have you?”

  Isabel tensed, like a cat poised to leap. Frank reached out, caught her arm. He blinked, like someone startled by a too-bright light. “Business is more than a row of figures, Tony. You’ve never learned how to treat people. I heard that Jack Ramirez told a bunch of his friends he’d never deal with Tesoros again because you refused to make good on a broken plate.”

  Tony Garza’s full mouth split in a huge grin. “That plate wasn’t broken when his wife left with it. He wanted the money for his little friend. I’d be dammed if he was going to make Tesoros pay for her.”

  Just as he finished, Susana Garza stopped beside me.

  Frank looked toward the door. His indeterminate mouth curved in a sly smile. “Hi, Susana.” Then he shot a satisfied look at his brother. “I’d think you’d know better than anyone what a man will do for his mistress, Tony.”

  Isabel Garza gave a tinkling laugh. Her richly red lips spread in a delighted smile. She had looked catlike in the family photograph. Now she watched Tony with the pleasure of a feline with a mouse between its paws.

  Beside me Susana stood rigid, her haggard face flushed. Tony carefully did not look toward his wife as he reached out to the nearest table. “Come on, let’s see how this is working.”

  Rick busily adjusted the electronic keypad and smoothed out a cord. “I’ll get busy with the crepe paper. It will work. And Uncle Frank, your idea of placing a floor on some of the items makes a lot of sense. Aunt Celestina’s used your figures for the catalog. I’ll bring you a copy this afternoon.”

  Susana, her eyes glittering, strode to her husband. “Celestina wants you to come down and see about the catalog.”

  “Hello,” I said cheerfully, stepping inside. “Rick, I’m so glad I found you. Your Aunt Celestina told me a lot about the store. She said this is the area for the auction. I’m eager to hear all about it.” I looked at the older Garzas. “I’m Henrietta Collins, a friend of Iris Chavez’s grandmother. Maria Elena has made me feel very welcome. And I feel there is so much to learn about Tesoros.”