“No,” she said quietly, “it couldn’t be Manuel. So, we have to find out what actually happened. Otherwise, the police will arrest Manuel.”
Arrest him. Charge him. Convict him.
As for Rick, I wondered if he was willing to sacrifice Manuel to save Tesoros. Apparently he was. “Did Rick tell Borroel that Iris found cocaine?”
“Yes.” Her eyes ached with questions.
Cocaine. All right, it was possible. But I didn’t believe it. I had an idea, but I needed some confirmation before I told Borroel. Or Maria Elena.
Maria Elena looked toward the balcony. “Mrs. Collins, Manuel found the door to Tesoros open. Who opened it? Did Ed Schmidt have a key? If so, who gave it to him? Or did Schmidt meet someone at Tesoros last night? Who opened that front door? I know it wasn’t Manuel. He has no key.”
“Who has keys?” I asked.
“Frank, Isabel, Celestina, Tony, Susana, Rick. And Magda, but she is still out of town. And Tom could come through La Mariposa. No one else. No one else,” she repeated wearily. She drew a deep breath. “I want you to find out who opened the door.”
Which hand unlocked the door and later picked up a pottery bank and battered life away?
“I will do my best,” I said quietly.
She stood. “Because we both must know the truth, I for Manuel and you for Iris.” Her eyes were grim. She knew what she was asking. If I succeeded, I might save her one child but lose another.
nine
I sat at the café across the river, watching Tesoros. The scene was uncannily similar to my first observation on Sunday: the slight figure hard at work on the shiny, shiny windows; the occasional passersby—joggers, honeymoon couples, and, at this early hour, people on their way to work. The homicide unit obviously had completed its investigation. There was not even a crime-scene tape to recall last night’s violence. The only indication of anything unusual was the increased traffic into the store, a half dozen middle-aged women, two young men in business suits, an elderly man. And, standing not too far from the front door, a uniformed policeman, watching Manuel.
I drank coffee and punched Emily’s number into my cell phone. She answered on the first ring. When we finished talking, I had set in motion a search for information about Ed Schmidt and requested coverage of a story I’d handled on the wire desk two weeks ago, a big story about the robbery of the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. Since I knew the museum well, I’d followed that story with great interest. Yes, it was a hunch, and maybe a crazy one. But in my own mind, the tantalizing possibilities were clear: the amazing theft; a gathering of exceedingly wealthy, fanatical collectors; a family steeped in knowledge about Mexican art of all kinds; the frantic, desperate search for something obviously of great value; and murder.
Emily said, “Okay, Mom. I’ll fax the stuff within an hour.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“Mother—” Her voice was stern. “Be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?” I was smiling as I clicked off the phone. It’s nice to be loved. Love and family, that’s what life is all about. I looked across the river.
I was somewhat prepared for the crowd inside Tesoros, since I’d been watching the visitors streaming inside. I spotted many faces that reminded me of the Garza family. The gathering was a cross between a wedding reception and a wake. Susana Garza, her eyes bright and her cheeks glowing, suddenly surfaced beside me. “Moral support,” she said loudly, gesturing at the throng. “Let me take you around.” She introduced me to almost a dozen relatives—Cousin Fernando, Cousin Louisa, Cousin Rita…“Mrs. Collins, an old friend of Maria Elena’s.”
My hand was pumped. I received a couple of hugs. Everyone spoke earnestly and loudly about the dreadful amount of crime today. A plump woman with dark hair piled high on her head and jangling earrings announced firmly, “Maria Elena simply has to hire a night watchman.” A courtly older man with great side whiskers and bright black eyes said softly, “I don’t understand why Manuel moved the body. That seems odd, doesn’t it?” He straightened the string tie at his neck.
If it seemed odd to someone in the family, how much more sinister it must appear to Detective Borroel.
Susana steered me to the back of the showroom and a tall, slender woman whose face looked familiar. “My sister-in-law, Magda.”
I smiled. “Of course, you’re Rick’s mother. He favors you.”
“Thank you.” Magda Reyes managed a tight smile, then looked at me intently. “Yes, Rick told me you were close to Iris’s family.”
I met her questioning gaze steadily. “Her grandmother and I have been friends for many years.”
Magda brushed back a tangle of dark curls. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” Her tone was impatient. “My brother Tony claims Iris disappeared without a word on Thursday. Then you arrived and went to the police.” There wasn’t quite a note of anger, but close. “And now it turns out Iris says she found drugs in that big wardrobe and Rick took her to my apartment. Rick told me he and Iris were keeping the stuff until I got back. As if I could do anything about it! Why didn’t they go to the police?”
“I suppose,” I said slowly, “that Rick didn’t want to get Tesoros involved in a scandal.” But Magda’s return, perhaps irrationally, made me feel more confident about Rick. Yes, I believed he was lying about drugs, but I suddenly understood his insistence upon when Iris would come back to the store. That return was connected to his mother’s arrival. Rick had a problem; he was going to hand it over to his mother to solve.
Magda Reyes gazed around the crowded room. “I’d say we’re involved in worse than a scandal now. I can’t believe any of this. And Manuel—” She lifted her shoulders.
Celestina Garza sidled up to us. She looked spitefully at her sister. “Magda, I can’t imagine what Rick thought he was doing.”
Magda’s gaze was steely. “The best he could, Celestina, the best he could.” And she turned and walked away.
“Well!” Celestina sniffed. “If I were Magda, I don’t think I’d get on my high horse now.” Celestina almost managed to keep the pleasure out of her voice when she continued, “Isn’t this dreadful? Did you know the dead man was an old friend of Frank’s? Frank says he hasn’t seen him in a long time. That’s what he says. I hope it’s true.” Her eyes glittered with malice.
We were pushed up against the back wall, close enough to smell the musky, dry scent of a diablo mask hanging at head level. It was like having a third party to the conversation, one with goat, cow, and bull horns protruding from its head and stripes of red, gold, and green paint on its cheeks.
Celestina stood on tiptoe, hissed, “I always know when Frank’s lying. He looks even more like a failure than usual and his eyes blink and get all watery. He can’t fool me.”
“Maybe he wants to avoid having to talk to the police.” I rubbed my nose, stifling a sneeze triggered by the thick, curly fringe of sheep hair on the mask.
“Well”—Celestina placed her small hands on her hips—“why should he do that? But then,” she answered herself, “Frank’s always been afraid of his shadow. I’m surprised he ever asked Isabel to marry him.” She gave a little spurt of ugly laughter. “Isabel probably asked him. She’s no fool where money’s concerned and Tesoros was a great success even then.”
“Frank and Ed Schmidt went to school together, didn’t they?” I eased away from the wall, ignoring the almond-shaped painted eyes on the horned goat mask near my shoulder.
Celestina peered past me, then moved so close I could smell the distinctive scent of White Linen. She whispered, “They almost got into big trouble. Sister Agnes talked to Mother. I think Frank and Ed were selling pot at school. But they weren’t expelled, so I guess it wasn’t ever proved. But I knew it was true”—once again her tone was utterly smug—“Frank had his hangdog look. And he and Ed stopped running around together.”
It’s a big leap from schoolboys’ selling pot to a stash of cocaine, but baby steps sometimes lead to giant st
rides.
“Are you going to tell your mother?” I turned my head so I couldn’t see the empty eyes of the mask.
Celestina jiggled on her feet, a little dance step of desire. “It would serve him right.” Her voice was low and satisfied, then the eagerness drained away. “Oh, Mama wouldn’t believe a word of it. Not about Frank.” Her lips twisted in bitterness. “Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter.” Her tone was almost regretful. “Rick says Ed got inside last night and he must have had someone with him. Rick says it doesn’t have anything to do with us. And poor Manuel found a mess and didn’t know any better than to try and clean it up.”
“How did Schmidt get inside?” My tone was sharp.
But Celestina was looking past me, waving to an old woman with bright eyes who lifted an imperious hand. “Oh, there’s Aunt Josefina.” She darted away.
Some of the visitors were moving toward the door. No one was paying any attention to me. I turned and moved to the back door. I pushed it open and slipped into the broad concrete hall. After the door closed, I waited for a moment. The doors to the offices were open. The offices were dark. The dóuble doors to the receiving area were shut. I had the back area to myself. I hurried down the hall to the circular staircase. It was easier going up the steep treads than coming down. I stopped a moment to catch my breath on the landing, then stepped into the hallway of La Mariposa. The cleaning cart was next to my room. I glanced inside. A small, wiry woman with a bright kerchief on her head was bent over the bed.
I followed the hallway to the lobby. It, too, was alive with visitors. I was getting used to the extended Garza clan now and thought perhaps a half dozen faces belonged to more cousins. There were also workmen carrying sound equipment toward the auction rooms and La Mariposa guests standing by piles of luggage. Frank was hard at work behind the chili-cart desk, along with young Tom.
Frank, obviously, was not going to take time to talk to me. I glanced around the lobby. Isabel, looking svelte and elegant in an obviously expensive orange-and-gold jacket and beige linen slacks, smiled at one of the auction guests I’d met yesterday. What was her name? Kendall, Cara Kendall. Today she wore a jade green silk blouse and flared trousers. Her sleek blond hair shimmered like moonlight, but this morning her smooth face was puckered in irritation.
I resisted the temptation to march across the room and caution her that frowns made the incisions quite apparent. But that was an uncharitable thought. After all, wasn’t I simply lucky that I’d escaped the great American obsession to appear young? It’s very hard to separate ourselves from our culture, and American women are taught from childhood on that thin is good, thinner is better, and now estrogen will keep them ageless. But my flash of empathy with Cara Kendall died stillborn when she waved her hand pettishly at Isabel and swung away, her face a pinched white mask.
Isabel lifted a hand after the retreating sharp-spined back, which looked like a walking skeleton despite the expensive blouse.
When I reached Isabel, I murmured softly, “Maybe it’s possible not to be too rich. But it is possible to be too thin. She is about as attractive as a pile of dinosaur bones pinned together by steel rods.”
For an instant, malicious delight danced in Isabel’s eyes. But quickly she smoothed out her face, looked at me gravely. “Mrs. Kendall is upset by the unpleasantness.”
Unpleasantness. Yes, that was one way to describe murder. “What bothers her, Isabel? The body? Or the police nosing around?”
“Mrs. Kendall isn’t accustomed to having contact with anything”—Isabel’s lips thinned—“anything so sordid as murder. She acted as though we had something to do with it because it happened in the store.”
“Really.” I kept my voice uninflected. “Actually, the family is involved, isn’t it?”
Isabel’s sloe eyes blinked. One hand touched her creamy throat. “Why, no, of course not. None of us knew the man. Rick—”
I interrupted impatiently. “Your husband knew Ed Schmidt. They went to school together. I understand they were involved in illegal drug sales a long time ago. You’ve heard about the hidden cocaine? So, of course, that’s sure to make the police wonder. Especially since Frank always needs money.” I glanced down at the ornate rings on her soft, beautifully manicured hands. “For you.” I paused. “And for the children.”
Her smooth face hardened. She’d always appeared catlike, with her air of sleek satisfaction and arrogant contentment. Now her eyes glowed with a dangerous anger. She leaned forward like a feline arching her back, and words spewed through bright red lips.
“Who told you that? Susana? She’s jealous of Frank. God, she’s jealous. She hates us because she has no children and she’s spent her life a barren woman with nothing to care for except the store.” Isabel kept her voice low but the softness did nothing to disguise the rage, bubbling like witches’ brew in a cauldron. “She’s trapped in marriage with a man who has eyes for every woman but her. I’d feel sorry for her except that she’s like a poisonous toad, fouling everything she touches. If you want to know who knew Ed Schmidt—knew him better than he ever should—you talk to Tony.”
I ordered a chicken fajita salad and iced tea at Mi Tierra for an early lunch and spread out the faxed sheets from Emily.
I read her cover sheet:
Dear Mother,
The robbery at the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City is one of the biggest art thefts in history. There was a huge exhibition of ancient gold from all of the pre-Hispanic cultures and the thief took pieces that are absolutely irreplaceable and considered among the finest pieces of gold workmanship ever created. I’m including a bunch of clips and also an inventory of the stolen gold. It’s reputed to be worth millions. That’s easy to believe when you look at the pix.
In re Ed Schmidt, this information is for your eyes only. Warren talked to Cal Jenkins, a police reporter in San Antonio who knows a secretary in Homicide. Cal obtained a dossier on the victim and the latest info on the investigation. He says Manuel Garza is the prime suspect. Cal also got a bunch of stuff about Manuel Garza. Warren promised Cal that you wouldn’t reveal this information and that you’ll keep the source confidential.
How does the jewel theft figure in? From what you’ve told me, I don’t see how Manuel Garza would be interested in money. Is it a mix-up of a pointless homicide and a grand heist? Please be careful.
Love, Emily
I thumbed through my sheaf of papers. One of the news stories was from a Mexico City daily. The headline said it all:
AUDAZ LADRÓN ROBA ORO ANTIGUO
I scanned the story from the L. A. Times that ran the day after the robbery:
BOLD THIEF SNATCHES ANCIENT GOLD
A bold thief last night entered the Exhibition Hall at the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City and in a daring robbery escaped with priceless ancient gold treasures, including an eleven-strand necklace from Monte Alban and four breastplates. The largest piece taken was a sheet of gold measuring 16.5 times 2.6 centimeters.
The gold had been collected from museums around the country for an extraordinary exhibition running from June 1 to September 1. Police said the thief sabotaged an electric transformer serving the Chapultepec area, thereby disabling the alarm system. Authorities are at a loss to explain how the thief gained entrance to the Exhibition Hall because there was no sign of forcible entry.
I smiled dryly. Bribes are part of everyday life in Mexico. I could well imagine how the thief obtained a key to the particular hall. Of course, bribery in one form or another is certainly alive and well in Mexico’s northern neighbor. But here we call it campaign contributions.
Once inside the Exhibition Hall, the thief used glass cutters to gain access to the exhibited gold. Although museum guards were quick to rush to that hall, they found the door locked and were not aware of the theft until much later in the evening, when a general search was undertaken.
I quickly checked a few more news articles and the inventory of the stolen gold and made some not
es:
The robbery occurred on the night of Saturday, August 22.
No trace of the thief was found.
The stolen jewelry included four gold pectorals, a gold sheet with serpent head, two gold brooches, five gold necklaces, two gold masks, one of them representing a jaguar and encrusted with pearls and garnets, eight gold lip rings, four gold bells, six gold projectile points.
I remembered one of the pieces from a long ago-visit to the museum, the brooch with its unique centerpiece of a turquoise mosaic on gold and the distinctive filigree edge so reminiscent of the border of feathers that decorated the shields of Moctezuma’s warriors. When red-bearded Hernán Cortés, imposing in his armor, rode into Tenochtitlan, or Mexico City, he was greeted by the royal leader adorned with gold, even his gold-covered sandals glistening in the sunlight. Cortés must have gaped in awe at the buttery-colored pectoral and necklaces and beads, gold that fueled insatiable desire in the wealth-lusting Spaniards.
Intellectually, I began to grasp the enormity of this theft. But it wasn’t until I turned to the next few sheets that I had a sense of the glory that had been taken. Thanks to the miracle of color transmission via computer, I held a sheaf of spectacular pictures. Though these were only photographs, they captured much of the almost unimaginable richness and artistry of the stolen gold.
The most spectacular piece, of course, was the eleven-strand necklace, the gold as bright and beautiful as captured sunlight or a field of buttercups. I counted the eleven strands—the first three with fairly uniform beads, though, since each was crafted by hand, there were obvious variations; then six strands of small beads in series of ten separated by larger oblongs; a tenth strand with twenty-three dangling globes at the center; and a final magnificent strand with large dangling globes decorated with double drops.
The list of stolen gold was dry and scholarly, the actual images startling. I stared at the breastplate from Veracruz, at the god’s heavy-lidded face, at the fangs protruding from round thick lips. Huge rosettes and horizontal bands of gold decorated with delicate swirls hung from either side of the ornate crown.
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