Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05

by Death on the River Walk

I took a deep breath, managed a smile. “Okay. Now how are you going to get people in position by the pond and along the shore?”

  “Maria Elena and Iris are calling all the family right now. It’s going to be a huge party, not just the auction guests. But”—and he jotted down five names: Tom, Rey, Gene, Mike and Izzy—“my cousins. You know Tom. Rey’s a marathoner, Gene rock-climbs, Mike scuba dives, and Izzy rodeos. They can handle anything. And,” Rick’s voice was grim, “tonight they will.”

  I chose my dress with care—a navy silk, long-sleeved despite the warm evening. I could meld into the darkness. But this evening’s action wasn’t for me. I was in the gallery. It was hard to accept a passive role, but youth and strength were needed now. All I could do was wait and hope. And pray.

  The historic King William district, named for King Wilhelm I of Prussia, reflects the enormous influence of German immigrants in San Antonio. The district runs from East Guenther Street in the shadow of the old Pioneer flour mill to Durango Boulevard and St. Mary’s Street. The district is bounded on one side by South Alamo and on the other by the river.

  The land titles stretch all the way back to 1793, when the area surrounding the Alamo was deeded away from the mission. In the late 1870s, prominent German immigrant businessmen built substantial and showy homes reflecting many different influences—Greek Revival, Neoclassical, Victorian, Colonial Revival. As with older housing areas in many cities, the district lost favor in later years and many of the homes became shabby. Beginning in the sixties, appreciation for the old architecture spurred renovations, and today houses in the King William district are extremely expensive and beautifully maintained. Mimosas, magnolias, cedars, sycamores, and willows flourish. Houses along a portion of King William Street have back lawns that reach to the River Walk.

  At a few minutes before eight, I parked along King William Street a half block from the Garza house. The street was already filling with cars. The two-story home of dressed limestone blazed with lights. Strings of red and green lights sparkled in the massive sycamores and the luminarias that I always associate with Christmas bordered a winding walk that branched from the main entryway to an arbor. More lights glistened over the treetops. The ebullient off-beat rhythm of “El Maracumbe” added pulse and pace to the night. I’ve always loved mariachi music, the combination of violins, trumpets, and guitars. The two stringed instruments unique to this music, the crisp, clear vihuela and the bass guitarrón, provide a sound unlike any other. But to tell the truth, my heart belongs to the trumpets, their cascade of golden notes as captivating as fireworks. Cheerful voices rose as guests strolled toward the arbor. I was a few feet behind several middle-aged couples.

  Frank and Isabel welcomed the guests as they came through the rose-covered arbor to a fairy-tale backyard—more imposing sycamores, two enormous magnolias, a long swimming pool whose cool blue waters shimmered from lights angling up from below the surface. Frank’s face was much livelier than usual and flushed almost as bright a red as his crimson shirt. He shook hands with the men, hugged the women, had a special word for each person. Isabel was in her element, her honey-blond hair bright as spun gold, her heart-shaped face radiating sheer delight in herself, the night, and her home. The Garzas even, after an instant of blankness, managed to greet me with more civility than I expected. Or, from their perspective, deserved. But I didn’t get a hug from Frank. And Isabel’s sideways glance was sharp and puzzled.

  I moved past and veered a little to my left, taking my place in the shadow of one of the magnolias. No wonder the Garzas were pleased. If they loved a party, this one was zinging: the music fast and good, the guests smiling and animated, and a line already forming near the buffet. The tables were bright with red, white, and green tablecloths, the colors of Mexico.

  The tables filled a broad swath of patio on the far side of the pool. The near side, to the arbor, had been marked off with garlands of red and white carnations, providing ample space for a dance performance. The mariachis stood to one side of the dance floor. There were eight members in this group. The musicians wore the distinctive charro costume—black jacket, white shirt, tasseled tie, tight black pants with the distinctive silver ornaments on the exterior sides of the trousers, and black sombreros also decorated with silver. The mariachis would play until dinner was over and then the dancers would perform, viewed across the sparkling pool. The mariachis swung into “Las Costenas,” an ebullient polka.

  Iris was slim and lovely in a ruffled white blouse and red-and-green swirling skirt. She hurried toward me with a beaming smile. I hoped that only I could see how strained and unnatural it was. We embraced and she murmured, “Rick said to tell you everyone’s ready. And he said not to worry.” She slipped her arm through mine, drawing me toward the buffet. “Rick said we should act as if we were having a good time. Maria Elena will speak just before the dances.”

  That was good timing, cutting even shorter the time the murderer would have to react. Dance programs at big parties usually last a half hour. I remembered so clearly the magnificent dances at the farewell fiesta for Richard and me when we left Mexico City so many years ago. I would never forget the swirling white dresses and all-white shirts and trousers of the dancers in “La Bamba.” This dance from the state of Veracruz ends with the courting couple tying a bow with their dancing feet, a lovely way to signify “I love you.”

  But this evening, I couldn’t welcome the force and power of the dances. I eyed the marked-off space for the dancing on the concrete patio. The sound of the dancers’ footwork would be magnified by the hard surface. Loud music, staccato steps, so much sound to hide a startled cry in the night.

  Iris and I took our place in the slow-moving buffet line. She introduced me to another cousin, Petra, with the familiar beautiful glossy black hair, smooth creamy complexion, and bright dark eyes. Her face alight with excitement, Petra launched into a rhapsodic report of a recent Gloria Estefan concert.

  We picked up plates, again bright in red and green and white, and moved along the buffet. My stomach was a hard knot of nerves, but I was tired and with the beginning quivers of a headache. Food would help and this was glorious food: nachos with shrimp and black beans, pineapple salsa and cheese, guacamole, chalupas topped with a meat-and-corn mixture, salsa, sour cream and scallions, beef empanadas, fried bass in cornmeal, chili shrimp quiche, chili roja, spare ribs in a chili-and-cream sauce, chilis rellenos, rice and beans. No one could leave this feast hungry. I even paused by the desserts: roasted cornmeal pudding, fried cinnamon crisps, and burned milk candy, and chose the candy, the pecans and sugar would surely fill me with energy.

  “Let’s go this way, Iris.” I led the girls to a table far in the back, just a few feet away from the largest magnolia. As we settled at the table, waiters came by with trays of margaritas, iced tea, and white wine. I chose the tea. Petra was describing the concert’s first set to an abstracted Iris whose eyes darted from me to the tree above us, where a slender form was tucked in the crook of two huge branches. Most of Manuel’s body was obscured by the thick, glossy leaves that rustled in the mild breeze.

  Iris listened patiently to Petra, but every so often her gaze slid toward me and her eyes were dark with questions and with fear. Once I reached out, patted her arm. Once I half-turned and looked up. Manuel held a magnolia leaf to his cheek. He watched the musicians, his smile curving as softly as a sweep of cloud high in a summer sky.

  The chair beside me was empty, so I could focus on the patio as I ate, spotting familiar faces.

  Near the arbor, Wiley Harrison looked more than ever like a giraffe or perhaps a courtly stork as he bent low over the hand of an elderly woman. Jolene, bobbing beside him in a lacy white dress, could have subbed for a Tiffany Christmas tree, festooned all in golden baubles—a double necklace of coins, a half dozen coin bracelets on each arm, oversize medallion earrings, even double gold bands perched in her tightly coiled black hair.

  Joshua Chandler leaned negligently against the ladder to the diving p
latform, his eyes aloof, his ruddy skin bright in the lights of the patio. Susana Garza gestured to him, her red-tipped nails flashing, her eyes brilliant, her thin face flushed with excitement.

  Talking over the mariachis without effort, Bud Morgan clapped his hands in satisfaction, obviously concluding a story he found extremely funny. Cara Kendall’s tight face squeaked into an appreciative smile and she tilted her head coquettishly. I doubted, however, that her exertion of charm mattered a whit to Morgan, who must be the object of attention by lots of lonely ladies.

  Celestina Garza stood by herself near the dance floor, one small foot tapping in rhythm to the mariachis, her little face happier than I’d ever seen it.

  But two faces I couldn’t find, no matter how long and carefully I looked. Neither Tony Garza nor Kenny King were present. I felt a cold uneasiness. Where were they? I hoped King was on the road to California. But where was Tony? I pushed away a piece of fried bass. Damn, damn, damn. Should I find Rick? Certainly there was no point in Maria Elena’s announcement if Tony wasn’t here.

  I was pushing back my chair, every nerve jangling, when Tony strolled through the rose arbor. A heavy gold chain glittered against his fine mesh navy polo shirt. The breeze ruffled his dark curly hair. He was indeed handsome, his big full face, bright dark eyes, bold nose, and blunt chin perfect for a rollicking brigand, and I’d no doubt he’d won his way to many a woman’s bed with that vivid smile. But his eyes weren’t smiling. He clapped his brother on the shoulder, gave Isabel a touch, then moved on to survey the patio, even louder now as the diners ate and talked and the mariachis strummed “El Tirador.”

  I knew he was trouble, standing there, rocking back a little on his heels, his eyes checking the tables, scanning the clumps of revelers still visiting and not yet dining. It took him a moment to find me, our table was so remote. His look was as stiff and harsh as a blow. He would have struck me had he been nearer. His face flushed an ugly red, his eyes glinted, his hands tightened to fists.

  I knew as clearly as if he’d shouted: Kenny King had demanded the return of his money. In fact, I was willing to bet Kenny King’s gray Jaguar was humming on the highway to El Paso right this moment. I suspected King wanted the hell to be out of Texas as fast as possible. But not without his money.

  Tony Garza started across the patio, skirting the end of the pool. He was coming to me, moving swiftly.

  I stood. Iris started to rise, but I shook my head. “It will be all right.” I said so, but I wasn’t sure what I believed. I’d not figured on this, not at all. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. And Maria Elena had yet to speak. But I couldn’t avoid Tony, I was sure of that. I hesitated for an instant, then walked to meet him.

  We came face-to-face beside the stairs to the diving platform. The mariachis were singing, their voices loud and strong, repeating the second verse, “Soy tirador que à las aves les tiro en la loma…”

  The blue metal stairs and platform base screened us from direct view of most of the guests. I don’t think Tony cared at this point. He scowled down at me. “You think you’ve got away with the gold. You better think again. Kenny said you turned it into the cops. You didn’t.”

  Unease rippled through every nerve end. “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t think, I know.” He leaned close. I smelled the soft scent of hair cream, saw the muscles ridge in his jaw. “I’ve got two cousins in the burglary division. Anything like that showing up, everybody would know. Everybody. Where is it, Mrs. Collins?”

  I tried to step back but the blunt steps of the ladder punched into my back. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because you don’t have any choice.” There was a hard pleasure in his tone. “You’re going to cooperate with me or the cops will get a little word to the wise. And they’ll find the gold. They’ll search anybody and everybody you’ve ever known. You can’t pull it off. So,” and the tension began to ease out of him, he was so certain he had the upper hand, “we’re going to make a deal.”

  The sheer audacity of his offer stunned me. And confused me. A deal? This was a man who killed to get his way. But, of course, that didn’t mean I’d have a long life span if he ever got his hands on the gold.

  His full mouth spread in a satisfied smile. He looked like a wolf eyeing a succulent lamb. “Kenny’s still in the market. Not, damn you, for quite as much. But he’ll buy. I’ll give you a third. Now, that’s a hell of a deal, isn’t it?” There was an odd, almost admiring quirk to his mouth. Tony obviously had decided I was no threat, that I’d scammed the gold away from Kenny King and held on to it, and was therefore no more or less a crook than he, an adventurer in common.

  I was startled at the mesmerizing quality of his dark eyes, the appeal of his sideways grin. This was a dangerous man, especially to women. I stared into his dark, compelling eyes. Our gazes locked for a long moment. I needed to be careful. Whatever I did, I must not alert him to our impending trap, not by a look or glance or tone. “I’ll think about it, Tony.”

  The momentary flash of good humor fell away. The predatory glare returned like a carcass revealed by drifting leaves. He stepped even closer, his hands gripping the railings of the ladder, capturing me against the metal, crowding me, his breath warm on my face. “Think fast. Tomorrow will be your last chance.”

  I slipped sideways, ducked under his arm and moved quickly away. I didn’t think he’d follow, but I was trembling by the time I gained the shadows beneath the big magnolia.

  Tony still stood at the diving platform, staring after me.

  My heart thudded. I tried to keep my breathing even.

  A trumpet played an arpeggio.

  I looked toward the mariachis and the flower bordered stage.

  In the sudden hush, Maria Elena, head high, shoulders back, moved regally to the center of the waiting spotlight, her metallic silver dress swirling. Tonight she wore her lustrous hair with its shimmering touches of silver in coronet braids. Silver filigree butterfly pins accented the braids. Silver filigree earrings ended in dangling crosses with malachite inlays. Her long rosary contained filigree silver beads and coral, ending with a delicate filigree cross. Her smooth, creamy complexion was perhaps a little pale, but her gaze was firm, her mouth resolute. As she held up her hand, silence fell across the brightly lit patio like twilight dropping across water.

  “Bienvenidos. As all of you can tell, we are having a special”—just for an instant her voice wavered and I felt an ache in my chest—“gathering tonight.” She did not say celebration. How could she say it when she knew heartbreak awaited her when this night ended? “Not only are we welcoming our special auction guests this evening, I have also called the family to join us this evening. Many of you have been with us these last few days since the dreadful violence Monday night at Tesoros. You know how shocked we have been to have our dear and gentle Manuel suspected of an act beyond his scope, beyond his thought, alien to his nature. But”—she clapped her hands together, held them clasped before her and the silver bracelets on her arms and rings on her fingers glistened—“I have wonderful news.” She was a large woman and suddenly she seemed even larger, imposing as any monolithic sculpture, indestructible, unrelenting, unquenchable. Her voice deepened, her hands fell to her sides, loose and open. “Manuel will be safe.” No trumpet ever sounded clearer, brighter, sharper. “It has turned out to be much simpler than first we thought. We know now that Manuel was on his balcony Monday night looking down at the River Walk—”

  At the ladder, Tony Garza’s entire body was suddenly rigid, as immovable as the steel railings to which he clung. His handsome face was smooth and hard and unreadable as a Lucifer mask.

  “—and we believe Manuel clearly saw the man who was killed and his companion as they entered Tesoros.” She lifted one slender hand and pointed, as if standing on Manuel’s balcony, the opening door to Tesoros below her. “Manuel, of course, was quite startled. No one, especially not strangers, should have entered Tesoros at night. This drew Manuel
downstairs. He came down to find the dead man and in his simple way Manuel felt he must clean the stains from Tesoros. The murderer, of course, had fled. But now that we know that the murderer was seen by Manuel, we believe the entire case can easily be solved. The police detective, Mr. Borroel, has contacted a psychologist in Houston, Dr. Wilson Abernathy, who specializes in dealing with persons such as Manuel who cannot speak but who are very aware of what they have seen. Dr. Abernathy will arrive tomorrow morning to consult with Manuel. So”—Maria Elena looked calmly about the patio—“I wanted to share the truth with all of you so that you understand why we are here tonight. If Dr. Abernathy succeeds tomorrow, the police will have a description of the man who committed that brutal murder. With that description, they can solve the crime and Tesoros will be free of this tragedy.”

  It was a magnificent performance, a public avowal that the murder had nothing to do with Tesoros, that the murderer accompanied his victim and soon all would be made clear.

  A shadow from the diving platform sliced across Tony’s face, obscuring one cheek and his mouth. His eyes glittered in the soft red flare from the tree lights. He stared across the pool. I followed his gaze.

  Susana stood on a step leading to the terrace behind the back of the house. She too was utterly still, one hand tight on the heavy gold necklace that hung almost to her waist. But her eyes seemed to burn through the night, bright and terrible as Blake’s vision, as she stared at her husband. Her haggard face accused him.

  Susana knew. There was no question in my mind. She knew. I was shocked and shaken. But it made all kinds of sense. Perhaps she had followed Tony downstairs to the showroom Monday night, wondering why he was going there. Perhaps she overheard a phone call from Ed Schmidt to Tony. No doubt Susana was often interested in the phone conversations of her philandering husband. Schmidt called, insisted he was coming. He was angry and suspicious. He didn’t trust Tony. He wanted to know if it was all a lie, this story of a girl running away with the gold. And Schmidt was drunk. He came to Tesoros. Schmidt and Tony quarreled. Schmidt knew Tony well. He knew that above all Tony must keep his involvement in the scheme from Maria Elena. Did Schmidt threaten to expose Tony to Maria Elena?