Exotic #02 - The Hieroglyphic Staircase

by Marjorie Thelen

  “Ay, there’s a funny smell,” he said, pinching his nose.

  “You don’t think …” she said, finding it impossible to finish the thought.

  “Something heavy is blocking the door. I’m going to push harder.” He braced his body against the unwilling door and shoved, throwing his entire weight into it. After several more shoves, the door moved several inches, enough that Edmundo could wedge his shoulder into the opening to push more. It gave enough that he was able to ease his head into the space. He gasped and backed away into the room.

  “The director is behind this door, or what is left of him,” he said.

  Elena tried to look, but Edmundo pulled her back. “No, don’t look. I will send for help. You must not look.”

  Eight

  Dominic ran into the Museum with Dr. Hidalgo. His one thought was for Elena. Word arrived at the clinic via a messenger from the Museum, one of the guards. There had been a mishap involving Elena and the director. That was all he knew. Déjà vu.

  Edmundo waved them into the director’s office. Dominic did a quick sweep of the room, looking for Elena, not sure what to expect. She was standing at the window, looking out. Alive with no visible signs of injury.

  Dr. Hidalgo shoved past him exchanging words with Edmundo. One word caught his ear. Muerto. A peculiar odor hung in the air, coming from the section of the room where a door stood open. The doctor squeezed in and knelt behind it.

  Dominic touched Elena’s shoulder. She turned to look at him, as if realizing for the first time he was in the room.

  “He’s dead. The director is dead,” she said. “The guard wouldn’t let me see him.”

  “You found him.”

  “Not exactly. I came to see him, to talk to him about the project, to tell him I’d be available to help, that I wasn’t leaving. I waited but he didn’t come out of the lavatory. I called the guard. He’s the one who found him behind the door. He wouldn’t let me see him.”

  Dominic pulled her into his arms. He rested his chin against the top of her head. Her hair was silky and smelled of soft flowers and spice. Her arms encircled his waist and held on, like grasping a rock in a fast rising tide.

  What could this mean? How had the director died?

  Running footsteps and inspector Oliveros’ booming voice broke the troubled silence. “What happened here?” he said, throwing open the door to the office.

  Edmundo, standing guard inside the door, spoke in low tones and gestured to the small room where the doctor had disappeared. At the mention of Elena’s name the inspector’s head jerked in her direction.

  “Doctora Palomares. Here again. Another dead body and you are here again.”

  Still clutching Dominic’s waist, her fist bunching his shirt into a ball, she turned toward Oliveros. “Yes,” she said, “I am here again.”

  “The guard tells me,” said the inspector, “that the director is dead. Is that correct? You were here alone?”

  Edmundo broke in. “I saw her when she walked into the Museum. She entered the room, but I heard no shot. She could not have done this horrible deed.”

  The inspector turned on Edmundo and glared. “It is not for you to say who is innocent or guilty. It is my job to get the evidence, and the court will decide.”

  He pointed to Elena. “Doctora, you will not leave here until I talk to you.”

  “And you,” he poked Edmundo in the chest, “will tell me every detail, nothing left out.” He pushed the guard in the direction of the door.

  “Open this door.” The inspector shouted loud enough to be heard across a soccer stadium.

  The doctor stuck his head out the narrow opening.

  “Quiet, inspector. You will wake the dead. And the director is very dead.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Yes, but I will have to come out because it is extremely narrow in here and when he fell, it was against the door. He is wedged between the toilet and the door. It is most awkward. It appears he killed himself with a revolver to the head. He was a good shot. There’s not much left of his head.”

  Dr. Hidalgo squeezed back through the opening. Flecks of red spotted his lab coat.

  The inspector narrowed his eyes. “How do you know he killed himself? How do you know someone,” and he turned to look at Elena, “didn’t kill him?”

  Dr. Hidalgo shook his head like he had no patience for stupidity. “Inspector, please. The man is wedged in. How could someone kill him then wedge him in? He fell against the door as the gun dropped. He fell on the gun. See for yourself, if you do not believe me.”

  He peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them in a plastic bag that he handed to the inspector. “For your investigation. From the visual evidence I place the time of death sometime during the night, but we’ll run tests to place the exact time. Now if you’ll excuse me, my job here is done.” He snapped his bag shut and stalked from the room.

  The inspector looked down at the gloves. He shrugged and stuck his head through the door to the restroom. He quickly backed away, his hand pressed against his mouth.

  “Edmundo, call my deputy in. He will collect the evidence and prepare our report.”

  He fixed his gaze on Elena. “You can imagine, doctora, I am suspicious of everyone. This death, of course, complicates matters more.” He crossed the room to stand before the two of them. His eyes dropped to Dominic’s arm around Elena’s waist.

  “Señor Harte, when did you arrive?”

  “Just before you. A guard summoned the doctor to the Museum. I gave him a ride.”

  “I see.” His eyes shifted to Elena’s face. “Tell me, doctora, in minute detail what you saw when you arrived.”

  Elena told the story, releasing her grip on Dominic and crossing her arms. She related her tale, and her voice turned into an instrument with a knife edge. When she finished she stepped closer to Oliveros, standing almost toe-to-toe with him and said, “I will thank you inspector Oliveros to keep your suspicions to yourself. You have no evidence whatsoever that I was involved in either of these deaths, and I resent your insinuations. It is not only unprofessional, you are displaying a bias that is disgraceful for an officer of the law.”

  Oliveros stepped back out of harm’s way because Elena looked like she might throw a punch.

  Instead she said, “You know where to find me, if you need any more information. Now if you will excuse me.” She stepped around the inspector and left the room.

  Dominic turned to follow then turned back. “Inspector, you are maligning the wrong woman. Be careful.”

  Back at doña Carolita’s he accompanied Elena into the house. Over the housekeeper cries of concern, Elena told the horrible story.

  Doña Carolita fanned herself. “I don’t know what is happening to us. You have found two dead men in so short a time. If I were you I would leave this terrible place.”

  They followed doña Carolita into the kitchen where she bustled about, muttering to herself and banging pots, doing what she did best in a crisis, prepare coffee and serve food.

  Over coffee Elena shook her head slowly. “The stakes aren’t high enough.”

  Dominic gazed at her, wondering what she meant. He waited while she seemed to sort through the thoughts and events tumbling around her head like so many ping pong balls caught in a lottery machine.

  “He couldn’t have killed himself over a few hieroglyphs,” she said. “His behavior has been so odd. I think he was in over his head and didn’t know how to get out. Or maybe he killed himself over some hideous family problem. What would it be that drove him to pull the trigger?”

  “I have made a nice tortilla soup with chicken,” said doña Carolita. “Would you like some?”

  Elena held up her hand. “Not for me. I can’t eat.”

  Dominic rose. “I need to get back to the clinic. I know you won’t be able to rest, but try. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  Doña Carolita drew on her shawl. “I need to pray to the Holy Mother. May I go with you as far as th
e church? This is so terrible. I don’t know what will become of us, here in our little town that used to be so safe and friendly. The saints have not been kind to us. I will pray they might find favor with us again.”

  Dominic dropped doña Carolita at the door of the church that stood on one side of the central plaza. He dodged scooter taxis on his way to the clinic. No line of villagers greeted him this time as everyone was attending to their mid-day meal. He found Corazón in the clinic kitchen accounting for the medicine in the refrigerator. She had already heard what happened.

  “That poor soul, that poor girl,” she said. “It is awful.” She paused and her arched, painted-on eyebrows pulled down into a frown. She didn’t meet his eyes. “Do you think she has had anything to do with all this? After all, these evil events have only occurred since she came.”

  Dominic stopped handing packages of medicine to Corazón. He stared at her. “You mean, you think Elena has something to do with these deaths?”

  Corazón colored under the golden tone of her skin. “People say the ghosts are angry that someone is disturbing the hieroglyphs. That someone is trying to understand their secrets which are not to be understood.”

  “But ghosts, Corazón? Surely you don’t believe in these whisperings.”

  She looked away. “I only know that it is since she arrived these events have occurred. That’s what people are saying. Nothing else has changed in our small town.”

  “But you aren’t saying you think she killed these two people, are you?”

  Corazón shook her head. “No, señor Dominic, I don’t say that. I only say that Elena may have disturbed something much, much bigger than she is. Maybe it is better she leaves. Then maybe the ghosts will settle down and leave us alone.”

  Dominic thought about what Corazón had said as he helped with the line of people who formed in the late afternoon. He tried to fix his mind on their plight, their complaints and illnesses, the sad stories of their lives, but his mind turned over and over what Corazón had suggested, that Elena somehow was the cause of all of this. That somehow she had started a wheel turning that hadn’t turned in a long time. He wasn’t sure it was ghosts, even though Elena thought she saw one. No, it was possible that she disturbed some kind of crooked operation in which the director had been involved.

  Elena had told him of the director’s odd behavior. What if he had gotten involved in something he couldn’t get out of, that had threatened his life, his livelihood, his family, his reputation. Something so bad he couldn’t live any longer.

  What would that be?

  Nine

  Alone, Elena sat for a long time trying to make sense of what happened. The shadows were long when she finally roused from her seat in the living room. Her feet rested on the cool tile of the floor. It was the only cool thing in the room. Everything else was unbearable. Heavy. Hot. Close. Like an unwelcome lover.

  What she needed was a sane life at a normal university teaching normal students Mesoamerican archaeology. Maybe she should leave the field altogether. But what else could she do? She was unemployable outside of her field. And besides, she loved epigraphy. She always had. She was good at it.

  A shower would help, and she made her way to the tiny bathroom and stripped, dropping her clothes on the floor. On second thought, she tossed them in the trash can. She never wanted to wear those filthy things again. She scrubbed and washed and rinsed till she felt like a smooth polished stone.

  She shimmied into a dress, a yellow jersey with a pattern of small red and white roses. Somehow a dress put her outside and away from the events of the morning. It was a simple sundress with flared skirt that she had picked up in the beggars market in Rio de Janeiro. It was the kind one could wring together for packing, then shake out, and wear. Its design reflected her state of mind, formless, wandering.

  She took time blowing her hair dry, brushing and brushing and brushing until it was shiny and fell into natural waves around her bare shoulders. She took even more time applying her makeup. Shadow, eyeliner, mascara, blusher. The full regalia.

  Studying her reflection in the mirror, she wondered about taking so much time with her appearance, like she had a date or something. Maybe she was trying to erase memories, call into being a world she was used to that had parties and laughing people. She looked down into the white porcelain bowl of the sink. What she really wanted to do was to throw up. Throw up all the bad things and flush them down the toilet. But the events of the last few days were so terrible they wouldn’t fit in this bowl or the toilet and besides they wouldn’t be done with. They would always be with her.

  To try to take away the horrid taste of the day, she brushed her teeth and then applied lipstick. She needed was a stiff drink, something cold and potent and tangy, that would relax into her bloodstream. There would be nothing in doña Carolita’s house that fit that bill.

  In the kitchen she lifted the lid on the pot of soup but the smell turned her stomach, and she hastily replaced the lid. In the refrigerator she selected a cola and poured a glass. She drained the glass, feeling the bubbles calm her upset stomach. A martini would taste even better, like at the clinic party the other night. Could it have been only two nights ago?

  The sound of a vehicle in front of the house caught her attention, and she glanced at her watch. It was after seven. Dominic was at the front gate.

  “Hi,” he said. “How you doing?”

  A smile of welcome was her answer. She opened the door, and he stepped inside the iron barred gate into the dim shadows huddling around the front of the house.

  He held out his arms. She sighed and let him enfold her in his embrace. For a long time they stood holding each other, she lost in the solidness of him, in the strength of his arms, in the safety of his caring. She never needed this more than now.

  “Would you like to come over to my place?” he asked. “I’m on my way home. I don’t want you to be alone. Not now. Not today.”

  She nodded, not speaking, got her purse, locked the house, let him lead her by the hand to the Jeep. His house was three blocks from the clinic on the other side of the plaza from doña Carolita’s place. It was neat with flowers blooming in the front garden. He led her into the small living room.

  “Can I get you anything? Have you had dinner?”

  “I can’t eat but I could use a drink. Something strong.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “A martini?”

  “Coming right up.”

  He led the way to the tiny kitchen and deftly mixed martinis in a glass jar.

  “Sorry,” he said as he poured and handed her a water glass. “I don’t have martini glasses.”

  He poured another for himself.

  “Salud,” he said as they clicked glasses.

  “Salud,” she said and took a sip, savoring the combination of gin, vermouth, and a twist of lime, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Tonight I could get lost in a few of these.”

  “I can understand why,” he said. “Sure you’re not hungry? The housekeeper always leaves me more than enough food on the stove.”

  The mention of food reminded Elena of her promise to Armando.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, putting her drink on the counter. “I promised the maintenance man at the Museum that I would bring food for his family this evening. The little ones have been sick. With everything, I totally forgot.”

  “Hey,” said Dominic, “look at all this food. We can pack it up and drive over there.”

  “Are you sure?” Elena looked at the black beans with fresh tomato and onion, rice with peas, boiled chicken, plantains and tortillas. A salad of fresh vegetables sat on the counter by the stove. There was enough food for the Honduran army. “Oh, Dominic, could we? This will be wonderful for the children. Can we go now? It’s getting late, isn’t it? This day has been such a nightmare jumble for me.”

  Dominic found a basket, and they lifted the pans of food into it. Without finishing their drinks, they headed for San Pedrito. She
pointed out the hovel the family called home, and Dominic parked.

  Armando was sitting at the door on an overturned plastic bucket, his hands draped over his knees, staring into the ground. He broke into a smile when he saw them pull up. He removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “Buenas tardes, doctora. I thought you forgot us with all the excitement at the Museum today. I did not think you would come.”

  “I almost did forget, I confess. But Dominic kindly provided some food for your youngsters.” She handed the basket to him which he accepted with a smile of thanks.

  “The little ones will love this. La señora brought medicine from the clinic. They have sore throats.”

  He didn’t invite them into the house but carried the basket to his wife who stood inside peering out from the shadows. No light illuminated the interior. No sound of laughing little ones. Only a naked bulb hung outside the door under the overhang of the corrugated metal roof. The inside would be cramped with six people in such a tiny space, but the clean swept ground outside indicated a tidy housekeeper, even with so little.

  Elena looked up at Dominic. “Thanks for making this possible.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m glad we could help, and it’s nice to meet Armando and his family.”

  Armando returned, grinning. “She sends un million de gracias. She is very grateful for the food.”

  They stood on the hard packed dirt sidewalk, overlooking a pot hole in the street filled with filthy water. A scrawny dog trotted by and lapped at the water, watching them with little interest, intent upon his next meal.

  The smile died from Armando’s lips. His face was streaked with dust, tan cheeks rosy hued, black hair matted against his skull. His lips worked around words that wouldn’t form. Finally, he said, “It was a terrible thing that happened today.” He hesitated. “Do you think they will close the Archaeological Park?”

  Elena hadn’t given a thought to whether the Museum would close. With the director gone she wasn’t sure who would stand in. Someone in the bureaucracy in Tegucigalpa would have to decide.