Mystery in Mayan Mexico

by Marcia Wells

  “What if they decide to arrest you because of your prints?” Mom says when Dad finally finishes. Her voice is muffled since her face is now buried in her hands. “Have you heard about Mexican prisons? Maybe we should go home.”

  Dad smiles. “Let’s not overreact. We all know I didn’t steal anything, so there’s nothing to worry about. You need to focus on the convention. I’ll call the embassy if it makes you feel better. But it will be fine.” My father is the most upbeat person in the world.

  I move on to the woman’s portrait. Shifty, narrowed eyes, a round face, thin lips. My arm is tense and shaking from drawing so fast, but no one’s paying attention to my spazzy movements.

  “It’s supposed to rain the next few days,” Dad adds. “I’m going to relax here with the boys, do some reading. Maybe I’ll even start working on that mystery novel I’ve always wanted to write.”

  My hand freezes and I glance up. Mom and I share a confused look. “A novel?” Mom asks.

  He nods and flashes us a huge grin. My father, the very large man who thinks sweater vests are a good idea, the über-nerd who spends hours on the Internet researching ways to grow plants without soil. He is going to write a mystery novel?

  “I’ve already worked out the plot,” he says. “A mystery set in ancient Mayan times. Did you know that the Mayan city of Chichén Itzá was abandoned back in the fourteen hundreds? The people just left and went to live in the jungle. No one knows why. The city’s only two hours from here. We’ll go this week.”

  Mom snuggles against his broad shoulder, telling him what a great idea it is and how proud she is of him. At least she’s not freaking out anymore. And Dad’s novel has given me an idea . . .

  “Sounds great,” I say. “We’ll be good and let you work, I promise.” Writing will occupy him so Jonah and I can snoop around and try to get some answers. We’ll solve this case by dinner tomorrow and enjoy the rest of the vacation in peace.

  Dad looks at his watch. “No more moping around. We’ll go to the art museum in town this afternoon. They have a terrific exhibit of Mexican painters. Works by Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo . . . some really impressive stuff.” He pats his stomach. “It’s almost lunchtime. Let’s meet in the dining room in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. We’ll be in the arcade until then.” I stand to leave, Jonah right behind me. He’s been eerily quiet the last half hour, sitting and rubbing Mr. Q’s stomach, working the peanut butter and jelly into a gooey paste.

  Out in the hallway, Jonah’s limbs jolt to life as if he’s been electrocuted. “What’s the plan? Tell me you have a plan!”

  I walk to the elevator and stab at the down button with my thumb. “We need to scout the area, maybe talk to the hotel staff.”

  Jonah grins. The door opens and he does a happy little shimmy into the elevator. “I need a cool code name,” he announces. “Maybe Mr. Q Junior. Or Super Q.” He frowns down at the little statue in his hand, then pulls out a safety pin from his pocket and pokes the tip of his finger. Blood bubbles to the surface.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in alarm. This is very un-Jonah-like behavior. Usually he hates germs and dirt and stains of any kind.

  “Upping the sacrifice. We need major help.” He dabs blood on Mr. Q’s belly. “I know what you’re thinking. Usually messy stuff freaks me out. But this”—he gestures up and down his body—“is a carefully crafted calm. Mr. Q is giving me strength. Are you in?” He holds out the pin for me.

  I shake my head. “No thanks.” I’m about to ask how blood and peanut butter are truly going to help our police work, when the elevator doors open and we step out into the lobby. Showtime.

  Quickly I survey the area. “I’ll talk to that guy.” I gesture with my chin to the cop who questioned my father. He’s alone in the far corner, putting papers in a briefcase. “You walk the perimeter.”

  Jonah’s eyes flit around the room. His back and shoulders go rigid as he shifts into military mode. “Agreed,” he says. “Meet back at base in five minutes. Failure is not an option, soldier.” And with that, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away.

  I clutch my art pad with sweaty fingers and approach the policeman. I wish I could tell him about me being Eddie Red and how I worked for the NYPD, but I can’t. I had to sign a million documents swearing I’d never reveal my role. I just hope that when this guy sees my pictures, he’ll realize I’m a professional.

  “Sir?” I say in a voice I wish weren’t quite so shaky. He doesn’t respond, just keeps shuffling through papers, his head bent low. His slicked-back hair is perfectly combed, his mustache neat and trimmed. Everything about him is crisp and organized.

  I try again. “Um, señor?” What do I call him? He has no name tag on his sky-blue shirt, no badge that indicates his rank. A star on each shoulder, but what does that mean? Detective? Inspector?

  Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. “¿Qué?” he finally grunts, not looking up.

  Okay, he gets irritated easily. I can handle this. I have plenty of experience with grumpy policemen, namely Detective Bovano, Detective Bovano, and . . . Detective Bovano. I paste on a charming smile. “Sir, I know you’ve had a bit of trouble here in the lobby. And I wanted to let you know that I have a photographic memory and I’m good at drawing. I’m sort of like a human surveillance camera.” I open my art pad. He’s still staring down at his briefcase, but at least he stopped flipping through his papers. I take it as a sign to continue. “I have a couple of pictures I drew of some suspicious—”

  “You tourists are all the same,” he interrupts. Now he’s looking at me, really glaring at me with eyes as hard and cold as his clipped movements. “Always interfering, thinking you run the show. You think because you have money, you have answers.”

  I jerk the art pad back in surprise. “I’m not wealthy,” I say. Not even close.

  He raises an eyebrow. “So you need money, do you? Are you desperate enough to steal?” His accusatory gaze rakes over me and all kinds of alarm bells go off in my head. This guy obviously hates tourists, and probably hates Americans. So where does that leave my father?

  “Go back to your room, gringo,” he says. “Go get your father a good lawyer.” He snaps his briefcase shut and leaves without another glance in my direction.

  WHAT? The alarm bells have cranked up to fire-engine shrieks in my skull. Why does my father need a lawyer? Dad may be a huge geek who stared at the jade mask for twenty minutes this morning, but he is not a thief. And how does the cop know who my dad is? I mean, we look a lot alike with our dark skin and thick glasses, but we’re not the only black family in the hotel. Plus I’m skinny and short, while my father is a hulking house of a man.

  I spin on my heel and storm over to the elevator. Jonah’s nowhere in sight. I find him back in the room, sitting on his bed and sketching a map of what looks like the lobby. SpongeBob laughs loudly on the television (his cartoon voice is just as annoying in Spanish as it is in English). Jonah mutes the program and throws the remote on the mattress. “What happened?” he says, his eyes widening at the anger on my face.

  I grab Mr. Q from his perch on the television, along with the safety pin from the table. “We have a big problem,” I say. I prick my finger and smear blood across the statue’s peanut-butter-and-jelly stomach. “I’m in.”

  Chapter 4

  Mi Casa, Su Casa

  DAY 3

  “I made you some dulce de leche,” Julia says as she hangs up our wet raincoats. Twenty-four hours later, and it still hasn’t stopped raining. “It’s a kind of Mexican caramel.” She beckons us forward. “We’ll eat in my father’s office, no?”

  “Sounds great,” Jonah says. “Thanks.”

  We took a cab to Julia’s house this morning for two big reasons. First, it turns out that her great-grandfather was the archaeologist who discovered the jade mask. Jonah found that out last night when he was prowling around the lobby in search of bottled water. The mask belongs to her family and was on loan at the hotel.

&nbs
p; The second and more important reason is that her father’s the chief of police. The chief of police! Which makes Julia our number one lead in the investigation. She told Jonah we could go through her father’s papers. Finally some good luck.

  We follow her down a long hall lined with colorful red and orange tapestries. This is it—free rein in a police office! I’ll sift through files and recent faxes while Jonah hacks into the computer, both of us looking for answers to the only question that really matters: what kind of evidence do they have against my father?

  The office is tiny and quiet, with a minuscule filing cabinet and no electronics. Disappointment washes over me. Where’s the police database? The list of evidence? You’ve had less to work with before, I remind myself. You can do this. I’ll just have to use my police smarts and Jonah’s über-brilliant brain to figure this out.

  A picture on the wall snags my attention. It’s a black and white photo of a group of policemen, including the mean cop from the hotel. “This guy is a jerk,” I say, pointing to the man with the slick hair and the angry scowl. “I think he wants to send my father to jail just for being a tourist.”

  Julia looks to where I’m pointing. “That’s Capitán Ruiz. He hates kids, tourists . . .” She frowns. “He hates everybody.”

  “Is he racist?” My new fear: maybe the captain is after my father because of the color of his skin.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard him speak that way. He is an ambitious man. Years ago my father was promoted to comandante. Ruiz was very angry. He wanted the job. He still does.”

  Does he want the job badly enough to send the wrong man to jail? I think of how my dad looked this morning, typing the first pages of his novel. His shoulders seemed more slumped than usual. Is he upset about the police?

  Shoving my worries aside, I sit down on a small couch and unzip Jonah’s backpack. I find a bottle of iodine, a jackknife, three lighters, a plastic gun—how did he bring all this junk on the plane, let alone get it past customs?—and a small jar of peanut butter. Not to mention a mountain of books.

  Finally I locate my detective supplies and open my sketchpad, which is already partially filled with pictures I drew yesterday. What I thought were strong leads last night seem flimsy and weak today. The thief could be anyone: a tourist, a delivery person, a random person walking by . . . Anyone in the town of San Pablo del Niño. And that anyone is probably long gone by now.

  Jonah’s standing over by a shelf filled with plaques and trophies, his fingers twitching as if he really, really wants to poke at something until it breaks. He’s quiet, and I realize he’s letting me take the lead. I guess I do have experience with police interviews, although usually I’m the one being questioned.

  I can do this. I can lead my own police interrogation. But where to begin? I flip past a drawing I did from memory of the stolen mask. That seems like a good place to start. “Why don’t we talk about the mask,” I say to Julia. “Jonah said it belongs to your family?”

  Julia’s face falls. “Yes,” she says. “We were going to sell it so my father can retire. He’s older and has heart problems. And now . . . now . . .” Her eyes fill with tears. Oh, I really hope she doesn’t cry.

  In a panicked move, I pat her on the back with awkward thumps. “The police will find it, don’t worry,” I say. “Do you have any idea who might have stolen it?”

  She shakes her head, her big eyes growing sadder by the second. This line of questioning is only making her more upset. I switch tactics. “I need to know why they questioned my father. Do you have any reports about the mask? Something that might mention my dad’s name?”

  “No,” she says. She sits down at the desk and clears her throat. “My father is away, helping my uncle in Oaxaca. He will get the reports when he returns.” She offers me a plate loaded with thick chunks of dulce de leche, as if sugar’s going to make everything better. “He is supposed to be here tonight.”

  “Oh,” I say. If there are no reports, what are we doing here? I stuff a piece of candy in my mouth before I say anything I’ll regret.

  “Let’s look at local criminals,” Jonah pipes up from the corner where he’s fiddling with a potted cactus. He comes over and sits down beside me on the small couch. “We’ll see if this crime fits a pattern. It could be someone with a police record, right?”

  “Okay.” Julia pulls open the filing cabinet. It rattles and squeaks as if it’s a hundred years old, which it probably is, judging by the rust on its gray paint. She pulls out a thick file and hands it over. “The only real crimes we have around here are from a gang called Las Plumas.”

  Jonah flips open the file. A stack of pictures spills onto his lap, snapshots of statues and staircases covered in red paint, just like the scene we saw at the temple yesterday.

  “Whoa!” he says. “Is that blood?”

  “Yes,” she replies. “Bloody scenes are their specialty. Don’t get too excited,” she adds quickly, as if she can sense that Jonah is about to launch into a huge story about zombies and chainsaw massacres. “It is only cow’s blood. The Plumas steal blood from the . . . matadero. The place where the cows are killed for meat. Then they dump it on local monuments.”

  “They must have been the ones who decorated the temple yesterday,” Jonah says. He snorts. “Doesn’t plumas mean ‘feathers’? Not exactly a tough gang name.”

  “They are local kids playing pranks. They spray paint political messages on walls. And they have tattoos on their wrists of a black feather.” She turns back to the filing cabinet to dig through more folders.

  I add Las Plumas to my list of suspects, although I doubt a group of teen punks could pull off a heist of Mayan treasure. I also add the guy who was working the front desk during the robbery. According to my dad’s information, he was the only employee on duty who had access to the key that opens the glass case. Very suspicious.

  Local suspects:

  1. Las Plumas—“The Feathers Gang”

  2. The lobby desk clerk

  “There is only one other famous crime in our town,” Julia says. She heaves out a battered brown folder stuffed with yellowing pages. “An unsolved mystery.”

  At the words unsolved mystery, Jonah sits at attention. I grab the huge folder from Julia’s extended hands and open the file, only to discover a dense pile of newspaper articles. I understand two words: robo, which means “robbery,” and banco, which means “bank.” My sixth-grade Spanish class didn’t exactly prepare me for Mexican crime-scene investigation. I glance up at Julia for more explanation.

  “This is the one case the police never solved.” Julia scoots her chair over so that she’s right next to Jonah. His face lights up like he just won the lottery. “About thirty years ago, a man named Pablo Valero stole an ancient Mayan necklace from a local collector. While the police swarmed the area, he went after his real target, the National Bank.”

  “Like chess,” Jonah says. “Distract your opponent, then attack where they don’t expect it.”

  She blinks at him in surprise. “That’s exactly what my father said.” Smiling, she offers Jonah a small cup. “Milk?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He grabs the bottle of iodine from his backpack and sprinkles a few drops in the glass, turning the white liquid a muddy brown. He’s scared to get Montezuma’s revenge, the stomach bug tourists sometimes catch from drinking the water. Apparently iodine kills bacteria, but all Jonah’s doing is grossing everyone out and making his food taste horribly bitter. Last night he made me try iodine on some orange slices. I had to brush my teeth twice to get rid of the awful taste.

  Shuffling through the stack of papers, I pick up another article, entitled El oro está con mi niño. This one I can actually read. “‘The gold is with my son’?”

  Julia nods. “That’s what Pablo claimed. After he robbed the bank, he tried to escape by boat, but he was caught. When the police captured him, the bank gold was gone. Buried somewhere. He said the gold was with his son. He died two days later
of a heart attack.”

  “And what about the son?” Jonah says.

  Julia shakes her head. “There were no birth records, nothing that said he had a son.” She shrugs. “That is all the crime we have here. San Pablo del Niño is a quiet town.”

  So far we’ve got less than nothing. I sift through more pages while thinking of a polite yet quick way to return to the hotel. A picture of the bank robber leaps out at me, a mug shot with the name Pablo Valero printed beneath. I squint at his grainy face. “Impossible,” I murmur.

  Thumbing through the pages of my art pad, I flip to the picture I drew of the mustached guy in the red Hawaiian shirt, the guy who was breathing all over the glass the day before the mask was stolen. I hold it up next to the newspaper photo. Same nose, same angle of cheek bone, same rounded chin. Is it the same person? The man in the lobby had gray eyes. It’s hard to tell from the newspaper article if the bank robber’s eyes are dark or light.

  “Holy Quetzalcoatl,” Jonah breathes. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think it is.” I shift my sketchpad so Julia can see it. “I drew this picture of a man I saw in the lobby,” I explain, “the day before the mask was stolen. Could it be the bank robber’s son?”

  “Maybe.” She bites her lip. “A strange coincidence. We should show my father this.”

  Maybe that’s all it is, a coincidence. “Do you have any other pictures of the thief?” I ask. I’ve flipped through all the newspaper articles in the folder, but all I’ve found is the slightly blurry mug shot. I need more to go on. I start to sketch his face based on the photo, hoping that the clearer lines of my pencil will help us figure this out.

  Julia rolls her chair back to the desk and opens the filing cabinet again. “I don’t think so, but I’ll look.”