Mystery in Mayan Mexico

by Marcia Wells

  “Maybe this Pablo Valero guy never died,” Jonah says. “And he had really good plastic surgery.” His twitching leg picks up speed, rattling the papers on my lap.

  “Not likely,” I say. “The man in the lobby was young. His skin wasn’t stretched tight in that weird plastic way.”

  Jonah holds up a hand. “They can do amazing things with surgery these days, Edmund. Maybe he escaped with the bank gold but the government covered it up and faked his death. We have to investigate all possibilities.” His eyes have taken on a wild conspiracy-theory gleam.

  “Fine.” I sigh and add the man to my list:

  3. Mustached man who might be a bank robber’s son. Or the bank robber himself with perfect plastic surgery.

  Jonah chatters away about how cool it would be if this was an old unsolved mystery and a lost treasure mystery all wrapped into one. I’m barely listening, my mind whirring a million clicks per second. Blood and feathers, gangs and gold . . . This is impossible. I’m trying to solve a crime in a language I can barely speak, in a culture I don’t understand, and with no police support or solid information.

  Julia glances at me with a sad expression, as if she’s thinking the same thing I am.

  There is no way we can solve this.

  Chapter 5

  Tossed

  DAY 4

  Rain, rain, and more rain. I’ve been sitting in the lobby all morning, watching every person who walks by. I’ve drawn twenty more faces, twenty more possible suspects. But who am I kidding? I’ve got nothing. Just a clerk, a gang, and a Ghostman. Jonah insists we call the tourist guy that since he looks exactly like the dead bank robber, Pablo Valero.

  When we returned to the hotel yesterday, two policemen were dusting every inch of the lobby for fingerprints. What if they find my father’s prints in a weird place? Knowing Dad, it’s entirely possible. The cops also removed the glass case and pedestal from the center of the room, so now there’s just a weird open space where the ancient mask once sat. The emptiness stares at me like a gaping eye, mocking me and my über-pathetic detective skills.

  “Soldier Schwartz, reporting.” Jonah plops down in a chair beside mine and hands me a stack of papers. “The desk clerk’s name is Luis Gusto. By all accounts, he’s kind of dumb. Shows up late for his shifts, keeps a sloppy workstation.” He stretches and cracks his knuckles. “His uncle is a rumored drug lord. Not sure if that’s important. We’ll know more when I hack into the personnel files on the computer system.”

  Jonah’s been interviewing the employees with Julia’s help, pretending to do a report on Mexican hotels for a kids’ magazine. Everyone knows and loves Julia—her mom’s worked here forever—so it’s been a pretty smooth operation so far.

  I nod and look down at the papers he gave me. It’s a list of the employees, their job descriptions and daily routines. The names are color coded in red, yellow, or green to indicate level of suspicion, based on the employee’s schedule and proximity to the mask.

  Jonah stands up. “I gotta go. Julia and I are playing chess in the employee break room while monitoring staff movements. You okay?”

  “Sure. See you at lunch,” I say. He leaves with a big wave in my direction. I glance down at my watch: 10:20 a.m. Two more hours of drawing faces and listening to the blue birds screech in their cage.

  A flash of lightning lights up the room. I look up as the lobby doors fly open, and drop my pencil in surprise. In storms Captain Ruiz with three policemen following closely behind. Ruiz sees me, glares, then stomps over to the elevator, practically running over an elderly couple. He’s the meanest man on the planet. I drew a picture of him yesterday in case it turns out he’s the mastermind criminal and we need a recent image.

  Wariness pricks the hairs on my neck as he disappears into the elevator. What’s he up to? One minute ticks by. Two minutes tick by. I’m just about to pack up my sketching supplies and head to my parents’ room when Dad walks off the elevator looking really upset. I jump out of my seat.

  “Dad, what’s—”

  He holds up a big hand. “It’s okay. The police have a warrant to search both of our rooms. They asked me to wait down here. It’s okay,” he repeats. He sits down on the nearest couch and offers me a strained smile.

  “Okay?” I echo in disbelief. “It’s not okay, Dad. What if—” I cut myself off. What if Ruiz is up there planting evidence? Julia says he wants the chief of police job. What if he stole the mask and is framing my dad, all so he can solve the case quickly and be the big hero? I slump into the seat beside my father.

  He pats my shoulder. “We have nothing to hide. They won’t find anything, and it will all blow over. I’ll call a lawyer as soon as we get back into the room.” He adjusts his thick glasses and looks down at my art pad. “What are you up to?”

  “Drawing the birds.” I flash him a picture of one of the birds, my cover-up sketch for parental probing situations like this.

  “That’s nice.” He’s in distracted-robot mode. Poor guy. He shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts. “We’re still on vacation. Let’s go to the arcade once the police leave. Blow off some steam and have fun. And don’t forget, tonight’s French night.”

  I know he’s trying to cheer me up, but he’s just making it worse. Every night the main dining room holds a theme dinner, such as seafood night, Mardi Gras, and casino night. Tonight is French night, when they’ll have French food, music, and costumes. Guests are encouraged to dress for the occasion. Dad brought a purple beret from home, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

  He clears his throat. “Look, I know we have an honesty rule, but let’s not tell Mom about this, not yet. She has to focus on the convention. Larry promised her a promotion if she delivers down here. It will be a big increase in salary, and we need the money. We’ll tell her back home.” He sighs and adds, “Please don’t tell Jonah, either.”

  Jonah . . . I forgot about Jonah. He’s going to have a complete meltdown if they touch his stuff. Plus I really hope he doesn’t have anything illegal up in the room. Is Mace legal in Mexico? He may have brought some nunchucks as well.

  We sit in silence. Dad crosses his legs, uncrosses them, taps on one knee. He’s wearing a yellow Hawaiian shirt, the buttons undone to reveal a green T-shirt with a lounging frog in sunglasses and the words Stay Classy printed at the bottom.

  Time grinds to a halt. Fifteen minutes . . . twenty minutes. Dad picks at his nails while I draw and draw, the only thing that keeps me sane.

  Thirty minutes . . . forty minutes . . .

  Ruiz and his men step out of the elevator. My father leaps to his feet before I can blink. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move so fast. I follow, hot on his heels to catch what Ruiz is saying:

  “Your cooperation is noted,” he says to Dad. “You will hear from us if we have further questions.” Then he smiles a very evil smile. “You may need to call housekeeping.” And with that, he leaves.

  We watch him go. Well, Dad watches him go. I watch Dad, concerned for his mental state. His jaw is tense, and a muscle twitches beneath one of his eyes. I don’t think he’s breathing.

  “We’ll straighten the rooms,” he suddenly announces. He holds out an arm to escort me to the elevator. “It will be like it never happened.”

  I nod, not trusting my voice.

  This is the worst vacation ever.

  Chapter 6

  Chaac

  DAY 7

  “Hey, chico.” A man in a stained chef coat is standing in front of me, rubbing the ends of his bushy mustache. I’m sitting in the lobby for the fourth day in a row, drawing faces and glaring at the rain.

  “Ven conmigo,” he says.

  I look at him blankly, so he clarifies with a “Come with me” in a thick accent. He motions for me to follow him through a set of white doors labeled EMPLEADOS. “Employees Only.” I hesitate. This has major potential to be a Stranger Danger moment. Follow a random person somewhere in a foreign country? Not a good plan. But I’ve seen J
ulia joking around with this guy, so I’m sure he’s okay. Maybe he has information about what went down in the lobby.

  “They call me Papi,” he says over his shoulder as we push through a set of swinging doors and into a huge kitchen. “I am head chef at Hotel Cisneros.”

  Sounds like an important position. So what does he want with me?

  Papi’s shirt and apron might be stained and rumpled, but his kitchen is sparkling clean. Every stainless steel surface shines: stoves, grills, countertops, blenders, knives . . . everything under the sun that cooks, cuts, or fries. Several men are standing in front of one of the counters, chopping mountains of vegetables and singing along with the radio. Seeing that there are at least five other people in the room and I’m probably not about to be abducted, I relax a little.

  Papi brings me over to the far side by the refrigerators, where a few stools are lined up by a silver metal countertop. He motions for me to sit and places a plate of custard and cookies in front of me. “Please eat,” he says. “I made you a special flan. And pastelitos de boda. Mexican wedding cookies.”

  The flan is a wobbly brownish-yellow custard that reminds me of boogers. The cookies are small balls covered in powdered sugar. I go with option number two.

  “Thanks,” I say. Why am I getting the royal treatment? I take a bite of cookie. It’s good but über-sugary. “I’m Edmund,” I say through a mouthful of crumbs. I rack my brain for polite conversation topics. “Your English is very good.” Now, why did you ask me back here and what do you know about the crime?

  He beams at the compliment, smiling so wide I can see the gold in his back teeth. Then he grows serious and runs a broad hand over his mustache. After glancing around the kitchen, he leans forward as if to tell me a secret. I stiffen and inch back without being too obvious.

  “I see you do the”—he struggles a moment, searching for a word—“the art. The drawings.” He motions to the pad in my hand. “You are good.”

  “Thanks.” I shift uncomfortably on the hard stool. Where is he going with this?

  He rolls up both sleeves of his white coat, revealing tattoos that cover each forearm. “These are my girls,” he says proudly. “Marisol, María, Clara, Juanita, and little Isa. They are beautiful, no?”

  “Uh . . . sure.” I stare down at the faces on his skin. The tats were done when the girls were little, either babies or toddlers. Over the years, his flesh has obviously sagged a bit, and now the faces are kind of droopy. Tattooed faces always creep me out. They never look lifelike, and with weird shading around the mouth and cheeks, the faces always appear to have a faint beard. Not okay on a baby.

  “You can draw us a family picture,” he announces. “A special present for Marisol’s wedding.”

  “Uh,” I say again. This is getting weirder by the second.

  He claps his hands. “I worked in Colorado. I know how this goes with you gringos. You want money?”

  I shake my head. “No, I—”

  “Good, because I don’t got no money.” He guffaws like it’s the funniest joke ever, his big belly rolling up and down, side to side. It’s kind of hypnotic. Still laughing, he dips a hand in his back pocket, producing a fat wallet stuffed to the max with papers. He fishes through it and yanks out a wad of pictures.

  “Here,” he says, shoving them into my hands. I struggle with the stack, trying not to drop any. His daughters are now in their late teens and early twenties, all with long black hair and wide smiles. Attractive in a jolly Papi kind of way.

  Papi strokes his mustache with slow sweeps as if deep in thought. He speaks softly. “You do this for me, I do you a favor. Yes?”

  “Oh. Um, okay.” I tuck the photos in my art pad for lack of a better place. I guess I can do this for him. It won’t take long. Plus having a favor from Papi might come in handy. The whole thing feels sort of Mexican gangster.

  “There you are.” Jonah’s voice yanks me out of the mobster moment as he walks into the kitchen, Julia close behind him. If she’s surprised to see me hanging out with Papi, she doesn’t show it.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Jonah says. “We have new information, and—” His words grind to a halt as he eyeballs the huge, shiny knives that hang from the racks on the walls.

  I sit up straight. “Information? Is your dad back?” Julia’s father hasn’t returned from his trip. He was supposed to come home days ago, but the roads are flooded from the storm. He has to get back here. I need access to police reports, and he’s my only hope.

  She shakes her head. “He’s still stuck. But I heard my mother talking to him on the phone. She was saying that—”

  “They suspect someone with a mustache!” Jonah interrupts. I glance over at the other cooks, but they’re still busy chopping vegetables, oblivious to our discussion. Papi is pulling some bags of shredded cheese from the refrigerator.

  Julia scowls. “Bobo,” she snaps (I can only imagine what that means). “I was telling the story.” She glares at him a second longer, then opens a cupboard and roots through it. I like Julia. Behind her sweet smile and huge hazel eyes is a no-nonsense girl, a girl who will put Jonah in his place.

  “Sorry,” Jonah says, grinning and not looking sorry in the slightest. He parks himself on the stool beside mine. He’s been in a great mood, completely unaware that our room was searched three days ago. The room actually wasn’t in bad shape, but I still spent an hour making sure his clothes were neatly folded and his toiletries placed precisely two inches from the edge of the bathroom counter.

  I mentally digest the new information. The police suspect a man with a mustache . . . Everyone down here has a mustache. Papi, my dad, the evil Captain Ruiz, our Ghostman suspect, everyone. It’s like a huge mustache convention exploded in the hotel lobby.

  “Why are you in the kitchen?” Jonah says.

  I tell him about Papi’s family and the pictures he wants me to draw. As I speak, I watch Papi chop onions on a nearby counter. His knife flies over the surface like lightning, onion bits springing up into the air. He’s lethal with that thing.

  Jonah’s fingers tap on the counter like drumsticks. “A favor from a local adult. Excellent.” He pokes at the flan on my plate, then pops two cookies into his mouth.

  “Ready?” Julia says to Jonah. She sets down a carton of milk, a piece of bread, and a small green pepper.

  He swallows the wad of cookie. “Yes,” he mutters, his bony shoulders sagging.

  I raise an eyebrow. “What’s all this?”

  It’s Julia’s turn to grin. “I beat him in chess. Now he has to try a pepper. A jalapeño.”

  No one has beaten Jonah at chess. Ever. As she turns her back to us to grab a glass off the shelf and pour him a cup of milk, I whisper, “Did you let her win?”

  “Are you kidding me?” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to eat a hot pepper. Plus there’s the germ thing. We’re only supposed to eat vegetables that are peeled.”

  Julia places the food in front of him. “Remember, milk and bread are better than water,” she says. “And don’t eat the seeds. I’ll go first.” She nibbles a dainty bite of pepper. “You see? Not so bad. Then I have a little bread, and the heat fades.” She breaks off a small square of bread and eats it.

  Jonah’s eyes dart from the partially eaten pepper to Julia, back to the pepper, back to Julia, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. I know what he’s thinking: Does it count as a kiss if your lips touch where the girl’s lips were touching a few seconds ago?

  He shrugs and picks up the pepper. “Sure. Easy.” He takes a bite, a bigger one than Julia did as if to prove his manhood. He chews and chews and chews. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his eyes start to water. “No problem,” he rasps.

  “Bread, Jonah,” I say in alarm as his lungs squeak and his face turns so red that his freckles stick out like pale stars.

  He holds up a shaky hand. “Gluck unngh. Rolp. Unnngh.”

  “Jonah?” Julia says, her palm resting on his convulsing back.


  He stumbles off the stool and pushes blindly past me, practically throwing his body into the sink. All fear of the tap water is forgotten as he shoves his face under the faucet and gulps down buckets. Then he lifts his soggy red face from the sink and beams at us. “I’m okay,” he announces in a gurgly voice. Grabbing a hand towel, he wipes off his mouth, then blows his nose. I’m sure he’s just violated about a thousand health codes, but Papi doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s laughing so hard it looks like his stomach’s going to jiggle off.

  Julia shakes her head in amusement. “I’ll get you some peanut butter for your bread,” she says. She heads over to the other side of the kitchen, where industrial-sized jars of ketchup and mustard line the shelves. I wonder if Jonah’s considered dropping Mr. Q into one of those. Probably.

  Jonah shuffles back to his stool, still wiping his face. He pulls a bottle of iodine out of his pocket and puts a few drops on his tongue. “Just in case,” he says. I stifle a gag.

  Papi’s laughter dies down and he gets back to chopping vegetables. “¡Ay, El Frijol!” he says. “¡Muy famoso este Frijol!”

  Jonah and I share a confused look.

  “Sí, señor,” Papi booms. “Jonah ‘El Frijol.’ And his friend, Edmund ‘El Rojito.’” He gestures to my red baseball cap with the knife in his hand. I know rojo is “red,” so Rojito must mean “Little Red.” I think I like Eddie Red better.

  Jonah frowns at Papi’s words. “What does free-hole mean?” he says to Julia when she returns with a butter knife and a small bowl of peanut butter. As he speaks, he shovels another cookie into his mouth.

  She smiles. “It means ‘bean,’ or ‘jumping bean.’ Because you move around a lot.” She illustrates Jonah’s patented leg twitches. She stops and puts her hand on his arm. “He is only joking.”