Twenty Centavos: A Mystery Set in San Miguel de Allende

by John Scherber

  “Too early for a drink,” said Clare. “How about an iced tea? Sally?”

  We both agreed to an iced tea and Sally went to make them. We settled in an outer corner of the loggia from which I believed I could see the Watt’s house around the curve of the hillside about half a mile away.

  “Nice party the other night at the Watts,” said Clare.

  “Beautiful,” said Sally, pouring the tea. “I wish we could host a big group like that here, but we’re just not laid out right. People would get lost.” The way she said it made the house sound special in its eccentricity. I didn’t care much for the layout but it helps to love what you have.

  “I was amazed at some of Perry’s new things, weren’t you Clare?” I asked. He had been in Perry’s study when he broke out the gold coins.

  “Truly. But what I thought was even more interesting was when you asked him if he had ever wanted to be an artist himself. I really hadn’t thought of that before. But it makes sense, if he was blocked from painting or whatever it was he wanted to do. He got a kind of wistful look on his face, I thought.”

  “Perhaps with a just a touch of steam coming out from his collar,” I said.

  “I’m sure you know very well, Paul, and you should know this too, Clare, that not everyone can be an artist. It takes a lot more than just wanting it, isn’t that right?” She smoothed the smock down over her hips.

  “Always, but wanting it helps too,” I said.

  “I’ll bet you knew from a very early age, didn’t you, Paul?”

  “I was sixteen. I knew right away it was a good way to meet girls.”

  “And you probably drew constantly from a very early age.” She was starting to sound like my mother, who liked to take credit for any painting success I had, although she’d never encouraged it.

  “Actually, I hate drawing. When I’m dead and Maya’s sorting out my stuff to go to the gallery for the estate sale, she won’t find a single drawing to send. Even now, when I start a picture, I get through the sketching it on canvas phase as fast as possible. If you’re ever offered a drawing of mine for sale, it’s a fake. Call the police immediately.”

  “Well, we’re not big collectors, anyway,” said Clare. “You remember I when bought that still life from you a couple of years ago, the one with all the squash and gourds in that basket. But we don’t even hang it all the time. We bring it out in the fall and leave it up when we have some friends down here for Thanksgiving and then through Christmas until sometime in February. In fact, we just took it down. You wouldn’t believe what we have to go through to get a fresh turkey down here. Or maybe you do know?”

  “Well, we never do it. It’s just Maya and me. Neither family has ever visited us. Anyway, you’ve probably heard that I’ve been looking into this Tobey thing. I saw you had bought some things from him. Some silver?” I knew there were ceramics too, but I wanted them to volunteer it.

  “You know what we have?” Sally jumped up and disappeared into the house. She came back with a large solid silver bell in her hands. The wooden handle was black and worn to bare wood in places. She gave it to me. It had the mellow look and feel of thick old Méxican silver. “I’m not really sure whether this is an altar bell or not. It seems rather big for that. But we just love it.”

  “Any ceramics?” I decided not to wait.

  Clare looked uncomfortable now. He slid his iced tea glass back and forth on the oilcloth. “We did get a couple of pieces and I used to show them all the time. We paid some pretty good money for them too. But then I started thinking that we’d never get them out of here. And where did they come from, anyway? They look so good they ought to be in a museum, so why aren’t they? I called Tobey about it and he said they came from some excavators in the Yucatan and they could sell things to dealers if they were very close to other pieces the museums already had. I guess that makes sense, but I had them put in secure storage anyway. We don’t take them out anymore. Now with him dead I feel even funnier than I did before.”

  “I think you did the right thing, Clare,” Sally said, nodding.

  “You didn’t keep any pictures of them, did you?” I asked.

  “Of course. I like to look at them now and then, and it’s possible the insurance people might want to see them at some point. You can’t ever forget that. I can’t, anyway. I’ll get them.”

  “Maybe you’d like to see some of the things I’ve been doing, Paul, when you and Clare are done here?”

  “I’d like that. You do water color, don’t you?”

  “Only water color. I can’t stand the smell of oils, and acrylics irritate my eyes.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s possible to be too sensitive, I guess.” I tried to keep my voice free of irony.

  Clare returned with eight photographs, showing a one-quarter view of each piece. One was a cylinder vessel with a lid, three footed. Traces of multicolor glaze remained and the handle in the center of the lid was formed to resemble a human head. The other was nearly a cylinder that tapered in toward the top before flaring slightly outward. It lacked a lid and was deeply incised with figures I couldn’t identify from the photos. I couldn’t be certain they matched Ramon’s work without holding them in my hands, but it was possible.

  “Do you remember when you bought these?”

  “A little more than three years ago. Both at the same time. It was kind of uncharacteristic of me.”

  I handed the photos back to him. “I’ve been trying to get a feel for his business, and seeing these things helps a lot. Were you a friend of Tobey’s?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. We saw him around here and there. I first met him after a seminar he gave at the English Library. We talked for a while afterward. It got me kind of intrigued. He spoke with great authority about the design aspects, but he also stressed potential investment value. But I’m not sure now how I’d sell them if I decided to.” He scratched his head at the edge of his hairline. I could see he didn’t have much to add and I got up. “I really appreciate your taking time to talk with me about this,” I said.

  Sally was on me like a small dog. “Let’s just take a peek down in my studio, OK?”

  I was about to become an art critic.

  Chapter 17

  Diego Delgado

  Uncharacteristically, Licenciado Delgado had mostly forgotten about the murders of Tobey Cross and Ramon Xoc in the excitement of his new career move. He had other priorities. What was called for, he decided, was a new level of professionalism, so he retrieved the packaging material from the Calle Independencia 132 office in Dolores Hidalgo. It was too amateurish, as well as too risky, to be hauling around the 11 ceramic pieces wrapped in blankets. It made Delgado feel like a small time fence. If he was going to be dealing with the highest level of collectors, he needed to polish his presentation. When the ceramics were repacked in their original containers, with the name of Ramon Xoc covered by black magic marker, they would not all fit in the trunk of his police Chrysler so three of them rode in the back seat.

  After their first phone conversation he waited an entire day for Perry Watt to get back to him and then Watt had insisted he quote a firm price for the entire lot before agreeing to a meeting. Delgado had tried to prepare for this and, with his stomach churning, he said, “One million pesos.” (About $90,000.) This was an enormous amount of money and he had no idea if it was even in the ballpark, but he could always negotiate. He went over in his mind the things he could buy with the money. One possibility was a new house on a nice property in Atotonilco. Or he could bank some of it and get a new Chevy Suburban with darkened windows to replace his aging Nissan. It was not at all unusual for police officials to drive new cars.

  They had set the meeting for eight o’clock in the Jardin Botanico, after dark, the area that contains one of the two reservoirs for San Miguel’s water system, surrounded by hundreds of acres of hiking trails. It’s official name is not always used, and many of the locals refer to it as the Charco, for Charco del Ingenio, the Devil’s
water hole. At one end is a high dam of about 15 meters, which often has some run-off coming over the center, even out of season. The park was easy to find, would distance their cars from the main road, and there would be no one around at that hour. Delgado had no idea, of course, that it was on this same road coming toward the parking lot that Ramon Xoc had been murdered.

  Diego Delgado was no stranger to tense situations, and he prided himself on his ability to remain cool in the face of any threat. It was only the enormous amount of money at stake that had briefly rattled him. Fencing stolen Mayan ceramics was out of his normal range, but after all, what could go wrong? He didn’t think that Perry Watt would turn whistle-blower. Why would he wish to alienate the local police, who could easily make life difficult for him, rich as he was? The worst thing that could happen was that he and Perry Watt would fail to agree on the price. Then Delgado would return home with the ceramics and think about who to approach next. There were many other potential customers on the list from Tobey Cross’s computer. He would, of course, stay away from John Schleicher.

  He had borrowed one of the street cops’ small police pickups that had been sidelined for routine service, and drove it home after his shift. As dusk came on about 6:45, he loaded the back of the pickup with the 11 packages and pulled a tarp over them. When the evening deepened into darkness, clouds covered the moon. It would be a good night to do business.

  At twenty minutes to eight Delgado checked his penlight and pulled away from his house. He came down Ancha de San Antonio toward centro, where he picked up Tecolote going steeply up the hill to Cuesta de San Jose. He passed within 200 meters of Perry Watt’s house. Even going out of town like this, the road was still cobblestone, but Licenciado Delgado’s ears had tuned out the noise years before.

  He was now on the plateau above San Miguel, about a half a mile from the entrance to the Charco. In his rear view mirror he could see headlights in the distance. Hopefully that would be Perry Watt. He took the left turn onto Paloma slowly, knowing that although there were no more speed bumps at 50 meter intervals, the road itself was worse than primitive. No sense jostling a million pesos worth of antiques.

  At the end of the parking lot a night light illuminated the gate, which had been locked at six. The gate house and gift shop were both dark. The fence going both ways from the gate was cactus, upright and thick, like a file of spiny soldiers ranked shoulder to shoulder. Delgado routinely checked the layout of any place he worked, looking for ways his prey might escape. Tonight he saw just one; a small void in the cactus next to a recently installed electric meter. Not that Perry Watt would want to escape from the best deal he’d ever been offered.

  Far down Paloma, toward the point where the houses ended and it became a dirt track coming into the Jardin Botanico, Delgado saw the headlights moving toward him. When the lights reached the circular track into the parking lot he could see it was Perry Watt’s silver Mercedes. Here we go, he thought, and felt his pulse rate inching up. Instead of slowing to park beside him, however, the Mercedes accelerated as it passed the police pickup and sped back out of the circular lot. Suddenly, as Delgado watched the Mercedes leave, a pair of high beams came on from an approaching vehicle and flooded him with blinding light as a black Suburban, typical of the federales, screeched to a halt directly behind the pickup. By the time it stopped he was already out the door and running toward the cactus fence.

  Diego Delgado did not need to stop and think about his next move. Keeping within the shadow of his pickup he dove head first through the void in the cactus next to the electric meter. He had folded his arms and raised them to his face, but the spines still raked his forehead and his scalp. His right shoulder landed hard on the pathway as he heard the doors of the Suburban slam. He was instantly on his feet, trying to remember how the grounds were laid out. He recalled from a visit of eight or nine years back that numerous paths crisscrossed the preserve, framing clumps of cactus and agave, lethal with spikes. It was too dark to see anything, and one misstep could result in blindness if his eyes were perforated by the clusters of thorns. He had the small penlight in his pocket but he didn’t dare to turn it on because it might reveal his location.

  Up the hill behind him at the fence, the two federal officers, somewhat less desperate than Delgado, were stalled trying to find a more dignified way to get through the cactus. As Delgado inched forward his foot touched a stick that, when he picked it up, turned out to be about a meter and a half long. This would be his white cane. He began to move faster, holding the stick before him, seething with anger at the betrayal by Perry Watt. He would find a way to make him pay for this. The sounds behind him receded as he distanced himself from the fence; they were not through it yet.

  He kept moving downward toward the reservoir; he could tell that he was still on a path from the bare dirt beneath his feet. There was a crash above him at the fence and flashlights appeared up the hill. Then there was a pause and the two flashlights moved apart.

  After a while Licenciado Delgado could smell water and hear the gentle lapping of the reservoir. He tried hard to recall the configuration of the dam. He remembered it was possible to walk out along the top edge, but he couldn’t recall whether he could get all the way across. Last time he had visited the Charco, a large rusted steel pipe had rested with one end at the opposite end of the dam, the far end pointing downward into the gorge and the near end just above a projection where the slope back up to the plateau was gentler. This was the remnant of an old spillway system that hadn’t been in use for many years. If he could cross the dam without being seen, he could crawl through the pipe and drop to the ground and freedom.

  One of the flashlights was approaching closer; the other had gone off toward the far end of the reservoir.

  Delgado located the end of the dam by the sound of water lapping against it, and felt concrete beneath his feet. There was a rail on the drop-off side and he moved along the dam until the concrete stopped. Sticking out his right foot he determined that the surface only dropped about ten centimeters, but had the additional complication of about three centimeters of water flowing over it. Fortunately there was a chain at hand height supported by uprights, but the concrete under his shoes was slick and covered with a growth of moss that made the footing treacherous. As he moved over it, water flowed over his shoes. The chill moved into his ankles and up his legs.

  The flashlight was approaching the edge of the dam now, and he was faced with a difficult choice. He could attempt to outrun the federal officer, and risk being shot, or he could allow himself to slide over the edge and hang on to one of the uprights that supported the chain. If he went over and lost his grip, he would be smashed on the rocks at the bottom of the dam. But if he could hold on, and keep his hands below the water line, he would not be seen because of the lip at the edge of the overflow. His body would hang between the falling water and the wall of the dam itself.

  He sat at the watery edge, gripped the steel upright with both hands, and allowed himself to slide over. Diego Delgado was a strong man, and his years on the streets had put him in many physically demanding situations. When he became a detective he still worked out regularly, so hanging from his hands was not a grave risk as long as long as the post held. After two or three minutes he could see through the water the flashlight playing along the dam. He waited a while after it passed and then pulled himself high enough over the edge to look around. The flashlight now moved away from him along the edge of the reservoir. He pulled himself into a sitting position on the top of the dam and then continued his flight. In another ten meters the overflow portion of the dam ended and he emerged onto the wider concrete walkway.

  The next part was chancy. He was approaching the old pipe, but he would soon have to use his penlight to see just how far it was from the dam. He quickly moved toward the far end, and using his body to shield the penlight from the others, he located the pipe against the wall of the canyon. It opened almost at the edge of the concrete. He was surprised that it was mo
re than two meters in diameter, larger than he remembered, but he had never been this close to it before. In the dim light he could see a bar welded across the center of the interior, and dimmer yet, another bar about two meters further in, set at a right angle to the first. His light reached no further, but there were probably more at the same interval beyond.

  Delgado leaped lightly across the empty space and landed just inside the pipe. He almost whistled with relief.

  What he had not seen, because the penlight did not reach that far in front of him, was that the section of pipe he was now entering was no longer a continuous run perhaps a hundred meters long, but a much smaller section of twenty-five meters that had broken away some time ago. This shorter piece now rested with support at its approximate center from a narrow rock formation thrusting out into the gorge, and at the dam end, on a concrete abutment which helped to tie the dam into the rock wall.

  The steel walls of the pipe had once been about a centimeter thick, with each six meter section bolted with a collar to the one next to it. Decades of rusting had left the steel layered and spongy, and as he worked his way through the pipe, the braces occasionally came loose in his hands and papery flakes of rust rained down on him. He was hoping there were no rusted-through places below his feet.

  About 15 meters along he unknowingly passed over the rock support near the center, and shortly after he heard the first groan. Perhaps it was only the wind. Three meters further there was a distinct movement in the pipe and a louder groan, accompanied by a scraping sound. He went on more slowly, telling himself that it was, after all, not unnatural that the pipe might shift a bit after so many years, the main thing was to get to the other end and drop to the ground before it moved too much. One meter more and the floor of the pipe suddenly dropped away beneath him, then stopped. His feet came down hard on the rusted metal, which made him feel queasy, but it held.