Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (10 page)

We walked toward the double doors. I stepped out into the hall. “I can see that I've had the good fortune to visit at a very special time. People are already starting to arrive at La Mariposa. Who is that heavyset blond man, about forty-five? He has the most piercing blue eyes. And his arms, they're so muscular. There's an eagle tattooed on one arm.”

Susana pulled the heavy door shut. She shook her head absently. “That doesn't sound like any of the guests. There's Jolene and Wiley Harrison from Abilene. She's as skinny as a wraith and he's tall and almost as thin and he walks with his head jutting out like a giraffe. Cara Kendall is so blond she reminds you of Jean Harlow in the old movies. She always wears designer clothes and she flaunts even more jewels than Isabel. Bud Morgan from Chicago is bald and fat, but he's reputed to be worth more than thirty-five million dollars. Joshua Chandler wears thick glasses and looks like a college professor but he's a professional golfer from Scottsdale, Arizona. Kenny King has red hair in a ponytail. He's in the movie business. Let me see,” she counted them off on her fingers, “the Harrisons, Cara Kendall, Bud Morgan, Joshua Chandler, and Kenny King. That's it. You'll find them so interesting. They are all extremely rich.” Her tone was touched by awe.

“That's nice,” I said dryly. I glanced at my watch. It was almost four. “Susana, thanks for being such
good company. I'll tell Maria Elena how much I enjoyed visiting with you.” I gestured toward the circular staircase. “I believe I'll go up that way. I'm still in time for tea.” I'd noticed an announcement on a card in my room, announcing tea every weekday afternoon from three to five in the main lobby. And I could try and find Rick.

Susana's lips curved into an odd smile, part smirk, part grimace. “Oh yes, tea with Isabel. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. She'll tell you all about herself. It will be such a treat.” She looked past me. “Hello, Frank. I was just telling Mrs. Collins how much she'll enjoy tea with Isabel.”

Frank Garza bustled across the hall. “Hello, Susana, Mrs. Collins.” He gave me a diffident smile. “Looking us over from top to bottom? I'm a little prejudiced but I don't think you'll find a finer store in Texas.” He reached the double doors to the shipping area, punched the code. “Susana, I've looked everywhere for those chrome easels for the auction. I thought we kept them in the supply closet.”

Susana frowned. “Not in the closet, Frank. I'll show you—” She nodded toward me. “Enjoy your tea, Mrs. Collins.”

I took the circular staircase, holding carefully to the handrail. But once inside La Mariposa, I went straight to the door leading to Maria Elena's quarters.

A tiny elderly woman in a starched high-necked white blouse and long ruffled skirt opened the door.

“Hello, I'm Henrie Collins. I visited with Maria Elena earlier today,” I said cheerfully. “I understand her grandson, Rick, is with her and I've come to join them.” I'd learned long ago that a positive approach can get you a long way.

She smiled in return. “Mr. Rick has already left and
Maria Elena isn't home. I will tell her she missed you.”

The door closed and I turned away. I felt a stab of worry. Damn Rick. I was sure he'd left quickly to avoid seeing me. But I wasn't going to give up this easily. I hurried to the main lobby.

The young man behind the desk turned. I almost called out for Rick, then, seeing the broad smile and stockier build, knew it was Tom Garza. The cousins' resemblance was almost startling. But I'd never seen Rick smile. Certainly not at me.

“Hi, Mrs. Collins. Did you have a good time on the River Walk?”

“It was interesting.” I managed not to sound as grim as I felt. I no longer suspected him of writing the note that had taken me to that ugly encounter. Was Tom aware of the odd game being played by Rick and Iris? But it didn't matter at this point. In fact, if he was, I wouldn't mind worrying him a little, and I had to get in touch with Rick. “Tom, can you help me find Rick?”

“Sure.” His manner didn't change. He was cheerful and obliging, but a half dozen phone calls later, he shrugged. “Not at the store. Not home. Not at our cousin Serena's. Not at his favorite Starbucks. Do you want to leave a message on his home phone?”

He dialed and I held out my hand for the phone. “Rick, this is Henrietta Collins. I have some information that I know”—I emphasized the verb—“will be of extreme interest to you. Please contact me immediately.” I put the phone down.

Tom's eyes were curious. “Anything I can help you with, Mrs. Collins?”

“No. No, but thanks, Tom.”

When I turned away, I looked across the lobby. Is
abel sat at a tea table. She smiled and gestured for me to join her. Two other women sipped from fine china cups.

After an instant's hesitation, I crossed the lobby to join them. It seemed highly inappropriate to stop for tea when I needed to find a stubborn young man who might be in deadly danger. But I'd done all I could do for the moment to warn Rick Reyes. And maybe if I kept rooting around the Garza family, I'd figure out the connection between Tesoros and the blond man with a knife.

Isabel had changed from the fawn-colored jumpsuit. She wore a fuchsia jacket over a white silk dress with miniature maritime flags in bright gold, navy, and green. Rubies glittered in a gold pin on the lapel, matching ruby and gold earrings. The hands poised over the tea table glistened with gold and bright stones.

“Mrs. Collins. Come and meet two delightful guests.” She was as satisfied as a cat sunning on a cushion.

I slipped onto a brocaded chair, accepted a cup of steaming tea.

A dark, witchlike woman with intense black eyes, a hooked nose, and a tiny mouth flashed a cheery smile. “Jolene Harrison.” Her voice was incongruously deep and reminded me of sea lions barking for fish.

“Henrie Collins.” And I looked to my right at a Dresden-china blonde with cold sea-green eyes and smooth red lips in a face devoid of lines. Except, of course, for tiny telltale marks at the base of the jaw.

“Cara Kendall.” Her voice was languid, her glance indifferent.

“Sandwiches, Mrs. Collins? Or scones?” Isabel moved the three-tiered dish nearer to me.

Jolene Harrison barked, “Best scones I've had in
years. Can't say too many nice things about this place. Now, Isabel, tell me more about the gold necklaces.” She smiled at me and confided in that foghorn voice, “I really love gold. Don't you, Cara?”

I took a scone, added a dollop of raspberry jam.

“Sometimes.” Cara Kendall stared dreamily into her tea. “But it has to be very, very special.”

I stirred some sugar in my tea. “What do you collect, Mrs. Kendall?”

“This and that.” She spoke lazily, just this side of overtly rude. She looked past me as if there might possibly be something of interest in the room if she simply persevered.

I like a challenge. “Oh, Mrs. Kendall. I believe I've heard of you. You're quite renowned as a collector.”

For an instant, a tiny spike of interest glinted in those eyes shiny as polished jade. “And who told you that?”

I wanted to break through that shell of indifference. “A man I spoke with in the store. This afternoon. I suppose he's here for the auction.” I smiled agreeably. “I don't know his name, but he's very blond and stocky, and he has especially noticeable blue eyes.”

I kept on smiling and looked at each in turn: self-absorbed Isabel, gold-loving Jolene, indifferent Cara. Apparently, not one of them gave a damn about a stocky blond man.

I finished my tea amid Jolene's rhapsodic descriptions of the polished gold disks called espejitos, or little mirrors, and Cara's absorption in the delicate cakes and excused myself. Cara's green eyes passed over me without interest. Jolene, assuming I was a co-attendee of the auction, said huskily, “Well, we all just have to be patient until Wednesday afternoon. You know why they let us have a preview, don't you?” She
looked at me with an urchin's street-wise grin.

I don't mind being the straight man. “No, Mrs. Harrison. Why do they have a preview?”

She had a huge laugh. If I hadn't been looking at her, I'd have searched the room for a hungry sea lion. Her eyes glittered with delight. “So we can lust for a day before we get to bid! More fun than chemin de fer at Monte Carlo.”

“It should be exciting. I'm certainly looking forward to the auction.” I put down my cup, the tea half-drunk. “Thanks so much for the tea, Isabel.” As I stood, I felt totally thwarted. I'd not found Rick. I'd learned nothing helpful from tea. And I realized as I pushed through the door into the hallway and walked by the doors with their magnificent butterflies that I'd managed to become a co-conspirator with Rick and Iris—and I didn't even know what the conspiracy involved. I considered that unsettling conclusion all the way down the hall. But I felt certain Rick cared about his grandmother and I thought he cared about Iris. I was willing to give him a chance to explain. Besides, I didn't see any other options. I'd gone to the police after the encounter with the angry blond man. I'd tried to talk with Rick when I returned to Tesoros. Later I'd tried to catch Rick with Maria Elena and failed. As for Maria Elena, talking to her wouldn't make Iris any safer. Only Rick could do that. So I had to play his game.

I had my key in my hand. I was reaching out to unlock the door when I stopped and stared. The door was ajar.

T
HE door to my room slowly swung in.

I moved back, fumbling with my purse. I clutched the cell phone, not that it had availed me much on the River Walk. I'd throw it…

A muscular arm held the door open.

I lifted my hand, ready to throw the instant a face came into view.

Dark hair, neat goatee. Rick Reyes stepped to the threshold, peered up and down the hall, and gestured urgently for me to come in. “Hurry, please, before anyone comes.”

When I stepped inside and closed the door, I leaned against it, waiting for my heart to stop thudding.

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he said contritely. He wasn't as large as his uncle Tony, but he definitely took up most of the extra space between the bed and the wardrobe.

I didn't bother to answer. I was looking around the room. I'd not brought much with me, a small suitcase with clothes and toiletries for a few days, so there wasn't much to strew about. But my few belongings had been tossed onto the floor, the bed, the white wicker chair by the small table. The pillows were flung into a corner, the comforter and sheets piled by the
bathroom door, the mattress hung askew from the box springs, the dust ruffle was hiked up. The doors to the wardrobe stood open.

“I didn't do it, Mrs. Collins.” Rick's large dark eyes watched me anxiously, like a spaniel near a chewed-up shoe.

“I didn't think you did.” I folded my arms. “Rick, did you leave the note asking me to go to the River Walk near King William?”

He rubbed at his goatee, looked at me uncertainly. I think he'd told so many lies since last Thursday that he was still wary of telling the truth.

“It had to be you.” I answered for him. “Because you're the only one who knows where Iris is.” I paused and added softly, “I hope to God.”

He plowed a hand through his curly hair. “Yeah. Well, we figured if you saw Iris, you'd tell her grandmother she was okay. But we knew you'd have to see her and be sure she wasn't in any danger—”

“No danger!” I exploded. “How about the man who damn near grabbed her? I tell you, Rick, if he'd gotten his hands on Iris, he would have hurt her.”

“I didn't figure on that.” His voice was husky. “God, I would never have told her to go if I'd had any idea that would happen. See, the guy had to be following you. That's where we went wrong.”

“Who is he, Rick? Who told him I was here to look for Iris?”

“If I knew that,” he said somberly, “I'd know—” He broke off, looked away from me.

“Rick, you've got to tell me what's going on. You are in danger. Iris is in danger.” And I didn't feel especially safe myself. “The man wants his stuff. Whatever it is.”

Just for an instant, a lopsided grin gave me a
glimpse of a likable Rick. “Hasn't found it, has he?” he said cheerfully.

“Rick, I want you to listen, and listen hard.” I spoke quickly and my voice was harsh. “After Iris skated away, the blond man grabbed me”—I held out my arm and now the splotches were purplish—“he said you and Iris have twenty-four hours to get ‘it' back.” Rick started to speak, but I kept on, “No, let me finish.” I held his gaze and enunciated clearly, “He said he has a knife and he's going to use it—on you.”

Rick's eyes widened. Just for an instant, he looked young and scared, then his chin jutted. “He has to find me first. And believe me, I'm looking around wherever I go. I'm not going to walk down any dark streets by myself.”

“What about Iris?” I wished I could take him by the shoulders and shake him. “Where is she? What if he finds her, like he did earlier today?”

“He doesn't have a clue.” Rick sounded confident now. “He found her because he was following you. But she got away—”

“She's not far from Tesoros.” I watched him closely.

He stared at me. “How do you—”

I was impatient. “Look, Rick, don't count on that guy being a fool. Anybody can figure it. She doesn't have a car. Her car's in the parking lot of her apartment. She came on skates. She headed toward town when she got away.”

“Yeah, well,” he blustered, “that doesn't mean anything. She could have got a bus or a cab when she got to town.”

“She could have. She didn't. He may be closing in on her right now. Think about it,” I demanded.

“No.” His assurance came back. He swept his arm
around my room. “No, you're the one he was following. He doesn't know where she is or he wouldn't have torn everything apart here. Iris is okay. And tomorrow—” He broke off.

“What happens tomorrow?” I eased past him, gestured toward the tilted mattress. “Shove it back and sit down. You've got a lot to tell me.”

He flipped down the dust ruffle, and, in one smooth movement, slid the mattress back in place. He bent over, grabbed the bottom sheet. I stepped to the opposite side and smoothed the fitted sheet in place. In a moment, the bed was made.

“We make a pretty good team, Rick. Maybe this can set a precedent.” I sat in the wicker chair. “What did Iris find?”

He grabbed the poster of the headboard and looked at me unhappily. “I can't tell you. Look, Mrs. Collins, I know you think this is crazy—but you've met Maria Elena”—his dark eyes were full of anguish—“don't you see how wonderful she is?”

“Yes,” I said gently, “Maria Elena is remarkable.”

He flung away from the bed and loomed over me. “More than that. Better than that. She's good and kind and honorable. She lives with honor. Do you know what it would do to her if Tesoros were involved in”—he paused, picked his words—“something dishonest? It would break her heart.” He took a ragged breath. “It could kill her.”

I almost told him that old women are more durable than he realized. But I understood what he was saying. To people who value honesty, nothing could be worse than to be accused of dishonesty. It might not kill Maria Elena, but it would shrivel her soul.

I spent my life as a reporter. I did my best. Perhaps nothing could matter as much to me as an accusation
of writing lies or distortions. Yes, I have made mistakes in fact, errors in judgment, sometimes failed to understand. But never, never, never did I write a deliberate untruth.

“So Iris found something in the wardrobe that shouldn't have been there.” It was what I had guessed. “She brought it to you. You took Iris and the package—about the size of an attaché case?”

Alarm flickered in his eyes.

“The search of her apartment was for something of that size,” I explained absently. “Anyway, you have Iris and the package hidden somewhere. What happens tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, we'll give the stuff to someone who can see that it goes to the right place.”

“I foresee a small problem,” I said quietly. “No matter what you do with the package, the blond man is going to keep after you. He seems to feel strongly that he has a right—”

“To hell with him. He can't do a damn thing when the stuff is gone.” His voice was bullish, but his eyes were uncertain.

“Except slice you and Iris up with his knife.” Ugly words, uglier possibility. “And how will he know that you and Iris no longer have what he wants?”

“I'll get the word out.” He spoke with grim deliberation, almost as if to himself, not to me. He still leaned toward me and his oblong, interesting face was hard and unyielding.

But I heard and I understood far more than he intended. “To everyone at Tesoros who has access to the receiving room?”

His dark eyes snapped toward me.

I ticked them off on one hand. “Tony. Susana. Celestina. Frank. Isabel.”

“Yeah.” It was a sudden angry spurt. “It has to be one of them. I can't figure it any other way.”

“A partnership with our blond friend.” I made it a statement. “Someone in the family making some kind of dishonest deal that would tarnish the store, is that what you figure? Is it tied up with the auction?”

His handsome face creased with worry and uncertainty and a tired anger. “Look, Mrs. Collins, let it go. Okay? I promise, Iris is safe. Tomorrow it will be over with. All I want to do is protect Maria Elena.” He crouched in front of me, big and earnest and hopeful, still so young, full of pride and love. “I won't let anything happen to Iris. I”—he took a deep breath “—I love Iris.”

He was foolish and rash, naive and courageous, well-meaning and impetuous, and I knew nothing I would say could sway him.

He reached out, clasped my hands, squeezed them hard. “It will be okay. I promise.” And he was on his feet and at the door.

I stood, reached out a hand, let it fall. The door closed behind him. I wished it hadn't sounded eerily like the click of a closing coffin.

 

I slept restlessly. In one particularly unpleasant dream, I was running, running, running, but no matter how I twisted and turned, spotlights found me and I was pinpointed, exposed for any follower to see in a hard white glare. It didn't take a guru of the subconscious to interpret the feeling of insecurity engendered by the search of my room. I woke up the second time and struggled to my feet to check the straight chair wedged beneath the knob. It was in place.

I'd just settled back in bed, eyes firmly closed, determinedly recalling the lighter-than-air sensation of
dancing a Strauss waltz with a wonderful partner when the first siren pealed.

There are some lonely sounds in the world—the faraway whistle of a train as the wheels rumble good-bye, good-bye, good-bye; a dog's forlorn howl when clouds cover the moon; the crackle of ice-laden branches in a winter wind. Those sounds pierce all our defenses if they come in the depths of night when the soul is tired and eyes see dimly. The loneliest sound of all is a siren. Sirens always herald disaster.

One siren. Two. Another. A dissonant chorus rising and falling, warning, wailing.

I flung away the light cover. I didn't turn on the light, but groped my way to the balcony door. I unlocked it and stepped out. The gentle breeze was mild, rustling the glossy magnolia leaves of branches that spread not too far from me. Moonlight spangled the dark water.

More sirens. Shouts. Calls. I strained to see. Although lamps illuminated patches below, most of the River Walk was in darkness. The cafés were closed. I knew it must be very late. The sounds came from around the bend, then I saw spotlights playing on the sides of an apartment building.

A stentorian voice, amplified by a megaphone, intoned: “Stay calm. If your door is hot, go to your balcony and await instruction. If your door is cool, proceed to your nearest fire stairs and exit the building. Firemen are presently extinguishing a blaze which appears to be confined to the basement. Stay calm. If…”

I covered my first fire for the
Houston Post
. I was a young reporter, not long out of J School, no seniority, so I was working the Christmas shift and that's when a five-alarm fire broke out. I got my first Page One byline. I remembered jumping over snarled hoses
and watching glass explode from the force of flames within and scribbling frantic notes and ignoring the burn of tears and rush of nausea as a wall collapsed on a crew. The memories ran like a subterranean river as I looked toward the lights flickering on shiny glass. But tonight there were no billows of gray smoke against the starry sky, no acrid smell biting into my throat and lungs and the breeze was coming my way, ruffling my hair, stirring the begonias in the pot—

I gripped the iron railing, leaned forward. This balcony afforded a good view of the stone stairs that led down to the River Walk from La Mariposa. A lamppost shed a golden pool of radiance just past the steps. Movement caught my eye even though I was watching the lights around the bend. I jerked my eyes back to the scene just below me and recognized Rick's tall, familiar figure, running hard. Then he was gone, pounding around the curve of the River Walk, heading for the site of the fire. Where had he come from? Tesoros or La Mariposa? And what was he doing at either at this time of night?

I was pulling off my T-shirt and shorts, discarding it as I whirled into my room. I found a blouse and slacks, slipped into tennis shoes, and was on my way downstairs, my key in my pocket, my travel flash in my hand.

I took the exit to the River Walk stairs and hurried down. I walked fast past Tesoros and a café and an empty stretch beneath a bridge. When I came around the bend, I saw across the river a milling crowd of tousled people scantily dressed in whatever they'd found to pull on hurriedly. A cordon of police kept the crowd back from the building. Firemen lugged hoses, mounted ladders, moved in orderly haste. The calm voice over the megaphone continued its exhor
tations. People streamed from a stairway, pouring out onto the sidewalk. I hurried up the wide stone steps to a footbridge. I stopped midway across the river and looked down, scanning the surging, nervous crowd.

From my overlook, I saw them at the same time, Rick pushing his way toward the apartment house, struggling against the crowd, and Iris stumbling out from beneath the bridge, trying to shrug free of a tangled mass of cloth.

“Help, help, please, help me.” Iris's frantic voice cut above the melee of sounds. Or perhaps I heard because I was listening and Rick heard because it was the voice which mattered above all others to him.

By the time I clattered down the stone steps to the River Walk, she was in his arms, clinging to him and sobbing. Her words were choked, her tone stricken. “They're gone. Oh, God, Rick, I'm so sorry, they're gone. I tried my best, but he got—”

Rick saw me and clapped his hand firmly over her mouth. “Hush, Iris, hush. Mrs. Collins is here.” His tone was sharp. Then his fingers slipped up to smooth a tangle of hair away from her flushed face. “Are you all right? What happened?”

She pulled away from him, stared at me. Tears streaked her face, her soft young lips trembled, then tears flooded her eyes and she turned again to cling to him. “I'm so sorry, Rick.”