Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (16 page)

“Here's his little office.” She stood aside for me to look into a pine-paneled room that had obviously been added to the back of the house.

I would have loved to go through the green filing cabinets, though I doubted there was a folder tabbed “Stolen Gold.” Another fern graced the top of the cabinet. The desk was bare except for the hand tooled leather pad and a fishbowl. Two goldfish darted excitedly.

“Oh, yes, I'd better feed Spenser and Hawk.” She pulled out the shallow desk drawer and picked out a shaker of fish food.

Maybe that's when my distasteful recollection of a whisky-breathed man trembling with anger and a shrunken bloodied corpse was overlaid by another picture, that of a cultivated lonely man who drank too much but loved his cat, sought structure and order and beauty in his surroundings and harbored a hunger for gallantry and romance.

She slid the cover shut on the fish food, replaced the container in the drawer. “I don't see anything like that necklace you wanted.”

I shook my head regretfully and walked toward the hallway. “I guess he didn't have a chance to get it. Or who knows,” I said brightly, “perhaps he'd already mailed it to me and I'll find it when I get home.” On the front porch, I waited as she shut the door, locked it.

When we reached the sidewalk, I opened my purse. “Mrs. Jackson, Ed told me he had a friend who also dealt in jewelry. Now I can't remember who he said. Do you know any of these faces?”

She squinted at the newspaper clip of the Garza
family. “Can't say that I do. But I didn't know Ed's friends.” Her eyes dropped to the ground. “He went out a lot but when he came home with company it was usually late at night.”

I put the sheet back in my purse, pulled a twenty-dollar bill from a side pocket. I smiled at her. “I like cats a lot, Mrs. Jackson. Please use this to help take care of Sammie.”

For an instant, she hesitated. But I wasn't offering her money. It was for Sammie. Her wrinkled face shone. “Thank you, ma'am.”

As I walked away, she called out. “I'm sorry about your necklace.”

I wasn't. It had turned out to be a damn fine piece of work.

 

I checked my second address. Across the street. The distance was short but the contrast dramatic. I climbed the steps to an almost identical bungalow, but there were no ferns here. Instead, broken pieces of shingles littered the porch, the raffia mat in front of the door was scuffed with mud, and a dog barked ferociously when I pushed the doorbell.

Old venetian blinds, some of the slats missing, masked the windows. A thud against the inside of the door suggested Rover was big, irritable, and would be pleased to imprint his canines on my throat.

I rang several more times, but apparently Rollo Barrett was not at home. If he held a nine-to-five job, that figured. I glanced at my watch. Shortly after noon. So I couldn't ask Mr. Barrett about the neighbor he obviously didn't like and why he didn't like him. I doubted it had to do with big bad Sammie. These flowerbeds hadn't been cultivated in years.

I skirted a broken-down pickup leaning on a bare
axle, and stepped into a beautifully kept yard with a magnificent magnolia as its centerpiece. As I neared the steps of a freshly painted white frame house with bright green shutters, the front door opened.

Perhaps nothing tells you more about a man or woman than how they dress. Dress reveals class, attitude, status, mood, and temperament.

At a glance, I knew the man on the porch loved fine clothing, resisted change, and took pride in himself. The embroidered soft cotton shirt had been washed many times, but each ruffle was painstaking ironed. His gray worsted-wool trousers, unpleated, were worn but the crease was perfect. The heavy belt buckle, a ram's head, glistened like a tea-shop pitcher. His moccasin-style loafers had the supple softness of old leather, lovingly polished. Gnarled hands gripped the silver knob of a thick black cane. He wore his silvery hair long, held back with a turquoise-beaded thong. But it was his eyes that held fascination and power, coal-dark eyes in a face made interesting because it was slightly off center, the left eyebrow lifted into the domed forehead, the jutting high-bridged nose with a lumpy middle, the thin mouth so long tilted in a quizzical moue that it never changed.

I reached the porch steps. “Mr. Worth?” Ed Schmidt had often traveled with his neighbor Julian Worth on art-seeking trips in Mexico.

“Yes. I'm Julian Worth.” He was frowning. “You went into Ed's house.” His voice was somber. Abruptly his dark eyes filmed with tears.

“I'm sorry.” And I was.

“We were old friends. Very old friends.” He stared at the now deserted house, struggling with the awful finality of death, knowing that Ed Schmidt would never again kneel beside a flowerbed and feel moist
dirt on his hands and the hot San Antonio sun on his back. Then he looked at me. “I don't know you.” Worth's voice was cold.

I didn't dare claim a friendship with Ed Schmidt. This man, this neighbor across the street, this fellow seeker of art treasures, knew that I was a stranger. But Worth's eyes had filled with tears…I took a chance.

“I'm trying to find out what happened to Ed Schmidt. I'm Henrie Collins, a friend of Maria Elena Garza's. You may know that Ed was found in front of Tesoros…” I broke off at his nod. No, I didn't need to explain Tesoros to a man who knew Mexican art. “There is a terrible possibility that the police may try and blame her handicapped son Manuel for Ed's murder. I'm trying to help Maria Elena discover what happened last night.”

I climbed the steps, stood beside him on the porch, smelled the after-aroma of a cigar and a faint touch of spicy cologne. “Will you tell me about Ed?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Why should I?”

“It is something you can do in his memory,” I said softly.

Finally, he nodded. “I haven't seen much of Ed for a long time now.” His mouth curled down. “He hasn't had any time for me the last few years.” He turned away, the cane jabbing against the wooden floor. He sat on a white wicker chair and glared across the street.

I took the chair on the other side of a garden table. “Why not?”

“Too busy. He just took what he wanted from me, learned enough about buying to do it on his own. As soon as he could manage by himself, he didn't go to Mexico with me anymore. But until then we had so many grand trips. Ed was always ready to try anything, go anywhere. Once—” he looked at me, eyes shining
with memory—“in Acapulco, he dived from the cliffs. Ed did. Oh, it was late at night and no one saw, no one except me.” Remembered awe lifted his voice. “I never knew anyone like Ed. He would do anything, try anything. But he was insatiable, always looking for more excitement, a greater thrill…” His hands gripped the cane, his face ridged. “But finally he was always too busy to see me and then”—he turned his head and his eyes bored into mine—“he lied to me. He deceived me. For money.” His mouth twisted in that wry, weary half-smile, half-grimace.

“So Ed liked money.” That did not surprise me. What was he willing to do for money? “And Ed liked to take chances. Did you know Ed was in Mexico a month ago? That's when someone broke into the National Anthropology Museum and—”

His heavy silver brows arched in surprise. “The gold!”

I wasn't surprised that he knew of the theft. Anyone who cared about Mexico's treasures would certainly know.

Suddenly the off-kilter face erupted into laughter, booming deep laughter. Finally, he clapped a stubby hand over his mouth, subsided finally into sporadic chuckles. “Damn him. By God, he would do it. Only Ed. God, I wish I'd been there.” He looked at me and broke into another peal of laughter. Finally, gasping for breath, he waggled a bony finger at me. “You should see your face. You despise Ed because he was a thief. But, by God, that's stealing on a grand scale, woman. And why not? That bloody gold has left dead in its wake since the first piece was created. Do you know why? Human beings are no goddamn good. There will always be the lust for riches. It doesn't purify gold to put it in a museum. Isn't it almost worse
to think of all the thousands of sheep mewing and stirring in front of the cases, awed by gold? Don't glorify art that's been touched by the devil. Why shouldn't Ed take advantage of lust?” He nodded, his sleek ponytail swinging. “Let some greedy fool have the stuff. Add another lost soul tied to that gold, like scalps to a tomahawk.” His right thumb rubbed the silver top of his cane as his excitement subsided, replaced by cold calculation. “If Ed took the gold, where is it now?” He didn't wait for me to answer. Obviously, I didn't know. “Gold. So that's why he died.” His dark eyes glowed with an unholy light. He stared at me, his eyes trying to pluck information. “Why have you come to me?”

“I want to know more about Ed.”

That long mouth twisted. “Ed?” His dark eyes were skeptical. “Or are you trying to find the gold?”

“When I find the gold,” I said it baldly, “we'll know who killed Ed.”

His silvery eyebrows bunched. “So Ed died in front of Tesoros.”

“Yes.” I decided not to be as reticent as Detective Borroel. Maybe if I told Julian Worth what I knew, he would help me. “That's where his body was found. But apparently he died inside Tesoros and someone pulled the body out of the store.”

“Inside Tesoros.” His eyes glinted. “Tesoros. Stolen gold. I see.” His voice pulsed with satisfaction. “The most respectable gallery of all, owned by the famous Maria Elena Garza. The great Garza family. Ed was no fool.” Worth used the cane to push himself to his feet. “That's the perfect way to dispose of the gold and make enough money to live like a king.”

I rose, ready to keep step with him. I didn't like his combative tone, the sudden aura of fervid excitement.
This man clearly knew Maria Elena and her children well. “Do you know which one of the Garzas might be Ed's partner?”

Julian Worth's lips drew back in a cold smile. “You're a smart woman. But then you'd have to be if you're on the track of the gold. That's definitely the question, isn't it? If Ed took the gold to Tesoros, it had to be to arrange a secret sale. Oh yes, very secret. And this is the week of Maria Elena's famous auction, with only the richest of the rich invited to attend.” He smiled.

It was as ugly a smile as I've ever seen, contemptuous and confident.

“One of them now has a treasure beyond price.” Worth's eyes glowed. “A treasure far beyond the works to be sold at the auction. Oh yes, Ed was clever, Ed and his partner. But only a member of the family could make this happen. Which one, which one?” It was almost a soft chant. His eyes looked through me, seeing other faces in my place. “I know them all. I should be able to guess.” He tapped his cane as he spoke each name. “Frank's a fool. Isabel loves riches. Tony's a gambler. Susana puts the store above everything. Magda's quick and smart. Celestina hates them all. Rick Reyes, he's an arrogant young ass. And that earnest young man who works at the hotel, Frank's son Tom. One of them. Which one?”

He turned away, the cane thumping on the porch.

“Mr. Worth…”

But he had no more time for me. The front door slammed.

I felt eerily unsettled. Sometimes as a reporter I'd ask a question that totally changed the course and complexion of an interview. Often the question was an afterthought. The sometimes astonishing results al
ways awed me. That was a simple example of the Law of Unintended Consequences. On a more complex level, sometimes a decision made carelessly and without thought has a profound impact on my life.

The Law of Unintended Consequences. I wondered if I'd just set that law in motion.

I
F I'd found Tesoros crowded in the morning, this afternoon it rivaled market day in a Mexican village. I wormed my way into the main showroom, noting the elongated faces that I attributed to the Garza family, likely more cousins, aunts, and uncles. Others I tabbed as friends and well-wishers, both Hispanic and Anglo. Celestina Garza hovered attentively near a covey of nuns. Voices rose in vigorous conversation, the sound magnified by the tile floor and plaster ceiling.

I paused near an elderly priest gazing in delight at a display of Oaxacan wood carvings. He picked up a winged horse with red and white splotches of polka dots, a black ruffled mane, and a streaming red-and-white tail. The lower half of the horse's upswept wings were decorated with blue and white lines of boxes, the upper in pink accented with thin white stripes. The decorations were so fluid, the wings seemed to undulate. A gray-and-black-striped cow peered earnestly at her calf, whose eager mouth was open to suckle. Black spots decorated an arched green cat with a pink-spotted muzzle and wide golden eyes circled in black. More wings lifted skyward from the backs of blue or pink angels. The nearest angel wore a pink robe, the
carving so skilled the skirt appeared to ripple. Tiny gold crescents streaked her wings; gold stars spattered her gown; gold glistened in her crown.

Of all Mexican folk art, I most enjoy Oaxacan wood carvings. Just to glimpse one of the carved figures makes me feel privileged to be human and thereby akin to an artist who sees such a vivid world with unlimited possibilities: flying green sheep, rabbits playing the drums, a frog reading a book, a gorilla family on an outing.

I gave another admiring look at the display as I eased past the priest. I sought a quiet refuge near the back wall and found myself once again near the mask collection, standing next to a Indian mask from Guerrero State. This mask was created for the dance of the seven vices and was eerily affecting—the skin a dusky orange, the eye sockets empty, the red mouth turned down, a hissing salamander running down one cheek and a black snake coiled on the other. Vices. I was looking for someone who had succumbed to vice.

I stood on tiptoe scanning the crowd. I wasn't surprised when I spotted Julian Worth, measurably taller than most in the room, distinctive with his silvery hair in its sleek ponytail. He, too, was gazing purposefully around the room.

Our eyes met. For an instant, his off-center face was stony, then he gave his derisive smile and made a courtly bow in my direction. I was under no illusion that he was pleased to see me. I felt the gesture was more on the order of a contemptuous challenge. We both knew he was here to contact the man—or woman—he suspected of having conspired with Ed Schmidt. Worth's goal? He wasn't a Knight Templar seeking justice. I suspected his aim was much simpler and seedier. Worth wanted a piece of the action.

He headed straight for Celestina Garza, still talking to a tall, thin nun with bright blue eyes.

Celestina Garza! I felt a surge of astonishment. She looked smaller than ever facing the tall nun. Could that petite woman have battered a man to death? I pictured Ed Schmidt and Celestina Garza. I might have difficulty perceiving tight-featured Celestina as a conspirator in a daring and imaginative robbery, but I could easily imagine Ed Schmidt and Celestina Garza quarreling. She was born to argue and certainly he had downed enough whiskey to make him quarrelsome and quite possibly abusive. Celestina was small, but if Schmidt had been walking away from her, had not seen her grab up the heavy pottery bank, if she had attacked with sufficient force and utter determination, if he fell and she moved swiftly to strike and strike and strike…yes, Celestina Garza could have killed Schmidt. Would she? Jealousy had corroded her spirit, made her spiteful and envious. She wanted desperately to win her mother's approval, gain appreciation for her efforts at Tesoros. Had years of perceived neglect twisted her love for Tesoros into disdain? But what would Celestina do with an illicit hoard of money? Surely she didn't hope to escape from San Antonio and create a new life on some exotic South Sea isle. Perhaps there was no particular plan. There are some to whom the mere possession of wealth, even if hidden, provides a sinister pleasure.

A tall man stopped beside me, cocked his head to look at a winking diablo mask with rubber ears and horns and a gaping watermelon red mouth decorated with goat teeth and a split tongue.

I slipped around him, in time to see Celestina's tiny features suffused with an ugly saffron flush.

Julian Worth bowed to her and stepped away, his eyes circling the room.

I realized as I skirted visiting groups, waited patiently for congestion to ease in the clogged aisles, that almost all of the family members were in the showroom. I passed by a clump of chattering old ladies with Maria Elena in their center. She was nodding, speaking quietly, reaching out to clasp seeking hands. Everyone was here in a surge of family support.

By the time I reached Celestina, I'd lost sight of Julian Worth.

“Hello, Celestina. This is quite a turnout, isn't it?” I looked around approvingly.

Her eyes still glittered with anger, but she smoothed out her face and managed a meaningless smile.

“It's lovely the way everyone's come to show their support for Maria Elena.” I spread my hand at the jammed room.

“The family.” There was no warmth in her colorless voice. “Of course they've all come. It's an even bigger draw than a funeral. Everybody wants to know what happened. And there are already whispers about Frank and Ed. People remember things. They show a sweet face to Mother, but a lot of them are pleased to see us in trouble.”

I looked with interest at her hostile little face. And you don't like anybody very much, do you, lady? “Is that why Julian Worth came?”

Obsidian-cold eyes stared up at me. “How do you know Julian Worth?”

Good question. “I met him this morning.” Let her wonder about that. “What did he say that made you so angry?”

“Angry?” Those icy eyes bored into mine.

“Yes. I saw him talking to you.” I was glad I spoke
with her in the midst of a crowd. I was startled to find myself made uneasy by such a small creature, but antagonism emanated from her in almost palpable waves.

“It would make anyone angry.” Her scratchy voice exuded distaste. “He said he'd been sorry to hear that a known thief had been killed inside Tesoros. He said it had to make everyone wonder why Ed had come to Tesoros. He said it certainly was a shame for an old establishment such as ours to be tainted by scandal. I told him in no uncertain terms that Ed Schmidt had nothing to do with any of us.” Her bleak face hardened.

“What did he say to that?” Across the room, I caught a glimpse of Julian Worth walking away from Susana Garza. Today her shining black hair was piled high atop her head, emphasizing the filigree earrings that hung straight and still from her stone-still head. One hand held tight to her necklace. Even from a distance, I could see the coral and turquoise insets in her heavy silver necklace. The spectacular jewelry only emphasized the somberness of her discontented face. I wished I had observed Worth's tête-à-tête with Susana.

Celestina and I stood beside the display island with the pink and blue and orange pottery banks. I noticed they'd been rearranged so there was no longer an empty spot. She pointed a shaking finger at the floor. “He said we couldn't pretend the murder had nothing to do with Tesoros when the man died in this very room.” She stared toward the front door, her face pinched.

Some of the visitors walked where blood must have run, where Manuel's mop had swiped away traces of death.

“Celestina, oh, Celestina!” Frank Garza stood near
the front door. His thin voice could barely be heard. His worried face glistened with perspiration. He gripped the elbow of a portly-white haired man in a black suit and clerical collar. “Father Hernandez wants to say hello.” Frank beckoned to his sister.

Celestina's sallow face cheered. Murmuring, “Excuse me, please,” she headed toward Frank and the priest, sidestepping a child's stroller pushed by a grandmother and darting around a group of plump animated women.

Once again I looked for Julian Worth. He stood in the nook filled with Day of the Dead decorations. A line of toy skeletons hung near his shoulder. Behind him on a shelf ranged an array of grinning papier-mâché skulls, each with a distinctive head covering: the matador, the nun, the nurse, the soldier, the scuba diver, the motorcyclist, the mantilla-graced grande dame. Worth bent toward Tony Garza, speaking rapidly, his hands moving, one ending in a thrust toward the front door.

A shaft of light from overhead spotlighted Tony, as always extraordinarily handsome, his midnight black hair in tight curls, his lantern-jawed face bold and commanding, his sensuous mouth curved in an enigmatic smile. When Worth concluded, Tony lifted his broad shoulders in a dismissive shrug. Obviously, if Worth had spun him the same tale, the effect was much less dramatic than it had been on Celestina. Tony grinned, gestured at the throngs of people, then, with a final comment, moved away from Worth.

This time it was Worth, his face sour, who watched Tony stride away.

Once again, our glances met.

I glared at Worth. I'd hoped to keep the murderer from realizing that anyone else knew about the gold.
Julian's circuit of the family dashed that plan. Now, if I told Detective Borroel about the gold, there would be no element of surprise when he began to investigate.

Worth's sloping smile exuded satisfaction and a complete lack of regret. He walked directly toward Frank, giving me a sardonic nod as he passed, his cane thumping on the tiles. He was moving slowly and I thought he was laboring. Was it fatigue? Or had he put himself under a great strain?

I said sharply, “You realize you're warning the murderer.”

Worth ignored me and walked on, leaning heavily on his cane. I watched as he drew even with Frank, thrust out his hand and began to talk. Clearly, he intended to speak with each member of the family, except, I supposed, Maria Elena.

I looked at the pottery banks and reached out, touching the nearest, a prosperous looking, big-cheeked, balding man in a green coat and blue slacks, entitled “The Landlord.” The pottery was cold to my touch, but not as cold as my thoughts. Worth had severely complicated my hope of discovering who had conspired with Schmidt. I could no more hope to determine the identity of Ed Schmidt's co-conspirator from the reactions of those to whom Worth spoke than I could divine by my proximity to the banks the hand that had grabbed one up as a lethal weapon. More than that, Worth's charade here on the showroom floor definitely alerted the murderer that the gold was no longer a secret. And, damn Worth, I didn't know whether he suspected a particular member of the Garza family or whether he was gambling that his description of Ed as a thief would trigger a response from the murderer. Worth could then demand money.

No, keeping track of Julian Worth wasn't going to help me find Ed Schmidt's co-conspirator and murderer. I still had no proof Ed had stolen the ancient gold, but I now knew he could have done so; he was in Mexico when the theft occurred, and Julian Worth's revelations about Ed proved he definitely had the right mental and physical equipment for such a venture. Ed Schmidt loved excitement and danger and he was strong and fit.

Julian Worth wasn't losing any time. Now he leaned on his cane, talking with Isabel. She smoothed back a drooping ringlet of her lustrous golden-toned hair. Her hand was delicate, exquisitely groomed, soft and smooth, and the fire of rubies and the glow of emeralds flashed from a half dozen rings. She stared up at Worth, her delicate face elegant and alert, her eyes unwinking, like a cat silently appraising a witless bird.

My gaze moved on. Worth, as far as I was concerned, could talk to everyone in the store. He no longer interested me. Instead, I was seeking yet another handsome Garza face. But I didn't find Rick Reyes. Odd. Everyone else was here. Well, not quite everyone. I didn't see Iris either.

Dammit, I wanted to see Rick now. I had to know for a certainty that my guess was correct—that the treasure found and taken by Iris was indeed the ancient gold. Only Rick or Iris could tell me if I was right. I worked my way around the crowded room, ending up by the front door. I took my time. I knew when I finished the circuit that Rick definitely was not in the showroom.

I stepped out onto the River Walk. I welcomed the soft, moist heat and the stir of a fitful breeze. I'd not realized how oppressive it had been inside Tesoros.
The air-conditioning in the showroom wasn't geared for a capacity crowd.

I heard the faint swipe of cloth against glass. Manuel was polishing at the far end of the second window. When I stopped behind him, he froze for an instant. His narrow shoulders hunched. He darted a swift, fearful glance at the glass and my reflection.

I, too, could see his face, watch as recognition lighted his eyes, brought a sweet smile, eased the tightness of his body.

I gently touched his shoulder. “Good job, Manuel.”

He twisted toward me. His hand rose. Hesitantly, he offered me the pad of thick white toweling.

I reached out, took the cloth, stepped near enough to buff the glass. I polished a broad horizontal stripe above and below our reflections, then swiped vertically as if creating a frame.

Manuel clapped his hands. We smiled at each other. I handed back the cloth, gave him another pat on his shoulder, turned away and looked straight into the cool, measuring gaze of a uniformed patrolman. He was young, with reddish hair in a quarter-inch crew, a freckle-spangled face and an athletic build. He was only a few feet away.

As I walked toward the stairs leading to La Mariposa, the policeman's gaze followed me for a moment, then returned to Manuel, once again busy with his cloth, his face reflected in the window, calm, intent, happy.

At the top of the stairs, I looked down and found it a disquieting tableau, Manuel and the so-attentive policeman. It was time for me to do what I could to expand the investigation, but I wanted to present Borroel with credible evidence, not simply my hypothesis. To do this, I needed Rick Reyes to tell the truth.