Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (22 page)

I looked up at the oversize clock and moved to the closed double doors. As the clock struck one, I faced the foyer. Ignoring the Garza family, I smiled at the assemblage. “Hello, I'm Henrietta Collins and I want to welcome all of you to the annual Tesoros auction, one of the premier art auctions of the world. I am speaking on behalf of Maria Elena, who regrets that a family emergency has taken her away this afternoon. However, she will be here in the morning when the auction begins at nine. For now, she has asked me to bid you bienvenidos.” I stepped to one side and flung open the doors.

On a chutzpah scale, it had to be off the meter and my heart thudded uncomfortably. I hoped my face wasn't as red as Frank's. I hadn't catapulted myself into the limelight to offend the Garzas irremediably, although I was sure that had been the effect. It was a
push-the-chips-into-the-pot attempt to convince the auction guests I was Maria Elena's emissary. I would put that position to the test as soon as I could because the time was inexorably dwindling when I could count on these five people being engaged in this room.

The Harrisons beat Cara Kendall through the doorway by a nose. King slouched into the room, his cold eyes scanning the displays. Morgan's thick-fingered hands were outstretched, like a seeking insect's feelers. Chandler drifted to the right, going counterclockwise to the other guests.

Susana stalked toward me, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Her eyes glittered with fury. She stood so close I could see the fine drawn lines of her mascara and smell the penetrating scent of Obsession. Vermilion-tipped fingers clutched at her heavy silver necklace. The huge pendant was decorated with symbols from the Aztec Calendar Stone. She kept her voice low, as cognizant of the auction guests as I. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Maria Elena sent me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.” I brushed past her. As I stepped into the room, the utter quiet assaulted me, a thick, suffocating quality like the airless confines of a huge bank vault, the same sense of unimaginable riches contained within reach.

I've seen vultures circling, huge, powerful birds with predatory eyes, skimming silently on air currents, seeking prey. There was the same aura in this room as the auction guests roved past the tables. There were riches indeed: an entire collection of mid-eighteenth-century paintings, oil on canvas, of the Stations of the Cross, the distinctive use of red, white, and green emphasizing the adaptation of the religious theme to Mexico; a concha from Guanajuato, the twelve-
stringed instrument decorated with mother-of-pearl and armadillo shell; a magnificent Danza de los Negritos mask decorated with beads and foil and long silk ribbons; a brilliantly blue-and-white Talavera jar made by the Uriarte family in the late eighteen hundreds; and more and more and more—earthenware statues, animal pottery banks, lacquered dishes and plaques, jungle watercoolers, saddles with silver filigree; and more and more and more.

I looked at the collectors, moving as if in a stately dance, a step here, a glance there, but always their expressions determinedly empty so that their competitors could have no inkling of which pieces they coveted most.

Tony was striding purposefully toward me, no hint of good humor in his handsome face now.

On a high diving board, you can't teeter on the end too long or you'll never dive. Which one first, which one?

Joshua Chandler was nearest, stopping for an instant at a display of almost a dozen alebriges, the fantastic and inventively ominous papier-mâché flying monsters created by Pedro Linares. Chandler picked up a horned green dragon with glistening white teeth and curved red wings. A tiny smile flickered on his smooth sun-burnished face.

“Mr. Chandler.” I looked into pale green eyes with all the warmth of jammed glacier ice. Up close, I had a clear sense of his muscular grace and power. “Maria Elena wishes, of course, for all the guests to be able to enjoy their visit from beginning to end. She wants to offer transport to the airport after the auction.”

“Don't need it. Thanks. Driving.” He turned away from me, gently replaced the green dragon, picked up a more serpentine creature with rippling orange-and-
bronze-and-gold-striped wings. His back was to me, the message clear.

Tony hung a foot or so back. He obviously didn't want to accost me within hearing of the guests.

I stepped past Tony and smiled at Wiley Harrison. Wiley's face glistened red, too, but from rising blood pressure, not sun. I doubted collecting was going to do too much for his longevity. He poked his narrow head forward, lanky arms folded behind his back, as he studied a jaguar mask from Guerrero dating from the eighteen nineties. “The lord of the animals,” Wiley announced, his eyes dreamy, his voice a caress.

I had a sudden uncomfortable feeling he envisioned himself as a jaguar, striding through the night, sinuous and powerful, a force without peer. And yet he was just a man of late middle age with thin strands of graying hair, watery-blue eyes, and a too-tall, too-thin frame. But he was, of course, a very rich man of late middle age with thinning hair, a vacuous gaze, and weedy build.

I stepped close and spoke perhaps a little loudly. “We want to make sure your visit is quite comfortable. Can we give you a ride to the airport?”

Harrison blinked. “Oh, we haven't decided when we're leaving.” He spoke absently, his eyes still studying the mask. “May take a little spin down to Oaxaca. But Jolene heard about a new shop in Santa Fe. May spin up there.”

Anyone flying went off my list of suspects because no one would be fool enough to check a fortune in stolen gold, and even the most incurious of airport X-ray attendants might wonder about a valise filled with jewelry. So I almost turned away. But because I had spent a lifetime as a reporter—“The sky is blue.
Check it out”—I asked, “So you haven't even bought your airline tickets yet?”

“Don't need tickets when you own the plane, honey.” And he hunkered down for an up-front and personal look at the mask. The jaguar's whiskers were made of boar bristle. I wondered if they had an odor.

The tick of an old grandfather clock was loud in the absorbed silence. Fifteen after one. I had to hurry. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw Tony and Susana in a whispered disagreement.

I skirted the central line of tables. Jolene lifted an elegant necklace of black pearls and gold filigree, touched it to her neck, her smile as dreamy as her husband's. But I didn't need to speak to her. The Harrisons could easily have the stolen gold. A private plane made lots of sense.

Cara Kendall gave me a petulant glare when I stopped beside her. “Don't know why I drove all this way. I simply don't see a thing I want.” But her mouth had a secretive little curl.

“I'm so sorry.” No need to ask my question. “But I'll certainly tell Maria Elena we've fallen short this year.”

She flounced away, but her eyes slid sideways for a swift look at the table with the very rare oil paintings of the Stations of the Cross. I forbore to pursue any philosophical thoughts about her choice.

Bud Morgan watched her go. “Ah, the stage lost quite an actress. Might buy the damn things just to thwart her.” He gave me a roguish grin. “And I'm lapsed. What the hell, may lead me back to piety. Heard your offer. Sure. I'd like a lift to the airport. Flying Southwest Friday morning.” Then he moved away, his pudgy face intent.

I wasn't surprised to find Kenny King's cold gray
eyes studying the stone jaguar. He ignored me when I stopped beside him. If I'd sensed athletic power with Chandler, I had a darker sweep of unease near this man. “Mr. King, we'll be glad to provide you with transportation to the airport.”

His eyes moved from the jaguar to me. He might have looked unimpressive, with his round freckled face, the swaying red ponytail. Instead, I had to force myself to stand my ground. He was young, but the eyes that looked at me knew evil I'd never envisioned. His lips quirked in a grotesque parody of a smile. “You're so kind to ask. But I won't need any help.” The words were deliberately arch, the tone offensive.

I was the one who turned away.

My heart was thudding as I headed for the doorway, trying to walk as if in no hurry, glancing about as if looking for a way to be helpful.

I moved through the open doorway, paused at the champagne table, said clearly enough for anyone nearby to hear, “Magda, Isabel, perhaps you should take trays around. I'm going to check on Maria Elena, see if she's returned. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

I walked slowly, carefully, casually, and then I was past the red velvet hangings into the lobby. I glanced at my watch, my thoughts whirling. God, it was already one-thirty. I had so little time.

A
S I hurried up the hall toward my room, I knew that everything depended upon Rick. Had he followed my instructions? I was stymied without his help. I flung open the door, intent on what I should find. I scarcely glanced at Rick, standing by the end of the bed. Yes, black-and-rose lacquered trays were there, on my bed, each with a crystal bud vase with a single creamy rose, two wineglasses, and a bottle of the finest California sauvignon blanc. There was also a stack of downy towels with the La Mariposa crest, a gorgeous embroidered black-and-yellow monarch. But where were the keys? They were most important of all. The keys were essential. Then I saw them, oversize, with wooden tags bearing their numbers, clutched in Rick's fist. He held the keys, his long face closed and remote.

I spoke as I moved, grabbing a tray, tucking the towels beneath one arm, holding out a hand for the keys. “I don't have time to quarrel, Rick. If I don't find the gold, Manuel will be arrested, charged, convicted. Do you think Maria Elena would rather keep Tesoros free of scandal or save Manuel?”

I reached for the keys, trying desperately to think. I had at the most a little more than an hour, and in that time I might have to search as many as four rooms. I
decided to discard Bud Morgan as a possible buyer of the gold. He'd been casual and open about his airline reservations. There was no possibility the possessor of that ancient and distinctive gold would check it in a bag on an airline, and even the most incurious checkpoint attendant would wonder at a case containing these pieces. Of course, Morgan could have received the treasure and handed it off to a lackey of some sort, or to a lover, servant, confidante. But I didn't believe the person who conspired to buy the most famous missing gold treasure in the world would trust it to anyone else. This was a collector satisfied to enjoy the gold in total secrecy. A collector who would keep that treasure very close at hand and very private.

But which one now possessed the gold? The Harrisons, who could have whatever they wished whenever they wished? Cara Kendall, who accreted things of value to build her own worth? Joshua Chandler, who might be playing the most competitive game of his life? Kenny King, who exuded an aura of sheer evil?

“What are you going to do if you find the gold?” Rick's voice was urgent and scared.

“Use it,” I said briefly. “Rick, I want you to go back to the auction room. Wait there for me. If I find the gold, I'll come for you.”

“But what will we do with it?” He still held tight to the keys.

I was back on the high dive. Damn if I didn't wish I knew, but there would be a way once I found the gold. I gripped his wrist. “Give me the keys, Rick.”

 

Cara Kendall's room had an overpowering scent, several perfume bottles carelessly unstoppered, potpourri in assorted cut glass bowls. I placed the tray on
the writing desk, moving aside a clump of silk blouses. The bed was made, the bathroom clean, but Cara's untidiness gave the room the air of a very expensive jumble sale—dresses draped on the chairs, a wardrobe crammed with more clothes. Did the woman change outfits every half hour?

I worked quickly. She wasn't the likeliest suspect on my list, but she was definitely the likeliest to be the first to saunter out of the auction room, ostensibly bored and unimpressed, making it, in her view, impossible for anyone to detect which objects she wanted. Tomorrow I suspected Bud Morgan would enjoy upping and upping the bids on the paintings of the Stations of the Cross. I felt behind the clothes, checked beneath the extra pillows on the shelf in the wardrobe, peered under the bed, opened the drawers in the chest. Her luggage was locked. Damn and damn and damn. I picked up each piece. No, the cases had to be empty. The weight of the gold would surely be evident.

I was pulling out the draperies when I heard the scrape of a key and the door began to open.

Swiftly, I picked up the stack of towels.

As she stepped into the room and stopped, her eyes flaring, I moved toward her with a smile. “Just checking to make sure you have plenty of towels. And we hope you will enjoy the very special wine.” I gestured at the tray on the writing desk. I stepped past her. “Let us know if there's anything at all we can do to make your stay more comfortable.”

She pressed a hand against her temple. “I have the worst headache. Such a disappointing preview. And to think I came all this way for a roomful of junk. Get me some alka seltzer.”

“Certainly. I'll have some sent right to you.”

The door closed on her petulant face.

 

Now it was ten minutes to two. My knock was sharp. At the same moment, I turned the key, pushed in the door with my shoulder, the tray carefully upright. The Harrisons' room had an air of casual disarray. I carried the tray to the writing table, pushed aside the rumpled sections of a
USA Today
and an open box of Godiva chocolates. An ornately tooled leather jewel box sat atop the dresser. I lifted the lid and was shocked at the profusion of jewelry—rings, necklaces, bracelets—all in gold. But this wasn't the gold I sought.

Jolene's clothes filled the wardrobe, red and chartreuse and orange blouses, long multicolored cotton skirts. The peculiar bulge in a clothes bag was a shoe shine kit. I scooted aside shoes on the floor, reached up to check out the upper shelf.

The floral suitcases stacked next to the wardrobe were unlocked and empty. A big leather suitcase rested on a luggage rack. I lifted the lid, felt quickly through the shirts. I knelt and looked under the bed.

I gave the room one final sharp survey, then pulled the heavy door shut. I hurried to my room, grabbed a tray, then I ran to the end of the hall and the stairway to the next floor.

 

It took every bit of courage I had to step into room 14. I'd deliberately chosen to explore the other rooms first. I closed the door behind me, placed the tray on the table. I wanted to be out of here as fast as I could. All right, yes, I was scared of the young man with the moon face and red ponytail and eyes that had seen visions I never wanted to see. But searching this room should only take a moment. The room was almost bare of personal possessions. In the bathroom, a closed
shaving kit sat on the towel rack. In the bedroom, there was nothing on the writing table, nothing on the chairs, nothing—

I stared at the fake alligator attaché case on the top the dresser. Yes, I could tell it was fake. The real thing has an unmistakable sheen and texture, attractive to some, repellent to me. But however King felt about alligator leather, it seemed sharply out of character for him to have a cheap case. Even though he dressed at odds with convention, his clothing was expensive and his loafers, as I recalled, the richest of cordovan.

The oddity drew me toward the case, but at the same time my flare of excitement ebbed. Even though La Mariposa was a first class hotel and no guest would ever be concerned about a maid poking into a case, surely no one would be this casual about a fortune in stolen jewelry. But I went ahead and lifted down the case, though when I realized it was unlocked, my momentary interest faded. If King hadn't even bothered to lock the attaché case, its contents must be unremarkable. As the lid rose, I expected to find papers, a script, or perhaps a cell phone or a laptop.

Velvet. My eyes widened. Purple velvet cloth bags.

I knew even before I picked up the top bag. So heavy. Lumpy. As I loosened the drawstrings, I was struck by the incredible arrogance of Kenny King, an unlocked case containing stolen gold worth a fortune casually left atop the chest. Arrogance compounded by recklessness?

I lifted the flap, partially pulled out a strand of gold, part of the huge, magnificent necklace from Monte Alban, and looked at richness beyond belief. The gold drops felt oddly greasy. My heart beat fast. Quickly, I pushed the necklace into its covering, put the velvet
container back in the attaché case. Now I must get to Rick and—

“I see we have a common interest.” The voice was silky, with a touch of amusement, but beneath the light tone anger throbbed, dark and dangerous.

I'd been so absorbed in my discovery, so amazed at the presence of unimaginably beautiful gold, that I'd not heard the door. I jerked around and stared into cold gray eyes with pinpoint black pupils.

King closed the door, leaned back against it, his muscular arms folded. I had a sudden memory of the masks on the wall of Tesoros, one in particular, stark black-and-white, human features with overtones of a reptile. Looking at King's face was like seeing a living representation of that mask, his features utterly motionless, his deep-socketed eyes rounded like an iguana's, his mouth stretched thin like a crawling snake. He looked as immovable and menacing as one of the monolithic sculptures he admired.

Somehow I managed to look at him coolly. And I tucked the case under my arm.

Those round hostile eyes narrowed. “Put the case down, Mrs. Collins.”

It surprised me a little that he had remembered my name. He'd left the auction preview much sooner than I would have imagined. But, of course, the auction was not his true reason for coming to La Mariposa.

“No, Mr. King.” I'd hoped to find the gold, then enlist Rick's aid. I'd told Rick to return to the auction room, that I'd come for him if I found the gold. But Kenny King had no knowledge at all of what I intended, what I knew, who I was or why I stood in his room clutching a case worth millions of dollars.

He pushed away from the door, stepping as softly and determinedly as any jungle cat. His hands hung
loose by his side. His eyes skittered around the room.

I knew I had seconds before those hands closed on my throat. Then, abruptly, he stopped, still a foot away. Was he judging the danger? How to dispose of a body from here?

My arm crooked tightly around the case. “Yes, you'd better think, and think hard. You can't kill me here. Not now, Mr. King. You don't think I'd be fool enough to come in here without a backup? And you can't take this away from me”—I tapped the case—“because the police will be after you immediately. You might as well face the truth. You gambled. You lost. Now, there is a way that you can save yourself from a great deal of interest by the San Antonio police.”

The snakelike mouth rippled. I recognized malignant fury. But he waited, his hands dangling by his sides. He was rich, spoiled, vicious, but, for the moment, stymied.

I spoke fast. “I assume you would prefer that the police not know about your involvement in the theft of this gold from the National Museum of Anthropology?” I looked at him steadily. I had to keep him talking, convince him that it would be smart to cooperate with me. “It would be hard to make movies from a Texas prison.”

He might be willful and arrogant, but he wasn't stupid. His muscles relaxed. He was no longer poised to jump. For a moment that seemed endless, there was no sound but his light breathing. Then he shrugged. “I have no idea what you're talking about. I've never seen that case you're holding. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way—” He moved toward the door.

“Just one point before you go.” Here it was, the moment I'd worked for, the information I had to have. “Who sold the gold to you?”

His mouth curved in an ugly smile. “What gold, Mrs. Collins?” he asked softly. His hand gripped the door handle.

I walked around the bed, my arm curved around the case, pressing it to my body. There wasn't much room between the bed and the wardrobe. We stood face-to-face. He was so close I could see a fleck of saliva on his thin lips, smell a mixture of cologne and skin. “You can walk out of here without a worry in the world, Mr. King, as soon as you give me that name. If you don't give it to me, I'll tell the police precisely where I found this case”—I held up my hand to forestall him—“and they'll believe me because your fingerprints are all over the gold.”

His muscles flexed.

“Don't try it.” It was almost a shout.

He stopped, his hands inches from me, large, powerful hands.

“You don't think I'd be stupid enough to come into this room without someone nearby ready to help me?” This was the ultimate bluff. “If I cry out, you're through. And you can save yourself so easily. I'll tell the police I found the gold hidden in Tesoros. How would they ever know it was a lie? The police searched Tesoros yesterday, found nothing. But the gold could have been put there last night. All I need is the name of the person who sold it to you.”

Slowly King's hands dropped. Despite the fury glittering in his eyes, there was thought, too.

I played the trump card. “Because it isn't just a matter of stolen gold. It's a matter of murder.”

He was as still as a basking lizard.

“You never met the thief, the man who scaled the walls of the National Museum, cut into the cases, grabbed up the gold.” I edged toward the door, put my
hand on the handle. At the least I could now yank it open and scream. “You never will. Somebody battered him to death Monday night and dragged the body out of Tesoros onto the River Walk. There's a link that stretches all the way from Mexico City to this room. But I can cut that link. All you have to do is give me the name.”

I pulled down the handle, edged the door open.

King ignored that. He'd made the decision to let me go. But his doughy face curdled with resentment. That didn't surprise me. The rich not only don't like to lose, they especially don't like to be ripped off.

As long as I was promising immunity—and wouldn't Borroel find this exercise interesting?—I might as well create a little goodwill. “If you want your money back, there may be a way. The family doesn't want a scandal. If the money can be found, it will be returned.”

“I want the money back.” His hands clenched.

“Give me the name.” I held his corrosive gaze. “And keep your mouth shut for twenty-four hours.”

“Why?” The demand bristled with reluctance.