The Matador's Crown (9 page)

“How? When was it stolen?”

“In the 1920s. I found a brief article online. Stolen by two patrons who apparently just walked out with a shopping list of items. Obviously they didn’t get very far with the artifacts if we found one of them in Puerto Real. But there were no linked articles detailing if they were ever caught.”

“I’ll have to look that up. That’s an excellent reason to get the bull returned to the museum instead of routing it to the university.”

He sounded as though he’d won a race, and he’d just spat on his competition. Harlow punctuated his satisfaction with a tap of his cane on the sidewalk.

“I’m glad you can use the information to lay claim to the stolen statue. I found a close match from the Iron Age. I’m sure it represents Baal.”

“Iron Age? Do you think it’s that old?”

“No. But again, I didn’t handle it for long. I’d love to get my hands on the thing again. If you look it up, I’m sure the museum has records of acquisition.”

“Good call. I’ll head right back to do that.”

“Has the museum ever sought to investigate provenance on articles they receive that are undocumented?”

“Of course, but there is only myself and a rotation of assistants, and as you’ve seen we’re kept quite busy with the daily operational routine.”

She understood. And tracking provenance on items was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Generally a fruitless venture, especially when dealers could draw up fake papers and letters.

“While we are very choosy about the items we receive,” Harlow said with a glance at his wristwatch, “it’s difficult to refuse donations, you understand.”

“Yes, and if one museum won’t accept the donation, then the wealthy benefactor will simply turn elsewhere and mark your museum off their list for future donations.”

“Exactly. It’s a wicked blade we balance.”

“Made even more wicked when murder is involved.”

“We did not receive any of the artifacts associated with that murder, Annja. Don’t be so quick to pin that heinous crime on us.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. But can you be sure you haven’t received items previously from the same seller?”

Harlow sighed and winced. He stopped about ten yards into the Plaza de Mina, in the shadows from the tree canopy, to rub his thigh.

“Injury hurting you today?”

He nodded. “Injured my hip, but it manifests as pain in my thigh. It’s been trouble for days now. Ever since you arrived, actually. Odd, isn’t it?”

If she were self-conscious, Annja would take his comment as a subtle dig against her being in town, but she wasn’t and so let it slide.

“I’ve heard skullcap is an excellent herbal remedy for muscle aches. It may be something to look into.”

“Thanks, but cannabis is another excellent pain reliever. So you’re leaving Cádiz, then?”

“Er…” He had suggested she look into the stolen artifacts, and yet everything he said spoke against that suggestion. “Not today. Heading out to El Bravo’s villa, actually. I was invited there through a mutual friend.”

“A marvelous hero for the city. You got to watch him fight?”

“Yes, he truly does deserve the moniker El Bravo.” She shook Harlow’s hand and again thanked him for the invite. “I’ll check in with you on my progress regarding the article. And keep you posted if I get any closer to the looters.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Good afternoon, Annja.”

* * *

H
E
WAITED
FOR
THE
TALL
, pretty young archaeologist to enter the crowd milling in the Plaza de Mina before pressing his speed dial.

“Things go well?”

The voice on the phone paused, which was remarkable because he knew her to usually be staid and inscrutable. “I got the item. It’s been processed. You should have it in your hands. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, it got filtered through the wrong hands. Why weren’t you more careful?”

“I always use the guy on the docks. You knew that.”

“Yes, and I was taking a chance on you that apparently failed.”

“Hell, where is it now?”

“I believe you’ll find the object much closer than you expect.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t take that tone with me. You promised to keep this quiet and it’s become everything but.”

“Well, if you’d stop being so cryptic maybe I could figure out what the hell you’re talking about.”

“The piece was found at the scene of a murder.”

“The one in the hotel yesterday morning? Don’t blame me for that.”

“I’m not. And yet, there was another murder I know I can blame on you.”

“James, just spit it out. Where’s the piece?”

“It’s been taken into police evidence.”

She whistled, a common reaction to surprises that bothered James to no end.

“I want that statue,” he said. “And I won’t tolerate another mistake.”

She blew out a heavy breath over the receiver. Probably rubbing her forehead and pacing, as she should be. She was an amazing lover and an expert marksman, and he’d thought she had the operation under control, but this slipup made him nervous. And with Annja Creed nosing about, he wanted to quickly sweep this all under a nice dusty carpet deep in the bowels of the museum.

* * *

W
HILE
STROLLING
THROUGH
the old marketplace and admiring the stalls of colorful fruits and vegetables and handmade items such as baskets, shoes and clothing, Annja decided something a bit dressier than her cargo pants and T-shirt would be appropriate for her visit to Bravo’s villa.

In a tourist shop hugging a stucco building that also boasted a pottery shop, she purchased a long, colorful skirt that wasn’t too frilly. But it was a style a lot of the tourists seemed to wear, along with a red blouse with cap sleeves. Changing in the back room behind a blanket hung up for privacy, she twisted her hair back into a chignon and stuck a decorative jet stick in to secure it.

Not too costumey, and pretty. It would be respectable for dinner. Annja hailed a cab and took it out to El Bravo’s villa, which sat at the western edge of Cádiz on the beach.

10

The matador’s home was an unassuming whitewashed adobe villa at the edge of town, overlooking the sea. Magenta begonias lined the drive and the house, softening the bleak white structure. Seagulls circled in lazy turns out across the water and back toward land.

A thin man with a thick nose and equally thick, dark mustache who introduced himself as Manuel’s butler greeted her at the door. “Señorita, Maestro Manuel is out back caping the calves.”

That sounded too intriguing not to explore further. Annja thanked the man and followed his direction back through the house.

As she walked through the home, taking in the interior adobe style and clean, spare furnishings, her eyes fell on many Spanish artifacts from all time periods. The majority depicted bulls. A small ivory carving of a leaping bull looked Scythian in origin, but then she corrected herself. It was probably an ox. A bull-headed lyre sat in a recessed wall pocket under halogen lights, the horns ivory and the instrument made from wood she didn’t have time to guess at as she followed the butler’s lead. A teak statue of a matador posed before a bull had to be a recent creation, but the curvaceous form of it appealed to her.

Briefly she wondered if Manuel had interest in a bronze Baal statue, but just because he murdered bulls didn’t make him a murderer of men. And besides, if he had been interested, he would have taken the statue along with whatever—

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. She was pinning the blame on the man without probable cause.

Annja paused to read the engraving on a modest plaque hanging at eye level. From the local St. Mary’s orphanage, thanking Manuel Bravo for his charity. It was known that after the fight he bought the bull he’d slain and gave it to a shelter to slaughter and distribute meals to the homeless. It was one of the many reasons the locals adored their hero of the corrida.

The real spectacle was the patio behind the house, decorated with white-and-black paper lamps, strung from the palm trees that curved away from the sea. Add to that an unspoiled white-sand beach and it presented the perfect atmosphere for an afternoon siesta.

She spied a fenced barn west of the property. A few men were calling to a bull, likely a calf, because she couldn’t see any animal movement over the hip-high fence.

At the butler’s direction, she wandered across the sand that segued into dirt. She’d bought a cheap pair of flip-flops to accompany the skirt and wished she was wearing her hiking boots right now, no matter the fashion faux pas.

Bravo’s property was an official ranch, though the acreage was small. Gauchos in blue jeans and cowboy hats were Spain’s version of the American cowboy. Officer Soto must be a fan of the American version to judge from his headgear.

As she neared the fence, one of the men nodded to her and called to Manuel. The master of the homestead patted the rump of a white calf and sent it scrambling toward the open barn gates where another gaucho waited with a bucket of feed. What did they feed bulls? Food scraps? No, Annja knew cattle were grass feeders, yet there wasn’t a lot of pasture nearby, only a narrow strip of grass that abutted the north side of the fence and barn.

“Annja!”

Manuel Bravo gestured for her to join him in the fenced pasture, and not seeing a gate, she hitched herself up on the fence beside a smirking gaucho and, clutching the skirt discreetly to her thigh, swung a leg over and jumped down. Dusty red dirt similar to the topsoil on the dig spumed up around her sandals. She hadn’t anticipated tromping next to bulls in a skirt.

The matador’s somber smile and long frame stilled her. He’d taken out the ponytail that he wore in the ring, and his thick, curly black hair was slicked along the sides of his head, yet the natural curl in it wanted to coil out above his ears. A dark shadow of stubble coated his jaw and halfway up his cheeks. He wore sleek gray trousers and a loose white shirt. Perhaps a welcome respite from the formfitting suit of lights the torero wore to work.

“Señorita Creed,” he said with an easy smile, his eyes raking over her face. “You are stunning in red.”

“Thank you. You’ve got a beautiful home. I noticed you have many artifacts depicting bulls. Are you a collector?”

“Yes, by matter of default, you might say. Every statue or bull object I own has been given to me by friends. That’s right, Garin told me you are an archaeologist. I cannot tell you what the objects are worth or where they originated. I just know I like them. Perhaps later you can tell me a little of their history?”

“I’ll give it a try. My expertise is medieval, but I recognized a few items.”

Though, if he had no idea of their origins, she hated to break it to him that the objects were scientifically worthless. On the other hand, that shouldn’t matter to him. Displayed as art, other collectors would place great value on his possessions.

“How are you, Maestro Bravo? I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to you since the incident last evening. I was told the bullet didn’t strike anywhere near you?”

“I felt it pass by my head, but no, it didn’t touch me. I am invincible.” He gestured outward with his hands, puffing his chest up in a classic matador’s pose. “Be it horn or bullet, El Bravo defies them both.”

Prideful, yet for good reason. It took a certain kind of ego to face death day in and day out during the bullfighting season.

“I suppose the local news reported on it,” she guessed.

“National news,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “And you,” he continued, “you ran off in pursuit of the shooter. Remarkable. So brave a female I have not before known. Señor Braden tells me you lost track of the shooter, though.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I tried. Though I did get a good look at her and gave that description to the police. I’m sure they’ve shown you the picture. Do you have any idea who she could be?”

“Me? Why should I? Aficionados far and wide love me. I am as startled by the event as everyone else.”

“No enemies? Jilted lovers?”

“Ah…” His wince didn’t go unnoticed. “I do tend to leave a trail of tearful lovers in my wake, but none so angry as to come after me with a pistol, I assure you.”

“It was a sniper rifle. High caliber. And the shooter… Well, the shooter was positioned far enough away that he had to be an expert marksman. Or she, as is the case. I’m sure there are people you meet in your profession who are not always so pleased with your performances?”

“Do you suggest a poor showing in the ring should prompt someone to come after me with a gun to end my life?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. That would be an awful excuse for murder. But what about your private life? Something unrelated to the corrida?”

“You suggest there is something in my personal life that would attract a sniper with a death wish for me? And a
female,
at that?” He smiled and made a joke with one of the gauchos.

She shrugged. Any one of the artifacts in his home could start a small war if he’d gotten it from the wrong person. Give a man a valuable object and a reason to protect it and he would, to his death. That went for anyone who might want the valued object or have reason to believe it had been stolen from them. Criminal minds were small and stupid.

Could Ava have been hired by a former owner of one of the artifacts in Bravo’s home? A dissatisfied seller? That wouldn’t give her reason to be so vehement over the matador’s death, to call him a murderer. And if she was a hired assassin she would do the job without emotion or concern for the target.

“I’ve nothing further to tell you, señorita. I am sorry. Is that what you’ve come here for? To question me as the police did?”

“No, sorry. I was curious. I’m sure the police have already gone over the details of the incident with you.”

He bowed his head, but did not nod in confirmation. “So, an archaeologist. Sounds adventurous, yet… boring…if you’ll excuse my presumption. You like to dig about in the dirt for treasures?”

“I’ve been known to wield a trowel and boonie hat on many occasions. Not at all boring to me, but I can certainly understand how a man who faces death daily would view it that way. It’s not all sitting about and brushing away fine particles of dirt. I’ve been on dives in the Adriatic, climbed the Himalayas and have even eluded pirates in the open seas.”

“You are a woman of many talents, Annja Creed. Not in the least, the talent of charm. I have never seen a woman in a skirt leap a fence so gracefully as you just did. You want to learn to cape the bull?” he asked.

“That depends on whether the bull is the size of the one you fought yesterday afternoon in the ring or the size of that little one you sent back inside.”

“A little larger than the white calf, who is only six months on his legs,” Manuel said. “A yearling is best for practicing capework. Let me show you a few veronicas and then we’ll bring out Brutus to test your skill, eh?”

Brutus?
But the idea of learning more about what the matador did was irresistible, and Annja agreed.

“Cristo!” Manuel held out his hand. The ranch hand sitting on the fence like a sunbaked vulture tossed Manuel a small red cape, then leaned back against the barn wall and tugged down his hat brim to resume his snooze. “Cristo is my sword bearer.”

“He carries all your swords to the fights?”

“That, and he tends to all my travel arrangements, cleans and folds the capes and helps me dress before a fight. A personal assistant, if you will.”

“I could use one of those.”

The matador chuckled. “I was hoping you’d arrive before Señor Braden returns,” he said, turning the cape in a swishing manner, not looking up at her. “I always prefer time alone with a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you. You don’t think the skirt will hamper the lesson?”

“It’ll handicap you, but I’ve seen women perform capework while wearing much the same. Just don’t allow a horn to hook the fabric.”

As the torero moved the cape back and forth in graceful sweeps as if getting the feel for the fabric, Annja cast a glance over the estate. “So all this land is yours? To the sea?”

He nodded. “Family land for centuries. My father was a torero and his father before that. And before that, the Bravo family raised fighting bulls on land off the Bay of Cádiz. They weren’t prime bull for fighting. Bad maternal blood gave them a habit of skittishness and cowardliness. Which is why the family switched to pursuing the cape instead of the bull.”

“Garin explained you select the bulls you fight beforehand. How do you recognize a cowardly bull from a brave one before it enters the ring?”

“Ah, that’s not so easy.” He tucked the cape under an arm to use both hands to gesture as he spoke. “Usually both are quite similar before entering the ring. Only after the animal is presented with the challenge of the moving cape does it decide to either stand and charge or stir the dirt with a hoof and snort and put on a cowardly display. I do not like a gutless bull.”

“Would make it difficult to do the job of showing the audience both your skill and the bull’s skill.”

“Oh, yes, very difficult.” Manuel held the cape regally, arm out squarely and jaw lifted. “I enter the ring to show the crowd how brave the bull is. Everything I do is designed to display its bravery and give the animal the opportunity to defend its life.”

“I saw that while you fought yesterday. And yet…” She wasn’t sure how to ask without offending him, but curiosity niggled at her.

“Annja, ask. You have questions about the art of the bullfight? Doubts? Concerns? There is nothing I haven’t heard.”

“You know the bull is going to die when it enters the ring. You have that advantage.”

“Not so. Man and beast enter the ring with equal chance to live or die.”

“Okay. Yet how can the animal die a noble death when you and your assistants keep wounding it, wearing it down to exhaustion? There’s very little competition.”

Manuel gave her a look over his shoulder, yet he assumed a classic matador stance. “Am I not wearied, as well? Accompanying the physical strain, the mental toll is immense when a man must stand before his death daily. Yet if all goes as desired, both competitors give their all to the fight.”

“But you’ve got to reserve your strength for the next fight, and the next. How many bulls have you killed during one corrida?”

“Six. They allowed me all six kills last year in Jerez de la Frontera during a celebration of my one hundredth corrida of the season.”

“Congratulations.”

He bowed, accepting the accolade with a wink. “I never tire of appreciation from a beautiful woman.”

And she was beginning to feel his charm do its work. Annja wasn’t sure how to take that. She wasn’t here for a flirtation.

“Now to the lesson, yes?” He held out the red cape. “This is a smaller, practice cape. Take it in your left hand and hold it like this.”

He stepped beside her to show her how to grip it and then moved her hand left to right until she caught on to the sweeping motion.

“It’s not the color that attracts the bull?” she asked.

“No, it’s the motion. They don’t process color as we do, although bright colors do attract them. The
toro
has a central dead zone in their vision, so it’s always wise to center yourself before the bull. Until it is released into the ring, the bull has never seen a man on foot. Often great bulls are sacrificed before even getting to the ring because some stupid kids have snuck into the field to tease them.”

“Aren’t the bulls many years old when they reach the ring?”

“Four or five years, yes. They are kept on secluded ranches and guarded well. See here. If I work my cape successfully, the bull will not be aware of me until the moment I wish to be revealed. I sweep it this way and that, back and forth, making many veronicas. Passes. Then I allow it to see my feet.” He swept the cape slowly before him in demonstration. “Then my knees and up to my hips. Then finally, when I wish it, I reveal myself to my opponent, and for the first time, it marks me, a man. Standing before it, a target. That is why the
torero must stand relatively still when closest to the bull.”

“I was fascinated at how you seemed to embrace the animal as it swept past you, turning its body to curve before you. And your arm slid over its back, almost hugging it.”