01 _ Xibalba Murders, The (15 page)

Shortly thereafter, Eulalia arrived. “I thought it would be you,” she said when she saw me. “How can I help you?”

I wanted to ask her questions about Don Hernan, but there was something in her manner, a stiffness perhaps, a worried glance in the direction of the glutton, that stopped me.

“I just came to thank you for your kindness the other day. We were all so stunned, we felt afterward that we had not acted appropriately…” My voice trailed off.

“Quite all right,” she said. “Not many people thank morgue staff anyway,” she added.

“Well, I was wondering whether it might be possible to buy you a coffee or something?”

A pause. “Sure, why not?” she said. I get a break between one and three. Meet me at the Cafe Piramide,“ she said, naming a little cafe in the market area.

“About one-thirty, okay?”

“Great, see you there.”

I had about an hour to kill, so I wandered over to the
museo
to look for Antonio Valesquez. A handwritten note taped to the library door said he would return shortly, but I waited fifteen minutes or so and he did not return. I headed for the café.

I got a little lost in the market, and while I still arrived about five minutes early, I came in through an entrance off the side street rather than from the front patio.

There were virtually no patrons in the restaurant proper. The cafe was obviously very popular, though. Everyone was seated outside in the sunshine or under the awning.

I scanned the crowd outside from the relative darkness of the restaurant. It took me a minute to recognize Eulalia.

At the morgue, she’d worn a lab coat and those white nurse-type shoes, her hair pulled severely back and no makeup. Here she wore her long dark hair down, and she was dressed in a black miniskirt, a fuchsia blouse, and black flats.

She was sitting facing in my general direction, talking in an animated fashion to a man seated opposite her, with his back to me. I hesitated, wondering whether to interrupt when the man leaned forward and squeezed her hand, then stood up and half turned in my direction.

It was Lucas. He bent over and kissed her, and she patted his cheek. Then looking up and down the street, perhaps for me, he disappeared into the crowded market.

I was completely taken aback. I’d hoped to get information from Eulalia, but now I wasn’t sure how far I could take this.

I thought for a few minutes. I suppose this could be a coincidence. They were obviously friends. And why not? So much in common, after all. She worked with the recently dead, he with those who had been deceased for centuries. How romantic!

Even under these circumstances I had to smile at the thought of their dinner-table conversations. This was assuming that he talked more to her than he did to me.

I decided to push ahead with my plan.

“Hi,” I said as I approached the table. “Thanks for agreeing to this.” She looked a little startled at the direction I had arrived from, and I was betting she was wondering how long I’d been there.

“You were at the morgue a few days ago,” she said. “Maria said you were asking for me. She said she didn’t give you my name, though.”

“Flextime,” I said. “I figured it out from the time chart.”

She nodded.

“My turn. How did you know it was me, and how did you know I’d be back?”

“Maria described you. We don’t get that many
gringas
at the morgue, and you were the only one that day.

“As for returning—you asked a lot of questions, and you didn’t appear to be satisfied by the answers. No more than I was, really. I saw you touching the shoes. What did you deduce from them?” she asked.

“They were covered in dust. So were the cuffs of his trousers. You couldn’t see that very well, because of the color of the shoes, but you could feel it on them. I didn’t much figure you’d get that sitting in an office.”

She smiled. “Did you also notice one of them had been wet recently? Still felt a little clammy?”

I shook my head.

“That doesn’t happen much in an office, either.”

“So where and when was he murdered, do you think?”

“Well, I’m not the pathologist, only the assistant. I assist with the autopsy and write up the reports for the pathologist’s signature. But not in the
museo,
surely. There was evidence he had been dragged some distance. Hence the dust on the cuffs and backs of his trousers.

“The dust looks to me to be limestone. Could be anywhere out in the country. But there was also evidence of sand. There was no salt in the sand or on the shoes, so it wasn’t a beach he was walking on. He’d also done some walking in the forest. Traces of foliage you wouldn’t expect in the city.

“As to time, I’d say he was killed very early in the morning, say between three and five a.m. of the day he was found, although it is difficult to estimate this with pinpoint accuracy, no matter what you read in books. He was found about eight p.m. by the cleaning staff, and rigor mortis was already starting to pass off. The method is obvious. He was stabbed several times, and not with your average kitchen knife. Blade sharp enough, but uneven.”

The waiter arrived with our coffees and some snacks. We both waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

“Tell me about the jade bead.”

“Well, as I think I said the other day, it was put into his mouth after he died. There is evidence someone had to pry his mouth open to get it in.”

“But why?”

“I’d say it’s part of an ancient ritual. According to a friend of mine”—(Lucas? I wondered)—“jade beads were placed in the mouths of the deceased to provide sustenance on the journey through the underworld.”

I pondered that for a moment. “But why would you murder someone, then later do something like that? Isn’t it a rather odd gesture for a murderer to worry about the soul of his victim? Perhaps it’s meant to be a sign to link the death to some Maya cause.”

“No idea.” She shrugged. “But maybe someone else did it, someone who liked Dr. Castillo Rivas, and for whom such things matter.”

It was an interesting thought, and the first time she had referred to the deceased by name.

I thanked her for her help, and then asked one more question.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I guess it is because I don’t like Martinez very much.

He is one of the old breed of policemen. We have a problem with the police here in Mexico. The pay is so low that it does not always attract the kind of people one would prefer. I mean, you can make more driving a cab.

“And some of those who do sign up have been known to resort to other ways of augmenting their incomes, ways that are not always totally beneficial to society, if you get what I am trying to say.”

I nodded. I assumed she meant that they were either on the take, or into something even more serious.

“A lot of work is being done to change this. They’re screening the applicants now, insisting they take courses, and so on. But it is very difficult to create an ethical police department under such circumstances, and the government has a long way to go. Unfortunately, there are still people like Martinez around. Bullies, really.”

We talked awhile longer, about other things. She seemed to be a nice person. When it was time for her to go, I thanked her again, and she left as I paid the bill. There was much to ponder from this conversation.

I decided to return to the hotel for a rest. The afternoon sun and heat were getting to be oppressive, and with all my nocturnal wanderings, I was short on sleep. An afternoon nap seemed to be called for so I could be scintillating that evening at the Gomez dinner party.

I checked at the hotel on my return. No messages from Alex.

I went up to my room. It was filled with sunlight, and so I went immediately to the window to close the shutters.

As I turned back to the room I saw a large box on the bed. Opening it and pressing back the tissue, I found a beautifully embroidered dress, one of Isa’s designs. It really was spectacular—aqua-colored silk, with embroidery of white, deeper turquoise, and silver, a low neck, and an off-the-shoulder cut. A pair of silver sandals, my size, and a small evening bag were also in the box. It was perfect!

With it was a little notecard that read,
For my dear friend, Lara. May it help to brighten your days!

I felt a lump in my throat. Although I’d tried to keep my depression over the failure of my marriage and the loss of my business to myself, to say nothing of the malaise caused by the murder and mayhem in Merida, Isa had obviously recognized the symptoms, and was trying her best to cheer me up.

No matter the events of the last few days and the nasty year or so I’d been through, I knew how lucky I was to have friends like Isa.

Santiago had said he would have someone from the hotel drive me over to the Gomez residence, and I’d told him I‘ d take a cab home since I expected it would be late.

Just before eight-thirty I descended the stairs of the lobby. Isa and Santiago were waiting at the front desk. Isa smiled when she saw the dress.

“I love it, Isa. Thank you,” I said.

“You look wonderful,” she said, ignoring the bags under my eyes. “I thought the color would be good with your fair hair. You’ll be a great advertisement for me. I should give you cards to hand out tonight at the party,” she joked.

I gave her a hug.

Norberto had volunteered to drive me over, and he insisted I sit in the backseat so he could look like a real chauffeur.

There was no waiting at the little box at the gate this evening. A uniformed person with white gloves stood at the gate and ticked guests’ names off as they arrived. We swept up to the front door, where yet another staff person sporting white gloves opened the door for me. Norberto said he had been hoping to make a big show of doing this for me himself, but clearly the establishment was overstaffed! He also said there must have been a sale on white gloves, and he was sorry to have missed it.

He made me laugh, something it was getting harder to do, and by the time I had been ushered into the “salon”—the name apparently given to the room in which I had shared a drink with the lady of the house several nights ago—I was feeling much better. It occurred to me that there had been a time, predating the last year or two with Clive, when I could have been said to have a sense of humor.

Sheila and her husband were both standing near the doorway of the salon, ready to greet each of their guests. They were an unusual pair—she, tall, blond, blue-eyed, and patrician; he, a couple of inches shorter, dark, but more attractive than he had seemed at a distance. He was also very charming.

He greeted me first. “You must be my wife’s new friend. I’m delighted to meet you. And a colleague of Dr. Castillo Rivas, too. We were both much saddened by his death.”

I murmured something polite and then smiled at Sheila. She really did look lovely, in an off-white sequined dress. The center of attention in the room, however, at least as far as the men were concerned, was Montserrat. She really was stunning in a red dress that fit like a glove, very high heels, also red. Her dark hair was piled up on her head, and she was sporting diamond-and-ruby earrings and necklace, a present from Daddy, no doubt. Most of the men in the room were drawn to her like bees to honey. And one of the bees was Jonathan.

I think many, if not most, men look good in a tuxedo. Few of them, however, look comfortable in one. Jonathan was born to wear a tuxedo. In part, it was the air of confidence he was always able to maintain. It was also, if Isa’s musing was correct, practice. You probably get to wear a tux a lot if you’re a regular at Buckingham Palace.

He caught sight of me and pulled away from Montserrat’s cozy cadre. I noticed that her eyes followed him as he crossed the room and brushed my cheek with his lips.

“What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled.

“For me, too.” I smiled back.

“You look absolutely smashing!” he murmured, then: “Let me introduce you to some people.”

By this time there must have been about thirty people in the room. I spent the next hour or so sipping champagne and chatting with elite Meridanos—head of a bank, various political personages, the chair of the board of the
museo,
and a couple of board members.

Dinner was served about ten in the dining room. All thirty of us sat down at one table, if you can imagine one that size, under the chandelier I had seen on my first visit.

Don Diego Maria and Dona Sheila, as hosts, sat at opposite ends of the table, but Montserrat sat immediately to her father’s right. I imagined the seating arrangement reflected the dynamics of that household perfectly, Diego and Montserrat inseparable, Sheila a chasm apart.

I was seated on the same side of the table as Montserrat, but opposite Jonathan. Both Montserrat and he were being charming and witty. My built-in radar system, honed by a few years of marriage to a man with wandering eyes and a penchant for young women about Montserrat’s age, told me that some of this at least was for the benefit of each other, and I felt a momentary pang.

Get a grip, Lara, I told myself, and turned brightly to the dinner companion on my right, a Dr. Rivera, who specialized in conditions of the rich: liver disease, tummy tucks, liposuction, and the like.

The food was sumptuous, several courses too many in my opinion. Cream soup, salad, fish course, quail, beef, a cheese course, and a choice of desserts. A selection of suitable wines accompanied each, and flowed freely. A steady diet of this would make Dr. Rivera very rich indeed.

Then Don Diego announced that the men would retire to the drawing room for a cigar and some port. The ladies would return to the salon for a
digestif.

“How quaint,” I mouthed at Jonathan across the table. He had trouble keeping a straight face.

I spent a polite half hour with the ladies, and as we went to rejoin the men in the dying hours of the party, I made for the powder room. It was occupied, but a server directed me upstairs to another bathroom. As I left I paused in the upper hallway to admire some of the paintings. They really were quite exceptional.

“So you enjoy art,” a voice behind me said. It was the host, Don Diego Maria himself, glass of port in one hand, cigar in the other. He must have seen me studying his paintings and broken away for a few moments from the rest of his guests.