Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (15 page)

I smiled dryly. Bribes are part of everyday life in Mexico. I could well imagine how the thief obtained a key to the particular hall. Of course, bribery in one form or another is certainly alive and well in Mexico's northern neighbor. But here we call it campaign contributions.

I quickly checked a few more news articles and the inventory of the stolen gold and made some notes:

The robbery occurred on the night of Saturday, August 22.

No trace of the thief was found.

The stolen jewelry included four gold pectorals, a gold sheet with serpent head, two gold brooches, five gold necklaces, two gold masks, one of them representing a jaguar and encrusted with pearls and garnets, eight gold lip rings, four gold bells, six gold projectile points.

 

I remembered one of the pieces from a long ago-visit to the museum, the brooch with its unique centerpiece of a turquoise mosaic on gold and the distinctive filigree edge so reminiscent of the border of feathers that decorated the shields of Moctezuma's warriors. When red-bearded Hernán Cortés, imposing in his armor, rode into Tenochtitlan, or Mexico City, he was greeted by the royal leader adorned with gold, even his gold-covered sandals glistening in the sunlight. Cortés must have gaped in awe at the buttery-colored pectoral and necklaces and beads, gold that fueled insatiable desire in the wealth-lusting Spaniards.

Intellectually, I began to grasp the enormity of this theft. But it wasn't until I turned to the next few sheets that I had a sense of the glory that had been taken. Thanks to the miracle of color transmission via computer, I held a sheaf of spectacular pictures. Though these were only photographs, they captured much of the almost unimaginable richness and artistry of the stolen gold.

The most spectacular piece, of course, was the eleven-strand necklace, the gold as bright and beautiful as captured sunlight or a field of buttercups. I counted the eleven strands—the first three with fairly uniform beads, though, since each was crafted by hand, there were obvious variations; then six strands of small beads in series of ten separated by larger oblongs; a tenth strand with twenty-three dangling globes at the center; and a final magnificent strand with large dangling globes decorated with double drops.

The list of stolen gold was dry and scholarly, the actual images startling. I stared at the breastplate from Veracruz, at the god's heavy-lidded face, at the fangs protruding from round thick lips. Huge rosettes and
horizontal bands of gold decorated with delicate swirls hung from either side of the ornate crown.

I turned over page after page, and when I was done I shivered. Man has always been tempted by gold, seduced by gold. This was a blood-drenched treasure.

If I was right, if these were the objects that had been found by Iris in the wardrobe, there was danger indeed at Tesoros. But I had no proof. I needed to know more, much more. The place to start was with the dead man.

Yes, this was the dossier I desperately wanted and now I had it, thanks to Emily and Warren's friend Cal. I read swiftly:

In re investigation, Cal Jenkins's report continued, police source says Detective Borroel conferring with DA. Charges expected against Manuel Garza, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Pottery bank in cleaning pail determined to be murder weapon. Polished clean, no fingerprints or bloodstains, but shape consistent with contusions on victim's head. Motive thought to be attack on intruder in Tesoros, possibly second degree murder or even manslaughter because of suspect's impaired capability
.

The next sheet contained the data on Manuel:

I put down the fax sheets and felt a wash of anguish. What would it do to Manuel to be jailed? Even though no one would abuse him, he would be cut off from his family, placed in a cell, made to wear strange clothing.
He would be utterly terrified. And to be arraigned in a courtroom…

Anguish was succeeded by an icy anger—anger at Rick, who was still lying, and anger at the unknown member of that clever family who had unlocked the front door of Tesoros for a drunken Ed Schmidt.

I glanced at my watch. Almost noon. The tables and booths were filling. Light, cheerful voices surrounded me. I pushed away my half-eaten lunch. I paid my bill and hurried out into another steamy forenoon. I found a pay phone with a tattered phone book still attached to a twisted chain. I looked up three addresses.

 

Odd how appearances deceive. The front of Tesoros had presented its customary elegance to the world this morning, untouched by violent death. The modest frame house on the quiet street off Alamo appeared equally unaffected by the bloody end of its owner.

Ed Schmidt's house, his childhood residence, his last home, was a one-story bungalow, probably built in the early thirties. I loved that old-fashioned style of house that always reminded me of the Uncle Wiggily stories I long ago read to the children. There was a front porch, of course, another vestige of a different America. A forest-green wooden swing was tucked close to a lattice covered with honeysuckle.

Someone—Ed?—was a dedicated gardener. Pansies, impatiens, and petunias flourished in the front beds. A Whitmani fern grew lushly in a striking blue-and-white pottery pot near the door.

A folded newspaper lay near the steps. That was the only hint of disorder.

As I started up the steps, a gate creaked. “I didn't know whether to pick up the newspaper.” The voice was thin and wheezy. “I always kept them for Ed when
he was out of town.” An old woman, a very old woman, shuffled the few feet from her dandelion-spangled lawn to the weedless, recently mowed grass in Ed's yard. Gauzy black hair, almost purplish from cheap dye, fluffed over her head, revealing patches of shiny scalp. Her face was as wrinkled as an ancient elephant's hide, but her rheumy eyes scanned me carefully. “You with the police?” She sounded doubtful.

“No, ma'am. I was hoping to talk to someone here.” I pointed at Ed's house. “You know he went on buying trips to Mexico—”

Her head bobbed like a marionette.

“—and he was going to look for a silver-and-tortoiseshell necklace for me. He told me he'd have it for me today, but when I called this morning, a policeman answered.”

Again that fluffy head nodded.

“Of course, I'm dreadfully sorry about what happened.” There was no delicate way to say one regretted a man's murder.

She wore a pink housecoat with a frenzy of lace at the neck and scuffed, once-pink terry-cloth slippers. “I saw the police car.” No doubt little escaped her notice. “I came out on my porch. The policeman came over to see me. He wanted to know if I'd seen Ed last night and if he was with anybody. He said Ed was found dead on the River Walk outside that fancy store, Tesoros.”

Obviously, Detective Borroel was running true to form. He said little and what he said was true but unrevealing.

“The detective said someone hit him on the head.” She put her hands on her hips and peered at me. “I always thought Ed would come to a bad end, but I
figured it would be in a bar somewhere or a car wreck. Ed drank too much.”

It was my turn to nod. I gestured toward the house. “Is there anyone I can talk to? I don't want to intrude, but I'm leaving town soon and I'd like to know if he was able to make that purchase for me. Do you know who's in charge of the estate?”

She rubbed her nose with a thin finger. “Probably Ed's cousin, Greta. Lives in Pampas, I think. But if you know what the necklace looks like—”

“Oh yes, black tortoiseshell interspersed with oblong silver beads and a clasp shaped like a beetle.” I put on my most earnest expression. “I wouldn't take it with me,” I said virtuously. “I haven't paid for it yet. But if it's there, I'll get in touch with his cousin. If it isn't in his house, I won't take up her time.”

“Well”—she dropped a hand into the pocket of her housecoat and metal jangled—“I have keys to his house 'cause I kept things right for him when he was gone. He always said, ‘Mrs. Jackson, I never worry about the place when I'm gone.' And he was good to me, always brought me a present and sometimes he gave me cash. I don't have much money, you know,” she confided, “just my late husband's social security and it doesn't stretch too far. I was glad to help out and when I saw the police car this morning, I went out to look. The detective was very nice to me. After he told me about Ed, I went over and brought Sammie home. That's Ed's cat.”

As we stepped onto the porch, she reached down to stroke a huge orange tom. “Papa's not coming home, Sammie. But you'll be all right. I'll take care of you.”

She poked a key into the front door. I asked casually, “Now, Ed's last trip, let's see, that was in August, wasn't it?”

She stepped inside, flipped on the living room light. “Yes. He was gone the last two weeks in August.”

I kept my expression pleasant, but I felt like shouting. It was like poking the right piece into a complicated puzzle. The robbery at the National Museum occurred August 22. The odds on cocaine in the wardrobe continued to dwindle in my mind.

We stood in the little entryway, the small living room to the right, the dining room to the left. The living room surprised me, cheerful with bright cushions on white wicker furniture, a crimson-and-black sārape on one wall, small oil paintings, mostly of San Miguel de Allende, on another, and brilliantly glazed pottery scattered everywhere. A spectacular big black-glazed pot stood near the fireplace, obviously the finest piece in the room.

The room smelled fuggily of bourbon and stale cigarette smoke. A bottle, a shot glass, and a half-filled tumbler sat by a stub-filled brass ashtray on a low coffee table. An oversize coffee table book lay open to a glittering green scene of rolling pastoral country. Even from here, I could read the script:
The Glory of the Emerald Isle
. The open bottle, the murky half-filled tumbler, and the ashtray were the only signs of disorder, clashing with the serenity of the room.

“Ed kept a nice house. I do give him credit there. And when he was himself, he was the best neighbor in the world.” She glanced at the profusion of greenery in glazed pots. “I suppose I'd better water his ferns, keep them nice for his cousin.” She pattered away toward the kitchen.

I moved swiftly around the room. Ed Schmidt had been an orderly man. I stepped close to the bookcase and photos of Ed when young—in the Army, on a small boat, walking along a beach, on a tennis court.
Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Always men.

I heard steps behind me. I turned, shaking my head. “I don't see anything here that could be mine.” I pointed at an unframed snapshot lying in the bookcase. “That's a very nice picture, the one with Ed standing by that huge sculpture.” The sun splashed on Ed's face. He looked powerful, determined, and smug. I thought this photograph—had he asked another tourist to take it? I felt certain he'd been alone—was the equivalent of thumbing his nose at the world. Unless I was mightily mistaken, this picture was taken in front of the monument to the god Tlaloc at the entrance to the National Museum of Anthropology. I smiled at Mrs. Jackson. “I've been there. The National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City.”

For all the reaction in his elderly neighbor's face, I might equally have named an orbiting space station.

She squinted at the photo. “Sad to see him having so much fun and not knowing he had so little time left. I think this was made on his last trip. It wasn't here until this week.” She looked around the room. “If you didn't see your necklace, let's take a look in his office. It's a little cubbyhole by his bedroom.”

I followed her down the short hall. There is something incredibly intimate about seeing a man's bedroom. The green cotton spread stretched tight and smooth on the old fashioned maple spool bed. A monogrammed silver-backed hairbrush and matching comb sat atop a lace doily on the dresser. I'd bet doilies had been scattered about the house when he was young. Had he kept this one out of deference to his mother? It appeared freshly washed. A paperback of Barbara Tuchman's
The Zimmerman Telegram
and a half-empty pack of Camels lay on the bedside table. The
closet door was closed. No clothing was discarded on the bed or straight chair near the dresser.