Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (24 page)

Yes, I was ostensibly relaxed, but my thoughts darted from one challenge to the next, should Maria Elena say yes. I needed a clear description of Frank and Isabel's house and grounds. Where could an accident occur? Not even gambling Tony would choose the circular staircase for another accident. No, an accident would have to be natural, an outgrowth of the surroundings. I picked up a map of San Antonio, located Isabel and Frank's house on King William Street. Its backyard sloped to the river. How deep was the river there? Could Manuel swim?

An accident. That was my bet. My hope. A suicide? An overdose of some kind, but surely Manuel had no access to drugs of any kind and would not be likely to have enough knowledge to use them. A hanging? I felt a curl of horror. Yes, that was possible, and the police might believe it within Manuel's capabilities. I doubted it. I didn't think Manuel would understand suicide. I didn't believe that he would imagine ending his life no matter how frightened and despairing he might be. But if a hanging occurred, wouldn't Borroel be quick to see it as the simple solution for a difficult case? No matter how much Maria Elena might object, the truth was, of course, that such a death could be suicide. No one could ever prove differently.

I finished the coffee, pressed my fingers against my temples. Water. Rope. What else?

The door to my room opened and Maria Elena slipped inside. There was a faint flush on her cheeks and hope in her eyes.

I rose and once again we embraced, two old women who knew how precious and fragile life was. When we drew apart, her hands still gripped my arms.

“What can we do?” Her voice was strong, lifted by the promise of action.

“I'm going to offer you a terrible choice.” I drew her toward the chair, I sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes never left my face. I knew she saw there the fear and uncertainty in my heart. “You understand that whoever killed Ed Schmidt and pushed Julian Worth down the circular stairs—”

Maria Elena's hand rose to her throat.

“—is one of the family.” I did not need to list the names for her. She knew those names only too well. “Julian Worth came to Tesoros yesterday to try and discover who took the stolen goods from Ed Schmidt. He went from person to person, making it clear his silence was for sale. But Ed Schmidt's murderer wasn't buying and he wasn't going to take any chances that Worth might talk to the police. He moved quickly. Worth came to the store and he was dead within the hour. So we are dealing with someone who is frightened, who thinks fast, and who is very dangerous.” No, I did not want to tell her that her beloved second son was the murderer. Call it cowardice, call it foolishness, but in my own mind, I called it caution. In a moment, Maria Elena must deal with a heart-stopping decision. I refused to subject her to more stress than I must at this moment. She would have to deal with a hideous truth soon enough. But not at this moment. “Now let me tell you how I think Manuel got involved Monday night…”

When I finished, she slowly nodded. “It could be so. He often does wander about the apartment during the night. I've never known him to go downstairs, but
yes, he could certainly have done so. And if he saw such a dreadful thing…”

Now came the hard part, the idea that could save Manuel or end his life. How much courage did Maria Elena have? “This murderer”—it was hard to speak—“can be stampeded into action. Here's what I think we should do…”

When I finished, she pressed her hands against her face. I heard a soft murmur. “Mary, Mother of God, help me, please help me.”

Finally, her hands fell. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Manuel,” she said brokenly, “it will kill him if they put him in prison. My nephew, William, talked to me of many things, of plea bargains and getting the charge reduced to manslaughter.” One hand grasped the silver cross at her throat. “William said they would be kind to Manuel, that he would go to a place for people who are not responsible. But I know that he would wither away and die sitting in a locked room, not understanding, frightened, alone. And he is innocent!” Anger blazed now in those tear-filled eyes. She struck one hand against the chair arm. “He is innocent. This should not happen. It must not happen. But”—and now her voice quavered—“how can we keep him safe?”

R
ICK hunched over the little writing table, his lanky legs tucked awkwardly beneath it. He stared at the sheet of paper, then made swift sure strokes with his pen. He tapped the drawing. “Uncle Frank's backyard runs all the way to the River Walk. Uncle Manuel worms his way through the honeysuckle to the walk. Along that part of the walk, there's a concrete embankment. Uncle Manuel likes to sit on the ledge and look down at the water. But in Uncle Frank's backyard, there's also a duck pond ringed by willows. You can't see the pond from the patio, and that's where the party will be. None of the guests would be likely to wander that far. There aren't any lights there.” He looked at me somberly. “Everyone in the family knows about the pond. Uncle Manuel loves it. Whenever there's a party, he climbs up in the big magnolia at the edge of the patio to watch the dancing and the mariachis, but eventually he always goes to the pond. He thinks it's his secret place.”

Manuel's secret place. “How deep is it?”

“Six feet, maybe. When we were little kids, nobody could play near it without a grown-up along. Mother wanted them to fill it in. Once my little cousin, Rosa, fell in. It was scary—reeds and everything. As for the
river, it's only about five feet deep along that stretch. But if somebody pushed Uncle Manuel off the ledge, it's a drop of maybe ten feet. He can't swim and he's phobic about being in water. He'd panic and thrash and flail.” He took a deep breath. “It doesn't take too many gulps to drown.”

One hard shove, just like the stairs.

I stared at the irregular circle Rick had drawn to represent the pond and the hatch marks for the willows. The pond was far from the lights. Loud music would muffle any cries.

I gripped the edge of the table. “Oh, God, Rick, can we protect him? Can we? What if it isn't the pond? What's if it's the river? What if somebody gets a rope and hangs him?” My mind skittered like a mouse helplessly darting from a cat's paw. “The house is two-story, isn't it? But it wouldn't do to push him down those stairs. The steps wouldn't be metal and he isn't old. And there wouldn't be time—not the way we've planned it—for the murderer to do anything but spur-of-the-moment. There'd be no chance for poison.” I looked at him beseechingly. “Even household poisons would be too uncertain. Rick—”

He reached out, gripped my hands. “Don't be frightened. Look, we're smart—”

Were we? Wasn't this a gamble with the devil?

“—what can anybody do without advance planning? Remember, this is going to come as a hell of a shock to the murderer. The pressure's on. The only chance to get Manuel will be at the party, and it will have to look like an accident. There's the river, the pond, maybe a tree and a rope, but you can be damn sure we'll check Uncle Frank's garage, make certain there are no ropes. And nobody carries poison around, especially not stuff that works in minutes. We'll handle
it.” He gave my hands a final reassuring squeeze, picked up his pen.

But Rick was young, and youth is so certain. Age knows nothing is certain. Except death. I realized I was tired and upset, yet I still knew this was not only our best chance to save Manuel, it was quite likely our only chance.

I took a deep breath, managed a smile. “Okay. Now how are you going to get people in position by the pond and along the shore?”

“Maria Elena and Iris are calling all the family right now. It's going to be a huge party, not just the auction guests. But”—and he jotted down five names: Tom, Rey, Gene, Mike and Izzy—“my cousins. You know Tom. Rey's a marathoner, Gene rock-climbs, Mike scuba dives, and Izzy rodeos. They can handle anything. And,” Rick's voice was grim, “tonight they will.”

 

I chose my dress with care—a navy silk, long-sleeved despite the warm evening. I could meld into the darkness. But this evening's action wasn't for me. I was in the gallery. It was hard to accept a passive role, but youth and strength were needed now. All I could do was wait and hope. And pray.

The historic King William district, named for King Wilhelm I of Prussia, reflects the enormous influence of German immigrants in San Antonio. The district runs from East Guenther Street in the shadow of the old Pioneer flour mill to Durango Boulevard and St. Mary's Street. The district is bounded on one side by South Alamo and on the other by the river.

The land titles stretch all the way back to 1793, when the area surrounding the Alamo was deeded away from the mission. In the late 1870s, prominent
German immigrant businessmen built substantial and showy homes reflecting many different influences—Greek Revival, Neoclassical, Victorian, Colonial Revival. As with older housing areas in many cities, the district lost favor in later years and many of the homes became shabby. Beginning in the sixties, appreciation for the old architecture spurred renovations, and today houses in the King William district are extremely expensive and beautifully maintained. Mimosas, magnolias, cedars, sycamores, and willows flourish. Houses along a portion of King William Street have back lawns that reach to the River Walk.

At a few minutes before eight, I parked along King William Street a half block from the Garza house. The street was already filling with cars. The two-story home of dressed limestone blazed with lights. Strings of red and green lights sparkled in the massive sycamores and the luminarias that I always associate with Christmas bordered a winding walk that branched from the main entryway to an arbor. More lights glistened over the treetops. The ebullient off-beat rhythm of “El Maracumbe” added pulse and pace to the night. I've always loved mariachi music, the combination of violins, trumpets, and guitars. The two stringed instruments unique to this music, the crisp, clear vihuela and the bass guitarrón, provide a sound unlike any other. But to tell the truth, my heart belongs to the trumpets, their cascade of golden notes as captivating as fireworks. Cheerful voices rose as guests strolled toward the arbor. I was a few feet behind several middle-aged couples.

Frank and Isabel welcomed the guests as they came through the rose-covered arbor to a fairy-tale backyard—more imposing sycamores, two enormous magnolias, a long swimming pool whose cool blue waters
shimmered from lights angling up from below the surface. Frank's face was much livelier than usual and flushed almost as bright a red as his crimson shirt. He shook hands with the men, hugged the women, had a special word for each person. Isabel was in her element, her honey-blond hair bright as spun gold, her heart-shaped face radiating sheer delight in herself, the night, and her home. The Garzas even, after an instant of blankness, managed to greet me with more civility than I expected. Or, from their perspective, deserved. But I didn't get a hug from Frank. And Isabel's sideways glance was sharp and puzzled.

I moved past and veered a little to my left, taking my place in the shadow of one of the magnolias. No wonder the Garzas were pleased. If they loved a party, this one was zinging: the music fast and good, the guests smiling and animated, and a line already forming near the buffet. The tables were bright with red, white, and green tablecloths, the colors of Mexico.

The tables filled a broad swath of patio on the far side of the pool. The near side, to the arbor, had been marked off with garlands of red and white carnations, providing ample space for a dance performance. The mariachis stood to one side of the dance floor. There were eight members in this group. The musicians wore the distinctive charro costume—black jacket, white shirt, tasseled tie, tight black pants with the distinctive silver ornaments on the exterior sides of the trousers, and black sombreros also decorated with silver. The mariachis would play until dinner was over and then the dancers would perform, viewed across the sparkling pool. The mariachis swung into “Las Costenas,” an ebullient polka.

Iris was slim and lovely in a ruffled white blouse and red-and-green swirling skirt. She hurried toward
me with a beaming smile. I hoped that only I could see how strained and unnatural it was. We embraced and she murmured, “Rick said to tell you everyone's ready. And he said not to worry.” She slipped her arm through mine, drawing me toward the buffet. “Rick said we should act as if we were having a good time. Maria Elena will speak just before the dances.”

That was good timing, cutting even shorter the time the murderer would have to react. Dance programs at big parties usually last a half hour. I remembered so clearly the magnificent dances at the farewell fiesta for Richard and me when we left Mexico City so many years ago. I would never forget the swirling white dresses and all-white shirts and trousers of the dancers in “La Bamba.” This dance from the state of Veracruz ends with the courting couple tying a bow with their dancing feet, a lovely way to signify “I love you.”

But this evening, I couldn't welcome the force and power of the dances. I eyed the marked-off space for the dancing on the concrete patio. The sound of the dancers' footwork would be magnified by the hard surface. Loud music, staccato steps, so much sound to hide a startled cry in the night.

Iris and I took our place in the slow-moving buffet line. She introduced me to another cousin, Petra, with the familiar beautiful glossy black hair, smooth creamy complexion, and bright dark eyes. Her face alight with excitement, Petra launched into a rhapsodic report of a recent Gloria Estefan concert.

We picked up plates, again bright in red and green and white, and moved along the buffet. My stomach was a hard knot of nerves, but I was tired and with the beginning quivers of a headache. Food would help and this was glorious food: nachos with shrimp and black beans, pineapple salsa and cheese, guacamole,
chalupas topped with a meat-and-corn mixture, salsa, sour cream and scallions, beef empanadas, fried bass in cornmeal, chili shrimp quiche, chili roja, spare ribs in a chili-and-cream sauce, chilis rellenos, rice and beans. No one could leave this feast hungry. I even paused by the desserts: roasted cornmeal pudding, fried cinnamon crisps, and burned milk candy, and chose the candy, the pecans and sugar would surely fill me with energy.

“Let's go this way, Iris.” I led the girls to a table far in the back, just a few feet away from the largest magnolia. As we settled at the table, waiters came by with trays of margaritas, iced tea, and white wine. I chose the tea. Petra was describing the concert's first set to an abstracted Iris whose eyes darted from me to the tree above us, where a slender form was tucked in the crook of two huge branches. Most of Manuel's body was obscured by the thick, glossy leaves that rustled in the mild breeze.

Iris listened patiently to Petra, but every so often her gaze slid toward me and her eyes were dark with questions and with fear. Once I reached out, patted her arm. Once I half-turned and looked up. Manuel held a magnolia leaf to his cheek. He watched the musicians, his smile curving as softly as a sweep of cloud high in a summer sky.

The chair beside me was empty, so I could focus on the patio as I ate, spotting familiar faces.

Near the arbor, Wiley Harrison looked more than ever like a giraffe or perhaps a courtly stork as he bent low over the hand of an elderly woman. Jolene, bobbing beside him in a lacy white dress, could have subbed for a Tiffany Christmas tree, festooned all in golden baubles—a double necklace of coins, a half dozen coin bracelets on each arm, oversize medallion
earrings, even double gold bands perched in her tightly coiled black hair.

Joshua Chandler leaned negligently against the ladder to the diving platform, his eyes aloof, his ruddy skin bright in the lights of the patio. Susana Garza gestured to him, her red-tipped nails flashing, her eyes brilliant, her thin face flushed with excitement.

Talking over the mariachis without effort, Bud Morgan clapped his hands in satisfaction, obviously concluding a story he found extremely funny. Cara Kendall's tight face squeaked into an appreciative smile and she tilted her head coquettishly. I doubted, however, that her exertion of charm mattered a whit to Morgan, who must be the object of attention by lots of lonely ladies.

Celestina Garza stood by herself near the dance floor, one small foot tapping in rhythm to the mariachis, her little face happier than I'd ever seen it.

But two faces I couldn't find, no matter how long and carefully I looked. Neither Tony Garza nor Kenny King were present. I felt a cold uneasiness. Where were they? I hoped King was on the road to California. But where was Tony? I pushed away a piece of fried bass. Damn, damn, damn. Should I find Rick? Certainly there was no point in Maria Elena's announcement if Tony wasn't here.

I was pushing back my chair, every nerve jangling, when Tony strolled through the rose arbor. A heavy gold chain glittered against his fine mesh navy polo shirt. The breeze ruffled his dark curly hair. He was indeed handsome, his big full face, bright dark eyes, bold nose, and blunt chin perfect for a rollicking brigand, and I'd no doubt he'd won his way to many a woman's bed with that vivid smile. But his eyes weren't smiling. He clapped his brother on the shoul
der, gave Isabel a touch, then moved on to survey the patio, even louder now as the diners ate and talked and the mariachis strummed “El Tirador.”

I knew he was trouble, standing there, rocking back a little on his heels, his eyes checking the tables, scanning the clumps of revelers still visiting and not yet dining. It took him a moment to find me, our table was so remote. His look was as stiff and harsh as a blow. He would have struck me had he been nearer. His face flushed an ugly red, his eyes glinted, his hands tightened to fists.

I knew as clearly as if he'd shouted: Kenny King had demanded the return of his money. In fact, I was willing to bet Kenny King's gray Jaguar was humming on the highway to El Paso right this moment. I suspected King wanted the hell to be out of Texas as fast as possible. But not without his money.

Tony Garza started across the patio, skirting the end of the pool. He was coming to me, moving swiftly.