Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (5 page)

In the margin, Emily had scrawled, “Check out who wants money and why. Maybe the third generation doesn't like Maria Elena's ‘modest' lifestyle. Maybe Iris tumbled to something crooked. Although from what I remember of Iris, I'd think she and a spreadsheet would have about as much in common as a nun and a luxury hotel. And, to be accurate, every source emphasizes that Tesoros has an absolutely unassailable reputation for honest dealing. No stolen goods. No fakes. No artworks with suspect provenances. Promises made are promises kept. Mrs. Garza was once quoted as saying the store would always be in family hands because then she would always be certain that only the best and the finest went through her showroom.”

Emily had scanned several news photos. Maria Elena Herrera Garza beamed out from the center of a family photograph taken two years earlier. My initial impression? A lady loaded with charm.

Maria Elena's dark eyes glowed with good humor. Her oblong face was alight with eagerness. Her mouth curved in a merry, infectious smile. A youthful zest almost erased the lines of age.

I realized I'd responded and was smiling at the photograph.

She was so interesting, so alive, so vivid that those around her receded into the background. But this was a good photographer. Every face told a story. I looked
at each of her children and their spouses in turn.

Frank Garza. A narrow face with the distinctive Garza chin. Deep-set eyes looked out at the world diffidently, almost defensively. He didn't smile and his mouth in repose had a forlorn droop.

Isabel Garza. Honey-bright hair curved around a delicate face. Her brown eyes had a distant gaze. Rings with stones of many colors shone from the hands lying in total relaxation in her lap. She had the air of a confident house cat, beautiful, self-absorbed, capable of unthinking cruelty.

Tony Garza. Even in a group photo he exuded magnetism, the macho swagger of a matador. His eyes glittered with energy, a hungry, questing, demanding look. His full lips spread in a boisterous smile. He'd be the loudest man at the poker table. A fun companion if his jokes and chatter didn't distract you from your cards.

Susana Garza. She was as alive and arresting as her husband, her dark head flung back, her vivid eyes arrogantly defiant, her scarlet lips both inviting and contemptuous.

Celestina Garza. Sleek black hair drawn back in a tight bun. Gold-wire glasses. Reserved, inquiring, suspicious eyes. A surprisingly prim mouth for a woman near fifty.

Magda Reyes. The Garza face, long and lean, but artfully applied makeup highlighted her eyes, softened the blunt chin. Bright, cheerful, confident eyes. A bubbly smile. She had an air of good humor, but her firm mouth and bold chin argued decisiveness and determination, qualities quite useful for a buyer of artworks.

Manuel Garza. He alone had not looked at the photographer. His wide eyes, luminous and loving, were fastened on his mother. The odd mixture of innocence
and age made his face the most affecting of them all.

The other photographs weren't as interesting, business publicity pictures that had appeared with various news stories. There was only one that mattered to me, a formal shot of a rather stiff Rick Reyes when he joined the staff at his grandmother's store upon graduation from Texas A&M. I separated that print and the family portrait from the sheaf of papers, carefully folded them and put them in my purse.

I waved away the waiter with an offer of more coffee, put down a bill on my check. Across the river, Manuel Garza was nearing completion of the first window. The door to Tesoros swung open.

But I had one more stop to make before I crossed the river to meet Maria Elena Garza, a stop that might make my visit simpler. Or more difficult.

T
HE air was sharply cool. I'd left the window unit running in Iris's apartment. I shivered as I crossed to turn it off. The room seemed even shabbier, dustier, its disarray more ominous. I turned on the lights, opened the blinds. Even so, the room was dingy. Yet, when I stood and looked at the small oil painting still propped on the wooden chair, its colors glistened as if brushed moments ago.

It was such a small painting to have so great an impact, perhaps twelve inches by eighteen. A weathered wooden cross leaned against a mission wall, next to a stone doorway and massive wooden doors. That was all, wood and stone and sunlight, shades of brown and gray and a faintly apricot peach, evoking a cry to God, humble and hopeful.

What was a painting of this stature and depth doing in Iris's apartment?

Oh, the quick answer was obvious. She was trying to copy the work. Actually, her half-finished effort was well done. But the greater question had no ready answer. At least, I knew I wouldn't find the answer here.

 

I lifted my hand to knock, waited until the tinny blast of trumpets subsided.

The door opened grudgingly. A blue smock this morning. No makeup. The apartment manager scowled. “You have her key. Why bother me?”

The mariachis on the television program swung into a rollicking polka. The danceable music made the unkempt room seem even more forlorn. Or perhaps it was the bright sunlight spearing in through opened window blinds, teeming with dust motes, highlighting the scuffed floor, bleaching color from a sofa arm. The blinds looking out into the courtyard were open, as were the blinds on the window facing the alley and another overlooking the parking lot.

“I came to see you. I know you take great care of this property.”

She brushed crumbs from her smock, stared at me woodenly.

I opened my purse, found a fifty dollar bill, clasped it between my fingers and my purse. “I know you have much to do. Your time is valuable. I would only ask a few minutes, Mrs.—” I waited.

“Hernandez.” Her dark eyes dropped to the bill. She stepped back, held the door for me.

I sat on the sofa, placed the bill on the side table. Neither of us looked at it.

She eased into her rocking chair. Her eyes were both sullen and curious, her face cautious.

I waved my hand around the room, at the windows. “Obviously, you are careful to keep an eye out for anyone who does not belong.”

She folded her big arms across her chest and, after a moment, slowly nodded. But she didn't speak. She was waiting.

I had to be careful. Iris's searched apartment revealed many things. Perhaps the most important were Detective Hess's conclusion that either Iris admitted
the person who searched the apartment or that the searcher had a key or the expertise to deal with an inexpensive lock. I could be sure Detective Hess had asked this woman about keys and, quite likely, about strangers.

I doubted the manager had been particularly forthcoming. This was not a forthcoming woman. She might know something, but why would she bother to tell anyone? The detective's questions didn't matter to her. Iris didn't matter to her. I was going to find out if money mattered. It does to a great many people.

“Now, I don't know whether Detective Hess—”

The manager's face was abruptly stone still.

“—explained that Iris has officially been listed as missing.”

“She was fine when she left here.” Mrs. Hernandez spoke loudly. “That last time I saw her. I think it was Thursday. Yes, I'm sure it was Thursday. So there is nothing wrong here.”

“I'm sure of that. But it occurred to me”—I nodded at the windows—“that you may have seen something that might help. Perhaps Iris sent someone to pick something up for her.”

Her face didn't change. That suggested to me that Detective Hess had said nothing about the apartment's having been searched. It's been my experience with police that they never reveal anything except for a reason. There would be no reason to tell the apartment manager. I would guess the detective inquired about the presence of any strangers.

“Mrs. Hernandez, did you see anyone you didn't know going up the stairs after Iris left on Thursday? Or even on Friday or Saturday?”

Her eyes flickered toward the table and the bill.

“I have some pictures here. If you wouldn't mind looking at them…”

That interested her. Her heavy face was suddenly attentive, less combative. She took the papers, then picked up the television remote, punched off the program. She was quick, scanning the family gathering, then the publicity photos. She pointed to a picture.

I saw Rick's young, serious, ambitious face. And was surprised at the sadness that touched me.

Her voice was brusque. “That's her boyfriend. Pretty nice kid. Always says hello and smiles. Here all the time. But I haven't seen him lately.”

“Not on Thursday?”

“No. Iris was by herself. But she was in a hurry.”

Rick could have been waiting in his car for Iris.

“You haven't seen him since she left?”

“No. Of course, I don't sit here all day. I have things to do. I have to keep a check on the laundry room, see to repairs.” She glanced at the bill, smoothed a large worn hand across her chin. “I did see a man I didn't know Thursday afternoon. But that was after Iris left.”

Just as Detective Hess suggested, Iris may not have been in the apartment when it was searched.

Mrs. Hernandez relaxed in her chair, began to rock. She spoke with interest. “I noticed this guy. It must have been close to five Thursday. I noticed because most of my people aren't home from work yet. I didn't know who he could be going up to see. Unless it was Mrs. Wentz. In twenty-four. She's old and she doesn't get out much. But I'd never seen him before. Anyway, he went up the stairs about five and he came down at five-thirty. I know because the news comes on then. So maybe he went to see Mrs. Wentz.”

I looked at her attentively. Would she hold out the family photo? Who could it have been?

“He looked all right.” Her voice was steely. “Believe me, I don't let anybody hang around here that doesn't look right. Yes, I keep an eye out. I don't want any trouble here. This man looked fine.”

Yes, I supposed he would. In the family portrait, the Garza men had the air of successful, substantial businessmen.

But she didn't even glance at the sheets she held loosely in one hand. “Nice-looking guy about forty-five or fifty. Big head. Curly blond hair. Blue eyes. A big mouth. Blue shirt. Gray slacks.” She pushed up from the rocker. “That's all I remember. Nothing special about him. Maybe five-ten, two hundred pounds. Not fat. Strong-looking.”

Slowly, I stood. She handed me the photographs I'd brought with such expectations.

“A big blond man.” I suppose the blankness of my voice made my surprise evident.

She lifted her big shoulders in an expressive shrug. “All I can say is what I saw.”

I looked at her searchingly.

She pointed at the papers in my hand. “I could have pointed to someone there. I suppose that would have pleased you. But”—she drew herself up—“I am an honest woman.”

“I'm sure you are. And I appreciate your helping me. It's wonderful of you to keep such a careful lookout for your tenants.”

“Not much gets past me.” She looked toward the courtyard.

“If that man comes around again, please leave a message for me at my bed-and-breakfast, La Mariposa. I'm in Room Six.” I glanced toward the fifty dollar bill. “You needn't leave your name, simply say, ‘The man came back.'”

As the door closed behind me, the television blared to life.

I hurried back to the stairs and up to the second floor. I knocked on the door to 24 and noticed that the blinds to the front window were open, though slanted, so it was hard to see inside.

It took a moment before the door opened slowly.

Mrs. Wentz must once have been tall. Now she was bent, her spine curved by age. Gnarled hands gripped a walker. A cold intelligence glistened in sharp blue eyes. Iron gray hair curled in tight ringlets. She observed me unsmilingly from a worn, remote face.

“What do you want?” Her diction was perfect, her tone commanding.

“Were you a teacher?” I offered a smile.

Her eyes tried to pluck secrets from my face. I suspect she'd had great success through the years.

“Think you're clever, I suppose. And if I was?” But her voice, though still crisp, was amused.

“Then you know how to think—and I'm looking for a good mind.”

“I don't know you.” She made no move to get out of the doorway.

I pointed at the door to Iris's apartment. “The girl who lives there—”

“Yes. A nice girl. A sweet girl.” She very deliberately didn't speak Iris's name. Yes, indeed, I'd found a good mind. “She brings me cookies. She actually makes them. I told her that wasn't politically correct these days.”

“And Iris laughed.”

Her eyes warmed. “Yes, she did. What do you want with Iris?”

I told her. “…and no one has seen Iris since Thursday.”

She maneuvered her walker, gestured for me to enter.

Bookcases served as a room divider, creating a small living room, a sleeping area and a breakfast room. The filled shelves provided color. The walls were bare, as were the floors. The room could have had an air of proud poverty. Instead, it was bright and airy, and the books piled on end tables, many of them open, promised information and adventure and beauty.

Mrs. Wentz didn't waste time, neither hers nor mine. An open book lay on the end table beside her. “I saw Iris Thursday afternoon.” She gestured toward her front window. “I keep my blinds open during the day. I like sunshine. And I like to look out, though there isn't much to see: the railing, the corridor that fronts the apartments, a portion of the tree in the courtyard. Anyone going to Iris's apartment.”

I understood her point at once. “Iris had to pass your apartment, arriving or departing. Unless she chose to walk the long way around.” And there would be no point to that.

A slight smile. The pupil was to be commended. “Correct. There are two stairways to the second floor, but the shortest route to Iris's apartment is past my window. I saw her every day. But I haven't seen her since Thursday afternoon.”

“Was she arriving or leaving?”

“She arrived at shortly after four. I was a little surprised. That isn't a usual time for her. And she was walking very fast. Then, it couldn't have been more than five minutes later, she left. I heard her steps. And again, I suppose I looked more closely than I might because even her steps sounded hurried. I glimpsed her face.”

She paused and stared thoughtfully out the window.

I didn't try to hurry her. I knew that when she spoke, she would speak with precision.

“She appeared excited. Not so much worried or fearful as intensely absorbed. She walked quickly.” Mrs. Wentz placed her fingertips together. “She had a backpack hanging from one arm.” She gave a short, firm nod. “I've not seen her since.”

“Have any strangers passed your window since you last saw Iris?”

“Just one. At five o'clock…” Her precise voice described the blond man.

So the blond man—the unexpected, unexplained blond man—wasn't a creation of the manager. She had earned her fifty dollars.

“…Reminded me of a boy I had in class many years ago. If things didn't go his way, he glowered. He bullied the younger, smaller children. I once told him, ‘Harry, someday you're going to meet a bully bigger than you are'.”

I couldn't resist. “What happened to Harry?”

A slight shake of her head. “Barroom brawl. Harry picked on the wrong man.”

I had a little picture of Harry. And of the blond man who searched Iris's apartment.

I thanked Mrs. Wentz for her help and she promised to get in touch if the blond man returned.

 

In the parking lot, I called Tesoros from my car.

Tony Garza answered. There was no mistaking his full, deep, lively voice.

“Maria Elena Garza, please.”

“Mrs. Collins?”

I was startled. I was surprised he recognized my voice. I'd had good reason to listen to his. I wondered
if that was true of him? “Yes. How are you, Mr. Garza?”

“Fine, fine. Have you heard from Iris? We're hoping nothing's really wrong.” His smooth voice dropped in concern.

“I've not found her yet. I wanted a chance to visit with your mother.”

“Oh, sure. Mother's worried, too. Hold on and I'll put you through.” A click. Another.

“Hello.” A melodious voice. Unpretentious, yet firm. This was a woman who had started with little and succeeded beyond all expectation. That told me she was smart, capable, far-sighted, tough. And, of course, lucky. I do believe in luck, but it's interesting how people who work the hardest are usually the luckiest.

“Mrs. Garza, my name is Henrietta Collins—”

“Of course. I'm so glad you called. Have you had any success looking for Iris?” There had been polite concern in Tony Garza's voice, but Maria Elena sounded truly troubled.

“Not yet. I've reported her as missing to the police. But there is something I'd especially like to discuss with you. There is a painting in Iris's apartment.” I described that haunting, memorable canvas, how the shadow of a tree dappled part of the door and the wall, the way the sunlight brought out the amber color of some of the chunks of stone, the uneven shadow of the small wooden cross. “Do you know that painting?”

“Yes.” The answer was quick. “Oh, yes.”

“May I come and talk to you?”

“Yes. Please do.” She gave me directions, how to come into La Mariposa and ask for her. “We have much to discuss. The police were here this morning to ask about Iris.”