Misplaced (17 page)

“It’
s
no
t
v
er
y
larg
e
a
s
museum
s
go,
”
V
ictori
a
explained
, “but
o
v
er
the
y
ears,
Elias
has
managed
to
acquire
a
few
notable
pieces
.
He’
s
curate
d
som
e
wonderfu
l
exhibits
.
I
n
fac
t
there’
s one in particular I
’
d like to show you.”

Cut
t
in
g
a
c
r
os
s
th
e
w
e
t
law
n
an
d
al
o
n
g
th
e
s
i
d
e
o
f
the
building
,
the
y
passe
d
wha
t
ha
d
onc
e
bee
n
th
e
coac
h
house,
which now ser
v
ed as storage. She rang the buzzer at the dock entrance and
w
aited. The cheery voice that came through the speaker made Khara jump.

“
P
assword, please.”

“How am I supposed to know?
Y
ou change it e
v
ery
w
eek.”

“Thes
e
days
,
n
o
amoun
t
o
f
securit
y
i
s
enough,
”
th
e
voic
e
stated.
“My
policy
allows
no
exception,
but
I
’
ll
gi
v
e
you
a
clue;
a
famou
s
outla
w
i
s
burie
d
i
n
th
e
ol
d
cemeter
y
nea
r
th
e
free
w
ay.
Who is he?”

“Easy; John
W
esley Hardin. Now let us in.”

“Wrong!
”
Th
e
voic
e
sounde
d
ecstatic
.
“Nee
d
anothe
r
clue?”

“I
ha
v
e
a
hot
cinnamon
roll
with
your
name
on
it,”
V
ictoria
countered. “If you don’t hurry—”

“Th
e
bod
y
w
a
s
late
r
du
g
u
p
an
d
reburied.
”
Desperation
could now be detected in the voice.

“I
n
tha
t
case
,
it’
s
P
anch
o
V
illa
.
Mayb
e
I
didn’
t
brin
g
you
anything after all.”

There
w
as the sound of a motor, and the metal door rolled
u
p
t
o
re
v
ea
l
Elias
,
unsha
v
e
d
an
d
happ
y
a
t
th
e
prospec
t
o
f a
treat
.
Th
e
knee
s
o
f
hi
s
corduro
y
pant
s
w
er
e
muddy
,
an
d a feather duster stuck out from the pouch of his denim apron.
“Loo
k
who’
s
ful
l
o
f
bean
s
an
d
trick
s
today!
”
Elia
s
kisse
d
her
forehead,
and
then
took
Khara’s
hands.
“Good
morning,
mijita
.
Y
ou won’t mind if I call you that since you two are practically glued together these days.”

H
e
plante
d a
kis
s
o
n
he
r
cheek
;
sh
e
lo
w
ere
d
he
r
e
y
es,
seemingly delighted by the brush of his mustache.
Handin
g
hi
m
th
e
coffee
,
V
ictori
a
groaned
.
“
Anothe
r
woman
succumb
s
t
o
th
e
charm
s
o
f
Elia
s
Barró
n
d
e
Zarco
.
Min
d
i
f I show her around?
W
e’
v
e got a bet to settle.”

Removing
the
red
dustcloth
from
his
apron,
Elias
snapped it high in the air, brandishing it like a matado
r
’s
muleta
, giving them
permission to
pass. He
then
excused himself
and
headed to
w
ard
his
office.
“I
ha
v
e
a
few
more
pieces
of
this
exhibition to
in
v
entory.
I
must
also
ha
v
e
a
look
at
the
retablo
of
San
Rafael; his
poor
fish needs
restoration.
I
’
ll
turn
on
the
exhibit
lighting. It’s much more entertaining with the proper atmosphere.”

“Thanks,”
V
ictoria called back to him. “
W
e won’t be long.” It
didn’t
surprise
her
that
her
uncle
did
not
ans
w
er;
he
w
as
in
a world to himself.

He
r
pri
v
at
e
visits—sh
e
cam
e
onl
y
whe
n
th
e
museu
m
w
as
closed—al
w
ay
s
bega
n
i
n
th
e
meticulousl
y
restore
d
sitting
room
at
the
front
of
the
1910
mansion.
There,
portraits
from
the Italian
Renaissance hung
on white
marble
w
alls, vying
for her attention.
When
she
let
her
imagination
w
ander,
it
conjured
up the image of a gentleman enjoying afternoon tea with his wife on the blue-silk, French Provincial sofa.

Khara,
on
the
other
hand,
couldn’t
ha
v
e
been
less
interested
i
n
th
e
furnishings
.
Sh
e
heade
d
straigh
t
fo
r
th
e
portraits
,
stepping o
v
er the
v
el
v
et ropes. “Who are they?”

“
P
eople from long ago.”
P
ausing
for
a
moment,
she
asked,
“Is
this
place
a
tomb?
Are
these your ancestors? What’s a
retablo
?”

V
ictoria
laughed.
“
A
retablo
is
a
religious
painting,
usually
don
e
o
n
wood
.
An
d
no
,
ther
e
ar
e
n
o
bodie
s
here
,
onl
y
works
of art.”

“The
y
ar
e
glorious.
”
Khar
a
pushe
d
he
r
fac
e
clos
e
t
o
a
painting,
breathing
in
the
musty,
leathery
smell
of
old
lacquer
and paint.