01 _ Xibalba Murders, The (21 page)

Francesca and Isa, in an effort to keep busy while they waited for news of Alejandro, undertook the sad task of packing up the belongings of Don Hernan, and I elected to join them to keep my mind off my own situation. The knife was stashed in the bathroom wall with the diary, but its presence was burning a hole in my psyche and I could hardly wait to unburden myself of it.

The police had returned the suit Don Hernan had been found in, and that as well as his other belongings were being packed up to send to a charitable organization.

Once again I felt the cuffs of the trousers. Traces of dust still remained. Then, when Isa and her mother were occupied clearing out the closet and bathroom, I searched through the pockets.

I could only find one item. Stuck in the bottom of an inside pocket was a stub of a ticket of some kind. It didn’t look like a ticket to a film or an attraction. Bus or train ticket, I would guess, although I wasn’t sure. The last letters—
o-l-i-d
—were all that was left of the destination, if a transport ticket it was.

“Did Don Hernan travel much, outside of Merida, I mean?” I asked the Ortiz women in what I hoped was a casual tone of voice.

“Not much lately, I don’t think,” Francesca replied. “He used to, of course, all over the world. He was always disappearing on us. But when I think of it, the only trips I can recall his taking in the last couple of years are buying trips with you, and a trip to Mexico City a month or two ago to receive some kind of award from the university there.

“Otherwise, he stuck fairly close to home. He occasionally stayed overnight at the museum. He’d fall asleep in his office, and when he woke up in the middle of the night, he would sleep on the couch in the staff room rather than come back here in the dark.”

Digesting this information, I stuck the stub in the pocket of my jeans and went on helping clear out the room. It was a very sad task for Francesca, who broke down often while we worked.

Later that day Isa came to me and said, “We’re thinking of getting this all over with at once. Are you up for helping us clear out Dona Josefina’s room, too? The hospital has said it is unlikely she will ever return here.”

I said I thought I was. Still, Dona Josefina’s room was a shock. First off, it was very dark. The shutters were closed. Isa said they always were. It also seemed like a little museum, somehow, a room from a different era. Dona Josefina had brought a few items of her own to furnish the room, a small chair with embroidered cushions, a lady’s writing desk.

What was truly bizarre was the chest of drawers at one end of the room. This had been set up like a little shrine. The top of it was covered with a length of black velvet. A very old sepia-toned photograph of a young boy, presumably her lost son, rested in a silver frame on the velvet, along with a small silver baby spoon, a silver cup, and a bronzed baby shoe. The photograph was draped in black crepe. The remains of votive candles were stuck in a candelabra to one side of the photograph.

In the top drawer of the dresser wrapped in tissue was a yellowing christening dress and bonnet and some old wooden toys. It was as if the child had died, and perhaps he had, for all I knew. It was very, very sad.

While we were working Isa asked me if I had heard that there had been an intruder at the hospital where Dona Josefina lay. I remembered the police car from the night before but said nothing.

“Apparently someone was prowling the halls, looking in patients’ rooms,” Isa said. “The sisters didn’t like the look of him, so they chased him away. Or rather the mother superior did. I imagine being chased by her would be quite the experience!”

The thought of this brought a hint of a smile to Francesca’s face.

Isa cleared out the rest of the chest of drawers, which contained no more children’s items, but Dona Josefina’s black mantillas, fans and gloves, and what Isa described as some very extravagant black silk underwear.

I was assigned the task of clearing out the closet. Dona Josefina’s taste in clothing was fairly consistent. The closet was filled with black dresses, several long black skirts, and blouses in an old-fashioned Spanish style.

There were two boxes on the closet shelf. One contained a couple of very beautiful antique lace mantillas, both white, and some beautiful white lace gloves. And a gorgeous black lace mask, perfect for a masquerade ball.

The other held a scrapbook.

“Does anyone think Dona Josefina would mind if I looked at her scrapbook?” I asked as we finished packing up the room, this time for storage in the hotel, since Francesca said she had a feeling in her bones that Josefina would be back.

“I can’t imagine that she could care now,” Francesca said, so I took the book with me to the sitting room downstairs.

The first pages held a few cherished photographs of Josefina and her son. In these she was wearing white, as was her son. The black attire must have coincided with the disappearance of her son, not what everyone assumed was her so-called widowhood.

In addition to these photographs, Dona Josefina had kept clippings and photographs of people who had meant something to her. The more recent clippings were articles about Isa and her fashion business, or reviews of the hotel and Francesca’s cooking.

Somewhat earlier clippings alluded to Santiago’s distinguished diplomatic career. There was a small article from a local paper that told how the local high-school soccer team had made the play-offs, thanks to a winning performance by none other than Norberto Ortiz.

There were articles about Don Hernan and his museum, and a long feature on his work with indigenous communities to preserve Maya culture.

There were old dance cards, invitations to what looked to be elaborate parties and gala balls, to theater and gallery openings. Dona Josefina appeared to have enjoyed the good life in Merida, and I was happy for her.

There were several references in the papers to a masked mystery lady who attended a number of social events in the city, and I was reasonably sure I had discovered the use to which the elegant mask in the closet had been put.

Along with these mementos were several articles documenting the successes of a number of businessmen of Merida, many of whom would no doubt be embarrassed to know their financial and social exploits were being documented by what I guessed to be their current or former paramour.

One of the businessmen singled out for attention was Diego Gomez Arias, described in the early clippings as a young man on the way up. The earliest article talked a lot about his windfall in windmills, so to speak. He had apparently licensed the design to a large European and a North American manufacturer.

There were announcements of his various marriages, the birth of his daughter, the champagne launching of his first ship, the opening of his splendid hotel. There were a number of articles about the lavish coming-out party he had thrown for Montserrat, apparently the social event of the season.

Dona Josefina had been keeping close tabs on this man over the years, and I had to wonder why. She had to be at least twenty or thirty years older than he. Maybe she had been responsible for his sexual awakening, I speculated with some amusement. He certainly had a penchant for blondes.

Or maybe it was something else. I remembered her agitation when I had mentioned his name at the hospital. At the time I had thought that it was because she had known he was involved in some way in Don Hernan’s death. Maybe he was.

I thought of my earlier speculation as to his current financial status. I had thought at the time that even if the oil business were in the Dumpster, his other businesses would still be bringing in the cash. But now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe he was just keeping up appearances, as they say. And presumably his wife was well-off.

I would have to check into that in some way. He was one of my prime suspects, and I knew money was a very powerful motivator, although why killing Don Hernan would fix his financial situation, I could not hazard a guess.

I returned the scrapbook to its box, and put it with the rest of Dona Josefina’s things. I fervently hoped that Francesca was right in thinking she would be back to enjoy them.

For the rest of the day I made preparations for my escape. I borrowed a large shoulder bag from Isa and filled it with small necessities, toiletries, a change of underwear, my jeans and T-shirts, and a couple of things I thought I might need: a photograph of Don Hernan and a flashlight.

When no one was looking, I went into the boxes of Dona Josefina’s belongings and took out a long black skirt, a mantilla, gloves and fan, and finally the mask. In my room, I tried on my newly acquired Carnaval costume.

The skirt, which would have been floor-length on the diminutive Josefina, was well above the ankle on me. The skirt was full over the hips, thankfully, and the waist, way too small for me, had to be held together with a large safety pin. I planned to wear a black long-sleeved shirt on top.

I tried again to rest late in the afternoon, the shutters in my room closed tight against the sun. Major Martinez arrived at the hotel and insisted on seeing me personally to assure himself I was still there.

Darkness fell at last. I waited until the inn was totally silent, then leaving a note for Isa telling her not to worry, and asking her if there was any chance she could cajole Jean Pierre into using his banking connections to find out about Gomez Arias’s financial status, I climbed out the bathroom window one last time.

It was considerably more difficult in a skirt and carrying a large tote bag, but eventually I managed it. I waited until a couple of revelers went by, then climbed the wall and ran as fast as I could for the Paseo de Montejo, where I pulled on the mask and mantilla and tried to blend into the partying crowd.

While I had been fairly systematic pulling together my costume, I really hadn’t thought through a plan in any realistic way. I knew I had to rid myself of this knife before I lost my sanity, so I followed the crowds on the
paseo
until we were near the museum, then moved quickly through the side streets and then once again into the garden.

When I was sure no one was looking, I went back into the
museo,
filled with real dread. I went down to the basement as quickly as I could, into the fragments room, into Maria Benitez’s desk, and then her computer, to find the drawer I needed. Soon the knife—wiped clean, I hoped, of my fingerprints—was back in the drawer.

Like some modern-day Lady MacBeth, I felt as if my hands were covered in blood. As indeed they were. In my fervent cleaning of the blade, I had cut one hand quite badly. This was not a good start.

I looked for a public washroom, and found one several long blocks away in the bus station. I washed my hand, telling the attendant that I was suffering from too much Carnaval, a lie she found amusing. She was kind enough to find me some iodine and a length of gauze, and soon I was on my way again.

As I passed the ticket window I thought of the ticket stub I had found among Don Heman’s belongings, and I watched as people picked up their tickets. They seemed to match the stub in appearance.

I went to the board that listed departures, looking for somewhere that ended in
olid,
and found one that seemed to fit the bill. There was a bus leaving almost hourly, every two hours during the night, for Valladolid, some one hundred miles to the east of Merida. I bought a ticket, then melded back into the Carnaval crowds while I waited for the appointed hour of two a.m.

I had very little cash left, only traveler’s checks, but I found an all-night exchange that demanded an exorbitant surcharge, but was not picky about things like identification, a good thing since Major Martinez still had my passport.

When the hour came, I waited until the last possible minute, then boarded the bus. No one seemed to think a tall woman dressed all in black with mantilla and mask out of place here. Perhaps they assumed I had gone to Merida for the evening to enjoy Carnaval and was now returning home.

I moved to an empty seat at the back of the bus and hoped the driver would be turning the lights out as soon as we departed. He did, and I hunkered down in the darkness.

I was very tired and soon drifted off. The bus stopped once at Piste, but soon enough it arrived in Valladolid. Valladolid is much smaller than Merida, and not quite the Carnaval town that Merida is, so I quickly removed my mask and mantilla, and hiked the skirt up as best I could.

I didn’t think I could check in at a decent hotel, with so little luggage and not wanting to use credit cards with my name on them, so just as dawn was breaking, I found a fleabag hotel not far from the bus station where once again they were not too picky about things like proper identification. I paid cash for a two-night stay.

It was a walk-up, a dingy little place. There was only a sink in the room, the bathroom was down the hall, and the bed creaked horribly. I was afraid to take my clothes off, so pulled back the bedspread, a very nasty green color, checked carefully for bugs, and lay fully clothed on top of the sheets. Not since my student days, and maybe not even then, had I stayed in such a place.

I had only a hazy notion of why I had come here, perhaps because Don Hernan had done so, but even then I didn’t know if it had been a recent trip. I was operating on automatic pilot right now, just going on instinct. Two things I knew for certain: that I had to get away from Martinez, and, more importantly, whoever it was who had tried to choke me the night before; and that all of these events, the robbery, the murders, the disappearances of all these pre-Columbian masterpieces, the jade bead in Don Hernan’s mouth, even Dona Josefina, were all linked in some way I could not yet understand.

I knew I needed to rest, and while I did not think I could sleep in such surroundings, I soon found myself dozing off. As I did I thought that in the Maya calendar this very long day had been Men, a day associated with the eagle, a day that was supposed to be one of wisdom.

If I was any wiser at the end of this day than I had been the day before, it was not immediately apparent to me.