Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (18 page)

I needed to talk to Borroel, but I took a moment longer. Hurrying to the lobby, I saw Tom leaning out of the balcony, craning to see below. I came up behind him. “Tom?”

He spun around, his good-natured face creased with worry. “Do you know what's going on down there? There were sirens and then a bunch of police arrived
and somebody just pushed a gurney through the door. And people have been coming out, one at a time, then standing around in groups, staring at Tesoros.”

It sounded as though everything was in good order. “I suppose the police are taking the names of everyone in the store so they can interview them later. Tom—”

“Interview them for what? What's happened?” His eyes widened in apprehension.

“A man fell down the circular steps. He's dead. He was a friend of Ed Schmidt's.” Even as I spoke, I wondered why I didn't say he was pushed. But it is a habit to cushion our words when breaking hurtful news to others. There was time enough to talk of murder. Besides, I didn't want Tom to be thinking of murder, not until I asked my questions. “Look, Tom, you've been here all afternoon, haven't you?”

“Yes.” He pointed at the chili cart. “Dad told me to stay on the desk all day today, there are so many people in and out. And Mom and Dad needed to be downstairs to help my grandmother welcome everybody. Mrs. Collins, how did this guy get on the circular staircase? Was he coming up here?”

“I don't know.” That was accurate. I had a darn good idea, but I didn't know. “Listen, you've been here. So who came through the door from the hall”—I figured quickly, I'd last seen Julian Worth taking to Isabel Garza about a quarter to three; it was now half past—“from about ten to three until twenty after?”

“Oh gee, I don't know. Mrs. Kendall. You remember, you saw her. But she didn't go back to her room. She went out the River Walk exit. Then”—his face wrinkled—“I don't think anybody else came from the hall door. But I could have missed somebody just now. I've been watching from here”—he waved his hand at the balcony—“ever since the sirens.”

My quarry would have moved through the lobby long before the police were called.

“What did this guy look like?” Tom's gaze was worried.

Tom didn't understand the point of my questions and that was fine. “Tall, white-haired, wore his hair in a ponytail, white ruffled shirt, gray slacks.”

His head shake was definite. “Nope. Nobody like that came through the lobby.”

I smiled at Tom. “It probably doesn't matter,” I said carelessly.

I knew he was looking after me as I headed for the River Walk stairs. He might figure it out. I hesitated, swung around. “Tom, should you recall someone—anyone—coming through the door, don't tell anyone but me. Not even if it's someone you know very, very well.”

Stricken dark eyes clung to mine. I wished I could recall the words, but that I couldn't do. I had to warn Tom. He had moved to the bottom of my suspect list. I could almost be certain he'd not been downstairs to the Tesoros showroom while Julian Worth made his fatally foolish circuit. No, Tom was not involved in the murders at Tesoros—unless he'd seen a killer come through the door into the lobby.

 

A small placard in the first window of Tesoros read “Closed.” Manuel was not polishing the glass. The crowd in front of the store had thinned. The red-haired policeman, arms folded, stood in front of the door. He squinted against the bright sunlight, sweat glistening on his pink face.

I walked up to him. “Officer, it is important that I speak with Detective Borroel about Mr. Worth, the man who was killed.”

“Are you a relative, ma'am?” He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket.

“No, but I have information relevant to his murder.” I didn't have to pick and choose my words here. The time to unburden myself of anything I knew or guessed was definitely now and was, in fact, past due. If I had spoken to Borroel when I simply had a good guess about the gold, Julian Worth could now be alive. To be fair to myself, Worth was a gambler, a man attracted to danger. If I had suggested to Borroel that he talk to Worth, the result of that interview might have been exactly the result my visit produced. I wasn't, as a matter of fact, going to harbor a sense of guilt. It was Worth who chose to use what he learned from me to his own advantage. He could have made other choices.

But the young policeman gave me a kindly, patient look. “Ma'am, there was a murder here last night. But the man today died in an accident.” His youthful voice was a little loud, probably to be certain I could hear him. “It's all been seen to. Seems he was an old gentleman and he got dizzy on these real steep metal stairs and he fell down and broke his neck. Kind of a shock to the folks who have the store after what happened last night. Now, if you want to give me your name—if you know something about the murder last night—I'll be sure Detective Borroel gets the message.”

I
was getting to know the San Antonio police station. I hurried across the lobby and through the door on the right. I gave my name at the counter. “I have information for Detective Borroel about the Schmidt murder.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She checked me out with tired, wary blue eyes. She'd been a pretty girl with a long gentle horsey face. Now she was on the shady side of forty and the drooping lines by her eyes and mouth exaggerated the jut of her cheekbones. “If you'll take a seat over there, ma'am.”

The golden oak bench was hard and had an oddly curved back. This anteroom served both the homicide and sex crimes units. Most people waiting here had much worse worries than an uncomfortable bench. I carefully did not study the faces of the three other people waiting, but glimpsed enough—a lanky young man who held his shaking hands tightly together, a couple with reddened eyes—to remind me that it takes a special courage to be a good policeman, the kind of courage that makes it possible to deal with heartbreak and evil without losing all belief in humanity.

I had plenty of time to think while I waited to see Borroel. I'd tried my best to find Rick and Iris—no
answer at his apartment or hers—but I realized I could not put off talking to Borroel. I didn't have confirmation from Rick or Iris that the wardrobe had held stolen gold, but it seemed to me that Worth's death was more proof than I needed. It was well after six when the clerk called out my name. My early lunch seemed eons ago. I felt a tiny wave of light-headedness when I stood.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” The clerk held open the gray door. Her words were solicitous; her exasperated sigh was not.

“Fine.” I followed her down a hall into a wide room filled with desks, only a few occupied. One detective sloped in his chair, spoke quietly into the telephone crooked by his neck. Another typed on his computer keypad. The clerk led me to a desk next to a planter with a limp fern.

Detective Borroel stood. “Mrs. Collins.” He was polite, but that was all. He didn't offer his hand.

I took the straight chair at the side of the gray metal desk.

He sat down and waited, his dark eyes cool, his seamed face impassive. As always, he looked crisp, energetic, and capable. But this evening there was also an edginess, a barely leashed impatience, as if he had much to do and was intent upon doing it and would plunge back into work as soon as he had dealt with me.

During the course of my career, I interviewed lots of smart, tough, combative people. You can't charm them, fool them, or maneuver them. I didn't try. I had to get this man's attention and get it quickly. “Detective Borroel, Julian Worth was murdered this afternoon. Ed Schmidt's killer shoved Worth down those steel stairs.” I opened my purse, pulled out my neatly
written sketch of events. I leaned forward. “It started with Ed Schmidt's theft of ancient gold from the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City. If you'll glance over this—” I handed the sheet to Borroel.

The mention of ancient gold evoked absolutely no reaction. None. But, in a way, that was an illuminating response and a discouraging one. Borroel scanned the sheet, placed it at the precise center of his desk, next to a manila folder. There was nothing else on the desktop except a group of picture frames, one a studio portrait of a woman with masses of dark curly hair frosted with silver, wide eyes, and a joyful smile. The other frames held snapshots of boys—boys playing baseball, climbing trees, paddling canoes, camping, rock climbing; several with their mother's wide eyes, two with Borroel's hawklike nose.

Borroel leaned back, but the fingers of one hand drummed on the arm of his chair. “How did you know Julian Worth?”

Of all the questions he could have asked, this one was least to my liking. I wanted to start with Iris and her discovery in the wardrobe, her disappearance, Ed Schmidt's searches for her and the obvious conclusion that someone at Tesoros told Schmidt that the gold went missing at the same time Iris departed.

Instead, I had to start with my visit to Ed Schmidt's house. I was barely underway when Borroel interrupted. “Why did you go there?”

I could be as direct as he. “To find out if Schmidt was in Mexico when the gold was stolen.”

“Gold.” His impatience and irritation bubbled to the surface, imbuing the single word with a tone of utter disgust. “Mrs. Collins, there's no hint anywhere of stolen gold.” He flipped open the folder, riffled through
a stack of papers. “Detective Hess's report indicated a good likelihood of drugs and that turned out to be the case. The package hidden in the wardrobe was cocaine. Certainly Schmidt tried to get the stuff back when Iris Chavez ran away with it. A lot of trouble would have been saved if she and Reyes had come to us when she first found it.”

“There is no proof the package held drugs.” My voice was icy.

He tapped the papers. “Reyes admits it, so does the girl.”

I almost demanded if he always believed witnesses in murder cases, but making Borroel angry wouldn't help my cause. I spoke reasonably. “Detective Borroel, Rick Reyes wants to protect his grandmother's store from association with a scandalous theft. He lied to you.”

For an instant, a glint of humor moved in his eyes. “Drugs are not scandalous, Mrs. Collins?”

I tried a different tack. “Do you agree that Schmidt was in league with someone in Tesoros?”

Borroel shrugged. “Possibly. But equally well, Mrs. Collins, possibly not. In any—”

I interrupted angrily. “He had to be in contact with someone at Tesoros. There's no other way he could have known that Iris took the package and certainly no way he could have known I was in town looking for Iris.”

Borroel planted his elbows on the desk. He spoke deliberately. “Mrs. Collins, give us a little credit. Obviously, Schmidt was involved in something dishonest and it doesn't really matter whether it was drugs or gold.” He glanced at my sheet. “I'll agree that Schmidt probably was working with someone in the Garza family. And it makes sense that the person who got Iris's
backpack is a member of the family. But as you clearly point out, that person could not possibly have killed Ed Schmidt. What seems very likely is that Schmidt had a key to the store, that he arrived drunk Monday night, let himself inside, and made enough noise to awaken Manuel Garza. Garza came downstairs, there was a confrontation, Garza grabbed up one of the ceramic banks—”

“No.” I was surprised at the emotion in my voice. But I could see Manuel so clearly—the shining light in his eyes, the soft, smooth, unlined skin of his face, his shy smile. “Detective Borroel, I know you see all kinds of murderers—old women, children, teenagers. Anyone and everyone. But can't you look at Manuel Garza and see that he would never hurt anyone?” I wanted to grip this man's shoulders and tell him that Maria Elena said it best: Manuel was good; dammit, he was good!

Surprisingly, Borroel's face softened. “I understand your feelings. But even the most gentle creature may attack if frightened. We'll never know—Manuel Garza can't tell us—what happened in the store. Schmidt's blood level indicates he was drunk. He was abusive earlier in the day to you and to the girl. He may have threatened to storm up the stairs and rouse Mrs. Garza. What if Schmidt shouted, bulled his way past Manuel? If Manuel thought his mother was in danger, what would he do? And”—now his voice was steely—“the facts are irrefutable: Schmidt was killed by blows to the back of his head from the pottery pig found in the cleaning bucket; Manuel's fingerprints are on the pig; Manuel's fingerprints are on the bucket which contained water, ammonia, and blood; Manuel's fingerprints are on the mop used to clean up the blood on the floor of the store; Manuel's jeans were streaked
with blood; Manuel's shoes carried traces of blood. So,” he flipped shut the folder, stood, “the DA's office will decide tomorrow what charges to file.”

I stood, too, but I didn't intend to leave. Not yet. “You won't listen about the gold. But Julian Worth believed me, and Worth knew Ed Schmidt as well as anyone ever did. Julian Worth died for that gold.”

“Mrs. Collins”—he leaned forward, his voice dangerously quiet—“every mention of gold has come from you. It's your invention. I don't give a damn what Worth did or said. I don't care why he went to the store. I talked to dozens of people this afternoon and everyone who spoke with Worth said the same: his color was bad, he was short of breath. We checked, he had a bad heart. Who knows why he went up those steps? Maybe he got to feeling real sick and ducked through the door to the office area. Maybe he wasn't thinking too straight and figured if he got upstairs somebody could help him. All we know is he went up those stairs, got dizzy, and fell. He was an old man and he fell. And if there was cocaine hidden somewhere, it's gone now. With Mrs. Garza's permission, we searched every foot of that store. No drugs. And”—his voice was sardonic—“no gold. What we have is a murder case and it's solved. Case closed, Mrs. Collins.”

 

I drove to Mi Tierra, had a chicken-and-rice chalupa with sour cream and guacamole, drank several glasses of iced tea. Maybe it was the food, maybe the caffeine, maybe sheer desperation, but I headed back to La Mariposa and I had a plan of attack. I tried not to think how little time remained and how clever—and lucky—I would have to be.

When I reached the lobby, I went directly to the
door leading to Maria Elena's quarters. I rang the bell.

“Excuse me.” The call came from behind me. The voice was high and querulous. “Can I help you?”

I looked toward the chili-cart desk. A woman I'd not seen before nodded formally. She was close to my age—white hair piled atop a regal head, the familiar long-jawed face, myopic eyes behind thick glasses, a prim mouth.

“I must see Maria Elena.” And I hoped a meeting with her would be more successful than my encounter with Borroel.

The woman behind the cart shook her head, her white hair glistening in the golden glow of an amber-shaded wall sconce. “I'll be happy to take a message, but Maria Elena is engaged this evening.”

“She will see me,” I said crisply. “I am Henrietta Collins, and I've come from the police station. I have news about Manuel.”

She surveyed me from head to foot, calibrating my dress, age, and social status, picked up a phone and punched. She spoke softly, hung up. She looked toward me, pushed the glasses higher on her nose. “The door is unlocked. You may go through and go past the entry room into a corridor. It leads to the family room. Maria Elena is there.”

I followed directions, passing through the simple yet elegant room where I'd spoken with Maria Elena yesterday. I pushed through the interior door and stepped into a corridor. Light glowed ahead through a curved archway.

I have occasionally been the focus of group attention—at seminars, when teaching, the odd speech. But when I stepped through that archway, I realized I was facing the most rapt attention I would likely ever have. At any other time, I would have immersed myself in
the beauty of that long, wide room—the soft apricot walls, the red-tiled floor, the enormous Guerrero lacquerware trays and brilliant sārapes on two walls, a wall of bookcases filled with pottery of every age and style, from Guadalajara to Oaxaca, sturdy nineteenth-century Spanish green wooden straight chairs with woven cane bottoms, a cluster of jaunty wooden pigs near the Talavera tiled fireplace, curved sabino wood chairs covered with age-mellowed leather. But not now, not with a frozen tableau of familiar faces turned toward the doorway.

I rapidly cataloged those intent figures:

Frank's hands were planted firmly on his thighs and he leaned forward, his face creased in a querulous frown, like a man too tired to think and uncertain he understood the conversation.

Isabel was curled on a white wicker couch with bright flowered cushions, her beautiful face smooth and enigmatic, elbow propped on the couch arm, legs tucked to one side, apparently as relaxed as a sleepy cat, except for too-bright eyes that probed my face.

Tom stood behind his mother's couch, his broad face puckered in a worried frown that was amazingly similar to his father's.

Tony gripped the bronze pole of a majestic white-maned carousel horse with a pink bridle, gaudy reins bright with glass jewels, and pink stirrups. Tony's eyes glittered with a fervid eagerness. If murder distressed Frank, it excited Tony.

Celestina looked even more petite than usual, perched on the edge of a long bench that must once have graced a mission church. Her expression was sour, her eyes cold. She still did not like anybody very much, and that included both her siblings and the intruder in the doorway.

Maria Elena stood in front of the fireplace, her long, slender hands clasped before her. Her shoulders drooped beneath her delicate cotton blouse. She did not look as tall and regal as when we'd met, fear tightening her muscles, anxiety etching itself in sharp lines on her once merry face.

Rick and Iris shared a sofa, sitting stiff and straight with a cushion between them. Rick's glance slid away from me and Iris's gaze dropped, too, her face turning a bright pink. I wondered if that space between them meant disagreement on their course. They had followed a definite course of action with, to my mind, disastrous results. Or whether it simply revealed reserve in front of the gathered family.

Rick's mother Magda sat in an oversize wicker chair. One hand nervously worked the fringe on a cushion. She looked at me, then at her son, her gaze guarded.

Susana was at my far right, obviously as distant from Tony as possible in that long room. She stood quite straight and tall, head up, eyes burning with intensity, perhaps with even more than their usual fire. One hand restlessly rubbed the rim of a waist-high burnished jar with a glorious peacock against a bright red background.

In all the room, only one face was not turned toward the archway. Manuel sat on the floor, knees to his chin, arms loosely circling his legs, his placid gaze on his mother's face, his lips curved in a gentle smile.