Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (25 page)

I stood. Iris started to rise, but I shook my head. “It will be all right.” I said so, but I wasn't sure what I believed. I'd not figured on this, not at all. I didn't know what to do or where to go. And Maria Elena had yet to speak. But I couldn't avoid Tony, I was sure of that. I hesitated for an instant, then walked to meet him.

We came face-to-face beside the stairs to the diving platform. The mariachis were singing, their voices loud and strong, repeating the second verse, “Soy tirador que à las aves les tiro en la loma…”

The blue metal stairs and platform base screened us from direct view of most of the guests. I don't think Tony cared at this point. He scowled down at me. “You think you've got away with the gold. You better
think again. Kenny said you turned it into the cops. You didn't.”

Unease rippled through every nerve end. “What makes you think that?”

“I don't think, I know.” He leaned close. I smelled the soft scent of hair cream, saw the muscles ridge in his jaw. “I've got two cousins in the burglary division. Anything like that showing up, everybody would know. Everybody. Where is it, Mrs. Collins?”

I tried to step back but the blunt steps of the ladder punched into my back. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because you don't have any choice.” There was a hard pleasure in his tone. “You're going to cooperate with me or the cops will get a little word to the wise. And they'll find the gold. They'll search anybody and everybody you've ever known. You can't pull it off. So,” and the tension began to ease out of him, he was so certain he had the upper hand, “we're going to make a deal.”

The sheer audacity of his offer stunned me. And confused me. A deal? This was a man who killed to get his way. But, of course, that didn't mean I'd have a long life span if he ever got his hands on the gold.

His full mouth spread in a satisfied smile. He looked like a wolf eyeing a succulent lamb. “Kenny's still in the market. Not, damn you, for quite as much. But he'll buy. I'll give you a third. Now, that's a hell of a deal, isn't it?” There was an odd, almost admiring quirk to his mouth. Tony obviously had decided I was no threat, that I'd scammed the gold away from Kenny King and held on to it, and was therefore no more or less a crook than he, an adventurer in common.

I was startled at the mesmerizing quality of his dark eyes, the appeal of his sideways grin. This was a dangerous man, especially to women. I stared into his
dark, compelling eyes. Our gazes locked for a long moment. I needed to be careful. Whatever I did, I must not alert him to our impending trap, not by a look or glance or tone. “I'll think about it, Tony.”

The momentary flash of good humor fell away. The predatory glare returned like a carcass revealed by drifting leaves. He stepped even closer, his hands gripping the railings of the ladder, capturing me against the metal, crowding me, his breath warm on my face. “Think fast. Tomorrow will be your last chance.”

I slipped sideways, ducked under his arm and moved quickly away. I didn't think he'd follow, but I was trembling by the time I gained the shadows beneath the big magnolia.

Tony still stood at the diving platform, staring after me.

My heart thudded. I tried to keep my breathing even.

A trumpet played an arpeggio.

I looked toward the mariachis and the flower bordered stage.

In the sudden hush, Maria Elena, head high, shoulders back, moved regally to the center of the waiting spotlight, her metallic silver dress swirling. Tonight she wore her lustrous hair with its shimmering touches of silver in coronet braids. Silver filigree butterfly pins accented the braids. Silver filigree earrings ended in dangling crosses with malachite inlays. Her long rosary contained filigree silver beads and coral, ending with a delicate filigree cross. Her smooth, creamy complexion was perhaps a little pale, but her gaze was firm, her mouth resolute. As she held up her hand, silence fell across the brightly lit patio like twilight dropping across water.

“Bienvenidos. As all of you can tell, we are having a special”—just for an instant her voice wavered and
I felt an ache in my chest—“gathering tonight.” She did not say celebration. How could she say it when she knew heartbreak awaited her when this night ended? “Not only are we welcoming our special auction guests this evening, I have also called the family to join us this evening. Many of you have been with us these last few days since the dreadful violence Monday night at Tesoros. You know how shocked we have been to have our dear and gentle Manuel suspected of an act beyond his scope, beyond his thought, alien to his nature. But”—she clapped her hands together, held them clasped before her and the silver bracelets on her arms and rings on her fingers glistened—“I have wonderful news.” She was a large woman and suddenly she seemed even larger, imposing as any monolithic sculpture, indestructible, unrelenting, unquenchable. Her voice deepened, her hands fell to her sides, loose and open. “Manuel will be safe.” No trumpet ever sounded clearer, brighter, sharper. “It has turned out to be much simpler than first we thought. We know now that Manuel was on his balcony Monday night looking down at the River Walk—”

At the ladder, Tony Garza's entire body was suddenly rigid, as immovable as the steel railings to which he clung. His handsome face was smooth and hard and unreadable as a Lucifer mask.

“—and we believe Manuel clearly saw the man who was killed and his companion as they entered Tesoros.” She lifted one slender hand and pointed, as if standing on Manuel's balcony, the opening door to Tesoros below her. “Manuel, of course, was quite startled. No one, especially not strangers, should have entered Tesoros at night. This drew Manuel downstairs. He came down to find the dead man and in his simple way Manuel felt he must clean the stains from Teso
ros. The murderer, of course, had fled. But now that we know that the murderer was seen by Manuel, we believe the entire case can easily be solved. The police detective, Mr. Borroel, has contacted a psychologist in Houston, Dr. Wilson Abernathy, who specializes in dealing with persons such as Manuel who cannot speak but who are very aware of what they have seen. Dr. Abernathy will arrive tomorrow morning to consult with Manuel. So”—Maria Elena looked calmly about the patio—“I wanted to share the truth with all of you so that you understand why we are here tonight. If Dr. Abernathy succeeds tomorrow, the police will have a description of the man who committed that brutal murder. With that description, they can solve the crime and Tesoros will be free of this tragedy.”

It was a magnificent performance, a public avowal that the murder had nothing to do with Tesoros, that the murderer accompanied his victim and soon all would be made clear.

A shadow from the diving platform sliced across Tony's face, obscuring one cheek and his mouth. His eyes glittered in the soft red flare from the tree lights. He stared across the pool. I followed his gaze.

Susana stood on a step leading to the terrace behind the back of the house. She too was utterly still, one hand tight on the heavy gold necklace that hung almost to her waist. But her eyes seemed to burn through the night, bright and terrible as Blake's vision, as she stared at her husband. Her haggard face accused him.

Susana knew. There was no question in my mind. She knew. I was shocked and shaken. But it made all kinds of sense. Perhaps she had followed Tony downstairs to the showroom Monday night, wondering why he was going there. Perhaps she overheard a phone call from Ed Schmidt to Tony. No doubt Susana was
often interested in the phone conversations of her philandering husband. Schmidt called, insisted he was coming. He was angry and suspicious. He didn't trust Tony. He wanted to know if it was all a lie, this story of a girl running away with the gold. And Schmidt was drunk. He came to Tesoros. Schmidt and Tony quarreled. Schmidt knew Tony well. He knew that above all Tony must keep his involvement in the scheme from Maria Elena. Did Schmidt threaten to expose Tony to Maria Elena?

There was no doubt how Maria Elena would respond. She was an honorable woman. She would never accept dishonor, not in her life, not in her store which she'd built from nothing to magnificence, not in her family which she had loved and cherished.

If Schmidt threatened to storm upstairs and rouse Maria Elena, Tony had to stop him. If Schmidt ever reached Maria Elena, Tony was ruined. Schmidt knew the store, he knew the family quarters upstairs. I imagined him pushing past Tony, heading for the back doorway and the circular steps. As he plunged through the showroom, Tony grabbed up the pottery bank and struck.

Was Susana watching from the shadows? Whatever happened, I was certain now that she knew the truth. And, in her haggard face, Tony could see that knowledge. Was Susana now in danger from Tony as well as Manuel?

The trumpets blared.

Maria Elena clapped her hands. “And now, let the dancing begin.” She gave a small bow and moved out of the lights, melding into the shadows. Two couples ran lightly to the center of the flower-bordered dance floor. The mariachis blazed the national dance of Mexico, “Jarabe Tapatío,” the effervescent Mexican hat
dance. Suddenly all the lights dimmed, with only two bright spots focused on the dancers. The beaded white blouses of the women sparkled and their embroidered green satin skirts swirled. The silver beading of the charros' trousers glittered. A swift bow, flashing smiles, and the courting dance began. The men's shoes clattered against the cement, recreating the ride of a horse across cobblestones and the vigorous knock on the beloved's door.

In the sudden pall of darkness, the lights in the trees illumined the leaves and the branches but left the ground below and the tables and audience in shadow. The only light played on the dancers, even the pool was dark.

One moment I was watching Tony, the next I dimly glimpsed the dark bulk of the diving platform. I looked up into the magnolia, seeking Manuel. Surely, surely, he was there, tucked into the big crotch of the tree. I stood on tiptoe, reached up, ran my hand along the limb. The feel of the bark was cool and hard and nothing more.

I whirled, bent down, whispered to Iris. “Where's Manuel? When did he leave? Did you see him go?”

Iris's face was a pale blur. I heard the catch of her breath. “I was watching you and Tony. I was frightened. He looked so angry.” She reached up, gripped my arm. “I didn't see Manuel leave. Henrie O, should I have seen him?” There was the beginning of panic in her voice.

“Shh.” I shook free of her touch. “It's all right. That's what we expected.” But when I stepped back, I felt a brush of fear. We'd expected Manuel to watch the dancing or at least to stay in the tree through the first dance. That's what Rick said he usually did. Why had he come down from the tree sooner than usual?
Would the watchers hidden near the pond and the river see Manuel if he came early? What if Manuel wandered off the path, approached the pond through the trees? Would they see him? Would they be prepared to save him when death came stealing along behind?

The music battered my mind, the echoing steps of the dancers obliterating all other sound. But this was what had to happen—Manuel sliding down from the tree, wandering on the dark path down to the pond or out to the river, alone. This was the only way to trap Tony.

I moved away from the tree, found the path that curved away around a stand of cane. I couldn't follow that path. Whatever happened now, Rick and his cousins must be the eyes and the ears, the sentinels to save Manuel.

The staccato of dancing feet rattled the night. Trumpets blared.

My eyes were adjusting to the darkness. I looked for Maria Elena. I knew that she, too, must be straining to see beyond the trees, waiting helplessly, terror plucking at her mind. I scanned the terrace. She'd moved in that direction. The windows of the house that overlooked the terrace were shuttered, but light seeped from around the edges, not enough light to detract from the dancers, but enough for me to see a man walk swiftly past.

I don't know what attracted my attention, held me suddenly breathless, staring at that scarcely seen form, a dark movement in the night. But when he reached the terrace room, there was a brief slice of light as the door opened and Tony Garza stepped inside. The door closed.

Years ago on a safari in Kenya, I saw a panther stalk a gazelle, the graceful cat sinewy, lithe, a predator in
tent upon the kill. There was that same intensity and danger and purpose in Tony Garza's swift movements. I knew with the shock of horror that I was watching another predator close in on a creature as helpless as that gazelle.

For an instant, I stood frozen, my mind buffeted with shock. I looked toward the dark path. That way lay help, that way awaited the men confident they could protect Manuel.

But Tony Garza was inside the house. There could only be one reason, and there was no one, no one at all within the house, to protect Manuel. I plunged behind the tables, stumbling on the uneven ground. The dancers pounded in their intricate steps around the beautiful sombreros, their faces flushed, their eyes bright. I reached the terrace, ran to the door, pulled it open, stepped inside. My harsh breaths seemed even louder in the sudden quiet of a deserted family room, easy chairs, a large-screen television, a wall of stereo equipment, two bookcases.

I closed the door and now the music was a distant pounding. There was no movement, no sound in the family room. Not too far away dishes clattered and voices rumbled. That would be the caterers in the kitchen, a homely sound that should have been reassuring but did nothing to ease the tightness of my throat.

I eased across the room to an archway that opened into the main hall. I jerked back behind the wall. Tony Garza was waiting, too, on the landing of the main stairs. Head lifted, he gazed upward. The lights from a glittering chandelier in the central hallway blazed down on his face, revealing a hunter's gaze, wary, measuring, implacable. His skin had a faintly oily sheen. His face jutted forward, hollowing his cheeks,
sharpening his chin, a vulpine mask of danger. Tony moved, one step, several, and then he was out of sight.