Charades (21 page)

     “We’re not really engaged,” Mercy tried to explain. Why was she having such trouble convincing everyone of that fact?

     “You mean that large ring you wear on your left hand is nothing?” Her grandmother winked at her. “I see the way he looks at you and the way you look at him. I am old, but I remember much.”

     “No, honestly,” Mercy protested, “we aren’t engaged anymore. I just haven’t been able to get this ring off my finger.” The pain of Wulf’s betrayal still felt like a whirlpool sucking her insides into its bottomless depths. “It was a mistake anyway,” she said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

     Sylvia smiled as they turned to the right, and walked down another long hallway to an open door.

     “It’s lovely,” Mercy breathed. In spite of the dark Spanish furniture, the abundance of white eyelet linens made the room appear feminine and inviting. Large Mexican pottery planters, in a white, blue, and yellow floral pattern contained masses of flowers and exuded the same fragrant bouquet as those on the patio.

     “As you can see, ever since Ramon called and and told me you were in Mexico, I’ve been planning your welcome. Now let’s make ourselves comfortable in the women’s
sala
.”

     The
sala
was a large sitting room with more dark, heavy Spanish furniture, this time accented by native Indian art. The cushions, however, were soft and plush, and the huge French doors to the patio welcomed the breeze into the room. Surrounding the patio stood a white, ten-foot tall, adobe wall. Between the patio and the wall, flowers, trees, and plants of every kind brought life into the courtyard.

     “What lovely landscape work,” Mercy breathed.

     “Ramon’s oldest son, Fernando, is responsible. He is good, no?”

     “Yes. It’s beautiful. He must have the soul of an artist.”

     Her grandmother nodded. “Unfortunately, an artist is not what Ramon wanted. He wanted a businessman, but now he has Mario for that.”

     “Ah, yes, Mario. He looks just like Uncle Ramon.”

     “He does,” her grandmother said, nodding. “However, Mario has exceeded even Ramon’s ability to make money. Now Mario makes it, and Ramon spends it on the horses. Mario is as proud of those silly horses as Ramon is. Never let him tell you anything else.”

     After asking a servant to bring drinks for them, her grandmother turned back to Mercy. “Now tell me everything.” Mercy laughed. How could she sum up everything that had happened in the last twenty-five years? Her grandmother didn’t laugh, however. She just sat there waiting.

     “Well,” Mercy said, taking a deep breath. She began with a recital of her earliest memories, trying to recapture the essence of her parent’s relationship rather than just the actual events. Her grandmother nodded and smiled, as though each word about her son and his family was a precious pearl to be examined with care and marveled over.

     Mercy finished with her father’s sudden auto accident during her freshman year of college. She choked on her words and looked away for a moment to regain her composure. When she looked back, her grandmother sat still as a statue, tears running down her face. Mercy swallowed hard and walked around the little table between them. She sat down beside her grandmother and silently put her arms around the old woman, feeling her frailty and sharing in the depth of her sadness.

     Finally, her grandmother opened her eyes and nodded her head gently. “I knew when Pedro left I would never see him again. He was my baby, the only one of my three sons who wanted to live a decent life. Unfortunately, he could not do that and remain in Mexico. When he went away, he made enemies of his brothers. They never forgave him or me.”

     “Did Uncle Ramon help him get the job in Dallas?”

     “Oh, no. Pedro managed that all on his own,” she said, smiling with pride. “Ramon helped him leave the country. He has always been very family-minded. I didn’t deserve his help after the way I had acted with Carlos. I was so in love, you see, I could not or would not see what Ramon tried to tell me about him.” Her grandmother sighed deeply, looking over at the massive bureau against the wall. “I have some pictures,” she said, her face flushing. “Would you like to see them?”

     “Oh, yes! The only pictures I have of my parents are from when I was a child. It’s almost as if they didn’t have a life until they became my parents.”

     Her grandmother got up and walked over to the bureau, opening a drawer and bringing out two photo albums. She cradled the worn albums in her arms as she came back to the couch and sat down next to Mercy. Taking a deep breath, she opened the flap of the first album.

     A younger Sylvia stared back at Mercy from the pages of the album. She stood next to a devastatingly handsome man. His dark hair was pomaded and his mustache thin and dapper. Her grandmother was beautiful in a softer, more gentle, way. The photographer had expertly captured the dreamy look in her eyes and her innocence as she gazed up at Carlos. There was nothing even remotely innocent in her grandfather’s look.

     Mercy studied the picture harder, seeing features in her grandfather that reminded her of her father. But her father had
never
worn such an arrogant, smug look.

     “What happened to my grandfather?”

     “He was killed in a territorial dispute with another family. My boys, Alberto and Miguel, managed to survive. The Fuentes family won the fight, naturally.” Her grandmother shrugged. “The other family never had a chance.
No one
is more dangerous or ruthless than the Fuentes family. They stick together like flies on honey. Did you know that after Carlos’s death, his brothers even threatened to kill me if I left the family compound.”

     “
Kill
you?” Mercy gasped. “Why did you never come to the United States?”

     “I needed to stay here and keep the pressure on my other sons or they might have hindered Pedro’s family, even in the United States. It was through Pedro, you know, that I finally escaped from his uncles and brothers. Since then, Ramon has protected me from them. I can never leave the ranch.”

     “But why?”

     “Because I know too many things, things that the Fuentes family would kill to hide. What is even better, you see, is that I also have the documents to back those things up.”

     “But that’s dangerous for you, isn’t it?”

     “Of course, it is. However, as long as I am alive, I promise to keep them from harming you. If anything should happen to me while you are here, though, you must leave Mexico immediately. Even Ramon does not know some of the things I know. I cannot and will not tell him. Ever. Do you understand me?”

     “I don’t know. What things are you talking about?”

     “Things that would get people killed, things that would topple the Fuentes pyramid of power and maybe the government of Mexico.” Sylvia gripped Mercy’s hand. “It is in my best interest and yours to have this hold over them. However, if I ever let these things become public, it would mean the death of my other sons. This I cannot do. They know that. I know that. It is a balance, no?”

     They spent the next half-hour going through family photos of Sylvia, Carlos, and their three children.

     “I have so many cousins!”

     “Yes, but only Ramon’s sons are safe to associate with.”

     Mercy could only imagine how much it must have hurt her grandmother to be so estranged from her sons and their families.

     “It’s amazing how much my uncles look like Papa,” Mercy said after closing the second book. She shook her head. “Such a family resemblance. It’s uncanny.”

     “Yes,” Sylvia said, grimly. “All the Fuentes men are as handsome as sin, my sons and their uncles and cousins, too. Carlos was not alone in his good looks.”

     “Funny you should say that. I heard that from someone else today, my granduncle Adolph.”

     Her grandmother gasped. “You met that evil son of Satan?” She made the sign of the cross. “It is a miracle that you are alive. He
hated
Pedro. He even tried to kill him once.
Dios mio!
What were you thinking to have met with him?”

     “It wasn’t exactly our idea,” Mercy said. “Adolph had us kidnapped on our way to see Uncle Ramon.” 

     Her grandmother exhaled. “You were lucky to get out of there alive. Do not play games with him. He is
evil!
”

     “Believe me, I know. I felt it. It didn’t surprise me at all when he admitted murdering my mother’s mother. He made my skin crawl.” Mercy shivered in revulsion.

     Her grandmother nodded. “May God have mercy on her soul.” Smiling then, she said, “I would like to talk all night with you, but I can see you are tired and need your sleep. It is time we retire. We will meet again in the morning.”

     She got up and started to leave, then suddenly turned around. “Wait one moment. I have something to give you that Pedro forgot to take with him when he left. Old ladies are pack rats, no? Stay here. I will be back.”

     Sylvia returned with an old photo in a heavy silver frame. The photo showed Mercy’s mother and her parents when her mother was about six or seven. Erich had a proud, haughty look but Merci looked quiet, almost demure.

     “I never knew how striking my grandfather looked when he was younger,” Mercy said, remembering him as he’d appeared in Potsdam. Inspecting the picture closer, she saw that even though the photograph was in black and white, Erich’s typical German looks were distinctive. It was easy to see how light colored his hair was and how light blue his eyes were. Merci, her grandmother, on the other hand, although it was impossible to tell what color her eyes were, had lots of long, curly dark hair.

     “Your grandmother was a beautiful woman,” Sylvia said. “I am sorry I never knew her.” As Mercy studied the black and white photo, she remembered again how light blue her grandfather’s eyes had been, so light a blue they almost looked like ice, the exact color of her mother’s.

     She’d never seen a picture of her mother as a little girl. It was unnerving to see how much she resembled Stratton.

     Finally Mercy put the picture down and turned to her grandmother. “Thank you so much,” she said, giving her a warm hug. “I don’t have any pictures of my mother’s family, except for an old one of my grandmother. You’ve given me something I’ll always treasure.”

     “That is what Pedro called this picture,” her grandmother agreed, “a treasure. It is no wonder he forgot it, though. They left with just the clothes on their backs. He wanted no part of anything from Mexico.”

     Her grandmother waved a hand in dismissal. “Bedtime. I will see you in the morning. At that time, I will have many questions for your
novio
. Although,” she added with a wink, “I am sure Ramon and Mario are questioning him now, doing the family proud.”

     Adding it all up, she sat down on the soft couch in a breathless flop, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. She picked up the old photo again, studying it as though it might somehow reveal more old secrets. Feeling restless and slightly chilled, she got up and went over to the patio doors to close them, the picture still in her hand. She looked up at the blanket of stars shining in the ebony night. They seemed to stretch forever, blocked only by the high adobe walls surrounding the patio. When Mercy lowered her gaze, she jumped in fright at the face on the other side of the patio door. The old photograph slipped from her fingers, the glass shattering on the floor.

     “Papa, is that you?” she whispered.

* * *

     Wulf’s temper was stretched to the limit. He was still mad as hell about being drugged. And, when he’d found out this morning that Mercy had disappeared and no one knew how or why, he had come close to tearing the
hacienda
apart. Mario had the grace to apologize and look embarrassed, but Ramon had only shrugged, explaining her disappearance as just another bit of Fuentes family skullduggery.

     The chaos Wulf felt inside played out in the steady drumming of his fingers on the arm of the car door. There was nothing he could do but go after her—his internal alarms notwithstanding. There was no way he was going to let her stay there alone; everything he’d heard about the Fuentes family predicted danger with a capital “D”. Just how he’d get her out, he didn’t know, but he would
not
leave without her.

     That damned money was at the center of all this, he was sure of it. While none of the Chamorros mentioned knowing anything about the money, one or the other of them had to know something.

     Ramon had graciously provided him with a car and driver to the Fuentes family compound once he landed at the airport in Acapulco. But Ramon might be playing one end against the middle. And what about Mario? What part did he play? Why else had they drugged him?
For my own good, my ass!

     The large, ornate, iron-grilled gate ahead attached to ten-foot high adobe walls that ran along both sides of the road for several hundred yards, then disappeared into the thick undergrowth.

     Guards with automatic weapons and blank expressions met him at the gate, their eyes covered by their reflective sunglasses.

     “I am Wulfgar Rheinhart. I am here to see my fiancée, Miss Mercedes Fuentes,” Wulf said, sounding as pompous and haughty as he could. He sat back and waited for a reply, hoping like hell his arrogant act had worked.

     His driver’s eyes locked on him, fearful and apprehensive. At the airport Wulf had told the driver he’d been invited to the compound. Now that the driver knew he wasn’t invited, he was probably peeing in his pants. Wulf felt sorry for the man, but with Mercy’s life hanging in the balance, he’d use anyone or anything he could to get her out of there.

     The guard came back in a couple of minutes. “Please get out of the car,
señor
.”

     Wulf stood still as the guard searched him for weapons. The gate opened and the car passed through, winding up another long road. Lushly landscaped lawns and gardens, outlined by immaculate white curbs, swept up the hill to the main house. Short, multi-colored, tiled walls linked all the houses.
Nothing like family togetherness.