Read Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Online
Authors: Death on the River Walk
I'd met Jolene Harrison, bony face, bony body, eyes like tar, a resounding raspy voice. Susana had described Wiley as whip-thin and moving like a giraffe with his head poked forward.
JOSHUA CHANDLER, SCOTTSDALE, ARIZONA
Grew up in Charleston, South Carolina. Graduate Wake Forest. Professional golfer, has finished fourth at the Masters, seventh at the U.S. Open. As a golfer, respected but not liked. Never speaks during a round. No personal friends on the tour. Twice divorced. Rumored to have paid huge settlements to avoid messy court battles. Has no apparent interests other than golf and art. Collects widely from American Southwest and Mexico. Interested in Tlaquepaque-style pottery, especially glazed, petatillo works attributed to the artist known as the Yellow Brick Road because of the yellow roads on many pieces. Chandler is in his mid-thirties, remains expressionless
at most times, especially when negotiating over price. Refuses to pay more than he deems a piece worth on the market. Stubborn, determined, utterly ruthless when attempting to get a good price. If he can take advantage of a seller, he will
.
Susana described Chandler as a man who looked more like a college professor than a professional golfer.
CARA KENDALL, FORT WORTH, TEXAS
Fourth wife of a very old man who owns enough banks and oil wells to start his own third world country. He runs his businesses very much like a third world despot and is reputed to have all the charm of a granite mausoleum. Cara was his secretary. Cara is probably forty-five, admits to thirty-two. Fort Worth society treats her politely but distantly. Cara, however, has achieved stature as a collector. Her collection of wooden puppets created by Alejandro Aguierre was recently featured at a local Fort Worth museum and was widely acclaimed as extraordinary. Cara's infatuation with puppets is extreme. She will talk to a puppet when deciding whether to buy it, ignoring the seller. She is only interested in very rare pieces. She has also amassed a remarkable collection of clay figures created by the renowned Pantaleon Panduro and possesses almost all of his famous bullfighters, a collection without peer and beyond price. She is bad-tempered, irritable, and probably emotionally unstable. Needs constant reassurance of her perspicacity as a collec
tor. Succumbs to flattery. Rarity is the trump card with Kendall
.
I recalled the stretched-face, cherry-lipped blonde without pleasure. She'd been obviously bored by the company at the tea Monday and in the lobby Tuesday she was petulant and demanding. Not, I would think, a fun customer. But clearly a valued one.
WALTER (BUD) MORGAN, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Morgan runs his own investment company. His financial newsletter is considered one of the best in the country and has a hefty subscription price of five thousand dollars a year. A bachelor, Morgan spends every free moment collecting. One of his proudest accomplishments is a room in his Winnetka home which contains almost fifty table-ros, scenes made up of Talavera tiles from Pueblo with their magnificent cobalt blue backgrounds and rich green and yellow colors. An entire wall is decorated with pictorial tiles that picture Mexicans in everyday life in the early nineteen hundreds. In his forties, Morgan is genial, a raconteur, smokes Cuban cigars bought in Mexico, fond of unusual beers including a strawberry beer from England, and a gourmet. Tesoros sends him gift packages occasionally. He especially enjoys unusual salsas. When vacationing in Hawaii, Frank and Isabel found a mango salsa which they sent to him
.
Susana described Morgan as bald and fat. He shouldn't be hard to identify in this thin crowd.
KENNY KING, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
King is a movie producer who specializes in raunchy, quick-take R-rated films that appeal to teenage boys. His movies are cheap to shoot. He casts actors who are just about to hit or actors just past their peak, avoiding star-level salaries. Single, he's in the gossip columns a lot with his love interests, usually wannabe starlets. He's a local boy, went to Beverly Hills High School, his dad a psychiatrist, his mother an English professor, specialty Chaucer. Edging up on thirty, he has a seaside house in Malibu, a quick smile, hard eyes, and a world class collection of massive Aztec sculpture, much of it displayed in an interior garden
.
Susana described him as having a red ponytail. I had yet to meet King, but his hair had to be the least interesting aspect of a young man who favored huge and, I was sure, often illegally obtained sculptures of a society that nourished the sun and glorified life by ripping the heart from sacrificial victims.
Five valued guests. One of them had a great deal in common with the Spaniards who rampaged across Mexico in their lust for gold. Missionary Father Bernardino de Sahagún carefully transcribed the feelings of the beleaguered natives who said of Cortés and his men upon their receipt of gifts of gold from Moctezuma:
“It is a certainty that they desire it with a great thirst. Their bodies swell for it. They have a furious hunger for it.”
That was four hundred and seventy years ago, but the continuum of human greed apparently never ends. Someone at La Mariposa had a furious hunger, too.
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Cell phones aren't secure from electronic eavesdroppers. I found a pay phone on the River Walk and called Maria Elena.
The maid said politely, “I am sorry. Mrs. Garza is not available.”
“She will talk to me,” I insisted. “Tell her that Henrietta Collins must speak with her.”
“She is not at home.” There was a sudden quaver in her voice.
“Please,” I said quickly, “it's important that I know. Where is she?”
She spoke reluctantly, unwilling to admit the truth. “She and Manuel have gone to the police station.”
I hung on to the phone for a moment after I hung up. I'd known it was coming, but I'd hoped we might have today, I'd hoped Manuel would not have to be frightened and bewildered.
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Susana's haggard face had the brooding quality of a stone sculpture deep in the Yucatán jungle as she watched me walk through the main showroom of Tesoros. She stood at the cash desk with the prim-faced older woman who had served at the chili-cart desk last night. Susana paused in her obvious role of instructing to stare at me. She wanted to boot me out, but didn't dare. I ignored her and scanned the room. There were a few off-the-River Walk customers, none of the special guests who interested me. I didn't expect to find them here. Their location was unimportant to me until the preview opened in the auction room in half an hour. I knew where to find them and find them I
would. But now I needed Rick and I wanted to talk to him without anyone observing our contact.
As I pushed through the rear door into the back hallway, I could feel Susana's consuming stare. The door closed behind me, and it was abruptly as quiet as a monk's cell. I looked up at the circular staircase. The quiet in the big hallway was as oppressive as a heavy, wet snowfall. No wonder Julian Worth's fall wasn't heard by anyone. I hurried, checking the offices and the big showroom. The sound of my footsteps seemed overloud and ominous. No Rick. No Iris.
I clattered up the circular staircase and had to stop at the top to catch my breath. When I opened the door into the hallway of La Mariposa, I saw the maid's cart outside the third doorway. I squeezed past and entered the lobby.
I looked across the sparkling room toward the red velvet hangings. I glimpsed Tony and Celestina. Rick must be in the auction room. I turned toward the chili-cart desk.
The smile on Tom Garza's face slid away faster than a margarita chasing jalapeño-laced chili. I felt like a cat in a dog pound. Obviously, he resented my attack on his father last night. When I placed my hands on the rim of the cart, he stood as stiff as a wooden soldier. “Tom, do you love your grandmother?”
His young face creased in misery. “You tried to get my dad in trouble.”
I avoided that bog. And I had to trust Tom. I didn't think he'd had any opportunity to talk with Julian Worth. I'd better have guessed right. “I'm trying to save Manuel. Your grandmother wants me to do this. Will you please take a note to Rick and not tell anyone it came from me?”
I looked up at the massive old clock on the wall
behind him. Twenty-two minutes from now the auction preview would begin. Even as I watched, the hall door opened and Susana scooted across the lobby. Everyone was gathering.
“A note.” He rubbed the edge of the old-fashioned ledger where guests were invited to sign their names and share their impressions of La Mariposa. “You are a guest.” He spoke slowly. “Every effort is made to satisfy any request made by a guest. Information about guests is never revealed.” He took a deep breath, stared at me with puzzled, worried eyes. “If you wish to have a note delivered by the staff, that will be done.”
Yes, I was taking a chance, but the clock now stood at twenty to the hour. I yanked out a pad, ripped off a sheet, scrawled, “Urgent. Room 6,” folded the paper, handed it to Tom.
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I paced in the small room, forcing myself to stop looking at the clock and trying to decide what I could do if Rick didn't respond. At ten minutes to the hour, the sharp knock sounded on my door.
I checked through the peephole. I had no difficulty remembering that I was hunting not only for a thief, but for a killer. The curved glass skewed Rick's oblong face, made even longer by his sleek goatee. I yanked open the door, motioned him inside. Before he could say anything, I outlined what I wanted, precisely and specifically.
He hunched his shoulders, glared at me. “Whyâ”
“It's better if we don't get into that. And Rick, you've got to hurry. I want everything in here by no later than one-fifteen.” That gave him twenty minutes, which should be more than enough. “Finallyâ”
He was reaching for the door.
“âI want keys to these rooms.” I rattled them off.
He froze, looking like a law-abiding burgher face-to-face with a rampaging mob. “You can'tâ”
“I must.”
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Lights blazed in the copper chandeliers of the reception area outside the auction room. Crystal champagne glasses glistened on a table near the room. Nodding in satisfaction, Isabel shepherded a waiter with a service cart toward the serving table. She watched as he carefully unloaded the hors d'oeuvre trays. Everything looked fresh and appealingâguacamole, bite-size tostadas topped with chicken, cheese, lettuce and tomato, and picadillo, a spicy meat hash with corn chips.
Susana held open the double doors to the auction room for Tony, who was rolling a dolly with a worn stone statue of a jaguar. One eye still contained gleaming jade. Celestina trotted alongside. “Hurry, Tony. What took you so long? You've been hours.”
“Relax, Tina. Once I get this dude on his platform, we're done. Ferocious looking beast, isn't he?” His voice bubbled with good humor.
Celestina shot him a poisonous glance. “Tony, why are you so juvenile? Don't let our guests hear you talk like that.”
Tony ignored her, maneuvering the dolly through the doorway with a flourish.
Susana tossed her dark hair and her silver earrings jangled. She, too, watched Tony with disdain. Magda looked irritated. Tony wasn't charming anyone.
I was no more than a couple of feet inside the foyer when Frank barred my way. For once his diffident face looked bullish and determined. Obviously, he'd neither forgiven nor forgotten my demand of last night to know about his association with Ed Schmidt. Just as
he stepped in front of me, I saw Isabel's head jerk toward us, her eyes flare. She lifted a hand as if to restrain him, but he was looking at me.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Collins.” There was no regret in his deep voice. “I'll have to ask you to leave. This is a private affair andâ”
“Maria Elena asked me very particularly to come,” I said firmly. “I have a commission from her since she's unable to be here.”
That caught him by surprise. Some of the bluster seeped from his voice. “Not here? But she always opens the doors, invites everyone to come in and see what Tesoros has gathered for its most favored customers.”
“Not this year. She's at the police station, Frank. With Manuel.” I tried to hold his gaze.
But I no longer mattered to him. As clearly as though he spoke, I read in his face the stunning realization that his mother had not called upon himâhe looked around the roomâor upon any one of her children to accompany her and Manuel to the police station. Clearly she did not trust them and she intended to protect Manuel whatever the cost.
His face perplexed and stricken, Frank turned, seeking his wife. As he moved away, he looked diminished, a man whose world had suddenly been transformed from a familiar and comfortable landscape to uncertain terrain with all paths obscured and no boundaries in place.
Magda stood with her hands on her hips. She gave me a hard look, then turned to follow Frank.
The double doorway to the auction room, painted to appear as the doors of a village church, were now firmly closed. I scanned the foyer. All of the auction guests were there. Jolene Harrison gripped the arm of
a tall, too-thin man whose head poked forward on a long neck. She and Wiley were poised like greyhounds waiting for the starter pistol. Cara Kendall gulped down a glass of champagne and leaned forward, her cherry red lips widened in expectation. Joshua Chandler leaned against a wall, a distant look on his sunburned face, an unlit pipe in his hand. Chandler looked vaguely professorial except for his sunburn. Bald, pudgy Bud Morgan watched the closed doors with avid eyes. Kenny King was unmistakable with his red ponytail and cold gray eyes. His moon face had a doughy, unhealthy look and he looked much older than thirty.
The Garza family had drawn apart in a half-circle, Frank, Isabel, Celestina, Tony, Susana, Magda, Rick. Iris stood a few feet away, her eyes on Rick. Frank waved his hands, pointed toward me. Like marionettes seeking the enemy, their heads swiveled toward me.