Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

Manuel clapped his hands. We smiled at each other. I handed back the cloth, gave him another pat on his shoulder, turned away and looked straight into the cool, measuring gaze of a uniformed patrolman. He was young, with reddish hair in a quarter-inch crew, a freckle-spangled face and an athletic build. He was only a few feet away.

  As I walked toward the stairs leading to La Mariposa, the policeman’s gaze followed me for a moment, then returned to Manuel, once again busy with his cloth, his face reflected in the window, calm, intent, happy.

  At the top of the stairs, I looked down and found it a disquieting tableau, Manuel and the so-attentive policeman. It was time for me to do what I could to expand the investigation, but I wanted to present Borroel with credible evidence, not simply my hypothesis. To do this, I needed Rick Reyes to tell the truth.

  The lobby of La Mariposa seemed an oasis of tranquillity after the bustle of Tesoros, the only sound Cara Kendall’s piercing voice as she stood by the chili-cart desk and berated Tom Garza, who nodded and continued to look pleasant, though I imagined it took some effort.

  Her frown stretched the too-tight skin of her glazed face. “…simply can’t tolerate such inferior quality. My poor face was rubbed raw, raw!” Emaciated fingers touched an inelastic cheek. “If you can’t arrange for a finer quality of pillowcases, I will simply have to move to La Mansion. You must understand that I am accustomed to the very best.” She swung around, almost cannoning into me, gave me a haughty stare and flounced away.

  Tom’s smile vanished faster than a quarter in a slot machine.

  “Feel free,” I offered.

  He grinned, looking extremely young and likable. “Thanks. But for all the”—he paused, probably to choose another word—“difficult guests, there are dozens like you.”

  Ah, this young man had a future as a hotelier.

  We exchanged mutually approving smiles. “Tom, I’m looking for Rick. Have you seen him?”

  Tom pointed toward the exit to the outside steps. “Rick’s downstairs. Everybody but me’s at Tesoros, busy greeting the extended family. You know, in a Hispanic family whenever there’s trouble, everyone rallies around.”

  “I just came from Tesoros. Rick isn’t there.” I glanced toward the red velvet curtains at the archway leading to the foyer and meeting rooms. “Could he be working in the auction room?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said doubtfully. “I haven’t noticed anyone going through the arch this afternoon. Of course,” and he shrugged, “maybe I was busy and missed him. Why don’t you take a look?”

  “Thanks, I will. And if you see him, please tell him I would very much like to speak to him.” I paused, wondering just how to ask this attractive young man where he had been last night when Ed Schmidt was battered to death. I liked Tom, but he, too, was certainly part of this family. He, too, would know very well how to take advantage of the auction to transfer a fortune in gold to a wealthy collector. “Tom, did you know the man who was killed?”

  He shook his head. “No. But he went to school with my dad. Dad says he hadn’t seen the guy in a long time.” Tom’s face was earnest, but unworried. “Rick told me it was pretty awful last night.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t want to remember that still body looking so much smaller than in life. “You weren’t here last night?”

  “No, ma’am. After we close down for the night, the front bell rings in Uncle Tony’s room. Nope, the most exciting thing in the history of Tesoros and I’m home in bed.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. I smiled a thank-you and walked across the lobby. Inside the foyer, I saw the entrances to the two meeting rooms were shut. I tried both doors. They were locked. I knocked sharply. It was very quiet in this lobby. The store downstairs might have been a thousand miles away. And obviously, if Rick, or anyone else, was in either meeting room, he didn’t care to answer my summons.

  After I unlocked the door to my room, I reached up and stroked the painting of the monarch. But it was just a painted butterfly, and it could not bring me close to Bobby.

  I’d left word with Tom for Rick to get in touch with me as soon as possible. If I didn’t hear from Rick soon, I’d find Maria Elena. I had no doubt that if she put out the word for Rick to come to her, he would come.

  I found ice in the little bucket in the bath and an assortment of sodas in a small refrigerator. I chose a club soda, poured it, and carried the glass with me onto the tiny balcony. I sipped the cool drink, leaned against the warm wall and looked down at the entrance to Tesoros. Manuel was now working on the first window. The late-afternoon shadows reached all the way to the river. I got a notepad from my purse and settled at the small table on the balcony and swiftly made notes. As soon as I had bullied the truth from Rick, I would present Detective Borroel with these facts:

  Ed Schmidt was in Mexico City when the antique gold pieces were stolen.

  Ed Schmidt was a daredevil, and he was greedy. See Julian Worth for confirmation.

  Ed Schmidt had a long history with the Garza family, especially Frank.

  Iris Chavez found the gold in a wardrobe in the Tesoros receiving room on Thursday. She took it to Rick Reyes.

  From Thursday until Monday evening, Iris stayed in the apartment of Rick’s mother, Magda Reyes, with the gold.

  Ed Schmidt must have been informed by someone at Tesoros that Iris had left without explanation and that the gold was gone from the wardrobe. Ed searched Iris’s apartment, probably shortly after she left the store on Thursday.

  I arrived on Sunday, seeking Iris. I went to her apartment, to Tesoros, and to the police.

  Monday afternoon, I responded to instructions to be on the River Walk near the King William district. Iris met me. Ed Schmidt attempted to grab Iris. She escaped on Rollerblades. Schmidt threatened to knife Rick if the “package” taken by Iris wasn’t returned.

  If Schmidt was following me, as seemed apparent, someone at Tesoros must have informed him that I was looking for Iris.

  After that encounter, Iris called Tesoros several times, seeking Rick. The Tesoros office was equipped with Caller ID.

  My room at La Mariposa was searched on Monday.

  Monday night a fake fire erupted in the apartment house where Iris was hiding.

  When Iris fled the building, carrying the gold in her backpack, she was attacked, a blanket thrown over her so she could not see her assailant, and the backpack was taken.

  Moments later Rick, Iris, and I found Ed Schmidt’s body in front of Tesoros.

  I tapped the pen on the pad. Several conclusions seemed obvious. Ed Schmidt was in league with someone at Tesoros. It was the only way he could have learned that the gold was not in its hiding place, that Iris was missing and likely had taken it, that I was connected to Iris and that following me might lead him to her and the gold. It seemed equally apparent that Ed Schmidt was not the person who figured out Iris’s hiding place from the Caller ID and who set the fake fire and retrieved the gold from Iris.

  I sipped the bubbly soda and felt curiously disturbed. The timing was out of kilter. I’d assumed that Ed’s co-conspirator killed him. It seemed the obvious conclusion—that they’d quarreled and the conspirator struck Ed down. But why? The gold was going to be retrieved. What caused the murder? Okay, figure a quarrel. That wasn’t hard to imagine. Ed drank too much. Alcohol not only distorts judgment, it engenders violence. Ed had been drinking heavily Monday night, nursing his grievance, his anger growing that his fellow conspirator, call him X, claimed the gold was gone. Did Ed think that was a lie, simply a method of cheating him out of the money that would be realized in a sale of the gold? I could easily imagine Ed arriving at Tesoros in a state of drunken fury. But now it got complicated. Who met him there? Who opened the front door? What happened? And how did he end up dead in the main showroom at almost the same time frightened people, including Iris, were streaming out of the apartment house?

  I finished the soda, my face in a tight frown. Even if Detective Borroel accepted my theories about the stolen gold and Ed Schmi
dt’s involvement with a member of the family, he’d point to my conclusion that X couldn’t have committed the murder because he or she was busy retrieving the gold. Moreover, the suggestion of a conspiracy made it not improbable that Ed had a key to Tesoros. What if Ed unlocked the door? But who could have attacked him? If not X, then who?

  The quick answer, of course, was Manuel. Manuel was at Tesoros, Manuel tried to remove all traces of the crime; therefore Manuel committed the murder.

  Damn. The last thing I wanted to do was make Manuel an even more attractive suspect to Borroel. I pushed up from the little table, moved to the railing and stared down at Tesoros. Surely I had made a miscalculation.

  But there seemed to be no way X, in only the few minutes between Rick and me finding Iris and reaching Tesoros, could have run with the gold, returned to Tesoros, quarreled with Ed, killed him, moved the body out onto the sidewalk, and disappeared when Manuel arrived. But X could have killed Schmidt, left the body in the store—after all, no one would be on the floor until morning—and gone to flush out Iris. Why leave the body? Wasn’t that terribly reckless? But perhaps the effort to get the gold from Iris provided time to think what to do. I did believe the murder was unpremeditated.

  In any event, the murder occurred early enough for Manuel to have time to mop the bloody path from the piggy-bank display through the front door.

  Borroel would have worked out the time very carefully.

  So X could have killed Ed before setting the fire. But it was hard to imagine why he would leave the body on the showroom floor and leave the front door open. Manuel said he found the body on the River Walk and the front door open.

  Borroel would insist it was Manuel who moved the body, not a shadowy X.

  Damn, I was afraid—

  The front door of Tesoros opened, and Frank Garza bolted outside, his face pasty, his eyes staring. He gestured frantically to the red-haired policeman. The young officer took two quick strides. Frank’s hands rose and fell and he spoke rapidly. He turned and led the way back into the store, the officer close behind.

  Manuel was on his knees by the second window. His gentle face looked perplexed. He neatly folded his cloth, tucked it in a back pocket. Slowly, he stood, picked up his pail, and walked inside.

  I took the quickest route. I stepped out into an empty hall and walked swiftly to the door that opened to the circular staircase. I recalled the date, punched the digits into the keypad. I pulled the door open and stepped onto the metal grille of the landing. I looked over the railing and felt the blood drain from my face.

  I looked down at death.

  There was no doubt Julian Worth was dead. The blood wreathing his silvery hair foretold massive injury, but the unnatural crook of his neck as he lay, splayed at the bottom of the steps, signaled that life was gone.

  “…he must have fallen.” Frank’s voice shook.

  I edged back from the railing, out of sight of those below. Turning, I looked at the door into La Mariposa. From this side, the door opened with a push on a bar. The keypad lock was in operation only from the hotel side. My mind was working on two levels, wondering who had pushed Worth and whether my fingerprints on the keypads put me at risk. I was in no mood to try and explain my presence at the top of these stairs. I wondered if I could push the bar without disturbing fingerprints on this side.

  There were three exits from the broad hallway downstairs. The killer could have come up these steps to the hotel or to the family apartments. Or the killer could have opened the back door to the showroom and slipped into that milling throng. Or, and I thought this unlikely, the killer could have opened the keypad door to the receiving area and taken the freight elevator upstairs. If the killer escaped into the showroom or the receiving area, it meant climbing down the steps and edging past or stepping over Julian Worth’s body.

  A murderer, I’ve been told, is high on adrenaline so skirting the body would be easy. But there must have been a dreadful long moment going down the steel steps when someone else could have appeared, pushing through the doorway from the showroom. Alternatively, someone in the family could have chosen that moment to enter the stairway from La Mariposa. But actually, everyone in the family was in the showroom with the crowd of well-wishers except for Tom, at the desk in La Mariposa, and Rick, who was curiously absent. So maybe, once the murderer and his quarry were alone on the staircase, maybe there could not have been a better moment.

  Shoes gritted on the cement below. I hesitated, then used my hip against the bar to push the door just wide enough to slip into the hallway. The hallway still stretched empty before me.

  When the door closed, I gazed at it thoughtfully. I imagined the murderer’s path. The murderer would have led the way up the circular stairs. Worth would have had no sense of danger. No doubt the murderer emphasized the need for discretion, saying they needed a quiet place to talk, perhaps they could find a spot in La Mariposa, and discuss business because it was certainly an intriguing suggestion that stolen gold had been hidden at Tesoros. Worth’s deadly companion, of course, insisted that he—or she—had no personal knowledge of such a thing but it was surely a subject that needed to be explored. After all, Mr. Worth obviously was an excellent businessman and two people with a common goal could easily reach an understanding. The murderer no doubt spoke calmly, reasonably, and Worth followed, pleased with his success. Quite likely, he was laboring for breath. He’d seemed physically drained as he made the rounds of the family in the showroom. At the top of the staircase, the murderer probably maneuvered Worth into turning to descend the stairs. Perhaps the murderer opened the door into La Mariposa, shut it quickly, saying, “Sorry, we’ll have to hurry down. Here comes my husband/wife/that detective.” Once Worth turned, he was vulnerable. One powerful shove was all that was needed. Then the murderer either stepped into La Mariposa and exited through the lobby or moved swiftly down the circular stairs, heading for the receiving area and the freight elevator or darting across the hallway and slipping into the showroom to meld into the throng of visitors.

  As long as no one heard Worth’s scream and found him immediately, the murderer was clear and free of any connection to the point of death. At this moment, the area around the staircase was certainly alive with sound as the police investigated. I heard nothing. As for the showroom, no one there would hear a cry over the hum of voices. Moreover, Worth may scarcely have made any sound. The blow to his back could have emptied his lungs.

  The choices were clear: into La Mariposa or down the steps to the receiving area or into the showroom. If I were the murderer, I’d take my chances slipping into the crowd. The likelihood of being noticed was minimal, and once again entry from the back area didn’t matter if it couldn’t be tied to the time when Worth fell.

  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 M
om 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.