Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

  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 intent 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.

  Upstairs, how could I get upstairs? I didn’t even try to think what I could do. But I had to get there in time. I dashed down the hall, pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  A muscular man heaved a plastic tray of dishes onto a countertop.

  I skidded to a stop. “The back stairs! Where are they?” This was an old, old house.

  A plump woman with her hands deep in suds looked up. She nodded toward an old brown wooden door. “That way, ma’am. But—”

  I hurried past the man, his eyes wide, mouth in an O, and yanked open the door, moving up the steep, rubber-capped treads. Dark now, not a trace of light. I couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in my ears. I slipped my hand along the banister. My right knee gave a sudden sharp twinge as I raced up the steep, steep steps. At the top, I fumbled in the darkness, found a metal knob slick with age and use. I twisted it and didn’t breathe again until I felt the knob turn, the door yield. I edged the door open, found myself at the end of a dim hallway.

  His back to the hallway, Tony Garza stood in a flood of light in a doorway midway up the hall. A large man, he filled the doorway. I was certain that inside the room, he appeared overweeningly powerful—broad taut shoulders, big hands hanging loosely by his side, forward-thrust torso balanced on strong legs. Big and strong, utterly still, poised to leap, gathering force to strike.

  I opened my mouth to scream. They would hear me in the kitchen. They had to hear me in the kitchen.

  “Stop.” Tony’s voice was deep and guttural, a cry of pain and despair. His big hands reached out, clung to the doorjambs. “You told me Manuel hit him.” His voice rose, quivered. “You told me Manuel killed him.” The words were wrenched from deep within. He took one step, another, through the doorway.

  I moved down the hall, edged close to the doorway, looked inside at an elegant bedroom in blue with silver accents, the blue draperies drawn for the night. But I didn’t even glance at the bed or furnishings. My eyes were riveted on the bubbling surface of the in-floor hot tub just within th
e huge oversize bath and on Manuel’s legs, the trousers sodden and rippling against the force of the water jets.

  Susana knelt by Manuel’s limp body, her crimson-tipped nails talon-tight on his shoulders.

  Manuel’s head rested on the apron of the hot tub, his chin up, his mouth open, his jaw slack. His eyes were closed, the dark brush of long feathery lashes resting on his face. Despite the silvery streaks in his hair, he looked like a sleeping child, untouched, untroubled, undefiled.

  Susana’s burning eyes dominated a face ravaged by fear. Her once lovely features twisted in pain and despair until she was almost unrecognizable, her eyes deep and tortured in their sockets, her cheeks a blazing red, her mouth agape and ugly, her breath coming in short bursts.

  “Manuel fell. He hit his head.” Her voice was thin and high like a keen. Her fingers still gripped Manuel’s shoulders. She began to push. The water swirled higher, reaching his chest.

  Tony stumbled across the room, his hands outstretched. He fell to his knees, grabbed his brother’s limp arm.

  “Tony!” Her cry was a piercing wail, sharp as the scream of a steam engine. “He fell and slipped. They’ll find him drowned and then it will all be over. I’ll be safe.”

  Tony pulled Manuel half out of the water, held him tight. He stared at Susana and his face was that of a man beholding horror, a pit of writhing snakes, hell’s fire dancing at a witches’ midnight.

  Susana stared at the brothers. “Damn you, Tony.” Her eyes blazed, her voice shook, her shoulders heaved. “I had to kill Ed. I had to do it for you.” Now she loosed her grip on Manuel, her hands reached out, fastened on Tony’s bare arm, tight enough, sharp enough, to bring blood. “Ed was going upstairs. He was drunk and he was going to tell Maria Elena everything, how you and he planned the biggest theft in the world and how you got away with it. He was going to tell her, Tony!”

  Tony pushed away her hands. He slipped one arm behind Manuel, pillowed his head.

  Susana knelt by the edge of the floor pool. She leaned forward, stretching out her hands in a plea.

  The welts on Tony’s arm oozed blood.

  “Tony,” her voice was low, feverish, “listen to me. It will be all right. They’ll think it’s an accident. Everybody knows how Manuel loves to look at water. He fell and hurt his head. He’ll drown and everything will be all right.”

  Tony was on his knees now too. He slipped his arms around his brother, slowly picked him up. Straining, he came to his feet, Manuel cradled in his arms. Tony never looked at me as he walked through the doorway into the hall, toward the stairs.

  Susana scrambled to her feet. She bent forward, her hands reaching out. “Tony, Tony…” She began to scream.

  epilogue

  I went back to San Antonio for Rick and Iris’s wedding. My reunion with Gina was wonderful. We stood by Tom Garza as the couple ran between the cheering guests, a shower of birdseed spangling the soft October air. Iris’s face glowed. She held her long train. The creamy satin dress was a glorious foil for her raven dark hair and creamy complexion. Rick’s arm curved proudly around her shoulders. He laughed aloud as a young cousin held the door to the car. White shoe polish marked the windows, Newlyweds, Happy, Happy Day. As the car pulled away, I read the legend on the rear window: “Mexico City or Bust.”

  I stayed another day, had dinner with Maria Elena and Manuel. We spoke of happiness, not sorrow. But, when I was taking my leave, she reached out, took my hands in hers. “Tesoros will be in good hands with Rick and Iris.”

  We didn’t speak of Tony. It was Tom Garza who told me Tony was living in Hawaii, running a para-sailing business. Susana’s trial was pending, but there was very little evidence. She’d never admitted anything. There was no mention of the gold. Rumor had it she intended to claim self-defense, that a drunken Ed Schmidt demanded entrance, claiming that Tesoros had stolen something of his, that he was unreasonable and threatened her. A lawyer cousin predicted a plea bargain to manslaughter for Ed Schmidt’s death. Julian Worth was still accounted an accidental death, but I knew Susana had pushed him to his death.

  I couldn’t feel the scales of justice balanced, but capital murder demands proof and the District Attorney had no proof.

  The next morning, I took a last walk by the river and stopped to say hello to Manuel. When I smiled at my reflection in his shiny, shiny windows, I knew that innocence had been saved and that was what mattered the most.

  The end of the story? I was in my Missouri home two days later when the phone rang, a long-distance call from Mexico City. The line crackled and hissed with static.

  “Henrie O?” Rick’s young voice was jubilant.

  “Yes.” I held tight to the receiver.

  “We had a great trip. Whipped right through customs.”

  I breathed deeply, happily.

  “And we thought you’d be interested in a big news story down here. You know the gold that was stolen from the National Museum last August—”

  Yes, oh yes, indeed, I knew that gold, remembered the soft buttery feel on my fingers, the sense of awe and amazement.

  “—it turned up at the museum yesterday. Somebody left it there in an attaché case…”

  Acknowledgments

  I am especially grateful to Patsy Garza Asher, owner of San Antonio’s superb mystery bookstore, Remember the Alibi. Patsy welcomed me to her hometown, willingly served as a cheerful guide, and was extraordinarily helpful in finding excellent books about San Antonio.

  I am also grateful to Spanish scholar Dr. Judith LeBlanc Flores for her translations of materials from Mexico City’s National Museum of Anthropology.

  It was a great pleasure to visit San Antonio, explore its unique and lovely River Walk, and learn more about Hispanic art, which has made and is making a vital contribution to the wonderful cultural mosaic that is the United States.

  About the Author

  A recognized master of mystery and spinetingling suspense, CAROLYN HART has written four previous Henrie O mysteries: Dead Man’s Island (an Agatha Award winner), Scandal in Fair Haven (nominated for both an Agatha and Macavity Award), Death in Lovers’ Lane, and Death in Paradise. Her newest Henrie O, Resort to Murder, is currently available in hardcover. She has been nominated for and has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards for the books in her popular Death on Demand series, and is one of the founders of Sisters in Crime. Mrs. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise

  for CAROLYN HART and her latest Henrie O mystery DEATH ON THE RIVER WALK

  “Carolyn Hart is one of the most popular practitioners of the traditional mystery.”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Fun…intriguing…absorbing…entertaining…It keeps the reader guessing…Once again, Hart transports the reader to a picturesque locale…Henrie O is an endearing female sleuth.”

  Los Angeles Times

  “Hart is an expert at seamless storytelling…Henrie O is a senior citizen who refreshingly fits no stereotype, a woman who is as independent, confident, and capable as anyone half her age.”

  Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Carolyn Hart serves up another frothy brew with her series character Henrie O…The spry sleuth triumphs with wry wit and grit…Hart lovingly describes San Antonio’s famed River Walk…She also builds an inspiring portrait of a Latino matriarch.”

  Chicago Sun-Times

  “Cheers for Henrie O, an intelligent, engaging sleuth!”

  Mary Higgins Clark

  “Carolyn Hart is a shining star in the mystery galaxy.”

  Jackson Clarion-Ledger

  “An intriguing mystery untangled by delightful, sleuthing Henrie O…This one is special.”

  Oklahoma City Oklahoman

  “It’s always a delight to find a new book by Carolyn Hart.”

  Chattanooga Times

  “A delicate touch is required to write a mur
der mystery that has charm, and Carolyn Hart proves she is up to the task…This book should be on the San Antonio Visitors Bureau’s ‘A list’ for its portrayal of that city’s grace and heritage…The novel has plenty of murder and mayhem. But Hart’s real gift lies in showing that, while there may be no perfect crime, the River Walk is the perfect setting.”

  Houston Chronicle

  “Splendid…Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins can charm the truth out of the most venomous foe…Henrie O—sturdy, relentless, yet compassionate—carries the show.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “I’ve missed Miss Marple…This sixty-something sleuth is definitely her updated, street-smart sister under the skin.”

  Margaret Maron

  “Carolyn Hart embodies the spirit of Agatha Christie more than any other contemporary mystery writer. With her energy, ingenuity and sparkling sense of humor, Hart writes stories that Dame Agatha herself would have loved.”

  Dean James, co-author of By a Woman’s Hand

  “Henrietta Collins is in her customary good form…In the tradition of puzzle mysteries, Henrie O is poised to insert the last piece well before the reader has caught on.”

  Washington Post Book World

  “Henrie O is intelligent and attractive…Her fifth mystery is a compelling as it is imaginative.”

  Dallas Morning News

  “Carolyn Hart is a joy to read. She is literate, entertaining, and her Henrie O is a delightful addition to the world of the ‘no-longer-as-young-as-they-were’ sleuths.”

  Glen Cove Record-Pilot

  “Enjoyable…a charming protagonist…Fans of the series will welcome this addition.”

  Booklist

  “Carolyn Hart is an author I trust with my time and eyesight…She can write unpleasant types so that you understand them, charmers so you don’t resent them, and plots you can get lost in…Make some cocoa and head for your most comfortable chair.”