Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

  I thought so, too.

  “All right, Gina. I’ll make a formal report to the police. And, Gina, don’t give up hope. There could be a dozen reasons why she’s gone off. A quarrel with Rick. A new boyfriend. Just for the hell of it. Maybe it’s nothing more than that.”

  “Please, God,” she said softly.

  “I’ll call after I talk to Missing Persons.”

  Missing Persons turned out to be handled within Youth Services, no matter the age of the vanished person.

  Detective Investigator June Hess waved me to a seat in front of her gray metal desk. She was fortyish, trim, almost muscular. Smooth brown hair cupped a pale, composed face with aloof blue eyes and a firm, colorless mouth.

  I gave her high marks as a listener. Her eyes left my face only when they dropped to the pad where she made brief notes. Or when she gave an occasional glance at the computer-printout photograph of Iris and Gina.

  When I finished, she turned to her computer screen. It took her only a moment to scroll down the homicides reported since Thursday morning.

  “No young women. The only unidentified body is that of a white male approximately forty to fifty years old. Killed in a knife fight.” She clicked close. “What’s the grandmother’s phone number?”

  She punched the numbers on her speakerphone. I listened to Gina’s weary voice as she answered the detective’s precise questions. Detective Hess’s fingers flew on her computer keyboard.

  I watched the fuzzy green screen of the monitor as she keystroked entries into the missing-persons form, distilling the substance of Gina’s replies.

  Name—Iris Constance Chavez

  Date of birth—April 3, 1979

  Marriage status—single

  Social security number—826-00-9358

  Address—La Casita Apartments, No. 26.

  Physical description—Five feet five inches tall, 118 pounds, black hair, green eyes, nose straight, clear complexion, small ears. Identifying marks, small quarter-moon-shaped scar on the left earlobe caused by an infection from earpiercing, appendectomy scar; nail missing on the second digit of the right foot.

  Health—Excellent. No history of mental instability. No history of drug use.

  Personality—Energetic, enthusiastic, happy-go-lucky. Dependable and responsible, but easily influenced by friends. Attracted to opposite sex, sometimes unwisely.

  Resident—Lived in San Antonio since April. Previously attended Long Beach City College in Long Beach, Ca., average student. Grew up in various California communities, mother a nightclub singer/hostess with erratic employment. Iris often spent time with widowed grandmother in northern California, now living in Majorca.

  Family—Maternal grandmother Gina Wilson. Mother Connie Anderson, entertainer on a cruise ship presently in the Caribbean. Mother married three times, presently single. Father Arturo Chavez, an artist, believed deceased. A native of San Antonio, he was reported to have returned to San Antonio after divorce from Iris’s mother. No contact since then. Recent information indicates he died in a car wreck in San Antonio. Location paternal grandparents unknown. Two married half-sisters, Janice Frank, Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Nancy Toland, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Neither in close touch with Iris, both deny having heard from her within last month.

  Friends—Rick Reyes, assistant manager Tesoros art gallery on the River Walk. Shandy Valdez, recently moved to Dallas, address unknown. Grandmother uncertain of names and addresses of friends in San Antonio or elsewhere.

  Job history—Employed at Tesoros in San Antonio since late April. In Long Beach most recently worked in an antique store. Also has worked as a waitress, lifeguard, and as a clerk in an art-supply store.

  Church affiliation—Methodist, inactive.

  Interests—art, antiques, Rollerblading, surfing. Since childhood spent every free moment drawing, sketching, painting, always seeking information about the artist father she never knew. Fascinated by the colors and spirit of straw mosaics, the intricately wrought artworks created by an artist applying a design to plywood, coating it with beeswax, then laying colored straw onto the beeswax. She didn’t grow up speaking Spanish but studied the language in middle school and always made A’s, the only A’s in her school years.

  Detective Hess’s hands dropped to her desk. She looked at the speakerphone. “I haven’t been to your granddaughter’s apartment yet, Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Collins informs me it appears to have been searched. Do you know if there is anything of value that Miss Chavez possessed, something”—she looked at me for confirmation—“about the size of an attaché case or anything of value that would fit in an attaché case?”

  I nodded.

  “No.” Gina sounded puzzled. “I can’t imagine. Iris doesn’t have any money. She just scrapes by. But she never asks for help. She’s determined to make her own way. She worked two jobs to earn enough money to go to San Antonio. Oh”—Gina’s voice trembled—“I told her not to go there. I knew she shouldn’t.”

  “Why?” The detective’s voice was sharp.

  “It isn’t good to go into the past. But she was determined. I understand why she went. She wants to know about the part of herself that came from her father. I think she always felt incomplete because she grew up in a completely non-Hispanic way and yet she was Iris Chavez. But”—and Gina’s voice was abruptly grim—“if I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s to let the past go, let it go.”

  “Do you think her disappearance could be connected in any way with her search for her father?” Detective Hess’s hands were poised above her keyboard.

  “I think it’s unlikely,” Gina said slowly. “She told me quite soon after she arrived in San Antonio that she’d found a cousin of her father’s who said Arturo died in a car wreck a few years after he came home. So I don’t think her father can have any bearing on her absence. She sounded sad but, after all, she’d never known him. But she said she felt very close to him, being in San Antonio, so I stopped trying to persuade her to go back to California.”

  Detective Hess typed for a moment.

  Her final question surprised me. But, of course, given the realities of our time, it shouldn’t have. The detective leaned back in her swivel chair, folded her arms. “Mrs. Wilson, you said your granddaughter has no history of drug use. But you can’t be sure.”

  “Yes. Yes, I can.” I knew that if Gina were here, she would be leaning forward, green eyes flashing, narrow face intent.

  The detective looked sadly at the speakerphone. “A fortune in drugs can be carried in an attaché case.”

  A fortune in drugs can be carried in an attaché case…

  I unlocked the door to Iris’s apartment. At my nod, Detective Hess stepped inside.

  I looked at the disarray with new eyes. It could be drugs. If it was, the police would find out. In those circles, they had connections. Someone sold to someone else who sold to someone else. The police would find out if Iris was involved in a trade that routinely dealt death in one form or another.

  “Not random.” The detective’s crisp statement confirmed my earlier judgment. “And not an ordinary robbery.” She pointed first at the painting in the chair. “That looks like something special. And there’s the regular stuff”—her hand gestured toward the television and the computer—”so something unusual is going on. “Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Or the girl’s split but dumped everything out to make it look like somebody searched the place. That could be why nothing’s messed up.” She saw my surprise. “Yeah. People do funny things, especially when they’re walking out on somebody. And this is a funny one. No sign of a break-in. Either the girl threw things around herself or she let in the person who made the mess or the searcher had a key.” She turned, studied the door. “But this kind of lock can be opened pretty easily if you have the right tools.”

  Detective Hess closed the door, moved to the middle of the room and surveyed the small area. She didn’t touch anything. No fingerprints would be marred if their taking should ever be necessary. Using
the tip of her pocketknife, she delicately explored every pile of debris that appeared to contain papers. She spent at least ten minutes crouched on the floor beside the telephone table, patiently edging through that mess.

  I stared at the telephone table. Had the drawer been pulled out, the contents emptied? I tried to remember, couldn’t be certain. But that drawer was too small to hold anything larger than a notepad. Or an address book.

  When Hess rose, stiffly, one hand on her left knee, I said, “No address book?”

  “I didn’t find one. Not in this stuff.” She pointed at the floor. “Not in any of it. I’ll check with her grandmother tomorrow, see if she knows whether the girl had one.”

  We walked to the door.

  Detective Hess took one last look. “If she didn’t set this up, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t here when the apartment was searched.”

  I looked at her with interest.

  She pointed at the kitchen table, at the chairs in place, at the lamps at either end of the sofa, at the untouched painter’s easel, at the painting propped in a chair.

  “People fight when they’re attacked. You’d be surprised at the damage.” Her eyes, for an instant, were dark with memory. She continued matter-of-factly, “There’s too much stuff here that’s untouched. Whatever happened to her, it didn’t happen here. If something happened to her.”

  I led the way down the concrete steps. At the base of the stairs, Detective Hess stopped. “Are you going to return the key? Or hold on to it?”

  My answer was quick. “Hold on to it.”

  “Where can I find you?” Detective Hess flipped open her small notebook.

  I’d had time to think about that. I wanted to stay on the River Walk. There was plenty of choice, from the massive Hilton to the elegant La Mansion del Rio. But I had a definite destination in mind. “There’s a bed-and-breakfast upstairs from Tesoros. La Mariposa. B&Bs usually empty out on Sunday afternoons. I probably wouldn’t stand a chance late in the week, but tonight I expect they’ll have a vacancy.”

  “Let me know if that doesn’t work out. Upstairs from the store.” Her voice was thoughtful, her blue eyes interested. “Why so near? The guy?”

  Yes, Rick Reyes worked downstairs in Tesoros and Rick was Iris’s latest love, except not according to him. But that wasn’t my prime reason. “Yes, I want to know more about Rick. But most of all, I want to know why Iris left her job without a word to anyone. Was she ill? Frightened? What happened at the store?”

  Detective Hess shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe she just decided to split. If you find out, call me.” She slipped her pad into her pocket. “I’ll be in touch.” She turned and walked with a swift, confident stride toward the manager’s office.

  A crow burst from the magnolia. In the light beaming down from the corners of the apartment house, the crow’s shadow was a sudden dark streak across the courtyard, a quick, quickly gone picture, quite similar to the shadow against the wall created by the swift hands of the silent window washer at the elegant River Walk art gallery.

  The oversize wooden doors must have been carved a hundred years ago. Even in a city that often surprises with glimpses of a long ago world, the doors to La Mariposa were spectacular. I grasped a heavy bronze ring and pulled. I stepped into another century.

  Large lacquerware trays, some painted, some inlaid, decorated the ocher walls. The reddish brown walls glowed like sunrise on adobe, providing a perfect backdrop. Each tray was distinctive: one with red and yellow flowers, a second with gold and cream, a third with orange and pink. The trays echoed the vivid glory of flower markets and fields of wildflowers. Bright blue tiles framed a huge fireplace. Muted paintings of saints hung above the fireplace. Antique wooden chairs surrounded a massive table that quite likely had once graced a mission refectory.

  My shoes clicked on the red tile floor. At the sound, a huge black cat with glistening green eyes lifted his head to watch me. He stretched half the length of the rustic wooden cart that served as a desk. Barely decipherable against the cart’s yellowed canvas awning were faded red letters proclaiming “Chili.”

  I touched the bell. The cat yawned. His ears pricked as the door behind the cart opened.

  “Hello.” The tall young man in a sports shirt and slacks beamed a welcome. “Bienvenida a La Mariposa. I’m Tom Garza.”

  He looked quite a bit like Rick Reyes. I wondered if they were cousins. I liked his welcoming smile. I wasn’t sure how long the welcome would last.

  I smiled in return. “I don’t have a reservation. Do you have a single available?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re fully booked beginning Friday evening. Will that work out for you?”

  I certainly hoped so.

  I gave him my charge card, explained I’d left my luggage in the car, parked in a nearby lot, and inquired about restaurants. I smiled when he handed me a key that was at least five inches long.

  He grinned in return. “Old doors. Seriously old. But actually, the locks work very well. And we have good security at night. Because of the store.”

  “Tesoros. It’s very lovely.”

  “So you’ve already visited it.”

  “Oh, yes. A young friend of mine, Iris Chavez, works there. She’s told me a lot about it.”

  “Is she back?” He looked surprised.

  “No. Actually, I’m looking for her. Do you know Iris?”

  “Sure.” He held out a brochure with a floor plan. “She’s dating my cousin.”

  So my guess was right. This place teemed with sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers.

  “Or she was. Rick said—” His eyes dropped and he said quickly, “Your room is the last one down the hall on this floor. Number six. Through that door.” He pointed to his right, just past the end of the cart.

  “What did Rick say?” My tone was unemphatic.

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly. Something about Iris going to Padre with”—a careful pause—“with some friends. Anyway, it must have come up suddenly. But that’s life, isn’t it?” His grin was ebullient. “One day everything’s great, the next it all blows up in your face. That’s what I told Rick.”

  “So she and Rick had quarreled?”

  “Hey, I don’t know that. But Rick and Iris didn’t come to our cousin Rosa Herrera’s quinceañera Friday night. I figured then that something was up. That’s a big party to miss.” He glanced at me.

  I nodded. Many Hispanic families continue the old tradition of la quinceañera to celebrate a daughter’s fifteenth birthday. This is a major family occasion, when a young girl is presented first to God in thanksgiving and then to society as her life as a young woman begins.

  “That was—well, Rick should’ve come. And then he told me later that Iris didn’t show up for work Friday and Aunt Susana was furious. So, I guess Iris has moved on.” He shrugged. His bright smile dismissed Iris. “If I can get anything for you, please let me know.” He stepped from behind the cart, held open the door to a wide corridor.

  Light glowed from golden-globed wall sconces next to each door. Bright red numbers glistened above the lintels. A painted butterfly, wings outspread in glory, decorated each door.

  Butterflies have to be one of God’s loveliest creatures. I never see a butterfly without thinking of my husband and my son. The year before Bobby died, he and his father created a scrapbook with pictures they’d taken in Chapultepec Park. Bobby had carefully printed the names beneath each photograph. “Hey, Mom, look at this one—he’s as big as a bat! Isn’t he terrific?”

  The artist at La Mariposa obviously agreed. The butterfly on each door flew with joy, every iridescent color sparkling as if viewed in a sun that never set. I recognized the butterflies as I walked up the hall—yellow sulphur, black swallowtail, pearl crescent, painted lady, spring azure.

  At the end of the hall I stood a long moment, clutching the key, looking at the magnificent monarch on my own door. The fall before Bobby was killed in a car wreck, Richard and I and Bobby and our daugh
ter Emily had hiked up the torturous trail on a remote mountain in Mexico to see the nesting place of the monarchs. Our legs aching, gasping for breath in the thin dry air, we’d come to the top of a rugged hillock and looked out into a wonderland—millions of monarchs clinging to the trees, obscuring the trees, their brownish-orange wings a surfeit of beauty. Just for an instant, I was there, my own special circle of love unbroken, Richard and Bobby and Emily and I. Then the image dissolved, and I looked at a butterfly painted on a door.

  The big key turned the lock smoothly. I closed the door behind me, leaned against it, suddenly too weary to appreciate the spare beauty of the room, buffeted by my own sense of never quite accepted loss and by the uneasy sense of danger that had moved with me ever since I first saw Iris’s littered apartment.

  I pushed away from the door. I had much to do before tomorrow.

  I nibbled on pumpkin candy, dulce de calabaza. The grainy sweetness reminded me it takes as much sugar as pumpkin to make the crystallized candy. After a wonderful dinner of tostadas de pollo topped by a creamy avocado dressing and corn fritters, I was fortified for work with the aid of the candy and steaming coffee made in the small pot on a marble-topped table in my room.

  Not too surprisingly, my room at La Mariposa had no telephone. But I could use my cell phone. I called my daughter. Emily and her husband own and run a small-town newspaper in east Texas. They are both seasoned reporters and I knew Emily could find out anything about anyone.

  “Mother! Any luck with Iris?”

  The fatigue vanished and in its place spread the warm glow of delight that her voice always brings me. She has a lovely, lilting tone full of gaiety and vigor. It was as if she stood beside me, glossy ebony hair, vivid aquamarine eyes, a vibrant, eager face.

  “No, and I need help.” Emily, too, is a good listener. When I finished, she said confidently, “I’ll have it all to you first thing in the morning. I’ll find a copy shop where you can pick up a fax. Check with me in the morning.”