Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

  Yes, I supposed he would. In the family portrait, the Garza men had the air of successful, substantial businessmen.

  But she didn’t even glance at the sheets she held loosely in one hand. “Nice-looking guy about forty-five or fifty. Big head. Curly blond hair. Blue eyes. A big mouth. Blue shirt. Gray slacks.” She pushed up from the rocker. “That’s all I remember. Nothing special about him. Maybe five-ten, two hundred pounds. Not fat. Strong-looking.”

  Slowly, I stood. She handed me the photographs I’d brought with such expectations.

  “A big blond man.” I suppose the blankness of my voice made my surprise evident.

  She lifted her big shoulders in an expressive shrug. “All I can say is what I saw.”

  I looked at her searchingly.

  She pointed at the papers in my hand. “I could have pointed to someone there. I suppose that would have pleased you. But”—she drew herself up—“I am an honest woman.”

  “I’m sure you are. And I appreciate your helping me. It’s wonderful of you to keep such a careful lookout for your tenants.”

  “Not much gets past me.” She looked toward the courtyard.

  “If that man comes around again, please leave a message for me at my bed-and-breakfast, La Mariposa. I’m in Room Six.” I glanced toward the fifty dollar bill. “You needn’t leave your name, simply say, ‘The man came back.’”

  As the door closed behind me, the television blared to life.

  I hurried back to the stairs and up to the second floor. I knocked on the door to 24 and noticed that the blinds to the front window were open, though slanted, so it was hard to see inside.

  It took a moment before the door opened slowly.

  Mrs. Wentz must once have been tall. Now she was bent, her spine curved by age. Gnarled hands gripped a walker. A cold intelligence glistened in sharp blue eyes. Iron gray hair curled in tight ringlets. She observed me unsmilingly from a worn, remote face.

  “What do you want?” Her diction was perfect, her tone commanding.

  “Were you a teacher?” I offered a smile.

  Her eyes tried to pluck secrets from my face. I suspect she’d had great success through the years.

  “Think you’re clever, I suppose. And if I was?” But her voice, though still crisp, was amused.

  “Then you know how to think—and I’m looking for a good mind.”

  “I don’t know you.” She made no move to get out of the doorway.

  I pointed at the door to Iris’s apartment. “The girl who lives there—”

  “Yes. A nice girl. A sweet girl.” She very deliberately didn’t speak Iris’s name. Yes, indeed, I’d found a good mind. “She brings me cookies. She actually makes them. I told her that wasn’t politically correct these days.”

  “And Iris laughed.”

  Her eyes warmed. “Yes, she did. What do you want with Iris?”

  I told her. “…and no one has seen Iris since Thursday.”

  She maneuvered her walker, gestured for me to enter.

  Bookcases served as a room divider, creating a small living room, a sleeping area and a breakfast room. The filled shelves provided color. The walls were bare, as were the floors. The room could have had an air of proud poverty. Instead, it was bright and airy, and the books piled on end tables, many of them open, promised information and adventure and beauty.

  Mrs. Wentz didn’t waste time, neither hers nor mine. An open book lay on the end table beside her. “I saw Iris Thursday afternoon.” She gestured toward her front window. “I keep my blinds open during the day. I like sunshine. And I like to look out, though there isn’t much to see: the railing, the corridor that fronts the apartments, a portion of the tree in the courtyard. Anyone going to Iris’s apartment.”

  I understood her point at once. “Iris had to pass your apartment, arriving or departing. Unless she chose to walk the long way around.” And there would be no point to that.

  A slight smile. The pupil was to be commended. “Correct. There are two stairways to the second floor, but the shortest route to Iris’s apartment is past my window. I saw her every day. But I haven’t seen her since Thursday afternoon.”

  “Was she arriving or leaving?”

  “She arrived at shortly after four. I was a little surprised. That isn’t a usual time for her. And she was walking very fast. Then, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes later, she left. I heard her steps. And again, I suppose I looked more closely than I might because even her steps sounded hurried. I glimpsed her face.”

  She paused and stared thoughtfully out the window.

  I didn’t try to hurry her. I knew that when she spoke, she would speak with precision.

  “She appeared excited. Not so much worried or fearful as intensely absorbed. She walked quickly.” Mrs. Wentz placed her fingertips together. “She had a backpack hanging from one arm.” She gave a short, firm nod. “I’ve not seen her since.”

  “Have any strangers passed your window since you last saw Iris?”

  “Just one. At five o’clock…” Her precise voice described the blond man.

  So the blond man—the unexpected, unexplained blond man—wasn’t a creation of the manager. She had earned her fifty dollars.

  “…Reminded me of a boy I had in class many years ago. If things didn’t go his way, he glowered. He bullied the younger, smaller children. I once told him, ‘Harry, someday you’re going to meet a bully bigger than you are’.”

  I couldn’t resist. “What happened to Harry?”

  A slight shake of her head. “Barroom brawl. Harry picked on the wrong man.”

  I had a little picture of Harry. And of the blond man who searched Iris’s apartment.

  I thanked Mrs. Wentz for her help and she promised to get in touch if the blond man returned.

  In the parking lot, I called Tesoros from my car.

  Tony Garza answered. There was no mistaking his full, deep, lively voice.

  “Maria Elena Garza, please.”

  “Mrs. Collins?”

  I was startled. I was surprised he recognized my voice. I’d had good reason to listen to his. I wondered if that was true of him? “Yes. How are you, Mr. Garza?”

  “Fine, fine. Have you heard from Iris? We’re hoping nothing’s really wrong.” His smooth voice dropped in concern.

  “I’ve not found her yet. I wanted a chance to visit with your mother.”

  “Oh, sure. Mother’s worried, too. Hold on and I’ll put you through.” A click. Another.

  “Hello.” A melodious voice. Unpretentious, yet firm. This was a woman who had started with little and succeeded beyond all expectation. That told me she was smart, capable, far-sighted, tough. And, of course, lucky. I do believe in luck, but it’s interesting how people who work the hardest are usually the luckiest.

  “Mrs. Garza, my name is Henrietta Collins—”

  “Of course. I’m so glad you called. Have you had any success looking for Iris?” There had been polite concern in Tony Garza’s voice, but Maria Elena sounded truly troubled.

  “Not yet. I’ve reported her as missing to the police. But there is something I’d especially like to discuss with you. There is a painting in Iris’s apartment.” I described that haunting, memorable canvas, how the shadow of a tree dappled part of the door and the wall, the way the sunlight brought out the amber color of some of the chunks of stone, the uneven shadow of the small wooden cross. “Do you know that painting?”

  “Yes.” The answer was quick. “Oh, yes.”

  “May I come and talk to you?”

  “Yes. Please do.” She gave me directions, how to come into La Mariposa and ask for her. “We have much to discuss. The police were here this morning to ask about Iris.”

  I don’t know what I expected of the owner of a shop like Tesoros. A plethora of beautiful possessions, so many that the room would shout of her success? But the room where I awaited her was small, almost monastic, painted a stark white, a crucifix on one wall, a straw mosaic on another
. The furniture was simple: two woven chairs, a plain wooden sofa. The sharpest splash of color in the room was the red-and-orange-figured material of the cushions. A low blue tile table sat between the sofa and the chairs. A Talavera jar with blue Aztec figures sat in the center of the table. Nothing else. I found the simplicity of the room enchanting.

  Maria Elena Garza surprised me, from the first moment that we met. She was taller than I’d thought from the photograph and she moved with a quick, confident, youthful step. The face that glowed with good humor in the picture was grave this morning but not hostile. In fact, her handclasp was warm.

  She went directly to the point. “How do you know Iris?” Her vivid brown eyes plumbed mine.

  “I am her grandmother’s best friend. Gina and I have been friends for years. Iris is a good granddaughter. She keeps in touch with Gina. But Gina’s heard nothing for several days and she hasn’t been able to get in touch with Iris. Gina is frightened.”

  “So you’ve come to find Iris.” She gestured toward a comfortable chair and sat across from me on the sofa.

  “Yes, I have.” I spoke firmly.

  We regarded each other. Her hair was as dark as mine, though mine does not have a raven gloss. My face is the more lined, hers smooth with a creamy complexion. I’m afraid that through years of asking questions and so often hearing lies or distortions, perhaps my gaze is more skeptical than accepting. But in the warmth of her regard, I felt my own defenses crumbling. She looked at me with eyes that have surely seen as much as mine and yet there was an eagerness and a vivacity I have lost.

  “You are frightened for Iris.” Her voice was high and clear and sweet with that liquid grace of those who also speak Spanish. “So am I.” Her fine black brows drew into a frown. “My daughter-in-law Susana tells me that Iris left Thursday without saying a word to anyone. I find that surprising. You see, Iris has been very much involved in the preparations for our annual auction and excited at being able to help. I saw her that morning and she was simply glowing. She’d been helping Rick prepare the auction area and she was planning to work that afternoon in the receiving room. So, yes, I am surprised. Please tell me what has happened.”

  I began with Gina and the E-mail that never came, the apartment in disarray, and concluded with the painting that I’d studied so carefully that morning.

  Maria Elena smoothed a tendril of ebony hair at her temple. A single gold band on her left hand, no other rings. “Even though the apartment was in disorder, you don’t believe there had been a struggle?”

  I looked at her with respect. That was surely the most important fact of all. “That’s right.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “Yet, Iris’s apartment was searched. That has to mean someone was looking for something, presumably something of value. But the painting”—this time her eyes accorded me respect—“wasn’t taken. The painting bothers you.”

  “Yes.” My voice was crisp. “Yes, the painting bothers me.”

  “Little Iris is not a thief.” She answered my unspoken question. Because how did Iris, penniless, budget-conscious Iris, have what I felt sure was a very valuable canvas?

  I relaxed back into the comfortable cushion.

  Maria Elena smiled gently. “I gave the painting to Iris.”

  I looked at her sharply.

  “I know. That puzzles you. Because it is indeed a painting that is worth quite a bit of money. But blood and bones count for more than cash. You will find that everything here has to do with family.” She was matter-of-fact. But there was an undercurrent in her voice now, uneasiness, concern.

  I didn’t understand. “Family?”

  “Iris came to the store last April, asked to see me. She’d come to San Antonio hoping to find her father, Arturo. She’d found a cousin who told her Arturo died in a car crash. Yes, a young man driving too fast on a rainy night. He was so young and so gifted. The cousin knew I’d bought several paintings from Arturo. The painting you saw this morning is one of his finest. I gave it to Iris to remember her father. You see, Arturo’s mother was my cousin, a cousin I adored. I remember Arturo when he was a little boy. Even then he loved to draw and paint. He would have been a great success.”

  “So the painting doesn’t mean anything.” I sighed. I was glad I didn’t have to tell Gina her granddaughter was a thief, and yes, that’s what had occurred to me because the painting had no place in that shabby apartment. And the second anomaly was also answered. Now I knew why Iris had been hired to work in a store that was exclusively family. Iris was, in a distant fashion and certainly in this generous woman’s heart, a part of the extended family.

  I was left with nothing to explore. Except—

  “The manager and another resident noticed a man who doesn’t live there. He’s stocky, blond, probably in his late forties, with a big head and tight curly hair and bright blue eyes. Do you know this person?”

  She considered it, then slowly shook her head. “No. But I very much want him to exist.”

  Maria Elena was continuing to surprise me. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because there must be a reason why Iris disappeared. This morning the police lady came and talked to my grandson Rick.” She lifted a hand, touched the white ruffle at her throat. She looked away from me. The planes of her face sharpened. Suddenly she looked old.

  Now fear sat between us, fear and uncertainty, and bourgeoning anguish.

  “I love Rick,” she said softly. “He is—oh, I will admit it—so much like me when I was young. He loves beautiful things and he is so proud of who he is and what the store is and that everyone respects us. Collectors come from all over the world to see what we have. And I was so pleased that he and Iris—well, what is an old woman but a matchmaker at heart—it seemed such a good choice. Iris has laughter that can set a room alight. And a sweet, silly happiness that she wants so much to share.” Maria Elena clapped her hands together. “So I must know what has happened. Because, in my heart, I know something has happened. Iris loved Tesoros. She would never run away, leave us behind.” Maria Elena rose, still as swift and graceful as a young woman, but the steps she took across the room were measured. She stopped, clasped her hands, and looked up at the crucifix. “I believe the good God sends us not only angels—often, when we are unaware, he sends us messengers when there is a path we must take, no matter how hard and difficult.” She turned, suddenly a majestic figure, and gazed at me with somber, sorrowful eyes. “You have come to discover the truth. That is God’s wish. The truth. I have tried to live my life, teach my family, practice in the world that which God wishes us to do.”

  I don’t think I have ever felt so humble. Or in the presence of such goodness. I wanted to please this woman as I’ve rarely wanted to please anyone. And yet I felt overwhelmed. In her heart, she was hoping that whatever had happened to Iris, her family, her beloved grandson, were not involved.

  And she was looking to me, I realized with a sinking heart, to finish what I’d begun, to solve the mystery of Iris’s disappearance.

  A sudden smile curved her lips. “I know. It is much to ask. But you have come. It was intended. And so”—the smile fled, the haunted look returned—“let us begin.”

  She walked to the door, opened it. “Tommy, tell Rick to come.” She closed the door and returned to the sofa. “Another of my grandsons”—she gestured toward the closed door—“Tommy is still in school. He works here between classes, in the evenings.”

  Family. All family.

  Then she fell silent, once again her face composed, her hands in her lap. But every so often her eyes strayed to the crucifix.

  Quick steps sounded in the hallway leading to this front room.

  “He’s coming through the house.”

  I’d already figured in my mind the arrangement of the store, the bed-and-breakfast, and Maria Elena’s living quarters. Tesoros was the ground floor, with the display area, the storeroom and the offices. Portions of the ground, second, and third floors made up La Mariposa. Tony and Susana
Garza had an apartment on the top floor above La Mariposa. Maria Elena’s rooms were directly above Tesoros.

  Rick strode into the room, his dark eyes seeking his grandmother’s face, his wide mouth curved in a smile. “What is it, Abuelita? I—” Then he saw me. He stopped, his body rigid. Whatever he was, this young man was not schooled in subterfuge. His long face was a study in dismay, his eyes flicking from my face to hers, his mouth open but with no words, scarcely any breath.

  “Rick.” She stood, her fine-boned face stern. “What do you know about Iris’s disappearance?”

  He swallowed. “Abuelita, I swear to you the last time I saw Iris she was fine. She was wonderful.” His voice was low and husky. “Abuelita, I swear it.”

  Abuelita, the term of endearment, little grandmother.

  “Rick, you haven’t answered my question.” There was a steely ring of authority, but her eyes were anguished and her tightly clasped hands trembled.

  Rick stared at his grandmother, his eyes strained, his face pleading. “Iris”—he swallowed jerkily—“she and I talked Thursday. I was upset about the idea of her going to Padre with a guy. She ran out of the store. But she said”—he picked his words carefully—“that she could be back sometime Tuesday. That’s tomorrow. So, like I told the police, I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow. She’ll turn up. I’m sure of it.” His voice throbbed with sincerity. He shoved back a tangle of dark hair. “Look,” and now he spoke to me, “I’d tell you where she is if I could.” Again there was a sound of truth.

  I believed him. And so did his grandmother. The tension that had gripped Maria Elena eased. She smiled, a smile of relief.

  And yet…I leaned forward. “Do you know anything about the search of Iris’s apartment?”

  Rick’s dark eyes flared. His full lips parted.

  I would swear he was stunned, that he had no knowledge of that littered, disturbing room. I didn’t think Rick was acting. If he were an accomplished liar, he would have managed to appear at ease when I first arrived at Tesoros to inquire about Iris. Instead, he’d alternated between uneasiness and outright fear.