Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 Read online

  Frank nodded, switching from sly to polite. Isabel flicked me a measuring glance. I suspected she’d totted up the cost of my cotton blouse and skirt and inexpensive sandals, noted the single gold wedding band, been briefly intrigued by a necklace made of old jadeite beads. Then her eyes moved on, dismissing me, returning to Tony Garza, fastening there with pleased malice.

  Tony Garza, although very aware of his wife’s presence, concentrated on smiling at me.

  Did anyone care that I was a connection to Iris Chavez? Not on the surface. But if my guess about Iris and a discovery in the receiving area had any validity, one of them should be very interested indeed. I debated whether to stir the pot. Yes, sometimes I can be reckless. In the course of an interview, an unexpected, perhaps confrontational question can evoke anger, fear, despair—and a lot of words. Some of my best stories were gleaned from heated responses. But as my husband Richard once observed, if you toss a piece of meat into a lion’s den, be sure you’re on the other side of the fence.

  “In fact, I was fascinated by my tour of the shipping area.” I looked at each in turn. “There are so many nooks and crannies. Who knows what you might find there?”

  Rick’s oblong, darkly handsome face was carefully blank.

  Isabel, her head to one side, surveyed her nails, then lifted slim fingers to pat away a tiny yawn.

  Frank waved a hand in dismissal. “There’s nothing of interest down there. It’s the buyers who are interesting. I’ll have to tell you about the people who are coming for the auction.”

  Tony beamed at me, probably glad to have a diversion. “It’s a heck of a place, all right. I remember when I was a little kid, I was always scared of the devil masks.”

  Susana said briskly, “Everything in the shipping area is in its proper place, Mrs. Collins. But,” and she abruptly moved toward the door, “that will have to wait until after the auction. We’re all very busy at the moment.” She paused in the doorway. “Especially,” and her voice was cold, “since we’re shorthanded.” She stalked away.

  As we moved toward the hallway, Isabel said sweetly, “Oh, I’m sure Susana will have time for you. She’s always eager to please Maria Elena. I’d hurry right after her.”

  “If you think that’s all right,” I murmured. We stepped into the lobby of La Mariposa.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Susana.” Frank’s voice was soft. “She was born crossways. And she isn’t really up to things. The auction always worries her. Isabel and I like it better than anything but Fiesta. But there is plenty to do. If you’ll excuse us, we need to huddle about our party Wednesday night. You’re coming, of course.”

  “I’d love to. I never miss a party.”

  Isabel smiled brightly. “You certainly won’t want to miss ours. The best food, the best music, everything the best.” Her bright lips curved in satisfaction. “We live in the King William area. Our house is on the National Register.”

  “The King William area?” I looked at her intently.

  “San Antonio’s oldest, loveliest homes,” she announced proudly. “German businessmen settled the area in the 1870s. Our house is one of the oldest.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” As they moved away, I looked for Rick and realized he’d left while I talked with his uncle and aunt. So, Rick didn’t want to engage in a tête-à-tête about the interesting nooks and crannies of the receiving area. But the day wasn’t over.

  I checked my watch. A quarter to one. I walked across the tiled floor to the chili-cart desk. No one was in attendance, so it had obviously been easy for someone to leave that anonymous note without being seen. I picked up a silver bell and jangled it.

  Tom came out of the office. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m interested in the King William area.”

  “Oh, yes, there are some wonderful houses there.” He found a map and opened it. “Here it is. It’s only a few minutes by car.”

  “I understand some of it is on the River Walk.” I scanned the map and realized there was a three-block area of the walk between Durango and Johnson.

  “Oh, sure. But you might want to drive over there. It will give you a chance to look at the houses, too. You can take the River Walk, but it’s at least a couple of miles.” He traced the way. “If you plan to walk, go down the steps to the River Walk and turn left.”

  I thanked him and tucked the map in my purse, along with the summons. I took the outside steps down to the River Walk and went to the front of Tesoros. Manuel was wiping a shining window with a soft cloth. I stopped behind him. Now that I had met all of the Garza men, I had a clear sense of the family appearance. Strong faces. Manuel sensed my presence and turned toward me, his luminous eyes shyly welcoming, his broad mouth spread in a sweet smile, the Garza face with no pretense.

  I felt suddenly sad. How many places do any of us feel safe to be open and unaffected? I hoped Manuel would always feel safe enough to offer his sweet, undemanding, lovely smile.

  “Hello, Manuel,” I said gently. “You make the windows very beautiful.”

  His eyes glowed. He looked at me for a moment, then held out his cloth.

  After only an instant’s hesitation, I took the soft cotton swath in my hand. I wasn’t sure what he meant, what he expected. I wanted to please him, to do the right thing. I stepped close to the window, reached up and polished a patch of glass. When I finished, I nodded at my own reflection. I held the cloth out to Manuel. “Thank you, Manuel, for letting me help. It’s fun to make the glass shine.”

  Tucking the cloth in his pocket, he lifted his hands, tanned, lean hands, and moved them swiftly, quickly. Shadows flickered against the shining glass. I thought I discerned a smiling mouth, a slim figure moving quickly, a hand industriously polishing.

  “Iris?” I guessed. “She likes to help clean the glass, too.”

  Manuel beamed, his hands came together in a gentle clapping, and I knew I was right.

  “Was she in too much of a hurry to help, the last time you saw her?”

  His face drooped. Once again those swift movements, a taut mouth, a hunched figure running.

  “Manuel, was she carrying anything—”

  Manuel’s shoulders drew in, his eyes skittered away. He picked up his bucket, and, head bent, scurried away. Slowly, I turned and looked into another Garza face. For once handsome Tony Garza wasn’t smiling. “My brother is quite simple, Mrs. Collins. He can’t answer questions. It would be kinder to leave him alone. As for Iris, none of us know where she is.”

  “I am going to find her.” But I spoke to a closing door.

  As I turned away, I carried with me the impact of two faces—long, oval, strong-boned, so similar, yet so different; one so open, the other vivid, commanding, somehow hawklike. And dangerous? Tony Garza had kept me from speaking with Manuel. Was his aim to protect his brother? Or was he protecting himself? Or someone else?

  I could be certain of only one fact. Apparently, it would not be Tony Garza waiting for me on the River Walk near the King William district.

  six

  ON a holiday, I would have strolled all the way on the River Walk. But I wasn’t on a holiday. Besides, I wanted a chance to look over the terrain before the scheduled time. I pulled out of the parking garage and drove south on Alamo, took Turner to the King William Park, where I left the car. I walked past another marvelous bed-and-breakfast, then took the first access down to the River Walk. The steps wound down past lush greenery. The river curved, so I could only see a little way ahead and behind. I strolled with the bright look of a tourist.

  Palm trees, red oaks, magnolias, and sycamores flourished, affording only glimpses of the lovely homes. The placid water sparkled in the bright sun. Two young mothers pushed strollers. I passed an elderly woman tossing seed to eager ducks. I followed the curving walk all the way to the Johnson Street footbridge. In the center of the footbridge, I shaded my eyes and looked over the smooth green water and the shady walk.

  Two sunburned women power-walked past me. The
little one, scrawny legs a blur, chirped, “Margie, I just have to take home an armadillo. Aren’t they the cutest things you’ve ever seen!” Margie was tall, with bushy red hair and dangling silver earrings that jangled as she moved. She said mournfully, “Armadillos carry leprosy.” Her red-nosed companion squealed. “Oh, that’s awful. But I don’t want a real one. They’re always squashed in the middle of the road. But there’s the cutest shop in La Villita…”

  Their voices faded. I returned to the River Walk at a leisurely pace and began to wonder at the summons I had received. It was a few minutes past two. Everywhere I looked, I saw ordinary people on a beautiful September afternoon—a young couple holding hands, occasional joggers, a family picnicking. I didn’t feel uneasy. At no time was I more than thirty feet from others. But what was the point—

  A whoosh and a lithe figure in a pink tank top and white shorts swooped around a curve and raced up to me on Rollerblades, dark hair flying, big eyes nervously scanning the walkway. The exertion had added a rosy flush to her creamy skin. As she toed to a stop, she looked at me imploringly, her limpid green eyes the exact color of her grandmother’s.

  I felt a sudden breathlessness, a welling of relief that left me almost light-headed. And a spurt of exasperation laced with indignation.

  “Aunt Henrie!” Her light, high voice was rushed, breathless. “Tell Grandmother I’m fine. I just can’t be home for a while. Tell her I’m okay and please let the police know I’m all right. That’s why I came today. I can’t explain—”

  “Oh yes, you can,” I replied sharply. I grasped her arm, surprised at the intensity of my anger. The anger showed me how worried I’d been, how uncertain of her safety. I was relieved, yes, but furious. What did this young woman think she was up to? She’d put her grandmother through sleepless nights filled with hideous imaginings; caused disruption at her work place; worried Maria Elena, who had befriended her; taken the time of police, who are always pressed, always behind; and, of course, interrupted my visit at Emily’s. “Iris, the police are looking for you. What’s going on? Why did you disappear? And what did you find—”

  “Please let me go.” Her huge eyes begged. “I’d tell you if I could. But I can’t, Aunt Henrie, I really can’t. This is terribly important, something I have to do—”

  “Iris, Maria Elena welcomed you to her store.” My voice was icy. “To her life. She opened her heart to you, and you repay her by frightening her. She knows Rick is involved in your disappearance. Iris, you have to explain. Come with me—”

  She shook her head and her shining black hair rippled. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Oh, Aunt Henrie, I wish I could. Maybe we did the wrong thing. But we thought it was best. I’ll tell you when I can. But I have to help Rick. Oh, you just don’t understand…” Her voice rose in a wail.

  “I’ll understand if you tell me what’s going on.” My grip on her arm tightened as I felt her try to pull away. “Help Rick with what? Did he follow you home from the store Thursday and take you away?”

  “How did you know?” Her face was an image of astonishment.

  I could have shaken her. “Iris, listen to me. You’re in big trouble. The police are looking for you. Someone searched your apartment—”

  She shivered. “That’s so scary. Rick told me. But that’s proof that we have to—”

  The bushes behind us rustled. Without that warning, I don’t know what might have happened. We swung toward the sound. The moment stretched in time, the sense of danger and menace making the seconds seem endless. A stocky blond man lunged toward us, his face malevolent, big blunt hands outstretched, muscular arms tensed. On the back of his right forearm was the tattoo of an eagle with wings outspread.

  Iris gave a frightened yelp.

  The blond man was almost upon us, his face twisted with anger and urgency. He was big, strong, and determined. I knew he must not reach Iris. “Go, go,” I screamed. I pushed her away.

  He was close, so close. His right hand swiped through the air, but Iris was moving. She escaped his grasp by inches. In an instant, head down, arms pumping, she sped on the cement walk back toward town, twenty feet away, thirty, then gone around a bend.

  He ran heavily after her for a little way, then lurched to a stop. He raised a fist in frustration. “Bitch.” His voice was low and thick in his throat. He took one step, another, then gave it up and swung to face me.

  I stood in the center of the walk. I flipped open my purse, grabbed my cell phone, held it up.

  He moved toward me, his big face red with anger, his blue eyes glittering.

  I spoke calmly but emphatically. “One more step and I’ll punch nine-one-one. And scream. There are plenty of people around.” As I held his gaze, I cataloged his appearance: tight blond curls; square face with a broad nose; red-veined blue eyes with puffy pouches; heavy jowls; a thin, angry gash of a mouth; a bristle of blondish beard; fiftyish; stocky but muscular, especially his arms; short-sleeved light blue T-shirt; navy slacks; tasseled loafers.

  He glared. Anger undulated from him, a wild, pulsing fury. He was close to losing all control. I could see it in the tight line of his mouth, in the clenching of his big hands, in the tautness of his body, poised and ready to spring. He wanted to batter me into a bloodied heap.

  I turned on the cell phone.

  “I could kill you and be gone before anybody got here.” The hoarse whisper trembled with rage.

  I backed away, looked desperately past him as a mother and little girl came nearer.

  “Listen to me, lady. Listen close.” He was close enough now that I could see a tic jerking one eyelid. “Tell the little bitch she’d better bring it back.” Each word was as clear and distinct and menacing as ice crackling underfoot on a frozen lake. “Tell her I won’t be double-crossed. Tell her she’s got twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours?” I knew my voice was high and thin.

  He was across the space between us in a swift step. He grabbed my arm, twisted, the cell phone dropped to the pavement. He bent so close to me I could see beads of sweat on his bristly cheeks, smell the rank scent of whiskey, feel the warmth of his fetid breath. “Tell her to put it back. Or she won’t like the way her boyfriend looks. I’ve got a knife. I’ll use it. Tell her. Tell him.”

  His grip tightened until I winced in pain. He came close—oh, so close—to flinging me down on the pavement. But, as quickly as he’d grabbed me, he dropped my arm, whirled and ran.

  I didn’t try to follow. I would never catch him. Instead, my hands shaking, my heart thudding, I picked up the cell phone, but I made no move to call. There was no point in calling for help now. He was gone. I could describe him but what could the police do? If I lodged a complaint, accused him of assault, they could swear out a warrant for his arrest. But certainly the facts wouldn’t support an all-out search. Moreover, a charge of assaulting me didn’t get at the real problem: What had Iris found in the Tesoros receiving room? Who put it there? Why? Who was this man? What connection did he have with Tesoros?

  Reporters learn early to focus on the who, what, when, where, why, and how. It was time for me to remember my early training. But first, there was a call I could make.

  The cell phone squawked and buzzed. Gina’s voice was faint.

  “Gina, good news. I just saw Iris. She’s fine, absolutely fine…” But once I reassured her, I didn’t mince words. Gina had every right to know that Iris was mixed up in something that was probably illegal and certainly dangerous. I described the man who had burst from the bushes. “He tried to get Iris. When she got away, he wanted to hurt me, Gina. And he said Rick and Iris have twenty-four hours to return whatever it is they’ve taken.”

  The connection worsened. I could barely hear Gina. “…she’s such a fool. Henrie O, please, try to protect her.”

  I promised. I stuffed the phone in my purse, noting the splotchy red marks on my arm and headed back toward my car. I remembered the blond man’s heavy, angry face. Where was he now and what did he plan to do?r />
  As I pushed through the main door of the downtown police station, a young woman, one arm in a sling, moved wearily past. I looked the other way, but I carried the picture of her swollen, purplish face with me as I walked down the hall to the Youth Bureau. Probably domestic abuse. Just another day at your local police station. I’d seen a bumper sticker on a car in the lot across from the station: “So You Don’t Like Cops. Ever Thought About Living in a World Without Them?”

  I waited about ten minutes on a hard bench in the small waiting area, then Detective Hess came to the doorway and gestured for me to come into the main office. I took the chair facing her gray desk and talked. Fast.

  When I’d finished, Hess said quietly, “So, she isn’t missing. But she’s mixed up in something ugly.” She turned to her computer. In a few minutes, she handed me some color printouts. I studied a half dozen faces, middle aged blond men all, and shook my head.

  The detective leaned back in her swivel chair, folded her arms. “I can’t help you. We don’t know who he is, we don’t know what he’s after. If anything. He may be a nut. Maybe he’s a guy who got fresh, maybe Iris is trying to get away from him. As for his threats, no judge is going to swear out a John Doe warrant on the basis of a threat made to a third party. Now, if he surfaces, directly threatens”—she glanced down at her notepad—“Rick Reyes, we might be able to get a restraining order. But I’ll tell you what it sounds like to me. It sounds like a drug deal gone wrong. I’m going to alert the drug unit. I’m sorry if the girl’s in that kind of trouble.” Her face hardened. “But people who deal drugs pretty much deserve what they get.”

  A harsh assessment, but she knew the devastation that flows from drugs.

  “Detective Hess, I don’t think this has to do with drugs. Iris may be foolish, but I can’t imagine her getting involved in that kind of evil.”