01 _ Xibalba Murders, The (10 page)

It contained everything that had been found on Don Hernan’s body. His watch, an elegant late-nineteenth-century timepiece and chain that had belonged to his mother and contained a picture of his late wife, his clothes, an absolutely empty billfold, a few loose pesos. Only one object looked out of place, and this was a small green jade bead. The young woman in the lab coat, who had accompanied us, saw me looking at it.

“Found it in his mouth,” she said. “It was put there with some difficulty several hours after he died.”

“When did he die?” I asked.

“Very early yesterday, I would estimate,” she said, ignoring the warning stare coming her way from Martinez. Clearly the major was not king of the morgue.

While Martinez asked Santiago whether or not he could recall these belongings as Don Hernan’s, I touched the cream-colored shoes. While it was difficult to tell just looking at them, they were covered in the light dust so pervasive outside the city. The trouser cuffs were also dusty.

Perhaps the question I should have asked was where did he die, not when.

“Who has done such a thing?” Santiago asked, almost in a whisper.

“Robbery, apparently,” Martinez replied. “Empty wallet,” he added as Santiago looked up at him. “Every effort will, of course, be made to apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators.”

“Of course,” we all agreed.

“However, there are many robberies here every day. It will take some time to conduct this investigation.”

“Where was he killed?” I asked Martinez.

“We are still conducting tests, but in the meantime we assume it was in his office in which he was found,” he replied. The young woman in the lab coat looked dubious, but said nothing.

I didn’t believe this, but also said nothing. Isa and I asked Martinez when the police would finish their work on the body, and were told it would probably be later that day or early the next.

“I think we can safely assume that what we have here is a case of death at the hands of person or persons unknown,” he concluded.

As we left the building, Don Santiago pulled himself together and addressed Martinez in his new capacity as my lawyer.

“I have been retained by Senora McClintoch in this matter,” he began.

“Have you indeed?” Martinez interrupted. “Now, why might the senora feel she has need of a lawyer?”

“Because of your unconscionable move of confiscating her passport, and confining her to the hotel, I am sure you will agree that since it was information on Dr. Castillo’s whereabouts that you were looking for, and since his present location is well known, there is no longer any need to restrict her activities.

“And since she could not be implicated in Dr. Castillo’s death—she has been, if you recall, under house arrest for the last few days, and several of us can attest to that—no doubt you will also be returning her passport shortly.”

“If Senora McClintoch does not feel the need for our protection, then that is up to her,” the policeman said smoothly. “As far as the passport is concerned, you will understand that we are now investigating two murders, and we will have to have extensive discussions with our superiors to determine whether we can allow her to leave the country before our investigations are complete.”

So it was a standoff, one for him, one for me. It would be a relief to be able to leave the hotel at will, and by the door rather than the window. I’d work on the passport later.

We were a silent group as we made our way back to the van and returned to the hotel. It was Isa who broke the silence partway home.

“Seeing his belongings in a box was so sad,” she said. “It seemed like such a small amount of stuff for such a big man—and I mean that not just in terms of his physique, but his personality. He always seemed larger than life to me. It just seemed too little.”

“It really was too little,” I said slowly.

Both Isa and Don Santiago looked at me.

“No glasses. No cane.”

A pause.

“So you’re saying he wasn’t murdered in his office, or both those things would be there. He couldn’t go anywhere without his glasses, and hardly anywhere without his cane. Maybe they are still in his office,” Isa said.

Maybe not, I thought. But I knew I would find out.

Back at the Casa de las Buganvillas, Francesca and her daughter-in-law, Manuela, were ministering to the permanent residents of the hotel.

Most of them elderly like Don Hernan, their shock and disbelief were almost palpable. Theories were exchanged, tears flowed, each in their own way trying to come to terms with this most awful of crimes.

Dona Josefina, she of the mantilla, sat like a broken doll, all lace and wobbly gestures, in a chair suddenly way too big for her. Manuela sat beside her, trying to get her to drink hot lemon tea.

I felt very sorry for her. She was what I used to refer to in the shop as a high-maintenance customer, and she did expect to be attended to rather more than most.

But Don Hernan, I’d heard, had a way of dealing with her. Courtly, patient, he had been able to make her smile.

It was even rumored in that little community that she had set her sights on him—the younger man as her second husband.

Into this room awash with fear and loneliness strode Jonathan, with Lucas May shadowing him once more. Catching the mood in the room at once and seeing the two bright pink spots on Dona Josefina’s cheeks, he called for a restorative, Xtabentun, the Mexican anise liqueur, and Manuela was quick to comply.

Soon everyone was sipping the fiery liquid as Jonathan moved about the room talking quietly to each in turn. Within a few minutes they were exchanging their favorite stories about Don Hernan. Lucas placed himself beside Dona Josefina and sat quietly holding her hand.

Suddenly Josefina roused herself.

“He was onto something very important,” she said, her voice carrying across the room.

“Very important,” she repeated. “And I know what it was.”

All eyes in the room turned to her. But that was all she said. A look of fear crossed her face, as if for the first time she had realized that this very important thing, whatever it might be, might be sufficient motive for murder.

Lucas whispered something to her, and then Jonathan crossed the room and asked her what she meant.

But she shook her head, her lips compressed into a thin line.

I should have spoken to her right then, of course, tried to cajole the information out of her, but at this particular point in time, it looked as if the Ortiz family had everything under control. I knew I needed to talk to Dona Josefina, but not in this public place, and there was something I wanted to do first.

Jonathan and Lucas left the sitting room with me, and Jonathan asked me where I was heading.

“Back to the morgue,” I said. He looked startled, but gamely offered to accompany me.

We took the Jeep, and parked just down the street from the dreaded building. Much to my surprise, it was not difficult to get inside. I retraced our steps of earlier that day and soon found myself at the reception window.

The young man with the greasy tacos had been replaced by a thin young woman doing her nails.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I was here earlier today to assist in the identification of a body.”

She nodded as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

“There was a very nice woman, she was wearing a lab coat, and she was very helpful. I left without thanking her for her kindness, and would like to do so if she is here now.”

Jonathan looked slightly skeptical, but kept his opinion to himself.

“She’s left for the day.”

“Would she be in again tomorrow?” I asked. The young woman sighed, got out of her chair, holding her hands carefully so as not to damage her manicure, and too vain to wear her glasses, peered at a large scheduling chart.

“Not back for four days,” she said. “Flextime,” she added. I thought all time in Mexico was flextime, but I kept that opinion to myself.

But I had a name. Eulalia Gonzales. There was only one woman on the chart who had been in today, and wouldn’t be back for four days.

“
Gracias
,” I said, and Jonathan and I headed back up to the entrance.

“What was that all about, may I ask?” he said as we left that horrible building to breathe real air again.

“I wanted to ask her for more information about what happened to Don Hernan,” I said.

“Shouldn’t this be left to the police?”

“I have a bad feeling about Martinez’s investigation of this case. I think in his haste to wrap up a high-profile case like this one—Don Hernan has, after all, an international reputation in his field—he’s prepared to overlook some discrepancies.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the scene of the crime. About as basic a detail as you can get, wouldn’t you say? When we went to identify the body, Martinez said that Don Hernan was probably killed in his office, but I don’t think that’s right. There was dust all over his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. You don’t get that kind of dust on you working at your desk. I got the impression Eulalia Gonzales didn’t think he was murdered in his office, either. Don’t you have to wonder why Martinez would insist that he was?”

“You may be being unfair to the police, Lara. Maybe Martinez just isn’t saying anything publicly. I’m going to take you back to the hotel. You should get some rest after this ordeal.”

Part of me agreed with him. In any event, I had another plan. So I let him drive me back to the hotel. On the way back, he reached over and squeezed my hand.

“When this all settles down, let’s keep that date we had for a day out in the country again, just the two of us.”

“Great idea,” I said, hoping he meant it.

I spent the rest of the day helping the Ortiz family make the funeral arrangements. The police had promised to release the body that evening, and the funeral was to be two days hence.

We all turned in early, exhausted beyond words. Dona Josefina had retired to her room before I had returned to the hotel. I did not see her that evening.

I set the alarm for three a.m., and it took me a minute or two to get my bearings when it went off. Then I was back in the black clothes. This was a task that required going out the window again. I did not wish to be seen leaving the hotel at this hour.

I figured the
museo
was less than a mile from the inn. Not wishing to flag down a cab, I jogged, keeping to the residential streets as much as possible and clinging to the shadows. When I reached the
museo,
I hid in the little garden at the back while I caught my breath. I could see no sign of police—no cars, no guards.

I still had the key to Don Hernan’s office, and since there was only one key at the hotel, I was reasonably sure it was a master. It was marked
museo,
not office, and Don Hernan had been executive director of the
museo.
I carefully made my way to the back door.

In a couple of seconds I was inside and moving up the stairs as quietly as I could. When I got to the top floor, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I could see police tape across the office doorway, but no guard was posted. The police work there had by and large been done.

I crept down the hallway. It was very easy to slide under the yellow tape and let myself into the office. I had brought a flashlight from the kitchen at the inn, and I did a quick sweep of the room. No eyeglasses. No cane. Only the sad chalk outline where the body had been found.

The diary, which I had dropped in my haste to escape on my last visit, was wedged between the window ledge and a filing cabinet, and had obviously been missed in a cursory police search. I grabbed it, and then retraced my steps, pausing at the
museo
door to make sure no one was outside before stepping into the plaza.

By four-thirty I was back in bed. But I did not sleep. I had a lot of thinking to do.

Up to this point, I’d been tinkering around the edges. But it was like trying to stick your toe into the water just above Niagara Falls. You could not help but be swept away. In this case, I found myself being pulled inexorably into a world of masks, a world of evil. Perhaps, I thought, I was about to live my dream of my first night in Merida, falling into the black world of Xibalba where the Lords of Death await.

Why did I go willingly?

Maybe some recessive impulsive gene surfaced in me at this late stage. Maybe all the hurt and resentment of the past year or so got focused on these events. Or maybe I just got mad.

I think, though, it was something more fundamental:

Don Hernan had called me
amiga.
He’d thought he needed a partner in this undertaking, and he’d called on me.

I guess I just had to do something.

The next day, Lamat, a day associated with the rabbit, was as good a day as any to start. I’d have to solve the riddle, find the rabbit, and follow it wherever it took me.

I’d already committed at least one illegal act—theft— and from a murder scene at that. Better make that two. I’d withheld information about a crime, the robbery in the bar, from the police. Before this was played out, there might be more.

This would not make the federal police, particularly Major Ignacio Martinez, happy.

I decided that when it came right down to it, I didn’t much care what Major Martinez thought.

LAMAT

It is the bottom of the eighth inning of the final ball game between the mythic Hero Twins and the Lords of Xibalba. It does not look good for our heroes. The evil lords have cut off Hunahpu’s head and have substituted it for the ball!

The other twin, Xbalanque, however, has a plan of his own. Taking a leaf from the Xibalbans’ book, he asks a rabbit to wait in the bushes near the edge of the ball court and then lobs his brother’s head in that direction.

The rabbit, in a star turn if ever there was one, bounds away right on cue. The Xibalbans think the rabbit is the head, of course, and run shrieking after it. With the Xibalbans thus distracted, Xbalanque has time to replace Hanahpu’s head. Victory over the Xibalbans is near.

Rabbits pop up everywhere in Maya mythology and history, I found as I worked my way through the reference library at the
museo.
It was a tedious process. The
museo,
a private institution, always suffered from inadequate funding, and while the office was the proud owner of a new computer, and the collection itself was gradually being cataloged electronically, the reference-library contents were still cataloged on little cards in little drawers.