Exotic #02 - The Hieroglyphic Staircase (11 page)

She waved as he drove away, watching till the vehicle was out of sight. He was a good man, Dominic was.

She turned toward the Museum. She intended to call on the director and tell him that she was still here and available, if he needed help. It would probably fall on deaf ears, but at least she could offer. He was acting funny, and maybe a conversation with him would shine some light on the reason for his strange behavior. He had some secrets of his own.

As she walked the path to the Museum, she worried about her career. She had come out on the losing end before when a sneaky colleague had accused her of plagiarism, then had used her work in his book without giving her credit. What a scandal that had caused in her department before it was all straightened out. She wondered if the inspector and the director were in cahoots since they both seem to have it in for her. What if she were framed again? The thought made her insides twist into a tangle of jungle vines.

She hadn’t planned anything else for the summer. The Hieroglyphic Staircase project was to last until the middle of August. If the project was incomplete, she wouldn’t have anything definitive on which to write an article that would enhance her credibility in her field. Solving the mystery of the correct order of the hieroglyphs in the Staircase would be a real career boost. The solution was to persuade the director to let her keep on working.

Armando was sweeping the path, and she stopped to say hello.

“
Cómo va, Armando
?” she said. She found his bashful smile and humble manner of speaking endearing.

He pulled off his hat. “
Hola, doctora
. I am well. How are you today?”

“As well as can be expected. And your wife and children?”

His face drooped along with the bushy mustache he sported. “
Ay
, the little ones, they are sick.
La señora
she is not feeling well either.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She made a mental note to prepare a basket of food for them. She knew where they lived in the San Pedrito
barrio
in a tiny tin structure more like a shed than a real house.

“I’ll visit your family this evening and bring them some food. Do you need medicine for the children?”

Armando smiled. “They like when you visit. My wife goes to the clinic today to get some medicines. We will look forward to your visit.
Gracias, doctora
.”

She continued on, crossing the shaded section of the walk where tall trees formed arches and cast dappled sunlight on the path. She trudged into the cool interior of the Museum, whose doors stood wide open even though there were no visitors.

The floor guard named Edmundo winked at her as she walked to the back corner where the director’s office was located. Why did she feel like she was approaching the guillotine every time she came to see him? She pressed on her solar plexus to calm the butterflies that had taken wing there. The man tried to intimidate her and that made her hackles rise. Why did he have to be so difficult? Or was she the one being difficult?

She almost turned around and left. Why go through this? But a little do-gooder voice inside said, well, maybe she could help. And she needed to finish the project to keep her career on track. She kept going.

The outer office was abandoned. No secretary in residence. Maybe she had quit. She hadn’t seen the girl in more than a week. She could understand why she had, if the director treated her like he did Elena.

The door stood slightly ajar. Elena pushed on it with her fingertips. She peeked around the door. No one in. She pushed the door open further. There was a small lavatory off the office. The door was closed. Maybe he was taking a bathroom break. She retreated to the secretary’s desk in the outer office and sat down to wait.

But she couldn’t shake a feeling that something wasn’t right. Everything was too quiet.

After a few minutes, not hearing any stirrings from the director, she walked back into his office and gazed about. Everything seemed in order. Nothing amiss. No books on his desk but that was not out of the ordinary. All the books on the shelves behind were neatly lined up. No magazines, no papers lying about.

But something was wrong.

Should she knock on the narrow lavatory door? Maybe he was having a seizure, or an attack of some kind. He hadn’t looked well the last time she saw him. Maybe if she knocked to ask if he were okay. She stepped to the door and was just about to raise her hand when her foot slipped.

She glanced down, expecting to see water. Instead she saw a smattering of red on her boots. She patted her vest for a tissue and stooped to clean the tip of her boot. The stain wiped off in a bright red streak. Her knees weakened like someone had hit them from behind with a baseball bat.

“Oh dear God,” she said. “Not the director.”

She rapped on the door. “Director. Director. Are you okay?”

No sound. Nothing.

She rapped again, harder. “Director, are you sick? Are you okay?”

Maybe she should call the guard. But what if the director were okay? He would be furious with her. What if he were just having a long session in the lavatory, and she interrupted him? That would be embarrassing.

But what about the red stain?

She backed away and hurried out the door, leaving little red smudges on the floor in her wake.

“Hello, hello,” she called into the vast space of the Museum. “Is anyone there?”

The guard, Edmundo, popped his head around a stela and waved.

“Please could you help? I think something may have happened to the director.”

He hurried toward her. “
Sí, doctora
.” He delighted in teasing her, and his laughing eyes said he thought she was playing with him.

“Please,” she said, “can you check the lavatory to see if maybe the director is sick? I think there is blood under the door.” She pointed to her foot.

Edmundo glanced at her foot. The smiled disappeared from his face. He strode into the office, his hand on the holstered gun at his side. Elena followed but kept her distance.

Edmundo pounded on the door. “Director? Are you all right?”

When no one answered he eased open the door an inch, but it would not budge more. He pushed harder. The door didn’t move. He placed an eye to the narrow opening, trying to see what was stopping the door. He sniffed the air and jerked back.

“
Ay
, there’s a funny smell,” he said, pinching his nose.

“You don’t think …” she said, finding it impossible to finish the thought.

“Something heavy is blocking the door. I’m going to push harder.” He braced his body against the unwilling door and shoved, throwing his entire weight into it. After several more shoves, the door moved several inches, enough that Edmundo could wedge his shoulder into the opening to push more. It gave enough that he was able to ease his head into the space. He gasped and backed away into the room.

“The director is behind this door, or what is left of him,” he said.

Elena tried to look, but Edmundo pulled her back. “No, don’t look. I will send for help. You must not look.”

Eight

Dominic ran into the Museum with Dr. Hidalgo. His one thought was for Elena. Word arrived at the clinic via a messenger from the Museum, one of the guards. There had been a mishap involving Elena and the director. That was all he knew. Déjà vu.

Edmundo waved them into the director’s office. Dominic did a quick sweep of the room, looking for Elena, not sure what to expect. She was standing at the window, looking out. Alive with no visible signs of injury.

Dr. Hidalgo shoved past him exchanging words with Edmundo. One word caught his ear.
Muerto
. A peculiar odor hung in the air, coming from the section of the room where a door stood open. The doctor squeezed in and knelt behind it.

Dominic touched Elena’s shoulder. She turned to look at him, as if realizing for the first time he was in the room.

“He’s dead. The director is dead,” she said. “The guard wouldn’t let me see him.”

“You found him.”

“Not exactly. I came to see him, to talk to him about the project, to tell him I’d be available to help, that I wasn’t leaving. I waited but he didn’t come out of the lavatory. I called the guard. He’s the one who found him behind the door. He wouldn’t let me see him.”

Dominic pulled her into his arms. He rested his chin against the top of her head. Her hair was silky and smelled of soft flowers and spice. Her arms encircled his waist and held on, like grasping a rock in a fast rising tide.

What could this mean? How had the director died?

Running footsteps and inspector Oliveros’ booming voice broke the troubled silence. “What happened here?” he said, throwing open the door to the office.

Edmundo, standing guard inside the door, spoke in low tones and gestured to the small room where the doctor had disappeared. At the mention of Elena’s name the inspector’s head jerked in her direction.

“
Doctora
Palomares. Here again. Another dead body and you are here again.”

Still clutching Dominic’s waist, her fist bunching his shirt into a ball, she turned toward Oliveros. “Yes,” she said, “I am here again.”

“The guard tells me,” said the inspector, “that the director is dead. Is that correct? You were here alone?”

Edmundo broke in. “I saw her when she walked into the Museum. She entered the room, but I heard no shot. She could not have done this horrible deed.”

The inspector turned on Edmundo and glared. “It is not for you to say who is innocent or guilty. It is my job to get the evidence, and the court will decide.”

He pointed to Elena. “Doctora, you will not leave here until I talk to you.”

“And you,” he poked Edmundo in the chest, “will tell me every detail, nothing left out.” He pushed the guard in the direction of the door.

“Open this door.” The inspector shouted loud enough to be heard across a soccer stadium.

The doctor stuck his head out the narrow opening.

“Quiet, inspector. You will wake the dead. And the director is very dead.”

“Let me see.”

“Yes, but I will have to come out because it is extremely narrow in here and when he fell, it was against the door. He is wedged between the toilet and the door. It is most awkward. It appears he killed himself with a revolver to the head. He was a good shot. There’s not much left of his head.”

Dr. Hidalgo squeezed back through the opening. Flecks of red spotted his lab coat.

The inspector narrowed his eyes. “How do you know he killed himself? How do you know someone,” and he turned to look at Elena, “didn’t kill him?”

Dr. Hidalgo shook his head like he had no patience for stupidity. “Inspector, please. The man is wedged in. How could someone kill him then wedge him in? He fell against the door as the gun dropped. He fell on the gun. See for yourself, if you do not believe me.”

He peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them in a plastic bag that he handed to the inspector. “For your investigation. From the visual evidence I place the time of death sometime during the night, but we’ll run tests to place the exact time. Now if you’ll excuse me, my job here is done.” He snapped his bag shut and stalked from the room.

The inspector looked down at the gloves. He shrugged and stuck his head through the door to the restroom. He quickly backed away, his hand pressed against his mouth.

“Edmundo, call my deputy in. He will collect the evidence and prepare our report.”

He fixed his gaze on Elena. “You can imagine,
doctora
, I am suspicious of everyone. This death, of course, complicates matters more.” He crossed the room to stand before the two of them. His eyes dropped to Dominic’s arm around Elena’s waist.

“
Señor
Harte, when did you arrive?”

“Just before you. A guard summoned the doctor to the Museum. I gave him a ride.”

“I see.” His eyes shifted to Elena’s face. “Tell me,
doctora
, in minute detail what you saw when you arrived.”

Elena told the story, releasing her grip on Dominic and crossing her arms. She related her tale, and her voice turned into an instrument with a knife edge. When she finished she stepped closer to Oliveros, standing almost toe-to-toe with him and said, “I will thank you inspector Oliveros to keep your suspicions to yourself. You have no evidence whatsoever that I was involved in either of these deaths, and I resent your insinuations. It is not only unprofessional, you are displaying a bias that is disgraceful for an officer of the law.”

Oliveros stepped back out of harm’s way because Elena looked like she might throw a punch.

Instead she said, “You know where to find me, if you need any more information. Now if you will excuse me.” She stepped around the inspector and left the room.

Dominic turned to follow then turned back. “Inspector, you are maligning the wrong woman. Be careful.”

Back at
doña
Carolita’s he accompanied Elena into the house. Over the housekeeper cries of concern, Elena told the horrible story.

Doña
Carolita fanned herself. “I don’t know what is happening to us. You have found two dead men in so short a time. If I were you I would leave this terrible place.”

They followed
doña
Carolita into the kitchen where she bustled about, muttering to herself and banging pots, doing what she did best in a crisis, prepare coffee and serve food.

Over coffee Elena shook her head slowly. “The stakes aren’t high enough.”

Dominic gazed at her, wondering what she meant. He waited while she seemed to sort through the thoughts and events tumbling around her head like so many ping pong balls caught in a lottery machine.

“He couldn’t have killed himself over a few hieroglyphs,” she said. “His behavior has been so odd. I think he was in over his head and didn’t know how to get out. Or maybe he killed himself over some hideous family problem. What would it be that drove him to pull the trigger?”

“I have made a nice tortilla soup with chicken,” said
doña
Carolita. “Would you like some?”