Fiesta Moon (26 page)

“I will be delighted to await your readiness,” Diego announced, gallant to a fault.

Soledad had told Corinne how Primitivo, upon hearing of the apparition's visit, sacrificed a black hen in his cave of dreams, wherever that was, in an attempt to get the spirits to tell him who was behind the mischief at the hacienda. Not wanting to disappoint the old Indio or the poverty-stricken contributors, Mark never mentioned the missing jar of money to anyone except Corinne. And they had agreed it was a waste of time to call Capitán Nolla.

“Besides, that will give me time to present Corina with her birthday gift.” Diego's reply stopped Mark in his tracks at the salon door.

“Birthday? It's your birthday?” he asked Corinne. “I never heard anything about it.”

“It's not until next week, and I only told Soledad,” she called after him as he disappeared into the salon. But then, if the housekeeper knew, the village knew, which explained the lovely rose foil-wrapped package that Diego produced from behind his back.

“Diego, you shouldn't have . . .”

“Hola,
Señorita Corina. I am here to guard against the evil ones.” Primitivo's nephew stood at the entrance, as gray as his uncle, but not quite as drawn and wrinkled.

With an apologetic look at Diego, Corinne beckoned the man inside. “That's wonderful, Tizoc. Soledad has some iced tea and sandwiches for you in the refrigerator, so make yourself at home.”

“Bueno.
I will guard from the kitchen.”

By the time Corinne had showed Tizoc to the kitchen and returned to Diego, Mark had donned his shoes and was waiting in the foyer with the artist.

“Aren't you going to open that present?” Mark asked, boyish mischief running wild in his gaze.

Corinne shook her head. “Maybe I should put this aside until my real birthday.”

“But I was hoping that you would wear it tonight,” Diego chimed in, no less eager to please her than Mark was bent on embarrassing her.

Corinne's shoulders dropped with surrender . . . not that she had much choice. She'd not offend Diego for the world. Mark was becoming another matter. How dare he insert himself into their company without an invitation?

Taking care to save the foil wrapping paper for a possible art project, Corinne opened the small box. She knew it had to be some sort of jewelry, but upon lifting the cotton packing, she was awestruck.

“Diego,” she gasped, taking the delicate necklace from its trappings.

Suspended from a twisted band of silver was a breathtaking cross pendant inlaid with some sort of stone. The silverwork alone was beautiful, but the stone's variegated colors of blues, reds, golds, and greens were exquisite.

“I've never seen anything like it. What is it?” she asked, turning and lifting her hair for him to fasten it around her neck.

“Ammonite.”

“Ammonite?” Mark echoed, his brow furrowing. “Isn't that some kind of fossil?”

Diego nodded as he turned Corinne to display his handiwork. “But polished to a sheen. The cheap ones are usually red or brown.”

If that was true, the one hanging from her neck was not a cheap one. Corinne fingered her gift. “So what am I wearing,” she teased, “the jawbone of a woolly mammoth?”

Diego chuckled. “You are wearing a snail.”

“Snails, you say.” Mark looked at Corinne as if that should mean something, but Diego distracted her, putting a possessive arm at her waist. “But then, even unpolished, you would make the
caracoles
shine.”

Caracoles?
Now Corinne understood what Mark was getting at. But how Antonio's
caracol
and Diego's
caracol
were related was beyond her.

“Well, it's a lovely snail, and the setting is to die for, but really, Diego, you shouldn't have. I don't even want to think what this is worth.”

“Then don't,” he said, leaning over and planting a kiss on her cheek. “Are you ready?”

At Corinne's nod, he ushered her out of the house ahead of him, leaving Mark to bring up the rear.

CHAPTER 21

In a matter of footsteps, Mark flanked Corinne's other side. “So where do these
caracoles
come from, Diego?”

Putting Mark in mind of a half-baked flamenco dancer, Diego made a wide flourish with his arm. “From Mother Nature, a gem like the cosmos,” he said, an artistic finger coming to point at a patch of pasture with drifts of pink and yellow blossoms quivering above fernlike foliage in the midafternoon breeze.

What on earth could Corinne see in a guy so infatuated with himself ? And fit or not, he looked as though he'd been poured into those pants. If that fabric didn't stretch, it was going to be Splitsville, should Diego have to pick up something from the ground.

“What I mean is, where does ‘Mother Nature' hide these little gems?” Mark persisted.

“From under the sea or the earth—where else could they have survived all these years?”

Condescension and ruffles on his shirt—the combination almost made Mark laugh. “Or in the mountains.” He covered his mouth and coughed. The tickle in his throat that had come upon him during the night was still there, not serious, but annoying.

“I think the mountains count as under the earth, Mark,” Corinne answered, her warning glare for Mark alone.

At least a glare was warmer than their relationship had been since he spoke to Blaine. Although remaining civil, Corinne had made it a point to avoid being alone in the same room with him. Although after tonight—

“Unless you are interested in mining them yourself, you can purchase them from wholesalers over the Internet, Señor Madison,” Diego said with an edge of exasperation. “Do you have access?”

And now the man was a smart aleck. “I can stumble around on it,” Mark said.

“Simply do a search for ammonite—”

“I can stumble that far,” Mark cut him off.

“Golly day.” Corinne inhaled deeply as they approached the village. “Do you smell the fish frying? It's making my tummy growl.”

If she was picking up on what he was, Mark doubted it was the fish. Although somehow, he found it hard to believe that Diego was behind the mischief at the house. First, the guy was wealthy. Second, the figure Mark had seen was small, like an Indio or an adolescent. But he could have hired a poor, short guy.

“Then that is what we will have for our dinner,” Diego announced. “I'll tip Rodrigo to save us a table for two near the Cantina Roja, so we can watch the dancers.”

Mark got the message. Forced to take his leave or be more of a cad than he'd already been, he extended his hand to Diego. “You two enjoy the evening.”

He gave Corinne a peck on the cheek. “Have a good time, birthday girl. You deserve it.”

And I'll be watching your back all the way.
For now, he needed to find someone who had an aspirin. The dull ache that had lured him into sleeping in that morning had finally grabbed hold of his head and, thanks to Diego-on-the-spot, he'd had to leave the hacienda before he could take anything.

The main plaza reminded Mark of the day he'd arrived at Mexicalli. The same booths had been put together on one side, and vendors sold everything from crafts to food. Diego and Corinne headed to the opposite side, where the Cantina Roja had set out tables for its patrons to enjoy the show. At the moment, the merry mariachis played while some children and a few adults danced in front of the stage by the town center.

Mark headed toward the combination market and pharmacy, hoping it was still open. Maybe he'd pick up some cough medicine too. All he needed, now that the
Tres Juanes
were ready to start work on Monday, was a head cold.

Making his way through
petate
mats and picnic blankets, he nodded and spoke to more than a few of the villagers, many who had come to the hacienda earlier that week.

“
Señor Marco!” Primitivo waved from a group of elderly men gathered around him a short distance away.

Mark picked his way to where the old man sat, a smoking pipe in his mouth.
“Hola,
amigo. I see you are ready to celebrate the saint's day.”

Primitivo took the pipe from his mouth. “Each day above the dirt is a day to celebrate.”

Mark's chuckle triggered the tickle, forcing him to clear his throat again. “Excuse me,” he apologized. “I just want to thank you again for recommending Tizoc.” He broke off with a dry cough.

Primitivo's gummy smile faded. “No feeling well?”

“I'm feeling fine,” Mark lied, images of some nasty-looking concoction and more candles coming to mind. “Just a little too much plaster dust.”

“Tell Soledad she must clean better.”

“That might be more risky than the dust,” Mark quipped.

Primitivo nodded, missing the humor. “You smoke tobacco?”

Mark shook his head in denial.

“Shame,” the elder responded. “Tobacco smoke is good medicine.”

Obviously, gazillions of dollars in research to the contrary didn't count down here.

“Well, I'd best be moving. I want to get a Coke before the market closes.”

“Hasta luego.”
Primitivo stuck his pipe between his lips and turned to listen to one of his compadres.

Despite the fiesta, the market was open and would remain so, according to the sign in the front window. A wise decision, Mark thought, easing through the aisles thick with customers.

“Lo siento,”
he said, bumping into a shopper as he reached for a bottle of what looked like cold medicine. Glancing back when he received no reply, he recognized Antonio's surly-mannered uncle shuffling away behind his wife—the witch, according to Soledad. Or was she the daughter of a witch?

Sheesh, he was starting to think
Twilight Zone.
“Señor Pozas,” Mark called.

Reluctantly the man turned. “
Sí?
”

“Do you know the caves in this area?”

Pozas shook his head. “No, señor . . . only that there are caves.”

“I was just wondering if there were any
caracoles
around here.”

Score. Although whether the surprise that registered in Pozas's gaze was innocent or not was hard to say.

“I am just a farmer, señor,” Pozas said. “I know nothing of what is in the caves.
Adiós
.” With a slight tip of his head, he ducked around the end of the aisle.

Mark's mind tumbled with possibilities as he emerged from the market, a bottle of Coca-Cola in hand. Pausing long enough to pop one of the cold tablets that claimed to help both his cough and headache, he headed across the plaza toward the Cantina Roja's outside tables. After all, he had to eat, and fish did smell good.

It was a beautiful day,
perfect for a fiesta,
Corinne thought as she viewed the activity in the park from the table she shared with Diego. The young Indio women wore colorful prints and solids, while their elders dressed in their town-best black woolen skirts with multicolored belts. Corinne had little doubt that the fabric had been made on their own looms, just like the white fine-gauge weave of the triangular lace garments some wore on their heads.

“I love this place,” she said, taking a sip of the special sangria that Diego had ordered for her. “I feel as though I've discovered a part of me that I didn't know existed.”

“You did,” he agreed. “Mexico is in your blood, Corina. And all these years you have been misplaced.”

“Not completely. I am the product of my North American upbringing, too,” she reminded him.

“Then you are the best of both worlds.” He lifted his glass. “To the best of both worlds.”

After the toast, she contemplated the deep red liquid swirling in her glass. “When nonalcoholic sangria tastes so good, why would you want the other kind?”

With a chuckle, Diego leaned over and whispered in her ear. “It is like separating the heart from the soul, Corina.”

“I didn't know it had a heart and soul. I thought it had a bouquet.”

The poet in Diego was a little overdone at times, but it was genuine. It was who he was . . . whether Mark Madison appreciated his way with words or not. She still couldn't believe the guy had horned in on their walk to the village. Granted, it wasn't a date, but
he
didn't know that.

Having seen Mark join Doña Violeta, Father Menasco, and the priest's visiting sister at another table near the stage, Corinne couldn't help glancing in their direction. She'd met Dr. Elizabeth Menasco Flynn at the orphanage. She was a vivacious woman who loved hiking and exploring when she wasn't practicing her first love—medicine.

Around the stage, the villagers prepared for their rendition of the Santiago, a medieval dance drama of St. James, their patron saint. Unlike on Independence Day or Cinco de Mayo, today the adults were on stage and the children in the audience. With front-row mats, the entourage from the orphanage squirmed under the supervision of María Delgado and the staff.

“Ah,” Diego said as his father climbed to the stage to introduce the entertainment. “So Don Victor's son is Santiago Caballero this year.”

“Don Victor the butcher?” Corinne said, watching as someone helped strap a fake horse to a dancer's waist near the stage entrance.

“The same. You see, the role of St. James is elected every year,” he explained. “So he inherits the horse from last year's St. James.” Diego helped himself to more of the sangria. “Tradition has it that if he does not feed the horse a bowl of corn and water every day, it will run away to another village.”

The music of the flute and drum grew louder, signaling the entrance of the characters on the stage from both sides. They were clad in military costume, and all that set apart the dancing and fighting Moors from the Christians were Moorish turbans. Everyone was masked except for St. James, who led the Christian forces into the battle dance on his white horse—the front and back sections of which were secured to his waist by a painted wooden belt.