She nodded and waited for his reaction.
“You are sure it is gone?” He turned the question slightly sinister and pointed it toward her, like she was responsible for the theft. He reminded her of a colleague who had tried to frame her back in her university teaching days. She vowed that would not happen again.
“I’m sure.” What she wanted to say was what a moron he was and if she said it was gone, she wasn’t kidding.
“We will have to notify the police as before.” He wagged his head like a man displeased with the prank of a child.
She hated when he did that.
“Have the police found anything on the other two thefts that I reported?”
“No, nothing,” he said. Creases gathered on his brow, accentuating the pinched look of his face. His black hair was combed straight back and lay in furrows.
Of all the pleasant, smiling people in this lovely country why did her boss have to be the exception?
He continued. “The police are investigating these thefts that threaten our national image and Honduran tourism. Something like this makes it look as though we cannot protect our national treasures.”
He had a flair for the dramatic. She hardly thought all of Honduran tourism might suffer. But it might affect the local economy and that was a concern because so many of the people in the town of Copan Ruinas depended on tourism for their livelihood.
Uninvited, she took a seat in one of the arm chairs before his desk, made of dark, fragrant Honduran wood with a haunting citrus scent. The front of the desk was elaborately carved in Mayan flowers. The top was wide and smooth, polished to a deep brown, not a scrap of paper on it, only the book he was perusing and a telephone. Books on Copan archaeology lined the bookcases behind him. He was a notable scholar on the subject and had written extensively on Copan.
He was the reason Elena had come to Copan to mentor under him. Things hadn’t turned out the way she had planned. They rarely had a discussion about her work. He was too busy. In his bare office she saw little evidence of the work he was famous for. Maybe he did his scholarly research and writing at home.
“I have arranged for more guards because of the thefts,” he was saying, “but their arrival is taking longer than expected. I will call the ministry and insist that they send the extra guards immediately. In the meantime, you will work through the day at the site until these guards arrive.”
“Me?” she said, thinking her ears had failed her.
“Yes, you,” he said, ignoring the surprise on her face. “You must be on site from sunup to sundown.”
She already was, not as a guard, but rather as an expert epigrapher intent upon deciphering Mayan hieroglyphs, not guarding against thieves.
“How do you expect me to get my own work done?”
“You can work as well as watch, can you not?”
She counted to ten slowly, very slowly. It would not do to get into an argument. Besides, extra guards must be on the way if he had requested them. She could stay on site with her laptop during the heat of the day, instead of going back for lunch at doña Carolita’s house in town, where she was staying. She’d find a cool place at the ruins to work.
“All right,” said Elena, swallowing her pride. She wanted to be a team player, though she wasn’t sure that concept had made it into the director’s vocabulary. She had a reputation to build. This man had already made his. They both knew she was not getting paid to guard a World Heritage Site. Her job was to decipher the jumbled mess of 2,500 hieroglyphics carved on a seventy-two step staircase built in 753 AD.
“Perhaps when you have time, you could look at some of my work with the deciphering.” She tried again to enlist his aid, to get him to collaborate, as was her expectation when she took on this summer project. Sometimes it was better not to have expectations. Then one wasn’t disappointed.
His contempt was worthy of a sultan, addressing the infidels. “Doctora, your skills are well known. Surely, I don’t have to help you. Now we both have work to do, I especially, since we have another theft.”
Foolishly, she had thought he had one kind bone in his skinny little body. Could the man be more rotten? She stared at him, feeling her temper threaten to escape the confines of reason. Only the slight flare of her nostrils gave her away. Calling on all the grace and dignity she could muster, she said, “Sí, director.”
Turning on her heel, she left before she erupted like a Central American volcano.
Dominic Harte studied the young American woman across the crowded room of party goers.
“A real looker, isn’t she?” said his friend, Bill, the big, ruddy, eco-adventure guy who knew everyone in town. “She’s some university professor doing work out at the ruins.”
“Not bad,” said Dominic. Since he had sworn off women, he wasn’t about to be pulled into an ogling contest. There should be a law against brains and beauty. His ex-wife had had both in abundance and look where he was.
He stared into his empty glass. “I need a refresher. Catch you later, Bill.”
Dominic threaded his way through the packed reception area toward the bar. While the room was big enough for the new medical clinic, the space could not accommodate all the well-wishers who had turned out, and the party had spilled into the street. The crowd was a mixture of half and half — half locals and half foreigners. The noise bouncing off the bare, cement block walls made Dominic’s ears ring. Some of the foreigners were Americans with the Episcopal mission that had helped build the new clinic. They were celebrating its completion with a party, big time, complete with martini bar.
The warm, humid air that permeated everything dictated tank tops in abundance with the Latina ladies tending to outfits that sparkled and glittered. Dominic liked the vivid colors the Latinas preferred. Like the spice they put in their food, it made the room tingle.
He slid his glass toward the bartender, one of his ex-pat friends with antiquated leftist leanings and a pony tail, who poured another gold martini for him.
“What’s in this, Gus?”
“My special recipe. Hint of mango.”
“Not bad. They go down easy and produce a nice buzz.”
“Yeah,” said Gus, “my favorite way of drinking.”
A rotund figure in red and ruffles flounced into Dominic’s line of vision.
Señora Martinez, head of the medical clinic volunteers and social maven of Copan Ruinas, greeted him. “Ay, señor Harte, you look so handsome this evening,” she said. “You are not bored, are you? I hope that wasn’t a yawn I saw on your face. Tell me you are not thinking of leaving us already. The party has just begun. Soon the musicians will be here, and the dancing will start.”
He hated dancing. It reminded him of his ex-wife and having to watch her wiggle up close to every man at the party while he nursed his drink and smiled, making excuses for his beautiful wife’s excesses.
He turned on his cocktail party smile. “Señora Martinez, nice to see you. I’m afraid I’m beat. I was up early to help put the finishing touches on our celebration. I dropped by to see if everyone was enjoying themselves this evening.”
She tucked her arm into his. “We will not let you leave any time soon. Not the man responsible for the completion of our new medical clinic. Everyone knows we would not be standing here today in the completed clinic without you.”
Dominic hid a wince behind his smile. She was laying it on thick. He had the unpleasant feeling that she would make sure he stayed until the last guest left the room. He hated socializing. He had attended enough church socials to last several lifetimes. Had he known the clinic included a party at the end, he wouldn’t have come to help finish it. Then he felt guilty for such uncharitable thoughts about the people who had been so kind to him, who had helped him settle in, who had included him in their community and their lives.