The spicy smell of the food was turning my already nervous stomach. I changed course and headed for the bar. A drink, a small one, would help.
The bar was even more crowded than the buffet. Behind it stood Tony and his giggly Susana, dispensing margaritas, Dos Equis beer, and Mexican soda pop. Tony wore a tuxedo, a ruffled shirt, and his lounge-lizard smirk. As the line inched forward, I heard him tell one of our patrons,“ The margaritas are oh-so-very strong. They will make it easier to bear looking at the arts.”
I stopped moving, and the woman behind me bumped into me. I apologized to her through gritted teeth, my hands aching to seize the Colombian by his scrawny neck and strangle him. Who was he to knock “the arts”? What the devil did he know? Education director, indeed!
I held out my plastic glass, regarding Tony thoughtfully. He looked up, saw it was me, and lowered his eyes. His smirk fell away, and his hand shook as he poured from the margarita pitcher. Some of the sticky substance slopped over onto my fingers.
Tony had never considered me a powerful influence at the museum. Under Frank, I hadn’t been. Naturally Tony had never dreamed I would be named acting director, much less discover their embezzling scheme. Following Frank’s death he had expected he would be named director and go on collecting an even more comfortable salary, plus be spared the hated trips to South America. And, more important, he would be free of Frank’s ridicule and verbal abuse.
I wiped my fingers on a napkin, glared at Susana when she emitted a particularly shrill giggle, and crossed the courtyard to where I’d been standing before. As I sipped the drink, I watched the crowd.
There were men dressed in tuxedos and women in flowing floor-length gowns. Others wore traditional. Mexican garb. They ate and drank and chattered, the din rising to obscure the soft Latin rhythms played by the band on the platform in one corner. That would be remedied soon, however; the musicians had instructions to burst into mariachi at eight.
I continued to scan the crowd until I spotted my mother and Nick by the buffet table. She was wearing a bright red peasant dress, and he had on a charro outfit, complete to the broad-brimmed hat. They saw me and waved, but my mother’s eyes were full of concern, reminding me of the dull ache in my head. I was glad when Nick distracted her with a taquito.
Everyone was here; everyone was having a good time. Everyone, that is, except me. I felt nervous, my palms clammy. Time was passing, and I still hadn’t spotted the one person I wanted to see…
I looked around once more, and suddenly there he was. Lieutenant Dave Kirk stood by the bandstand, dressed in his brown business suit, his one concession to gaiety the corsage in his lapel-and that, I suspected, only because Maria had insisted on it when he came through the door. Kirk’s eyes met mine, and he raised his can of soda pop in a toast, a cynical, questioning look on his face. So he had gotten my messages. I raised my glass in return, relieved.
I took my eyes off the lieutenant and looked around for a place to set the glass. Tony was right about one thing: the margaritas were strong, too strong for the work ahead. One of the volunteers passed, collecting discards on a tray, and I plunked the glass down among the others.
Quickly I reviewed my plan and what I would say to Dave Kirk. It had to sound well thought out or he wouldn’t listen. He’d ridiculed my “tidbits of information,” as he called them, all down the line. He had been right about the murderer not hiding in the museum all night, but he’d done nothing that I knew of about the other facts I’d brought him. So far as I was aware, he hadn’t even tried to find the tree of death, the murder weapon. Still, he’d have to see the logic of my plan and go along with it.
Marshaling my arguments, I started toward the lieutenant. Before I reached him, however, he disappeared into the galleries. I pushed my way through the crowd after him.
The galleries were not nearly as crowded as the courtyard. Trust our patrons not to stray too far from the food and drink. In the colonial gallery, there was no sign of Kirk, but there was a half-empty plastic glass sitting on top of one of the new display cases. Irritated, I picked it up, wrinkling my nose at the cigarette butt floating among the dregs of the margarita. I supposed I should be thankful that the smoker hadn’t put it out on the rug. Carrying the offending glass, I went into the reform period gallery. There, a couple of youngish matrons were discussing the Velasco landscape.
“It doesn’t look anything like the Mexico I remember.”
“What did you ever see of Mexico except the bar in your hotel in Acapulco?”‘
The first woman laughed. “The ceiling of the bedroom in our suite, my dear.”
They started guiltily when they saw me. I smiled and continued my search for Kirk.
He wasn’t in the contemporary gallery either. If he was looking at the collections, it had to be the fastest tour on record. I hurried into the folk art gallery. There a crowd had gathered around the display of camaleones that had replaced the tree of life.
“… camaleones?”
“… incredibly grotesque.”
“… like the morning after.”
“Not nearly as grotesque as what happened in this very room the other night.”
“This was where-?”‘
“Right there on the floor, darlings.”
“What a way to die.”
“Felled by two tons of Day-Glo pottery.”
“Well, the fat spic never did do anything the usual way.”
They all laughed, while I stiffened. The term “spic,” even applied to Frank, was ugly.
“Excuse me,” I said, pushing past them through the door to the courtyard.
An embarrassed silence fell behind me. Then I could hear the murmur of voices resume, gradually becoming punctuated by defensive laughter. I picked up the plastic glass so hard it cracked.
Why do they come here? I thought angrily. Why don’t they stay on their own side of town if they hate us so much? Because it’s the chic thing these days. Supporting minority art gives them something to do when they’re not sailing or playing tennis.
But maybe it’s not really hatred that prompts such remarks, I thought. Maybe it’s just carelessness. That, and the tendency-a tendency that’s in all of us-to forget that the other person aches and bleeds the same as we do.
This was no time to philosophize, however. Where the devil had Lieutenant Kirk gone? It was already eight o’clock; the band had stepped up its tempo with a boisterous mariachi tune.
Quickly I glanced around the courtyard. Jesse and Maria had been replaced by a couple of volunteers. Vic and Isabel were nowhere in sight, but the buffet table was well stocked. Tony had left Susana alone at the bar, and she was making a mess, pouring margaritas all over everything and everybody. None of my suspects was in sight. The killer might make a move any minute now.
Maybe Kirk was in the office wing. He might have taken a shortcut through the less crowded galleries in order to use the phone. I went over and pushed through the door. Sure enough, there he was, perched on the edge of Maria’s desk, talking. I tossed the cracked plastic glass in the wastebasket and waited.
“Got it.” He slapped down the receiver and stood. “Oh, yes, Miss Oliverez. You wanted to see me.”
“I certainly did. I have a plan…”
“Plan?” he said in a preoccupied way.
“To catch the killer…”
“I’m sure you do, but it will have to wait.” He started for the door.
“But it can’t wait!”
He turned, irritation plain on his face. “There’s been a murder out in Hope Ranch. I have to go up there.”
“But I’ve-”
“Miss Oliverez, I’m a homicide detective. Murders take precedence. You can tell me about your plan when I get back here.”
“When will that be?”