“Later.” He went out the door.
I slumped dejectedly against Maria’s desk. Later. When later? A murder in Hope Ranch, eh? No wonder Kirk had been in a hurry. The prestigious residential area, with its great estates and hunt club, was where many of Santa Barbara’s most influential people lived. Of course it would take precedence over anything at the Museum of Mexican Arts.
You’re getting paranoid, Elena, I told myself. Of course he had to go out there. It was important that he be on hand right away at a murder scene. And, even though I didn’t know Kirk well at all, I suspected he was not at all impressed by wealth or influence-at least not when murder entered the picture.
But what about my plan? I glanced at the desk drawer where I’d locked the cellar key earlier. It was still shut and showed no signs of having been tampered with. Taking out my keys, I went around and unlocked the drawer. The ornate iron key was still inside. The killer hadn’t been there yet. I had expected that; everyone had been out where I could see them until minutes ago.
I went into my office, got out my purse, and freshened my lipstick. Things were slowing down now, at least as far as the staff and volunteers were concerned. They could begin to relax and enjoy the party. All of them, that is, except the murderer.
The sound of the office wing door closing alerted me. I stepped back against the wall, into the shadows where no one could see me. I heard footsteps and then a rattling sound. I inched along toward the door. There was the noise of the desk drawer sliding open. I peeked around the door frame.
Jesse stood there, reaching into the drawer.
Jesse! Por Dios, not him, of all of them…
Holding my breath, I pulled back. He mustn’t see me now. The drawer slid shut again, and then Jesse’s footsteps went away, toward the door to the courtyard.
The courtyard! But he was supposed to go to the cellar…
I hurried out of the office wing after him. He was making his way through the crowd of party-goers toward the main entrance. Why was he leaving the museum“?
I pushed through the crowd, too, nodding and smiling to people as I tried to keep my eyes on Jesse. When I got to the entrance, he was across the street, getting into his old Chevrolet. In a panic, I ran around the building to the parking lot where I’d left my car. I couldn’t lose him now.
Fortunately, my car keys were on the ring in my pocket. I jumped in, ground the starter twice, and finally backed the car from its space. At the parking lot gates, I had to wait for a couple of pedestrians, slow-walking old ladies, to pass. Then I accelerated into the street and to the corner. Jesse had pulled away and was down the block, turning left.
I raced through the stop sign, then slowed down. The old Chevy was easy to spot, and I didn’t want him to recognize me rushing up behind him. I followed, obeying the traffic laws, conscious of the fact that I didn’t have my driver’s license with me.
Jesse drove slowly, too, as if he didn’t know where he was going. He turned left again on State Street and went all the way to where it ended at Cabrillo, the street that ran along the waterfront. There he turned and began driving north, past the beaches and City College and the yacht club. When he reached Shoreline Park, he turned into the nearly deserted parking lot.
I stopped, afraid he’d see me if I turned in, too. The sun was below the horizon, its faint colors still spilling over the blue-gray water. The park itself was wrapped in shadow, its barbecue pits, picnic tables, and play equipment vague shapes under the palm trees. Jesse drove to the front row of parking spaces. His brake lights flashed and then went out. I could see his head silhouetted against the fading light. He seemed to be contemplating the sea.
What was he doing here? If he was the killer, he should be in the cellar, retrieving the milagros.
Finally the door of the Chevy opened, and Jesse got out. He stood beside the car for a moment, then crossed to the grass and started walking through the trees. I drove into the parking lot, left my car, and followed. He wandered aimlessly toward the promontory overlooking the Pacific. He sat down on a picnic table. I waited in the shadows.
Jesse sat for about five minutes. The light faded rapidly, and I could barely make him out. Then he got up and went over to a nearby barbecue pit. Seconds later I saw a match flare, and then something flamed up quickly.
What was he burning? Evidence? I came out of the shadows and ran across the grass.
Jesse whirled when he heard me coming. He dropped the flaming object onto the grill. I tried to grab it, but the fire seared my fingers, and I pulled them back.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “What are you doing here?”
Jesse stared at me, flames highlighting the taut lines of his face. I stared back, breathing hard. Then all at once the tension went out of him, and his eyes became blank with defeat.
He said, “I guess we’d better talk.”
sixteen
“Why did you kill him?” I asked.
Jesse looked blankly at me. “You mean Frank? I didn’t kill him. I’m not that kind.” He sat down on the picnic table again, his shoulders hunching forward.
I sat down next to him, feeling a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. Maybe Jesse wasn’t the killer. But then what had he been doing in Maria’s desk? And what had he burned?
We sat side by side, not looking at each other. Finally Jesse said, “You saw me go into Maria’s desk, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was in my office.”
Again he was silent. Then, “Maria asked me to get something from there. She gave me her extra key.”
Of course she would have one. “What did she want?”
“Letters.” He reached into his jacket pocket and dropped a bundle of them on my lap. “She’d had them locked up there for safekeeping, but now that you’d taken a key to the desk she felt uneasy. She asked me to get them and destroy them.”
“Letters.” I looked down at them. They were in plain envelopes without any stamp or address. “Who are they from?”
“Frank.”
I turned my head and stared at him in amazement.
The corner of Jesse’s mouth twitched, and he looked away. “Yeah. From Frank. Love letters.”
First Gloria Sanchez, now Maria. I never would have guessed. So that was why Frank had opposed Jesse’s interest in Maria-not because he wanted her for Robert, but because he wanted her for himself. “Have you known about this all along?”
“Not until tonight.”‘ His voice had an edge to it, and I knew he was holding back tears.
“How long had it been going on with Frank?”
“It hadn’t, not really. Soon after she came to live with his family he began slipping these torrid notes under her bedroom door. She encouraged him, but wouldn’t let him touch her. She wanted the letters to continue, you see.”
“Why?”
Jesse was silent for a long time.
“Why, Jesse?”
“She was-‘’ His voice broke, and it was a while before he could get it under control. ”She was planning to blackmail him. She wanted to get her own apartment, her own car. She figured if she collected enough letters and then threatened to show them to Rosa, he would help her out.“
I was silent, feeling sick again.
“You can read the letters,” Jesse added. “Read them and see for yourself.”
“No.” I shook my head and handed them back. “Go ahead and burn them.”
He got up and went to the barbecue pit. “That’s what she told me to do. They’re no good to her anymore. She was going to confront him with them the night he was killed. She seems irritated that she missed her opportunity.”
The night he was killed. Maria could have… “Jesse, do you think she might have killed him?”
“I don’t know what she’d do. I don’t know anymore.”
“Why would she tell you about this? Why would she admit what she was up to?”