“She doesn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it. She thinks she was clever.” Jesse lit one envelope and held it as the flame grew.
“Elena,” he said after a moment, “I don’t know what to do. How can I marry her now, knowing what she is?”
“I don’t know. I don’t suppose you can.”
His face, in the light of the flames, was weary. He dropped the envelope on the grate and lit another.“ The devil of it is, I love her in spite of it.”
“How long would that love last?”
He shrugged and added the rest of the letters to the fire.
“Jesse, if you marry her, this knowledge will eat at you your whole life.”
“I know.”
“Think of your work.”
“I know.”
“Think of the camaleones. How can you create something when your soul is dying?” Unconsciously I had slipped into Spanish; it was not a phrase you could use in English without feeling foolish. Jesse looked at me, nodding.
It was useless to talk, of course. The problem was one only Jesse could work through. I sat there, watching the letters burn, feeling numb.
“Jesse,” I said, “when you went into Maria’s desk, the key to the cellar was still there.”
“Yes.”
“Did you relock the desk?”
“Yes.”
And the killer would have had plenty of time to act by now. It was almost eleven. While I had been watching Jesse burn some sleazy love letters, the killer had probably sprung the trap unobserved. Dismayed, I got up and headed for the parking lot.
“Elena,” Jesse called, “do you know why I came here, to this place?”
I stopped. “No.”
“Because this was where we came on our first date. Maria and me. Funny, isn’t it?” I turned, unable to speak, and ran for my car.
The party was winding down when I got back to the museum. Guests were wandering down the walk to their cars, carrying streamers and balloons as souvenirs of the occasion. Inside, a few amiable drunks stood guard over the almost empty margarita pitchers, arguing about the Los Angeles Dodgers. In the middle of the courtyard, I ran into Carlos Bautista. He was handsome in his tuxedo and ruffled shirt, looking as fresh as if the party had just started.
“A splendid evening, Elena,” he said, taking my hands in his. “You did a wonderful job.”
“I had a lot of help.”
Carlos kept holding my hands. Was he going to make the long-expected pass now, of all times? I tried to pull my hands away.
“What’s wrong?” He frowned at my abstracted manner.
“I’m just tired.”
“Well, tomorrow you can sleep in. The museum will be closed, although I’d like you to attend a board meeting at two.”
“Board meeting?”
“Yes. I plan to make your appointment as director official. Perhaps you and I can have a celebratory drink afterwards.”
“That would be nice.” I freed my hands and began edging away.
“Elena, is everything all right?” An attractive and wealthy man like Carlos probably didn’t often have his attentions received in such a lukewarm manner.
“I’m fine, really.”
“Good. Also, at the board meeting, I will propose the… removals we spoke of earlier.”
That would be the time to bring the embezzlements out in the open. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” He patted my shoulder and started toward the door.
Nodding to the volunteers who were beginning to clear up, I hurried through the door of the office wing. There I found Vic, his face flushed with drink. “Elena, there you are.”
“Here I am.”
“I’ve got a phone message for you. That lieutenant. He says he’ll be back and wants you to wait for him.”
“Probably wants to arrest me.”
“Oh, come on.”
I shrugged and sat down in Maria’s chair.
“Are you all right?”
“Just tired.” It was becoming my standard answer.
“Can I do anything?”
Leave me alone. “No, Vic. Why don’t you go home?”
“Yeah, I think I will. Too many margaritas. They sure were strong.”
I nodded. With a final concerned glance, Vic went out.
Reaching into my pocket, I took out the desk key and went to unlock the drawer, but I stopped when I saw, as I’d feared, that someone had been here before me. The drawer was open about an inch, and when I pulled it out I saw that the cellar key was gone. The killer could have been here at any time since Jesse had removed the letters. I got up and hurried through the offices to the cellar door. It was locked, and the key wasn’t there.
That didn’t mean much. The killer could have gone down there and searched for the milagros, then relocked the door, intending to replace the key in the desk. The trouble was, now I couldn’t get down there to check. I had really blown it as far as this trap was concerned. Wait till Dave Kirk heard what I’d done. But then, why tell him? It probably would add fuel to his suspicions of me.
I went through the galleries, checking to see if the volunteers had picked up stray plates and glasses, then went to the courtyard and told them to go. The rest of the cleanup could wait until the morning. I locked up, poured a margarita from the dregs in a pitcher and went back to the offices. I crossed to Frank’s and stood in the doorway, drinking and surveying what would soon be mine.
If I wasn’t in jail. Could the lieutenant really arrest me on such circumstantial evidence? Should I right now be calling a lawyer? Somehow, I didn’t really care.
I went into the office and sat in the padded chair. I drank my margarita and swiveled the chair around slowly, contemplating my new domain. The director’s job didn’t seem to matter either.
I looked at the telltale crack in the windowpane, then at the empty hook on the wall, and finally at the dirt smudge right above it.
They told the story of Frank’s murder, but only part of it. They still didn’t tell me who the killer was.
I swiveled the chair back and forth. Windowpane to hook and dirt smudge… hook and dirt smudge to windowpane.
Or did they tell me who the killer was?
I got up, set my glass on the desk, and began to pace. I would work very carefully this time, making the necessary connections.
I stopped in front of the window, staring out at the sagging azalea plant. I turned, staring at the hook. And then I knew, beyond a doubt, who the killer was. It was so clear, so obvious that I didn’t understand why I hadn’t seen it before.
In a way, it was a relief. But it left me feeling hollow inside.
I reached for the telephone, to try calling Lieutenant Kirk. I had just dialed the first digit when I heard the noise.
It was not a footstep, as when Jesse had come in. Nor was it the kind of sound Dave Kirk would be likely to make when he came looking for me. This was more of a whisper of motion. Someone was crossing the offices toward the cellar door.
I stood, barely breathing in the darkness. Then I slipped out and tiptoed to the corridor that led to the cellar. Ahead of me, the door to the steps was closing. The key was back in the latch.
So the killer hadn’t sprung the trap yet. This was exactly as I’d planned it, except that I’d expected to have Lieutenant Kirk with me. Still, I could wait here and apprehend the person who’d gone down there. Or could I? It wasn’t apparent to the killer that anyone was still inside the museum; my appearance would have shock value. Still, I could be overpowered. And then I’d have no real proof. Kirk wouldn’t take my word, not against the murderer’s.
Damn the lieutenant and his busy schedule!
I stood there in the dark corridor, listening. The walls of the adobe were so thick that voices, even in the next room, were always muted. The floors, however, were merely wood resting on joists. From below I began to hear sounds. The killer, certain everyone else had left, was taking few precautions against noise.
Maybe I could slip down there and watch, then follow to see what the killer did with the milagros. I was reasonably graceful and, in my bare feet, wouldn’t make any sounds that would be noticed by a person who wasn’t listening for them.