Dangerous. Alone, this was very dangerous.
I left my sandals on the floor by the archway and tiptoed to the cellar door. The stone steps were cold on the soles of my feet. I put a hand out to touch the clammy wall, then felt for the edge of each step with my toes. As I descended, I saw that it was dark at the bottom of the stairs, but the front of the cellar was illuminated by flashlight.
At the foot of the steps I paused. Boxes and crates blocked my way, and all I could see was the light shining around them. Noises, as if someone was rummaging around, came from up there. I inched forward, the cold of the earthen floor numbing my bare feet. The space between the packing cases was narrow, and I had to avoid bumping into them.
The killer had the flashlight, I reminded myself. If I got closer to that light, it would help me confirm my suspicions. But it also could be dangerous if turned on me. I began to feel the boxes around me, noting spaces into which I could duck.
Ahead of me, the rummaging stopped. Quickly I moved behind a packing case. There was a heavy sigh. Then the rummaging resumed. I moved along, one case closer, two cases, three.
“Maldito!” The curse was whispered, the voice unrecognizable. Still, I knew who had uttered it.
I inched along. Another box. Another.
How soon before the murderer found the milagros? Turned? Showed me the face I expected?
I reached the last box. The glow of the flash fully illuminated this end of the cellar, but all I could see were the floor joists and the little high window. I would have to step around the box, into the open, to see the killer.
The rummaging stopped again. There was a deep groan of despair. I moved out into the aisle.
And came face to face with Isabel.
Her long hair straggled from its combs. The peasant blouse hung off one shoulder. The upward beam of the flashlight caught and accentuated the lines of strain on her sallow face.
Unfortunately, the beam also illuminated me.
“Madre de Dios!” She drew out the words in a hiss, her eyes widening.
I stepped back.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Trust Isabel, when cornered, to try to put her captor on the defensive.
I held my ground. “What’s the matter, Isabel? Can’t you find the milagros?”
“You bitch! You made it all up. There aren’t any here.”
Yes, there are. I reached up to the back of the shelf. “You would have found them if you hadn’t been so impatient.” I opened the box and showed her one, the stylized woman’s head.
She stared at it. “That’s… that’s not one of the milagros Frank imported. I recognize it. It’s yours. I remember the day you bought it from the artist.”
“Yes, it’s mine.”
“Then why is it down here?”
“I planted it. So there would be proof.”
“Proof!” She laughed harshly. “Proof of what?”
“That you were the one who attacked me down here last night and removed the other artworks. That you drove me up north in my car and dumped me in the field when you ran out of gas. That you murdered Frank.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Then what are you doing down here, looking for this?” I shoved the milagro under her nose.
She slapped my hand away. “I’m trying to save this museum, you fool. You don’t care about that. You would go to the police about Frank’s indiscretions. You would bring it all out in the open. You’d drag our name through the mud. All I’m doing is trying to save-”
“You’re trying to save yourself.”
Isabel’s lips drew back in a snarl. She moved forward and slapped my hand again, knocking the milagro to the floor. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and began shaking me. Her fury unleashed a terrible strength.
I wrenched away from her, stumbling back against an empty packing case. It collapsed and I fell to the floor. I struggled to sit up.
Isabel was upon me immediately, grabbing me by the throat. I tried to push her away, but her arms were long enough that I couldn’t reach her. I kicked out at her legs; that did me no good either. I tried to pry her fingers loose, but they were locked tight.
Isabel dragged me to my feet. Her hands tightened on my throat. It hurt, and I had trouble getting my breath. I rolled my eyes, looking frantically for a weapon.
Racks of paintings… the shattered remains of the arbol de la vida… a figurine of Quetzalcoatl… a bronze and silver Hispanic sword…
My terror brought a sudden burst of strength. I managed to break Isabel’s hold on my neck and lunged for the sword. My fingers grabbed its hilt, slipped off. Isabel pulled me back by the shoulder.
I turned, smacking her across the face. She screamed and let go. I grabbed the sword.
As I spun around, its tip nearly caught her in the eye. She stared at it, frozen, then backed off and scurried down the aisle between the boxes, out of the flashlight’s beam. Her sandals slapped toward the stairway. I followed, dragging the heavy sword.
Isabel ran up the steps and threw open the door. Welcome light poured into the cellar. For a second she stood silhouetted there.
“Help!” she screamed. “She’s trying to kill me!” Then • she started to run down the hall.
There was a pounding of feet on the floorboards above. They were heavily shod, not sandaled like Isabel’s. I bounded up the stairs.
Dave Kirk stood in the middle of the hall. Isabel was midway between him and the cellar door.
“Stop her!” I shouted. “She’s the murderer!”
Isabel looked back at me, then flung herself at Kirk. “Please help me! She killed Frank and now she wants to kill me!” She sagged against him, panting.
I stopped. “She’s lying. She’s the one…”
Kirk put his arms around Isabel. His bland brown eyes met mine, shifted to the sword in my hands.
Whom was he going to believe? Isabel, because of her social status and respectability? Or me, because I was telling the truth?
Isabel clung to Kirk, not looking at me. “She wants me dead. Just like she wanted Frank dead…” The words trailed off into a low cry.
Kirk put his hand over Isabel’s mouth and, with his other hand, pinned her arms behind her back. She struggled, but he held her firmly.
Relief coursed through me. Kirk had seen through Isabel’s dramatics; he’d recognized the truth. Then, looking up at the ceiling light, I realized he’d known even before Isabel had burst into the hall. He must have been here, listening to what was going on in the cellar, because the light had been off when I’d gone down there but had been on when Isabel reached the top of the stairs.
I looked back at him. His eyes, still incredibly bland, again moved from my face to the Hispanic sword.
“So,” he said, “who are you supposed to be-Zorro?”
seventeen
When I got home from the doctor’s the next afternoon, my mother was holding court under the pepper tree in my back yard. She had dragged out the blue-flowered tea set I’d bought at a flea market several years before and was serving what I knew had to be Upton’s along with tiny circles of lemon and some very stale vanilla wafers.
I stopped in the back door, smiling. To Mama’s right sat Carlos Bautista, looking dignified as he balanced the delicate cup and saucer. To her left was Dave Kirk, looking as though he could use a beer. The two men got to their feet as I went out into the yard.
“What’s all this about?” I pulled up the remaining lawn chair and motioned for them to sit.
“Mr. Bautista came by to see if you were all right,”‘ Mama said, nodding at the board chairman. “As did Lieutenant Kirk. You are all right?”