“The very next day, a young man dies in, or in this particular case, on top of, the museum Dr. Castillo has been associated with for several years.
“Coincidence, senora? I rather think not.”
I was inclined to agree with him there, although my conclusions were quite different.
“Very interesting, I’m sure. But”—as they say in the movies, I thought—“the evidence so far is circumstantial. What facts do you have to support this contention, and how exactly does this put my life in danger? I found a body. Unfortunate though that may be, I can’t see any reason why someone would want to kill me for that reason.”
“But not for that reason alone, senora. It is because you know too much.”
Those movies again. What would the man say next? Hasta la vista, baby? Or perhaps we would soon be quoting dialogue directly from High Noon.
“I know nothing. I’m as baffled by all of this as apparently you are.”
He, too, ignored the gibe.
“You knew where to find the body. Not everyone who visits our museo is so fascinated that they feel compelled to visit the roof!”
He had a point.
“I got lost. I was checking to see if Dr. Castillo was in his office—”
“And was he?”
“No. But I got lost in the stairwell, and saw blood on the roof. I thought someone might be hurt…” I was launched into one of my well-rehearsed answers.
“Enough of this!” He rose from his seat. “Even if you insist on telling me this nonsense, I am responsible for your safety. You will remain in the hotel here under the protection of my officers until we have found Dr. Castillo.”
So yesterday I was confined to the country, my passport confiscated. Today I was confined to the hotel. All for my personal safety, of course.
I walked with Martinez to the front door.
“You haven’t even told me who the young man on the roof was,” I said to him.
“I assumed you knew. Luis Vallespino.”
The name meant nothing to me, but it certainly appeared to mean something to Alejandro, currently staffing the front desk.
His hands shook as he retrieved a key from one of the other hotel guests and handed her her mail.
Very interesting, I thought. Do I now know two of the robbers?
I wanted to talk to Alejandro, but it was not possible while he was at the desk. And as it turned out, this was the last I would see of him for a while. Soon after his father came to relieve him at the desk, he disappeared.
I spent the rest of the day, needless to say, at the hotel, under the watchful eyes of two policemen, one at the front door, one on patrol throughout the hotel.
For all the talk of this being for my personal protection, and despite the comfort of the surroundings, it felt like house arrest to me.
I paced the floor of my room for hours, going over everything in my mind. Was there really a connection between the robbery in the Hotel Montserrat and the murder of Luis Vallespino? Was Alejandro involved? Was he in danger? Where was Hernan Castillo, and what was his involvement, if any? Who were the Children of the Talking Cross?
It was clear to me that nothing was going to be solved in this hotel room, and the inactivity was beginning to drive me crazy. I decided I had to do something.
This hotel room, as I mentioned, is my favorite. Not just because of its beautiful view of the courtyard, however. When Isa and I were growing up together, those many years ago, we used this room, when it was unoccupied, as our center of operations. After all was quiet in the hotel, we would let ourselves in with the passkey. From there we had devised a way of getting out the bathroom window, onto a ledge that led around to the back of the inn where we were able to climb onto a large ceiba tree.
For hours we would sit in the branches of that big tree, gossip about the boys in our classes—we were both attending the international school at the time—and, of course, smoke. If our parents knew about this, they were polite enough not to mention it.
Partway through the school year, we discovered it was possible to move out along one of the large branches and lower ourselves onto the wall surrounding the hotel, and thence to the street. We only did it a couple of times: smoking was about as daring as we got, but it was a great secret that we shared.
And so it was off with the lights at about eleven p.m. as if I’d turned in for the night, into dark pants and turtleneck and running shoes, then into the bathroom. I put the vanity chair into the bathtub as Isa and I had always done, and then hauled myself out through the window.
It was more difficult than I remembered. The window, regrettably, seemed to have gotten smaller over the intervening years, as had the ledge. And I was already more than a little tired of hanging out on ledges and fire escapes. But the tree was still there, its branches would still hold me, and within a few minutes I was over the wall, and moving as quickly and as quietly as I could along the darkened street.
In a few minutes I found myself at the Cafe Escobar. I inquired if anyone had seen Alejandro and, when the answer was negative, asked to use the telephone. I was directed to a pay phone in a dark hallway behind the bar and placed a call to my neighbor Alex Stewart.
One of the best things about the little Victorian cottage in an old Toronto neighborhood that I bought when Clive and I parted is the neighbor I acquired with it.
Alex is a dapper little man who spent thirty-some years in the merchant marine before settling into the cottage next door to mine. He lives his retirement years growing native plants—the other neighbors call them weeds—and supporting various environmental and social causes. In the first few months after I met him, he dragged me to community meetings on several subjects, serving me herbal tea on our return and telling me stories of his life at sea.
He is also, quite unexpectedly, a whiz on the Internet and spends considerable time surfing in cyberspace. I’m not sure if he adopted me or I adopted him, but he reminds me of my favorite grandfather, long deceased, and I adore him. In many ways he has provided me with an emotional lifeline through the turbulent times of the past year.
Alex is a nighthawk, and even with the two-hour time difference, which would have made it about one-thirty in the morning, I was reasonably sure he would be up. I placed a collect call.
He picked up the phone immediately and accepted the charges with enthusiasm, quite charming when you considered the hour and the fact that he lives on a pension. I felt better just hearing his voice.
We talked briefly about my cat, whom, to my surprise, I actually missed, and my little house—both were, I gathered, just fine—and then I got to the point of my call. “Alex,” I said. “You’re up on all these various causes. Have you ever heard of a group called Children of the Talking Cross?”
“Children of the Talking Cross, no. Followers of the Talking Cross, yes indeed! The history will be a little too recent for you, I expect. Last century, actually. You’re into much older stuff than this. But it’s interesting nonetheless.”
“Never mind the lecture on my lack of social conscience, Alex.” I laughed. “Tell me about the Cross.”
“I believe the miraculous Talking Cross first put in an appearance in about 1850 right in your part of the world, the Yucatan,” he began.
“That would be shortly after the War of the Castes, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “Just to prove to you that my knowledge of Mesoamerican history is not entirely restricted to the classical Maya period,” I added.
“Perhaps I have underestimated you.” He chuckled. “But, yes, you are right. As you and I have discussed from time to time, the Spanish conquest of the Maya was not in all respects successful.