Dona Josefina, she of the mantilla, sat like a broken doll, all lace and wobbly gestures, in a chair suddenly way too big for her. Manuela sat beside her, trying to get her to drink hot lemon tea.
I felt very sorry for her. She was what I used to refer to in the shop as a high-maintenance customer, and she did expect to be attended to rather more than most.
But Don Hernan, I’d heard, had a way of dealing with her. Courtly, patient, he had been able to make her smile.
It was even rumored in that little community that she had set her sights on him—the younger man as her second husband.
Into this room awash with fear and loneliness strode Jonathan, with Lucas May shadowing him once more. Catching the mood in the room at once and seeing the two bright pink spots on Dona Josefina’s cheeks, he called for a restorative, Xtabentun, the Mexican anise liqueur, and Manuela was quick to comply.
Soon everyone was sipping the fiery liquid as Jonathan moved about the room talking quietly to each in turn. Within a few minutes they were exchanging their favorite stories about Don Hernan. Lucas placed himself beside Dona Josefina and sat quietly holding her hand.
Suddenly Josefina roused herself.
“He was onto something very important,” she said, her voice carrying across the room.
“Very important,” she repeated. “And I know what it was.”
All eyes in the room turned to her. But that was all she said. A look of fear crossed her face, as if for the first time she had realized that this very important thing, whatever it might be, might be sufficient motive for murder.
Lucas whispered something to her, and then Jonathan crossed the room and asked her what she meant.
But she shook her head, her lips compressed into a thin line.
I should have spoken to her right then, of course, tried to cajole the information out of her, but at this particular point in time, it looked as if the Ortiz family had everything under control. I knew I needed to talk to Dona Josefina, but not in this public place, and there was something I wanted to do first.
Jonathan and Lucas left the sitting room with me, and Jonathan asked me where I was heading.
“Back to the morgue,” I said. He looked startled, but gamely offered to accompany me.
We took the Jeep, and parked just down the street from the dreaded building. Much to my surprise, it was not difficult to get inside. I retraced our steps of earlier that day and soon found myself at the reception window.
The young man with the greasy tacos had been replaced by a thin young woman doing her nails.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I was here earlier today to assist in the identification of a body.”
She nodded as if this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
“There was a very nice woman, she was wearing a lab coat, and she was very helpful. I left without thanking her for her kindness, and would like to do so if she is here now.”
Jonathan looked slightly skeptical, but kept his opinion to himself.
“She’s left for the day.”
“Would she be in again tomorrow?” I asked. The young woman sighed, got out of her chair, holding her hands carefully so as not to damage her manicure, and too vain to wear her glasses, peered at a large scheduling chart.
“Not back for four days,” she said. “Flextime,” she added. I thought all time in Mexico was flextime, but I kept that opinion to myself.
But I had a name. Eulalia Gonzales. There was only one woman on the chart who had been in today, and wouldn’t be back for four days.
“Gracias,” I said, and Jonathan and I headed back up to the entrance.
“What was that all about, may I ask?” he said as we left that horrible building to breathe real air again.
“I wanted to ask her for more information about what happened to Don Hernan,” I said.
“Shouldn’t this be left to the police?”
“I have a bad feeling about Martinez’s investigation of this case. I think in his haste to wrap up a high-profile case like this one—Don Hernan has, after all, an international reputation in his field—he’s prepared to overlook some discrepancies.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the scene of the crime. About as basic a detail as you can get, wouldn’t you say? When we went to identify the body, Martinez said that Don Hernan was probably killed in his office, but I don’t think that’s right. There was dust all over his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. You don’t get that kind of dust on you working at your desk. I got the impression Eulalia Gonzales didn’t think he was murdered in his office, either. Don’t you have to wonder why Martinez would insist that he was?”
“You may be being unfair to the police, Lara. Maybe Martinez just isn’t saying anything publicly. I’m going to take you back to the hotel. You should get some rest after this ordeal.”
Part of me agreed with him. In any event, I had another plan. So I let him drive me back to the hotel. On the way back, he reached over and squeezed my hand.
“When this all settles down, let’s keep that date we had for a day out in the country again, just the two of us.”
“Great idea,” I said, hoping he meant it.
I spent the rest of the day helping the Ortiz family make the funeral arrangements. The police had promised to release the body that evening, and the funeral was to be two days hence.
We all turned in early, exhausted beyond words. Dona Josefina had retired to her room before I had returned to the hotel. I did not see her that evening.
I set the alarm for three a.m., and it took me a minute or two to get my bearings when it went off. Then I was back in the black clothes. This was a task that required going out the window again. I did not wish to be seen leaving the hotel at this hour.
I figured the museo was less than a mile from the inn. Not wishing to flag down a cab, I jogged, keeping to the residential streets as much as possible and clinging to the shadows. When I reached the museo, I hid in the little garden at the back while I caught my breath. I could see no sign of police—no cars, no guards.
I still had the key to Don Hernan’s office, and since there was only one key at the hotel, I was reasonably sure it was a master. It was marked museo, not office, and Don Hernan had been executive director of the museo. I carefully made my way to the back door.
In a couple of seconds I was inside and moving up the stairs as quietly as I could. When I got to the top floor, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I could see police tape across the office doorway, but no guard was posted. The police work there had by and large been done.
I crept down the hallway. It was very easy to slide under the yellow tape and let myself into the office. I had brought a flashlight from the kitchen at the inn, and I did a quick sweep of the room. No eyeglasses. No cane. Only the sad chalk outline where the body had been found.
The diary, which I had dropped in my haste to escape on my last visit, was wedged between the window ledge and a filing cabinet, and had obviously been missed in a cursory police search. I grabbed it, and then retraced my steps, pausing at the museo door to make sure no one was outside before stepping into the plaza.
By four-thirty I was back in bed. But I did not sleep. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Up to this point, I’d been tinkering around the edges. But it was like trying to stick your toe into the water just above Niagara Falls. You could not help but be swept away. In this case, I found myself being pulled inexorably into a world of masks, a world of evil. Perhaps, I thought, I was about to live my dream of my first night in Merida, falling into the black world of Xibalba where the Lords of Death await.