I had lots of other things to do. This was Eulalia Gonzalez’s day back at the morgue, and then there was much research to do. I could, of course, do it the hard way, which was to go to the museo library, and plow through rows of neat little index cards and piles of books.
But I had a better idea.
First I headed for the Cafe Escobar. I scanned the room for Alejandro, but he was not there. Isa had told me that he had taken to his room after the reading of the will and could not be enticed down for dinner. Francesca had left a tray of food outside his door, and while he had had something, much of it had remained uneaten. He might still be there for all I knew.
I went to the back hall again, and placed a call to Alex. I’d called Alex from the hotel a couple of times in the last few days, to tell him what was happening down here. I told him about murders and morgues, he told me about the latest antics of my cat. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in all that I was involved in, but I think he probably thought I needed to hear about everyday activities to counteract the events I was encountering.
For this call, though, I didn’t want to use the hotel phone. These were strange times, and I certainly would not put it past Major Martinez to find some way to tap the lines. A pay phone, albeit in a public hallway, felt safer.
“Would you consider doing a little surfing in cyberspace on my behalf, Alex?” I began. “I need a little help with some research.”
“Of course!” he replied, as I knew he would. There was virtually nothing Alex liked better than a cruise on the information superhighway. “What might I be researching?”
“Books. To be specific, rare books. Books of the Maya. You can skip the Chilam Balam books. That’s not what we’re looking for,” I said, remembering the information I had gleaned from Dona Josefina. “Something really rare. The equivalent of a Gutenberg Bible, one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll get right on it,” he said. He meant it, too. I could hear the clicking of the computer keys over the telephone. He was logging on to the Internet even as we spoke.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. I don’t know if this is possible or not, but I’d like to check some credentials.”
“Names?”
“Lucas May, Diego Maria Gomez Arias, Major Ignacio Martinez, and”—here I paused for a second or two—“Jonathan Hamelin. The first one, Lucas May, is an archaeologist, Mexican, don’t know much more than that. Gomez Arias is a wealthy eccentric here in Merida— hotels, water, that sort of stuff, owns a shipping company, collects art—”
“You seem to know a fair amount about him right now,” Alex interrupted. “Anything specific you want on him?”
“I don’t know really. Just see if there is anything out of the ordinary. Martinez is with the federal police, and that’s about all I know, except that I don’t like him.”
“And the last one?”
“Jonathan Hamelin. Archaeologist. British. Cambridge University. Specializes in Mesoamerican studies. Isa thinks he’s to the manor born, as it were.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was asking about Jonathan for personal reasons, or as part of the research on Don Hernan’s death. I fervently hoped it would turn out to be the former.
“Got it,” Alex said. “For some of this I may need to go into one of the news services. Unlike the Internet, these aren’t free. How badly do you need to know?”
“Badly. I’ll pay any charges, Alex, don’t worry. Take it out of the house money, and I’ll send some more.” I’d left some money to take care of any problems with my house that might arise while I was away.
“Thanks. How will I reach you?”
“Telephone me at the hotel. If I’m there, tell me there’s a leak in the basement of my house or something. I’ll get the idea. I’ll call you back within the hour from another phone.
“If I’m not there, just leave a message that you’ve called about some minor problem with my house. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Right. I’m on this,” he said.
“And Alex,” I said, “be careful. You are searching for information on something that people may be prepared to kill for. So please don’t do anything that would draw attention to yourself. No speeding on the Internet, okay?”
“There are no radar traps on the electronic highway, Lara,” he said. “But I get your point. I’ll try to be subtle.”
With that we signed off, and I headed for the morgue.
I was getting to be an expert at finding my way around the hallways of this austere institution, and soon once again found myself at the little window. He of the greasy fingers was there, eating again. I asked for Eulalia Gonzalez.
“Who may I tell her is asking for her?” he said rather formally for a man talking with his mouth full.
I gave my name. It would mean nothing to her, but what else could I do?
He called someone, then pressed the button that unlatched the door and waved me in the general direction of two vinyl-covered chairs that would have looked more suitable in someone’s kitchen. I waited.
Shortly thereafter, Eulalia arrived. “I thought it would be you,” she said when she saw me. “How can I help you?”
I wanted to ask her questions about Don Hernan, but there was something in her manner, a stiffness perhaps, a worried glance in the direction of the glutton, that stopped me.
“I just came to thank you for your kindness the other day. We were all so stunned, we felt afterward that we had not acted appropriately…” My voice trailed off.
“Quite all right,” she said. “Not many people thank morgue staff anyway,” she added.
“Well, I was wondering whether it might be possible to buy you a coffee or something?”
A pause. “Sure, why not?” she said. I get a break between one and three. Meet me at the Cafe Piramide,“ she said, naming a little cafe in the market area.
“About one-thirty, okay?”
“Great, see you there.”
I had about an hour to kill, so I wandered over to the museo to look for Antonio Valesquez. A handwritten note taped to the library door said he would return shortly, but I waited fifteen minutes or so and he did not return. I headed for the café.
I got a little lost in the market, and while I still arrived about five minutes early, I came in through an entrance off the side street rather than from the front patio.
There were virtually no patrons in the restaurant proper. The cafe was obviously very popular, though. Everyone was seated outside in the sunshine or under the awning.
I scanned the crowd outside from the relative darkness of the restaurant. It took me a minute to recognize Eulalia.
At the morgue, she’d worn a lab coat and those white nurse-type shoes, her hair pulled severely back and no makeup. Here she wore her long dark hair down, and she was dressed in a black miniskirt, a fuchsia blouse, and black flats.
She was sitting facing in my general direction, talking in an animated fashion to a man seated opposite her, with his back to me. I hesitated, wondering whether to interrupt when the man leaned forward and squeezed her hand, then stood up and half turned in my direction.
It was Lucas. He bent over and kissed her, and she patted his cheek. Then looking up and down the street, perhaps for me, he disappeared into the crowded market.
I was completely taken aback. I’d hoped to get information from Eulalia, but now I wasn’t sure how far I could take this.
I thought for a few minutes. I suppose this could be a coincidence. They were obviously friends. And why not? So much in common, after all. She worked with the recently dead, he with those who had been deceased for centuries. How romantic!
Even under these circumstances I had to smile at the thought of their dinner-table conversations. This was assuming that he talked more to her than he did to me.