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He greeted me first. “You must be my wife’s new friend. I’m delighted to meet you. And a colleague of Dr. Castillo Rivas, too. We were both much saddened by his death.”

I murmured something polite and then smiled at Sheila. She really did look lovely, in an off-white sequined dress. The center of attention in the room, however, at least as far as the men were concerned, was Montserrat. She really was stunning in a red dress that fit like a glove, very high heels, also red. Her dark hair was piled up on her head, and she was sporting diamond-and-ruby earrings and necklace, a present from Daddy, no doubt. Most of the men in the room were drawn to her like bees to honey. And one of the bees was Jonathan.

I think many, if not most, men look good in a tuxedo. Few of them, however, look comfortable in one. Jonathan was born to wear a tuxedo. In part, it was the air of confidence he was always able to maintain. It was also, if Isa’s musing was correct, practice. You probably get to wear a tux a lot if you’re a regular at Buckingham Palace.

He caught sight of me and pulled away from Montserrat’s cozy cadre. I noticed that her eyes followed him as he crossed the room and brushed my cheek with his lips.

“What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled.

“For me, too.” I smiled back.

“You look absolutely smashing!” he murmured, then: “Let me introduce you to some people.”

By this time there must have been about thirty people in the room. I spent the next hour or so sipping champagne and chatting with elite Meridanos—head of a bank, various political personages, the chair of the board of the museo, and a couple of board members.

Dinner was served about ten in the dining room. All thirty of us sat down at one table, if you can imagine one that size, under the chandelier I had seen on my first visit.

Don Diego Maria and Dona Sheila, as hosts, sat at opposite ends of the table, but Montserrat sat immediately to her father’s right. I imagined the seating arrangement reflected the dynamics of that household perfectly, Diego and Montserrat inseparable, Sheila a chasm apart.

I was seated on the same side of the table as Montserrat, but opposite Jonathan. Both Montserrat and he were being charming and witty. My built-in radar system, honed by a few years of marriage to a man with wandering eyes and a penchant for young women about Montserrat’s age, told me that some of this at least was for the benefit of each other, and I felt a momentary pang.

Get a grip, Lara, I told myself, and turned brightly to the dinner companion on my right, a Dr. Rivera, who specialized in conditions of the rich: liver disease, tummy tucks, liposuction, and the like.

The food was sumptuous, several courses too many in my opinion. Cream soup, salad, fish course, quail, beef, a cheese course, and a choice of desserts. A selection of suitable wines accompanied each, and flowed freely. A steady diet of this would make Dr. Rivera very rich indeed.

Then Don Diego announced that the men would retire to the drawing room for a cigar and some port. The ladies would return to the salon for a digestif.

“How quaint,” I mouthed at Jonathan across the table. He had trouble keeping a straight face.

I spent a polite half hour with the ladies, and as we went to rejoin the men in the dying hours of the party, I made for the powder room. It was occupied, but a server directed me upstairs to another bathroom. As I left I paused in the upper hallway to admire some of the paintings. They really were quite exceptional.

“So you enjoy art,” a voice behind me said. It was the host, Don Diego Maria himself, glass of port in one hand, cigar in the other. He must have seen me studying his paintings and broken away for a few moments from the rest of his guests.

“Who could not enjoy this? A Matisse, isn’t it?” I asked, gesturing toward the painting in front of me.

“It is,” he replied. “One of my favorites. May I tell you a little bit about it?”

I nodded, and he sat his cigar and drink down on a small side table and began to describe the painting in some detail.

There was no question that he was very knowledgeable. But what was truly extraordinary was the passion the man brought to his subject. As he spoke, his voice became a whisper. He may even have forgotten that I was there.

For him, I am convinced, the lines of the painting were like the contours of a lover’s body, the colors those of a beloved’s eyes, lips, and hair, the painter, the godlike being who had brought her to life. As he spoke he moved his hand across the surface of the painting, almost, but not quite, touching it, almost as if he was caressing it. For him to describe the painting was, in some very deep sense, to make love to it.

When he had finished he stood silent for a moment, then turned to me with an embarrassed smile. “As you can see, I’m a slave to art.” He laughed.

I smiled back. “You have an equally impressive pre-Columbian collection, I understand,” I said.

He nodded. “I like to think so. It’s one or two short, however.”

No one had dared mention the subject of the theft of his statue of Itzamna during the dinner, but here he was talking about it quite openly.

“Most unfortunate. I was there actually, that night, at the Ek Balam.”

“Were you? And what do you think of our Children of the Talking Cross?”

“I’m baffled, actually, as to motive. I understand no one has ever heard of this group before, and they haven’t done anything since, at least nothing they will publicly acknowledge.”

“My thoughts, exactly. That is why I am taking the theft so personally.”

“And why, presumably, you suggested to the police that Dr. Castillo was responsible.”

He looked surprised at my comment rather than annoyed. “Actually it was my daughter, Montserrat, who told the police about our quarrel. I merely corroborated what she had said.

“Frankly, if she hadn’t mentioned it, I don’t think I would have. Dr. Castillo and I had our disagreements over these works of art. But I do not delude myself. I know that people think he was on the side of the angels in these arguments, not I. It is, they think, a failing on my part that I wish to possess these things.

“You know, despite the fact that I’m on the board of directors of a museum, I often have trouble with some of the philosophy behind them. Almost eighty percent of any museum’s collection languishes in storage. At least mine gets seen by the public. You can argue that only a select group of people get to see these works of art in my home or my hotel, but it’s more than a couple of curators!”

“What about the research the museum does on these artifacts?” I interjected.

“If they want to do research on mine, they have only to ask,” he countered. “As to the idea of giving the artifacts to original peoples,” he went on, “do we actually think the Children of the Talking Cross are going to share their newly acquired piece of pre-Columbian art with their people? What nonsense! They will sell it on the black market to the highest bidder, a collector who, because it is stolen, will keep it hidden somewhere where only he can see it.”

I wanted to tell him the idea that Don Hernan espoused was a shared responsibility for an artifact between the Indigenas and the museum for the mutual benefit of all, but I knew there was no point. This was an obsession for him.

“You mentioned that you were one or two short. Have you lost another one?”

“Yes, about a year ago. A beautiful sculpture of a couple embracing. It was stolen from the house when I was away on business. Insurance covered it, of course, as it will the Itzamna. But in my heart”—he paused for a moment—“these things are irreplaceable for me.”