What was truly bizarre was the chest of drawers at one end of the room. This had been set up like a little shrine. The top of it was covered with a length of black velvet. A very old sepia-toned photograph of a young boy, presumably her lost son, rested in a silver frame on the velvet, along with a small silver baby spoon, a silver cup, and a bronzed baby shoe. The photograph was draped in black crepe. The remains of votive candles were stuck in a candelabra to one side of the photograph.
In the top drawer of the dresser wrapped in tissue was a yellowing christening dress and bonnet and some old wooden toys. It was as if the child had died, and perhaps he had, for all I knew. It was very, very sad.
While we were working Isa asked me if I had heard that there had been an intruder at the hospital where Dona Josefina lay. I remembered the police car from the night before but said nothing.
“Apparently someone was prowling the halls, looking in patients’ rooms,” Isa said. “The sisters didn’t like the look of him, so they chased him away. Or rather the mother superior did. I imagine being chased by her would be quite the experience!”
The thought of this brought a hint of a smile to Francesca’s face.
Isa cleared out the rest of the chest of drawers, which contained no more children’s items, but Dona Josefina’s black mantillas, fans and gloves, and what Isa described as some very extravagant black silk underwear.
I was assigned the task of clearing out the closet. Dona Josefina’s taste in clothing was fairly consistent. The closet was filled with black dresses, several long black skirts, and blouses in an old-fashioned Spanish style.
There were two boxes on the closet shelf. One contained a couple of very beautiful antique lace mantillas, both white, and some beautiful white lace gloves. And a gorgeous black lace mask, perfect for a masquerade ball.
The other held a scrapbook.
“Does anyone think Dona Josefina would mind if I looked at her scrapbook?” I asked as we finished packing up the room, this time for storage in the hotel, since Francesca said she had a feeling in her bones that Josefina would be back.
“I can’t imagine that she could care now,” Francesca said, so I took the book with me to the sitting room downstairs.
The first pages held a few cherished photographs of Josefina and her son. In these she was wearing white, as was her son. The black attire must have coincided with the disappearance of her son, not what everyone assumed was her so-called widowhood.
In addition to these photographs, Dona Josefina had kept clippings and photographs of people who had meant something to her. The more recent clippings were articles about Isa and her fashion business, or reviews of the hotel and Francesca’s cooking.
Somewhat earlier clippings alluded to Santiago’s distinguished diplomatic career. There was a small article from a local paper that told how the local high-school soccer team had made the play-offs, thanks to a winning performance by none other than Norberto Ortiz.
There were articles about Don Hernan and his museum, and a long feature on his work with indigenous communities to preserve Maya culture.
There were old dance cards, invitations to what looked to be elaborate parties and gala balls, to theater and gallery openings. Dona Josefina appeared to have enjoyed the good life in Merida, and I was happy for her.
There were several references in the papers to a masked mystery lady who attended a number of social events in the city, and I was reasonably sure I had discovered the use to which the elegant mask in the closet had been put.
Along with these mementos were several articles documenting the successes of a number of businessmen of Merida, many of whom would no doubt be embarrassed to know their financial and social exploits were being documented by what I guessed to be their current or former paramour.
One of the businessmen singled out for attention was Diego Gomez Arias, described in the early clippings as a young man on the way up. The earliest article talked a lot about his windfall in windmills, so to speak. He had apparently licensed the design to a large European and a North American manufacturer.
There were announcements of his various marriages, the birth of his daughter, the champagne launching of his first ship, the opening of his splendid hotel. There were a number of articles about the lavish coming-out party he had thrown for Montserrat, apparently the social event of the season.
Dona Josefina had been keeping close tabs on this man over the years, and I had to wonder why. She had to be at least twenty or thirty years older than he. Maybe she had been responsible for his sexual awakening, I speculated with some amusement. He certainly had a penchant for blondes.
Or maybe it was something else. I remembered her agitation when I had mentioned his name at the hospital. At the time I had thought that it was because she had known he was involved in some way in Don Hernan’s death. Maybe he was.
I thought of my earlier speculation as to his current financial status. I had thought at the time that even if the oil business were in the Dumpster, his other businesses would still be bringing in the cash. But now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe he was just keeping up appearances, as they say. And presumably his wife was well-off.
I would have to check into that in some way. He was one of my prime suspects, and I knew money was a very powerful motivator, although why killing Don Hernan would fix his financial situation, I could not hazard a guess.
I returned the scrapbook to its box, and put it with the rest of Dona Josefina’s things. I fervently hoped that Francesca was right in thinking she would be back to enjoy them.
For the rest of the day I made preparations for my escape. I borrowed a large shoulder bag from Isa and filled it with small necessities, toiletries, a change of underwear, my jeans and T-shirts, and a couple of things I thought I might need: a photograph of Don Hernan and a flashlight.
When no one was looking, I went into the boxes of Dona Josefina’s belongings and took out a long black skirt, a mantilla, gloves and fan, and finally the mask. In my room, I tried on my newly acquired Carnaval costume.
The skirt, which would have been floor-length on the diminutive Josefina, was well above the ankle on me. The skirt was full over the hips, thankfully, and the waist, way too small for me, had to be held together with a large safety pin. I planned to wear a black long-sleeved shirt on top.
I tried again to rest late in the afternoon, the shutters in my room closed tight against the sun. Major Martinez arrived at the hotel and insisted on seeing me personally to assure himself I was still there.
Darkness fell at last. I waited until the inn was totally silent, then leaving a note for Isa telling her not to worry, and asking her if there was any chance she could cajole Jean Pierre into using his banking connections to find out about Gomez Arias’s financial status, I climbed out the bathroom window one last time.
It was considerably more difficult in a skirt and carrying a large tote bag, but eventually I managed it. I waited until a couple of revelers went by, then climbed the wall and ran as fast as I could for the Paseo de Montejo, where I pulled on the mask and mantilla and tried to blend into the partying crowd.
While I had been fairly systematic pulling together my costume, I really hadn’t thought through a plan in any realistic way. I knew I had to rid myself of this knife before I lost my sanity, so I followed the crowds on the paseo until we were near the museum, then moved quickly through the side streets and then once again into the garden.
When I was sure no one was looking, I went back into the museo, filled with real dread. I went down to the basement as quickly as I could, into the fragments room, into Maria Benitez’s desk, and then her computer, to find the drawer I needed. Soon the knife—wiped clean, I hoped, of my fingerprints—was back in the drawer.