“The major shareholder is Gomez Arias, I take it,” I said.
“That is correct.”
“Are you telling me someone has come up with a better windmill?”
“Not only better, but cheaper, if the rumors are to be believed. And frankly there is only so much call for the product these days. The market, quite frankly, is a diminishing one. On top of that, some of the other investments are being adversely affected, to say the least, by the volatile peso. The companies are rumored to be in serious trouble. And whether the rumors are true or not, the stock market believes them!”
“I see. Did you happen to have a look at the boards of directors of the three companies?”
“Yes, I did. Other than the major shareholder and his daughter, there are only a couple of names in common. No one whose name means anything to me, though.”
“Company executives?”
“Same again.”
“You’re terrific, Jean Pierre. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Isa would like to talk to you again.”
Isa came on the line. I could hear Santiago in the background talking to someone, probably Martinez. The conversation was an unpleasant one. I guess Martinez had discovered I wasn’t there, and Santiago was bearing the brunt of his anger.
“Take care of yourself, Theresa,” she said. “Call me again as soon as you can.”
“I will. And thank you, Isa, and your whole family. I hope I’m not causing you real grief with that horrible man.”
“Nothing we can’t manage,” she said, and we hung up.
I made my way back to my table and sat there finishing my beer, listening as the country-and-western music blasted from the speakers. The waitress came around with a pot of coffee, and I had some of that, too.
As I sat there another baseball-cap type arrived and pulled up a chair at the table next to me. He began to excitedly tell his companions about the parade and the arrival of the federal police.
“You shoulda seen it. Guys in the parade all dressed like Indie rebels. Cops arrive. Obviously they think these guys are for real.
“Maybe they are, too. Just when I think the feds are gonna smoke ‘em, they disappear, vanish more like, into the backstreets, like the VC in the rice paddies. It was somethin’ else!”
The others at the table were impressed. One of them said, “You know, I’ve been hearing that there really are guerrilla groups out in the woods here, training for a big revolution. Called Children of the Talking Cross. Tied in with the Zapatistas, you know.”
All nodded wisely. I thought of Alejandro training in the jungle. Too much of a stretch for me. But I was glad the rebel revelers got away.
One of my neighbors headed for the jukebox, and some more hurtin‘ music came on.
I’m not a particular fan of country music. Normally I can take it or leave it. But tonight it made me homesick for my little house, my family, Alex, my friends, my cat.
I ordered a Xtabentun, the local liqueur, then another. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to be one unhappy drunk tonight. Nobody talked to me. This seemed to be the kind of place inhabited by regulars. Strangers like me were viewed with curiosity, but left alone.
I thought about the Ortiz family. They were risking much talking to me with Martinez standing right there, but they had obviously planned what they would say, and carried it off with great panache. They were wonderful friends to have.
I thought of the Gomez family, enjoying the good life, but for how long? Perhaps they were living off the Stratton family fortune. If that were the case, Montserrat might try being a little nicer to her stepmother.
Perhaps the thefts of the Maya pieces from the family collection were an insurance fraud. But why? It would be tough on Gomez Arias to give up any of his art collection, no doubt about that, but if times were tough, why not just sell a Matisse or two? That would provide enough to keep most of us going for quite a while!
But none of this was getting me any closer to finding what the rabbit wrote, only maybe a little closer to a motive for Don Hernan’s death.
Finally, about three a.m., I headed back to my horrible hotel, awash in self-pity. It had not been one of my better days. It had been Cib, a bad day in the Maya calendar, day of the owl, birds associated with the Lords of Darkness. The Lords obviously had had the upper hand today.
CABAN
I barely slept, when I did, I dreamed of enormous cockroaches heading my way. That’s what too much Xtabentun will do for you.
I got up early, and after another sponge bath in the sink in the room, the bathtub down the hall being absolutely unspeakable, I packed up my meager belongings and checked out. The clerk at the desk did not look at me as I handed over the key. Perhaps people who work in places like this learn not to scrutinize the clientele.
The streets were quiet, except for a few hardy souls out sweeping away the debris from the previous night’s celebrations. Most others would be sleeping off the night’s activities for several more hours.
As I stood on a corner a van pulled up, and a young man hurled a stack of newspapers in the general direction of a kiosk, then the van moved on.
It was the Merida paper, and while the kiosk was not yet open, I pulled off the top copy and left a few coins on the pile. I took the paper over to a little cafe where it appeared there might be someone prepared to get me some coffee, and opened it up while I waited.
The front-page story was still about the Children of the Talking Cross, but to my dismay, a lot of it was about me. A material witness had escaped custody, it said, and police were on the lookout for her. They even had my picture, a sad reproduction of my passport photo. Fortunately, I’d never thought my passport picture bore more than a passing resemblance, so I didn’t think I’d be recognized from that.
There was, however, a rather good description of me from the washroom attendant at the bus station, who told in graphic detail how she had found me in the washroom covered in blood. She told how she had helped clean me up, never once realizing I was a criminal on the run. The reporter implied I had acquired this in some unspecified, but clearly horrific activity, and there were some questions as to whose blood I might have on my hands.
If it had been someone else’s blood, I wouldn’t have required the iodine and Band-Aid, of course, but that thought had either not crossed the reporter’s mind, or it was a fact that interfered with a ripping good story.
In any event, I was described as the mysterious lady in black, and my attire was described in minute detail. If any of the guys at Pajaros read Spanish, I would be the topic of discussion at their table for weeks to come!
I still had a few hours to kill until the appointed time at the taxi stand, and while I didn’t know whether Major Martinez had figured out I was in Valladolid, I certainly couldn’t assume that he hadn’t.
I headed for the market area, usually a good place to get lost. The farmers, not influenced at all by Carnaval, were already at work selling their produce, and I just kept moving between the stalls as fast as I could.
I bought a straw hat with a large brim and pulled it down over my eyes. I was in jeans and a denim shirt, so I didn’t think I looked at all like a mysterious lady in black, just an ordinary tourist.
From time to time I could see police in the market area, but I just kept on moving, staying out of the bright sunlight, and trying not to call attention to myself.
About eleven a.m. I started to make my way back to the taxi stand, taking a roundabout route, and being careful not to rush around corners into the arms of the law.