Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “Could have been talking about the price of beans or a designer watch.” Cardenal smoothed back his thick coif and tapped his head. He had that perpetual look of amusement in his eyes, and Blanche guessed that he liked his work as detective.

  “Well, no,” Blanche said. “They were definitely talking about an exhibit, or something to do with the exhibit. Not a watch or anything.”

  “He could have been talking about that mummy,” said Haasi. “It’s gone now.” Each word struck with authority.

  He studied her. “Yes, I am aware of that,” said Cardenal. “I’d like a better description of events from you both, if you wouldn’t mind. For the record.”

  Blanche obliged, once again, describing the pink hair clip and bronze skin and the whole aspect as best she could remember. “In that conversation I overheard, one of them said not to tell the ‘boss’. Now who would that be? Seems pretty important to find out, detective.”

  “Yes, it does.” He cast a glance to the side. Blanche felt he was holding back.

  “And this. They also talked about the loan of the mummies to the exhibit.” She was foggy, and hung over, and nothing else seemed to pop up.

  “The real mummies,” said Haasi. “I scoped out the crowd. In fact, I identified you, Detective Cardenal, as a suspicious character.”

  He laughed. “I’ve been called a lot of things. Suspicious is all right. But I’ve been visiting these different museums and noting the crowds because of the art theft. Believe me, you two stood out as suspicious, too. Couldn’t miss the two gringas.”

  “Fair enough. But, listen. There’s something else I want to tell you,” said Blanche. “I met a young doctor last night …”

  “Congratulations. I’m glad you’re getting out and meeting the people of this great city,” said Cardenal. Blanche was struck again. Seems awfully hearty for a policeman.

  “Oh, it was great, all right,” said Haasi, ’til the sun came up.” She poked Blanche, grinned at Cardenal. “We had a wonderful time at Pillow Man’s, I mean, Eddie’s, in Tepequito. They mentioned you.”

  “Estupendo. They’ve been vendors near the plaza for decades. Good people, and generous. What you did for them—we heard. I’m glad you met him again, and María Carmen. And the young doctor?”

  Blanche said, “Yes, the doctor. That’s what I want to talk about.” She shook her head to loosen the cobwebs. “He told me last night about a woman. La Escandolera. A former medical student rumored to work for the mob. La Capa Plata? I guess she’s done favors for them. It’s a stretch to connect her to what’s going on over there with those mummies and the theft, but it’s worth a look. She has a reputation.”

  “We know of her.” Cardenal lost his humor. “Oleantha Flórez.” His brows knit in concern a fist clenched on the tabletop. “She’s suspected of all kinds of mayhem. And she’s hard as the devil to track down. The medical school has facilities scattered in different parts of the city, some of the labs near the Palacio. We’ll look into it.” He started patting the top of his head again. “Interesting.”

  Blanche suppressed a giggle.

  Haasi looked at her. “Are you still drunk?”

  Now Blanche was laughing, and Cardenal was lost in thought. The hand rested on top of the head.

  Blanche sat up. “No, I am suddenly very sober.” She eyed the coffee. The afternoon of the visit to the Templo in the main plaza snapped into memory. “Detective, we saw someone outside the Palacio yesterday, after we visited the ruins in the Zocalo. A woman. A very fancy one, picking up López and that blond guy, the director. Blusterberg?”

  “Ah, Señor Blussberg. We have been questioning him, and we’ve come up with nada.” Cardenal squinted at her. “Do you think you could identify this woman?”

  “She was a distance away, but maybe. Swept-back, shiny black hair, huge sunglasses. Gold bling.”

  “Not so uncommon in the city,” said Cardenal. “But La Escandolera. A real scandal, that one. We’ll check around for the latest on her. I’ll get her photo and ask you to identify her. Perhaps.” He stood up and wiggled his phone at them. “I’ll call you.” He bowed slightly. “Also, may I thank you, señoritas? You are most helpful in our investigation. I hope you will be staying on in DF for a while. At least until we can tie up some of these loose ends.”

  “Señor, I do not think that will be possible.” said Haasi.

  Blanche felt the mezcal fumes clearing from her head. “Detective, sir. Really?” A bubble of elation. Emilio! Mummies and thievery!

  “De verdad,” he said. “Truly. We have an eye on the Palacio and some other locations. Artifacts are still going missing. And this mummy business, and new details. ¡Dios!”

  He mumbled the last and was gone.

  Blanche scratched her head. “Well, that sort of does it. We need to do some digging. Pronto. And, I guess, settle into Mexico City for a while.” She shrugged and smiled at Haasi.

  Haasi slipped down in her chair. “Here we go.”

  “Here we go? We’re here.” said Blanche. “But first things first. I need a nap.”

  “You just got up.”

  “I know, but I’m having a poor spell.”

  “OK, get some sleep. I’m going to talk to the woman at the desk, see if we can get some kind of deal on this room. Then, think I’ll head over to the Zocalo for more photos.”

  Blanche groaned. “Maybe we ought to call Clint at the paper.”

  “Maybe not. Let’s just handle it. For now.”

  “I better get myself together.” She was still wearing the T-shirt and shorts from the night before.

  “I’ll bring coffee.”

  “And maybe a bun from La Ideal?”

  “This place is beginning to feel like home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  TO THE CASTLE

  Later that day, Blanche and Haasi waited for Cardenal to call with news.

  “It’s too soon, Bang,” said Haasi.

  “But it’s been … hours since we saw Cardenal.” Haasi was right. Chill, Blanche.

  In the meantime, they worked on the travel articles, but Blanche had trouble concentrating. She and Emilio had a date set up for the next day. She had taken a strong liking to him, and it seemed mutual. And on top of it all, he was somewhat unwittingly adding to the drama of the Palacio. Emilio had told her he’d heard rumors, and she was more than all ears.

  u

  The afternoon was cool as Emilio and Blanche sped down the Paseo de la Reforma toward the Bosque de Chapultepec on their rented bikes. The drive to the “Central Park” of Mexico City with Emilio was just the thing to clear her head if not give her a thrill to her toes.

  The wide Paseo was crowded with other bikers, walkers, strollers, skaters. It was Sunday. On one of the busiest streets in the world, all the way from the Zocalo to the park. Thousands and thousands of happy people milled around, up and down and across the boulevard, Blanche and Emilio among them. It was a block party like she’d never seen, and a far cry from sleepy Santa Maria Island. She’d been reticent to go bike riding, even slightly freaked out at first, but then they took off, and now she was elated at the freedom of speeding along on such a beautiful day. With Emilio!

  They stopped to adjust the straps on her helmet. “You’ll be fine,” he said, calming her nerves.

  “If the doctor says so.”

  “No major traffic. Just us on the Paseo.”

  “And a million other people!” She laughed. “Hope you know how to set a broken leg.”

  “No broken anything. Just stay close behind me. You’ll love it.”

  She didn’t doubt for a minute she’d love it. Seeing him again thrilled her. The idea to go bike riding, less so, but Blanche was intrepid, if nothing else.

  Haasi had gone off to the tourist bureau to chat up the young director, who had promised to get them freebies at local restaurants and material for the articles. Haasi was excited about the photos she’d taken at the Zocalo and the Templo, and she wanted more color. “And then
it’s my turn for a nap. I’ve been climbing ruins, running around the plaza. There’s so much, Blanche! Right here in the middle of the city.” Her face was flushed. Blanche had never seen her so happy. “I’ll see you later, or tomorrow. We’ll catch up,” she said, hugging Blanche and scooting out the door, camera swinging from her neck.

  Now Blanche and Emilio rode past the Monumento a la Independencia at a roundabout—with “El Angel” atop a column rising more than a hundred feet into the air. The gold statue was dedicated in 1910 for the one-hundred-year commemoration of Mexican independence from Spain, and, in later years, suffered a couple of horrific earthquakes.

  “Hey, Angel, here’s the other Angel,” Emilio yelled back at her. She laughed but kept her eye on his broad back, his legs pumping. She wasn’t leery any more about riding this bike in a city of millions. She had the hang of it. All thoughts of mummies and snakes and police whisked away with the breeze, though none of it was ever far from her mind. For now she’d concentrate on the view: Emilio.

  They passed under the lavender-blue canopy of jacaranda trees, past a row of vendors selling everything from leather belts and bags to tlayudas, an oval tortilla of blue corn topped with nopal and cheese. She could smell the cinnamon of camotes, the pressure-cooked sweet potatoes, a typical street food in Mexico City. It made her hungry, but not for food. She threw her arms wide, “Look! No hands!”

  Emilio turned. “Blanche!” The front wheel briefly wobbled. “You’re going to make me fall.”

  She smiled. “I wish.”

  Emilio led her up a steep hill toward the Castle in the park. The manicured lawn and bushes and ancient cypress trees, fountains, vast expanse of dahlias, sunflowers, ruffly hibiscus, holly, and philodendron with platter-size leaves.

  “It is amazing,” said Emilio. His arm swept the vista. “All of this out of mud.” Indeed, the Aztecs built their empire on lakes and canals. “We have a saying here, ‘Así es el fango’—‘That’s the mud for you,’ but sometimes it means good. Like this.” Once a sacred spot for the Aztecs, home to a French emperor, and Mexican presidents, the hilltop garden and Castle were now the site of the National Museum of History. They wandered the grounds and looked out at the city below. Blanche took in the most breathtaking view. “I can die now.” Her face was red and glistening, black curls escaping the helmet.

  “Please. Do not.” He put a hand on her cheek, and a line formed between his thick eyebrows. “You OK? Here, sit. I’ll get us some water.”

  Blanche went over to a patch of grass under a tree, her legs rubbery from the bike ride. She was more of a walker and swimmer. But it felt good to get the exercise.

  He came back with two bottles of water, took her wrist, counting beats, as he looked up into the tree branches. He grinned. “Yeah. I think you will live.”

  She swiveled her wrist into the palm of his hand and took a long swig of water. Nothing ever tasted so good. “I feel quite alive, thank you.”

  “You sure do.” He sat cross-legged on the grass, the V-neck stretched and damp showing off a well-muscled chest. Blanche could only imagine what the rest of him looked like, and, horrors, what she must look like. She’d removed the helmet and with it the topknot tumbled down. Her face was flushed tomato-red from the ride and, especially, from looking at him.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Where did that come from?” He laughed. “I’m old. Twenty-nine. You?” He clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. Not supposed to ask a lady that.”

  “Almost thirty-three.” She didn’t give a hoot about age. Her beloved grandmother Maeve was eighty-seven when she died, but to Blanche, she was seven or seventeen or just plain ageless. “It’s only a number.”

  “True. Some people don’t seem to age, or at least it does not seem to matter.”

  “What? Are you reading my thoughts now?”

  “Maybe.” He leaned over and kissed her on the ear. He’d been aiming for her cheek and missed. She laughed and turned her head, so she was staring right into his eyes. The darkest, warmest eyes she’d ever seen. She kissed him, and she knew she shouldn’t, but she did, and she was glad.

  What’s wrong with me?

  He put his hand at the back of her head and pulled her toward him. Then jerked away. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

  “I couldn’t either.”

  They sat like that, in the grass, holding hands, on the top of the hill, a place where heroes died, an emperor lived, presidents reigned, and flowers grew. On top of the world. The city below them, its misadventures and murder out of sight and out of mind. For now. There were things she’d wanted to ask, but they seemed to flit away with the ghosts on the hill.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HIDDEN PLACES

  Later that day, Blanche sat on her bed while Haasi paced back and forth with a toothbrush shoved in her mouth. The hotel manager had agreed— with prodding from Haasi—to give them a deal on the room. They were feeling right at home and bursting with stories about Mexico City.

  “Haas, I can’t believe Emilio. He’s wonderful!” Blanche stretched her arms over her head and almost fell off the bed.

  Haasi stopped walking around and pointed the toothbrush at Blanche. “Wow. You’re falling for the guy.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Have fun? But remember—you can’t put him in your suitcase. And by the way, Bang, how did we get so many clothes in those backpacks?” The floor looked like a tornado had struck the lady’s clothing department of Macy’s.

  Blanche continued her dreamy-eyed pondering of the canopy of ficus trees outside their window. “He says, let’s enjoy the time we have. What else can we do? Every day, every minute!”

  “Oh, boy. And it’s only been, like, a day or two. Like hours you’ve been together, in fact.”

  “Yeah.” Her expression was a world away from mummies, traffic accidents, art thievery, and the police.

  Haasi sighed. They weren’t dwelling on the fix they’d gotten themselves into at the Palacio. She gave Blanche a poke. “We have those passes to El Jardín for dinner. From Aracelli at the tourist bureau. Remember? Want to go? Could Emilio meet us?”

  “Emilio had to go back to Tepequito.” Her smile drooped. “We had so much fun on that bike ride. Plus. Get this. We stayed up at the Castle for a while, then went for a beer. He told me some interesting stuff. Including more about La Escandolera. We gotta talk.”

  “And eat.” Haasi opened a drawer and pulled out a silky black sheath about the size of a postage stamp. She eyed Blanche’s faded shorts and T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry, Haas. You must be starving!”

  Blanche leapt off the bed and grabbed a yellow dress with a flouncy skirt. It went over her head, sash tied. She splashed her face from the sink in the corner, still flushed red, eyes shining. The topknot had not been repaired. Black curls fell over her throat and down her back.

  “You look great,” said Haasi.

  “No, you.”

  “OK. Us. Let’s go.”

  u

  El Jardin overlooked the Paseo from the second floor of a French colonial-style building—left over from Carlota and Maximilian’s reign in the mid-nineteenth century. They arrived for dinner at a fashionable ten o’clock. Inside the door to the restaurant, a tall vase of pink lilies the size of balloons and branches of red berries greeted them, the scent a pungent mix with olive oil and garlic and bread. Sleek, dark-haired women and gorgeous men sat at white tables. Candles flickered. And in the wide, arched windows, city lights twinkled.

  “Wow, takes your breath away,” said Blanche.

  “Well, not your appetite, I hope,” said Haasi who was already perusing a menu near the entrance.

  The host seated them at a table near a window. An elderly waiter appeared noiselessly at their side, with menus, suggestions, and a warm smile. Blanche sat back and looked out over the tops of the trees with purple blossoms. Dreamily. “Jacaranda. Reminds me of Emilio. And our bike ride.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and stored away the memory.

  Haasi smiled. “Oh, Blanche.” She opened the menu and her eyes grew rounder. “You do have it bad.”

  “I don’t feel bad. I feel good. And I’ve got news.” Blanche leaned forward. “But you first. Tell me what you did today.”

  Haasi lowered the menu. “Blanche, seriously, there’s so much to do here. To see. It would take forever.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” she said, her fingers laced under her chin.

  “Oh, lookee! Couscous in cranberry and chapulines. God, I think that’s those grasshoppers again. And nopal cactus with pineapple and tangerine,” said Haasi.

  “I’ll pass but make a note of it for the daring travelers out there. Really, we should finish those articles.”

  “We are. This place is kind of fancy, but they have been so hospitable at the tourist bureau,” Haasi’s eyes skimmed the menu. “Thank you, Aracelli!”

  They ordered a Camus, and slowly sipped the smooth red wine with tones of chocolate and cherry. The skirt steak marinated in lime and chiles arrived blooming with fried pumpkin blossoms.

  Blanche hardly touched her steak. She swirled the wine and waited for a break in Haasi’s concentration on dinner. She’d devoured half a mango, most of her steak, and an avocado.

  Blanche took a sip. “Wow, this is going down like butter.”

  “Eat your dinner, Blanche.” Haasi grinned and forked the last pumpkin blossom. “From now on, I’m putting lime on everything.”

  Blanche shoved her plate aside and leaned across the table. “Listen! I’ve been mulling something over.”

  “Uh-oh. You did say you have news.” Haasi winced and tore a hunk of bread. “Shoot!”

  “Emilio and I drove past the Palacio on our bikes. Part of the old medical school is over there, some labs and offices in a rundown building. The school has moved most of the operation out. It looks deserted, but it isn’t. When we drove by, there was a light on and a guy coming out the side door.”