She turned to Oleantha and held up the echinacea, winter cherry, and voodoo lily.
“Interesting,” said Oleantha. “Those are snake bite cures. You weren’t planning on taking a walk in the Sonoran Desert, were you?”
“Well, no.” Blanche held the packets tentatively, put them down, and picked them up again. She seemed drawn to that shelf, probably due to a fascination with snakes. “You have a lot of snakes in Mexico?”
“Oh, yes, the usual rattler and fer-de-lance. Then the corals and various pit vipers. I don’t think you’ll find them in the city.”
“Snakes are everywhere,” Blanche said. She drew out a wad of pesos and bought all the snake bite cures. “For souvenirs. Or insurance?”
“Señorita, you are safe here. Just keep your eyes open.”
The comment was sobering. Blanche studied the doctor, for more than a couple of heartbeats.
“Souvenirs? I think I’d select a hand-woven basket, or some nice embroidery,” said Oleantha. “The Nahua make lovely linens.”
“I’ll have to do that,” said Blanche. She pocketed the change and stuck the herbs in her bag. Oleantha turned back to her ledgers, trying to signal how busy she was. But the girl didn’t move.
“Tell me, how long have you been here?” Blanche was smiling, her sandals planted near Oleantha’s desk, and she didn’t appear to be ready to leave. She was winsome. Engaging.
Despite all, Oleantha couldn’t resist. She loved to talk about herself and her many talents. She sat down at her desk and gestured to a small bench. Blanche sat. “I’m really a doctor,” she said. She glanced at a certificate with florid gold writing hanging on the wall. Blanche squinted at it, but it was long, involved, and in Spanish.
“What kind of doctor? Alternative medicine?”
“I guess you could say that. Yes, alternative.” Oleantha nodded, and Blanche waited while the doctor filled in. “I do some surgery, some private practice. But my love is this clinic. This ancient art.”
“Wow.” Blanche’s expression was enrapt. Maybe just a bit too much. “Where did you study? Your English is so fine, and I’m so glad because my Spanish is so bad.”
“We study English here from a very young age. I also studied in the United States. And London.”
“Hmmm. Do you know any doctors here? From medical school? Do you work with other doctors?” Her question was super casual, but there was an intensity about her. She sniffed the packet of voodoo lily. A basket of dried leaves and berries on Oleantha’s desk emitted a spicy fragrance. She closed her eyes. ¡Mierda! Always with the questions. The doctor flinched, but then she laughed nervously. “Many questions. Why are you interested in medical schools? And the doctors here? Are you thinking of studying in Mexico?”
Oleantha’s thoughts raced like a rat in a cage to El Patrón’s plans for Doctor Emilio. She wasn’t exactly sure what those plans were, and El Patrón made sure of that. No one was ever really in his tangled loop. It made her nervous. She hated the least bit of loss of control. She had some vague idea that El Patrón wanted to use the young doctor for some nefarious scheme. For what, she could only guess. There seemed to be no end to the scrapes and wounds and amputations that El Patrón’s band of crazies came up with. She’d have to sit on this situation and see how things played out. El Patrón was a wily one.
How strange all of this talk was now, but there were very few coincidences in the world. Things happened for a reason.
She stood up, straightened her tight knit skirt and silk blouse with the bell sleeves. Caught a glimpse of herself in the wall of mirrors behind the glass shelves. Fabulosa.
Enough already with the chitchat. It was time to get rid of the girl. She was about to speak when Blanche of the green eyes behind the cat-eye glasses smiled and leaned forward, all ears.
“I’m not interested in medical studies,” she said. “But I am interested in your amazing practice.”
“Here it is.” Oleantha was uncomfortable, and she couldn’t exactly put her finger on why. The girl was intense, yes, and nosy. Oleantha loved the attention, but she decided to turn the table. “Tell me about your visit here. How do you like El Distrito? What have you been doing here?”
Blanche slapped her knees. “What haven’t we been doing! Eating. Walking. Admiring the amazing wealth of art. I wish we could stay. On and on.”
“What is your favorite?”
“The murals, and the wonderful paintings. Rivera and Tamayo and Siguerios and Kahlo. So beautiful … And the food! Well, my cousin is the real eater between the two of us.”
Oleantha’s thoughts jumped ahead, caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment. “Have you tasted barbacoa?”
“You mean, barbecue? Like steaks and hot dogs on the grill?”
Now Oleantha laughed. “Ah, no. Not exactly. In Mexico, the barbacoa is a ceremony.”
“Well, for us we get the lighter fluid and charcoal going and slap those doggies down.”
Oleantha’s eyebrows shot up. She laughed. “The doggies down? Hmmm.”
“Yeah, we love hot dogs, hamburgers, that sort of thing.”
Oleantha was more amused than she wanted to admit. And now she was about to open her mouth and put her five-inch Louboutin into it. “You must come to the barbacoa,” she blurted. “We will do the head of a goat. Or two. It’s delicioso!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
IN THE PIT
“How in the hell did you manage that—you and La Escandolera chatting it up?” Haasi was incredulous. She and Blanche sat in a bistro off the Paseo. Blanche had just left Oleantha’s clinic in the fashionable La Condesa area of the city and met up with Haasi. She’d been sorting photos on her camera while Blanche finished snooping. Now she was devouring a torta, a glorious Mexican sandwich piled with meats, tomato, lettuce, jalapeños, avocado, and dripping with refried beans and melted cheese. The bread had been dipped in hot sauce and the whole thing served warm.
Blanche was glad Haasi was enjoying the sandwich, but she wasn’t hungry. She was too excited. “I can’t believe how lucky we are.”
“Or unlucky?”
“Haas, you know I was digging. You just know she’s involved. Somehow. And now this!”
“Now what?”
“We actually have an invitation to El Patrón’s. For a barbacoa!”
“What’s that? Sounds like barbecue. I’m in.”
“It is, a Mexican barbecue, not exactly hamburgers and hot dogs, I’m figuring. I’m just dying to get out there.”
“Wish you wouldn’t say that.” Haas picked up an errant jalapeño and stuck it in her mouth. “It does seem unbelievable. When is this happening?”
“Tomorrow around noon? This is perfect. Maybe we can get a clue about Emilio’s whereabouts. If they have him… She said she’d send a car around to pick us up. If we wanted.”
“Nuh-uh. We get our own wheels. I don’t trust her, or that whole bunch, and I don’t want them coming around our hotel. I’ll pick up a rental again.”
“I’m glad I kept the wig. I’m sort of getting used to it.”
Haasi shoved the plate aside and put her chin in her hands. “I don’t know, Blanche. You look like Scarlett Johansson on the verge of an explosion in that thing. I want my Blanche back.”
“I’m here.”
u
They left the café and zigzagged back to the hotel, passing Alameda Park, the French neo-Gothic Iglesia de San Francisco (on the site of Mexico’s first convent in 1524), and the stunning House of Tiles with its dazzling iron grillwork. They stopped at the Torre Latinoamericana, a sort of “Empire State Building,” rising modern and shining with glass and steel in the middle of a historic street corner. Blanche was madly taking notes, catching up on the travel writing. Haasi put a dollar in the tip jar of a silver-painted Michael Jackson mime. “I need a cream puff,” she said.
After a stop at a pastelería for the cream puff—and a sugary bun and an almond-filled crescent—they ended up back on the hotel patio. To plan.
Blanche sipped a Modelo; Haasi was blissfully nibbling at the crescent. The travel articles sat on the back burner while they brainstormed their invitation to the barbacoa.
“Let’s be flexible,” said Haasi. “And careful. We can’t be running off into different parts of the hacienda.”
“Stick together,” Blanche said. It was the only rule that Gran had insisted upon during those long wild years growing up on the island. Lord knows, she and Jack, and later, Haasi, would have been in a world of hurt if they hadn’t.
They talked long into the evening, strategizing, to figure out how to handle the visit to El Patrón’s. The empty Modelo bottles seemed to sprout from the patio stones.
“I have no idea what we’re going to do when we get in there,” said Blanche. Her legs were tucked under her, and the curls were a fright.
“Well, that’s a start. A clean slate. Of sorts,” said Haasi. “But I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
u
Blanche and Haasi knew the location of the barbacoa—El Patrón’s hacienda. The occasion was a long-planned fiesta to honor several art aficionados of Mexico City. Indeed, Oleantha told Blanche it was “an opportunity to celebrate Mexican art.” It all seemed so aboveboard. Blanche was wondering if the fiesta was also a thank-you celebration for the treasures the doctor and her compadres had lifted from the museums and cultural centers. She had no way of knowing. But she was going to give it a good once-over and hoped she lived to tell about it. She still hadn’t heard from Cardenal with an update on Emilio or the Palacio. She was more worried by the day. She needed to do something. Cardenal had gone silent again.
u
Oleantha wore a long skirt with crocheted tiers and an enormous rose in her hair. Blanche stole a look at her feet. Sensible gold espadrilles. Just the outfit to wear on a sunny afternoon to a barbecue with art thieves and murderers. Blanche was wearing her blonde wig, the cat-eye glasses, and a new thrift-store find, a tight 40s chambray dress with tucks on the bodice and a flared skirt sprinkled with tiny daisies. She looked like she’d escaped from a Bette Davis movie. Haasi had redone her long black braids, tucked it into a pageboy of sorts, with a red-ribbon headband. She wore dark glasses, and black leggings with a belted shirt.
Oleantha air-kissed them both—on both cheeks—and led them through the patio and out a set of French double doors. “¡Ven, señoritas! I will send you drinks. ¿Cervezas, tequila?” She was tripping along, snapping her fingers at a young woman carrying a silver tray, waving to a man in a large white cowboy hat.
Haasi and Blanche followed. “¿Cervezas? Ah, gracias,” said Blanche. She’d never met a beer she didn’t like. Oleantha flitted off, and Haasi and Blanche stood alone, suspended in a sort of dreamscape.
The scene was a blast to the eye after all the dust and scrubland they’d driven through. A white tent strung with lights and greenery opened to a buffet table loaded with silver service and a long bar where the bartender sailed back and forth clinking glasses and bottles; linen-covered tables and upholstered chairs dotted a wide, elevated plank deck, polished to a honey-hued gloss. Six-foot tapered rose bushes in a riot of colors straight out of Alice in Wonderland were arranged on the deck, around the tent, and on the white gravel path from the house. Off to the right a cluster of men, mostly in Western shirts and boots, stood around a pit. They were stocky and wore knives on their belts. A wisp of smoke rose from the ground.
Haasi was right behind Blanche, holding the back of her arm. “Let’s do this.”
“Do you see those kidnapping goons anywhere?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean they’re not here. Somewhere. Keep your face turned away.”
Easier said than done. Blanche realized her blonde wig was a beacon. All of the men stared at the arrival of the two señoritas. Well, too late for the low profile.
A waiter arrived with two ice-cold bottles of Bohemia Especial and linen napkins. El Patrón broke away from the group and approached Blanche. “Ah, delighted to see you, Señorita Blanche!”
“My cousin, Haasi Hakla.” They all shook hands in a round of spasmodic good will. Haasi’s face was warm stone. Blanche could feel her brain cells clacking as if she stood inside her head.
“I am sorry we have not resumed our interview. Pressing business,” said El Patrón. “Perhaps this week some time? I will be back in El Distrito.” A Mariachi band of horns and strings rose above the laughter and the shouting.
The fiesta was heating up. Blanche wished she were in the mood for some drinking and dancing. She tried to look calm and relaxed. “Oh, of course. I’ll contact you,” she said, quickly. “It was so kind of Doctor Oleantha to invite us. Who would have thought? The coincidence and such.”
“Sí. The coincidence.” His fingers went to the pointy goatee. The dark eyes, bottomless. “Now that you have arrived, please, come, see the barbacoa!”
The men broke apart, and Haasi and Blanche, their faces turned down, followed their host to the pit. The aroma of roasted meat was overwhelming, and Blanche thought she’d never smelled anything so good. Haasi’s eyes were shining behind the glasses. Waitstaff lifted the head of a goat out of the pit. It didn’t look happy to be part of the feast. The rest of it followed, wrapped in maguey leaves. “You see below, we have the maronga. With chiles. So delicioso. The blood drips into the pan to make this dish. You must try it.”
Blanche didn’t move, except for her stomach that was doing a somersault. She tried not to look at the goat. “How delightful,” she said. “A sort of blood pudding. Like the Germans do, in their sausage and such…” The Nazis. Oh, wow, I need to get a grip. Before I throw up.
“Señor, truly, it smells divine.” Haasi’s voice was low and even. Her eye went to a shovel stuck in a small hill of dirt off to the side of the pit. As if he read her mind, El Patrón said, “Yes, we bury the goat wrapped in the leaves for many hours over the low fire. The meat becomes tender. Here, you must try these other dishes.”
He led them to the buffet table. Blanche hardly recognized any of it, but the platters and bowls were labeled with florid writing on cards stuck in silver holders: nopal en su penca—paddles of cactus cooked with chiles, onions, garlic, shrimp, and chorizo; frijoles charros, a broth with beans, pork, and vegetables; Oaxaca cheese on burnt tortillas. “Good for digestion,” said El Patrón. “And this. From the ancients. Insectos in dough, wrapped in corn husks and cooked in lime water.”
Blanche looked around for a sandwich or a piece of cheese. “Fantástico.” She whispered.
“Tradition. I have a distant grandmother, you know, from Oaxaca. We serve our Mexican foods, and then, of course, the addition of the modern.” He touched the silver eagle clasp on his string tie. Just then waiters arrived with splendid fruit trays, most of which Blanche could not identify. There were tiny kebabs of skewered meat, mushrooms, peppers, and grape-size tomatoes, pinwheels of tortillas with fillings, jicama, radishes, and carrots curled like flowers, fried blossoms, and pastry cups filled with creamed seafood.
And there, in the middle of the buffet table, for all to see and greet, and gag over, was the guest of honor. The head of a goat nestled in leaves on a silver tray. Its eyes glazed over, the mouth suitably clamped shut in dismay.
Blanche took a step back.
El Patrón smiled benignly. “She—and other family members—gave their lives for a good cause. Don’t you think?”
“Try to remember why we’re here,” Haasi whispered.
Guests were starting to line up and fill their plates. It was a fine time to get lost in the crowd.
Blanche and Haasi had purposely arrived fashionably late, after the fiesta got into full swing. It was good cover for the real reason they’d come to the party.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE SHED
Blanche grabbed a plate, helped herself to some nopal, and promptly scooted it aside. She remembered its gluey consistency now—sort of like the okra that Gran cooked in jambalaya, and Blanche had only managed to tolerate growing up.
She selected some fruit and a skewer of roasted veggies. She smiled and chewed. She avoided El Patrón and Oleantha and pretended to be enjoying the fiesta even though she didn’t know a soul in the crowd that milled in and out of the tent, and she could barely contain her anxiety. But she smiled and nodded, kept to herself. On the lookout for Haasi, who was gone on a mission. She was first up to do a recon of the house and grounds as best she could. It was to be a circular route, and then she was going to report back to Blanche, who would take a turn.
Step One: Should anyone ask, they were looking for the ladies’ room. Blanche noticed that staff was scattered in every corner. The first phase of reconnaissance might prove difficult. Too many eyes on them.
“Your turn.” Blanche jumped and a strawberry rolled off her plate. Haasi was back already.
“That was fast.”
“Just preliminary. I couldn’t get upstairs. Too many staffers hanging around, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe you ought to see about that kitchen again. You had your suspicions. Remember? And the dog? I don’t see the dog anywhere.”
“I’ll be right back. Here.” She thrust the plate at Haasi who stuffed a piece of melon into her mouth.
Blanche slid away toward the French doors, determined to have a good look around. There were so many rooms spread throughout the house, and she wanted to choose carefully. She remembered a flight of stairs off the patio, and found it, and climbed it to the balcony around the courtyard. She tried the doors. Four-poster beds, vases of lilies and roses, silks and satins and pillows like she’d never seen. Rugs that must have cost a fortune. No way Emilio would be stored away up here, she decided. Nor Oleantha’s mummies and stolen art. Blanche was deflated.
She raced back down the stairs and retraced her steps toward the kitchen. The rooms on the ground floor were open to guests with views of the festivities, and it wouldn’t do to waste time poking around there. Clutches of guests stood around with drinks, wandering drunkenly, swaying to the blast of horns. She slipped past them. She pushed the door open at the end of a long hallway into a near empty dining room, and there lying in a circular heap of reddish fur was Bella. She stood up and wagged her tail in greeting. Her sad eyes seemed to light up at Blanche’s touch. “Oh, girl, where you been? We’re having a party without you!”
Trouble Down Mexico Way Page 15
