Time of the Wolves

by Marcia Muller

  When he saw me, Eduardo Sanchez stood up—not as quickly as his brother had, but almost indolently. Up close I could see that his fine features were chiseled more sharply than Gilberto’s, as if the sculptor had neglected to smooth off the rough edges. His hair was longer, too, artfully blow-dried, and, although his attire was casual, I noted his loafers were Gucci.

  Eduardo’s handshake, when Susana introduced us, was indolent, too. His accent was not so pronounced as his twin’s, and I thought I caught a faint, incongruous touch of the Midwest in the way he said hello.

  I said: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Sanchez. I see Miz Ibarra has been taking good care of you.”

  He glanced over at Susana, who was standing, smoothing the pleats of her bright green dress. “Yes, she has been telling me a story about a dog who dresses up as a person in order to get the fire department to ‘rescue’ a cat he has chased up a tree. We have not reached the ending, however, and I fear we never will.”

  Susana flashed her brilliant smile. “Can I help it if I forget? The jokes are all very long, and in this life a person can only keep so much knowledge in her head.”

  “Don’t worry, Susana,” I said. “I’d rather you kept the dates of our press releases in there than the punch line to such a silly story.”

  “Speaking of the press releases. . . .” She turned and went toward the door to the office wing.

  Eduardo Sanchez’s eyes followed her. “An enchanting girl,” he said.

  “Yes, we’re fortunate to have her on staff. And now, what can I do for you? I assume you’ve come about the Sacraments?”

  Unlike his brother, he seemed to know what they were called. “Yes. Has Gilberto filled you in?”

  “A little.”

  Eduardo reclaimed his seat on the edge of the fountain. “He probably painted me as quite the villain, too. But at least you know why I’m here. Those figures should never have been donated to this museum. Rightfully they belong to Gilberto and me. We either want them returned or paid for.”

  “You say ‘we’. It was my impression that all your brother wants is to see them.”

  He made an impatient gesture with one hand. “For a banker Gilberto isn’t very smart.”

  “But he does seem to have respect for your grandfather’s wishes. He loved him very much, you know.”

  His eyes flashed angrily. “And do you think I didn’t? I worshipped the man. If it wasn’t for him and his guidance, I’d be nobody today.”

  “Then why go against his wishes?”

  “For the simple reason that I don’t know if donating those pieces to this museum was what he wanted.”

  “You think your aunt made that up?”

  “She may have.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know!” He got up and began to pace.

  I hesitated, then framed my words carefully. “Mister Sanchez, I think you have come to the wrong person about this. It appears to be a family matter, one you should work out with your aunt and brother.”

  “I have tried.”

  “Try again. Because there’s really nothing I can do.”

  His body tensed, and he swung around to face me. I tensed, too, ready to step back out of his reach. But then he relaxed with a conscious effort, and a lazy smile spread across his face.

  “Clever, aren’t you?”

  “I have to be, Mister Sanchez. The art world may seem gentle and non-materialistic to outsiders, but . . . as you know from your work in films . . . art is as cut-throat as any other. To run a museum, you have to be clever . . . and strong-willed.”

  “I get your message.” The smile did not leave his face.

  “Then you’ll discuss this with your family?”

  “Among others. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and stalked out of the courtyard.

  I stood there, surprised he’d given up so easily, and very much on my guard. Eduardo Sanchez was not going to go away. Nor was his brother. As if I didn’t have enough to contend with here at the museum, now I would be dragged into a family quarrel. Sighing, I went to see if Emily had been able to put my call through to Metepec.

  The following afternoon, Lucia Sanchez sat across my desk from me, her dark eyes focused anxiously on mine. In her cotton dress that was faded from too many washings, her work-roughened hands clutching a shabby leather handbag, she reminded me of the aunts of my childhood who would come from Mexico for family weddings or funerals. They had seemed like people from another century, those silent women who whispered among themselves and, otherwise, spoke only when spoken to. It had been hard to imagine them as young or impassioned, and it was the same with Miss Sanchez. Only her eyes seemed truly alive.

  When I’d spoken to her on the phone the day before, she’d immediately been alarmed at her great-nephews’ presence in Santa Barbara and had decided to come to California to reason with them.

  Now she said: “Have you heard anything further from either of the boys?”

  “Oh, yes.” I nodded. “Gilberto has called twice today asking when the figures will be ready for viewing. Eduardo has also called twice, threatening to retain a lawyer if I don’t either return the Sacraments or settle upon a ‘mutually acceptable price’.”

  Lucia Sanchez made a disgusted sound. “This is what it comes to. After all their grandfather and I did for them.”

  “I can see where you would be upset by Eduardo’s behavior, but what Gilberto is asking seems quite reasonable.”

  “You do not know the whole story. Tell me, are the figures on display yet?”

  “They have been arranged in our special exhibits gallery, yes. But it will not be open to the public until next Monday.”

  “Good.” She nodded and stood, and the calm decisiveness of her manner at once erased all resemblance to my long-departed aunts. “I should like to see the pieces, if I may.”

  I got up and led her from the office wing and across the courtyard to the gallery that held our special exhibits. I’d worked all the previous afternoon and evening setting up the figures with the help of two student volunteers from my alma mater, the University of California’s Santa Barbara campus. This sort of active participation in creating the exhibits was not the usual province of a director, but we were a small museum and, since our director had been murdered and I’d been promoted last spring, we’d had yet to find a curator who would work for the equally small salary we could offer. These days I wore two hats—not always comfortably.

  Now, as I ushered Lucia Sanchez into the gallery and turned on the overhead spotlights, I had to admit that the late evening I’d put in had been worthwhile. There were five groupings, each on a raised platform, each representing a sacrament. The two-foot-tall pottery figures were not as primitive in appearance as most folk art; instead, they were highly representational, with perfect proportions and expressive faces. Had they not been fired in an extremely glossy and colorful glaze, they would have seemed almost real.

  Lucia Sanchez paused on the threshold of the room, then began moving counterclockwise, studying the figures. I followed.

  The first Sacrament was a baptism, the father holding the infant before the priest while the mother and friends and relatives looked on. Next came a confirmation, the same proud parents beaming in the background. The figure of the bride in the wedding ceremony was so carefully crafted that I felt if I reached out and touched her dress, it would be the traditional embroidered cotton, rather than clay. The father smiled broadly as he gave her away, placing her hand in that of the groom.

  The other two groupings were not of joyous occasions. Extreme unction—The Last Rites—involved only the figure of the former bride on her deathbed and the priest, oddly offering her the final communion wafer. And the last scene—Penance—was not a grouping either, but merely the figure of a man kneeling in the confessional, the priest’s face showing dimly through the grille. Logically the order of these two scenes should have been reversed, but Sanchez’s written instructions for setting them up had indicated it
should be done in this order.

  Lucia Sanchez circled the room twice, stopping for a long time in front of each of the scenes. Then, looking shaken, she returned to where I stood near the door and pushed past me into the courtyard. She went to the edge of the fountain and stood there for a long moment, hands clasped on her purse, head bowed, staring into the splashing water. Finally I went up beside her and touched her arm.

  “Miss Sanchez,” I said, “are you all right?”

  She continued staring down for about ten seconds, then raised agonized eyes to mine. “Miss Oliverez,” she said, “you must help me.”

  “With the possibility of a lawsuit? Of course. . . .”

  “No, not just the lawsuit. That is not really important. But I do ask your help with this . . . Gilberto and Eduardo must never see those figures. Never, do you understand? Never!”

  At nine o’clock that evening, I was sitting in the living room of my little house in Santa Barbara’s flatlands, trying to read a fat adventure novel Susana had loaned me. It was hot for late September, and I wore shorts and had the windows open for cross-ventilation. An hour before the sound of the neighbors’ kids playing kickball in the street had been driving me crazy; now everything seemed too quiet.

  The phone hadn’t rung once all evening. My current boy friend—Dave Kirk, an Anglo homicide cop, of all things—was mad at me for calling off a tentative date the previous evening so I could set up the Sanchez Sacraments. My mother, who usually checked in at least once a day to make sure I was still alive and well, was off on a cruise with her seventy-eight-year-old boy friend. Although her calls normally made me think a move to Nome, Alaska, would be desirable, now I missed her and would have liked to hear her voice.

  I also would have liked to talk out the matter of the Sanchez Sacraments with her. Mama had a keen intelligence and an ability to see things sometimes I’d missed that were right under my nose. And in the case of the Sacraments, I was missing something very important. Namely why Lucia Sanchez was so adamant that neither of her great-nephews should ever view the figures.

  Try as I might, I hadn’t been able to extract the reason from her that afternoon. So, perversely, I hadn’t promised that I would bar the brothers from the gallery. I honestly didn’t see how I could keep them away from a public exhibit, but perhaps, had I known Lucia’s reason, I might have been more willing to find a way. As it was, I felt trapped between the pleas of this woman, who I liked very much, and the well-reasoned request of Gilberto. And on top of that, there was the fear of a lawsuit over the Sacraments. I hadn’t been able to talk to the museum’s attorney—he was on vacation—and I didn’t want to do anything, such as refusing the brothers access to the exhibit, which would make Eduardo’s claim against us stronger.

  I shifted on the couch and propped my feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. I gave the novel a final cursory glance, sighed, and tossed it aside. Susana and I simply did not have the same taste in fiction. There was a Sunset magazine that she had also given me on the end table. Normally I wouldn’t have looked at a publication that I considered aimed at trendy, affluent Anglos, but now I picked it up and began to thumb through it. I was reading an article on outdoor decking—ridiculous, because my house needed a paint job far more than backyard beautification—when the phone rang. I jumped for it.

  The caller was Lucia Sanchez. “I hope I am not disturbing you by calling so late, Miss Oliverez.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I wanted to tell you that I had dinner with Gilberto and Eduardo. They remain adamant about seeing the Sacraments.”

  “So Eduardo now wants to see them, also?”

  “Yes. I assume so he can assess their value.” Her tone was weary and bitter.

  I was silent.

  “Miss Oliverez,” she said, “what can we do?”

  I felt a prickle of annoyance at her use of the word “we”. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do. I, however, can merely stall them until I speak with the museum’s attorney. But I think he’ll merely advise me to let them see the figures.”

  “That must not be!”

  “I don’t know what else to do. Perhaps if I knew your reason. . . .”

  “We have discussed that before. It is a reason rooted in the past. I wish to let the past die, as my brother died.”

  “Then there’s nothing I can do but follow the advice of our lawyer.”

  She made a sound that could have been a sob, and abruptly hung up. I clutched the receiver, feeling cruel and tactless. The woman obviously had a strong reason for what she was asking, so strong that she could confide in no one. And the reason had to be in those figures. Something I could see but hadn’t interpreted. . . .

  I decided to go to the museum and take a close look at the Sanchez Sacraments.

  The old adobe building that housed the museum gleamed whitely in its floodlights. I drove around and parked my car in the lot, then entered by the loading dock, resetting the alarm system behind me. After switching on the lights, I crossed the courtyard—silent now, the fountain’s merry tinkling stilled for the night—and went into the special exhibits gallery.

  The figures stood frozen in time—celebrants at three rites and sufferers at two others. I turned up the spots to full beam and began with the baptismal scene.

  Father, mother, aunts and uncles, and cousins and friends. A babe in arms, white dress trimmed with pink ribbons. Priest, the one with the long jaw and dour lines around his mouth. Father was handsome, with chiseled features, reminiscent of the Sanchez brothers. Mother, conventionally pretty. All the participants had the wonderfully expressive faces that had been Adolfo Sanchez’s trademark. Many reminded me, as Lucia had initially, of my relatives from Mexico.

  Confirmation. Daughter kneeling before the same priest. Conventionally pretty, like her mother who looked on. Father proud, hand on wife’s shoulder. Again, the relatives and friends.

  Wedding ceremony. Pretty daughter grown into a young woman. Parents somewhat aged, but prouder than ever. Bridegroom in first flush of manhood. Same family and friends and priest—also slightly aged.

  So far I saw nothing but the work of an exceptionally talented artist who deserved the international acclaim he had received.

  Deathbed scene. Formerly pretty daughter, not so much aged as withered by illness. No family, friends. Priest—the different one, bearded, his features wracked with pain as he offered the communion wafer. The pain was similar to that in the dying woman’s eyes. This figure had disturbed me. . . .

  I stared at it for a minute, then went on.

  Penance. A man, his face in his hands. Leaning on the ledge in the confessional, telling his sins. The priest—the one who had officiated at the first joyful rites—was not easily visible through the grille, but I could make out the look of horror on his face that I had first noted when I unpacked the figure.

  I stared at the priest’s face for a long time, then went back to the deathbed scene. The other priest knelt by the bed. . . .

  There was a sudden, stealthy noise outside. I whirled and listened. It came again, from the entryway. I went out into the courtyard and saw light flickering briefly over the little windows to either side of the door.

  I relaxed, smiling a little. I knew who this was. Our ever-vigilant Santa Barbara police had noticed a light on where one should not be and were checking to make sure no one was burglarizing the museum. This had happened so often—because I worked late frequently—that they didn’t bother to creep up as softly as they might. If I had been a burglar, by now I could have been in the next county. As it was, I’d seen so much of these particular cops that I was considering offering them an honorary membership in our museum society. Still, I appreciated their alertness. With a sigh, I went back and switched out the spots in the gallery, then crossed the courtyard to assure them all was well.

  A strong breeze came up around three in the morning. It ruffled the curtains at my bedroom window and made the single sheet covering
me inadequate. I pulled it higher on my shoulders and curled myself into a ball, too tired to reach down to the foot of the bed for the blanket. In moments I drifted back into a restless sleep, haunted by images of people at religious ceremonies. Or were they people? They stood too still, their expressions were too fixed. Expressions—of joy, of pain, of horror. Pain . . . horror. . . .

  Suddenly the dream was gone and I sat up in bed, remembering the one thing that had disturbed me about Adolfo Sanchez’s deathbed scene—and realizing another. I fumbled for the light, found my robe, and went barefooted into the living room to the bookcase where I kept my art library. Somewhere I had that book on Adolfo’s life and works, the one I’d bought when the Sacraments had been donated to the museum. I’d barely had time to glance through it again.

  There were six shelves, and I scanned each impatiently. Where was the damned book anyway? Then I remembered it was at the museum; I’d looked through it in the basement the other day. As far as I knew, it was still on the worktable.

  I stood, clutching my robe around me, and debated going to the museum to get the book. But it was not a good time to be on the streets alone, even in a relatively crime-free town like Santa Barbara, and, besides, I’d already alarmed the police once tonight. Better to look at the book when I went in at the regular time next morning.

  I went back to bed, pulling the blanket up, and huddled there, thinking about death and penance.

  I arrived at the museum early next morning—at eight o’clock, an hour before my usual time. When I entered the office wing, I could hear a terrific commotion going on in the central courtyard. People were yelling in Spanish, all at once, not bothering to listen to one another. I recognized Susana’s voice, and thought I heard Lucia Sanchez. The other voices were male, and I could guess they belonged to the Sanchez brothers. They must have used some ploy to get Susana to let them in this early.