Human Sacrifice

by Cindy L Hull

  Madge looked at Claire, her steely eyes steady on her friend. “You knew about this…problem…before Tanya blurted out her affair at dinner?”

  Claire turned to Madge. “I didn’t feel it would be fair to Tanya if I told others, but I told George as department chair.”

  “You knew?” Madge sat back, arms folded, and glared at George.

  Salinas said, “How desperate would she be to keep this knowledge quiet?”

  “Tanya might have confronted Paul, but if she had been responsible for his death, she wouldn’t have pursued her interrogations at breakfast the next day,” Claire argued. “Why not be quiet and let the accident theory stand?”

  Madge frowned and disagreed. “I think Tanya could have pulled that off if she had wanted to.”

  Salinas nodded. “So, it seems the evidence is stronger for the first scenario—that she saw something.”

  George asked, “But why not tell the police? Why play this parlor game and alienate her colleagues instead?”

  Claire sighed. “She was sending a message to someone at the table.”

  “Exactly,” said Salinas. “But who?” Salinas looked at the three anthropologists, then back at Claire, who looked away. “Well?”

  “That would mean Brad or Jamal,” Claire reasoned, “and neither of them had a motive to kill either Tanya or Paul.”

  George nudged his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat. “I know that Tanya wanted to be named curator.” Everyone stared at George.

  Madge’s face displayed intrigue and curiosity. “How do you know this?”

  “Jamal told me.”

  Madge’s eyes glistened, and small smile lines appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Tell us about it.”

  “Jamal came to me on her behalf,” George said. “Tanya wanted the curatorship and she expected Jamal to support her in her request. He knew that I had no intention of hiring her but felt obligated to approach me. I informed him that when you decided to step down, there would be a search for your replacement, and that Tanya could apply at that time.”

  Madge asked, “What did Jamal say?”

  “Nothing. He wanted to be able to tell Tanya that he had talked to me, and that I had held firm in my support for you.”

  “Did Tanya ever approach you on the subject?” Claire asked George.

  “No, so I gave it no further thought.”

  Salinas asked, “Did Doctor Kingsford know?”

  George fiddled with his glasses again. “I told him on Monday. I don’t think he knew.”

  “How did he respond?” asked Salinas.

  “He laughed. It confirmed his theory that Tanya had been manipulating Jamal,” George said. “I can’t imagine why Jamal would kill Tanya, and I can’t believe that anyone in the program would kill her because she wanted to be curator…”

  “Except me, perhaps,” laughed Madge.

  Salinas shrugged his shoulders. “I think these were crimes of opportunity, not passion.” He folded his hands. “Tanya heard Brad argue with Eduardo. Could she have been blackmailing either of them?”

  “She didn’t know Eduardo,” George said, “but I thought it strange that Brad went to her hotel room. He’s not the sympathetic type, and he seemed to be anxious to get to the reception.”

  “He had opportunity,” Salinas said. “Perhaps she approached him about the curatorship after all?”

  “She said she wanted to celebrate,” George said. “What did that mean?”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Madge said. “Brad had no reason to hurt Tanya. There’s no way he could appoint her on his own.”

  “So, we’re talking blackmail?” George suggested.

  “I have found that the personality of the victim often provides possible motives,” Salinas said. “I see two similarities between Tanya and Paul. They were both manipulative and they both collected information. Like Paul, Tanya kept a journal on her computer. It’s being analyzed as we speak. They both seemed capable of blackmail.”

  Madge mused, “Why did Cody insist Claire read the notebook?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Claire answered. “I think Cody wanted to divert Detective Salinas’ attention away from himself and place it elsewhere. Cody told me Paul collected information for a reason. For him, knowledge was power.”

  “I think Claire is correct,” Salinas agreed. “He knew or suspected that someone at that reception had killed Paul.” Salinas looked around the table. “I think he wanted to do his own investigation, and he is lucky to be alive.”

  George pursed his lips in thought. “Was there anything in the notebook that might be evidence for blackmail?”

  Salinas folded his hands on the journal. “Nothing specific, just lists of places and initials. He may have had more detailed notes on his computer.” He thumbed through the notebook. “Do the initials BS mean anything to you?”

  George shook his head. Claire said, “Madge and I wondered about that. We don’t know anyone with those initials.”

  Salinas opened the notebook to the photographs. “What do you think of the drawings?” George stretched over the table to look at the page in question.

  Claire pointed to the drawing of the corn god. “This is the statue Eduardo is donating.” Claire thought about how awkward Brad seemed when Eduardo presented the statue. “But Paul was already dead when Eduardo presented it to us. Why did he have a drawing of that specific statue?”

  “Indeed,” Salinas said again. “Did you recognize any of the other drawings?”

  Madge said, “We were called downstairs, and didn’t see the others.”

  Salinas asked, “If I make copies of some of the pages in the notebook, would it be possible to research these drawings and perhaps find information on their origins?”

  “Provenience,” George offered, “and provenance. These are two different but vital elements in archaeology. Archaeologists need to be precise about provenience, the detailed three-dimensional location where an artifact is found. Without proper recording of provenience, it is impossible to determine whether two tools were made or used at the same time, or hundreds of years later. Curators and collectors are concerned about provenance, the geographic location or site where the artifact was found and documentation that the artifact is genuine and has not been stolen or looted.”

  “I am not going anywhere today,” Madge offered. “I could do this.”

  George added, “I’ll work with Madge.”

  Salinas opened the folder to replace the notebook. As he did this, Claire glimpsed the packet of photographs she had given him Monday evening. It jogged two memories. She was about to speak when Salinas addressed the group.

  “I want to thank you all for coming today. You have been very helpful. I wish Madge and George good luck on your research projects, and Claire, please enjoy the trip to your village.”

  As they left the room, Claire asked Salinas to stay back, and they waited for George and Madge to leave.

  “I remembered two things…again,” she said, embarrassed.

  “Yes?” Salinas said. His cool response supported her belief that his interest in her was calculated at best, waning at worst.

  “After George’s talk, I saw Brad and Tanya together. Brad was carrying an envelope. I had the idea at the time that Tanya had given it to him, but I’m not sure about that. He put it in his jacket pocket.”

  Salinas asked, “What size?”

  “It was an 8 ½ x 11, but it was folded over. It fit into his sports coat pocket. It bulged, but I couldn’t tell what was in it. It’s probably not important at all.”

  Salinas shrugged, but his eyebrows furrowed. “How did they seem—angry, friendly?”

  “They were walking close, but I didn’t sense anything unusual about it.”

  “But it was unusual enough for you to mention it.”

&nbs
p; “The envelope caught my attention, and the unlikely scenario of him visiting her room. It just seemed odd. I think my imagination is getting the better of me.”

  Salinas said, “It might be nothing, but thank you for telling me.” He paused and touched her elbow lightly. “What else? You mentioned two things?”

  She told him that she hoped to get the Stuart’s photographs in the next day or so.

  “Bueno,” Salinas said. He hesitated and looked down at Claire. “I will be in Motul today with my team. It seems there was a suspicious death there yesterday and the local police are asking for our assistance. What are your plans for Yaxpec?”

  “I’m spending the night at my comadre’s house and then returning sometime tomorrow afternoon for Jamal’s presentation. It seems we have all but forgotten our reason for being here. I don’t want to let Jamal down.”

  “Could you meet me in Motul tonight for dinner? We could talk.”

  “I have already cut my time with my friends in Yaxpec short for this meeting, but I would like to talk to you too.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Claire’s car bumped along the road, optimistically called a highway, linking Merida to the village of Yaxpec. The scenery had altered drastically since her first stay in Yaxpec, when fields of henequen cactus, the green gold of Yucatán, connected villages and towns. Now, miles of scrub brush, interspersed with small towns and abandoned haciendas, lined the road. The highway improved marginally when she neared Motul, a growing city with a thriving central plaza. Beyond Motul, the road deteriorated again as she turned off the highway toward “her” village.

  As Claire approached Yaxpec she slowed, not only to avoid the perilous speed bumps, but to take in the village itself: how the houses had morphed from thatch to cement, how the main road had exploded with a proliferation of small storefront houses. Pedestrians stopped to peer into her car and wave as she passed. Children ran after her until their parents or older siblings called them back. She wished she remembered all their names. After all, they all knew hers.

  She paused at the village’s only stop sign, a mere suggestion, as the major traffic consisted of twice-daily, inter-village buses and a few private vehicles. She waved at Don Felix, his distinctive mustache now gray, who stood in the doorway of his store, Dos Hermanos Super-Tienda. Ahead, the town plaza took up a small block, a microcosm of the central plaza in Merida. After an elderly man on a rickety bicycle wobbled through the intersection, Claire turned left toward the house of her compadres.

  Maria and Arturo were close in age to Claire and Aaron; they had become friends during her research years. When their first child, Erica, had been born, they had asked Claire and Aaron to be baptism padrinos, or godparents. This meant that they would become compadres, or co-parents, to Maria and Arturo. Now, more than twenty years later, Erica was a teacher, married with a child of her own.

  Claire turned onto a narrow street lined with limestone fences. Memories of her fieldwork years with Aaron haunted her as she bumped down the same streets they had strolled together. Her compadres lived in a large, cement block house, their relative affluence marked by an indoor kitchen and bathroom. Arturo’s parents had shared the house with them until their deaths several years earlier.

  Claire pulled her two bags from the car and waited outside the limestone fence for an invitation, per Mayan custom. She did not wait long—word of her arrival in the village, if not the sound of the car engine, had already announced her.

  Jose, Maria and Arturo’s nineteen-year-old son, Jose, opened the door and invited her through the gate. “¡Doña Clara, Pase usted!” Come in.

  Claire opened the gate and entered the solar, the Yucatecan homestead. Papaya and fragrant orange trees provided shade for several chickens that pecked for bits of corn. Along the side of the house, pots of herbs and flowering plants lined the limestone walkway.

  “Jose,” Claire said in awe, “you are grown up…and so handsome!”

  Jose blushed and held the door open for Claire as she entered the airy living room furnished with a sofa and several chairs. A family altar filled a short wall, adorned with a framed print depicting the Virgin of Guadelupe and a collection of votive candles and photographs of deceased family members. The newest addition to the room, since Claire’s last visit, was a flat-screen television perched on a wooden cabinet.

  Jose led them into the kitchen where Maria and her younger daughter, Carmen, were preparing lunch, their major meal. Maria turned from the stove, smiled widely and wrapped her arms around Claire, enveloping her within the folds of her warm and ample body. Carmen, in her early twenties, hugged Claire after Maria had released her from her grasp. Carmen looked like a younger version of her mother and older sister, with high cheekbones and dark, expressive eyes.

  Jose took the bags from Claire. “Your clothes, Doña Clarita?”

  Claire laughed. “And gifts for later. No peeking!”

  A thick soup of black beans, squash, tomatoes, and noodles simmered on the stove, and a plate piled high with shredded chicken indicated that tacos were on the menu.

  “You are in time for almuerzo,” said Maria.

  “It smells wonderful.” Claire breathed in the aromas and fell naturally back into the Spanish language.

  Maria and Carmen continued their food preparation. Maria stirred the soup while Carmen diced onions and then chopped several jalapeño peppers, carefully scraping away the seeds. A wooden bowl of cornmeal beckoned Claire. She washed her hands and began to form the small balls that would be transformed into hot tortillas.

  Maria smiled as she watched Claire rolling the tiny balls. “Aye, you are a true Yucateca,” she said, pushing wisps of hair from her face with the back of her hand. She joined Claire at the wooden table and flattened the balls into tortillas of identical shape. Instead of a griddle perched precariously over the open fire, Maria tossed the tortillas onto a stove-top griddle. As they worked together, Maria bragged about Carmen’s new teaching job and Jose’s acceptance into an engineering program.

  Maria flipped the tortillas over with her fingers and watched them puff up into beautiful domes. She placed them into a tortilla warmer and covered them with a cloth, then started patting another batch for the griddle.

  She turned to Claire, whose mouth watered as she took in the rich aroma of the soup and home-made tortillas, “We have you to thank for our blessings. We could not have afforded to send all three children to college without your help.”

  “It was a small thing compared to our friendship,” Claire said, “but where is Erica, my ahijada?”

  As she said this, the front door opened. “Bueno!”

  Claire recognized the voice, quickly washed her hands, and hurried into the living room to greet her goddaughter, Erica, who entered holding a six-month-old baby. They were followed by Erica’s husband, Tomás, whom Claire had met during her last visit, just after Aaron’s death. Looking at Erica, now a lovely mother, Claire could not have been prouder had it been her own child and grandchild, yet she felt a pang of jealousy that Maria had a grandchild and she did not.

  “This is Clara,” Erica said, handing the child to Claire.

  “Clara?” Claire said, taking the child into her arms. “You called her Cee Cee on Facebook.”

  “We call her Cee Cee, but we named her after you.” Cee Cee smiled as if she knew the strange lady who held her, tears running down her cheeks.

  Tomás left to find his father-in-law while the women returned to the kitchen where they gossiped about the events—deaths, marriages, and local scandals—since Claire’s last visit. They placed the food and plates on the table as Tomás and Arturo entered through the back door. Her compadre hung his Detroit Tigers baseball cap, a gift from Claire, on a nail just inside the kitchen door. His clothes and body were covered with white limestone powder, evidence of his construction job. He smiled at Claire when he saw her. “Ah, mija, you
have finally returned to see us. We thought you forgot about us.”

  “Of course not, compadre. It is wonderful to be here again.”

  The social gender norms prohibited Arturo from hugging Claire, even in a familial way, so verbal banter comprised their social interaction. While Arturo washed up, the women filled the soup bowls, and Maria called Jose in from the backyard where he had been sent to scatter the scraps from dinner preparation to the chickens, pigs, and turkeys in the solár. A highchair materialized from a back room.

  Dinner discussion focused on Claire’s visit, her hosts mesmerized by her descriptions of the conference—especially the two deaths. Her commentary reminded Arturo that he had news of his own.

  “There was a murder in Motul Monday, but I just heard about it today.” Arturo stuffed a taco into his mouth, awaiting the response of his family.

  “Who?” María asked.

  “Benito Suarez. He had a souvenir store.”

  Claire paused, her soup spoon frozen in place. Roberto was in Motul, investigating a murder. And the victim’s name sounded familiar. She had heard it before. But where?

  “A souvenir vendor?” Claire asked.

  Tomás nodded. “He sold statues and other tourist items, but people say that he had a shady business, mal negocios, and that he might have been selling drugs. But who knows?”

  “That’s him,” Arturo agreed. “Do you remember him, Claire? He visited you and Aaron and tried to sell you artifacts.”

  Claire stared at her compadre, stunned. Suddenly a vision came back to her of a young man coming to their house, claiming friendship with Arturo. The man had explained how he came to have some small items that he could sell…no problem. He had taken several small shards of hieroglyphs and a broken statuette from his pocket.

  “But we never bought anything!” Claire protested.

  Arturo laughed. “No, and that was a good thing, I think. He was just starting his business, collecting small pieces, but he turned his attentions to souvenir artifacts. I heard he had a relative who made them.”

  “That was Benito Suarez?” Claire asked.