Darren followed her into the master bedroom, an enormous room with a peaked, beam ceiling. A king-sized bed with a wrought iron frame and an antique quilt spread dominated the space. There were two O'Keeffes, one over the bed, one on the wall opposite, next to a hammered tin Mexican mirror which rested atop an antique chest of drawers. A kiva style fireplace curved out of the corner, with a pair of leather-upholstered club chairs in front, and hand-knit rugs spread across the wood floor. The walls were white, hand-finished plaster, and two of them had huge windows with views of the desert on one side and the pool and patio on the other.
The dog bounded into the room and leaped up on the bed. "Hey Claud," she said. "Come here, pup." He flew off the bed, sliding on a rug, then jumped over to her. She pocketed the camera and opened her arms to the big poodle, with his raggedy white hair cut so unlike the topiary shrub cuts she'd seen on every poodle she'd ever encountered. Claud had refused to leave, though he'd been free to do so for days, with his masters dead in the pool. What would happen to him?
By the time the state police got there ten minutes later, in a cloud of dust and a roar of chopper blades, she had decided. She would take him home to New York City. She convinced Margaret, Darren, and Rosa to concur with her story—that they'd brought the dog out with them on the visit to Calvin's, that he was Rosa's from back East, and that he was missing New York so much Lucy had agreed to take him home to the city. A fine set of lies, but Claud wasn't exactly an expert witness, so the cops wouldn't mind, most likely, even if they did find out.
It took a couple of hours to go through the routine with the state police. The team was headed up by a guy named Sam Rodriguez, a tall, gaunt Chicano with a toothpick under a black mustache, a huge cowboy hat, and black boots that gleamed like obsidian in the sun. He didn't waste their time, they didn't waste his: he asked the basic questions and got the essential information, then told them to stick around town in case he needed them for further questioning. Soon they were on their way back in the BMW with the artifacts, still of questionable provenance, now in the trunk since Claud the dog had taken over the center of the back seat. Lucy kept a hand on his head and gently scratched him the whole way back to town. They were quiet, mulling over what had just happened. "You guys want to get a drink somewhere, maybe talk this over?" Lucy said.
"How 'bout at our house?" Rosa replied. "I don't think you can take a dog—even a poodle—into the bars around here."
"Sounds good," said Margaret. "Let me get my truck, I don't want to leave the dogs alone any longer, and I'll meet you all. Where is your place?"
"I'll ride with you," Lucy said. "I know the way. Hey, you have anything to eat up there? I haven't had a thing since the omelet, and this may sound crass but I'm hungry."
"So am I. I'll make some bean tostadas," Rosa said.
"We'll pick up some beer. See you in a minute," said Margaret as Darren and Rosa left them in the parking lot. Claud had bounded right into the truck with Yasha and Natasha, and the three of them were engaged in a butt-sniffing round. Claud was a little intimidated by the two monsters, but they were easy on him, as if they understood how large they loomed over him. Lucy had fed him some dried food while they waited for the police, and he'd inhaled it. He had been starving, but he had not left his master.
They stopped at a mini-mart for beer. Lucy bought a can of gourmet dog food, and they headed over to Darren and Rosa's.
"God, what a day," Lucy sighed.
"Hellish, huh," Margaret said. "Those poor boys. Lord, what happened out there?"
"I don't know, but I can't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the objects."
"What, the new pre-Colombian stuff?"
"Yeah. It's a weird coincidence, don't you think, that the stuff in New York turns out to be forged?"
"Maybe."
"Right. Maybe. And then to have the man responsible for authenticating them die like that, in his own home."
"I guess you figured out that he and Hamilton had a—you know, they were—"
"Gay? Yeah. Doesn't seem relevant to me, Margaret."
"Well, maybe not, but—"
"But what? What are you getting at?"
"Forget it."
"By the way, Margaret, if you don't mind my asking you—you might want to think about this before that cop Rodriguez comes up to your house for the "further questions" routine, anyway—what do you do with the bowl of peyote buttons on your kitchen table? I mean, do you—"
"Take them? Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I've been an honorary member of the Native American Church for years now. I make tea from buttons and do a voyage once a month, usually with the full moon. Drink it and—"
"Throw up?" Lucy said.
Margaret laughed. "No, I fast for a day, sleep lightly, get up at dawn and drink my tea. I cook a gallon down to a pint with 24 buttons, then drink it with lemon and honey. Tell the truth, I've grown rather fond of that nasty flavor over the years. And it's a great way to stay in touch with your spirits."
The woman was totally psychedelicized. Probably explained the haunt in her voice, the glow in her eyes. "I can imagine. But put 'em away when the cops come, Margaret. They're illegal."
"Not if you're in the Native American Church."
"I think the Rehnquist Court trashed your church a few years back. Just be careful. These days the cops take their drug busts very seriously. Here's their street," Lucy said. They parked behind Lucy's rental car. Claud jumped out the back end of the truck and ran ahead of them to the front door. Lucy rapped on the door, which swung open, and the three of them entered. Darren, Rosa, and the two resident mutts appeared, and there was the usual frenzy of sniffing and jumping around as Max and Sigmund met Claud. Darren led the way into the kitchen, where he and Rosa had set up a tostada supper at high speed.
They ate, drank beer, talked a little. After the food, as they cracked a second round of beers, Lucy said, "So, just so we know what to say when Rodriguez calls our separate numbers—I was wondering, Margaret—I know you don't want to give up any names, but if they do somehow link it up with the pre-Colombian thing, and I think it might happen since that was Calvin's area of expertise, and everybody knows there's a lot of money in that market these days—Anyways, maybe you oughta let us know at least, like, where the stuff came from?"
"The Mayan stuff all comes from the same area," she said. "Down in the Yucatan. Around Merida. Chichen Itza, Tulum, all the Yucatan Mayan sites. That's the area. It doesn't all necessarily originate there, but it seems to end up there. I guess because there are so many archaeologists and fortune hunters in the neighborhood. Plus dope runners and all kinds of Caribbean vagabonds, some with a lot of money in their pockets."
"Not far from where your family has that beach house, huh?"
"Yeah. Not too far." So they still owned it.
"You been down lately?"
"To the house. No, not in years. Why are you asking?"
"I'm just playing devil's advocate, Margaret. These are the threads the cops might try and tangle you with. Your family still use the house?"
A slight hesitation. "No."
"What about your brother?"
She blanched. "How did you know I had a brother?"
"I didn't. A guess. Most people do, it seems. Where's he hang out?"
"Oh, he's around, I don't know. Travels a lot."
"You seen him lately?"
"Lucy, what is this, the third degree?" Darren said. "Back off, you're not a cop."
"Sorry. No, just a journalist, in this case."
"No, that's all right," said Margaret. "I don't mind." She took a hit of beer. "Nathaniel's a—that's my brother, Nate—he's—oh, hell, why should I bullshit you? He's the one that brought this stuff over the border. He set the whole thing up. He's not my usual source, but when Calvin checked the pieces out and said they were authentic, I figured I had nothing to lose, keep it in the family. Nate told me he got them down there. From a local collector looking for hard cash. I mean, they were smugg
led in, but they were already in a private collection." She shrugged, and took a hit off her beer bottle. "It's not like they were recent finds."
"He—Nate—lives at the beach house?"
"Sometimes. It's kind of falling apart. Nobody's used it, except him, in years."
"Is he down there now?" Lucy asked.
"I don't know. I guess he could be. There's no telephone, last I heard, so I couldn't really tell you. I suppose we could try a telegram. He refuses to get a cell phone."
"How about we try a personal appearance?"
"What are you talking about, Lucy?" Darren interjected.
"Let's go down there," she said. "All of us. There's something serious going on with this stuff, I'm doing this story, and wouldn’t it be great to go to the beach?"
"I can't go to Mexico, I've got work to do," said Darren. "Besides, that cop's not going to let you leave town."
"Hey, we didn't do anything, we don't know anything, we have nothing to hide," said Lucy. "Forget about the cop. He'll forgive us, and even if he doesn't so what? Call it a trial honeymoon, you guys." She smiled at Rosa and Darren.
"Hell, I haven't been down in years," said Margaret. "We can stay at the house. I'm game. Rosa?"
Rosa looked at Darren, who stared fixedly at the label on his beer bottle. "I'd love to go," she said. "I haven't seen the ocean in six months."
CHAPTER FOUR
BIG FUN IN THE YUCATAN
The next day Lucy left her new dog in the care of Margaret's factotum, an ageless, taciturn Native American named Jedediah Crowtooth, who lived in a tidy little two-story adobe hut around the mountain from Margaret's pueblo. Lucy sneaked out of the hotel with a last minute "Thanks, see ya later, stay in touch" note to Bob Sobel, and drove her companions to Albuquerque, where the three women boarded a commuter plane for the hop to Dallas.
Lucy made calls during the two-hour layover in Texas. Heidi was pleased that the story had developed so quickly, and was especially thrilled at the introduction of death into the narrative. She begged Lucy to email the images she'd shot at Calvin Hobart's ranch. Though she understood Heidi's morbid excitement Lucy demurred. She wanted to keep those to herself for a time. She left the memory card holding them in Margaret Clements' safety deposit box at the bank.
Quentin gave her the lowdown on Alberto Gutierrez, who lived on the outskirts of the little town of Ticul in the Yucatan. Famed in art and anthropological circles for his brilliant re-creations of Mayan statuary and pottery, Gutierrez sold signed knock-offs in a range of pre-Colombian styles to the tourists. Rumor had it he dug up the occasional pre-interred high quality forgery whenever he judged the market could bear some fresh product.
Harold, sober as a judge, declared himself ready to meet her in Mexico when he heard about the dead men in the pool and her ensuing dash for the border. When she discouraged that possibility he gave her the names of three restaurants, one in Merida, one in Cancun, and one on Isla Mujeres, along with the names of the proprietors and best bets off each menu. The last thing he said to her was "I love you." Lucy murmured the words back at him, wondering why she had to leave town to hear them.
Fifteen minutes later boarding was announced. Cancun-bound, the three women strolled onto the Mexicana Airlines jet, took over the first class compartment, and had their flight attendant uncork a bottle of champagne. This was not exactly a vacation, but Lucy felt giddy in spite of the dead men in Santa Fe. She hadn't known them; people died everyday. Maybe she could find out why they had. Meanwhile, she was traveling first class to Mexico with girlfriends, on an adventure, on assignment! What in the world could be better?
When Harold had suggested that he fly down to meet her, her initial reaction had been enthusiastic. "Great!" she'd said—and immediately regretted it.
He heard her voice fall by the end of the one syllable word. "Right," he replied flatly. "Great." He paused. "No, I think I'll leave you to your pals." He paused again, to give her a chance to change his mind. She didn't. "So keep me posted, Luce. Be careful. And remember: I love you."
Now, back in her black and white traveling garb, sipping champagne in first class, facing her new friend and her old friend across a little table elegantly set with a fruit and cheese platter amidst crystal, white linen, and champagne flutes, Lucy said a silent thanks to Harold for leaving her alone. She loved the men in her life, and yearned for them when they faded away, but her real emotional touchstones had always been her girlfriends. Women knew how to talk—and more importantly, how to listen. Not that Harold was a bad conversationalist. He certainly paid attention—how else would he have copped such a quick read on that phone call—but lately, his emotional dialogue was too dependent on therapy and Twelve-Step training. When he wasn't drinking he tended to get self-righteous, and when he drank, he confessed. Either way it got to be a bore.
She chased him out of mind and smiled at Rosa, dressed in her usual faded jeans and t-shirt, this one white, with the short sleeves turned up. All she needed was a tattoo and a Camel in her mouth. She'd traded in the cowboy boots for a pair of black sports sandals. "You pack an extra snorkel for me, Rosita?" Lucy asked.
"Three snorkels, six fins, and number forty sunscreen. We are ready. I read where the water off this beach called Playa Garrafon is absolutely thick with tropical fish."
"And boatloads of turistas from Cancun on daytrips," said Margaret, wearing a black silk cowgirl dress with gold trim and pearl buttons. She even had a little make-up on. "Forget Garrafon. It used to be incredible, but ever since they invented Cancun it's been overrun.”
"So where do we go to dive, Margaret?" Lucy said. "We have to dive somewhere."
"Maggie. Didn't I tell you call me Maggie?" She smiled. "If it's calm I know a reef not far from the house," she said. "We can take a boat out. There's a big ol’ cave full of sharks."
"Great," said Rosa. "Sharks."
"They're nice sharks," Maggie said. "Nurse sharks. Friendly as dogs. They won't bother you unless maybe you swim up and punch one upside the head."
"When's the last time you were down here, Maggie?" Lucy asked. "Has it been a while?"
Maggie hesitated. "Yes. A few years. I spent so much time on Isla when I was a kid, I kind of lost interest later on. And the house is—well, ya'll see soon enough."
"What about your brother?"
"Nate? I don't see him that often, so I don't really know what he's up to, but yes, he's been parked down there on and off. He and Daddy don't get along too well."
"What's the problem?"
Maggie paused, and finished off her glass of champagne. "Don't get me wrong, Nate...Nathaniel's a great guy, he's an original, and he's always gonna be my one and only kid bro, but he's, well, you know, kind of a post-sixties vagabond. Had some problems in the past, and Daddy's runs a mean streak. I don't get along with Daddy too well myself, but he doesn't take women seriously anywhich, so it doesn't much matter. The way he sees it, I'm just eccentric like my Mama was, but Nate likes to gamble, and party, and play the saxophone. He was always the real rebel, in and out of trouble."
"What happened to your mother?" Lucy asked softly.
"Oh, I don't know," she said offhandedly, averting her eyes. "I mean—she died."
"I'm sorry," said Lucy. "I didn't mean to pry."
"That's OK. I just don't talk about it, or even think about it much these days."
"Listen, my mother's been watching my father get drunk for the last twenty-five years. I don't think about them much either," Lucy said. "Unless I have to."
"My mother and father haven't slept in the same room since 1975," said Rosa. "In fact, they inhabit separate wings in the manse." She raised her glass. "Welcome to the dysfunctional family club."
"And look at us," said Maggie. "Not doing a whole lot better, are we?"
"Hey, don't give me this dysfunctional jive," said Lucy. "That kind of talk's for Oprah addicts. Being independent isn't so bad."
"I guess not," said Maggie wistfully. "But sometimes it just means
being alone, doesn't it?"
"I got a boyfriend," said Rosa.
"And he’s smart, handsome, and a lawyer at that," said Lucy, with a lighten-up smile. "So what about this Isla Mujeres, Maggie? What's the story?"
Nathaniel the bad boy brother intrigued Lucy. He sounded like an interesting shipwreck of a man. 33 like her, never had a job, on the outs with daddy, played the blues on the tenor saxophone, used to have a serious speedball—junk and coke—habit but kicked it, still living the wild life though daddy'd disinherited him and he apparently had nowhere to go but here, up the road, to the decaying family digs on Isla Mujeres.
Island of the Women. So named, Maggie had said, according to a couple of different legends. Take your choice: one had it that Caribbean pirates had stashed their female kidnap and ransom victims there; the other said the Maya had left hundreds of statues of Ixchell, the female deity, on the isla en route south to the larger island of Cozumel, which was sacred to her.
Flat and glarey, all blue sky, white surf, and green jungle in relentless sunlight, the go-slow ambience of the Yucatan coast of Quintana Roo greeted them as they walked off the plane and into the oven. The hot wind blew in hard off the chop-ripped sea, snapping the flags, and Lucy started thinking windsurf. 20 knots of salt air and a warm ocean waiting. "So now what?" said Rosa, a little worn. She was not accustomed to daytime drink. None of them were.
"Rent a car, drive to Punta Sam, and take the ferry to Isla," said Maggie as they headed over towards the new terminal building. "Damn, I forgot how hot it gets here. This humidity is too much."
"Tell me again why we're here, Lucy," said Rosa, wilting fast in spite of the breeze. "What's the Isle of Mohair got to do with pre-Colombian art?"
"Chichen Itza and Tulum aren't that far away, Rosita," Lucy said. "There's all kinds of pre-Colombian activity around here. I’ve got to do my research. Besides, there's some great beaches on the Isla, right, Maggie?"
"Yeah. And maybe my brother's around and he can tell us about where he got the so-called forgeries I sent to New York."
Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 8
