THE HIEROGLYPHIC STAIRCASE
Second Novel in the Mystery-in-Exotic-Places Series
Marjorie Thelen
To my writer and reader friends everywhere, thank you again.
To Kate Marsh, poet, editor, and friend extraordinaire; to Ron Copland, the bellwether; to Gail Barrett, long time writer friend, who gives superb writing advice; and especially to Luty and Jorge Dickerman, our Honduran friends who introduced us to Copan. Un million de gracias, amigos..
y para Juan con cariño
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author. However, the ruins of the Hieroglyphic Staircase, the town of Copan Ruinas, and the country of Honduras with all its history and beauty are very real, and the author recommends a visit.
Copyright 2012 by Marjorie Thelen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, save for inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without the written permission of the author.
www.MarjorieThelen.com
eISBN: 9781623090197
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
One
Another carved stone was missing.
Elena ran her finger over the cool, lifeless limestone and checked the pattern against the computer drawing she had made of the Hieroglyphic Staircase. She was not mistaken. A gap separated a frowning face from a stylized flower. This was the third stone gone missing since she started the project three weeks ago. The Mayan gods definitely had it in for her. They must not like her poking into their secrets.
She perched on the narrow step of the steep stone staircase that led to the top of the pyramid and stared at the space where yesterday a finely etched head with bulbous Mayan lips had resided. A crowd of vacant eyes stared back at her along the facing of the step, refusing to share their knowledge of who had stolen another stone.
This theft could tarnish the name she was trying to build in the world of Mayan epigraphy, the study of ancient inscriptions. The disappearance of valuable pieces of an intricate puzzle did not bode well for her career. How could someone steal the stone carvings right out from under her?
Two fieldworkers in battered straw hats imitated her posture and sat on the narrow steps below her, looking at the empty space and muttering to each other. But their conversation in Spanish had to do with Raul’s eldest daughter who was to be married the coming weekend. They didn’t seem to share her concern.
“Do you know anything about these missing hieroglyphs?” she asked them in Spanish. Her question came out with a suspicious edge. The two men flinched, as if the words were knives.
“We do not know, doctora Palomares,” said Raul, throwing up his hands, straight black eyebrows moving skyward with his hands. “Only the tourists come during the day, and we have kept careful watch.”
The younger worker, Francisco, new to the project, mimicked Raul’s gestures.
“Maybe not during the day,” said Elena, softening her tone, “but someone could slip by the guard at the entrance during night.”
Calm down, she thought. She had to maintain her professional attitude and not take her frustration out on these poor workers. She stood and brushed the seat of her khaki shorts.
“I’m going to notify the Museum director. Please watch the site while I’m gone. I shouldn’t be long.”
“Sí, doctora. Cómo no?” Raul tipped his hat and continued his conversation with Francisco about the wedding, the theft forgotten.
Folding the computer drawing, she stuffed it in one of the many pockets of her field vest. She picked her way crab fashion down stairs so narrow her work boots would only fit sideways on the uneven steps. Summer sizzled at Copan in western Honduras, and Elena had risen before dawn to work the site before the heat became unbearable. Not that heat bothered her much. Nothing could be as bad as a hot, humid Houston summer day, where she grew up.
Near the bottom of the Staircase, she peered at the point halfway up the steep incline of stairs where she had discovered the missing stone. She hoped the thieves were not her field worker assistants. Surely, they wouldn’t be tempted to supplement their meager incomes with contraband from Copan, the Florence of the Mayan world. Surely, they wouldn’t, though Raul had been complaining about the expense of the wedding. A small stone Mayan head would bring an enormous price on the black market. He could pay for the wedding and retire on the money he’d make on the sale.
The Sculpture Museum was a good hike across the courtyard, past the Temple of Inscriptions which was for the most part clear of stone-crumbling vegetation. One large, insistent tree remained that was so entangled in the slope of the pyramid-shaped Temple that to remove it would have destroyed the structure. There the tree defiantly grew, its roots serving to hold the ruins together.
That’s what she felt like – a lone figure trying to hold a crumbling situation together.
She strode across the clearing toward the exit of the site. The Sculpture Museum housed many of the original stellae and carvings from the site. It stood near the tourist information center and restaurant. The Museum director would not be happy. He never was. His thin, pinched face reflected his sour disposition. Never a kind word for any of the other professionals in the field and certainly not for her. Especially not for her.
A small, neat workman in worn pants and shabby but clean white shirt was sweeping the walk to the Museum free of leaves and trash from yesterday’s tourists. He had a wife and four small children, and they lived in a poor neighborhood in town. He was desperate to go to the United States to earn money so his family could dig out of the hole of poverty. Was he so desperate he would steal hieroglyphs from the ruins to get money to make the trip? Was she getting so paranoid that she was suspicious of everyone?
“Hola, Armando, cómo le va?” she said as she waved and walked by.
He stopped sweeping to greet her. “Bien. Y usted?”
Today she didn’t stop to chat. She waved and walked on, her mind worrying the problem of the missing hieroglyphs and the director’s reaction. A trip to the dentist would be preferable to this visit with the director.
The Sculpture Museum was built into a hillside and illuminated by a massive open-air skylight. An airy courtyard formed the center of the square-shaped building which inside was dominated by a full-scale replica of the Rosalila Temple, found under the Copan acropolis in 1989. She loved the Rosalila Temple with its bright colors – rosy red, mint green, flaming yellow. Its intricately carved Mayan heads and scroll work lay open to the sky. Sculpture galleries framed the replica centerpiece on two levels.
Taking off her wide brim hat, she dusted it against her leg and with determined steps strode to the director’s office located in one corner of the Museum. Carved stellae of Mayan kings, the kuhul ajaw or holy lords, with characteristic big, hooked noses, staring stone eyes, and round ear plugs lined the walls. She had studied every one and knew them like family. They were some of the finest examples of Mayan sculpture found anywhere.
The director’s door was open. He bent over a large
volume, intent on what he was reading.
She tapped on the door. “Permiso, director.”
He looked up from the volume, unsmiling. “Doctora,” he said by way of acknowledgement. No greeting, no inquiring after her health.
The disdain with which he said the word annoyed her, so she gave up on social pleasantries and launched right into the bad news. “I’ve found another stone missing from the Staircase.”
“Are you sure, doctora Palomares?” His hawkish features pinched into a frown and were in stark opposition to the broad Mayan features of the local people. Not a smile line existed on his face.
Maybe he thought she needed glasses.
“Yes, director, I am very sure. It was there yesterday. Today it’s gone. I can show you.”
She unfolded the drawing from her vest pocket and pointed to the location of the missing piece.
He studied the drawing and the places she had marked where the three stones had been.
“They are all head hieroglyphs,” he said.
She nodded and waited for his reaction.
“You are sure it is gone?” He turned the question slightly sinister and pointed it toward her, like she was responsible for the theft. He reminded her of a colleague who had tried to frame her back in her university teaching days. She vowed that would not happen again.
“I’m sure.” What she wanted to say was what a moron he was and if she said it was gone, she wasn’t kidding.
“We will have to notify the police as before.” He wagged his head like a man displeased with the prank of a child.
She hated when he did that.
“Have the police found anything on the other two thefts that I reported?”
“No, nothing,” he said. Creases gathered on his brow, accentuating the pinched look of his face. His black hair was combed straight back and lay in furrows.
Of all the pleasant, smiling people in this lovely country why did her boss have to be the exception?
He continued. “The police are investigating these thefts that threaten our national image and Honduran tourism. Something like this makes it look as though we cannot protect our national treasures.”
He had a flair for the dramatic. She hardly thought all of Honduran tourism might suffer. But it might affect the local economy and that was a concern because so many of the people in the town of Copan Ruinas depended on tourism for their livelihood.
Uninvited, she took a seat in one of the arm chairs before his desk, made of dark, fragrant Honduran wood with a haunting citrus scent. The front of the desk was elaborately carved in Mayan flowers. The top was wide and smooth, polished to a deep brown, not a scrap of paper on it, only the book he was perusing and a telephone. Books on Copan archaeology lined the bookcases behind him. He was a notable scholar on the subject and had written extensively on Copan.
He was the reason Elena had come to Copan to mentor under him. Things hadn’t turned out the way she had planned. They rarely had a discussion about her work. He was too busy. In his bare office she saw little evidence of the work he was famous for. Maybe he did his scholarly research and writing at home.
“I have arranged for more guards because of the thefts,” he was saying, “but their arrival is taking longer than expected. I will call the ministry and insist that they send the extra guards immediately. In the meantime, you will work through the day at the site until these guards arrive.”
“Me?” she said, thinking her ears had failed her.
“Yes, you,” he said, ignoring the surprise on her face. “You must be on site from sunup to sundown.”
She already was, not as a guard, but rather as an expert epigrapher intent upon deciphering Mayan hieroglyphs, not guarding against thieves.
“How do you expect me to get my own work done?”
“You can work as well as watch, can you not?”
She counted to ten slowly, very slowly. It would not do to get into an argument. Besides, extra guards must be on the way if he had requested them. She could stay on site with her laptop during the heat of the day, instead of going back for lunch at doña Carolita’s house in town, where she was staying. She’d find a cool place at the ruins to work.
“All right,” said Elena, swallowing her pride. She wanted to be a team player, though she wasn’t sure that concept had made it into the director’s vocabulary. She had a reputation to build. This man had already made his. They both knew she was not getting paid to guard a World Heritage Site. Her job was to decipher the jumbled mess of 2,500 hieroglyphics carved on a seventy-two step staircase built in 753 AD.
“Perhaps when you have time, you could look at some of my work with the deciphering.” She tried again to enlist his aid, to get him to collaborate, as was her expectation when she took on this summer project. Sometimes it was better not to have expectations. Then one wasn’t disappointed.
His contempt was worthy of a sultan, addressing the infidels. “Doctora, your skills are well known. Surely, I don’t have to help you. Now we both have work to do, I especially, since we have another theft.”
Foolishly, she had thought he had one kind bone in his skinny little body. Could the man be more rotten? She stared at him, feeling her temper threaten to escape the confines of reason. Only the slight flare of her nostrils gave her away. Calling on all the grace and dignity she could muster, she said, “Sí, director.”
Turning on her heel, she left before she erupted like a Central American volcano.
* * * * *
Dominic Harte studied the young American woman across the crowded room of party goers.
“A real looker, isn’t she?” said his friend, Bill, the big, ruddy, eco-adventure guy who knew everyone in town. “She’s some university professor doing work out at the ruins.”
“Not bad,” said Dominic. Since he had sworn off women, he wasn’t about to be pulled into an ogling contest. There should be a law against brains and beauty. His ex-wife had had both in abundance and look where he was.
He stared into his empty glass. “I need a refresher. Catch you later, Bill.”
Dominic threaded his way through the packed reception area toward the bar. While the room was big enough for the new medical clinic, the space could not accommodate all the well-wishers who had turned out, and the party had spilled into the street. The crowd was a mixture of half and half – half locals and half foreigners. The noise bouncing off the bare, cement block walls made Dominic’s ears ring. Some of the foreigners were Americans with the Episcopal mission that had helped build the new clinic. They were celebrating its completion with a party, big time, complete with martini bar.
The warm, humid air that permeated everything dictated tank tops in abundance with the Latina ladies tending to outfits that sparkled and glittered. Dominic liked the vivid colors the Latinas preferred. Like the spice they put in their food, it made the room tingle.
He slid his glass toward the bartender, one of his ex-pat friends with antiquated leftist leanings and a pony tail, who poured another gold martini for him.
“What’s in this, Gus?”
“My special recipe. Hint of mango.”
“Not bad. They go down easy and produce a nice buzz.”
“Yeah,” said Gus, “my favorite way of drinking.”
A rotund figure in red and ruffles flounced into Dominic’s line of vision.
Señora Martinez, head of the medical clinic volunteers and social maven of Copan Ruinas, greeted him. “Ay, señor Harte, you look so handsome this evening,” she said. “You are not bored, are you? I hope that wasn’t a yawn I saw on your face. Tell me you are not thinking of leaving us already. The party has just begun. Soon the musicians will be here, and the dancing will start.”
He hated dancing. It reminded him of his ex-wife and having to watch her wiggle up close to every man at the party while he nursed his drink and smiled, making excuses for his beautiful wife’s excesses.
He turned on his cocktail party smile. “Señora Martinez, nice to see you. I’m af
raid I’m beat. I was up early to help put the finishing touches on our celebration. I dropped by to see if everyone was enjoying themselves this evening.”
She tucked her arm into his. “We will not let you leave any time soon. Not the man responsible for the completion of our new medical clinic. Everyone knows we would not be standing here today in the completed clinic without you.”
Dominic hid a wince behind his smile. She was laying it on thick. He had the unpleasant feeling that she would make sure he stayed until the last guest left the room. He hated socializing. He had attended enough church socials to last several lifetimes. Had he known the clinic included a party at the end, he wouldn’t have come to help finish it. Then he felt guilty for such uncharitable thoughts about the people who had been so kind to him, who had helped him settle in, who had included him in their community and their lives.
“You flatter me, señora. The medical clinic was a community effort. I’m glad I could be a part of it.”
“I think you should lead the first dance. You should ask Elena to be your partner. She’s very beautiful, don’t you think?” She nodded toward the young woman Bill had pointed out to him.
Dominic coughed behind his fist. The last thing he wanted was to make a public spectacle of himself. But then his ex-wife had managed that. She had created transgression to end all transgressions. He turned his gaze toward Elena. She looked too unwrinkled, too fresh and bright eyed. At least that’s how she looked from across the room. He’d never seen her up close, never been interested. He’d had too much to do with getting the clinic built. He’d run around for months trying to keep the building of the modest one story structure on schedule, a foreign concept in this part of the world.
“You’re right, she’s very pretty, but I’m afraid I haven’t danced in years. Why don’t we ask Dr. Hidalgo to lead the dance with you? You have done so much for the clinic. It’s appropriate that you take the first dance. Go, dance, please. I’ll dance later.”
Exotic #02 - The Hieroglyphic Staircase Page 1
