A CORPSE
FOR
CUAMANTLA
An
Anna Merino
Mystery
by
Harol Marshall
Books by Harol Marshall:
The Anna Merino mysteries (set in Mexico)
A Corpse for Cuamantla
A Corpse for the Matadora (read an excerpt at the end of this book)
A Corpse for Cortez (coming in 2014)
The P.I. Polly Berger mysteries (set in Hollywood)
Holy Death
Holy Mole Murder
Holy Kow
Adieu at the Zoo (the first Samantha Clark mystery)
Growing Up With Pigs (a short story anthology)
Political Thrillers
The Singapore Assassin
The Shadow Cabinet
Visit Harol Marshall’s website at: harolmarshall.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, or events, is coincidental.
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Cover design by
Rob S. Furr
http://www.furr.ca
Cover Art by
Joel Gamble
ISBN 10: 0-9815763-7-0
ISBN 13: 978-0-9815763-7-4
Library of Congress Control Number
2008941514
Author's Note
This second edition contains minor text differences along with an Appendix (per reader requests) at the end of the book, which contains recipes for all of the dishes mentioned in each chapter. Enjoy!
The Setting
The setting for A Corpse for Cuamantla is Tlaxcala (tläs•kä´•lä), the smallest of Mexico's thirty-one States with a population of slightly over one million people. Tlaxcala, which means "place of bread made from corn (tortilla)," lies 80 miles east of Mexico City and is surrounded on three sides by the state of Puebla. The western part of Tlaxcala lies on Mexico's central plateau and borders the Federal District. The remainder is extremely mountainous with a cool, temperate climate.
The capital of the state of Tlaxcala is the city of Tlaxcala (population ~75,000), which lies at an elevation of 7240 feet above sea level. The highest mountain in the state is the extinct volcano known as La Malinche at 14,636 feet. Maguey and subsistence crops (corn, nopales, and amaranth) grow in the valleys. Tlaxcala is also home to more species of wild mushrooms than any other Mexcian state. Textiles and fighting bulls remain important traditional products, while newer light manufacturing concentrates on chemicals and pharmaceuticals.
Because of its historical significance, Tlaxcala is home to a wide range of tourist attractions. Hernán Cortés, known as the city's ‘founder,' conquered the city in 1520 after fierce resistance. Later, the Tlaxcaletecas would become valuable allies of the Spanish against their common enemy, the Mexica (Aztecs). The city of Tlaxcala is home to an open-air Gothic-style chapel, the oldest in the Western Hemisphere, where Cortés attended mass in 1521 prior to conquering the Aztec empire.
Places and Names
The beginning "tl" sound in Tlaxcala comes from Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, and appears in many of the region's place names. The "x" in Tlaxcala is pronounced as an "s." Correct pronunciation of the "tl" is similar an an unvoiced "cl" sound that is made with the sides of your tongue against your cheeks. Using the normal English "cl" sound is more authentic than pronouncing the "tl" as "tuh-ul." The villages of Cuamantla and Aztetla and are fictional. The cities of Tlaxcala and Apizaco are real as is the Malintzi or Malinche volcano, but various aspects of each locale may have been altered for fictional purposes.
Use of Spanish
In most cases, the meanings of Spanish words are evident from the context or I've defined the words immediately following their usage in a way that clarifies the meaning clear. My intent in including Spanish words is to help transport the reader into the setting.
Prologue
Cuamantla was dressed to kill. The central plaza in the rural village blazed with the patriotic colors of the Mexican flag. Food stalls dotted the square, and Mariachis warmed up their instruments on the ornate bandstand, and pyrotechnic arrays littered the village in anticipation of Cinco de Mayo, a festival celebrating the Battle of Puebla where Mexican armies defeated their French invaders nearly one hundred and fifty years ago.
Across the plaza from the Church, banners of red and white carnations hung from the roof of the single story primary school, headquarters for the day's activities. The festooned building housed two separate but equal primary schools. Pedro García directed the morning school and Miguel Menéndez led the afternoon school.
Pedro García, like the rest of the village of Cuamantla woke up early on Cinco de Mayo, but not because of the fiesta. Pedro's day began with an ultimatum from his live-in lover, followed by a surprise visit from his wife. Unlike the triumphant Mexican Army, Pedro suffered a defeat in both skirmishes.
Always the optimist he blew it off preferring to focus on the future. He'd win in the end, he thought. Pedro García remained an optimist throughout the morning, even as he stood in the rose garden behind the primary school staring down the barrel of a gun. A gun? This must be a joke. Pedro laughed out loud.
"Are you crazy? Go ahead, shoot me," he said.
Part I. The First Death
Chapter 1
If it weren't for the ray of sunlight streaming through the slit separating the metal courtyard doors in her bedroom, American anthropologist Anna Merino might have slept the day away. The beam pierced her eyelids transforming night into day and sleep into full-fledged angst. Bolting from her bed in a panic, she rushed through her morning routine in a desperate attempt to recoup lost time.
Early in the afternoon of the previous day Miguel Menéndez, Director of Cuamantla's afternoon primary school had reminded teachers that El Cinco de Mayo fiesta would run on schedule. "You're planning to film the event as part of your research, right Maestra?" he asked Anna in front of everyone, which left her little choice.
"Of course," Anna told him, promising a copy of the film as her gift to the school.
"Then," he said in his school director voice, "you'll need to be here no later than seven."
She'd be lucky to make it by eight.
§
Still fuming as the Tlaxcala bus neared the city of Apizaco, she chided herself for running behind schedule. The ten-mile bus ride, slower than usual on this busy holiday, did nothing to reduce her anxiety especially since she still had a taxi to catch for the last few miles of her journey. She checked her watch as if knowing the time could hurry the trip. Miguel will never let me live this down, she thought, regretting every remark she ever made to him about Mexican time.
The
Apizaco bus lurched to a stop and Anna elbowed her way to the front, careful to avoid the live chicken head jutting from the market basket on the aisle floor. The doors slid open and she hit the sidewalk at a dead run, jogging the few short blocks to the Cuamantla taxi stand. The lead collective had room for one more passenger. Sliding into the back seat she congratulated herself on staying in shape despite the bewildering glances her Kali fitness routine attracted in the village of Belén.
“Con permiso, Señorita, excuse me.”
The taxi driver had to repeat his request before Anna realized he was speaking to her.
“Would the Señorita mind sitting on the lap of the old campesino leaning in the window?” The driver pleaded in response to the old farmer’s imploring gaze and decidedly frail physique. “The taxi behind us is full, and the aged one can’t move fast enough to catch an empty one. Would the Señorita be so kind?”
So much for the benefits of watching my weight, Anna thought, getting out of the cab. If she weren’t late she’d wait for the next taxi, but she needed all the extra minutes she could get. Once the old farmer adjusted himself in the hollow of the seat she eased herself onto his knees of the frail old man. He looked eighty if a day, which she hoped guaranteed he wouldn’t take advantage of the fact that her well-formed bottom rested on his knobby knees. She hoped his skinny legs would hold out for the five-mile ride to Cuamantla.
American songs blared from the car radio as the driver prepared to depart. Eyeing Anna in his rear view mirror the young man slicked down his hair and peeled out, expertly navigating the busy Apizaco streets. She turned her head and stared out the side window hoping he would keep his eyes on the road.
The old campesino shifted in his seat. He might have been better off sitting on my lap, Anna thought, if it weren’t for Mexican machismo, a particularly perverse and persistent convention. As La Malinche would have it today, the old man exited at the village of Aztetla allowing Anna to relax for the rest of the trip.
“Gracias, Señorita,” he said, reaching back to shake her hand, displaying a near toothless grin.
She smiled and nodded as he closed the door.
The morning air was crisp and clear. A perfect Mexican day, she thought, as she sat back and allowed the stunning scenery to saturate her senses. A hint of snow covered the peak of the Malinche volcano towering over the Puebla-Tlaxcala plains. Anna scrutinized the mountain, understanding to some degree the power it held over the Tlaxcallan people. Maybe the goddess of the mountain will cast her good luck spell on me today, she mused, feeling no less immune than the locals to its supernatural aura.
Chapter 2
Lost in thought, Anna barely noticed as the taxi pulled up beside Cuamantla's imposing Catholic Church. The two passengers in the front seat exited ahead of her, each man haggling over the bill. Anna waited none too patiently for them finish before paying the fare the driver asked.
"Call me anytime," he told her with a knowing leer. "I can take you wherever you want to go."
Anna ignored his parting comments and turned to greet Cinco de Mayo with some measure of trepidation.
A familiar aroma permeated the air of the zócalo, Cuamantla's town square. She identified the source as Mole Poblano, a thick brown sauce invented by Pueblan nuns in the late 1600's. Ubiquitous in the Tlaxcala region, the distinctive concoction blended a wide range of ingredients from chocolate to dried chiles. Each booth would serve its own version today. Anna had grown to love the dish that brought so much pleasure to the Mexican palate She wondered if she’d ever find time to make it from scratch when she returned home. Maybe her next door neighbor would give her a cooking lesson and she’d discover the dish was easier to prepare than she thought.
She scanned the plaza for signs of fiesta activities before making her way to the school complex at the far corner of the square. Several women were placing pots of flowers around the bandstand while the men worked on the fireworks displays. But from where she was standing, the schoolyard stood desolate except for the janitor sweeping leaves off the concrete patio. No sign of the teachers, or of Miguel. Surely he wouldn't postpone parade preparations until she arrived with her video camera. If so, she might be in more trouble than she realized.
Another idea hit her. Maybe everyone's at breakfast. She crossed the street to Rosa's kitchen a favorite haunt of the school staff. A blend of breakfast smells greeted her as she lifted the latch on the rusty gate and headed for the steps to Rosa's back stoop. A cacophony of voices drifted into the miniature courtyard as the kitchen door swung open followed by the substantial presence of the Municipal President.
"Buenos días, Maestra, how are you this morning?" The President's broad smile glinted in the morning sun, reflections of the several gold fillings scattered among his cigarette-tainted teeth. Short and pudgy even by local standards, he compensated for his stature by carrying himself with a near swagger that made him seem inches taller. The man's political prowess clearly derived from his disarming personality and not his dark rough-hewn countenance. Nattily dressed in the village uniform of dark blue suit and white shirt, his tie carried a smattering of Rosa's salsa verde.
"Buenos días, Presidente." The words barely left Anna's lips before the man placed a finger to his mouth and motioned her across the street. Anna's heart pounded as she followed him preparing herself for the upbraiding she knew she deserved, especially after yesterday's promises about arriving in time to film the day's events for the benefit of the village. The President led her across the cobblestone street stopping in the shadow of the school wall. Her anxiety levels rose as he motioned her closer and spoke in conspiratorial tones.
"Maestra," he whispered. Anna felt a knot forming in her stomach. "I have a favor to ask."
"Of course, Presidente." She breathed easier. This wasn't the lecture she expected. "How can I help you?"
"This is difficult for me," the President said, "and I must ask you to tell no one." Anna noticed perspiration forming above his upper lip. Her nervousness returned. "Can you make that promise, Maestra? It's very important."
He shifted from foot to foot, the salsa blotch on his tie swinging like a pendulum bob. Anna's eyes focused on it as he continued. "Sometime last night or early this morning, I believe," the President looked down noticing the tie stain, "someone broke into my office and stole the Real Cédula."
Anna stared at him in disbelief while he scratched at the stain on his tie. The Real Cédula was an oil painting dating back to 1551, which contained a royal decree from King Philip II of Spain. The decree granted six Tlaxcallan Indian families the land that now comprised the village center. The words contained in the King's mandate stretched above portraits of six Indian families, each shown seated beside a path that meandered among stands of conifer trees. The priceless painting was Cuamantla's most treasured possession.
"How could someone access it?" she asked, wanting more details about the theft.
"That's a good question." A look of chagrin crossed the President's face at the suggestion he might be at fault. "Maybe they picked the lock to my office."
That wouldn't be difficult, Anna thought. "Do you keep it locked in a safe inside your office?"
The President looked sheepish. "Not exactly. We store it in a large chest in one corner of the room and I forgot to lock the chest yesterday afternoon after I showed the Cédula to several visitors, all school officials from Tlaxcala and elsewhere." Anna raised an eyebrow. "None of them would have taken it," the President hurriedly assured her, "they're all professional people."
Anna bit back the words running through her mind as she searched for a response. If Cuamantla's officials had listened to her thesis advisor, Art Fortin, this wouldn't have happened. Art tried several times over the years to convince the President to donate the relic to the Museum in the city of Tlaxcala, but the President insisted Cuamantla's residents enjoyed the prestige the document brought to their humble village and refused to give it away. Art would be devastated when he heard about the theft.<
br />
Anna's silence brought a desolate pallor to the President's normally sanguine face. "I can't go to the Comandante or the village officials,” he said. “They'll accuse me of the theft and I have no way to prove my innocence."
Anna understood his predicament even if she felt he deserved it. Unlike the U.S. system of justice, defendants in Mexico were guilty until proven innocent. The Municipal President would be in serious trouble if the village officials accused him of the theft.
"Will you ask Professor Fortin to help me?" The President posed the question without his usual air of self-confidence.
"I'll give him a call," she heard herself say. "He's at a conference this week so he may be difficult to reach, but I can email him. Sometimes it's the fastest way to reach him."
Convincing her professor to help the municipal leader would take some doing. Art could be stubborn, especially when someone ignored his good advice, a fact Anna knew from firsthand experience. If necessary, she would turn the request into a personal favor, but she hoped it wouldn't come to that. She had enough personal problems with Art already.
"We have some time," she said. The President gave her a puzzled look. "The theft occurred several hours ago, right?" He nodded. "That's plenty of time for the thief to get away." The President's head bounced like a bobble doll as Anna continue to analyze the situation out loud. "If an international smuggling ring stole the Cédula," she said, "it's gone forever and time is irrelevant. If the thief is local, he'll have to be careful with his inquiries in order to find the right buyer, which will take some time. I know how much the Mexican people love their country. Not many will tolerate the theft of a national treasure like this one. Selling it won't be easy."
A Corpse for Cuamantla Page 1
