As he set down the shovel he was carrying, Sam glanced at what remained of the cairn of rocks, and I saw a shudder pass through his body. Arturo was staring up at the sky; when he lowered his eyes, they met mine and I thought I knew what he was thinking: Let it rain; let it wash away the traces of this tragedy.
I shook my head, as if to clear it of such thoughts, and went directly to the foundation on the opposite side of the church from Georgia's makeshift grave. Lining my feet up against it where it turned at a right angle to form the apse, I paced off the distance: one, two, three, four, five feet. Then I went to the opposite side—ignoring the place where the body had been—and repeated the measuring in the apse whose walls were still standing. One, two, three feet. And a bit more. But not four feet.
I turned to Sam and Arturo; they were watching me intently. “Here,” I said, “this is where we need to break down the wall.” I stepped aside as they came forward with the pick and the pry bar. After a moment, Sam told me to move even farther back; the adobe wasn't yielding easily, and he didn't want to whack me with the pick. I'd already been injured enough for one day—Arturo had given me a muscle relaxant he'd had left over from when he'd hurt himself rock climbing last year, but my back still throbbed—so I retreated a few feet. But then I started moving closer again, excited now, sure of what they'd soon uncover.
John Quincannon had solved one murder, back in the 1890s. I'd discovered another, here in the 1980s. And now I was about to make the biggest discovery of all. I was about to find the long-lost Velasquez artifacts….
Sam turned and glared at me. I was standing no more than a foot behind him. I gestured apologetically and went to sit next to the sheriffs man on the charred roof beam, annoyed that my back injury prevented me from helping. This was going much too slowly. Wasn't demolition supposed to be easy? Shouldn't that old wall just fall… ?
There was a cracking sound. Arturo shouted, and Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the wall. Adobe bricks rained down, one chunk landing on Sam's foot. He began hopping up and down, his hand grasping Arturo for balance. The officer and I both jumped up and ran over there. I peered through the gaping hole in the wall of the apse.
Inside, the space between it and the outer wall was dark. The air was dry and musty. I put my hands on the waist-high opening and hoisted myself up, ignoring a dull throbbing that told me I was doing further damage to my back. My eyes quickly accustomed themselves to the darkness, and I was able to make out a number of lumpy shapes on the ground below.
“Elena?” Sam said. “Are they—”
“I think so.” I let go of the opening and dropped back to the ground. “We've got to pull the rest of this wall down.”
Sam and Arturo attacked it with renewed energy. Even the policeman helped. Now that an opening had been made, the rest of the bricks pulled apart easily. Of course this false wall would not have been built as sturdily as those of the rest of the church; there had not been time. But it still had stood for a hundred and forty years, miraculously spared from cannonballs, fire, and vandalism.
When they had made the opening large enough for me to reach through, the three men stepped back almost ceremoniously. I looked at them, suddenly reluctant to step forward, feeling like a child who has lain awake all night in anticipation of Christmas morning and now can't believe it is really here. They seemed to share the feeling, because they remained silent, staring at the opening.
I shook myself, laughed nervously, then knelt beside the jagged hole in the wall. Extending my arm through it, I felt around until my fingers touched a slender piece of metal. Pulling it out, I saw it was a gold crucifix; the metal gleamed dully, and the jewels at the tips of the crosspieces shone with a deep red fire. Fibers of fabric clung to it, as if it had once been wrapped in cloth that had now rotted away.
My lips parted, but I couldn't speak. I held the crucifix up for the others to see.
Arturo said softly, “Jesus Cristo!”
I smiled at the aptness of the exclamation.
Sam said, “You were right.”
“Yes.”
“But how did you know?” I'd outlined the entire story of the Velasquez treasure on the way here—including the first part for Arturo's benefit—but time hadn't permitted me to explain why I thought the artifacts had been walled into the apse.
I said, “It was in the letter Tomás Cordova wrote to his wife.”
“But according to Quincannon,” Sam said, “the last page was never recovered.”
“That's true. And that was why he couldn't interpret it properly.”
Arturo said, “But if this detective couldn't, why could you?”
“Because I'm Catholic, and Quincannon wasn't. The words on the fragment he found in Luis Cordova's hand were ‘más aliá del sepulcro’ and ‘dondé Maria.’ Beyond the grave, where Mary something-or-other. Quincannon and Felipe interpreted the grave to be that of Maria Alcazar, Don Esteban's first wife. But its location had been obliterated in the destruction of the pueblo.”
“And you found it?” Sam asked.
“I found a grave. Or actually, Quincannon found it.” I pointed to the slab of stone in the church floor that I'd uncovered earlier. “It's the grave of Julio del Prado, the first padre of this church. And seeing it made me wonder: What if the grave mentioned in the letter wasn't Maria Alcazar's? What if it was really this one—the most distinctive one in the pueblo? And what if Maria referred to someone else?”
Arturo said, “Who, then?”
“The Virgin Mary.”
Arturo began to smile, nodding in understanding. Sam and the policeman both frowned. Sam said, “I don't get it.”
“That's because, like Quincannon, you're not Catholic. If you were, you would know that the statue of the Virgin Mary customarily stands in this apse, to this side of the altar.”
Now understanding began to come into Sam's eyes, too.
“‘Más aliá del sepulcro’ actually meant beyond Padre del Prado's grave,” I said. “And on the next page of the letter, the phrase ‘donde Maria’ was probably completed with something like the word ‘stands.’”
Sam wasn't quite convinced, though. He said, “That's all very logical, but why didn't Felipe Velasquez realize it? After all, he was Catholic.”
It was the one point that had originally troubled me and made me doubt my reasoning; but while the sheriffs men had been following their routine at the grave of Georgia Hollis, I'd had plenty of time to consider the tragic events that had befallen the Velasquez family, and I thought I had the answer. I said, “Felipe was fixated on ‘Maria’ meaning the grave of Don Esteban's first wife; he never considered the Virgin Mary or Padre del Prado's grave. He had probably forgotten all about the padre. He seldom came here in his last years—Quincannon made that plain—and even when he did, he had no reason to go inside the ruins. Besides, the marker was half-hidden by weeds and grass even then.”
Sam's desire for historical accuracy was not yet satisfied, however. He said, “But why, in all the family's searches for the artifacts, didn't anyone notice that this apse had a false wall?”
That was another question I'd had to consider, and again I was reasonably sure of the answer. “For one thing,” I said, “the workmanship on the false wall was very good. Even though there wasn't time to do a perfect job, it resembles the other walls closely. And during the siege by Fremont's troops, the other apse was destroyed; the size difference between the two wasn't as obvious as it might have been had they both been standing. There was nothing left to compare this one with.”
Sam nodded, apparently accepting my explanation.
I turned back to the opening in the wall. The past had been dealt with; now I had a responsibility to the present, and—being a curator at heart—to these artifacts. They had lain protected in the wall for one hundred and forty years, but now the space was open to the elements, and a rainstorm was threatening.
“Come and help me,” I said to the three men. “Let's get these things ou
t of here before it rains.” To Sam and Arturo, I added, “Later we'll go to Sam's house and call Sofia Manuela and tell her her family treasure has been found.”
FOUR
“So,” I SAID to Mama, “Mrs. Manuela told me she wants to donate the artifacts to the museum. She wants nothing to do with them, since they caused such tragedy in her family, and she has no heirs. Some of them are very valuable; there's even a small El Greco that survived undamaged. Imagine us with an El Greco!”
Mama smiled, looking pleased for me. She looked pleased with everything this morning, sitting on the edge of her hospital bed in a cheerful yellow dress and sweater, all ready to go home. Nick had gone downstairs to take care of the final paperwork, and once the nurse arrived with a wheelchair, we would be on our way.
I was about to tell her of my plans for an exhibit of the artifacts when she said, “Are you sure your back will be all right? Did you have Dr. George look at it?”
It took me a few seconds to grasp the shift of subject. “My back? Oh, yes, he looked at it. After a few days of taking it easy, I'll be good as new.”
“See that you do, then.” She gave me a look that promised dire consequences if I didn't, then added, “You really must be more careful, Elena. This whole thing, being attacked by that murderer, it's horrible. Did he really kill his wife?”
“Yes, he's confessed to it. Apparently he was at the ruins collecting rocks—I think I mentioned he owns a rock shop—and she came up there and announced she was leaving him. He went crazy and strangled her, then buried her body in the apse. I guess he figured it was a safe place, since nobody ever goes there except Arturo and kids who are looking for a place to drink and neck. And probably no one would ever have discovered her if I hadn't found Quincannon's reports and started snooping around there.”
“And that's why he stole the report from Sam's house—to stop you from snooping?”
“Yes. He was watching me at the ruins one day—the day I thought somebody was there and then found the cigarette butt—and he got this weird idea that without the report I'd simply lose interest and go away. It wasn't logical, but then drunks are seldom masters of logic. He also thought that if he had the report, he might be able to figure out where the treasure was himself.” I laughed wryly.
Mama said, “What's so funny?”
“Not funny—ironic. Gray wanted to find the treasure, and all the time it was only a few feet from where he'd buried his wife.”
“I see nothing amusing about that. He might have killed you yesterday afternoon!” She gave me a truly dark look this time, and I was afraid a lecture would follow. But then she fell silent.
I was silent too, suddenly uncomfortable. When I'd arrived this morning, Mama had been too happy about being released with a clean bill of health, and I'd been too full of my news about the artifacts to talk about the quarrel we'd had the other day. Now was the time, however.
“Mama—” I said.
“Elena—” she said at the same time.
“Go ahead,” I told her.
She looked down at her clasped hands. “I just wished to say that I am sorry I spoke so harshly to you two days ago. I had no right.”
“No, Mama, I had no right to speak that way to you.”
She looked up again, her eyes reflecting my own relief. “There was a great deal of truth in what you said.”
“And also in what you said.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Then, we will speak no more of the matter.”
We were saved from any sentimental gestures by the arrival of the nurse with the wheelchair. All business, she transferred Mama to the chair, plopped one of the plants from the dresser in her lap, handed me another, and began wheeling the chair out to the elevator.
While we waited for the car to arrive, Mama said to me, “This man who saved you, Arturo Melendez—what is he like?”
I smiled. “I told you before. About my age, although he seems younger. A very talented artist. Not handsome, but quite nice-looking.”
“Melendez,” Mama said thoughtfully. “One of our own people.”
I knew what was coming next.
“And single,” she added.
“But poor. I told you, he is poor.”
She brushed the words aside. “Are you going to see him again?”
Normally I would have bristled at the question, but I was so happy Mama was well and going home and so relieved we'd made up our quarrel that I said, “Yes. We're having lunch tomorrow.”
“Ah, you like him.”
“I like him very much. But don't get all excited; we're only going to lunch to discuss a possible showing of his paintings at the museum.”
The elevator arrived. The nurse pushed Mama's chair into it and turned it around so it faced me. Mama was smiling. “That's good,” she said.
Astonished, I stayed where I was. “What do you mean—that's good?”
“It's good because I don't want you getting involved with him.”
The nurse was holding the door open, looking impatient, but I stood still. “Why not?”
Mama held up one hand and began ticking off items on her fingers. “First, it's too soon after Dave. Second, like you say, he doesn't have any money. And third, you're only interested in him because he saved your life. You're interested in anything that has to do with murder and violence, and I don't think those are very healthy concerns for a young woman.”
The nurse was smiling now. I rolled my eyes at her.
Mama added, “This Arturo looks exciting to you now, but after a while you'll realize he's no hero, and then we'll have another breakup on our hands—”
The nurse took her hand off the elevator's rubber safety strip. I reached inside to the operator panel and pushed the CLOSE button. As the two halves of the door moved together, I waved good-bye to Mama.
Maybe by the time I walked down to the lobby she'd have found a new topic of conversation. Whatever it was, I wouldn't have to put up with it long; I'd promised to have lunch with her and Nick at the trailer park, but then I had a date with Sam to read the remaining documents from the files of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.
EPILOGUE
1894
IT WAS NOT until three days after the suicide of Felipe Velasquez that Quincannon finally returned home to San Francisco.
There had been much for him to do at Rancho Rinconada de los Robles. The most difficult thing was dealing with Doña Olivia, and not because of her grief. It was apparent that she had cared for her husband and that she mourned his death; but it was also apparent that her primary concern was her future and that of her daughter. A cool, practical woman, who was not deceived—as Barnaby O'Hare and the servants were deceived—by Quincannon's lie that Velasquez had shot himself in a fit of despondency over his terminal illness, rather than suffer a few more weeks of pain.
If she had not known of his cancer, she had suspected it. And if he had not told her that he'd murdered Luis Cordova, she had suspected that, too. In private she indicated as much to Quincannon and left him no choice but to reveal the truth to her. Once she had it, she demanded to see the two pages of Tomás Cordova's letter, which he had removed from Velasquez's desk after the shooting. She also demanded that he reveal none of his knowledge to the authorities or to anyone else, for the sake of her daughter and the family's good name, and that he prepare a full confidential report of his activities while in the employ of her husband, so as to ensure his silence. He saw no reason to refuse her, not even when she said in her haughty fashion, “You will be well-paid, Señor Quincannon. You have my word on that.” He would have refused if she had demanded that he see to the private burial of Pablo at the ruins of the pueblo, a matter that would have to be attended to to preserve the facade she was erecting around Velasquez's death. But she seemed to sense that he would not go that far, and she made no mention of it. She would make the arrangements in her own way, as coolly as she would arrange for the public burial of her husband. Pablo, as far as anyone
would ever know, had simply disappeared. Luis Cordova, as far as anyone would ever know, had died at the hands of an unknown assailant. And Felipe Velasquez, as far as little Sofia and the world at large would ever know, had died of natural causes; O'Hare and the servants would be sworn to secrecy just as Quincannon himself had been.
When he finally left the hacienda for the long ride back across the mountains to Santa Barbara, it had been with a sense of relief. But the relief had not lasted long; it had been replaced by an odd feeling of cheerlessness and frustration. Part of it was the events at the rancho, but a large part of it, too, was a sense of personal failure. None of what had happened was his fault, of course. Nor was any of it an adverse reflection of his skills as a detective. And yet the suspicion nagged at him that he had not done all he could have; that Don Esteban's artifacts were hidden at the pueblo, and that given enough time, and with enough effort, he could have found them. Groundless though the feeling might be—Velasquez had given up hope, after all, and he had had far more knowledge of the area—it continued to chafe at him. He should have found those artifacts, by God! Not for Velasquez's sake, nor for Doña Olivia's; for little Sofia's and for his own peace of mind.
Now it was too late, much too late. His involvement with the Velasquez family was finished, or it would be once he sent his report to Doña Olivia. There was no going back, even if he had wanted to. And he did not want to.
San Francisco, surprisingly, still basked in balmy spring sunshine. But neither the weather nor the familiar sights of the city cheered him as he rode a hansom from the train depot to Market Street. Even the prospect of seeing Sabina held little pleasure for him—until he entered the agency's offices and saw her.
She wore an attractive tweed suit this morning, her hair was piled high on her head in the rather exotic, Oriental fashion he liked, and her welcoming smile struck him as radiant. She came to greet him with outstretched hands that clasped both of his. Her touch was electric. It seemed to soften something within him, like heat softens a clot of wax.
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