Maggie tilted toward my ear, her voice low. “There’s Sam Begay, our artist, now.” She indicated a Native American man in his mid-twenties with flowing shoulder-length black hair, a lean body, and a face whose planes might have been chiseled from the reddish sandstone of the desert. “I’m sure Jason Kirk will do an introduction to the whole room soon—after all, that’s what he’s here for. That, and the fact that Daphne’s daughter is sleeping with him.
“The older gentleman who just came in the front door”—she flicked her chin that direction— “That’s Anton Pachevski, the art critic. Watch for the stir, because it’s big news that he’s here.”
Sure enough, once Daphne spotted Pachevski she made a not-very-subtle beeline for him. He greeted her outstretched hand with a quick goateed kiss, while reaching for a glass of champagne with his free hand. His white receding hair was combed straight back and plastered closely to his head. The goatee was probably trimmed every other day. His clothing defied the typical art world slouch—he was stylishly European looking, like someone with a minor title.
“No one seems to know when Anton came on the scene exactly. One day he was simply the art critic to please. You’ll certainly see some major sucking-up from both Daphne and the artist. A mention of the Dumont Gallery in Pachevski’s column will mean big sales,” Maggie told me. “I was an art major before I bought the ranch,” she winked.
I watched the critic from the corner of my eye as Maggie steered my attention elsewhere.
“The older couple over there are from Santa Fe. The green aura you see around them is envy. They own a gallery there and have been trying for a year to get Pachevski to one of their showings. They don’t give a shit about this artist tonight, but they’ll eventually join the groveling at Anton’s feet.”
I chuckled along with her. The party really was more fun when you knew the identities of the players.
“Who’s the elegant woman in black?” I asked.
“Rita Trujillo. She owns this building and odds are she’s here to see if there’s a good crowd and if sales are brisk. She lives on the ranch next to mine and is another lady who’s more likely to be seen about town at Wal-Mart wearing jeans. But she told me awhile back that Daphne’s two months behind in her rent. The last Dumont showing was a bust.”
So her presence might account for Daphne’s almost frantic catering to the “important” guests. Interesting.
Drake sidled by, working his way around the walls of bright paint splashes. “Seen about all the art I can handle, hon.”
“Do you need to be rescued, dear?”
“I think I’m ready, unless you see something here you just can’t live without.”
“Not at four thousand and up,” I assured him. “Maggie says Jason Kirk is going to do an introduction of the artist pretty soon. I think right after that will be our chance to escape.”
Maggie excused herself to make sure her caterer friend was doing all right, and Drake and I edged toward the coat rack.
Ding-ding-ding. A silver spoon tapped melodically against a wine glass. “Attention, everyone,” Daphne called out. The crowd came to a gradual hush. “I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. We’re just thrilled with the turnout to honor our talented young artist. As you know, Jason Kirk, one of the brightest new stars in Hollywood, is hosting tonight’s party and I’d like to have him say a few words and introduce you to Sam Begay.”
Polite applause greeted Jason as he stepped forward. He swept one hand through the longish hair above his forehead, only to have it fall back into exactly the same casual cascade that brushed his eyelids. He grinned the slightly crooked smile that had launched him into America’s female hearts and his eyes sparkled as he began to speak.
I felt myself becoming antsy, impatient with the lengthy protocol that dictated our listening to one person introduce another, who would then introduce a third. Drake caught my eye and eased our jackets off the coat rack. Jason’s talk ended with his arm across Sam Begay’s shoulders as the two posed with frozen smiles for cameras. I slipped my arms into the jacket Drake held up for me and we edged outside quietly.
“You looked like you and Maggie hit it off,” he said, once we were safely outside, bustling toward our car in the brisk night air.
“She’s funny. A sweet, ordinary person who’s obviously into all the small town gossip. Maybe I’ll call her again while we’re here.”
Drake unlocked my door and I slid onto the frigid seat.
“Look, hon, it’s starting to snow.”
“Then our timing was perfect for heading back out to the cabin,” he said. “But let’s do one quick thing first.”
The Dumont Gallery was on Kit Carson Road, but it was so crowded we’d been forced to park in a municipal lot about three blocks away. Our route back would take us down that winding historic road, past its namesake’s home. Drake made the additional detour to circle the plaza once to savor the magic of northern New Mexico at Christmas. The adobe walls and buildings were topped with luminarias, more correctly called farolitos, meaning little lights. Although originally these were small paper bags with a couple of inches of sand in the bottom of each, and a single votive candle placed in the sand, modern ones are now plastic brown bags with electric lights. The flickering magic of the real flame may be gone, but these hold up much better in snow.
Slowly driving around the plaza square, seeing every building topped with the glowing golden lights, the sidewalks also rimmed with them, and the snow falling softly in big wet flakes, made the Christmas spirit of northern New Mexico suddenly very real.
There was about an inch of new snow by the time we reached the northern town limits, close to four new inches as we ascended the road leading to the cabin.
“If you’re ever driving this road in a storm, be extra careful,” Drake said, switching to four wheel drive. “It has some sudden turns and it’s a steep drop if you go off.”
Chapter 6
“Maggie! Charlie Parker here. We met last night at the Dumont.”
“Of course, how are you today? I noticed you were lucky enough to duck out early.”
“Well, the weather really started to close in. We had quite a long drive up here to the ski valley.”
“I wish I’d thought of that one,” she said. “I stayed till the deadly boring end.”
“Look, I’ve got a question for you,” I said. I’d called Eloy earlier to suggest he come by the cabin and get the silver crosses and take them to a safer place. He sounded surprised and said his family never had any silver crosses and he couldn’t imagine where they’d come from. So now I was off on another tangent, trying to get some background information to find out who they belonged to. “Maggie, you seem to know lots of people, especially in the art world.”
“Well, some.”
“Do you know anyone who might have some expertise in religious artifacts? Crosses, in particular.”
“Hmmm . . . let me think. You could try Sandra Chavez at the museum. They have some religious items there. Wait, I think I have her number here somewhere--” She read it off to me and I thanked her, suggesting that we meet in town for lunch soon.
A call to Sandra Chavez netted me an appointment at eleven a.m. After dropping Drake at the hangar, I headed into town and arrived at her office ten minutes early with my velvet-wrapped bundle.
“Charlie?” The woman who greeted me was petite with short, dark hair and an elfin face in subtle makeup. She wore the Taos uniform of broomstick skirt and pullover velveteen top, with two strands of silver heishi around her neck. She invited me into an office that was neat but crowded with books, files, and papers.
“As I explained on the phone, I’m looking for some background information on these.” I laid the packet on her desk and spread open the velvet wrapping.
“Oh!” she lifted the cross with the delicate leaf work. “These are exquisite,” she breathed.
She examined the cross she held, set it carefully down and picked up the other one, tur
ning it over and carefully perusing it from all angles.
“Do you recognize them?” I asked.
“Not specifically. They’re obviously very old and of the finest craftsmanship. I’d say Spanish or Italian, sixteenth century, most likely. How do you happen to have them?”
“You don’t know whether they may have come from a museum or a private collection?” I dodged her question.
“No, I’d remember if I’d seen them before.”
I wrapped the velvet covering around them again. “Maybe someone connected with the Catholic church would know,” I ventured.
“You could meet with one of the priests at St. Augustine,” she suggested. “Father Sanchez is the younger one but Father Domingo has been here for about sixty years. He’s very knowledgeable in church history, particularly if the crosses are somehow connected locally.”
This last was a hint, which I ignored as I picked up the crosses and thanked her. I remembered the old church—we had passed it on the way to Mike Ortiz’s office. I drove there and walked into the peaceful church. The nave was empty except for a lone figure near the altar.
“Father Domingo?” I queried of the black-clad man who was straightening candles.
“No, my dear,” he chuckled. “He’s in his office.” On closer look, this man was in his early fifties, not even close to the age Sandra Chavez had estimated for the elder priest.
“Could you show me the way? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Certainly.”
I followed him through a small side door, down a hallway, and into a plain square office.
“Father, there is a lady to see you.”
The elderly man was robed in a black cassock, probably more comfortable than slacks in the chilly room. His thin, white hair covered little of his shiny pink scalp, and his face settled into creases that gave him the kindly character of a basset. His smile revealed good strong teeth and a peaceful soul. He extended his hand to me, his eyes questioning.
“I’m Charlie Parker,” I said, taking the proffered hand. “I wonder if I might ask for your expertise on something.”
“It has been a long time since someone your age has called me an expert,” he grinned. His voice was quiet and rounded with the soft tones of Spanish. “Come, sit down.”
The other priest left, gently closing the door behind him.
I laid the crosses on the desk, again peeling back the velvet covering.
“Madre de Dios!” the old man exclaimed. He clutched at his chest and my own heart lurched. Father Domingo’s breath came in short gasps. His fingers had grabbed a fistful of his robe.
“Are you all right? Shall I get help?” I glanced back at the door where the other priest had disappeared.
“No!” He put a hand out toward me. “I will be fine. I . . . just . . . I just want to . . .”
He reached toward the crosses and pulled the edge of the velvet cover so the packet slid across the desktop to him. Gently, as one might handle a fragile flower, he lifted the cross with the delicate silver wire.
“The Cross of Lamonde,” he said reverently. “I never thought to see it again.”
He held the cross to his heart, gently rubbing it against the fabric of his robe. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed together.
“Where ever did you get this?” he asked after a couple of minutes.
“This is a famous cross?” I countered. “I take it that it is very well known.”
“They both are.” He set the Cross of Lamonde down and picked up the other. Holding it in both hands as if it were a tiny baby, he gazed lovingly at it. “This is the Cross of Santiago.”
My expression must have shown that my knowledge of Catholic tradition is nil.
“You have never heard of them, I guess.” His face showed great compassion for my state of complete ignorance. “These crosses are treasures of the church. It is so good to have them back again.”
His stare became sharp, his anthracite eyes piercing mine. “I ask you again, Ms. Parker, where did you get these crosses?”
It was time for confession.
Without naming names, I told him how I’d found them among a box of decorations, carefully hidden away in the mountain cabin. I said that the owner of the cabin knew nothing about the crosses being there. Which was almost true—at least I believed that Eloy knew nothing about them.
“Father Domingo, I’m a partner in a private investigation firm. Could you give me some background information on them? It would really help with a case I’m working on. For instance, where did the crosses come from?—recently, I mean.”
The old man settled back in his chair, his color finally looking a bit better. He kept the crosses in front of him on the desk, still watching them protectively.
“As far as I am aware,” he began, “the Cross of Lamonde was kept at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. I have never visited there myself, but when the story came out about the loss of it, pictures were released so we would all be watching for it. It was stolen from the sacristy and the cardinal actually received a ransom note. It was the most valuable item in the parish’s collection and the thief knew exactly what he was taking. The cardinal answered the ransom demand publicly on the radio, saying that the thief would do well to return God’s property without delay and without demanding a payment of money.
“It was apparently the wrong thing to do because the cross vanished and no further word came from the thief. Many believed that he had followed through on his threat and melted it down. Others believed that some unscrupulous person had purchased it for a private collection and that was the reason it was never seen again.
“When the Cross of Santiago disappeared from the Vatican collection, it was decided not to make the theft public, for fear of the same thing happening.”
Vatican. My coincidence meter shot up. “How long ago did this happen?” I asked.
“Let me think.” He squinted his eyes and looked upward. “The first theft was probably seven or eight years ago. Father Ralph had just come to our parish here for the first time. He’s usually with us around the holidays each year, but Father Sanchez is our regular priest.”
“And the second cross?”
“A year or two after the first, I believe.” He rubbed his temple. “Yes, I think that is about right.”
“Were the police involved? Did they have any suspects?”
“Oh yes. And the FBI, and I seem to remember that they had suspects.” He smiled as he swiveled in his chair and opened a file drawer in the desk. “Forgive an old man with an interest in crime-solving,” he said. Pulling a thin folder from the back of the drawer, he withdrew a small stack of what appeared to be newspaper and magazine clippings. He scanned each one slowly.
“This one mentions a man named Leon Palais, who was someone important in the art world. The police suspected that he might have been working with someone on the inside.”
I settled back in my chair and read the whole article. Palais had indeed been the number one suspect. He was referred to in the article at different times as an art dealer, a collector, and an expert on religious artifacts. He’d been in both New York and Rome, coincidentally at the same times the two thefts had taken place. Although he didn’t have direct access to the places where the crosses were taken, and could not be placed at either scene, authorities believed that it would have been easy enough for someone on the inside to slip the small silver crosses to him. No suspects were named as the possible insiders.
Palais was a slippery character. The only photo known to exist of him was on his passport. Reprinted with the article, the photo showed a burly man in his forties with fluffy hair and a thick beard. The last place Palais had used his passport was on the French/Dutch island of St. Maarten in the Caribbean. He had entered on the French side and blended so well with the dozens of different nationalities who inhabit the place, that he’d not been seen again. The last of the articles Father Domingo handed me was dated five years ago, when the trail had dried up.
Five years ago, Ramon Romero, the priest from Taos was killed, returning from an assignment at the Vatican. Too much coincidence for my taste, although I couldn’t imagine Ramon the saint actually breaking and entering, or sending ransom notes. How would this all fit together?
I asked Father Domingo if he would assure that the crosses were returned to their proper homes. I would leave them with him on the condition that the returns were done quietly with no publicity. For Eloy’s sake, we couldn’t afford to alert any others who might have been involved.
Chapter 7
I left the church, feeling relieved that I’d found someone to take care of the crosses for me, but more confused than ever about the implications of the thefts and the number of people involved. I couldn’t help but feel that Eloy’s brother had somehow been tied in, but how?
I called the hangar to see if Drake could break away for lunch, but he was out on a flight. Called Maggie Collins to ask her the same question and got an answering machine. So I opted to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I’d already taken care of everyone in Albuquerque, leaving gifts at the office for Ron and his boys, Sally and her husband Ross, and a little trinket for our new girl, Tammy. Had mailed gifts to my brother Paul and his family in Phoenix, and left a little something for my grandmotherly neighbor Elsa. So everyone was taken care of except the most important—Drake.
The problem was, I was really stuck for ideas for my sweetie. By the time men hit forty, they’ve usually acquired everything they really want for themselves. And if some new gadget came out, he’d buy it without waiting for an occasion. I parked behind the plaza and decided to browse the shops. Maybe something that would be a lasting reminder of our honeymoon winter in Taos would be fun. I climbed the stairs to Ogilvies restaurant where I ordered a salad and tried to hatch a brainstorm in the gift department. Unfortunately, all the confusing, conflicting complexities of the silver crosses and Ramon’s murder intruded unmercifully into my thoughts.
Honeymoons Can Be Murder: The Sixth Charlie Parker Mystery (The Charlie Parker Mysteries) Page 5
