Twenty Centavos: A Mystery Set in San Miguel de Allende

by John Scherber

“Bingo,” I whispered to Cody as she led us through two more rooms, the second of which was a kitchen. Outside we passed through a well-tended vegetable garden. By the back wall was a cleared area with a small Mayan style house under a thatched roof. Ramon probably had to chop down the vegetation daily to keep the house from disappearing.

  Inside, modern lighting hung over a long work table. In one end of the house was a hammock and at the opposite end, rows of shelving. I counted five shipping boxes of the type we had seen at Independencia 132 in Dolores Hidalgo.

  “May we look around?” I asked Señora Xoc. “This is very exciting.”

  “Please do,” she said. “I only wish Ramon had been here to greet you himself.”

  “Did he go to Mérida? Perhaps we can meet him there.”

  “Oh no. He is in the north, in Guanajuato State. I think he went to Dolores Hidalgo.”

  I nodded politely. Had this earnest looking young man gone there to kill Tobey? Maybe he’d found out what the antiques dealer was getting for his finds.

  Two large plastic garbage cans stood at the end of the work table. Cody lifted the lid from one of them and looked at Señora Xoc as if to say, “May I?”

  She nodded. Inside, the container was lined with wet burlap and nearly full of clay. Cody didn’t look at me. On the shelving lay an assortment of tools, some of wood and some of steel, with short handles and loops of various configurations, and others like paddles, some curved, some flat. Next to these was a group of brushes upright in a can. Against the wall leaned several squares of plywood, warped and stained, possibly platforms for works in progress. On another shelf was a large collection of cans, and jars of liquid that had to be paint or glaze. A single spade lay below the shelves.

  “Perhaps Ramon took some of his ceramics with him?” I asked her.

  “It could be, because he needs to send them away all the time. You are friends of Señor Cross?”

  “Yes. We know his gallery well.” As I said this Cody set a pencil sketch on the bench in front of me. It showed an undecorated three-legged vessel, and below it a series of animal figures that might have been intended to grace the sides. I took it in briefly and said nothing more.

  We stepped back out into the merciless sunshine. Cody nudged me and pointed to a low brick structure at the edge of the cleared area. The edges around the top had a blackened look. “Does Ramon cook comida out here sometimes? Or is it for cochinita pibil?”

  She laughed and shook her head as if to say, What silly gringos. “Ramon only cooks the clay out here.”

  Returning through the house we thanked her for showing us around. As she stood at the door she said, “I hope next time Ramon will be here for you.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” I said.

  “Well, well,” said Cody, as the door closed behind us. “The man’s an artist.”

  “You don’t think it’s just a hobby.” I drove back in the direction of the square.

  “A damned lucrative one. Look what Tobey was paying him.”

  “Do you think Tobey knew they were fakes?” I pulled up in front of the antiques shop on the square.

  “Hard to tell now, since we can’t ask him, but if you think of the difference in prices between what Ramon was getting and what Tobey sold them for, it looks to me like they went in as fakes and came out as the real deal.”

  “I think we need to talk to Ramon as soon as possible. He’s got to be in over his head here and I bet he has no idea. Why not try to get hold of Maya and see if she can stake out 132?”

  Cody chuckled. “I can just see Maya on stakeout in the artmobile. It’s even got one of those cup holder deals for the coffee and donuts.”

  The traffic cop appeared in front of the car and again waved us off in the direction of the parking area.

  “Did you notice the excavating tools?” I asked Cody. “The picks, the shovels, the fine brushes for dusting the precious discoveries?”

  “I get it. The trays of shards, the bone fragments, the chips of jade. Above all the fine screen for sifting through the dirt. That stuff?”

  “Right. He may have had them at one time, but I’ll bet he hung them up long ago. I think Ramon is only digging raw clay now. Instead of pyramids he’s scouting clay pits.”

  The antique store had not been painted within the lifetime of anyone now living. Over the grilled window facing the parking area shaded by palm trees, it said, “Mercado Maya.”

  The interior reminded me of the collection of someone who had acquired broadly and without discipline for many years, and the result now covered the walls and every surface within the store, and hung from the ceiling as well. It had last been dusted during the regime of Pofirio Diaz, and even then none too perfectly. An American in a guayabera bent over a drawer in a small cabinet. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and wore jeans and sandals. His hair was pulled back in a gray pony tail.

  “Hola! guys, Let me know if I can show you anything.”

  He did have a phenomenal set of masks which covered one entire wall. I thought of doing a mask still life and I wondered if there was a mask here that an excavator would wear. Or a burly old cop, to cover a big red face. Cody was pawing through a pile of old maps. The American came over to me and held out his hand.

  “Robbins, Mick Robbins. Don’t think I’ve seen you before. Welcome to Izamal. Are you a mask collector?”

  “No. But I am looking for ceramics. Old things, you know? Fragments. Got anything like that?”

  “I don’t think there’s much Mayan that I don’t have.” He pulled two drawers from a tall oak cabinet and set them on the counter. Cody drifted over. The pieces were organized within the drawers in a way that I didn’t understand. Nothing was bigger than three inches across.

  Cody looked at Robbins. “Is it legal to take these out of the country?”

  “Sure. In ceramics anything up to the size of your palm, more or less, and not intact, can leave the country. Bigger than that and you need to apply for an export permit, which goes through the Ministry of Culture in México City, and more often than not, you never hear back from them. I don’t advise it.”

  “Do you have anything bigger than what you have here?”

  “Not any more. I used to have a local guy who came up with some pretty good finds, a few of them very early. Larger pieces, too. But that dried up four or five years ago.”

  “Anything intact?”

  “Now and then. But all that stuff flew out of here when they started talking about export permits.”

  “Ever see that fellow around anymore?”

  “Sure, he’s still around. Name’s Xoc; Ramon, I think. Nice guy. It could be that he’s found a better market somewhere else.” He noticed Cody mopping his forehead. “It does get warm around here,” he said. “But you get used to it. I’ve been here since ‘79. Used to be in a rock band before that. Now I’m a little deaf. Ever hear of the New Buzzards?”

  “No. Thanks for your help.” Cody put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me out. We tipped the traffic cop ten pesos for his valuable assistance and drove back in the direction of Señora Xoc’s place. Nearby, on Calle 27 between 28 and 30 was a restaurant called Kinich Kakmo, which we had heard about in Mérida. It was time for a couple of beers and some serious analysis.

  Kinich Kakmo was a charming, open-feeling place with no ceilings other than the thatched palapa style roofs, and no interior walls except at the kitchen and the bathrooms. The thatch was supported throughout by a structure of timbers lashed together. The waiter was young and enjoyed his work. We both ordered poc-chuc, the local pork specialty. In an open fronted hut at the edge of the restaurant the tortilla woman worked steadily, patting the corn into shape over an open fire, the traditional way.

  Cody took a long swig of his Negra Modelo and leaned back in his chair. “So what do we know and when did we know it?”

  I thought for a minute. “We know that our friend Ramon was once truly an amateur archaeologist, in a free lance sort of way. We kn
ow that at some point he took his place in a long tradition of Mayan artisans and became a producer. I don’t think he is copying anything directly now. He is probably taking design elements from a vocabulary he’s mastered, and recombining them to form a truly individual product. You’re not going to open Archaeology South Magazine and find something exactly the same as what just went out to Galeria Cruz. Ramon’s creations are unique, or Tobey would never have risked selling them as genuine.”

  “What happens when the first gringo customer dies and leaves his treasures to his favorite museum? The jig is up.”

  “If they spot them as fakes,” I said. “Maybe they won’t. Not every museum is expert in every area. If they do spot them and they come back at him, then Tobey’s on the first bus out of San Miguel with suitcases full of money. Or maybe the museum stays gracious and polite and doesn’t say anything, especially if the donor has other things in the pipeline that might be real and valuable. Just stick them in the archive with a lot of other phony stuff they’ve been given. And then there’s the export problem. Most likely the ceramics couldn’t leave the country even if a museum has them. Either way, end of story.”

  “How about the stakeout idea?” Cody dug into the grilled pork, with sides of beans and salad that the waiter had just set down. “Una cerveza mas, por favor,” he said to the man, who caught my eye.

  “Yo tambien,” I said. “I’m reluctant to ask Maya to go back to 132, but I don’t think Ramon is dangerous. It’s only that she’s not getting paid enough to get hurt.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed her number, but a message came up that said, “No Service.” No surprise.

  “I think we’ve got to get her in on this, since we’re here and he’s there,” said Cody. “Does she check her e-mail?”

  “All the time when she’s in the archive. There’s an Internet facility above Cafe Havana back in Mérida. We could get her going as soon as we get back. I don’t think we can let this wait.”

  Chapter 8

  Cody had just dropped me off at home after our flight and gone on to his condo when Maya pulled up in the artmobile. We hugged and I kissed her and this time our door was still locked. We bolted it again after we got in, but there’s something about a break-in that shakes your confidence in locks. When my e-mail reached her at the Dolores Hidalgo archive she folded up her laptop and spent some time hanging about near Tobey’s office. Ramon had not appeared.

  I made a fire in the great room and put on some Chet Baker ballads. Maya poured us each a brandy and we sat on the sofa. When I pulled off her shoes and rubbed her feet I worked over each of her toes separately. I’m not able to explain the exact medical reason for this, but it seemed to perk her up. She leaned back deeply into the cushions and groaned. “No activity at 132,” she said. “Don’t ever stop.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Marisol called me. The coroner’s office in Guanajuato has released Tobey’s body. It went back to Minneapolis this morning. She wants me to come back with her for the funeral. I need to be there with her because she doesn’t feel that comfortable with his family. Do you want to come?” She seemed uncertain about whether I might want to go. I’d never been to Minneapolis.

  “I think I do. Maybe we can find out who he was. Cody’s associates in the Chicago Police Department couldn’t find anything. You know, why not talk to Tobey’s friends and family? Get them to reminisce a bit about the good old times. Because unless we find Ramon we’ve got nothing much here. Well, a little maybe. We’re getting an idea who Ramon is.”

  I filled her in on what we found in Izamal.

  “Not another artist,” she said.

  “Exactly. The bearer of a proud tradition, in this case. He had it in his genes.”

  “His jeans?”

  “No. Like DNA.”

  “You need to paint again and I need to pose. I’m feeling bad about the lost Maize God picture. I could take my clothes off?”

  “You could.” My hands were working her calves now, then moving up behind her knees. “I could help, I’m good at it. I’m not sure I’ll mix any paint, though. Let me just get these buttons.” Nothing like a good foot rub.

  Maya was able to get an expedited visa the next day at the consulate because of the funeral. Marisol didn’t need one because she had dual citizenship. Tickets were available for a flight two days out.

  We settled into the studio and Maya emerged from behind the changing screen without her robe. “I’m going to wash it,” she said. I knew she was thinking about Barbara wearing it.

  It was strange starting again on a picture I had nearly finished, and I don’t like to paint the same scene twice. I tried to tell myself it was a good thing, a chance to improve on what I had done before, but I knew it wasn’t. It was only an attempt to recapture lost work. The earlier picture seemed to belong to another, less problematical time. I was merely a painter then, with no thought of trying to solve a crime.

  I don’t use the word “artist” to describe myself. It’s a five dollar word to characterize what to me is only a highly skilled craftsman. Marisol’s thought that I might see things differently was true, painters learn to see differently as they learn their craft. When I picked up a ceramic vessel in Tobey’s gallery I didn’t quite see the vast ancient culture it came from; San Miguel was too far west to have been part of Mayan country, and there are few Mayan artifacts here. In any case, I knew little about it. What I saw in the ceramics was the person who made them, and my instinctive goal in looking closely at them was to understand how they were made. They connected me to the individual more than the culture. It was the same for any handmade artifact that I touched.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked Maya. This time the line of her back was correct right away.

  “About Marisol and Tobey. When Tobey was killed I thought, what if I lost you like that? But then I thought, no one kills a painter. Now I’m not so sure. If someone comes into our house and cuts up a painting, then it’s not so different to think he might kill the painter. That’s a terrible thing to think.”

  “You never told Marisol.”

  “No.”

  “Close your eyes, I’m ready to start your face.”

  “You won’t die, will you?”

  “Not for 60 years.”

  By early afternoon I had Maya roughed in on the canvas and had begun sketching the Maize God behind her. I altered the position of her hand for this version, trying to make it seem like new work. Two days later we left for Minneapolis, not realizing what the last week of January meant there. We should have done a little research.

  Chapter 9

  Valentin Guzman

  Valentin Guzman leaned against the locked door of a tiendita, a tiny neighborhood grocery store; the kind with a hand lettered sign, a single cooler and seven or eight shelves of last minute groceries. His right hand moved over the surface of the watch on his other wrist. It was a gift from the Boss, and in the right light it looked like gold. It didn’t matter that the metal expansion band was flexed over his thick wrist and pinched a little in places; it was Valentin’s most treasured possession. He shifted from one foot to the other and he heard the door creak as his bulk pressed against its surface.

  He looked at the watch. It was 8:45 and had been dark for more than two hours. Any minute now the man with the sample case would come into view.

  The grocery store stood on a corner on the eastern end of San Miguel, with one side that opened to a well-traveled street that became the road to Querétaro, and the other facing the quiet side street, hardly bigger than an alley, where Valentin now stood. The Boss had told him that the man with the sample case would be on foot. That meant he would either continue on the Querétaro road when he left the Boss’s house or he would turn and pass Valentin in the doorway as he went down the street. Either way, Valentin was ready.

  His hand found the gun in his pocket. He didn’t like to touch it, but he wanted to be sure it was there. Next to it was the key, wrapped in a piece of p
aper he had folded over it. The small pistol was one of a pair the Boss had pulled out of his desk drawer, both layered into a felt cloth that smelled of oil. One was an automatic, the other, a revolver. The Boss had told him to take the revolver because they were foolproof, and then given him the key as well. Valentin didn’t want to try to remember the address where he was supposed to leave the body, so he wrote it down. There were other things to think about. Even when he wasn’t stressed like this it was hard to think about more than one thing at a time.

  Two pairs of headlights moved down the street in his direction. He hoped the Boss had been right about the man with the sample case being on foot. Otherwise the plan was ruined. But the Boss was never wrong, or, at least, he hadn’t been yet. But Valentin had never been entrusted with anything this important. The headlights passed and as his eyes readjusted to the dim light he made out a small figure coming down the street toward him. The man approached slowly, looking downward, as if he had a greater burden than the case in his hand. As he reached the opposite side of the street he paused as if to get his bearings, and then turned right. Valentin waited a moment and then crossed the narrow street and followed him.

  Hastening down the uneven sidewalk, he came up behind the man and placed his huge hand on his shoulder and spun him around. There was shock on the man’s face as he looked up.

  “You are Ramon?” asked Valentin, pressing the gun into his neck.

  The man hesitated, and then said, “Yes, I am Ramon, but what...?”

  “Just come with me. Say no more.”

  “I have no money, nothing of much value...”

  “Silence. I have a gun.”

  Valentin’s van was parked near the corner. Keeping a firm grip on Ramon’s arm, he opened the rear doors and pushed him inside. He quickly slid in beside him and pulled the doors shut to put out the interior lights. From behind the spare tire he drew out two lengths of rope and pressed Ramon face down on the floor with his knee as he bound his hands and feet. Ramon said nothing. Valentin moved up to the driver’s seat and pulled away from the curb. He turned right at the corner, and then right again and up the hill to Cuesta de San Jose, heading toward the reservoir.