Twenty Centavos: A Mystery Set in San Miguel de Allende

by John Scherber

  I shrugged. “There was no bullet in our entry and too little blood. He knows the body was moved. Anyway, why would I kill Ramon somewhere else and plant the body in my own zaguan? Not even a gringo would do that. He’s right about one thing, though. He said it was a warning.” I flipped the chicken over and shuffled the vegetables. “Five minutes.” Maya pulled the tortilla warmer out of the oven and set the table. I poured wine all around.

  “I wonder if you’ve noticed that Delgado’s been following you,” Cody said. “I saw him tonight on the way over, parked just down the block. A white Chrysler.”

  “I hadn’t noticed but I’m not surprised.” I sliced the chicken into strips and served the vegetables.

  “So we know Tobey was ethically challenged,” Cody continued. “If he’d sell penny stocks to little old ladies and churn them into poverty he surely wouldn’t mind selling pricey fakes to rich expatriate collectors.”

  “You read the complaint?”

  “Yes. He specialized in elderly clients.” He rolled up a tortilla full of chicken and vegetables and looked at me. “Do we think that all the pictures we saw in Dolores were genuine? You would know.”

  “That stuff is too expensive to counterfeit for what it would bring,” I said. “You saw on the sales records that none of them went for more than $3,000 or so. I wouldn’t do it for those prices. It’s tough to find blank canvas and stretchers that old and some of those pigments aren’t made anymore. The technology of paint is different now. There was no Chinese or titanium white back then. Ultraviolet light would show up the newer paint instantly. I think his business has to be a blend of old and new. Maybe the pictures were an effective cover, like there was one or more parts of his trade that were completely genuine and they lent credence to the rest. I imagine the jewelry and silver coins are the real deal as well.”

  “And so now Licenciado Delgado is a major collector of Mayan ceramics?” said Cody. “Or some of his people? Or did our friend Ramon just clean out the office himself?”

  “I think the Policia Judicial,” said Maya, chewing. “They are not well paid. Some would explain that it’s a fringe benefit. Is that the right term?”

  “Yes, and Delgado told me a little bit about Méxican business practices today. It involves keeping an eye out for the main chance.”

  “I could have told you that,” said Maya.

  “Besides,” I went on, “I don’t think Ramon would have left the packing materials behind and just pulled out the pots. It seems like he would have had too much respect for his own work. It shows a great deal of care and expertise.”

  Maya served a flan she had made that afternoon. Afterward I poured three Spanish brandies and lit the Cuban cigar.

  “You are celebrating?” asked Maya.

  “I know. Now my breath will stink.”

  “You will sleep with the guests, and you will snore.”

  “We have no guests.”

  “Lucky for you.”

  “You know,” I said, “we’ve never really figured out the coin in the mouth aspect, and now we have it twice.”

  “That’s easy,” said Cody. “I guess we all went to college. It’s for the ferry.”

  “Tinker Bell?” suggested Maya.

  “No, she was a pixie. I’m thinking of Charon, in Greek legend the boatman who ferried the souls of the dead across to Hades. His fee was a coin left in the mouth of the deceased. If there was no coin the dead had to wander the riverbank for a hundred years.”

  “But what does this tell us?” said Maya.

  “That the killer is mythologically sophisticated?” said Cody.

  “That’s very obscure,” I said, taking a pull at the Cohiba. “I don’t know what to do with it. How do you know this? You didn’t really study Greek mythology in college?”

  “I was a psychology major. Anyway, cops know things. You’d be surprised what you come across in 30 years, even in Peoria. Plus, I read a book now and then when there’s no football on. I don’t think the ferryman’s fee was 20 centavos, though. More like a drachma. But I don’t know how it fits in except that it ties the two murders together.”

  “So the killer is an antiquarian? Or he’s Greek? Or he just had too much pocket change?” I asked.

  “Whatever it is, he’s making a statement.” Maya said.

  “OK. Twenty centavos is less than two cents American,” I said. “Is the statement that life is cheap? Because when it appeared in Tobey’s murder I thought it was there to say he was of no significance.”

  Cody laughed. “Life is cheap to any killer. Look, there are two ways to view this. Either we have a serial killer, in which case there may be similarities but no personal link between the victims. Or the second murder stems from the first, like it’s an unintended consequence. The killer is getting pulled further in. In this case we know from the packaging that Ramon Xoc knew Tobey, so there’s the link, and we can eliminate the serial aspect. Did Ramon know who killed Tobey, in which case maybe the motive for killing Ramon is that he was blackmailing the killer? Or did he even know that Tobey had been killed?”

  “Interesting that Ramon didn’t show up at Galeria Cruz, he showed up at the office in Dolores Hidalgo because that’s where he shipped the ceramics,” I said. “Wait, didn’t Marisol say someone had called for Tobey right after his death, someone who didn’t identify himself?”

  “Right,” said Maya, “probably it was Marisol who told Ramon that night that Tobey was dead. Ramon panicked and came up here to see what was going on, maybe to recover his pieces. So he breaks into the office.”

  “But we still have no link between Ramon and the killer,” said Cody.

  “Ramon probably took the sales ledger and the Rolodex from the office.” I said. “The Rolodex has the customer list. The killer’s name is in the Rolodex.” Flawless logic.

  “And then either the Rolodex is in Ramon’s hotel room with his luggage, or the killer got it from the gallery and most likely destroyed it.”

  “The hotel room is somewhere in Dolores Hidalgo. We may be able to find the hotel, but how do we get into his room?” said Maya.

  “You’re right there,” said Cody. “We have no standing in this investigation. No hotel manager will let us into a guest’s room.”

  “Maybe the police will have it quickly anyway, as soon as they get a match on the fingerprints. It won’t take them long to figure out that Ramon went to Dolores Hidalgo. His mother would tell them. Then all they have to do is start with the hotels near the bus station. I’m guessing Ramon did not fly in if he was keeping a low profile. So why not stay near the bus that brought him? He would have had luggage to carry and he had no reason to think anyone knew he was there. Delgado got the room key from his pocket in our zaguan. So most likely the police have the Rolodex by now and if they don’t, they have the computer from the office and we know the list is on the computer. It’s the same thing. The only thing that would be useful is if the killer still had the Rolodex.

  “My head hurts,” said Maya.

  “That’s the margaritas. So what do we do next?” I asked. “Wait for another murder?” It didn’t occur to me that it might be mine.

  Chapter 13

  Diego Delgado

  Licenciado Delgado had long been aware of the dealing activities of Tobey Cross. The commerce in Mayan ceramics was not a problem to him as long as all the pieces stayed in México, and he had no evidence of any export activities by Galeria Cruz. It was not against the law to merely own them. Indeed, he watched all the gringos of San Miguel, not because their ranks were flush with criminals; on the contrary, their good deeds in the city were legend. They ran more than 30 different volunteer groups in San Miguel. Delgado watched them because in his view the American community with all its wealth represented a business opportunity not to be ignored. In fact, one of his cousins who maintained a booth in the Tuesday market made a good living just dealing in their castoff clothing.

  When the call from Marisol Cross alerted him to the possibil
ity that Dolores Hidalgo might be the site of Tobey’s office, he was in his white Chrysler and on the road to that historic city within five minutes, pausing only at Galeria Cruz to pick up the key. There was no need for subtlety on the way and he turned on his flashing lights and laid on his horn as he flew past the traffic in his own lane. Once in Dolores Hidalgo he unknowingly repeated Maya’s plan of starting from the plaza and searching each street for a 132 address. After a few wrong streets it did not take him long to find the apple green building. He waited for a crowd of school boys to disperse and then tried the key.

  “Beengo,” he said, a word that has entered Méxican Spanish as an exclamation, but after shedding its earlier meaning.

  Once inside he made a rapid search of everything there. He noticed the break-in almost immediately and was relieved to find most of the packing cases were still full. He pulled out one of the pictures and wrinkled his nose. A withered old saint with a dim halo, eyes lifted heavenward; hardly as interesting as the nudes by Paul Zacher, which Delgado had only pretended offended him. It was an excuse to talk about Maya nude and visualize them again. He unpacked the ceramics, practically groaning with joy, and laid them on the work table. Then one by one he carried them to his police car and wrapped them all in a couple of blankets he kept in the trunk for accident victims. He would drive more slowly on the way back, without the siren.

  Inside the office he dusted and lifted fingerprints wherever he could find them and then packed up the computer and the contents of the desk. He eyed the stereo system longingly but decided to leave it in place. He searched further for any sign of a Rolodex, but there was none.

  Back in San Miguel, he stopped first at home and hid the ceramics in a garden shed at the back of his lot. An obvious place, perhaps, but they wouldn’t be there long. Back at the station he had one of the uniformed officers unload the rest of the office contents from his car. With the aid of one of the bilingual officers--Delgado had no aptitude for languages and so made it a point of pride to know almost no English--he scanned the contents of the computer, printed the customer and supplier lists and saw that Ramon Xoc’s name and address were there too. He had already copied it from the packing materials at 132.

  Looking over the customer list in detail first, he found he knew many of the names. One that particularly rang a bell was John Schleicher. In the files of the San Miguel Police the name of Schleicher had a special mark after it; one that meant “Do not approach.” Any question involving Schleicher was to be referred to the highest level of the state police in Guanajuato. Licenciado Delgado knew this could mean only one thing: that Schleicher was paying for protection and had influence both with the state police and the court system, the latter being Delgado’s own superiors. He was unsure how to read this. The sales records told him that Tobey Cross’s biggest customer over the years had been Perry Watt. He knew Perry Watt was probably the richest gringo in San Miguel, even richer than Schleicher. Might as well start at the top.

  Licenciado Delgado was going to be an antiques dealer. He had always felt that new skills came easily to him, and as a cop, he was no stranger to risk.

  When he came to the station the next morning the information had come in on the fingerprints. The dead man in Paul Zacher’s house was Ramon Xoc. Delgado was not surprised, but what link there could be with Paul Zacher was not clear to him. That afternoon Delgado was back in Dolores Hidalgo looking for Ramon’s hotel. He knew from his calls to the airlines that Ramon had not flown from Mérida, so he began his search near the bus station. In the third hotel he visited he showed his ID and was told that, yes, Ramon Xoc had been registered there but he had not paid his bill after the second day and his belongings had been removed from the room and stored in the back office. Xoc had not reappeared. The desk clerk identified the key and showed Delgado the room, which he searched without result, and with a little persuasion the clerk released Ramon’s suitcase. He could not remember if Ramon had brought in anything else. Delgado gave him a receipt and sat in the car outside and went through the contents.

  It contained routine things that anyone would travel with, as well as a rotting mango in a plastic bag, and there was no sign of any secret compartments. Nor was there a Rolodex or anything else of interest. Xoc must have encountered the murderer soon after his arrival in Dolores Hidalgo. Yet there had been no sign of a shooting at Señor Cross’ office. The key had to be the customer list on the computer. Since he was going to contact Perry Watt anyway, he might as well start his search there.

  Chapter 14

  Perry Watt

  In Casa Watt, his great neocolonial mansion in Los Balcones, Perry was seated at his desk in the paneled study he thought of as his “cabinet” in the Renaissance sense of the word--an intimate paneled private office. From the second floor this elegant room framed a view across the city, and downward its western exposure overlooked his own garden below, and beyond the wall, the rooftops of San Miguel punctuated by the twin towers of the Parroquia, a double exclamation point emphasizing the city’s continuing religious tradition.

  Beyond, on the adjacent hills and on those across the city, the lesser ex-pats held court in their lesser neocolonial mansions. Later in the day they would be serving cocktails in their neocolonial gardens. On winter afternoons, when the sun came in low and harsh, he could close the paneled shutters on the two eight-foot windows and rely on the mellow light from numerous wrought iron lamps with their parchment shades. From over the broad mantel a pair of seventeenth century descendants of the Conquistadores looked benignly, if somewhat soberly, down upon him. These were the ancestors he didn’t have; his own family had arrived in Texas from Tennessee in the 1920s, poor as the dirt clinging to their shoes. But there was no dirt under Perry’s feet now; his Florentine calfskin slippers rested on an antique walnut floor in a herringbone pattern that had been removed from a castle in Spain. Two huge Aubusson carpets in old rose and pale green covered most of it. He didn’t mind that it creaked sometimes when he walked over it; it was an echo of the history he didn’t have. Perry Watt was his own gated community.

  Before him on the desk rested a tray of crudely struck colonial coins from the rosewood cabinet. These were silver with crosses on their faces; seventeenth and eighteenth century pieces from the mint in Lima. Their edges were irregular and the strikes uneven. Most had been recovered from hurricane-wrecked galleons of the silver fleet in the Gulf or the Caribbean. From time to time he picked one up, wondering whose dead fingers had gripped it in the past, whose clothing was weighed down by these coins as they were swallowed by the waves.

  Mostly he was deep in thought. He wore a plum colored velvet jacket with black lapels, the kind some people might call a smoking jacket, except nobody smoked anymore but for the occasional Havana cigar. His hair was immaculately brushed back and his camel slacks went perfectly with the jacket.

  In the corridor, Barbara paused by the door.

  “Barbara!” he said, looking up. “I just got the damnedest phone call.”

  She came into the room and stood by his desk.

  “Cop by the name of Delgado called me a little while ago; I heard he’s the one looking into how Tobey Cross got himself killed. Anyway, he says he’s got some Mayan ceramics that might interest me. Says they’re from an old family collection. He described them and they sound like what I was getting from Tobey. I can’t think how Delgado got hold of them. He’s got 11 pieces. That’s an awful lot. Feels dicey to me. I can’t think what to do.”

  “Perry darlin’, you always know what to do.” She moved behind the desk and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his carefully groomed head. His left hand traveled absently down her leg and stopped behind her knee, a favorite spot of his; one of several.

  “Yes I do. But just today I don’t for some reason.” The manicured fingers of his right hand moved aimlessly again over the coins. “If they’re like the others, they’re probably worth nearly $200,000.”

  “Are we sniffing out a bargain
here?”

  “There’s no bargain if they’re stolen. I mean, he was talking a good price but he wouldn’t say how much. I’m wondering if he got hold of some of Tobey’s inventory. But Paul said there was nothing missing at the gallery.” He adjusted his cuffs. “I’m going have to think on this a little. Were you going out?”

  “Just a little shopping in centro.”

  “You’re not going to Paul’s to pose again? Don’t you do anything I wouldn’t do. I trust you, but you never know about those artist types. Course he’s got his own lil’ brown gal, but I’m still not used to you being naked over there.”

  “She’s not very brown, Perry. I don’t think she’s got but a little Indian blood. I don’t think I’d say that if I were you. Anyway, I haven’t called Paul yet for another session. We don’t have anything set up.”

  He went across the landing to their paneled bedroom. The windows looked out from the front of the mansion and had a view over the scruffy plateau toward the reservoir, which he could now barely make out. Here others had built homes in pale imitation of Casa Watt, wishing, no doubt, that they were him. A common response, he often thought. The view was not inspiring, but in the bedroom he mostly looked at Barbara anyway. He could imagine her picture now over the bed. Wouldn’t do to have it down in the living room. One nude there was enough, and he didn’t care to have every guy in San Miguel ogling Barbara’s naked body, even on a painting. It was bad enough that Paul had seen it, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides, he liked the Maya picture just where it was. He put the thought aside for a while and rearranged his coin collection, then called Houston and worked until mid afternoon on a deal for a new drilling technology he wanted to acquire, when he closed the upper shutters. He stood for a while before the ceramics case with a sour look on his face. Reaching a decision, back at the desk he used one of his three lines to call the national anthropological museum in México City and got the number for the agency that was charged with overseeing the commerce in and export of antiquities. He explained the situation and they gave him the number of a special investigator at the national police, the federales.