The Xibalba Murders

CHUEN

The embossed vellum envelope and its contents informed me that the pleasure of my company at dinner that evening was requested by Senor Diego Maria Gomez Arias, and Sheila Stratton Gomez.

Obviously invitations to the Gomez residence were in such demand that no one minded being invited at the last minute. To be fair, I suppose, I should point out that had I left and entered the hotel by the front door like everyone else, I would have seen the invitation when it arrived the night before—delivered, I was informed, by limo and driver.

As it was, I had gone on one of my nocturnal journeys through Merida, to Dona Josefina’s bedside, and someone had therefore slid the invitation under my door during the night.

Late invitation or not, I had nothing planned for the evening, and I still wanted to meet Don Diego and have a conversation with him about Don Hernan. And anyway, it was Chuen, day of the monkey, the creature who in Maya mythology is the artist, and therefore an appropriate one on which to meet Don Diego, collector and patron of the arts that he was.

It is also supposed to be a good day, a day of knowledge, and I fervently hoped that it would be. The Maya calendar was, I hoped, unfolding as it should. I accepted the invitation with alacrity.

There was one worrisome item in the invitation, however, the words in its lower left-hand corner. Black tie, it said. I had not brought anything with me that would come close to being fancy enough for a black tie event.

I made haste to find Isa, who smiled when she saw the invitation. “Leave it with me,” she said. That sounded like a good idea to me.

I had lots of other things to do. This was Eulalia Gonzalez’s day back at the morgue, and then there was much research to do. I could, of course, do it the hard way, which was to go to the museo library, and plow through rows of neat little index cards and piles of books.

But I had a better idea.

First I headed for the Cafe Escobar. I scanned the room for Alejandro, but he was not there. Isa had told me that he had taken to his room after the reading of the will and could not be enticed down for dinner. Francesca had left a tray of food outside his door, and while he had had something, much of it had remained uneaten. He might still be there for all I knew.

I went to the back hall again, and placed a call to Alex. I’d called Alex from the hotel a couple of times in the last few days, to tell him what was happening down here. I told him about murders and morgues, he told me about the latest antics of my cat. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in all that I was involved in, but I think he probably thought I needed to hear about everyday activities to counteract the events I was encountering.

For this call, though, I didn’t want to use the hotel phone. These were strange times, and I certainly would not put it past Major Martinez to find some way to tap the lines. A pay phone, albeit in a public hallway, felt safer.

“Would you consider doing a little surfing in cyberspace on my behalf, Alex?” I began. “I need a little help with some research.”

“Of course!” he replied, as I knew he would. There was virtually nothing Alex liked better than a cruise on the information superhighway. “What might I be researching?”

“Books. To be specific, rare books. Books of the Maya. You can skip the Chilam Balam books. That’s not what we’re looking for,” I said, remembering the information I had gleaned from Dona Josefina. “Something really rare. The equivalent of a Gutenberg Bible, one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll get right on it,” he said. He meant it, too. I could hear the clicking of the computer keys over the telephone. He was logging on to the Internet even as we spoke.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I don’t know if this is possible or not, but I’d like to check some credentials.”

“Names?”

“Lucas May, Diego Maria Gomez Arias, Major Ignacio Martinez, and”—here I paused for a second or two—“Jonathan Hamelin. The first one, Lucas May, is an archaeologist, Mexican, don’t know much more than that. Gomez Arias is a wealthy eccentric here in Merida— hotels, water, that sort of stuff, owns a shipping company, collects art—”

“You seem to know a fair amount about him right now,” Alex interrupted. “Anything specific you want on him?”

“I don’t know really. Just see if there is anything out of the ordinary. Martinez is with the federal police, and that’s about all I know, except that I don’t like him.”

“And the last one?”

“Jonathan Hamelin. Archaeologist. British. Cambridge University. Specializes in Mesoamerican studies. Isa thinks he’s to the manor born, as it were.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was asking about Jonathan for personal reasons, or as part of the research on Don Hernan’s death. I fervently hoped it would turn out to be the former.

“Got it,” Alex said. “For some of this I may need to go into one of the news services. Unlike the Internet, these aren’t free. How badly do you need to know?”

“Badly. I’ll pay any charges, Alex, don’t worry. Take it out of the house money, and I’ll send some more.” I’d left some money to take care of any problems with my house that might arise while I was away.

“Thanks. How will I reach you?”

“Telephone me at the hotel. If I’m there, tell me there’s a leak in the basement of my house or something. I’ll get the idea. I’ll call you back within the hour from another phone.

“If I’m not there, just leave a message that you’ve called about some minor problem with my house. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Right. I’m on this,” he said.

“And Alex,” I said, “be careful. You are searching for information on something that people may be prepared to kill for. So please don’t do anything that would draw attention to yourself. No speeding on the Internet, okay?”

“There are no radar traps on the electronic highway, Lara,” he said. “But I get your point. I’ll try to be subtle.”

With that we signed off, and I headed for the morgue.

I was getting to be an expert at finding my way around the hallways of this austere institution, and soon once again found myself at the little window. He of the greasy fingers was there, eating again. I asked for Eulalia Gonzalez.

“Who may I tell her is asking for her?” he said rather formally for a man talking with his mouth full.

I gave my name. It would mean nothing to her, but what else could I do?

He called someone, then pressed the button that unlatched the door and waved me in the general direction of two vinyl-covered chairs that would have looked more suitable in someone’s kitchen. I waited.

Shortly thereafter, Eulalia arrived. “I thought it would be you,” she said when she saw me. “How can I help you?”

I wanted to ask her questions about Don Hernan, but there was something in her manner, a stiffness perhaps, a worried glance in the direction of the glutton, that stopped me.

“I just came to thank you for your kindness the other day. We were all so stunned, we felt afterward that we had not acted appropriately…” My voice trailed off.

“Quite all right,” she said. “Not many people thank morgue staff anyway,” she added.

“Well, I was wondering whether it might be possible to buy you a coffee or something?”

A pause. “Sure, why not?” she said. I get a break between one and three. Meet me at the Cafe Piramide,“ she said, naming a little cafe in the market area.

“About one-thirty, okay?”

“Great, see you there.”

I had about an hour to kill, so I wandered over to the museo to look for Antonio Valesquez. A handwritten note taped to the library door said he would return shortly, but I waited fifteen minutes or so and he did not return. I headed for the café.

I got a little lost in the market, and while I still arrived about five minutes early, I came in through an entrance off the side street rather than from the front patio.

There were virtually no patrons in the restaurant proper. The cafe was obviously very popular, though. Everyone was seated outside in the sunshine or under the awning.

I scanned the crowd outside from the relative darkness of the restaurant. It took me a minute to recognize Eulalia.

At the morgue, she’d worn a lab coat and those white nurse-type shoes, her hair pulled severely back and no makeup. Here she wore her long dark hair down, and she was dressed in a black miniskirt, a fuchsia blouse, and black flats.

She was sitting facing in my general direction, talking in an animated fashion to a man seated opposite her, with his back to me. I hesitated, wondering whether to interrupt when the man leaned forward and squeezed her hand, then stood up and half turned in my direction.

It was Lucas. He bent over and kissed her, and she patted his cheek. Then looking up and down the street, perhaps for me, he disappeared into the crowded market.

I was completely taken aback. I’d hoped to get information from Eulalia, but now I wasn’t sure how far I could take this.

I thought for a few minutes. I suppose this could be a coincidence. They were obviously friends. And why not? So much in common, after all. She worked with the recently dead, he with those who had been deceased for centuries. How romantic!

Even under these circumstances I had to smile at the thought of their dinner-table conversations. This was assuming that he talked more to her than he did to me.

I decided to push ahead with my plan.

“Hi,” I said as I approached the table. “Thanks for agreeing to this.” She looked a little startled at the direction I had arrived from, and I was betting she was wondering how long I’d been there.

“You were at the morgue a few days ago,” she said. “Maria said you were asking for me. She said she didn’t give you my name, though.”

“Flextime,” I said. “I figured it out from the time chart.”

She nodded.

“My turn. How did you know it was me, and how did you know I’d be back?”

“Maria described you. We don’t get that many gringas at the morgue, and you were the only one that day.

“As for returning—you asked a lot of questions, and you didn’t appear to be satisfied by the answers. No more than I was, really. I saw you touching the shoes. What did you deduce from them?” she asked.

“They were covered in dust. So were the cuffs of his trousers. You couldn’t see that very well, because of the color of the shoes, but you could feel it on them. I didn’t much figure you’d get that sitting in an office.”

She smiled. “Did you also notice one of them had been wet recently? Still felt a little clammy?”

I shook my head.

“That doesn’t happen much in an office, either.”

“So where and when was he murdered, do you think?”

“Well, I’m not the pathologist, only the assistant. I assist with the autopsy and write up the reports for the pathologist’s signature. But not in the museo, surely. There was evidence he had been dragged some distance. Hence the dust on the cuffs and backs of his trousers.

“The dust looks to me to be limestone. Could be anywhere out in the country. But there was also evidence of sand. There was no salt in the sand or on the shoes, so it wasn’t a beach he was walking on. He’d also done some walking in the forest. Traces of foliage you wouldn’t expect in the city.

“As to time, I’d say he was killed very early in the morning, say between three and five a.m. of the day he was found, although it is difficult to estimate this with pinpoint accuracy, no matter what you read in books. He was found about eight p.m. by the cleaning staff, and rigor mortis was already starting to pass off. The method is obvious. He was stabbed several times, and not with your average kitchen knife. Blade sharp enough, but uneven.”

The waiter arrived with our coffees and some snacks. We both waited until he was out of earshot before continuing.

“Tell me about the jade bead.”

“Well, as I think I said the other day, it was put into his mouth after he died. There is evidence someone had to pry his mouth open to get it in.”

“But why?”

“I’d say it’s part of an ancient ritual. According to a friend of mine”—(Lucas? I wondered)—“jade beads were placed in the mouths of the deceased to provide sustenance on the journey through the underworld.”

I pondered that for a moment. “But why would you murder someone, then later do something like that? Isn’t it a rather odd gesture for a murderer to worry about the soul of his victim? Perhaps it’s meant to be a sign to link the death to some Maya cause.”

“No idea.” She shrugged. “But maybe someone else did it, someone who liked Dr. Castillo Rivas, and for whom such things matter.”

It was an interesting thought, and the first time she had referred to the deceased by name.

I thanked her for her help, and then asked one more question.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I guess it is because I don’t like Martinez very much.

He is one of the old breed of policemen. We have a problem with the police here in Mexico. The pay is so low that it does not always attract the kind of people one would prefer. I mean, you can make more driving a cab.

“And some of those who do sign up have been known to resort to other ways of augmenting their incomes, ways that are not always totally beneficial to society, if you get what I am trying to say.”

I nodded. I assumed she meant that they were either on the take, or into something even more serious.

“A lot of work is being done to change this. They’re screening the applicants now, insisting they take courses, and so on. But it is very difficult to create an ethical police department under such circumstances, and the government has a long way to go. Unfortunately, there are still people like Martinez around. Bullies, really.”

We talked awhile longer, about other things. She seemed to be a nice person. When it was time for her to go, I thanked her again, and she left as I paid the bill. There was much to ponder from this conversation.

I decided to return to the hotel for a rest. The afternoon sun and heat were getting to be oppressive, and with all my nocturnal wanderings, I was short on sleep. An afternoon nap seemed to be called for so I could be scintillating that evening at the Gomez dinner party.

I checked at the hotel on my return. No messages from Alex.

I went up to my room. It was filled with sunlight, and so I went immediately to the window to close the shutters.

As I turned back to the room I saw a large box on the bed. Opening it and pressing back the tissue, I found a beautifully embroidered dress, one of Isa’s designs. It really was spectacular—aqua-colored silk, with embroidery of white, deeper turquoise, and silver, a low neck, and an off-the-shoulder cut. A pair of silver sandals, my size, and a small evening bag were also in the box. It was perfect!

With it was a little notecard that read, For my dear friend, Lara. May it help to brighten your days!

I felt a lump in my throat. Although I’d tried to keep my depression over the failure of my marriage and the loss of my business to myself, to say nothing of the malaise caused by the murder and mayhem in Merida, Isa had obviously recognized the symptoms, and was trying her best to cheer me up.

No matter the events of the last few days and the nasty year or so I’d been through, I knew how lucky I was to have friends like Isa.

Santiago had said he would have someone from the hotel drive me over to the Gomez residence, and I’d told him I‘ d take a cab home since I expected it would be late.

Just before eight-thirty I descended the stairs of the lobby. Isa and Santiago were waiting at the front desk. Isa smiled when she saw the dress.

“I love it, Isa. Thank you,” I said.

“You look wonderful,” she said, ignoring the bags under my eyes. “I thought the color would be good with your fair hair. You’ll be a great advertisement for me. I should give you cards to hand out tonight at the party,” she joked.

I gave her a hug.

Norberto had volunteered to drive me over, and he insisted I sit in the backseat so he could look like a real chauffeur.

There was no waiting at the little box at the gate this evening. A uniformed person with white gloves stood at the gate and ticked guests’ names off as they arrived. We swept up to the front door, where yet another staff person sporting white gloves opened the door for me. Norberto said he had been hoping to make a big show of doing this for me himself, but clearly the establishment was overstaffed! He also said there must have been a sale on white gloves, and he was sorry to have missed it.

He made me laugh, something it was getting harder to do, and by the time I had been ushered into the “salon”—the name apparently given to the room in which I had shared a drink with the lady of the house several nights ago—I was feeling much better. It occurred to me that there had been a time, predating the last year or two with Clive, when I could have been said to have a sense of humor.

Sheila and her husband were both standing near the doorway of the salon, ready to greet each of their guests. They were an unusual pair—she, tall, blond, blue-eyed, and patrician; he, a couple of inches shorter, dark, but more attractive than he had seemed at a distance. He was also very charming.

He greeted me first. “You must be my wife’s new friend. I’m delighted to meet you. And a colleague of Dr. Castillo Rivas, too. We were both much saddened by his death.”

I murmured something polite and then smiled at Sheila. She really did look lovely, in an off-white sequined dress. The center of attention in the room, however, at least as far as the men were concerned, was Montserrat. She really was stunning in a red dress that fit like a glove, very high heels, also red. Her dark hair was piled up on her head, and she was sporting diamond-and-ruby earrings and necklace, a present from Daddy, no doubt. Most of the men in the room were drawn to her like bees to honey. And one of the bees was Jonathan.

I think many, if not most, men look good in a tuxedo. Few of them, however, look comfortable in one. Jonathan was born to wear a tuxedo. In part, it was the air of confidence he was always able to maintain. It was also, if Isa’s musing was correct, practice. You probably get to wear a tux a lot if you’re a regular at Buckingham Palace.

He caught sight of me and pulled away from Montserrat’s cozy cadre. I noticed that her eyes followed him as he crossed the room and brushed my cheek with his lips.

“What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled.

“For me, too.” I smiled back.

“You look absolutely smashing!” he murmured, then: “Let me introduce you to some people.”

By this time there must have been about thirty people in the room. I spent the next hour or so sipping champagne and chatting with elite Meridanos—head of a bank, various political personages, the chair of the board of the museo, and a couple of board members.

Dinner was served about ten in the dining room. All thirty of us sat down at one table, if you can imagine one that size, under the chandelier I had seen on my first visit.

Don Diego Maria and Dona Sheila, as hosts, sat at opposite ends of the table, but Montserrat sat immediately to her father’s right. I imagined the seating arrangement reflected the dynamics of that household perfectly, Diego and Montserrat inseparable, Sheila a chasm apart.

I was seated on the same side of the table as Montserrat, but opposite Jonathan. Both Montserrat and he were being charming and witty. My built-in radar system, honed by a few years of marriage to a man with wandering eyes and a penchant for young women about Montserrat’s age, told me that some of this at least was for the benefit of each other, and I felt a momentary pang.

Get a grip, Lara, I told myself, and turned brightly to the dinner companion on my right, a Dr. Rivera, who specialized in conditions of the rich: liver disease, tummy tucks, liposuction, and the like.

The food was sumptuous, several courses too many in my opinion. Cream soup, salad, fish course, quail, beef, a cheese course, and a choice of desserts. A selection of suitable wines accompanied each, and flowed freely. A steady diet of this would make Dr. Rivera very rich indeed.

Then Don Diego announced that the men would retire to the drawing room for a cigar and some port. The ladies would return to the salon for a digestif.

“How quaint,” I mouthed at Jonathan across the table. He had trouble keeping a straight face.

I spent a polite half hour with the ladies, and as we went to rejoin the men in the dying hours of the party, I made for the powder room. It was occupied, but a server directed me upstairs to another bathroom. As I left I paused in the upper hallway to admire some of the paintings. They really were quite exceptional.

“So you enjoy art,” a voice behind me said. It was the host, Don Diego Maria himself, glass of port in one hand, cigar in the other. He must have seen me studying his paintings and broken away for a few moments from the rest of his guests.

“Who could not enjoy this? A Matisse, isn’t it?” I asked, gesturing toward the painting in front of me.

“It is,” he replied. “One of my favorites. May I tell you a little bit about it?”

I nodded, and he sat his cigar and drink down on a small side table and began to describe the painting in some detail.

There was no question that he was very knowledgeable. But what was truly extraordinary was the passion the man brought to his subject. As he spoke, his voice became a whisper. He may even have forgotten that I was there.

For him, I am convinced, the lines of the painting were like the contours of a lover’s body, the colors those of a beloved’s eyes, lips, and hair, the painter, the godlike being who had brought her to life. As he spoke he moved his hand across the surface of the painting, almost, but not quite, touching it, almost as if he was caressing it. For him to describe the painting was, in some very deep sense, to make love to it.

When he had finished he stood silent for a moment, then turned to me with an embarrassed smile. “As you can see, I’m a slave to art.” He laughed.

I smiled back. “You have an equally impressive pre-Columbian collection, I understand,” I said.

He nodded. “I like to think so. It’s one or two short, however.”

No one had dared mention the subject of the theft of his statue of Itzamna during the dinner, but here he was talking about it quite openly.

“Most unfortunate. I was there actually, that night, at the Ek Balam.”

“Were you? And what do you think of our Children of the Talking Cross?”

“I’m baffled, actually, as to motive. I understand no one has ever heard of this group before, and they haven’t done anything since, at least nothing they will publicly acknowledge.”

“My thoughts, exactly. That is why I am taking the theft so personally.”

“And why, presumably, you suggested to the police that Dr. Castillo was responsible.”

He looked surprised at my comment rather than annoyed. “Actually it was my daughter, Montserrat, who told the police about our quarrel. I merely corroborated what she had said.

“Frankly, if she hadn’t mentioned it, I don’t think I would have. Dr. Castillo and I had our disagreements over these works of art. But I do not delude myself. I know that people think he was on the side of the angels in these arguments, not I. It is, they think, a failing on my part that I wish to possess these things.

“You know, despite the fact that I’m on the board of directors of a museum, I often have trouble with some of the philosophy behind them. Almost eighty percent of any museum’s collection languishes in storage. At least mine gets seen by the public. You can argue that only a select group of people get to see these works of art in my home or my hotel, but it’s more than a couple of curators!”

“What about the research the museum does on these artifacts?” I interjected.

“If they want to do research on mine, they have only to ask,” he countered. “As to the idea of giving the artifacts to original peoples,” he went on, “do we actually think the Children of the Talking Cross are going to share their newly acquired piece of pre-Columbian art with their people? What nonsense! They will sell it on the black market to the highest bidder, a collector who, because it is stolen, will keep it hidden somewhere where only he can see it.”

I wanted to tell him the idea that Don Hernan espoused was a shared responsibility for an artifact between the Indigenas and the museum for the mutual benefit of all, but I knew there was no point. This was an obsession for him.

“You mentioned that you were one or two short. Have you lost another one?”

“Yes, about a year ago. A beautiful sculpture of a couple embracing. It was stolen from the house when I was away on business. Insurance covered it, of course, as it will the Itzamna. But in my heart”—he paused for a moment—“these things are irreplaceable for me.”

I believed him.

By this time it was very late. I told him that I would be leaving shortly, and that I had enjoyed the evening and his hospitality immensely.

“I hope you will visit again before you return to Canada,” he said. “My wife does not have many friends here, and it is good for her to have company.”

At that moment the object of his words came into view. She had appeared to me tc be drinking moderately throughout dinner, but had clearly made up for it since. Montserrat was leading, almost pulling her across the foyer. “Get upstairs,” she hissed. “You are a disgrace to my father and to me!”

Sheila moved past us on the stairs, tears in her eyes. Diego looked at his daughter, then the retreating back of his wife, and sighed. He descended the stairs to say good-bye to his guests, who were now beginning to leave.

Jonathan was at the door. “Do you have a car? Can I give you a lift?” he asked.

“I can just take a taxi,” I said.

“I won’t hear of it. I’ve called for my car and it will be here in a minute.”

Just then Montserrat reappeared. “Would you like to stay for a nightcap, Jonathan?” she asked.

“Not this evening, my dear,” he said. “I’m giving Senora McClintoch a lift back to her hotel.”

Montserrat did not look pleased. She was obviously accustomed to getting everything she wanted, including people. This was quite the family.

The car arrived, and we got in. Jonathan drove partway down the driveway, then pulled over to the side.

“How about moving our date up an evening or two?” he said. “My place?”

“Why not?” I replied. No one was waiting up for me, and despite a sense that I was still stepping out on my husband somehow, I could think of no real reason to say no.

Jonathan brought the same confidence and assurance to lovemaking that he brought to everything else, and I began to feel as if a part of my psyche I’d shut down was beginning to come to life again.

Later, though, as I lay in his bed, watching him sleep, pale in the moonlight streaming through the slats in the shutters, one arm slung proprietarily across my stomach, I wondered why I did not feel content.