Marcia Muller - The Tree of Death

These were our Olmec jadeite figurines. Good. After the opening, when I shifted the pre-Hispanic displays, they’d look good in the large showcase. I placed the figurines-a cross between humans and jaguars, a prevalent theme in that pre-Christian Indian civilization-carefully on the shelf.

The next box wasn’t one of the moving company’s, and I didn’t recognize it. That didn’t surprise me. We were a small museum, but even for us packing had taken many days and become disorganized. I reached in and unwrapped a statue of the Aztec earth goddess Coatlicue.

And stared at it. Turned it over in my hands. Felt it wonderingly.

This statue was not from our collections. I had never seen it before.

Quickly I set it on the shelf and fumbled with the next felt-wrapped shape. It was another Aztec statue, of Xochipilli, god of flowers and music. He looked at me through the paradoxical death mask the deity always wears. The statue was beautiful, valuable, and totally unfamiliar to me.

I began pawing through the other boxes. There were pre-Hispanic figurines, colonial religious paintings, Spanish crosses, and Peruvian gold work. There were silver milagros-votive offerings-like those in my own collection. There were funerary urns, dance masks, and fertility symbols.

I had never seen any of them before in my life.

I sat down on a crate and surveyed what I’d found. Some, like the silver milagros, were from Mexico, but most were from South America. South America, where Tony frequently traveled using museum funds.

Had he smuggled all these artifacts into the United States? No, there would be no need to; most of them didn’t fall into the category of national treasures. Those that did were of the sort that could be sold to a museum, and Tony could prove he was our representative. This cache of artifacts had probably been legitimately purchased-again, I was sure, with museum funds.

The only problem was that J was the one who was supposed to make such acquisitions.

I had struggled to make do with our existing collections. I had spent hours developing innovative and pleasing arrangements for the same old displays. I often dreamed at night of acquiring some really good reform period landscapes. And, in the meantime, Tony had been flying first class to South America on buying trips. Not trips to build up the museum’s collections, however. I knew these artifacts were not intended to appear in our galleries.

I remembered the sheet of ledger paper I’d found in Frank’s desk the day of his murder-the one with the list of names and amounts. Those amounts roughly matched the value I would place on certain of these artifacts, or groups of them. The names were probably those of their buyers. As I sat there, their scheme became clearer and I felt the stirrings of rage.

While the museum foundered, lacking money to print decent catalogs, to hire a security guard, or even to pay the light bill, its director, business manager, and education director had siphoned off badly needed funds into their own money-making scheme. Frank, with his buying expertise, had located sources for artworks. Of course, he couldn’t be gone too often; ineffective as he was, his presence was necessary if he was to keep his job. So he sent Tony, an employee so useless he would hardly be missed, off to South America. Bubble-headed Susana covered for him; no one would suspect anyone that silly of trickery. And Vic-he signed the checks. What about Robert? Probably just along for the ride, cashing in on his brother’s cleverness.

It would be easy for Frank to find buyers for their wares. He’d operated a gallery for a long time. He knew all the local collectors. He might even be using La Galena as a front, letting the new owner sell the stuff and keep a commission. Who was the new owner, anyway? I dimly recalled that Frank had sold out to a woman newly arrived from Los Angeles. Or had he sold at all?

It was my business to find out now. No one was going to destroy my museum for his own profit.

But how did this connect with Frank’s murder? Had one of the thieving bastardos had a falling out with him? If so-Tony? He seemed too stupid to pull it off, but maybe the stupidity, like Susana’s silliness, was only an act. Vic? Hard to believe, but I was learning more about Vic every day. Robert? Even harder; he was Frank’s brother. But, then, brother had been killing brother since the beginning of time.

And, of course, there was the big question: what to do about these artifacts? If I had thought I had a potentially ruinous situation on my hands an hour ago, it was infinitely worse now.

I stood up and began repacking the boxes. No one must know I’d found them. Not yet, at any rate. When I was done, I grabbed the flashlight, returned it to where it had been, and went upstairs. In my office I sat down to think, then got up and paced. I clasped my hands together, almost wringing them, and muttered aloud in Spanish, “What can I do? What am I going to do?”

“Elena?” It was Isabel’s voice, tentative and alarmed. She stood in the doorway, frowning. “Elena, are you all right?”

“No. No, I am not all right.”

She came inside, shutting the door. “Can I help in any way?”

“No one can help.”

“Is it that lieutenant? You’re afraid he thinks you killed Frank? But you shouldn’t worry. We all know you couldn’t have done it.”

I stared at her. I had actually forgotten Dave Kirk for a time.

Isabel’s frown deepened. “Elena, what is it?”

I took a deep breath. “Sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

She sat. I continued pacing and told her the whole story. As I spoke, her already sallow face went paler.

“I was afraid of something like that,” she said. “I’ve never trusted Frank. Why do you think I spend so much time here? I’ve watched him so carefully-and yet I didn’t see.”

“It never even occurred to me to watch him. And now that I’ve found out, no matter what I do, there will be a nasty scandal. People may even think we were all in on it, that the museum is nothing more than a front. The papers will put racial overtones on it.”

Isabel nodded.

“But I can’t just let them get away with it.”

“No.” Her eyes hardened.

“If I go to Carlos now, he’ll drag it all out into the open.

And a scandal before the Cinco de Mayo party is sure to ruin the museum. People will demand refunds on their tickets. The others who might show up at the door won’t. We’ll lose all our support.“

“I don’t think you should tell anyone yet,” Isabel said. “After the opening, that’s different.”

“It’ll still be a scandal.”

“Yes, but we will have collected fifty dollars a head from each person attending the Cinco de Mayo party.” Her eyes took on a hawklike fund-raiser’s gleam. “We need that money. Afterward, go to Carlos. Perhaps you can convince him to be discreet.”

I didn’t like it. I couldn’t see how I could go on until the opening, working beside those people, knowing what I did. But it made sense.

“It’s not likely they will remove the artifacts from the cellar before the opening,” Isabel went on. “There are too many people around. So you know the evidence will remain safe.”

“They could do it at night.”‘

“Did you give keys to the building to any of them?”

“No. I have both sets.”

“There, you see?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Somehow we will see this through. The museum will not suffer.”

Isabel’s face was earnest and drawn. Suddenly I had one of those odd sensations you get, as if you’re looking at a person you’ve never seen before, rather than a familiar friend. I said, “Isabel, what happened when you had your ‘few words’ with Frank the day he was killed?”