Marcia Muller - The Tree of Death

I began to see the embezzling scheme more clearly. It was like a giant board game, with Frank pushing around the static figures of Vic, Tony, his stupid brother Robert, and his mistress, Gloria. All of them had done as Frank wished, and all of them had been caught.

Well, hadn’t Frank been caught, too? Caught in the most final way?

El Cinco de Mayo. The day of the victory over the French at Puebla. Back then in 1862, my forebears had triumphed against overwhelming odds. With luck, I would do the same tonight.

I stood near the arch to the central courtyard, surveying the scene. It was only seven o’clock, but the museum was already jammed. At fifty dollars a head, this crowd would fill our coffers. Funny-a week ago the thought would have excited me. I would have been scheming how to keep Frank’s hands off the money long enough for me to acquire some really good landscape paintings, build up our reform period collection. But now, my plan for tonight was much more vital, my freedom probably dependent on its result.

Which one of my friends and colleagues was the killer? Which one of these people-whom, by and large, I liked-was I going to trap and deliver into the hands of the police? I felt nervous, excited, and a little ill. I wished it was all over.

I glanced at the door, where Maria and Jesse sat at a table, accepting tickets and handing out corpinos, red carnations with red, green, and white ribbons. Maria wore her hair swept up on her head, and her lips and fingernails were as bright as the flowers. In between arrivals she would turn to Jesse and whisper behind one hand, her dark eyes flashing. He grew merry, then serious, then merry in turn, and he whispered back. The diamond ring glittered on Maria’s finger.

Life had altered radically for Maria and Jesse. No more Tio Taco, no more rotund Robert, no more threats of not exhibiting the camaleones. Maria and Jesse stood to have a happy life together-if one of them hadn’t killed Frank. I watched them, eyes narrowed, for a moment, then went into the courtyard.

The buffet table had been set up along the left side. Already it was surrounded by gaily dressed people reaching for quesadillas and taquitos, jicama and guacamole. As I approached, Vic emerged from the kitchen, carrying a platter of flour tortillas. Isabel followed, giving instructions on where to set it. She looked haggard, and there was a blossom of orange soda pop on her ruffled peasant blouse; the opening had taken its toll on her.

The spicy smell of the food was turning my already nervous stomach. I changed course and headed for the bar. A drink, a small one, would help.

The bar was even more crowded than the buffet. Behind it stood Tony and his giggly Susana, dispensing margaritas, Dos Equis beer, and Mexican soda pop. Tony wore a tuxedo, a ruffled shirt, and his lounge-lizard smirk. As the line inched forward, I heard him tell one of our patrons,“ The margaritas are oh-so-very strong. They will make it easier to bear looking at the arts.”

I stopped moving, and the woman behind me bumped into me. I apologized to her through gritted teeth, my hands aching to seize the Colombian by his scrawny neck and strangle him. Who was he to knock “the arts”? What the devil did he know? Education director, indeed!

I held out my plastic glass, regarding Tony thoughtfully. He looked up, saw it was me, and lowered his eyes. His smirk fell away, and his hand shook as he poured from the margarita pitcher. Some of the sticky substance slopped over onto my fingers.

Tony had never considered me a powerful influence at the museum. Under Frank, I hadn’t been. Naturally Tony had never dreamed I would be named acting director, much less discover their embezzling scheme. Following Frank’s death he had expected he would be named director and go on collecting an even more comfortable salary, plus be spared the hated trips to South America. And, more important, he would be free of Frank’s ridicule and verbal abuse.

I wiped my fingers on a napkin, glared at Susana when she emitted a particularly shrill giggle, and crossed the courtyard to where I’d been standing before. As I sipped the drink, I watched the crowd.

There were men dressed in tuxedos and women in flowing floor-length gowns. Others wore traditional. Mexican garb. They ate and drank and chattered, the din rising to obscure the soft Latin rhythms played by the band on the platform in one corner. That would be remedied soon, however; the musicians had instructions to burst into mariachi at eight.

I continued to scan the crowd until I spotted my mother and Nick by the buffet table. She was wearing a bright red peasant dress, and he had on a charro outfit, complete to the broad-brimmed hat. They saw me and waved, but my mother’s eyes were full of concern, reminding me of the dull ache in my head. I was glad when Nick distracted her with a taquito.

Everyone was here; everyone was having a good time. Everyone, that is, except me. I felt nervous, my palms clammy. Time was passing, and I still hadn’t spotted the one person I wanted to see…

I looked around once more, and suddenly there he was. Lieutenant Dave Kirk stood by the bandstand, dressed in his brown business suit, his one concession to gaiety the corsage in his lapel-and that, I suspected, only because Maria had insisted on it when he came through the door. Kirk’s eyes met mine, and he raised his can of soda pop in a toast, a cynical, questioning look on his face. So he had gotten my messages. I raised my glass in return, relieved.

I took my eyes off the lieutenant and looked around for a place to set the glass. Tony was right about one thing: the margaritas were strong, too strong for the work ahead. One of the volunteers passed, collecting discards on a tray, and I plunked the glass down among the others.

Quickly I reviewed my plan and what I would say to Dave Kirk. It had to sound well thought out or he wouldn’t listen. He’d ridiculed my “tidbits of information,” as he called them, all down the line. He had been right about the murderer not hiding in the museum all night, but he’d done nothing that I knew of about the other facts I’d brought him. So far as I was aware, he hadn’t even tried to find the tree of death, the murder weapon. Still, he’d have to see the logic of my plan and go along with it.

Marshaling my arguments, I started toward the lieutenant. Before I reached him, however, he disappeared into the galleries. I pushed my way through the crowd after him.

The galleries were not nearly as crowded as the courtyard. Trust our patrons not to stray too far from the food and drink. In the colonial gallery, there was no sign of Kirk, but there was a half-empty plastic glass sitting on top of one of the new display cases. Irritated, I picked it up, wrinkling my nose at the cigarette butt floating among the dregs of the margarita. I supposed I should be thankful that the smoker hadn’t put it out on the rug. Carrying the offending glass, I went into the reform period gallery. There, a couple of youngish matrons were discussing the Velasco landscape.

“It doesn’t look anything like the Mexico I remember.”

“What did you ever see of Mexico except the bar in your hotel in Acapulco?”‘

The first woman laughed. “The ceiling of the bedroom in our suite, my dear.”

They started guiltily when they saw me. I smiled and continued my search for Kirk.

He wasn’t in the contemporary gallery either. If he was looking at the collections, it had to be the fastest tour on record. I hurried into the folk art gallery. There a crowd had gathered around the display of camaleones that had replaced the tree of life.

“… camaleones ?”

“… incredibly grotesque.”