Allyn Allyn: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

“But Ramona married,” Molly pointed out.

“I believe that was more of a business deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Almost eight years ago, Anthony Wiley came to our village — I’ve never been sure why. It was during the festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There was feasting and celebration, much dancing and singing in the evenings, and a most beautiful church service on the morning of the feast day — flowers and candles everywhere. Even as a child, Ramona had a lovely voice and she was asked to sing on such occasions, and so Tony Wiley heard her. He came to my parents and said that Ramona could make a lot of money if she would come with him to Hollywood. My father said that he would allow such a thing only if she were married.”

She paused and her voice softened. “He didn’t tell Tony about the curse. It was wrong of my father, of course, but you have to understand. He was facing having to support five unmarried daughters for the rest of his life, and Tony was talking about amounts of money we could not even dream of. Such money would make a great difference for our whole family. You can’t really blame my father. Besides, Ramona was sixteen and she wanted very much to leave our village and live in a city with bright lights. So arrangements were made, there was a ceremony at our little church, and Ramona left. Within a year, she was sending us money — enough for my parents to buy a bigger house and for the little ones to go to school. Everyone learned to speak English — Ramona said that was important. We got a telephone and she called us every week.”

“And she seemed happy?” Molly asked.

“Oh, very! She missed us, of course, but she told us about her beautiful clothes, and the wonderful house they had, and all the servants who waited on her. All she had to do was look glamorous and sing. She wanted me to come to America and live with them, but I told her I couldn’t sing, and no one was offering to marry me.”

Rosa stared into her lap, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I should have gone. Maybe I could have protected her.”

“Protected her from what?” Molly asked. “Hollywood? The family curse?”

The young woman flushed. “I know it sounds foolish to you, but if you could see my family — all my relatives on my mother’s side — you could not dismiss it so easily. Ever since my great-grandmother sinned, our family has suffered. I ask only that you find out what you can.” She stood up. “What do I have to pay you?”

Molly looked at her. Though she was tall, there was an air of fragility about her, and Molly couldn’t help thinking of an orphaned child, though Rosa was obviously neither an orphan nor a child. The family had been receiving money from their wealthy daughter, but now that Ramona was dead, that might not continue, and Molly was not inclined to ask for more than the family could afford. “Write me a check for one dollar now. That will make you officially my client. We’ll come to reasonable terms later.”

Rosa hesitated, and Molly wondered whether the young woman distrusted the promises of Americans on principle. Then she realized that if the Hernandezes had a bank account, it would be in Mexico. “A dollar bill will be fine. I’ll give you a receipt.”

After Rosa left, Molly instructed Lindsey to get on the computer and dig out everything she could find about Ramona, her early career, her husband, any rumors, and the details of her demise. Then she called Danny McRae, her best operative, and instructed him to look into Tony Wiley’s friends, finances, and possible secret relationships with other women. “And see what you can find out about Ramona’s medical history. Was she ever treated for depression?” Molly knew that such matters, usually confidential, were best discovered from women friends, and Danny was good at that. “And talk to her hairdresser, her voice coach, everyone who worked with her.”

Then she looked up the phone number of Anthony Wiley.

That evening Molly sat on a dainty Victorian gold-leaf chair in the enormous living room of Wiley’s plush Bel Aire mansion. As a uniformed maid poured coffee from a silver urn into a fine china cup, Molly looked around and wondered what a sixteen-year-old girl from rural Mexico must have thought and felt when she first entered this house. Had she any notion how much that marble-topped table and those oriental carpets cost?

Across from her in a brocade Italian love seat, Tony Wiley cleared his throat. He was a small, tanned man with a receding hairline and a thin moustache that made him look as though he’d stepped out of a movie from the 1930s. “So you’re investigating my wife’s death,” he said in a slightly nasal tone. “Who hired you?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

He studied her in silence for a moment, then said, “Her family?” He shook his head. “I paid for all of them to attend the funeral. I had the medical examiner speak with them personally. They’re all very religious, and I knew her suicide would be hard on them. I thought they understood.”

“Apparently they still have some questions,” Molly said. She watched the small man stiffen at her words, and decided to approach the matter obliquely. She took a sip of her coffee. “Tell me how you discovered her.”

Wiley’s steel-gray eyes appraised her as he bit his lower lip. Finally he said, “I’m a deal-maker, Ms. Renquist. I live in a world of phones, fax machines, and unending stress. Eight years ago, I was a physical wreck. My blood pressure was soaring; I had constant migraines. My doctor advised me to get away, so I took a month off — rented a little house in rural Mexico. Only my secretary knew how to reach me, and she had orders not to, unless it was a question of life or death.”

He leaned back in the love seat and clasped his carefully manicured hands across his stomach. “By the third week I was bored silly, and upon the advice of the local cantina owner, I went to a tiny village to observe the celebration of the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There, in a small adobe church, I heard Ramona sing. She was a child with the body of a woman and the voice of an angel. I knew I had a fortune in the making.”

“So you married this child?” Molly tried hard not to let animosity creep into her voice.

Wiley shrugged. “It was the only way her father would let me take her to the U.S.” He glanced toward the leaded-glass windows, then back at Molly, his gray eyes steady. “As I said, I’m a deal-maker, and in my world, marriage is just another deal. I assume you’ll be poking around in my life, so I won’t claim to have been entirely faithful to her, but my affairs have been very discreet, and she never knew about them.” He sighed. “I treated Ramona very well, Ms. Renquist. Ask anyone.”

Molly fully intended to, but said nothing. Instead, she asked, “Did Ramona ever tell you she believed she was cursed?”

“Ah yes, the family curse. She told me about it years ago. I chalked it up to silly superstition at the time.” He stared into the distance and said softly, “But it was real. Not that anyone could do anything about it.”

“Is that the reason the autopsy results were sealed?”

He straightened, the lines in his face deepened, and his voice became hard. “The results of the autopsy are entirely a private matter.” He stood up and indicated the door. “I believe this discussion is over.”

Back in her car, Molly tried to sort out her impressions. She usually trusted her gut, for over the years she’d discovered that it was pretty accurate. But she didn’t have a clear take on Wiley. He was hiding something; that was for sure. On the other hand, Molly had caught genuine emotional overtones in his voice when he spoke about Ramona. She flashed back to those dark days right after the brain tumor had taken Tom. The sudden emptiness of the house, the stab of pain brought by catching sight of her wedding ring, her reluctance to take it off.