The Tree of Death

“Elena?” Again Maria stood in the doorway.

“Huh?” I looked up; I might have been seeing her for the first time.

“Elena, it’s time to fix the food. Can you come-”

“No.” I stood up.

“You said you’d make the guacamole. Nobody makes it like you do.”

“Sorry, Maria. I can’t do it. Ask Susana if she’ll come over. As I remember, hers is pretty good, too.”

“But-”

“And, look, I want you to remind everybody about the general meeting at four. I want everybody there-the staff, volunteers, and Jesse and Susana. I want everybody there who is going to help out tonight, so we can go over in detail what we have to do.”

Maria frowned at me, disconcerted by my abrupt manner.

“You’ve got that? Everybody.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be back at four. We’ll meet in the office, around your desk. I’ll see you then.”

I brushed by her and headed for the exit. I had a little over two hours to get hold of Lieutenant Kirk. And to get his cooperation in setting a trap.

It shouldn’t be all that difficult to set one. And I was pretty sure Kirk would cooperate. Once he accepted that I wasn’t the killer, he’d be eager to identify and apprehend the guilty party. And he’d have to accept my innocence because I could now tell him how the killer had gotten out of the locked museum.

fourteen

The safest place to call Kirk from was my house, where no one could overhear. I drove home, nearly tripped over a bicycle that one of the neighborhood kids had left on my front walk, and rushed inside. After I dialed the police station, I drummed impatiently on the desk with my fingers as I waited for someone to answer.

Lieutenant Kirk was not in.

Well, where was he?

The desk sergeant said I should leave a message and the lieutenant would get back to me.

I left one. Urgent, it said.

And then I sat down to think.

A trap was called for, with or without Kirk’s cooperation. One that would point to the killer and no one else. I puzzled for a while, impatiently waiting for the phone to ring. Perhaps Kirk could come over here and we could plan together…

The phone rang. I snatched it up. It was my mother.

“Oh, good, you’re home. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mama.” I glanced at my watch. Two-fifty-five.

“Did you see a doctor about your head?”

“My head’s just fine.”

“I’m not so sure about that, sometimes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She ignored the question. “Elena, you shouldn’t take chances.”

“Mama-”

“After the opening, then. You’ll see the doctor.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Promise.”

“Yes! Look-”

“What are you wearing to the opening?”

What was I wearing? She was talking about clothes while I was practically being arrested for murder. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? It’s only the biggest event in the museum’s history.”

A couple of weeks ago I had bought a fancy native costume. I hadn’t been sure about it; the damned thing looked like a wedding dress. But it was hanging in the closet, ready to go. “I do know. Don’t worry.”

“Do you have a date?”

What next? “Mama, I don’t need a date. I can’t have one. I’m the acting director, and I wouldn’t have time to pay any attention to a date.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Well, Nick and I will be there.”

“Good. Look, Mama, I’ve got to go.”

“I know. You’re busy. I’ll see you later. And afterward…”

“Yes-my head.”‘ Now it really was pounding again. I hung up and breathed a sigh of relief, half expecting the phone to ring immediately. When it didn’t, I sat down in my rocker and planned some more. At this rate, I’d have it all worked out by the time Kirk called.

I got up and went to the shelf where I kept my collection of silver milagros. The votive offerings, which are sold at many churches in Mexico, are an expression of our people’s relationship to the saints and the miracles they perform. You buy a milagro representing the part of the body where a healing has taken place and hang it on a velvet cloth in the church.

The first milagro I took down from my shelf was an intricately wrought one I’d bought from an artist who had had a show at the museum last winter. It was a stylistic representation of a woman’s head, and I smiled at the irony of that, touching the cuts on my forehead.

Turning, I glanced impatiently at the phone. Where was Kirk anyway? I went over and dialed, leaving a second message. Then I went to get a box for the milagros. When each was wrapped in its felt case and tucked into the box, I had nothing to do but wait.

The phone rang again. This time it was my sister Carlota, calling from Minneapolis. She was worried about me, but not so worried that she hadn’t waited until the rates went down at five o’clock there. That reassured me.

Without preamble, she said, “Mama tells me you were bashed on the head and the police suspect you of murdering Frank De Palma. Is it true, or is she just being dramatic?”

“It’s true, but she’s being dramatic as well.”

“She wants me to tell you to see a doctor.”

I groaned.

“I know. I’m just passing it on. How are you otherwise?”

“Okay.”

“Is everything set for the opening?”

“Actually, no. Look, Carlota, can I call you back tomorrow when things are calmer?”

“Sure. Listen, Elena, good luck with the opening. And you take care, okay?”

“Okay. And I will call you.”‘ I hung up and went back to my chair. The minutes dragged by. Still no call from Kirk. Well, I didn’t need him to put the plan into operation, did I? He’d said he would be at the opening, so I could talk to him then.

I took a quick shower and more aspirin, put on makeup and the white cotton dress. Eyeing myself in the mirror, I decided it didn’t really look that much like a wedding dress. And if it did, I didn’t have time to do anything about it. I considered putting my hair up, but in the interest of saving time, just fluffed out my curls. I had more important things to worry about than my hairdo.

On the way out, I tried calling Kirk once more, but he still wasn’t there, and the desk sergeant sounded clearly annoyed with me. I picked up the box of milagros, locked the house, and returned to the museum.

The place was bustling with activity. Red, green, and white banners-the national colors of Mexico-had been strung across the entryway. Volunteers carried in card tables and folding chairs. A van stood in the parking lot, and two men were unloading instruments. Good, I thought. The mariachi band would be set up on time.

I parked in the far corner of the lot, unlocked the gate to the courtyard, and entered that way. Once inside, I