Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 by Death on the River Walk

not seen her since.”
    â€œHave any strangers passed your window since you last saw Iris?”
    â€œJust one. At five o’clock…” Her precise voice described the blond man.
    So the blond man—the unexpected, unexplained blond man—wasn’t a creation of the manager. She had earned her fifty dollars.
    â€œâ€¦Reminded me of a boy I had in class many years ago. If things didn’t go his way, he glowered. He bullied the younger, smaller children. I once told him, ‘Harry, someday you’re going to meet a bully bigger than you are’.”
    I couldn’t resist. “What happened to Harry?”
    A slight shake of her head. “Barroom brawl. Harry picked on the wrong man.”
    I had a little picture of Harry. And of the blond man who searched Iris’s apartment.
    I thanked Mrs. Wentz for her help and she promised to get in touch if the blond man returned.
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    In the parking lot, I called Tesoros from my car.
    Tony Garza answered. There was no mistaking his full, deep, lively voice.
    â€œMaria Elena Garza, please.”
    â€œMrs. Collins?”
    I was startled. I was surprised he recognized my voice. I’d had good reason to listen to his. I wonderedif that was true of him? “Yes. How are you, Mr. Garza?”
    â€œFine, fine. Have you heard from Iris? We’re hoping nothing’s really wrong.” His smooth voice dropped in concern.
    â€œI’ve not found her yet. I wanted a chance to visit with your mother.”
    â€œOh, sure. Mother’s worried, too. Hold on and I’ll put you through.” A click. Another.
    â€œHello.” A melodious voice. Unpretentious, yet firm. This was a woman who had started with little and succeeded beyond all expectation. That told me she was smart, capable, far-sighted, tough. And, of course, lucky. I do believe in luck, but it’s interesting how people who work the hardest are usually the luckiest.
    â€œMrs. Garza, my name is Henrietta Collins—”
    â€œOf course. I’m so glad you called. Have you had any success looking for Iris?” There had been polite concern in Tony Garza’s voice, but Maria Elena sounded truly troubled.
    â€œNot yet. I’ve reported her as missing to the police. But there is something I’d especially like to discuss with you. There is a painting in Iris’s apartment.” I described that haunting, memorable canvas, how the shadow of a tree dappled part of the door and the wall, the way the sunlight brought out the amber color of some of the chunks of stone, the uneven shadow of the small wooden cross. “Do you know that painting?”
    â€œYes.” The answer was quick. “Oh, yes.”
    â€œMay I come and talk to you?”
    â€œYes. Please do.” She gave me directions, how to come into La Mariposa and ask for her. “We have much to discuss. The police were here this morning to ask about Iris.”
    Â 
    I don’t know what I expected of the owner of a shop like Tesoros. A plethora of beautiful possessions, so many that the room would shout of her success? But the room where I awaited her was small, almost monastic, painted a stark white, a crucifix on one wall, a straw mosaic on another. The furniture was simple: two woven chairs, a plain wooden sofa. The sharpest splash of color in the room was the red-and-orange-figured material of the cushions. A low blue tile table sat between the sofa and the chairs. A Talavera jar with blue Aztec figures sat in the center of the table. Nothing else. I found the simplicity of the room enchanting.
    Maria Elena Garza surprised me, from the first moment that we met. She was taller than I’d thought from the photograph and she moved with a quick, confident, youthful step. The face that glowed with good humor in the picture was grave this morning but not hostile. In fact, her handclasp was warm.
    She went directly to the point. “How do you know Iris?” Her