1934. Competing factions wage a cold war in the streets and marketplaces, vying for dominance of Mexico City. When a series of murders threatens to turn the cold war hot, only Helen Young, drawn to Mexico to complete her late husband’s archaeological work, can put the pieces together and avert disaster…
“She is my housekeeper, she lives here as well,” he said, unlocking the front door, “I find her quite indispensable.”
He opened the door and let her inside. The interior of the building complimented the exterior, with gleaming black and white tiled floors and warmly painted walls. Along the stairs an ornate wrought iron banister led up to the second level. She had expected his office to be an austere little hovel and was pleased to have been proven wrong. As she stood admiring the décor, Hayden rang a small bell next to the doorway.
“Hello Mr. Alexander,” A soft voice called, followed quickly by a small woman in a smock and kerchief.
Helen guessed her to be about fifty, but aged prematurely by a life of labor. With a grin on her face as she turned the corner, she wiped her hands on her apron. Her smile faltered momentarily upon seeing Helen. Recovering quickly, cheerful expression returned.
“Erendira, this is Helen Young, Mr. Young’s wife. Remember we talked about her coming.”
“Yes Mr. Alexander,” she said and then turned to Helen. Erendira took Helen’s hands into her own, a mournful expression on her face, “Mr. Harold was a good man. So sad.” Erendira’s eyes became shiny with tears.
Helen wanted to thank her, but her throat closed up and choked off the words. Instead she just nodded, turning her face away and staring blankly at the wall, trying to control her emotions. The look of sorrow in Erendira’s eyes alone brought Helen to the brink of tears. Erendira, undeterred and undeceived, rubbed Helen’s arm with a calloused hand.
“It is okay Mrs. Helen,” Erendira whispered, “My husband is gone, too.”
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