“No, I was working. Maria called me over to the window. He could have taken off before I got there.”
“If there was someone out there, then he’d have set off the motion sensors,” Harmon said. He turned back to Maria. “Did the lights come on?”
She shook her head.
“Lot of shadow back there,” said Todd. “You sure you weren’t mistaken?”
“No mistake,” she said. “I see him.”
Todd gave Harmon a look that was more resigned than concerned.
“We’re not going to find out anything in here,” I said.
“Bring up all of the lights,” Harmon told Todd. Todd went to a box of switches on the kitchen wall and flicked a line of them. Instantly the grounds were illuminated. Todd led the way out. I followed, picking up a flashlight from a rack on the wall along the way. Harmon hung back. After all, he didn’t have a gun. Regrettably, I didn’t have a gun either. It seemed rude to bring one to a stranger’s dinner party.
The lights took out most of the shadows in the garden, but there were still patches of dark under the trees by the walls. I used the flashlight to probe them, but there was nothing there. The ground was soft, but there was no sign of footprints. The surrounding wall was eight or nine feet high, and covered in ivy. Anyone climbing the wall would have damaged the ivy, but it appeared to be intact. We made a cursory search of the rest of the grounds, but it was obvious that Todd believed Maria had been mistaken.
“She’s kinda jittery at the best of times,” he said, as we walked back to where Harmon waited for us. “Everything is ‘Jesus’ and ‘Madre de Dios.’ She’s a looker, though, I’ll give her that, but you got a better chance of getting laid by a busload of nuns.”
Harmon raised his hands in a “What’s happening?” gesture.
“Nada,” said Todd. “Not a sign.”
“A lot of fuss over nothing,” said Harmon. He headed back into the kitchen, shot Maria a disapproving glance, then went to release his guests. Todd followed. I stayed behind. Maria was putting plates into a big dishwasher. Her chin was trembling slightly.
“Can you tell me what you saw?” I said.
She shrugged.
“Maybe Mr. Harmon is right. Maybe I no see,” she said, although I could tell from the expression on her face that she didn’t believe her own words.
“Try me,” I said.
She stopped what she was doing. A tear caught in her eyelash, and she brushed it away.
“It was a man. He dress in clothes. Brown, I think. Muy sucio. His face? White. Pálido, sí?”
“Pale?”
“Sí, pale. Also—”
Now she looked frightened again. She touched her hands to her face and mouth.
“Here and here, nada. Nothing. Empty. Hueco.”
“Hueco? I don’t understand.”
Maria glanced over my shoulder. I turned to find the cook watching us.
“Della,” said Maria, “ayúdame a explicarle lo que quiere decir ‘hueco.’”
“You speak Spanish?” I asked her.
“Some,” she said.
“So, any idea what hueco might mean?”
“Uh, I’m not sure. I can try to find out.”
Della exchanged some words with Maria, who made gestures and signs to help her along. Eventually, she picked up a decorated ostrich egg that was used to hold pens and tapped her fingers lightly on the shell.
“Hueco,” said Maria, and the cook’s face briefly brightened before she too looked troubled, as though she had somehow misunderstood what was being said.
“Hueco means ‘hollow,’” she said. “Maria says he was a hollow man.”