“Has anyone from Zapopan called the gate?” I asked.

“No, ma’am,” Marcus said.

“The Mendoza family has never requested access to this property.”

He turned the key in the side gate for pedestrians and swung the heavy iron back without a sound.

The stone driveway ran three hundred yards through tall pines toward the villa, lined with crushed blue gravel that crunched under my shoes.

The three-story house sat quietly against the hillside, built of thick cut stone and dark oak beams, looking out over the clear blue expanse of the lake.

Inside the front hall, the air smelled of cedar oil and fresh beeswax, with none of the perfumed air fresheners Doña Victoria insisted on using in Zapopan.