Havana Heat: A Lupe Solano Mystery by Carolina Garcia-Aguilera, Paperback | Barnes & Noble
Havana Heat: A Lupe Solano Mystery

Havana Heat: A Lupe Solano Mystery

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by Carolina Garcia-Aguilera
     
 

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A leading remark at a large Cuban-American wedding sets Lupe Solano on a dangerous hunt for a legendary masterpiece. When the groom's pushy aunt claims to know the whereabouts of a rumored eighth Unicorn Tapestry, Lupe is intrigued�and hooked.

But, though she's done art-world investigations in the past, this one is different, because the trail to this work of

Overview

A leading remark at a large Cuban-American wedding sets Lupe Solano on a dangerous hunt for a legendary masterpiece. When the groom's pushy aunt claims to know the whereabouts of a rumored eighth Unicorn Tapestry, Lupe is intrigued�and hooked.

But, though she's done art-world investigations in the past, this one is different, because the trail to this work of art—which may or may not exist—is covered with blood. Apparently someone else also believes the Tapestry is real, and believes strongly enough to kill for it.

Editorial Reviews

Orlando Sentinel
Colorful...plenty of atmosphere and action along the way, as well as illuminating information about Cuban politics and a new black market.
Chicago Tribune
A doozy of a plot...the most ambitious and most successful of Garcia-Aguilera's novels.
Miami Herald
Refreshing...delightful...the most ambitious—and most successful—-of Garcia-Aguilera's novels.
Cleveland Plain Dealer
Suspenseful plotting and a startling ending...Solano is a strong and admirable protagonist.
Florida Times-Union
Lupe's comfortably wry humor is omnipresent in Havana Heat...as always, it's one of the many reasons [this series] is so delightful...A doozy of a plot.
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
Garcia-Aguilera provides a unique glimpse into the Cuban exile community in Miami.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Stylish Cuban-American private eye Lupe Solano returns for her fifth exotic and suspenseful outing, after last year's A Miracle in Paradise. Attending a niece's wedding along with her current flame, attorney Alvaro Mendoza, Lupe is approached by Lucia Miranda, a member of the groom's high-powered and socially prominent family. Lucia has a dangerous task she hopes Lupe will undertake. Centuries ago, Christopher Columbus entrusted a medieval tapestry, a gift from Spain's Queen Isabella, into the safekeeping of his friend and shipmate, Rogelio Miranda, Lucia's ancestor. This prize is none other than the missing eighth tapestry of the famous Hunt of the Unicorn series hanging in the Cloisters in New York City. Lucia wants Lupe to retrieve the tapestry from its hiding place, deep beneath the Miranda family home in Havana, and bring it to Miami so that the dying clan matriarch can view it one last time. Intersecting this case is that of Angel Estrada, an art dealer with questionable ethics, who wants Lupe's help in smuggling art out of Cuba. Estrada's murder puts Lupe on the trail of a dangerous killer. Her quest for the tapestry takes her to Cuba, but not until she returns to Miami does she uncover the complete truth of both cases. Lupe Solano is an enjoyably hedonistic sleuth, and Garc a-Agu lera's chatty, congenial style will beguile readers for several pleasing hours and leave them looking forward to Lupe's next foray into Miami vice. (Oct.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Library Journal
Lupe Solano's (Bloody Secret) detecting life suddenly focuses on stolen Cuban art and a trip to Cuba--all thanks to a couple of recent successful cases. After telling Lupe a fantastical tale about a fabulous unicorn tapestry--like those at the Cloisters Museum--a wealthy Cuban American woman hires her to smuggle it out of Cuba, where it is still hidden. Lupe's determination to take the case jeopardizes her current romance and may be connected to the murder of her underworld art contact. A stunning mixture of art history, Cubans-in-exile politics, a uniquely classy Miami heroine, and riveting plot make this highly recommended. Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
Kirkus Reviews
Ever since 1935, the seven medieval tapestries comprising The Hunt for the Unicorn have decorated the walls of the Cloisters in New York. Now Lucia Miranda has come to Coconut Grove shamus Lupe Solano with news of an eighth, a companion work long owned by her family that her dying mother would like see one last time. The problem is that the Miranda tapestry has been hidden in a Havana basement since 1961. Lupe isn't eager to risk her life by making another clandestine visit to her homeland. But if she's going to be there anyway, she reasons, she might as well contact Camila Estrada, the painter who wants Lupe to take back to Miami a cache of paintings Camila has replaced with copies she painted herself. (Never mind that Lupe indignantly rejected the proposal when Camila's brother, lowlife art dealer Angel Estrada, first made it to her, or that both Angel and his brother Jesus have since been murdered.) There's a third case too, the disappearance of a gallery owner who's needed to resolve a dispute between two collectors claiming ownership of the same painting. Between multiple cases, rival lovers, and lovingly detailed restaurant meals, Lupe is so busy that it doesn't look as if she'll ever make it back to Cuba, and you have to sympathize with Lucia's impatient nagging, despite all that mascara.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780380807406
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
09/01/2001
Series:
Lupe Solano Series, #5
Pages:
352
Product dimensions:
4.18(w) x 6.79(h) x 0.98(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

I should have been born a man. I think like one, I act like one, I live my life like one. As a private investigator for the last eight years, I've worked in a field dominated by men. The men I've worked with, as well as the men I've been involved with, have always tried to ascertain who is the real Lupe Solano. Eventually they all discover that I have two sides: a gentle, feminine veneer that I display when I need to, and the ruthless heart and soul of a man underneath.

These idle thoughts flitted through my mind as I looked out the car window at the familiar scenery of Miami. Alvaro Mendoza, my current love interest, was driving, and we were heading north on Granada Boulevard toward the Biltmore Hotel to attend my niece Marianna's wedding reception.

Alvaro was actually more than just a passing liaison. He and I had been together for almost a year now, a record of sorts for me. And, another first, he was Cuban, the first Latino man I had ever been seriously involved with -- Latino being the current fashionable word to refer to us Hispanics. One night I actually sat at the dinner table with my sister Fatima's twelve-year-old twins and concocted different possible terms that might be used in the future to refer to those of us who lived in the New World but had Spanish origins.

We came up with peoplissimos, taninos, s�personas, and a few other ridiculous variations on the same theme.

I saw the lights of the Biltmore off in the distance and began to envision the scene at the party. Technically, Marianna wasn't my niece; she was my third cousin Mirta's daughter. Marianna was marrying into the famousMiranda cigar family. I had spoken with Tia Elena, the bride's grandmother, and learned that at last count the guest list was approaching one thousand. It was just your basic warm, cozy, intimate family wedding reception -- Cuban style. The actual ceremony had taken place earlier that day, at the Church of the Little Flower, with only the immediate family in attendance -- at the young couple's insistence and their families' displeasure.

I fidgeted in the front seat of the Mercedes, unable to find a position in which I wasn't being impaled by some article of clothing. Everything I was wearing seemed designed to divert my blood from where it needed to flow, from my emerald earrings with too-tight clasps to the Manolo Blahnick pointed shoes that I was certain had been designed by a conspiracy of podiatrists.

The drive from my home in Cocoplum to the hotel wasn't long -- fifteen minutes the way Alvaro drove, seven if I had been behind the wheel. But it felt like an eternity, It had been a long time since I wore a long dress, and I was alternating between fits of pain and numbness. Ominously, I hadn't been tested by having to stand up for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

I tried to breathe slow and steady. My corset was rubbing against the girdle I'd been forced to wear in order to be poured into my form-displaying, not-one-inch-of-fabric-to-spare Helmut Lang dress. What the hell. All the pain and misery were going to be worth it. I looked gorgeous. The dress was black and backless, and it fit me like a second skin.

It was a triumph. The only problem was that the Austrian designer hadn't created the dress to be worn by a thirty year-old Cuban woman who had a weakness for chocolate and a backslider's approach to exercise. Although I hated to admit it, perhaps I had relaxed a little during my time with Alvaro and put on a couple of pounds. Alvaro said he liked me sexy and voluptuous, and he was always trying to get me to eat seconds when we had dinner together. So far I hadn't resisted his entreaties.

Achieving my look that night hadn't been easy. Nighttime assaults on beachheads seldom are. Colin Powell spent less time getting ready for the Gulf War than I had preparing for this wedding. At society gatherings such as this I always wanted to look my best. It was a matter of self-esteem, not to mention my professional standing. I knew the Cuban women there would be scrutinizing me like a jeweler looking for imperfections in a stone, searching for evidence that I was letting myself go and that my sleazy profession was catching up with me. My complicated personal life had given them plenty to talk about over the years; I sure as hell didn't intend to add to the rumor mill by showing up looking less than stunning, or as though my chosen lifestyle had taken its toll on my appearance.

My ensemble that night had been the result of a team effort -- and Aida, our housekeeper, deserved special commendation. Her great achievement had been to close up my dress without embedding any of my epidermis in the zipper's teeth, no small feat for an octogenarian. There had also been a valiant young saleslady at the Saks Fifth Avenue lingerie department, who hadn't lost heart when she heard me yelling, cursing, and grunting in the dressing room trying to fit into my corset. Instead, she leaped into the fray, helping me wedge my way in, then stuffing my ample breasts into the cups. The price I paid for beauty. I hated to be reined in, physically or otherwise.

Alvaro was quiet, concentrating on his driving. The winding streets of Coral Gables were notoriously badly lit. The residents apparently liked it that way, because every proposal to add more streelights was inevitably voted down. The unspoken understanding was that no one wanted non-residents to be able to find their way around.

We pulled...

Havana Heat. Copyright � by Carolina Garcia-Aguilera. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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