by Becca Bloom
She set her phone down. That was progress.
Leaning forward and adopting a rebellious tone, Fernanda said, "She was my aunt. But nobody in this room can be truly sad that she’s dead." She leaned back against the squeaky couch, crossing her arms and lifting her chin. She clearly expected a reaction from me.
I had noticed a definite volatility in Maria (at least, toward her husband when he corrected her English), but it was sad to hear how nobody — not even her family — liked her.
"I didn't know Maria very well. She drove me from the Quito airport to here and I left my backpack in her trunk by mistake. I went to her house hoping I'd be able to get it."
"Good luck with that. She was murdered in her car. If your bag was still there, the police would have it now."
My stomach started churning again. I didn't know the details of the crime, but I couldn't help but hope that there hadn't been any blood involved. I’m optimistic like that.
Apparently sensing my wooziness and seeking to capitalize on it, Fernanda leaned forward and whispered, "It was done with a machete." She ran her finger across her neck. “At least, that’s what they suspect because of the depth of the cut.”
Okay, so there was blood. Probably lots of blood.
Desperately needing to change the subject before I tossed my cookies, and deeply disturbed at her attitude toward her aunt’s murder, I asked, "Who are these people?"
"You see the man playing the game? That’s my uncle José, Maria's husband. You would have met him already if Maria drove you home from Quito. He just got home from Miami." Her words were curt, but her face softened as she looked at him.
An elderly woman walked across the room and gave José a hug, patting his back and speaking in a low tone. He shrugged her off and held up his control.
"Is that his mother and children?"
"No, that's just the neighbor lady. Half of the people here are just neighbors waiting around to hear what they can so they can gossip about it later. Stuff like this doesn’t happen in Baños. The kids crawling around Uncle José are my little brothers and sisters."
I counted five children. Every one of them was younger than Fernanda. "All of them?"
"I'm the oldest. There are too many of us. At least, that's what my dad thought when he left us a year ago … right after the last baby was born."
A little girl, maybe four years old, skipped over to us. Her bangs spiked up and her hair fell in chunks around her face. Red lipstick stained her lips and cheeks.
Fernanda smirked at her. “This is Ana Paola. She tried to cut her own hair yesterday, and she got into my mom’s makeup this morning.”
Ana Paola beamed up at me, leaning her little hands with bright yellow fingernails against my knees.
“Lovely. You’re a makeup artist in the making,” I told her, smiling and reaching out to smooth her spikes.
“She’s a pest,” Fernanda said in a monotone. “She steals my eyeliner all the time and she’s currently obsessed with my neon nail polishes. She drew smiley faces with it all over the house. Even on Mom’s machete. Wouldn’t it be ironic if that was the machete used to kill my Aunt Maria?”
Was this girl serious? She sounded happy her aunt was gone.
Tia Rosa came out with a loaded tray. It had an assortment of cookies and candy on it. When she had offered it to every person in the room, she set it on a small table near the tearless mourners.
Another woman came out of the kitchen with another tray full of plastic cups with steaming, yellow liquid in them. Her red-rimmed eyes darted around the room until they settled on Fernanda.
"Take one," said Tia Rosa, grabbing the plastic cup with her fingertips along the upper rim. "Is chamomile tea. Good for stomach."
The boiling beverage burned my fingers as I took it from her, careful not to squish the cup and spill hot tea everywhere until I could situate my fingers around the rim as Tia Rosa had done.
The woman with the tray of tea stood with us. She looked more exhausted up close and, unlike everyone else in the room, there was evidence of tears on her streaked cheeks. Her resemblance to Maria was striking, only she looked softer … nicer.
I didn't know what to say. Really, who does when someone dies suddenly and unexpectedly? ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ just didn’t seem to cut it … and even worse in a foreign language. But even if she didn't understand me, I still had to say something.
"I'm so sorry," I said.
Her chin quivered, as did her hands holding the tray with two more cups looking like they were about to melt on it. Tia Rosa took it from her before she burned herself.
Fernanda put her arm around her mom and rested her head against her shoulder. Martha kissed her on the forehead. Her eyebrows furrowed together in worry as she gazed at her daughter.
"Thank you," said Martha in a thick accent. "I love Maria. Maria good sister." She wiped her eyes.
Fernanda removed her arm and stepped away from her mom, her expression full of disgust. Taking the tray away from Tia Rosa, she took it to the kitchen.
Martha called after her, but Fernanda ignored her. Looking around nervously, Martha wrung her hands together. “Teenager,” she said, trying to explain her daughter’s behavior with a word. As if her age explained everything. When Fernanda returned, she had her cell phone firmly planted in front of her face.
Tia Rosa used one of the few Spanish words I knew all too well. Baño. I wondered if that’s where Abuelita had disappeared to and what the great attraction was to Martha’s bathroom.
"I’ll be back," Tia Rosa said before departing from the room again.
“Okay, Arnold,” I mumbled, which elicited a snort from Fernanda.
Martha sat on the arm of a chair next to José. The baby wobbled over to her. She scooped her up in her arms, kissing her cheeks and smoothing her brown curls. It struck me that Martha was the sort of woman who would not cry in front of her children. They leaned on her for support as they watched the gory game. I almost started crying for her when I wondered how I would feel if Jessamyn or Jessenia were forever gone to me and I had the burden of grieving while life carried on and there were mouths to feed. I remembered how hard it had been for my dad. How hard it still was.
Growing up, I had begged my mom and dad to put Jessenia or Jessamyn (or both!) up for adoption — as most siblings are guilty of doing. As we had grown, we couldn’t wait to move away from each other. However, after a week or so of what we thought would be glorious freedom, we found ways to keep in touch every day thereafter. Texts, messages, calls… Rarely did a day go by when we didn’t communicate with each other. We got on each other's nerves and we were as different as night is from day, but they were my sisters. And I loved them every bit as much as I knew they loved me. We took care of each other.
I doubted Fernanda gave her mom much support. I could see the concern in Martha’s frequent, worried glances at her oldest girl.
Fernanda looked up from her phone. "Abuelita has been gone a long time and Tia Rosa is acting weird. If they blow up our bathroom, they get to build a new one."
That she believed them capable of doing so concerned me greatly, much more than my shock at hearing that someone would build a house without an indoor bathroom. “Maybe Abuelita fell in.”
I almost laughed at the image running through my mind, but I stopped myself. The last thing I wanted to do was give the impression of being insensitive when the occasion called for quiet melancholy.
Fernanda was not as inhibited as me. Her shoulders shook and a cackle escaped her. "Oh my God, that would be too funny. And for it to happen to Abuelita of all people…." She smiled, revealing a sense of humor behind her sarcastic exterior.
Something she had said earlier bothered me, and I aimed to take advantage of her improved attitude to ask. "Why didn’t people like Maria? She seemed a bit rough around the edges, but only your mom has shed a tear for her. Not even José looks bothered."
Fernanda’s eyes darted around the room. Leaning closer to me, he
r voice dropped to a whisper. "Let me just say that I wasn't surprised when she was found murdered in her car. She was not a nice woman. If you ask me, Uncle José is better off without her and now he can marry my mom like I’ve begged him to do since, like, forever."
Wishful thinking on her part, I thought, watching as José waved the remote around in front of him to shoot at aliens. Would the slip of a girl take matters into her own hands and off her aunt to make her dream come true? Was that why Martha looked so worried? Did she suspect that her own daughter was capable of murder? Who else stood to benefit from killing Maria?
Disturbed by her words and the accusations forming in my head, I asked vaguely, "She had a run-in with a taxi driver and a guy wearing an undershirt and gold chain when we got here. The taxi had dents all over it and the fender had duct tape on it.”
“That would be Martin. He’s a taxi driver.”
“We saw him at the mechanic a block away,” I added.
“That’s not surprising. He lives nearby. Sometimes he gives me and my brother a ride to school and he never charges — even though he could use the money. He’s decent like that.”
Not exactly the image of a cold-blooded murderer. “And the other guy? Undershirt and gold chain….”
She sighed and the hint of a smile tempered her harsh makeup. “That’s Christian. He went to school with Martin.”
“What does he have against your aunt?”
Fernanda twirled a skull ring around her finger. Her eyes darted all over the room. “Nothing as far as I know. He’s a sweet guy. More lover than fighter, if you know what I mean.”
There was something she wasn’t telling me.
Focusing on the solution to the problem rather than on the problem itself soothed my nerves and calmed my stomach. My hands no longer shook. I was no detective, but it gave me something to talk about with Fernanda. I looked around the room and sipped on my cooling tea, wondering who knew more than they would admit to.
Fernanda seemed to read my mind. She said, "The neighbors hated her, but I think it's more likely she was involved in something she shouldn’t have been in." She spoke openly. Not like someone who had a secret to hide … unlike Mr. Fancy Pants, who twirled his diamond ring around his finger and shuffled his Panama hat from side to side in his hands.
"Like what?"
Fernanda lowered her voice. "I don't know what she was into, but she works as a taxi driver and my uncle makes puro for a living. They make decent money, but not enough to justify a new car, the huge TV in their living room, the new gaming system and TV he installed over here, and all the other things they buy. The money has to come from somewhere, doesn't it?"
"What is puro?"
A deep voice behind me answered, "I believe you guys call it moonshine. José makes it from the sugar cane he grows out in his parents’ fields and he sells it at a little stand at the bus terminal here. It's powerful stuff, but too rustic to sell at a decent bar such as mine." The Grease extra held his hand out to me. “I’m Dario Vega, owner of The Lava Lounge. I’m the one who found Maria and called the police. Were you a friend of hers?”
“Not exactly. I only met her today. I don’t know anybody here.” I could see the confusion on his face. If I only just met her, what was I doing here? I added, “I left my backpack in her car and came with some friends to get it back.”
“Friends?” he asked.
Abuelita rushed into the room, answering Dario’s question before I could explain how loosely I had used the term. Her face was flushed, her shoes were no longer shiny, and a twig stuck out of her hair. Tia Rosa was right behind her, rubbing her leg and limping.
Chapter 6
Deciding it was safest to keep on Fernanda’s good side, I said, "I think we were right. She definitely fell into something."
Fernanda giggled.
Unperturbed, Abuelita hugged Fernanda. "We go now. I send lunch tomorrow."
Fernanda leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. "It was nice to meet you, Jessica. I had best help my mom. This is really hard on her."
I didn’t flinch, so I guessed I was making progress. I even remembered to make a smoochy noise before she pulled away.
Dario smelled like hair pomade and whiskey. He apologized for not being able to give us a ride home, but he had to wait for the detective to arrive. I couldn’t help but wonder what business he had with Maria. Did it have something to do with the liquor José had brought back from Miami?
Saying our farewells to everyone else, (rather, I stood and waved awkwardly by the door while Abuelita and Tia Rosa gave their condolences to the rest of the family and neighbors still in the room) my eyes squinted as they got used to the early evening sunshine outside. José didn’t even bother to pause his game. I didn’t think he even knew I had chatted with his niece for a good twenty minutes while he was engrossed in his entertainment.
Abuelita walked with renewed vigor as we wound our way through the police cars and down the narrow alleyway leading to the paved street and to dinner. Not that I would be able to eat much.
"Why were you gone so long?" I asked, plucking the branch out of Abuelita’s ebony hair.
She looked at me sheepishly. "I try find backpack. I climb over concrete wall. Rosa push me."
Tia Rosa smiled up at me, her magnified eyes the image of innocence. “I push her. She pull me.”
"You broke into a crime scene to look for my stuff?" I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug them or shake them by the shoulders for taking such a risk. "What if you had been caught? Didn’t it bother you to see … Maria?" I shivered.
Abuelita waved her hand dismissively. "Is no problem. Newspaper show worse on front page. And I no touch nothing. But I no see bag before she trip over giant feet and police hear. We run before they see us." Abuelita glared at Tia Rosa.
“I sorry, Jessica,” Tia Rosa frowned, staring down at her feet. They were probably two sizes smaller than mine.
Acting on the impulse of the moment, I wrapped my arms around Tia Rosa and Abuelita.
It was like hugging a stiff board and a feather pillow, but I appreciated what they had tried to do for me. I was just really glad they didn't get caught or do anything to incriminate themselves.
As we crossed the street from the alley, I noticed that the little dog was curled up in a shady spot against the wall. As we walked by, she got to her feet and fell in behind us, her ears bouncing and her pink tongue hanging out. She had been waiting for us.
Twisting her lips into a disapproving frown, Abuelita said, "You see? She follow us."
My heart went out to the poor puppy nobody seemed to want. "Let her follow. I'll take her picture and make a poster. Maybe her owners will claim her." It was a stupid thing to say, and I knew it. Even if her owners did claim her, I wouldn't want to give her to them so they could continue to mistreat her.
Abuelita stopped walking. Turning to face me, she poked me in the arm with her pointy finger. "No dog in my kitchen. You understand?"
"Of course not. I can't keep her anyway. I’m only here for a month, but maybe I can find a home for her in that time."
Abuelita glared at me. "You give dog name. Why give name if no keep her?"
What? No I hadn't.
“Is good name. She a little Lady,” said Tia Rosa.
Oh, that name. I couldn't argue with her, although I had only said it to calm the pup down after her scare with the big dogs.
Looking at the dog, I asked, "Is that your name? Can we call you Lady?"
The puppy twirled in a circle and barked happily. Lady it was.
Abuelita folded her arms. “You feed her.”
“Can we swing by the grocery store I saw on our way here? I’ll buy some dog food there.”
Tia Rosa clucked her tongue. “She so skinny. Lady need rich food.”
Abuelita flew her hands up in the air and strode off without us. “She problem now. You feed her.”
Abuelita and Tia Rosa showed me into the garden behind the restaurant through
a secured gate, Lady happily in tow. She pranced in like she already knew the place.
She looked up the stairs leading to Adriana’s apartment, sniffing the air and listening for something. Then, she went up the steps, spun two circles, and laid down in front of the door.
“It rain, she get wet and she stink,” grumbled Abuelita.
Tia Rosa agreed. “Better for her under wash tank. Is dry. I ask Adi for pillow.”
Lady was happy in her spot, so I didn’t call her. She couldn’t go in the kitchen anyway.
Jake walked through the swinging door from the dining room, his arms laden with dirty dishes which he took over to the sink and began washing. Watching him help his mom and sister in the kitchen made my heart go pitter patter. And he had brought the phone charger. It lay next to the coffee maker.
“How good of you to show up for the dinner rush,” commented Sylvia, looking pointedly at her mom and aunt. “Jake had to fill in for you when one of the other girls came in late. What took so long?”
Tia Rosa and Abuelita raced over to Jake, who squatted down to half his height for them to kiss him on each cheek. Abuelita tried to elbow Tia Rosa out of the way to get to Adriana first, but Tia Rosa was agile (or, more likely, she was used to her sister’s tricks) and evaded Abuelita’s pointy jabs without losing a step. All signs of her limp were gone. They nearly bowled Adriana over, but she held her ground as they showed their appreciation to her. Abuelita wasn’t as gruff as she let on. And Tia Rosa wasn’t as clueless as she seemed.
“The orders out?” asked Abuelita, spooning a piece of chicken into a bowl and burning her fingers to separate the meat from the bones.
“Adi just took the last order out and Jake finished cleaning the tables. Why?” Sylvia looked like she wanted to ask her mom what she had been doing, but restrained herself for fear of hearing the answer.
When Abuelita took the bowl outside and I heard her heels on the wood steps, I smiled. She was feeding Lady. For all her crustiness, she had a warm heart.
“You never guess what happen,” said Abuelita excitedly, the screen door slamming behind her.