The santero rose and faced them. His shirt hung half-open at the bottom, showing a sprinkling of wiry gray hairs on a generous belly. An unlit cigar stuck from his mouth. His eyes, a piercing charcoal, considered them appraisingly. “So why have you come to see me?” he asked in accented English. “Let me guess. You would like a blessing for your union, no?"
"That's not it,” Vail cut in quickly, avoiding her amused glance. Introducing himself and Marla, he stated their purpose: “We're here to talk to you about Carlos."
The santero's expression saddened. “Ayee, poor soul. I made a prayer to Ochun in his name.” He eyed them curiously. “You are familiar with the origins of santeria?” When they indicated a negative response, he gestured to the riverbank. “Please, sit I would like for you to understand.” Removing the cigar from between his thin lips, he stuck it in a pants pocket.
With a grunt, Vail lowered himself to the hard ground, and Marla followed suit. Reeds rustled as a breeze blew up, gently swaying the sawgrass over the swamp. A raucous bird cry broke the otherwise peaceful stillness. Her hands splayed on the dirt as she settled into a comfortable position.
Assuming a perch on a nearby log, the santero directed his sharp gaze on them. “Santeria evolved from the religious beliefs of African slaves, many of whom came from the Yoruba people in what is now called Nigeria. They needed to hide their culture from white slave owners so they turned to Christianity. Through contact with Roman Catholics, the religion evolved into a fusion of elements from both belief systems. We worship African deities and Catholic saints together. Ochun is our beloved virgin."
"What is your role?” Marla asked curiously.
"I help my people to rid themselves of illness, to get a better job, to keep a husband from wandering. Whatever is needed, I try to do, although sometimes faith is the best therapy."
Vail shifted his large body. “Did Carlos come to you for spiritual guidance, or were you just fishing companions?"
The santero, seated with his knees folded, fingered his glass-bead necklace. “Carlos was a good man,” he said, his expression sobering. “He sent dollars home to his widowed mother still living in Cuba. I don't know what she'll do now that he's gone. Carlos has ... had a sister, but she's struggling to raise two young ones on her own."
"Did he seem bothered by anything recently?"
A thoughtful gleam entered the Cuban's eyes. “Ayee. He was troubled at our last session. Fishing was our excuse to get together,” he said, answering Vail's previous question, “but he'd always want to talk. I think he didn't want to appear superstitious, but he couldn't disregard santeria either. In this case, he was disturbed by a request made to him."
"How is that?"
"Someone wanted him to do a deed that made him feel uncomfortable. His conscience troubled him. It just meant leaving a door unlocked, but he was worried about the reasons why. He'd always been an ethical man, and this decision plagued him.” He paused. “Carlos came over on the Mariel boatlift in 1980. He took this job as janitor soon after. He'd always sent dollars home, but the need increased after his papa died last February. I think that's why he agreed to the request despite his reservations."
Marla leaned forward to catch Vail's next words. “Who made the request?” Vail demanded.
"A woman."
"Description?"
The santero shrugged. “He said she looked good for her years."
"Did he mention her name? Or where she worked?"
"No, senor. Carlos didn't actually say the words, but I believe he was afraid she planned to burglarize the place. Your salon, eh?” he directed to Marla.
"That's right, but we have nothing valuable in our salon. What could anyone take ... hair solutions and accessories? I suppose you could sell them at a flea market."
"Carlos wondered what to do. He wanted the extra dollars to send home, but his heart told him this deed was wrong. He asked me for an amulet against evil spirits."
"And in the end, he complied with the woman's wishes. Did he mention a final meeting between them?” Vail grated, idly scratching at an insect bite on his arm.
"He said he might go away for a few days just so he wouldn't be associated with whatever she'd planned.” The santero bent his head. “I could only offer advice. I gave him an amulet and warned him to follow his instincts."
"If he had done so, he might still be alive.” Vail compressed his lips.
Not a person to sit quietly for long, Marla piped in. “By any chance, did he say what color the woman's hair was?"
Senor Manuel withdrew his cigar and stuck it between his teeth. “Ayee, he'd said light-haired females always had their way with him."
A few questions later and it was clear they wouldn't gain any new information. Thanking the santero, they rose. Marla brushed dried grass needles off her butt and realigned her sunglasses. Her skin felt prickly with sweat. The breeze wasn't enough to cool them under the blazing sunlight Throat parched, she yearned to return to the gift shop, where she could purchase a cold soft drink.
They were climbing into the airboat when the santero waved to them. “I just remembered something else,” he called.
"What's that?” Marla and Vail chimed in unison.
"Carlos mentioned one more thing the woman said:” ‘I'm doing it for him.’”
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 16
What do you think Carlos's words meant?” Marla asked during the drive home along the east-west corridor.
"It appears the woman wasn't working alone.” Vail hadn't said much during their thrill ride back to the souvenir shop. Mouth clamped shut, he'd stared straight ahead, hair tossing into his face while Sammy pushed the throttle. The Indian seemed determined to unnerve them and rode his pilot's chair like an aeronautical acrobat.
"Darlene and Roy?” Marla said now, mentioning the first names that popped into her mind.
"I'm not so sure."
Marla gave him a suspicious glare. “Why do you say that?"
"We shouldn't overlook other possibilities."
She liked his use of the word we. “Darlene has light hair. She's hiding her relationship to Roy, and she has easy access to storeroom supplies. I'd say she's the most logical suspect."
Vail raised his eyebrows. “Aren't you forgetting someone?"
She couldn't tell by the gleam in his eyes if he were serious or not. “I have dark brown hair,” she reminded him.
"If I'm not mistaken, you carry an array of wigs in your salon. You were alone with the victim, and you served her the contaminated drink. I'm just not sure how you'd know about poisonous plants when you seem to have a black thumb where greenery is concerned."
"No kidding. I'm not a maven in that department.” Any plants left under her care died a hasty death. Marla noticed how he'd touched upon means and opportunity but failed to mention motives. Presumably he could have her damning photos, meaning the clever man was trying to trick her into a defensive blunder.
Groping for a response, she averted her gaze out the side window. Her glance carried beyond the wire fence blocking off the road from a canal and rested on the water's coating of brown slime. “Unlike Darlene I don't have a partner in crime,” she pointed out. “Darlene could have paid Carlos to leave the back door unlocked as a red herring and put the poison into Bertha's creamer herself, or else Roy entered that night and did it. Oh wait, he was in Naples then.” She frowned, thinking.
Vail patted her thigh. “We know he was in Naples up until dinner the night before the murder from tracing his charge accounts. But he used express checkout, meaning he could have left anytime in the night. When the maid knocked on his door in the morning, he was already gone."
Marla sucked in a breath. “So he could have been at the salon! He may have met Darlene there."
"Poison is still not the usual MO for a man."
"Well, if you don't think Roy did it, Darlene still might have been acting under his instructions. He inherits Bertha's business interests. Lucil
le led me to believe he's skimming funds from the company, and she thinks Bertha found out. Her memoirs might have exposed him. Faced with possible legal action, he may have taken matters into his own hands."
"What else did Lucille tell you?"
"She confirmed that Bertha and Roy were having an affair."
"Did that seem to bother her?"
"No, why should it? She left the company eight years ago.” Something niggled at her consciousness, but Marla pushed it away.
''There's also Zack and Wendy,” Vail commented casually.
Marla sat up straight. “Wendy was fond of her aunt. She wouldn't have harmed Bertha."
"Zack's resources are depleted. He owes people money, and his wife is pregnant. He's got a motive."
"I'm telling you, Wendy isn't involved in this case. Zack is expecting an investment to come through."
"Yeah, his wife's inheritance."
Realizing he was baiting her, she fell silent for the rest of the ride. Other possibilities entered her mind, unpleasant ideas she didn't want to consider but forced herself to confront.
Ken was involved in Zack's money-making scheme. His recent behavior indicated something was wrong, but he wouldn't confide in Tally. Or was one of them lying? Tally's blond mane of hair came to mind, but Marla quickly discarded the notion. The sailor would have recognized Tally if she'd been the one to visit Carlos at the dock. And what about the santero's remark that Carlos said the woman looked good for her age? Tally, Darlene, and even Wendy kept themselves youthfully in style.
Wishing she'd get home, Marla shifted her position. Who else looked good for her years and had light hair?
A lump rose in her throat. Carolyn Sutton. But her competitor wouldn't stoop this low to put her out of business. If anything, business had swelled after the murder. People were curious to visit the place and gossip about Bertha Kravitz. That didn't explain the rival bid to her landlord unless Stan truly belonged in the equation. Regardless of whether or not they'd been scheming behind her back, Marla determined to pay Carolyn a long-overdue visit.
"Want to stop for lunch?” Vail asked unexpectedly.
Marla glanced at her watch. It was nearly one o'clock. They'd made good time. In no hurry to return to the salon, she agreed. “Sure, what did you have in mind?"
"I know of a Cuban place not far from here."
"That sounds great."
Over a meal of sauteed chicken breast with fried plantains, black beans, and rice, Marla attempted to gauge his impression of her. He still wasn't sharing all he knew about the case, but that could just be his natural caution rather than a conviction on his part that she was guilty.
"You puzzle me,” he admitted after bolting down a swallow of beer.
"How so?” Marla sipped her iced coffee, appreciating the restaurant's soft decor. White tablecloths and fresh flowers combined with muted lighting gave the place an intimate atmosphere. She felt strange being there with a police detective.
"Not too many other women would get involved in a murder case like you've done. You've gotten some pretty useful information."
''Bertha died in my salon. That makes it my responsibility to find her murderer."
Reaching across the table, he took her hand. “You're wrong. It's my job to solve this case. You're putting yourself at risk by snooping."
Marla withdrew her hand. “You don't understand. If I find her killer, that absolves me.” Folding her hands, she redirected her gaze to the tiled floor. “I should have detected something unusual in her creamer. It'll always be my fault that I fixed her that cup of coffee. It wasn't my intention to harm her.” Her pleading glance rose to meet his bewildered expression.
"Why do you insist on accepting blame?"
A small smile played about her lips. “You mean you're not accusing me of doing the deed?"
"If you didn't, why do you persist in feeling guilty?"
Her shoulders slumped. “This isn't the first time,” she murmured. She hadn't meant to say it. The words just slipped from her mouth. Clenching her hands together, she blurted out her disgraceful history. If he'd been digging into her past, he knew about most of it already anyway. Except for the photos, and she wouldn't mention those. In a faltering voice, she told him about Tammy.
"No wonder,” he said, a hint of admiration in his tone.
"What does that mean?” She'd just bared her soul, describing her grief and guilt-ridden agony, and his response was an oblique remark. Her hackles rose in self-defense.
"I can tell you're a strong person from the way you handle yourself under fire. Now I know why. You were scorched by the flames of hell, and you came out unseamed."
Her eyes reflected her anguish. “No, not unscathed. The wounds may not be visible, but they're still here."
Leaning forward, he captured her gaze.’ ‘They'll always be with you, but you've learned how to go on. By your work with the coalition, you help others. That's really the best way to deal with pain."
"You've experienced bad times yourself. How do you manage?"
He lounged back, his face hooded. “We're not talking about me."
"Why not? If you ask me, you need to talk to someone."
"Well, I didn't ask you."
"Fine, suit yourself. But you'll never get close to another person with that attitude. Maybe that's the point. You're afraid of experiencing another loss."
"Aren't you?” he retorted. “You act like you're trying to prove something by finding Bertha's killer. And whenever I try to get more personal, you shy away. I've learned more about you today than from our previous talks."
"That's swell. Pat yourself on the back."
A bitter silence fell between them as they left the restaurant. Marla resented his remarks and how he was able to get under her skin so easily. Just as well she'd never see him again after this case was solved.
Neither one spoke during the drive back to her town house. Finally, Vail broke the ice. “Look, I'm sorry about what I said back there.” Pulling into her driveway, he shifted into park and shut off the engine.
"No problem.” Surreptitiously, she glanced at the time. Three o'clock. She could still make it to the printer's shop before business hours ended and have time left over to check on things at the salon. “I've got to go."
"But I'd like to talk about this."
"Not now."
"You don't have to go back to the salon. Isn't another hairdresser covering for you?"
"I've got things to do.” Opening the door, she shoved herself out. “Thanks for the lunch. It's been a great day."
"You're welcome.” The words bit out of his mouth. Eyes narrowing, he didn't say another word.
Feeling a twinge of guilt, she pushed it aside. Too many chasms lay between them to be bridged so readily. Bertha's murder was the biggest hurdle. Better to leave things between them on a business level.
After greeting Spooks, who leapt for joy at her arrival, she freshened up before heading out again. Three stops were on her agenda. First was the print shop, then her salon to make sure things were in order. Then if she still had time, she'd direct her attention to Carolyn Sutton.
Luck followed her to the store. When she pushed on the door, it swung open. She'd even been able to find a parking meter down the quiet street. Inside, a balding middle-aged man sat behind a counter reading the newspaper. At her entrance, he stood up, stuffing the paper into a drawer.
Marla caught a glimpse of machinery in a back workroom. Male voices raised in argument told her they weren't alone. Nervously, she wet her lips. From the magazines displayed on the walls, this appeared to be a legitimate business.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for the proprietor,” she said, approaching the fellow behind the counter.
"That's me. Kurt Jarvis, ma'am.” He regarded her with a wary expression.
"I'm, uh, doing an article on local entrepreneurs. You were recommended as someone who represents an unusual occupation.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“My readers like to get the real juice, you know what I mean?"
"Who do you work for—one of the tabloids?"
"Of course."
He probably doesn ‘t get too many classy women in this part of town, she realized. Figures he'd add her to his sleaze list thinking she could only work for a sensational news service. Then again, if he sold dirty magazines, his walk-ins could be well-heeled. Perverted tastes knew no social boundaries, or so she'd been led to believe. Maybe he sold the tilings through mail order, she thought suddenly, spotting a stack of brown-wrapped items at the far end.
"I notice you have these glossy publications.” She waved at the displays on the walls. “But a friend gave me a sample of something else, which I was hoping to buy."
She smiled, noting the twitch in his double chin. It matched his belly when he moved. A half-filled box of doughnuts rested on the counter, a telltale smidgen of powdered sugar stuck to his mouth.
"Really? Who's your friend?"
"That's not important. I have a sample in my purse.” Lifting out the magazine, she showed him.
His glance flickered toward the front door. “Put it away, ma'am. I don't carry that stuff here."
"Oh no?” She opened the first page and indicated the post office box address. “I asked at the post office where this originated, and they gave me this address. Since it's registered as a business PO Box, they can give out that information.” She made her remark sound like a veiled threat.
"Just a minute, please.” A sheen of sweat had broken out on Jarvis's face. Giving her a nervous glance, he turned away and scurried into the back workroom, where she heard him confer with his colleagues.
Marla used the time to saunter around the room. She noticed that the pile of brown-wrapped items bore a different post office box address than the one on the magazine and made a mental note of the box number. A colorful calendar on the wall drew her attention. Did they produce those, too? But when she took a closer look, her eyes widened. Another business was listed. Apparently this was a promotional gift from—guess who?—a photographer. Sure she had struck gold, Marla scribbled down his name on a pad of paper before the printer returned.
Permed To Death [Bad Hair Day Mystery 1] Page 18