by Sara Rosett
“Irene, I think any child would be very lucky to have you as a parent or foster parent. I have to ask, why the disguise?”
She plucked the hat off the table and stuffed it in her tote bag. “Guess I’m not very good at disguises since you spotted me, right? I felt self-conscious. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doing. I mean, most people would think we have plenty of kids, you know? And, well, I didn’t want to get into the subject of female problems.”
I laughed. “You’re right. Get a couple of women together and mention pregnancy or birth and you’re going to hear everyone’s story.”
“That’s why I slipped off on the first day. It was my first appointment. I thought I had to take a different Metro, but I mixed up the stations and got turned around. I ended up at the same one as you and everyone else. I hoped no one would see me because I didn’t want to explain everything, you know?”
“And I’ve made you do exactly that. I’m sorry.”
Irene stood up. “No. I feel much better. It helped to talk about it, but I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it with everyone else.” She tossed her napkins in the trash and we walked back into the underground tunnel that led to the hotel.
And that’s why she’d acted so funny at breakfast the next morning and lied about being on the platform. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But I have to ask, did you see anything on the platform?”
“No. I was trying so hard to avoid you guys that I wasn’t watching what was happening right beside me.” Irene shuddered. “It’s awful to think that a man standing so close to me was alive one minute and dead the next. Terrible. But I didn’t see anything.” Her voice slowed down as she said, “In fact, I was looking over my shoulder right before the commotion. I’d just seen Wellesley near me and I was checking to see if she was still there.”
“Was she?” I asked as we entered the hotel and hurried to catch an open elevator.
The doors slid closed and Irene said, “I don’t know. I looked behind me and didn’t see her, but right at that moment someone screamed and I looked back toward the tracks and…well…You know, the funny thing is that there really wasn’t anything to see. The train was streaming in and people were milling around, but you couldn’t tell what had happened. I can’t say if she was there or not because everything went so crazy after that.”
“And did you see anyone who had long red hair?”
Irene shook her head. “No. I don’t remember anyone like that.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention, trying to notice things. I was more focused on avoiding you guys.”
Irene got off at the eighth floor and I continued up to the fourteenth. I pulled out my phone and dialed my parents’ number as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. All this talk about babies made me miss Livvy. I’d intentionally not called first thing this morning. Maybe later in the day would be better for a chat. After a couple of rings the answering machine came on and I left a short message. The door across the hall from our room opened and Abby stepped into the hallway. “Guess where we’re going to dinner tonight?” she said.
“You sound like you’ve got it all planned.”
“Verde Campo. It’s a Mexican restaurant. I saw it on the list the concierge gave us. We’re going there tonight for an early dinner since Mitch and Jeff have to meet with their study group later tonight.”
“Oh yeah. I’d forgotten about the group project. I think I’m seeing Mitch less often than I do when we’re at home.”
Abby laughed. “Right. Except, when we’re at home, they’re usually not home either. They’re either deployed or on a trip. We can go shopping after dinner. There’s been far too much history on this trip and not enough malls. Shopping malls,” she clarified, but she was smiling so I didn’t take her too seriously. I knew that her visits to the monuments would show up in her lesson plans when she went back to her classroom.
“I won’t be able to. I’ve got to—” I was about to say I couldn’t because I had to get Livvy to bed. “Boy, old habits die hard, don’t they? We can stay out shopping until the stores close.” Even after I’d been apart from Livvy for several days, her schedule was still imprinted on my brain and impacted the way I operated. Well, except when a police interview totally threw me off.
“How’s she doing?” Abby asked.
“Great. Fine. Wonderful. I call at least once a day and it’s always the same. She’s way too busy to talk to me, though. I know that’s a good sign, but still…”
Abby nodded. “Still wishing she’d miss you?”
“Just a little bit.” I tried to shake off the feeling of insignificance and said, “Well, at least we can ask about the boda lady at dinner.”
“And tonight is Thursday. We might even see her.”
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Chapter Twelve
The Verde Campo Restaurant was a few blocks from the hotel so we walked, aboveground, that is. It was a busy restaurant with trompe l’oeil murals of the rolling hills and expansive skies. I spent most of the meal trying to figure out who to ask about the boda lady and how to go about it.
I heard the word “assignment” and focused on the conversation. “Still no word on our assignment,” Mitch repeated for me. A little indentation formed between his eyebrows as he frowned. “Everything okay?”
“Sure. Fine,” I said brightly.
“I don’t understand why it takes so long,” Abby said. “I haven’t thought about it nearly as much since we’ve been here, but it’s still there, hovering in the background. I hate not knowing.”
Jeff said, “We’ll know soon enough. Should be any day.”
“We’ve said that for what? The last three weeks?” Abby said.
Mitch looked like he regretted bringing up the subject of moving. I realized he was trying to change the subject as he said to me, “You seem really interested in those murals.”
“Vicki Archer said she’d like to have a mural in her daughter’s room, so I was checking these out.” I told them about Ivan’s idea for a midnight forest theme. “I was just imagining what he’d say about this place.”
Jeff said, “Oh, I know what he’d say. Abby’s made me watch enough of those design shows that I can do ‘design speak.’ He’d say something about the ‘space’ and how the murals ‘bring the outside in.’ You only have to repeat that over and over again, maybe throw in an ‘absolutely’ every once in a while.”
Mitch said, “Don’t forget ‘pop.’ As in ‘that color really makes the space pop.’”
I couldn’t help but smile. The guys had nailed the jargon. “You’re awful, but I’ll have to remember those buzzwords. Maybe they’ll help me communicate with Ivan. And I think I’ll try to get the name of the person who did these murals, just in case Ivan’s contact doesn’t work out.” When our waitress, a young woman with lush dark hair and beautiful brown eyes named Gloria, brought our checks I asked her about the muralist and she said she’d ask the manager.
Mitch gave me a long look.
I shrugged. “I’m just asking.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s all you’re asking about.”
I hadn’t mentioned my conversation with Irene—I was keeping it to myself—but I had told Mitch that I thought the police were looking at Summer more closely than she’d let on and that I’d given her the photos Nadia had taken. He didn’t say much, but I could tell by the way his face closed down that he was worried.
I usually liked it when I was the focus of his intense gaze—when he looked at me like there wasn’t anyone or anything more important or quite as fascinating as me. It’s actually quite heady. This time, though, there was a bit of speculat
ion and assessment in his brown gaze that made me uncomfortable.
Gloria returned to pick up our checks and handed me a slip of paper with a name and phone number. I thanked her and then told Mitch I was going to the restroom, which didn’t surprise him. The restroom at every major tourist attraction in the capital might as well be on my sightseeing list. It was just a good thing that the restrooms were free, unlike in Europe where you had to pay to use the facilities. We were saving a fortune by vacationing in the U.S.
I followed our waitress across the dining room and through a doorway to a wide corridor. She turned left to enter the kitchen. Instead of turning to the right to the restrooms, I waited. In a few seconds, she emerged with the folders containing our credit card receipts in one hand and a tray of drinks balanced in her other hand.
“One more question. Do you know the boda lady?”
The tray of drinks swayed a bit, but she quickly shook her head. “No.” She shifted the tray around my shoulder and stepped away quickly.
I hurried along beside her. “Please. My sister-in-law is in trouble and I need to talk to the boda lady. Is she here? I was told to ask for her here.” Belatedly, I wished I’d asked the younger landscaper for his name. Knowing his name might have helped.
“I don’t know who she is,” Gloria said shortly.
“But you’ve heard of her?”
“Yes.” She bit her lower lip for a moment, then said, “Wait here,” and hurried off.
I waited in the corridor, where a steady stream of waiters and waitresses hurried by me, but didn’t pay much attention to me. I studied the mural of a seascape until my waitress returned, with the empty tray. A worn-down woman trailed behind her, pushing a cart with dirty dishes. I couldn’t guess her age. She could be anywhere from forty to sixty. Her sloped shoulders and the hesitant way she raised her head, met my gaze, and then dropped her gaze back to her chapped and wrinkled hands spoke of years of menial jobs.
Gloria said quickly. “This is Estelle. She knows the boda lady.”
At her name, Estelle’s gaze jumped to Gloria. Estelle quickly refocused on her hands, which gripped the dish cart handle. I reached way back to my high school Spanish class and said, “Hola, Estelle. Me llamo es Ellie.” I hoped I didn’t mangle it too badly.
I must have done okay because Estelle’s face creased into wrinkles as she smiled quickly, then ducked her head.
Gloria edged away. I didn’t want her to abandon me now. “That’s all the Spanish I can remember. Could you ask her about the boda lady?”
Gloria sighed and translated my question. Clearly her patience was running out. I’d have to make sure we left a big tip. Estelle mumbled a few words, her head downcast.
“She says the boda lady finds you a husband or a wife. She’s a—” She circled the empty tray in the air as she searched for the right word.
“Matchmaker?” I asked. Did those exist today?
“Yes. You pay her and she will find you an esposa.”
“And where do you find the boda lady? Does she come here on certain nights?”
She looked offended. “I don’t know. I was born here.”
“Could you ask Estelle?”
After a few moments of rapid-fire Spanish, Gloria said, “The boda lady is here every Thursday night.”
“And how does it work?”
Gloria and Estelle talked and then Gloria said, “You give her six thousand dollars and she arranges the marriage. Tells you when to go to the courthouse for the ceremony.”
Six thousand dollars? For a woman like Estelle that had to be a huge sum of money, but a marriage certificate would make it easier to become a U.S. citizen.
For the first time, Estelle spoke directly to me in Spanish. I didn’t understand her words, but I completely got her tone—angry. She raged a few seconds, then pushed the cart roughly between us and scurried away.
I looked at Gloria. Her mouth twisted in disgust. “Estelle gave her the money, but now the boda lady says everything’s off. There’s a delay. Estelle says she’s not paying any more money.”
Wasn’t that what the landscaper was angry about earlier today? He’d paid money and then been told the deal was off, too.
Gloria shook her head. “People are so desperate, they do foolish things. Estelle will probably never see any of that money again, much less a groom.”
“She’d never say anything to the police, would she?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
“Who’s the boda lady matching them with?”
Gloria hesitated, then spoke quickly. “I know someone else, a girl my age used the boda lady. My friend married a sailor. Estelle said she was going to marry an airman.”
Wellesley was hooking up illegal aliens with military personnel? Now I really wanted to talk to her. “So the boda lady will be here later?”
Gloria nodded. “I know who Estelle’s talking about. She’s a snob—the bad customers, you always remember. Kinky black hair and she usually comes in on Thursday night, but late, like right before we close at ten.”
I found the restroom and then headed back to our table, but I waited to tell Abby what I’d found until we were back at the hotel and the guys were on their way to the study group.
We were in a quiet corner of the lobby. “Should we call that detective and tell him that Wellesley was near Jorge when he was pushed and that she’s arranging marriages for illegal immigrants?” Abby asked.
“I don’t think we can call yet. What if we’re wrong? And is what she’s doing—if she’s doing it—illegal?”
“I think it is,” Abby said. “And I know how we can find out.” Abby led the way to the hotel’s business center.
A few word combinations in an Internet search engine and Abby sat back in the chair. “Marriage fraud. That’s what it’s called.”
“Okay, so it’s illegal. A federal offense, too, but so what? We still don’t have any proof, only the word of a woman who would never talk to the police.”
“Well, we’re going back to Verde Campo later tonight, right? We’ll just wait and see what happens.”
“So you’re game?” I asked.
“Of course I’m game. I’m not going to let you go off and have all the fun. And we didn’t have dessert. I’m looking forward to those sopapillas,” Abby said.
“What are we going to do if she doesn’t show up tonight? I don’t know if I want to spring this on her in the morning right before we head out for a tour.”
After a few taps on the keyboard, Abby printed a page and handed it to me. “Wellesley’s home address. If she doesn’t show up tonight, we’ll go by her house.”
“It’s scary what comes up when you type a name into a search box. I think I’ll call Summer and let her know what we’ve found out. The boda lady is supposed to arrive late, around ten, so it looks like we’ve got some time to burn.”
“Time to shop!” Abby announced.
“What do you think about this?” Abby held up a royal blue tank. The hotel’s courtesy shuttle had dropped us off two hours earlier at one of D.C.’s swankiest malls.
I’d called Summer to tell her what we’d found out and she wanted to go back to Verde Campo with us. “Anything to get the police interested in someone else besides me,” she’d said and offered to pick us up at the mall entrance after her class ended.
“Too lightweight for eastern Washington. It may be summer here in D.C., but you know I’d only get to wear that a couple of times in Vernon. Besides, I need to look at maternity clothes.” Summertime in Vernon was short. July was warm and then August usually announced itself with a heat wave that wilted the town for about three or four weeks; then, fall blazed succinctly, and suddenly, it was winter again.
“We’ve got plenty of time for that. We can shop for maternity clothes in Vernon. And you could wear this tank every week in August. Here, hang on to it.”
“I don’t know…”
“Trust me,” Abby said.
I added the shirt to the pi
le on my arm. A couple of months ago I’d vowed to take Abby’s fashion advice since she always looked stunning and I tended to look…Well, probably ho-hum was a more accurate description of my look. I couldn’t get fired up about buying clothes that I knew were going to get spit-up stains on them. But Abby insisted you could still look stylish and be a mom at the same time. In theory, I agreed it was possible, but only in short bursts. I could look great for an evening out or at the beginning of the day, but my look usually deteriorated from a combination of dirty paw prints, sticky handprints, and various mishaps involving milk, juice, and assorted small pieces of food.
“I think I’ll go look at the purses,” I said and drifted in the direction of supple leather. Purses, now, those were different. I could spend hours shopping for the right bag. A bag with style I could manage. The rest of the outfit I had to leave up to Abby.
“I see a clearance sign. Follow me,” she commanded. Did I mention Abby was the queen of the clearance bin? She not only looked fantastic, but she did it on a budget.
I took one last look at the leather under glass and followed Abby. I might as well take advantage of having a personal shopper while I had the chance. Abby had already flicked through the sale rack. She gave me two more shirts and checked her watch. “Okay, we’ve got about thirty minutes before the store closes. Let’s go try these on and then we can meet Summer. She said it would take her about thirty minutes to get here after her night class finished, so it’ll work out perfectly.”
We made it out the mall doors right before they locked them for the night. I was carrying a bag with the turquoise tank, two pairs of capris, strappy sandals, and a light jacket that Abby said would “tie everything together.” I probably wouldn’t be able to fit into any of it next week, but, hey, I was on vacation. And I could always wear it next summer. I hoped.
I’d also managed to find a khaki weekend bag edged in brown leather. It would be a perfect carry-on for the trip home. And I’d picked up a little white leather envelope clutch with a splash of turquoise flowers trailing diagonally across it. I could fit it in the suitcase, no problem. It was a clutch.