Lucia tilted her up face from her chair beside the altar. Her skin was drawn, and her hair was tied in an unkempt knot. Dark circles framed her eyes. Her vacant stare broke my heart all over again. The fire was gone.
I held up the bag. “I brought you raspberries from the farmer’s market. Your favorite, right?”
As if raspberries would help.
“Paco’s favorite. Put them in the refrigerator. Thank you.” She turned to his photo on the altar. “Raspberries for dessert tonight.”
I opened the refrigerator, smiling at the stacks of aluminum-covered casserole dishes that lined the shelves.
“The neighbors were here in a steady stream yesterday,” Carmen said from behind me. “Even Father Nuncio from Our Lady of the Wayside stopped for a visit.” She lowered her voice. “Lucia won’t talk about what happened yet. She told everyone Paco was downstairs with Teresa but she won’t say anything else.”
“Denial is the first stage of grief—a normal reaction.” I tucked the berries into a bottom drawer and closed the fridge.
“To a point. Not appropriate for more than a few days,” Carmen said. “We’ll see. If she doesn’t open up, maybe I should find a psychiatrist for her.”
Her rush to judgment surprised me. “I think it is still a bit premature for a psychiatrist. I’m glad the neighbors came by. Contact with familiar people will help Lucia a lot more than drug therapy. Did Teresa visit?”
“No. Maybe she doesn’t know what to say,” Carmen said.
“Is she home now?”
“She left for her shift at the Chicken Shack an hour ago. I tried to talk to her. She apologized, saying she was too late for work to talk.” Carmen glanced at her watch. “Speaking of . . .”
“Go. I’m here as long as Lucia needs me. What’s the word from Victor on the caretaker search?” I said.
“He just called. Tony found a referral from Father Nuncio. Victor is interviewing the woman this afternoon, and if she’s suitable, Lucia can meet her tomorrow,” Carmen said.
Dr. Tony Torrico was Carmen and Victor’s associate at Park Clinic. I nodded, impressed. “You can’t ask for a better character reference than a local priest. What about the funeral? Do you and Victor need help with the arrangements?”
“We handled everything this morning. The funeral parlor will pick up Paco’s body from the morgue and cremate him tomorrow. Fidencio offered his restaurant on Alvarado for the wake on Wednesday afternoon. Nick is hiring a town car to drive us to the funeral parlor, then to the wake. I’m having the memorial cards printed,” Carmen said. “By the way, sweetie, don’t wear black to the wake.”
“Why?” I said, confused.
“Santeria followers believe black stirs negative energy. The wake is a celebration. Wear something colorful.”
After Carmen left, I warmed up one of casseroles for lunch and tried to coax Lucia to eat. She didn’t want to talk; I didn’t force conversation. When the locksmith arrived to replace the downstairs lock, Lucia went to her room and closed the door.
The phone on the desk rang. I answered, “Rojas residence, this is Dr. Cooper.”
“Mrs. Rojas?” The voice was young, female, and chirpy.
“No, I’m a family friend. Who’s calling?”
“This is Marjorie from C&C Commercial Properties and Investments? I’m calling to confirm Mr. Rojas’s appointment this afternoon?” Every sentence was a question with the girl. I wondered if she was a Jeopardy fan.
“I’m sorry.” I waited a beat, hating what had to be said. “Mr. Rojas passed away this weekend.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Well, um, will Mrs. Rojas keep the appointment then? Mr. Cansino can see her at four thirty?” Marjorie said.
“No,” I said, disgusted by her callous indifference. “Mrs. Rojas is in mourning. What company is this again?”
“C&C? I can squeeze Mrs. Rojas in for a meeting with Mr. Cansino next week? How about Monday at three?”
I clenched my teeth. “Mrs. Rojas isn’t scheduling appointments. Call back another time.” I hung up.
Lucia wandered out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. “Teresa. There you are. Finally. I saved tamales for you in the freezer. Where’s Paco?”
“I’m Liz.” I took her hand. “Teresa’s not here.”
She studied my face. “Liz? I’m sorry. Paco teases me about my forgetfulness. Is Teresa still with him?”
“No, Lucia. She’s not. Paco’s not coming back. Can we talk about what happened Saturday night?”
Lucia dropped my hand and went back into the bedroom. She didn’t come out until Victor arrived at five thirty.
* * *
The Chicken Shack was on the corner of 7th and Burlington Avenue, two blocks east of the Rojases’ building. Because I’m a native Angeleno, I drove. Because it was rush hour it took ten minutes to get there.
I entered the small restaurant, wrinkling my nose at the heavy smell of grease. Glass-tented steam tables filled with pans of chicken and side dishes lined two of the walls. A solo male diner followed me with his eyes from a booth at the window. The rest of the six tables were empty.
A “CASH ONLY” sign was taped on the cash register where Teresa waited on a customer. She wore her dark brown hair off her face, secured with a hair clip. Her heavy eyeliner and eye shadow failed to mask her puffy eyes.
She handed the man a bag of food and change, closed the register, then said to me, “Do you want to order something?”
“I’m Liz Cooper. Do you remember me from Saturday night?”
“I remember.” She wiped the counter with a rag, emotionless. “What do you want?”
“I came to see how you’re doing,” I said, smiling to engage her. Everyone deals with pain differently and Teresa seemed to be using the ignore-it-and-it-will-go-away method. “How do you feel? I’m surprised you’re back at work.”
“I feel like crap but I can’t afford to miss a day’s work. I need the money. Surprise—they don’t pay me to stay home and feel sorry for myself,” she said.
“Lucia is having a hard time, too,” I said. “Teresa, she thinks Paco is with you.”
A sad smile flickered across Teresa’s face, and for a moment, I saw how much she cared about the old man.
“I know if you visit Lucia you could help her.”
She put her hands on her hips. “What am I supposed to say? I’m sorry? I’m sorry I wasn’t shot instead?”
“No. If she wants to, you could talk about Paco with her. Help her get through this. She asks for you, Teresa.”
“I thought I recognized you the other night. I know who you are now. You’re the new shrink at the clinic. You run the Wellness Group on Saturdays. What are you doing, recruiting me?”
I shook my head. “Not my intention at all. I came here for Lucia’s sake. She’s hurting. But the Wellness Group does help women work through stress. If you’re interested in venting, everything said in group is confidential.”
Teresa’s eyes flashed. “Nothing in this neighborhood is confidential.”
“Your call. But will you please go see Lucia?”
“I’ll think about it.” She bit her thumbnail.
Chapter Four
Honoring Paco’s instructions and his wishes to be near her for eternity, Lucia shirked tradition, refused a conventional funeral, and had Paco cremated. Wednesday afternoon Victor and Carmen took Lucia to the mortuary, picked up Paco’s ashes, and brought them to his wake.
As promised, Fidencio closed his Alvarado Street restaurant for the group of friends and neighbors gathered to celebrate Paco’s life. I wore my brightest red party dress, setting my sadness aside to appreciate the kick Paco would have gotten from the high-spirited celebration in his honor.
Nick was with someone he knew at the bar. I stayed close to Lucia’s table near the foot of the stage. Onstage behind me, silver-studded, black-suited mariachis accompanied by violins and trumpets serenaded the crowd. Little boys in stiff shirts and tiny girls in tutu dresses dashed through the
dining area, hiding under the tablecloths. Adults with plates of enchiladas, tortillas, and beans from the banquet tables were stuffing their emotions with Fidencio’s excellent food. The white-jacketed waiters hustled to keep pitchers of sangria flowing as the crowd toasted to Paco and to life.
Teresa waltzed through the crowd in a body-hugging royal blue sheath. She sashayed toward the stage, saw me, and then hung a sharp right toward the bar. It wasn’t the first time someone had avoided me at a funeral. Rough to disguise feelings with a shrink at hand.
Seven water-filled goblets, candles, coins, cigars, bottles of tequila, and piles of fresh fruit surrounded the brass urn containing Paco’s cremated ashes. Lucia, in a long white lace dress and mantilla, sat beside the urn with Carmen and Victor. Miguel, Park Clinic’s security guard, knelt before Lucia swiping tears off his mustached face.
Victor appeared pallid and drained in his maroon sport coat and gray slacks. Carmen was striking in a splashy, low-cut, red and green print dress with her raven hair pulled behind her ears in jeweled clips.
I whispered to Carmen, “Why don’t you and Victor take a break and get something to eat? I’m happy to sit with Lucia.”
“You’re a treasure, sweetie. Thank you.” She leaned in. “She’s been calm. Victor gave her a mild sedative before we went to the mortuary.”
Carmen urged Victor away, leaving a vacant chair beside Lucia for me.
An elderly gent kissed Lucia’s hand, and then removed a cigar from the pocket of his salmon guayabera—an island shirt with embroidered panels. Inhaling the aroma of the tobacco, he set the cigar at the foot of Paco’s urn. “Smoke this slow, old man. Make it last until I join you.”
The next in Lucia’s stream of visitors was a man in his early fifties with groomed black hair and a strong forehead. His blue suit, tie, and white shirt were so crisply tailored I could almost smell the starch in his collar. He bent toward her with a smile that missed his eyes. “How are you, Lucia? You doing okay? If you need anything, you know you can call me.”
Lucia squinted at him, unsure. “Do I know you?”
“It’s Ray. Ray Cansino. Paco and I were good, good friends. We’re going to get you through this, Lucia. Whatever you need, wherever you want to go, you let me know. We’ll talk.” Ray tucked a business card into her hand and left.
I stroked Lucia’s back. She turned to me. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, Lucia, I’m your friend, Liz.”
“Liz?” She stared at me until recognition lit her eyes. “Liz. I’m sorry. There are so many people I haven’t seen for so long. My mind is playing tricks on me. Of course I know you.” She cupped my face. “When are you and Nick getting married?”
I squirmed. “I don’t know that we are.”
“Nick is a good man. Don’t waste a day you can be together. Where is he? Where is Nick? Did he come to the party with you?”
Party?
“Yes. He was just here a few minutes ago. Do you feel okay? Can I get you something to eat or drink?” I said.
“Not yet. Fidencio’s is our favorite restaurant, you know. We came to the opening in nineteen sixty and we eat here every Sunday night. Fidencio even named a dish after Paco. Those men in the band?” She pointed to the musicians, her eyes glistening. “Paco and I fed them candy when they were children. Everybody loves Paco. But he gave his heart only to me.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Lucia,” I said.
“Sorry about what?”
“I’m sorry about Paco. The police are doing everything they can.” I glanced at Detective Bailey across the room.
The reports Bailey gave us in the last few days were grim: a code of silence in the neighborhood hampered the investigation. After four days, the police still didn’t know much about José Saldivar. Even my resourceful brother Dave came up short on information when Nick asked him about Saldivar’s past.
“The police are useless,” Lucia said. “My orishas tell me what to do.”
I nodded, vaguely understanding her reference to the deities Santeria practitioners call on for help. Nick taught me the term when I asked him to explain the Santeria belief system. My utter confusion about the complex religion cleared when Nick likened the orishas to the pantheon of Greek and Roman gods.
A paunchy, baby-faced, middle-aged priest in black shirt and a white roman collar sat down at Lucia’s side. “Mrs. Rojas, I bring condolences from the congregation at Our Lady of the Wayside. I’m offering a Mass in Paco’s honor at ten on Sunday morning. Will you come?”
“I’ll be home with Paco, Father Nuncio,” Lucia said.
“If you change your mind I can have one of the parish council members pick you up and drive you to church.”
Lucia stiffened. “I’m not going to change my mind. Your parish council wants Paco and me to close Botanica Rojas. Tell your self-righteous, intolerant prudes to keep their distance unless they want to buy a Santeria spell from me.”
I flinched. Father Nuncio didn’t.
“Now Lucia,” he said. “They don’t feel that way. You know that you’re very welcome at our parish.”
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. Cruz DeSoto, the reed-thin, brunette caretaker Victor hired, stood by my side. Her thin lips, close-set eyes, and skinny nose were off-center on her square face, giving her a lopsided appearance. According to Victor, Cruz came to the job with extensive caretaking experience and solid references.
“I’ll sit with Lucia if you want to get something to eat,” Cruz said. “Carmen and Victor are close by. Don’t worry. I’ll watch her.”
“Thank you. I won’t be long.” Smiling, I gave her my chair then scanned the crowd for Nick.
He wasn’t hard to spot. Six feet, sandy haired, tan, and wearing a burnt rust guayabera, Nick towered over the man with him at the bar. The short fellow with a beer gut and a black pompadour left before I reached them.
“Who’s your friend?” I said to Nick.
“My friend? Ah, that was the infamous Oscar Estevez, here to pay his respects.”
“The Oscar Estevez that Lucia and Paco didn’t like?”
“Didn’t like is being generous. But yes, one and the same,” Nick said.
“How do you know him?”
“His botanica caters to a certain Mexican cult I researched a few years ago. We’re not friends, but we talk.” Nick peered over my shoulder. “Who’s with Lucia?”
“Father Nuncio and Cruz.”
“I have to give Cruz credit for starting her new job the day of Paco’s wake.” Nick stepped back, giving me an admiring once-over. “Did I tell you today how beautiful you are?”
I tugged my scooped neckline to cover my peeking cleavage. “You did. But thank you again. I still feel like a tramp wearing a red party dress to a wake.”
“Paco would approve. I certainly do,” he said. “Sangria?”
“It’s a little early. Are you trying to loosen me up?”
“Yes.”
“Not going to happen.” I cocked my head at the buffet. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. How about some food?”
“How about both? I’ll get the drinks, you get the food, and I’ll meet you at a table.”
“Deal.”
I sidetracked to the long buffet line near a middle-aged couple engaged in conversation. The two appeared as out of place at Paco’s wake as country fans at a midnight rave. She wore a conservative black suit and pumps, and her brown hair was teased into a bubble. His heavy lids, flat nose, and droopy jowls reminded me of a bullmastiff.
“Must you eat, Bernie?” the woman said, turning her back to me. “Can’t we give our condolences and leave? I feel like I’m sinning in this room of heathens. This whole affair is a sacrilege. You’d think Paco Rojas was a saint with the way these people are making offerings to his ashes.”
“Zip it up, Erica. I was this close.” He pinched his forefinger to his thumb. “I almost had Rojas warmed up to sell his building. I want Mrs. Rojas to know I paid my respects if—”
/> “You are not that crass,” Erica said.
“I’m not stupid, woman. I’m not here to make a sales pitch. But I’m not the only Realtor here. Raymon Cansino just left.”
My mind whirred, the pieces clicking into place. Raymon Cansino was the man who was just with Lucia. Mr. Cansino, as in the phone call I took on Monday. Paco’s good friend? Curious.
“Selling that building won’t mean anything if your soul ends up burning in hell,” Erica said.
“You don’t mind burning through my dough while we’re still alive. Go and ask your Padre over there if you’re sinning. He’s not ashamed to be here.”
“Father Nuncio is here? Where?” Erica craned her neck toward the guests. She gasped. “I don’t believe it. Teresa Suarez has a lot of nerve to show up here.”
“Who?” Bernie said.
“Over there.” She pointed across the room at Teresa. “The woman in the blue dress.”
“Nice rack,” Bernie said. “What’s the problem?”
“Paco Rojas is dead because of her loose morals. She was cheating on her gangster husband in broad daylight. Paco was outside with her and her lover that night. The second bullet hit him instead of Teresa. No wonder she’s laughing. She tricked the devil.”
“Her husband shot them?” Bernie said.
She tossed her hand. “His deputies or whatever they call them. Her husband ordered the hit from jail.”
“Geez, how do you know all this?”
“My manicurist told me.”
Bernie snorted. “The case is solved. Call the police and collect your reward.”
I held back a grin. When waiters brought the line to a halt to exchange empty chafers for fresh servings of food from the kitchen, I stepped out of line to say hello to Detective Bailey at a nearby table.
“Nice of you to pay your respects, Detective. Or is this official business?”
“Maybe a little of both,” he said, cocking his head.
“Do you think Paco’s killer is here today?” I glanced through the room.
“Could be,” he said. “Some gang members run the street from behind so-called legitimate businesses. I was across the river at the Saldivar funeral yesterday, same type of crowd, different territory. I’m curious if any of the same faces are here.”
Bruja Brouhaha Page 3