Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  So much for waiting for me to decide. I went to the kitchen and poured myself coffee. As I stirred in milk, I said over the counter break, “I prefer Studio City or North Hollywood. The neighborhood is fun, it’s close to my office, and I’d like having Robin and Nick nearby.”

  “Where does Nick live?” Mom said.

  “He owns a Craftsman cottage in North Hollywood. Comfy. Great, in fact. I wouldn’t mind living in a house like his.” I smiled, warming to the thought.

  “You’re not thinking about moving in with him, are you? Nick Garfield won’t settle down. He’s a bachelor. You’re used to more than what someone like Nick can offer.”

  I took my coffee to the sofa and sat down. “What do you mean by ‘someone like Nick’? You and Nick got along famously when you knew him as Dave’s best friend. Why are you opposed to my relationship with him?”

  “I’m not. I’m glad you’re having your fun. But don’t get hurt. Who knows how many women he’s been involved with? He never talks about any of them. The two of you are moving too fast.”

  I didn’t know where to begin short of throwing the snow globe from the coffee table into the fireplace in a snit. “Fast? You and Dad got married six months after you met.”

  “That was a different time and place, Liz.”

  “And forty years later you still blush when Dad comes in the room.”

  “What if you and Nick have a fight? Then what? Nick throws you out and moves on to his next girlfriend?”

  “I didn’t say I was moving in. You did. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Right now I need a place to live.”

  “Dilly and I will help you.” She took her phone out of her purse and clicked her tongue as she scrolled the screen. “Victor still hasn’t returned my messages. Did you see him at the clinic?”

  “No. He didn’t come in. Nick and I saw Lucia at Botanica Rojas this afternoon. She didn’t hear from him today either. He took her home after the wake yesterday, got a phone call, and left.”

  “Maybe he’s at the hospital with Carmen and not answering his phone. You know how he fawns over her.”

  “But he fawns over Lucia, too,” I said. “Paco was his best friend.”

  “Lucia? The hex woman?” She lifted a brow. “Maybe Victor is locked in her attic.”

  “She’s in her eighties, half his size, and she doesn’t have an attic. I’m sorry you haven’t met Lucia yet, Mom. You’d like her. She reminds me of Grandma Gordon in Chicago.”

  Mom fiddled with her necklace, smiling wistfully. “Your Grandma Gordon didn’t approve of me. She almost didn’t come to our wedding.”

  “And she was wrong. Hmm, you two had a lot in common.”

  “We both worried about our children.” Mom checked her watch then stood. “I have to go, dear. I have fund-raiser calls to make tonight, and your father is waiting for his dinner. Don’t forget we’re delivering underwear and socks to Park Clinic tomorrow after your morning clients. Meet me in front of Good Samaritan Hospital. We can visit Carmen afterward. Dress nice. Make a good impression. Love you, dear.”

  We swapped air kisses at the door. Erzulie trotted downstairs for her dinner then curled onto a cushion. I made a melted Brie sandwich on cranberry-walnut bread and settled on the couch with a glass of red wine. After two big, gooey bites, I dialed Robin at her office.

  Robin Anderson Bloom and I became fast friends in the fifth grade at Encino Elementary School three lifetimes ago. We became cheerleaders together in high school and shared the crazies for boys and clothes. Our friendship remained strong through both of our marriages, my divorce, and the death of her husband, Josh. Her daughter, Orchid, now in college, was my godchild. Robin knew Nick would be my boyfriend before I did.

  “Collins Talent, this is Robin.”

  “Still no receptionist?” I said.

  “We just hired one. Took forever to screen out the sociopaths with dreams of stardom and homicidal tendencies,” she said.

  I laughed. “So why are you answering the phone?”

  “Because the overpaid, prima donna, agent-wannabe receptionist we hired insists on leaving at seven. Therefore, I’m left to wrangle calls until Sam leaves,” Robin said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking my third bite of a grilled Brie cheese sammy. Thought of you.”

  Robin’s soft, plump figure reflected her skills in the kitchen. The girl made stupendous macaroni and cheese, and her brownies were applause worthy.

  “Show-off,” she said. “I’m on a yucky, microwaveable frozen-food diet. How have you been? How’s Nick? More important, how is poor Mrs. Rojas?”

  “Lucia has a live-in caretaker now, but her state of mind is wobbly. I’m sad for her. Nick is good. I have news on the personal front.”

  “Good news? Wait. Don’t tell me Nick proposed,” Robin said.

  “Not quite. I got a notice in the mail yesterday. I have to vacate my town house in six weeks. The owners want it back. Nick invited me to move in with him until I decide what I want to do.”

  “Awesome. You will, right?”

  “No.”

  “You must be kidding,” Robin said. “Nick is amazing. Move in. Have some fun together.”

  “We are having fun. But I won’t make the mistake of moving in too soon.”

  “Brilliant answer, Liz. Not. Nick is nothing like Jarret.”

  “I know. But I haven’t tested my freedom enough yet. What if I meet someone else?”

  “Sit down. You’re having an outburst of stupid. This is huge. Perfect timing. The universe made the decision for you,” Robin said.

  Erzulie hopped on the coffee table. I reached under her belly and dropped her on the floor before she could sniff at my sandwich.

  “I like making my own decisions,” I said. “I like having my own home. Do you realize the town house is the first place I ever lived in by myself?”

  “I’d trade my house and everything I own if Josh were still alive and waiting for me when I got home. What the hell are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I want it all. Nick and I can have our fun together in separate houses until we’re ready to make a commitment.”

  “Now I’m really confused. Are you in love with Nick or not?”

  “I’m in deep infatuation. He hasn’t seen me in the morning without makeup yet,” I said.

  “If I gave you an excuse this confusing—”

  “I’d make you talk until you came to your senses. I know. I can counsel someone else through their issues, but I’m clueless about my own,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t call Nick an issue. Well, you have a standing invite to stay in Orchid’s bedroom if you can’t find a place in the next six weeks.”

  “Lovin’ you for that, Robin.”

  “Love you back. Just don’t stand too firm on your principles. Let your heart and the universe lead you. I’ll help with the garage sale.”

  “What garage sale?”

  “All your leftover married furniture has got to go,” Robin said.

  “Slow down. I’m not moving yet.”

  “You will soon. Anything else going on?”

  “Not much. Lucia put a ‘protection spell’ on Nick and me to ward off the hex she cast at the wake, her neighbors believe her hex burned down a restaurant last night, and her doctor might be missing. Normal stuff.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Late Friday morning I bid my last client of the day good-bye and locked the door to my Ventura Boulevard office. The early gloom had burned off, leaving a clear sky over a day warm and sunny enough for the beach or tennis. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I started through the daffodil-lined brick courtyard to my car for the drive downtown to meet my mother.

  As my car approached the Silver Lake exit on the 101 South, traffic bottlenecked to view a stalled van on the side of the freeway. I reached for my earphone to make a house-hunting appointment with Dilly Silva. Nope. I put the earphone down. I wasn’t ready. But I had to move. I reached for the earphone again, an
d then realized I didn’t have Dilly’s number in my contacts. I flipped on the radio and sang along to a Fleetwood Mac triple play.

  I merged onto the Harbor Freeway and found the exit that would take me to Wilshire Boulevard. When I pulled into the circular drive in front of Good Samaritan Hospital, I saw Mom standing at the entrance, her bobbed white hair tucked behind diamond-studded ears, her shoulders squared in a dancer’s pose with the silver and black braided chain on her pocketbook crossing her thin frame.

  “You look adorable,” she said, sliding into my passenger seat.

  We both laughed. Of course she’d approve. We wore the same outfit, down to the shoes. The mother/daughter dress-alike might have been cute except our matching black slacks and white shirts made us look like two caterers on our way to work.

  “How is Carmen this morning?” I said, steering out of the driveway and following Mom’s directions to her car in the parking lot across the street.

  “Sore. Loopy on drugs. Worried about Victor. She asks for him constantly.”

  “No call? Nothing?”

  “No, and that man will get a piece of my mind when he shows up,” Mom said. “Take that ramp, over there. My car is near the elevator.”

  I parked. We got into the silver Cadillac Dad gave Mom three years ago for her sixtieth birthday, thinking the luxury car would slow down her driving. Dad was wrong. She sped through three yellow-lit intersections on the one-mile drive east to Park Clinic. Miguel helped us unload the three boxes out of her trunk while the same three gang members loitered on the sidewalk wall, as usual, watching us.

  Compared to yesterday’s late afternoon commotion, the Park Clinic lobby was tranquil. A man in construction boots, his arm in a sling, flipped through a magazine in a chair against the wall. A middle-aged couple sat in the corner, filling out papers.

  Jackson, in a loud pink turtleneck, peered at us over her computer screen. “Hello, ladies.”

  “Ms. Jackson.” Mom set her carton on the desk and straightened her blouse. “Is Dr. Morales here? I want to speak with him.”

  Jackson shook her head. “Not here, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, hon, maybe on a golf course somewhere? Friday is Dr. Morales’s day off.” Jackson craned her neck, looking past Mom’s shoulder. “Miguel, don’t stand there with that box. Show Liz and Mrs. Gordon where we keep the supplies.”

  The three of us paraded with the boxes down the hall to the supply room near the back door. After we stacked the cartons on a shelf, I thanked Miguel and then started toward the lobby with Mom. At the turn of the hall, I spotted Tony Torrico standing at the dispensary.

  “Liz, I didn’t expect to see you until your group session tomorrow,” Tony said, smiling.

  “We brought new socks and underwear the Cherries donated for the homeless.” I motioned at Mom. “This is my mother, Vivian Gordon.”

  Mom tilted her chin, smiling. “We met in December at the fund-raiser meeting.”

  “Yes, I remember well. It’s kind of you to deliver the supplies personally.” Tony put his hand to the chest of his starched white coat. “We appreciate everything your organization does for the clinic. I wish I could spend some time with you, but the clinic is short staffed today. If you’ll excuse me, I have patients waiting.” He started toward the exam rooms.

  Mom reached for his arm. “A moment, Dr. Torrico. I have to talk to Dr. Morales. He’s not returning my calls. Do you know where he is?”

  That was my Mom—she loved a compliment but not a dismissal.

  “He may be at the hospital with Dr. Perez,” Tony said.

  “He’s not,” Mom said. “I was with Carmen all morning. She hasn’t heard from him.”

  “Oh.” Tony hesitated. “How is Carmen?”

  “Resting comfortably, no thanks to Victor who doesn’t return her calls either. She’s worried and I’m disappointed, Dr. Torrico. Really, how rude. I expected Carmen’s business partner to be more responsive at a time like this.” Mom crossed her arms. “I hope his behavior doesn’t make the Cherries regret our decision to raise money for this clinic.”

  Tony glanced down the hall. Helen and an intern watched us from the nurse’s station. He set his hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Let’s talk about this in private, Mrs. Gordon.”

  He escorted us past the dispensary to his office. Mom and I settled into the guest chairs facing his desk and the array of wall photos. Tony sat across from us and folded his hands on his desk.

  “I can’t explain why Victor wasn’t at the hospital when you were there, Mrs. Gordon. Please don’t judge the clinic and all the work we do for the neighborhood by his failure to return a phone call. Today is his regular day off. It’s possible he had a prearranged commitment.” Tiny beads of perspiration glistened at his temples.

  I shifted in my seat. “Carmen’s emergency surgery threw us off. I think we expected Victor to step in to keep everyone calm and reassured.”

  “I promise you”—Tony pointed his finger at Mom—“Victor is a good man, dedicated to the clinic and to his friends. He’s had an extremely difficult week, Mrs. Gordon. His best friend was murdered, and Victor took on the responsibility of the funeral arrangements and care for the widow while managing his patients here. He could be home, resting, unaware that you’re trying to reach him. He would be devastated if his actions affected the fund-raiser. The Cherry Twists’ generosity and support will benefit hundreds of people in the years to come. What can I say or do to assure you all is well?”

  “Have him get in touch with me or Carmen,” Mom said.

  He breathed in, nodding. “I will. If you want, leave your number and I’ll let you know when I reach him.” Tony rose from his desk. “But I have patients waiting. You understand they come first.”

  I realized I hadn’t checked to see if Lucia had seen or heard from Victor. As Tony and Mom walked through the hall ahead of me, I phoned Lucia’s apartment.

  Cruz answered. “Lucia is taking a nap. She fell asleep right after her lunch.”

  “I’m across the street at the clinic. Has Dr. Morales called her or come over?”

  “He didn’t come. Lucia got a phone call last night. Do you want me to ask her if it was him?” Cruz said.

  “No, don’t bother her.”

  “Liz?” Helen Leonard waved me into the empty nurses’ station across from the exam rooms. “I heard you talking to Dr. Torrico about Dr. Morales. I haven’t heard from him either. The e-mail he sent Wednesday night was strange. I assumed he was busy. He usually checks in with me on days he doesn’t come to the clinic, and he calls me every Friday morning before he tees off. But he didn’t call—yesterday or this morning. I’m worried, too.”

  “Where does he golf?”

  “The Wilshire Country Club.” Helen clenched her hand, rubbing her wrist with her thumb. “He always tees off at eight thirty.”

  I did a quick search on my phone for the number, dialed, and asked for the starter.

  “Pro Shop, this is Chad.”

  “Hi. I’m trying to locate Victor Morales. Can you tell me if he played this morning? He would have teed off close to eight thirty,” I said.

  “I know Dr. Morales. Let me check.” Chad came back and said, “Nope. He wasn’t here this morning.”

  I hung up disappointed, but the call gave me another idea. “Helen, where does Victor live? I think I’ll drive over and check his house.”

  “Oh good.” She wrote out his address from memory and handed me the slip. “Will you promise to call me when you find him? I just want to know that he’s okay.”

  “Promise. Thanks, Helen. You’ve been a big help.”

  Mom was waiting for me by Jackson’s desk. “There you are. What happened to you?”

  “I was with the head nurse. Come on, Mom.” I edged her out the front door to the sidewalk. “We’re going on a mission.”

  She cocked her head. “To?”

  “Victor must be somewhere. Home is the most logical pl
ace to check.” I showed her the note in my hand. “His address. We’re going to pay him a visit.”

  “Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said as we got in the car. “You spent forty years married to a detective and you raised another. Good thing I picked up a hint or two from Dad and Dave.”

  “You picked up hints. I gave them lessons.”

  Mom started the car and punched Victor’s address into her dashboard GPS. “Hold on, dear. We’re going to Silver Lake.”

  She drove across town like a dancer elbowing to the front of a chorus line. Twenty minutes and two arguments on speed and caution later, Mom turned the Cadillac onto Victor’s street. Cement driveways separated rows of postwar stucco houses with manicured lawns. We parked in front of Victor’s cream Tudor home in the middle of the block and climbed the steps to his front door. Drapes covered the windows, blocking the view inside. A jumble of flyers and letters crammed his mailbox.

  Mom rang the bell. No answer. She rang again with her ear to the door and shook her head. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “Look.” I pointed to the newspaper on his driveway. “Either he didn’t come home last night or he hasn’t left yet today.”

  “Maybe he’s too sick to answer the bell.” Mom banged on the door. “Victor? Are you in there? Yell if you can hear me.” She put her head to the panel again and waited. Nothing.

  “I wonder if his car is in the garage.” I scurried across the lawn to his driveway. The garage door was windowless. A tall, gated fence blocked access to the backyard.

  Mom called to me from the sidewalk. “Let’s ask the neighbors if they’ve seen him.”

  We rang doorbells of the houses on both sides of Victor’s. No response. Up and down the block, driveways were empty and the sidewalk vacant. We started back to Mom’s car with my good plan feeling like a waste of time.

  The garbage cans lined at the curb caught my eye. I started to wheel the neighbor’s blue recycle can up Victor’s driveway.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Mom said, following me.