Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  “I’m going to crawl on top and peek in his backyard. Maybe I can see if his kitchen lights are on.” I positioned the can at Victor’s back gate. “Steady me.”

  Mom clenched the handle with both hands while I bolstered myself to a sitting position on top of the plastic bin. With a hand on the fence I swung myself around to kneel, then peeked over the gate. White flowers bordered the house, and a grapefruit tree stood in the center of the yard. A lounger, patio table, and chairs sat on the back porch with a kettle barbeque. Another unopened newspaper lay on the ground. I reached over the gate, slid open the inside lock, and hopped off the can.

  Mom moved swiftly across the yard to the back porch, cupping her hands to the sliding glass door to see inside. “No lights on in the house.”

  I tiptoed over a flowerbed and peered through the garage window. “No car.”

  Loud, agitated barks coming from the driveway vaulted my heart into my throat. I spun around and stopped short. At the gate, a black and brown dog with paws the size of softballs crouched to attack.

  Chapter Twelve

  The dog bared its teeth, snarls rumbling deep from its throat. I froze in place under the tree, searching for something to use to protect myself. Grapefruit were scattered at my feet. Pummeling an angry dog with fruit wasn’t an option. Mom stood on top of the lounge chair, bracing herself against the house.

  A stern female voice called out from the driveway, “Rusty, sit. Now.”

  The dog sat. Its master, a stout middle-aged redhead in a ragged hoodie, sweats, and hiking boots stopped at the gate. The woman looked at me, then at Mom, and scowled. “Who the hell are you?”

  I held up my hands in surrender. “We’re Victor’s friends.”

  She took stock of us. “What are you doing with my trash can and why are you sneaking around his yard? Where is he?”

  “We don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been to work in two days and he doesn’t answer his phone or the door. We’re worried,” I said. Rusty eyed my leg. “If you call off your dog, I’ll show you my identification.”

  She snapped her finger. “Rusty, come.”

  The dog turned its head to her call. Then it turned back to us and growled again.

  “Rusty. Now.” Her bark was more intimidating than the dog’s.

  Rusty backed off, giving us one last look, and sat at the woman’s side. She clipped a leash onto the collar, patting the dog’s head.

  Mom stepped off the lounge chair and crossed the yard. “If you don’t believe us, call the police. My son is a detective.”

  The woman didn’t blink. Clearly unimpressed, she snapped her fingers toward the porch next door. “Rusty. Home.”

  Once the dog settled on the porch, I reached into my back pocket and handed her my business card. “I’m Dr. Elizabeth Cooper. This is my mother, Vivian Gordon. As I explained, we’re Victor’s friends. Concerned friends. Have you seen him in the past two or three days?”

  “No.” She pocketed my card then set off to roll her trash can down the drive.

  I closed the backyard gate. Mom and I followed her to the curb.

  “Do you remember the last time you saw Dr. Morales at home?” Mom said.

  “I don’t remember. I don’t keep track of him.”

  “What about the neighbors on the other side of him?” I said.

  “If he’s on vacation and Richard and Suzanna are watching his house, they’re doing one crap-ass job of it. If it wasn’t for Rusty and me picking up newspapers, the whole damn block would be a target for burglars.” She raised an eyebrow. Like you.

  “Was that yesterday’s paper in his backyard?” I said.

  When the woman didn’t answer, Mom said, “We don’t want to be pushy.”

  “I’d say climbing a fence to unlock a gate is already pushy,” she said.

  “We’re worried,” Mom said. “We tried the house next door. No one responded. Can you give us Richard and Suzanna’s number so we can call them?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t give out numbers to people I don’t know. The doc keeps erratic hours. I rarely see him come and go. It takes an earthquake, fire, or flood to gather the neighbors outside at the same time. We keep to ourselves.”

  The dog whined from the porch.

  “Rusty wants his treat. I can’t talk anymore.” She left us on the sidewalk.

  On the drive back to Good Samaritan, I braced one hand on the glove compartment and clutched my armrest with the other while Mom wove through traffic.

  “I think we should report Victor missing,” I said. “He wouldn’t just take off like this.”

  “I hope he wouldn’t,” Mom said.

  “Come on, Mom. You’ve known Victor for years. You, Carmen, and the other Cherries would have unearthed his personal secrets or criminal tendencies by now.”

  Mom smiled at me. “Everyone keeps secrets, dear, but you know how suspicious Kitty is. Before she let us commit to the fund-raiser for the clinic, Kitty ran a secret background check on Victor to be sure he wouldn’t misappropriate the money.”

  Cherry Twist member Kitty Kirkland acted as the group’s legal counsel. Kitty knew about secrets—the beautiful attorney surprised her conservative law partners by coming out and marrying her partner, Quinn, during the 2008 window of time when California allowed same-sex marriages

  “And? Did Victor pass Kitty’s evaluation?” I said.

  “Yes. On paper he’s a saint,” Mom said.

  “How much money have you raised for the clinic so far?”

  “Our goal was two hundred thousand dollars, the estimate for the plumbing and shower renovations. We’re almost there.” Mom pulled into the Good Samaritan lot and parked on the second level. We descended the steps and crossed the street to the hospital.

  “Funny,” I said as we passed through the hospital reception area to the elevators. “What if Carmen and Victor both miss the gala?”

  “That would be unfortunate, not funny,” Mom said.

  “I meant funny as in odd.”

  “Carmen will be at the fund-raiser if we have to wheel her in in a hospital bed. You don’t know that Victor won’t be there,” Mom said.

  “I hope he is. I hope he’s upstairs apologizing to Carmen right now,” I said, though I was convinced he wasn’t. “Mom, who has access to the money you have collected so far?”

  “If you think Victor sweet-talked Carmen into a scheme to raise funds, and then took off with the cash while she’s in the hospital, you’re wrong. He couldn’t.” She lifted her chin confidently. “The donations go directly into our fund-raising account. Two signatures, one of which is mine, are required for withdrawal. The money is safe.”

  Mom stepped out of the elevator and led me to Carmen’s hospital room. The windowsill overflowed with cheery “Get Well” balloons and flower bouquets.

  Carmen perched in bed with a needle and tube taped to her arm, her raven hair bed-head flat, and her face pale sans makeup. Her forehead creased when she saw us. “Viv, Victor is definitely missing. I just talked to Cruz and Tony. He hasn’t been to Lucia’s since Wednesday, and he hasn’t called the clinic in days.”

  “I know.” Mom rested her purse on a side table and sat next to the bed. “We were just at his house. He didn’t answer the door and his car wasn’t in the garage. Try to relax, Carmen.”

  “Relax? How can I?” Carmen touched her stomach, wincing. “Why did I have to end up in the hospital now? I keep thinking about Lucia’s hex. I know she didn’t mean to hurt her friends but look what’s happening to us. Victor’s disappeared, I had emergency surgery, Liz was evicted. What kind of madness did Lucia stir up?”

  I wasn’t about to add Fidencio’s burned restaurant. “This isn’t about Lucia, Carmen. You got sick. You needed an operation. I have to move because the owners wanted their town house back. Victor could be—”

  “In trouble,” Carmen said. “What if he was in an accident? Tony is managing the patients at the clinic by himself. Cruz told me no one except
you and Nick has visited Lucia since the wake. And here I am, stuck in a hospital bed with railroad tracks of stitches up my middle because I thought I could put off this surgery.”

  I sat at the side of the bed. “Congrats, Carmen. You’re human. We love you for that. Everyone is pitching in while you heal. Nick and I were with Lucia yesterday. I’ll visit her tomorrow after my session. I promise we’ll keep an eye on her. Tony has the clinic under control. Mom and I saw him this afternoon.”

  “Did Victor call you after the wake, Liz?” Carmen said.

  “No. As far as we know, Lucia and Cruz were the last people who saw or talked to him.”

  “I have to find him.” Carmen pushed back her blanket, flustered, and tried to get out of bed.

  Mom stopped her and eased her back onto the pillow. “You have to lie down. We’ll find him. Your job is to rest.” She turned to me. “Liz, call your brother Dave. Tell him Victor is missing and I want him to find him. Then call Nick Garfield and tell him to erase Lucia’s hex.”

  “A hex has nothing to do with—”

  She threw a not now glare at me. “Go make the calls, please.”

  I took her instructions as my cue to leave. When I got to my car I called Dave. “Heads up. Victor Morales is MIA. Can you report him as a missing person?”

  “You can,” Dave said. “Call the Missing Persons bureau. Want the number?”

  “Sure. Give me the number, and then repeat it to Mom when she calls you in a few minutes. Or I give you what I know right now and maybe you can help.”

  He sighed. “Tell me what you know.”

  After a quick recap, I finished by giving him Victor’s address. Dave put me on hold. He came back and said, “Someone already beat you to it. Victor Morales went on the missing persons wire this afternoon.”

  “Do you know who filed the report?”

  “By the address I’d say it was his next-door neighbor,” Dave said. “Victor could have taken off on his own, Liz. Adults do it all the time.”

  “Not the Victor you and I know. I have a bad feeling.” Then, knowing Dave had a soft spot for her, I added, “And Carmen is frantic.”

  “I can’t pull Victor out of a hat, but I’ll poke around and make sure his case gets attention,” Dave said.

  During my traffic-hell, forty-minute drive home I updated Nick on the phone. As I pulled the car into my garage, I prepared myself to face the awaiting headache: readying Erzulie’s carrier for our weekend at Nick’s.

  To Erzulie, the carrier was either good news—Nick’s house—or it was the road to terror: the vet. She didn’t know which when she got in. So the telltale sound of the cage door would send her upstairs under the bed, putting me on the bedroom floor, flat on my stomach to coax her out. Not pretty.

  Before I went in the house I eased the carrier out of storage and onto the top of my dryer. I covered my hand and the carrier’s wire latch with a towel, opened the door without a sound, and then slipped into the kitchen and shut the door behind me.

  Erzulie sat in the center of the kitchen floor, eyeing the door. I set my purse on the counter and smiled down at her. “What do you think? Tuna Treat tonight?”

  I took a can of cat food out of the cabinet. Erzulie’s eyes—one amber, the other blue—were on me. Self-conscious of every move, I rinsed out her dish. She usually hopped up on the counter to watch. She stayed on the floor. I got the can opener. Punched the can. Slowly twisted the handle, peeled back the lid, and tossed it in the trash. Took the spoon and—she jumped on the counter. Success.

  While Erzulie scarfed down Tuna Treat with abandon, I went upstairs and packed my pin-striped slacks, a black cashmere turtleneck, jeans, a red sweater, an extra T-shirt, the lace bra and panty sets I wore only for Nick, and two pairs of shoes. I zipped my weekend bag shut and looked around my bedroom, feeling bittersweet. Soon I would pack all of my things and vacate my town house forever. Couldn’t think about that now.

  After a shower, I reapplied my makeup and lifted Erzulie off the bed, cuddling her against my bathrobe. She sensed trouble the second I left the bedroom with her in my arms. She wriggled, arching and reaching to escape, as I carried her down the stairs and into the garage. I put her in the carrier. She cried, her little eyes pleading as I latched the door.

  “I promise I’ll be right back.” I felt like a traitor with a breaking heart for leaving her alone in the carrier. The world’s worst kitty mother.

  I ran upstairs and pulled on my flowered green dress, grabbed a dark green cardigan, and shoved my bare feet into low-heeled tan sandals. Back in the garage in less than five minutes, I threw my bag into the car, set Erzulie in the carrier on the seat beside me, and started fast-talking as I backed the car out.

  “Honey, we’re going to Nick’s. You like Nick’s house, remember? You can play outside. Explore under the house. Fuzzy toys. Treats.” My litany of babble to my howling kitten continued on the short drive to Nick’s.

  * * *

  Early spring buds winked from the branches on the oak tree in his front yard. The red, gold, white, and pink zinnias Nick and I planted together in early March circled his brown-shingled, one-bedroom Craftsman cottage. I parked in the drive. Nick came out and collected Erzulie in the carrier and my bag.

  He opened the carrier door in his living room and Erzulie crept out, sniffing the black, rust, and beige Aztec rug on his dark hardwood floor. Satisfied with familiar surroundings, she disappeared into the hallway to explore with her tail in the air. Trauma forgotten. I envied her ability to adapt.

  Nick turned and drew me close. His warm lips caressed mine with promise. He brushed a strand of hair from my forehead with a light, tender touch. “I have a surprise for you.”

  The burning logs in the fireplace filled the room with an earthy, woodsy scent, but the smell of garlic coming from the kitchen made my mouth water. Nick was an excellent cook, tutored as a boy by an elderly Italian woman in the kitchen of her Chicago restaurant.

  I grinned at him. “You cooked? I like my surprise already.”

  “I made the lasagna and picked up tiramisu from Vitello’s on my way home from class. But that’s not the surprise. First I have something for Erzulie. Come see.” He led me through the mustard-colored great room into his jade green kitchen. He stopped near the patio door and pointed at a small, hinged panel, eighteen inches square, cut into the wall.

  “It’s a cat door for her to go in and out at will. I’ll latch the door at night when she comes inside.” Nick waited with expectant eyes and an eager smile. “Do you like it?”

  I pushed the flap open with a light touch. “I love it. When did you do this?”

  “The handyman came last week.”

  Erzulie nudged between us, sniffed at the door, and then walked away.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “She might not be impressed yet, but I am.”

  “Your turn.” He led me to his bedroom and, with great flourish, opened a huge empty drawer in his large oak dresser. “For you. So you have a place to put your things.”

  An unexpected lump rose in my throat. Not a happy lump. Tears burned behind my eyes. Not tears of joy.

  Nick’s smile dropped to a confused frown. “Liz, what’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t answer. I backed my way to the living room and sank on the sofa. With my face in my hands, I let the tears fall. My feelings about leaving my town house, feelings I pushed aside for two days, spilled out. The empty drawer triggered memories of moving from town to town with Jarret, packing and unpacking closets and drawers to move to unfamiliar settings, never knowing how long we would stay before he got traded to another team. Now I had to move again. Yes, empty drawers made me sad.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Talk to me.” Nick sat down next to me as I cried on his sofa.

  “I can’t. I feel so foolish.” I didn’t shed a tear the night Paco was shot, or at his wake, yet I was blubbering like an idiot over a drawer. I fought off an irrational urge to collect Erzulie and go home. My cell phon
e rang in my purse across the room. I wanted the distraction, and went to Nick’s desk to answer.

  The number on the screen was blocked. “Liz? This is Matt Bailey, LAPD. I heard Victor Morales was reported missing today. Can we talk?”

  “Of course,” I said. A light flashed in my mind. “Did my brother call you?”

  Bailey paused. “He did. So did Nick. And so did Carmen Perez. The Missing Persons division told me that when Morales’s neighbor filed the report, she gave our detective your name. I’m in the Valley. I’d like to talk to you tonight. Are you at home?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I’m at Nick’s house.” I gave him the address, wondering if my slip meant my subconscious had already made a decision about my living arrangements.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I hung up and looked at Nick. “You called Bailey about Victor?”

  “The coincidence of Victor going missing just days after Paco was shot is too odd to ignore.”

  “Well, Bailey is on his way here.” I started to the bathroom to fix my face.

  Nick caught my elbow. “Before he gets here, I have something to say.”

  I braced for a letdown, certain my reaction to the drawer convinced Nick I was not quite sane.

  He touched my chin, searching my eyes. “It’s just a drawer. My house is open to you. Take all the drawers, every closet. Want to throw my stuff away to make room for yours? Go ahead. Repaint? Tell me the color. All I want is for you to be safe and happy. The drawer was to show you I’m serious. A drawer for this weekend, the whole house if you want to move in.”

  How could I argue with his utter sweetness? I pressed my forehead to his T-shirt. “I’m sorry I overreacted. The reality of moving hit me in a way I can’t explain. I need time to sort out my emotions.”

  “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

  By the time I transferred my weekend clothing into the drawer, the doorbell rang. Nick answered. As I fixed my tearstained face in the bathroom I heard Bailey and Nick in the living room joking about my brother’s stubborn loyalty to the Rams football team.