Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  “She’s Hispanic, curly brown hair and brown eyes,” I said. “She’s medium height, about a hundred forty pounds. I know her. Is there a problem?”

  “A woman of that description was shot in the alley across the street. Her purse and identification were taken, but a witness at the scene identified the victim as Ms. Suarez and gave us this address,” Wynant said.

  A chill crept through me. “How is she?”

  “I don’t know. She was unconscious when they took her away in the ambulance. Can you let us in her apartment? We have to check for minors,” MacCauley said.

  “I’ll get the key,” Nick said.

  As I waited in the corridor with the patrolmen, MacCauley said, “You know Mrs. Suarez?”

  “I work with her at Park Clinic, across the street,” I said, stunned. “I just saw her this morning.”

  “Do you know her family?”

  “I don’t. I know her husband is in jail, if that helps. His name is Carlos.”

  “Have you been here all night?”

  “Mrs. Rojas and her caretaker were. Nick and I were across the street at Park Clinic when we heard the shots,” I said.

  Nick came back and gave MacCauley the key. The officers walked down the corridor, knocked at Teresa’s door again, and then used the key to enter.

  “Someone should be at the hospital for her. Maybe we should go,” I said to Nick.

  “We barely know her, Liz. If the police confirm Teresa is the victim, they’ll find and contact her family. I doubt if the hospital would let us see her tonight anyway.”

  MacCauley brought back the key. “The apartment is empty. Our detectives may come back later tonight or tomorrow to search after we confirm identity and her condition. We’ll need a contact number for Mrs. Rojas.”

  “I’d like to talk to the other woman who was just out here. The younger one,” Wynant said.

  I called Cruz into the hall. Wynant asked if she or Lucia heard any arguments or saw anyone with Teresa that day. Cruz told them Teresa came home earlier, alone, then left again without incident. The policemen thanked us for our cooperation and left.

  Nick and I found Lucia inside her apartment, kneeling at her altar.

  “She’s been there since I told her the news,” Cruz said.

  I closed my eyes and sighed in frustration. “Why did you upset her? The police didn’t confirm Teresa was the victim yet.”

  “She asked me why the cops wanted to talk to me, and I told her. What was I supposed to do? Lie?”

  I turned to Nick. “Maybe one of us should stay here tonight.”

  “No,” Cruz said. “She wants to be left alone. I’ll watch her. She’ll be safe. The police are outside.”

  I went to the altar. “Lucia?”

  “I want to perform a healing ritual for Teresa before I go to bed,” Lucia said. “Go home.”

  Nick took me by the elbow. “Come on, Liz. Let’s get some rest. We’ll come back in the morning.” He turned to Cruz. “If you hear suspicious noises, call the police. Understand?”

  We left the apartment and crossed to the parking lot. One lane of 7th Street remained blocked off for the squad cars lining the alley. Nick started the car, turned left out of the lot, and drove past the police blockade.

  I reviewed the timeline since Nick and I left Teresa earlier in the day. I knew she went back to the clinic to work. She intended to search Victor’s office, unseen. If she found something and decided to call Bailey, could their conversation reach the street fast enough for retaliation against her? I should have called Bailey myself. Instead, I did what I was supposed to do and kept my mouth shut. My principles left a bitter taste.

  Nick drove toward the 101 Freeway North. “You’re very quiet. Any thoughts about what happened tonight?”

  “A lot. Paco is murdered. Then Victor, his best friend, disappears. Then Paco’s tenant, who has gang ties, is allegedly attacked. I can’t sort out the connections, if they exist. And then there’s the phone call Lucia just got. Whoever was on the line hung up. What if Cruz made the call from her bedroom and pretended she was Victor? I know it sounds crazy but . . .”

  “Why Cruz?”

  I shrugged. “To control Lucia.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To steal from her.”

  “How does that connect to Victor’s disappearance?” Nick said.

  “Maybe it doesn’t. But without Victor there to monitor, Cruz could try to coerce Lucia into withdrawing money from her bank account. I want to check Cruz’s background.”

  The drive home was quick for a Saturday night. We parked in Nick’s driveway and opened the front door to face a little kitten with a bad attitude. Every cabinet in the kitchen was opened wide, and the full dish of dry food we left was pitifully empty. I opened a can of cat food, apologizing profusely to Erzulie, while Nick poured two glasses of much-needed wine for us and heated the leftover lasagna.

  * * *

  Sunday morning I rolled to the side of the bed for a quick trip to the bathroom. Nick was still asleep, and I intended to brush my teeth and put on lipstick, counting on my good looks to cheer him up before I reminded him about my house-hunting appointment with Dilly.

  Erzulie leapt off the foot of the bed to the top of the dresser. Nick stirred, pulling me back into bed before my feet reached the Konya Turkish rug. My knee bonked the edge of the nightstand. The mica shade on the lamp wobbled over the alarm clock. I caught the stone fertility goddess before she toppled over.

  “Ow, ow, ow.” I rubbed my knee.

  Sleepy-faced Nick kissed the front of my knee, tracing his lips up my thigh. I melted into the mattress. Who needs lipstick? He lightly kissed my hand, my shoulder, my neck, and ended with a fast smooch on my lips before he reached over me for the phone.

  He dialed then said, “Cruz? It’s Nick. How did it go last night?” He listened, nodding. “Good. We’ll see you at eleven.”

  I donned my robe and padded into the kitchen to start the coffee and feed Erzulie. She followed me with her tail straight up, yesterday’s abandonment forgotten. My kitten taught me a strong lesson in forgiveness.

  “What do you fancy this morning?” I said to her. “Tuna or shrimp? I feel sunny just looking at you, so how about the yellow can?”

  She hopped onto the white-tiled counter next to the refrigerator. I punctured the lid of cat food while she sat with her nose four inches from my hand. Her eyes were fixed on the opener, once again intent on learning how to liberate her food and eliminate the middleman. Another lesson: the desire and need for independence. Or was I projecting my own needs through her? Hello? Dr. Freud?

  Nick’s cell phone rang in the bedroom. I sipped my coffee at the counter. Erzulie attacked her breakfast. A perfect picture of urban tranquility: the kitten, my man, and me in our house in the Valley. Correction. Nick’s house in the Valley.

  The morning sun beamed in, bouncing off the stainless-steel appliances and white tiles in the kitchen, and brightening the mustard-colored walls in the living room. Oddities and antiquities from Nick’s travels stood between the books stacked on his mantel. Masks, figurines, and metal crosses decorated shelves and tabletops throughout the room. His Aztec rug, a souvenir from a trip to South America, covered the dark wood floor. The statue of Santa Barbara from Lucia stood on the desk at the front window.

  Nick’s home reflected his unique taste, studies, and travels. If I moved in, even temporarily, would the pieces of my life—my books, my snow globe from Dad, my scented candles, comforter, photos of my friends—fit in? Or would the pieces of my life, everything I treasured, be boxed in storage to go—where?

  Nick came out of the bedroom barefoot, shirtless, and in jeans.

  “We should call the hospital and check on Teresa,” I said.

  He poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to me. “I had Dave call. I figured he could cut through the hospital red tape faster. He just called back and confirmed it was her.”

  “How is she? Can we visit her?”<
br />
  He put his arm around me. “Teresa is dead, Liz. She died at the hospital this morning.”

  I covered my mouth, gripped by sorrow. During the short time I knew her, Teresa’s life was fraught with tragedy, fear, and conflict. I tried to picture her smiling, and couldn’t. I remembered her words during the wellness session—I don’t feel safe—and later, her passionate plea for my help. Did my flat refusal contribute to her death?

  “Bailey was interviewing witnesses at the crime scene all night,” Nick said, gently. “He’s on his way to the state prison in Lancaster to talk to her husband right now.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Lucia,” I said to Nick. “We have to tell her before she hears about Teresa on the news.”

  I started toward the bedroom to get dressed and heard my phone ringing in my purse. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen. “Hello?”

  “It’s Mom. I’m at the hospital, waiting to drive Carmen home. I just want to be sure you’re meeting Dilly. She’s going to church then she’ll meet you in Du-par’s parking lot at eleven.”

  “I can’t go. Something important came up. Nick and I are on our way downtown,” I said. “Let me talk to Carmen.”

  “No,” Mom said. “Liz, you can’t cancel on Dilly. She set up three houses for you to see. You can’t just make people change their day like that. Can’t Nick Garfield take care of this himself? You have to find a place to live before you’re out on the streets.”

  “I won’t be out on the street. I told you, something happened. One of Carmen’s employees was shot in the alley behind the clinic last night. Dilly will have to understand.” I paced the living room while Mom ranted about responsibility, manners, and taking care of myself first.

  “Put Carmen on the phone,” I said.

  Carmen answered in a flash. “What happened?”

  “Teresa was shot behind the clinic last night. She died this morning. I’m so sorry.”

  “Teresa? Oh my God, what next? Why?”

  “Nick and I are on our way to be with Lucia now.”

  “Call Tony if you need him. And tell Lucia I’ll come by to see her first thing tomorrow morning,” Carmen said.

  I could hear Mom in the background. “The hex. Carmen, you are not going back to work until you hire someone to guard that clinic and everyone inside. And I don’t mean bodyguards. Give me the phone . . . Elizabeth?”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “I don’t want you going to that neighborhood with Nick Garfield or anyone else until Carmen and I find someone to undo the hex. Nick obviously didn’t listen to me or he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Victor is still missing and now someone else is dead? Stay away from that woman. Do you hear me?”

  “I want to be there for Lucia when she hears the news. I don’t know if she can handle another shock, Mom. And enough with the hex. It’s a distraction. Drop it. Nick has better things to do.”

  “Go look at houses,” Nick said from the kitchen. “Find a place to live. Lucia doesn’t need both of us. I’ll go. You can meet me there later.”

  I covered the phone. “I don’t think so, Nick. Lucia—”

  “I’ll take care of her. Go.” His tone was final.

  “All right,” I said to Mom. “I’ll meet Dilly for an hour.”

  “Good,” Mom said. “Carmen is ready to leave the hospital. Call me after you see Dilly. And be careful. I worry about you.”

  “There’s no need to worry. I’ll be with Nick.”

  “That doesn’t comfort me.”

  I dialed Robin. When she answered, I gave her a brief explanation and asked for her company. “If you’re along, Dilly can’t hijack me.”

  “House hunting? I’m in,” she said. “Let’s take my convertible.”

  “Pick me up in forty minutes at my house. I want to take Erzulie home first. Poor thing. We both need to find a place to live, fast.” I hung up, wincing at my poor choice of words in front of Nick. I turned to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry. I get it.”

  “I didn’t mean I don’t want to be here with you. I meant I have to settle my living arrangements before Mom gets more involved than she already is.”

  He drank his coffee while Erzulie, paws folded beneath her on the counter, watched in adoration. I went to shower and dress. When I came out of the bathroom, Nick stood in the hall, ready to leave. He packed his laptop in silence and started for the door.

  “Nick?” I said as he picked up his keys.

  “Call me when you’re done house hunting. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” His hand gripped the doorknob.

  My heart slunk to my stomach. I went to him and put my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to mess this up. Us.”

  “I know. You’re right. Where you live won’t change how I feel about you.” He pressed his lips to my forehead.

  “Are you certain? Because yesterday morning you would have given me a proper kiss good-bye.”

  He dropped the briefcase. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard. “I’m crazy about you. Proper enough?”

  I steadied myself on the doorjamb, too breathless to answer. After he left, I moved my clothes from the drawer into my overnight bag and then coaxed Erzulie into her carrier without a fight. So much for a relaxing weekend with just the three of us.

  The streets were Sunday-morning vacant. I made the small trek from North Hollywood to Studio City in record time. When I opened the kitchen door to my town house, I felt like a visitor.

  I knew the feeling of detachment. I had it in my marriage each time Jarret was traded and we left another house or apartment for another team and another rental, with never enough time between to set up a real home.

  Erzulie trotted out of her carrier, tail up. She didn’t care where she lived as long as she had something smelly to eat and someone warm to curl up with. Something I should seriously consider, except for the smelly food part.

  At ten forty-five, Robin pulled up behind the wheel of her new cream-colored convertible. She bought the car last October, a “freedom purchase” after spending two nights in jail on suspicion of murder due, in part, to my brother. Robin was exonerated and released, but she kept her distance from Dave. She wouldn’t talk to him at Mom’s Christmas party. At Mom’s Valentine’s Day party, they were civil but not chatty.

  I bounded down my front steps and slid into the front seat. Robin’s golden blonde curls were pulled back from her round face in a ponytail. She wore her extra pounds like an asset in a hot pink sweater, white jeans, and bejeweled sandals. I made stress look sporty in jeans, a red sweater, and white converse sneakers. We both put on sunglasses, and with the wind blowing through our hair, we could have been two teens on the way to the mall. If you layered on twenty-plus years and crow’s-feet.

  “Okay, what’s wrong?” Robin said.

  “Can’t fool you.”

  On the way to Du-par’s I gave Robin the news about Teresa, omitting her client status. Then I updated her on Victor and Lucia. Robin concluded Victor and Teresa were victims of the hex. Before I could argue her out of that fantasy, she turned into the crowded parking lot on Ventura Boulevard.

  The brunch crowd stood in line outside Du-par’s. Trader Joe’s patrons bumped grocery carts behind open car trunks. Couples pushed strollers across the boulevard to the weekly Studio City Farmer’s Market.

  Dilly Silva waited for us at the side of her BMW 528i. She had positioned her car between two spaces, oblivious to the glare of drivers searching for parking. A petite bleached blonde, Dilly made midsixties look like fifty. Her bee-stung lips and smooth, celluloid doll-face were the work of her husband, Dewey, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Dilly, one of the original Cherry Twists, spent her late teens with Mom and Carmen go-go dancing on TV and in clubs on the Sunset Strip. Now an Encino power real estate agent, she’d traded white go-go boots and fringed miniskirts for Louboutin pumps, St. John suits, and diamonds.

  She backed out her BM
W for Robin to park. I slid into Dilly’s front passenger seat; Robin settled in the back. Dilly dropped a stack of house photos on my lap.

  “Viv told me about the eviction. You only have six weeks to find a place and move? We’ll have to negotiate a quick escrow.”

  I raised a finger in correction. “I wasn’t evicted. The owners aren’t renewing my lease. They’re moving back into the town house themselves.”

  “They must be getting a divorce. She’s keeping the house and making him move into the town house,” Dilly said. “That’s what you should have done when you left Jarret. I’ll never understand why you didn’t keep that house for yourself.”

  “It was too big, drafty, and filled with bad memories,” I said. “I like my town house.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find something fabulous for you. How is Jarret? Dewey and I saw him pitch the home opener.”

  “I haven’t talked to him lately.” I shifted uneasily as we sped west on Ventura Boulevard.

  “Liz has been busy with Nick,” Robin said from the backseat. “Aren’t they adorable together? Personally, I think she should move in with him.”

  “You mean Dave’s friend? The teacher?” Dilly said.

  “Nick is a college professor, and an author,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. I saw him at Viv’s last party. But no, no, no.” Dilly shook her head. “A gal your age should own property by now. Really, dear. You have the money.”

  “What about love?” Robin said.

  “Love is good,” Dilly said. “But investing in real estate is more permanent. You’ll have so much fun decorating, too.”

  Robin leaned between the seats. “Dilly, have you seen Nick? He’s the only decoration Liz needs.”

  We cruised through Studio City into Sherman Oaks, and under the 405 Freeway. I listened without comment until Dilly’s sales pitch on the value of investing in a down market caught my attention.

  “Is it common for two Realtors to approach an owner to sell a commercial property?” I said.

  “Very common with commercial Realtors. They generate the bulk of their business by soliciting sales. The competition is favorable for the building owner,” Dilly said.