Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  “What if the owner wasn’t interested in selling?”

  Dilly shrugged. “Then there’s nothing to talk about. Unless the agent knows something the owner doesn’t.”

  “Like what?” Robin said.

  “Future zoning changes or construction in the neighborhood that might increase the property value in the future,” Dilly said. “Why the interest?”

  “Victor researched the value of the building his friends own across the street from Park Clinic. The owners aren’t willing to sell, but at least two Realtors are eager get the property on the market. I’m curious about the interest,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Dilly said. “I wonder if Victor asked me for a real estate attorney to help his friend investigate changes in the area.”

  “Like the Subway to the Sea?” I said.

  “In Westlake? Could be. I’m not an expert on commercial property, but a property that close to the Metro station would profit nicely from the extension to the Westside because of MacArthur Park.”

  “How much of a profit?” Robin said.

  “Even a small percentage increase could be significant. Commercial property near public transit is very desirable. The Westside extension just ups the ante.” Dilly pointed as we passed Benihana restaurant. “They filmed scenes from The 40-Year-Old Virgin in there. Isn’t that fun?”

  I felt a kick on the back of my seat. A subtle hint from Robin for me to move in with Nick?

  “She was referring to you, Robin,” I said over my shoulder. “Virginity renews every three years and you don’t have much time left.”

  “Very funny. It’s not like men are knocking on my front door,” Robin said.

  Dilly made a left turn, and for the next hour I played Goldilocks. The first house she showed us was too big—a sprawling four-bedroom ranch, south of the boulevard on a block with bikes, mommy-vans, and daddy-sedans in every driveway.

  The second house was too modern for my taste; a square, two-story, white milk carton structure with squared windows and cacti in place of a front lawn. The third house, built on the edge of a steep canyon with a jaw-dropping price tag, was too small. One bedroom downstairs, and the living room and kitchen on the second story. Charming, if I didn’t mind ducking my head descending stairs to the cramped bedroom, or the vertigo I’d get from taking in the breathtaking view from a patio supported by massive steel straws.

  I nixed the last house on the list when I saw the address. The street was walking distance from my parents’ ranch home. “What about a bungalow or cottage closer to where I live now? Something old and cozy, with character.”

  “I agree,” Robin said. “Like Sherman Oaks, Studio City, or North Hollywood. Can we go back and look for houses there?”

  Dilly furrowed her brow. “When I went over ideas with Viv, she told me you loved Encino. It’s a beautiful area. You grew up here.”

  “I did. And it was great. But now I’d like to be closer to my friends and my office. I should have called you and explained before we met this morning. This was my fault, Dilly. I’m sorry I put you through all this effort.”

  “We made a good start today. Now I know what you want, and what you don’t want.” Dilly tapped her manicured fingers on the steering wheel as we cruised east on Ventura Boulevard toward Du-par’s. “I’ll pull together some new listings this afternoon, and we can see more houses on Tuesday during the broker open.”

  “Wait, you guys,” Robin said. “I parked in front of a house for sale in Studio City yesterday, when I went to Aroma for lunch. Funky. Not much to see from the street. But it’s in the right neighborhood.”

  I turned to Dilly. “Can we make one more stop?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dilly bypassed Du-par’s and, following Robin’s directions, turned left off Ventura Boulevard onto Tujunga Avenue, then left again several blocks over the bridge. She parked on a charming shaded side street lined with two-story bungalows and one-story cottages. Robin and I got out of the BMW and stood in front of a yard choked with overgrown trees and bushes.

  I nudged Robin. “This made you think of me?”

  “You’re good with challenges,” she said, giggling.

  The property was the pimple on prom night, a blemish in the center of an attractive, well-tended block. The lawn consisted of dirt, burnt grass, and weeds. Untrimmed trees sheltered a gray-shingled house with weathered brown trim.

  I started up the broken-brick path. Dead leaves littered the roof of the two-story structure. The two upstairs windows, the wide porch below, and the front door in the middle cracked an awkward, homely smiley face at me.

  “I didn’t notice how big it was from the street,” Robin said.

  I turned to Dilly. “Can we see the inside?”

  “Are you sure?” She brushed a withered leaf off of her skirt. At my nod, she took out her iPhone. “I have to check the MLS for the listing broker.”

  While Dilly worked the phone, Robin and I wandered to the side of the house. We didn’t get far. A fence blocked the entry to the yard on both sides.

  “It has a fireplace.” I pointed to the bricks rising two stories between the windows on the left exterior. “Love that.”

  “And lots of windows.” Robin smiled. “And location.”

  Dilly called us to get back in the car. “The house just went on the market. I left the listing broker a message. Meanwhile, I’ll get more houses for us to look at. We can do better than this.” She dropped us off in Du-par’s lot, parting with a promise to call. “And I’ll see you at the fund-raiser tomorrow, girls.”

  After Robin and I climbed into her convertible, she said, “What did Nick say about you shopping for a house?”

  “He encouraged me to do whatever I want, but I have a feeling he really wants me to move in with him.”

  “And I don’t understand why you aren’t jumping at the chance,” she said.

  “I’m happy with the way things are. Nick makes me feel adored. And I adore him. He’s wonderful and fun and smart. But we’ve only been a couple for a few months. I haven’t seen his warts yet. I don’t want to discover them a month after I move in when there’s no turning back.”

  “Warts? That’s about the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard you say, Liz.”

  “Metaphorical warts. My heart would love to move in, but my brain is throwing out caution flags. I married Jarret on a whim, and I stayed with him too long after the infatuation wore off. I won’t make another moonstruck decision. Make sense?”

  “Way too logical. Where is Nick?” Robin said.

  “He’s with Lucia. I’m driving downtown to meet them now.”

  “Want some company? It’s such a gorgeous day. I’d love to open my car on the freeway with the top down. What do you think?”

  “I’d love it,” I said. “You can meet Lucia.”

  Robin sped along the 101 as fast as traffic would allow, which wasn’t all that fast. With the sun warming our faces, we listened to oldies on the radio all the way downtown. She took the Alvarado Street exit and drove south toward Westlake.

  When we got to MacArthur Park, I said, “Can we make a stop before we go to Lucia’s? There’s a woman with a dress shop on Alvarado I want to talk to about Victor.”

  “A dress shop? You spoil me.”

  We cruised at low speed in the right lane until I saw the Briano Fashion dress shop tucked between a beauty salon and a dollar store on the east side of the street. Robin parked, and we walked up the block. Women strolled in and out of Ynez’s open-front store, stopping to pick through the tube socks, underwear, and bras piled on the tables outside.

  Inside, Ynez’s shop had the festive feel of a disorganized princess’s closet exploding with pink, white, lace, and netted gowns. Preteens, teenage girls, and adult women rifled through plastic-protected First Communion and Quinceañera dresses on wire hangers hung from the ceiling. Rows of white two-inch heeled pumps lined the back wall.

  Robin looked at the pastel frocks surrounding us. “I’m emb
arrassed to say I still don’t understand exactly what Quinceañera is.”

  “A fifteenth birthday party, like a ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ but much more ritualistic. It’s customary to wear pink or white dresses for purity. In the ‘Ritual of the Shoe,’ the father exchanges his daughter’s flats for heels to mark her transition to womanhood. Some of the celebrations last all weekend.”

  “Remember the ‘Sweet Sixteen’ your parents threw for you?” Robin said.

  “Good grief. I can still picture the frilly pink dress my Mom wore.”

  Robin laughed. “If I remember right, she sang that night.”

  “And you and I ducked down to my rec room to make out with the two—”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.” I turned to the woman behind us. “I’m looking for Ynez Briano.”

  “That’s me.” Ynez gave us a sweet, crooked-tooth smile. Black hair tumbled down her shoulders and curled around the cleavage of her tank top. Tight, hip-hugging jeans bared her trim midriff.

  “I’m Liz Cooper. Are you a friend of Dr. Morales?”

  Ynez’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I am. Did he send you here?”

  Robin nudged me. “I’ll wait for you outside so you can talk.”

  “Thanks, Robin.” I turned back to Ynez. “Miguel, the guard at Park Clinic, sent me. We haven’t heard from Dr. Morales for a few days. Miguel thought you might know where he is.”

  “I don’t.” Her face clouded. “I haven’t seen Dr. Morales since my clinic appointment last Tuesday. He’s my hero. He diagnosed my diabetes and saved my life. What can I do to help?”

  “Did he act unusual or out of character when you were with him?”

  “He was upset about Paco, and so worried about Lucia. I told him he looked tired. Dr. Morales told me to worry about myself, not him. We made a lunch date for next Tuesday to celebrate my first year on insulin.” She furrowed her brow. “How long has he been missing?”

  “The last time we saw him was at Paco’s wake on Wednesday. The police are searching for him. So are all of his friends,” I said.

  “I did notice something I thought was strange. I passed the clinic Wednesday night after midnight and saw his car in the clinic parking lot. I remember wondering why he would be working so late, especially after the wake. But the next morning his car was gone. I’ll ask around the neighborhood. Do you think he’s sick or in trouble?”

  “I don’t know, Ynez. His friends are getting the word out to as many people as we can. Would you call me if he contacts you, or if you hear anything? Any piece of information would help.” I gave her my number.

  “I promise, I will.” A customer interrupted, asking Ynez for directions to the dressing room. Before she left to help the woman, she gave me her number. “Will you call me when you find him? Dr. Morales is family.”

  “I will.” I left the shop, unsettled. If she saw Victor’s car in the lot late Wednesday, it meant he was either at the clinic a lot longer than I thought, or he left with someone else. Who?

  Robin wasn’t out on the sidewalk. I strolled from shop to shop, searching for her down aisles and through windows. I finally caught a glimpse of her blonde ponytail deep inside the shop I should have steered her away from. She couldn’t see me waving at her over the Protección de la Maldición sign in the window. I went in to get her.

  The inside of Oscar Estevez’s botanica was set up like a drugstore, but instead of cough medicine, greeting cards, and toothpaste, I moved through aisles lined with packets of ritual herbs and spell-casters. Spanish periodicals on the news rack touted headlines of secret home remedies, Santa Muerte rituals, and incantations.

  I passed an open closet draped with red curtains, lit from above. The altar at the center held a large, red-cloaked, black and beige skeletal figurine holding a scythe and a globe. The sign above the entry read:

  Santuario de La Santa Muerte

  Para Orar Hacer Sus Peticion y

  Mostrar Su Agradecimiento

  An altar to Santa Muerte to pray for requests and to show appreciation.

  Robin stood at the back of the store, peering inside a glass counter. I called her name, hoping to get her attention to make a fast exit. She waved at me to come back. I shook my head no. She bobbed her head yes. I gave up and joined her at the counter.

  She pointed to a silver pendant engraved with an image of the Grim Reaper. “Isn’t that deliciously creepy? I can see it on a black dress for Halloween.”

  I heard a man speaking in Spanish behind the curtain facing the counter. “I’m moving to a bigger shop on 7th Street very soon.”

  “Do you think it’s expens—” Robin said. I shushed her and pointed at the curtain.

  “Si,” the man continued. “That’s the one. All her customers are coming to me now. She won’t last much longer. I’ll send you an invitation to my grand opening.” He laughed. “Adios.”

  I grabbed Robin’s sleeve. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As she picked up her purse, the curtain parted and Oscar came out. He narrowed his eyes at me, then Robin, then at me again. “Looking for something?”

  “Just browsing.” Flashing an insincere smile, I hastened Robin out to the sidewalk.

  * * *

  In true L.A. fashion, instead of walking we drove the three blocks to Botanica Rojas and parked in the lot next door. La dispensa de la bruja 187 was scrawled in red on the east wall of Lucia’s building. Nick stood beneath the graffiti with a bucket of paint, a pan, and a paint roller.

  I gazed up at the writing. “When did that happen?”

  “Sometime last night or this morning.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “Hi Robin.”

  “Hi Nick.” Robin eyed the inscription. “Witch’s pantry? What’s 187, a gang?”

  “187 is the police code for murder.” Nick poured paint in the pan then dipped in the roller. “This is the latest largesse from the friendly neighbors after last night’s arson attempt.”

  “Lucia can’t protect her building from her own hex?” Robin said.

  “You mean conjure a magic fence?” I waved an imaginary wand in the air.

  “Think this is a joke?” Nick’s attitude reeked irritation. He turned his back to us and rolled paint on the edge of the graffiti.

  “You know I don’t,” I said. “How did Lucia take the news about Teresa?”

  Nick stopped painting and turned around. “She knew. When I walked in her apartment Lucia said, ‘Teresa is dead,’ then offered me a cup of tea. We talked about Paco and the article over lunch. When Cruz came back from the market, she told me about this graffiti. And here I am. What took you so long?”

  “We stopped on Alvarado to talk to Ynez,” I said.

  “And?”

  “She saw Victor’s car parked at the clinic after midnight on Wednesday.” I pointed to the second-floor windows. “Are Lucia and Cruz upstairs?”

  “Lucia is in the botanica. Cruz took a few hours off to visit her family. I decided I’m going to spend the night. I’ll ask Bailey if he can up the patrol. I don’t like the thought of Lucia and Cruz being alone in this building.” He started painting again.

  As we moved toward the front of the building Robin glanced over her shoulder. “He’s in a foul mood.”

  “I can’t blame him. It was brazen to graffiti the wall with the police right across the street investigating. Lucia is isolated until the hex business wears off.”

  “Can’t she end the hex?”

  “She wouldn’t. At least not until Paco’s killer is caught.”

  Robin followed me into Botanica Rojas. The boarded window blocked out the daylight, creating a twilight atmosphere inside. Counter lamps lit the back shelves; lemongrass incense scented the air. Lucia, in a blue and green print dress and Paco’s sweater, swept pieces of glass and broken statues off the floor while music played from the back room.

  Lucia smiled when she saw me. “I’m glad you came. Nick is outside. Did you see him?”

  “We did,” I said. “Lucia, this is
my friend Robin Bloom. Robin, this is Lucia Rojas.”

  “It’s lovely to finally meet you, Lucia.” Robin offered her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m a widow, too.”

  Lucia covered Robin’s hand with hers. “How sad for you. I’m sorry my shop is a mess. All this petty vandalism and graffiti is the way of the neighborhood now.”

  “Your shop is wonderful.”

  “Thank you. I trust my orishas to protect us from thieves. And, of course, we never keep money in the register. Can I show you around?”

  “Yes, I’d love that.” Robin trailed Lucia through the shop, pointing at statues and asking about the healing properties of the packeted herbs.

  I had commandeered the broom to finish the sweeping. When I tossed the last shards of glass into the trash, I said, “Lucia, do you mind if I use the bathroom upstairs?”

  “Go ahead. My keys are next to the register,” Lucia said.

  I collected the keys, estimating I had about fifteen minutes to search Teresa’s apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I unlocked Lucia’s upstairs door, leaving it open to hear the intercom. Then I hurried through the corridor to Teresa’s apartment, unlocked the door, and went inside.

  Her tiny studio smelled of old cooking grease masked by cheap perfume. A welcome rush of fresh air from the open corridor windows followed me in. Her walls were dusty white, and alabaster mini-blinds were drawn closed over the windows. To my right, a card table and chairs created a makeshift dining area between the bathroom door and the tiny kitchenette. On the far wall an open convertible sofa was covered with a brown-print comforter and disheveled pink sheets. Scarves and jewelry dangled from the mirror above her dresser with bottles, brushes, and beaded jewelry scattered on top. An array of purses and shoes were lined up beneath the window.

  According to Cruz, Teresa came home after work, and then left again for the evening. From the looks of the mess in the apartment, Teresa wasn’t a put-it-away type of woman. If she took a tangible clue out of Victor’s office, it was in her apartment or at the morgue.