Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  “The next?” I caught my breath. “Did he tell you who?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Did Cansino contract the murders?”

  “Oscar didn’t know. Or wouldn’t tell me. When I asked him about Cansino, he told me to leave. I gave Dave everything when we talked.”

  “This information doesn’t incriminate Cansino. We need something that will link him to the murders, Nick.”

  “If he’s the guy. We can start with Cansino’s letter to Paco and work from there.”

  “Can’t,” I said. “I went back to the clinic to search for Cruz’s résumé in Victor’s office, and guess what? Both Cansino’s and Gates’s letters to Paco were gone. I bet whoever called Victor from the clinic the night of the wake took them.”

  “Or Victor went back to the clinic on Sunday and took the letters himself.”

  “I still have a huge problem believing Victor would disappear on his own or defraud Lucia. It just doesn’t make any sense. But I am convinced Lucia needs legal protection. If she’s willing, maybe Kitty Kirkland could assume legal power of attorney over her affairs while Dave and Bailey investigate Cansino and Victor.”

  “I like it. I’ll talk to Lucia with you.”

  As Nick drove onto the ramp for the 110 South, Mom called with the first of her series of updates from the hotel: Dad and Kitty were at the bar schooling the bartender on how to mix martinis. The orchestra had arrived. Dilly and her husband were stuck in traffic. Cherries Betsy Koch and Suzette Carlson were setting up the sign-in table.

  Nick turned on the CD player, and Ella Fitzgerald sang in the background while I volleyed Mom’s calls and estimated how close we were to champagne. When Ella started the second verse of “Something’s Gotta Give,” Mom called again.

  “I need you here now.” Her voice rose two octaves. “The guests are arriving. Carmen’s not here yet. What if Carmen disappeared, too? Should I give everyone their money back?”

  “Calm down and check the lobby,” I said.

  I heard her say to Dad, “Walter, go down to the lobby. Liz wants you to see if Carmen is there yet.” She kept me on the line while she snapped instructions to the banquet staff. Dad’s voice interrupted her in the background, and Mom said, “She is? Did you tell her to meet me in the ballroom? Liz—are you close?”

  “Pulling off the freeway now, Mom. See you in a few minutes.”

  Nick exited at 8th Street, turned right on Garland, then left onto 7th Street, less than a half mile east of Park Clinic and Botanica Rojas, and two blocks south of Good Samaritan Hospital. He parked on a side street. We ambled hand in hand around the corner to the front entrance of the hotel.

  Flags waved above the portal of the white and red brick Mayfair Hotel towering fifteen stories under the first stars in the early evening sky.

  Blithely smoking a cigarette outside the iron-filigreed glass entrance was last person I wanted to see first—my ex-husband Jarret. He leaned against the wall with smoke circling his sandy brown hair and black dinner jacket. A pale redhead in a vanilla strapless sheath cuddled against him, cooing in his ear.

  Jarret grinned. “Knew I’d meet you two here tonight. How are you, Lizzie Bear? Nick?”

  Nick tilted his chin. Jarret tilted his chin. Their friendliest exchange in months.

  I forced a smile. Had to. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to Mom,” I said. She surely extracted a large donation from Jarret to attend; there were no freebies at the Cherries’ functions.

  “I couldn’t miss one of Viv’s parties. She always asks so nice.” He took another drag and then crushed the cigarette beneath the sole of his polished black shoe. The redhead brushed her bangs away from her eyes and fluttered thick lashes at Jarret as if waiting to be introduced. Jarret ignored her.

  I tucked my hand under Nick’s arm. “We’ll see you inside, Jarret.”

  “Save me a dance, Lizzie Bear.”

  Tall white orchids on glass tables lined the hotel foyer. Ahead, four frieze pillars drew my eyes from the deep green and black deco carpet up to the skylight, two stories above the long, elegant lobby. Guests in evening attire mingled between the old paintings and brass light fixtures on the walls and gathered around faded coral velour club chairs and small tables topped with brass reading lamps.

  “I feel like I’m stepping into the past,” I said.

  Nick put his arm around me. “This hotel has a great history. Raymond Chandler set his short story, ‘I’ll Be Waiting,’ in this lobby. And the first post–Academy Awards party was held here.”

  I loved that Nick knew things like that.

  My heart did a happy skip when a suave, older gent wove toward us through the crowd, carrying himself like a statesman in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. His wide smile crinkled cheeks tanned from days on the golf course. His warm brown eyes matched mine. And his thinning salt-and-pepper hair looked freshly cut and tamed for the occasion.

  He greeted Nick then wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug. “Hello baby girl.”

  “You look very handsome tonight, Daddy,” I said.

  “Under duress, but anything to please your mother,” he said. “So Nick, is this your first Cherry Twist fund-raiser?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nick said, warmly shaking Dad’s hand.

  “Stick with me, or Vivian will put you to work,” Dad said. “There are two reasons the Cherry Twists pull off their charity functions so successfully. First, it’s a family operation and they recruit their free help from within. Suzette’s husband and his quartet provide the music. The grown kids and grandkids are put to work at check-in or in the kitchen. The rest of us do as we’re told.”

  “What’s your job?” Nick said.

  Dad straightened his shoulders. “Dave and I run security, of course.”

  “And is Liz the house psychologist?”

  I laughed. “Hardly. Who could analyze that bunch? I play agent-at-large, but because you bought tickets, I’m relieved from duty tonight.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Nick turned to Dad. “And the second reason the Cherries are so successful at fund-raising?”

  He crooked his finger for Nick to come in close. “The Cherries kept blackmail photos from their days on the Sunset Strip. The college boys they partied with in the free-love sixties are now prominent elder businessmen with reputations to protect, and fat checkbooks.”

  “Dad.” I checked over my shoulder to see if anyone heard his joke and took it for fact.

  “What?” Dad said. “We were all too drunk or otherwise incapacitated back then to remember. The Cherries are altruistic. They know how to rally their friends around worthy causes.” He checked his watch. “We should go up to the ballroom. Have you heard from Victor?”

  I gave him a quick update on the phone calls and the bank deposit. “What do you think, Dad?”

  “Ridiculous. I’ll be surprised if Victor is even alive.” Dad, the ex–homicide detective, was never subtle. “The phone calls smell like a scam to me.”

  “Liz and I thought scam, too,” Nick said. “But we don’t have proof.”

  “What do you think about the money he deposited?” I said.

  “A distraction,” Dad said. “The money could be a smoke screen to create the illusion that Victor is involved, while the scammer tries to control the Rojas woman. Bad news. Victor is a good man. This is a real shame. Now I know why Viv came up with plan B for tonight. Come on, kids. If we don’t get on the next elevator to the ballroom, we’re all in big trouble.”

  I tucked elbows with the two handsomest men in the room, and we made our way through the growing throng of black suits and sequined dresses to the elevator bank. We crowded together into the back of the middle car. The elevator doors opened to the third-floor vestibule. Betsy Koch, one of the six Cherries, drafted her niece to check off our names at the sign-in table, and then we strolled through double doors into the ballroom.

  The Cherries brought the 1920s feel of the lobby into the ballroom, creating a Jazz A
ge nightclub atmosphere. The crystal chandeliers were dimmed to low; small brass lamps pooled light on each of the twenty white-draped tables of ten. The waitstaff, sporting short white jackets over black slacks, filled water glasses. Guests congregated in corners or near the tables. Lines formed at the two bars on opposite sides of the room. The Boomer Jazz Quartet—a bass player, drummer, and saxophone player, with Cherry Suzette Carlson’s husband on vocals and piano—played a soft rendition of “Night and Day” from the stage.

  “I like Sinatra’s version of ‘Night and Day’ the best,” Dad said, leading us to a table next to the dance floor.

  “Great Cole Porter song,” Nick said. “Fred Astaire sang it to Ginger Rogers in The Gay Divorcee, nineteen thirty-four. ‘Can I offer you anything? Frosted chocolate? Cointreau? Benedictine? Marriage?’”

  I did a double take. I knew I looked good, but that good? “What?”

  “Dialogue from the movie, Liz. Fred Astaire to Ginger Rogers,” Nick said.

  Fred and Ginger. Right.

  Mom, resplendent in a champagne lace gown, waited at our table with four glasses of champagne. Kitty Kirkland, sleek and statuesque in a black tuxedo suit and white tie, and her petite wife, Quinn, in blue silk, joined us with champagne in hand. We toasted to a successful turnout, and then Nick and I took Kitty aside. After a brief recap, we asked if she could help us stabilize Lucia’s legal affairs.

  “I’d be happy to,” Kitty said. “I have court in the morning but I could meet with Mrs. Rojas tomorrow afternoon if she’s willing. You’re certain she didn’t assign legal power of attorney to Victor already?”

  “We’re not certain,” I said. “But he’s not showing himself to represent her. Can Lucia override an existing document?”

  Kitty nodded. “I can draw up a revocation for her to sign and have it notarized. Then we draw up a new POA naming me, or whomever Mrs. Rojas chooses to speak for her. All contingent on her wishes, you understand.”

  “We understand,” I said. “Thank you.”

  After she left, Nick and I searched through the crowd for Bailey. Three tables away, Jarret and the redhead chatted with a local councilman. Across the dance floor, Erica and Bernie Gates laughed with their tablemates. Dilly and Dewey Silva sat at the front table with Tony Torrico and Carmen while the band played “Mood Indigo” onstage.

  “Raymon Cansino just arrived,” I said, pointing to the entrance.

  Cansino threw back his shoulders and wove through the throng of people, stopping and shaking hands as he worked the room.

  Dave and Robin arrived at our table together—neither visibly angry, bruised, or beaten. Nick pulled Dave aside and cocked his head in Cansino’s direction.

  I was more concerned about Robin. “I’m so sorry. Nick and Dave didn’t tell me about the change of plans or I would have stopped them.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling.

  “Girls, you both look deliciously sublime tonight.” Mom beamed with approval and took Robin’s hand. “Come and say hello to Walter. Liz, dear, would you bring us some champagne?”

  Mom had begun issuing her children orders at her parties as soon as Dave and I were old enough to carry in a tray of canapés. I called it her “Queen-gene” and wrote a psychology paper on it in school. Got an A.

  I acquiesced to her command, leaving to fight my way through the crowd at the bar. When my turn came I ordered two champagnes, left a tip for the bartender, and turned smack into Raymon Cansino.

  “You’re Liz Cooper. I remember you from Paco Rojas’s wake,” he said.

  I was curious who told him my name. “And you’re Mr. Cansino.”

  “Call me Ray.” He blocked my path, asked the bartender for a whiskey on the rocks, then went on. “Lucia is very fond of you. Just this morning she told me how helpful you’ve been since Paco died. Tragedy.” He shook his head with a show of regret as genuine as the smile on the runner-up in a beauty pageant.

  What was he up to?

  “Did she?” I said, doubtful. “I’m sorry. She hasn’t mentioned you to me.”

  He winced. “I think I understand why. She hasn’t been herself since—well, it doesn’t need to be said again. I thought I’d introduce myself to you, and say hello. It looks like Park Clinic drew a successful turnout tonight. Victor and Carmen should be pleased.”

  I nodded in agreement as my brain scrambled for a comeback. Cansino waved at someone over my shoulder, excused himself, and left me standing alone.

  The noise level increased as the drinks flowed and the music played. When Bailey came into the ballroom, I caught his eye and signaled him to our table. I took my chair just as Betsy Koch’s granddaughter, our waitress for the evening, put a plate of lettuce with a slice of tomato and three croutons at the setting. Nick, on my right, was about to take a bite of salad when I nudged him.

  “Move over a seat,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Bailey’s here.”

  “Good. He can sit there.” Nick pointed his fork of lettuce at the empty seat to his right.

  “No. Move over. Please. I want him to sit between Robin and me,” I said. Nick still wasn’t following. I tapped his shoulder and said softly into his ear, “I want to introduce Robin to Bailey.”

  “Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “But Dave—”

  “Is sitting on her other side. I know. Dave knows Matt. See? It’s perfect. Scoot over and make room.”

  We executed the double seat switch. Bailey took the now-empty chair to my left next to Robin. Introductions were made and chitchat continued through the banquet chicken accompanied by boiled potatoes and green beans. Nick, Dave, Dad, and Bailey entertained the table with jokes through dinner. Robin giggled. Mom and Kitty gushed about the large turnout. And I ate my first decent meal since Saturday night. Things were going well.

  “Cansino is at the table back in the corner,” I said to Bailey.

  “I saw. By the way, great chicken. Thanks for the invite.” He set his napkin on his empty plate and excused himself to walk the room.

  After he left, I leaned over to Robin. “What do you think? Cute, right? Want to go out with him?”

  “He’s charming.” Her blush spread from her face all the way down to the ruffled neck of her peach gown. “But he’s way ahead of you. He invited me to dinner Saturday night. Can you believe it? Lucia’s spell worked in one night.”

  “Huh?” I swore I heard Bailey and Robin’s entire conversation, little more than cordial introductions and some teasing with the rest of us. “He asked you out?”

  “I was tempted to say yes. After all, he came with flowers,” Robin said.

  “Flowers? What flowers?”

  “And the apology. You should have heard him, Liz. You’re right. You’re brother is cute. Especially when he’s humble.”

  “My brother?” I said. “Dave? Asked you out?”

  “Shhh. Keep your voice down.” She glanced over her shoulder at Dave, and then back at me. “Yes. Who did you think I was talking about?”

  “Matt Bailey.”

  “The detective who just left? He’s nice, but he’s not my type. I swear I never noticed how sweet your brother is when he tries,” Robin said. “He is kind of cute.”

  Dave? Sweet? Charming? Cute? Lucia’s love spell on Robin had taken an absurd turn. But I couldn’t argue with the twinkle in Robin’s eyes.

  Dinner plates were cleared away for dessert. Mom glided to the podium, brought the room to attention, and then asked Carmen to come up onstage.

  “Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight,” Carmen said into the microphone. “People who live on the streets lack the most basic necessities. Your generosity this evening will make it possible for Park Clinic to provide the homeless of our neighborhood with a safe place to take a hot shower—a simple, affirming task we take for granted. Dr. Morales and I are deeply grateful for the support you have given Park Clinic. We, and our staff, salute you.” She paused as the audience applauded. “Tonight I’m honored to introduce a
special guest, a local athlete who has donated so much of his time to city programs for the homeless. He has graciously agreed to say a few words. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Los Angeles’s favorite baseball pitcher, Jarret Cooper.”

  Nick and I lunged for the bottle of red wine at the same time.

  Dad shrugged sheepishly at me. “Plan B.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  One pitch can shift the momentum of a baseball game, just as an act of kindness has the potential to change a life.” Jarret charmed the audience from the stage, mixing compassion with easy humor. He was comfortable in front of a crowd, showing flashes of the confident, boyish athlete I married before the drugs, booze, and cynicism took their toll.

  Jarret gave a version of the spiel he’d been using in public for years, tailored to suit the occasion. Carmen nodded appreciation as he lauded Park Clinic’s contributions to the community. Mom smiled proudly. Dad, who hated speeches of any kind, fidgeted. Nick ate his cake and then started on the piece I left untouched.

  Our waitress cleared away the dessert plates, stopping to whisper in my ear, “The kitchen staff is leaving soon but there’s cake left in the walk-in if you want another piece later.”

  After Jarret left the stage to appreciative applause, the band began to play “Blame It on the Bossa Nova.” Nick pushed back his chair, offering his hand. “Dance?”

  “Love to,” I said.

  Dave, Robin, and my parents followed us onto the already crowded dance floor. When the band segued into “Sway,” Dad started a round of dance-partner swapping. He danced with Carmen, Dave with Mom, and Tony with Erica Gates. Nick twirled Robin. I did the cha-cha with Dewey until Jarret tapped his shoulder to cut in.

  “Thank you, young man,” Dewey said. “She has too much energy for me.”

  Jarret slipped his hand around my waist, and we danced together in an easy, familiar rhythm. Dancing with him was like putting on old slippers—once fuzzy and warm, now cracked and worn out.