Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  The front door flew open. Dave and Bailey stood at the threshold, firearms drawn.

  “LAPD. Put down the gun,” Dave said to Victor. Then to Cansino, “Let her go.”

  Victor set Cansino’s gun on the table and raised his hands in surrender. Cansino released me and backed away. Nick rushed into the apartment, catching me in his arms as I wobbled, woozy.

  I looked up at him. “Fashionably late.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  As Lucia’s apartment filled with men in LAPD blue, I assured Bailey, Dave, and Nick that despite the gun he aimed at me earlier, Victor was a victim. Bailey took our statements. Patrolmen handcuffed Cansino and Cruz.

  Cansino tossed his head in insolence as he and Cruz were led away for transport to the Rampart Community Police Station to be booked for Assault and Battery, Kidnapping, and Conspiracy to Defraud. Dave phoned in an order to pick up Tony Torrico for questioning, and he requested an ambulance to take Lucia to the hospital for observation.

  Lucia was curled up in the armchair, still disoriented from the unknown drug Cruz administered via Tony. I crouched next to her and said, “You did good, Lucia. I don’t know how you found the energy, but you stopped Cruz.”

  She managed a wan smile. “Paco told me to. We didn’t like her. You saw him, didn’t you? He was here.”

  I took her hand, nodding as I glanced at Paco’s photo on the altar.

  The EMTs arrived and carried Lucia out on a stretcher with Victor by her side.

  I collected my shoes out of the bathtub and checked my reflection in the mirror. What a piece of work. My left cheek and throat were red; my arm, ribs, and both legs ached. Soon parts of me would become as lavender as my ruined chiffon and lace dress.

  Nick came into the bathroom and grinned at me in the mirror. “You’re still beautiful.”

  “You’re looking through the eyes of—”

  “Love.” He kissed my neck gently. “Let’s get you home.”

  I flushed, bruised cheek and all. “Nick, how did you find the bracelet so fast? And figure out my clue? You’re amazing.”

  “I know.” He straightened his tie in mock pride then squinted. “What clue?”

  “The protection bracelet. I threw it into the kitchen when Cansino pulled me in the service elevator. Isn’t that how you knew where I was?”

  “No. That would be a little obscure, even for me.”

  “Then how did you all know to come here? I didn’t see anyone watching the building.”

  “You weren’t supposed to see them—no one was. I didn’t trust Oscar to keep his mouth shut after he told me there’d be another hit. I paid Teresa’s pals to stay out of sight. When I got the call on the dance floor saying my chica got out of a black Escalade and went upstairs with two men, I grabbed Dave and Bailey, and we came to join your party. You didn’t save us refreshments, I see.”

  “We had punch,” I said. “So the protection bracelet was meaningless, as predicted.”

  “Or Lucia’s spell ensured that the boys outside saw you,” Nick said.

  “You didn’t notice when I disappeared from the fund-raiser? Some date you are.”

  He winced. “Sorry. Not right away. Your mother asked me to dance after you left the floor. When the music ended I thought you were in the restroom or went down to the lobby.”

  “My mother wanted to dance with you?”

  Nick laughed. “Instead of Jarret. I call that progress.”

  “I call it a miracle. Congratulations.”

  * * *

  The next night Victor, Carmen, Robin, Dave, Nick, and I gathered in my parents’ living room with wine and hors d’oeuvres to celebrate.

  Victor, rested and dapper again, sat on the couch with Carmen and described his five days of captivity. “I was tied to the bed every night. First, my captors wouldn’t talk to me. Cansino came the second night to force me to call Lucia. By Friday, the gang members were drinking and bragging about how they killed Paco. They paid José Saldivar to befriend Teresa and walk her home for a week. Then they broke the lock on the Rojases’ downstairs door and lay in wait for Paco to step out on the sidewalk with José and Teresa. They counted on the police to view the drive-by shooting as revenge on Teresa and her lover. Paco would be collateral damage.”

  “A lot of ifs in the plan,” Nick said. “What if Paco had the lock fixed right away and gave Teresa a key?”

  “They weren’t in a hurry. Cansino paid them to watch until the opportunity presented itself,” Victor said.

  “Cansino assumed the grieving widow would sell?” Dad said.

  “Tony assured him she’d be vulnerable. Neither of them knew I would have power of attorney over her affairs,” Victor said.

  “Until Tony heard you talk about it at the wake,” I said. “That must have changed their plan and triggered them into action against you. But what about Cruz? Who is she?”

  “I can answer that,” Dave said. “She’s the only one who didn’t lawyer up before questioning. Cruz DeSoto is an illegal from Guatemala. She was a nurse down there and came here to earn money to send home. She ended up as Torrico’s housekeeper. They paid her a thousand dollars above her caretaker salary to stay with Lucia and report to Torrico every day.”

  “I realized Tony tricked me into hiring her the first night Cansino made me call Lucia. Cruz answered the phone and told Lucia I was on the line with Paco.” Victor closed his eyes. “I believed Tony. I trusted him.”

  Carmen took his hand. “We both did, Victor. He was a good doctor.”

  “How could someone like Tony Torrico fall in with someone like Raymon Cansino?” Mom said.

  “They go back a long time. They were in the same high school class, and they belong to the same golf club for starters,” Dave said. “I’m still digging.”

  “Was the developer in on this with Cansino, too?” I said.

  Dave shook his head. “We talked to Wright this morning. He offered full cooperation in Cansino’s investigation, including the circumstances of the sale of both buildings next door to the Rojases’. If there was intimidation involved on either side, we’ll uncover it. The LAPD Real Estate Fraud Unit has been eyeing Cansino for a while. For now, he and Torrico will sit in jail for kidnapping.”

  “And for elder abuse,” Nick said.

  “I’m alive because Liz and Nick cared so much about Lucia,” Victor said. “Their daily unannounced visits ruined Cansino’s plan to pressure Lucia. Cansino didn’t know when you two would show up. He made the move last night because he knew where you would be for a few hours. The fund-raiser gave both Cansino and Torrico an alibi while she signed the papers. Then Lucia was supposed to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital, using my signature on the commitment papers. I’m afraid to think about what they were going to do with me.”

  “What will happen to Lucia now?” Robin said.

  “When she gets out of the hospital, she’ll have a professional nurse with her—a real one—until Lucia decides what she wants to do.” Carmen turned to me. “Kitty told me what you and Nick suggested. Victor and I talked with Lucia this afternoon. We agreed it made more sense to have Kitty assume Lucia’s legal POA while Victor maintains her medical POA.”

  “And if the stream of women visitors who visited Lucia at the hospital today is any indication, the neighborhood will forgive and forget the hex,” Victor said. “She won’t be alone.”

  Nick and I exchanged knowing grins. Father Nuncio rallied his people.

  Carmen squeezed Victor’s hand. “And we can get back to making our clinic better than ever. I think you’ll like Dr. Ashworth. She reminds me of Liz.”

  I glanced away, downhearted. My career remained in jeopardy.

  “I think we need more wine.” Carmen got up and started to the kitchen. “Liz, come help me.”

  I followed her, knowing Carmen didn’t need my help to uncork a bottle. And she was as familiar with Mom’s kitchen as I was. She opened the pantry door, took out two bottles, and lowered her voice. “I
had a conversation with Bernie and Erica Gates last night.”

  My shoulders sank.

  Carmen took my hand. “You want to hear this, sweetie. When Bernie and I were dancing he asked if I knew you or your husband. He called you Mrs. Garfield. Bernie had no idea who you were, or that you worked at the clinic. When I left the dance floor, I asked to speak to Erica in private. She admitted Bernie didn’t know she was in therapy or that you were a therapist.”

  “That doesn’t excuse my actions, Carmen. I never should have gone to Bernie’s office with Nick. Erica has a right to be angry,” I said.

  “I mentioned a complaint to the California Board of Psychology would require time and statements from her. I gently suggested that her privacy is more precious than retribution,” Carmen said. “She relented, and rescinded her complaint, Liz.”

  All my tension drained. I sighed, relieved. “Thank you, Carmen. I’m very grateful, but I’m so sorry I put you in a position to defend me. Maybe the Park Clinic Wellness Group should make a new start with a different counselor.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Carmen said.

  “I’ll help you find someone wonderful,” I said.

  * * *

  After dinner and Mom’s strawberry shortcake, Robin stood to leave. “I love being here with you all, but I have to be at the office early.”

  Dave, Nick, and I followed suit with apologies. As the four of us ambled to the street, Dave stopped Robin. “So? Will you have dinner with me Saturday night?”

  “I don’t know,” Robin said with a teasing grin.

  “C’mon. Give me a chance,” Dave said. “A nice restaurant, a little wine—”

  “Go out? I’ll never drive anywhere with you again, Dave Gordon. When I got in your car last October, I wound up in jail. Last night you left me stranded to find my own ride home from a hotel in the middle of who-knows-where-ville. There is no way I’m getting in a car with you.”

  “I left to help Liz.” Dave turned around. “Nick?”

  “You’re on your own. She has a point,” Nick said.

  “You’re a big help. What if I bring dinner to your house, Robin?” Dave spread his hands. “You have to admit, I can’t desert you at home.”

  “I refuse to eat takeout for dinner.” Robin kept walking. “Maybe I’ll cook.”

  * * *

  Wednesday afternoon Nick parked behind Dilly Silva’s car across the street from the empty house in Studio City. Dilly waited in front of the mass of overgrown trees and shrubs blocking the two-story bungalow. I took Nick’s hand and led him across the street.

  “Is there a house in there?” he said, shielding his eyes from the sun as he peered through the thicket.

  “Give it a chance,” I said.

  We crunched over dead leaves and dirt to the front porch. A big bay window blocked by torn drapes was to the left of the door. The sash windows on the right were covered with newspaper.

  Dilly unlocked the heavy wooden door. “The owner died a year ago, intestate—no will. Ownership was awarded to an out-of-state relative, and the property literally just went on the market. Despite the way it looks, the listing agent told me that the roof, plumbing, and electricity were upgraded in the past five years. She claims the place just needs some cosmetics like paint and a gardener. I recommend a plastic surgeon.”

  Afternoon sun filtered throughout the vacant rooms. We wandered into the living room with its depressing beige and green damask wallpaper. The brick fireplace on the far wall showed flecks of white paint under soot. I meandered from room to room. The dining room was covered in sad brown wallpaper with a peach and beige dogwood pattern. The old-fashioned kitchen had original 1940s tile but no appliances. The downstairs half bath was an uncompleted home-improvement disaster of cheap fixtures and silver vinyl wall covering. Upstairs were two small bedrooms plus the master with a fireplace and two windows. The adjoining bathroom had a linoleum floor, an ancient sink, and a rusted tub.

  Nick studied each nook, inspected every corner, checked the view from every window, and opened each door and built-in cabinet. Dilly brushed dirt off her pink tweed suit and tsk-ed from room to room. I saw walls coming down, new paint and fixtures, a fire in both fireplaces, and polished floors.

  Alone on the back porch, I watched a hummingbird pass the lemon tree in the corner of the overgrown and deserted backyard. I imagined squeezing lemons for lemonade in the big kitchen and laughed. Me? Make lemonade from scratch? I was still smiling when Nick came out.

  “I like it here,” I said.

  “I think it has good bones, but it needs a lot of work,” he said.

  I looked up at Nick. “So do I. Maybe that’s why I feel at home.”

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Rochelle Staab

  WHO DO, VOODOO?

  BRUJA BROUHAHA