by Paul Perea
Mirabella took the arm that was extended to her and let him lead the way. They walked in silence until they were well out of earshot.
“I do love you, you know that,” Mirabella whispered and looked at him with fondness in her eyes. “I don’t know how I could have gotten through losing Philip without your friendship.”
The smile left his face. “Are you okay?”
“Honestly? No, I’m not. I missed him a lot more than usual today. Oh, I know it’s been years since he passed and most days I’m fine . . . really I am. But every now and then it surfaces and I’m there again, that awful day, reliving the pain. In my mind, I can still see that first shovel of dirt . . . the one that hit the top of his casket . . . it crushed my heart. I suppose Emma’s death has something to do with my melancholy.”
“I didn’t know you two were friends,” Matthew commented.
“We aren’t . . . I mean, we weren’t. But she’s dead and that’s a sad thing, isn’t it?” Mirabella commented, stopping to reflect for a moment before going on. “You know, I was cleaning my patio this morning and arranging the pots. When I overturned one, I found a dead mouse. The poor little thing couldn’t have been dead too long. He was gray and white with little pink paws. He had crawled in through the drainage hole, probably seeking shelter or food, and then couldn’t get out. I just stood there and looked at him and thought how horrible it must have been to die like that, trapped and so alone.
“It made me sad and I thought of Emma, and wondered what it was like, you know, her last moments. I suppose it’s silly of me, comparing the death of a human being to that of a mouse.”
“That’s not silly,” Matthew said and squeezed her hand. “You’re a good person, Mirabella.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Mirabella commented sarcastically.
“A lot of people think so.”
“A lot of people think otherwise.”
Matthew chuckled. “Don’t worry about those ones. Who cares what a bunch of old biddies have to say?”
“I suppose I do,” Mirabella admitted with a slight grin, “but I guess to them I’ll always be the outsider.”
Lost in conversation, they soon found themselves at the edge of the village proper and Mirabella excused herself, but first issued an invitation.
“Come for supper Sunday afternoon—after church services.”
“Thank you. I’ll look forward to it,” Matthew replied and paused, clearing his throat and summoning the courage to ask a question without sounding too interested. “Will Joseph be there?”
Mirabella smiled knowingly. “I’ll make sure that he is.”
Matthew returned the smile and watched her walk away. He turned to leave then stopped and called out. “Hey, what did you do with the mouse?”
Without turning around, Mirabella shouted back, “I gave him a proper burial, of course!”
A fast pace found Mirabella in the heart of the village. She went directly to the grocer where the little market was teeming with people but no one was buying anything. Those that weren’t in the cantina had been drawn to the store and were conversing loudly, each with their own theories about Emma Gomez, hoping to be overheard.
One woman spoke with great authority, commenting on reports of cicadas rising much too early and surely signaling doom.
A man swore he saw a hundred crows and ravens flying in the direction Emma’s house.
Another stated that as he had walked home the previous night, he had seen Emma’s ghost standing at the crossroads, her body green and bloated as she stood pointing towards the river.
Tact, respect, and discretion had been discarded. Mirabella thought of scolding them as she looked into the faces of frightened children hiding behind their father’s legs or gripping their mother’s hands but she had no interest in entering into any argument. So she wove her way around people, gathered the items she needed, paid the grocer, and departed quickly. The rumor mill was turning wildly and the circumstances surrounding Emma’s death had sparked people’s imaginations.
Once outside, she paused for a moment to gather her thoughts, then walked directly toward the sheriff’s office. Two young men stood leaning against the building, smoking and watching her intently as she approached. She recognized them and knew they might give her a hard time. They didn’t disappoint.
“Hey, Mirabella. Where ya think you’re goin’?”
“To see Sheriff Alary, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Now, is that any way to talk to a friend? We was just wondering,” the other young man snickered.
Mirabella, impatient with them, was quick with her admonishment. “Don’t you boys have chores to do? Why don’t you go home to your mothers before you get into trouble! Now, if you don’t mind, please get out of my way.”
“You’re wastin’ your time. He ain’t here.”
“How do you know?” Mirabella asked.
“He and the deputy headed out on their horses. Must be goin’ to check out the dead body.”
Mirabella was about to lecture the young men on respect when she heard the clip-clop of horse hooves behind her, causing the men to chuckle.
“Speaking of trouble, looks like your son is here. Hey Sal, how ya’ doin’?” One man teased as he waved at the young woman on the horse.
“Looks like your mustache is comin’ in real good,” the other said, causing both to double over in laughter.
Salome wiped the grime from her lip and studied her hand as she dismounted. “Thanks, fellas. Someday if you ever become men, you might be able to grow one, too.”
The younger man blushed and balled his fists—making a start toward Salome.
“Alright, that’s enough out of all of you,” said Mirabella, moving between the young men and her daughter. She narrowed her gaze and watched as they assessed her posture, knowing they wouldn’t dare test her. As expected, they turned and shuffled away, muttering nonsense under their breath.
“Don’t you think you’re a bit old to be picking fights with those idiots?” Mirabella scolded. “I brought you up better than that. It’s high time you start acting like a young woman instead of a tom-boy.”
Salome ignored the reprimand and deposited a quick kiss on Mirabella’s cheek. “What’s going on, mom?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’? By the way, young lady, where have you been?”
“I was up at Blue Water fishing with some friends. Look, I didn’t mean to run off without telling you, but it was kind of last minute and, as usual, you were nowhere to be found, so—” Salome let her words trail off as she stroked the muzzle of her horse.
“Here,” Mirabella said and held out the satchel of groceries to Salome. “Take these home. I need to borrow your horse.”
“Alright, but what’s the hurry?” Salome asked as she handed the reins to her mother and struggled to gain purchase with the bag.
Mirabella ignored the question as she pulled herself onto the saddle. “Oh, and on your way home, stop and tell Grace to come by the house later. I need to talk to you and your sister.”
“She and Sam are in Albuquerque visiting his folks,” Salome explained. “Mom, is something wrong?”
“I need to ride out to Emma’s—immediately—I’ll explain later.”
“Emma’s? What on earth for?” Salome chuckled. “Did she brew a bad love potion or something?”
“She’s dead,” Mirabella whispered, “and I suspect she may have been murdered.”
CHAPTER 3
The sun was high against the New Mexico sky. Mirabella shielded her eyes as she surveyed the landscape, noting the neglected fields that bordered the road leading to the home of Emma Gomez. Neat rows of chili, squash, and melon once grew here. Now only weeds littered the cracked ground. As the horse plodded slowly, Mirabella turned her head. Behind her, she spied the dormant volcanos and flat-t
opped mesas that ridged the back of the western horizon. Looking to the east, far beyond the little adobe house, sat the stone-faced Sandia Mountains, towering over the Rio Grande Valley.
From her vantage point, she could make out two figures. One stood with his back to her, hands on hips, staring toward the house. The other was on his knees, retching and vomiting. She stopped the horse, giving the man time to finish and collect himself. Mirabella knew the weak-stomached deputy. Juan Gallegos was his name, and he was ill-suited for the job. Everybody knew it and teased him but Mirabella wouldn’t make him suffer another embarrassment. She could wait.
Finally, the man stood and removed his shirt, letting it fall in a heap on the ground. He stood there in his undershirt, wiping his mouth and dry-heaving, accepting the cigarette that was offered. Seeing that it was safe to proceed, she nudged the horse and they moved toward the house, the horse’s footfalls announcing her arrival.
“Go away. We have nothing to report yet!” The sheriff yelled without turning around.
“Not even to me?” Mirabella asked as she dismounted and walked toward him. Before she could react, Mirabella found herself lifted off the ground, caught in the large man’s bear-hug.
“Put me down, gringo!”
“Hola, Señora Cortez,” the deputy greeted, watching the spectacle and rapidly puffing on the cigarette to mask the taste of vomit.
“Juan, why don’t you take your horse and ride out to the end of the road to meet the coroner. The ambulance might miss the turn,” the sheriff instructed, still holding onto a squirming Mirabella.
“I said put me down! You’re crushing me!”
“Ah hell, you can take it, Mari,” the sheriff laughed and then released her as he fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. “Want one?”
“No thanks, Tiny.”
“You know you’re the only one that still calls me that,” he commented, the words forced through pinched lips as he lit his cigarette.
“What would you prefer I call you, Sheriff Alary?”
“Mike would be alright. Darling or husband would be even better, but sweetie-pie will do for now,” he teased.
“Well, you’re certainly persistent, I’ll give you that,” Mirabella said as she peeked over his shoulder toward the open door. “So, sweetie-pie, I heard about Emma Gomez. Should I be worried? Is there a killer on the loose?”
“Ah, shoot! Don’t tell me you’re like the rest of those damn knuckleheads out there! I’m gonna tell you what I’m telling them—we’re still investigating and not saying anything until we know for certain what the hell happened.”
“I’m just scared, is all,” Mirabella said, doing her best to sound meek.
“Horse feathers! You’re not scared of anything and I know that for a fact.”
Not true, she thought, and if my suspicions are correct, I’m very scared.
“Look, I’m not asking you to divulge anything that’s confidential,” Mirabella said with sincerity. “I just have one question.”
“What’s that?” He asked as he took a drag from the cigarette and coughed.
“All I want to know is, did she die of natural causes?”
He shook his head and smirked. “I can’t tell you that.”
“I heard that she may have been murdered.”
“Go home, Mari,” he said dismissively as he took another long drag on his cigarette before letting it drop to the ground.
“You should quit those things,” Mirabella scolded as she grabbed the saddle horn and pulled herself onto the horse.
“I should quit a lot of things,” he mumbled and winked at her as he grabbed hold of the harness. “Hey, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
He looked up at her with concern. “Keep your doors locked and a rifle loaded . . . just in case.”
Back at home, Mirabella stood for a moment in the doorway, disappointed and admittedly shaken by the sheriff’s warning and unwillingness to give her any information. She was accustomed to getting her way, especially with him, but she reminded herself that he was doing his job and she had no right to ask him to do otherwise.
The dark silence of the house chased those thoughts from her mind. She shouted out to Salome, but there was no answer. The satchel of groceries sat on the heavy wooden kitchen table, its contents spilling out in disarray. Swearing under her breath, Mirabella put the items away, making a mental note to reprimand her careless daughter.
With Salome off again to who-knew-where, Mirabella decided to take advantage of the solitude and prepared some tea, lacing it with a pinch of crushed peyote button. Since she was unable to obtain any information from the sheriff, she would seek out answers in her own unique way.
Settling into a comfortable chair, she sipped the brew, allowing it to relax both her body and mind. Once free of distraction, Mirabella closed her eyes and focused, sending out an invitation. For a moment, her body went limp and the cup fell to the floor, the porcelain shattering, sending fragments in all directions. It wasn’t the soothing aspect of the peyote filtering through her body that left her momentarily weak. It was them.
Mirabella felt their arrival, ghostly shadows all around, caressing her body as they passed—some too close for comfort. But she remained focused, even as a tremor moved the still air, gently rattling the cupboards. It was always this way when too many of them came at once. The overwhelming weakness. The charge in the air. But the strength that had momentarily abandoned her quickly returned. She slowly opened her eyes as her ghostly friends materialized and stood in a circle around her, stoic and ominous and waiting for a word.
Mirabella turned her head and took note of the visitors, examining their faces and praying that nothing unwanted had entered her abode. Calling upon the dead could be dangerous, especially if an unknown entity followed. To her relief, she saw only familiar friends but remained alert should any of them turn on her. She had experienced enough attacks in her life to learn that ghosts could be somewhat unreliable—even disloyal—depending on their mood or desire.
“Why have you summoned us, woman?” The dominant and haughty spirit Josephina asked, speaking first, as was always the case when Josephina appeared.
“It’s good to see you too, Josephina,” Mirabella commented sarcastically as she knelt down to pick up the shattered pieces of porcelain, taking care not to cut herself. “I have a mystery on my hands and I’m hoping one of you may be able to shed some light. You see, Emma Gomez recently died and there was a—”
Josephina, eager for a visit, interrupted. “Mirabella Cortez! Why, it’s been far too long since we’ve had a proper chat. Or was it yesterday? Time can be confusing to us, as you know. Still, I feel as if we’ve much to catch up on!”
Josephina carried on about family and friends long passed until Mirabella lost patience and interrupted the talkative spirit, who, when pressed for information, had nothing to offer regarding Emma. Frustrated, Mirabella addressed the others.
Next was the ghost of a shy, nameless boy. His face was sweet, with large caring eyes and mussed hair, as if he’d just come in from a windy day. The first time he had appeared to Mirabella, she had inquired about his name but he had refused. Since that day, he had never disclosed it, no matter how many times she asked. She was left with no choice but to refer to him simply as, “the little boy”. He would appear to her from time to time, uninvited, either playing about the house or standing at the door next to an unassuming living visitor. Sometimes she would read to him and watch with care as the boy, contented by the stories, vanished into slumber. She had come to love him and found herself needlessly worrying about him just as she would any living child.
The boy stated that he had heard Emma’s cries as she was attacked, for she was indeed assaulted, but he did not witness the actual engagement. And by the time he turned his attention to her, she was dead and her spirit gone into the ligh
t.
Pilar, an anxious, opinionated ghost, interrupted. She, too, had heard Emma’s cries, but as with the boy, was too late to see what had happened. Then, as she was wont to do, Pilar became agitated and went about the house rearranging things and slamming her phantom fists onto the kitchen table. She threw objects onto the floor, wailing loudly and pushing chairs around.
Mirabella stood up slowly and faced Pilar. With her eye trained on the unruly spirit, Mirabella reached tentatively for the bundle of sage and matches sitting at the center of the table. She watched as Pilar’s continence changed from anger to despair. Knowing what was to come, the ghost pleaded with Mirabella not to send her away and Mirabella complied with the wish. She sat down but held tight to the match, just in case.
Finally, she addressed Jeb and Silas, the last of her ghostly friends. The inquisitive young men were always at each other’s side, dressed similarly in heavy wool suits with bandanas tied around their necks and wide-brimmed hats on their heads. These they removed respectfully and came forward, asking Mirabella for the particulars of Emma’s death and why she was interested.
Mirabella shared what little she knew of Emma’s final vision, and as she looked at the five ghosts, she saw fear in each of their faces. With intensity and emotion in their voices, they spoke over each other, warning Mirabella to stay away from him, to stay away from the woods, for the one Emma had spoken of was abhorrent to them, a powerful devil filled with anger and hate. As quickly as they appeared, they retreated, whispering a name as they vanished, a name that Mirabella could not decipher over the static of their leaving.
Mirabella awoke the following day and decided on a dangerous path. She would attempt to visit the bosque in spirit form. Traveling outside of her body was fraught with risk, for if her spirit was captured by the mysterious man, she would be undone. Without her spirit, her body would perish and her soul would be his prisoner.
Mirabella cast a spell that rendered herself as quicksilver, ever-changing and difficult to hold. Should the man appear and attempt to subdue her, she would change form and slip through his grasp.