Bruja Brouhaha Page 7

  Flower bouquets on Paco’s sidewalk memorial withered under the sun. A handwritten sign, there since Sunday, asked for witnesses to call the police. Another sign read simply: I love you, Paco.

  A new sign, scrawled in Spanish, stopped me.

  Arden en infierno con tu diablo marido, bruja. Burn in hell with your devil husband, witch.

  Nick yanked the placard from the grouping and ripped it into pieces. “Idiots.”

  Chapter Nine

  Statues of the Virgin Mary, St. Christopher, and assorted saints, plus plaster angels and wooden crucifixes, filled the front window of Botanica Rojas. Nick and I went inside and were enveloped by a haunting ranchera. The sadness in the singer’s voice, crooning for her lover’s return, made me ache for the familiar sounds of Paco’s chatter and Lucia’s light laughter.

  Nick called down the aisle. “Lucia? Cruz?”

  We walked along the rows of candles and religious icons displayed on shelves lining the turquoise walls. Assortments of labeled oils and herbs stood in the glass cases that bordered both sides of the shop. “Attract Love,” “Go Away Evil,” “Drops of Luck,” “Come to Me,” “Forget Me Not,” “Uncrossing,” and Lucia’s custom potions. Promises. I used to tease Lucia and Paco about trying to drive my profession out of business.

  “Back here.” Cruz waved over the antennae of the old TV on the back counter. “Lucia is in the storeroom, packing herbs.”

  The music stopped. Lucia’s voice came from the back. “Who’s there? Who is it, Cruz?”

  “It’s me. Nick. Are you decent?” Nick pulled the red curtains apart and disappeared toward Lucia’s giggles.

  I wavered, undecided whether to follow him or stop and chat with Cruz. Curiosity and concern for Lucia won. I set my purse and the cookies on the counter, smiling at the caregiver, who looked rather un-nurselike in her navy zip sweatshirt and jeans.

  “How is Lucia today?” I said.

  Cruz, eyes on the TV, tilted her head from side to side, so-so.

  “Did she calm down last night, or did Victor have to stay the night?”

  “Dr. Morales didn’t stay. He gave Lucia a pill, went over some papers with her, then got a phone call and left around seven.”

  Papers? Odd way to distract a grieving woman. “Did he come back this morning?”

  “Not yet. Lucia’s better today. She decided to come down here after her nap.” Cruz cocked her head. “Are you and Nick related to her?”

  “No, but we’re very close. Paco and Lucia treated us like de facto grandchildren,” I said. “We think of each other as family.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the curtain. “I don’t think you should stay too long. Lucia needs to go upstairs before she gets too tired.”

  “I’m impressed she came down here. I think this is the first time she opened the shop since . . . Well, since Saturday,” I said.

  “She came down to find Paco.” Cruz circled her finger at her temple.

  Was her unprofessional gesture supposed to be funny? “Excuse me?”

  “I meant that Lucia was confused. I thought being down here would make her happy, not so mopey and depressed. Dr. Morales asked me to keep her busy. Working in the store is better than being cooped up in her apartment all day.”

  “Did any customers come in?”

  “No customers, no visitors, no phone calls,” Cruz said. “I don’t know how she’ll get by without customers or someone to help her in the back room. I didn’t take this job to work retail.”

  “If you’re worried about your pay, don’t be. I have plenty of money.” Lucia, wearing Paco’s long burgundy sweater over a striped housedress, came through the curtain with Nick. “I don’t want strangers working here, eavesdropping, and helping themselves to my merchandise.”

  Cruz put up her hands. “That’s not what I meant. I was explaining how I don’t have experience in a shop if a customer comes.”

  I hugged my elderly friend, picking up the scent of dark chocolate mixed with layers of patchouli and nutmeg—her own private blend of oils. “I brought you a present, Lucia.”

  She accepted the bag of cookies, opening it with the innocence of a child at Christmas. A smile as warm as sunshine broke over her face, and her eyes shone with delight. “Mexican wedding cakes? My favorite. Thank you, Teresa. You’re a sweet girl.”

  I swapped uneasy glances with Nick. “I’m Liz. Remember?”

  “Liz?” Lucia knitted her brows and searched my face. “Liz. Oh, Liz. I’m sorry. All the customers today confused me. So many faces and names to remember.”

  “You didn’t have customers, Lucia.” Cruz glanced at me and shrugged. “She gets mixed up. She called me Teresa, too, when she woke up this morning.”

  “I know who you are,” Lucia snapped. “I made a mistake. I’m old.”

  Cruz moved toward the curtained door. “I’ll go make some tea. You can take your afternoon medication with a cookie. Would you like that?”

  “Not too strong,” Lucia said after her. “And turn Lola back on.”

  “Lola?” I said.

  Nick leaned on the counter. “Lola Beltran was the most famous ranchera singer of all time. Lola was to ranchera what Madonna was to dance.”

  Lucia grabbed his arm, lowering her voice. “Cruz is horrible in the kitchen. Worse than Liz was.”

  “But you redeemed me, turned me into a world-class tamale cook,” I said.

  “You’re smart. You listen,” Lucia said. “Cruz burned Mrs. Pena’s casserole when she tried to heat it for lunch. I’m not going to cook for her.”

  “Do you want me to bring you dinner?” Nick said. “I will.”

  “You’re a good boy.” Lucia shifted her attention to me. “Do you love him?”

  She should have asked how much money I had in the bank: an easier question to dodge on the spot. Nick and I danced around every adjective to express our feelings for each other, but neither one of us had brought up the L word. Yet. “He’s very lovable.”

  “That’s not an answer.” She reached for Nick’s chin. “Do you love her?”

  “I adore her, Lucia,” he said.

  That wasn’t an answer either.

  “Paco tells me he loves me whenever I walk into a room. He makes me feel adored every day of my life.” She looked between us. “Now, do you love him? Do you love her?”

  “We love you. That’s why we’re here,” Nick said.

  “Fibber,” Lucia said.

  Cruz came back with a cup of dark tea and Lucia’s pill. Lucia took a dainty bite of a cookie then popped the pill in her mouth.

  “What medication are you taking?” I said.

  When Lucia couldn’t answer, Cruz said, “Xanax. Twice a day. Dr. Morales’s orders.”

  “Victor scolded me about my hex last night, but Paco approved.” Lucia grinned.

  Nick brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. “Lucia.”

  “Don’t.” She pushed his hand away. “I’m not imagining things. I feel Paco all the time. His spirit won’t cross until his killer is caught. And Victor was here last night, too. I know he was.”

  “Yes, he was,” I said. “He brought you home. But Lucia, I’m a little worried about your memory. Do you mind if I ask Victor about the medication you’re taking?”

  “She’ll be better after the pill kicks in. Maybe you should go,” Cruz said.

  “Don’t handle me, Cruz. I’m not a baby.” Lucia turned to me. “You can talk to Victor. I trust you. But I don’t want either you or Nick to leave yet. I cast the hex to draw out and punish the guilty. I want to put a protection spell over you so my orishas will know you’re my friends.”

  “We came to visit, Lucia. We don’t need protection,” I said.

  “Yes you do. The hex is powerful and directed.” Lucia stood and started pulling bottles off the shelves. “Nick, while I prepare, look in the case and select two resguardos—amulets to ward off evil.”

  I raised a hand to protest. Nick held me back, whispering, “Go along
with her, Liz. Performing the spell will make her happy.”

  * * *

  Lucia’s inner sanctum consisted of a small altar and a stool in the back room storage closet. Framed images of saints in faded robes with golden scepters covered the aged red walls. Dried fruit, half-smoked cigars and cigarettes, and hurricane candles lined the baseboards. With room for only two people, Nick volunteered me to go first. Fine with me. There was time for Lucia’s hex to work some hoodoo on him for goading me.

  Lucia lit a candle in a bowl of water on the altar and gestured for me to sit on the stool. Muttering an incantation under her breath in Spanish, she dipped into a small bowl of oil and touched her finger to my forehead. I knew Spanish well, but her mumblings were too garbled for me to translate.

  She held the bracelet Nick chose for my amulet in front of the altar in offering. The bracelet was fashioned with half-inch wooden pieces banded together, each square painted with a saintly image. She slipped the bracelet onto my right wrist, reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish, and set my palms together in prayer fashion. She took an aerosol can marked “Go Away Evil” and sprayed a mist around my head and body.

  Repeating the ceremony on Nick, she placed the etched brass coin he selected as his amulet into his hand, then prayed and sprayed him. “Bueno,” she said, setting the can on the floor. “Done.

  “The images on your bracelet represent the Seven African Powers,” Lucia said to me. “Wear it and trouble will avoid you. Nick, keep the amulet in your pocket. An orisha will protect you. I’ll petition Orúnla to watch both of you—he has power over destiny and is very wise.”

  We filed back into the botanica, where Cruz waited on her stool at the end of the counter, watching TV with her chin on her fist. She looked at her watch, then at the front door, a not very subtle hint for us to leave already.

  I collected my purse and hugged Lucia good-bye. “I’ll check with Victor on your meds. I’ll come back to visit after my session at the clinic on Saturday.”

  Nick kissed Lucia on the cheek. “And I’ll call you in the morning. If you need anything, call me. You know my number. Make sure you set the alarm when you go upstairs.”

  As soon as we hit the sidewalk outside, I took out my phone and dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” Nick said.

  “Victor.” Voice mail answered. I left a message. As we crossed the street to the parking lot I said to Nick, “I wish someone else, a closer friend, could stay with Lucia.”

  “You don’t like Cruz already? You just met her,” Nick said.

  “Here’s how she described Lucia to me.” I circled my finger at my temple, mimicking Cruz. “Victor was in a rush to hire her. Lucia deserves compassion, a companion who will care for her, and I don’t mean her gods and saints.”

  “Lucia is comforted by her beliefs,” Nick said. “Santeria is centuries old. The orishas she prays to originated in tribal Africa.”

  “I’m worried about her immediate state of mind. She confused me for Teresa again today, the third or fourth time this week. Her confusion about identities and the delusion that Paco is with her could be reactions to medication or dementia.”

  He waved me off. “Her quirkiness is part of her charm. And she explained why she senses Paco.”

  “What you consider quirky I see as an elderly woman at risk for mental disorders and complications.”

  Nick stopped by the car. “You’re angry because Lucia put a spell on you.”

  “No. I know she meant well. But I think you enjoy watching me participate in meaningless supernatural stunts.”

  “What’s with you today? First you criticize me for placating frightened kids, now you indict me for humoring Lucia. Lighten up. Have Victor check Lucia’s medication, take her to a gerontologist or a psychiatrist, reorganize her life if you want to, but give me some credit for caring about both of you,” Nick said. “Let Victor handle the medical diagnoses.”

  He was right, of course. I had acted out my frustrations by lashing out at him and the spell. “I love how you care, Nick. I’m sorry.” I took his hand. “Let’s go back to the clinic. Maybe Victor decided to show up.”

  Chapter Ten

  Patients packed the Park Clinic lobby, most standing in front of the reception desk and talking over one another. Jackson handed out and collected clipboards, barking at the insistent patients to wait their turn.

  “Busy place,” Nick said to Jackson after the last person sat down.

  “Everyone thinks the hex is contagious and they’re at death’s door. I had to send Miguel to the market to buy your magic anti-hex mints for the hypochondriacs. I tell them I got the antidote special delivery from an expert. That would be you, honey.” She winked at Nick. “That was a good idea.”

  Nick leaned on the counter. “What flavor?”

  “Same as yours. White peppermint,” Jackson said, smiling.

  “Good choice. Though I prefer orange for severe cases,” Nick said.

  “This isn’t funny,” I said. “What if someone is really sick?”

  “Honey, I been a clinic receptionist since my first baby was in diapers. I can tell the sick ones from the lonely or crazy ones in a blink. The sick is in their eyes. I’m not just flippin’ through magazines back here, you know. I pay attention.” She straightened a stack of papers with a crisp bang. “Did you forget something, Liz?”

  “We stopped by to see if Dr. Morales decided to come in,” I said.

  “No, hon, he didn’t. Want to leave a message?”

  I shook my head, disappointed, and thanked her.

  Miguel stopped us at the door. “I saw you come out of Botanica Rojas. Did the police tell Lucia anything about the shooting? Did they catch the guys who shot Paco yet?”

  “No. I’m sorry, no news,” I said.

  “Were you friends with Paco?” Nick said.

  “Si.” Miguel dropped his head. “He was a good man. Paco was nice to everyone. He told me stories about my parents and grandparents from back in the old days. He and Dr. Morales bought me lunch sometimes, too. I never thought the gangs would get Paco. Let me know if I can help Lucia.”

  “You can. Keep an eye out for her until things settle down. If you see any trouble around Botanica Rojas, call the police, and then let me know, too.” Nick handed him a business card.

  “I will.” Miguel held the door open, waving as we crossed the lot to Nick’s car.

  * * *

  We drove toward the Valley, beating the rush hour traffic by . . . Well, we didn’t. There was no such thing as beating L.A. traffic on a weekday. Nick turned the radio to sports talk and fixated on a basketball discussion about his hometown Chicago Bulls versus the L.A. Lakers. A guy-guy, Nick liked every sport, in any season, on any field. Throw a ball in the air and Nick would get two beers out of the refrigerator and invite friends over to watch the ball land. I limited my love for sports to football—my Dad and brother’s passion—and to baseball, the sport I spent fifteen years virtually married to.

  As traffic crept along the 101 Freeway, I settled back to make a call. Mom answered on the second ring.

  “I’m glad you called,” she said.

  “Are you still at the hospital with Carmen?”

  “I just left there. Her surgery went well. Her doctor wants her to rest. Now I’m on my way to the mall to pick up a pair of slippers for her. I was going to call you when I got home. Dilly Silva wants to know where you want to live, and how much you’re willing to pay for your house.”

  “We can talk about that later,” I said. “Did you reach Victor?”

  “I left him a message. Dilly wants to organize listings for you right away. You have to find a place and go through escrow before you can move in, you know.”

  “I haven’t had time to think about moving. Tell Dilly I’ll call her over the weekend.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be so casual about this, Liz. Although . . . You could move in with me and Daddy for a few months while you’re house shopping.”

 
My brain flashed a Terror Alert. I loved my Mom, I adored my Dad, but I was too old to move home with my well-meaning parents. “Thanks for the offer but Daddy is allergic to cats.”

  “Your brother Dave can take the cat.” Mom called him your brother Dave in case in the last thirty-eight years I forgot we were related.

  “Erzulie goes where I go. And vice versa,” I said.

  Grinning, Nick whispered, “Want some privacy? I could step outside.”

  I covered the mouthpiece. “Cute. Mom is orchestrating. I’ll be off in a minute.” I said into the phone, “Can we pick up this conversation when I get home, Mom? Nick and I are driving into the Valley now. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Don’t. I’ll stop by your place as soon as I finish at the mall. I’ll see you around seven.” The phone clicked, and Mom was gone.

  “She invited me to move back home,” I said to Nick.

  “My offer must be sounding better and better.”

  * * *

  When my doorbell rang at seven, Erzulie darted up the steps out of sight. I opened the door to my smiling mother.

  Although Carmen and Mom were both in their sixties and the best of friends, they were physical contradictions. Carmen, at five feet nine, was four inches taller than Mom. Carmen had her shoulder-length raven locks colored at a salon. Mom wore her white hair in a perfectly coiffed short pageboy. Carmen dressed in bright colors. Mom chose designer pastels. But they shared the laugh of a sailor on leave, and if plied with enough drinks, their stories about their nights on the Sunset Strip during their youth made polite company blush.

  Mom settled into the plush chair by my living room window, tucking her Chanel flats beneath her pleated gray slacks. “I’m glad you have to move out of here. This place is too small for you. No one lives in one-bedrooms anymore. And why on earth is it so white?”

  “It calms me,” I said to the woman who redecorated the family homestead entirely in beige. “I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  “No thank you, dear. We’ll hire a decorator for your new house. Dilly can house hunt with you on Sunday. I told her to find listings in Encino and Sherman Oaks, maybe Tarzana?”