Scent of Murder, page 13
For a moment, I closed my eyes that were stinging from the fire smoke, then opened them, and looked my ancestor in the eye. “Abuelita, you know I love learning about aromatherapy and enjoy taking the class you suggested; I’ve even made friends there. But my life has taken such a sudden and serious downturn. At the moment, I’m not in the mood to absorb any more teachings.”
“Tough rocks!” Doña Isabella dismissed the excuse with a wave of a bony hand. “I’m going to give you a couple of recipes anyway. You’ll thank me later.”
Por el amor de Dios! I shrugged, resigned to the inevitable.
The old lady busily ate the nuts she’d collected like a squirrel, savoring each one, while I waited impatiently.
“In case you’re interested, I’m not really eating these,” my ancestor explained. “I’m merely enjoying the memory of their taste. You’ll find them all in a neat pile on the ground when I leave.”
She rubbed her hands together, presumably to brush away nonexistent nut crumbs. “All right. First of all, you need to ‘Calm the Troubled Spirit.’ By that, I mean your own spirit, not me. Ha! Ha!” She hooted. “I’m as serene as a fluffy white cloud. Here’s how to go about it:
“In a dram vial, blend twelve drops of rose, six drops of vanilla, three drops of cinnamon, and three drops of angelica oils. Angelica is a precious essence, one reason you only use three drops.” She gave me a sly look. “You can substitute clary sage or narcissus, if angelica is too pricey for your puny budget.”
Despite my troubles, this spirit had managed to capture my interest. So, I ignored the not-so-veiled reference to my tendency to overspend. “How do I use this concoction?”
“In my day, we sprinkled it over hot rocks in the sweat lodge, but you can put it in a room diffuser, on a light bulb ring, even in an inhaler. Or to use it as a perfume, fill the rest of the vial with sweet almond oil, shake well, and dab it on your pulse points.”
She finished off the last nut and licked her fingers. “I call the next formula ‘Balancing Act’ because it helps balance the emotions. Use fifteen drops each of amber and neroli. Add a few drops of any combination of allspice, bitter almond, lavender, or spruce. Use it in the same way as the previous formula.”
She paused, then fixed a jet-eyed stare on me. “I’ll give you yet another recipe in case you sniff out that someone has it in for you. Like maybe they left a Voodoo poppet by your office door, or something like that. It’ll protect you from the brunt of that person’s wrath.”
I stared at her but kept quiet.
“Mix together twenty-four drops of red rose and six drops each of cinnamon, marjoram, basil, and juniper. Add this mixture to a four-ounce bottle of aloe vera carrier oil, and you’ll have created a protective massage oil.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Of course, you’re gonna need to find someone to rub it on your back.”
I flashed back to Eddy lying stone cold on the rug, and a lump caught in my throat. I looked down at my notebook and coughed. “These formulas look great, Abuela. I think they’ll help keep me going.”
Doña Isabella tossed the empty pinecones on the fire and pinned me with a penetrating look. “I’ll tell you something else, my six-times-great-granddaughter. Whenever you see one side of a coin, you can assume that the other side also exists.” She paused to let the words sink in, then continued.
“I don’t need to tell you, being a literary genius and all, that in every story between the beginning and the end is the middle. And you’re in the middle of this one up to your eyeballs.”
My spirit granny had managed to divert my attention with the recipes. Now all the pain and uncertainty came flooding back.
“Don’t you think I know that?” I snapped. “I’ve tried to make sense of it all, but I have a list of suspects longer than a Latin American constitutional document. Everyone’s on it, from Baldomero Vigil to Clive Strange.”
My ancestor cackled and waved a gnarled hand. “As to many of your suspects, I say, ‘If every fool carried a stick, firewood would be scarce.’ If you want my advice, pay attention to what everyone says. As the proverb goes, ‘Each word might have three explanations and three interpretations.’”
I started to reply, but my relative cocked her head toward the sky. “Hear that?”
I shook my head. Not a sound disturbed The High Country summer serenity.
“I guess it doesn’t penetrate through the ether to this world. It’s the Holy Bells calling us to choir practice with the angels. The longest day of the year is coming up later this month. Up There, the angels put on a fancy celestial celebration to welcome in the summer season.”
“You sing in the choir?” I couldn’t believe the angels would let my abuelita sing with her raspy voice.
“With my raspy voice? I don’t think so.”
Doña Isabella stood stiffly and bent to retrieve her shawl. “I pump the celestial aroma diffuser. It’s something like an ethereal organ, only it plays fragrances instead of music. My guardian angel, though, has a divine voice and is chief soloist.” She turned to go.
“Wait! You have a guardian angel?”
“Of course, and so do you. Your guardian’s quite a personality. We play skittles together and joke a lot, even sometimes about you. You should visit with your guardian and have a chat about The Love Department.”
“But I want to know—”
Doña Isabella cackled. “You want to know many things, but Heaven waits for no one. Hasta la vista, Chica. Happy scenting!”
With that, she spread her arms wide with her shawl and disappeared into the ether. From somewhere high above the trees, I thought I heard a hummingbird twitter the message, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Remember the maxim, ‘One misfortune calls another.’”
Chapter Eighteen
“Al que no quiere caldo, dos tazas.”
“It never rains but it pours.” — Spanish Proverb
On Sunday, I struggled to fit into my favorite pair of jeans and failed. Standing in front of my full-length closet mirror with the pants barely over my knees and looking like I’d just dismounted from a horse after a hundred-mile ride, I clicked my tongue in disgust. Why hadn’t I asked Doña Isabella for something useful when we visited, like some extreme weight loss recipes? Between dinner at my parents’ twice a week, the calorie-loaded, institutional food at the faculty dining hall, and the even worse fare at Taco Loco, my default fast food restaurant for when I don’t feel like cooking, which is almost always, not to mention my mounting stress level, the pounds were creeping on.
My parents were on a weekend fishing and camping trip, one of the few respites they allow themselves from the daily grind at the restaurant. So, I wasn’t eating at their house tonight. Time to take swift action. Armed with my credit card, I hopped into The Purple Grape and plowed over to Regal Foods with visions of cauliflower and celery dancing in my head.
The supermarket always teemed with shoppers on the weekend, so I parked in front of the adjacent strip mall. As I checked out store display windows on my way to the market, I noticed a hole-in-the-wall that sold clocks, watches, and small electronic devices. Maybe they also carried antique clocks or at least knew about them. It was worth a try.
The attendant was a pimply, gum-chewing college-age kid. He wore black shorts that did nothing for his knobby knees and a black and chartreuse day-glow T-shirt emblazoned with the logo “Lager Heads Beer.” He seemed more interested in fooling with his phone than attending to his lone, over-18-year-old customer.
“We only sell hot new stuff here.” He shot down my question about antique clocks with a roll of his wrist that implied he didn’t get why anyone would want to buy old junk anyway.
On my way out the door, my gaze lit on a sleek-looking silver pen in a display case. “What an attractive pen,” I said. “Can you tell me about it?”
The boy drifted over to the case. With more enthusiasm than he’d shown previously, he told me that they’d just gotten this in. “It’s a pen and then some. Cool, i’n’it?”
“What’s cool about it?” I asked with forced patience.
The boy took it from the case and demonstrated by scribbling on a scrap of paper. “It’s a real pen, alright, but it’s also a voice-activated mini recorder.”
“But can’t a phone do that?”
The youth fixed me with a pitying look. “You don’t get it, do ya’, lady? Spies use this when they don’t want their targets to know they’re being recorded. This baby doesn’t make a sound.” He snapped his gum for emphasis.
I was intrigued. “So, how does it work? “
“See this clip thingy? You attach it to your purse, your belt, or your pocket. Jus’ move the clip forward to record and back to stop recording. An’ see.” He unscrewed the pen at the center. “You got here an 18 GB USB flash drive. This li’l puppy’s got MP3, 512 Kbps audio quality, and 142 hours of digital recording time. All in a pen. And this pinhole microphone near the clip records up to 20 feet. Sweet, huh?” He twirled the pen around like a miniature baton, chomped his gum, and grinned like Alfred E. Newman.
I took the pen and weighed it in my hand. For now, it might be useful to record ideas related to the murder as they popped into my head. My enthusiasm was building as I thought that, like an international spy, I might record interviews with suspects without them knowing. I could also use it to record ideas for papers I was writing, or classes I was teaching whenever the spirit moved me. I grinned to myself. I could record Angela when she’s complaining about me and play it back to her. I might even record a session with Doña Isabella to see if her voice was real or in my head. Then again, I might not be eager to find that out.
Five minutes later and having spent more than I should, but believing the investment worth it, I trolled the produce aisle at the supermarket with “Lady Spymistress” attached by its “clip thingy” to the inside of my purse. After an hour, I emerged victorious with a grocery cart that looked like I’d bought a truck garden.
I tucked the bags as gently as babies into the back seat of The Grape so as not to bruise the pristine greenery. But when I went to start the car, the engine made clickety-click noises like a bicycle with a card in the spokes.
“What’s happened to you, girl?” I lifted the hood and stared at the car’s innards.
“Something up with your car, Issy?” A voice from behind startled me.
“Oh, hello, Michael. It seems my Bug’s gone belly-up.”
Michael Kent surveyed the car through eyes so hazy I wondered whether he’d just rolled out of bed despite the fact it was mid-afternoon. Then again, his eyes often held a drowsy look. “Try starting it up again,” he suggested.
I attempted to, but only got the clickety-click.
“You can stop now,” he called. “I know what’s wrong.”
He closed the lid and came around to my side. “The solenoid on your starter motor’s not working right. You’ll have to get it towed, or we can give it a push.”
“Oh dear, that’s serious!” I exclaimed with conviction, even though I hadn’t a clue what a solenoid was. “Thanks for offering, but I’ll call my brother. He’s got a friend with a tow truck.” I stared at the bags of produce in the back seat and wrinkled my forehead. “It’ll take them a while to get here. Meanwhile, what am I going to do with all these groceries?” I moaned.
Michael followed my gaze. “No worries. It’ll all fit in my car. I’ll drive you home.”
“Would you, Miguel? That’s sweet of you.”
Michael, or Miguel, as I thought I’d better start calling him now that he was playing Good Samaritan, moseyed off. I called Germán, who said that he and his friend Al Benavides, who owns an auto repair shop, would be over to pick it up in an hour or so. Michael—I mean Miguel—returned a few minutes later with his Porsche convertible. After we stuffed everything into the jump seat, we climbed into the car and lurched into traffic.
“Hope you don’t mind if I stop by my place to get something,” he said without asking me where I lived. “Won’t take a minute.”
“No problem,” I shouted over the engine’s roar as he lead-footed it through a yellow light. How could I object? He was doing me a favor.
After a rollicking ride through most of Boulder, we screeched to a halt at Miguel’s place on the northern edge of town. My mind was on the unprotected produce languishing in the sun, but I acquiesced with a polite nod to his invitation to come in and take a look around.
Squeezed between a run-down motel and a facility for the homeless, the sagging single row of apartments looked like they’d been slapped together from former storage units. The double garage-like space that Miguel called home was divided in half by cheap wallboard. The front area had been converted into a living room and kitchenette. A doorway crudely cut into the wall revealed the bedroom and bathroom beyond.
“I fell in love with it the minute I saw it,” Miguel said, his eyes now looking opaque. “This is where the real, down-home people hang, not the boring college crowd up on The Mound.” He led me from the main room toward the bedroom. “Wadjda think?”
I paused in the doorway, leaning my hand on the molding, and peeked into the bedroom. The only furniture was a king-size waterbed covered with a black velvety spread, a dresser that looked like it came from Goodwill, and a full-length mirror opposite the bed. “Hmm. Unique.”
I turned back to the living room and ogled the posters plastered on the walls advertising heavy metal and redneck metal bands. I never would have guessed this aspect of Michael Kent, given his Preppy attire and demeanor at school. “Looks like you’re into hard rock.”
He leaned lazily against the doorway to the bedroom and, in a slurred voice, said, “Yeah. I go to every conshirt I can. Hey, wanna drink? It’ll relash you.”
“No thanks.” Obviously, he’d already indulged in one too many. Funny, I hadn’t smelled any alcohol. Maybe he drank vodka, but didn’t vodka also smell? I shifted my weight from one foot to the other My shoes were starting to pinch. “I’ve got to get going. Put away the groceries and all. Didn’t you say you wanted to pick something up here?”
He gave me a bleary-eyed smile and raised his hand with the thumb and forefinger almost touching. “Jus’ hol’ on a liddle minute. Now don’t you go dishappearin’ on me.”
And how could I do that with my groceries expiring in his car? Yet in his current condition I doubted I wanted a ride home from him anymore.
Michael vanished into the bedroom and closed the door. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the living area, I tapped the toe of my sandal on the dirt-brown shag carpet. Glancing around, I took in the heaps of magazines burying the coffee table, greasy automobile parts piled in a corner, a stack of unwashed dishes in the sink, and a thick layer of dust coating everything. The apartment reeked of stale cigarettes and beer. Caray! Qué lío! How to get out of this mess?
Before I could decide, the bedroom door swung open. I was stunned to see my student appear wrapped in a burgundy-colored plush bathrobe, balancing two joints between his fingers.
“One for the profeshor and one for the shtudent,” he said with a lopsided grin.
My heart started pounding, and I backed up all the way to the front door. “No, Michael.” My voice came out, sounding strangled. “You have the wrong idea.”
“Oh, come on, Ishy. Don’t fool around. You knew what this wash about when you…ah… accepted the ride.”
I raised a palm in protest. “No, Michael, te lo juro, I swear this was not my intention.” I scrambled to assume a professorial tone. “Now my groceries are spoiling in your car, and I need to get going right now.”
With a slow and careful movement, he set one joint in an ashtray on a nearby table and lit the other one with a lighter he took from his robe pocket. All the while, my mind was calculating that if I turned and ran, could I get to the main road before he chased me down? He looked unsteady, but my wobbly sandal heels were not the ideal footwear for quick escapes. Cursed heels! Whatever possessed me to wear spiky heels to the grocery? Vanity, that’s what. If I ever get out of this pickle, I swear I’ll only shop in sweats and sneakers for the rest of my life.
Another problem surfaced as I thought that if I ran, Michael would know he’d frightened me, and things could get awkward in the classroom. On the other hand, if I waited for him to make a move toward me, I’d be forced to kick him in a tender spot, and I’d get arrested for assaulting a student. Wouldn’t that look bonito alongside a murder rap? Then again, it was better than the possible alternative—rape! The appalling thought sent shivers up my spine worse than any horror flick had ever done.
Michael took a long drag on his joint and semi-focused on me. Only then did it dawn on me that he’d been high in the grocery store parking lot, too. And half the time in class. Why hadn’t I associated the dreamy look in his eyes with drug use before?
“Whatta tight-assed bitch you are,” he drawled. “Almost as bad as that freakin’ Dolores I boinked.”
“Michael, I don’t want to hear about your love life,” I said, groping in my shoulder purse for my cellphone.
“Love life? With Dolores? Mierda! You jump that sorry bitch’s scrawny bones once or twice, and she thinks you’re headed for the altar. Her name tells it all. Dolores is a real pain in the ass. Ha! Ha! Ha!” He laughed and slid down the doorframe, landing seated on the floor.
I seized my opportunity and bolted into the parking lot.
Who to call? Not Papi. Not Germán. Not anybody at work. I didn’t want my family or colleagues to ever find out about this embarrassment. Frantic, I punched in a number. Mary, Jesus, Joseph! Let Elsbeth be home.
Boulder is a compact town. Twelve minutes later, Elsbeth’s Toyota scooted into the parking lot, her kids staring wide-eyed out the backseat window. As we shoveled the groceries into Elsbeth’s trunk, Michael pulled open his front door, propped himself against the frame, and giggled at our frenzied maneuvers. In two minutes flat, all that was left of my presence was the cloud of dust that the car’s skidding wheels raised in the dirt.
