Scent of Murder, page 15
My brother, the Man of the World, shrugged. “Maybe about Calderón’s relationships with women. According to chismes, that theater prof was a real ladies’ man. Joe Selos’ woman was over the moon about him. That Dolores Lopes chica, too, and who knows who else?”
Who else, indeed! Georgina, Bibi, probably Olivia, me—well, almost me. That pretty much covered every female in the department except Mrs. Webber.
“If the prof was fooling around with a married woman and with a student,” Germán said, “I don’t think he’d like his jefe finding out about it. Maybe Miguel had proof and was blackmailing the teacher. Or, could be the professor found out about Miguel’s habit and threatened to expose him to his parents unless Miguel anted up.”
“You mean a blackmailer blackmailing the blackmailer?” I shook my head, bewildered. “Somehow, I don’t think Eddy was the sort to extort money from anybody.”
Again, my brother, the Answer Man, shrugged. “Since Miguel’s parents give lotsa dough to your college, maybe your prof wanted Miguel to influence them to support him for some prestige thing like a medal or something.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Something like tenure?”
“Mira, I don’t know what is this tenure thing. What I do know is there are lotsa tíos raros at that college. I hear about one scandal after another up there, so it makes me wonder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take that, Dolores. She sleeps with Miguel, and him, thinking he’s God’s gift to women, spreads it around that he’s given her a mercy fuck.”
“No!”
My brother saw my face turn lobster red. “Sorry to sound crude, but those were his words, not mine. As they say, ‘A woman’s honor consists of the good opinion the world has of her.’ That’s probably why Javier Malecón got so bent out of shape and punched out Miguel.”
“Then are Javier and Dolores dating?” I remembered the affection with which they treated each other at rehearsal.
“Who knows?” Germán said with a lift of a hand. “That Malecón is another tío raro.”
I raised my eyebrows and shifted in the folding chair. “What’s so strange about Javier? He’s a bit quiet in class, but he’s smart, polite, and turns in his work on time.”
Germán shook his head. “Are other teachers up at the college as innocent as you?”
If I hadn’t been hanging on every word, I would have taken exception to the remark, but I didn’t want to interrupt the flow.
He said, “You know Malecón used to be a boxer and was even a Golden Gloves champ?”
I nodded, recalling my conversation with Eddy about Javier on the day of the punch-out.
“And do you also remember Sonny Vasconcelos from high school?”
“The boxer who married my childhood friend Marirosa? He won the State Junior Boxing Championship my senior year.”
“Sonny and a bunch of other ex-boxers still train at a gym in Longmont. Malecón goes there, too, but doesn’t have anything to do with them. Won’t even go for a pisto after a workout. Fíjate! Everybody thinks something’s up with him, but no one can figure him out.”
Al came over to us. “She’s all fixed and ready to go!” he said with a broad grin.
“Excelente!” I stood, picked up my purse, and began fishing in it for my phone with my credit card app. “How much do I owe you?”
Germán stood, exchanged glances with Al, and put his hand on my arm. “It’s cool, ’mana. I’ll take care of it.”
“Well, thanks guys. And Germán, thank you for the information.”
* * *
On the road home, my brain spun with thoughts about what my brother had told me. Could Eddy have been a blackmailer blackmailing a blackmailer so he could get tenure? Or maybe he found out about Michael’s machinations. In an effort to reform him, Eddy could have threatened to tell the parents unless Michael cleaned up his act. Then Michael killed him to shut him up. I sighed. I consider myself a good judge of character, and Eddy didn’t seem like a tattletale.
What a menace Michael was! Not only did he go around kissing and telling and practically assaulting women, but he was also a blackmailer and a drug addict. If he was blackmailing Eddy, what did he know about others in the department? Who else had something to hide? I recalled the faces of Baldomero Vigil, Juventino Guerrero, Clive Strange, and the dagger-eyed Bibi Pomodoro. Then there was the so-called tío raro, the “weirdo Javier.” I’d have to find out how he fit into the puzzle. I couldn’t wait to mull over the information with Olivia and Elsbeth.
I raced home, and as soon as I got inside, my cell rang. It was Olivia.
“I’m glad you called,” I said as I set my purse on the kitchen table and went around opening windows to let in fresh air. “Wait until you hear what my brother told me.”
“I’ve got news for you, too.” Olivia’s voice held repressed excitement.
“Since you called me, your news first.”
“I found Eddy’s journal, and as our students might say, it’s huge.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Donde no piensan, salta la liebre.”
“Things often happen when you least expect them to.” — Miguel de Cervantes
Despite our excitement, Olivia and I decided to wait to share our discoveries with Elsbeth. After a round-robin of texting, we settled on meeting at Elsbeth’s after dinner when her kids were in bed.
Mindful of my diet, I prepared and ate a dinner salad from what vegetables were still edible after their romp in Michael’s car and washed everything down with sparkling mineral water. Afterwards, I zipped around my bedroom, getting ready to go. I flipped on the remote, and my pint-size flat screen sprang to life, warming the room with its cheery glow. A television in the bedroom—what luxury!
I recalled how my hardworking parents endured staggering hardships to provide for our family. At first, they toiled in the fields of the San Luis Valley. Later, Papi struggled to scrape the money together to start the restaurant. Besides raising children, Mami worked two jobs to help get the restaurant off the ground.
Although we kids never lacked necessities like food, shelter, guidance, and loads of love, we weren’t showered with toys and clothes. Neither were we tucked up in the comfortable surroundings that many young people in wealthy Boulder enjoy. Let alone the privileged children from the New England elite like Michael Kent. While our schoolmates jetted off on vacations to the Bahamas, Europe, or Asia, the Castillo clan trekked to the mountains and camped, rain or shine, snow or sleet. I’m not complaining; some of my fondest family memories are of those holidays. Life might not always be a bowlful of dulce de leche, but every time I switch on my TV in my own bedroom in my own condo, it tickles me pink.
I combed through my closet for something to wear. The News rumbled in the background along with dry thunder and lightning from the storm that, as weather systems along the Front Range sometimes do, was skipping over Boulder and racing toward Denver. Too bad! Our city can always use the moisture.
Here’s another thing: clothes mean a lot to me. Not because I like pretty things, which I do. Or because I want to impress people, which I don’t. But growing up, I didn’t have much. As an adult, I believe I should always try to look my best to honor the noble profession I’ve chosen to follow. So, I selected black jeans, not designer-tagged, but a flattering, feminine cut and a red silk blouse I’d snagged for peanuts at Secondhand Rose. Then I hauled out a pair of blocky but simple and elegant Spanish-style heels so I could keep abreast, as it were, of my taller friends. Tall people don’t intimidate me; I subscribed to the Latino maxim that “the size of a person is measured from the eyebrows up.” But I love the shoes, and it’s coincidental that high heels are slimming. I swear!
I sat in front of the mirror and attempted to add height to my hair by rolling it up in plump braids. I’d pinned the left side more or less the way I wanted when the anchorwoman’s voice on the TV rose a couple of notches in breathless excitement.
“—news just in. We take you live to North Denver, where a hostage situation is underway.”
The scene switched to a location I recognized as across the street from La Loquería Cantina, one of the sleazier watering holes in a Denver Hispanic barrio infamous for drug trafficking.
Reporter Rita Estrella, the token Latina at the station, clutched the microphone and squinted in the lights at the camera. The storm had made it to Denver. Her hooded, nylon rain slicker clung to her face as rain pummeled all around.
Above the downpour, her voice shrilled, “It began when an unidentified man allegedly threatened the life of a patron inside the bar you see behind me.”
The camera panned to the cantina’s neon sign, then refocused on Estrella. “The patron left and called police. He informed them that the suspect claimed to be toting a cache of fentanyl that he wanted to sell. When officers entered through the back door, the suspect fled through the front entrance.”
The reporter’s eyes grew wide. “A SWAT team was also closing in on the street. The suspect grabbed a female passerby and is now using her as a human shield.”
The camera swooped in on the drama unfolding. I stared in horrified disbelief as I recognized Angela dangling like a marionette in the leather-gloved clutches of a bearded desperado, a hunting knife at her throat. As the camera zeroed in closer, I stood mesmerized. I didn’t think about what my sister was doing in Denver. In that neighborhood. Pinned down by a madman. I was transfixed by the sight of the knife’s sharp point making a dimple in her flesh.
The jangling phone freed me from the spell. As I sprang to answer, I screamed at the screen, “Ay, hermana! Don’t move an inch. Ni una pulgada!”
“Have you seen the News?” My mother’s voice choked with emotion.
“Sí, Mami. Just now. What can we do?”
“Papi and I are going there ahora mismo.”
“Wait for me!” I cried and slammed down the receiver.
I grabbed my purse and keys and fled the house, leaving the TV squawking in my wake.
* * *
The next five hours seemed like five years. Papi’s pride and joy Serrano-pepper red ‘59 Chevy (vanity plate HTMAL for The Hot Tamale Restaurant) flew like the Devil to Denver. Jaw set in dogged determination, Gustavo Castillo weaved in and out of traffic like a seasoned racecar driver. He drove so fast I swore I heard the car’s fins flapping behind us in the breeze.
By the time we slid up to La Loquería, the crisis had resolved, and Angela was safe in the arms of the Men in Blue, gracias a todos los santos! They had just piled her into an ambulance and were heading off to Denver General Hospital. The Chevy cooled its jets and followed behind. I think it was the first time I’ve ever known my parents to go completely silent. We might have been riding in a hearse.
Angela checked out okay at the hospital. She was scared but physically alright, with no drug residue on her clothes or body. However, she had some road rash on her knees and hands, a pulled muscle in an arm, and a small band-aid on her throat where the knife had scratched her. Mami and I smothered her in tearful hugs and kisses, but Papi, strangely enough, held back.
The police took Angela’s statement with us present. We learned that she’d snuck off to Denver after school to meet some of her militant friends whose current cause was justice for Lupita. I wondered whether my sister had gone there with Juventino Guerrero. If so, he’d have to answer to me, never mind Papi.
Angela told officers that she was crossing the street with an armful of FLA flyers when this smelly, wild-eyed taco grabbed her.
As SWAT closed in, the perp squeezed Angela tight around the neck and shoulders and dragged her toward his car. He began to sweat and tremble, then tripped on a manhole cover. The knife—gracias a Dios, it wasn’t a gun, or it might have gone off—flew from his hand. But not before it left a scratch on my sister’s throat. He toppled backwards, and Angela got pushed forward and fell. The worthless frijol was taken into custody.
Papi was furioso with Angela for associating with the Aztec Liberation Front. Not to mention the little matter of going AWOL to Denver. At fourteen, she’s not allowed to leave town alone, much less travel to an unsafe barrio in the late afternoon with the intent of staying until after dark in the company of revolutionaries and malcontents. She’s supposed to be at the restaurant working her after-school job, setting the tables for the dinner crowd. She’s supposed to eat there, go home, do her homework, and go to bed. She’s not supposed to talk the hostess into covering for her so she can fly the coop.
Though I realized a lot of Papi’s show of anger masked his worry and sense of helplessness for not having better protected his daughter from danger, we all still suffered through his lecture all the way back to Boulder, where we arrived after midnight. The one time he got off Angela’s case, he turned to me and complained that not only was he saddled with one delinquent daughter, but now The Jailbird was combing her hair like a punk rocker. My hands flew to my head, and I realized I’d run out the door so fast I’d forgotten to undo the half-finished braid. I’d traipsed all around Denver looking like that!
Mami insisted Angela stay home from school the following day to rest from her ordeal and also so she could fuss over her baby. By the time evening rolled around, it wasn’t hard for me to persuade my sister to come along to Elsbeth’s for some aromatherapeutic rescue. I figured if Angelita was going to keep getting into trouble, she’d need all the protection she could get. Besides, this would give our Bolder Women Detective Team a golden opportunity to find out what the teen knew about Juventino Guerrero.
I texted Elsbeth and Olivia from the hospital. I explained what had happened, and we rescheduled for the following evening. Then, I told Mami and Papi that Elsbeth wanted to perform a holistic examination on Angela and prepare an herbal concoction to settle her nerves and help her sleep. They let her go, provided I promised not to let her out of my sight. ¡No problema!
Chapter Twenty-Two
“La mentira es un bicho de patas cortas.”
“Lying is a short-legged creature.” — Spanish Proverb
I drove to work the following morning because I wanted to use my wheels to get to Elsbeth’s as soon as possible that evening. The plan was to bolt down some fast food at Taco Loco after work, swing by my parents’ house to pick up Angela, then head over to Elsbeth’s. Since I hadn’t been granted one of the coveted reserved spaces in the front faculty lot, I parked in a back lot. I ended up hiking almost as far as I would if I’d walked from home. Maybe I should join the crowd and spring for an E-bike after all.
I caught up with the chairman, who was exiting his custom-painted, ice-blue Mercedes in the second row. We walked together along the tree-shaded walk to the department. Today, Vigil’s perennially polyester attire was rumpled around the edges, and he wasn’t bustling along at his usual officious pace. He also was in a suspiciously civil humor.
“I’ve been so busy with this fundraiser,” he said, wiping perspiration from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief he took from his breast pocket, “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to ask how you’re getting on.”
He replaced the handkerchief in his pocket and gave me a smile so brittle it reinforced my impression that this was a face not accustomed to expressing solicitude. Which made me wary of why he was making nice now. I noticed a couple of other uncharacteristic details. For one, his little Hitler mustache twitched like he had a nervous tick. For another, his dominant eye, which so often flashed with arrogance, had an opaque curtain drawn over it today. Both eyes were smudged underneath with blue half-moons. I wondered whether the Chair had spent a sleepless night, and if so, why? I wished Ana would get back from her trip and call about him.
I smiled back. “I’m doing fine, Professor Vigil. Thank you for asking.”
“Bien, bien. Please call me Baldomero. And your parents, I hope those fine, upstanding people are doing well and are happy you have joined our little faculty family?”
Faculty family, ha! “Sí, everything’s fine with them, too.” We paused at a crosswalk to let three skateboarders whiz by. So that’s it. Vigil learned that Papi is a respected member of the Latino business community and that he and the police chief are compadres. Aloud, I said, “I hear Michael Kent’s parents are flying in for the fundraiser.”
We continued on our way, and Baldomero’s face brightened. “Yes, they’ll be here tomorrow for the kickoff reception at the College Club. They’re staying through the weekend to watch their son perform in the play.”
“I hope the event is very successful.”
Vigil gave me a sidelong glance, and his mustache twitched twice. “I realize your first weeks here must have proved a bit more tedious than you expected, given the contretemps over Eduardo Calderón. Thankfully, that little scandal seems to have blown over.”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. What nerve to dismiss Eddy’s murder as a “contretemps” and “a little scandal!” I would have loved to challenge him but was not in a position to do so, at least not yet. I took a deep breath.
“Do you know who will replace Professor Calderón?” I asked in the plainest vanilla tone I could muster.
“A couple of candidates have applied, including a new Ph.D. from Bolivia, Oscar Fingir. However, we can’t schedule interviews until more faculty return from summer break. We’re working with a skeleton crew over the summer.” He gave a short laugh.
So, Baldo’s crony was already applying for the position. Imagine that! I’d have to let Olivia know her prediction had come true so soon.
We reached the department, and Vigil held open the door for me. “Mrs. Webber tells me you’re writing a paper to submit to the Celebrate Galicia Conference in the fall.”
“I am, but I’m not done yet, and I don’t know if it will be accepted.”
