The Clairvoyant of Calle Ocho (22 page)

“Other names for it are deadly nightshade, devil's herb, love apple, sorcerer's cherry, murderer's berry, witch's berry, devil's cherry, and naughty man's cherries,” she read, in case I wasn't getting the idea.

“So it's poison . . . for unfaithful men?”

“Seems that way.”

“I feel sick.”

“You should. But. Who has the most to gain from punishing a wayward man?”

“His wife?”

“His wife, who thankfully lives right upstairs, so even though they may be right about time of death, they'd have to be exact to the minute, since Mr. Ferro could've gone from your apartment to the one shared with his wife within a literal few of those.”

“That's . . . great? But how can I be sure?” I asked.

“All they have is a breakup letter that proves you were having an affair, and ending it, if only because you expected him to end it first if you didn't. It seems to me you have nothing to worry about.”

Then why did I still feel this weight, this sense of doom surrounding me?

“Look, they just got the tox report results yesterday. My guess is they're going to go after the wife.”

You'd think I'd be relieved, but I wasn't.

“So what now, Attorney de Pokkos?”

“Consuelo,” she said, waving the air with her hand, as if she were clearing the air of formality.

“Consuelo,” I repeated.

“No, no, Attorney Consuelo,” she corrected me again with a freakishly virtuous grin that would have been useful to show a person less desperate than me that she was absolutely and irreparably insane, alerting them they should find themselves another lawyer.

But since I
was
desperate and had little money . . .

“Okay. So, what now, Attorney, um, Consuelo?”

“
Um
is not part of my name, but okay, the answer is nothing. You do nothing. You're not a suspect. And if they want you to answer any more questions, you call me and wait for me before you say anything.”

“What should I do in the meantime? And what do I owe you?” I asked, holding out my hand as I stood.

“For now, just one dollar. As a retainer, so that our conversation can be considered confidential. Not that I think you'll need me. But just in case, lay low, stay out of trouble. No, wait. Wait,” she said, standing, putting the tips of all her fingers on the desk, and closing her eyes for a moment before saying, “As your attorney, Mariela Mia Estevez Valdes, I'm going to tell you what I tell all my clients: In the meantime, you go do whatever you want, whatever fills your heart. You go live, while you have a life.”

Chapter 24

I
never told Attorney Consuelo that there was a third person who also lived just a minute or two away, and at whose apartment Hector could have chosen to stop before heading to his own on the night of his death: Abril.

In my vision, the one I had when we'd crossed paths on the sidewalk as she was returning from Hector's memorial service, I'd seen Abril and Hector facing each other like the opposite ends of a rubber band about to snap. Had they been lovers? Or had there been something else going on? How could I be sure the tension I saw was sexual, and not adversarial, as I'd thought at first?

Oh, please,
I scolded myself. What else could it be? She was a beautiful young woman, and he was a philanderer who wasn't above having affairs close to home. There was also the fact that she inexplicably broke up with Gustavo on the same day Hector broke up with me. Maybe Hector had mistaken her overt friendliness for flirting. On the other hand, she might really have been flirting with him. Maybe she was tired of struggling, figured Hector for an easy sugar daddy, and traded Gustavo in for the older model, convincing herself she was doing it for her son. Maybe that's why she was so angry: She thought I'd killed the man who could've made her life a little easier.

No, none of it felt right, but I knew there was definitely something there, even if I couldn't figure out what the something was. I could feel it in the way my heart accelerated its beating every time the image of them together assaulted me, which it did, repeatedly and compulsively, every minute of the bus ride back to Calle Ocho.

Just that morning, when my newly exercised instincts wouldn't leave me alone, I'd followed her. I knew what time she usually left her apartment and I'd waited to hear the sound of her straw wedges coming down Iris's stoop. I'd followed from a not-too-safe distance, knowing Abril was not the kind to turn around when she heard sounds, her mind always somewhere else, and had taken my steps in time with hers, the raspy scratch of her wedges and my own flip-flops against the sidewalk sounding like two old women who've smoked all their lives, their gravelly voices in deep whisper, rasp, rasp, rasping away about others.

I'd made the decision to follow her in the lull of sleepiness from which I'd now been jolted by the cool morning air and the adrenaline of my hunt, though what I was hunting for exactly, I couldn't have said then.

Meanwhile, Abril turned the corner and stopped to cross Calle Ocho toward the bus stop, trailing a pink scarf tattooed with yellow peonies, posture perfect, suntanned face fixed forward in determination. I stood still, waiting for her to turn around when she got to the bus stop, wondering if she'd notice me looking at her from a distance. But she didn't stop at the bus stop. She kept right on walking west, weaving purposely through morning street vendors and ladies sweeping the sidewalk. I followed with a racing heart until I saw her stop at the entrance of Hector's bookstore. What was she doing there?

Then a stocky, blond man wearing dark sunglasses caught up to her, and they shook hands, turned around, and began walking in my direction. They were probably just walking to the café that was a few doors down from Hector's bookstore, but I couldn't risk their seeing me. So, heart like a marching band tuba, I turned around, struggling to walk calmly and not call attention to myself. Damn it, I'd really wanted to get a better glimpse of the man. What if he was the motherfucking lawyer Iris and I had been speculating about? Or a hit man for Henry's father?! (After that last thought, I made a mental note to spend just a little less time with Iris.)

By the time I unlocked my front door a few minutes later, I'd made a decision to channel Hector again if it took me all day and all night. Especially now that I'd heard from Attorney Consuelo what the police thought they knew, that he'd been poisoned, I couldn't wait to ask him to give remembering another try. Whose face had been the last he saw before blacking out? He said he'd seen Olivia “hate him,” but that didn't mean she'd poisoned him. Then again, she was the only person I could think of who knew enough about plants to have a clue to what belladonna was, how to get it, and what amount might be needed to kill a grown man weighing some one hundred and eighty pounds.

As I ran through the possibilities in my mind, I didn't want it to be Olivia. I also didn't want it to be Abril, because what would happen to Henry if she were accused?

The one positive thing in all of this was that I could feel my sight slowly coming back to me. It wasn't just being able to hear and see Hector, albeit with a lot of effort. It was also feeling open, a little less afraid of life with every passing day. And just in time too, because in my apartment was the soul of a dead man who'd be spending his “days” moaning and sighing while “soaking” in my bathtub, unless I could help him remember who'd killed him exactly and why.

And it was this quest that now felt more important than anything else. What had before weighed heavily on the problems' scale: the breakup, the ruined apartment, the drug-addicted tenant, and even the lost letter, felt small and insignificant now. The old troubles seemed to have solved themselves somehow, while the new one—solving the mystery of Hector's death—called not only for all my faith and focus, but also for the recapturing of my skills. For a change of life and for a change in me.

So far, Hector had not been much help. Piecing together his moans and half words took a lot of energy out of me, and I still didn't have the faintest image of those minutes before he died. For example, I felt that Abril and the vision I'd gotten of her the other day were a clue or at least a symbol of what had happened to Hector. But if I asked him, would he understand what I was asking? Would he tell the truth, if he did? Would he be able to focus long enough to tell me what we both needed to know? No, I decided. I had to figure out another way to find out if Abril had been involved with him, and if not, what my vision of her meant.

Walking home from Attorney Consuelo's, I considered coaxing some information out of Iris, but discarded the idea immediately. (You know those people with no filter between brain and mouth? That's Iris.) Then a dangerous idea sprang into my head: I lived right next door. Iris had the keys to Abril's apartment, knew all her comings and goings, and would probably share it innocently with very little prodding. Maybe what I couldn't get via clairvoyance, I could get the good old physical way. I knew where Iris kept her tenants' keys and could “borrow” Abril's duplicate without her noticing. Once I had the key, I could just coax info about her schedule from Iris by feigning wanting to talk to Abril about what she'd said to me on the sidewalk, and then later sneak in when she was certain to be away for a few hours. It would take me a bit of time, but I knew I could do it. I no longer cared if Abril had been Hector's lover, but if she had killed him, that I had to know, even if it made me ache for Henry's sake.

In the throes of planning the newest escapade by which I'd be sure to get myself into more trouble than I might already be in, I almost walked right past Jorge's house.

Oh, that's right. You want to know when I'd decided to go to the house of a man I'd, until recently, avoided. It was during the bus ride home. While half my brain had been plotting the discovery of a possible secret connection between Abril and Hector, the other had been looking at my cell phone. Hadn't he sent me a gift of food? Hadn't he said he cared? Hadn't he kissed me? Why didn't he call?

Finally, I convinced myself that, having enjoyed his cooking, it was only proper that I thank him. It was just good manners. I didn't have to wait for Jorge to call me in order to thank him. I'd pass by his house. As a friend. And this way, I would meet his wife once and for all. Get whatever unfaithful plan was covertly hatching in his head and mine out in the open. Maybe even dispose of the evil thing. At least that's what I told myself as I walked over from the bus stop.

His house was located on the street directly behind Little Havana's historic Tower Theater, which was separated from Domino Park by a small skateboard area outlined in mosaic cement tile. (The “park” itself is made up of cement instead of grass, benches instead of trees, and flanked by murals made famous by the locals who actually play dominoes there.) Because of the corner position of his house and the open space made necessary by the skateboard walk-through, you could see Jorge's house from Calle Ocho, even though it actually faced the theater's “backstage” entrance.

But though the house itself was right where I remembered it, most of its facade was not. The enclosed porch I remembered had been demolished and a modern, open-space portico had been built in its place and painted a rich, creamy white. The cement around the new, huge, black, loftlike windows was still fresh and unpainted, but somehow the final effect was sophisticated-rustic instead of unfinished. There was new landscaping, and the architectural lines of the two palm trees, one on each side of the walkway to the front entrance, gave the house an air of romantic simplicity. I liked it. It reminded me of Jorge's cooking. Unpretentious. Simple. With just a touch of elegance and just a touch of sexy. Like a vase with a single pink rose and plain white cotton sheets on a four-poster bed.

The wrought iron gate was open, so I walked right up to the door, a glass and black steel affair. I'd been at the house only once or twice before because it had felt weird to be in a house that was always undergoing some preparation for a woman who was being held back in Cuba, but whose arrival was always impending. Maybe because of that, it had never seemed special to me, but now, well, now it looked absolutely stunning.

“Can I help you?”

A brunette in her early thirties answered the door. Behind her I could see boxes, tools, even an electric sander that had very probably sanded and polished the newly laid wooden planks in this house.

“Hi, I'm looking for Jorge.”

“He's not here,” she answered with a very slight accent.

“Oh, that's a shame. I'm Mariela,” I said, extending my hand with a smile despite the once-over, so unapologetic and intrusive she could've been in charge of pat downs at the airport.

“Mariela?” she asked, tight-lipped and frowning, as if she'd never heard the name before and wanted to spit out the taste it left in her mouth. “Are you a vendor?”

“No, actually, I'm a friend of Jorge's,” I said, noticing she wasn't wearing her ring when she finally consented to shaking my outstretched hand.

“Well, he's not here right now.”

I could've said I'd wait for him just to annoy her, but I'd done enough annoying of wives to last me a lifetime.

“You're remodeling,” I said instead.

“Yes.”

“Looks fabulous.”

“It's not finished.”

“Well, you can tell it's going to be fabulous. Would you please tell Jorge I came by?”

“Can I tell him what this is in regards to?”

It wasn't her words. It was her tone and the way she kept looking me up and down, one hand on her hip.

“Of course,” I said, knowing exactly what I was doing. “Tell him Mariela came to thank him for the other night. Food was delicious,” I said, looking her in the eye and smiling wickedly.

She looked thrown for a minute, then basically slammed the door in my face, but since it was mostly glass, I stood there watching her pick up a box and walk away down the hall, her impossibly rounded butt constrained by light blue jeans, her hair swinging dismissively until she disappeared into a room.

I guessed she wasn't about to give him my message now. Just as well. I could always call his cell, tell him I'd seen the house, and that I thought it was beautiful.

Turning to look back at it as I walked away was like looking at myself in a mirror and seeing how incredibly judgmental I'd been whenever he'd mentioned his life, his restaurant, or his “guys,” probably his kitchen help team. I'd chosen to hang on to the image of who he'd been when he'd been with me: a party animal with a good-enough-heart, but few responsibilities or long-term plans.

But now, with that last look at the gorgeous house that had his good taste sanded right into its cement walls, I knew what I wanted to do: Next time I saw him, I'd show some gratitude and encouragement for someone who'd done nothing but be supportive when almost everyone else had decided to desert me. I'd even tell him he had a beautiful wife and close the door on all of this. This is why he hadn't called. He'd needed closure. He had it. It was really over now.

And now, I had a job to do before I lost my nerve. I'd get home, change into something sexy for a supposed date, then drop by Iris's knowing that she'd pepper me with questions and be more focused on my romantic prospects than on the spare keys she kept underneath the phone. I hoped she still labeled them, knowing I had to move quickly and then keep Abril's key only long enough to make a spare key so I'd be ready the next time Abril left the house for any length of time.

But the second I stepped inside my apartment . . .

“Don't scream,” he said, perched on the living room windowsill in his immortal khaki garb. “No screaming right now.”

My mouth had already opened to do just that, but I closed it again, surprised at being able to understand him without strain for the first time since he died.

“Your words are clearer.”

“I must be speaking goddamn English.”

I wondered if it would make him happy to point out that at least his sarcasm seemed to have escaped death intact.

“Again: I'm sorry I was so hard on you about that when we were together.”

“Soh-kay.” He shrugged.