Chapter 7
My abuelos’ house was all the things Rosings Park was not: warm, inviting, and absolutely brimming with personality.
I’d been coming here every Wednesday for as long as I could remember, and even though things had changed in the past few years since my abuelita had died of Moonrot, visiting them was always one of the highlights of my week.
The cobblestone path I knew so well was lit with copper lanterns, their flames flickering cheerfully as I walked by. Abuelo had set up a Christmas tree so large the top was flattened against the ceiling. The grinch ornament I’d made in fourth grade pressed up against the glass, grinning at me.
I pushed through the intricately carved teal door, breathing in the familiar smells: the cedar beams, the light scent of the cleaning product on the hand-painted terra cotta floors, and the delicious aroma of roasted chiles. This was every bit as much my home as Rosings Park. Maybe more so.
Abuelo walked out of the kitchen and met me in the hallway, wrapping me in a huge hug. He only came up to my chin, but when he hugged me I felt completely swallowed up in his affection. He pulled back and kissed both of my cheeks.
“Hi, Abuelo.” I turned to the ofrenda, running my thumb along the glass of Abuelita’s picture. I set a fuschia peony on the table. “Hi, Abuelita.”
A green glass vase floated over to the ofrenda. I set the flower inside, then followed Abuelo into the kitchen.
“You look like someone just gave you the moon,” Abuelo said, grinning at me.
“You’ll never guess who I met.”
“Who did you meet?”
“Ernesto Garcia!” Warmth filled me as I spoke his name, and Neto’s teasing smile flashed before my eyes.
Abuelo looked at me blankly.
“You know, the lead singer of the Grey Doors?”
He nodded, but there was no flicker of recognition on his face.
The little yellow radio on the windowsill began playing one of their bigger hits, Never Mine.
“Thanks, Abuelita,” I said.
Abuelo smacked his knee when the song got to the chorus. “Okay, I remember this one.”
Abuelita’s cookbook nudged its way out of its space on the counter and flipped open to the page for cinnamon hot chocolate, and Abuelo got it started on the stove. “You were going to their concert, no? Is that where you met him?”
“No, that concert is in a couple of weeks. I met him through the orchestra. He’s a friend of the conductor and he’s going to sing a duet with me.”
He shook his head. “You’ve been in love with this boy since before your quinceanera, and now suddenly you have this opportunity? Dios escoge a los humildes.”
The cinnamon vibrated on the counter until he added a bit more to the hot chocolate.
I smiled. Abuelo often referred to me as humble, but I didn’t know if it was meant as a compliment to me or more of a contrast to my mamá, who he considered to be the height of vanity. He always said I took after my father, not only in looks but also in temperament.
My dad had died when I was a toddler so I didn’t have any real memories of him, but I loved to hear stories about the handsome Alejandro Santos—half of which depicted a mischievous boy, the other a dutiful and devoted son—depending on which lesson Abuelo was trying to convey at the moment.
We fell into the familiar routine of me rolling out tortillas while Abuelo cooked them on the stove. We would have worked in comfortable silence, but the stool Abuelita used to stand on to reach the top cupboards slid across the floor and nudged me gently. Abuelita wanted to know more.
“He took me on a date to a taco truck. Well, I don’t know if it was really a date, we just sort of spontaneously got food together, but we talked about music and, I don’t know. I really like him.”
Abuelo frowned. “Mija, he’s a rockstar. Have a good time but don’t let your heart get involved. You can’t get invested in this boy.”
“No, of course not. I’m just enjoying my time with him until this concert.”
A wooden spoon nudged Abuelo’s elbow and he picked it up and stirred the enchilada sauce. “What I want to know is how did this Estrella del pop get granted the honor of singing with mi Reinita?”
He handed me the wooden spoon and gestured to the simmering sauce. I traded him spaces and we pivoted to new jobs in our assembly line, me filling the tortillas and passing them to him to roll up and place in a bright yellow ceramic dish.
“Oh. Well, that’s the sad part. Paolo Mariano, the man who was supposed to sing with the orchestra for Christmas, was killed two days ago. I was the one to find the body.”
“?Ay, nanita! That must have been terrible for you to see. Were you two close?”
“No, I didn’t know him, but it was quite a shock. The worst part is that there are only a few people who could have done it, and all of them are musicians in the orchestra.”
“Then you can’t go back there.” Abuelo was looking at me with his stubborn face, eyebrows drawn and all his smile lines tilted downward.
“That’s what my mother said.” My nerves flared up again at the reminder that we had to solve the murder soon, otherwise she’d cancel the pops concert.
Abuelo bristled, hating to agree with my mother on anything. He’d never forgiven her for reverting back to her maiden name, de Bourgh, after my father’s death, or for changing my name, too.
“Abuelo, you know everyone in town. Do you know anything about Cecelia Wentworth?”
“Wentworth? Is she unmarked?”
“No, she’s a witch.”
“Oh, yes, the Wentworths, I know her grandmother. Their coven is pretty elitist and snotty if you ask me. I’m not aware of any suspicious behavior, though, not like the Bennet witches. They keep getting themselves into trouble with their potions.”
It was true, the Bennets had landed themselves in the news a few times recently.
“How about James Yoon?”
Abuelo frowned. “The Yoon boy, he’s the one who was sledding where he shouldn’t have been and took a string of barbed wire to the neck,” Abuelo said.
I shivered. “That sounds awful. I didn’t know that was how he’d gotten hurt.”
“It was terrible. He was only fourteen. But his mother is the president of the children’s hospital and he received excellent care.”
“Good. One more question. Do you know anything about Walter Bramwell?”
“Bramwell. His father owns the bank, no?”
“That’s right.”
“That boy used to give his parents grief, I’m glad he’s settled down a bit. Mr. Bramwell told me his son finally beat the other harpist for a solo in this next concert.”
It was true, Lillian was much better than him and always performed the solos, but this time Walter had gotten the part. “Do you think his father bribed Fred?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Bramwell to try.”
My stomach soured at the idea of Fred caving to bribery. “I don’t think Fred would accept it. And I definitely don’t think he killed Paolo.”
Abuelo frowned. “Friends can let you down, Anne. Just because he is good to you doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt someone else if he had a strong enough reason.”
“But I can’t think of any reason Fred would want to hurt him. Paolo was bringing publicity to the orchestra by performing with us. Fred wanted him there.”
“Well, be careful, Mija.”
“I will, I promise. Will you reach out to Victor and see if he knows anything?” Victor worked for the Austen Heights Police Department and had been a good friend of Abuelo’s since they were boys.
Abuelo pulled out his old cell phone, the one he’d had since I was a little girl, and typed out a message with one finger. “Done. I’ll let you know when I hear back. Now, let’s get this food in the oven.”
He rolled the last enchilada and sprinkled an abundance of queso fresco on top before placing it in the oven, then poured the hot chocolate into three mugs.
He handed one to me and placed one on the ofrenda before settling down into his armchair with the other to wait for our lunch to bake.
I sipped the chocolate, smiling when the cinnamon hit my tongue.
Lunch was delicious as usual, and when we finished eating, I headed out to his shop with him.
We chatted and listened to Pedro Infante while Abuelo and I worked on his ‘64 Impala. Or rather, he worked on it while I handed him tools. He might let me help in the kitchen, but the Impala was his baby and he didn’t trust anybody else under that hood.
The hours slipped by and I knew I should be heading home, but I hated to leave Abuelo.
I enjoyed spending time with him, and even though Abuelita’s spirit lingered in the house, he got lonely without the ability to fully interact with her.
Besides, Ernesto had a hockey game tonight, so instead of seeing him I’d have to endure one of my mother’s parties.
Abuelo’s phone chimed loudly, and he wiped his hands on an old cloth before checking it.
“It’s from Victor,” he said. “They didn’t get any prints from the knife and they didn’t find any incriminating evidence at the scene.”
I frowned. They didn’t seem to be any closer to solving the crime than Neto and I were. I glanced at the clock. 5:30. “I’ve got to get going, Abuelo.”
“You’ve got somewhere to be already? It’s only 2:00.”
I looked back at the clock, and, sure enough, the hands had rearranged themselves to lie about the time. “Nice, try, Abuelita.” I pulled out my phone and verified the actual time. “I’ll see you next week.”
I kissed Abuelo's rough cheeks and made my way back to the front room where a full canteen of hot chocolate sat on the ofrenda. I kissed Abuelita’s portrait and thanked her as I headed out the door.
The wind cut through my sweater as I hurried out to my car and reminded me that I needed to switch those coats back. I started my car and turned up the heat but texted Cecelia before leaving.
Hey, are you missing a long, gray coat?
I would never wear dark gray.
Okay, thanks.
Did you notice anything unusual the day Paolo was killed?
Wow, you’re a detective now?
I could practically feel her rolling her eyes at me through the phone.
Just trying to get some answers.
I didn’t see anything.
Also, you should just let the cops handle it.
But I couldn’t. Not when they thought it was Fred.
I intended to drive home, but I found myself turning left instead of right and following the road to Fred’s house.
I’d been there a few times when he’d held parties for the orchestra, so I knew my way.
I felt a little awkward as I stood empty-handed on his porch.
I should have brought him soup or flowers or something.
I heard his hooves clomping against the floor as he approached the door. He was a little bleary-eyed as he answered, but smiled when he saw me. “Anne. It’s good to see you. Come in.”
He led the way into a small sitting room and gestured to a spot on the couch. A hockey game played on a massive TV that dominated one wall, and he switched it off before sitting in an armchair.
“I just wanted to check on you,” I said.
“I’m the one who should have checked on you,” he said, frowning. “I’m so sorry you had to experience that.”
“Thank you. I’m fine, though.” The quiet stretched on a little too long. “I just wanted to tell you that I don’t think you killed Paolo,” I blurted.
“Thank you, Anne. I appreciate your faith in me. Unfortunately, the police don’t agree.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, they can’t confirm my alibi. I went back to my office after the mic check with Walter. Nobody saw me go in there and I didn’t even have a good reason for doing it. I couldn’t find my baton, so I ran in there to look for it.”
“Why would you need your baton for a mic check?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I just realized I didn’t know where it was and it was bothering me. I think that’s why the police think I’m guilty, because my story doesn’t make sense.”
“It does for people who know you,” I said. Fred was a brilliant conductor, but he had always been a bit scatterbrained. “Neto and I are going to figure out who actually killed Paolo.”
Fred’s face split into a grin at my use of his friend’s nickname. “And how are you two getting on?” he asked.
“Good,” I said, trying and failing to keep back my grin.
He smiled smugly. “I’m glad. He’s a great guy, Anne. I’m happy you decided to do the duet with him.”
“Me too.”
A large bell rang out loudly next to me and I jumped in my seat.
I turned to a clock shaped like a little house with a snow-covered roof and red and white striped shutters.
A sign above the little door read Santa’s Workshop.
The door opened and six little elves strode out, each holding a brightly-wrapped present.
They all bowed in turn as the clock chimed six times, and when it was finished they went back into their little house.
“I’d better be going,” I said, standing.
Fred walked me to the door. “Thank you for coming,” he said, throat bobbing. “And for believing in my innocence. It means a lot.”
“Don’t worry, Fred. We’ll find the killer and clear your name.”