Quit Your Witchin' (19 page)

“I’m back,” Win murmured, his presence hugging me with warmth.

Pressing my fingers to the unconnected Bluetooth in my ear, I simply bowed my head, clenching my eyes shut as the organ music began to swell.

The turnout was as expected, nearly everyone from Ebenezer Falls piling into the church to pay their last respects. No matter what Tito had or hadn’t done, the community had loved him, respected him and Maggie.

A blown-up picture of Tito with his family, a wreath of flowers perched on the corner of the frame, sat by his mahogany casket. Seeing his face—cherubic, his eyes gleaming—made my throat tighten as Forrest slid into the pew beside me and grabbed my hand.

Maggie, her sons and Bianca took their places in the first row of mourners, each of her boys holding their mother’s hands.

I couldn’t even consider watching Bianca for signs of guilt after hearing about her questioning. I just couldn’t get with the idea she’d kill her father, no matter how hard I tried. Right now, my focus was just on getting through this moment and being as silently supportive as I could.

As the services began, I lifted my chin and fought the sting of tears. But it wasn’t only because Tito was dead. It was because I was failing. I had nada in the way of suspects and no new leads to speak of. I know it isn’t my task or even my responsibility to hunt down Tito’s killer, but somewhere deep down, I feel like it is.

There’s this pulse of anguish, a thick thread of failure stitched around my soul that just won’t cut me loose.

Maybe it has to do with my past and how miserably I failed to help someone once before. Maybe I’m trying to right wrongs that I, in truth, won’t ever be able to truly fix.

But each time I help someone, be it living or dead, I’m like an alcoholic seeking redemption—atonement. I feel like I’m filling back up this metaphorical well with my name emblazoned on it. The well I’d drained when I went against my council’s orders, thinking I was helping a small boy, only to make things likely much worse for him.

The well labeled “Trying Desperately To Make Things Right.”

* * * *

I stood outside Maggie and Tito’s small ranch house and sipped at a plastic cup of white wine as mourners milled in and out, talking in hushed tones, their faces strained, their eyes somber.

Maggie was the quintessential hostess, seeing to everyone’s needs, a tissue in hand for the occasional tears when someone shared a happy memory of Tito. Food in heaping mounds was passed back and forth and wine and beer flowed freely. Mexican music played as small groups clustered together to toast Tito.

The pounding rain had stopped long enough to place Tito’s coffin at the cemetery, the horizon dotted with black umbrellas as I stood and watched from a small distance.

I seemed to upset Bianca a great deal and the last thing I wanted was for her to aim her rage at me again—or to be the cause of a scene. So I’d lain low and tried to let my mind rest.

But now, while I plucked the leafy stems of one of the arborvitaes lining the walkway to the Bustamantes, I began to kick myself because I still had no answers.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“Will I go to jail if I don’t give them to you?” I asked Sandwich.

“Still holding a grudge?”

Leaning on my right leg, because my left was beginning to ache from the heels I wore, aggravated by my butt injury, I sighed. “Nah. I’m not grudging anymore, Sandwich. I’m so over being hauled off to the klink. I learned a lot while I was there, though. Can’t buy that experience for sure.”

“Good to know. So how’ve you been? How’s the house coming?”

“It’s getting there. By tonight, I hope to have a driveway.”

His nod was crisp as he rocked back on his heels. “How’s your butt?”

“How’s Jacob?” I hadn’t meant to bring him up, but I couldn’t stop myself. His name reminded me why my butt hurt in the first place.

“He’s in the tank for another twenty-four. Wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Really? Did you find some loophole aside from his assault and battery and now you’re going to charge me with something?”

“Still grudging,” he reminded with a chuckle.

“Okay, maybe a little. Sorry. What do you want to talk to me about that has to do with Jacob?”

Sandwich cleared his throat. “He was pretty riled up in the tank. Kept going on and on about you. Made a couple of threats. Just want you to be aware he’s released tomorrow. Could just be his drunk rambling. Could be he’s lookin’ for payback. We’ll keep an eye on the house for a while. Of that you can be sure.”

Perfect. Just what I needed.

“I’ll have Belfry make sure Enzo beefs up the security immediately,” Win said in my ear. “It’ll be a cold day on Plane Limbo before I allow that buffoon to put his hands on you again.”

He’d been quiet the entire service and at the cemetery—so quiet, I’d wondered if he’d gone off for some time alone. But like my knight in shining armor, he came to my rescue.

I nodded at Sandwich. “Thanks for the head’s up. So how’s everything with you?”

He lifted his index finger and waved it at me in warning. “Don’t you start with the questions.”

“Who, me? Don’t be silly. This isn’t a day to weasel information out of you. I’m insulted you’d suggest as much. I was just wondering if questioning Bianca kept you from your date with Winona Swift.” I winked and nudged him with a whistle. “Heard you were taking her to the Shrimp Box. Pretty fancy, Sandwich. Must wanna impress her.”

His face flushed bright red under the gloomy skies. “How did you know about Winona and the Shrimp Box?”

Moving to lean back on the brick exterior of the house for support, I shrugged my shoulders. “Who
doesn’t
know? I heard someone talking about it…somewhere. I can’t remember where. So did you make it in time to wow her with your good looks and charm? Or was it a super-long interrogation? Did Starsky and Hutch make an appearance?”

“Ah, Miss Cartwright. You’ve become quite predictable,” Officer Nelson chided, joining us and looking equally as smart in his black suit and shiny black shoes.

I took a sip of my wine and gazed upward at him. “Dang, Officer Unicorns and Lollipops, I hate when that happens. How can I turn this pony around?”

He smoothed his tie and buttoned his suit jacket. “You could begin by not grilling Officer Paddington.”

“You razzin’ my girl, Dana?” Chester asked, pushing his stout body through the thick of enormous men to come stand by me.

“Dana?” I asked, my eyebrow cocked in the direction of Officer Nelson, fighting the urge to laugh out loud.

Chester nodded his balding head and winked, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Yep. Spent many a night up at the cabin with the grandkid, Dana did. Don’t know when he got so crotchety. Used to be he was always up to no good with Forrest. Can’t say when he lost that wild hare, but he sure is boring nowadays.”

Officer Nelson’s, a.k.a. Dana’s, face actually tinted a light shade of red.

“Aw, look at us. Me predictable and you boring. We should date,” I joked.

If Dana was red before, now he was
really
red, from the exposed length of his neck right up to his forehead.

But the joking stopped the moment I saw Mateo approach, dark and handsome. Tito would be proud of how his son had handled today. “May I speak with you, Miss Cartwright?”

Patting Chester’s arm, I slipped out and away from the men in blue and nodded, letting him lead me to the garage. “Of course, Mateo. What can I do to help?”

His face was tight, the skin paler than his usual olive complexion, his jaw clenched. “You can tell me why that suspected murderer was at your house yesterday.”

“
S
ay again?”

“Tread lightly, Stevie,” Win warned.

“That kid Carlito. Why was he at your house yesterday?”

I was astonished. “You know about Carlito?”

“We do now.” He said it as if I was a moron for asking. “Mama told you she never got to tell Papa he had a son at the séance.”

Backing up, I managed to find support on a table saw, letting the heel of my hand rest on the edge as I processed this. “Yes, I know. But she didn’t say anything more than she knew Tito had a son. How do you know his identity? His name?”

“Because Bianca asked my cousin, a sort of private detective, to hunt him down the minute we found out why she left Papa. We didn’t know what he looked like until late yesterday, after we got the report with some pictures of him.”

Now some things were beginning to click for me and my heart began to race. “Is your cousin from Idaho?”

Mateo glared at me, his suave good looks turning to ice. “No, he’s from Portland, but he flew to Idaho because that’s where Carlito lives, then drove back here.”

That explained the rental car plates and the impatient man waiting for Bianca yesterday after she’d lost her cool with me. “How long has Maggie known Carlito’s identity? His name, where he lives?”

“She didn’t know any specifics other than he existed. Still, longer than we knew, for sure, but I’m not sure of the timeframe. We only just found out Papa had another son a little before he died…I mean, was killed. Mama herself wouldn’t tell us why she left Papa until the day he died. So we investigated behind her back. Mama’s really close to my aunt and it was my aunt Marisol who was the one to finally tell us what was really going on.”

“So Maggie wasn’t the first to tell you about this son?”

“No. We pressed Aunt Marisol for answers because Mama was so distraught and we couldn’t figure out what had her upset enough to actually leave Papa. Mama didn’t actually tell us she knew about this son until the day Papa died. She said she wanted to protect us from the shame. She said Papa had brought dishonor to our family by catting around.”

“Who told Maggie about Carlito in the first place, Mateo? How and when did she find out?”

His impatience was growing. I saw it in his stance and his tone as it rapidly changed. “My aunt Marisol. She found some letter packed away in my
abuela
Alba’s attic. She was cleaning out her house to prepare it for selling and she found a letter addressed to my father from Esperanza Valasquez. So she read it, and after she did, she called Mama and told her immediately. But like I said, Mama didn’t tell
us
right away. She just left Papa. We forced Aunt Marisol to spill the beans and then we pretended not to know why she’d left him because my aunt made us swear we’d keep the secret.”

My brow furrowed. “Hold on. How did your grandmother intercept the letters?”

“Just before Mama and Papa came to Washington, to America, they lived with my
abuela
. She must have kept the letter from Papa.”

Holy cow. “So your grandmother knew about what happened with Esperanza, knew your father had another son, and she never told your mother or your father? Not after all these years?”

Mateo sighed, shaking his head. “Aunt Marisol thinks it’s because
Abuela
was a suspicious old woman who worried Papa would leave Mama for Esperanza to raise his son, because we’re not his by blood. So my aunt, she thinks Abuela hid the letter from Mama so she’d never know about Esperanza and Carlito. Who knows why the older generation think the way they do? They’re from a different world, where the rules are stricter and cheating is frowned upon, but so is divorce. I guess Abuela did it to protect Mama and us.”

“Bloody hell,” Win muttered.

I felt like I was in the middle of a telenovela. “So all of you…Bianca, too? Tito’s not your biological father?”

“Yes. Mama was married and widowed just before she met Papa. We were all little at the time he married Mama. I was three, Juan Felipe was four, and Bianca was six. But he raised us like his own. I loved him like my own,” he said fiercely, his dark eyes full of fire.

I nodded to reassure him, reaching out a hand to grip his trembling arm. “Of course you do, Mateo. As you should. But I don’t understand the timeline. When did Tito have the affair with Esperanza?”

Mateo’s head snapped upward, his eyes meeting mine. “I don’t know. There was no date on the letter and the envelope was torn, according to my aunt Marisol.”

Then another thought hit me, making my pulse race. “So maybe your father didn’t cheat on your mother at all, Mateo! Maybe this happened just before he met your mother? Maybe your mother made a mistake. I mean, it could happen, right? Maybe Tito…you know, did whatever with Esperanza, and then he met your mother and fell in love with her, and because he never received the letters from Carlito’s mother, he had no idea another child even existed.”

It made complete sense. Carlito was easily three or four years younger than the Bustamante boys. Maybe my Taco Man wasn’t a cheater after all.

Now Mateo looked stumped when he shrugged his wide shoulders. “I suppose anything’s possible. Mama can be very dramatic and overly emotional. It makes sense she would instantly think Papa cheated on her. She was always insecure about Papa. No one could ever convince her he loved her more than anything or anyone else. They had a good marriage, but if they ever had any problems, it was usually over Mama’s insecurities.”

Like a freight train screaming down a track, I had another notion and my mouth couldn’t keep it contained. “You know what else makes sense? Your
abuela
and her old-school train of thought. If she thought Tito would leave your mother for another woman because you three weren’t his biologically, it wouldn’t surprise me if thoughts like that weren’t something your
abuela
put in your mother’s head. She was raised differently than you or I.”

Then Mateo hardened again, tugging on his loosened tie. “What does any of this have to do with Carlito being at your place?”

I purposely slowed my racing brain so I could understand Mateo’s accusation. “How did you know he was at my house?”

“I stopped by yesterday to thank you for the generous donation you made to Papa’s funeral fund, and to return your check because we don’t need it.”

More confusion slowed my roll further. “Didn’t need it?”

“It turns out Papa’s been saving for years and years, and he also had an insurance policy. One he took out the day he came to America. So we returned all the donations personally.”