Looking For La Unica by Ofelia Dumas Lachtman

Looking for La nica
Ofelia Dumas Lachtman
PIATA BOOKS ARTE PBLICO PRESS HOUSTON,TEXAS
This volume is made possible through grants from the City of Houston through The Cultural Arts Council of Houston, Harris County. Piata books are full of surprises! Arte Pblico Press University of Houston 452 Cullen Performance Hall Houston, Texas 77204-2004 Cover design by James F. Brisson Cover illustration and line art by Pauline Rodriguez Howard Lachtman, Ofelia Dumas. Looking for La nica / by Ofelia Dumas Lachtman. p. cm. Summary: When a mysterious and valuable guitar is stolen from the shop belonging to old friends of her family, Monica is determined to find out what really happened and to uncover the guitars well-kept secret. ISBN 1-55885-412-6 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) [1. SecretsFiction. 2. GuitarFiction. 3. Mexican AmericansFiction. 4. Los Angeles (Calif.)Fiction. 5. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title PZ7.L13535Lo 2004 [Fic]dc22 2004050511 CIP The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. 2004 by Ofelia Dumas Lachtman Printed in the United States of America
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Also by Ofelia Dumas Lachtman

Call Me Consuelo A Good Place for Maggie The Girl from Playa Blanca Leticia s Secret The Summer of El Pintor
With thanks to Anita Zelman for her steadfast support.
Chapter One
he screen door snapped shut behind Monica Ramos as she stepped onto the front porch of her house. The porch allowed a clear view of a narrow street lined with run-down houses, tall skinny palms and, here and there, a gnarled pepper tree. Lucia Street. This was her neighborhood now. The thought shocked her with the abruptness of an alarm clock, and, as always, left her feeling uneasy. It wasnt being in Los Angeles that made her feel this way. She had lived in Los Angeles all of her life except for the three years she had spent at the Raeburn School in Virginia. No, it wasnt Los Angeles that felt strange. It was the neighborhood. Living in a barrio took some getting used to, and she had been here only seven weeks. On the street five small boys were, as usual, playing a baseball game that had more arguments than pitched balls. Strike? Who says? I do! Im the umpire, aint I? At least, for now, they were holding back on four-letter words. They were okay. Loud, yes, but not mean. She let her glance rest on a middle-aged Honda parked at the curb in front of the house. Youll do, little Honda, she murmured. You may not be the shiny red sports car I counted on getting this year and you may have torn upholstery and a trunk that wont lock, but youll do. At least I
have wheels now, and there are still three weeks of summer left. With a quick shake of her head, she pulled a plastic garden chair onto the shady end of the porch and sat down. Then she propped her feet against the railing and began to write on a clipboard she had been carrying. Dear Courtney: Snail mail again. Even though Dad and I are ready for the real world nowyou know, all set to be hooked up to the Internet and e-mailthe telephone company cant give us a new line for a couple of days. And Dad insists on a second line. So until then, snail mail. I know you want me to tell you everything, the way we did each night when we were roomies at Raeburn, so I will, even though theres not much to tell. My dads finally settled with a great law firm here in Los Angeles, so things are looking up. Only problem is that he thinks we should stay right here on Lucia for the time being. I guess he has his reasons, but I dont like it at all. It just doesnt seem fair. Monica hesitated, lifted her pen to cross out the last phrase, and then shrugged and left it alone. Sure, her dad had had a rotten year, losing his terrific government post and having to spend every penny they had to defend himself against unfair charges, but. . . . Okay. None of it was fair. And on the bright side, they did have her mothers old house to live in. Her thoughts were interrupted by more shrieks from the ballplayers. Youre out, stupid! By a stinking mile! In a moment the boys quieted down, and she went back to her letter.
Looking for La nica
The part I really dont like about living here longer is having to spend my senior year at Talbot High. That schools so old Im surprised its still standing, and I hear its really crowded. But enough whining. Im beginning to realize what a pampered life Ive had; the people here make do with so little. Besides, there is one great big plus to staying here. And thats living so near to my really cool grandfather. Its nice to know that whenever my dads gone, hell be close by. Really close. His studios built on what used to be our driveway. Heres something youre not going to believe. Ive learned how to paint! Not art. Houses. Before Rob left for college up in Santa Barbara, he and his sister Toni and I painted the outside of our house. We didnt make a mess of it because Rob knew what he was doing. Its been nice having him for a boyfriend, and Im going to miss him. He probably wont miss me though, not around all those older girlsoops, I mean womenbut I hope so. . . . Monica looked up from her writing as a screen door slammed across the street and Blanca Palacios, a stocky woman with a mass of graying black hair, stepped out onto her porch. She called, Buenos das, and waved. Monica smiled and waved back, then returned to her letter. The people in the barrio are pretty nice, but theres one problem. Some talk nothing but Spanish to me and expect me to understand. When I dont, they look positively shocked. Sure, I can speak a little Spanish. But even so. . . . A few of the
old-time neighbors knew my mother when she lived here, and I guess they expect me to be just like her. Especially since I look a lot like her. You remember her picture. Same brown hair and hazel eyes. Maybe my Spanish will get better, but I doubt that Ill ever be like my mother. Not from all that Laurita Salcedos said about her. She says that my mother was sweet and passive and that everybody loved her. Oh, and that she loved to cook. (That doesnt sound like me, does it?) Laurita was my mothers best friend. When she came to stay with me early this summer while Dad was up in San Francisco, we became friends, too. She was the one who suggested that I might want to spend what was left of the summer learning more about my mothers girlhood, and when I jumped at the chance, she agreed to be my guide. As a matter of fact, Im going to meet her and Toni at the Salcedos guitar shop in just a few minutes. . . . For a moment Monica stared at the letter on her lap, then wrote, As soon as theres something new and exciting to tell you, Ill write again. I promise. But not until I hear about your fabulous summer. And more about Andrew, too. She signed the letter, Monica (still without an accent), a.k.a. Curious Catherine, and went into the house. In a matter of minutes she had locked the front door and was in the Honda, driving west on Lucia. The ballplayers scampered to the curb, and one of them, grin-
Looking for La nica
ning broadly, threw his red cap at the car and shouted, You want me to drive you? Some other time, Csar, she called with a grin, then drove carefully around the rags theyd placed on the street for base markers. In another few blocks Monica arrived at her destination, the Salcedoss guitar shop, at the corner of Lucia and Dennison Boulevard. A quick turn led her into the tiny parking area behind the shop. A van and a 95 Toyota Camry took up two of the four parking spaces, and a third was filled by a green pickup truck with a Mexican license plate. Monica turned into the last parking slot, and swung out of the car. The back entry, which she had used before, led directly to the workshop where guitars were made. It was protected only by a screen door, and as she neared it, she caught the rich scent of wood shavings and the sweet, sticky smell of varnish that they used to finish the beautiful guitars. She was in a direct line with the entry when the sound of angry voices exploded through the screen. What in hells fire were you doing with it, anyway? She recognized the deep baritone voice. It was Lauritas brother Pancho. Looking at it, what else? came the heated answer. Its . . . its impressive. So you looked at it. Then what? Blast it, Dad, Ive already told Monica hurried past the door. She walked quickly toward Dennison and pulled open the heavy street door. A bell chimed in the back as she stepped inside. The room she was in was warm and inviting. Waisthigh bookshelves holding music books, catalogs, and
magazines were on either side of the door. Five or six guitars hung on the side wall, with colorful fabric and leather guitar straps hanging among them. Two cane-backed chairs with guitar footstools beside them were placed on either side of a potted palm, and by the back wall there was a large display case that held guitar accessories: strings, capos, pitch pipes, electronic tuners, and even metronomes. At first she thought that the room was empty, but then she saw Laurita. A slim woman in her mid-forties, Laurita was standing behind the display case. She had gray-streaked black hair that fell carelessly across her brow, deep brown eyes, and a mouth that was used to smiling. She did not smile now. Rather, her face puckered into a little frown as she said, Monica. Oh. Of course. I was going to show you the church where your mother was confirmed. Id completely forgotten you were coming. Wait just a minute, and Ill tell Pancho Im leaving. At that moment the door was thrust open, almost taking Laurita with it as it slammed against the wall. A redfaced young man burst in like an angry watchdog. He had a thatch of unruly black hair over a face that was sensitive, but strengthened by a firm, stubborn chin. Ta! he shouted. Ta! Will you please come in here and talk to my father. Hes acting as if Im a criminal. Laurita looked uncomfortable as she said, Im sorry, Jos, but Me, too, Jos said bluntly. And hell be picking on Armando next. Laurita hesitated, looking over her shoulder at Monica. Quickly, Monica picked up a music book on the shelf
Looking for La nica
beside her and began leafing through it. Laurita called, Ill be right back, and she and Jos went into the inside room, closing the door firmly behind them. Curious, Monica listened to the occasional sound of voices that came from behind the closed door, unable to make out any words. She recognized Lauritas reasonable tone and the exasperated explanations from her nephew Jos, but none of that told her what the outburst was about. She started toward the back wall, knowing that she was planning to eavesdrop, but after what shed heard in the parking lot, it was impossible not to be curious. She had taken only a few steps when the door at the back wall opened once more. This time it opened slowly, cautiously, and only a third of the way. Through this narrow opening a slim young man wearing faded jeans and a spotless white T-shirt slid quietly into the room. He turned back to the door and, holding the knob in both hands, closed it with great care. He circled to face the shop, but remained pressed against the door, his head tilted, listening. It was a dramatic pose, one hed struck naturally, and it suited him. He was lean and brown and unbelievably handsome, with a mass of black curls cut short above a face that could have belonged to a Greek statue. He doesnt know Im here, Monica thought. Even as she had that thought, the handsome young man caught sight of her. His face reddened as he straightened up and took a step away from the door. You desire to buy? he asked. His chin indicated the wall behind him. They are much . . . much occupied, but I . . . I . . . it is possible to search something for you.
He was speaking English, all right, but with so heavy a Spanish accent that she had to do a quick review of the words to understand them. No, no, she said quickly. Im not a customer. Im Monica Ramos and Im waiting for Laurita. Ah. He nodded. I am waiting also. For Jos. It is my thoughts you name him Joe. I am Armando Nava. I am to Joe a . . . a . . . Joe, he is the son of my fathers brother. He smiled brightly. Right? She returned his smile and said, Yes, when I talk to Jos I call him Joe. And hes your cousin then. He nodded eagerly and she went on. Im glad to meet you. Are you working for the Salcedos? Later maybe, yes. Todayand more days, he added quickly, I am visiting. From Mexico. He grinned and spread his arms out, palms up. To repair my English. Your English is good. How did you learn it? In school? Not school. Books. Books from the house of my friend. She was a teacher. She is an ancient one now. He pointed a finger at his chest. First I read books for the child. He grinned more broadly Fun for Dick and Jane, then books for the older childs, and small by small, I learn. Monica held back a smile. All by yourself? No. My friend, she helphelpeda small part. The books, they help more. I like the study. Obviously, you like to study, Monica thought, to have learned this much by yourself. Then she thought of her scrawny Spanish and guilt nudged her uncomfortably. Across the room Armando bent over the display case, as if examining the items it held. She turned back to the music book, staring at it blankly, and in a few moments
Looking for La nica
Laurita returned to the room. Laurita stood by the open door for an instant, then, in what seemed an angry gesture, pushed the loose hair off her forehead and said, Armando, Pancho wants to see you. Will you please go in there? Armando paled, nodded, and then stood absolutely still. Laurita said, You want me to speak English to you. Are you sure you understand? S. Yes. I understand, Armando said and, with a look thrown at Monica that was apologetic as much as bewildered, went through the open door. Laurita glanced over her shoulder, then said, Im sorry, Monica, I wont be able to leave. Something is happening that . . . that . . . well, I think Im needed here. Its okay. Well do it another time, Monica said quickly and looked at her watch. Id better go. Tonill be waiting and hungry as usual. I told her Id pick her up at the corner of Dennison and Alta. Monica left the shop feeling strangely let down. The feeling, she was sure, had nothing to do with Lauritas backing out of their plans. It had to do with the anguish in Joes voice when hed cried, I was just looking at it, I tell you! And the sudden pallor of Armandos face when Laurita said, Pancho wants to see you. What was the it they were talking about? She had wanted to stay, and it wasnt just curiosity. For some reason that she couldnt explain, she wanted to help them. Monica straightened her shoulders, exhaled, and told herself that it was none of her business. Right now her business was to pick up Toni. But when she turned into the parking lot, she found Toni standing beside her car.
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Toni was a slight, small-boned girl, with a cap of curly black hair. Her skin was a rich coppery color. Her eyes, as black as her hair, were crinkled around the edges as she looked at Monica in a questioning way. Whats going on around here? she asked. First, when I looked in on you and Laurita, it looked like youd both just had rotten newsyou shouldve seen your facesand then when I came back here to wait for you, some creep took one look at me and went flying over the wall behind your car. Monica shrugged. You know as much as I do. Also, Toni said, Joes gone ballistic. Just after I got here, he bounced out that door like a madman. He was muttering something about La nica, but when he saw me he turned three shades of red and bounced right back inside. La nica, Monica said, that means Dont stretch your brain, Toni said with a grin. Ill tell you. It means the only or the only one. Could it be a womans name? It could, Toni said with a shrug. But I dont think so. Anyway, Im hungry, so lets go eat. And wheres Laurita?
Chapter Two
he first person Monica saw when she returned home was the boy Csar. He had been sitting on her front porch floor, hidden by the railing, and when she was halfway up the walkway to the house he sprang up like a Jack-in-the-Box, taking her by surprise. Her grandfathers calico cat was in his arms. He put the cat down and called, I brought Sopa some soup. She sure likes my mothers cooking. Ill bet, Monica said as she climbed the steps. In the weeks before her grandfather had adopted Sopa, the cat had been a stray that wandered the neighborhood, bumming food from everyone and developing a passion for soupthus, her name. Whereve you been? Csar asked. Ive had to wait and wait for you. Wait for me? Why? Because El Pintor told me to tell you hell be gone till after supper. He said not to save him anything. Hes gonna have a hot dog. Monica grimaced. That figures. Hope he doesnt get indigestion. Her disappointment had drizzled into her words. Her grandfather was the person she most wanted to see right now. His name was Francis Mead, but nearly
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everyone in the barrio called him El Pintor since he was a painter. And a pretty good one at that; he had a show at a well-known gallery in Hollywood. Her dad called him Francis, and she called him F.M.most of the time. He had lived here for years, and, even better, he had been a close friend of the older Salcedos. He was bound to know what was going on at the guitar shop. There was a chance that her grandfather would say it was all none of her business, but she doubted that. He was too tactful. Besides, he had an overactive curiosity, just like she did. Probably a genetic thing. She dug for the house key in the pocket of her shorts, started to say good-bye to Csar and then changed her mind. Instead of good-bye, she said, Hey, Csar, do you know anyone around here called La nica? Nah. Thats a dumb name. Dumb or not, Monica said as she unlocked the door, Id like to know if you ever do hear that name. Inside, she glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. The hours were going to drag till suppertime. And suppertime wouldnt be the end of it either. Because today she would eat alone. Her father was in San Francisco for a couple of days, and her grandfather would be stuffing down hotdogs. She missed Laurita. But with her grandfather back in his studio next door, even her dad had agreed that she didnt need a caretaker. Still, she wished Laurita was pulling up in front of the house right this minute. And that beside her on the seat of her ancient VW there would be their favorite pepperoni pizza. Laurita had been a happy surprise. Monica had expected someone still called little Laura at middle age to be
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tiny and wimpy and ineffective. But Laurita was attractive and level-headed. And she put up cheerily with her diminutive name. I kept thinking, she had told Monica, that when I was fifteen, my brothers and cousins would start calling me Laura. But no. They didnt. And they didnt when I was twenty. And thirty. And now that Im . . . well, forget how old I am, they still call me little Laura, or Laurita. Monica smiled. That was like Laurita; she knew what to fight over. Forget Laurita, she grumbled to herself, shes not here to help you pass the time. Sometimes Monica wished that she didnt have such an active curiosity. Like right now. Well, at least she knew exactly what to do to hurry the hours along until her grandfather returned. A walk and a good book. She turned toward the kitchen. There was a book on the table there, a Nero Wolfe mystery that her dad was waiting to read and that shed promised to finish before he returned from San Francisco. It was an old book about old times, but she didnt care. It was fun living in New York in the thirties and forties and especially living with fat and brilliant Nero and his absolutely great leg man, Archie Goodwin. Theyd be good company today. So, with the book in hand, she locked the house and started up the street. She was on her way to a place she had come to love. Beyond the two long blocks that stretched ahead of her was a low hill, bringing Lucia to its end in that direction. Near the end of the first block on the other side of the street, Csar was pushing a tire swing that hung from a large scraggly elm in his front yard, setting it into wobbly motion. She waved at him. The neighborhood became more deserted as she neared the hill. The sidewalks were
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cracked and broken by the roots of gnarled ficus trees planted between the sidewalk and the curbing. Those same trees pushed probing roots under the street, raising the asphalt in a network that looked like veins on aged hands. Only a few shabby houses dotted the last block, with weed-grown lots between them. Here and there on those lots, broken slabs of cement indicated that houses had once stood there. Monica crossed the intersecting street at the base of the hill and started up the steep slope of a cracked and weed-filled driveway. At the top she paused between two cement pillars that were covered by tangles of ivy. Beyond them a low disintegrating wall, obviously a raised foundation, outlined a large floor plan. That and the remnants of three chimneys were all that was left of the house that had once stood there. Monica took a few more steps until she was at the highest point on the hill and then turned to look westward. Beyond the rooftops and between the buildings below she had a narrow view of Santa Monica Bay. She could see a couple of sailboats in the clear blue water of the bay and even a bit of the Santa Monica Mountains that enclosed it. Behind her she heard the rustling of wings as two crows exploded from a nearby tree, ending the peace of the moment with their raucous calls. She picked her way carefully over the remains of a gravel drive, past what had been the front of the house, and then to a well-worn footpath on the east side of the ruins. Overgrown shrubbery intruded into the path, still, it was easy to follow. It led her under a large elm tree and along what was left of a low picket fence that at one time might have enclosed a veg-
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etable garden. Today the area was covered by a brilliant mass of purple lantana that gave off a dry woodsy smell. Now the path took a sudden turn around an immense oleander bush studded with pink blooms, and she was at her destination. Ahead of her a wooden summerhouse with a peaked roof stood in the center of a circular clearing. It was a small six-sided building that at one time might have been white. It was built on a high wooden base, with six wide steps leading to its entry. Monica hurried up the steps. The summerhouse was desperately in need of paintonly a few determined flakes clung to the pillars and ceiling but repairs had been made to the steps, the railings and to the bench that ran along its six sides. Her grandfather, she had learned, loved this place, too, and gave it a bit of tender loving care. With a quick glance at the bay far below her she turned and sat in her favorite corner of the sixsided bench. She leaned back contentedly. She never felt entirely alone here. Her grandmother and grandfather had built the house, only to lose it to a tragic fire. But the summerhouse was saved. She was glad. Every time she came here she felt that her grandmother was close. Her mother, too. Not the mother she remembered from the few short years theyd had together, the person who sang sweet lullabies and whose touch was gentle and reassuring. Already, in memory, she held that presence close. Here she thought she sensed the young girl who, according to Laurita, also had spent many hours in this place. Sometimes sitting here Monica thought she heard soft humming or a little giggle . . . yes, sometimes it seemed that girl was near.
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Well, if the giggle and the humming werent real, there were other sounds that were: the twitter of small birds, the calls of the crows, and the sounds of squirrels scurrying through dry leaves and up into the trees. From below her in the distance came muffled people noises: a lawnmower, the persistent honking of a car horn, and far off on Dennison, the eerie wail of a siren. She opened the book. She was nearing the end of the novel, and she had yet to figure out whodunit when she thought she heard light footsteps on the path below her. She stood up. Csar? she called. She dropped her book and went to the entry. Csar? she said more loudly. There was no answer. Suddenly, there was a loud scurrying and a scattering of leaves fell from the roof above her. She caught her breath as two squirrels burst over the edge of the roof and chased one another down the post beside her, scampering across the ground to disappear into the undergrowth. Squirrels. Dumb, noisy squirrels. With her heart still beating wildly and a sheepish grin on her face, she returned to her book. In another half an hour she had finished it, not too annoyed at herself for not solving the mystery because Archie Goodwin hadnt either. It had taken Nero Wolfes genius. She rose, stretched, took one last glance at what she could see of the bay and went down the stairs to the path. In only a couple of steps, she stopped. Lying at the side of the path was a black rubber beach sandal, the kind everyone called flip-flops. She looked around. Strange. She hadnt seen it earlier. Maybe she had scared someone away when shed called Csar. She picked it up and turned it over. It was big, but not huge, so it could belong either
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to a guy or a girl, if the girl wasnt tiny. And if the guy wasnt. . . . She shrugged and dropped it. This certainly was no mystery. The neighborhood kids had been coming to this hill for years. It was they who had named it Chimney Hill. No, the flip-flop wasnt the first thing that had been lost up here. With another shrug, she kicked the sandal off the path and, book in hand, started down the hill. Monica was almost home when from across the street the woman named Luz Palacios called, Buenas tardes, Monica. Otra caminata, eh? Some weeks back Monica had figured out what caminata meant, so she said, S, seora. But only a little walk. Ive been up to the summerhouse. Ah, s, el pabelln. Monica nodded and smiled. She supposed pabelln meant summerhouse; shed ask her dad. The sun was almost down and Lucia Street was bathed in a soft rosy glow when Monicas grandfather returned home. Seated on the front porch railing, Monica watched with growing impatience as he walked slowly up the street. He was a tall, wiry man with an angular face topped by thick white hair. Under his arm he had tucked a couple of sketch pads, while in his hand he held a rectangular case that she knew contained his pencils and charcoal. When he turned on to the driveway and the door of his studio, she raced down the porch steps to meet him. F.M., she called, am I ever glad youre home! Me, too. He held the door open and motioned her in. Well, he said when they were seated in the small room that was the living part of his studio, to what do I owe this spectacular welcome?
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Its not spectacular, she said seriously. Im always glad when you get back. I dont want you lost again. Nor do I, he replied with a quick little smile. They were both silent then, and Monica guessed that her grandfather, too, was thinking back to early in the summer when a hit-and-run accident had caused him a concussion and a prolonged period of amnesia. He had been lost then, not only to his worried friends and neighbors, but to himself. Monica broke the silence. How were the hotdogs? He grinned. Replete with nitrites and fat, just the way I like them. Not to worry though, I had a fresh vegetable. A mound of chopped onion. He leaned forward in his favorite relaxing chair, toppling a small cushion from behind his head. But Id hazard a guess that theres something on your mind other than hotdogs. Okay. Youre reading my mind again. So whats on it? Thats easy. The Salcedos. And what went on at the guitar shop. Maybe that young man named Armando. Howd you know? Wait, wait! She shook her head urgently. You mustve dropped in at the guitar shop. He sat back in his chair. Exactly. And felt the turmoil in the air before the door had closed behind me. Pancho was courteous as always, but it was obvious that he was upset and in no frame of mind to be interrupted. So I left as soon as I decently could. I didnt stay long either, Monica said. Ive never seen Laurita so shaken. Whats it all about? He frowned. Young Joes misplaced a guitar, thats all. But still theres all hell to pay in that place. He shrugged and the frown grew deeper. I cant understand
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all the ferment. It seems like a storm in a stewpot to me. Its a storm, all right, Monica said. You shouldve heard Joe. He was furious. And when Laurita told Armando that Pancho wanted to see him, he got as white as chalk. And that took some doing, she added with a grin, because his skins pretty brown. Well, it will all be forgotten in a day or two, and theyll all be back to normal. I hope so, she said, sounding not at all hopeful. Anyway, theres something else I wanted to ask you. Its about something Toni heard Joe say. Tell me, F.M., whos called, La nica? Her grandfather sat up stiffly. Not who, what, he said sharply. Then he shook his head. My God, so thats it. La nica. So young Joes misplaced La nica.
Chapter Three
a nica, Monica said, echoing her grandfather. You mean La nicas just a guitar? Not just a guitar, honey. La nicas a treasure, a superb instrument. Juan Salcedo put all of his knowledge, his genius, really, and all of his art into the creation of every instrument he made. He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them and said, And he was a fine guitarist, too. You lost a good friend when Seor Salcedo died, didnt you? Indeed I did. He and I shared many hours together. I watched La nica come into being. The woods he used were special: spruce and sometimes cedar and rosewood from South America. But it was not only the materials he used. Juan was a true artist. He could have sold that guitar as he had others, always for a substantial amount. He was becoming known beyond this country, and requests for his guitars were starting to come from high places. But this one he would not sell. He insisted that it remain within their family. Why? He could have made another one, couldnt he? As a matter of fact, he did. Several. But none to replace this one. He claimed the tone it produced was
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unlike any other, that it was the only one of its kind. And he repeated that so often that thats what everyone began to call it. The Only One. Of course. La nica, Monica said and looked at him expectantly. Why did it mean so much to him? No one knows. And the reason I say that with so much assurance is because Pancho came to me shortly after his father died, asking the same thing. He felt that his father might have confided in me. Juan and I shared many confidences, but all he told me about that guitar was what hed told his sons: that they must never sell La nica, that it must remain in the family. Abruptly, he rose and went to the closed door that led to his studio. He pushed it open, and Sopa, the calico cat, slid through and padded placidly across the room, poising herself at the foot of his chair. He sat again, this time with Sopa on his lap. So now, he said as if he hadnt been interrupted, it seems thats no longer the case. And Joes to blame, Monica thought sadly. She had met Joe only a couple of times, but had sensed that he was Lauritas favorite nephew. She had sensed, too, that he was a responsible, trustworthy person. She guessed that he was just out of high school but already he had built several guitars, and Laurita said he really loved them. She couldnt imagine his being careless with a guitar that they all valued so much. No wonder his father was so angry, she said and stood up. Thanks for filling me in. I hope they find it soon. At the door she turned and said, And thanks for not telling me Im nosy. Goodnight, F.M. Goodnight, Monica. See you at the window.
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Monica nodded. Her bedroom window looked across a narrow walkway to the small window over his kitchen sink. Each night at ten, when her dad was gone, they gave each other the alls okay signal from window to window. Outside she paused by the door, debating on taking a shortcut through her grandfathers flower bed or walking on the stepping stones to the sidewalk. The shortcut won. As she started across the flowers, she saw a man hovering by her car. He had long hair tied at the back of his neck, and he wore a bulky jacket. Later she would understand that it was her decision to cut through the flowers that kept her in the deeper shadows and led the man by the Honda to believe that there was no one around. He circled the car with no attempt at caution. Her impulse was to yell at him, but common sense and fear held her back. The man might have a gun. She pressed herself against the studio wall, wondering what to do. It was then that she realized the stranger was not tampering with the enginethe hood was still in placenor meddling with the doors. Rather, he was now bent over the trunk and opening it. He pulled something from the trunk, large and cumbersome, with a cover that hung loosely over it. What was it? She cursed the lamppost that stood solidly yet ineffectively beside her little Honda, its light burned out. When he moved on to the sidewalk, she saw that he was cradling the object in his arms. Oh, my God, she thought with a sharp intake of breath, its a baby. In her shock she must have made some sound, some movement, because the thief broke his step, turned, threw
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a glance toward where she stood, and began to run. As he shot diagonally across the street, the cover fell from the object he was carrying, and she saw the long, thin neck of a guitar. She pounded on the studios door. F.M.! Grandfather! she shouted. When he appeared at the door, she pointed breathlessly at the dark form that was now racing in the direction of Chimney Hill. He . . . he took the guitar from my trunk! The guitar? Who? What? Later, later, she said, pulling at him. Get into my car. Weve got to follow him. No, no, Monica. If he stole something from you, wed better call the police. Well do that, she called over her shoulder, but right now we cant waste time. Please, F.M., get in the car! By the time she ran into the house, dug up her car keys, and ran to the Honda, her grandfather was seated dutifully in the passenger seat, and the man with the guitar was nowhere to be seen. Monica drove slowly toward Chimney Hill, pausing to look between houses and around shrubbery and trees. There! There he is! she cried excitedly when they were near the end of Lucia. Hes running down that driveway. But when a second look showed the person on the driveway to be a woman carrying a garden chair, Monica turned to her grandfather. You were right, she said, I guess this is kind of useless. Nonetheless, they drove around the block a couple of times before she finally gave up. All right, her grandfather said when she had parked the car beside the lamppost, whats this about?
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Its about a guitar someone hid in my trunk, she said and went on to tell him what she had seen. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. Except for the fact that the trunk doesnt lock. I know that much. But who? How? When? She shook her head and frowned at the steering wheel. The only time anyone could have put something in my trunk had to be from earlier today, between the time I threw my sweater in it just before I went into the Salcedos place until I left you a little while ago. Why would anyone put La nica in my car? And who would steal it? Monica, her grandfather said quietly, do you know for sure that it was La nica ? Monica exhaled. No, of course not. Ive never seen La nica . Do you know for sure that it was a guitar? F.M.! Dont insult me. Of course it was a guitar. But you said it was covered up. Yes, I know, but She stiffened and turned to him. Of course! The cover fell off. Its got to be lying in the gutter. Lets go find it. Her grandfather got out of the car with less enthusiasm than she, but followed her to a spot some ten feet beyond the Honda. There they found a large white towel lying near the street. More than half of it hung over the curb into a wet and greasy gutter. Monica took the towel by a corner and dragged it across the small patch of summer grass in front of her house to the porch steps. Ill leave it on the porch, she said, and then I think Id better go in and call Laurita. Yes, he said, but Ill come in with you, and well lock up your house first.
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You dont have to. That guy wasnt after me or even my car. Hes got the guitar, and its plain thats what he wanted. Im not scared. He gave her a long look. Well, then, he said, I hope Laurita can shed some light on what happened here tonight; otherwise, youll be digging until you find the answer. Wouldnt you? Definitely, he said with a grin. So its justifiable nosiness. Absolutely. His grin broadened. Im glad you agree. Goodnight, grandfather. Inside the house Monica went directly to the telephone. One of Joes younger brothers answered the phone. There were the usual sounds of voices, laughter, and music in the background as she waited for Laurita. The Salcedos always seemed to be a happy family. Yet today thered been so much anger at the guitar shop. When she had explained the reason for her call, Laurita said, A guitar? In your car? Thats strange. How could that have happened? I was hoping you could tell me. I wish I could. All I can tell you is that I dont think it has anything to do with La nica. Are you sure it was a guitar he was carrying? Monica clamped her teeth together. Laurita, too! Why didnt anyone trust her judgment? It was a guitar, all right, she said. But if you think it isnt connected to La nica, I wont bother you with it again. She knew she sounded irritated, but she couldnt help it. There was a long moment of silence, and then Laurita
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said more gently, Even if it was our guitar, theres nothing you can do about it, anyway, is there, Monica? I guess not. I . . . I just thought it was something you ought to know. And I appreciate that. Thanks. Monica stayed awake a long time that night, and when she finally fell asleep, her rest was invaded by troublesome dreams. One dream was of her mother and Laurita when they were young. They hid behind the trees on Lucia, giggling and whispering in Spanish, refusing to let her come near them or to let her know what they were saying. The other dream was even more disturbing. In it, Toni called to her from across a wide, deep chasm. Her calls were desperate. I have something to tell you. Come closer, come closer! I will, I will, Monica called back. But when she reached the edge of the precipice, its fringe crumbled into small rocks and sand that plummeted down the side of the rocky canyon, carrying her with them. When Monica awakened the next morning, the sun was high and beating on the windows of her grandfathers studio next door. Remnants of the last dream floated through her mind like ragged bits of ugly fabric, making her uncomfortable. But when Tonis laughter-filled voice reached her through the window, she relaxed. A second voice was her grandfathers. Toni had cleaned the studio for him for many years. El Pintor wanted me to feel empowered, she had told Monica early in the summer, so he figured a way for me to earn money. And I was only ten. It hadnt taken Monica long to learn how much El Pintor was loved in the barrio, and once she had found him, it hadnt taken her long
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to figure out why. Now Monica pushed her head out the window and called, What a racket you two are making. Cant you let a girl get her eight hours of sleep? Eight hours! Toni called. Are you kidding? More like twelve. Half the day is gone. Its almost ten. Really? Morning, F.M. Can I steal Toni from you? It was Toni who answered. Im through here. Ill be right over. In a matter of minutes Toni was seated across the kitchen table from Monica, eating a banana-nut muffin. Monica told Toni about what had happened the previous night. Who do you suppose? Toni said. And why? Thats what Id like to know. All I know for sure is that somebody put that guitar in my car while I was in the shop talking to Laurita. Why do you think that? Well, it was a guitar the guy took out of my trunk last night, and I had been parked behind a guitar shop earlier. Makes sense to me. Hey! Toni said, her eyes widening with excitement. How about that guy in the parking lot, the one who jumped over the fence when he saw me coming! Thats right. It couldve been him. But why put it in my car? To hide it temporarily, of course. He probably didnt expect you to be leaving so soon. You mean he heard you coming so he threw it in the trunk and hid somewhere? No, Toni said. What I think is that he heard Joe at
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the shops back door, threw it in your trunk, then hid between your car and the wall. And when I showed up and headed for your car, he jumped over the wall. I think youve got it, Monica said with conviction, even if Laurita and my grandfather dont think the guitar in my car was La nica. They dont? What other guitar could it be? Search me. Unless theres another one missing at the Salcedos place. Want some more orange juice? When Toni shook her head, Monica got up, picked up their dishes, and said, Im going to nose around the guitar shop. Want to come? Toni stood up, brushed some muffin crumbs from the front of her white shorts, and grinned. Does Sopa like soup? she said. Lets go.
Chapter Four
onica and Toni didnt go to the guitar shop. They were seated in the Honda when they were held back by a green pickup truck that drew up close beside them. Alo! Alo! the driver of the truck called. I am here to look at you, seorita Monica. But if you got to go, I go also. He threw up his hands in a gesture of acceptance and smiled. It was Armando from the guitar shop. Does he know how nearly irresistible his smile is? Monica wondered. She removed the key from the ignition. You came to see me? Armando nodded briskly. Yes. If with you is . . . it is okay. Toni nudged Monica and whispered, Whos that? Is he gorgeous or what? Its Armando, Joe Salcedos cousin. Should we see what he wants? Absolutely. You couldnt drag me away. Monica called, Okay, Armando. Park your car and come on in. Armando brought the pickup to the curb behind the Honda and swung out of the cab. At the front door Monica said Come in, Armando, and once they were inside, added, Toni, this is Armando Salcedo, Joes cousin. This is my friend Toni.
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Armando nodded, started to smile then seemed to think better of it, and said seriously, How did you do? Toni grinned, said Im good, and sat at one end of a small sofa. Monica said You came to see me, Armando? Just to visit, or what? Yes, Armando said. Monica bit back a quick, Yes, what? and said more patiently, You came to see me for a special reason? S, s, Armando exclaimed. Es que He caught himself and said, Laurita tells . . . He hesitated, searching for words, . . . that you said about a guitar on the telephone. Is . . . it is import . . . importante . . . to me to know much. Toni, with a questioning frown on her face, looked from Armando to Monica and back again. Why dont you just speak Spanish? she said. If Monica doesnt understand everything, Ill explain. Monica stiffened at Tonis words. Yes, Toni meant well, but who said she wouldnt understand everything? Well, almost everything. She relaxed her taut shoulders and said, I think Armando wants to practice his English. Isnt that right? Armando said, Yes. To fix it good. You want to know about the guitar that was in my car, Monica said slowly. Is that it? He stared at her blankly for a few seconds and she said, Guitar. Por qu? Oh. Oh. Why, Armando said with a smile. It is much complicated. Better if I tell in Spanish. Is that good? Yes, yes, go ahead, Monica said, and Armando, with
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a deep exhalation of breath, started speaking in rapid Spanish. La nicas loss, he said, is really my fault. Yesterday, when Pancho, my uncle, was gone, Jos . . . Joe was looking at an old guitar he had brought out from the storeroom. Is that one of Pap Juans? I asked. He said it was. I already knew that because at home I have two others made by my grandfather. When Joe went into the shop to talk to a customer, he left Pap Juans guitar on the worktable. I looked at it for a few minutes and then went into the storeroom to look at some patterns kept there. He grinned. I, too, am interested in making guitars. So, when I returned, I found Joe back in the workroom. Where were you? he said. And whered you leave La nica? La nica? I said to Joe. What are you talking about? Pap Juans guitar, thats what. Where is it? Come on, Jos, I said, stop playing games. You hid it, didnt you? But one look at his face told me I was wrong. The guitar was gone. I had left it in the workroom with the back door unlocked, and someone walked in and took it. Abruptly, Armando leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. And then, as suddenly, he sat up and, again in Spanish, said It gets worse. Toni turned to Monica. He said, it gets worse, she explained. Did you get what he said?
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Oh, I got it, most of it, anyway, Monica replied, annoyed again at Toni. Unfairly annoyed, she told herself as her common sense took over. Its no ones fault but my own that she knows more Spanish than I do. My dad and my old nanny certainly tried to get me to learn both languages well, but I was too stubborn to bother with Spanish. Now she said, Im okay with it, Toni. Across the coffee table from her Armando was shaking his head slowly, a frightened look on his face. It gets worse, he repeated in Spanish. Thats why Im here. When Laurita told us of your telephone call, my uncle just sat staring at the wall for a little while and then he went crazy. Thats what I think. Crazy. Entirely crazy. Armando, whose eyes had been fixed on a magazine on the coffee table as he spoke, now raised them to look at Monica. My uncle has decided that you, Monica, and I are to blame for the guitars disappearance, that we had this all planned. Wha-at? Monica sat up so suddenly that her knees bumped into the edge of the coffee table, moving it forward a couple of inches and sliding the magazines onto the floor. Planned? Planned? Whats he talking about? she said, forgetting to speak Spanish. Toni didnt forget. You mean, she said, that he thought Monica was your partner and that together you planned to steal La nica? Yes, yes, Armando said, still looking at Monica. According to him, we planned this all in advance. No matter that the first time I ever saw you was in the shop after La nica already had disappeared. How about the man who took the guitar out of Mon-
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icas car last night? Toni asked. Was he supposed to be part of it, too? Monica was glad that Toni was asking all the right questions. She was still too dumbfounded to speak. More than that, she was furious. So furious that tears were welling up in her eyes and she was sure that if she spoke they would spill over. She blinked them back, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Maybe Armando saw her struggle because he turned away and said to Toni, Yes, yes, he thought that man was part of it, yes. Monica cleared her throat and leaned forward. I have to talk in English, she said. I dont have the right words in Spanish to say what I think. What I think is that your uncle is a sick puppy. You know what that means? Its an idiom for hes gone off the deep end. And you know what that means? It means hes balmy, batty, and brain-sick. You said you thought he was loco. Well, thats not enough. Hes stark-raving mad! Go on, Toni, tell him what that means. I dont have to, Toni said. I think he got it. Armando grinned. Okay, English. I comprehend. Sick poppy is sick father with sick brain. Is that not so? Monica ignored Tonis giggle and said, What does Laurita think about this? Ta Laurita . . . He stopped and started again. My aunt Laurita, she is your friend. Me, she knows little, but she throws no blame. Im glad to hear that, Monica said. She really had had no doubts. Laurita didnt jump to conclusions. How about Joe?
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Joe, Armando said and sat back, saying nothing for a long moment. Then, Joe is . . . Joe says I am tonto . . . more than tonto. Like stupid? Toni asked with a twinkle dancing in her eyes. Yes, stupid, Armando answered. But he is not much angry. With his father, yes. Joe and me . . . we talk . . . talked two, three hours. It is Joe who said to me where you live. He said to talk with you. He said is . . . it is importante to know. Okay? Monica nodded. Okay. Then she told him briefly what she knew, ending by saying, Maybe the guy who took the guitar was someone who hung around the shop. Do you remember anyone like that? Armando shook his head. For a moment he stared at the floor, then he said, I am sorry. You are much angry with me? Yes, Im angry, Monica answered impatiently. But not at you. Why should I be mad at you? Armando shrugged, once more staring at the floor. Toni looked from Monica to Armando. How about your uncle? she asked. Did he kick you out? No, no, Armando answered quickly. He did not kick. I am family. Abruptly, he got up. It is time I go. Today I work for my uncle. Not with the guitars. Today I paint the walls of the outside. Also I study the problem. Is my problem. I will fix it. Good luck, Monica thought. Youre not going to fix anything painting right under your uncles nose. What she said was, Let me know if you learn anything new. After Armando left, Monica and Toni sat in the living
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room in awkward silence. Im guessing that were not going to snoop around the guitar shop. Not when youre their number-one suspect, Toni finally said. I guess not. Not till I calm down, anyway. Let me know then, Toni called from the door. That is, if you still want me to be Watson while youre playing Sherlock Holmes. Ill let you know when Im ready. And till then, Dr. Watson, please dont say anything to anybody. Half an hour after Toni left, Monica was still sitting in the armchair by the coffee table, debating with herself. Several ideas had popped into her head, but she hadnt decided which, if any of them, she would use. The first was to run up to the guitar shop and confront Pancho Salcedo; she was sure she could come up with some pointed and stinging remarks that would show him what an idiot he was. The second was to call her lawyer father, describe what Pancho Salcedo had said, and ask if they couldnt sue him. What hed said was slanderous, wasnt it? The third was to tell her grandfather what had happened and see what he had to say. She was still arguing with herself as she walked down the hall to her bedroom. She paused in the doorway, frowning. She had forgotten to make her bed. She disliked sleep-rumpled beds almost as much as she disliked broccoli. She straightened the bedclothes, then started to pick up the bed cushions she always piled on the floor. With a shake of her head, she grabbed the cushions and from the doorway shot them, one by one, on to the bed. Doing that made her feel better.
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The rest of the morning was uneventful. Armandos news still rattled, and whenever she thought of Pancho Salcedo, she found herself muttering her favorite cuss word. At one point in the morning she went to her grandfathers back door, but changed her mind when she saw him, brush in hand, studying with great intensity a newly started canvas. She closed the studio door softly and returned to her house. Shortly after lunch her father telephoned to say he would be home on the following night. And how was everything? Her impulse was to tell him, but knowing how important these San Francisco trips were to his career and how he worried about leaving her so much, she held her impulse back. Instead, she said, Things are always interesting down here. The Salcedos have a cousin visiting from Mexico who is the most gorgeous hunk Ive ever seen, on the screen or off. But its okay, Dad. I havent fallen for him yet. After she finished talking to her dad, she went into the kitchen to check on the food for tomorrow nights dinner. Everything was there. Chicken breasts and mushrooms in the refrigerator and in the cupboard a couple of cans of mushroom soup. Laurita had taught her this recipe, but it was probably time that she learned another. After all, according to Laurita, her mother had loved to cook. Not just cookies and fudge, but real food. If her mother had liked cooking, maybe she ought to like it, too. Still, cooking did not do it for her. It made an awful mess. Sometimes she wished her mother hadnt been so perfect. In the middle of the afternoon, when she heard the
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mailman on the porch, she went to see what had come. Outside, a glimmering silver-and-black sports car, its top down, was rolling east on Lucia. It wasnt often that a car like that was seen on this street, and she stared unashamedly at the guy and the girl in it. For a moment they stared back, and then the car took on more speed. She watched as it passed Csars house and rounded the corner. There were a couple of letters for her dad, some junk mail, and, not surprisingly, nothing for her. While she stood scanning the junk mail, her eyes caught sight of a dirty white bath towel lying in a corner of the porch. It was right where she had stashed it the previous night and then promptly forgotten it. How could she? It was the only clue she had as to what this was all about, and shed gone by it two or three times without seeing it. Well, that was not so surprising. This morning she had been too mad at Armandos news to see anything but red.
Chapter Five
onica nudged the grimy towel with the toe of her sandal. She bent over and spread it out on the porch floor. It was a big towel, one of those thick oversized bath towels that men, according to her dad, loved. She, for one, preferred the smaller bath towels, the ones that were not so velvety. Shed take a nice rough terrycloth any day. The towel was very white in the spaces between the mud- and grass-stains and the splotches of greasy water from the gutter. That meant that it hadnt been lying around in some dirty corner for long. Okay, so shed figured that out. What else did she expect to find? A laundry mark, like in all the old-time mysteries? Not likely. Nobody sent laundry out nowadays, did they? Even her dad, who had been totally pampered, first by their housekeeper and later in Washington by a fancy cleaning service, had agreed to pitch in and help with the laundry once school started. She stared at the towel a bit longer and then decided to hang it over the porch railing to dry. It was when she straightened out the ends of the towel that she made a discovery. Actually, she felt her discovery more than she saw it. What she had found was machine-embroidered script near one end of the towel. It was white on white, but once you
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knew it was there, it was easily readable: The Body Center. That was the name of an expensive gym in the shopping plaza by Marina del Rey. Someone had walked out of that place with a nice thick towel that ended up in the trunk of her car. So what could she do with that information? She couldnt see herself going up to The Body Center, holding up the dirty towel and saying, Someone stole this from you. Please tell me who it was. But maybe if Toni and she were to hang around there for a few hours, they would see the guy who had jumped over the wall. If Toni could recognize him, that is. Which she probably couldnt. Monica shook her head impatiently. The only new fact she had about the towel was that it, too, was stolen. She shrugged and went into the house. After breakfast the next morning, she visited with her grandfather as he prepared his paints. The canvas he was working on was of the old Chimney Hill pillars just as they were today, all overgrown with dusty ivy, the urns that topped them almost hidden. She pressed her feet against the rung of the high stool on which she was sitting and scanned the room. The bank of windows on the north and those strung high on the long east wall washed the studio in a clear light that seemed to brighten the more than half-dozen paintings that hung on the west wall. Newly framed and in the center of the line of paintings was one called Springtime. It was a painting of her mother when she was fifteen. She was wearing the dress that had been made for her quinceaera, the huge celebration of her fifteenth birthday. The white dress was lacy and long. In her hand she held a single red rose. As always, Monica gave the picture a long look. The
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girl in the picture could have been me, she thought. We look exactly alike. Well, almost. There are differences. Her nose is better than mine. For another, shes too peaceful-looking. If Id been posing for that picture, I wouldve gotten antsy just standing there, and it would have shown on my face. Obviously, my mother was much more patient than I. Below the paintings there were two more easels with canvases prepared and ready. As usual, the large worktable by the east wall was scattered with sketches, along with drawing pads and cans that held pens and brushes. When the paint palette was ready and her grandfather had turned to study his canvas, Monica stood up. Stay if you like, he said, although watching me at work cant be very interesting. Thats not so. You said my mother used to love watching you paint. She did, he said gently. Cristina spent many hours here. Well, maybe Id like to, too, she said defensively. But before Dad returns, Id better do something about the mess next door. He wont complain, but you know how he hates clutter. I think there are a weeks worth of papers lying around the living room. Actually, she thought as she left the studio, it did get tiring watching her grandfather work. It was okay for a little while. After that she got edgy. She walked by the side of the studio to the front of her house, thinking how much the place had improved since the start of the summer. Not only had Rob and Toni and she painted the walls of the house, they had repaired the broken-down wooden shut-
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ters, painted them green, and hung them properly. And, with the frequent watering that Laurita had suggested, something like grass was starting to grow in the backyard. Yes, it was looking better, but, oh, how she missed their house on Park View Place. She turned the corner of the house and started up the front steps. Csars red-capped head suddenly popped up from behind the porch railing. She jumped. Csar! You scared the life out of me! she said and sat down at the top of the steps. Sorry, Csar said, not looking at all apologetic, but Ive got something important to tell you! He paused. Well, tell me. Some guy in a fancy car just pinched your towel. The towels gone? She glanced up at the railing. Csar came and sat beside her. You know something, Monica? That guys dumber than a box of rocks. Whatd he want to swipe a dirty towel for? Not someone with a car like his. You shouldve seen it. It was a silver convertible, a Mustang, with the top down. There was a girl in it, too. One of those streaky blondes. Monica grimaced. She had missed her chance. It had to be the same car shed seen yesterday. Still, who said the guy who nabbed the towel had anything to do with the guitar? But then why would he want it? There must be a connection. Cesar, she said, did you see him take it? Sure. It was hanging there when Armando and I went by and after Armando? she interrupted. Yeah. The guy at the Salcedos. He gave me a lift from the store. So I gave Mam the tortillas and raced
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back here to see El Pintor, and thats when I saw it all. Csar raised two fingers in a dramatic pose. Two things I saw, Monica: the silver car shooting off from in front of your house and the towel missing from your porch. So what does that mean? Well, its gone, she said. Thats for sure. Late that afternoon Monica was in the kitchen cleaning up her cooking messshe couldnt understand where all the dirty pots and pans had come fromwhen she heard the front door open and then her fathers voice. She ran across the small dining room into his arms for a hug. Dad! Youre home early. So what did I catch you doing? He held her at arms length. He was a tall man in his late forties, olive-skinned, dark-eyed, handsome. He wore a charcoal gray suit that, despite a long day and a commuter flight, still looked fresh. Nothing. Cooking, I guess. Actually, cleaning up after cooking. She frowned as she added, Dad, I was too little to remember, but did my mother really like to cook? He looked at her quizzically and said, She not only liked to, she was an excellent cook. Why do you ask? I dont know. Just curious. You know me. It wasnt until after dinner, after her grandfather had gone, that Monica told her father about the missing guitar. He had opened up the subject while they were doing dishes. I sensed something going back and forth between you and Francis, he had said. Is it something you can tell me? Its something I have to tell you, she said, and they sat down at the kitchen table. I guess it all started the day
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before yesterday when I went to pick up Laurita at the Salcedoss guitar shop. Something really funny was going on there . . . Some ten minutes later she had finished the guitar story, including the disappearance of the towel that same afternoon. Her father did not ask questions but listened with full attention, nodding occasionally to signal that he understood a point. After she was done, they sat silently until Monica thumped the table with her fist and said, And Im not just going to sit still and let seor Pancho Salcedo accuse me like that! So what do you intend to do? her dad asked, his mouth twitching into a smile that quickly disappeared. Monica sighed. Thats just it. I dont know. Do you want me to talk with Pancho? Oh, no, Dad! No. I guess its between him and me. But I do want to talk with Laurita. You know, to ask her whats eating at her brother. Thats a good place to start, he said, squeezing her hand. Id like to know whats going on in his head, too, because from what youve told me, hes certainly acting strangely. All right, you handle it, but if you do need me, Ill be here. Sure, Dad. But please dont worry about all this. Im a big girl now, and, besides, F.M.s right next door. Hell provide good back-up if I need it. But big girl or no, it was a comforting feeling to go to bed knowing that her dad was seated at his desk just a few feet down the hall. Early the next morning she awakened to the smell of coffee and the sound of the shower going. She turned over in bed with the same comfortable feeling and slept again until her dad was bending over her,
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smelling nicely of soap and aftershave and whispering good-bye. It was while she was in the shower that she found herself singing. She was feeling good, really good, and surprisingly lighthearted. The negative feelings, the anger at Pancho Salcedo, and the sadness she felt for Armando and Joe, seemed to have blown away as quickly as the fog that rolled in through their neighborhood from the Pacific. Her dad was home. He would soon be settled in his Los Angeles office, ending the turmoil they had been through during the last year, the turmoil that had brought them from Washington, D.C., to her mothers small house. They were almost at the end of that troubling time, and she wasnt going to let Pancho Salcedo and his lost guitar interfere with the good feelings that were returning. At midmorning, still in this happy and resolved frame of mind, Monica telephoned Toni. Lets go to the marina after a while. Maybe get a Rosetta pizza. Can you? Pizza? Toni said enthusiasticaly. I can and I will. Ill be up there at noon. Then she added, Anything new on the missing guitar? Nothing. Except, of course, we now have a missing towel, too. A towel? Whatre you talking about? Once more Monica repeated the story of the towel, Csar and the silver Mustang. You know what? she said when she was finished. Ive decided to forget the whole thing. Im just going to relax and have fun. There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Toni spoke. Ill believe that when I see it. Anyway, lets go have pizza.
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Toni was at Monicas door at five minutes to twelve. I came early because Im starving. I expected you early, Monica said, and they went down the steps to her car. The engine of the Honda came to life, and they started west on Lucia. On a driveway a couple of houses down the block, two boys in grimy, sleeveless T-shirts were working on a torndown car. Toni waved at them. Ral and Pepe, she said, are about to sell that Chrysler. Somebody gave them an old computer, and theyre tearing that apart instead. Can they really do that? Make it work, I mean. Sure. They can make anything work. Last week they fixed my mothers washing machine. Something to do with a timer. Monica started to say something else but instead curved abruptly into the driveway of Tonis house. She slammed on the brakes. Hey! Whatre you doing? Its the silver Mustang, she said excitedly. A gleaming car, its black canvas top folded down to reveal the heads of its two passengers, rolled past them. I want to follow it. The silveroh. What for? Because he stole my towel. And you think we ought to chase after it? Sure. Why does he want that towel? And whats he doing on Lucia so much? Keep your eye on them. I dont want to lose them, she said and backed the car into the street. I thought you were going to forget the whole thing, Toni said. Youre really going to follow him?
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Just watch me. Its going to be tricky here on Lucia because theres no traffic. I dont want them to catch on, so talk and laugh and throw up your hands like were just having fun or going out to lunch or something. Monica caught the sour look on Tonis face. I thought thats what we were going to do, she said.
Chapter Six
he two people in the silver Mustang laughed and talked, flinging their arms to aid their conversation. In the little Honda, Monica was silent, intent on the traffic ahead and in trying to maintain a normal distance between her car and the one she was following. Toni, too, was silent. She sat hunched forward in the passenger seat, a frown on her face. Finally, she spoke. Wont you get in trouble with your dad for doing something kind of risky? I doubt it. My dad has always let me handle my own problems. He knows Ill ask for help if I need it. Anyway, all Im going to do is see where hes going. We wont get into trouble. Okay, Toni said, and then can we eat? They were almost to where Lucia intersected Dennison Boulevard. When the silver car made its stop on Dennison, it was at the side of the Salcedoss guitar shop. The blonde in the passenger seat opened the cars door, stretched a slim, sun-tanned leg out until her foot just touched the asphalt, quickly drew it in, slammed the wide door shut, and burst into laughter. The driver shrugged, said something to her, and made a fast right turn onto Dennison.
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Oh, shoot, Monica said as she, too, turned right and edged her way into the northbound traffic. There were now two cars between her and the silver convertible, and one of them was a huge van. Lean over to the right, she said to Toni. Can you see the car on your side? We cant take a chance on losing them. Cant see a thing, Toni said. Can you pass the van? Ill move into the left-hand lane. Maybe thats where we should be anyway. When Monica finally made it into the center lane, she took a deep breath. The silver car was still there, four or five cars ahead of them. She relaxed. As long as she could see where the Mustang went, she could follow. In another few blocks Toni said, Hello-o-o-o. Good old Talbot High. Theyve still got the summer session sign on the marquee. Monica threw a sidelong glance at the curbside marquee that proclaimed, Summer Session, July 12August 20. Behind the marquee there was a short expanse of dried-out lawn and then a rundown two-story building that seemed to sprawl over half of a square block. Several dilapidated wooden bungalows stretched in a line beside a dusty parking lot. It looks awful, she said. Arent they ever going to fix it up? Sure they are, Toni said. But barrio schools come last. Is that a rule? Just a fact of life. Not a very good one, Monica said. In less than a mile the van turned right, and Monica slid the Honda into
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its place. Now there were only a couple of cars between her and the Mustang. The farther north they drove, the more the look of Dennison changed. Finally, as they crossed a street called Whitley Boulevard, the small businesses disappeared. The Mexican, Thai, and Chinese restaurants, car-repair places, video stores, and print shops were now replaced by two- and three-story apartment buildings. Here and there large trees grew by the curbside. They were moving up a gradual slope that would eventually lead to the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains. Here, Dennison was lined not only by apartment houses, but occasional large old residences that had survived the onslaught of condominium builders. One by one, the cars between Monica and the Mustang made turns onto intersecting streets. Soon the convertible turned into the traffic of San Rafael Avenue and in a few blocks made a left turn onto a road that wound uphill between the lush, green landscaping of large, expensive homes. Now there were no other cars to hide the Honda. For the first time since she had started the chase, Monica felt doubt. Was Toni right? Was chasing the Mustang risky business? What was likely to happen if they realized she was following them? Toni echoed her thoughts. For sure theyll know were following them now, she said as she slid down low in the seat. Ill slow down, but not too much, Monica replied. Otherwise, well lose them on the curves. As she finished saying that, she swung around a wide curve to find that there was no silver car ahead of them. Shoot! Weve lost him.
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No! Toni cried excitedly. Right there! He went into that driveway and around the back of the house. What do we do now? Monica pulled the Honda behind a gardeners pickup that was parked beyond the driveway the Mustang had entered. Get his address, she said. If you have a pencil. If you dont, well have to memorize it. Toni reached into the little green bag on her lap. Ive got everything, she said, pulling out a small pencil and pad and jotting down the numbers. The streets Iris Road, isnt it? Im glad you noticed, Monica said, because I Whatever she was going to say didnt get said. Her words were interrupted by a howl of pain so near to both of them that she stiffened and gasped. The howl was followed by an outpouring of words in both Spanish and English, a torrent of profanity. Then a groan. Somebodys hurt, Monica said emphatically. Wed better go see. Doesnt sound like hes dying to me, Toni said. Hes too mad. Hes awfully quiet now. Maybe hes fainted. Wed better go see. Toni squirmed a bit. Should we? Do you think its safe? Toni! He could be bleeding to death. Monica pushed open the car door and got out. By the time she had rounded the hood of the Honda, Toni was out of the car, too. The injured man was not bleeding to death. He was sitting on his haunches, using a clumsy left hand in an attempt to wrap a handkerchief around a bleeding right
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index finger. He was a small wiry man with graying black hair and black eyes that shot an angry look up at the two girls. Hes in the back, he growled. Vyanse, vyanse. Go away. Leave me alone. Dont yell at us. Are you hurt? Do you need some help? Monica said. Toni threw her an irritated look. Of course hes hurt. Cant you see? She squatted down beside the injured man. Let me see, she said, tugging at a corner of the handkerchief. Ugh. You really ought to wash that. With soap and water. But I have no . . . ah, he said, abruptly rising, the handkerchief held tightly around his injured finger. He rummaged around in a box in the bed of the pickup and came up with a large spray bottle. Soap, he said, soapy water. Give it to me, Toni ordered as Monica shook her head in amazement. Hand me the bottle and come over here by the curb. The wiry little gardener went meekly to Toni. He bit his mouth to stifle a groan as she poured the contents of the bottle over the cut on his finger. There, she said, thats cleaned the cut up. Now hold it closed while I get a Band-Aid. A Band-Aid? Monica asked. Where? I said I have everything, Toni answered as she leaned into the Honda and dug in her purse. Itll take two, she told the injured man. Now pinch the cut together while I stretch these across it. When she was done, she said, Youd better get a tetanus shot. Monica was sure that her mouth was hanging open. Was this efficient, take-charge person the same one who
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had wondered if it was safe to get out of the car? For the tetanus, the gardener said, pointing to his upper arm, I am prepared. But for bandages, no. Gracias, seorita. May God repay you. Oh, youre welcome, Toni said. Im glad we came along. He glanced from Toni to Monica and said, If you are looking for the young man, Charley, he is in the back. Maybe in the house. And it may be, he added with some hidden meaning in his tone, that he is busy. Oh, no, Monica said. We werent here to see him. She paused, searching for something to say. We dont even know him. We just wanted a better look at his car. Its really something. It is a good car, the man said. Too good for that one. He dug in his shirt pocket and brought out a limp business card. He handed it to Monica. I am Manuel Gmez. If your family or friends need a very good gardener, call me. My wife will answer. She is a very good secretary. Thank you. Monica glanced at the card and tucked it into her pocket. Wed better be going now, she said and edged toward her car. Toni followed her. At the car door she turned and called, Youd better not get that hand dirty. Remember, keep it clean. Manuel Gmez waved his hand above his head as he returned to his tools. Once in the car and heading back the way they had come, Monica said, Well, whered Florence Nightingale come from?
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There was a glint of mischief in Tonis eyes as she said, Not Florence Nightingale, Holmes. Im Dr. Watson, remember? Of course, that little man didnt need a doctor, or even a nurse. It wasnt such a bad cut. He just cant stand pain. But he was nice. He certainly doesnt like Charley. No, he doesnt. Ill bet he could tell us something about him. Ill bet he could. Well, weve got his card. And his address is on it. I hope you make house calls, Dr. Watson.
Chapter Seven
t the first stop sign, Toni said, Can I see the gardeners card? Monica twisted in the drivers seat and dug out the card from the pocket of her shorts. Would you believe it? Toni said. He practically lives in our neighborhood. Whats practically? Oh, eight or nine blocks. Lets call him and see what he says. Toni slapped her hand on her knee. What I think is that weve both got foam rubber for brains. Why arent we back there talking to him right now? Even if Charley sees us, he doesnt know us from Adam, and besides, Seor Gmez said Charley was busy. Without a glance at Toni, Monica made an abrupt Uturn. When youre right, youre right, she said and sped around the curves of Iris Road back to where they had met the gardener. But when they got there, they found the curbside empty. The gardeners truck was gone. Oh, well, Toni said with a little grin, it was a good idea. Back to plan B, Monica said and circled the car around once more. They turned the first curve in the road and stopped
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suddenly. A tall, slim blonde woman in a neon green top and tight white shorts had stepped off the curb and was waving her hands wildly for attention. Monica brought the car close to the curb and called out the window, Is something wrong? The blonde rushed to the car and pulled open the passenger door. Thank God its you, she said as she bent into the car, almost face-to-face with Toni. Monica stared. It was Charleys blonde, not an older woman as shed first thought, but a girl about their age. What do you want? Toni asked and leaned away from the open door. A ride. Arent you two headed back to Lucia? Lucia? Both Toni and Monica echoed the word. Monica added, How did you know that? Crud! You mean you dont remember me? Not you, she said quickly to Monica. Toni. I was in her English class last semester. Hey, Toni said, youre . . . naw, you cant be. I was going to say Angie Ruiz, but Angie had brown hair and brown eyes, and youre a blonde right down to your eyebrows, and your eyes are as green as your top. Yeah. And my sisters a beauty operator. And my eyes are the color of whatever I wear, especially green. Of course, Im Angie. Now, are you gonna give me a ride or arent you? Toni glanced at Monica, Sure, Monica said. Its pretty tight in the back seat for someone as tall as you, but climb in. Once Toni and Angie were settled, Monica said, Howd you know it was us?
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Easy, the girl called Angie said. I saw you guys driving behind us on Dennison. Hey, Toni, move your seat forward. I need some leg room. Monica glanced into the rear-view mirror and said, This isnt as fancy a car as the Mustang you were in, but itll get us there. Yeah. Thats Charleys toy. He thinks more of that car than . . . than anything. Thats why Im walking. He said I couldnt ride in it anymore because I scratched the paint. A tiny little scratch by the door handle. How did I know the little chip in my ring was a diamond? Anyway, I left. I always have what my grandmother calls mad money, so I was on my way to catch a bus on Whitley. Angie sighed a long, weary sigh. Jeez, am I lucky you guys came back. I just missed you the first time. What were you doing there, anyway? Did you come to see Charley? Monica hesitated, and Toni stepped into the break in the conversation. We were just riding, she said. But when we saw that the gardener was hurt, we stopped to help him. Thats some house Charley lives in. He must have a lot of money. Angie said something that sounded to Monica like Hm-m-m. It also sounded as if she didnt want to talk anymore, but Toni persisted. So whered you meet him? Angie muttered, Like you really need to know. Her head was pushed against the back of the seat; her eyes were closed. Well, Toni said, with what Monica recognized as fake indignation, were giving you a ride home, the least you could do is answer a simple question.
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In the back seat Angie opened her eyes and said in a dull, flat tone, At The Body Center. I was the towel girl there till they fired me. Monica and Toni exchanged glances as Angie went on speaking. Now, do you want to know why I was fired, too? Absolutely, Toni said. Angie laughed. Okay. Maybe itll bore you to death, and then you cant ask any more questions. They got rid of the towel girl job because theyre cutting back. Theyre losing money. Maybe theyll close up. Okay? That satisfy you? Monica spoke up. What was Charley doing on Lucia? Oh, that. I was just showing him around. He said hed been in a ghetto once and it wasnt all that bad, but he was sure a barrio would be awful. Degenerates and rats all over the place. So I showed him he was wrong. Sure, were mostly poor in a barrio, but what has that got to do with anything? I showed him El Pintors funky studioI just love his purple door and the turquoise benches by the flowersand Chimney Hill, where that big house used to be, and the cute little house with the pots of chrysanthemums on the porch. But he kept looking for rats and degenerates. What a birdbrain! They were quiet for a few minutes as Monica drove the Honda out of the residential area and across Whitley. She cleared her throat and said, Does Charley play the guitar? When Monica spoke, Angie, who had been reclining once more, sat up with a start. Howd you know? she asked.
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So he does, Monica said, glancing at Toni. Yeah. But hes not great, even if he thinks he is. His guitars are nice, though. Hes thinking of buying a new one. What kind? Toni shot the words at Angie, turning to look at her. How do I know? They all look the same to me. Anyway, what do you care? We dont, Toni said hurriedly. Monica grinned. Toni sounded as believable as a used car salesman. But the next words out of Tonis mouth had an undeniable ring of truth. Hey! Thats the turn for Rosettas and Im starving. Then, obviously remembering their passenger, she swung around and said, Okay with you if we stop for pizza? Its just in the marina. Yeah, sure. I know Rosettas. Ill show you a free place to park. There were people crowding the take-out window at Rosettas, but Toni, who kept muttering that she was about to starve, found her way to the front almost immediately. They took their pizzas and sat on a bench that overlooked the small harbor. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the water glistened in the midday sun. Colorful sailboats, small and large, moved past where they were sitting, with laughter and happy voices reaching them. Angie walked over to the fence at the edge of the walkway above the water and tossed pizza crumbs to a gathering of little black ducks. Monica thought, this would be so peaceful and fun if only I didnt have La nica and Charley and crazy Pan-
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cho Salcedo on my mind. She watched Angie feed the ducks and smiled. Angies nice. I dont know what there is about her, but I like her. Ill bet, too, that she can help us. And if thats going to happen, Ill have to be honest with her. In a few minutes, Angie leaned way over the fence. All gone, she called down to the ducks and, wiping her hands on a tissue that she pulled from her pocket, came to sit on the bench again. Toni said, So youre kind to ducks. Do you like other animals, too? Pretty much. Except for snakes. Ugh. Snakes. They both shuddered and burst out laughing. Monica swallowed her last bite of pizza and turned to Angie. Funny that you worked at The Body Center, she said, because I found a Body Center towel on the street by my house a day or two ago. Whatre you saying? Angie said sharply. That I stole one? Gosh, no, Monica said, her face growing hot. That all came out wrong. I dont know who took it from The Body Center. All I know is someone dropped it by my house, and I found it and hung it on the porch railing to dry. Then somebody came along and took it. Well, Angie said and threw a suspicious glance at Monica, so you lost a towel. Ill bet thats not the end of the story. No, Monica answered, thats not the end. Someone told me Charley took it. Charley? Angie shook her head. Not Charley. Hes
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crazy, all right, but not that crazy. What would he want a dirty old towel for? Thats what wed like to know, Toni said. We? Angie said. Whats it to you? Toni shot a glance at Monica that said, I goofed. You take it. Monica laughed. Dont look so miserable, Toni. Its no big deal. Maybe if we tell Angie the whole story, she can help us. Angies hazel-green eyes widened, and she said, A mystery! You guys are mixed up in a mystery. I knew it! Thats why you were up at Charleys. Go on, tell me, tell me. Maybe I can help. Angie frowned, grinned, and nodded as Monica told her the La nica story from the day theyd heard the angry outbursts in the guitar shop to todays chase after Charley. So here we are, she ended. I hope you know something that can help us. Angie shook her head. Sorry. I dont know anything, not one dumb thing. But Ill help you if you want. Okay, Monica said. The first thing I need to know is when Charley took the towel. Youre back to that, Angie said with a disgusted little sigh. I dont think he did. Maybe you werent with him when he did, Monica insisted. Maybe he didnt take it, Angie replied stubbornly. Okay, okay, forget the towel. Monica took a deep breath. Okay, so Angie is convinced that Charley didnt nab the towel. Csar is sure that he did. And so am I. Whatever Charley is into, it certainly isnt just an interest
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in a barrio, and in Angie, for that matter. With that classy car and money, he could have any number of girls hanging all over him. But, for now, Angie is our only connection to Charley, so Id better cool it. How about Charleys new guitar? she asked. Could it be La nica? How should I know? Ive never seen laoh, I get it. You mean, would he have stolen it? Charley does some wild things. Yeah, if he was in the mood, he might have. He likes to shock people, especially his mom and dad. Monica pulled her feet in under the bench to let a woman with two toddlers in a go-cart push by her. Then she turned to Angie and said, If we get a description of La nica from Joe at the guitar shop Joe! You mean Joe Salcedo? I know that dude. We were in the same grade until I dropped out for a while. Didnt matter that I dropped out; I was already ahead for my age. You wouldnt guess that Im smart, would you? But I am. Now I remember, Toni said. You are smart. About English, anyway. You write poems. Good ones. The kind I dont understand and that Mrs. Clausen did. Mostly I remember that you played basketball. Uh-uh. Track. I run. Right. Track, Toni said. Funny to be a poet and an athlete, too. Not really. Theyre cool. Okay, Monica, what about Joe? What I was saying was that if Joe could give us a description, or maybe even a picture of la nica, maybe you could get a look at Charleys new guitar next time youre
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Angie stiffened. He doesnt have it yetas far as I know. Anyway, Charley and I are through. Really and completely and irrevocably kaput. He insulted me, remember? Monicas shoulders drooped along with her spirits. I was hoping it wasnt all that serious, she said. But if you cant, you cant. Angie glanced at a large round-faced watch on her wrist. Are you guys ever going home? I guess wed better, Monica said, standing up. Ready, Toni? Angie lived on a street called Paloma, one block to the north of Lucia. It was a street very much like Lucia. Monica had never stopped to wonder how large their barrio was. She knew that it extended to the north and south of Lucia for several streets and then seemed to disappear as more affluent neighborhoods began. One thing she had noticed about the barrio was that it had pretty names: Lucia, Paloma, Garnet, and Viola. They crossed a street called Aster, and in the middle of the block Angie said, Over there, the house with the picket fence. The fence Angie pointed to was dingy white and looked as if a strong breeze might topple it. But behind it there were two neat squares of green grass, and on the steps leading up to the house were clay pots with brilliant red geraniums. Angie got out of the car, and after Toni was resettled, she leaned into the open window and said, I still want to help you guys, so let me know how. Okay? I just figured out how, Monica said. Im probably not welcome at the guitar shop, so
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Persona non grata, Angie interrupted. Thats what you are. Monica nodded. I guess so. So, since you know Joe, how about snooping around there and seeing what you can dig up. Anything, anything at all. Yeah, Angie said, I can do that. And if I find out anything, Ill report in. They exchanged phone numbers and addresses, and Monica started the car once more. As they drove away, Toni said, Every time we go out snooping, we pick up a new member for our team. Not that I object to Armando. Hes a hunk. But I wonder about Angie. She shrugged in a dismissive gesture. I hope were doing the right thing.
Chapter Eight
wo messages were awaiting Monica on the answering machine when she returned home. Both gladdened her. She had not been forgotten by Rob nor by Courtney. Robs message was brief: I miss you. Im glad for my jobsure helps on expensesbut it also keeps me tied to the campus. Maybe Ill get away one weekend soon. Write me, wont you? Do you have e-mail yet? Let me know. She listened twice to Robs message; she liked just listening to his voice. Maybe she should have written him, or called, but she had been hesitant, hoping he would call her first. Now she thought how silly that had been; shed call him early this evening, and write, too. Courtney rambled on a bit longer, explaining how boring her summer had been, how eager she was to return to Raeburn, and how dreadfully shed miss her there. She, too, ended with Do you have e-mail yet? Let me know when you do. Monica leaned back in her dads office chair after listening to Courtneys message and thought how easy life had been at Raeburn. No Pancho Salcedo accusing her of stealing his dumb guitar. And even though her dad had made it clear that it didnt matter what Pancho thought as
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long as he took no action, it still bugged her. She was determined to show that man how wrong he was. How dare he accuse her? She would make him eat his words one way or the other. Thinking that Courtney sounded exactly the same, Monica rolled the chair away from her dads desk and the answering machine. She still spoke fast and breathlessly, her words falling one on top of the other. Then she shrugged and smiled at her thought. Silly. People didnt change that fast. Even though her days as Courtneys roommate seemed far, far in the past, it was less than six months since things had changed and her dad and she had left the East Coast and ended up here. Was it possible that she was getting used to her new life? Probably. Because now her days were filled with F.M., Toni, Laurita, and the shadowy presence of her mother, not with the Raeburn cliques and the excitement of Washington, D.C. That night at the supper table, Monica told her father about following Charley and meeting Angie. He grinned when she told him that they had recruited a new snoop. But when she described Angies snooping assignment, he sat back in his chair, scratched lightly behind his left ear, and nodded slowly. Monica knew that body language; her dad was weighing the pros and cons. He said, Maybe youd better leave Pancho alone. Hell come to his senses when La nica turns up. Oh, Im leaving him alone, all right, Dad. Angies just going to drop in to the guitar shop and visit with Joe. Theres no law against that, is there? No. No law. He leaned across the table and squeezed her hand. Look, honey, I respect your need to look into
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this, but dont take on more than you can handle. Im not going to outline your limits, but Ill count on you to use your head. And you know what that means. I know, Dad. Ill call on you if I need to. Later in the evening the telephone rang. When Monica answered it, no one was there. There was a soft rustling sound, a whispered sigh, and then the click of a hang-up. It was not like the telephone marketing calls that either had a syrupy voice asking how you were or a series of clicks when the computerized connection didnt work. The call left her with a creepy feeling that she couldnt quite shake, but it didnt keep her from sleeping. The next morning when Toni called, she had forgotten all about it. Toni and she did no sleuthing that day; they had nothing new to sleuth about. That day and the next they did what they had talked about before the La nica mess started. They took in a movie, walked on the beach, went to the mall, and bought new gray sweaters at a terrific sale. After all, gray was the color for fall, wasnt it? Monica almost forgot about la nica. But on the next day, Thursday, she found herself thinking about it again. Early on that morning she was awakened by a quiet, persistent knock on the front door. Dad, she called, can you get that? Then she remembered that earlier, through a sleepfilled haze, she had waved to her father in the doorway as he said Im off, lazybones. Enjoy the day. She glanced at the clock on her radio. She had slept more than an hour since then. Be right there, she shouted, pulling on some shorts and a T-shirt and padding barefoot to the door.
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It was Armando. He said, Al, Monica, and nothing more. He seemed nervous, twisting a small pamphlet over and over in his hands. Finally, he grinned sheepishly. Forget my touching on your door so soon, please, Monica. You are sleeping now? Monica smiled. Not anymore, Armando. Ill forget that you knocked, even though I think you mean forgive. But Ill do that, too, so come on in. Whats on your mind? On my . . . oh, s . . . on my mind is a girl who came two times to the guitar store. I am here to say to you about her. Angie, Monica thought. Armando said, I am here so soon because my uncle tells I go to a . . . job? No, no, a . . . a errand. But I stop stopped here first. Too soon . . . maybe. Not too soon or early. I should have been up by now. I guess Im just lazy. Hey, sit down and tell me about the girl. Okay, Armando said. He waited for her to sit and then took a chair by the couch. This girl, she talks with Joe. She places many questions to Joe. Guitars, she asks. La nica also. It is strange . . . she asks much. Monica frowned. Angies on the job. And thats more than Toni and I have been. But I hope that shes not making a pest of herself. What does she look like? Is she a blonde with shoulder-length hair? Armando looked puzzled for a moment. Finally, he said, Hair? Bueno, s. It is . . . it is yellow hair. What means to be a blonde? To have yellow hair, Monica answered with a grin. Did Joe call her Angie?
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Yes, Armando said, his face showing surprise. He call her that. Well, that girls a friend of mine, Armando. Shes just trying to help us. To help? Armando said, frowning. So she asks much. That is help? How is that? Thats easy. When I learned she knew Joe, I asked her to go there and snoop around. I certainly couldnt. If I was to go to the shop, your Uncle Pancho would positively kick me out. Positively, Armando repeated slowly. Yes, he would kick. I stay for the reason that Laurita stands for me. Joe also. And because I am of family. Bueno, he said, rising, she is to help. But to snoop . . . what is that? To snoop is to look around to see what you can find out. Ah. Then I do not . . . do not . . . Worry? Monica provided. S. Worry. He shook his head. Many questions that girl asks. Who made La nica? Who would take it? Why? Can La nica be for many dollars? Each time, more questions. He grinned as he added, She snoops goodno, no, snoops . . . well. I am learning, see? You really are, she said and stood up, too. At the door they said good-bye. When Monica turned back to the living room, she saw the pamphlet Armando had been holding lying on the coffee table. Swooping it up, she raced out the door and down the steps after him. Armando! she called. Hold up! Armando, who had already curved his pickup away from the curb, lowered the passenger-side window and said, Qu es, Monica?
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She leaned into the open window and handed him the pamphlet. You forgot this. Thank you. Yes, I need the . . . the numbers . . . the direction on it. He tossed it on the seat beside him. Monicas glance followed the pamphlet to where it fell beside a small book. She was surprised to see that it was the Nero Wolfe book with the jagged tear on the cover that her dad had looked for earlier. She was about to say something about it but held back when Armando, catching her look, tossed a newspaper over the book as if to hide it. Thank you, he said again. Now I go to the errand. She turned away with a frown. It was an old, used paperback. Why would Armando want it? To practice reading English, maybe, but in that case, wouldnt he have asked to borrow it? Why would he hide it from her? From the top of the steps, she watched the pickup until it disappeared. Then she shrugged. After all, that bookand why Armando had itwas the least of her worries. In the middle of the morning Monica called Toni. Hey, she said, I need a sounding board. Will you come over so we can talk? Monica tossed half a dozen chocolate cookies in a basket along with some cheese crackers and went out to the front porch to wait for Toni. Sopa the cat was there before her, already taking up one chair. The cat meowed indignantly when Monica dislodged her, but seemed appeased at the offering of a cheese cracker that she sniffed, licked, and finally pushed away with her nose. When Toni arrived, Monica told her about Armandos visit and his reactions to Angies question. Look, Toni said, so that we dont get mixed up,
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why dont we write down everything we know? Then we can study it and know where we are. When youre right, youre right, Monica said and went into the house for paper and a pen. A half-hour later they had a list that included: (1) the guy Monica had seen removing the guitar from her car, (2) The Body Centers towel, (3) Charley and Angies first drive-by, (4) Csars report of Charley taking the towel, (5) Angies insistence that Charley wouldnt steal a dumb towel, and (6) Angies report that Charley wanted to buy a new guitar. Monica handed the list to Toni, and Toni said, Except for the towel, these arent very exciting clues. Have we left anything out? She didnt wait for an answer. I know. We didnt put down Pancho Salcedos blaming you and Armando. There may be some hidden reason why he thinks that. Monica handed her the pen. All right, put it down. And if were going way out in left field looking for clues, I might as well tell you something else that happened. Toni looked up eagerly. Monica told her about her dads paperback mystery and how, when shed seen it in Armandos car, he had obviously tried to hide it. I dont think it had anything to do with La nica, but now you know everything. Are you sure it was the same book? Positively. Well, there must be some logical explanation. Armando wouldnt want an old book like that. He cant even read English, can he? Monica shrugged. Well, he took it.
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Its hard to believe, Toni said, stretching her arm for a handful of crackers. Hes just so good-looking. Monica, shaking her head, threw her a disgusted look and Toni, catching her glance, exploded with laughter, spewing a mouthful of cracker crumbs into the air.
Chapter Nine
ey! Whatre you doing? It was late afternoon of that same day. Monica stood behind the screen of her front door, scowling at a man who had been walking around her car and was now on the street side, hidden from view. Nothing really, the man called, coming around the rear of the car. Looking for a clue, maybe. I was just coming up to knock at your door. Monica relaxed. It was Joe Salcedo. She knew why she hadnt recognized him. He was no longer in jeans and a stained T-shirt. Today he was wearing tan slacks, a sport coat, and a white shirt and tie. She hadnt noticed before that Joe was surprisingly good-looking. Not in the striking way that Armando was, no. But Joes warm brown eyes, slightly crooked nose, and stubborn chin all came together nicely. Id like to talk to you, he said as he went up the walkway. If youre not busy. Sure, she said. Then she added with a touch of mischief, But you didnt have to dress up for me. I wouldve let you in with your work clothes. Good. That makes me feel better, Joe said. He took the porch chair that Monica indicated. Ive just come from
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a job interview. They suggested a suit and tie, so. . . . He shrugged. What kind of a job? Selling. In a computer place. For after school and weekends. Im starting at City College next month. I thought you worked for your father. I thought you liked making guitars. I do, but . . . He paused, then with a quick look at Monica, went on. I thought I might need a place to escape to. My dads taking losing La nica in a weird way. Hes suspicious of everybody, even me. He paused once more, pressing his mouth into a firm, thin line before he said, Thats what I came to see you about. He says hes going to press charges against Armando and you. I think hes just threatening, but in case hes not, I Let him! Monica interrupted angrily. My dads a lawyer, and hell make mincemeat out of him. Thats just it, Joe said loudly. Thats just it. I think my father will really be sorrybig timeif he does. What I wanted to know, he said more quietly, is, isnt there some way we can show him that you had nothing to do with it? Oh, Im trying to prove just that. Seems thats all Ive been doing. And I have quite a team helping me. Theres Toni, and Armando, and now, Angie. Were all trying to figure out who did take it. Angie? Angie Ruiz? When Monica nodded, he said, So thats it. I was beginning to wonder about her. She asked so many funny questions. Not that it surprised me. She always did ask questions. Shes the most curious person I know.
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Thats probably why shes so smart. Being curious, I mean. I dont really know her, but Im told shes smart. By Toni and Angie herself. Yeah, Joe said. Shes very modest, isnt she? So youve recruited her. More or less. She kind of recruited herself. But Ill take all the help I can get. Especially now. She threw Joe a puzzled glance. You mean your father is going after Armando, too? Armandos so sure that just being family will protect him. Thats the trouble with my cousin. The familys always protected him, and hes gotten away with, if not murder, some things close to larceny. Larceny? Armando? You must be kidding. I guess I am exaggerating. But the whole family, here and in Mexico, lets him get away with a lot. Joe studied his hands, then shrugged and said, I dont want to see my father make a fool of himself. Besides, I hate to think how you must feel, you and Armando. So if theres anything I can do to help . . . He held his hands out, palms up, and when Monica said nothing, grinned and added, I guess Ive just included myself on your team. I said wed take all the help we can get, Monica said, returning his smile. Youre in. Look, Ill tell you what we know. Maybe itll connect to something you know. Hang on, while I get something from inside. When she returned with the list Toni and she had made that morning, she told him a brief but complete story, starting with what shed seen and heard in the guitar shop on the day La nica disappeared. In the telling, she left out only one thing: her fathers paperback book in Armandos
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car and how he had tried to hide it. She wasnt sure why she did that except that she had trouble believing it had any importance. Was she, like the rest of Armandos family, letting him get away with something? She shrugged the thought away and ended by saying, I think Charleys our prime suspect. She paused, then laughed. Actually, hes our only suspect. Unless you did it. But I guess you couldnt have. Not from what Armando told us. I could have, Joe said flatly. I could have sneaked in while he was in the storeroom, picked up the guitar, and hidden it. Which is just what he thought I had done. But I didnt. So Charleys still your only suspect. And I think hes a pretty good one. First, he was seen casing the joint. Well, if not the joint, the neighborhood. Next, the guitar was wrapped in a towel from the gym he goes to, and finally, Csar saw him swiping the towel from your porch. All we need to do now is find out where he lives and go snooping. Thats no problem. We know where he lives. But snoop? How can we snoop around for a guitar without getting inside his house? And Id get a lecture to end all lectures from my dad if I did that. Joe frowned, then nodded. Yeah, I can see that. But Ive got to get my hands on that guitar somehow. Monica stared at him. There was a note of urgency in Joes voice that took her by surprise. Its the guitar! she cried. Its the guitar youre worried about, not your fathers saving face or Armandos and my feelings! Joe pushed a lock of unruly hair back from his forehead and smiled sheepishly. Youve found me out, he said. About the guitar, anyway. It is important to me. In fact, its darned important. And I was just about to find out
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why when the guitar disappeared. I blame myself, too. If I needed to look at it, I should have done it in the storeroom. It was stupid of me to bring it into the workroom, but the light was so much better there and. . . . He stopped, staring pensively into the street. Abruptly, he shook himself like a dog awakening from sleep and turned to her. But the guitars not all Im concerned about. Youre wrong about that. You and my dad and Armando all matter, too. Monica wasnt sure who or what really mattered to Joe, but she decided that she was in no position to judge; telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the absolute truth was sometimes pretty hard to do. All right, she said, I guess I believe you. But now youve got to tell me. What were you looking at on La nica? And what makes you think its important? Joe scratched his head for a moment, then said, Ill answer your first question first, then Ill tell you a little bit about my grandfather. . . . He must have seen the curious look on her face because he quickly added, What I have to tell you about him will help to show why what I was looking at might be important. He cleared his throat. Nearly always, he said, theres a little band of decoration on the face of a guitar. Monica nodded. Yes. Around that hole in the middle, right? Right. Joe wiped a smile off his face. Thats the sound hole. A decorative band called a rosette usually circles the sound hole. And that same decorative motif sometimes shows up on the bar that hold the strings, too. It all depends on the maker. Mostly the designs of the rosette
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are floral or geometric. My grandfathers were almost always leaves and twigs with little circles like berries. He sighed, shook his head, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and then went on. One day last week I was showing La nica to Armando. We had it outside, and when I turned it a certain way and the sunlight hit it, I could have sworn I saw letters scattered in with the leaves and berries in the rosette. Maybe they were just leaves, or twigs, or berries, I dont know, but I swear I saw the words est abajo there. And then I tilted the guitar and they were gone. Do you know what est abajo means? Sure. It means its underneath, or below, or something like that. Right on. You see why I needed to study that guitar some more? Thereve got to be more letters. Whats it? And underneath what? Monica shook her head slowly. But even if there are more words, why should they be important? Maybe theyre just part of a dicho, like the ones Laurita uses. Maybe, Joe said. But I dont think so. Because it was just like my grandfather to leave a serious message in a place like that. He always did crazy things. Hed send us on wild goose chases just for a laugh. Sometimes it took us all day to find our birthday presents. He said wed appreciate them more if we had to put in some effort for them. Shortly before he died, he left a note on my dads workbench with clues as to where his handwritten will was. Dont look that way, Monica. He wasnt crazy. He figured wed find it while he was still alive, and we just made it. As for La nica, I dont know if you know, but
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he was strict as all, well, as everything about who could handle that guitar. He made a big thing about it never being sold and about it having to stay in the family. But couldnt that be because he wanted it treated in a special way? My grandfather said he loved La nica. Yeah, Joe said, El Pintor would know about La nica. Those two old men were great friends. You know something, though? My grandfather loved every guitar he made. He hated to part with them. But La nica was the only one he was kind of nutty about. I really think that theres a message on it. So does my father. Maybe he knows something I dont because since my grandfather died, he has been looking all over for whatever that message is about. He practically tore the walls down in my granddads old room and as for the storeroom. . . . Joe shrugged. He claimed we needed new cabinets. And sometimes when he worked alone at night, I know he pulled out every drawer in the two worktables, searching for false bottoms and things like that, because the next day my tools would always be messed up. What could he be looking for? Joe shrugged again. I dont know, but whatever it is, he sure wants it. Then when La nica disappeared, Ill bet he decided it held the clue he needed. And I think hes right. So now I want to find that guitar as much as he does. Maybe more. Not more than I do. You know that Im not going to feel good until Ive made your father apologize. Fair enough, Joe said and stood up. Thanks for everything. Ive gotta get going now.
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She walked to the top of the steps as he went down them. At the bottom, he turned and looked up at her. He rubbed the back of his neck as he said Look, Monica, do you think you could slow it down with Armando? Hes likely to get The blood rushed into her face as she interrupted. Slow it down? Whatre you getting at? Do you think that because hes so great-looking, every female that sees him is going to fall for him? Help! Joe shouted. Wait! I goofed. I worded that wrong. What I meant was, could you drop him from the search team? Drop him? Why? And because she wasnt sure she believed that he used the wrong words, she added, Youre going to wear the skin off the back of your neck if you dont stop rubbing it. I know. Bad habit. He dropped the offending hand to his side. About Armando. Im afraid hell mess up somehow. And mess you guys up. I mean . . . I mean hes. . . . Joe stopped and shook his head. Monica waited impatiently for him to go on. Finally, she said, Do you even know what you mean? Hes been very nice. And helpful, too. Besides, didnt you send him to us in the first place? Yeah. Joe nodded, looking acutely uncomfortable. Yeah, I did. Well, then, forget it, please. See you. He turned and walked quickly across the street to where his dads Camry was parked.
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When Armando called half an hour later, she was not surprised. Except for a short distraction when her dad called to check on how her day had gone, Armando and Joe had filled her mind. Not pleasantly. The moment Armandos stumbling English came over the line, she smiled and felt better. Monica? Hola. Here speaks Armando. When she said hello, he went on. I call because . . . because there is something I owe to tell you. Sure. Go ahead. I have all the time in the world. My fathers not coming home to dinner. Ah. I also do not eat with family. For them it is good to have time sin . . . without myself. Okay, eh? There was a pause, and some sounds came over the line that might have been the rustling of paper. The little sounds stopped, and Armando said, So? How about a . . . a pizza? How about a movie? No, no. No movie. But amburger y fries, maybe? Then I can tell what I tell to your person. Monica smiled. Those had been paper sounds; it was obvious that Armando was reading. Joe, she thought, had been coaching his cousin in useful English phrases. She laughed, and even though Joes request about Armando was still fresh in her mind, she said, Sure. Why not? So long as its Dutch treat. That means that we each pay for our own food. Okay? I pay, Armando said. That is proper. All right, all right, Monica said. See you in an hour or so. Hes a macho, all right. I hope he has enough money because Im hungry enough to eat a horse. Armando didnt come to pick her up until twilight. During her long wait she paced the porch, becoming
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increasingly annoyed with him until she remembered that in Mexico, and in Spain, too, shed been told, the evening meal really was in the evening. She was sitting on the porch when he jumped out of his truck and walked toward her. Tonight the white T-shirt was gone. He was wearing a bulky gray cotton sweater over tan canvas pants. She was glad shed worked out her annoyance; he looked too good. They settled on Mexican food and drove to a restaurant on Dennison Boulevard across from Talbot High that was called La Olla Roja, The Red Kettle. It was a restaurant so popular that its large parking lot was full. They left Armandos truck in the empty high school lot on the other side of the street. At the corner, while they waited for the signal to change, Armando said, That is the school of Joe. Mine, too, Monica replied, or it will be. Its a mess, isnt it? She glanced back at the peeling paint, loose railings, and broken windows on the administration building and frowned. What had her dad been thinking? How could she go to school there? Maybe by September theyll have fixed it up a little, she said as they crossed the street. But her sagging shoulders belied her words. In the restaurant her mood changed. The warm spicy smell of tortillas and salsa made her mouth water, and she forgot to feel gloomy about Talbot High. When the food came, the chicken and bean burritos did a lot to prop up her wilting feelings. Before the meal was over, she was laughing with Armando at the mistakes they each made as they talked. He, in English; she, in Spanish. The tables in the restaurant were covered by red-and-
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green-flowered cloth, and on each table sat a vase with a single red carnation. The booths along the wall each had a small framed painting above a light fixture. The painting in their booth was of a neat gray barn with a row of sunflowers along its sides. When they were through eating, Monica said, Ill be back in a minute, and slid out of the booth. The small fortune her father spent in orthodontists fees still didnt prevent food from getting caught between her teeth. Right now she had the skin of a corn kernel firmly embedded between two molars, causing her no end of aggravation. Lucky thing she had finally learned to carry dental floss. She returned to find Armando ready to go. He was standing with his back to the booth, his arms crossed over his chest. Bueno, he said abruptly, vmonos. Then, as if he were running interference on a football field, he angled his way in and around the busy tables to the exit door and out into the cool night air of the parking lot. There he glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her. We . . . we go, he said and, once more, started walking rapidly ahead of her, taking a circuitous route in and around the cars stationed throughout the dimly lit lot. When they reached the street, she called, Hey, slow down. Youre practically running. Besides, someones calling us from the restaurant. Armando ignored her request. He turned, his left arm held tightly against his chest, and grabbed her arm with his right hand, pulling her with him into the stream of traffic on Dennison. Stop it, Armando! she yelled. Youre gonna get us killed! She doubted that he heard her shout because there
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was a loud screech of brakes as a van slowed and swerved, narrowly missing them. Her heart gave a jump, then beat wildly as Armando kept going, pulling her with him. Blaring car horns and shouts came at them from all sides. Miraculously, they made it to the other curb. She felt limp, ready to fall to the ground but Armando didnt stop. Whats . . . going . . . on? she said between breaths. Nada, nada, Armando called over his shoulder. Please, Monica, nada. It was Armandos plaintive please that persuaded her to keep going with him. He raced past his pickup truck and plunged into the darkness of the deserted school yard. They ran beside the administration building and around temporary wooden classrooms until, with a gasp, Armando said, Aqu, aqu, and squeezed behind what appeared to be a maintenance shed. Monica squirmed in beside him. Whats all this about? she said as soon as she caught her breath. Why are we hiding? Armando said, Sh-h-h-h! For a few moments there were no sounds except those of the traffic on Dennison, and then she felt rather than heard movement on the other side of the shed. Finally, mens voices. Well, theyre gone, one man said. No chance we can catch em anymore. We shouldve moved faster, a thickly accented voice replied. Stupid kids. Right. Kids, the first man said. And thats what we are not. Were going to end up having heart attacks over one greasy little painting. So he stole it, so what?
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No one steals my things, hermano, and gets away with it! The words came out in a growl. Clmate, hombre. Calm down. The pictures gone. And theres not much we can do about it. Maybe Ill call the police. Sure. And what will they do about it? Ill think of something. Ill tell them the whole thing and . . . The voices were fading now and so were the footsteps. Monicas hands, she found, had been pressed so tightly against the rough stucco wall of the shed that they hurt. She rubbed them, took a deep breath, and said, Whatre you holding under your sweater, Armando? Is it the picture they were talking about? Armando shrugged. Claro que s, he said, nodding. Yes . . . sure. Then, with a smile in his voice that she felt she could see even in the darkness, he reached under his sweater and drew out a small framed picture. Here it is. I like. You, too? Armando! Thats stealing! Un poquito, he said with a chuckle. Not . . . not big stealing. What difference does that make? Why would you even want it? As she heard her own words, some of Joes played through her mind: . . . hes gotten away with, if not murder, something close to larceny. . . . Im afraid hell mess you guys up. She stared at the dark outline of the painting that Armando held in his hands as the meaning of Joes words settled heavily in her mind. Armando, she said tentatively, Armando, you didnt . . . I mean, did you take La nica, too?
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Armando shook his head forcefully as if to ward off her question. But after a long pause, he answered her. S, Monica, he said, letting out his breath. Yes, I did.
Chapter Ten
t took Monica a few moments to reassure herself that she had heard correctly. Then, with a quick glance at Armando, she pushed herself up from the ground and squirmed out from behind the shed. Im going, she called. It smells bad around here. They must have sacks of manure inside this shed. No, no, Monica, Armando said as he followed her, not this place has smell. You say . . . I think you say me . . . I smell. Maybe that is what I mean. She bent over and brushed off the loose dirt from the knees of the clean cotton pants she had changed into before dinner. After all, you lied to me. Do you understand that? You told me lies. Mentiras. A whole bunch of them. And I believed them and felt sorry for you. Her voice was shrill with anger. All the time you had La nica. What made me even madder is that you put it in my car so your uncle Pancho could blame me! You . . . youre . . . youre as rotten as they come, Armando. She had been trudging determinedly some paces ahead of him toward the truck, but now she turned and faced him. And even worse, you came and cried on my shoulder and Tonis about how Pancho was blaming you, and
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me, of course. And Joe. You fooled him, too. All that phoney stuff about keeping your ears and eyes open to see what you could learn that might help me find the guitar and all the timeoh, whats the use? You probably dont understand a word Im saying. Well, I dont care. Im sure you know what Im mad about! Armando nodded. You are mad for the guitar and I . . . I think also the picture. No? The painting was once more under his bulky sweater, and he pointed to it. Sure. That, too. You seem to get your kicks out of getting me in trouble. But its La nica that makes me see red. Everybodys all worked up about it, and youve had it all the time! She turned on her heel and headed for the pickup. When he stretched out his hand to help her into the cab, she shrugged it away. She scrambled up onto the seat, hooked her seat belt, and said, Take me home, please. And if I were you, Id go back and return that picture. Armando shrugged, started up the engine, and without switching on the head lights, backed into the parking area. Once on the street and past the restaurant, he turned on the headlights and said, Monica, por favor, please, you owe . . . you owe not to be mad at me. I have reason to tell about. . . . Me mad? I cant imagine why youd think that! You havent done anything. Just nearly got me killed racing across Dennison. Then you dragged me behind a crummy shed crawling with spiders and probably rats. Do you realize that if those guys had caught us, we wouldve ended up in jail? And all along youve got La nica hidden away somewhere! Of course, theres no reason why I should be mad.
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Armando shrugged. For the next few minutes, except for the sound of the old motor, there was silence in the pickup. Monica stared straight ahead as she tried to slow down her breathing. She couldnt remember when shed been so mad. Well, maybe at Pancho Salcedo when shed learned he was accusing her. But this was worse. She stole a glance at Armando. In the dappled light of the oncoming traffic, she saw that he was frowning. A couple of times he opened his mouth to speak but each time he closed it firmly, saying nothing. When they turned onto Lucia, Armando cleared his throat, fumbled with a word or two, and finally, as they parked by Monicas house, he said, I have ex . . . explication to tell. I have not La nica. But you said you took it, she said with some disgust. What did you do? Sell it? No, no. I do not sell La nica. It is as abuelo said. We keep La nica with family. So? I also am family. That is why. . . . Armando shook his head in exasperation, slammed his hands against the steering wheel, and blew out his breath noisily. Monica, he said, espaol, por favor? All right, Monica said. Go ahead. Tell me in Spanish. But dont go too fast. And dont you dare lie to me. Armandos shoulders, which had been held stiffly, now relaxed noticeably, and he started speaking in Spanish. You know abuelo is my grandfather, too, but Pancho and even Joe act as if La nica belonged only to them. I wanted to get a good look at that special guitar. So, that
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day when Joe brought it out of the storeroom, I took it, put it right here in my truck, and covered it with a big towel I had found on the beach. A towel you found? Monica said skeptically. Are you sure you found it? And then, quickly, Forget it, forget it. Go ahead. I was not going to keep the guitar. That is the truth, Monica. All I wanted was some time to look at it to see if I could find what Joe had seen on it. Later, when I finally was able to go outside to take a good look at it, it was gone. All right, I thought, Joe has found it. Hell be mad at me, but what do I care? I, too, have a right to look at it. And then I remembered that all the time the guitar had been in my truck, Joe had not been out of the shop. That was when I knew I was in trouble. Armando sighed and shook his head slowly. Monica sat silently, staring down the length of Lucia. She saw her grandfather open the studio door and pick up Sopa. Across the street, Seora Lara called loudly for her two small sons, who at length came running from the end of the block. And beyond the studio someone gunned the motor of an old Ford, made a noisy U-turn, and raced up the street toward Chimney Hill. She turned to Armando. Please, please, she said in Spanish, tell me the real truth. Did you put La nica in my car? Armando groaned. I know its hard for you to believe me. But how can I convince you? Please, please believe me, Monica, I did not put that guitar in your car. When I went outside, there were only two cars in the parking lot, my truck and Panchos Camry. The first time I saw your car was the day I came here to talk with you.
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Monica frowned, trying to absorb all that shed heard. If Armando was telling the truth and she was beginning to believe that he was, then she was back to her original premise, that the guitar had been stuffed into her truck by the guy that Toni had seen scrambling over the fence. Who was he? From what Angie had said about Charley, scrambling over fences didnt seem to be his style. And now that she thought of it, neither did stealing the towel from her front porch railing. Angie had been adamant about that. Besides, it seemed it wasnt even Charleys towel. Armando had somehow found it. Armandos voice interrupted her uncomfortable thoughts. Why dont you say something? Dont you believe me? She took in a deep breath and exhaled. I guess I do, she said. And that sure doesnt help us find La nica.
Chapter Eleven
ven though Monica protested, Armando insisted on walking her to her door. Armando, she thought, might not have too much respect for other peoples property, but he had a strong respect for good manners. She said goodnight and watched the pickup disappear down the street, then let herself into the house. The lamps were lit in the living room, but that didnt mean that her dad was home; the lamps worked on timers. Just in case, she called, Anyone home? No answer. She wished that her Dad was home. She had to tell someone about this crazy evening. Sure, there was F.M. right next door. But even if F.M. was her grandfather and someone she had already learned to love, she had only known him for a couple of months. Her father, on the other hand, had always been around. Well, almost always. And tonight was an example of the almost. Still . . . She shook her head and let out a long, deep breath. Her dad had warned her to be patient, that he would be working long hours, that these first few months would make or break him in the new firm. She was really trying, but it was hard to be alone so much, and the barrio was not easy to get used to. Not that shed seen too much graffiti
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or heard any gunshots or seen anything that looked like a drug deal going on. Still, she missed the old neighborhood with its pretty trees and flowers. Here, except for her grandfather, no one had a flower garden, and as for a real lawn, forget it. On Lucia, a green, well-edged plot of grass would look like a misplaced putting green. So, of course, there were no gardeners or cleaning women or . . . But why was she going on like this? Her dad was the greatest guy in the world; she would do anything to help him. Actually, she was glad that he wasnt home. He didnt need to hear her whining. Sometimes, though, she wished that she was a little kid again so that she could climb on his lap, bury her face in his shoulder, and cry out her complaints. Well, she wasnt a little kid, and besides, everything had ended all right tonight. She hadnt been killed on Dennison or thrown into jail, and she had learned enough about Armando to know that staying away from him was probably a good idea. However, Monica hadnt counted on Armandos persistence. Before breakfast the next morning, the doorbell rang, and she opened the door only to see Armandos dusty pickup barreling down Lucia. She shrugged, annoyed, and was about to close the door when she spotted the small bouquet of daisies lying on the doormat. A note written in Armandos special English was attached to them. My estimated friend, it said. The picture is turned back to the restaurante in middle night. It is involved in plastic to protect of possible water. I have many sentiments for the trouble I bring you. Please give to me your
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pardon. Armando. Monica read the note, reread it, and then, holding the daisies in one hand and the note in the other, sighed and let tears gather in her eyes. She blinked them away as she arranged the flowers in a bowl of water and placed them on the table in the living room. Armando, no matter what his problems, was kind of sweet, and in the business of La nica, he was in more trouble than she was. She sighed once more, shook her head as if to dismiss an argument, and told herself that now, more than ever, she was going to find that dumb guitar and the person who had taken it. Her crusade now would be not so much to make Pancho eat his words, although that would certainly feel good, but to help Armando get out of the mess he was in. Not that he deserved it. She certainly wasnt his guardian angel or anything like that. . . . She bent over the bowl of daisies, gently rearranged one or two, then shook her head almost angrily and tramped out of the room. Before her father left for the day, he commented on the daisies. Rob has some stiff competition, I see. No way, Dad. Those flowers are just an apology from Armando. He . . . he acted sort of stupid in the restaurant and. . . . She stopped. She wasnt convincing her father or herself. In any case, her dad said with a grin, he knows how to treat a lady. If you say so, she said, returning his grin as she walked him to the door where she kissed him good-bye. Around noon she went out to the side of the house to
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water the geranium slips that Laurita and she had planted earlier in the summer and that, miracle of miracles, were now showing tiny green bits of new growth. She was thinking of her dads remarks and had just decided to go in and call Rob when Csar flew around the corner of the house. Monica, he cried, Monica, that guy, the one who swiped the towel, hes snooping around on Chimney Hill. What guy? she said and caught herself. Oh, you mean Charley. Yeah. Him. His shiny Mustangs been parked at the bottom of the hill for a long time. Hm-m-m. I wonder what hes doing up there. Snooping, of course, Csar said with an exasperated shake of his head. Arent you gonna chase him away? I thought you owned Chimney Hill. I thought El Pintor gave it to you. Not yet, but hes going to. Just shush for a minute. Let me think. She knew what she wanted to do. It was to see what Charley was doing, and she didnt want Csar tagging along. But if she didnt take him with her, hed end up snooping on her. She walked to the back of the house and turned off the garden hose. Okay, she said, come on. But youre going to stay near the bottom of the hill like a guard, so you can tell me which way he goes if he leaves. Thats not a guard. Thats a stakeout. Whatever, Monica said. Csar hiked up his pants, flattened the beak of his cap
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on the back of his neck and led the way briskly up Lucia. When they were still half a block away, they saw Charley tear down the hill, slide into the Mustang, and pull away from the curb with a screech of tires and a burst of smoke. Too late, Csar said. We shouldve come before. I guess so. I wonder what he was doing up there? You said that before. Right. Well, no use wondering. Lets go see what we can find out. When they were halfway up the hill, Csar stopped and pointed to the broken stalk of a tough old dandelion that grew in the crack of the old driveway. There. See? Someone was walking here. Monica grinned. Youre on his trail, all right. Do you suppose Charley was coming or going when he stepped on that weed? Csar looked chagrined. Then, with a dismissive shrug, he said, Course, I knew it was that Charley guy. I was just showing you how to track someone. They continued up the hill and between the ivychoked pillars. Tell you what, Monica said when they were at the spot that had once been the entrance to the house. You look around that side of the old foundation, over there where all those big bushes are, and see what you can find. Ill go around this side to the summerhouse. Okay, but what are we looking for? Anything. I dont know. After all, youre the tracker. Gotcha. Csar kicked at a couple of loose stones and
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then walked slowly toward the west side of the ruins, pushing his way through a bank of dusty shrubs. Monica, too, moved slowly, her eyes glued to the beaten-down path, looking for . . . What was she looking for? What would Charley leave behind that would show what hed been doing? What did she expect to find? A little trail of bread crumbs, like in Hansel and Gretel? Then her eyes caught hold of something poking through the purple lantana at the side of the path. This was not what shed expected. A familiar pair of once-white tennis shoes with bare feet in them. She felt her skin tighten and an icy fear filled her. Something terrible had happened. She stood absolutely still, holding her breath, not wanting to believe what she saw. And then the tennis shoes moved. The toes pushed into the ground to slide the body forward. Monicas stiff shoulders slumped, and she let out her breath in a rush of relief. She dropped to her knees and pulled at the scratchy lantana as she cried, Toni, Toni, are you all right? I thought you were dead. Stop moving this stuff! Youre scratching my ears off! The reply, along with the crackling sound of dry twigs breaking, came from the other side of the tangled vines. Im not dead. Im okay. Just dont talk so loud. So whatre you doing in there? Monica whispered. Spying. Its too late. Charleys already gone. Not Charley! I know hes gone. I jumped in here when he came flying down the path from the summerhouse. But theres somebody else up there. I heard noises.
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Noises? What kind of noises? Just noises. Scraping. Shoving. I dont know. Well, come out of there and lets go see whats going on. What makes you so brave? If Charley raced out of there, who knows what scared him. Im not brave, Monica said, pushing herself up from the ground. Just curious. Ive got to go see. And besides She didnt finish. A shriek tore through the air. It was Csar. Monica! he yelled. Help! Hes tugging my arm off! Somethings happening to Csar! She ran a few feet, stopped and called over her shoulder, Do something, Toni! Another yell from Csar reached Monica as she raced to the bushes where Csar had disappeared. In a few seconds she came face-to-face with a semicircle of shrubs that separated the summerhouse from the rest of the old garden. There was no sign of Csar. She looked around helplessly. There was no way out except by the way shed come. Where was he? Csar! she called. Csar, where are you? A flash of red moved past the lowermost branches of a ficus shrub. The shrub shook and crackled, and then a womans voice screeched, Ow! You bit me, you scumbutt! Let go of me! called Csar. Let go of me or Ill bite you again! There were sounds of a scuffle, and the shrub shook
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once more. The first voice, strangely familiar, said, Whos gonna bite who, you lousy worm? Be still or youll twist your arm off. Did you hear me? Okay now, tell me, how long have you been spying on me? And wheres Monica? Has she been spying, too? Of course she knew that voice. Angie! That was Angie. What was she doing here? Csar shouted, Monica, where are you? Help! Im coming, Csar! she yelled, racing around the old ruins to the summerhouse path. When she reached the summerhouse, she found Toni there. She and Angie were facing each other, both tightfisted and tense, like two cats ready to strike. Csar was flat on his belly, squirming out from under the shrub, his red cap dustier than ever but held firmly in his hand. Monica stopped beside Toni and looked from one to the other of her friends. Whats going on? she asked. Toni said, Angies mad because I made her stop beating up on Csar. I heard you yelling at him, too, Monica said. Whats he done to you? He was spying on me, Angie said sullenly. And I dont like that. Thats what Im supposed to do, Csar shouted from where he sat on the ground. Im a tracker. So he was spying, so what? Monica said. Hes just a kid. Besides, thats what we were all doing. Only we didnt know you were here. It was Charley we came to spy on. Angie tossed her hair back over her shoulder and
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laughed. Guess we were all spying on Charley. I was on one of my running loops when I saw his car so I followed him. I hid behind one of the pillars to see what he was up to. Cant figure out why, but he was poking around the chimneys, you know, like he was looking for a loose brick. Toni said sourly, He wouldnt have to look hard for a loose brick; there are plenty of those. So what youre saying is that he was never at the summerhouse. Angie seemed to study Tonis remark before she replied. Maybe earlier, she said. How do I know? But when I saw him, he was wandering around the ruins of the house. Then something spooked him, and he went racing down the hill like hed seen a ghost. Maybe it was a ghost, Csar said. Ill bet it was. Sure, why not? Angie turned away from Toni to where Csar now stood by the shrub, his cap once more on his head, his ears appearing even larger without the cover of his thick black hair. Look, kid, she said, Im sorry if I was rough with you. You kind of scared me, you know, staring out from under that bush. Its okay, Csar said somberly. Anyways, you didnt hurt me any. Monica held back a grin. That little macho wouldnt admit Angied hurt him even if she had been sticking pins in him. So, Angie, she said, we all came up here to spy on Charley and ended up spying on each other. But howd you end up at the summerhouse? Again, Angie hesitated. I . . . I thought Id get a clear
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view of the streets from here. I wanted to see where Charley went, you know. Id forgotten thered be so many blasted bushes in my way. Yeah, Csar said, then how come He stopped abruptly and shrugged. Toni made a little choking noise, and Monica glanced at her. Tonis lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed. Monica knew that look. Toni was about to explode.
Chapter Twelve
oni did explode. But not until Cesr and Angie left the summerhouse and Chimney Hill. Cesr left first and hurriedly. Shoot! he blurted out into the silence. My mothers gonna kill me. I forgot to get the garlic from seora Luz. And he was gone before they could take in his words. Angie moved more slowly. Well, she said, I guess Id better get down the hill and start my running. Standing here isnt going to keep me fit. You guys coming? Not me, Toni said. Im going to sit up in the summerhouse and let the world go by for a while. No sooner was Angie gone than Toni threw out her arms, spun around in a complete circle, and growled through clenched teeth, Gr-r-r-r. Then she marched to the summerhouse steps and plopped down on one. Shes a stinking liar! she spat out. Monica sank to the step beside her. She was rotten to Csar, but what makes you think shes a liar? Oh, shes a liar, all right! And a lousy one, too. Couldnt you tell? Monica started to say something, but Toni, impelled by her feelings, went right on talking. Charley never went to the ruins. He came straight here. I
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should know. I saw his car on my way to my cousins, and since he was our favorite suspect . . . Not anymore, Monica caught herself about to say, but remembered that she hadnt told Toni about Armando. . . . I followed him up here close enough so that if he turned his head, he wouldve seen me. I was going to spy on him, too, Monica said, but he zoomed off in his hot car before I even reached the hill, so I sure dont know what he was doing here. Maybe he came to see Angie. He bolted out of here like he was mad. Yeah. And Angie stayed. And made noises. Hey, thats right. Csars screaming knocked that fact clear out of my mind. Monica jumped up. Come on. Lets look around the summerhouse. Maybe we can find what she was doing. Hold on. I was hurt by that dumb lantana. Ive got a scratch here that wont stop bleeding. Monica dug in her pocket and handed Toni a couple of tissues, and they walked slowly around the summerhouse. They poked and prodded under the bushes that edged the clearing, but they didnt find anything that could be connected to Tonis noises. Oh, well, Toni said as they started down the path to the ruins, it was probably some stupid squirrels building a dam or something. Monica laughed. Squirrels dont build dams, dummy. Thats beavers . . . I think. Then, remembering the pair of squirrels that had come barreling down from the summerhouse roof a few days before, she added, Maybe youre
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right, anyway. The squirrels in this place are pretty noisy. Why dont you come home with me and have a sandwich? Maybe we can figure out whats bugging Angie. I wish I could cause Im starving, but Im supposed to be on my way to my cousins to borrow back my moms old bean pot. She grinned. That pot bounces back and forth between our two houses like a rubber ball. And Id better hurry or my momll think Ive been kidnapped. Shell have a search party after me. And once they find me, Ill have to help make tamales. Were having a bunch of relatives over for dinner tomorrow night. At the bottom of the hill, they said good-bye. Monica trudged down Lucia with questions on her mind. Why had Angie lied? What had Charley been doing there? And why had he run away as if he were scared? Or mad? Then there was poor Csar. Why had Angie been so mean to him? Maybe Csar had seen something. Monica frowned. She was getting nowhere. Not only that, she was wasting a perfectly beautiful day. The sky was blue. The sun, almost directly overhead, beat down on her head and shoulders with an embracing warmth that was deep and comforting, sort of like the good, warm feeling that came from lying on hot cement after a dip in a swimming pool. In the gnarled ficus tree next to where she was now walking, birds skittered from branch to branch, one even pausing to sing to her as she passed by. From Cesrs house across the street came the mouth-watering smell of garlic and onions cooking (seora Luzs garlic?). There was nothing that good to eat at
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home, but since she hadnt had lunch yet, even a peanutbutter sandwich was tempting. Monica hurried now, the thought of the sandwich egging her on. When she saw an old pickup truck parked at the curb close to her Honda, she moved even faster. Armando. When she realized that she was rushing, she stopped dead in her tracks. Armando. She was walking on a cloud because of a few daisies. How could she? Rob was her boyfriend. But not exclusively. When Rob left for Santa Barbara, they hadnt said anything about not seeing anyone else. Definitely, they hadnt said anything like that. Besides, Armando was . . . well, Armando, even though he was dropdead handsome, was not someone she should get too serious about. She had expected Armando to be sitting in the cab of his pickup. He was not. Nor was he on her front porch. She went around the side of the house to the backyard, fully expecting to see him seated on the back steps, but he wasnt there. She turned, wondering if she had been wrong about the pickup; maybe it wasnt Armandos. But when she heard the sound of voices coming through the studios back door, she knew that she was right. Armando, it seemed, was talking with her grandfather. Hi, Monica called through the screen door. Hi, F.M., may I come in? Why, of course, honey. I wondered when Id see you. I peeked in this morning, but you were so. . . . She stopped. It wasnt Armando she had heard. Joe Salcedo was leaning on her grandfathers worktable, grinning at
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her. Oh, she said, I thought you No, Im not Armando, Joe interrupted. But that is his pickup I borrowed. I thought El Pintor might give me a clue as to why La nica seems to be so important. He knew my grandfather Juan better than anyone. And did he? Give you a clue, I mean. Joe shrugged. Most of what we talked about I already knew, but El Pintor sure reinforced my feelingand my dads, for that matterthat theres something pretty important on that guitar. El Pintor, standing by a canvas scattered with blotches of yellow and red, nodded and said, Yes, Im sure of it. Its something he wanted only your family to find. His eyes twinkled as he added, He could have left a sealed envelope, but you know your abuelito. Everything he did had to have an element of mystery. Or of a treasure hunt, Joe said, shaking his head. I know. El Pintor scratched the thick white hair above his right temple and came to sit in a straight-backed chair by the worktable. What do you know about your grandfathers history, Joe? What were the important happenings in his life? Thats easy. He always said marrying Abuelita Mara was the best thing that ever happened to him. I heard that, too, El Pintor said with a smile. And he meant it. However, I was thinking of something less personal, but, nonetheless, a watershed event. Ive got you, Joe said. One of those big moments.
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Well, then, buying the guitar shop and getting started again on something he loved has to be one of those. . . . Watershed? Monica started to ask and then remembered that her English teacher had explained watershed to mean not just a point or ridge where waters divided but an event in a persons life that would always divide one period of time from another. And her grandfather thought that La nica had a connection with something like that. She listened with more interest as Joe went on. . . . I think that was probably the highlight of his life, but maybe not the happiest. I wasnt even born then, but I learned later that there was some sadness clouding the purchase of the shop. Kids have big ears, and I overheard enough over the years to put some of the story together before my grandfather died. It had to do with a hunting accident. When it all happened, they lived in a little town up north where my grandfather worked as a guide. He took hunting parties up into the mountains. Deer, quail, I dont know what. He was a really good guide and a super marksman, knew all the animals habits, and had a great safety record, so when the accident occurred, it was a real shocker. What happened was that he had killed another guide, a man he knew. As it happened, the man he killed was some kind of an enemy, someone hed had several fights with. But even so, the whole thing was considered an accident, and my grandfather wasnt held accountable. Not long after that, they came to live in Los Angeles and he bought the shop.
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Right after he sold me The Hill, El Pintor said. Joe nodded somberly. Yes, I knew that. But how he came to own Chimney Hill is something I never found out. And the sadness. What did you learn about that? El Pintor asked. Not much. Mostly I remember my grandmother sighing and saying that the family was not what it had been before they came to Los Angeles. Im not sure what she meant, but there was a funny kind of stiffness between my dad and my grandfather. I noticed that, El Pintor said. I wondered about it. It wasnt only my father. Armandos father, too. My uncle Estban was the older son, but even so he went to live in Mexico, and my grandfather and he hardly talked when they saw each other. I think thats why Abuelita Mara was sad. And maybe thats why my grandfather liked to make up all those crazy puzzles for us to solve. Maybe he was trying to lighten things up. Joe shrugged and grinned at El Pintor. Ill bet this isnt what youre looking for, though. Maybe not, maybe not, El Pintor said. Does anything else come to mind? Monica cleared her throat and coughed. Excuse me, she said, but what good will figuring all of this out do if we never find La nica? Outside, Joe said to Monica, Do you have some time to talk? I have some questions for you. Sure. But I have to have a sandwich before I starve. Want one?
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You bet. They went up the back steps. Once they were in the kitchen and Monica had brought out bread and peanut butter, she tossed Joe a bag of potato chips and said, If you can talk and chew at the same time, go ahead and ask your questions. Food comes first, he said, grabbing a handful of chips. He chewed, swallowed, and said, Its about Angie. What can you tell me about her? Shes been driving me crazy asking about La nica at the shop. I thought Id already answered all her questions. Whats going on with her?
Chapter Thirteen
fter dinner that night, while Monica and her father were doing dishes together, she told him about the happenings at Chimney Hill. It may not have anything to do with La nica, she finished, but I talked Joe into going with me to see that Charley guy anyway. Her dad, who was drying dishes, said, Joes a levelheaded boy. If you must go, Im glad hell be with you. He picked up another dish. I miss a dishwasher, he said with a groan. Forget the dishwasher. What I really miss is Rosa. Who doesnt? But even if you had the money, I dont think a housekeeper goes too well with this neighborhood. There are a thousand things I miss too, Dad. This place takes a lot of getting used to. Her father glanced at her somberly, and for a moment she was sorry for her last remark. But when he said, We both have adjustments to make, but well weather them together, she was glad. She needed to hear that one more time. She said, In that case, Ill try not to whine so much. Oops! Theres the doorbell. Joes early. She dried her hands and hurried to the door.
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Hi, Joe said. My chariot awaits. With a flourish he pointed to Lauritas faded blue VW standing at the curb. I know that chariot well, she said. I hope it still smells like pepperoni pizza. Outside, Monica paused by the curb and looked toward the house next door. Brassy Latin music was streaming through its open windows. Were pretty noisy around here, arent we? she said. Sounds just like my house, Joe said, throwing open the VWs door. Although lately our house has been pretty quiet. Not peaceful quiet, you know. More like dismal. Except for Laurita, everyones long-faced and sour. Monica nodded, but said nothing. Joe angled a glance at her. The sooner we learn something, the better. Okay, now how do we get to Charleys place? Up Dennison to Whitley and then . . . Ill figure it out when we get there. Okay? Monica missed the turn to Iris Road, but in a block or two caught her mistake, so they lost very little time and were soon at the curb by the manicured green lawn that fronted Charleys elegant house. Hey, Joe said as they got out of the car, whats this guys last name? I dont know. Ive never talked to him. You what? Joe stopped dead in his tracks. He rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that was becoming familiar. Thats right, he said. Now I remember. You and Toni tailed him up here, but you didnt want him to know hed been followed. Exactly. And we picked up Angie on the way home. Right. Okay. So what do we say to him?
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How about the truth? Ill tell him what I saw and what we want to know, and if he doesnt slam the door in our faces, we may get some answers. The door proved to be no problem because at that moment Charleys silver Mustang swung into the driveway. He brought the car to a stop on the drive and stuck his head out the car window. Whatre you guys doing here? he shouted. Looking for you, Monica said, wondering for an instant if this was really Charley. This fellow had an acnepocked face, and his blonde hair was ragged and stringy. But then shed never seen Charley close up before. She walked to the car. Im Monica Ramos and thats my friend Joe. Were hoping you can help us. Were Working your way through college by selling magazines, Charley said angrily, and I dont want any! Keep your shirt on, Joe said. Were not selling anything. What were doing is looking for a guitar, an important one that was stolen from Joes shop, Monica said. She paused because Charleys head had snapped back and he was looking at her with interest. I saw you earlier today when you came tearing down the hill at the end of Lucia. And when your friend Angie told us all sorts of lies about what you were doing up there, we figured she was up to something sneaky. Charley turned away from her to stare out the windshield, biting his lip with nervous intensity. Finally, he shook his head and turned to face her. Sneaky, he said. Yeah. Angie can be sneaky. Have you noticed that diamond she wears? Where do you suppose she got that?
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Monica shrugged, but Joe said, Where? Go figure, Charley answered. And thats all Im gonna say. Oh, no, please, Monica said. At least tell us what you were doing up there. And get Angie mad at me? No way. No way am I gonna get mixed up in another one of Angies messes. So get your hands off my car. Im moving now. He urged the car forward, disappearing around the back of the house. Monica started to follow him, but Joe grabbed her arm. No, Monica. Hes not going to tell you anything. Not now, anyway. Hes scared. I guess youre right. I wonder why? They said little on the way home, both buried in their thoughts. Monicas thoughts hopped from the last night with Armando to Angie on Chimney Hill and back to Charley. When they were stopped in front of her house, Joe finally spoke. It was a nice ride, he said, but we didnt learn anything, did we? Monica held back a hint of annoyance and said, Sure we did. Not much, maybe, but something. We found out that Angie gets into messes, that maybe she stole her ring, that Charleys scaredeither of her or about her, or bothand that she was doing something weird or crooked up on Chimney Hill. If they were at Chimney Hill together just to mess around, he wouldve told us more. Maybe, Joe said, but what does it have to do with La nica? How do I know? She turned and gave Joe what she hoped was a withering look. What do you want from me?
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Genius? No, Joe said with a broad grin. Just this. And his mouth suddenly was on hers in a warm, determined kiss. She put her hands on his shoulders to push him away, but instead she stayed there idle, returning his kiss. It was Joe who pulled away from their embrace, leaving her breathless and a little disappointed. Are you mad? he said. No, but I dont think She stopped herself and smiled. It was a nice kiss, she said, pushing open the car door. Goodnight, Joe. Hey, wait. Ill walk you to your door. Not this time, she said and hurried up the walk. At the bottom of the steps, she turned. See you, she called softly.
Chapter Fourteen
onica watched the VW recede down Lucia. Then, with a shake of her head, she sat down on the porch steps, her chin cupped in her hand. What was all this? Early in the summer it was Rob who had made her heart race, and then, just yesterday no, just today, all of her had raced home when she spied the truck that belonged to the guy who had brought her a little bouquet of daisies. And now? Now here she was sitting on the steps in the dark and smiling up at the lamppost like an impressionable blob at the thought of Joes kiss. Well, it had been nice. Joe was nice. She had always thought so. All of those times she had seen him in the workroom of the guitar shop earlier this summer, she had thought that he was terribly shy. But Joe wasnt shy. She should have known that from that stubborn chin of his. He was quiet, all right, but definitely not shy. She glanced over her shoulder. The lights were still on in her dads bedroom/office, which meant he was working. She didnt want to see him now. Whatever silliness she was feeling was sure to be showing on her face. And, silliness or not, she wanted to keep it all to herself. She caught her breath as a lithe little shadow slithered up the steps. But when it meowed questioningly and rubbed
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against her leg, she relaxed. Sopa. Hi, girl, Monica said. You going to join me? Sopas answer was to jump lightly onto her lap. Her paws, with claws retracted, dug into Monicas legs for a few moments, then she arranged herself into a tight curl and closed her eyes. Monica scratched the back of Sopas head. So youre going to take a little nap, are you? Well, it wont be a long one because Im going in soon. Im not a night person like you. In a little while Monica carried the scrolled-up Sopa to a porch chair and went inside. Sometime during the night Monica woke up with a start. It was not a nightmare, but a thought trying to reach her consciousness. It wasnt a frightening thought. It was more like an urgent one, and it demanded action. But what was it? It was something that Charley had said. All right. What was it? She bounced up in bed. Of course. It was that Angie was a thief. Charley had as much as said that. Angie, who was entirely too interested in what La nica was worth, must have stolen it from Armandos pickup. Then, when she thought someone was coming out of the guitar shops workroom, she had shoved it into the Hondas unlocked trunk. Angie was an athlete and could easily have scaled the wall by the Salcedos parking lot. Also, she must have been the man who later took the guitar from her cars trunk. With her hair pulled back or in a little braid the way shed had it today, Angie could well have been taken for a guy. It was no wonder the man her grandfather and she had chased had disappeared so quickly. Running fast was Angies talent. Monica pushed back against her pillows and stared
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intently through her window at the lamppost-lighted outline of the studios roof. All right. So Angie stole it. So what would she do with it? Certainly not keep it. What good would a stolen guitar be to her, even if she knew how to play it. What do I know about guitars? Angie had said when Toni and she had asked her about Charleys new guitar. Besides, Angie had wanted to know what La nica was worth, in dollars and cents. So, of course, she would try to sell it. Monicas shoulders sagged. Probably, she already had. The studios roof was brushed with early morning sunlight when Monica awakened for the second time. For an instant, she wondered why she felt so dejected. Last night she had sat on the front porch thinking happily about Joe. So where had this dull, gloomy mood come from? With a long, drawn-out groan, Monica remembered what she had figured out in the middle of the night. She turned over on her back and glared at the ceiling. Its white expanse glistened in the reflected morning sun. Maybe it was the sunlight, minute by minute growing brighter on the studios roof, or the smell of coffee brewing, or the sound of her dad whistling in the shower, that brought back her good sense. Her idea that the guitar was already sold wasnt more than a guess. All right. Maybe Angie hadnt yet sold it, and in that case . . . in that case . . . she had some more thinking to do. By the time Monicas dad was gone for the day and the house smelled not only of coffee but of his aftershave lotion as well, Monica had come up with a plan. She would follow Joes suggestion and take another look around the summerhouse. Maybe shed find a clue as to
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what Angie had been doing there. And once that clue was found, the next step would be to connect it with La nica. As Monica neared the cross street at the base of Chimney Hill, she looked at the weed-strewn lots at the end of Lucia, wondering about the houses that had once stood there, wondering, too, if they had been standing there when her mother had walked this way. According to Laurita, she and her mother had spent a lot of happy hours in the summerhouse. On hot summer days they would take brown-bag lunches to share: burritos of refried beans; a cold tamale or two; and when they could, a store-bought treat, chocolate cupcakes, the ones with the fluffy white filling in the center. This was her mothers world, all of this. She had grown here, Monica thought, just like these trees beside the curb, never feeling the insecurity that I do whenever I walk up this way alone. In the summerhouse its different. I always feel protected there. Silly, maybe, but thats the way it is. Now she crossed the street and started up the hill, her mind once more on her immediate errand. Halfway up the hill, she stopped and sniffed the air. Smoke. She turned and looked below her and then upwards to the west, over the Malibu Hills. Thats where the big fires, those that sent a pall of smoke over the city, always seemed to happen. She saw nothing but surprisingly blue sky. With a dismissive shrug she started up the hill again and thats when she saw a thin spiral of smoke curling its way through the almost bare branches of a jacaranda tree. Where was that smoke coming from? There was nothing to burn up hereoh, yes, there was! All the stuff
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growing up here had to be dry as dust. Besides, there was the summerhouse, with its old, old timbers, just waiting to burn up. Years before, when the big house had burned down, it had escaped, but maybe . . . She shuddered. She had to do something. Here she was, equipped only with a pencil and paper. Why hadnt she brought her cell phone? With her heart pounding, Monica pushed up the hill. Shed find the source of the fire and then race down to Csars house to call the fire department. Almost immediately, Monica found what she was looking for. The smoke was coming from the closest of the four broken-down chimney stacks that were scattered throughout the old foundation. Kneeling before it was Angie. She was prodding the small, hesitant fire in the fireplace. Whatre you doing? Monica started to call, but stopped herself when she saw what Angie was pushing into the fire. It wasbut it couldnt be! Angie was prodding the fire with the neck of a guitar, her hands around the sound box. Monica drew in her breath. She must have made a sound because Angie swung her head and looked her way. Stay away! she shouted hoarsely. Dont take another step or Ill bat you on the head with this thing. Angie, stop! What do you think youre doing? Angie didnt answer. Instead she slammed the guitars neck against the floor of the fireplace, sending sparks flying. There was a sharp cracking sound that prodded Monica into action. Stop it! she screamed, hurdling the crumbling wall of the foundation. Stop it! She raced toward Angie.
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Angie scrambled up, the guitar held awkwardly in her two hands. Get out of here! she commanded. Do you hear? Get out of here before you get hurt! Monica stopped. Not till you put that guitar down. Angie smirked. Come and get it, she challenged. She was standing some ten feet away from Monica, her feet a little apart, her voice a threatening monotone. She spread her feet a little more. Come and get it, she repeated slowly. Monica stayed where she was, blinking back angry tears. What did she know about street fighting, or any other kind of fighting? Besides, Angie was bigger than she was and a trained athlete. She swallowed hard and said, I dont want to fight you. Come on, Angie, put down the guitar. You dont want to ruin it, do you? Ruin it? Huh! Its already ruined. That lamebrain Charley threw it at me. Threw it? Yeah. The bonehead. When I wasnt looking. So how could I catch it? Oh, its ruined, all right. It fell on a jagged rock that cracked the back from top to bottom. Monica grimaced. La nica. It had to be La nica, and it was ruined. She took a quick little breath as a new thought hit her. As a guitar, La nica was wrecked, all right. But maybe the circular design around the sound hole, the one with grandfather Salcedos message, was still okay. If it was, she had to save it. Angie glanced down at the guitar in her arms. This things absolutely worthless. And I couldve gotten hundreds, maybe even thousands of dollars for it. Monica edged a bit closer. Angie had been going to
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sell it. Probably shed started with Charley. So whyd he throw it? she asked. Keep her talking, she told herself. Maybe someone would come and help. But even as she had that thought, she knew that it was hopeless. No one would wander up the hill this early in the morning. Nosy, arent you? Angie said. But, all right, Ill tell you. He said it was hot property, and he didnt want any part of my criminal activity. Huh! Do you have any idea how many nefarious schemes Charleys been a part of? Monica did a double take at the word nefarious, and then remembered that Angie was not only an athlete, she was also a poetand a crook. Put it down, Angie, she said again. Please. It was the athlete who took Monica by surprise. One moment Angie had leaned to her left, as if ready to lay the wooden instrument on the ground, and then, in a beautifully executed fake, she had traveled to the right and was down on her haunches, pushing the guitar into the fire. Monica yelled, Dont! But what came out of her mouth was a sound like a growl, Da-a-argh! Angie shot her a taunting grin and continued to shove the guitar into the fireplace. Monica ignored the fact that she didnt stand a chance against Angie. With another angry shout, she covered the distance between them. Angie twisted to meet her, but just as quickly, turned back. The guitar was sliding out of the fireplace, and she bent over to give it a shove. Monica took advantage of that moment. She grabbed Angies shoulders and pulled, planning to topple her onto her back. But, again, she forgot Angies strength. With tremendous power, Angies shoulders pushed
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upwards, dislodging Monicas hands, sending her stumbling backwards. Monica fell to the ground. She scrambled to get up, expecting Angies attack. Instead, she heard a hoarse scream followed by a string of four-letter words. Angie desperately shook her right hand to which a smoking little piece of wood clung. The burning stick finally fell to the ground, and Angie screamed again. She got up, holding her right hand cupped in her left as tears streamed down her cheeks. My gosh, Monica cried, youre burned. What happened? You pushed me, you filthy freak! You pushed me into the fire! Thats what happened! I did not! And then Monica realized what had happened. Oh, Angie, she said, shuddering, you lost your balance when you forced my hands away so suddenly. Thats when you fell forward. Into the fire, she added silently. Thats a bad burn you got. Come on, lets go get something for it. Forget it! Angie growled. Take your stupid guitar, whats left of it. Im going. With tears still streaming, she turned on her heel, stumbling over a loose brick and cursing loudly as she did. Monica watched her start down the hill, wondering what to do, but a decision was made for her when she saw little flames licking at the edges of the guitar. Grabbing the neck of the guitar, she pulled it out of the fireplace and snuffed out the flames. Then, carefully, and with a sad shake of her head, she placed it on a pile of rocks away from the fire.
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In the fireplace the kindling that Angie had placed there had finally taken hold; the fire was burning brightly. Monica, remembering that her grandfather kept some tools under the steps of the summerhouse, raced up the path. In a few minutes she returned with a long-handled shovel. She dug frantically underneath nearby shrubs and filled the shovel with loosened earth, which she poured carefully over the flames in the fireplace. Black smoke rose in dusty clouds from the fire, making her eyes smart. Coughing, she swung away and went back to digging. After three more shovels full of dry soil had been spread in the fireplace, all traces of the fire were gone. Wearily, she sat down on a flat rock beside the scorched guitar and closed her eyes. And then, abruptly, she began to tremble, an all-over trembling that told her how much tension shed been under. Pushing her hands against the surface of the rock on which she sat, she took long, deep breaths, and in a few minutes the trembling stopped. She felt drained, flat, and ragged, like a popped balloon. Well, maybe it had been worth it. The guitar might be ruined, but at least the rosette looked unharmed. She leaned over and blew a light film of ash from the circled design. That was when a terrible thought hit her. What if this was not La nica? There was only one way to find out. Joe. She had to get home and call Joe.
Chapter Fifteen
onica saw her grandfather long before he saw her. He was seated on the turquoise bench at the side of the studios front door drinking coffee. When he saw her, he put down his cup and got to his feet. Monica, he called when she came closer, Monica, whats going on? What do you have there? She shifted the guitar in her arms and gave him a little wave. Im not sure, F.M. I hope its La nica. Otherwise. . . . She didnt finish before tears filled her eyes. It doesnt matter, he said, hurrying up the sidewalk to meet her. What matters is you. He took the guitar from her and encircled her with his arm. Are you all right? When she nodded, he added, Do you want to tell me what happened? As soon as I blow my nose and wash my face. Take your time, honey. Ill wait for you on the porch. Inside, Monica hurried to her bedroom and with the door shut, leaned against it and closed her eyes. What am I doing in this place? I want to go home. I want to be back on Parkview Place, where life is peaceful, where I dont have girls like Angie to fight. Oh, Dad, I want to go home! The thought of her father brought her out of her would-be tantrum. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
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Sure, living here was different. Even the sounds and smells were differentkind of strange, and sharp, and spicy. The people were different, too, and hard to get used to, but most of them were pretty nice. And on the porch was the person who made up for any blows she got. It wasnt every summer that a girl was given a grandfather. Especially one like El Pintor. In the bathroom she washed her hands and face and brushed her hair briskly. She felt better. When she returned to the porch, her grandfather said, Before you start, I have two things to say. The first is a question. Youre not hurt, are you? Im fine, F.M. Maybe a bruise or two on my butt. Ill tell you about that. Okay, whats the second thing? He stroked the guitar he held in his lap and said, Its a shame to see a fine instrument in this shape. Its a Salcedo guitar, all right. Id know one anywhere. She looked up into her grandfathers eyes and thought, he doesnt think its La nica, though. She shook her head sadly. Still, Joe will know for sure. Dont shake your head at me, young lady, El Pintor said with a chuckle. I have positive news for you. This is definitely La nica. He put the guitar down on the floor between them. It is? But how do you know? I realize youve seen it before, but that was a long time ago, wasnt it? It was. But you dont forget special things easily. And this guitar was very special. Now, tell me how you and La nica got your bruises. Monica grinned at him. I got carried away with detecting, I guess. But now Im glad I did. She took a
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deep breath and said, It all happened on Chimney Hill starting yesterday . . . Then she went on to tell him what had happened there. He listened silently, the only indications of surprise or reproach were in the furrowing of his forehead and quick little shakes of his head. She ended by saying, The fires all out, F.M. Honestly. I smothered it with dirt. After the fire we had here early in the summer, I wouldnt take any chances. You had taken enough already, he said somberly. I guess taking on Angie was pretty stupid. All I could think of at the time was to save La nica for Pancho Salcedo. Why? There was new interest in his voice. So hell stop accusing me of stealing it. Oh, he said, his voice flatter. But whats going to convince him that you didnt? Monica frowned. Youre right. He might not believe me. But you know something? I dont care anymore. All I know is that Joe wanted to find it, too, because . . . well, because . . . Her grandfather leaned toward her. What? When she didnt answer, he said, You know something youre not saying, right? They exchanged a long look. Monica said, You know something, too, dont you, F.M.? Perhaps. But Im not sure that what I know is what you need to know, or that its something I can tell you. He glanced down at the guitar and shook his head. Will you be all right now? When she nodded, he got to his feet and said, Im going back to my easel before I forget what I was doing.
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She got up, too. And Ill go in and call Joe even though Im kind of scared to. Youll manage, he said. Youre your mothers daughter. Her shoulder muscles tightened. There. There was that twinge of resentment that was becoming so familiar. Did everyone really expect her to be just like her mother? Im my dads daughter, too, she said in a crusty little voice. And dont I know it, El Pintor said with a broad smile. Thats why Im sure youll manage. In a quick little move Monica leaned over and kissed his wrinkled cheek, and El Pintor squeezed her arm and said, Thank you. Monica went inside the house and down the hall to the telephone table, all the while dreading the conversation she was about to have with Joe. She punched in the numbers to the Salcedos guitar shop, and when Joe answered she said, Im sure glad its you and not your father. Come on now, Joe said. He couldnt bite you on the telephone. A quick laugh and he added, On second thought, maybe he could. So whats up? Monica took a deep breath before she said, A lot. Ive got good news and bad news, and I dont know which to tell you first. Start with the good news. Okay. But dont say anything until Ive told you both. Ill try, Joe said. Go ahead. Ive got La nica. There was a muffled choking sound at the other end of the line, but Joe kept his promise to say nothing. Thats the good news, she went on. The bad news is that La nica is ruined.
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Ruined? Joe groaned. How? Hold on. Im trying to tell you. When I found La nica, Angie was trying to burn it up. For gods sake, why? Stop interrupting, Joe, and let me tell you. To hide what shed done, I guess. Because she practically admitted stealing it. But why burn it? Because it was already wrecked and it wasnt worth money anymore. Charleyd thrown it at her, and the guitar fell on a jagged rock that cracked its back. And, of course, she wanted to get rid of it before anyone found out shed taken it. There was a long silence. Monica was about to speak when Joe said, Thats grim. His voice was scratchy, as if he were having trouble clearing it. So well never know what my abuelo was trying to tell us. No, Joe, thats Duncehead! Joe interrupted. Wha-at? No, not you! Me. Here Im running off at the mouth about a guitar when . . . How are you? How the devil did you get it away from her? You didnt get hurt, did you? Angies got a reputation for Now it was her turn to interrupt. Im fine! she said firmly into the mouthpiece. And so is the design on La nica. I stopped Angie before she really burned it. So your abuelos message is still there. When can you come see it? It is? Are you sure? Ill come rightno, darn, I cant. Im alone in the shop. Ill come as soon as Laurita gets
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here. Should be in an hour or so. And, hey, Monica . . . This time she heard him clear his throat. Thanks. Monica hung up, knowing that she couldnt wait an hour to examine La nica. She found a sunny spot on the back steps, and with the guitar on her lap, studied the design around the sound hole from all angles. But, no matter how she squinted and strained, all that she saw was a mass of twisted vines with blossoms and berries scattered all over the place. She finally came to the conclusion that if there were words hidden in the leaves and twigs and blossoms and berries, she wasnt going to be the one to find them. It would have to be Joe. Joe came in less than an hour. Monica saw him arrive through the living room window. He was driving Lauritas V.W., which he swerved behind her Honda in such a hurry that she caught her breath wondering for an instant if he would be able to stop. He slammed the little cars door shut and took the porch steps in two leaps. She met him at the front door. Where is it? he said. In back, she answered and led him to the service porch where the guitar once again lay on top of the washer. Joe stopped and stared and groaned, Oh, my god! Come on, Monica said quickly, lets take it outside. Maybe youll be able to find the letters you saw there before. Joe gave a shake to his head. I wish I could but I cant. I told Laurita Id be right back, that I was just picking up La nica. You what? She stared at him intently. It was in that
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instant that she knew shed unconsciously made a firm decision. This guitars not going anywhere, she said. Not until I say so. Her voice was getting shrill, but she didnt care. Have you any idea what I went through to get it? No, its not going anywhere until Ive talked to F.M. and my dad about it. I took chances to save it, you know. Angie couldve killed me. It was only because she burned her hand that she didnt come after me. Anyway, whos been looking for it except me? Sure, maybe you and Toni, and even Csar helped, but wheres your dad been all this time? I didnt see him trudging up Chimney Hill after Angie. He just sat back, waiting for Armando and me to repent our evil ways and return his precious guitar. Besides, if he got it now, hed figure I wrecked it. And, no matter what I said, he wouldnt believe it. So, if thats all you came for, Joe, then go. Go, because you cant have La nica. Joe placed the guitar on the washer and rubbed the back of his neck. He stared out the window into the backyard for a minute then said, Youve done the heavy lifting, all right. And the rest of what youve said makes sense in a jumbled-up sort of way. Sure, talk it over with your dad. But, meanwhile, cant we try to find the message? I thought you had to get back, Monica said dryly. I know. Thats what I told Laurita. But I can fix that. Ill call her. While Joe went to the phone, Monica took La nica outside and waited at the bottom of the back steps. Near the rear fence Sopa was stalking a bird. Monica watched and marveled at the patience with which the cat inched
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her way on her belly toward the spot where the small brown bird busily pecked in the grass. She sighed with relief when the bird, frightened by the slamming of the screen door as Joe stepped outside, flew away. Sopa seemed to shrug as she sat up and began daintily to wash her face with a well-licked paw. Monica looked over her shoulder at Joe. I was just thinking. What time of day was it when you first saw the words on La nica? Joe looked at her quizzically as he came down the steps. Funny you should ask. He scanned the sky and then glanced at his wristwatch. It was just about this time. You know, just before lunch. Thats what I thought. Because I showed up at the guitar shop at noon that day and La nica had already disappeared. You couldntve come at a worse time, Joe said with a sheepish grin. My father was fit to be tied, and I was getting there. Monica returned the grin. I know. I heard. But forget all that. Were wasting time. With the sun at the same angle in the sky, maybe well be able to find the words again. Youre right. Lets see. I was facing the parking lot, leaning on the shops wall. Facing east. So if I stood by the side of the garage over there, it would be about the same. Okay. And what were you doing with the guitar? Armando was there with you, wasnt he? Yes. Let me see, he said slowly. Maybe it was when I was handing it to him. He wanted to look at it more
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closely. But for some dumb reason we almost dropped it. Hey! Thats when it was! When I pulled it up toward me, I was kind of facing southeast, and the guitar was at about a 45-degree angle. And thats when I saw those words. They were there for something like a nanosecond, but they were there. And then I lost them. Monica said, Okay then. That means that we should look at the guitar the way you did that day. Not with it flat on our laps or whatever. This time Joe raised a questioning eyebrow at her. Youre as interested in finding that message as I am. Why? Monica looked first at the cat and then over the rooftops beyond the fence for a long moment. I dont know for sure, she said finally. But they dont call me Curious Catherine for nothing, I guess. And I think I deserve to know the answer to the puzzle around La nica. Dont you? Sure. Especially if you help figure it out. Here, hand it to me. You be Armando and lets see what we find. Half an hour later they were both ready to give up. They had studied the rosette on the guitar in several ways. They had leaned over it, standing. They had leaned over it, kneeling. They had used a magnifying glass, examining it from various angles, and finally, they had run their fingers gently over the rosette, hoping that the pads of their fingers might find something. All to no avail. Forget it, Joe said glumly. Somethings happened to it. The words just arent there. Do you suppose they never were? Monica asked hesitantly.
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Joe shrugged. Could be. I dont know anything anymore. He sighed or grunted, she wasnt sure which, and carried the guitar to the back steps where he sat looking at it sadly. She felt sorry for him. Even his stubborn chin seemed to be drooping. He lifted the guitar, shaking his head slowly, and held it as if he were about to play it. Monica stared at him for a moment then called, Joe! Come back here. And wait. Wait till I get a chair from the kitchen. What the heck are you up to? he said, but walked over to where she was and waited patiently while she went inside and dragged a chair down the steps. She placed it with its back towards the garage wall. Okay, sit. But hang on while I get something for you to rest your foot on. She scanned the yard and found an empty flowerpot near the back fence. Here, she said. Now sit as if youre about to strum that thing and look for the words. She hurried to stand behind him and, with her head at the same level as his, looked over his shoulder at the rosette. It was Monica who found the words first. Joe, she whispered, dont move. Right there below your thumb I see a word. I think its est, and curling up toward that long skinny leaf is an a. I see it, too. Joe sounded as if he were holding his breath. And theres more. There, beside the skinny leaf. Est abajo . . . no, maybe that b is a t. . . or maybe not. Okay, abajo del . . . del . . . . . . del pa . . . Monica said, but Ive lost the rest of it. Im following you. It is p-a, but I cant see anymore
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either. Oh, crud! Theres a scratch right there. See it? And you know what that means, dont you. It means that the rest of the word is gone. Probably forever.
Chapter Sixteen
oe, Monica said irritably, what a pessimist you are. Youve got almost the whole message. Now all youve got to figure is the last word. Like whatever it is thats below something that starts with p-a. Sure, Joe said gloomily. There are only a million words that start with p-a. Well, you dont have to be sarcastic. What words do start with p-a? Joe shrugged. Okay. Here goes. Palo. Thats a stick or a pole. Pala. A shovel. Papel. Paper. Pasa. A raisin. Below a raisin, Joe said with a laugh. Or under a potato. Thats patata. Come on, Monica, dont you see how silly this is? No. I dont think its silly at all. Arent there any other words? How about parque? Maybe he hid it in some park. Or, I know! A wall! Isnt that pared? Yes, Joe said. But no. Too many walls. Too many parks. Even my mystery-loving abuelito wouldnt have been that kooky. No, I think its a more specific place. Well, how about patio? Doesnt that mean like a courtyard? Couldnt he have hidden something underneath a patio? Do you have a patio he liked to sit in? Or a patio at all?
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Joe had stiffened in the chair as she spoke. Now he jumped up, put the guitar on the ground and threw his arms around her. Youve got it! he said and swung her around in a circle before he let her go. Of course we have a patio. Its brick. And guess who laid the brick a couple of years ago? Youve got it! Mi abuelito. Oh, we helped a little, but he did most of it. Thats where its got to be. Wait till I show my dad. He picked up the chair and, holding it high over his head, hurried up the steps with it. Sopa, who had been lying in the shade of the lemon tree eyeing them suspiciously, now jumped onto the back fence and disappeared. Monica stared at the spot on the fence where the cat had been and then turned back to where Joe was now bending over La nica. She fought back a sudden flattened feeling. The search was over. Or soon would be. And she would have no part to play in the last piece of it. Oh, well, it really had never been her business, anyway, except to make Pancho Salcedo eat his words, and it was pretty clear now that she might never have that satisfaction. He would always think that she had had something to do with its disappearance, along with Armando or Angie. Joe, she said in a strained voice that sounded like a strangers, you might as well take La nica. Hell want to see it, wont he? Well, sure . . . but what made you change your mind? She shrugged. Im not sure. I guess it just dawned on me that its none of my business now . . . She grinned. . . . unless your dad involves me again. Sure, its your business, Joe said vehemently. We
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wouldnt have La nica if it hadnt been for you. Okay then. If you think I deserve somethingand I guess I dopromise to tell me what it was all about when you find your grandfathers stuff. Done, Joe said, extending his hand. Do we shake on it? But when Monica took his hand, he pulled her close and kissed her.
Since coming to live on Lucia, Monica and her father had all their meals at the kitchen table. On Parkview Place they had always eaten dinner in the dining room. But her father was not demanding; all he insisted on was cloth napkins at the evening meal, even with hotdogs or pizza. That day, just after Joe left with La nica, her father called and offered to pick up a pizza for supper if she would put together a salad. Thats great, she said, because I dont feel like cooking. A lots happened. Ill have a mountain of stuff to tell you when you get home. And hey, Dad, dont forget the awful anchovies for F.M. That evening there was only one small wedge of pizza with anchovies left when Monica started telling her dad her mountain of stuff. As she spoke, El Pintor tossed in a word or two, nodding in somber agreement when she assured her father that she had extinguished the fire. When she finished, her father said, Absolutely. You did absolutely the right thing. No matter that you salvaged the guitar, it is Panchos property and thats where it belongs.
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I know, Dad. I figured youd say that. Her dad turned to El Pintor. What do you know about that girl, Angie? El Pintor thought for a moment. Not much, Eduardo. She had an older sister, Amelia, whom I knew much better. Spent a lot of time with the Baltazar girls. When the Baltazars left Lucia, so did Amelia. She was a pleasant, easy-going girl. But as for her sister . . . El Pintor shrugged. He knew no more than that. This Angie sounds much more lethal than her sister, Eduardo Ramos said in a troubled voice. Relax, Dad, Monica said quickly. Angies only interest was getting money for that guitar. Thats why she was getting rid of it. You should have called for help when you saw her, her father said with a quick shake of his head. There wasnt time, Dad. Really. Anyway . . . She paused and then added quickly, I hadnt taken my cell phone. He looked at her sternly. I want you to carry it, Monica. I like to know that I can be in touch with you. Ive told you this before. All right, Dad. Sorry. But the Angie things over. Ill bet we dont see her around here anymore. Maybe. Hm-m-m. I wonder if she uses the summerhouse for other activities. All the kids do, El Pintor said. But not regularly. They know I run routine checks up there, and they never know when Ill show up to clean out the place. The kids who were on Lucia when I came to live in the studio tried storing things up there. The kind of things they wanted to
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keep secret. But, of course, I found everything. Along with lots of other things, I tossed out three rotting sleeping bags, a case of sodas, an old cage with a dead parakeet, and two live turtles. He patted Monicas knee. Dont look like that, honey. The turtles went to an animal shelter. No, Eduardo, there are no criminal, or pseudocriminal, activities going on at El Pintors pabelln. Each generation of Lucia Street kids learns the unwritten rules. They know I like my quiet time up there, too. He sighed and glanced at Eduardo. And so did Cristina. I kept the place available for both of us. I know, Eduardo Ramos said. Shortly after I met her, she took me to see the place she most loved. It was very special to her. Monica leaned forward and said, Youre both talking about the summerhouse, arent you? But, F.M., you called it pabelln. Thats a leftover from the old-timers on Lucia, her grandfather said. They all called it El Pintors pabelln until, little by little, the newer generation of kids learned less and less Spanish. Besides, the word gazebo had a funny sound, something they could play with, so they call it El Pintors gazebo when they dont just say Chimney Hill. Monica frowned. There was something she wanted to say, but it kept escaping her. When the phone rang, she went to answer it. A despondent Joe was on the other end of the line. Hey, she said, whats wrong? Everything, he groaned. Wha-at?
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Well, to begin with, you were right, Thanks a lot. Oh, thats not whats wrong . . . I mean that you were right . . . whats wrong is what you were right about. Theres no convincing my dad that you and Armando didnt steal La nica. Particularly, since Armando has confessed what he did. And no matter what Ive said to my dad, he wont believe you had nothing to do with it. Monica swallowed hard, trying to hold back her anger. I guess thats his problem, she said finally. Not entirely. Ive tried to stop him, but he says hes going to talk to your father about . . . about paying for the cost of the guitar, plus something for the loss of whatever it was that his father had left for him. Joe stopped for a moment, and she could picture him rubbing his neck. He claims that could be a lot, Monica. I dont know what to do with him. Boy, hes got some nerve! Pulling a scam like that now that hes got whatever your grandfather left him practically in his hands. All he has to do is pull up a few bricks on your patio. Well, let him come along. My dad will take care of him. Boy, hes got nerve. Or did I already say that? There was a long silence at the other end of the line and then Joe cleared his throat and said, About those bricks. My father laughed when I said abuelitos stuff had to be under the patio. He reminded me that those bricks were laid on a slab of cement that he himself had poured before abuelito came to live with us. So . . . Joe exhaled, a loud hissing sound that Monica heard clearly. And besides, he went on, he had trouble seeing the words in the rosette. He was too mad to have the patience to hold
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the guitar the way he has to. He swears the fire destroyed the message. Did you tell him about Angie? Yeah. And he just shrugged like he had answers for that, too. Thats when I left. I was too mad to listen to him anymore. Besides, I was afraid of what I might say. Ive been thinking what to do for the last couple of hours, and all I came up with was to call and apologize to you. Im sorry, Monica, that my dads being such a blind, stubborn fool. Really I am. Hes basically a good guy, but this La nica business has driven him a little wacky. Ive no idea what he expects abuelito to have left us. A couple of million dollars or a basketful of precious jewels? Thats silly. If it was money or jewels, your grandfather would have spent it while he was alive. You know, to give you all better houses and cars and maybe more expensive college educations. No, Ill bet its something more personal. But whatever it is, Ill bet its special. F.M. says he was a very special guy. That he was, Joe said quickly. Thanks, Monica. I guess as far as the message is concerned, this is the end of the line. Maybe its best this way. Maybe once your dad sets my father straight, hell calm down, maybe even forget the whole La nica thing. And then maybe we can all relax. Except . . . except . . . I know, Monica said. Except whats under the p-ablank-blank-blank. Did I forget to tell you, Joe? Ive got this special curiosity gene. Im not sure Im ready to relax.
Chapter Seventeen
t was not a nightmare that awakened Monica shortly after midnight. It was a word. Written in shimmering white letters across a vast night sky: pabelln. She sat up in bed, not fearful but startled and then a little angry. How stupid she had been! How many times had seora Palacios called the summerhouse el pabelln? When F.M. had mentioned the word last night at supper, something had hit her, and she was about to stumble on it when Joes phone call had come. Joe and she had been so sure that the p-a word was patio. But it was pabelln, of course. Even the kids here had found it a good place to hide things. So why not Juan Salcedo? His stuff had to be there, but very carefully hidden. Maybe buried. She looked at the clock. Almost one oclock. She would call Joe first thing in the morning. Then, she said out loud, No, I wont. Im going to find it all by myself. She puffed up her pillows, nodded firmly and slid once more under the light summer blanket. Listening to the mournful sound of foghorns, she finally fell asleep. Shortly after eight the next morning, Monica started off to Chimney Hill with a flashlight, a trowel, a pair of F.M.s gardening gloves, and her cell phone stuffed into
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the pockets of a pair of sturdy jeans. She had forgotten her sunglasses, and she squinted as she walked east on Lucia because the sun, just now clearing the tops of the trees on Chimney Hill, was glaring straight at her. But, even so, she didnt miss seora Palacioss wave. Across the street, her neighbor was standing by a misshapen and rusty old car, where she was talking to one of her sons. Monica nodded and smiled and would have waved back, but Seora Palacioss head had almost disappeared into the window of the car, intent on what she was saying to her son. Farther up Lucia, she did wave to Csar, who had shouted a loud hello through the dilapidated screen door of his house. Something else came through that screen: the hot, spicy scent of frying chorizo, which was absolutely her favorite breakfast sausage. Her mouth watered, and she wondered if milk and a muffin would see her through the morning. On the hill, Monica found that the trees were shedding the ocean fog that had clothed them during the night. She walked quickly. Once in the clearing around the summerhouse, she shook the drops off her head and shoulders and, out of habit, walked over to the foot of the steps. There she paused. The message on the guitar had said abajo, below or under the p-a blank, blank. So under was where she had to go. Luckily, the crawl space below the floor of the summerhouse had a height of about four feet, and that would give her some headroom. The six sections that encircled
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that space were made of latticework, leaving small diamond-shaped openings from top to bottom of the lattice walls. So there would be some light under there. She shuddered as she thought of spiders and cobwebs. Good thing shed had the sense to bring an old cotton scarf for her head. She continued standing by the steps until a squirrel, scurrying along the edge of the summerhouse roof, sent a shower of damp leaves to the ground around her. She grinned up at it. All right, all right, I get the message. Im going. I know Im supposed to be looking for something. With that said, she circled the summerhouse slowly, searching for a way to get into the crawl space. It wasnt hard to find. On the north side of the summerhouse, where the shrubs grew close to the building, she pulled aside a branch that had threaded itself into the lattices. And there it was: a small framed section of latticework about two feet square and starting about three inches from the ground. It was hinged on one side, and once some of the more persistent branches were pulled away, it opened easily. With the hinged door pressed against the wall, Monica was able to take a good look into the dark and musty space. And it was dark, darker than she had expected it to be. She could see why. Outside, shrubs pressed against much of the latticework; inside, dusty cobwebs hung here and there against it like ragged glass curtains. She flicked on the flashlight and ran it around the sides of the crawl space. Round pillars that were placed at the joining of the six latticework sections held up the wooden floor. The
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summerhouse, Monica thought, had been built to last. But beyond that positive observation, she saw nothing that encouraged her to enter. A scattering of decaying leaves lay all over the ground. They had a damp, moldy smell that was not at all inviting. Still, after another careful search with the flashlight, one that found no spiders leering at her and no crawly things moving on the leaves, she decided it was time to go in. The scarf went around her head quickly and the gardening gloves onto her hands. With the beam of light leading, she wormed her way through the opening and crept to the center of the six-sided area. On her knees she once more sent the flashlights beam around. As she completed the circle, the bulb flickered and shut off, plunging her into a twilight darkness that was eerie. She shook the flashlight and the bulb lit again. In its glow, she examined each of the supporting posts and then drew in her breath impatiently. What did she expect to see? Maybe a little door cut into one of them that said, Juan Salcedos Stuff? No, of course not. If Juan Salcedo had hidden something here, it had to be buried in the earth; there was no other place. But where should she begin digging? Where? Her shoulders sagged. She felt defeated, beaten down. She straightened up and took a deep breath of the musty air, which made her cough, and soon she was shaking her head and laughing. Im as crazy as old man Salcedo for being here. But, all right, Im here, so Ill try to use my brain. What Ive got to find is a spot that looks as if its been dug up.
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The flashlight was still functioning. She ran its beam along the base of the latticework on the assumption that she paused and shook her head again. What assumption? Looking around the base of the latticework walls was just somewhere to begin. She had run the light along three sections of those walls when the bulb once more flickered and went out. Monica groaned. Stupid, stupid flashlight! There it goes again! She shook it violently, and for a second the bulb lit up once more, its beam aimed at the summerhouse floor above her head. Then darkness. She tried tightening the top of the flashlight, but that didnt help. Another shake and the bulb flickered, lighting up a corner where the floor joined the lattice. Almost immediately, the light was gone and no amount of shaking brought it back again. But in that instant of light, she thought she had seen a reddish triangle pushing through the junction of the floor and the lattice. She closed her eyes and there it was: a triangular shape clearly outlined against the inside of her eyelid. It was probably a trick of the light. But even as she had that thought, she crept forward and reached above her head close to the wall where she thought she had seen it. And she was right. There was something there. Even through the clumsy thickness of the gardening gloves, she felt it. Whatever it was, it was wedged tightly, and there was no way to get her fingers around it. She let her breath out in exasperation. Everything was so hard, and that dumb flashlight had to go and die. Flashlight! Even without light it might be good for something. She groped on
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the ground until she found it. Then, using it for leverage, she shimmied the triangular object back and forth. After a few tedious minutes, she felt it slip, and in another minute or so of patient prodding, it fell to the ground. She grabbed for it eagerly and, forgetting the flashlight, crept to the opening and pushed her way through it. Once outside, Monica leaned back against the lattice wall, stretched out her legs, and wriggled her toes comfortably inside her walking shoes. Then she closed her eyes and breathed in the clean air. But only for a moment. She could not set aside her curiosity; she had to look in Juan Salcedos book. For that is what the object was, a book about five inches wide and eight inches long and only a half-inch or so thick. Its cover, now faded and scratched, was of red imitation leather without any printing or design on it. She pulled off the gardening gloves and picked up the book. But at the sound of heavy footsteps on the path, she put it down again and, remaining hidden behind the sprawling shrubs, stood up to see who it was. A thick branch by her face kept her from seeing clearly, but she did hear a mans voice cursingin Spanish, she thoughtfollowed by a loud rustling of leaves, the snap and crack of twigs and branches, and the thump of a body falling to the ground. There was silence for an instant, and then she heard an anguished cry of pain: Oh, my God. Dios mo, qu pasa? qu pasa? Someone was hurt. Monica tossed the book back into the darkness of the crawl space and closed the door to the opening.
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At the edge of the clearing near the path, a man wearing khaki pants and a white cotton shirt lay on the ground. He was trying to push himself up into a sitting position with his left arm while his right arm, which was bleeding profusely, was held tightly against his body. He muttered something unintelligible as he finally sat up. It was Pancho Salcedo. Two questions flashed through her mind: What was he doing here? What had happened? What she said was, Seor Salcedo, youre hurt! Yes, Im hurt, he muttered crossly. I think Ive broken my ankle. I tripped on that . . . He pointed to an exposed root of the elm tree. . . . and fell into this bush. And your arm? Some branch stabbed me, but I cant worry about that. Can you help me get down the hill? Monica didnt know if she could help him at all. Shed try, but it was the bleeding that worried her. The blood already had spread all over the front of his shirt. I dont think Id better, she said. Youre bleeding. Youre bleeding an awful lot. I know. But I have to get up and You cant, Monica said firmly as she dropped to her knees beside him. Maybe your ankle is broken, but I learned in First Aid to take care of the bleeding first. Youve got to put pressure on your arm. Go on. When he looked at her dumbly, she said, With your left hand, with your left hand! And lie down again. Youre probably in shock. She helped him lie back and raised his injured arm above his head. Blood oozed through the fingers of his left
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hand and streamed down his arm. What we need is a tourniquet, Pancho Salcedo said in a troubled voice. Monica shook her head. No. They dont use those anymore. But we do need pressure. Push hard with your hand. Here . . . She pulled the scarf from her head. Ill tie this around your arm. No, wait. She was remembering a quote from her First Aid text: You are not likely to have the needed bandages and pads at the scene of an accident, so use whatever is at hand, handkerchiefs, socks, stockings . . . She sat back, untied her shoes and pulled off her socks. She doubled them up one inside the other, pressed them against the jagged wound and tied them in place with her folded-up scarf, twisting the knotted end to increase the pressure. During all this, Pancho Salcedo followed her instructions mutely, a frown of pain on his face. Here, she said when she thought she had tightened the scarf enough, Can you hold the knotted end? Can you hold it tight? He nodded and took hold of the scarf. You look pretty pale, Seor Salcedo. Are you sure you can hold it tight? Yes, yes, he said impatiently. But what are you going to do? I . . . I need your help. Dont leave, please. Of course I wont leave. She looked with a shudder at her bloody hands. But Ive got to get help for you. And I cant do that with my hands like this. She crawled closer to the oleander bush where there was some loose, dry earth. There she rubbed her hands in the dirt until they felt
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dry, dug in her pants pocket for her cell phone, and with Seor Salcedos anxious eyes following her every move, punched in 9-1-1.
Chapter Eighteen
sar was the first person Monica met when she finally came down from Chimney Hill. He was starting up the incline when he saw her. Whos hurt? he yelled up at her. I just now saw the ambulance guys leaving. I was scared it was you cause I knew you were up there. Hey! Wheres Seor Salcedo? I told him you were probably up at the gazooba Gazebo, she said, adding, Hes the one in the ambulance. He had a bad fall. She continued walking rapidly. Hey, wait, Monica! What happened? How did he fall? Sorry, Csar, she called over her shoulder. I cant talk now. Im in an awful hurry. Yeah, sure, he said and stopped chasing her. But, as usual, Csar had to have the last word. Boy, are you dirty, he yelled. Monica looked down at her bloody, dirt-blackened hands. Yes, she was dirty and sticky, and she was going to get a world-class blister on her heel from wearing her shoes without socks. What she neededwhat she wantedright now more than anything was a bath, but the bath would have to wait until she called Joe about his father. The phone call and the bath pushed her to hurry, but a half
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block from her house she gave up and stopped to take off her shoes. Another few steps and the threatening blister would be for real. Anyway, the sidewalk was clean enough now for bare feet. Broken glass and rusty cans littered mainly the walks by the lots close to Chimney Hill. Shoes in hand, she started off at a quick pace only to slow down and finally stop. Armandos pickup truck had rolled to a stop at the curb by her house. Monica, he called and jumped out to meet her. You are okay? Yes, Im okay. A little dirty, but okay. I cant talk now, Armando. I have a really important phone call to make. Please, Monica. It is a necessary to speak. Armandos black eyes, rimmed by those unbelievable long lashes, seemed to see her for the first time. He said, You have blood. What . . . what went? My . . . my uncle. Does he come? What went? Monica opened the front door, motioned him in, and pointed to the couch. Wait there. Ill be right back. At the telephone table in the hall she fumbled through the address book until she found the guitar shops number. Laurita answered. Panchos hurt? How? Laurita said that she and Panchos wife would meet the paramedics at the hospital. Monica let out a deep breath, glad that the call was over. But she still had Armando to deal with; the bath would have to wait. All right, Armando, she said and stepped into the living room. Whats so important that I cant wash up first? Armando jumped up as she entered the room and sat only after she had dropped into a chair. I have much fear
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that Pancho . . . my uncle . . . that he say much . . . much bad things. When she looked up, the question in her mind obviously showed on her face. To you, to you! Of La nica! and . . . He paused and swallowed. And also other things. So thats why he was looking for me. No, he didnt say anything bad. He didnt have a chance. Actually, he said some nice things to me before the paramedics showed. Paramedics? What is paramedics? As simply as she could, using both English and Spanish, Monica told him what had happened and explained that they would both have to wait to hear how Pancho was when Laurita or Joe called. But why did he decide to come after me today? Hes always thought Id had a part in stealing La nica. Why today? Today he decides you help steal with me much things. Oh, rats! Not again! Armando smiled, his white, even teeth gleaming in his almost perfect face. S. Otra vez. Ah, ah. I mean, yes, again. So I come to say this and I learn of his hurt. Oh, well. He extended his hands palms up in a gesture of defeat. Now it was Monicas turn to smile. Armando had learned to say, Oh, well, with just the right body language, and he had learned it awfully fast. Armando sat up and sighed. There is more to tell. I go. Today. Pancho tells me, so I go. You mean youre going home to Mexico? In this minute. When Pancho said to go, I find . . . found my clothes . . . my other things. Then I talk . . . talked to Laurita and Joe, and now I tell to you.
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Thats a bummer. Your English is already improving and now youre leaving. I, also, think bummer. He shook his head and took a deep breath. But I have much more worry and sorrow for this trouble I make for you. Your father will re . . . re . . . repair this, no? He could. But I think Ill fix things with Pancho myself. She said that with great satisfaction. A battered red book would help. Hey, can I make you a couple of sandwiches to take with you? Thank you, but this is not necessary. Laurita fill a . . . a bolsa with much sandwiches and fruit. And water, I hope, Monica said. Youre not going across the desert, are you? No, no desert. First, Baja. There I pass days with friends. Also there I wait my father. Then we go. He stood up and extended his hand. Goodbye, Monica. Monica took his hand but quickly leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Vaya con Dios, she said and watched from her front porch as his pickup barreled down Lucia. She was surprised to find tears filling her eyes. As one rolled down her cheek, she brushed it away impatiently. Of course, she was sorry to see him go. As unpredictable as Armando had been, he had added something special to the summer. She hadnt realized how much she would miss him. One hour and a half and a long bath later, Monica once more stood on the front porch. During that time her mind had dwelled mainly on Pancho Salcedo. What had he planned to say to her up on Chimney Hill? Had he thought he could wring a confession out of her before he saw her
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father? And Armando. Why had he been so mean to him? It was true that Armando had started the whole La nica thing by hiding the guitar in his truck, but he hadnt meant to keep it. Anyway, so hed said. Finally, as she had finished blow-drying her hair, she decided that no matter what Pancho Salcedos intentions had been, and were, she had no alternative but to retrieve his book from Chimney Hill and deliver it to him. And maybe shed convince herself that she had a right to read the book before she gave it to him. Now, as she turned away from the porch pillar that she was leaning on, Monica shrugged philosophically. Shed either read it or she wouldnt. She locked the house door, went down the steps, and started up Lucia. Next door, Seora Morales held Mara Luz, her newest grandchild, up to the bedroom window for Monica to see. Monica, curbing her eagerness to get to the summerhouse, stopped to admire her. After a few minutes of nodding, smiling, making faces at the baby and acting as if she could understand or even hear what Seora Morales was saying, Monica started up Lucia again. She was almost to the base of Chimney Hill when she was stopped once more. Monica! She swung around and saw Joe at the wheel of his fathers beige Camry. He made a quick U-turn and brought the car to a stop at the curb beside her. He threw open the door, Monica! Am I ever glad I found you. I need to talk to you. Please, get in. No, no. You get out and come up the hill with me. Theres something up there you should see. Okay, Monica, but later. This is really important. My dad wants to see you right away and I
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Ill bet he does. Monica, standing at the curb, leaned forward and slammed the car door shut. She bent close to the car and said, Hes been after me ever since this morning. You know, hes got a lot of nerve getting you to drag me to the hospital so he can chew me out. Joe said, You couldnt be more wrong if you were trying. First, hes not in the hospital. They let him come home. Second, he doesnt want to chew you out, he wants to apologize. Third, he says you saved his life, and he wants to thank you. If you hadnt stopped the bleeding and called the paramedics, hed still be in the hospital and maybe dying. So, we all want to thank you. Laurita says she knows how determined you can be, but she asks you to please come. She says youre the only one who can make life return to normal. Its been tough on Laurita, Monica. More than you could guess. So, please get in. Whatever you want to show me up on the hill can wait, cant it? Monica hesitated. Yes, the book was safe enough. It could wait. Besides, before she handed it to Pancho Salcedo, it might be really satisfying to let him grovel for a bit. Hed certainly made life tough for her. And wouldnt it be great, when the apologies were all over, to be able to stand up and say ever so casually, Oh, I forgot to tell you, Seor Salcedo. I found your fathers message. Hed put it up in the pabelln. All right, Joe, she said, sliding into the passenger seat of the car, Ill come with you, but Ill bet that later youll wish youd come up to the summerhouse with me. She paused. Even with that said, she realized that she was not going to tell him what shed found that morning. It was another one of those decisions that had already been
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made without her knowing itprobably made that morning when she had decided not to phone him. Yes, she was going to bring that battered old book to Pancho Salcedo all on her own. So when Joe said, Whats up there? It cant be she interrupted and said, Ill tell you later. Right now I want to know about your dad. Was his ankle broken? No. Just a lousy sprain. The serious thing was the blood loss. They gave him something intravenously for a couple of hours. I dont think it was a transfusion. They wanted him to stay overnight, but he insisted on coming home. He likes to get his own way, doesnt he? Joe shrugged and said nothing. They turned just before they reached Dennison Boulevard and drove silently along a narrow little street called Rome that slithered northward in a series of shallow curves. They crossed eight or ten east-west streets. Finally, they turned right onto one called Blanca that was lined with well-cared-for, Spanish-style stucco houses. Joe pulled the Camry into the driveway of a house with iron grillwork bordering a narrow porch and also covering its windows. This is it, he said, releasing the locks on the car doors, La Casa Salcedo. Welcome, Monica. I sure hope so, she said and walked with Joe up three small steps by the driveway and across the porch to an arched wooden door. They entered a small foyer that had doors on each of its walls. Through one open door, a long hall extended the length of the house, ending at a pair of French windows
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that led to a garden or patio. Potted azaleas and a couple of garden chairs were visible through the glass. The sound of voices came through the other two doors, and from deeper in the house came childrens laughter and the tinkling notes of a toy piano. The family grapevine works well, Joe said. The whole tribes here. Even the kids. He motioned to the room on their right. This is where dads holding court. Come on. He pushed the door open fully. It was a large room they entered, one with many windows, windows left uncovered for the most part so that the whole space was bright and sunny. Two men and three women were in the room, all of them standing except Laurita. She was seated on a footstool by a long couch on which Pancho Salcedo was reclining, his head supported by several white-cased pillows. As they entered, Pancho Salcedo turned his head and nodded, and Laurita pushed back the footstool and jumped up. In two quick steps she had her arms wrapped around Monica in a warm hug. You came, she said. Thank you. She lowered her voice to a whisper by Monicas ear. Pancho wont rest until hes talked with you. Thats why he wouldnt stay in the hospital. The two other women edged over to the door. One of them tapped Laurita on the shoulder and said, Its time we checked the kids, and with quick hellos to Joe and Monica, they left the room. The two men, one stocky and dark, the other looking just as Joe would look in twenty or thirty years, grinned at them. The stocky one said, So this is the brave young lady. Thats right, To Chato, Joe said. Shes the one.
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Monica felt her face reddening as the Joe look-alike said, Brave and brains and pretty, too. Come on, Chato, lets go see whats going on in the kitchen. They pulled the door closed as they left. Here, Laurita said, pulling back a chair that one of the others had vacated, sit down. Pancho indicated the chair with a lift of his chin. Yes, he said, please sit down. I guess I will, Monica said, and because she knew she sounded stupid, added quickly, Hows your arm? Better. They sewed it up and gave me some painkillers. And antibiotics, Laurita added. That, too, Pancho Salcedo acknowledged. Then they bandaged it, and also my ankle, and here I am. But, no, it was not all bad, thanks to you. Monica, not knowing what to say, cleared her throat, shook her head, and shrugged. Pancho Salcedo said, Tomorrow my wife will replace your socks; there was no way to save them. And your shirt, too. I saw the bloodstains on it. No, dont shake your head, young woman. That is little enough for me to do. He closed his eyes for a moment, straightened his shoulders and went on. I am a clumsy man with words, and there are two things I must say to you, so please listen. First, I hope you will forgive me for all my stupid accusations. Joe and Laurita both told me how you fought to save La nica, how you had put yourself in danger, and I laughed and told them it was an imaginative story made up to hide your own wrongdoing. Yes, Joe and Laurita kept showing me how wrong I was, but I am a stubborn man, and I gave them a deaf ear. He closed his eyes for
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another brief moment. I could not stay in the hospital, he said in a wavering voice. I . . . I . . . was afraid I might die without being able to talk to you. I am hoping that young as you are, you will understand and forgive an old mans stupid mistakes. If you can find it in your heart Please! Monica cried. Please dont say anymore. Pancho Salcedo was groveling, all right, but it was not as satisfying as she had thought it would be. What had she been thinking? It was not only terribly embarrassing for him to admit his unfairness, not to mention his meannessno wonder he had asked the other members of his family to step outbut it was also pretty miserable for her to have to listen to. Seor Salcedo, she said, nodding firmly, I forgive you. Really. Absolutely. Just dont say anymore, please. Laurita sighed in a way that made Monica want to cry. She patted Lauritas hand, took a deep breath and leaned closer to the couch. Look, Seor Salcedo, thats all over now, so, forget it. Besides, I have some good news for you. Just this morning I No, no, he said, let me finish. Anyway, I already have my good news. You have forgiven me. But there is a second thing I need to say. Please dont stop me this time. I know young people are impatient, so Ill make this short. He swallowed and in a voice that was a little husky said, Thank you for saving my life. He stopped and stared at a painting that hung on the far wall. It was of a two-story building that had colorful pendants flying from each of its many turrets. Finally, his gaze returned to Monica, who was again shaking her head. Yes, you saved my life. Even though you must have hated me, you didnt hesitate to help me. I will never forget that.
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Monica bit her lip. She was afraid he was about to cry. Please, she said again, please dont say anymore. She glanced back at the picture he had been staring at and said quickly, Thats a nice picture. She needed to change the subject, anything to keep Pancho Salcedo from groveling. Its a very nice picture. What is that place? Laurita answered. We dont know, she said. It was our fathers favorite painting. Its been around ever since I can remember. We call it El Palacio. Joe laughed. Its not much of a palace. And not much of a painting. But try to tell abuelito that. Monica, glad for the new subject, said, It has nice colors, and . . . and . . . and it is sort of like a palace. Pancho Salcedo cleared his throat. Afraid that he would start groveling again, Monica said, Its not the usual kind of palace, of course, but its really very nice. Who named it El Palacio? She scanned the room for a new topic. Abuelito, of course, Joe said. He was the fanciful one, remember? No longer searching, Monicas eyes roamed the room. She frowned as her mind struggled to capture an idea that kept hopping around on the fuzzy edge of her awareness. What? What? Joe was still talking. He was fanciful, all right. Like the wild goose chase he sent us on with La nica. La nica. Monica drew in her breath. She had it. Abajo, or it could be atrs, del p-a, Joe had said. Still, she had already found that red book. But wouldnt this place be more logical? Atrs did mean behind. And when she had suggested parque, a park, for his grandfathers secret place, hadnt Joe said that his abuelito wasnt
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that crazy? All right, then. She swung around to face him. Maybe your grandfather didnt mean the chase to be so wild, she said. Maybe he thought you guys would understand right away. Couldnt he have hidden something under his favorite picture? After all, palacio does start with p-a.
Chapter Nineteen
oe got up, walked across the room and paused before the painting. He stood there for a moment. Then, as he turned around, he grinned and said, It doesnt look any different, not on this side, anyway. But lets look at the back of it. He was about to remove the picture from the wall when his father spoke. What is all this? he said, looking from Joe to Monica and finally to Laurita. Are you still trying to persuade me that there was a message on that guitar? I gave up on that long ago. Your imagination is much too active, Joe. My father just wanted his favorite guitar to remain in the family. Monica felt the blood filling her face. She wasnt sure what she was feeling. Embarrassment for Joe? Disappointment? No, neither. What she was feeling was anger. She was burning with it and she was going to have her say. Of course, there was a message on La nica, she cried furiously. When did you change your mind about that? Why do you think I tried to save it for you? Why do you think I took all those chances you were talking about just a minute ago? Wrestling with Angie. Fighting a fire. Helping Joe find it because I believed him. But if you dont think that
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the message is there, well, thats your problem! Now it was Pancho Salcedos face that turned red. Monica, seeing that, was horrified. She leaned forward quickly. Oh, no, no, Im sorry. Maybe I shouldnt have said that. Please calm down. Just relax and Ill leave. She looked to Laurita for help. Laurita, her lower lip held tightly between her teeth, shook her head slowly in a gesture of disbelief and burst into laughter. Monica turned back to Pancho Salcedo. His head was thrown back against the pillows. His face had returned to its normal color and as she watched, he glanced at Laurita and he, too, began to laugh. Frowning, Monica turned to Joe. Why arent you laughing? she said sharply. I dont know, he said and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture of confusion that had become familiar to Monica. Monica. Linda, Laurita called through her laughter, were not laughing at you. Not at your concern or your kindness. Im laughing because for the first time in a long time, Pancho got what he deserved. And I think he realizes that, too. In fact, he probably owes you another apology. No! Monica said quickly. No more apologies. I really ought to go home now. Pancho Salcedo said, Dont go, please. Laurita is right, but I promise, no more apologizing. In any case, I think Laurita and Joe would like it if you stayed while we look at the back of the picture. If you really want to go, Monica, Joe said, a pleading look on his face, if you really want to, well go. No, she said, its okay. And then with a burst of
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candor and a grin, she added, Actually, I cant wait to see if there really is something there. If you think its all right, seor. Pancho Salcedo shrugged. Then, after getting a sharp look from Laurita, nodded. Go ahead. But youll have to put it back together just the way it was. He lay back on his mound of pillows and closed his eyes. Joe said, Here goes, and took hold of the picture. He removed it from the wall and laid it face down on the rug in a bright patch of sun that seemed to spotlight it. The back of the picture was covered with what appeared to be brown wrapping paper and held down on the frame with broad strips of transparent mailing tape. With a nervous toss of her head, Laurita jumped up and went to kneel on the floor beside Joe. Monica did, too. Hm-m-m, Laurita said. I dont think that kind of mailing tape existed when this picture was framed originally. It must be an awfully old picture then, Monica said. Seems to me weve always had that kind of tape. Yes, its been around all of your life, Laurita said, smiling. I didnt always have it. She ran her hands over the back of the picture. This is definitely new backing. But if there is something behind it, its not very thick. Monica watched eagerly as Joe and Laurita pulled the mailing tape off the painting. Just tear the paper, Laurita whispered to Joe with a backward glance at her brother Pancho, whose eyes were still closed. Good, she said, turning back to Monica, the painkillers finally got to him. He refused to take them till shortly before you came.
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Joe pulled a pair of scissors from a nearby desk. This is easier, he said to Laurita and then cut carefully around the edges of the heavy brown paper. He lifted it and whistled softly. You were right again, Monica. There is something here. A large flat envelope, maybe eight-and-a-half by eleven inches and addressed in Spanish in firm black handwriting, was taped to the pictures cardboard backing. For my sons and my daughter, Laurita, it said. To be read only after my death. Laurita picked up the envelope and turned it over in her hands a couple of times. She sighed. I wonder what this is about. Arent you going to open it? Joe asked quickly. I thought maybe when Pancho But its addressed to you, too, Joe said urgently. Laurita put out her hand. All right. Hand me the scissors. Once she had them, she went on to slit open the envelope. From it, she pulled three sheets of paper covered with handwriting. Its a letter, she said. Nothing more. Well, read it, Joe said impatiently. Please, Ta. Monica, who had been sitting close to Laurita, moved a few feet away. Its family stuff, she said. You dont need me here. I can go outside if you want. No, no, stay where you are, Laurita answered and proceeded to read the letter. As she read each sheet, she put it face down on the floor beside her, and when she was through, picked them up and started reading again. This time, as she finished each page, she handed it to Joe. Joe read them quickly, shaking his head at intervals.
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He returned them to Laurita and said, What a guy. Abuelito Juan was some kind of a hero. Not necessarily, Laurita said, a frown building on her face. He did it for money, Joe, Cmon, Ta. He did it to help the Congressman. Maybe he did it for his family, too. Monica coughed. Maybe I shouldnt be listening to any of this. Not that I know what youre talking about. Laurita put the sheets back into their envelope and nodded as she said, Yes, we should talk about this later when Pancho wakes up. As for you, Monica, she added, leaning over to give her a hug, the whole family owes you thanks. No wonder your schoolmates called you Curious Catherine. It should be, Curious Catherine who Cares. You keep at things until you find out what theyre all about, especially when people are involved. Ive seen that twice this summer. First, when you followed the clues that led you to El Pintor, and now this. She sighed again. This letter answers a lot of questions weve lived with in our family. And you, and your curiosity, deserve to know about it. Thanks, Monica said, but not now. I ought to go home. Anyway, you have a lot to discuss. She really wanted to go home. She felt miserably let down. What had she expected? A treasure map? Some old government bonds now worth millions? Well, it was none of that. And her plan to make Pancho Salcedo eat his mean words hadnt turned out so great, either. As for the letter, yes, she was curious about what was in it, but more than anything now she wanted to get home. Her mind was focused on the image of the faded red book she had left at the sum-
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merhouse. If this was the answer to the message on La nica, then what was that book? Probably nothing. This was her day for being let down. Still, she had crawled and dug and scrounged in that messy place to find it; she knew she wouldnt sleep till she found out what it was. Laurita said, As soon as Joe helps me put this picture together again, hes all yours, Monica. Unless you cant wait to get home. No, no, Monica said. Go ahead. She watched them seal the backing on the painting and return it to the wall, and then Joe and she tiptoed past the sleeping Pancho Salcedo and left the room. In the entry hall, Joe said, Wait for me in the car, will you, Monica? Theres a phone call I have to make before we leave. When Joe returned to the car, Monica said, You dont have to tell me anything. Honestly. I know its family stuff. You already heard most of it. Remember a day or so ago when I was talking with El Pintor about my grandfather? You mean about when he was a hunting guide and shot someone by accident? Yeah. Except he didnt shoot anyone, on purpose or by accident. Thats what that letter is all about. The man who had hired him that time was a politician who was running for Congress. He was the one who shot the other guide. Sure, it was by accident, but it would have ruined his chances to win that election if it had all come out. So So he persuaded your grandfather to take the blame, Monica interrupted, and when Joe nodded, she asked, But how?
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Money. What else? He gave him a lot of money thats what the letter saysmoney for taking the blame and for remaining silent. So my grandfather took the money, came to Los Angeles, set up the guitar shop, which hed always dreamed of doing, and bought the house and Chimney Hill. Then he sold Chimney Hill to my grandfather. Yeah. Before there was anything on it. Probably wasnt worth too much then. Joe was silent for a little bit, but as they turned on Lucia, he said, I guess Abuelito Juan thought the money would make everybody happy, but it sure didnt. Instead, his two sons, my father and Armandos, always believed hed shot the other guide on purpose, making it look like an accident. And they never forgave him. Thats awful, Monica said. Why would they think that? Because my grandfather was too smart a hunter to mistake a man in bright hunting clothes for an animal, and besides, the man who was killed was someone hed had some serious fights with. Joe pulled the car in front of Monicas house. Sure shows that money isnt everything. Now I know why my grandmother always said she wished theyd never come to Los Angeles. It wasnt the city she didnt like; it was that everything had turned sour in the family. Monica, thinking of all the problems her father had had through no fault of his own, shook her head sadly and said, Its not fair when bad things happen to nice people. Ill bet he wrote that letter to get the whole thing off his chest because he couldnt tell anybody. Except . . . Mon-
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ica paused and stared at El Pintors studio door. . . . except that I have a feeling that he did tell someone, someone he could trust. Me, too, Joe said. I think El Pintor knew. And that says something about friendship, doesnt it? Hey, that reminds me. Armandos on his way back. That was the phone call I made. He was just nearing San Clemente when I caught him on his new cell phone. Oh, oh, Monica said. Where did he get that? Joe grinned. Its okay. Its really his. Laurita bought the cell phone for him a week ago. Monica let out her breath in a whoosh that blew loose strands of hair off her forehead. Joe said, All sorts of good things are happening because you found Abuelito Juans letter. And because you convinced my dad that Angie was the real culprit, not you and Armando. Now Armando can come back and keep on seeing that shrink about his sticky fingers. So he is a kleptomaniac. An improving kleptomaniac. Armando told me his doctor said they were getting close to the root of his problem. Now all they have to do is help him dig his way up. Im really glad, Monica said eagerly. And Im sure hes improving. He even returned the picture he took from the restaurant. Joe grinned. Armandoll be okay. His father just had to face the fact that he had a problem, and that was hard for my uncle Estban to do because hes a fathead and a phony. He wouldnt let Armando see a therapist in Mexico because someone there might get wind of it, so Ta Laurita persuaded him to let Armando see one here.
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Good for her, Monica said, throwing open the car door. Guess youd better get back. Theres probably lots happening at your house. Too much, Joe said. But hang on a minute. Dont go. Ive been thinking . . . wondering . . . well, now that were not looking for La nica anymore, do you think we could do something else together? Like a movie . . . or . . . or whatever. You mean like a date? Yeah. Like a date. Sure. Sure, thats okay. Well then, Joe said with a broad grin. Ill call you later, and well decide what and when.
Chapter Twenty
onica watched the Camry disappear, a wave of color rising to her face. She was behaving in a way she never thought that she would: flighty, maybe even disloyal, her heart jumping this summer from one guy to the other. First, Rob, then for a brief moment, Armando, and now Joe. She stared off into space, then grinned as a cheering thought intruded on her negative mood. She hadnt gone chasing after them; they had showed up on her doorstepeach and every one. Besides, Armando really didnt count, and Rob was far away. Joe was here. And he was kind of sweet, and she was glad that she had a date with him. With that decided, she swung around to go into the house. But when she saw Toni and her grandfather coming out of the studios purple door, she changed directions. Toni! Grandpa! she called. Youre just the two I want to see. Me, too, Toni said and turned back to El Pintor. See? I told you shed be showing up any second. I had her on my radar screen. El Pintor smiled and said, Im glad you found her. I cant keep track of her lately.
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I know, Toni said. Ive been trying to get her all day. Guess what, Monica? Angies gone. Her mothers bundled her off to some relatives in Oklahoma. My mother was at Maggies Beauty Salon, you know, Angies sisters place, and she learned all about it. Gone for good this time, I think. I cant say Im sorry to hear that, Monica said as she reached them. I hope it does her some good. El Pintor shook his head and said, That child needs help. Not being shuffled around to relatives. He turned to Monica. Youve been gone all day, it seems. Have you uncovered something new? They sat on the turquoise benches by the mulberry door as Monica told them about Pancho Salcedos accident, about the paramedics, and finally, leaving out the moments of conflict with Pancho Salcedo, she told them about the discovery they had made in the Salcedoss living room. El Pintor shook his head slowly, then, smiling, nodded and said, Good for you, Monica. You have sharp eyes and a sharp mind. Toni said, So now its all over. Practically, Monica answered. Whatevers in that letter is none of my business. But its not all over. I found something up at the summerhouse that Im curious about. What? Toni said. Tell me. I cant. I dont know what it is, but you can bet Im going to find out.
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Now youve got me curious, Toni said. Ill come with you. Then, with a grimace she added, Oh, blast! Id better not. It looks like rain. What do you think, Seor Mead? Are those rain clouds over there? She pointed to a rolling mass of black clouds in the northern sky. El Pintor rubbed his shoulder. My old bones say, yes, its going to rain. One of those El Nio storms that sometimes visits us in September. And it looks as if its moving fast. Toni jumped up. Id better get home then. My mothers a neat freak, you know. She washed blankets earlier and hung some of the heavier ones outside on the clothesline, and shes not home. Id better go rescue them before they get soaked. Call me and tell me what you found. Dont forget. See you. She cut across the little square of grass and raced down Lucia. Monica got up, too. You know what, Grandpa . . . She paused and smiled. It was getting easier and easier to say Grandpa, and she liked that. Its about all the questions I have for you about what you knew and didnt know about Juan Salcedos message. But later. Ive got to run now. Id better get up to the summerhouse before it rains. Well, go, girl. But take an umbrella. Those clouds look threatening. An umbrella! Cool as he was, her grandfather was still old-fashioned. Ill get something, she said and hurried into her house. What she grabbed was a floppy white cotton hat and an old windbreaker belonging to her father. Then, stopping only to say a quick hello to Sopa, who was
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curled up on a porch chair, she raced up Lucia. When she was climbing the incline of Chimney Hill, Monica realized how tired she was and what a long day it had been. She paused at the ivy-covered pillars. My curiositys making me silly, she thought. Here I am chasing after some motheaten old book, and I dont even know why. Ill probably get soaked in the bargain, too. As if to add credence to her thought, there was a roll of thunder in the distance. Oh, oh, she muttered and scurried up the summerhouse path. As she rounded the huge oleander shrub, thunder rumbled once more. Closer this time. With a look at the menacing sky, she rushed into the clearing, carefully avoiding the exposed root that had tripped up Pancho Salcedo. Her bloody socks and the branch that had gashed his arm were pushed to one side, near the overgrown bushes. Shed take care of them later; now she had to get that book. Without a flashlight or some sunlight, it was going to be as black as a Halloween cat in there. She forced apart the obstinate bushes that hid the latticed opening and crawled between them, this time feeling a sense of something like ownership; after all, shed discovered this place, hadnt she? The panel that covered the opening came off easily. What was hard was persuading herself to crawl in. But when the sky thundered above her, it erased her hesitation and set her in motion. Gingerly, she put her hands through the opening. The musty scent and the cold, powdery earth made her shudder, but with a
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frown of grim determination, she moved her hands farther into the dark space, readying to push herself through. Oh! she exclaimed with a sigh of relief. Her right hand had landed on the book. She grabbed it and pushed herself back, and as she did, the rain, big fat drops, poured down. She didnt hesitate to move this time. With her dads windbreaker over her head and the book shoved underneath her arm, she pushed through the bushes and up the steps to the relative dryness of the summerhouse. The rain was thick and heavy. It curtained the six sides of the pavilion, its drops beating a ponderous tattoo on the rooftop. Already the benches that edged the summerhouse were wet; the only dry place was in the middle of the floor. Monica dropped her dripping hat and wet windbreaker at the farthest edge of the protected area and, book in hand, sat in the center of the dry circle. The rain stopped. From a distance in the south, she heard thunder, and as if the thunder roll had heralded its arrival, the sun broke through a mass of clouds and shone brightly. Above her in an elm tree, a bird chirped tentatively and then another joined in. The unexpected storm was over. But sunshine or no, she wasnt going to leave yet. She couldnt wait to look in the book, and besides, the eaves were still dripping. She sat up and careful not to tear the yellowed pages, opened the book. As she did, a musty, sweet scent rose from it, touching a memory, a remembrance as fragile as thistledown and one that as easily blew away. What was it? She frowned and shut her eyes, reaching into her mind
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for the elusive memory. And there it was! A memory from long, long ago. She was a very little girl, and she and her Raggedy Ann doll were in a small, dark place that smelled as sweet as the book on her lap. She was in a closet, hugging several of her mothers dresses, breathing in her soft, familiar scent and crying. When she heard her fathers voice, she let go of the dresses and plopped down on the closet floor. Monica! Honey, he called. Where are you? Following her fathers anxious words came her nanny Rosas. Monica! Chiquita, ven ac. But she sat as quietly as Raggedy Ann, because she knew that they would take her away if they found her, and this was where she wanted to stay. She knew she was only four years old and too little to understand why the two somber-faced men had taken her sleeping mother away and maybe too little to understand why her mommy had to go to heaven just then. But even a four-year-old had known that heaven was very far away and that it would take a long, long time for her mommy to come back. . . . In the summerhouse Monica shook her head briskly to shake away tears that were dribbling from her eyes. No wonder the scent had triggered a memory. This was her mothers book! It had to be. She opened it up with trembling fingers and found her answer written on the first page: Dear Confidante: (When I decided to call you, I looked the word up in the dictionary. It said, a trusted friend, one with whom you share intimate
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affairs or secrets. And thats what you are going to be.) You are my most treasured thing! You and my new camera, of course. Today is my thirteenth birthday and El Pintor, who is my best friend (of the grown-ups, I mean. Laurita, you need to know from the very start is my very best friend), gave me this wonderful book that he calls a journal for me to keep my thoughts in and he gave me the camera, too. Mamacita gave me that nice cologne with the French name. She says I shouldnt use too much of it and, of course, I wont, except once in a while. It makes me feel really grown-up, but then so does owning a camera. From now on, all my thoughts and the pictures I take (some of them, anyway) will go in here. I already took a couple of pictures, one of my mother and father with El Pintor and one of Laurita playing with her cat. By the time I finish the roll, Ill have saved enough money to have them printed. Monica turned a few pages, and there was the picture, a faded black-and-white of El Pintor and the two people her mother had always thought were her parents. The woman was plump and round-faced and had a sweet smile. The stocky man beside her was frowning into the camera as if he were very uncomfortable. She turned the page and found another picture pasted in the book. This one was labeled Laurita. She didnt want me to take this picture, but I think she looks great. Next to it was anoth-
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er snapshot of Laurita and her own mother, both with long straight hair, both gangly and awkward looking in identical cutoff jeans. This picture was captioned Two Best Friends. Monica closed the book. She sighed. A small skittering sound came from the roof, and a bird, its wings phosphorescent with blue in the now-bright sunlight, flew toward the elm. Drops kept falling softly from the soaked eaves. In the clearing, warm patches of sunlit earth had started to steam. Now she smiled and began turning pages again. There were two more faded photographs. Laurita stood by a wooden gate, all arms and legs and broad smile as she blinked into the sun; the other, of Cristina taken in front of the same gate. Monica paused and grinned. She was thinking of her as Cristina now; it was almost impossible to think of this thirteen-year-old girl as her mother. And that was all of the snapshots. She turned the pages quickly and found that the rest of the book was all handwriting except for several pasted-on recipes cut out of Good Housekeeping Magazine. Limp and faded as the food photographs were, some of them, especially the Chicken Divine, made her mouth water. So her mother did like to cook and had started collecting recipes early in her life. But what had happened to the camera? She turned back to the earlier pages and scanned them quickly. No mention of a camera, but on one page Cristina had written, Mamacita says that I have to be careful with my things, that I lose too many of them. And, Dear Book . . .
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(What, thought Monica, had happened to Dear Confidante?) . . . I guess shes right. Just last week I lost my green sweater, and it was my favorite. I even cried a little when I realized it was really gone. But I promise Ill never lose you. Monica stopped reading and glanced up at the nowblue sky. She smiled sadly as she looked back at the book. But she did lose you, she said softly and turned a few more pages. She was looking for dates, wondering how much time had passed between each entry, but there were none. She went by several almost blank pages. A couple of them had single comments. Nothing but homework. Ugh! Had to miss the sock hop; had a slurpy cold. Mamacita says I can have a quinceaera with a real orchestra! I cant believe it. Well, I have more than a year to get used to the idea even if I cant believe it. There was a scrawled half-page that said, I told Laurita off today! I know it wasnt fair but, after all, why does Laurita have to get all the boys? Sure, shes awful pretty . . . anyway, it made me mad! Monica read the words with a mixture of feelings. Then she burst into a happy grin. Her mother had not been so near perfect after all. Cristina could even be mean to her best friendand she lost things. Sure, she could cook. She obviously liked to. But Ill bet she had hated cleaning up as much as I do. All those pots and pans! Maybe she even left them for her mother. The rest of the book was empty, the pages torn here and there and musty. Cristina
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must have lost this book before her quinceaera, Monica thought. Otherwise, she would have written something about that special fifteenth-birthday celebration. As she picked up her soaked cotton hat and windbreaker, she shook her head with amazement at what had just occurred to her. For the last couple of weeks she had been resenting looking for La nica because Laurita and she had planned that time to learn more about her mothers girlhood, and all the time, it was looking for La nica that had led her right here. Right to this little book that was her mother speaking to her, sharing her thoughts and revealing her character in a way that, even with Laurita to help, she could never have discovered. As Monica started down the summerhouse steps, a bird hopped across the edge of the roof, and a shower of leaves and raindrops fell on her head. She brushed them off, threw a dirty look at the bird, who was now picking in the mulch of leaves. It was too bad that her mother had lost the book without adding more to it, but maybe if she had filled the book, she might have gotten rid of it before she went to college or got married. Then, no way could she ever have seen it. Monica picked her way carefully over the soggy ground. When she reached the pillars at the start of the downhill driveway, she paused and turned to look back. This place is really mine, she thought. Not just because Grandpas giving it to me. Its more than that. Theres a lot of my history on this hill. Good and bad. Her grandfather had built a house here, and a terrible fire had taken it and
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her grandmother. But there were the happy times that Laurita had described, including the picnics that she and Cristina had had up here. Her dad had also given her mother her engagement ring in the summerhouse. Yes, this place would always mean a lot to her, even with the unhappy memories of Angie, a burning guitar, and a bleeding Pancho Salcedo. As she trudged down the hill, she decided that she was glad that both El Pintor and her dad would still be gone. She was eager to show them the book, but it had been a long day. What she needed now was to fall into a chair and stay there. Sure, shed like to talk to someone about all the things that had happened, but not anyone as closely involved as her dad and grandfather or even Laurita. And of course not Joe. Toni? No, Toni was too close, too. Besides, she asked too many questions. It was her old roomie Courtney she needed now. Someone she could talk to all night, the way theyd sometimes done at school. Hey, Monica! Her thoughts were interrupted. Csar was shaking the rainwater off the tire swing that hung from the tree in his yard. Hey, Monica! he repeated. Whats up? You look all wet. I am all wet. And dont interrupt me. Im writing a letter. Csar wrinkled his nose. Writing a letter? Without any paper? I think youre one chile short of salsa, Monica. She grinned. In my mind. Im writing it in my mind, she said and kept on walking, ignoring Csars attempt at a witty remark.
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Its been a wicked couple of weeks, Courtney, she began the imaginary letter. It has to do with a guitar called La nica and a new guy I met called Joe. Wait till I tell you. But first youve been hounding me to tell you more about a barrio. A barrios hard to describe. The word means neighborhood, and I guess its just like any other neighborhood, except for its differences. Across the street Seora Palacios was shaking out a rug. Hola, Monica, she called. No te escapaste de la lluvia, eh? No, Monica answered, indicating her wet hat and windbreaker, I didnt escape the rain. A tapping on her right and she turned to see Seora Morales and the baby Mara Luz at their front window. She grinned and nodded. You know what, Courtney, she went on in her mind, a barrio is just like any other neighborhood. Mrs. Palacios across from us likes to sit on her front steps with a cup of coffee in her hand. Mr. Palacios is a gardener, but you wouldnt know it from his house. Mrs. Morales next door babies all her grandchildren too much. Also, she makes the best flan in the world. Tonis mother, down the street, keeps pots of gorgeous chrysanthemums on her porch railing, and Toni says that shes a neat freak. Monica paused to look at El Pintors purple door and the bright impatiens growing in his yard. She went up to her porch and dropped wearily into a chair. A barrio, Courtney, is just like any other place after you live in it a while because then it becomes well-known and comfortable and special. It becomes home.

Looking For La Unica by Ofelia Dumas Lachtman

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Looking for La nica

Ofelia Dumas Lachtman

PIATA BOOKS ARTE PBLICO PRESS HOUSTON,TEXAS

Also by Ofelia Dumas Lachtman

With thanks to Anita Zelman for her steadfast support.

Ofelia Dumas Lachtman

Looking for La nica

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Looking for La nica

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