by Sharon Shinn
She led them to a hot, sunny, cheerful kitchen and insisted they sit while she served them. Jovieve clearly was more familiar with this scenario than Drake was. Much more easily than he, she accepted the idea that her very presence conferred a favor on another human being. The old woman brought them plates and plates of baked goods, as well as glasses of iced lemonade, before joining them at the fine old wooden table that was the centerpiece of her kitchen.
“Now,” she said, beaming at them happily. “What can I do for you, senya Jovieve?”
“We are looking for someone,” Jovieve said. “Maybe you remember her? She was a daughter of the de Vayos and she was a Triumphante.”
“Diadeloro,” the old woman said promptly. As usual, Drake felt a slight chill down his back when the word was spoken aloud. It was as if, until someone else said the name, he could not believe she really existed. “What a sweet child! Hija dulce.”
“Well, sometimes,” Jovieve said dryly. “I knew her well, you see, and sometimes she was more wicked than sweet.”
“Yes, but so thoughtful,” the old woman said earnestly. “Whenever she came back to visit her parents, she came over to visit me. She brought me books to read and special treats from the city and flowers from the Triumphante gardens.”
“Flowers from the garden,” Jovieve said, with a smile. “She was not supposed to pick them.”
The old woman put her hands to her mouth. “Oh, I did not mean to tell tales on her—”
“It doesn’t matter now. She has not been with us for five years. I’m hardly looking to prosecute her for old misdemeanors.”
“Five years—has it been so long?” the old woman asked sadly. “I would not have said—but the time goes so quickly.”
“Ask her if she knows what happened to her,” Drake murmured.
“Yes, five years have passed, and the years have seemed long to me,” Jovieve said, ignoring him and working up to the question in her own way. “I had thought I would hear from her again, but I haven’t, so I thought perhaps I would begin to look for her. But there is no one home at her parents’ house and I don’t know where to begin.”
The woman threw both hands up in the air. “Ay mi!” she exclaimed. “Such a sad house as that has been! Not that I mean to curse it, no, because they are a lovely couple who live there these days, and of course they have the little girl now—”
“What happened in that house?” Drake interrupted, this time keying his question for the old woman’s ears. She looked over at him in surprise, but answered readily enough.
“First sickness and then death,” she said. “Eduardo, of course, had been gone for a long time—such a nice man he was—and then Juana fell so ill. Well, Deloro, she was home just as often as she could be, helping her mother. Franco was not much good, of course, but he did what he could, at least toward the end.”
“Franco?” Drake said.
“Deloro’s brother. Ay mi, that was a careless one! I could tell some stories—but better not to speak ill of the dead.”
“What stories?” Drake asked.
But she shook her head. “No, no, he’s dead now and no harm to anyone. And poor Deloro, all alone—she was so brave, she tried to be so brave, but when it happened again—”
“When what happened again?” Drake asked sharply.
The old woman looked at him, somewhat afraid; his voice had been too harsh. Jovieve spoke soothingly. “Excuse him, abuela, he is anxious for Deloro, as am I. What other time are you talking about? We know that Franco was murdered there. Was someone else killed?”
“Yes, the boy she loved. She didn’t tell you about that?”
Jovieve shrugged expressively. “She had a lover? She might not have told me about that. But he was killed, you say?”
“Oh, it was dreadful. It was a few days—maybe a few weeks—after Franco’s death. Deloro came back sometimes to the house. She was getting it ready to sell. Her boy would meet her here, sometimes, at night, very late. I would see him come,” the woman added, “because I do not sleep well anymore, and I would sometimes sit on my front porch and enjoy the night air. Deloro always waved when she saw me. Her boy would wave, too. They did not mind that I saw them together.”
“No, I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Jovieve said. “What happened to him?”
“He was killed,” the old woman said sadly. “One night, as he was walking up to the house. I saw him. I was on my porch—it was a very hot night. He saw me, and he waved, and just then a car pulled up and I heard a sound—Is that what a gun sounds like, senya grande? It was so loud—it was as if something had exploded in my kitchen. I never heard a sound like that until the day Franco died. And the car drove away, and the boy on the street was dead.”
“Ava tiene merced,” Jovieve murmured. Ava have mercy. “And Deloro—what did she do?”
“She was not home that night,” the old woman said. “There was no one home. I called the hombuenos, and they came. That boy waved to me, and then he died.”
“And Deloro?” Jovieve asked. “What did she do when she heard the story? How did she find out? Did you tell her?”
“I don’t know who told her, but she knew the next time she saw me. She came over to ask me if there was anything I wanted from her parents’ house, because she was leaving it.”
“You mean, she had found a buyer?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, not then. I think she just left. The house was empty for three or four months after that. She never came back, but maybe she had an agent sell the house for her, because after a while those nice people moved in, those nice people who live there now.”
Drake leaned forward. He had learned his lesson; he tried to keep his voice gentle. “Where did Deloro go? Do you know?”
The old woman waved her hand. “Somewhere else. I don’t know. I think she got a smaller place in the city.”
“In Madrid? You don’t think she left Semay?” Drake asked.
“Oh no. Why would she leave Semay?”
“But you have no idea where she went?”
“No, I’m sure the letter didn’t give me an address.”
“The letter?” Drake and Jovieve said in unison. Drake added, “Do you still have it?”
“Do I still—Well, you know, I just might. Somewhere in that old box of photos and things—Do you have a little time to wait?”
“All the time you need, abuela,” Jovieve said. She rose when the old woman rose. “Can I help you look?”
“Oh, dear, no, I’m the only one who can find anything in here. My son tells me the house is worse than a spider’s nest, all these odds and ends and bits of old trash. Just one moment and I’ll be back with you. Now, eat some more cake while I’m gone.”
She muddled from the room, and the Moonchild and Triumphante were left staring at one another. “This sheds no light on anything,” Jovieve said, sitting again.
“No, in fact, it muddies the waters even more. It’s clear she was running from someone, but who? Did she testify against her brother’s killers, or her lover’s killers? If she did, and they were sent to jail, why would she need to run away? So maybe she didn’t testify after all, but they found out who she was, and that’s when she decided to disappear.”
“Who were the killers? I mean, what kind of people? Do you have any idea?”
“Benito says they were off-world drug-runners. It seems as likely as anything.”
“And why did they kill Franco and that—that other boy?”
“Only speculation. Franco because he somehow tripped them up—threatened to inform on them or stole from them or something. I don’t know why they killed her lover. Maybe to prove to her what they were capable of.”
Jovieve slammed her palms down on the flat surface of the table. “Oh, why didn’t she tell me?” she cried. “Why didn’t she tell me what was happening to her? Why didn’t she take sanctuary in the church and let me enli
st Benito’s aid? Why did she run—why did she have to suffer this all alone? To think of her—with a brother killed and a lover killed—and not telling a soul—it chills me to the heart, Cowen. What happened to her? Where is she now?”
He shook his head, unable to answer that. He had not expected to stir up quite so much despair by following this particular clue to its tangled end. He sipped at his lemonade, now lukewarm and watery, and wondered about Diadeloro. How soon after the murders had she disappeared? Had she run in fear for her life? If the drug-runners were that afraid of what she could do to them, why hadn’t they killed her outright, when they had the chance? Why hadn’t she told la senya grande what had transpired? Was she protecting Jovieve—or herself?
The old woman scrambled back into the room, a yellowed letter in her hand. “I did have it, I thought perhaps I would,” she said breathlessly. Drake took it, though it was offered to Jovieve. The priestess read over his shoulder.
“Dear Maria: Thank you so much for your help after Julio died. I can’t tell you what your kindness meant to me. I forgot to tell you that I wanted you to have the crystal vase that used to stand in Mother’s room. Please, take it before someone finds it or gives it away. And anything else you see in the house that you want, please take as well. I would rather you have these things than anyone else.
“I am pretty well settled now, though it is strange to be living in a boarding house instead of the temple or my mother’s home. I can hear worship bells at night, though, and see a park from my window, so all is not entirely grim. Include me in your prayers as I include you in mine. Deloro”
Drake read the letter three times, concentrating on the last paragraph. “Where would she hear worship bells?” he asked Jovieve. “And see a park?”
The priestess spread her hands. “We maintain small chapels throughout the city, and so do the Fideles. Most Triumphante chapels have bells. I suppose if you got out a city map—”
He nodded and looked back at Maria. “Can I keep this?”
“Keep it—keep the letter?”
“Yes.”
She looked doubtful and reluctant, but when she glanced at the priestess for guidance, Jovieve nodded. “I suppose so. As long as you need it.”
“Thank you. I’ll return it when I can.”
“Oh, please do.”
He studied her for a moment, willing her to be struck with inspiration. “Is there anything else that you can tell me, Maria? Think carefully. Anything else of hers that you might have, that would give me some clue as to where she had gone?”
Maria shook her head in total bewilderment. “I have the crystal vase and a photograph of her mother—”
“A photograph?” he said, sharply again. Once more, she drew back from him in alarm. “Siento,” he apologized. “You said you had a photograph?”
“Of Juana. Deloro did not look much like her mother.”
“Could you show me the photograph, please?”
So Maria left again, and returned with a small, blurry, amateur snapshot in an inexpensive frame. The woman smiling out of the picture could have been any woman on all of Semay—dark, fine-boned, anonymous. Drake showed it to Jovieve, who shook her head.
“Deloro was lighter than that. As for the face—it’s hard to tell. I suppose she looks a little like her mother.”
Drake was tempted to keep the photo anyway as his only tangible link with his quarry, but Maria watched him so mournfully that he could not bear to deprive her. He handed it back to her and she held it to her chest in relief.
The Moonchild came to his feet and Jovieve stood beside him. “If you think of anything else,” he said to the old woman, “please send a message to la senya grande. She will get the information to me. It is very important to us that we find Deloro. Will you help us?”
“Oh—if I can, surely I will,” the woman answered in some confusion. It was clear to her that her guests were leaving, and she obviously still had not figured out why they had come. “So glad to see you—so nice to have you in my house—please, come back again, any time, any time—”
Jovieve paused at the front door to bestow upon Maria the ritual benediction, and within a few moments they were back in the car. It was late afternoon, and the air had cooled just a few degrees. Drake sat for a moment in the driver’s seat, wrapping his fingers around the wheel in frustration.
“So did you learn what you came here to learn?” Jovieve asked, after watching him a moment in silence.
He shook his head. “No. But the trail isn’t quite cold yet. I need you to give me a list of Triumphante chapels.”
“Surely. And then you will hunt them up and look for boarding houses nearby that overlook city parks.”
“That’s where I’ll start.”
“Should I come with you?”
“You can if you have time. I have the letter—I can study her handwriting, see if I recognize it on any other contracts or leases.”
“Sounds like a lot of frustrating, inconclusive effort.”
He smiled. “Much police work is.”
“And you still think Deloro is the key to this whole thing. This—all these killings. You still think that?”
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know where to turn. But she’s the first bona fide mystery I’ve come across, and I think there’s a mystery connected to the murders. So I’m pursuing it.”
It was almost dark by the time Drake brought Jovieve back to the Triumphante temple. “I would ask you in for a nice dinner,” she said, breaking a long silence. “But I can’t. I have plans tonight, and I can’t change them.”
“Well,” he said, pulling to a stop at the curb, “enjoy.”
She had turned her head to watch him; she made no move to get out. “Would you have come if I invited you?”
“Sure I would.”
“Then maybe you’ll come tomorrow.”
“Can’t tomorrow,” he said. “I’m making bread with the Fideles.”
“You’re what?”
He grinned. “Making bread with the Fideles. Like the other penitents.”
“What are you atoning for, Cowen?”
“Too much to recite right now.”
“Tell me when you come for dinner, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
“If not tomorrow—the night after? No, and the next night might be—well, it might be possible. Shall we say tentatively?”
He was laughing. “We are quite the social hostess,” he said.
“Is that an acceptance or a refusal?”
“I’ll pencil you in,” he said.
“I’ll send a note to remind you,” she said.
He touched his fingertip to her lips. “Till then,” he said. “Ava te ama.”
“Tu tambien,” she replied, and left him.
Chapter Nine
Drake presented himself at the Fidele temple early in the morning, but he was not the first volunteer to arrive. The door was answered by a girl he had never seen before. She introduced herself as Kay, and asked him softly, “Pan o flores o otro?” Bread or flowers or something else?
“Pan,” he said, and she led him to the kitchen.
There were perhaps ten people already working in the kitchen, only one or two of them Fideles. There was one other man; the rest were women. Drake surveyed them covertly as he accepted a shapeless apron from Kay and tied it over his civilian clothes. Two of the women looked like middle-aged, middle-class matrons who had raised broods of children and led entirely virtuous lives, but he had lived long enough to know such appearances could be terribly deceiving. Three of the other women had that indefinable air of class that stamped them as wealthy and privileged. One of them was stirring a sticky pot of dough, her hands laden by enough diamonds to buy a starship. Another wore a dress of pure silk under the tattered cotton apron of the Fidele kitchen.
Drake nodded impartially at anyone who happened to
look up when he walked in. Kay led him to a workstation already laid out with flour, yeast, water and salt. In the soft Semayse tongue, she asked him if he knew how to make bread, and in the same language, more haltingly, he said yes. It was true, too. He had learned from his mother, and he had liked baking bread with her. It was something he still did, although very rarely, when his mind was troubled and his hands were restless, or when his thoughts turned to her and could not otherwise be stilled.
“Bueno,” she said, and left him to check on some of the others. He heard the distant peal of the gong at the door again, and Kay left to greet new arrivals.
Drake combined his ingredients and began kneading. As always, he found the simple, repetitive action soothing and oddly satisfying. His mother had been a great believer in bread as a food, as an exercise, as a metaphor. “The bread of life” had been one of her favorite expressions. Whenever she was sad or discouraged, she would go to the kitchens and mix up another loaf, eating it fresh from the pan when it came from the ovens. Nothing could be too terrible if you had bread to eat, even if you only had bread to eat, she had told him. She too had baked bread for charities, though she had not distributed it herself. She had sent Drake or his sister or one of the servants down to the poor-houses, with the long brown loaves carefully wrapped in foil. She had done that, he knew, up until the week she died.
“Esta bien?” someone asked, pausing by his table. He looked up; another unfamiliar Fidele woman had asked him if all was well.
“Si, muy bien,” he replied. “Soy Drake. Tu?”
“Soy Elle,” she said, and moved on to the next table.
Drake hunched and relaxed his shoulders, and mixed up another bowlful. Elle, Kay, Deb, Lynn, Jan . . . All the Fideles had such brief, blunt names, names that sounded unnatural in this polysyllabic language, as if they had been deliberately shorn of their beauty. All the Fideles, that is, except Laura, and even her name sounded somehow truncated, incomplete. Not to be compared with Jovieve, Lusalma, Corazon, Nochestrella, all those graceful and joyous Triumphante designations . . .
