Fiesta Moon

by Linda Windsor

  “Does she sweep in here?”

  Mark had to think. He didn’t recall seeing Soledad near the hearth since the snake episode. “I don’t know.”

  With a grunt, Primitivo ran his hand over the brick floor of the fireplace and then looked at it. “It is as I thought,” he said. “You have the bat fever.”

  “Bat fever? Don’t I have to hang out in caves to get that? No pun intended.”

  Even if the pun was intended, Primitivo missed it. “See the flame of the candle? It wavers with the movement of the air. And the air moves this,” he said, showing the dark dirt collected on his palm. “It is mal witchcraft. Very bad.”

  “What is it, Primitivo?” Corinne inquired, walking in from the foyer.

  “The witch brought the bad air from the cave into this room, making Señor Marco sick in the lung.”

  Mark smirked. “Are you saying that dirt made me sick?”

  Primitivo nodded. “So I said.”

  “That dirt came from a cave,” Corinne said, as though trying to make reason of what the Indio told them.

  “I saw it in my dream. The ghost brought the cave sickness into this room, putting Señor Marco to lose.”

  “So Dr. Flynn wasn’t so far out after all,” she said.

  Mark looked at her in disbelief. Surely she wasn’t buying this mumbo jumbo. “Dr. Flynn had a dream too?”

  Corinne shook her head. “No, but she said that your symptoms were in keeping with an infection that comes from inhaling spores from bat or bird dung. Cave explorers sometimes come down with it. Histo-something. She sent a blood sample to Cuernavaca yesterday just to be on the safe side.”

  “I’ve been breathing spores from bat crap?” Maybe he was better off not knowing what had made him sick, since he was improving.

  “The cave sickness.”

  Primitivo probably wouldn’t know a spore from a sponge, but somehow the old healer might have found the source of Mark’s problem.

  “We must remove the dirt and burn copal in its place.”

  “We’ll do more than that.” Corinne peered into the fireplace. “With the soot and smoke stains, I never noticed.”

  “The spirits spoke true to my nagual.”

  “Your animal spirit?” Corinne echoed.

  “In his dream,” Mark explained, his mind still reeling over the dung factor. “Don’t ask.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “I knew I’d wind up back here one way or another,” Mark teased as Corinne turned back the covers of her bed an hour later. It was the only place she could put him until his room was thoroughly cleaned.

  “Keep pushing it, amigo, and you’ll wind up outside on your air mattress with Toto as a nurse,” she warned in like humor. She hoped the heat blooming on her neck and cheeks wouldn’t reveal that he’d been there more than he knew—haunting her thoughts and dreams. Somehow this rascal had managed to charm his way through her best defenses. Her mind was on the brink, and her heart had already deserted its post. And if Primitivo hadn’t interrupted them earlier … Her pulse catapulted, reminding her senses of the heady, yet innocent, seduction.

  “Your pillows smell like you. Sweet, fresh, flowery.”

  She’d never been so flustered, so at a loss to explain what she couldn’t.

  “Scented shampoo and conditioner,” Corinne replied, her effort to remain unaffected and businesslike withering as her body remembered what reason dismissed—or tried to. God, how does a woman separate passion from love?

  “Orange blossom, isn’t it?”

  She hoped he wasn’t as astute when it came to Toto’s fresh, flowery smell … although Soledad had stopped washing the pig with Corinne’s bath-and-body set.

  At the moment, the pig was still on duty with the housekeeper in the salon, seemingly fascinated by her efforts to remove dirt. The moment Primitivo left, Soledad began emptying Mark’s room for a thorough cleaning—candles and incense burning. It was easier to put Mark in her own bed temporarily than to get into an old debate that went nowhere.

  But if there were disease-causing spores in the dirt that had been left in the fireplace, by evening they would be gone—except for the sample Corinne bagged after calling Dr. Flynn earlier. If the police wouldn’t do their work, someone had to.

  “I have to admit,” Mark told her as Corinne opened another window for cross ventilation, “I’m exhausted after that little effort.”

  Sensing a downturn of spirit, she quirked a single brow at him. “So kissing me was an effort?”

  Mark laid an arm across his chest in salute. “It gave me the strength to carry on …”

  What was she doing? She wasn’t a flirt and certainly not one of those women who milked men for compliments. She was confident, self-assured.

  “… although I might need another dose.”

  Okay, that grin was worth it. A major twickler. Corinne pulled her scrambled wits together. “That’s for your nurse to determine. Right now, I register the blarney factor as full. Now, on a more serious note—”

  “I thought heart palps were serious.”

  He wasn’t playing fair. Hearts were serious, and hers was flipping out. “Dr. Flynn said that if it is histoplasmosis, it should run its course in eight to ten days. It tends to linger longer or even become deadly in people who have constant exposure or a chronic breathing problem.”

  Mark snorted, a good stretch from humor. “At least my witch isn’t quite as practiced as he or she could be.”

  “I don’t know,” Corinne said, her evasive switch tactic providing time for a little self-CPR. “Putting the stuff in the fireplace was pretty ingenious. No one noticed, and with no fire and the flue open, the draft would disburse the spores into the room.” She rubbed her arms as though the ghost in question had walked through her. “We’re lucky that Soledad and I aren’t sick as well.”

  “You only slept here one night … and Soledad had the place locked up like Attica.” Mark’s expression firmed with resolve. “If— and I do mean if—the test comes back positive, this trying to scare us off is going too far. It takes more than a little bat crap to make me back down.”

  Is this the same guy who didn’t want to be here two months ago? In a mix of admiration and wonder, Corinne studied the stubborn set of his golden, whisker-stubbled jaw. Shaving faces was not in her job description. Too many contours, when it was all she could do to navigate a razor around her knees without drawing blood.

  “Maybe you could ask Blaine if he knows anyone who will take us seriously,” she suggested.

  She and Mark had already agreed that if Capitán Nolla would ignore footprints left behind by a ghost, getting him to come look at some dirt in a fireplace was a waste of time. It was so frustrating, she could just scream.

  “Yeah, I can hear me explaining it now,” Mark said with a dour twist of his mouth. “Some witch is practicing Aztec germ warfare on me.”

  It did sound absurd. That was the scary part about the so-called witchcraft. No one of authority took it seriously enough. And if Primitivo was right about this, could the old Indio be right about the Pozases’ and Enrique’s deaths as well?

  “Where’s CSI when we need them?” Mark quipped. He heaved a labored sigh.

  Corinne placed her hand on his forehead. It was clammy, but not fevered. At least he was recovering according to Dr. Flynn’s expectations. The antibiotic was doing its part, and now that they knew the cause—or thought they did—reinfection wasn’t likely.

  “We’ll have to settle for your blood test results for now. Dr. Flynn is expecting them late this evening or tomorrow. Then we’ll know for certain.” She poured fresh water from a thermal carafe on her nightstand.

  “Wake me when the call comes,” he yawned with an accompanying stretch of his upper torso.

  Corinne watched, mind and body held captive by the rippling interplay of his muscles … until the ice water overran the glass in her hand.

  “Oh, bother!” She handed the dripping glass to him. “I hate it when the ice
breaks from the bottom like that,” she excused herself. After all, there had to be some ice on the bottom, since she’d just filled it.

  As she tore off paper towels to mop up the overflow, a timid knock drew her attention to the open door.

  Clad in dark violet, Doña Violeta stood there, looking none the worse for wear from her angina episode that past weekend. She reminded Corinne of a tiny, slightly bent queen, crowned with the shining silver of a thick braid.

  “Doña Dulce,” Mark called out from the bed. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  The bright smile on the woman’s smile-weathered face faltered. “Has the fever damaged your eyes?”

  “It’s just an expression to say that he is glad to see you.” Corinne threw the wet towels in a nearby trash basket. “We both are.” She walked over to hug her guest when Antonio jumped from his hiding place behind the woman.

  “Buenos días, señorita!”

  Clutching her hand to her chest, Corinne jumped back with a sharp intake of breath. “Antonio, you rascal,” she managed on recovery, giving him, and then his companion, a hug.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Doña Violeta apologized, “but he was so anxious about his Señor Mark.” The sparkle returned to her gaze as the boy bounced on the bed next to Mark. “As was I.”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m still here,” Mark announced. “But Corinne and I were worried about you. Any more spells?”

  Doña Violeta waved away his concern. “None … and I would not have had that one, had I not forgotten in my excitement to take my medicine.”

  Was there a pill for what Corinne felt every time Mark flashed that boyish grin, when there was anything but a boy behind it?

  “Do you wish to arm wrestle?” Antonio asked him.

  Mark chuckled. “Maybe next week, amigo.”

  “Antonio,” Corinne chided, “Mark is too sick to play.” She watched as the boy digested her warning.

  “When I am sick, I like to be read to.” The boy turned to Mark, disappointment vanishing in sunshine. “I brought a bag of things to keep me quiet and in it is my favorite book. It is called Green Eggs and Ham.”

  “You’re kidding, ” Mark replied. “That was one of my favorites too.” He patted the side of the bed. “I haven’t heard it in years.”

  Corinne’s heart squeezed for Mark. He would obviously rather be left to his dreams, but he would tough it out rather than hurt the boy’s feelings. For someone who hadn’t been around children very much, he was a natural.

  “And while the men visit, perhaps we might have tea?” Doña Violeta suggested.

  “That sounds lovely,” Corinne answered, trying to ignore the nick of fear at the nape of her neck.

  Corinne was torn between helping Soledad and being a good hostess. But the housekeeper had summoned Tizoc through Primitivo to help with the cleaning.

  “He needs the work,” the old man told them. “But removing the dirt will not remove the bad spirits. The dirt is but the footprint of evil.”

  Was this some sort of spiritual warfare beyond the depth of her understanding? Not that Corinne believed in the abilities of man or woman to conjure them and use them at will. But she did believe that good and evil spirits worked through mankind.

  Father, in the name of Jesus, protect us, if this is a battle beyond the human realm.

  “Is anything wrong?” Doña Violeta asked, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table.

  Corinne turned on a burner to bring the water in the teapot to boil.

  “Someone doesn’t want us in the hacienda, Doña Violeta,” she answered, fetching two mismatched cups and saucers from the red-and-white painted cabinets. “And they are using fake ghosts and witchcraft to cover it.” She put the cups on the table. “And the worst part is that Capitán Nolla doesn’t think it’s anything more than some precocious teens behind it.”

  “Behind what, exactly?” Violeta moved her beaded drawstring purse to her lap.

  Corinne told her all about it as she prepared the tea, reminding the old woman of the first warning, filling her in on the ghost’s appearance and their suspicions regarding Mark’s illness. “I can’t imagine what is so special about this place, but it’s certainly too much for coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Coincidence is as mysterious as truth sometimes,” Violeta replied with a Confucius-like wisdom.

  But when Corinne gave her a curious glance, prompting explanation, Violeta took up her tea and blew on the steaming surface. Her expression was distressed, while her hands trembled so that the tea lapped nearly to the brim.

  “Doña Violeta?” Corinne placed her hand on her companion’s arm, soft and frail beneath the thin covering of silk. “I promise, Mark and I will see the orphanage finished. We won’t leave until the children have a place in which to live and play.”

  A tired smile stretched Violeta’s lips. “It isn’t that, querida. I have seen the dedication in your heart and his dedication to you in his eyes. Tell me that you feel the same for him.” Withdrawing her hands, she placed them in her lap, her back straight as an arrow. “I saw Diego kiss you at the fiesta … so I wondered.”

  “Diego?” Corinne laughed. “Doña Violeta, we are only friends,” she assured the distraught woman. “Which is why I felt a little uneasy accepting his gift. I mean, it could look like there was more to it.”

  If the eyes were the window to the soul, Doña Violeta’s were a pale blue sea of despair. “A gift such as that is appropriate—”

  “Still—”

  “—between cousins.”

  Cousins? Corinne practically dropped her teacup on its saucer, grateful that she’d not yet tasted the tea. Otherwise she surely would have sprayed her companion with it.

  “Rafael knew my terrible secret, of course, but Diego was but a child. He had no idea.”

  Corinne’s voice finally kicked into gear. “What are you saying, Doña Violeta?”

  Doña Violeta clutched her purse as though it contained the last shred of her composure. “Ah, where to begin?” she fretted, venturing to cover Corinne’s hand with hers. “Querida Corina …” She trailed off and braced herself with a breath. “I am your abuela.”

  Abuela. Corinne translated the word twice and each time she reached the same conclusion—grandmother. She opened her mouth to speak, but the tide of emotion rising from the region of her mind where she’d placed abandoned hopes blocked her throat. It was the last thing she’d expected the woman to say.

  Doña Violeta caressed the side of Corinne’s cheek. “Mi niñita linda. You are wondering why I have said nothing, no?”

  Corinne nodded. She’d been in Mexicalli since May, and that didn’t count the summer before, when she and her family had traced her mother’s roots to the village—when Mexicalli had won her heart.

  “Shame is one reason,” the old woman confessed.

  So the María of record was really María Quintana de la Vega. Corinne could hardly believe her ears, but her heart didn’t need confirmation. It was shocking, but it felt right. All this time …

  “And …” Violeta’s voice cracked. “I … I wanted to get to know you. To see if you had your mother’s forgiving heart … not my hard one.”

  The notion that Violeta had a hard heart did not set well with Corinne. “Never can it be said that Doña Dulce has a hard heart,” she averred. Getting up, she drew the older woman to her. “Not my abuelita.”

  Her little grandmother. The hundreds of hugs that Corinne had stored away with her hopes of finding her blood family begged to be bestowed.

  “But I was not always the woman I am now,” Violeta said in a shaky voice.

  Corinne gave her grandmother a gentle hug, absorbing her heart-wrenching sob. Nor could Corinne help her own sob of joy. She’d turned her past over to God to fill the void and contented herself with serving the people of her mother’s native village. But this—

  “God has answered my prayers with more than I asked,” she whispered against her grandmother�
�s silver crown. “He not only gave me a grandmother, but He made her extra special because she was you.” Soft and scented with lavender, she thought, like the sachets that Violeta had made from her flower garden and presented to Corinne when she first arrived. They were to keep Corinne’s unmentionables fresh in the rainy season, the prim little lady confided with a rose pink blush.

  “P-pero, I threw your mother out,” Violeta lamented. “She disgraced our family with that despicable artist.”

  “You mean my father?” Corinne took no offense. She understood the ways of Violeta’s generation and station. “It’s okay. No worries,” she said, mimicking Juan Pablo. “I think it’s ironic that my adopted father was an alcoholic, but you know, he was not me. Nor is my real father. I am my own person and am grateful that I had a good family whom God eventually straightened out. Did you know who he was?”

  Doña Violeta shook her head. “I made it a point not to … another thing for which I am sorry. If María loved him, there had to be some good, no? And look at the beautiful daughter he made with my María.” Violeta’s sobs were now reduced to little huffs between words. “And when I first saw you, I nearly fainted. You are her image.”

  “Do you have pictures?” Corinne hoped so. She wanted to see what her mother looked like.

  Violeta nodded. “I have kept them all these years. I threw her out, but I could not throw out her photos. I still miss her.”

  Corinne’s thoughts raced and tumbled forward, then backward. “But what happened to my mother? Do you know?”

  Pain renewed its assault on Violeta’s face. Corinne wished she could take it upon herself, but she wanted to know. Perhaps telling her about María might provide a long-needed release.

  “The authorities told me that it was from drugs,” the older woman said, digging into her purse. Upon finding her handkerchief, she blew her nose, taking time to compose herself. “The things that addicts use were on her person when she was found in a church in Mexico City … and I shudder to think of the circumstances in which she’d lived.”