Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

  “Lieutenant Franco, LAPD. I’d like to talk to you about Domenic Saladino.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d heard you were asking about him. We can talk in my office.”

  Following him, she asks, “How’d you hear that?”

  “My wife told me. Here, let me grab a chair.” He lifts a molded plastic one from the reception area and closes his door. Motioning Frank to take it, he rolls his own from behind the desk and sits next to her.

  “Where’d she hear it from?

  “Oh, shoot.” He frowns and runs a hand over his bald spot. “I don’t remember. It’s a small town, could have been anybody.”

  Not wanting him on the defensive, she nods with a smile. “Guess I’m just used to being in LA, where nobody knows anyone. Can’t get used to how friendly everyone is here.”

  “We try,” he says with a smile. “How can I help?”

  “I know you’re busy and I don’t want to take too much of your time, but you can start by telling me how you heard that Mary Saladino died.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  He has been leaning forward eagerly, but now Thompson sits straight and buffs his head again. He is fairly trim, but his All-American good looks have crumpled, as they tend to do in men past a certain point, and he is stranded, looking his age.

  “I remember I was in school, on the way to class. Pete—Pete Mazetti—grabbed me in the hall and told me she was dead and that the girls were driving to LA to look for their dad. And that Cass was drunk. I was scared—we were both scared—that she was gonna get in an accident. Cass was a daredevil, and the more she drank, the crazier she got. Pete had his old man’s truck, so we took out after them. We didn’t have any idea where we were going, but we knew they had to be on the 101 somewhere. We were going to try to catch up to them.” He shakes his head. “It was just dumb luck we didn’t kill ourselves.”

  “Did you catch up to them?”

  “Nah, we never did. We got into the city and drove around. Pete remembered that Mr. Saladino worked in Culver City somewhere, for his uncle, so we looked him up in the phone book. Found a Saladino Construction and called, but there was no answer.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Shoot, I don’t know. It was dark. Maybe six, seven? We drove around a couple hours looking, then figured we’d better go home. We looked for the truck on the way back—hoping we wouldn’t see it smashed on the side of the road—and we didn’t. That was a relief. But we still had to face our parents.” Thompson flashes a grin and she sees the handsome boy he once was. “We just lit out, didn’t tell anyone where we were going.”

  “When did you see the girls next?”

  “Uh, let’s see, that’d have to be either the next day, or the day after. Pete told me they were home and I went up to the cabin after school.”

  “Were you and Sal dating?”

  “Yeah, we were going steady.”

  “You must have known her pretty well.”

  He agrees.

  “What did she tell you about the trip?”

  “Not much. That they drove around looking, like we did.”

  “Did she say where they looked?”

  “I think they were around Culver City, like we were. Surprised we didn’t run into each other. I think they went out to a job site he’d been working on, but he was gone.”

  “Did you know where he stayed when he was down there?”

  “Pete knew he bunked with his family. We got a bunch of dimes from a 7-11 and called every Saladino in the phone book. Half the people didn’t know him and the rest, no one had seen him.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “Shoot. I don’t remember. It was late, I know that. I only got a couple hours sleep, then my mother made me go to school.”

  Frank smiles. “Could have been worse, huh? What happened to Pete?”

  “Oh, he was lucky. His mom just yelled at him and said it was a good thing his father wasn’t home.”

  “That’d be John Mazetti?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you remember where he was?”

  “I think in Stockton, or someplace. I think he was at a cattle auction. He went a couple times a year. That’s why we got away with taking the ranch truck. His old man wouldn’t have let him if he’d been home.”

  “So John Mazetti was out of town the same time Domenic Saladino was out of town?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  She asks him about Dom beating his wife, and Thompson reluctantly confirms what the aunt said. Following the aunt’s thread, she asks how Saladino got along with John Mazetti.

  Like the aunt, Thompson turns vague. “Okay, I guess.”

  “I heard there was a little tension between them? Any idea what that might have been about?”

  “Hey, you know, that’s a question best saved for Sal. I—I really couldn’t speak to how they got along.”

  You could, Frank is thinking, but you won’t.

  She asks about Sal’s friends, and Thompson tells her, “You know, Sal’s fifth-generation Soledad. I’d say most of the town is acquainted with her in passing, and through rumor, but I couldn’t really say she has any friends.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugs without rancor. “That’s Sal. She’s married to the mountains. They’re all she’s ever needed.”

  It’s an odd summation, but Frank thinks she understands it. After wrapping it up with Thompson, she calls Carly Simonetti from the parking lot. There’s no answer. Considering what to do next, she leans against the car and basks in the golden light. From the slant and color of the sun, she realizes that summer has passed into autumn without her knowing. She finds herself staring at the mountains. They are stark and motionless, yet very much alive. Under their coat of furze and evergreen, the mountains keep the secrets of owl and mouse and deer, of striking snake and pouncing fox. There is a trail there she knows. It climbs from the yellow foothills to a notch in the ridge, where a breeze fresh from the ocean stirs the needles of a single, struggling pine. Below the ridge, dark-winged birds ride the air.

  A truck applies its air brakes. The hiss makes her jump. She glances around and ducks into her car unnoticed. She squeezes her forehead as if to press in Darcy’s notion that the visions might be helpful. She drives back to Soledad, not sure what to do when she gets there. It’s lunchtime, but she’s not particularly hungry. She puts Simonetti’s address into her GPS. It leads to a ranchette north of town. A pack of unseen dogs bark as she pulls up. She debates getting out and finally does. No one answers her knock except the dogs.

  Back in the car, she writes notes. That Saladino beat his wife opens a whole new area of motive, and she starts a list of potential suspects. Sal’s name heads the column. It’s also noteworthy that both Thompson and the aunt shied from describing Saladino’s relationship with John Mazetti. It’s even more interesting that he was out of town when Saladino died. Or, at least, was buried. They can’t prove when he died, but it’s reasonable to work with the assumption that if Saladino didn’t show up for work the next day, he died sometime the night before.

  The dogs are still barking maniacally. She recalls Bone’s steady gaze and wonders what Sal does when she’s not in Celadores. Frank starts to look toward the mountains, then catches herself. Thinking maybe if she keeps busy enough the visions won’t come, she decides to drop by the police station.

  Gomez is chatting with another cop and breaks off to greet, “Hey, City! You’re back.”

  “Can’t stay away.”

  “What’s up? And no, I can’t run you up to Sal’s this weekend.”

  Frank grins. “Wouldn’t ask you to. You’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Are you here for follow-up?”

  “Yep.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Some. How come you didn’t tell me Domenic Saladino beat his wife?”

  Gomez lifts a shoulder. “Don’t know that I knew that. Besides, domestic
s aren’t exactly uncommon around here.”

  “Not uncommon anywhere,” Frank agrees.

  “Any luck with the niece?”

  “Not yet.”

  When Frank adds she will try Simonetti again after dinner, Gomez invites her to come home and eat with her family.

  “No, thanks. Appreciate it, though.”

  “Aw, come on. You don’t want to eat out. I think my husband’s making spaghetti for dinner. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s good, and there’s plenty extra.”

  Fibbing that she has more doors to knock on, Frank wiggles out of the offer. She likes Gomez, but Frank’s social skills are rough at best. Being a regular member of Alcoholics Anonymous has rounded some of their sharper edges, but she’s a habitual loner and her favorite company is her own. She grabs a Big Mac and waits at the ranchette for Simonetti’s return.

  Frank is lucky; she catches Carly Simonetti coming home to feed her dogs before heading to the rodeo. Simonetti reluctantly agrees to give her a few minutes, standing in the driveway. Frank starts with what the niece remembers about Mary’s death.

  “I was pretty young, but I remember my grandmother coming home from the hospital. She was pretty shook up. And then on top of that my cousin Cass went ballistic and accused Dom of killing Mary and then took off for LA to find him. And all my uncles were furious, saying they were going to kill him. It was a real mess, I remember that.”

  “Your uncles said they were going to kill Dom Saladino?”

  Simonetti rolls her eyes. “They didn’t do a damn thing. It was all just liquor talk.”

  “Did any of them go down to LA?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “And Cass accused her father of killing her mother?”

  “Yes. Everyone knew he hit Mary. She told the doctors she fell on the edge of the table, but it was obvious he’d gone to town on her.”

  “What exactly did Cass say when she accused him?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t there. But I remember my grandmother saying that Cass kept screaming, ‘He killed her!’, and then she ran out to look for him. That’s really all I remember.”

  Simonetti glances pointedly at her watch, but Frank is writing furiously.

  “Did you ever see Saladino again?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did either of your cousins ever say what happened when they went down to LA?”

  “No, they didn’t find him. The whole trip was a waste of time.”

  “Did anyone else go looking for him?”

  “Not that I know of. Oh wait. Mike—Sal’s ex-husband—he followed them down there. He and Pete Mazetti. I think he was Aunt Cass’s boyfriend then.”

  “Then? He didn’t stay her boyfriend?”

  Simonetti laughs. “Heavens no. She’d show up for birthdays and dinners with a new man on her arm every time. My aunt was quite the playgirl.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Look, I’ve really got to get going. My daughter’s showing her pigs. Can we finish this later?”

  Frank thanks her and lets her go. She takes back roads to the hotel, enjoying the cooling air. Glancing at the mountains hoarding dusk, she wags a finger in what she surmises is the direction of Sal’s cabin.

  “Lucy,” she says with a Latin accent, “You got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

  Chapter 16

  Five women sit clustered on a bench in front of the store. Only one appears under the age of fifty. Each clutches a plastic bag in her lap. Empty-handed, Frank takes a seat at the end of the bench. Other than a brief nod, none of the women acknowledge her. Each sits silently in her thoughts.

  Frank hears footsteps inside the store. Seconds later a woman pushes through the screen door. As she does, the woman at the opposite end of the bench rises and walks around behind the store. The remaining women scoot as one to fill her space. When Frank doesn’t move, an old gal with a face like a walnut pats the space between them, motioning her to slide over. It’s silly, but Frank complies. After shifting along the worn plank a few times, she begins to understand the gravitas of the ritual.

  Sun beats upon the bench, yet the women sit as uncomplaining as mules. When a woman walks out of the store, the red-shawled woman at the head of the bench stands. She crosses herself and walks behind the store. Only one other has come after Frank. There is plenty of space on the bench, yet the old gal with the walnut face slides to the end. Frank moves too, and the woman beside her. The three of them watch a pickup lug itself up the road. The truck stops in front of the store; its engine ticks in the summer silence. A Latino male in boots and a cowboy hat gets out from behind the wheel. Three kids tumble after him. A woman lowers herself from the passenger side. The children trail the man up the wide wooden steps into the store. They glance shyly as they pass. The woman works her way to the bench with an awkward limp. Frank recognizes her from her first visit. She bobs her head at the women next to Frank. Each responds with a muted “Buenos dias.” The woman sits heavily. Right next to the woman beside Frank. The kids run out of the store, but quietly. Each holds a popsicle. They lick them reverently in the shade of the oak and stare at the women.

  All heads turn as the red-shawled woman exits the store. The old gal on Frank’s left stands. Saining her breast, she trudges a worn path to the back of the store. Frank takes her place at the head of the bench, the woman next to her pulled along as if by an invisible cord.

  A bead of sweat starts from under Frank’s hair. It rolls to her temple, gathers speed, and falls from her jaw. A lazy breeze cools the wake on Frank’s cheek. She closes her eyes to the golden sun. A fly hovers at her ear. She waves it off, wondering idly why she has chosen to wait rather than badging her way back to Sal. The men talk quietly in the shade. Her ear catches the word “lluvia,” then, “Claro . . . esta noche.”

  She cracks an eye open. The sky is blue but hazy. Her lid falls like a window shade. Maybe the men are right; maybe it will rain. Time oozes by. Frank may have dozed, she isn’t sure, but the clumping of the walnut-faced woman on the steps signals it is her turn. The woman is empty-handed and Frank realizes they have each carried their bags round back but left the store without them. She rises reluctantly. She won’t cross herself and brings no offering. Frank almost sheepishly turns for the car. Then chides herself; she’s investigating a murder for Christ’s sake, not dabbling in superstitions or trying to buy Diana Saladino’s goodwill.

  She follows the path around the fence into a grove of pepper trees. The fence is made of silvered six-foot planks she can’t see over or between. She walks slowly in the sweet shade, pausing at a latched gate. There she is struck again by an impulse to cross her chest or bend a knee. The breeze has picked up. Chimes sigh behind the gate. The fence wavers and she presses her head into the soft grain. She waits for a vision, but there is only the wind, passing through her as if she is hollow. Frank pushes the gate.

  The courtyard is hard dirt, swept clean but for a few skittering leaves. A mossy fountain circled by rusty chairs burbles in the center. Thick-trunked roses cover the fence with vivid red and yellow blooms. A shed cowled in grapevines leans drunkenly against the back of the store. Frank walks toward it. Her mouth has gone dry and her heart beats much faster than it should. Her hand wants to rise to her breast, but she keeps it firmly in her pocket. A beaded curtain with a faded image of Our Lady of Guadalupe dangles in front of the shed. Sucking in a breath, Frank gathers it aside.

  “Hi there.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, she drops into a metal chair. It rocks crookedly and she squares it with a grin while Sal recovers.

  “I’m working, Lieutenant.”

  “I know. I’m here for a reading. Or whatever it is you do.”

  Sal sits up, momentarily straightening a chronic slump. “What’s bothering you?”

  “You’re the one with the magic hands. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Sal sighs. “Is there really something you’d like help with or are you just testing me
?”

  “A little of both.”

  Their wills arm-wrestle over the table. Sal’s bends first. She closes her eyes and shifts in a chair as rickety as Frank’s. The cloth-covered table between them is an old door laid on stacked cinder blocks. Tin retablos and burning candles flank a Lady of Guadalupe on an altar behind Sal. Another cloth hides the shelves beneath, where the bags from the ladies peep out. Bare party lights circle the corrugated plastic ceiling, its opacity long dulled by weather and persistent leaves. The air is dense with candle wax and the spices from the women’s offerings.

  But suddenly the room disappears and she crouches by a fire in a dim, smoky space. Rain beats on thatch. Drops get through and splat on the ground, but she is warm and dry. Her stomach growls. A woman speaks from the shadows and hands her a leathered strip. She chews on the fishy meat, counting the different colors in the fire.

  “May I?”

  Frank looks down. Sal’s hand hovers over her scarred arm and she instinctively jerks it to her lap.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened there or am I supposed to guess?”

  Frank takes a deep breath. She puts her arm back on the table. “Guess.”

  For a moment Sal looks as if she’ll refuse, but with a small shake of her head she repositions her palm above the scars. Her eyes close. Frank feels pressure from her hand, even though it’s held a good seven, eight inches above her arm. She’s tempted to pull it back again and fights the urge to squirm. Sal’s eyes pop open, such a startling blue, and for an instant Frank is the one taken by surprise.

  “Physically this has healed very well, but there’s still a great deal of unresolved energy here.” The sky-colored eyes lift to Frank’s. “Do you know what a susto is?”

  “A scare, a fright.”

  Sal nods. “That’s the literal translation. In healing it means a trauma. Say a woman is raped. The flesh will mend, her tears and bruises will heal, but she’ll retain the trauma of the attack. She has a psychic and physical memory of the assault. That’s a susto, and it has to be healed if the woman is ever to be well again. You have a great susto here.”