The Bride Wore Dead

by E M Kaplan

  “Hola, kitty cat,” she said. It barely cracked an eyelid, even when she opened the screen over its back and knocked. No one came to the door, so she tried again.

  After a few minutes of standing there, feeling stupid that she’d taken the risk of being discovered, she peered into the window next to the door. Directly beneath the window was a TV, which was on—she could tell by the flickering lights on the sofa and easy chair in front of it. Anyone in the room watching TV would have seen her peering in without a doubt. Some knitting had been left out in the seat of the chair that had the best view of the TV.

  Josie left the window and walked back to her car. She paused a moment with her hand on the car door and out of the corner of her eye, she saw something white flicker around the back corner of the little house. She craned her neck and saw it again—a ripple of a sheet. She followed her line of vision, and around the back of the house, saw a woman hanging sheets on a clothesline. The woman was in her sixties, probably. Black and silver hair done in a short, curly bob. A wrap-around skirt and a button-down blouse, both in pale green. Even though she was standing on dry, sandy ground with hardly any life or moisture in the plants around her, she was wearing calf-high garden boots made out of green rubber. She also had on a deeply ingrained scowl that seemed to have been there for years. Maybe her whole life.

  “Maria Garza?” Josie said.

  The woman’s head snapped up, and Josie found herself the subject of scrutiny that only Greta Williams could match—only perhaps even more harsh, more telling because no social tiers divided Josie and this woman. Maybe she was a housekeeper who lived out behind the rich white owner’s house, but there was nothing keeping this woman down. Just as soon try to steer a bull through a tiny knothole in a fence.

  “My name is Josie Tucker. May I talk to you for a minute?”

  Maria Garza, finished taking in Josie’s apparently pathetic appearance, went back to her laundry without so much as a sniff. It was possible, Josie, realized, that she was going to get nothing out of this woman. She’d felt extremely hopeful that she’d made it all the way up to the house without having been seen by one of the Williams brothers. She’d fooled herself into thinking that luck might have been on her side, that here, she was destined to discover something enlightening.

  Josie took a deep breath and another step forward. She pulled out the decayed remnants of her high school education. “Excuse me, Señora Garza. Puede ayudarme? Una momenta, por favor. Yo quiero …yo quiero…”

  Maria Garza’s head snapped up again. She gripped one hand tightly around her laundry basket. The other hand, she held up at Josie like a traffic cop halting an aggressive driver. “Stop,” she said. “Stop right there.”

  Josie stood in her tracks, fairly certain that she was about to get the tirade that would be sending her on her way.

  “Beside the fact that your accent is terrible, there are snakes and scorpions out here. I will not be responsible for your foolish death. Don’t rely on me to call the ambulance if you get bit on your toe. Are you estupida, coming out here in sandals?” She shook her head and gestured to the house with a snap of her thin wrist. “Go inside. I’ll be done in a minute.” With that, she turned her back on Josie and continued pinning her sheets and clothes to the line. Josie blinked, and then took a few steps backwards toward the house. When Maria Garza didn’t acknowledge her again, she shrugged to herself and went in the back door.

  #

  A kitchen can reveal a lot about a person. Maria Garza’s was spotless, thoroughly modern, and completely white. Everything from the cabinets, to the appliances, to the dishtowels—all white. Not even an errant flower magnet on the fridge. Not even a crumb on the floor that Josie could spot. She checked out the window and saw that Maria Garza was still hanging her laundry. She had at least three or four items to go, so Josie stepped over to the fridge and opened it. It was well worth the snooping. About ten jars of peppers of various spice level lined the door. There was a small opened package of chorizo, an egg carton of which five eggs were left, lettuce and fresh vegetables enough to make a nutritionist happy, and plenty of other basic ingredients. It was thoroughly well-stocked. Not only that, it was tidy, with a plethora of neatly stacked plastic containers—most of them single-serving sized. Although the woman lived alone, her life clearly was neither poor nor bland. Josie let the fridge door fall shut.

  She walked into the next room, which was the room that she’d originally seen through the front window. The TV was tuned to a Spanish language channel on which a scantily clad woman was crying with gusto. A novela, Josie realized. A Spanish soap opera. She looked away discreetly. One person’s embarrassing habit was another’s national pastime. In casting her eyes around the room, she noticed the same lack of personality in this room that the kitchen suffered from. The furniture was modern and spotless, possibly brand new. The tile floor looked freshly installed. In fact, the room had a faint odor of new paint, as if it had gotten a new coat within the last couple of weeks. But there were no family portraits on the walls—not a single picture of a person in the entire place, not even a crucifix or religious drawing. In fact, the place felt like a very pretty, but very temporary condo. Like a time-share.

  Josie heard the sound of the back door, and Maria Garza came in. She barely glanced at Josie as she passed through the room with her empty basket. In a couple of seconds, she came back, empty-handed with her hair smoothed. She abruptly clicked off the television.

  “I suppose you would like a drink of ice tea or something,” she said.

  “Only if it’s convenient,” Josie told her. She followed Maria Garza into the kitchen and watched her move expertly around the shiny room. She poured two glasses of tea, immediately sweetened them, doused them with lemon juice, and handed one to Josie.

  “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Your parents should be punished for not speaking Spanish to you at home. Your language is horrible, like a gringa.”

  Josie raised her eyebrows at the many false assumptions of the short tirade. But she didn’t bother to correct the woman. Josie was reminded again, how difficult it was for most people to determine her ethnicity. She hoped that it would work out in her favor this time, though she doubted it. This woman, despite her mistake, was no fool.

  “I guess you know that Detective Flores told me to talk to you,” she began.

  She snorted. “A nice boy. I thought he would stop getting into trouble when he became a policeman. I should have known better. A badge, a uniform, and a car with lights doesn’t change a person.”

  “He has helped me somewhat already,” Josie defended him. Maria Garza shrugged. “What about his partner then—Alverez?”

  Maria Garza looked at her sharply. “He doesn’t know anything about anything.”

  Josie thought for a minute. She said slowly, “And you do?”

  Maria Garza shook her head. “Whatever you are trying to do, you cannot flatter me. I’ve been in the business long enough to know that if I want to stay, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ve worked for this family for more than ten years now. I cook for them. I clean for them. I keep this place running smoothly.”

  “So if anyone knows what’s going on with these people, it’s you, then?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. She nodded her salt and pepper head with some pride.

  “And, do you like them, the Williamses?”

  Maria Garza frowned. “It’s not my business to like or dislike them. They are my employers. I work for them. I do my job—which I do very well.”

  Josie looked around the barren room again. “What about this place? Is this your home?”

  “You are being rude.”

  Josie tried again, with a softer approach. “But where are your things, señora? This place doesn’t really say it’s you who is living here.”

  Maria Garza’s face shuttered further, if possible. “It’s a job.”

  “And you can live your job without any trace of who you really are?”

  She squ
inted at Josie. “And you think you know who I am? If you think you know who I am, then you tell me. Go ahead. You, who have been standing in my kitchen for a few minutes and who think you know so much about me. You, tell me who I am.”

  Josie paused. And then let it spill out. “Look. Mira,” she said. “I know you are a hard-working woman. I know you have a young policeman out there who respects you and thinks of you as his own flesh and blood, as his tia. I know you are a proud woman just from the way you carry yourself and from the way you keep your house spotless. But is this your home? No. No it is not. Why? Because you don’t live with these people, the Williams brothers. They probably don’t even eat your cooking all that much. They’re no different from any other rich, white bosses that you’ve had in your lifetime. They are all the same—they have the money and you earn it from them.” Josie paused a minute before going on.

  “But you don’t really live here. This isn’t your home. You’ve made a practice out of keeping yourself hidden inside yourself. But the truth is, you’re still you. You still care what goes on up at that big house, just as much as you like to watch your novelas. Just as much as you still like to cook your own chorizo and add some flavor to your food so it’s not so bland like the things they eat up there.” Josie pointed out the window at the big house looming behind her.

  “And what’s more,” she went on, “They don’t want you in their house. And you don’t want to be there. You don’t want to know what they are doing with their lives and their money while you live out here in the servants’ quarters.”

  Maria Garza scowled at her, but Josie went on, knowing she was pushing her luck, but unable to stop now that she had gotten started.

  “The truth is, you didn’t want to know what they were doing to that poor girl up there at the house no matter how many times the police were called. No matter how many times she got beaten into a pulp. With her ribs broken and her eyes blackened until they were swollen shut so tightly that she couldn’t see out of them. No matter how many times they forced her to lose the babies that they impregnated her with.”

  Josie stopped, finally, breathless. She’d played out all her cards, and left Maria Garza staring at her in shock.

  “Babies?” the woman finally asked. Her voice came out on a breath. Her salt and pepper, surprisingly delicate eyebrows, rose on her smooth brown forehead.

  “Yes. Three of them. They got abortions for her each time.”

  Maria Garza turned and slowly walked into the sitting room. Josie followed her and watched her sink into a chair. “Dios mio,” she said softly. “Babies. I had no idea.”

  “You knew about the abuse though?” Josie asked, and Maria Garza, finally, nodded her head.

  They sat silently together for a few minutes. Then Maria Garza said, “It was never okay up at that house. I know those brothers too well. The loud one, Peter—he’s the violent one. He speaks with his fists. He’s the one who hurt the girl the most. On the outside.”

  “The outside?”

  “On her body. But the other one—Michael. I think he hurt her even more.” She pointed to her temple. “In her mind. He is such a cruel one. Always telling her that she couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that. He is so smart, he could even use her words against her. And she believed him. He hurt her the most. And together, they probably killed her.” Maria Garza turned her eyes to Josie’s and penetrated her with a dry-eyed stare that conveyed years of fury and outrage—and perhaps some dread of her own accountability, which she wasn’t ready to face.

  “What did you see?” Josie asked her. She sat still and solemn, afraid that any wrong movement or gesture might make Maria Garza retract and retreat from the ground that they’d covered so far. Josie felt a precariousness to her situation. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “One day I was in the kitchen in that house.” The woman pointed out the window at the bigger house. “I was cleaning up for breakfast. They didn’t know I was there. But I was making a lot of noise, so maybe they knew I was there, but they just didn’t care who heard them.”

  “Who was it?”

  “The older brother, Michael. And the girl, Leann. The other brother, Peter, was still asleep. He always drinks a lot at night, so he is never up very early. He drinks until he passes out, that one.” She was looking out the window intently at the other house.

  “They were talking about babies,” she continued. “Leann and Michael. I didn’t know why at the time, but now I understand. They were saying that she couldn’t be having a baby right now. It would be a really bad time. That Peter wouldn’t react very well to news like that. And they started to argue a little. Not too loud, but softly—quietly, the way that Michael always argues and influences people to do what he wants. And the girl—Leann, she started to cry.” Maria Garza was silent again. Josie looked up and saw a tear gather in the corner of her eye.

  “I thought they were just talking about plans for the future. I had heard them talk about it before and it seemed like the same old conversation. Her pleading with him, but him being firm and telling her what to do, as always. And now I know that it wasn’t a plan at all. It was an abortion.” The woman put her fingers to her mouth, clenching her jaw.

  Josie was frowning. “Are you sure it was Leann and Michael?” she asked.

  Maria Garza gave a small gasp. Her mouth hung open slightly as she comprehended the full meaning of Josie’s question. “His baby, not Peter’s,” she said.

  #

  The blood was rushing uncomfortably in Josie’s ears. She felt a little nauseated, too—along with a sudden urge to get back into her car and keep driving until she hit the east coast. “Okay. Okay,” she said to herself softly, trying to calm down. She had no doubt that Maria Garza was correctly interpreting what she’d overheard. It fit well into what Josie knew of the brothers’ behavior in the past. And now she wondered if Peter and Michael were repeating the exact same pattern that they had in school with the young girl who had killed herself.

  “Señora Garza, I have to be leaving now. I want to thank you very much for everything that you’ve told me.” Josie was trying to control the tremor in her voice, the shaking of her fingers. She was half afraid she might vomit.

  Maria Garza instantly stood up. “Do you want to stay for some dinner? Home cooking is good for you.”

  Josie thought about the spicy peppers that she’d seen in the fridge. “I know it is,” she lied. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea if someone comes home and finds me talking to you. Thanks for the offer.”

  Maria Garza nodded. “I understand. I don’t know what’s going to happen next in that house.” She cast it a quick glance. “But I think I will be working here anyway. A job is a job. And one like this is hard to find.” Josie gave a brief nod, understanding the security of a job you were good at, no matter how much you had to be willing to ignore what was right. Never, ever underestimate the security of a good-paying job. Josie understood. However, she’d rather die than work for either of the Williams brothers herself, now that she suspected the true extent of their crimes.

  She went quickly back out to the Honda. She couldn’t leave fast enough. She seemed to be moving in slow motion as she backed up and bounced onto the pavement from the dirt. Her pulse was racing, but she kept her movements deliberate. Panic would make her do something stupid, like slide down the hill into a mesquite tree. The pavement was wide enough only for one car and imagining another coming up the drive straight for her was causing stomach acid to creep up her throat.

  “It’s just like being trapped in the dark,” she told herself. “Your worst fears are from your own imagination. The only thing you have to fear…is fear itself.” She repeated that out loud. Then, said it again, biting her lip, feeling the sweat under her arms and around her neck. She could see the main road in sight now. Just a couple hundred more feet and she’d be safely out in the local traffic, as little of it as there was. In all the time that she’d been talking with Maria Garza, no one had come home. Wha
t were the odds that someone would be coming that very minute? Very small chance, she told herself.

  Just about fifty more feet, and she could turn off this private road. Then twenty. Then ten. She peeked up and down the main road, and floored it in pure relief. The Honda hit a small dusty spot and kicked up a cloud that floated toward the driveway she’d just escaped from. She sighed with relief, almost gasping breaths of fresh air, realizing belatedly that she’d been holding her breath almost the entire drive.

  A red car, a BMW, flashed by her in the other direction. She glanced to the side and locked eyes with the other driver. To her horror, it was Peter Williams. She whipped her head around to see if he was looking at her. She imagined his eyes boring into her in his rear view mirror. Instead, she saw the lingering, telltale cloud of dust that marked her exit from his brother’s driveway.

  “He couldn’t have known it was me,” she said out loud. She kept on the road following the speed limit, her eyes glued to her mirrors. Ten minutes later, she stopped checking so feverishly. She relaxed her shoulders a little, easing the fear out of them. “He didn’t know it was me,” she said to herself again as she pulled into the parking lot at the Castle Ranch.

  She sat in the car for a few minutes catching her breath. Then, she slowly released her stiff fingers from their grip on the steering wheel.

  CHAPTER 23

  When Josie got back to her room, the light on her telephone was flashing. She picked up the receiver to listen.

  “Josie-girl,” said Mr. Obregon’s voice with his thick Southie accent, “Give me a call when you get this message. I just wanted to let you know that I got your fax. Very good info there. I’m making some small strides on this end. Not a whole lot to tell you really. Greta Williams is behind you all the way. Anyway, give me a call when you get this message. Doesn’t matter how late. I’m always up.” He gave his number carefully, pausing between each number—even though he knew she already had it. She wrote it down on the pad by the phone and called him right back.