Bruja Brouhaha by Rochelle Staab Page B

Botanica Rojas. Did the police tell Lucia anything about the shooting? Did they catch the guys who shot Paco yet?”
    “No. I’m sorry, no news,” I said.
    “Were you friends with Paco?” Nick said.
    “
Si
.” Miguel dropped his head. “He was a good man. Paco was nice to everyone. He told me stories about my parents and grandparents from back in the old days. He and Dr. Morales bought me lunch sometimes, too. I never thought the gangs would get Paco. Let me know if I can help Lucia.”
    “You can. Keep an eye out for her until things settle down. If you see any trouble around Botanica Rojas, call the police, and then let me know, too.” Nick handed him a business card.
    “I will.” Miguel held the door open, waving as we crossed the lot to Nick’s car.
    * * *
    W e drove toward the Valley, beating the rush hour traffic by . . . Well, we didn’t. There was no such thing as beating L.A. traffic on a weekday. Nick turned the radio to sports talk and fixated on a basketball discussion about his hometown Chicago Bulls versus the L.A. Lakers. A guy-guy, Nick liked every sport, in any season, on any field. Throw a ball in the air and Nick would get two beers out of the refrigerator and invite friends over to watch the ball land. I limited my love for sports to football—my Dad and brother’s passion—and to baseball, the sport I spent fifteen years virtually married to.
    As traffic crept along the 101 Freeway, I settled back to make a call. Mom answered on the second ring.
    “I’m glad you called,” she said.
    “Are you still at the hospital with Carmen?”
    “I just left there. Her surgery went well. Her doctor wants her to rest. Now I’m on my way to the mall to pick up a pair of slippers for her. I was going to call you when I got home. Dilly Silva wants to know where you want to live, and how much you’re willing to pay for your house.”
    “We can talk about that later,” I said. “Did you reach Victor?”
    “I left him a message. Dilly wants to organize listings for you right away. You have to find a place and go through escrow before you can move in, you know.”
    “I haven’t had time to think about moving. Tell Dilly I’ll call her over the weekend.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t be so casual about this, Liz. Although . . . You could move in with me and Daddy for a few months while you’re house shopping.”
    My brain flashed a Terror Alert. I loved my Mom, I adored my Dad, but I was too old to move home with my well-meaning parents. “Thanks for the offer but Daddy is allergic to cats.”
    “Your brother Dave can take the cat.” Mom called him
your brother Dave
in case in the last thirty-eight years I forgot we were related.
    “Erzulie goes where I go. And vice versa,” I said.
    Grinning, Nick whispered, “Want some privacy? I could step outside.”
    I covered the mouthpiece. “Cute. Mom is orchestrating. I’ll be off in a minute.” I said into the phone, “Can we pick up this conversation when I get home, Mom? Nick and I are driving into the Valley now. I’ll call you when I get there.”
    “Don’t. I’ll stop by your place as soon as I finish at the mall. I’ll see you around seven.” The phone clicked, and Mom was gone.
    “She invited me to move back home,” I said to Nick.
    “My offer must be sounding better and better.”
    * * *
    W hen my doorbell rang at seven, Erzulie darted up the steps out of sight. I opened the door to my smiling mother.
    Although Carmen and Mom were both in their sixties and the best of friends, they were physical contradictions. Carmen, at five feet nine, was four inches taller than Mom. Carmen had her shoulder-length raven locks colored at a salon. Mom wore her white hair in a perfectly coiffed short pageboy. Carmen dressed in bright colors. Mom chose designer pastels. But they shared the laugh of a sailor on leave, and if plied with enough drinks, their stories about their nights on the Sunset Strip during their youth made polite company