Back in the kitchen, the old laptop’s screen saver showed a haunted house, inhabited by digital bats and screeching cats. (Who remembers what significant documentary I was working on when I chose that one.) I’d barely touched the mouse when the phone rang.
“Jesus, you scared me!”
“Is that the way you answer the phone? When was the last time you got a call?” Lucy said.
“I knew it was you-I saw it on caller ID.”
Lucy filled me in on France, and I filled her in on Springfield. Mid- conversation, she forced me to put down the phone and set the house alarm. “What if there was a connection between Anna’s attack and your green house incident? Why are you still up there? Stay at my place until this is sorted out.”
“Can’t. I have to work. Besides, Mike’s right-it’s probably nothing.”
“Oh it’s Mike now-no more Mayberry jokes? What am I thinking? Is he still there? Don’t answer, cough. Then I’ll know you’re not alone.”
“No one else is here. But there has been some action on that front.” With little encouragement, I gave Lucy the broad strokes on my encounter with Felix.
“I always say the best way to get over someone,” she said, referring to my ex, “is to get under someone. Too bad you weren’t ready. And where is he?”
“Mexico, I think. Family business.”
“Wow. My rejects rarely feel the need to leave the country, but I suppose a clean break is best. Is that why his backup was at your house so soon? You’re not turning into the town slut, are you?”
“Please. To night was all business.” I told her about the pictures on the flash drive and reeled off the shorthand descriptions on Mike’s photo log.
“Hmmm. Babhdbck. What’s that?”
“I’m guessing baby’s head, back.”
“I think I can skip that one,” she said. “Anything about the necklace?”
I didn’t know if I was supposed to be looking at the other pictures, but why not? By accident or by design, Mike had left the drive. I scrolled down to the necklace images and waited for the first to load. It was a tiny medallion on a slim chain that might have been silver. On the front was the worn image of a female saint with a border of horizontal lines emanating from her robe to the edges of the medal.
“It’s the Virgin of Guadalupe,” I said, “the patron saint of Mexico. In 1531, she revealed herself to a poor Indian named Juan Diego on the outskirts of what’s now Mexico City. Her image miraculously appeared on his cloak and supposedly it’s still there after almost five hundred years. They’re talking about making Juan Diego a saint, too.”
“I’m impressed. How do you know this? Don Felix?”
“I worked on a documentary called Religions of the World. Besides, you’ve been to Mexico. She’s everywhere, on guest soaps and shopping bags. When I was there I bought a Virgin of Guadalupe devotional candle, the thick glass kind you find in bodegas in the Bronx.
“Anyway, the Virgin told Juan Diego to climb this hill and cut some flowers. Even though it was December, and Juan Diego couldn’t believe there would be flowers growing in the winter, he climbed the hill. When he got to the top, it was covered in roses of Castile. He took them to the doubting Thomases in town, who fell to their knees at the miracle. When he dropped the flowers, the Virgin’s image was on his cloak.”
“You believe that?” she asked.
“I didn’t say I believed it. It was a souvenir. And the candle was cheaper than the Zapata T-shirt.”
“Come to think of it, I bought soap on Bourbon Street once that was supposed to wash away evil spells. I had to repeat this one line over and over while I was lathering up. Is there any writing on the medallion, you know, like a prayer or incantation?”
“You bought spell- removing soap at Marie Laveau’s and you’re giving me grief about someone twenty- six popes have recognized? Let me see.” The front was easy, Con ella todo, sin ella nada. “With her, everything, without her, nothing.” The back was trickier, a lot of microscopic writing. I squinted at the tiny, imprecise lettering. I zoomed in on the picture.
“Something she was supposed to have said to Juan Diego. ‘Let not your heart be disturbed. Do not fear the sickness. Am I not here, who is… your mother?’ Holy shit.”
“It says that?” Lucy asked.
“Up to the holy shit part. Don’t be afraid, little baby? Am I not here? Your mother? Some poor Mexican woman buried her child with this medal. Someplace she knew it wouldn’t be disturbed. A place that wouldn’t cost her anything, that she could visit as often as she wanted.”
“Did the Peacocks have any regular help?” Lucy asked.
“Not inside, only garden help. And even that stopped as they got older.”
“That’s not much help,” she said. “Ever find out what became of the real sister?”
“No. I can’t believe I keep getting suckered into telling O’Malley stuff, when he volunteers nada.”
“What did Hillary say?”
“I haven’t seen her. I have been working, you know. I’m more likely to bump into Gerald Fraser at the diner.”
“That reminds me. Dave Melnick knows him. Well, not really. Knows of. Dave’s at the Cop Channel now. I bumped into him and he asked about you, so I told him about your case, and he e-mailed me some stuff. Your Fraser’s some kind of hero cop. I don’t think they’re going ahead with it, but he was researched for an episode on a missing girl. Want me to forward what Dave sent me?”
“Great.” Maybe I’d try to see Hillary and Gerald this week.
“Jeez, ‘Am I not here… who is your mother?’“ Lucy repeated.
“Yeah,” I said, “but where?”