Fiesta Moon (23 page)

Only by sheer will did he manage to set the cup down on a table before he succumbed to reflex. Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down as he coughed and spasmed, gripping the chair as though his life depended upon his hold.

“I don't think your ancestors like gringos,” he rasped, once he realized that he was going to live.

At this Primitivo gave a quiet chuckle. “There is much for you to learn, Señor Marco, but I have seen with my own eyes that you have a good heart.” He sobered. “And I have heard with my ears that you have made a dangerous enemy. These are matters that gringos do not understand. That is why I come to you.”

Their host's last comment wiped the
I tried to warn you
look off Corinne's face. “What enemy, Primitivo?”

The Indio lowered his voice. “The witch.”

“I don't think that a witch who uses crayons is much to worry about,” Corinne assured the man.

Primitivo said something to his wife in their native Indio language. In response, she closed the curtains over the windows. After lighting some candles around the room, he motioned for her to turn off the overhead light.

“What I am about to tell you can put me to lose with dangerous peoples,” the old man warned, pulling the stool up so that he faced both Corinne and Mark.

Mark leaned against the back of the rocker with a groan. It looked like this had the makings of a long night. His body was being preserved from the inside out and now, lights out, save for some candles, this old codger was winding up for some ghost tales.

An hour later, Corinne climbed into the car, warmed against the cool night air with a brace of strong coffee and armed against the powers of evil with copal and candles—the latter at a cost of twenty pesos. Gooseflesh still pimpled her arms, not from Primitivo's warnings of witchcraft, but from the implications of past deeds. The witchcraft he described was nothing short of murder, disguised as work of an evil
naguale
—the animal form of the Indio soul—in this case, a witch.

According to the healer, whose cousin in Flores helped prepare the body of Antonio's brother, the boy had died of neither exposure nor a gunshot wound—if the boy was even Enrique. Aside from his clothes, little of the body was recognizable. But the neck of the deceased had been broken, snapped—Primitivo clapped his hands, nearly causing Corinne to jump out of her skin.

“
Matones
.” On realizing he'd spoken in Nahuatl, which was the closest dialect to the language of his Aztec forefathers, he added in Spanish, “
Asesinos
.”

Murderers.

Not even the boiled coffee had prevented her shudder, the first of many.

Primitivo went on to explain that the boys' parents had not died of a gas leak, but from the poison of burning viper's vine—another tool of witches. At least that was the word among the Indios.

Now Corinne started the engine of her SUV in front of Primitivo's humble cottage.

“I thank you again, Grandfather,” she said to the man standing in the doorway, “for your concerns regarding the hacienda. But our faith must not rest on these candles and incense. They are but a gift between friends. It is Christ who protects us from evil.”

Though she might witness all she wanted, she knew better than to refuse. If Soledad found out—and she would—the housekeeper would go behind her and purchase the items to use as instructed anyway.

“Cómo no,
daughter,” her host agreed in disagreement, as only the Indios could. “That is as it should be.” He lifted his hand. “May you sleep the sleep of the angels.”

As they drove away, Mark turned to Corinne. “Am I just totally out of it due to that vicious swig of the ancestors' brew, or did we just buy protection?”

“A gift for a gift,” she repeated. “We gave Primitivo a handout and the promise of our prayers in exchange for his prayers and accessories,” she added, nodding toward the sack of goods on the backseat.

“But to
whom
is he praying?”

Corinne tried to think of a way to explain. It was hard when she didn't quite get it herself. “The Indios have accepted Christ and the concept of the Trinity, but in the context of their past. Did you notice all the pictures of the saints over Primitivo's altar in the back room when he pulled the curtain aside to get the candles and incense?”

“Yes, but I had no idea who was who.”

“Well, they think God has an army of saints and angels, including some Aztec ones we've never heard of. The Indios think their good spirits were some of God's troops.” She pondered her explanation a moment. “At least
some
of the Indios believe that. Others are outright pagan, worshipping the four corners of the spiritual world and their respective rulers. Father Menasco understands them more than I do.”

“So the old guy will pray to God
and
the Indian entities?”

Corinne nodded slowly. “They sort of pray up the chain of command. In the meantime, the Church tries to show them that the spirits their ancestors worshipped were just man-conjured figureheads for God's creation, and God is the only God . . . and that they should pray directly to the head honcho. Some get it, some don't. It's really hard to undo thousands of years of belief, especially when some of their practitioners are successful in healing and witching
,
if you call it that.”

“You mean murder disguised in a bunch of ancient voodoo-hoodoo.” He shifted in his seat, fastening the seat belt. “And that crap about tying the dead boy's feet together so that his murder or murderers can't leave the area . . . that's outright nonsense.”

“Yeah.” At least she agreed about the superstition. But the murder part wouldn't give her goose-pimpled skin a rest. “Why would someone want to kill the Pozases, much less a little boy?”

And this was the first implication she'd heard to suggest the corpse wasn't Enrique. But if that was true, where was the boy?

“
If
either was really killed. Gas leaks and kids wandering off and dying in the mountains have been known to happen.”

Mark's was the voice of reason. He was most likely right. And the boy's corpse had worn the orphanage T-shirt. Who else could it have been?

Mark shoved his hair away from his face as if trying to wipe out the unsettling rumors that the old Indio had shared. “And I thought I was in the
Twilight Zone
before.”

When he first arrived, his hair was styled short with a hint of curl at his collar, but now it was thick with sandy rakish curls begging for a comb—or a woman's fingers. Lest her own be tempted, Corinne tightened her grasp on the wheel as Mark, oblivious of her sidewise study, lurched for it.

“Watch it.”

Corinne corrected her steering before she struck a small stone fence marking off the yard of one of the last houses before the road curved into the main one leading to the hacienda.

Keep your eye on the road, stupid.

She faked a yawn. “Sorry. Highway hypnosis.”

“You mean dirt-lane daze, don't you?”

Corinne laughed, a little too hard maybe, but it felt good to release all the tension from Primitivo's little spook session. Her composure regained, at least outwardly, she rested against the headrest, which was far more comfortable now that one side wasn't squished by Primitivo's hand.

“So what're we going to do with the witchy stuff?” Mark asked.

“Use the candles as needed for lighting.”

“Or for romance?”

“As needed for
lighting,
” she reiterated.

Romance, candles, fingers, sandy hair
all spun whirligig-style around reason.

“And if I have to cook one night, we can use the copal to cover the smell of burned food.”

“But you cook a mean hot dog.”

Father Menasco had said the same thing, but his voice didn't have a velvet undertone that skimmed over her senses, rustling them into an unjustified anticipation. She wasn't going to be one of Mark Madison's passing fancies.

No sooner had Corinne's mind settled than this morning's conversation with Doña Violeta tipped it the other way. What happened to her resolution to think the best of Mark, rather than the worst?

Corinne pulled up to the backyard entrance under the jacaranda tree that shaded it. Not one to play games, she cut to the chase. “You're not hitting on me, are you?”

Shoving the car into park, she cut the engine, but her ears still rang with its roar. Or was that her pulse?

Mark threw up his hands. “Wouldn't think of it . . .
much
.”

She fumbled with the keys as she pulled them from the ignition, and they dropped to the floor. “Oh, good.”

Avoiding the stare she felt zeroing in on her, she got out of the car and felt around the carpet in the dark for the keys, lest he see through her fluster to her inner senses, straining like a pup on a leash toward the prospects of that one little word . . .
much
. Latching onto her purse, she picked it up from the wrong end, only to have it spill its contents.

“It might help if you turn on the switch.” Mark was behind her now, leaning through the open door to slide the switch on for the overhead lights. “There they are.”

Corinne could have sworn she'd run her hand over that spot a dozen times. “I don't know why I'm such a ditz tonight.” Shoving the runaway keys into her purse, along with the papers that had spilled from it, she straightened.

“Maybe you've been witched . . . in a good way,” he added hastily.

No, there was nothing good about the breath that caught in her throat as Mark circled her waist to draw her out of the way to shut the door. The lights went out, and gradually the ethereal glow of the moon on the landscape regained its prominence.

Somewhere in the distance a night bird called. Or was that the sigh she could no longer hold as he corralled her against the side of the vehicle?

“Sleepy?”

Corinne shook her head. “N-no, are you nuts?” She should have lied, but that wasn't right either.

Still without so much as a touch, he planted a hand on either side of her, allowing an age-old magic called animal attraction to do its thing. “Did you see that fiesta moon?” He pressed his forehead to hers.

What moon? She'd nearly run off the road looking at him. And if she raised her gaze to seek it out through the tree branches overhead, their lips might touch, and that was the last thing she wanted . . . wasn't it?

“You won't”—more ground rules—“kiss me if I look?”

“Can't answer that on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. But if I did, would it be so bad?”

She really couldn't see the eyes peering just beneath that sun-bleached brow of his, but boy, she could feel them—beating down her defenses and inviting the adventurous woman within to come out and play in the moonlight.

Forgetting she had her purse in her hand, Corinne wiped her palms on her hips. It thudded near her feet, keys jingling.

“O . . . oh—”

Her groan was cut off by Mark's lips planted firmly on her own.

It was magic. It had to be, because she fully intended to grab her purse and run, not put her arms around his neck. The last thing he needed was the encouragement of delirious fingers straining that glorious hair instead of St. Matthew's gnats.

“That wasn't too bad, was it?”

But did she want to let the proverbial camel's head past her defensive tent? Her voice was no more than a squeak. “No, it was good . . . very good. But I'm not sure this is—”

“What is that scent?” he interrupted, his cheek brushing past her face with its past–five o'clock shadow as he sniffed her neck. “It's so familiar.”

“It . . . it's orange blossom.” She wasn't about to tell him he recognized it from his pet pig. “The orchard in the back was full of them when you first came.”

He sniffed again, nuzzling beneath her ear.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” she blurted out, shifting her shoulder to drive the nose away to a less distracting distance.

“And what's wrong with a moonlight kiss between two people who happen to be attracted to each other?”

What could she tell him? That he was a camel running over her tent?

She rallied. “But that's all it is.” And then shrank. “Isn't it? A kiss that fades in the sun?”

When her heart played, it was for keeps. That's why she had to be selective, not cave in at the first flare-up of butterflies.

“Enjoy the magic.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “And just to prove that this is something special, I'll do it again tomorrow, in the sun, Corina.”

Co-ree-na.
The way he said her name was as irresistible as the mouth that closed over her own. “Cori—”

A sharp scream pierced the still of the night, skewering Corinne's heart in midbeat. While her passion-staggered senses scrambled to regroup, it sounded again, only then breaking the invisible bond that held her in Mark's arms. If she could trust her ears, it had come from the house.

CHAPTER 19

Mark struggled to return to reality as Corinne turned with a gasp toward the house. “Soledad!”

The housekeeper burst from the back door, voluminous nightgown hiked to her knees, and dashed out into the yard, shrieking in surround sound. She nearly bowled Mark over when he attempted to stop her.

“Whoa, Soledad. What is it?”

“No, no, no, no . . .”At close proximity, her continuous hysteria was ear-splitting.

“Un fantasma,”
she sobbed, struggling to pull away.

“A ghost?” Corinne exclaimed, putting an arm around the trembling woman. “It's okay, Soledad. Mark and I are here.”

Still gulping for breath, the housekeeper looked from Mark to Corinne and back again, as if realizing for the first time who they were. Her chin quivered as she tried to speak. “I s-saw her with m-my own eyes. Sh-she is in the ballroom with our T-Toto, even as we speak.”