The Spanish Daughter(28)

“The beans dry here for three or four days if it’s sunny, a little longer if it’s cool.”

He strode up and down the shed with a rake to shuffle the beans from corner to corner. I may have to give this man a drink for him to start talking. As I stepped inside, I inhaled the beans and their scent made me falter. They brought back a memory—aboard the ship. It was the smell of the man who’d killed Cristóbal.

I held on to a wooden pole.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked me.

“Yes, yes. I was just thinking about the house we saw yesterday. The one that had been set on fire. You said that the son had survived. Did he work here?”

“Yes, why? Why are you so interested in him?”

I hesitated. “Well, I saw a man with a scar like the one you mentioned on the ship we took in Cuba.”

I examined his reaction. Martin’s jaw tightened. Had he sent him there to kill me?

“It must be a coincidence,” he said.

“Why? Is the man still here?”

“No, he left a while ago, but he wouldn’t have the means to go on a trip to Cuba. Or a purpose.”

No purpose? Ha! A crooked, evil one, thank you very much.

“Why did he leave the plantation?” I asked.

“I don’t know. After the accident, well, he and his mother moved to Vinces. We haven’t seen much of them since.”

“Is his mother still there?”

Martin shrugged. “I suppose.”

I wanted to know their names badly, but it would be too suspicious if I asked, wouldn’t it?

A clatter of hooves warned us that a horse was coming. I peeked outside the storehouse. A man in a white two-piece suit and a boater hat stopped by the entrance. Behind me, Martin groaned.

The man on the horse clapped.

“Martin Sabater! Come out so I can see you!”

“What the hell do you want?”

The dozen workers surrounding the area stopped whatever they were doing to watch.

The man on the horse flashed a piece of paper. “Do?a Angélica is suing me? She lent ears to her father’s nonsense?”

“I have nothing to do with this, Del Río. Talk to her!”

“Of course you have something to do with it. You run this damned plantation!”

“Do?a Angélica has never asked anyone’s permission to do anything. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Oh, shut up, Sabater.” He looked so arrogant with his chin slightly tilted up and his trim mustache. “If you don’t have any answers, then I shall go talk to her myself.”

He pulled on the reins and turned his palomino around.

“For Christ’s sake!” Martin darted to where his own horse was and got on top in one swift move.

If I had the smallest percentage of his skill with horses, I would’ve followed, intrigued as I was by his argument with this stranger, but I didn’t feel like breaking my neck this afternoon.

Instead, I meandered toward Pacha, dodging patches of manure and puddles of evening rain. I walked past a worker pushing a wagon—the one who looked like a caveman who had been removing beans from the cacao pods. They’d called him Don Pepe. I removed a few coins from my pocket and extended them to him.

“Who was that man on the horse?”

The man scratched his long beard, then took the money. “Fernando del Río. He owns the property next to this one.”

“He didn’t seem to get along with Don Martin.”

“Oh, no. They hate each other. Nobody here likes Don Fernando. They are always fighting over some land by the creek.”

“So, what is this about a lawsuit?”

Don Pepe shrugged and renewed his walk.

“Wait,” I said. “What’s the name of the family whose house got burned in the fire last year?”

“The foreman’s?”

I nodded.

The man tilted his hat back and scratched his thinning crown. I groaned, then removed more coins to pay him.

“His name was Pedro Duarte.”

“And the son’s name?”

“Franco.”

Franco Duarte. The name was foreign to me.

“And the mother?”

“Do?a Soledad. She’s the town’s curandera. Just ask anybody in Vinces and they’ll tell you how to find her.”

“One more thing,” I said.

The worker shot me another greedy look.

“How did the house burn?” I deposited more money on his callused palm.

“Nobody knows, but one thing is for sure, it wasn’t an accident.”

He picked up his wagon.

“Wait, why do you say that? How do you know?”

Don Pepe was about to say something else when another worker came near us.

“Good afternoon, se?or,” my informant told me, and dashed away.

*

That night, I woke up to a light tickle in my face. I rubbed my forehead, my eyes still shut, and felt something cold and smooth on my hand. I pushed it away and turned on the gas lantern on the bedside table. Holy Mother! There was a snake on my pillow! A real-life, long and curly snake with red, black, and white stripes.

And it had been slithering all over my face!

I covered my mouth to muffle a scream and jumped out of bed. How on earth had that thing found its way to my room and to my face? Had someone brought her? But how could that be when I lock my room every night?