The Spanish Daughter(31)

“The plant of happiness,” she said, pensive. She stood up and turned toward a shelf filled with jars. She gathered a bunch of herbs from one of the jars and wrapped them in a sheet of newspaper. “It’s called Hierba de San Juan. Make a tea with it and drink half a cup twice a day. Be careful with it because it’s potent and hard to find.” She set the package in front of me.

Oh, no, the visit was coming to an end.

I pointed at the boy in the altar. “Is that your son?”

“How do you know I have a son?”

“It was just a guess. He’s a handsome child.”

She glanced at the photograph. “He’s not a child anymore.”

This was my opportunity.

“Did . . . did something happen to him?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The altar.”

She hesitated. “He’s been missing for a few weeks, but the authorities aren’t helping me. Nobody here cares.”

“I understand you better than you think,” I said honestly.

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Then maybe you can help me,” she said, surprising me with the despair in her voice, with her sudden vulnerability. “You look like a refined man. You know how to talk to people with fancy words. And you look like you have money.”

“But how can I possibly help you?”

“The authorities won’t listen to me, they say my son must have moved somewhere else, they say he’s too old for them to be wasting their time on someone who doesn’t want to be found, but they’ll listen to you. I know my Franco didn’t move somewhere else. He left all his things here.” She pointed at a cot behind me and an ajar armoire filled with clothes. “I don’t have any money. I can’t pay anyone to find him. Look at where I live. After our house burned, I was left with nothing.” She shook her head. “All I know is that Franco wouldn’t have left without that woman.”

“What woman?” I asked, barely able to control the even tone in my voice.

“I don’t know who she is, but I know that she drove him crazy. She made him do things he wouldn’t have done otherwise.”

“What things?”

She avoided my gaze. “He stopped working, he was gone all the time, he hardly ate, and then, he left without saying where. I’m sure she put a spell on him. I tried to fight it, but nothing worked.”

“But if you never met her, how do you know there was a woman?”

“He told me about her. He said he loved her like no one else.”

“How do you know she didn’t leave with him?”

“He told me he would be back. He said he was going to do something for her and that he would return in a few days. But it’s been three weeks already.” She reached out for my hands. “Will you help me?”

I would’ve wanted to despise her like I did her son, but this woman seemed so fragile, so desperate. She clearly didn’t know the evil in her son’s heart. How could I not pity her? She’d lost everything, her husband, her house, and now her son. A part of me wanted to tell her the truth, but another part—the practical one—told me that this woman could be helpful in my investigation if I played along.

“I can try, but you have to be honest with me. What was he going to do for that woman and why?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“We need to find her. It’s the only way to find him.”

Do?a Soledad removed a saffron handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her tears with it. “I don’t know how. I’ve already looked through his things and there’s nothing.” She blew her nose. “I know he was a good boy. He was always so obedient.”

A good boy, all right.

“There are no letters?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he have confided in a friend? Told someone about his girl?”

“He didn’t have any friends.”

She sniffed.

If Franco loved this mysterious woman and would do anything to please her, would he also take her money to kill me? Or was there someone else involved in this plan?

I spoke again. “You said your house burned in a fire, right?”

She watched me warily. “Yes.”

“How did that happen?”

“What does the fire have to do with my son’s disappearance?”

“Maybe there’s a connection there. Tell me about it.”

She sat down again. This was so surreal, me talking to the mother of the man who had killed my Cristóbal.

“It was a windy afternoon. And so dry. It hadn’t rained in weeks. I’d gone to town to get rice and flour for my bread. Normally, my son would help me when I went to get provisions, but he’d said he had something important to do that afternoon. I assumed it had to do with work. When I saw the house in the distance, it was already in flames.

“It was surprisingly quiet and I wrongly assumed there was no one inside, so I just stood there, perplexed. I cried out for help, hoping some of the workers would hear me and come, but for a while nobody did.” Her eyes watered. “If only I hadn’t waited there like a ghost, things might have turned different. After a moment, I heard some coughing from inside, and Franco’s voice calling out for my husband. I remember standing there, wondering if I’d heard right. Why would Pedro be at home at that time of the day? He usually worked until six. And Franco had said he had something to do. When I was certain that it was Franco, I barged inside. There were flames all over the living room and the ceiling. I wrapped myself with the tablecloth and went upstairs, calling out Franco’s name.”