Free Bruja Brouhaha by Rochelle Staab Page B

disappeared toward Lucia’s giggles.
    I wavered, undecided whether to follow him or stop and chat with Cruz. Curiosity and concern for Lucia won. I set my purse and the cookies on the counter, smiling at the caregiver, who looked rather un-nurselike in her navy zip sweatshirt and jeans.
    “How is Lucia today?” I said.
    Cruz, eyes on the TV, tilted her head from side to side,
so-so
.
    “Did she calm down last night, or did Victor have to stay the night?”
    “Dr. Morales didn’t stay. He gave Lucia a pill, went over some papers with her, then got a phone call and left around seven.”
    Papers? Odd way to distract a grieving woman.
“Did he come back this morning?”
    “Not yet. Lucia’s better today. She decided to come down here after her nap.” Cruz cocked her head. “Are you and Nick related to her?”
    “No, but we’re very close. Paco and Lucia treated us like de facto grandchildren,” I said. “We think of each other as family.”
    She glanced over her shoulder at the curtain. “I don’t think you should stay too long. Lucia needs to go upstairs before she gets too tired.”
    “I’m impressed she came down here. I think this is the first time she opened the shop since . . . Well, since Saturday,” I said.
    “She came down to find Paco.” Cruz circled her finger at her temple.
    Was her unprofessional gesture supposed to be funny?
“Excuse me?”
    “I meant that Lucia was confused. I thought being down here would make her happy, not so mopey and depressed. Dr. Morales asked me to keep her busy. Working in the store is better than being cooped up in her apartment all day.”
    “Did any customers come in?”
    “No customers, no visitors, no phone calls,” Cruz said. “I don’t know how she’ll get by without customers or someone to help her in the back room. I didn’t take this job to work retail.”
    “If you’re worried about your pay, don’t be. I have plenty of money.” Lucia, wearing Paco’s long burgundy sweater over a striped housedress, came through the curtain with Nick. “I don’t want strangers working here, eavesdropping, and helping themselves to my merchandise.”
    Cruz put up her hands. “That’s not what I meant. I was explaining how I don’t have experience in a shop if a customer comes.”
    I hugged my elderly friend, picking up the scent of dark chocolate mixed with layers of patchouli and nutmeg—her own private blend of oils. “I brought you a present, Lucia.”
    She accepted the bag of cookies, opening it with the innocence of a child at Christmas. A smile as warm as sunshine broke over her face, and her eyes shone with delight. “Mexican wedding cakes? My favorite. Thank you, Teresa. You’re a sweet girl.”
    I swapped uneasy glances with Nick. “I’m Liz. Remember?”
    “Liz?” Lucia knitted her brows and searched my face. “Liz. Oh, Liz. I’m sorry. All the customers today confused me. So many faces and names to remember.”
    “You didn’t have customers, Lucia.” Cruz glanced at me and shrugged. “She gets mixed up. She called me Teresa, too, when she woke up this morning.”
    “I know who you are,” Lucia snapped. “I made a mistake. I’m old.”
    Cruz moved toward the curtained door. “I’ll go make some tea. You can take your afternoon medication with a cookie. Would you like that?”
    “Not too strong,” Lucia said after her. “And turn Lola back on.”
    “Lola?” I said.
    Nick leaned on the counter. “Lola Beltran was the most famous
ranchera
singer of all time. Lola was to
ranchera
what Madonna was to dance.”
    Lucia grabbed his arm, lowering her voice. “Cruz is horrible in the kitchen. Worse than Liz was.”
    “But you redeemed me, turned me into a world-class tamale cook,” I said.
    “You’re smart. You listen,” Lucia said. “Cruz burned Mrs. Pena’s casserole when she tried to heat it for lunch. I’m not going to cook for
her
.”
    “Do you want me to bring you dinner?” Nick said. “I will.”
    “You’re