Free The Poisoned Pawn by Peggy Blair Page B

a television, a wash basin, but little else. None of his other canvasses displayed the same frenetic strokes used in the painting in the gallery.
    “When did you paint that portrait of her?”
    “She was at a rhumba in Blind Alley in December. Around three weeks ago. She danced with fury, as if she were decades younger. She was screaming the whole time that Oya had taken over her body. I wanted to see if I could paint a woman who claimed to be possessed. It was as if Oya grabbed the brushes from my hand. I found myself throwing paint at the canvas, wildly, almost out of control. The face of the old woman formed on the canvas almost by itself, then her body. Let me tell you, it was a powerful experience.”
    Ramirez raised his eyebrows. “You said she ‘claimed’ she was possessed. You didn’t believe her?”
    “I paint; I try not to judge. I admit, at first I wasn’t sure she was really possessed or making it up. But when she finished dancing, I couldn’t help but notice there were veves on the stones beneath her feet.”
    The Santería believed that after possessing a human body, the orishas left symbolic paintings behind. Veves were portents of the future, tokens of thanks to the drummers for their skills. Ramirez was skeptical, having stopped more than one babalao at night with a small jar of paint concealed beneath his clothing.
    “It looked like a heart with a knife through it. It could have been a blob of red paint. I may have interpreted it artistically, fair enough. But then, the gods are not renowned for their artistic talents, are they? It’s difficult to manage a brush using someone else’s hands.”
    “Did you know her name?”
    “I heard someone in the crowd call out to Mamita Angela. That’s all I know. The painting is a good one, don’t you think? I thought it captured the spirit of the old woman perfectly. But I couldn’t keep it in the apartment.”
    “Because?” asked Ramirez.
    The artist shrugged. “In case I had captured Oya as well.”
    Ramirez’s cell phone rang as they walked back to his car. It was Detective Espinoza.
    “Listen, Inspector, I made some calls. One of the policemen who works on the Malecón investigated an old woman a few weeks ago. She fits the description of our victim. He received a complaint that she might be engaged in animal sacrifice; she was trying to find a live chicken. The police officer who responded couldn’t find any evidence to support a charge of animal cruelty.”
    That surprised Ramirez. Animal cruelty could mean anything in this country. Eating pork without a ration card was sufficient for an arrest. “And the woman’s name, Fernando?”
    “Angela Aranas. I have an address for you, too.”
    Ramirez wrote it down. It wasn’t far from where they were.
    “Excellent work. We’ll check it out before we head back to the station. I have a visiting detective with me, from the station in El Gabriel.” He clicked off his phone. “Luis Martez was right,” he said to Latapier. “Her name was Angela. Her last name was Aranas.”
    “That’s funny,” said Latapier. “My wife and I have picked out that name, Angela, if we have a girl. The baby’s due in a few months. And Aranas is my wife’s family name as well, so my daughter will keep it. My wife is Basque.”
    “Well, it’s a lovely name, Angela,” said Ramirez. “Congratulations. Your first?”
    “Yes,” the dark man smiled. “My wife is finding it difficult, what with all the food cravings. They’re so strong, her mother is convinced we will have a son.”
    “I can imagine,” Ramirez grinned. “I think we all have food cravings. I go to sleep some nights dreaming of chickens.”
    Ramirez’s stomach growled. He realized he hadn’t eaten allday. “We can stop at a vendor’s on the way back. Maybe grab a tortas de lechón. Although these days, a pork sandwich is all squeal, no pig.”
    “I should get back to El Gabriel soon. But I appreciate the offer. I’m just not that