Page 2 of The Wolfing Hour
“My life has been long and storied. I’d hire a ghostwriter to write my biography, but no one would believe it.”
“Do it anyway. Write it as fiction. We’ll know the truth.”
“Sometimes I think the most interesting part of my life started when I became friends with you, Betty Lennox. Maybe I’ll have someone write our story one of these days.”
I drove past a small date farm and turned off the paved road when I reached a group of mismatched mailboxes. The Cervantes’s house was a small box of a place, single story. From the outside, it looked about fifteen hundred square feet total. It was freshly painted, and the tiny yard was xeriscaped with colorful gravel and cactuses. Mosaic tortoises, hares, Gila monsters, and saguaros were tucked in among the cactuses.
Ida snapped some photos. “I need one of these for my yard. Where do you suppose she bought them?”
“She makes them,” a crisp voice responded from behind the front door screen. “You can buy one from her later. It’s nearly midnight.”
Maria Cervantes was a delicately boned elderly woman with dyed black hair and eyes that seared you like a slab of prime rib on a hot skillet when she was annoyed. Which was pretty much all the time. She was a porcupine shifter, and I hated to give heed to stereotypes, but the woman was prickly.
Ida, who favored Helen Mirren in appearance and confidence, stuck her hands on her hips and glared at the other woman. “Maria, we’re here, aren’t we? Doing this job pro bono, too. So, maybe show a little gratitude.”
“Thank you for coming.” She flung open the screen door. “Now get in here and deal with this thing.”
Cecil didn’t like Sra. Cervantes and refused to acknowledge the woman. He’d decided to ride on the back of my neck, behind my hair, so he didn’t have to deal with her. Fennel didn’t likeher either, but he adored her fluffy ragdoll kitten Petra so he put up with her. Ida was already on edge and wasn’t putting up with anyone or anything tonight.
Before she could make an even bigger scene, I took the lead. “Hola, Señora. We come in peace. Take us to your mirror.”
My little joke went over like a lead balloon.
The señora’s mouth tightened. She jabbed her finger at my neck. “Don’t let that travieso near my car. If he vandalizes it again, I’m going to sue.”
Cecil made a clicking sound in response. It was more fear than anger, but there was some of both.
“They were dandelions,” she grumbled. “Weeds. I don’t know why he went so crazy about my throwing them out.”
“My partner is a changed gnome. He apologizes for slashing your tires,” I lied smoothly, “and pledges to be more understanding in the future.”
“Huh. I don’t believe that for a minute.”
Cecil whispered a stream of angry snick-chitters directly into my ear.
“Don’t know why you’re mad at her. You should embrace the title of troublemaker,” I whispered back. “You definitely live up to it.”
The interior of the house was small and tidy and even more colorful. It was as if the painter had taken the brightest, most vibrant Talavera tile they could find, extracted the colors, and splashed them on the wall. A mural depicting desert flora and fauna in saturated shades of orange, blue, yellow, and purple covered the largest wall in the living room.
“This place is fabulous,” Ida said.
I ran my finger over a mosaic light switch but didn’t turn on the lights. There was already an oil lamp burning in the room. “It’s an art piece.”
“Of course it is. Maria Elena is an artist.” The señora said this combatively, as if she expected us to argue with her.
“Gracias, tía,” a high, melodious voice called out.
We met the owner of the voice and her daughter in the kitchen. The woman appeared to be around my age and was dressed in faded jeans and an off-the-shoulder, embroidered Puebla blouse in bright pink. Her daughter wore pajama bottoms and a concert T-shirt. I didn’t recognize the band, but they gave off a heavy metal vibe.
All the house lights were off, but the room was lit by seven jar candles. It gave the room a cozy, welcoming atmosphere.
Maria Elena poured coffee into five clay jarrito mugs. They looked familiar.
“It’s you. You made my birthday mug,” I said.
“Yes. My brother and me. We own the business together.” Maria Elena smiled. “I remember when your mother came in. She was so excited to design it for you. I was sorry to hear about your house fire.”
A trailer fire, not a house fire, but it amounted to the same thing. I’d lost everything when my stalker cousin burned down my home. Everything material, that is. I still had the important things.
