I smiled.Abuelooften referred to me as humble, but I didn’t know if it was meant as a compliment to me or more of a contrast to my mamá, who he considered to be the height of vanity. He always said I took after my father, not only in looks but also in temperament.
My dad had died when I was a toddler so I didn’t have any real memories of him, but I loved to hear stories about the handsome Alejandro Santos—half of which depicted a mischievous boy, the other a dutiful and devoted son—depending on which lessonAbuelowas trying to convey at the moment.
We fell into the familiar routine of me rolling out tortillas whileAbuelocooked them on the stove. We would have worked in comfortable silence, but the stoolAbuelitaused to stand on to reach the top cupboards slid across the floor and nudged me gently.Abuelitawanted to know more.
“He took me on a date to a taco truck. Well, I don’t know if it was really a date, we just sort of spontaneously got food together, but we talked about music and, I don’t know. I really like him.”
Abuelofrowned. “Mija, he’s a rockstar. Have a good time but don’t let your heart get involved. You can’t get invested in this boy.”
“No, of course not. I’m just enjoying my time with him until this concert.”
A wooden spoon nudged Abuelo’s elbow and he picked it up and stirred the enchilada sauce. “What I want to know is how did thisEstrella del popget granted the honor of singing withmiReinita?”
He handed me the wooden spoon and gestured to the simmering sauce. I traded him spaces and we pivoted to new jobs in our assembly line, me filling the tortillas and passing them to him to roll up and place in a bright yellow ceramic dish.
“Oh. Well, that’s the sad part. Paolo Mariano, the man who was supposed to sing with the orchestra for Christmas, was killed two days ago. I was the one to find the body.”
“¡Ay, nanita!That must have been terrible for you to see. Were you two close?”
“No, I didn’t know him, but it was quite a shock. The worst part is that there are only a few people who could have done it, and all of them are musicians in the orchestra.”
“Then you can’t go back there.”Abuelowas looking at me with his stubborn face, eyebrows drawn and all his smile lines tilted downward.
“That’s what my mother said.” My nerves flared up again at the reminder that we had to solve the murder soon, otherwise she’d cancel the pops concert.
Abuelobristled, hating to agree with my mother on anything. He’d never forgiven her for reverting back to her maiden name, de Bourgh, after my father’s death, or for changing my name, too.
“Abuelo, you know everyone in town. Do you know anything about Cecelia Wentworth?”
“Wentworth? Is she unmarked?”
“No, she’s a witch.”
“Oh, yes, the Wentworths, I know her grandmother. Their coven is pretty elitist and snotty if you ask me. I’m not aware of any suspicious behavior, though, not like the Bennet witches. They keep getting themselves into trouble with their potions.”
It was true, the Bennets had landed themselves in the news a few times recently.
“How about James Yoon?”
Abuelofrowned. “The Yoon boy, he’s the one who was sledding where he shouldn’t have been and took a string of barbed wire to the neck,”Abuelosaid.
I shivered. “That sounds awful. I didn’t know that was how he’d gotten hurt.”
“It was terrible. He was only fourteen. But his mother is the president of the children’s hospital and he received excellent care.”
“Good. One more question. Do you know anything about Walter Bramwell?”
“Bramwell. His father owns the bank, no?”
“That’s right.”
“That boy used to give his parents grief, I’m glad he’s settled down a bit. Mr. Bramwell told me his son finally beat the other harpist for a solo in this next concert.”
It was true, Lillian was much better than him and always performed the solos, but this time Walter had gotten the part. “Do you think his father bribed Fred?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Bramwell to try.”
My stomach soured at the idea of Fred caving to bribery. “I don’t think Fred would accept it. And I definitely don’t think he killed Paolo.”
