I press the buzzer at the gate and announce myself. The iron bars slowly wheel open, and I hike up the driveway to an enormous Arts and Crafts home—sage green with cedar trim. The rich perfume from the rose gardens on either side of the driveway hits me like a punch to the face. The area around the house is clearly inspired by Japanese landscaping.
Leona is waiting for me on the porch and watches me trudge up the driveway. She’s tall and composed and looks as austere as she sounded on the phone. Her perfectly coifed hair bun matches her perfectly tailored tan suit.
She furrows her brow as I approach. “Darcy Caine?”
I know what she sees—a little grungy girl with a heavy jacket and lesbian boots. I’m not the private detective she was expecting. She’s also not what I was expecting. My impression over the phone was that she was a maid, but she’s clearly more a majordomo… or majordoma… or whatever the female equivalent is.
However, there is one thing that strikes me about her—she’s white. Carmen Viramontes, immigrant from Mexico and undocumented resident, has a white housekeeper. That is a fantastic reversal of fortune.
I extend my hand in greeting. “Yes. Leona? Nice to meet you.”
Leona gives me a firm handshake. When most people first meet me, they do a double take when they see my eyes. Not Leona. She has too much social decorum for that.
She escorts me inside, and I’m equally impressed by the interior. A dual staircase in the foyer greets visitors, the two sides winding their way up to a vast upper floor in perfect symmetry. Dark wainscoting is juxtaposed with clean white walls. Everything is meticulously placed and meant to amaze.
I’m guided through the drawing room—yeah, this place has a drawing room—past the dining room, and to the kitchen. The moment I step inside, I’m hit by the fragrance of smoke and spices. The kitchen is busy with prep work. One servant is cutting vegetables on large board while another is hand-mixing some sauce in a wood bowl. In the middle is a woman stirring a steaming skillet. She wears an apron over her white blouse, and from behind, I can’t help but notice her voluptuous figure.
“¡Váyanse!” Leona commands. The two other servants stop what they’re doing and quickly leave. Only Leona and the woman remain.
Leona offers me the beverage of my choice. I ask for English breakfast tea—“if it’s not too much trouble”—with milk. I try to gauge Leona’s reaction, and though she hides it, I suspect she’s mildly impressed with my choice.
As Leona prepares my tea, the woman at the stove turns to look at me. She’s beautiful. Though she must be in her late forties at least, her piercing eyes and long black hair make her appear much younger. Her hair reminds me of my own and gives me hope for keeping it long when I’m her age.
“Thank you for coming.” The woman walks toward me. This has to be Carmen. I extend my hand for a shake, but she greets me with a hug instead. “I’m so glad you could come. Please, sit.”
She has a thick Hispanic accent. English is clearly her second language, but she’s comfortable speaking it.
Carmen guides me to sit at a stool at the kitchen counter. “Are you hungry? I have so much food here. Do you like paella?”
Before I can answer, she’s pulled out a plate. She scoops up a generous serving of rice, shrimp, and sausage from the simmering pan. “It’s my personal recipe. Do you like spicy food? It’s not too spicy.”
As Carmen and Leona meet at the stove, there is a silent exchange between them. Carmen nods then returns to me with the plate. “I’m sorry. Cooking usually helps relax me, but ever since Elizabeth…” She trails off. “Please, I hope you enjoy.”
Leona returns with my tea then takes a seat at a stool in the corner. She’s not going to leave us alone. Carmen stands silently waiting. I take a bite.
“How is it?” she asks.
“Delicious,” I say. And I’m not lying. It’s been too long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Neither Paige nor I can cook. Though my mother was never one to cook anything more exotic than spaghetti with jarred sauce, having something hot off the stove reminds me of home. “This is amazing! Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My mother,” Carmen says proudly. “She taught me everything I know.”
Still standing, Carmen asks me if I found the place all right. I tell her yes and compliment her on her home. It’s minor chitchat, but I can tell Carmen is comfortable and accustomed to playing the hostess. Her responses feel scripted as she describes the recent restoration of the house and the great effort that went into upgrading the design while remaining true to the original architect’s intentions.
She keeps staring at my eyes. She doesn’t mention them, and I’m sure Father Ramon told her to prepare herself. Still, to most people, they can be disconcerting.
While we talk and I eat, I observe Carmen’s body language. She remains standing, her hands folded neatly before her. Aside from her frantic cooking when I walked in, she’s a poised and warm hostess. Two minutes into conversation, she still hasn’t mentioned her daughter’s disappearance. Though this might make some people seem suspicious, it reminds me of my mother. She would always put on a front with people, never letting anyone know the real inner turmoil going on inside. I remember after the exorcism, when she would keep me locked inside during the day. She would tell people I was recovering from chicken pox. Or on a school trip. Or visiting family in Idaho. Anything but the unseemly truth.
I don’t find this front suspicious. I find it familiar. Meanwhile, Leona sits quietly. She offers nothing and waits patiently for the next directive from Carmen.
I’m the one who brings up Elizabeth. “How long has she been gone?” With one hand on my
