She followed him down a hallway lined with photos of tropical beaches along with several framed documents. She scanned them quickly until she came to two diplomas from the Universidad de la Habana—a Ph.D. in psychology and a master’s in religious studies. Farther down the wall were commendations from international peer associations and a number of photos of people gathered for group shots. She passed the opened door of a sunny office with book-filled shelves and a desk with a large wicker chair pulled up in front. This man was a professional, not a witch doctor—a far more complex individual than she’d bargained for.
She joined him in a room with racks of apothecary jars and boxes she knew contained herbs; oils; powders; bat heads; quail heads; ashes; dried okra; Guinea, Chinese, and Indian pepper; charcoal; teeth from dogs, cats, and sharks; pieces of beehive; and all manner and forms of cotton. On a stainless-steel worktable were stone mortars and pestles for grinding and several Lucite containers holding small blue bottles with rubber stoppers. Beside the containers stood a large bottle packed with plants floating in a greenish liquid she knew was called Florida Water. Every santero keeps a bottle for general use in spells and to dab on his forehead and limbs in order to dispel headaches or any type of psychic attack.
Next to the Florida Water lay a stack of gray conjure bags with a crosshatch pattern. The sight of the bags snapped her back to reality. She walked over and picked one up.
“Are there other santeros in Memphis?” she asked.
“None that I know of. Why?”
“I’ve seen a bag like this recently.”
He glanced at her. “Where?”
“A man I met in passing had one.”
Ramos opened the door of a small refrigerator and withdrew a handful of green herbs, water dripping from their roots. “That’s a popular style of bag. It’s sold on a number of Internet sites. Can you tell me about the man?”
“He was an African-American gentleman in his eighties.”
“Why does this matter to you?”
“I wondered if you make ebbos and spells for people other than your godchildren. Like a special order.”
“I see.” He didn’t look at her. He shook the water from the roots.
Her questions were too direct. Now he was suspicious. She changed the subject.
“I couldn’t help noticing your doctorate from the University of Havana in the hallway.”
He smiled. Behind his quiet formality, Sergio Ramos was a handsome man. “You notice many things. You’re an inquisitive woman.”
“I met a lot of Cubans when I lived in Key West. They risked everything to leave that country.”
“So you’re wondering why I was there for my training.” He bagged the herbs in plastic and wrapped it with a strip of raffia.
“I grew up in Little Havana, Miami. I was quite the romantic back then. I decided to attend university in Cuba to return to my roots, as it is said. When I graduated, I established a clinical practice in Havana and began research into the integration of the psyche with religious beliefs. Following that path, I became a practicing santero. I’ve now limited my role to italero, which means I specialize in the divination of the cowrie shells. This practice falls more in line with my training as a psychologist.”
Frankie had learned from Amitee to trust santeros, that they function as moral authorities in their communities and as therapists by giving consultations using coconut shells or seashells to divine answers to life’s problems. Ramos’s background in psychology would make him highly effective in his practice as an italero. Or he could be a danger to the easily manipulated believers.
She saw him suppress a smile at what he must have thought was female curiosity.
“Shall I continue with my story?”
“No stone left unturned,” she said, trying for charming, but the comment came off as brittle.
“You’ve noticed my failing eyesight. It’s a genetic disorder that slowly damages the retina. I have no night vision and only a small amount of tunnel vision left. Two years ago I returned to the States to participate in a study offered in Memphis. My condition has stabilized. No more loss. I am very lucky. I miss Cuba, but this is my home now. I have an established clinical practice, and my work as a santero benefits the believers who live here.”
He clasped his hands in front of him and smiled. “Now. Shall we discuss the true purpose of your visit?”
His tone was kind, not at all confrontational. He simply knew she had an ulterior motive, and he wanted to be told what that was.
She’d prepared for this.
“I do have a problem,” she said quietly.
“A physical problem or a problem with your life?”
She cleared her throat. “Life.” She touched her bruised cheek. “Both I guess.” It was true. It was embarrassing; however, Ramos made a living by detecting the truth. He was more likely to respond to her if she was honest.
He picked up a small ceramic jar and held it flat on his palm for her to see. “Mystica mentioned the contusion. I took the liberty of making a plaster. I see the bone has been bruised. That is why the discoloration is taking so long to go away. The plaster will clear the discoloration and relieve the soreness. The ewe will work differently. It will dispel negative energies from your recent trauma. Boil the herbs in water and strain it. Soak in a tub of the mixture for three nights. Both remedies are meant to ease discomfort.”
His expression clouded as he put the herbs and the ceramic jar into a sack. Like Mystica, he must assume she had been a victim of abuse.
“You asked if I make ebbos for people other than my godchildren. I assume you want me to make them to help you.”
Ramos might be the only person in the city with the means and ability to make a death curse, but if she confronted him with what she knew, he would deny it. This wasn’t an interview. It was more of a negotiation.
“I’m interested in the types of ebbos you make,” she said. “I have questions.”
“May I suggest a few sessions of therapy? Just talking. Then we can work with the ebbos if you feel it’s necessary.”
Let a powerful santero pry into her life? No way, too risky. “How about a few questions now?”
He felt the face of his watch for the time. “My next client arrives very soon. I believe I have a card in my office. You may call if you wish to make an appointment.”
He ushered her into the hallway before going into his office. She waited, angry with herself for coming so close to getting the information and failing.
While he searched for the card, her gaze went to the series of photos she’d missed earlier, shots of people in groups, probably colleagues Ramos had met at conferences. It took a moment for one of the photos to register. It was an exterior shot of Robert House, the local center for homeless men and recovering addicts, a building she drove past every day. A group of about twenty men stood on the front steps. She spotted Sergio Ramos on the right. Little Man Lacy stood toward the back, towering over the rest. And there was Red Davis in the middle.
Adrenaline hit, followed by a chill. The conjure bag wasn’t a guaranteed connection to Ramos, but this photo proved he had contact with the victims.
She’d come here expecting to find a santero and possibly a scam artist. Sergio Ramos was more than that. She’d been impressed, intrigued. Now she was seeing him with different eyes. He could be the source of the curse. He could also be the person who had delivered it.
Ramos appeared beside her with a card. “This will put you in touch with the person who books my appointments.”
She took the card. “Thank you. I believe I’ll take you up on that offer.”