Love, Art, and Murder – Mystery Romance

“Then direct me toward the bar.”

“Let’s go to my office.” He guided me upstairs and toward the east wing, one of the few places I hadn’t seen when one of the servants carried my bags to my room and gave me a short tour.

The person who decorated the castle did so with vibrant earthy tones. Most of the rooms were filled with grassy greens, light coffee browns, clay reds, sandy shades, and flaming oranges. There was also a strong Cuban influence—captivating paintings draped the walls depicting men pounding hour glass drums as curvy women danced in brightly colored gowns. Others portrayed people eating exotic foods among bustling cafes where women of many shades sat as the center of attention and men surrounded them strumming a guitar or handing them roses.

“All of these works are really romantic,” I said.

“We’re Cuban.”

I snorted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Romance runs through our blood.” He paused at walnut double doors and opened them. My guards remained in the hallway. Alvarez gestured to a dark brown leather couch along the opposite wall and went over to a bar in the corner. “What would you like to drink? Wine, something mixed, or really strong?”

“I’m usually a white wine drinker, but I think the night calls for something strong, just not too much for a light-weight like me.”

His space represented my idea of him—striking, yet a controlled quiet with a secret edge. Rich walnut wood dominated the room. A tan color coated the walls. Thick, beige carpet covered the floors. Heaps of papers stacked on his desk, but not in a clutter. They all had their place, their own organized category to rest in. Unlike the other rooms we’d passed, there were no paintings in here, just pictures of his family, but none of himself. In fact, there were tons of framed pictures on shelves or at the edge of his desk with a young Hex and less wrinkled grandma, not one of him.

Where are all the pictures of him? Does he not like taking them?

The only thing in the room that seemed out of place was the stack of new, bright orange candles resting in the center of his desk.

“I’ll make you one of my specialties.” He pulled out two short glasses. “When I was in the navy I would make this drink and some of my buddies called it Al’s W.H.L.”

“What does that mean?”

“What happened last night? After someone drinks it they always asked everyone the next day what happened.”

A happy giggle fled from my lips. It felt so good to just lean into the smooth leather of his couch and truly be taken away by something as simple as a funny story. “Well, I would like a double W.H.L. and should I ask you what is in it?”

“I’m sorry, but only I know the true ingredients of W.H.L. I promised myself I will die with that secret.” He kept his back to me as he picked up many different bottles and poured the contents into two glasses.

“So serious.” I grinned. “Since you won’t tell me what’s in this mind erasing drink, maybe you can return to your earlier theory about romance running through your blood.”

“All Cuban men,” he corrected.

“And what about the Cuban women?”

“I don’t know. I’m a man and can only tell you about my experiences.”

“And apparently you’re full of romance.”

“It’s how I was born. It’s how all of our men are born.” He carried a glass to me full of ice cubes and dark liquid. “My grandpa told me that Cuban men are born with an extra heart, one to live with and the other to give to the special lady in their life. But until we find the special one, we’re to fill that extra heart with love, encouragement, compassion, and all the things our special lady may need. We’re to spend our lives filling it, in anticipation for that day.”

I took the glass from him, but was suspicious about taking a sip. “And where is your extra heart?”

“Right here.” He touched his chest. “It’s practically bursting at the seam.”

“Why haven’t you given it away to anybody?”

“I’ve been putting off looking for her.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re good looking. You’ve never been married or anything?”

He paused for a few seconds. “Well. . . I was married for a short time, but it didn’t go well. She was. . . mentally unstable.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence settled between us. “What happened?”

“We separated, in a way. We’re no longer together and legally divorced, but I still take care of her when I can.”

“And you haven’t fallen in love again?”

“No. Hex and my grandma keep me busy. I’m hoping that after this collection comes out at the end of the summer, things will die down and I’ll have the time to hire more assistants.”

“And then you’ll have time to search for that someone to give your extra heart to, right?”