Lan Ark in the Spring: The Pan De Sal Girl

By H. Valencia

Lan Ark in the Spring: The pan de sal Girl is a crime-thriller, written by the author H. Valencia. The conservative town of Lan Ark was the last place one would expect a fifteen year old, from the old part of town, to be murdered. When a group of her classmates are arrested, the District Attorneys office as well as the general public are all but convinced of their guilt. In this twisting tale, Kyle Makoa, a middling attorney at a middling law firm, and his mysterious investigator Benjamin Serrano suspect that the authorities have made a mistake.
As the first day of the trial nears, the state of affairs is further complicated by a sequence of peculiar happenings. Within the next few weeks there is a precarious relationship between the defense attorney and Reena Escueta (the victims mother), an attack by a naughty ungoy, a hunger strike from within an all-female Juvenile Detention Center, a series of coded messages, a string of malevolent spells cast by practitioners of an ancient form of sorcery known as dark kulam, and more. In a town where very little is as it seems, will the truth of a young girls murder be revealed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490770741

H. Valencia

This is H. Valencia’s seventh novel and his first attempt at Fiction Romance. With each effort, he seems to be getting closer to mastery. Since graduating from SJSU he’s been a consistent contributor to the arts. As an author, he searches the world for “Art...with a conscience.”. He then applies it to his natural gifts as an insightful linguist.  With the world as his palette, the result is a relevant voice that knows few bounds.

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Copyright 2016 Howard Valencia.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN

: 978-1-4907-7075-8 (sc)

ISBN

: 978-1-4907-7074-1 (e)

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Trafford rev. 02/24/2016

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Contents

Chapter One Blood on the Cobblestone

Chapter Two Malice Aforethought

Chapter Three A Gentleman's Game

Chapter Four Boy Meets Girl

Chapter Five INMAT LIB

Chapter Six The Mangkukulam

Chapter Seven Crosstalk

Chapter Eight The Naughty Ungoy

Chapter Nine Merits and Demerits

Chapter Ten Benjamin Serrano

Chapter Eleven Cotton Candy and the Kiss of Death

Chapter Twelve Victim Impact Statement

Chapter Thirteen The pan de sal Girl

Chapter Fourteen The Chink in their Armor

Chapter Fifteen The Ice Cream Man

Chapter Sixteen Optimal Frustration

Chapter Seventeen The Observation Tower

For Gina

Chapter One

Blood on the Cobblestone

W hen Giselle Escueta went into her kitchen for breakfast -- on that early, weekday morning -- our story begins. There was nothing about the slowly, rising sun outside to suggest that a most foul and felonious event would soon be taking place in the otherwise quiet town of Lan Ark. The teenage girl dropped to one knee as she took a paper towel and cleaned up a bit of maple syrup. Meanwhile, her mother dusted off her wedding photo while quietly talking to a neighbor on the phone. The house Giselle was living in was also the house she was born in.

Giselle was in her sophomore year of high school. She was a soft-spoken fifteen year old but she carried herself with a quiet confidence. The girl had always managed to maintain above average grades; although, since transferring to St. Mary's High School her grades had taken a slight dip. Giselle was a petite, brunette who had nearly twice the energy as her mother, which came in very useful; as she spent so much of her non-school time on her feet; preparing pastries for their family business.

On the surface, she and her mother seemed at ease. To some, they were a guiding light in a town troubled by an unspoken division of social classes. But with bright light comes shadow. Their darkest was the death of Giselle's father, who made the ultimate sacrifice for his country. The girl didn't want to use their monthly Dependency and Indemnity Compensation to pay for her tuition at St. Mary's (because Giselle was a juvenile she was not eligible for the Military Dependents' Educational Assistance Program). For one thing, transferring meant being separated from all the friends Giselle grew up with. For another, it meant she would have to get acquainted with children from the new part of town, as it were.

Not for the first time, Giselle conveyed to her mother that the long commute to her new school had been taking a lot out of her; that she believed it put her at a disadvantage when compared to her classmates who had cars of their own or were being shuttled back-and-forth. At St. Mary's, the girl was being taught that there was a small group who were prosperous and a small group who were underprivileged but the largest group was somewhere in the middle. She was being taught that differences in social class either didn't exist, or somehow didn't matter, but that seemed strangely disconnected from what Giselle was experiencing, day to day.

Her mother hung up the telephone and tried, yet again, to explain: Surely, you can finish the school year at St. Mary's and by the summer we would have saved enough to purchase a certified used car. Obviously, our delivery van (which was a repurposed plumber's van) is less than ideal. At any rate, being accepted to St. Mary's is a great privilege. I appreciate that it's difficult for you but graduating from such a prestigious school will benefit you in the long run -- you'll see. Giselle's mother meant well but she couldn't have been more wrong.

The girl's mother adjusted -- then readjusted -- the photo of her and her late husband. Giselle's parents had eloped after about three years of dating. At the time, they didn't have any assistance in funding a proper ceremony. In addition, there were concerns about how much control they would have over the formal procedure: location, guest list, and such. The would-be bride wore a handmade dress, did her own hair and makeup, and brought flowers from her own garden.

On a splendid Lan Ark summer morning, she slipped a note under her roommate's door asking her to mind the cat and not reveal her secret. Giselle's parents met privately under a certain gazebo. Her father's friend was a freelance photographer; so he asked her to attend and serve also as their witness. The photographer took astounding pictures that would one day be shared with family and friends. Though initially surprised, neither of their families were offended by the elopement. In fact, they were impressed when the newlyweds explained how they arrived at such a huge decision. About two months after their secret marriage a celebration was held for both families.

As she was finishing her pancakes, Giselle shuddered to think of how her mother would react, if she shared her feelings about transferring from a public school to an all-girl private school. The girl missed the culture of her old school so much it was something akin to losing her father, all over again. She missed the leisurely four block walk, with its shortcut through the cemetery, her classes (though perhaps not Mr. Hammer, the physical education teacher), not having to wear a uniform, eating cheese bread in the quad, walking down the halls with friends from her own neighborhood, visiting the librarian Ms. Mills while she was doing yard duty, and especially Word Fest Month, the annual writing contest in which she had won two poetry awards: one for Army Daughter and the other for When God was a Duck.

Still mildly disappointed, Giselle drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. It was then, while she was lamenting her old schoolmates, when something out of the ordinary happened. Their trusted neighbor Ms. Meneses was in the driveway honking her horn. For a moment, the girl didn't fully believe it. She quickly cleared the table then looked outside. There was Ms. Meneses sitting in her car; talking to her mother.

Giselle slipped her school shoes on and joined the ladies outside. She looked up at the telephone lines where an old, pair of tennis shoes had been dangling. Although, the worn-out footwear had been hanging there, since she was six years old, Giselle had a feeling that one day she would look up and they would not be there. Well, giddy-up then, young lady, Ms. Meneses said heartily.

Giselle needed an extended moment to right herself. The effect of this simple gesture on the girl was mildly profound. She was a bit overcome with a mixed feeling of both gratitude and guilt. There she stood, still as a statue, with not so much as a quiver. In that moment, Giselle was more concerned about inconveniencing Ms. Meneses than anything else. Giselle stared from her smiling neighbor to her stoic mother, who was trying to fit a brown bag of baon into a pink backpack. Why didn't you tell me, Mama? Thank you, so much, the girl said turning misty eyes.

I know you think it's been more difficult for you than the other girls at this new school, her mother said tonelessly, but it is what it is.

As Ms. Meneses' car backed out of the driveway Giselle looked at her mother with a dash of puppy, several teaspoons of I'm sorry, a couple of ounces of I love you, one part adorable, a dash of delight, a pinch of enchantment, a bit of sass, a tablespoon of silliness, one part brilliant, and finally a dash of cute. Seeing her daughter go off to a better school than her own was beyond words. She looked at Giselle with a hidden sense of triumph.

It was on the way across town that Ms. Meneses and Giselle noticed the first sign of something ominous -- an arrangement of safety cones. City workers were making preparations for Lan Ark's annual Word Fest Month. For a few seconds, Ms. Meneses didn't know how to maneuver through the cones. Then she tilted her head to look around the car in front. There was a group of men, wearing bright-orange vests and hard hats, doing some type of road work. Ms. Meneses shook her head, and said irritably: Oh, no-no. Not now. Why on Monday morning? I can't believe this.

Giselle wasn't quite sure how to reply or if she should. Ever since her father was killed in action, everyone in her community had been treating Giselle like a porcelain doll. She had always been a bit shy --- a girl who would rather do crossword puzzles than gossip with friends. But being transferred to St. Mary's High School had turned her tendency for shyness into borderline anti-social behavior.

As Ms. Meneses drove towards the school she thought of nothing except all the data she was going to enter once she arrived at work. But about three blocks from the school, there were more of those safety cones. As they sat in traffic, Ms. Meneses couldn't help but notice the time. She turned to the girl and inquired: Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to walk the rest of the way?

Giselle had been staring absentmindedly out of the window. Not a problem, the girl quickly replied. Thank you, so much, for the ride, Ms. Meneses, and I'm truly sorry if I made you late to work.

Not at all, Ms. Meneses answered just as quickly. And I'll expect you to be prepared for me to pick you up the same time tomorrow morning.

Giselle watched as Ms. Meneses performed a clumsily executed and illegal U-Turn. When the car was out of view the girl put her hair up in a French Twist and headed to St. Mary's. She didn't seem to care that she was in the new part of town; where everything from her bronze-colored skin to her two year old, pink backpack were frowned upon. But she did seem to realize that an old man had been staring at her, from across the cobblestone street, because Giselle turned long enough to make awkward eye-contact. The nosy old man, who was out walking his poorly-trained, Labrador-Retriever, glared at her. She glared right back. As Giselle marched towards her school, she could feel the old man and his excited dog tracking her movements.

The rambunctious old man had never been the type to mind his own business. For whatever reason, something about Giselle offended him. He scoffed and had a notion to speak but wisely kept his thoughts to himself: Isn't it a pity? These days, their letting anyone into St. Mary's. Isn't it a shame? He was sluggish, rather large, and slightly clumsy. The old man was dressed in his usual attire: grey suit, a fedora, a blue scarf, and the most obnoxious tie. The old man had pizzazz -- an astronaut could conceivably see his necktie from outer-space. His brown eyes were large and expressive. The rather sever-looking old man's name was Mr. O'Shanter.

Farther down the street, Giselle was confronted by a group of girls. The one who seemed to be the leader of the group allowed herself a grin, and asked: Do you have a cigarette?

A cigarette? Giselle parroted. What?

Yes, that's what I said. The girl explained in condescendingly simple terms: As in a gesture of good faith between two people. The girl's six friends snickered.

No, I don't have a cigarette. I don't even smoke, Giselle replied coldly, as though she didn't think two Roman Catholic schoolgirls sharing a cigarette was at all a gesture of good faith.

Despite the fact that they were roughly the same age and had the same school crest on their sweaters, you couldn't find two young ladies who were less alike. The girl was tall and wore a lot of make-up and transition-lensed glasses, which came in handy because she was the eyes and ears, judge and jury of St. Mary's High School. Her name was Marian.

Young Marian was heiress to a grocery chain fortune. She was the great-granddaughter of the founder of the Lan Ark Tea Company. She and her new part of town friends were brought up to believe that people from the old part of town weren't good enough. They pitied and condescended to those like Giselle just because they were born into a family less well-off than their own.

Marian reached in her sweater pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She put one of them between her lips and lit it. The heiress calculated whether she'd offer a cigarette to Giselle. It was an important moment. If she let Giselle be Giselle there was no telling what she could've accomplished. Marian sized her up then decided against it. Instead she said, as casually as she could: So, you're the new girl. People are saying you're codes are unbreakable.

I just write poems, Giselle lied. She just wanted to get to school. I don't know anything about poem codes.

"I never said anything about poem codes, Marian pointed out. You're a crafty one, aren't you? Of course, you're not really a poet, are you? Before Giselle could reply, Marian added: You see, we've all been classically trained. Who trained you? Your uneducated papa?"

I'm willing to bet that I can write more sophisticated code than any of them, Giselle thought to herself. What do they know about it, anyway? Just because you can rhyme doesn't make you a poet.

Marian probed: Do you really believe you can communicate with your father? Another thing about the heiress was that she knew exactly which buttons to push. It came from a lifetime of talking down to everyone around her. You know, Marian said to test the new girl, I saw the footage of your papa....

My papa? This time she heard Marian mention her father. Giselle threw a sharp, demonic glance, as though hoping Marian was going to add something conciliatory. The heiress simply puffed on her menthol cigarette, so Giselle went on: How dare you mention my father? She cursed under her breath. You don't know the first thing about it.

Ninety-nine percent of the time notification of a soldier's death, to his primary and secondary next of kin, was made in person. In addition, those families were not notified in the middle of the night. How it was supposed to work was a member of the fallen soldier's unit along with a Casualty Assistance Officer would go -- in uniform -- to the home, to make the notification. This was not the way things went after Giselle's father's death. Nothing worked the way it was supposed to. Unfortunately, footage of him being decapitated, by enemy combatants, had been leaked to the public. By the time Giselle and her mother officially learned of their soldier's horrific and untimely public execution, the rumors proceeding it were well on their way to becoming urban legend.

"Listen little brujah..." Marian tried to add to her insult but her words were drowned by the laughter of her own sycophants.

"Little brujah?" repeated Giselle, sounding half-irate and half-insulted. She cursed again.

Marian had a history of aggression towards other girls at St. Mary's. She was impatient and didn't like to be showed up. If you're just going to repeat everything I say, the heiress threatened, "this whipping is going to take twice as long and, believe me, this is a whipping you're not going to enjoy."

One of Marian's friends addressed Mr. O'Shanter who had been watching and listening, to the entire episode, from a safe distance: Everything's okay, weird old man. Just go ahead and walk your retarded hyena... Marian's friend struggled to keep a straight face as her voice trailed off.

A cool breeze harassed the well-manicured hedges of Mr. O'Shanter's front lawn, which laid hushed and solemn under a clear, blue Lan Ark sky. It was the last place in the world one might expect to find the scene of a crime. The old man could only gaze open-mouthed as what was about to happen -- happened.

It began.

One of Marian's friends pushed Giselle. She stumbled backward. Giselle regained her footing but felt as if something was rooting her to the spot. She couldn't move a muscle. Giselle would have yelled at the girl but she couldn't make a sound.

Then, Mr. O'Shanter's Labrador-Retriever began to bark ferociously. Marian and her friends only laughed.

Feeling suddenly surged back into Giselle's body. Acting on survival mode, she sprang toward the girl who pushed her. Marian screamed get her and the next moment, Giselle felt her hair being pulled in more than one direction. "Get her. Hold the brujah up," shrieked Marian, again-and-again.

It took all six girl's to restrain Giselle who had defended herself valiantly. As they held Giselle's arms, Marian -- cigarette still intact -- drew her fist back. With a single straight-right hand she knocked Giselle out cold. It's too bad your mama doesn't know what kind of brujah you really are, Marian thought as one of the other girls opened the pink backpack and dumped its contents onto the street. They let go of Giselle and she dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Marian and her friends ran away like thieves in the night.

Mr. O'Shanter's heart sank, as he hollered: I don't believe this. What have you rascals done? You've killed her. She's not moving.

The heiress was breathing like a dragon. She slowed down; looked over her shoulder; then came to a complete stop. Her friends urged her to flee the scene but she had to know if the old man was telling the truth. Marian jogged back and stopped short. Mr. O'Shanter had to hold his Labrador-Retriever tightly; as it was pulling and snarling at her. She looked at Giselle, hardly daring to believe it. For the first time, a hint of fear came across Marian's face. Her mind raced: What have I done? I just wanted to teach the little brujah a lesson. I only hit her