Wesla Kerr
When Matty Lopez McGuire’s son, Miguel, is involved in a murder case, she knows she must help him. But he is secretive about his recent past (mid-1990s) with revolutionaries in Chiapas, Mexico. His attitude also alienates Matty from Ramon, the homicide detective she is dating. In Matty’s work as a housekeeper in a cul-de-sac in Costa Dorada, she interacts with her five clients:
The Chinese-American family is remodeling its home; Miguel, working in construction there when not in college, has argued with a fellow worker, African-American Jarod. When Jarod is killed, Miguel is the main suspect.
In the novelist’s household, Matty learns that teenage Laneesha has suspicious ties to Jarod. She also discovers that the boys in the neighborhood play secret, dangerous games.
The Latina lawyer client sets a positive example for Matty; a socialite client, a negative one.
Professor Dorn, father of one of the boys, may be a neo-Nazi.
While Matty works for these people, she studies at night school—she doesn’t want to be a housekeeper forever—and explores her Latina roots. Though resourceful at solving other people’s problems, she sometimes has trouble coping with her own. Occasionally her temper and defensiveness get in her way. Casting herself in the role of detective, Matty has developed the habit of snooping (as Ramon calls it) in her clients’ homes when she deems it necessary. In this way she discovers incriminating evidence that leads to the clearing of her son’s name. And though she is sure that computers hate her, as do the cats she is temporarily boarding, both these foes, ironically, help her solve the mystery and find the real culprit.
Romance ebbs and flows and finally blooms with Ramon, and Matty eventually discovers that her cul-de-sac is not a blind alley, but an opportunity.
Wesla Kerr, a long-time resident of Long Beach, finds inspiration for her writing in the vibrant multi-cultural life of southern California; her favorite character, Matty Lopez McGuire, is the heroine of a series of three mysteries set in fictional Costa Dorada. Several years in South America and a love of globe-trotting have also led Wesla to write several novels and stories rich in place-specific detail. She has had a wide variety of travel experiences—from an African safari, to a sojourn in a temple in Kyoto, to undergoing an appendectomy in Russia. Wesla has taught English composition and literature, English as a Second Language, and fashion design. Now widowed, she has three grown children and three growing grandchildren, and she has sponsored children in Greece, Italy, Indonesia, and Nicaragua. Her interests include gardening, playing the Paraguayan harp, involvement in environmental and social justice concerns, volunteering at the Museum of Latin American Art, ushering at concerts and plays, and taking classes at the nearby university. And like her Matty, she has worked as a housekeeper.
The loud sound had come from the back yard; Matty hurried there.
Mrs. Han stood in the middle of the new addition, holding her sweater against her mouth, stifling sobs. Eric Han had his arm around his mother’s shoulder. His wife, Helen, took the older woman’s hand. Ten-year-old Sarah held on to her older brother, Andrew. Standing across from them stood the next-door neighbors, the Dorns, father and son--and the other neighbors, Georgia and Laneesha and Tyrone. Even Linda and Jordan. And Nancy Townsend, leaning against the wall, her hand to her mouth.
And Miguel, his expression unreadable.
Three carpenters stood in a sort of outer circle, their hammers held loosely, like unsheathed swords. The scene prompted a veiled, fragmented memory in Matty’s mind. She forced herself to move forward, to see what was in the center of the grim ring of oddly silent viewers.
The still figure of a young man lay on his side upon the ground beneath a hole in the new sub-flooring. His tight jeans were split at the knees, and his calves sprawled in an unnatural position; one of his mahogany-colored, muscular arms was folded under his thick chest. A red stain ran down over the arm that was visible, and a hammer lay in that hand. A white hardhat, askew, nearly covered his face and neck, except for a fringe of kinky black hair over his forehead.
“Jarod!” Miguel called, and then a moment later jumped down into the hole and leaned over him, his hand pressing against the carotid artery. The red stain spread on Jarod’s arm and down into the soil as blood trickled from beneath his head. On the back of his white T-shirt, three small spots slowly grew, like a subtle flower print, from red to pink
