He shook his head.  “Not much.  I haven’t spent a great deal of time in Latin America.”  He knew plenty, of course, but he preferred to hear her explanation.

“It’s not usually celebrated until November second, but the art center hosts a family fair on Halloween so parents have an option other than trick-or-treating for the kids.”  Beatrice smiled at a pair of small children in skeleton costumes with flowers in their hair as they rushed past on the way to the carnival games.

He observed their small, retreating forms.  “It certainly seems popular.”

“It is.  It used to be just Mexican families, but now a lot of people like the tradition.”

“And the ofrendas?”

Beatrice smiled.  “Just little offerings for the dead.  Things they liked during their life, you know?”

They walked inside the small building to see a makeshift altar set up and decorated with marigolds, crosses, and cheerful skeletons.  Small candles flickered among them.  Sugar skulls were mixed with small toys and placed in front of children’s pictures; bottles of tequila, mugs of chocolate, and small plates of food were propped in front of the pictures of adults.

The small room was decorated elaborately, and the walls were lined with pieces of art celebrating the holiday.  The flickering lights of saint candles lit the room as they sputtered in their brightly painted votives, and he could smell incense burning.

“The art is a mix of professional and student,” Beatrice murmured, withdrawing two framed photographs from the messenger bag that hung on her arm, along with a small bottle of expensive tequila.

Isadora had left them to chat with some women at the end of the altar but soon walked back to Beatrice with a smile.

“Las photos, Beatrice?”

“Si, abuelita,” she said, and handed Isadora the two small frames.  They walked to the end of the altar where a few other families were setting up pictures and ofrendas.

Isadora placed the two pictures on the altar and touched their frames.  Giovanni spied an older man who must have been the grandfather in one picture.  The younger man in the other photograph so closely resembled Beatrice, he had little doubt it was her father.  Stephen De Novo stared out of the photograph with the same dark eyes that the young woman had.

Giovanni wondered whether Stephen’s eyes had changed color when he turned, as sometimes happened.  Oddly enough, he found himself hoping they hadn’t.

He tried to examine Beatrice’s expression as she unwrapped the tamales and placed them on small plates in front of the two pictures, but her dark hair curtained her face and obscured her features.  She placed the bottle of tequila between the two pictures, tilting them as if they could keep each other company on the crowded altar.

The women stepped back to examine the effect, whispering to each other in Spanish but smiling and laughing as well.  He cocked his head and looked around the room.

Though it was filled with symbols and depictions of the dead, there was no fear and very little sorrow.  It was unusual to find such celebration in the name of loss, and he found himself touched by the demeanor of the partygoers.

Beatrice was smiling when she turned, and he saw Isadora wander toward a group of older women, nodding at him as she walked away.

“Do you want to walk outside?  There’s some music playing,” she asked.  “I imagine she’ll chat with her buddies for a while, then come join us.  I have to get out of the incense.”  She waved her hand in front of her nose and laughed.

He had hardly noticed the heavy smell until she mentioned it.  He was so accustomed to filtering out the various and sundry smells of life around him that he did it automatically.  He realized he probably hadn’t been breathing at all in the close environment of the crowded room.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the doors.  He placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her through the people streaming into the building.  When they exited, he stepped away, suddenly aware of her body from the press of the crowd.

“Was that your father and grandfather?”

She nodded.  “My grandparents raised me after my father was killed.  We all lived together anyway.  My mom’s MIA.  Dad worked a lot and traveled, so my grandparents took care of me.”

“When did your grandfather pass away?” he asked, careful to keep up the ruse of an unknowing companion.

“Two years ago.”  She smiled wistfully.  “He had heart problems.”

“What happened to your father?”  He paused for effect.  “Unless that’s too personal, of course.  I don’t mean to intrude.”

They lingered in front of a guitarist who was playing a children’s song for a small group.  Beatrice shook her head, frowning a little.

“It’s fine,” she said quietly.  “Random violence happens everywhere, I guess, even picturesque Italian cities.  He was in Florence for a lecture series and was robbed.  His car was taken and he was killed.  I’m sure they didn’t want him to identify them.  And he would have.  He had an almost photographic memory.”

Yes, I imagine it’s even better now.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Beatrice.”

She turned to him, amusement evident in her face.  “Why do you insist on using my name like that?”

He stepped closer.  “Like what?”