Last seen in Havana

Teresa Dovalpage, 1966-

Book - 2024

" In 2019, newly widowed baker Mercedes Spivey flies from Miami to her native Cuba to care after her ailing paternal grandmother. Mercedes's life has been shaped by loss, beginning with the mysterious unsolved disappearance of her mother when Mercedes was a little girl. Returning to Cuba revives Mercedes's hopes of finding her mother as she attempts to piece together the few scraps of information she has. Could her mother still be alive? Thirty-three years earlier, an American college student with endless political optimism falls deliriously in love with a handsome Cuban soldier while on a spontaneous visit to the island. She decides to stay permanently, but soon discovers that nothing is as it seems in Havana. The two women&...#039;s stories proceed in parallel as Mercedes gets closer to discovering the truth about her mother, uncovering shocking family secrets in the process . . "--

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Subjects
Genres
Detective and mystery fiction
Novels
Published
New York, NY : Soho Crime 2024.
Language
English
Main Author
Teresa Dovalpage, 1966- (author)
Physical Description
343 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9781641295390
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

In the follow-up to the delightfully creepy Death under the Perseids (2021), Dovalpage offers readers a terrific domestic suspense novel, the fourth in the Havana Mystery series. The plot motor is a good one: Cuban-born U.S. resident Mercedes visits Havana to care for her sick grandmother and solve the mystery of her mother's disappearance when Mercedes was very young. As far as she knows, her father, Joaquin, died an honorable death in the war with Angola. But once she starts investigating, she learns that her father supposedly died in combat in 1991, and the Angola war ended in 1988. The mystery deepens as Mercedes goes about everyday life: dinner, shopping, family gatherings, picking out clothes, seeing friends, domestic squabbles, caring for children, domestic dissatisfaction. Mercedes' story is told in parallel with that of a young woman visiting Havana and falling in love three decades earlier. Recommend this to fans of Mary Kubica and Kristin Kisska. All can enjoy the fine writing, along with finally learning what happened to Mercedes' parents.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Mercedes Spivey is haunted by images of her long-departed mother, Tania, in this bighearted entry in Dovalpage's Havana Series (after Death Under the Perseids). As a child in her native Cuba, Mercedes felt abandoned by Tania, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances when Mercedes was very young. A short time later, her father was deployed to Angola to fight in that country's civil war and killed, leaving Mercedes to be raised by her paternal grandmother. Now living in Miami, Mercedes returns to Havana to care for her grandmother in the crumbling villa where her family once lived. The return to Cuba revives Mercedes's interest in resolving her mother's disappearance, and as she follows the little evidence available to her, she begins to wonder if her mom might still be alive. Told in chapters that alternate between Mercedes's perspective in the present day and Tania's in the early 1980s, the novel adroitly juxtaposes Mercedes's unwavering devotion to finding the truth with Tania's slow slide from idealism to disillusionment as Castro's socialist regime falls short of its promises. Armchair travelers will savor Dovalpage's detailed depiction of Cuba, and the heartbreaking ending will stay with readers long after they turn the last page. Dovalpage delivers the goods. (Feb.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

In this fourth installment in her "Havana Mysteries" series (following Death Under the Perseids), Dovalpage presents a sensitively drawn story about one woman's unrelenting longing for her lost mother and search for answers about her past. Cuban-born Mercedes Spivey, now living in Miami, returns to Cuba to care for her ailing grandmother. There, she rediscovers the art deco home where she grew up. This once grand mansion was much neglected over the years, but the antiques and portraits of unknown family members ignite her curiosity. Mercedes decides to investigate what happened to her mother, Sarah, who disappeared when Mercedes was a child. Sarah was a beautiful American college student who, after falling in love with a Cuban revolutionary soldier, stayed in Havana, gave birth to Mercedes, and disappeared just as she was settling into married life. Narrator Cynthia Farrell provides a well-paced, lively performance, capturing Mercedes's desire to learn more about her mother and, in a parallel storyline, Sarah's excitement at her newfound life on the island. VERDICT Relationship fiction wrapped in a gentle mystery. This atmospheric series entry is recommended for fans of Leah Franqui's After the Hurricane.--Sunghae Ress

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

A novel told in alternating narratives of one woman searching for an explanation for her mother's disappearance and another adjusting to life in 1980s Cuba. Mercedes Spivey, a professional baker who's recently been widowed, flies from Miami to Cuba in 2019 to take care of her ailing grandmother. Mamina has been the primary parental figure in Mercedes' life ever since her American mother, whose name she doesn't know, disappeared when she was a toddler and her Cuban father, Joaquín Montero, died in combat in Angola. Mercedes is determined to make sure that Mamina's in the best health she can be and that their family's beautiful but fragile Art Deco home, Villa Santa Marta, can make it through hurricane season. Interspersed with Mercedes' story are chapters set in the 1980s that follow a free-spirited woman named Sarah as she leaves San Diego for an impulsive trip to Cuba in an attempt to get away from her parents, who try to control her every move. Falling in love with Cuban soldier Joaquín Montero convinces her to stay in Havana and make the island her own. As Mercedes begins sorting through childhood memories with Mamina, Sarah makes a home with Joaquín, all the while learning about Cuban culture and customs, from the language to the rations. Unspooling limited information from Mamina, Mercedes continues to wonder if it's worth searching for her mother, or if the woman's long absence means that she's dead. Interest in the past supersedes interest in the present until the ending inevitably wraps things up the only way possible. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter One January 29th, 1986 Dear Rob, Yesterday, I had the privilege of meeting Fidel. He visited the army unit where Joaquín works and went around inspecting the headquarters, mingling with everybody and shaking hands. Yes, El Comandante is so close to his people! And he had minimal security. A Barbados delegation had come with him, and I was asked to be their interpreter. A great honor indeed, but I got nervous and fumbled my words so many times that Fidel ended up talking to them directly. (His English is much better than my Spanish.) He was very gracious about it. Today's paper ran a photo of the visit, which I'm enclosing. You'll see me close to El Caballo. "The Horse" is one of many nicknames people use for Fidel, some more respectful than others. The long-legged blonde crossed the street toward a house with the name villa santa marta displayed in wrought-iron letters over the gate. Her chin-length bob framed a slightly square pretty face. She wore blue jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt. Two men who lingered outside the grocery store broke off a discussion of the Industriales team batting average to observe her. Three women interrupted their dissection of a friend's divorce to watch her as well. All eyes followed the blonde as she walked through Villa Santa Marta's front yard and until the house's heavy door closed behind her. "Who's that chick?" asked the oldest woman, her nose high in the air like a hound picking up a fresh scent. "First time I've seen her." "Joaquín's new girlfriend," another woman answered officiously. "She's been living here for a week." "Eh! What about Berta?" "That's over, chica . But this one . . . she doesn't look Cuban, does she?" "She looks Russian." "That would be right down Joaquín's alley," a guy spoke up. Everyone nodded. Inside the house, the blonde stood under a blue pendant lamp in the middle of a huge living room. The faded grandeur of the place still impressed her as it had the first day. She approached an upright piano and played the first chords of "London Bridge." Though the piano needed tuning, it had a rich, warm sound. There was a blue vase on top, next to the portrait of a dark-haired woman with a pearl necklace. The frame, heavy and ornate, looked like tarnished silver. The wall behind the piano was covered in paintings. The landscapes of marinas and countryside scenes didn't impress the blonde, but she examined the portraits trying to discover a resemblance between their faces and Joaquín's. If there was any, it eluded her. Through the picture window, she saw people waiting in line across the street--the same people who had stared at her when she passed them. Her new neighbors. In due time she would join them at the grocery store queue, and they would get to know her. She smiled and two dimples appeared on her cheeks. How fast things had moved! Less than a month ago she had been a guest at Hotel Colina in El Vedado, thinking of the handsome lieutenant who had swept her off her feet after the Triumph of the Revolution parade on January first, but not believing that their relationship (if you could call it a relationship) had any future. After all, she was an American--a "Yankee," as they said here--who had come to Havana for eight days. But the days had turned into weeks. And the weeks would turn, hopefully, into months, and the months into years . . . She remembered the first time she had locked eyes with Joaquín. He was still wearing his full-dress uniform and approached her as she wandered near Revolution Square, having just watched the parade. He had approached her and said something she didn't understand--her Spanish wasn't that good, and there was a lot of noise with so many people around. But she instinctively knew it was something sweet and smiled at him. Later, he had offered her a ride in his jeep. When they said goodbye at the Hotel Colina entrance, he had kissed her hand. He had returned the following day with a big bouquet of roses and invited her to Coppelia, the ice cream parlor that was only a few blocks away. "If you could just stay . . ." he had said over a chocolate sundae, taking her hands in his. At first it sounded absurd, but as days passed, she realized she was falling in love with him. As for staying, why not? She could start a new life here, seeing that she wasn't too happy with the one she had led at home. When the day she was supposed to leave came, she simply tore up the return ticket. Joaquín had taken her to his house and promised to move heaven and earth so they could be together. Oh, Rob, the friend who had invited her to Cuba, had been so horrified! He was part of a San Diego-based anti-embargo group called Compañeros de Cuba and had always wanted to visit the island. When he found out that it was possible to fly from Tijuana and skip the State Department's lengthy permit process to travel to a communist country, he planned to spend the winter break in Havana. "They don't celebrate Christmas, so it'll be a different kind of holiday," he had said. She had decided to go with him on a whim, and look where it had taken her! But when she announced her intention to stay, Rob had been beside himself: This is crazy! I can't go back home without you. What are your parents going to say? She shrugged. Some people simply didn't get it. And Rob wasn't in love, was he? Of course he wouldn't understand, but he had sworn eternal silence. She knew that he would never betray her. She had promised him to write every week. That morning she had started a letter about her amazing meeting with Castro. Well, the meeting hadn't turned out too amazing after all. Actually, it had been quite embarrassing. But still. Rob would appreciate the story. She walked through the dining room and stopped to peer inside the china cabinet. It wasn't locked, but she didn't feel comfortable opening it. She admired from afar the porcelain dishes with golden rims and the baccarat wine glasses. A fifteen-branch chandelier with a solid bronze ring hung from a detailed, decorated chain. Tarnished as it was, the lamp looked stunning and cast a soft glow over a dovetail oak table long enough to sit twelve people. The matching chairs had curved legs. Despite the beautiful furniture, the room wasn't inviting. It was too big and had no natural light. The phone rang. It took her a while to locate it on a marble-top credenza that occupied a corner of the living room. The phone had a rotary dial. On the gray circle in the middle, a number, now illegible, had been scrawled in black ink. She lifted the heavy handset. "Hello." "How are you doing, Sarita?" It was comforting to hear Joaquín's voice, though she winced at being called Sarita. The ending - ita meant "little," which didn't fit her, at almost six feet tall. She preferred when he used Spanish pet names like mi amor and corazón . "Fine." She thought of saying she had been snooping around but didn't. "Are you coming home soon?" "No, I'm sorry. I have a meeting at six but will get there before seven, I promise. I'll take the jeep. Is everything okay?" "Oh, yes. I took a nice walk around the neighborhood." "That's great. See you soon, mi amor . I just didn't want you to get concerned." They said their goodbyes, and Sarah studied the handset before putting it back in the cradle. Everything in the house was ancient, likely made before she was born, but she found a special kind of beauty in those items from bygone times. The kitchen, located at the other end of the building, was the most hospitable area. Big, like all the other rooms, but not oppressively so. It was painted white, farmhouse style, with granite countertops. The breakfast nook was furnished with a solid-wood scallop-edged square table, also white with a hint of gray, and four chairs with chunky legs. A green capsule Frigidaire purred in a corner. The countertops were granite, not Formica like in her parents' house. The place reminded Sarah of her grandmother Pauline's kitchen and made her feel at ease. Had her grandma been alive, Sarah would have told her about her Cuban adventure. Instinctively, she touched the locket with Pauline's picture that hung from a chain around her neck. Her grandma would have approved. Her parents, sadly, wouldn't. How mad they would be if they found out . . . They had monitored her constantly during the last few months, and she was now worried about them. Or rather, worried about them worrying about her. She had given them so much trouble lately, more so after her involvement with the Sanctuary movement. But it was trouble for a good cause, she reminded herself, even if they didn't see it that way. She drank a glass of water and ate the leftovers of the previous night's supper--rice, beans and fried tilapia. A salad would have been a good addition, but she didn't know where to find vegetables, which weren't sold at the bodega across the street. Still hungry, she ate two slices of bread with butter. An old cuckoo clock read 3:55. Three more hours until Joaquín came back! Sarah looked for something to do, but she had cleaned the house the day before. Supper--rice and beans again--was ready on the stove. She would make two omelets later. She stepped out to the backyard. Villa Santa Marta (a fancy-schmancy name, she thought) was nothing if not massive. The backyard looked like a neighborhood park, with mango trees, a stone fountain crowned by a statue of the Greek goddess Athena and rustic benches scattered around. It didn't have any lights, though, which made it a scary place at night. Fortunately, a tall wrought-iron fence surrounded Villa Santa Marta, and Joaquín had assured her that Miramar was a safe neighborhood. Nearby was a smaller square building that was also part of the property. It stood like a lonely sentry between nothing and nowhere. Sarah walked under the trees, but soon felt tired and sleepy. She had been up since 6 a.m., when Joaquín had left for work. She returned to the house and crossed the somber dining room toward the marble staircase. Joaquín's family must have had a lot of money, she had assumed, but it felt intrusive to ask. She was halfway up the stairs when a current of cold air engulfed her. She tried to remember if she had left a window open on the second floor. Then her right foot slipped, her ankle twisted and she fell down as if someone had pushed her. Excerpted from Last Seen in Havana by Teresa Dovalpage All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.