Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (15 page)

“What?” Cass demanded. She looked as horrified as I felt.

A smile brightened Jay-­Jay's face, which was suspiciously dry of tears. “Yes, I know, isn't that sweet? Most divorced ­couples would cut each other out, but Victor felt so bad that he wasn't there for me. He put me right back in his will after our separation. Of course his art was hardly known then. Such a precious legacy to leave me.”

A truck had set its sights on the parking space in which Cass still stood. The driver laid on the horn, covering Cass's exclamations of disbelief as she turned and stormed across the street, me following at her heels.

“That woman!” she exclaimed when we reached the doors of Double Take. “I can't believe it. I won't. Victor would never leave his art to such a scoundrel. He had to know her reputation. He, if anyone, would know her.”

I agreed. “I thought he'd leave everything to his nonprofit. That was the most important thing to him.”

Cass stomped off into the consignment store. “That ‘run-­down studio' she mentioned? I bet she means the warehouse where he ran his nonprofit art workshops. And he'd want his art donated to a museum,” she said, dodging a salesclerk. “Or if it was sold, with the profits going to the nonprofit. Never to Jay-­Jay. Never.” She turned and looked at me earnestly. “Right?”

I hoped she was right. “How long ago did they get divorced?” I asked when Cass came to a stop in the women's section.

She estimated a date decades ago, long before my time here.

“Then it's fine,” I said, trying to comfort us both. “Say Victor did feel bad for her immediately after the divorce. He's had years to reconsider and make a new will.”

“Yeah,” Cass said, sounding uncertain. “Yes,” she said after a moment, this time with more conviction. “You're absolutely right. Someone will have his new will or know where to find it.”

I agreed heartily. However, as I sorted through the dress racks, I couldn't help worrying. Flori said that Victor wrote everything down, but our friend wasn't the most organized person. Last month, for example, Victor had come to me, sheepish, saying he'd misplaced my rent check. Again. He'd speculated that he might have accidentally tossed it out with a pile of junk mail, or stuffed it in a filing box, or used it as sketch paper. What if no one could find his will? If Jake didn't call me, I was going to call him, not for a coffee date but for legal advice.

 

Chapter 17

Y
ou look awesome, Mom,” Celia said, painting a swirl of bright yellow down my chalky cheek.

I looked terrifying. And, I had to admit, I did look pretty darned awesome, thanks to my artistic daughter. A black line ran down my forehead to my collar bone. On one side I was normal me, makeup-­free except for a little mascara. On the other side I was death. Atop white face paint, a black circle cloaked my eye, ringed with a fringe of red. My cheek bore bright yellow swirls that twirled to meet the smiling black suture marks extending from my lip. A black circle representing the hollow of my skeleton non-­nose, and a fun half flower in black on my chin completed the look.

I rechecked myself in the full-­length mirror. My new black dress had a plunging neckline and fit like it had been made for me. Well, me about five pounds lighter. I gave thanks to the makers of Spanx and to the fashion gurus who had allowed ballet flats and tights to come back into fashion.

“The face paint's not too much?” I asked again.

“No, it's totally awesome.” Celia must have liked the design because she'd painted her face similarly. The lack of cat-­eye makeup lightened her look, and her attitude seemed bouncier too. Probably because I'd already relaxed her casita arrest. I hadn't totally folded. She'd wanted to go out with Sky and some other friends, including Gina, an idea I nixed. Then she suggested hanging out with Ariel, which I squelched. Manny would be working and I didn't want to leave her here alone. And I couldn't cancel on Cass. Deserting my party-­dreading friend would not be a good-­friend move.

“You
will
stay within sight of Flori and Bernard the whole time, you promise?” I confirmed for the third time.

“Yeah, Mom. I'm not going to ditch old ­people. Anyway, I texted Rosa and she's going too. We'll hang out.”

“Don't let Flori hear you call her old,” I said, giving my daughter a little hug. Sure, Flori could call herself old, but heaven forbid anyone else did. Her great-­granddaughter, Rosa, was about Celia's age, and I was happy that she'd be there. Rosa had inherited the good behavior of her grandmother, Linda, minus Linda's worries.

Celia turned her death profile to me and touched up her black lipstick. “Flori's the coolest.”

I thought that too and was grateful that she had invited Celia to accompany her and Bernard to the live music and dance event on the Plaza. I had a nagging suspicion, though. Was Flori up to something? She hadn't questioned me with her usual intensity when I returned to work with the black dress and told her that I had plans with Cass tonight. She hadn't demanded to know where we were going or if we were meeting hot men and how I intended to flirt with them. Did she have an ulterior motive?

“I mean it,” I reiterated to my daughter. “Don't let Flori out of your sight. I don't want her slipping off to snoop. She's very sneaky.”

This earned a snicker from Celia.

“And don't let her and Bernard make out behind the bandstand again either.”

Celia giggled like the little girl I remembered. “Don't worry, Mom, I'll watch 'em.”

Y
ou look fabulous,” Cass said when I picked her up in my old Subaru.

“It's all Celia's doing,” I said, feeling motherly pride. “You look stunning.” She did, despite her sour expression. White makeup covered her entire face, broken only by black curves forming skeletal cheeks, nostrils, and eyes. The white set off the paleness of her hair, which she wore down and straight.

“I'm fine,” she said, more to herself than me. “We go, we greet, then we get out before midnight.” She sighed and then added hopefully, “Unless you have to get home early to check on Celia. I'm happy to leave early.”

I had to disappoint Cass. “Celia's staying overnight at Flori's. It's part of her weekend work deal. Flori wants an early start tomorrow to get ready for her bread contest.”

“I bet you'll be glad when that stress is over,” Cass said.

Glad and sad. On the one hand, my thighs could use a reprieve from buttery sweet bread. On the other hand, I loved buttery sweet bread and could happily eat it year round. At least I had another sweet treat to look forward to. “After this, Flori's entering the
bizcochito
contests,” I told Cass. “I sure wish we had Victor's recipe.”

“Let's hope that Gloria's little helper Armida doesn't get her hands on it first.”

We headed into the darkness of Old Santa Fe Trail. The twisting road looks deceivingly rural, until you spot all the homes hidden in the junipers and the mansions perched on the hilltops.

“Dancing Eagle Way,” Cass said, snorting at the street name. “Should be close.” She squinted at her phone. I slowed to read a road sign. “Laughing Coyote.”

Cass snorted again. “Let's keep going out to Harry's Roadhouse. They have their fried chicken special this week.”

Now I groaned out of wistfulness. Harry's, a roadside diner on the outskirts of town, has some of the best fried chicken I've ever eaten. Crispy, juicy, peppery . . . my stomach rumbled.

“We're both on missions,” I reminded her and myself.

“More jewelry sales,” Cass sighed.

“And snooping.”

D
ancing Eagle Way was a small dirt path that I almost missed in the glare of oncoming headlights. In other parts of the country dirt roads and mansions don't go together. In Santa Fe unpaved lanes remain in some of the most desirable parts of town, prized as symbols of history and southwestern character.

“No wonder she drives that tank of an SUV,” Cass grumbled as the Subaru struggled across a dip the size of a gully.

We pulled up to a solid metal gate that opened automatically. A valet in a tuxedo and skeletal face and white gloves directed us to drive to a massive portico, where another skeleton waited to park my car.

“We should have brought your car,” I whispered to Cass, mortified that duct tape held up my sun visor and a hula-­skirted bobble-­head man danced on my dash. My car was underdressed.

Cass made me feel better by making her car seem worse. “My car's filled with flammable gas canisters and a jug of used etching chemicals. The valet would call in a Hazmat team and the DEA.”

I smiled apologetically to the valet and handed him a key chain laden with library and supermarket quick-­scan cards, the miniflashlight, and a trinket shaped like a Japanese tea kettle.

“Okay,” said Cass, her skeletal face grim. “Here we go. Let's have a code word in case of emergencies, like if either of us wants to leave early. How about the word we used for that potluck a while back? ‘Cupcake'?”

C
upcake
turned out to be a bad choice. Gloria, we quickly found out, was also known for her cupcakes. Cupcake towers the size of Christmas trees stood at either end of a great room that lived up to its name, from its floor-­to-­ceiling fireplace to its walls of windows. The room and cakes were impressive, but what entranced me was the kitchen beyond.

“Do you see that kitchen?” I marveled, before realizing that Cass was already being cheek-­kissed by the moving-­and-­shaking set, including the handsome knitter Salvatore. I left her to her mingling and made a beeline for the kitchen, which was straight out of the pages of a magazine. I caressed the soft soapstone countertops. I coveted the industrial stainless steel range with double ovens, a grill, and six burners, reminiscent of my French dream stove. I adored the backsplash of translucent green tiles, each the size of a Scrabble tile.

“You like it?”

My jumpiness again got the best of me. I jump/turned to see Gloria, a martini glass in one hand and a black and white cupcake in the other.

“It's fabulous,” I said, hoping to keep envy out of my voice.

“You're Cass's friend, the culinary expert?”

I nodded, surprised that she remembered me, in half skeleton attire no less. She was also in face paint, only hers covered her entire face and featured black swirls and red roses. It was much more flamboyant than my paint job, I noted with relief. According to my mother's code of manners, at costume parties, like dinner parties and weddings, one should never outdress the hostess.

“Here,” Gloria said, putting down her drink glass. Her voice slurred a little, making me suspect she'd prefortified herself for her own party. “You have to try my cupcakes. I am the former cupcake queen of Amarillo. Blue ribbons three years in a row.” She waved me toward a tray of cupcakes on the counter.

No one has to ask me to taste an award-­winning cupcake twice. I bit in, savoring rich chocolate ganache icing, a moist yet airy white cake, and the surprise delight of cherry filling.

“This is amazing! Did you use mascarpone in the cake?”

She raised her glass to me and gave me a Botox-­straight smile. “You're the first one to guess it straight off! Good girl! Now, y'all come with me and I'll introduce you around.”

I was reluctant to leave the kitchen. I yearned to drool over the espresso station and what appeared to be the thousand-­dollar Italian ice cream maker I'd ogled recently in
Food and Wine
. Most of all, I wanted to snoop for dough and evidence of Armida making it. Maybe she'd made the cupcakes too, although the integrity of Texan cupcake contests was none of my concern.

Gloria herded me back into the great room. “Here's someone y'all will adore!” she said, hands on my back, pushing me into a group of well-­dressed ghouls. “Fabulous foodies, meet Rita. She's a chef at . . . what restaurant did you say you worked at again, darling?”

“Ah . . .” I stalled for time, worried about Gloria's feelings toward Flori but also the daunting chef talent standing in front of me. There was a James Beard award winner, a guy with a Michelin star, and the owner/chef of one of my favorite restaurants. And those were only the ones I recognized in their makeup. Compared to them, I was a culinary ant.

Luckily, or maybe not so luckily for my undercover aspirations, a familiar voice answered for me.

“Rita dishes up the best chiles
rellenos
in town and the best cherry empanada I've ever tasted. And her
carne adovada
? Divine.”

The chefs turned to a dapper figure dressed in a chic black suit. His face might have been covered by a folk-­art skull mask, but I recognized the voice, not to mention the espresso locks, steely blue eyes, and shiny cowboy boots. Jake continued to sing my praises to the chefs. “Tres Amigas Café. I assume you've all been there? It's always been good, but it's better than ever now with Rita's touch.”

The makeup-­free side of my face surely burned bright red, especially when the James Beard winner deemed our red chile sauce “stunning” and our baked goods “divine.”

Gloria clasped her hands in pleasure. “I have a sense for the food stars, now don't I? I'll have to come try your chiles, that's for sure.” She slapped me on the back in a jovial linebacker sort of way. “I won't dare come by for a while, though. Your little friend Flori is my main competition in the death bread contest.” She turned to the chefs. “I'm sorry to say, she won't be getting the ribbon this year either. Y'all will be showing up and rooting for me, right?”