Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (22 page)

Just then, red splattered across his face. For a horrible moment I thought he'd been shot. I tensed, ready to spring across the table and throw Celia to the ground.

My daughter looked up and said in a deadpan voice, “Ooops. Sorry dude, guess I squeezed this pastry bag too hard. My bad.”

Bright red icing oozed from the bag in her hand. Broomer wiped a hand across his face, smearing the icing. It clung to his wispy hair and stained his tan jacket all the way down to his pants. “Stupid kid! Watch what you're doing,” he fumed, and stomped off toward the museum.

As he disappeared, I caught Celia's eye and the faintest hint of a conspiratorial smile.

 

Chapter 26

C
ass declared our lunch venue perfect. “Lovely,” she said as I relocked the front door of Tres Amigas.

It was lovely. Rays of sunlight glowed across the Saltillo tile floor and the air smelled intriguingly of baked goods.

Cass chose the bench seat by the fireplace and removed her leather boots. Stretching out her socked feet, she said, “I love it in here when no one's around.”

I did too, although I also loved to see the restaurant bustling with satisfied eaters. “We didn't escape bones,” I said, glancing up at the colorful body parts strung from the ceiling.

“That's okay,” Cass said. “You can't avoid them this time of year. It's still awfully relaxing here.”

I agreed. Only one thing had me concerned. Addie, or rather her unexpected presence at the closed restaurant. I'd heard her singing when we reached the porch and had called loudly to alert her to our arrival. After bouncing out to greet us, she insisted that we both sit. Now she hovered by our table. “Cheers, me loves, what'll it be? Scones and tea and clotted cream? The house ploughman?” She adjusted her beehive wig and patted down her frilly apron featuring Union Jacks, corgis, and the Queen. As far as I knew—­and I should know since I was a co-­chef, the second
amiga
—­the café didn't serve scones or clotted cream unless you counted sour cream. We could, I supposed, manage a cheese and pickle sandwich to approximate a ploughman, but the pickle would be a dill spear or a jalapeño.

When I'd suggested Tres Amigas, I'd promised Cass there would be leftover green chile stew. That's what I wanted, and I wanted it extra spicy to burn away the bad taste of Laurence Broomer. I hadn't expected Addie to be here offering up British treats.

“A scone and tea sounds wonderful,” Cass said, ignoring my under-­the-­table kicks.

“I'm going to heat us some green chile stew,” I said, and then registered the disappointment on Addie's face. “Plus a scone with the works for dessert,” I added with forced enthusiasm.

“Smashing!” Addie exclaimed. “I'll get the stew for you, dearie, and the scone. This is my first batch of scones ever, don't you know? Miss Flori left me with some recipes to practice. You'll be like my . . . mmm . . . what's an English version of a guinea pig?”

“Hedgehog?” Cass said helpfully.

“Right-­o! Hedgehogs!” Addie skipped off to the kitchen in a swirl of red, white, and royals.

Cass smiled. “I'm with Flori on this one. Farfetched dreams need a little support. Look at me. My mom could have considered me a budding arsonist when I asked for a torch one Christmas. Instead, she got me a tank of butane and soldering lessons.”

“I'm all for dreams,” I assured her, grateful that Celia painted mopey fairies and wasn't requesting vats of flammable gas. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “It's Addie's baking skills you have to worry about.” The scent of charred fruit wafted from the kitchen. Pans crashed. A few minutes later Addie emerged, carrying a steaming bowl of green chile and a plate of smoking scones.

“Nice and well-­done,” she declared. “Like we like 'em in Brighton.” With a chipper “Ta” and “Cheers,” she flounced back to the other room.

Cass gamely picked at the top, less-­burned portion of her scone, slathering it with butter and what appeared to be deflated whipped cream or watery sour cream. “It's not the worst,” she said, generously, “but what's this English dream of hers, again? It's not cooking, is it?”

I was pleased with my spicy stew, even if it was microwaved to molten on the outside and chilly in the middle. “Singing,” I said, to which Cass mouthed
Thank goodness.

“Not so fast,” I cautioned. “She went down to Albuquerque recently and saw an English tea/dance theater act. She wants to do dance, song, and food performance. Flori, of course, thinks it's a grand idea.”

Cass chuckled. “I think it's grand too, although not with these scones.” She grabbed a spoon from another table and stole a bite of my chile stew.

She made happy sounds and was even more delighted when I told her about Victor's new will. “Good. Setting things in order, your neighbor said? Surely he cut out that awful Jay-­Jay. I can see how he might have felt guilty after their divorce, but he must have seen how she exploited artists.”

Cass was apparently so happy that she could stomach Addie's cooking. She polished off the scone she'd begun, all except the black bottom.

“Does it put Jay-­Jay lower or higher on our list, though?” I asked. I'd been pondering this and couldn't decide. Flori said that Jay-­Jay was hurting for money. Maybe she remembered the will and decided to call it in early. On the other hand, would she go as far as murder? And wouldn't she check to make sure Victor hadn't disinherited her?

Cass took some time to ponder these questions. “She's ruthless and slimy, but undercutting art deals are a long way from cold-­blooded murder. And it seems like she and Victor were civil after the divorce. They must have been, right? I mean, who goes to the trouble of making a new will to include his ex?”

That bothered me too. Not all divorced ­couples were like me and Manny, I told myself. Some ex-­spouses stayed friends. I thought about what Flori said about Victor feeling guilty. What was that about? Something personal? Something criminal? Perhaps that was why he needed Jake's legal help. I asked Cass, who didn't have an answer. She did, however, have a suspect higher than Jay-­Jay on her list.

“I still like Broomer for it,” she said, bravely helping herself to another scone.

Bile rose in my throat. Broomer was slimy, that was for sure, and he had a motive, although more against Gabe than Victor. Maybe he got the brothers mixed up. Or maybe I had it all mixed up. Tops's jumbled words kept rolling through my head. Out loud, I tried to recall what he'd said.

“Back up,” Cass said midway through my recitation. “He said ‘golden lady'?”

“Golden someone. Lady, I think, but he could have said woman.”

“Oh, well there you have it. Who were we just talking about who has a tacky gold wardrobe?”

“Of course! Jay-­Jay.”

“Exactly,” Cass said. “You weren't here years ago when she was first starting out. She had a gallery downtown and hokey TV commercials in which she'd wear all gold pantsuits. I think she may have called herself the ‘gold lady' with the ‘golden touch,' but I've tried to block those out of my memory.” Cass took a big bite of scone and chewed resolutely.

Addie had arrived with a tray of cups and a teapot. Momentarily, she dropped her English accent and became local-­girl Adelina again. “I know who you're talking about. I saw her this morning. She looks the same as ever.” Addie scowled. Then she put back on her British accent and patted her bouffant. “Horrid hair. A real cow, if you don't mind me saying.”

“Where'd you see her?” Cass asked. If I knew Cass, she was asking to avoid crossing paths with Jay-­Jay again.

“Somewhere where she shouldn't be,” Addie said. “Down at the arts center. Victor's center, you know? I stopped by to pick up me wee cousin, and there she was, acting like she owned the place. She was kicking the kids and Victor's workers out.” Addie set the tea down hard. Liquid the color of watered-­down coffee sloshed out, soaking a scone. She didn't seem to notice. Her face was turning the color of her cherry-­red lipstick. “She was yelling at one of the staff members, saying that she owned the building and would sell it if she wanted to. That can't be, can it? She
can't
shut down the arts center!”

The fire alarm chirped in the kitchen, and Addie rushed off. Cass and I groaned.

“It's okay, there's the new will,” I said, feeling not at all okay.

Cass shook her head. “If she gets her hands on that building, she'll have a fortune in real estate.”

“And a motive,” I said. “A big one.”

Cass insisted on driving, brushing off my protests that the Railyard District was only a few blocks away.

“I
can
walk,” I said, feeling slightly guilty yet also pleased. I had the seat reclined and a bag of ice cubes wrapped around my ankle. Forced relaxation was just what I needed.

“Nonsense,” Cass said. “You should stay off that ankle. Anyway, we need the car to make a quick escape from Jay-­Jay if necessary.”

From my prone position I watched a moving picture of puffy clouds and adobe stovepipes set against a shockingly blue New Mexico sky. It was nice. I may have even dozed off.

“Here we are,” Cass said. I sat up to a view of the Railyard, a hip part of town with industrial lofts and sleek art galleries. The Farmer's Market building was next door, and I yearned to go there instead. How nice it would be to shop for fresh cheese or winter squashes instead of tracking down Jay-­Jay.

“Doesn't look like much, does it?” Cass said. We stood by the tracks across from Victor's warehouse building, waiting for the Rail Runner to pass. The roadrunner-­emblazoned commuter train blew its whistle as it chugged off toward Albuquerque.

Victor's warehouse resembled a giant tin can cut in half, from its shape to the corrugated metal exterior. However, the land alone had to be worth a fortune. Cass led the way to a red door, not stopping to knock.

Inside, the tin can was a jewel, as fanciful as Victor's home. Canvas hung from the walls, painted in murals ranging in styles from urban graffiti to old Spanish primitive. To my surprise, one featured morose fairies, Celia's signature subject. The loss to her and all the kids Victor helped stabbed at my heart. So did the thought of Jay-­Jay selling this wonderful space.

“We're closed!” The snippy voice came from behind a paneled wall.

Beside me, Cass bristled. “It's her,” she hissed. “The nerve of that woman!”

I'm not good with conflict, although I keep finding myself in the midst of it. I gripped Cass's elbow, hoping to calm her down. “We're just here to get clues,” I said.

After a moment Cass sighed. “You're right. We'll trip her up with kindness.”

“Jay-­Jay,” she trilled. “Is that you? It's Cass and Rita.”

I spotted the yellow hair first, then an unnaturally orange furry boot. “Cass Sathers!” The full gold-­glittery form of Jay-­Jay emerged and she trotted over to greet us. “You're just the woman I wanted to see, Cass. Oh, and Victor's neighbor. I was hoping to find you!”

I bet she was, hoping that I'd let her in Victor's place. As she air-­kissed Cass, I slipped around to peek at the other side of the panel. Papers covered the floor and spewed from file folders.

“Don't mind the mess. I'm trying to organize Victor's files. What a dear but scattered man he was.” She took me by the elbow and pulled me back into the main room.

“Are you looking for something in particular in the files?” Cass asked, her tone one of complete innocence. I envied her skill at sounding so calm.

Jay-­Jay hesitated. “Oh, you know,” she said. When Cass and I didn't say anything, she continued. “Getting his paperwork sorted out, that's all. When I take over this place, I'll need things in order.”

“So you can sell?” Cass asked. This time her voice had a hard edge. She stared down Jay-­Jay, who didn't blink.

“Yes, possibly. I can't very well make any money from a nonprofit can I?”

Anger burbled up inside me, erupting as a jumble of words. “The kids. Look at these paintings. How can you take away their art center? You can't. You won't. You won't inherit this building.”

Cass backed me up. “Exactly. We know that you heard about Victor's new will. Until that's found and probated, you're trespassing. We'll call the police if you don't leave right now.”

“And a lawyer. We'll call Victor's lawyer.” I was thinking of Jake and how nice it would be for him to come to the rescue. I imagined him hauling Jay-­Jay off to prison, like the cowboy lawman hero of old Westerns.

Jay-­Jay shook her yellow-­haired head as if disappointed in us. “Why, I already spoke to Victor's lawyer. He's the one who gave me the key to this place.”

“What?” Cass and I said in unison.

Jay-­Jay walked to a table covered in little kids' paintings, the kind featuring trees and stick figures and giant suns. She ran her hand over a stick family. “Roy Hernandez,” she said. “He's been Victor's lawyer since I don't know when. He has Victor's will on file too. The will that leaves this all to me. He's going to file it for me tomorrow and then, as you say, we'll sort this all out.”

I had to practically pull Cass out the door. She wanted to drag Jay-­Jay with us.

“We can't,” I said to her as the red door clicked, locking behind us. Cass turned to glare at it. I tried to reason with her. I grabbed her fist before she could pound on it. “What can we do? Jay-­Jay says that the lawyer gave her the key and permission.”

“I know what
you
can do,” Cass said. “Chummy up to Jake. We need legal help. Jay-­Jay might be mean and hurting for cash, but she has influence around here. If she gets that will approved, this center and Victor's home are goners.”

For once I didn't chide her for encouraging me to call Jake. The trouble was, without the new will, I wasn't sure how he could help.