Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (8 page)

“My treat,” she said, encouragingly. “Drinks tonight at Small Plates? Their happy hour is super cheap and it'll do you good to get out.”

I loved Small Plates, a tapas bar tucked away in a courtyard off the beaten tourist path. I thought of my evening plans. Make that my nonplans, like sitting around an empty house flipping through cookbooks or mindless TV. Celia had called earlier, buoying my motherly hopes until she said that she'd stay a few more nights with her dad. I couldn't argue with that. To tell the truth, I wasn't eager to return to our place either.

“Okay,” I told Cass, “but I'm buying the first plate of croquettes.” I couldn't go to Small Plates without ordering the wonder that was cream, ham, and cheese, fried into crispy rounds.

Cass beamed. “Mmmm . . . then I'm getting the artichoke dip. Oh, or maybe that fabulous grilled Catalan sausage they do.”

“And wine,” I said, anticipating my post-­police mood. “Lots of wine.”

 

Chapter 8

I
suspected that something was up when I returned from a late lunch delivery to the courthouse and found Addie in the kitchen. Addie's presence itself wasn't unusual. Flori has a soft spot for the twenty-­something singer/waitress and lets her work flexible hours. I suspect that Flori is drawn to Addie's fanciful dreaming, namely that she's a New Mexican double of the British songstress Adele. Addie's real name is Adelina. Other ­people might brush that off as mere similarity. Not Addie, especially since there's more. She also shares a birthday with the Grammy-­winning Adele, as well as a love of belting out soul songs. To further reinforce her Adeleness, she has been working to acquire a British accent and a curvy figure. I can't decide which attempt is going worse. What I do know is that the world isn't fair when Addie can eat mounds of New Mexican delicacies and remain a stick-­skinny size four.

Addie stood by the stove munching on an entire head of
pan de muerto
. The first clue that something was amiss was that it was Friday, Addie has singing gigs on Friday evening and thus spends the daylight hours “lying in,” communing with her Adele collection, and pampering her vocal cords. Second, and more important, Addie's a champion waitress, a meticulous cleaner, and an all-­around nice person. But as a cook? She's mediocre at best. At worst, she's burned soup and set her Adele wig on fire. Flori, although certain that Addie's culinary skills will someday blossom, doesn't usually leave her unsupervised.

Now, Addie stood at the stove, her faux blond beehive wrapped in a Union Jack tea towel. She tentatively sprinkled red chile powder into a pot.

“More chile, Addie. Pour it in!” Flori's coaching was muffled by the turtleneck sweater stuck midway over her face. She tugged and rolled the fluffy mass down to neck level.

“Are you cold?” I asked, suspicious. The café felt like a summer afternoon in the desert, thanks to our ovens and the glowing embers in the little dining room fireplace.

“I'm not cold now, but did you hear? It might snow.” She reached for a scarf.

“Right horrid weather, this,” Addie agreed in full faux British. “Reminds me of Liverpool at Christmastime.”

As far as I knew, Addie had never ventured farther east than Texas, and that was only because she took a wrong turn in Los Cruces. “Right . . .” I said, hoping that I was misinterpreting the situation. I made like nothing was up. “Okay, thanks for covering for me, Addie. 'Bye you two. I'm off to meet with Officer Bunny.”

Flori stepped between me and the back door. “Not so fast, Rita. I'm coming with you.” She grabbed a bulging gym bag emblazoned with the words
EXTREME SPORT
. “Addie, throw more chile powder in and stir that
adovada
once in a while. Tell customers they'll have to eat what's already fixed. Don't try to make anything new unless Juan can stay and cook it.”

My suspicions were confirmed. “Flori,” I said, hedging for polite ways to resist. “It's really sweet of you, but you don't have to come along. There might be a late lunch rush.”

It wasn't that I didn't want Flori to come along. Okay, part of me wanted her to stay put. The last time we went to a police interview together, Flori kicked a state trooper in the shin. New Mexico state troopers do not take well to shin kicking. He almost arrested us both. In fact, he probably would have if Flori hadn't reminded him that he was her first cousin's nephew-­in-­law and shouldn't arrest his elders.

“No worries, me loves,” Addie chirped. “Juan and I will hold down ye old tea house.”

Juan, a master of perfectly fried eggs and made-­to-­order steaks, stood in front of his griddle clutching two spatulas and looking worried. I felt for him. It wouldn't be pretty alone in the kitchen with Addie.

Flori only saw the positive in this case. “Good girl,” she said to Addie. “See, Rita, Addie and Juan are here, and we won't get many customers in this weather. Now let me get some gloves and tuck this tape recorder into my sweater. They wouldn't dare frisk an old lady.”

“Don't forget your Wellies!” Addie warbled. “Ta!”

I gave in to the inevitable and told Flori I'd wait outside.

She joined me a few minutes later wearing a red wool coat with wooden buttons and a peaked hood, like an elderly Little Red Riding Hood on her way to bully the police. “Now stop giving me that sour face, Rita,” she chided. “I thought you needed a friend along.”

My irritation melted to guilt and gratitude. I did need a friend and would certainly welcome her company if it turned out that Manny was there. He would put on his charm and behave relatively well in the presence of others. There was another benefit too: if Flori was with me, she wouldn't be breaking into the crime scene.

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

“You're welcome. Now where's your car?”

The parking lot stood empty except for a bumbling tumbleweed. I felt like a fool. I'd been so distracted I hadn't considered the logistics of actually getting to the meeting. “Celia,” I explained to Flori. “She left the car parked over on Hillside last night. She was going to pick it up this morning and drive to school.” And then straight to her dad's place, or so she promised. I would have to resign myself to walking or arrange a payment plan with Pacho's Pickup.

Flori nodded sympathetically. “I don't have a car today either. Bernard, the old fool, took ours to his hip therapy.”

Flori and her husband of over sixty years, Bernard, live a few blocks from the restaurant. She routinely absconds with their car keys to stop him from driving. He might be half blind, but he errs on the side of caution. Flori stomps on the gas while claiming she can't reach the brake pedal.

“I'll call a cab,” I said.

“A cab? They cost a fortune and they're reckless. I'll find someone to give us a ride.”

“We're not hitchhiking to the police station.” I tried to block Flori, who already had her thumb up, jabbing it toward a rusty, white-­paneled van. “Ack! Put your thumb down. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to get in creepy vans?”

“My mother told me not to wear pants, and look, I've survived this long.” She defiantly thrust both thumbs in the direction of a fast-­moving frozen foods truck.

Didn't she watch those TV shows where the psycho killer trolls for victims in his white-­paneled van and/or ice cream truck?

The truck roared by. Flori remained resolute. “If we stand here a minute or two more, someone I know will come by.”

I didn't doubt that. Flori knows everyone in Santa Fe, which is a village at heart. What I doubted was that we'd find someone happy to detour out to the police station, located off a busy road riddled with strip malls and more potholes than pavement.

A beat-­up station wagon slowed, likely to avoid hitting Flori, who stood near the intersection waving her arms. With her red hood covering her face, she could be mistaken for a garden gnome carjacker. I prayed that the driver wouldn't call 911.

The side window rolled down. Flori said hello, followed by a scream that sent my heart into flip-­flops. “Get out of the car! I've gotcha!” she yelled.

Flori lurched forward, grasping at the door. Horrific possibilities flashed through my imagination. She'd spotted an ax murderer, an abduction in progress, a drug smuggler, a migrant smuggler, a—­

“Armida Alvarez, you dirty bread cheat, open the door this instant and face the music!”

So much for the ax murderer. I reached Flori in time to yank her red gloves from the automatic window before it closed. Tires squealed. Armida swung wide and veered into oncoming traffic to a chorus of blaring horns.

“Did she flip me off?” Flori demanded.

In the distance, Armida, at the wheel of the station wagon, raised a hand. She definitely wasn't waving.

“Come on,” I said, turning my bristling little boss back to the sidewalk. “Time to call that cab.”

Flori scowled. “Not yet. I have a better idea and it involves your hot lawyer friend.” She took off down the street.

“Where are you going?”

“Going to ask for a loaner car from Mr. Strong and Handsome. I'll drive. You flirt.”

Begging a loaner car to visit the police didn't seem like a flirting-­appropriate situation to me. Not like asking Jake to rub suntan lotion on my back or joking about whether he wanted his chile extra spicy. I started to tell Flori as much but she was already halfway down the block.

Beyond Flori, a silver Audi—­Jake's car—­backed out of his driveway. Relief outweighed disappointment as I pawed through my purse, seeking my cell phone and the number for Pacho's Pickup. An ear-­piercing whistle interrupted my search. Flori again stood in the middle of the street, one thumb outstretched, her other hand waving for me to join her.

By the time I reached her, the Audi had stopped. A tinted window descended, revealing Jake's handsome face. He tipped his hat and grinned, his laugh lines crinkling devilishly. “Ladies . . . looking for a ride?”

My small-­town Midwest upbringing comes with a fair amount of repressive guilt and an extra helping of manners-­imposed inhibitions. I automatically backpedaled. “Oh no, sorry Jake, you're obviously on your way somewhere. We're fine. I was about to call a cab.”

“Why do that when I can take you? I'm on my way to the police station to meet a client, but he can stew a little. It'll make him more amenable to my good advice.”

Flori clapped her small gloved hands. “Perfect. We're on our way to see the cops too.”

I insisted that Flori sit up front, where she raved about the heated leather seats and offered Jake some treats from her gym bag.
“Pan de muerto?”
she asked, as if hosting teatime. The scent of the freshly baked, buttery bread and anise filled the car.

He politely refused, citing driving safety. I added politeness and safety to the positive column of my Jake Strong mental assessment sheet.

“Sure smells good, though,” he remarked.

“It'll be fantastic once I reheat it on these hot seats of yours.” The sounds of rustling winter clothes and bags came from the passenger's seat.

“Are you taking those baked goods as a bribe?” Jake chuckled. “Bribing an officer of the law is illegal. Good thing you found yourselves a lawyer.”

“I'm not going to bribe the police. Rita and I are going to insist that they get going on their investigation, and fast. You tell him, Rita.”

“You know what they say about a trail going cold,” I said. I caught Jake's steel-­blue eyes in the rearview mirror.

He raised an eyebrow. “Does this mean what I think it does?” he asked.

“Murder,” Flori declared amidst the rustle of bags. “That's what it means. Victor was murdered and Rita's going to get him justice, with my help, of course.”

Her confidence was contagious. We
would
get to the bottom of this. We would help Victor. Then I spotted Jake's frown. A frown of worry from a man who knew criminals and crime. My confidence crumpled into fear. If we were right, a murderer was on the loose and too close to home.

 

Chapter 9

F
lori and I sat on hard metal chairs at a table too sticky to touch. The otherwise bare interview room sported walls the color of rotten pear. It smelled like decaying fruit too, along with notes of stale coffee and despair. I fanned myself with a flyer for a take-­out place that put tacos on pizza. The fanning did little but stir the stuffy air around, and I didn't want to think about taco-­topped pizza. I fought back a wave of claustrophobia, the kind I get when jammed in a slow, packed elevator. There's enough air, I told myself as my stomach jolted, as if bumping along with the imaginary elevator. I wanted to flee. Was Manny making us wait on purpose? He knew that I had issues with gross surfaces and enclosed spaces.

“Do you think they're watching us through the mirror like on TV?” Flori asked, looking around. She seemed perfectly content to sit in the smelly little room. She'd even broken out some of her bread to snack on.

I scooted my chair back to avoid accidental contact with the table. If “they” were watching, all they'd see was me fidgeting and Flori nibbling. “I thought you were going to bribe someone with that bread,” I said.

“Shhhh!” Flori jabbed a finger in the direction of the mirror. “Don't say the B word. Besides, I'm not bribing the police. I'm going to give one of my breads to Elena Dickenson. She works in police records and is the sister-­in-­law of one of the
pan de muerto
judges. Take that Armida! Flip me off, will you? Ha!”

“And how will this help?” I wondered if the stuffy air was affecting my thinking or Flori's.

“Buzz,” my elderly friend said, tapping her index finger to her forehead. “Elena will share this with her husband, who'll love it and tell his sister who lives on the other side of their duplex, and there you have it—­buzz. That's partly why I've been baking so much. I'm spreading the word. By the time those judges get to the contest, they'll be salivating for my death bread.”

“Speaking of death . . .” Bunny appeared in the doorway holding a tray of steaming cups.

I nearly jumped out of my chair.

Bunny, in contrast, personified cool calmness. She also didn't have my problem with balancing drinks. The tray remained steady as she handed Flori a hot cup, along with creamer and sugar.

I stood to accept a cup too, despite fears that afternoon caffeine would stick with me past bedtime.

“Sorry for the room,” Bunny said. A scrunchy held back her pale brown hair. Her beige, button-­down shirt had
POLICE
embroidered on its pocket and strained against the width of her shoulders. Standing above Flori, she looked like a giant. “Sit,” she said, nodding in my direction and failing to add “please.”

I sat back down. Bunny placed a police tape recorder on the table and seated herself as well.

“Bread?” Flori asked, tearing off a hunk of skull and offering the rest to the policewoman.

“I can't accept that.” Bunny had her eyes fixed on me. “Now Ms. Martin—­”

“Lafitte!” Flori and I corrected in unison, earning the hint of a smile from Bunny.

“Where is that cheating partner of yours anyway?” Flori demanded. “If he's not coming, can I have that extra coffee?”

“He'll be here,” Bunny said. I thought I detected displeasure in her voice, although I could have been transferring my own feelings. She turned to me. “Now, Ms. Lafitte, this shouldn't take long.”

“Oh yes it should,” Flori mumbled.

“Looks pretty cut and dry,” Bunny continued, without missing a beat. She produced a notepad and a tape recorder.

Flori fumbled with her sweater and probably the tape recorder underneath it. Had she stuffed it in her bra? Taped it to her chest? I didn't want to know. I had enough to figure out, like what tactic I should take. Could I demand they investigate? But based on what? All I had was a bad feeling, which would be as unconvincing as Flori's sixth sense and Dalia's star predictions.

“It's not cut or dry in our minds,” Flori said loudly in the direction of her chest.

“Shhh . . . You're going to get kicked out,” I whispered to my elderly companion. Then I said, for the benefit of Bunny, “Flori, I'm sure Bunny's going to tell us all about the progress the police are making in their investigation.”

Bunny clicked her tape recorder on. “First, I need your statement,” she said. She instructed me to go over the evening's events in detail.

I started with hearing Celia yell and discovering the horrific scene.

“And what were your first thoughts on cause of death?” Bunny asked.

“Initially I thought suicide,” I said, starting to add a “but.”

“That corresponds with our findings.” Bunny made some notes.

“Except it wasn't!” Flori pounded an open palm on the sticky table. “Tell her, Rita. Victor had plans for Día de los Muertos! No man with plans for the dead kills himself!”

Bunny raised a pale eyebrow and addressed Flori. “Mrs. Fitzgerald, I let you join us on the condition that you remain quiet.”

She clearly didn't know Flori, who had stood to her full five feet and a few inches, barely taller than the height of Bunny sitting. “I will not remain quiet when my friend has been murdered. He laid out cards for his uncle and marigolds to guide the spirits. Does that sound like a man who'd do himself in?” She stabbed her arthritic index finger on the table. I cringed, for the abused finger and its contact with table germs, not to mention its role in antagonizing the police. Still, I agreed with her. Victor was not a man to kill himself.

Bunny rubbed her forehead and sighed. “Marigolds do not prove murder. I will hear you both out, but first let's finish Ms. Lafitte's account. Rita, skip to the part where you enter the victim's brother's home. Why did you do that?”

“Good question.” Manny entered the room, his face screwed up in a frown. “Rita's famous for meddling. Can't keep her nose out of things.” He took the remaining cup of coffee and sipped it with a scowl.

“I was concerned about both brothers,” I said, determined to remain calm. I clenched and unclenched my fists, a technique I'd learned in a relaxation workshop with Cass. I didn't feel relaxed.

Manny wasn't helping. “So you broke in and nearly scared the living brother to death? Not to mention nearly getting yourself shot in front of our daughter?”

“Celia was out front,” I said, clenching my toes.

“Oh, so you left Celia alone.” Manny put on an expression of an aggrieved parent.

“She wasn't alone. She was with your girlfriend,” I said, “although I admit, I probably shouldn't have left two such
young
girls there on their own.”

My dig at Manny backfired, as I should have expected. He flashed a wolfish grin. Bunny saved my composure by taking over the questioning. “I know it's disturbing, Rita, but can you describe how the body was positioned when you looked in the window?”

“Slumped by the altar.” The police-­station coffee rolled in bitter waves in my stomach, and I had to pause to keep my composure. “There was a gun beside him and a marigold wreath around his neck. Poor Victor, he looked . . . well . . . gone, but I had to be sure.”

Manny looked through me to Bunny. “She makes rash decisions,” he said with snarky righ­teous­ness.

I practiced some nonrelaxing clenching of my teeth. “I had to see if there was any chance to help him. And what if Gabriel needed help too? Victor's door was locked so I knocked on Gabriel's side. That's when I discovered his front door was open. See, that could be a clue.”

“A clue to what?” Manny demanded. “That ­people need to lock their doors so you don't break in?”

I couldn't hold back this time. “No,” I said with exaggerated patience. “A clue that someone else could have gotten in there and hurt Victor. Something that the
police
should investigate.”

“It's a fair point,” Bunny said.

Manny scowled like a sulky kid.

“Someone who fought with him earlier in the evening,” I continued, taking advantage of Manny's silence. “Have you talked with the neighbor, Mr. Broomer? He was threatening the brothers with a knife last night.”

Flori chimed in. “This wouldn't be the first time someone murdered over a fence line in this town. Victor had an appointment with a lawyer too. This afternoon, in fact. Does that sound like someone about to kill himself?”

Manny grabbed the file folder in front of Bunny and began pulling out pictures. “An appointment with a lawyer might drive anyone to suicide. And, yes, we talked to the neighbor in length this morning. He admits that he and the brothers had words, but that's all.”

“He could have come back later that night,” I pointed out.

Manny wasn't buying my argument, probably because I was the one making it. “You're trying to tell me that an art dealer who sells overpriced Buddhas gets mad over a fence, so he breaks in, kills someone, and stages a suicide? Oh, and that he kills the brother he's least mad at and does it with an antique gun owned by the victim's family that has only Victor's prints on it? Yeah, Rita, we checked the prints. We know how to do our job. We're not
Law and Order
wannabes like you.”

Doubt and confusion engulfed me.
How could this be?
I'd hoped that the gun would point to someone else. I'd assumed that sweet, peaceable Victor wouldn't touch let alone own a gun.

“No evidence of forced entry,” Bunny was saying. “Not at the brother's door or at the door that separates their sides of the house. Nothing suspicious in that. Only shows that ­people need to be more careful.”

“Careful not to shoot themselves,” Manny muttered. He dropped the folder of photos on the table. Some splayed out, allowing Flori and me to see. She gasped and turned her eyes heavenward, crossing herself. I wanted to turn away too, but I couldn't. There was something wrong, something I couldn't quite place. “Wait . . . no . . .” I said, reaching out.

“Yes, it's hard to accept suicide,” Bunny said, sounding like one of the pamphlets from Celia's school counselor. “We often try to look for signs in retrospect but that can't help.” She started to gather the photos into the folder.

“Wait!” I grabbed one of the terrible close-­ups and forced myself to study it. Beside me, Flori paused in her prayers.

“What?” she whispered.

“The gun . . . do you see where it is?”

“Aha!” Flori exclaimed, slapping me on the back. “Now there's your evidence! We knew it! Murder!”