Cinco de Mayhem (15 page)

Jake and I chatted easily about one of my favorite topics: food. Jake recounted a trip to Mexico City, where his hotel had served memorable red chile and green chile versions of
chilaquiles.
I admitted that I'd never had them until a visit to New Mexico with Manny. It had been love at the first taste.

“I know what you mean,” Jake said. “I do adore Mexican, and Tex-Mex too. Of course they can't hold a candle to
New
Mexican cuisine and I surely look forward to your French feast.”

I studied the chip-fragment remains of my
chilaquiles
, suddenly feeling nervous. That French feast could be a flopped soufflé. And what if the date was a flop too? I sipped my coffee and told myself to grow up. When I wasn't quizzing Jake about awkward topics like murder suspects and alibis, we had a great time together.

Jake finished off a last bite of spicy tortilla and pushed back his chair. “I hate to eat and run,” he said, “but I have a packed schedule today. That's why Winston's with me. I'll be lucky to get home before dark.” He gave me a smile that could melt chocolate and my heart. “I want to clear my desk so I won't be late for dinner tomorrow night.”

And I needed to shop for dinner ingredients and commit to my menu, oh and find a killer along the way. I told Jake that I'd be busy as well.

“With sleuthing?” His laugh lines flattened to steely.

I didn't answer directly. “Looking into some things.”

I couldn't fool Santa Fe's best defense lawyer. Jake reached out as if to grab my hand. Then he pulled back. “Rita, I wish you wouldn't . . .”

“Wouldn't what?” I asked, too sharply. Under the table, Winston groaned.

His owner drew a deep breath. “I only mean, I worry. I know you've been asking around about Napoleon's death. I know you visited Brigitte and quizzed her about Napoleon's enemies. I understand that you and Flori are worried about Linda, but there's a murderer out there. Someone
stabbed
Napoleon and rolled a cart over him. I only hope you'll be careful.” He smiled now. “Plus, I want that soufflé you promised me. Can't have anything happening to you.”

I smiled, already regretting my defensive tone. “Flori knows martial arts,” I said with a forced laugh. “We'll be fine.”

“I bet she's deadly,” Jake said. He grinned. “And you're carrying around handcuffs, I hear. Dangerous indeed.”

My face must have blazed redder than the chile. Jake was putting on his jacket when his cell phone buzzed. I glanced down as the caller ID flashed across the screen.
B. Voll.
Jake looked at the screen, frowned, and silenced the ring.

“Just be careful, Rita,” he said, before leaving me with a warm kiss on my forehead and a pit in my stomach.

L
ater that morning I stood near the entrance to the Five and Dime, surveying the Plaza. Flori hadn't exactly kicked me out of Tres Amigas, but she had enthusiastically encouraged me to leave. She argued that I should go shopping for soufflé supplies. This was true. She also noted that I had way too much nervous energy. This from a woman who had pulverized every tomato, tomatillo, and chile in sight, all while studying the
Art of War
and practicing accelerated tai-chi moves. I knew my elderly friend was worried too. That's why I'd stopped by the Plaza again before heading to the grocery. I hoped to spy on Don and discover clues or murderous vibes.

So far I'd seen only happy people. Tourists flowed in and out of the Five and Dime, which sold souvenirs and necessities like Band-Aids and aspirin. Another necessity, if you asked me, was
frito
pie, a delicacy consisting of individual bags
of Fritos smothered in steaming chili, shredded cheese, chopped onions, and pickled jalapeños. Some locals claim this snack was invented right here at the Five and Dime—then a Woolworth's—back in the 1960s. Texans give origin credit to San Antonio. Still others say the recipe came from a man raising money to return home to Mexico, or, less romantically, that it emerged from corporate test kitchens. A young couple stepped out of the store, heads down, plastic forks burrowing into bulging Fritos bags. They wouldn't care where the idea came from, just that it was a good one.

I watched them cross the street and pass by Crepe Empire. The slick cart stood at the spot Napoleon had stolen from Linda. Its rolling metal shutter was pulled down, and a paper fluttered on it. I went to investigate. The note in slanted cursive read
Back soon!
but gave no indication of when the writer—presumably Brigitte—had left.

I felt relieved, yet knew I couldn't avoid her forever. The town and food community were both too small for that. If I saw her return, I'd stop by and try one of her pancake crepes. Or maybe I'd have another kind of treat. With Napoleon gone, food carts flourished. On the southwest corner, little Mexico had popped up. Mouthwatering scents of grilled meat wafted from stands selling fajitas, tacos, and
tortas
, hearty sandwiches stuffed with grilled meats, guacamole, salsas, and even refried beans. On the far corner of the Plaza, I could see the red and white colors of the gourmet popcorn lady. Then, of course, there were the king and queen of food cart collegiality. Don and Crystal had pulled their carts to the very center of
the Plaza, adjacent to the veterans' memorial. A guy in a sombrero and sandwich board circled the stone obelisk, yelling, “Hot dogs! Cold drinks!”

I considered my next move. A dozing man occupied my usual spying bench, which was too close to Don's cart anyway. Officer Bunny's direct approach came to mind. I could boldly stride over and inform Don that he'd been spotted at the crime scene. I, however, was not Bunny. I lacked her muscles, authority, and bravery. I did not want to tip my hand to a possible murderer.

I fell in step behind a group of sixty-somethings in flashy turquoise jewelry and leather fringe coats. The group, chatting loudly, headed to the taco cart and debated what
tacos
al pastor
contained. I bit my tongue in order to blend in. Usually I'd have jumped in and recommended the dish of tender pork marinated in spices and pineapple before grilling. The pineapple, I'd learned from Flori, contains an enzyme that tenderizes the meat. Chemistry was never my favorite subject in school, but I knew delicious food alchemy when I tasted it.

I let them move on to the question
adovada
and acted like a customer patiently waiting her turn. In actuality, I was watching Don out of the corner of my eye, waiting for some clue. I got nothing except a stomach calling for the
adovada
, pork simmered in red chile sauce.

Don, meanwhile, was acting like any hot dog entrepreneur. He dished up dogs. He laughed with customers. He dropped some change into the Save Linda jug. The group in front of me decided on chicken-lime tacos, a safe yet tasty choice. I
had to choose too. Find another place to blend in? Confront Don? Order a taco? I let my eyes wander to the menu. Luckily for my health-food regime, a skateboarder bumped my elbow just as I was justifying
adovada
as a light afternoon pick-me-up.

“Hey!” I said to the teen's departing slouched shoulders. His jeans sagged down his butt, and his hair was inky black and spiky like Celia's. I cringed as he barely missed crashing into a baby carriage and a trembling Chihuahua. Maternal righteousness filled me. My daughter would never be so rude. Anyway, she was in school right now, diligent about her studies.

Wasn't she?

Skateboard kid jumped his board off the curb and came to a floundering halt by a picnic bench, where similarly attired teens lounged. The half-dozen heads featured the same black, spiky hair, except for one orange and another streaked with orange. Could that be Celia and the mystery guy she'd waved to?
No. I was imagining things
. All the same, I gave up my spot in the taco line and started toward the picnic table.

“Lady!” a male voice exclaimed. “Watch out!”

I stumbled backward, realizing that I'd stepped blindly into the street and traffic. A horn blared and a truck the size of a brontosaurus roared by.

“Thanks,” I called to the man who'd saved me from another brush with vehicular crushing. I couldn't tell if he heard me. He was heading up the sidewalk toward the center of the Plaza. Toward Don, I realized, but that's not what sent the jolt up my spine. My savior was tall and gangly with wavy red hair. Gerald Jenkins Junior, the guy who
found the cockroach in Linda's tamale, and who was either nice, according to Addie, or corrupt like his father, as I suspected.

I started to follow him before I remembered the teens. Which did I want to know more? What Junior was up to, or whether my daughter was ditching school? I chose, as always, Celia. Turning away from Junior, I moved behind a tree. The teens were decamping from the picnic table in a tight but disorganized cluster. I held my breath when I realized they were moving my way. What if Celia was among them and caught me spying? I would still be the one in the right, I reassured myself. Or I could fake bird-watching again. I peeked out from behind my tree post. The teens were bad-mouthing each other in a way they seemed to enjoy but would have mortified me at their age. Skateboard guy passed. So did the orange-hair kid I recognized as the guy I'd seen outside Celia's school. He didn't look my way, being occupied teasing a girl with nose piercings. None of them seemed to notice me, and none—to my relief—was Celia.

I took a deep breath and felt guilty for letting my suspicions slip into my family life. I owed Celia a treat. An afternoon at the movies or a night out for pizza. I could still hear the teens' harsh laughter as I turned back to Junior Jenkins. Him, I didn't feel bad suspecting.

J
unior stepped into line at Don's hot dog cart. He shifted from sneaker to sneaker, hands stuffed
deep in baggy cargo pants pockets, shoulders twitchy.

Who's that nervous about buying a hot dog? He had to have other motives. My heartbeat sped up as I got in line behind him. Lacking a disguise, I got out my cell phone, let my hair fall over my eyes, and pretended to text.

“Next dog fan, step right up!” Don boomed. “What'll it be, pardner?”

“Whatever,” Junior mumbled.

“Yes, sir,
frito
pie fiesta, coming right up! Special of the day! Extra hot sauce!” Don responded, as if Junior had placed an actual order.

I dared glance up. Junior, like his dad, wore clothes a little too large. He tugged up a baggy shirt, dug in his back pockets, and extracted a folded manila envelope. Don handed over the dog, piled high with Fritos, chopped onions, and chili con carne. Junior, instead of paying, thrust the envelope at Don, dropped the hot dog back on the counter, and hurried away.

Don shoved the envelope under his counter and pushed the hot dog to the side. “Up next, what'll it be young lady? Hot dogs for a hot—” He looked up, recognized me, and frowned before quickly recovering. “Ah, Rita, my favorite Midwest cowgirl. What can I get for you? Dog on the range? Chile-charged challenge?”

Junior was moving fast. He was almost to the other side of the Plaza. I didn't have time to wait for a dog, and I certainly didn't have time to eat one.

“Oh, darn it,” I said, patting my pockets. “I forgot my wallet.” I started to go.

“No trouble,” Don said. “Not for one of my favorite customers. I'll spot you. Pay me in one of Flori's famous chocolate muffins. Here, have some Fritos while you wait.” He tossed a packet of corn chips at me.

“Ah . . . I ah . . .” I stuttered, grasping for an excuse. I went with my real excuse. “Gotta go,” I said, leaving the chips by the Free Linda jar. I took off at a near jog, fearful of looking back.

Don's voice followed at my heels. “Devil dogs! Who wants to dance with the devil?”

I
'm no professional spy, by any means, and it's not like I've had tons of experience tailing people. However, in my humble opinion, Santa Fe has to rank among America's top tailing towns. There are always lots of tourists, for one thing. Tourists mill around, often in big, slow-moving groups. They stop to gaze in windows and consult maps. Around here, a lot of visitors and locals alike also sport big hats of the sun-blocking and Western varieties, good for hiding behind. Better yet, Santa Fe is literally plastered with adobe. Adobe walls with decorative nooks and buttresses make fabulous covert stops. So do the covered walkways, or
portal
es,
attached to buildings ringing the central Plaza.

All in all, I felt pretty good about my ability to tail Addie's friend Junior. He took the route I'd chosen when fleeing the News 6 cameraman, straight to the shaded walkway along the Palace
of the Governors. At the corner, he slowed, stuck in a small crowd gathering around an elderly lady selling piñon nuts. I hovered behind the other onlookers, momentarily distracted. Piñons were on my shopping list. The woman was saying that she harvested on land of her Pueblo ancestors, shaking the nuts from the cones of the squat pines that dotted the hills.
I'd love to buy some piñons from a local collector.
She held up a dark-colored nut, explaining that for each pinkie-nail-sized prize, she removed the hard outer shell by hand. Now I understood why the local nuts cost so much. I moved closer, tempted to buy a packet. Then I noticed that Junior was on the move, jaywalking across Washington Avenue.

I gave up on pine nuts and jogged across the street. Junior had stopped up the block to check his phone, so I slipped behind a display of chile
ristras
outside a gift shop. Flori once told me how her grandmother strung dozens of
ristras
in the fall, enough to cover the family's chile needs until the next harvest. The general rule was that each person would eat his or her height in the spicy staple. Flori laughed, saying her family loved chiles so much, they had to double or triple that figure.

Peeking through a round pepper wreath, I saw that Junior was on the move again and heading toward a place I considered my territory: the public library. Was he meeting someone else? Another handoff? Despite Addie's nice words for Junior, I'd already judged him and guessed he wasn't stopping by for a new book. I slowed, confident that I'd find him outside. But Junior wasn't out front. He
also wasn't waiting at the nearby light or heading to the gelato shop across the street. I hustled back to the library and went inside, panting too loudly.

Once in the main foyer, I took a deep breath. The library always calmed me. I liked visiting the closet-sized space where volunteers sold used books for a dollar. I loved the surprises in the new acquisitions section and flipping through old favorites in the grand reading room that housed the New Mexican and Southwestern collection. The reading room was the stuff of my library fantasies, from its dark wood ceiling and tables to the glass cabinets filled with bibliotreasures. It's where I found Junior, taking a seat at one of the sturdy wooden tables. High above, chandeliers made of punched and painted tin—better than any crystal bobbles—hung from carved wooden beams. Desk lamps with dark metal shades stood on each table. Junior switched his on and, to my chagrin, opened a book.