Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (14 page)

Was this why Victor had contacted Jake? Maybe he'd simply been mistaken about Jake's legal specialty or thought that since he got guilty ­people off, he could do anything. “But all this is about a few feet of land?” I asked. “Why bother? Your yard looks great.”

“This is a garden, not a yard. And why bother? Do you know what property's worth in this neighborhood?” He waved his hands, sending up a splash that landed on my knee. “I'm going to build a meditation hut over there and I need certain dimensions for proper flow. More than that, it's the principle. You buy land, it's yours. Case closed, except with those yahoos next door.”

Fighting in the name of peaceful meditation boggled my mind. I supposed I should have been glad that Broomer wasn't into Asian stick fighting or swordplay. I nudged Flori, hoping she'd leave with me. Instead, she subjected Broomer to more questions.

“So, no alibi,” she said, brazenly eyeing Broomer from head to naked toe.

“Alibi?” He stretched an ankle over the side of the pool. “I need an alibi for a suicide?”

When neither Flori nor I said anything, he frowned. “What are you implying? It wasn't a suicide? Don't tell me someone else shot him?” A stream of curses was followed by a whiny, “Why does this always happen to me?”

How much more self-­centered could this guy be?
“Victor's the one who's dead,” I snapped, neither confirming nor denying our suspicion of murder.

“Dead guys don't have to worry about their property values, do they? It was bad enough to be by a suicide house, and now it's a murder house?” He stood abruptly. I looked away but not before seeing Flori toss his towel into the far side of the pool.

 

Chapter 15

Y
ou should never trespass,” I told my daughter, ignoring Flori's rolling of eyes.

“Who said anything about trespassing?” Celia asked, her surly voice refreshed by a long night's sleep. Only the racket of me accidentally tipping cookie tins onto the tile floor had gotten her out of bed.

“I'm just saying,” I said. “Trespassing leads to unsafe and unexpected encounters.”

“Like naked men,” Flori chimed in.

“Absolutely
do not
talk to naked men,” I clarified, shooting Flori a glare.

Celia took advantage of my bungling attempt at motherly advice and snagged the sole chocolate-­covered éclair. “Sure, Mom, whatever. No trespassing. What were you two doing this morning anyhow? You have forest stuff stuck in your hair.”

I reached up and felt around.

“Over your ear,” Flori instructed. “A bamboo leaf. And maybe a spider.”

“Ahh!” I doubled over and pawed my hair frantically, feeling around for legs and worse. A leaf and several twigs fell out. The absence of a spider wasn't entirely reassuring. “We were looking into some things,” I said, tentatively patting my hair and composure back into place and surveying the bakery box. I narrowed the choice down to a soft raisin bun wrapped around custard cream, and the éclair with a coffee-­flavored glaze and filling. Loving anything with rich vanilla custard, I decided on the bun.

“We were trespassing,” Flori admitted, again to my maternal dismay.

“Which you shouldn't do.” I waved the bun for emphasis. “Never trespass. Obey all signs and speed limits too.”

“That's where you saw the naked man, when you were trespassing?” Celia now sounded mildly interested.

I started to protest. Flori, however, had the floor and Celia's attention. “Yes, dear, your neighbor Mr. Broomer. Listen to your mother and never go over there. That man is untrustworthy and sits about naked in the morning when honest, hardworking ­people should be getting on with their day.”

Celia polished off her éclair and washed it down with orange juice. “Broomer's a creep. I could have told you guys that. Victor and me, we hit a badminton birdie over there by mistake and Broomer threw a fit when I went around through the creek to get it.”

“A fit? He threatened you?” I'd worried about what my daughter was doing away from home, and look what was going on right outside our door: knife/gunfights, a likely murder, a skulker, and a naked creep/possible murderer.

“Maybe we should move,” I said, ready to start packing immediately. “I could look into that El Matador condo complex by Fort Marcy Park. We could use the gym and sports fields across the street, and they have that nice secure entry gate with the metal bull and matador on it and—­”

“Oh Mom, calm down,” my daughter said, exasperation evident. “I meant that he's a creep, that's all. There're creeps everywhere. He had some guys over there and the whole yard stunk of pot. I told Victor. He said he'd deal with it.”

Beside me, Flori rapped her fingers against the colorful Mexican tiles of my kitchen table. I could guess what she was thinking. Maybe Broomer was dealing in more than art. Maybe Victor found out. If she was having such thoughts, she didn't let on in front of Celia.

“I need a helper to watch my display table up at the International Folk Museum this weekend,” Flori said, “so I'll be rested for the
pan de muerto
contest on Monday evening.” She took the last croissant and smeared butter on the already buttery pastry. “You wouldn't know anyone who could help me, do you, Celia?”

When my daughter made a noncommittal grunt, I nudged her foot under the table. Flori knew about Celia's speeding/open container/surly attitude ticket. It was kind of her to ask. I mentally willed my daughter to be wise and polite enough to accept her offer.

“I guess I need some extra money to, ah . . . pay for something stupid,” Celia said grudgingly.

“Fabulous!” Flori said. “I bet you're a great skull decorator.”

Celia actually smiled.

S
he's fine,” Flori assured me later at Tres Amigas. “I did silly things when I was that age too, like cutting my own hair. I didn't go and dip my head in black ink, though.”

I didn't reveal that Celia's weed-­whacker hairstyle had been professionally and expensively inflicted. We stood in the café kitchen, watching as Celia and Addie, headphones wedged in their ears, applied colored icing to sugar skulls. So far Addie had produced a single skull decorated in smudged polka dots. Celia, meanwhile, was a skull assembly line, her artistic drive heightened by Flori's financial incentive. Flori had generously offered her half the day's profits from skull sales. Hopefully she'd make a lot. The folk museum, located on Museum Hill, was an ideal venue, stuffed with handicrafts from all over the world, including some of Victor's painted saints. Cass was right. Victor's art, already museum quality, would jump in value now that he was gone. Someone would be inheriting a fortune. The only question was who.

“I really appreciate your helping Celia out,” I said to Flori, shaking off these thoughts. “Helping us out, I should say.”

She smiled. “Sugar skulls won't put a dent in a Tesuque traffic ticket, I'm afraid. Bernard, the old fool, got three of those one summer. That's when I put my foot down about him gambling out at Buffalo Thunder. He lost more money driving there and getting tickets than he did at the infernal slot machines.”

I asked about Bernard's bum hip and listened as Flori complained about her husband's ailments, real and imagined. She didn't fool me with her gruff talk. I'd seen her and big white-­haired Bernard dancing on the Plaza together, cheek-­to-­cheek, sweet as can be. I'd even spotted them making out behind the bandstand one summer night. If you're making out in public in your eighties, you must be pretty darned in love.

The cowbell hanging from the front door clanged. I looked up, half expecting and hoping to see Jake's cowboy silhouette. Instead, short legs, a pair of arms, and a huge stack of boxes stumbled in. I rushed to help Linda.

“Boxes for packing up skulls,” she said, out of breath.

“One hour until we pack up!” Flori yelled in Celia's direction. Celia nodded and picked up her pace. Linda, freed of boxes, sagged into a chair by the fireplace.

“I'm exhausted,” she declared, accepting my offer of hot Earl Grey tea.

“Too many tamales?” I asked, pouring hot water into a teapot for us to share. Addie abandoned her skull, trilling happily about a “nice, proper cuppa.” Only Celia, committed to continued skull production, declined a tea break.

“Hundreds of tamales,” Linda groaned, twining her fingers in her thick, salt-­and-­pepper hair and tugging it away from her face. “Tamales for the museum event, tamales for my cart, tamales for the Día de los Muertos festival on the Plaza, tamales for the café. I wish the event coordinators had kept everything to Saturday and Sunday like they used to.” She paused to take a sip of tea. “But I would have been okay for today. I had the timing right and my corn husks soaked and laid out, and then . . .” She took another sip of tea.

“Then what?” Flori demanded. She has no patience for suspense. It's the reason she's so driven to snoop and won't watch movies unless she knows the ending, and why she peeks at the final chapter of novels before page one.

Linda avoided her mother's stare. “Gabe. That poor man. He wanted to come over and visit, so I said yes and . . .”

“And?” Flori prompted. “Did you show some interest in that man?”

Addie, her pinkie finger raised above her teacup, backed up Flori. “He's a right nice chap that Gabriel.”

“Mama! Addie!” Linda protested. “You know my feelings about relationships, and such talk is not appropriate at this time. Gabriel is delusional with grief, bless his heart and the soul of dear Victor.” She made a dramatic sign of the cross and looked heavenward.

Flori made a huffy sound. “Well I didn't mean for you to do anything sinful, dear.” She shot me a pointed look, like I'd be taking her side on this. I held up my palms. Flori and each of her three daughters are strong-­minded and stubborn in different ways. No way was I getting involved. I had enough to worry about with Flori's demands that I show interest in Jake Strong. However, I couldn't help being curious.

“What did Gabe want to talk about?” I asked.

Linda said something in Spanish, the gist of which I understood in my rudimentary
español
as “crazy talk.” Switching to English, she said, “He says that it is like we are teenagers again. Like time has gone backward.” She paused to scowl at her mother's and Addie's
awwww
sounds. “We are not teenagers. I am no teenager. I think he only says these things because he is all alone. He misses his brother.”

“Poor man,” Flori said, verbalizing my thoughts. “I hope you were nice to him, Linda.”

Linda assumed a pout and a surly voice that could have come straight from Celia. “Of course I was nice, Mama. Too nice. I listened to all his talk and spent the rest of the night worrying that I'd given him the wrong idea. Such worries will affect my tamales. The masa felt heavy in my hands. The tamales will be tough.” With a dire shaking of her head, she stomped off to take a seat by Celia, who acknowledged her with an upward nod and handed her a paintbrush.

Flori leaned in toward my ear, whispering so loud it reverberated off my eardrum. “Tamales, that's all that girl thinks of, despite being widowed and free. Rita, let it be a lesson. Don't get so wrapped up in tamales that you get old and miss out on something good. Pinch that strong and handsome Jake Strong on the butt next time you see him. Trust me, it's a pleasure.”

Addie, snickering, topped off my tea. Flori tottered off to check the rise on her
pan de muerto
dough, a final test version before she started the contest batch tomorrow. I thought about what she'd said. Not only about Jake but about age too. Forty hadn't been bad, but now I was
into
my forties. According to women's magazines, this was the time when I should be reinventing my life in some fabulous way. Like discovering an innate knack for making goat cheese or inventing a best-­selling cell phone app or becoming a pillow designer for the rich and fabulous. None of these prospects seemed feasible or what I wanted to do, except for the goat cheese, but that fell into the impossible-­dream category. The rich and fabulous, however, reminded me that Gloria's Halloween/Día de los Muertos party was tonight. I had nothing black-­tie skeleton to wear.

I called to Flori, saying I needed to run an errand and pretending I didn't hear her demand to know where. I knew one thing: I didn't want to be responsible for Flori crashing Gloria's party.

 

Chapter 16

I
stood in front of Cass's studio, realizing that in last night's swirl of dancing, cocoa, police, and skulkers, I'd neglected something vital. I'd failed to tell my best friend about my daughter getting her son in trouble with the law, not to mention with his father and possibly his tribal elders. That surely broke all sorts of friend and mom codes of conduct. Feeling guilty, I peeked in her studio window, inset deep in thick adobe walls. Strings of white lights twinkled across the beamed ceiling of the cozy front room where Cass sold her jewelry. If customers aren't around, she works on new pieces in her attached studio room. Now, however, she stood behind the row of display cases, holding up silver chains. Two women in denim skirts and cowgirl boots pressed their noses to the cases, pointing out items to try on. I hovered outside, not wanting to interrupt a potential sale and worrying about what to say.

Walker had said he was going to call Cass. He seemed like a man of his word, so she likely already knew. This sparked a new worry. If she knew and hadn't called me, maybe she was mad about Celia goading her son into questionable activities. The worst before this was when Celia convinced Sky to help her graffiti-­tag cacti for an art project. Her use of water-­washable paint hadn't stopped her art teacher from giving both teens mandatory cactus restoration work. Cass brushed that troublemaking off as artistic license. But getting nabbed by the police was in no way artistic.

Cass looked up, saw me, and mouthed something I couldn't understand, holding up her index finger in a
Soon
or
Wait
gesture. Was she mad? I was worse at reading emotions than I was at reading lips. To avoid further speculation, I turned from the window and leaned up against the adobe wall, looking out over the postcard-­pretty scene surrounding me.

At the nearby cathedral, bells rang out the hour and reminded me that I wanted to light a candle for Victor. Down the street, the ancient
portales
along Palace Avenue would soon be decorated with pine boughs and Christmas lights. Already, piñon smoke scented the air, turning my culinary thoughts to baking and hearty stews. To distract myself from worries, I focused on recipes for roasted winter squashes. I was pondering cheese choices for butternut lasagna when Cass's customers came outside, followed a few steps behind by Cass.

We watched as the ladies jaywalked toward the cathedral, swinging Cass's brown-­paper gift bags with colorful ribbon handles.

“Good sale?” I asked, thinking that
So, my daughter and your son, hauled in by the police
wouldn't be my best opener.

“Any sale is good these days. That one was good, but not like the bounty of Gloria,” she said, and then groaned. “Gloria's party . . .”

“That's why I'm here,” I said. “What to wear . . . that and . . .” I let my sentence drop off, hoping to feel out if Cass knew. When she only raised an eyebrow, I burst out, “You haven't talked to Walker, have you? He said he'd call and so I thought I'd let him tell you, not that there's much to tell since nothing much happened, except that the open beer can is unforgivable and surely Celia's idea. I swear, she'll be paying for the ticket by making sugar skulls for the rest of her teenage years if she has to. Please don't be mad at us!”

I paused for air, my stomach turning as I registered Cass's deepening scowl.

“Sky's staying with his father this week,” she said, still frowning. “Walker texted me and said the kids got stopped for speeding out at the Pueblo. That area's a speed trap, so I figured it was nothing.”

“Oh,” I said, and after more hemming and umming, explained Celia's offering of Victor's favorite beer at one of his beloved spots. I finished with, “She'll be grounded forever if I have to.”

“It was a rather sweet sentiment.”

“What?” I said. “Well, yeah, sweet but stupid.”

“Indeed. Stupid about the beer. I'll talk to Sky this afternoon,” Cass promised. “He swears he doesn't drink. His father has talked to him a lot about that. But how can we know? It's not like we can fix breathalyzers to their necks.” She reached inside her shop and turned the door sign to
BACK SO
ON.
Then she gave me a quick hug. “I know you're worried about Celia, but she'll be okay. She's tough and smart and is getting to know herself.”

Everyone except the school counselor kept telling me that. I was worried, but a little less, knowing that Celia had a good friend like Sky. Our talk turned to Gloria-­appropriate attire as we set out in search of dress shops. The first stop did not go well.

“We have to get out of here,” I whispered to Cass. We were trapped between an overenthusiastic saleslady and racks of brightly colored dresses, the flowery kind with lace and frills and velvet trim.

Cass flipped through a rack of velvet pants with price tags nearing my weekly income. “You're right. This is definitely not the black-­tie Día de los Muertos look.” She slipped between racks, me following, as the saleslady zeroed in on other shoppers. When we were back outside she said, “I have a go-­to black party dress I could wear. That and some face paint should do it. In fact, I have a ­couple of little black dresses if you want to borrow one.”

“Love to, but not unless you have one that's a size eight or ten or maybe twelve.” I patted the extra padding on my hips and eyed her outfit, a slender orange and white striped sweater dress topped with a jeans jacket and big wooly scarf. If I managed to squeeze into that, I'd look like a lumpy throw pillow.

When Cass didn't offer up a not-­so-­little black dress, I guessed that borrowing was not an option. I did another mental sorting of my wardrobe. Who didn't have a go-­to black party dress? Me, that's who. I used to have one, several in fact, back in my pre-­Manny days. But cop parties don't tend to require black ties or cocktail dresses, and Manny's criteria for going out focused on the availability of beer on tap, sports on TV, and wings on the menu. While I might feel like an interloper at Gloria's movers and shakers' party, I was looking forward to the excuse to dress up. As long as it didn't cost me a fortune.

“Double Take?” I said, naming one of our favorite consignment stores near the Railyard District. We were going to a glorified costume party, after all, not a dinner at Buckingham Palace.

Cass agreed readily, and we set off toward Aztec Street, weaving down side streets to avoid crowds of tourists. We could not, however, avoid meeting ­people we knew. I don't mind a bit of chitchat. Cass dreads small talk as much as ­parties.

“It's a problem of living here too long,” she grumbled after we'd been stopped a fifth time by someone wanting to discuss the possibility of snow. “Sometimes I just want to get from one side of town to the other without any bother.”

“Perhaps you could find some sunglasses and a ski mask at Double Take,” I joked, turning the corner. I hadn't made it one step onto the next street when Cass grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back behind the corner building.

“I know them!” she said.

“You know everyone.” I stepped back onto Aztec Street, Double Take and its potential treasures within sight.

“No, no, you don't get it.” Cass tugged me back again.

I considered my hands pretty strong from hefting dough and heavy pans all day. I had nothing on Cass. Her hands could bend metal and command fire. I stayed where I was and listened.

“That's your suspect list out there!” she said. “That's Jay-­Jay, Victor's ex, and look who she's chatting up.”

I peeked around the building and immediately ducked back. “Broomer!”

Cass muttered about Jay-­Jay and her penchant for tacky gold clothing as I punched in my cell phone's code, hoping that its randomly working camera would actually work. When it miraculously switched to camera mode, I took Cass by the elbow. “We're two friends walking down the street . . .”

“Right,” she said, sounding dubious. “Isn't that what we were doing anyway? Look, I don't want to get stuck talking to that awful woman. Double Take has another entrance. Let's go around the block and avoid them.”

I peeked down the street again. There they were. Main suspects one and two. Together and possibly colluding. I wanted a photo as evidence to take to Detective Bunny, I told Cass.

She grudgingly relented. “Okay, but don't say I didn't try to warn you.”

I suspected that Cass would later have an “I told you so” opportunity. By appearance alone, I didn't like what I saw. It wasn't Jay-­Jay's lemon-­yellow hair that threw me. It was her wardrobe, dripping with dead animals, from a fur beret and fur vest to what looked like Ugg boots covered in a deceased fox. Gold spandex clung to her legs, and sunglasses the size of rhinestone-­crusted pie plates covered her face. She was head-­to-­toe glitter and pelt and waving her hands dramatically in front of Broomer. He was—­thankfully—­fully dressed, and standing as still as a scowling statue in front of his art gallery.

“Okay,” I said, as we neared. “I'm going to hold up my phone like I'm trying to make a call and . . . there!” I pushed the photo button a few times before holding the phone to my ear, acting out a call that didn't go through. The playback function confirmed that I'd achieved three blurry yet recognizable photographs.

“Cass Sathers! Where have you been hiding?” The pie-­plate glasses turned our way, along with bejeweled fingers, waving as if to cast a spell on us. Cass greeted Jay-­Jay through a clenched smile. She introduced me, and I made a show of introducing Cass to Broomer, who looked about as happy to see me as Cass felt about Jay-­Jay.

“Well now,” I said, beaming at the art dealers/suspects. “What a small world. How do you two know each other?”

“Art,” Broomer said, sounding testy. “What else in this town?” His attitude perked up as he leered over my shoulder at Cass. “Ah, now here's a friend you can bring around to my hot tub anytime.” Getting a steely stare from Cass and a firm thwack from Jay-­Jay, he shrugged. “I have to get back to work.”

“Oh no you don't, you handsome beast.” Jay-­Jay grasped Broomer with manicured talons and turned to Cass, who edged back against me. “Cass, you know I would adore representing your work, especially if I could talk you into adding some gemstones and beads to your collection. And of course gold!” She cackled.

I noticed Cass's clenching and unclenching fists, our supposed relaxation move. She did not seem relaxed. Neither did Broomer. His pinched, red face looked ready to erupt. I'd seen the knife-­wielding yelling side of Broomer and I didn't want to see it again. Hopefully he'd keep it together on a public street. Or maybe I should be hoping the opposite. If he showed his true character, others could see him as a suspect. I kept my cell phone ready, finger poised over the camera button. If he threw a fit, or a punch, I'd photograph and run. Cass would be ready to spring. She was already inching away.

Jay-­Jay leaned into Broomer, practically reclining against his side. “I was telling Laurence here that he needs more local art. Tourists don't come all the way to Santa Fe for orange Buddhas.” She pointed a fingernail, enameled in gold glitter, toward Broomer's showroom. Buddhas of all shapes and colors stood, sat, and lounged amidst gorgeous scrolls and porcelain vases.

Broomer made a huffy sound. “I have no interest in jackalopes and kachina dolls.” He wrenched himself from Jay-­Jay's clutches and stomped over to his gallery, yanking open the door. Incense wafted out along with the soft gong of door chimes. There was nothing soothing about the way he slammed the glass door and pointedly locked it.

“Remember our deal, sweet-­cheeks!” Jay-­Jay yelled after him. She probably meant to sound jovial. She sounded like the wicked witch of the Southwest.

Cass had edged her way off the curb and was taking up a coveted parking spot. A white minivan beeped at her. She waved the driver off and motioned for me to join her. “We gotta go,” she said. “Must get you that dress, Rita.”

But I wasn't going anywhere. As Cass waited for me in the street, manicured talons sank into my forearms and the scent of musky gardenia perfume made my eyes water. “So you're Broomer's neighbor, are you?” Jay-­Jay asked. “Which side? The old DeVale mansion to the east? The Chavez estate across the way?”

“Ah . . . the casita in the backyard,” I said, feeling her grip loosen.

“Oh,” she said, realizing I wasn't a rich potential client. “Oh!” she then repeated enthusiastically, digging in again. “Then you knew my Victor. My poor, flawed Victor. We were once married. Young love, so intense and fleeting.”

Ugh
.
Your Victor, give me a break
.

“Did he give you any of his artwork by any chance?” Under a rim of heavy mascara, Jay-­Jay's eyes had the intensity of a hyena poised to leap on its prey.

“No!” I said, too loudly and not at all believably. “I mean, nothing I could ever part with, that is. Only a small item of sentimental value. A wooden plaque of a kitchen saint.” San Pasqual, the patron saint of cooks, watched over my kitchen.

Jay-­Jay shrugged, then switched to faux-­morose. “I cannot believe he's gone. Somebody will have to sort out his estate.” She sighed, sounding put-­upon. “I suppose it will have to be me. Gabe will be of no use and their sister is out of state. I'll need a key. Do you have one?”

I told her truthfully that I had no key. “Besides,” I said as pointedly as my inner politeness repressions would allow, “that will have to be sorted out by Victor's will.”

Jay-­Jay produced a tissue and crocodile sniffles. “Oh, I already know what his will says.” She honked loudly into the tissue. “He left his art to me. Along with that junky downtown warehouse he calls his studio.”