Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (24 page)

 

Chapter 29

T
here are a lot of things to love about sleeping overnight at Flori's. Her guest bed, for instance, is like a fairy-­tale princess's bed. Filmy lace cascades from the antique four-­poster frame, which is seemingly from a time of giants. I need a stepping stool to heft myself up to its heights. Flori would need a ladder. The reward is worth it, though. I nestled into the pillowy mattress topped with heavy patchwork quilts and masses of fluffy pillows. Best of all, Flori's big cat Zozo slept at my side, lulling me to sleep with his purrs.

A negative, however, had been encountering Celia in the hallway when we returned. She'd looked pointedly at an imaginary watch on her wrist.

“Dad texted,” she'd said, turning heel toward the bathroom. “In case I was worried about you getting in trouble for breaking and entering or whatever.”

I'd figured that “whatever” about covered the night, kissed my daughter's frowning forehead, and told her to sleep tight. The other drawback of sleeping at Flori's was her version of a wake-­up call.

“Rise and shine!” she bellowed before even a hint of sunrise peeked through the shutters. Zozo shot off the bed, seventeen pounds of fur and claws, motivated by breakfast. Flori switched on the overhead light and handed me a cup of coffee. The coffee almost made up for being rousted in the wee hours. So did Flori's enthusiasm.

“Today's the big day! Gloria and Armida, meet your match! Now we have to get going if we're going to get the breakfast and lunch prep done and have time to scope out the setup down at the
pan de muerto
contest.”

Eyes half open, I carefully made my way off the pedestal bed. I wished I could bathe in coffee. Instead, I gulped the first cup, reluctantly replaced a borrowed nightshirt with my same clothes from yesterday, and followed Flori out the door and into the darkness. She lived close enough to Tres Amigas that we could walk.

“Nothing like beating the blackbirds up,” she said as we waited to cross the street. I hugged my arms around my chest and wished I had Flori's wool coat and hat instead of a light fall jacket. A single car rolled past. Most houses sat quiet and dark, except for porch lights that sensed us as we walked by.

To my surprise, light glowed in the café and smoke curled from its chimney. Linda greeted us at the door, wearing a cactus-­print apron and an expression of concern.

“I heard what happened over at Victor and Gabe's place last night,” she said after hugging us both. “I couldn't sleep for all the worry so I came in early to cook.”

When I worry, I eat, especially salty crunchy snacks. During the height of divorce stress, I'd taken down entire tubes of Pringles and family-­sized bags of Fritos, with and without chile and cheese toppings. Taking Linda's approach, I could have had breakfast preps done hours in advance and been several pounds lighter.

Linda was listing the items she'd finished. Salsas, done. Chiles, charred and peeled. Cheese, grated. Enchiladas, filled, wrapped, and ready for baking. Green chile stew, simmering. Even Flori looked at a loss about what to do next.

“I can't think of anything you missed,” she told her daughter, who was folding napkins around sets of silverware and looking fretful.

“Your breads,” Linda said. “That's what you need to focus on, Mama.” She turned her worried frown toward several Ziploc bags in which Flori's dough sat, seemingly stagnant. “Why aren't they rising? Are they okay? Should we make another batch in case?”

“No need to worry,” Flori said stoutly. “The yeast is chilly from resting in the fridge. It's the slow rise that gives them the extra flavor. They'll warm up and rise and then we can bake them by early afternoon so they'll have time to cool to the perfect slicing temperature.” She sounded confident. She looked confident. Until Linda went out to the dining room to fill flower vases with sprigs of Chinese lanterns.

“We could be cooked,” Flori whispered to me.

For a second I thought she meant the soup of the day, a chicken tortilla soup that I was making. I was about to say that it had barely begun to simmer when I saw her face and the wrinkle lines creased deeper than Linda's. “Oh,” was all I could say.

Flori confessed to doubts. “What if that Gloria has something up her sleeve? What if she's bought a judge? I've heard some rumors. She sure has the money to do it.”

I began to protest, then stopped. Broomer wouldn't think twice about being bought off. He'd practically offered me an edge for Flori if I joined him in his hot tub. I could feel my blush rising, this time out of anger. Flori and the other competitors deserved a fair contest.

Flori poked her dough, testing it by its dimples. “I'm not giving up. Those other judges will know honest bread when they taste it. They'll know the real winner.”

In the lull between breakfast and lunch, she and I went to inspect the contest venue, leaving the café in the hands of Linda, Addie, and Juan. Flori insisted that we take the route past Jake's office.

“It's out of our way,” I protested, to no avail.

“Well you're not going to catch his attention by hiding out. Besides, you look good today.” She looked me up and down, probably realizing that I was wearing yesterday's clothes and not looking all that good. Finally, she said, “You're not wearing frozen peas, that's good.”

It was good, although I continued to walk like a peg-­legged pirate. To avoid peas, which aren't practical for work, I'd wrapped the ankle in menthol-­coated tape I found in the café's medicine cabinet. Consequently, the ankle stumped along, unbendable and emitting a minty scent that seemed irresistible to canines. A basset hound waiting outside the café had coated my shoe in drool, and a small herd of Chihuahuas had nearly pulled their owner over to get to me. If any coyotes roamed the streets, I'd be a goner.

I didn't want Jake to see me in rumpled yesterday's clothes, menthol patches, and dog slobber. I also didn't need to be attracting anyone, I reminded myself. Luckily for my image and dating moratorium, Jake's office was closed. A sign on the door read:
CLOSED FOR D
íA DE LOS MUERTOS
. Flori was thrilled.

“That's the way it should be,” she said. “I would have closed the café, but we can't let our customers go hungry on such an important day. Jake Strong is a good, fine man. You should—­”

“I know, I know,” I sighed. “I should show some interest.”

“Exactly!”

The bread contest was being held on the Plaza, along with an arts and crafts fair and music. The artists were already set up. I lagged behind Flori, distracted by beautiful bobbles of silver and chunks of turquoise. Native American artists sat along the ancient Palace of the Governors Museum, where they had a special reserved spot throughout the year. On blankets laid out in front of them, they showcased gorgeous squash-­blossom-­style necklaces, ornate bolo ties, and black pottery buffed to gleam like obsidian. The scene of the covered walkway, adobe walls, and sellers with their wares might have been from centuries ago.

I recognized familiar faces too, including café regulars and, to my surprise, Gabe. He squatted in front of a vendor near the end of the row and seemed to be inspecting a covered pottery jar. Or maybe it was an urn. The thought turned my stomach. Linda had told us that the medical examiner was releasing Victor's body. Gabe was arranging for a closed-­casket visitation at a funeral home, followed by a cremation and a ser­vice at their family plot. Was he buying Victor's final resting place, his brother's last piece of art? Part of me wanted to go to him. The wimpy other part of me rationalized that if that was Gabe's mission, he'd want his privacy.

To avoid disturbing him, I crossed to the Plaza, where other local vendors had rows of stands. In between a lady selling wind chimes and a tin artist, I spotted Cass.

“The holidays will never end,” she said glumly. “They're just getting started and I can barely stand all the crowds and social obligations.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “And these wind chimes are about to drive me batty! Ding, ding, ding.” After a deep breath, she stretched and smiled. “Sorry, had to get that off my chest.”

Poor Cass. She was getting business, though. A group of ladies stopped at her stand, and we both put on beaming smiles until they left.

“I heard about your night,” she said after the ladies moved on, each sporting new silver rings. “You should have called.”

“Flori took me to her house,” I said. A yawn overtook me as I explained how late it had been.

Cass's brow was as wrinkled as Linda's in full worry. “Rita, I didn't want to bring this up before because I know you like your new place, but maybe you should think about moving.”

As she courted more potential customers, I considered this advice. I'd had the same conflicted thoughts. Although I loved the casita, would it ever be the same without Victor? Could I afford to move, and find a place right before the holidays? It all seemed like too much to think about. I gave Cass a quick hug good-­bye and left her to a group of Chinese tourists. My most immediate task was helping Flori scope out the bread contest. I found her in front of the bandstand, studying a row of tables.

“This is it,” she said without looking up. Sometimes I swear she does have a sixth sense. Either that or her bifocals allow her to see behind her.

“Nice,” I said, patting the folding table. Farther down the row of tables, a worker set out sugar skulls, while another hung paper banners featuring grinning skeletons.

“High noon's at five tonight, y'all.”

I didn't need Flori's magic bifocals to guess who'd come up behind us. Gloria's drawl, and the wave of perfume that preceded her, set my nerves on edge. Her perfume couldn't mask the menthol stench of my ankle, however. I looked down to see a white poodle in a pink coat snarling at my wounded limb. I jumped back, nearly toppling the contest tables. The poodle snapped and missed.

“Twinkle Belle! You naughty girl, don't you love-­bite the nice lady.” Gloria scooped the growling poodle up into her arms, making cooing sounds. To me, she said, “I can't imagine what got into her. She never bites.”

Flori stood eye-­to-­eye with the reluctantly snuggled pooch. “That's not what we heard,” she muttered.

Gloria laughed. It sounded forced, as did her overly chipper voice. “Oh, that silly little mix-­up. You were innocent of those awful charges, weren't you my pookie pookie poo. We got you the nicest lawyer, yes we did. Nice Mr. Strong.”

I hadn't had enough sleep to listen to Gloria baby-­talk her ankle-­biting pooch. And I certainly wasn't going to stay around and let my scented ankle become poodle bait if Twinkle Belle became mobile again.

I turned pointedly to Flori. “Well, we should be getting back to Tres Amigas, shouldn't we, Flori.”

I expected her to take this bait. She didn't budge. “Where's your helper, Armida?” she demanded.

Gloria's expression and wave of her hand implied that she couldn't be bothered to care. “Cleaning, I suppose. Or running errands. Housework. Don't you all dread housework?”

She chuckled like we were sharing a moment, as if Flori and I had housecleaners to take care of our tedious errands and housework and bread baking.

Flori fixed her eyes on Gloria. “Is that so? I supposed that she was busy baking. Your bread!”

Saying exactly what was on her mind was one of Flori's traits that I aspired to but doubted I'd ever acquire. Gloria didn't blush. She didn't giggle or protest. She fixed her uplifted eyes on Flori and upped her drawl. “Now why would I need her to do that? I'm the reigning bread champion and I am setting to win again. I already have a judge who'll tell you that too.”

Flori bristled. “I knew it!”

Gloria merely smiled before plunking down Twinkle Ankle-­Biter and turning on her high-­heeled boots. The poodle lunged at my leg. Stumbling backward, I planted my butt on the table and raised my ankle high. I prayed that Jake wouldn't come by, catching me in yet another embarrassing configuration. Happily, no one seemed to notice. Gloria was strutting off, dragging the growling Twinkle-­Biter behind her. Flori was talking to a good-­looking man in a leather jacket. He was about Linda's age, and I wondered if Flori was trying to play matchmaker again. No, I decided. They were shaking their heads disapprovingly. They had to be talking about Gloria and her blatant hint of a judge in her pocket.

“Dirty cheat,” I said, joining the conversation.

Flori corrected my faulty interpretation. “Rita, this is Reese Hoffman, my friend Bill's son. He's telling me something upsetting. Your neighbor Dalia called the police, reporting trespassing and destruction of property in progress at Victor's place.”

“Dad doesn't know what's being destroyed,” Reese said. “He heard the report on his police scanner and tried to call you, Flori, but that British girl at the café said you were here. He knew I was down here so he called and told me to look out for you ladies. And look at this, here you are.”

I could guess the target of destruction. Victor's fence and garden. “I have to go!” I took off running before I realized that my left leg wasn't following.

Reese caught up with me easily. “This way,” he said, motioning in the opposite direction. “I'll take you on my bike.”

 

Chapter 30

A
t the mention of a bike, my mind went straight to old-­fashioned single-­speeds. I imagined us chuffing up Canyon Road on a bicycle made for two or me balanced precariously on the front handlebars.

“Here, you take the helmet.” The World War II–era helmet Reese thrust at me dispelled any foot-­powered notions. So did the antique motorcycle that sputtered to life in eruptions of smoke and noise.

“What is this?” I yelled, coughing as the machine blasted out another cloud of fumes.

“Nineteen thirty-­eight Harley-­Davidson Knucklehead,” he yelled back. “Hang on!”

As if he needed to tell me that. I clung to his back for dear life as we spun out and into the path of a hotel shuttle. The shuttle blasted its horn, as did a behemoth SUV coming the other way.

“Like the bike in that photo of O'Keeffe,” he screamed as we skidded around a corner, barely missing a pack of mothers and strollers.

I wouldn't have picked this moment for an art history lesson, but I knew what he was talking about. Georgia O'Keeffe, hitching a ride on the back of a friend's motorcycle. Georgia looked happy and mischievous, like Flori would if she were about to roar across the desert with a handsome younger man. I, on the other hand, was likely a picture of terror, a look interrupted only by overwhelming urges to cough up smoke and plug my ears. The ear plugging wouldn't be happening. I had a death grip on this stranger barreling through town. Dust stung my face as we bumped over a construction zone. I shielded my eyes by hiding behind Reese's shoulder blades. Occasionally, I dared to sneak peeks at oncoming traffic, curves, and road hazards. It was during one of these glimpses, as Reese spun across traffic to reach Canyon Road, that I spotted a chiseled face shaded by a cowboy hat.

Jake was walking a panting, broad-­shouldered bulldog. They were about to step off the curb when the aptly named Knucklehead plowed up the street. Jake tugged back his dog and appeared to have a flash of recognition. Forgetting my terror, I raised my hand to wave.

“Hang on!” my driver bellowed. We sped past in a gassy, sputtering roar. I risked a look back and saw irritation on Jake's face. Once again I'd failed on the good-­image front.

We arrived at the house in a cloud of dust and skidding of tires.

“Woooo!” Reese yelled, which might have been annoying if it hadn't been drowned out by the roar of his bike. “Call me anytime if you need a ride,” he yelled before spinning out and roaring away.

I didn't care about helmet hair or the grime on my face or the twinges of pain in my ankle. I raced toward the back garden and another mechanical roar. I was intercepted midway by Dalia, her hair flying wild and her arms overloaded with dirt-­dripping plants.

“Rita, thank goodness!” She hurried toward me. “I have to get these babies some water. They're wounded. They're heirlooms!”

Beyond her I could see the cause of the heirloom injury. A yellow bulldozer, armed with a toothy scoop, gouged into Victor's garden.

“We have to stop him!” I yelled to Dalia, but she was already halfway up the driveway.

“I tried!” she yelled back. “I have to leave. I can't watch this anymore. Save whatever plants you can!”

I'd do more than that. I ran to the backyard. “Stop!” I yelled, waving my arms and stepping in front of the machine. Its blade was raised, as if cheering its own destructive powers. Before it, a section of the coyote fence between Victor's and Broomer's gardens lay twisted and broken. Deep gashes slashed into the earth and what had been the setting of a peaceful birdbath. The ceramic bath lay in pieces, as did a toppled wooden carving of St. Francis, the peaceful patron saint of animals. “Stop! Stop this right now!” I yelled.

I didn't recognize the man driving the bulldozer. He waved his hand to shoo me out of the way. Then he raised the blade, preparing for more destruction.

I've always admired those protesters who stand up to tanks, risking their lives for the greater good. Admiration is one thing. Getting crushed by several tons of metal is another. The driver had an amused look on his face that bordered on psychotic. He probably won every game of chicken he ever played. Staring steadily at me, he began to lower the blade. The engine churned and massive tires started moving, right toward me.

In the movies I would have clamored up the machine and taken out the driver with a few well-­placed and well-­deserved kicks. This was not the movies. I yelled as the blade dipped into the earth and began tearing up rocks and shrubs. “Police!” I screamed, pointing in the direction of downtown. I tried miming, channeling the image of Bunny reaching for her badge and gun. None of it did any good. The driver grinned and mimed back, playfully cupping his ear and shrugging with exaggerated incomprehension.

I backed away as the destruction inched closer. Were the police really coming? Bill Hoffman had heard the notification on police radio, but what if Manny took the call and dragged his feet about coming out here again? I kicked myself for leaving my cell phone and purse back at the café. Did I hear sirens? The clash of metal against rock, earth, wood, and tile drowned out all other sounds. I made up my mind. If I couldn't get to the driver, I'd get to his boss. As the driver took aim at a wobbling bit of fence, I dashed around the other side of the machine and into Broomer's garden.

In contrast to the destruction at Victor's, the Zen garden was untouched. Steam wafted from the soaking pool, where I half expected to find Broomer, smugly sipping a cocktail. I peeked into the bamboo grove, finding the bath empty. Just as well. I'd seen all of his pale body I ever wanted to see. Continuing up to the main house, I took in the beauty that seemed so incongruent with Broomer's character. The house was an elegant adobe that formed a U-­shape in the back, protecting a serene patio. With its massive outdoor fireplace and crisscrossing strings of lights, the patio would be a lovely place to sit and listen to the river and birds. It was also a perfectly fine spot to meditate, I thought angrily. Broomer could sit here all he wanted without any need to destroy Victor's garden.

I suspected that he was inside, close to the destruction yet not getting his own hands dirty. Pounding on his back door, I yelled, “Broomer! The police are coming! Cease and desist immediately!”

When his pale, smug face failed to appear, I circled around the back of the house, stopping occasionally to rap on windows and peek inside. Buddha statues gazed back at me, unemotional. The décor was a mix of old Santa Fe and Asia, an admittedly gorgeous blend of wood beams and calligraphy scrolls. I supposed that even jerks could have good taste. And where was the resident jerk? I was beginning to revise my theory. Maybe Mr. Meditation didn't like the noise and had fled to his gallery.

I didn't have time to waste. I hurried from window to window, glancing in quickly. That's how I almost missed the foot.

A foot? A bare foot? Had I really seen that? I stepped back up to a side window and looked in again, expecting to see the foot attached to a lounging Buddha statue. It was attached and its owner was laid out, but not in a peaceful way. By wedging my face at the very edge of the window, I could see a leg in khaki pants twisted at the knee.

“Broomer! Laurence! Get up!” I yelled, pounding on the glass. The figure didn't move, and the more I stared at the twisted limbs, the more I realized that he might never move. I turned and ran.

The bulldozer driver didn't see me at first. He was busy uprooting shrubs and overturning a bench. When he did spot me, he made exaggerated shrugs, implying that he couldn't possibly interpret my waving arms. He did put on the brakes when I got up the nerve to jump on the machine's side steps and pounded on the window of his cab.

He rolled down the window. “Lady, listen. I've got a work order to take down this fence and clear four feet of land. If you don't like it, take it up with Mr. Broomer. This here is his property. I've got that paperwork too.”

My voice came out as a high squeak. “Broomer,” I said, gulping for breath. “He's hurt! I think he could be dead.”

The driver's expression morphed from irritated to startled and then back to irritated. “Dead?” He cursed and smacked his control panel. “I talked to him last night. You're saying I'm doing this job for a dead guy? You sure?”

I felt like I knew a thing about emergencies after the last few days. “Dead or really badly hurt. Look, I don't have a phone with me. You have to call 911!”

He shut off the engine and pulled out his phone. Before he dialed, however, he cocked his head in the direction of a low wail. “Sounds like someone already did.”

K
itchen door: kicked in. Lock: broken. Cabinets: pilfered. Refrigerator: open and contents scattered.” Bunny stood by Broomer's gleaming stainless steel stove, talking into a tiny tape recorder. Beside her, a crime scene photographer captured the scene in staccato flashes. The photographer had already shot the other room, focusing on Broomer's dead body.

Bunny paused her tape recorder and directed the photographer to pay special attention to a bit of camouflage cloth stuck to the broken door window.

I knew who wore camo. If only the police, instead of me, had discovered Tops in his forest hut the other morning. If only Victor hadn't been so nice to him. If only—­

Bunny's voice interrupted what could have been an endless string of
if only
s.

“Rita Lafitte, neighbor, reports arriving at her home address at . . .” She looked at me expectantly. I checked my watch.

“About twenty minutes ago?” I said, before correcting myself in the face of Bunny's scowl. “Approximately 10:45.”

Bunny nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned her back to me, speaking softly. “The neighbor—­or possible POI—­confronted a bulldozer driver before trespassing onto the victim's property—­”

“Hey! I'm not a person of interest!” I cried.

Bunny assessed me before answering. “I suppose not, but you have been present at two bludgeoning deaths and several break-­ins.”

I was about to protest, then registered what she'd said. “Two bludgeonings? What do you mean?”

“Your landlord's death. There was evidence of blunt-­force trauma to the back of Victor's skull, inconsistent with a gunshot wound. The coroner can't be sure that the trauma killed him, but it's suspicious. You were right, it doesn't look like suicide. Don't leave town without letting us know.”

Bunny's cell phone rang and she strode outside to answer it. I wanted to follow and pepper her with questions, but the two deputies guarding the kitchen had instructions to keep me where I was. However, they couldn't stop my eyes from roving.

Broomer's kitchen was a showcase, one that I doubted saw much cooking. No stray dishes littered the sink, and the cabinets held plates and glasses as artfully arranged as a catalog backdrop. The pantry was a mess, but that was the fault of the intruder. The same with the open fridge, which contained take-­out boxes and containers of soup from a fancy food truck. I sighed, depressed at the unloved kitchen, but most of all for the cruel disdain for life. Poor Victor. Poor Broomer too. He might have been a major jerk, but he didn't deserve this. I craned my neck to watch white-­suited men covering his body with a sheet.

“Another body, Rita? You're turning into a menace to society.” Manny strode in, his smile overly bright in the gloomy scene.

I held back the urge to bristle. I wouldn't stoop to his level. Instead, I informed him that I had to go. “I have to get back to work.”

“What, you're on your coffee break, so you come home to bludgeon your neighbor?”

“I did not bludgeon anyone. Even
you
can't think that.”

“How do I know what you'd do, Rita? You sprung that divorce out of nowhere, remember that?”

He put on a pouty face, like he was completely blameless. When I didn't answer, he flashed his sharky whites again. “But I have Ariel now. And you, wait here until one of the deputies can take you in and get a statement.”

“I'm not waiting, Manny. I told you, I have to get back to work. It's Día de los Muertos. We're very busy.”

He made a scoffing sound. “Look at you, trying to talk like a local. You'll wait here until we tell you that you can go.”

“My client can leave whenever she wishes.” The deputies by my side parted at the sight of Jake Strong. Manny snorted and rested a hand on his holster. I wanted to hug Jake, but is hugging allowed between a client and lawyer? Is dating? I doubted it. I'd likely maneuvered myself from romantic prospect to prospective client, although given my finances, I wouldn't be an attractive client either.

Manny held his ground, making me out to be Santa Fe's most notorious material witness and/or potential perpetrator.

Jake looped a suit-­coated arm around my shoulder. I couldn't help myself. I leaned in.