Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery (26 page)

 

Chapter 33

A
fter a stressful search for a parking spot, I arrived at the Plaza just as the winners of the fry bread contest were being read out. The
pan de muerto
results would be announced last. I hadn't missed Flori's moment. I breathed a sigh of relief and took in the pretty scene. Autumn scents of roasting chiles, grilled corn, and piñon smoke perfumed the air. Red chile-­shaped string lights ringed the bandstand, where Flori stood behind her bread. She was bundled up in her red coat and scarf, a contrast to Gloria's shapely shearling jacket and cowgirl hat sparkling with a tiara. The loudspeaker voice announced that the bread contest was next. Gloria waved like a beauty queen to the crowd, palm cupped, smile plastered on her face. I waved too, effusively and in Flori's direction. She saw me and smiled, nodding toward the judge's box. In place of Broomer sat another interim judge, Jeb Parsons, an actual judge and a Tres Amigas regular.

Flori mouthed something that I couldn't make out. A person diagonally in front of me could. Armida turned to a woman standing next to her. “Hot stuff?” she demanded loudly. “What does she mean?”

I knew what she meant. I nodded my understanding to Flori. Gloria and Armida wouldn't have the advantage here. “Hot stuff” was the code that Flori had given Judge Parsons years ago, allowing him unlimited, free hot drinks. He tended to go for hot chocolate, extra chocolaty.

I held my breath and cradled Hugo closer. The announcer was doing an annoying drawn-­out lead-in. “And now, the category that we've all been waiting for. The most coveted award of the Day of the Dead culinary contest. The bread that will lure the ancestors back for this day and this day only.”

“We get it, we get it . . .” I muttered to Hugo, who purred happily inside my coat. Beside me, other spectators shared my restlessness and muttered about technicalities, like
technically
, the dead traveled back for several days.
Technically
, the spirits had broken through the worldly barrier at midnight last night.

“And in this corner, the reigning champion, Gloria Hendrix.” Good grief, I thought, as the announcer strung us on. What was this, a boxing match? It was a battle, one without physical blows. Yet. Armida and a group around her started to cheer and pump their fists in the air. The rest of the crowd clapped politely.

The announcer blathered on. “She holds blue ribbons from the Cowpoke Cupcake Contest of Amarillo, Texas.” Armida and posse continued to whoop and clap. The mention of Texas drew a mix of boos and woos from the rest of the crowd.

“And in this corner, our very own native daughter, hailing from Tres Amigas Café, Mrs. Flori Fitzgerald—­” The rest of the announcement was drowned out in cheers, including my own, although I tempered my enthusiasm when I felt Hugo vibrate with nerves. I whispered comforting words to him and he started to purr again. Three other competitors were announced, long shots who received polite applause. The crowd knew its bread.

“Fingers crossed!” Cass squeezed in next to me and gave me a little hug. Then she frowned, staring at my chest. “What's in there? Some kind of hot water bottle? You didn't sprain your chest too, did you?”

I didn't have time to explain Hugo or my most recent run-­in with Tops. The announcer was finally about to say something useful. I heard Gloria's name, given in grand tones, and my heart sank. Then I realized that her name was being followed by glorious words, “First runner-up.” I tucked my coat protectively around Hugo to shield his kitten ears from the roar when Flori was announced winner.

Cass and I high-­fived and waved to Flori. Gloria looked stunned, as did Armida and crew, who pushed their way out of the crowd. My last glimpse of Armida that evening was of her being bundled into the car by two other women. The women pushed her into the backseat as she flashed middle fingers at the festival.

Later, with Addie on the stage belting out her Adele songs, Flori joined me and Cass. She held a trophy nearly half her size, gold like a bowling trophy except topped with a grinning skull. “Pretty sweet,” she said with a grin. “Plus, Judge Parsons didn't know which bread was mine or Gloria's. He was out of town all week and came in straight from the airport on the train. No one can say that I'm a cheater.”

As she received congratulations from her many fans, I checked my cell phone, seeing that Celia had texted. In text speak, my daughter conveyed that she'd be done with her school activity at seven-­twenty. The implication was that I could come pick her up at the specified time, no sooner, no later.

“See, she's making the effort,” Cass said. “And look, she sent a photo. I love that painting, and of course the handsome kid next to it.”

We admired the photo with maternal pride. In it, Sky held a metal crow and pointed to one of Celia's paintings. He grinned widely. And was it my imagination, or did Celia's morose fairies look a little less down?

Cass was right. A nonsnippy text from my daughter, with information not dragged out under intense questioning, was something to celebrate.

My phone vibrated again. I would have ignored it, but I thought it was Celia amending her pickup instructions. It wasn't. I stopped walking and read the text slowly.

Cass watched me, looking concerned. “Everything okay with Celia?”

I nodded. “It's Jake.” I read out the text word for word to Cass. “ ‘Tops caught. In custody. Police say he confessed.' ”

“There it is,” Cass said, brushing her hands together to imply case closed. “The easiest answer was right all along. It's like metal. The less you mess with it, the better it looks.”

I wasn't sure what she meant about metal or that I agreed. I dialed Bunny's direct number. She sighed as a way of salutation.

“Yes,” she said, after I reported my information from Jake. “The suspect confessed. I'm only telling you this so that you can go home and stop worrying. And stop investigating.”

“Did he have his lawyer present when he confessed?” I demanded. “Are you absolutely sure he confessed and didn't mean something else? He can be confusing and confused.”

More sighing was followed by, “He said, ‘I did it. It's my fault Victor's dead.' Seems pretty lucid and obvious to us.”

I wanted it to be obvious. Cass was right. Clean and simple was better. Yet doubts bounced around in my head. “What if he meant that metaphorically?”

“Rita,” Bunny sighed. “You're sounding like your lawyer boyfriend. Leave this to us. Go home.”

“He's not my boyfriend—­” The other end of the line went dead. Bunny had hung up. She was right about one thing, though. Celia and I should go home tonight. We could have a normal, safe night in our cozy casita.

“I don't know how I feel,” I said to Cass and Flori.

We were making our way back to Tres Amigas. Above us, the stars sparkled and the moon glowed over the adobe city. It was a good night for the spirits to be home.

“But what if he's
not
guilty?” I persisted. “What if the police misunderstood and Jay-­Jay's been pulling the strings this whole time to get at Victor's art and property?”

Flori waved at a passing supporter who beeped from his car. “It's possible,” she said. “If Jay-­Jay finds his new will and destroys it, that old one will be hard to contest, unless Gabe does, and he doesn't have much fight in him these days.”

“I suspected her all along,” Cass grumbled. She cradled Flori's trophy in her arms, raising it whenever a supporter waved or beeped.

When we reached Tres Amigas, I unlocked the door and we entered to the aromas of buttery bread and burned scone. “Even if Jay-­Jay's not the killer,” I said, “she's up to slimy business, trying to take over Victor's art center and his house too. We have to keep at it and find that new will.”

My
dos amigas
agreed.

“Absolutely,” Flori reiterated. “Now tell us why your chest is meowing.”

A
t the appointed time, I drove to meet Celia in front of her school. When she got in the car, Hugo immediately hopped from my lap to hers.

“A kitten! Oh my God, he's so cute.” My daughter forgot her sullen facade. “Where did you get him, Mom?”

I explained briefly, glossing over the terror part of acquiring him.

“Poor Tops,” Celia said, after hearing that he was arrested. “Victor said he was a kind man, only with problems. You know he helped make that carved wooden bench down in the garden.”

I hadn't known that, and I realized Celia didn't know about Broomer's death or the garden destruction. I filled her in, adding assurances for both our sakes.

“We're safe now,” I said. “And the garden isn't completely ruined. Gabe told me that he's going to have the fence repaired as soon as the police tape is gone.” Then I steeled myself and asked, “Do you want to move?”

Celia frowned, sporting a buff-­colored mustache formed by Hugo's tail. “Why should we move? We have to stay and help fix Victor's garden.” Her tone was surly and defiant again, but this time I felt the same way. No one was going to scare us away from our home.

I didn't feel quite as bold when we returned to the dark casita with our haul of feline accessories. I checked the house for prowlers, telling Celia I was scoping out the best place for Hugo's new litter box. She suggested the bathroom closet, offering to move all her shampoos, hair gel, and boxes of black hair dye. I wished I could move the dye out of the house. I also wished that a falling roll of toilet paper hadn't startled me into bumping my head on a shelf.

“Chill, Mom, geez,” Celia said, but then proceeded to clean out the closet without any grumbles.

Hugo padded between our rooms throughout the night. His tiny clawed feet weren't the reason for my lack of sleep. My mind kept spinning, thinking of Tops, missing wills, and Jay-­Jay brandishing cactuses. But most of all, I thought of Victor's spirit. Was he satisfied, at rest? Or were we still missing something?

I
must have fallen asleep at one point because the ringing phone startled me upright. “Flori?” As usual, my early morning thoughts flew to bad news.

“I'm calling to tell you to sleep in,” she said.

I flopped back onto my pillow and counted to ten before answering.

“Thanks,” I replied, not entirely keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. “You really didn't have to call to tell me that.”

“Well it's nearly six. Your alarm will be going off any moment. Stay in bed. My daughters are rewarding my win by doing all the breakfast prep so I can go to the early All Souls' Day mass. You go back to sleep.”

With that she hung up, and I lay in bed wide-­awake, feeling grumpy. Sure, I would have been up by now, had I remembered to set my alarm. I tried closing my eyes but they kept springing open.

I consoled myself that I had a few free hours. I could have a leisurely cup of coffee. Heck, I could have the entire pot before Celia got up. Then I would drive her to school and order would be restored, at least in our car-­sharing arrangement.

Hugo gobbled kitten chow and galloped down the hall to Celia's room. I took my cup outside to enjoy the crystal clear morning. Tucking my phone in my pocket, I vowed to snap some pictures and e-­mail them to my mother and sister, both of whom had sent petulant notes wondering why they hadn't heard from me. I would send some pretty, placating shots and then later—­a lot later—­tell them a highly abridged version of what happened.

Birds warbled in the cottonwoods and the frosted leaves glittered. It should have been peaceful, even amidst the police tape, except it wasn't. Someone was in the backyard, and this time it wasn't Tops.

 

Chapter 34

S
tanding at the top of the garden, I reassured myself that the confessed killer was in custody. To be on the safe side, I clutched my cell phone in one hand and the cinnamon-­scented porch broom in the other, although I doubted I'd need either. How much harm could an obviously drunk Jay-­Jay Jantrell do to me? She wobbled along the garden paths, muttering.

“Hi Jay-­Jay,” I called out, venturing down the steps to the lower garden. “What are you doing out here so early?” I said in the perky, high-­pitched tone I'd use if approaching a snarling wolf.

She cursed to the world in general and then seemed to focus on me. Her eyes and nose were red and her gold spandex leggings were snagged. Bits of apache plume flowers stuck to her fur jacket, and even from a distance she reeked of alcohol. My immediate repulsion and fear were replaced by cautious sympathy. From her drunken mumblings, I gathered that she was mourning the death of Broomer.

“Such a go-­getter,” she slurred, lurching in my direction. “And that hot tub, ahhh . . .”

“Okay, let's sit down.” I dropped my broom and caught her mid-­lurch. With difficulty, I maneuvered her toward a bench that had managed to elude the bulldozer. My sympathy may have come too soon. She wrenched herself out of my grasp, fury focusing in her eyes. “This is mine!” she yelled. “Mine!”

I backed away, holding my phone but leery of looking down to dial. Would that set her off more? She tried to yank a garden saint off its tree-­mounted pedestal. When the saint wouldn't budge, she tromped through the churned-up dirt in her furry fashion boots.

“Okay,” I repeated, firmly. “We'll sort this out.” And by “we” I meant the police. I was starting to dial when Jay-­Jay screamed, ran to me, and grabbed the phone from my hands.

“Ha!” she yelled. “Ha! Now I know! That's why he was so upset! Divorce me, will you?” This was followed by maniacal laughter that made me abandon thoughts of snatching back my phone. What had set her off? I glanced at the pile of dirt. A wooden St. Francis statue lay on the ground. His hand and the sparrow it held were broken off. Distressing, but easily fixed with some glue. I went to pick up the statue. That's when I saw what Jay-­Jay was raving about.

Bone, white and fleshless, poked out of the earth. And not the remains of an unfortunate deer or a dog's lost chew toy. This was a skull and it was human.

“Oh my God, Jay-­Jay, call the police!” She was messing with my phone, which has a fickle power button.

“Police? I'm not calling the police. I'm calling my lawyer! This place is mine! Victor left it to me! I deserve it.”

She sounded out of her mind. I stepped away, ready to dash for help, until I saw that help was already coming. Gabe ran down the garden, dressed in polka-­dot pajamas.

He blanched when I pointed to the skull, but immediately took charge. “Dear God, what did Victor do? I'll get Jay-­Jay inside and call the police. Rita, you go back to your casita and lock yourself in.”

Jay-­Jay was still cackling as Gabe pulled her up the garden. “Rita, go, please!” he yelled back. “Go inside and stay there until I knock.”

He half dragged, half shoved Jay-­Jay up the pathway. I automatically began to follow his instructions. Then I stopped, feeling dizzy, thinking of Gabe's words. Victor? Could sweet Victor be responsible for this horror? Is that why he had surrounded the spot with benevolent saints? Feeling repulsed yet drawn in, I returned to the bones.

The forensics team wouldn't want me digging around in there. However, it wasn't like the killer had left fresh tracks. The bones jutting from the marred earth had clearly been there a long time. Plus, they were already unearthed. Broomer's bulldozer started the process and coyotes had apparently continued it. Canine prints dotted the dirt, and to my horror, I realized that some bones were scattered around. A few lay by a fallen log, others near the upturned birdbath.

Poor person, whoever you were
. I stepped over to a spot dotted in coyote tracks. They'd dug up the area, exposing bone and what appeared to be trash. I squatted down to check it out. What I'd initially taken to be junk was a wallet, brittle and dirty but well-­preserved in the dry New Mexican earth.

Using a tissue from my pocket, I opened the wallet to find cash, an insurance card, and a driver's license. The year on the insurance was 1971, and the cards were issued to one David Donaldson. Recognition took a moment, but when it did, a fresh chill ran down my limbs. Davy, the man who had seemingly abandoned Linda. All this time, he'd been here.

Shaking, I stood and reached for my phone. I patted my pockets twice before remembering that Jay-­Jay had it. No matter. Gabe was going to call. I heard his screen door bang shut and waited by a bench until he came strolling down the path.

He carried a garbage bag in one hand. It seemed an odd time to tidy up, but maybe he meant to cover the bones out of respect.

“Gabe,” I said, anxious to tell him of my discovery. “I found this wallet. I know who this is.”

He shook his head, and I registered a sad expression on his face, mixed with something darker. “I know who it is too,” he said.

Horror and a sickening realization struck seconds before he reached into the bag and pulled out a gun.

“No, Gabe, no,” I repeated as he and the gun came closer. Should I risk running? I thought of the garden behind me, picturing any boulders I could leap behind. There were a few on the other side of the property, if I made it that far. We were so close that he'd have to be the world's worst shot to miss me. Reasoning with him also seemed unlikely to work. His eyes were dark pits of madness.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice wooden. “If you'd only left this alone . . .”

I had my hands out in front of me, as if that would stop a bullet. Above us, crows cawed angrily. “I
can
leave it alone,” I lied. “No one has to know. I'll move out and no one will know that these bones are here.”

His gun wavered. “It's too late for that. You shouldn't feel responsible. It's Victor's fault. Him and his crazy spirits. He was going to tell. After all these years, he couldn't let it be. Now I'll live. Now it'll be like it was before.”

I inched backward until I saw his finger move onto the trigger. “Gabe, please, I have . . .” I was about to say I had a daughter, but I didn't want to remind him of Celia, sleeping a few hundred feet away. I prayed that she wouldn't wake up and come outside.

“You have to go,” he said, finishing my sentence in a way I didn't like. He raised the scope to eye level, but was momentarily distracted by a crow, flying low in front of him.

I took this as my chance and sprinted toward a grove of trees, wishing they were giant sequoias instead of gnarly oaks stunted by drought. A boom sent me flailing to the ground. Pebbles raked my face and twigs rained down on me. I didn't care, as long as I was alive.

“Gabe, no!” I cried. “Stop!” Frantic, I scanned the garden for my next place to run. If I could make it to the creek, I could run upstream and hide in the thick willows. Not for long, though. Nothing would stop Gabe from following, whereas a fresh twist of my bum ankle could stop me in my tracks forever.

“Don't make this difficult,” Gabe said from the garden. His voice was eerily reasonable. “I have things to do,” he continued. “Linda is coming over to pick me up, and we're going to Tres Amigas for breakfast. Her sisters are there. They'll be happy to see me again.”

I thought of Tres Amigas and wished I was there. I'd happily deal with fussy customers. I'd let them edit the menu and request extra whipped cream and vegetarian meat dishes. I squeezed my eyes shut and listened as methodical footsteps came closer.

“Gabe? Hello? Anyone home?” Linda's voice sounded far away.

“Linda!” I screamed. “Help! Run! Call the police!” I scrambled to my feet, hugging a spindly oak in front of me. Gabe let his gun drop as he turned toward the house.

“Linda, don't come down here, honey,” he called out. “Stupid,” he fumed in my direction. “Shut up. You'll ruin everything.”

“Call the police! Help!” I screamed, letting go of the oak to scramble deeper into the thicket. Branches slashed my face and my ankle burned.

“What's going on down here?”

I stopped long enough to see Linda, hurrying yet careful to stay on the winding path. As usual, she looked worried. This time, that look was justified.

“It's nothing,” Gabe said. “There's a coyote out here, that's all. Rita was scared.” Did he really think I'd shut up and let him keep up his charade until Linda left? A new and worse thought struck me. What if my yelling had lured Linda to her death too? Would he kill her to keep his secret?

From where I stood, I could see he had an arm draped protectively over her shoulder.

Her voice trembled as she looked around, her gaze stopping at the bones before fixing on me. “Rita, what's going on here?”

I chose my words carefully. “We found bones, Linda. Davy Donaldson's bones.” There, it was out. I'd told her. I hoped I hadn't doomed her.

She twisted out of Gabe's grasp and stumbled toward the disturbed grave. He followed close behind, yelling her name, shouting, “He never loved you. Not like me.”

I yearned to run away, to flee toward my daughter and safety. But I couldn't desert Linda with this maniac. Leaving the relative safety of the grove, I inched toward the two of them. Linda stood over the grave, her hands dancing through the sign of the cross. Gabe, beside her, frantically kicked earth back over the white bones. The gun dangled from his hand. I said my own prayer and rushed at him, linebacker style.

My initial impact knocked Gabe off balance and allowed me to grab the butt end of the gun. He righted himself and struggled to regain control of it. We held the weapon between us, its barrel raised to the sky. I knew I wasn't as strong as Gabe. The barrel inched downward. Soon it would be aimed straight at me. My life didn't flash before me. Instead, my list-­making lobe took over, absurdly nagging me about all the little things I'd never do, like getting Celia to school on time or taking Hugo to the vet for a checkup or making it to the café by the lunch rush. Linda would tell Flori that I'd be late, I told myself, before recognizing the ridiculousness of that thought. And where was Linda? Why wasn't she helping me? The metal barrel slipped in my sweaty hands, and my arms shook and ached with the effort of tugging against him.

Then suddenly there was no effort. I stumbled backward as Gabe slumped to the ground. Linda stood above him holding a large rock.