Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery

by Ann Myers

  “Mom, did you get my message?” Celia had replaced perky with an angry whine. “Call me. Sky and I are with the police, the tribal police over in Tesuque. We’re, like, driving around with them ’cause they won’t let us go unless you come get us. It’s stupid, so don’t tell Dad or Sky’s mom. It’s 6:35 and you should be home. Where are you?”

  Any reassurance I’d felt vanished. The police? My daughter and Cass’s good, responsible son were in police custody? And where had I been at 6:35? Probably laughing and drinking wine with Cass, neither of us knowing that our children needed us. It made sense that Sky would call his dad, Walker, an influential member of Tesuque Pueblo, a Native American community about ten miles north of Santa Fe. Walker is also a well-­known artist, and he and Cass would make a gorgeous, artsy ­couple if they both weren’t committed to being friends.

  Message three started playing as I tried to understand the last message, especially the driving around part. “Mom, geez, where are you? Sky can go home whenever but says he won’t until I can. Whatever! I’m calling Ariel.”

  I took a deep breath and told myself to remain calm. Then I hit the speed dial number I’d programmed for Celia. She answered on the second ring.

  “Mom! It’s about time!”

  I felt horrible. On the other hand, I was not in the custody of tribal police. Celia, not me, had a whole lot of explaining to do. I tried for a tone that would keep us both civil and calm.

  “Celia, honey, I apologize. I forgot to turn my phone on. I’ll come and get you right now, but I need to know what happened and where to find you.”

  My daughter muttered about the whole situation being stupid. “And I don’t know where you can get me,” she said in a pointedly loud voice. “We’re sitting under the underpass at a speed trap. That’s how they caught us! Here, talk to this guy.”

  After some rustling and a muffled discussion, a male voice came on the line. Officer Day, as he introduced himself, was a sergeant in the Tesuque Pueblo police force. He was also a very disappointed man. “Disappointed,” he repeated to me. “Highly disappointed.”

  I assured him that I too was disappointed, although for what I didn’t know.

  “I told these same youths once before when they were speeding,” he said, his words clipped and rising at the end. “I said, ‘one warning, that is all you get.’ Tonight I caught them again, Sky Clearwater driving, your daughter as a verbally combative passenger. It is only out of courtesy for Walker Clearwater that I do not throw them in jail for the night.”

  “Jail? For speeding?” I asked, hearing my voice go squeaky. Jake leaned in close. I held the phone out from my ear so he could hear.

  “For an alcoholic beverage container open in the front seat. And speeding. Seven miles per hour over the speed limit on Pueblo lands. You may retrieve your daughter and pay her ticket, but be warned because now I have warned you too.”

  I’ve been warned,” I said to Jake, trying to laugh off the situation. My attempt at a cavalier chuckle came off as a verge-­of-­hysterical hiccup. Part of me felt drained from relief. Celia wasn’t hurt. She wasn’t in the hospital or a jail cell or abducted. In another part of me, anger fed off the relief. Celia and Sky should have known better. Or maybe I should have known better and kept a closer watch on her. I would now.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Jake, well aware that if this had been anything resembling a spontaneous date, it was now wrecked. “I have to go. The officer said that he’s getting off his shift and will take the kids to Tesuque Village Market to wait for me.”

  I got up again and pulled out my wallet.

  Jake beat me to it, putting down cash to more than cover cocoas and a tip. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

  “Sorry! Thanks for the cocoa.”

  “You’re very welcome. It was my pleasure. But what I meant was, aren’t you forgetting that you’re carless?”

  I’m afraid I cursed, never the perfect ending to an evening of dancing and cocoa with a handsome man. Flori would be as disappointed as Officer Day.

  “You’re right,” I groaned, giving up any hope of a dignified exit. “I’ll call a cab.”

  “Oh no, you won’t. I’m your driver today. Besides, you may need a lawyer.”

  I protested, but only a smidgen, enough to be polite. I did need a ride there and back. I wanted someone on my side too, although I prayed I wouldn’t need Jake’s legal talents.

  Under better circumstances, I adore the winding pre-­expressway route to the village of Tesuque, a rural oasis of heirloom apple orchards, historic ranches, and artists’ enclaves. Tonight, however, the twists and turns heightened my anxiety. I involuntarily slammed on the air brakes as we neared a sharp, blind curve, made more hazardous by towering adobe walls crowding the pavement. Jake drove fast but not recklessly.

  “Okay,” he said as we turned at one of the few stop signs in the village. “Here we are.” We parked on a gravel pull-­off across from a squat adobe. Looking at the modest structure, you’d never guess it sold gourmet foods in its country store and served up a menu ranging from fancy pastries to local delicacies. I stepped out of Jake’s car and breathed in the scents of a wood fire. The market was known for its wood-­fired pizza. Inappropriate thoughts of a charred and cheesy pie popped into my head until maternal worries crowded them out.

  Inside, the front-­of-­house manager greeted us with a bouncy, “Two for dinner?”

  Didn’t I wish. “We’re meeting someone,” I corrected, craning my neck. Several groups waited, squeezed between the bakery display, Day of the Dead décor, and the busy servers’ route. Jake stood on cowboy-­booted tiptoes to survey the dining areas. I backed up for a wider view. Feeling a finger poke my shoulder, I said “Excuse me” before realizing it belonged to a painted skeleton.

  “Over there.” Jake pointed to the other side of the room.

  How did he recognize Celia? I supposed that he’d seen her at the café. Until recently, she’d been happy to hang out at Tres Amigas after school, scoring free meals and finishing her homework. That was before her black-­straw hair and cat-­eye makeup. I hardly recognized her some days.

  I followed his pointing finger. There she was, at a back table by the general store room. Black bangs covered her eyes. She gripped a pencil and appeared to be drawing madly in her sketch notebook. Sky sat beside her, face stony. He wore his hair shoulder length, pulled back like his mother often did, except where hers was so blond it was almost white, his was shiny black. The teens were with Sky’s father, Walker, and a tall, slender man in uniform. When the policeman saw us approaching, he stood, pointing at Jake and frowning deeply. My heart could have bounced off the old wooden floors. Great, here I’d thought that Jake could help, and this guy hated him. What cop didn’t hate a snazzy defense attorney? I should have known better.

  “Is everything okay?” I whispered to Jake.

  “Absolutely,” he whispered back. Then in a louder voice, he said, “Danny Day’s no problem. I can crush this man before breakfast.”

  The tribal policeman’s frown went full-­facial before breaking into laughter. “You wish, hombre. Wait until next weekend, Strong. You’re going down.”

  My heart returned to normal cadence as they hugged each other in a manly back-­slapping way.

  “You brought this man along to help you?” Sergeant Day said to me. “He can’t even dunk a basketball.”

  “Yeah, but I can make more three-­pointers than you any day, Day.” Jake turned to me. “When Officer Day here isn’t fighting crime, he and his basketball team are losing to the Legal Hoops. Team basketball, every other Saturday or whenever Day feels like losing.”

  Day was chuckling happily now, promising that the Legal Hoops would eat their words.

  Everybody sat down and I relaxed. Too soon. Day abruptly turned from basketball to teenage misbehavior.

  “You’re
lucky this time,” he said, directing his words at me and Walker. Our teenagers stared at the table. “Driving with open alcohol containers is not taken lightly by the Pueblo. We’re cracking down. It is only because of my uncle, Sky’s godfather, that I don’t charge these youths officially.”

  Walker, throughout, bobbed his head in agreement. When the policeman was finished, Walker agreed with everything he said, except for letting Sky off easily. “His godfather and I will ensure that this never happens again,” he said.

  I seconded his statement, adding my gratitude and saying that Celia and I were both very sorry.

  “Why should I be sorry?” she muttered, scraping her pencil across a drawing of storm clouds looming over an angry fairy girl. “We didn’t do anything. It’s not like we were drunk or speeding that much.”

  Sergeant Day took a notepad from his front pocket and flipped it open. “Two cans of Santa Fe Brewing Happy Camper IPA were found open in the front compartment of the vehicle, a 1981 Ford F-­series pickup truck, dark blue, driven by Sky Clearwater.”

  “Yeah,” Celia protested, “but they were only open because we were doing a ceremony.”

  Sky nudged her, probably hoping to shut her up. I wanted her to shut up too, but my telling her that would backfire for sure.

  “It was my idea,” she persisted. “Sky was just helping out and driving ’cause I left our car at Dad’s, like I said I would, Mom.” I nudged Jake’s boot with my shoe. Wasn’t he supposed to be advising us all to remain quiet? That’s what the lawyers on Law and Order all did.

  He recrossed his legs, looking serene.

  “We were saying a prayer for Victor,” Celia explained, fixing me with watery eyes. “We went out and sat near Camel Rock, lit a candle, and ate some frito pie like Victor liked and opened his favorite beer. We took a sip and poured some on the earth, that’s all! If we drank it, Officer Nosy here wouldn’t have found any beer left in the cans. The rest of the six-­pack is in the truck.”

  Officer Nosy looked ready to follow up on his threat to charge Celia. He had connections to Sky and Walker, but none to my daughter. I could imagine what he saw in her, an angry girl with bad hair and a worse attitude. I, however, could picture her and Sky visiting Camel Rock, a natural rock formation that resembles a flattened mushroom more than any animal. I could also picture them honoring Victor with one of his favorite naughty snacks: an individual bag of Fritos, opened and topped with canned chili, shredded cheese, and onions. If only they’d stopped at the snack. And where had they gotten the beer? Another serious talk with my daughter was needed.

  “We’re sorry,” I said again, reaching out a hand to let Celia know that it was time for us to leave. “My daughter is grieving the loss of a dear friend, but that is no excuse for illegal behavior. Please give me the ticket and we will pay it.”

  Walker insisted on paying half, a generous offer, as was his promise to inform Cass. I appreciated both, but I firmly rejected any payment. I knew the memorial picnic hadn’t been Sky’s idea. Besides, how bad could one ticket be? I could make Celia work it off.

  Sergeant Day tore off a ticket sheet. “You can pay online,” he said. “By the deadline or you’ll be in court.”

  I was glad that he and Jake had started talking basketball again. I didn’t want the fancy lawyer to see me gawping at the bill. One hundred eighty-­five dollars? “Come on,” I told my daughter grumpily. “We’ll talk about this when we get home.”

  “What are we going to do, walk home? Our car’s at Dad’s.”

  “My car is at your father’s,” I corrected. “Where you’ll no longer be staying unsupervised. You’re coming home with me.”

  Celia, to her credit, didn’t argue. She did put in a snipe when Jake said he’d be driving us home.

  “Way to go, Mom,” she said, sarcasm oozing. “Now I know why you didn’t answer your phone.”

  Chapter 13

  I asked Jake to drop us off at Manny’s house, hoping Manny would be out working and that Celia could, as she promised, find the car keys in her room. Her spaces were messier than the interior of my purse.

  “I can wait,” Jake offered. We sat in his warm car, watching as Celia trotted to the front door of Manny’s adobe-­coated rancher. It had been his grandparents’ house, and I’d never considered fighting for it in the divorce. The house was his, too much so for me to want to live there. Still, it did hold some fond memories. Celia lit lights, and I pictured the familiar rooms and hallways she was walking through.

  I turned to Jake, noting again how good he looked in his scarf. “You’ve already done so much for us,” I said. “It’s okay. We’ll get our car and go straight home.”

  “We should do this again sometime,” Jake said as I reluctantly made moves to leave the heated leather seats and warm male companionship. “I mean, not this in particular. Perhaps coffee without any police involvement?”

  I got out thinking of my moratorium, but mostly about Celia. She was clearly hurting. I had to focus on her. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be rude to refuse coffee with the man who drove me to not one but two law-­enforcement meetings in a single day? I agreed that coffee would be nice. “My treat,” I insisted.

  He smiled, his blue-­gray eyes twinkling. “Shall I call you, then, or expect to find you hitchhiking on the street?”

  Calling definitely seemed like a date, I worried, as I wrote my number on the back of a grocery receipt. As he drove off, I worried some more. What did that grocery store receipt reveal? A run for snack food and chocolate? I assured myself that it didn’t matter. Jake wouldn’t call anyway, not after reconsidering the day of driving me around. Moratorium or not, I realized I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.

  “Hey, Mom, snap out of it.” Celia appeared beside me, dangling keys. She had a duffel bag over one shoulder and her favorite faux-­feather pillow under her arm. “I left Dad a note. You know he’s going to be ticked, ’cause I told him I was staying a few more nights.”

  She opened the garage door. There my car was, in my old parking spot right next to the moving boxes I’d never unpacked. At first I’d told myself I was too busy to fully unpack. I had to help Celia adjust. I had to find my own way around and learn my new job. Down deep, however, I’d known that my marriage was crumbling. Part of me had been poised to move back home, until I realized my home was here, in Santa Fe.

  I squeezed through to the driver’s-side door, glancing at box labels as I went. Kitchen pans: Bundt, muffin, popover. Books, crafts, gardening. Albums, Celia. Nostalgia hit me. I missed parts of my old life, and I definitely missed my collection of miscellaneous cookware. It’s not like I needed to make cakes shaped like pumpkins or churn ice cream in winter or whip up golf-­ball-­shaped Danish pancakes in my ebelskiver pan, but I sure liked the idea that I could if I wanted to. I almost regretted negotiating a year’s storage of my stuff as part of the divorce. I couldn’t afford a private storage facility, though, and the tiny casita could never accommodate the mountain of cookware. I peeked in one of the boxes.

  “You know Dad wants to throw all this stuff out,” Celia said. “He wants to get a motorcycle and maybe an ATV and put in a workbench and a punching bag and stuff. I told him that he could toss my old kid junk.”

  If he tossed my ebelskiver pan or sentimental items from Celia’s babyhood, I’d want to use him as a punching bag. Feeling slightly panicked, I grabbed the first thing I found at the top of the box—­my waffle maker—­and vowed that as soon as life got back to some semblance of normal, I’d find a new storage option.

  Driving is not the best time for imparting life lessons. On the other hand, Celia couldn’t tromp off and avoid me if she was buckled into the front seat. At the first stoplight, I turned to my daughter and asked her point-­blank whether she was drinking.

  She shrugged and stared out the window.

  “Celia,” I said, aiming to sound gentle but firm. “I s
melled alcohol on your breath the night of Victor’s . . . the night Ariel brought you home. Is that why you left the car parked downtown?”

  I focused on the narrow street and avoiding pothole craters. In my side vision I saw Celia fidget. I waited her out, an interrogation technique I learned from Flori.

  “Yeah, fine,” my daughter said under my gaze at a four-­way stop. “I was at Gina’s place, and her sister’s in college and some of her friends were there having drinks and gave us some. I only had one hard cider. Maybe one and a half.”

  Celia and I have had the no-­drinking/avoiding-­peer-­pressure talk before, several times in fact. I struggled to find the right words, all of which were met with rote, “I know, I know” responses from my daughter.

  “And the beer?” I asked. “Where did you and Sky get that?”

  Gina’s sister was again implicated. “I’ve been helping Gina study for her SATs,” Celia said. “We were all hanging out there and I saw the beer and thought of Victor.” Her voice wobbled and my sternness caved.

  “You know how I feel about this, Celia. But you did the right thing getting a ride the other night.” I glanced over to see her staring out the side window.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said again, before adding, “I ran into Ariel. She’s the one who insisted on driving me back home. She’s cool.”

  She was cool, I thought, feeling unexpected gratitude for Manny’s girlfriend.

  Our serious talk ended in the driveway. Celia jumped out before I’d fully stopped the car and bolted inside, hugging her pillow. I got out too, clutching the waffle maker and shivering from both the cold and the chilly darkness of the main house. No candles would light Victor’s altar. I wondered if I should make my own altar. Maybe his spirit would visit. His haunted spirit. In the distance, the Japanese-­style lanterns atop Broomer’s walls flickered. Their prettiness angered me.