Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery

by Ann Myers

  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.”

  “What?” Cass demanded. She looked as horrified as I felt.

  A smile brightened Jay-­Jay’s face, which was suspiciously dry of tears. “Yes, I know, isn’t that sweet? Most divorced ­couples would cut each other out, but Victor felt so bad that he wasn’t there for me. He put me right back in his will after our separation. Of course his art was hardly known then. Such a precious legacy to leave me.”

  A truck had set its sights on the parking space in which Cass still stood. The driver laid on the horn, covering Cass’s exclamations of disbelief as she turned and stormed across the street, me following at her heels.

  “That woman!” she exclaimed when we reached the doors of Double Take. “I can’t believe it. I won’t. Victor would never leave his art to such a scoundrel. He had to know her reputation. He, if anyone, would know her.”

  I agreed. “I thought he’d leave everything to his nonprofit. That was the most important thing to him.”

  Cass stomped off into the consignment store. “That ‘run-­down studio’ she mentioned? I bet she means the warehouse where he ran his nonprofit art workshops. And he’d want his art donated to a museum,” she said, dodging a salesclerk. “Or if it was sold, with the profits going to the nonprofit. Never to Jay-­Jay. Never.” She turned and looked at me earnestly. “Right?”

  I hoped she was right. “How long ago did they get divorced?” I asked when Cass came to a stop in the women’s section.

  She estimated a date decades ago, long before my time here.

  “Then it’s fine,” I said, trying to comfort us both. “Say Victor did feel bad for her immediately after the divorce. He’s had years to reconsider and make a new will.”

  “Yeah,” Cass said, sounding uncertain. “Yes,” she said after a moment, this time with more conviction. “You’re absolutely right. Someone will have his new will or know where to find it.”

  I agreed heartily. However, as I sorted through the dress racks, I couldn’t help worrying. Flori said that Victor wrote everything down, but our friend wasn’t the most organized person. Last month, for example, Victor had come to me, sheepish, saying he’d misplaced my rent check. Again. He’d speculated that he might have accidentally tossed it out with a pile of junk mail, or stuffed it in a filing box, or used it as sketch paper. What if no one could find his will? If Jake didn’t call me, I was going to call him, not for a coffee date but for legal advice.

  Chapter 17

  You look awesome, Mom,” Celia said, painting a swirl of bright yellow down my chalky cheek.

  I looked terrifying. And, I had to admit, I did look pretty darned awesome, thanks to my artistic daughter. A black line ran down my forehead to my collar bone. On one side I was normal me, makeup-­free except for a little mascara. On the other side I was death. Atop white face paint, a black circle cloaked my eye, ringed with a fringe of red. My cheek bore bright yellow swirls that twirled to meet the smiling black suture marks extending from my lip. A black circle representing the hollow of my skeleton non-­nose, and a fun half flower in black on my chin completed the look.

  I rechecked myself in the full-­length mirror. My new black dress had a plunging neckline and fit like it had been made for me. Well, me about five pounds lighter. I gave thanks to the makers of Spanx and to the fashion gurus who had allowed ballet flats and tights to come back into fashion.

  “The face paint’s not too much?” I asked again.

  “No, it’s totally awesome.” Celia must have liked the design because she’d painted her face similarly. The lack of cat-­eye makeup lightened her look, and her attitude seemed bouncier too. Probably because I’d already relaxed her casita arrest. I hadn’t totally folded. She’d wanted to go out with Sky and some other friends, including Gina, an idea I nixed. Then she suggested hanging out with Ariel, which I squelched. Manny would be working and I didn’t want to leave her here alone. And I couldn’t cancel on Cass. Deserting my party-­dreading friend would not be a good-­friend move.

  “You will stay within sight of Flori and Bernard the whole time, you promise?” I confirmed for the third time.

  “Yeah, Mom. I’m not going to ditch old ­people. Anyway, I texted Rosa and she’s going too. We’ll hang out.”

  “Don’t let Flori hear you call her old,” I said, giving my daughter a little hug. Sure, Flori could call herself old, but heaven forbid anyone else did. Her great-­granddaughter, Rosa, was about Celia’s age, and I was happy that she’d be there. Rosa had inherited the good behavior of her grandmother, Linda, minus Linda’s worries.

  Celia turned her death profile to me and touched up her black lipstick. “Flori’s the coolest.”

  I thought that too and was grateful that she had invited Celia to accompany her and Bernard to the live music and dance event on the Plaza. I had a nagging suspicion, though. Was Flori up to something? She hadn’t questioned me with her usual intensity when I returned to work with the black dress and told her that I had plans with Cass tonight. She hadn’t demanded to know where we were going or if we were meeting hot men and how I intended to flirt with them. Did she have an ulterior motive?

  “I mean it,” I reiterated to my daughter. “Don’t let Flori out of your sight. I don’t want her slipping off to snoop. She’s very sneaky.”

  This earned a snicker from Celia.

  “And don’t let her and Bernard make out behind the bandstand again either.”

  Celia giggled like the little girl I remembered. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll watch ’em.”

  You look fabulous,” Cass said when I picked her up in my old Subaru.

  “It’s all Celia’s doing,” I said, feeling motherly pride. “You look stunning.” She did, despite her sour expression. White makeup covered her entire face, broken only by black curves forming skeletal cheeks, nostrils, and eyes. The white set off the paleness of her hair, which she wore down and straight.

  “I’m fine,” she said, more to herself than me. “We go, we greet, then we get out before midnight.” She sighed and then added hopefully, “Unless you have to get home early to check on Celia. I’m happy to leave early.”

  I had to disappoint Cass. “Celia’s staying overnight at Flori’s. It’s part of her weekend work deal. Flori wants an early start tomorrow to get ready for her bread contest.”

  “I bet you’ll be glad when that stress is over,” Cass said.

  Glad and sad. On the one hand, my thighs could use a reprieve from buttery sweet bread. On the other ha
nd, I loved buttery sweet bread and could happily eat it year round. At least I had another sweet treat to look forward to. “After this, Flori’s entering the bizcochito contests,” I told Cass. “I sure wish we had Victor’s recipe.”

  “Let’s hope that Gloria’s little helper Armida doesn’t get her hands on it first.”

  We headed into the darkness of Old Santa Fe Trail. The twisting road looks deceivingly rural, until you spot all the homes hidden in the junipers and the mansions perched on the hilltops.

  “Dancing Eagle Way,” Cass said, snorting at the street name. “Should be close.” She squinted at her phone. I slowed to read a road sign. “Laughing Coyote.”

  Cass snorted again. “Let’s keep going out to Harry’s Roadhouse. They have their fried chicken special this week.”

  Now I groaned out of wistfulness. Harry’s, a roadside diner on the outskirts of town, has some of the best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten. Crispy, juicy, peppery . . . my stomach rumbled.

  “We’re both on missions,” I reminded her and myself.

  “More jewelry sales,” Cass sighed.

  “And snooping.”

  Dancing Eagle Way was a small dirt path that I almost missed in the glare of oncoming headlights. In other parts of the country dirt roads and mansions don’t go together. In Santa Fe unpaved lanes remain in some of the most desirable parts of town, prized as symbols of history and southwestern character.

  “No wonder she drives that tank of an SUV,” Cass grumbled as the Subaru struggled across a dip the size of a gully.

  We pulled up to a solid metal gate that opened automatically. A valet in a tuxedo and skeletal face and white gloves directed us to drive to a massive portico, where another skeleton waited to park my car.