Bread of the Dead: A Santa Fe Cafe Mystery

by Ann Myers

  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.”

  Kitchen 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 onlys.

  “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.

  “Ms. Lafitte has done enough of your job already by uncovering this crime and responding to the destruction-­of-­property call. We’re leaving. You can make an appointment for her statement by calling my office.” He handed Manny a business card and guided me out of the kitchen.

  “You do lead an exciting life,” he said once we were outside. “I’d like to offer you a ride, unless you want to call your biker friend.”

  “No!” I said, and then quickly clarified that yes, I would like a ride, and no, I didn’t want to call any bikers. I got into Jake’s car. When he reached an intersection, I thought to ask where we were going.

  “To the café. Flori’s so worried that she was about to abandon her breads.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, I’m under a deadline. If you’re not back in ten minutes, she’ll come looking for us.”

  “Gun it,” I said, attempting a joke.

  “Hang on,” he replied, unknowingly echoing Reese. This time, however, I felt like I wasn’t rushing into danger, but instead to safety.

  Chapter 31

  At the café, Linda and Addie offered me potloads of tea.

  “Lovely chamomile mint, pip, pip,” Addie chirped perkily, although I could tell that she was rattled. As Linda kept saying, things like this—­things like multiple murders—­simply didn’t happen in Santa Fe.

  Linda accepted an ominously dark-­colored scone from Addie and took a seat across from me. Most of the lunch crowd had left, helped along by Flori erasing the entire specials menu and turning the door sign to Closed. The scent of scorched scones provided added incentive to flee.

  “I worry about Gabe,” Linda said. “I wish he hadn’t insisted on going back to the house.” She took a bite of scone, frowned, and then dropped it back on the plate. It landed with a thud.

  I’d stuck to chicken soup, a comfort dish from my childhood. This, however, was not my mother’s chicken soup. It was better, although I’d never tell Mom that. The chicken tortilla soup at Tres Amigas features succulent chicken in a vibrant broth of tomatoes and chiles. The best part is the toppings. Lime wedges, radish slices, chopped cilantro, a dollop of sour cream, and crushed tortilla chips make the soup tangy, savory, crunchy, and salty all in one, but I wasn’t in the mood to eat. Like Linda, I was worrying about someone.

  “Jake said that Tops was spotted down by the train tracks,” I said, trying to ease her worries about Gabe. “There’s a tip that he might be heading to Albuquerque. Someone will find him soon and this will be over.”

  Linda shuddered. “I misjudged Tops. If I’d known, if any of us at the shelter had suspected he was so dangerous . . .” She paused to gulp tea. Then she gave voice to the worry I’d been keeping silent. “I wish Jake hadn’t gone looking for Tops. What if he finds him? What if Tops hurts him too?”

  My worries exactly, although I kept chiding myself for thinking them. Jake Strong was a full-­grown lawyer who dealt with criminals every day. He could take care of himself. I was only concerned for the safety of a friend, I rationalized. He was a nice person who helped me out. A hero who rescued me from the scene of a crime and then rushed off into danger for the sake of justice. Good grief. I rubbed my temple. “I think I’m losing it,” I said to Linda.

  Cass would have laughed this statement off in a girlfriendly way and offered to buy me a drink. Linda cast grave eyes on me. “Stress is dangerous to your health. Deadly even.”

  Great, now I was killing myself. I did feel like a physical and mental mess. I desperately needed a hot spring weekend. Ten Thousand Waves, a Japanese-­themed spa a few miles outside town, would certainly work. So would Ojo Caliente, a mineral spring nestled under red-­rock cliffs. I could imagine the stress melting away in the hot waters. Except stress sprang straight back when I thought about the time and money I’d need for a relaxing soak. I didn’t have enough of either, especially if I decided to move.

  I reached for a scone, only to have my hand batted away.

  Flori snatched away the scone plate and hid it under a napkin. “Shhh . . . we won’t tell Addie, but even the raccoons shouldn’t eat these.” She looked over her shoulder. “She’s working on a second batch. I’m going to watch that she doesn’t burn this round.”

  “Good luck,” I said, my mood as dark as the scones.

  Flori plunked down at the table. “I know. What a day. Addie and her scones are keeping me occupied, but I can barely stand the waiting. I hate not knowing. I want that awful man caught!”

  I squeezed her hand sympathetically. If this mess of unknowing was bad for me, I knew it had to be ten times worse for Flori, who couldn’t take suspense in any form.

  At a nearby table, protected by DO NOT TOUCH OR EAT signs, her Day of the Dead bread cooled on wire racks. She’d outdone herself. The breads featured cranial curves and bulging teeth. An egg wash had turned them golden and glossy, and the sweet scents of anise, orange zest, and butter triumphed over the odor of burned scones.

  “They’re winners,” I said, smiling at my elderly friend.

  She pushed up her glasses and shrugged. “If they hold the contest.”

  “What?” Linda and I demanded in unison. Then it hit me. With Broomer’s death, the judging committee was down a member.

  “Misty Gonzales, the organizer, is supposed to get back to all of us contestants,” Flori said. “They’re debating whether it would be unseemly to continue without Broomer.”

  “I’m sure that he would have wanted you to go on,” Linda said.

  Flori wasn’t buying the trite words of comfort. “I’m sure that he was in it for the publicity and bribes, dear. But we mustn’t speak ill of the dead. Not on Día de los Muertos, especially.” She turned to me. “You should get some rest. And a shower.” The wrinkling of her nose made me suddenly conscious of my appearance. I reached up and felt grime in my hair and forehead. My clothes were crumpled, and although I’d removed the menthol patches from my ankle, a gummy, minty residue remained.

  “I’ll be back by the time of the judging,” I promised. “They’ll hold the contest.”

  “Whatever,” Flori said, sounding like my teenage daughter, with a similar fake nonchalance. “If Gabe lets me keep Victor’s recipe box, I’ll enter the Christmas cookie contest in Victor’s name.”

  As I got ready to go, she tried to convince me to shower at her place. I declined, citing a lack of clean clothes. “Besides, Tops is long gone by now,” I said. I wondered about his kitten, Hugo. Was he too on the lam? I hoped that Manny wouldn’t be the one to apprehend Tops. Not only would his ego inflate, but he also wouldn’t bother to save the tiny kitten.

  Linda gave me a ride but declined to stop in. “I don’t want to give Gabe the wrong idea that I’m hanging around to see him,” she fretted. “We ca
n be friends, but never teenagers again.”

  She dropped me off at the mailbox, leaving me in the awkward situation of hobbling down the driveway and encountering Gabe, forlornly removing a swath of police tape caught in the apple tree.

  “Was that Linda?” he asked.

  For his sake, I fibbed and said that she needed to help Flori with the bread contest.

  He nodded. “Things will get better now that it’s almost over.” A few wrinkled apples fell from the tree as he yanked. When he’d wadded up the tape, he turned to me. “Thank you again for helping me, and Victor too.”

  “I don’t want to move!” I blurted. I didn’t know where this burst came from. Maybe I was under some psychedelic influence of Addie’s charred scone smoke. Or Linda’s deadly stress. “I mean, unless you want me and Celia to move or you’ll be moving or—­”

  Gabe didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t want to move either,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll start fresh around here. It’ll be okay again.”

  Later, I stood in the shower a long while, letting scalding water pelt my skull. A new life was what I kept saying I’d create for myself. I wished I knew what that would be.

  After the shower, I faced a more short-­term dilemma of what to do. I had a few hours to spare before the bread contest, if it happened at all. Celia was at school, followed by an after-­school art program. Out the back window, I could see the destroyed fence. I yearned to push the rubble onto Broomer’s side, but the property line was strewn with yellow police tape. Manny’s doing, I bet. He loved to go overboard with caution tape, just like his version of home repair involved wads of duct tape.