by Ann Myers
I drew the curtain and tried not to think about the garden destruction. The best way I knew to do that was to read a good book. Foot elevated, a bag of pretzels by my side, I lay on the couch, savoring a British cottage mystery with an elderly sleuth who would have made Flori proud.
I was caught up in a critical scene when a sound distracted me. I put the book down and listened. There was silence and then a high-pitched chirp, like a baby bird or a coyote pup singing for its mother. I pulled a throw blanket around my shoulder and tried to concentrate on my book.
I couldn’t. The cry sounded increasingly plaintive. I’d feel reassured to discover a lonely cowbird, I told myself, and padded to the front door in my slippers.
Outside, a few crows congregated in the trees, hunching and dipping their heads. If it was a baby bird, the little creature would be in trouble. I scanned the mosaic of earth tones. Golden grasses waved against apache plume, an ethereal shrub topped with feathery puffs. Smooth rocks lined a cactus patch, and old orchard trees stood amidst carpets of dark leaves and wrinkling fruit. I was about to go back inside when I heard the cry again. I refocused my eyes farther in the distance and that’s when I saw the bit of buff-colored fluff.
“Hugo? Kitty?” At the sound of my calls, the little creature turned and waddled forward a few steps, only to stumble over a branch. He seemed stuck and was meowing louder. Still in my slippers, I rushed out, gushing kitten talk as I went. “It’s okay, sweet baby boy. You’re okay.”
The kitten purred as loudly as a food processor when I reached him. “It’s okay,” I told him again, rubbing his fuzzy head. “Let’s get you unstuck.” He wore a thick collar with dog bones printed on it. The collar had looped around a branch and was keeping him pinned in place. Gently, I cupped the kitten’s belly.
“Poor guy. What’s this?” The kitten responded with more high-pitched mews as I removed the collar and the plastic sandwich bag stuck to it. Inside, the bag held a scrap of paper with the scrawled words, Please take care of Hugo. He’s yours. Hugo purred.
For a moment I forgot my bad feelings toward Tops. He loved his kitten and turned him loose to find a better home. That, if only that, was kind of him. I cuddled the vibrating fur ball close to my neck, vowing that I wouldn’t let infatuation overpower reason. Celia and I would have to discuss finances and the long-term commitment of a cat. Hugo’s tiny paw reached out for my chin. Who was I kidding? I was already smitten with him.
I carried him inside, taking him immediately to the blanket on the couch and mentally listing the accessories he’d need. Litter box, food, toys, a new collar, a catnip plant.
“He likes milk. Lactose-free, only ’cause he’s a cat.”
My shriek sent Hugo’s claws into my neck. The pricks of pain were the least of my worries. A hulking figure stood in my entryway. Tops shut the door, locking us both inside.
Chapter 32
Okay,” I said. “Lactose-free. Got it. Thanks, Tops, we’ll be fine now.” Electric jolts prickled through my head as I tried to remember where I’d left my phone. The kitchen, or possibly the bedroom or lodged in my messy purse.
“Okay, ’bye now,” I said shakily, earning a scowl from my uninvited guest. His back was against the doorknob and there was no other door. He didn’t look ready to go.
“He doesn’t like dog food,” Tops said. “He’s not a dog. And he won’t eat hot dogs or chile. If you can nab a rotisserie chicken, he loves that.” His eyes darted from side to side. Twigs stuck in his beard and he wore several sets of clothes. When he moved, I caught sight of a knife handle on his belt.
I nodded so he wouldn’t hear the quaver hovering in my throat. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d bleat like the stranded kitten.
“He likes you. I knew he would.” Tops took a giant step forward. I took several faltering steps backward and ended up knocking myself down onto the couch. Hugo crawled off my shoulder and onto the top cushion, where he scampered around happily.
Tops stood over me, his hand on the carved blade of the knife. He smelled of wood smoke and tobacco and was becoming more agitated, talking about helicopters and surveillance. I squished back into the couch as his voice turned to an angry monotone. I had to bring him back to reality, or something more calming.
“Tuna fish!” I exclaimed.
He stopped mid-rant and frowned at me.
“Tuna,” I said again, more calmly. “I have some in the kitchen. I bet Hugo loves tuna.”
I forced myself to move slowly off the couch and to the kitchen. Every molecule in my body told me to sprint for the door, but in the confined space, I doubted my chances. Maybe, just maybe, I’d left my phone in the kitchen.
Tops claimed not to know about Hugo’s feelings for tuna. I bet he knew full well, unless he hadn’t yet opened the can he stole from Gabe. I forced myself to maintain happy chatter about kitten-friendly foods as I searched the crammed pantry, terrified that we’d run out of tuna. “Turkey, I bet he loves that. We’ll have a nice Thanksgiving turkey in a few weeks, won’t we, Hugo?”
The little guy wove around our feet, purring and mewing. I hauled cans from the broom closet that served as my pantry. When I got to cartons of premade mac-and-cheese, Celia’s favorite, Tops perked up.
“I like those.”
“Take them!” I practically shouted. Lowering my voice, I said, “Ah, tuna. You’ll love this, Hugo. I’ll get a bowl, and Tops if you’ll open the can . . .” I held it out to Tops and plopped the opener by the sink. In my ideal scheme, he’d take the can to the sink, whereupon I would bolt for the door and run to summon help. I prayed that I could run fast enough and that Gabe was home and not napping with his ear plugs and white noise machine.
My hopes were soon dashed. Tops leaned against the kitchen door and produced a can opener from one of his many pockets. After a few cranks, he removed the lid and then offered the entire can to Hugo.
“Here you go, little buddy,” he said. His voice was softer now and he sounded like the elderly man that he was. “You like that don’t you?” He grinned at me, lines creasing his weathered face. “You’ll be all right together. I gotta go. People have seen me. They’re watchin’ me.”
I agreed heartily with this plan. “Yes, you should go. Right now. Fast. I’ll take the very best care of Hugo.”
He patted the kitten, his big hand covering its entire body. “I’ve gotta go, buddy,” he said again, in such a sad voice that it tugged at my heart. I followed him to the front door, ready to bolt it as soon as he crossed the threshold.
He stopped in the door frame, giving the sky a suspicious scan. “Looks clear.”
“Yep, looks good. Good time to go.” I wanted to give him a good firm push. He was looking in the direction of Victor’s house. “What’s that?” He turned to me, face aflame with rage. “Look at that! Spies! They’re back!”
Through the sliver of space not blocked by Tops, I spotted a flash of gold near Victor’s back door. “It’s probably his brother,” I said, then added, “or the police.” I hoped Tops would take this as his cue to flee.
“No. It’s her!” Tops practically spat out the words. “She did a bad thing! She’s a spy. They’re after Victor!” He took off with surprising speed toward the main house.
I’d been counting the seconds until I could lock myself in and call the cops. Now his words stopped me. Spies after Victor? A bad thing? What did he mean? I couldn’t help myself. I too hurried toward Victor’s house.
A woman’s scream spurred me from a limping shuffle to a full-out run. Jay-Jay stood by the back door, brandishing a potted cactus, thorny side pointed outward. Other pots were upturned and saints that had been hanging by the doorway lay on the flagstone.
Tops was backing Jay-Jay into a corner, literally. By the time I reached them, she was wedged in the door frame with only the spiny cactus separating her from Tops.
/> “Help me!” she yelled when she saw me. “This maniac is attacking me!”
Tops turned to me, his eyes as wild as his hair. “She stole. She stole Victor’s key.” He extended a baseball-mitt-sized hand toward Jay-Jay’s throat. “Give it back,” he growled.
Jay-Jay waved the cactus and screamed for me to do something. “Call the police! Don’t just stand there!”
Standing here was about all I could do, unless I ran back to the casita to find my phone. It was a tempting move, but I couldn’t leave Jay-Jay. I remembered the strength of Tops’s hands around my neck, and he hadn’t even been mad then, only worried that I’d wake a kitten.
I summoned the last crumbs of my inner courage and jumped between Tops and the cactus. A spine poked my shoulder blade. “No!” I commanded. Tops’s eyes flashed with anger as he looked down at me. I fought to sound calm. “No,” I repeated, in the best normal voice I could muster. “Hugo will be worried, Tops. Leave the nice lady alone.”
Confusion replaced rage on his face, if only for a moment. “She’s not nice. Not nice. Not like you.”
I supposed I should have felt flattered. I was terrified. “It’s okay, Tops,” I said. “This woman is Victor’s ex-wife.”
“No, no!” he stuttered.
I knew how he felt. How Victor could ever have married Jay-Jay was incomprehensible to me too.
“That’s right!” Jay-Jay crowed from behind me, scraping more spines across my back. “And I’ll inherit this house so this key is mine!”
Tops wobbled in confusion. Not for long, though. His bellow echoed across the little valley as he pushed me aside, reached through the cactus and tore something from Jay-Jay’s hand. He yelled again as he raised his fist. A few spines stuck to his knuckles. He plucked them off as he backed away, and then he took off again, running up the driveway to the road.
Jay-Jay cursed. “You let him get away! He stole my key!”
Talk about gratitude. Here I’d saved her from possible strangulation, and she was complaining about the strangler getting away? I informed Jay-Jay that I was calling the police and then stormed back to my house, slamming the door behind me. Hugo jumped off the couch, his tiny tail poofed and a ridge rising on his back.
“Oh, I’m sorry, baby,” I told him, cuddling his warm body up against my heart as I searched the house for the phone. As I did, I replayed Tops’s muddled words. She did a bad thing. Did Tops witness the crime? What if Jay-Jay was the actual killer? I found the phone under the pile of yesterday’s clothes and punched in numbers with trembling fingers. I was certain that I’d been in the presence of a murderer. I just didn’t know if it was Jay-Jay or Tops, or both.
I did know who I wanted to call first, however.
Jake answered on the first ring. I sped through an explanation without stopping for breath.
“I’m at Kewa Station,” he said, naming the train station at the former Santo Domingo Pueblo, now known by its original name, Kewa. “I heard that Tops had hit the rails. Guess that was wrong. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Be careful!” I said, before thinking how overly concerned this might sound.
“You be careful too,” he said. “Watch out for Jay-Jay. Don’t let anyone in until the police arrive.”
Young patrolmen I didn’t know arrived first, for which I was grateful. Bunny came a few minutes later. “They’ll find him,” she said, standing in my living room and making the room seem smaller. The eerie bays of bloodhounds floated down the creek. “The dogs are just a little confused right now because his scent’s all over this place.”
I shuddered at the thought. Hugo was even more upset. His tail poofed with each canine howl and he climbed up into my hair. I supposed that I looked a little like a crazy cat lady when Jake arrived.
“Is that a tail over your ear?” he asked.
I explained how I came by Hugo, who resisted any attempts to extract him for introductions.
“Cute,” Jake said, reaching up to pet Hugo’s haunches before turning back to lawyer mode with Bunny. “My client has special needs,” he said. “He suffers from dementia. You are right to try to locate him, but you’ll find that he’s an innocent man, a valuable witness who can help you with your case.”
Bunny made a sniffing sound, suggesting cat allergies or skepticism. “He’s a suspect.” She turned her attention to her radio. “Got him?” she said. “Got it. Be there in two minutes.”
“But wait,” I said, stepping in front of the door, Tops-style. “What about Jay-Jay? She was trespassing again. She tried to steal Victor’s key and Tops said that she did something bad.”
Bunny almost looked sympathetic. Or maybe she was simply too tired to look stern. “From what you’ve told us, Tops also imagines black helicopters and steals food. Ms. Jantrell does have a will establishing her as a potential inheritor, pending probate and any other newer, valid wills.” She paused for a moment. “However, we will continue to search for the recent will that your neighbor Dalia and her husband witnessed and signed. And Ms. Jantrell’s been warned not to enter the property until probate clears. That will be some time. In the meantime, Rita, you might want to make plans to move. Just in case.”
With that, she strode off, Jake following as keen as a well-dressed bloodhound behind her.
I stewed over Bunny’s words. I didn’t want to move, but maybe I would if Jay-Jay took over the property. Maybe she’d kick me out, regardless of what I wanted. We had to find Victor’s new will.
Flori would know what to do. Then it struck me. In all the chaos, I’d forgotten about her bread contest. I managed to extract Hugo from my hair. He cried and scampered after me when I put him on the couch in a nest of blankets. “Okay,” I said, swaddling him firmly in a scarf against my chest. “You can come, but you’re sticking close to me.” He purred with a contentment I wished I felt.
Chapter 33
After 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.”