Cinco de Mayhem

by Ann Myers

  My daughter forgot her silent treatment. “Poor Tía Linda. Kids are calling her stand the ‘cockroach cart.’ I told them to shut up.”

  Great. If high-schoolers knew about the tainted tamale, the whole town probably did. “Cass and I were there when the bug was supposedly found. We think Linda was set up.”

  Celia didn’t need convincing. “No doubt. You’ll help her, right?”

  I glanced at Celia, surprised. Her typical response to my sleuthing is a dramatic display of teen embarrassment. Eye-rolling, sighing, shoulder heaving, foot stomping, you name it, voiced over with, “Geez, Mom, leave things alone.”

  “Bullies are the worst,” she muttered. “They shouldn’t mess with Tía Linda.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, hopefully with more confidence that I felt. “Flori and I will help. Tía Linda will be fine.”

  But how could I help? And would Linda let me? The phone remained silent through dinner, my evening walk, and as I nodded over my bedtime reading. At nearly midnight I gave up. Turning off the lamp but not the phone, I vowed to call Linda tomorrow. If she didn’t answer, I’d track her down.

  Tracking wasn’t necessary. When the cell phone’s melody rang in the darkness, I initially incorporated it into my dream, an anxiety nightmare involving a packed auditorium and me, partially unclothed and totally unprepared to lecture on Cinco de Mayo cuisine. The nightmare audience included my high school gym class, Jake, Mom, and George Clooney.

  Dreamtime me was cowering behind a podium when I realized the ringing was real. I grabbed the phone and answered in automatic maternal worry mode. “Hello? Celia?” I remembered that Celia was presumably sleeping down the hall about the moment I recognized Linda’s voice.

  “Linda?” I said, resisting the urge to ask, Do you know what time it is? I didn’t know myself, except that the room was still dark and my eyelids wouldn’t fully open.

  My grumpiness faded as Linda gushed apologies. “Oh Rita, I’m so sorry. It’s not even six and I shouldn’t call you and I wouldn’t except, oh heaven help me . . .”

  Now I was awake, wide-awake. Blood rushed through my head. I sat up and fumbled with the light. “Linda, what’s wrong?”

  Muffled prayers came from her end, a jumble of English and Spanish.

  “Linda!” I practically yelled. “What’s happening?”

  “Napoleon,” she cried out. “He’s . . . he’s dead.”

  Good riddance nearly fell from my mouth. Then reality struck me. Dead? Napoleon was a jerk, but a man not that much older than me. How sad and shocking, but how did Linda know? And why call me? The tragic news could have waited for hot coffee and hushed gossip over breakfast.

  “My cart,” she said in between gulping sobs. “He’s under my tamale cart, Rita. Come to the Plaza, please. We have to do something!”

  I sped to the Plaza, breaking traffic laws on the empty streets. There would be no helping Napoleon. I saw that right away. His eyes stared blankly heavenward, toward the charcoal dawn sky that would turn into a sunny Santa Fe day. His cheeks puffed as if stuffed. His chest pushed up the front wheels of Linda’s cart. One arm extended above his head, the pale underside up, the hand twisted downward. On his wrist, a flashy gold watch was cracked and broken.

  Except for Napoleon, Linda and I were alone on the Plaza. I’d parked my car next to her truck, both in illegal spots. A parking ticket was the least of my worries.

  “Don’t touch him!” I commanded Linda. She knelt near the body, one hand reaching out as though to heal him. At my harsh words, she jerked her hand back.

  “What if there’s a pulse?” she asked, reaching again. “I couldn’t make myself check before.”

  I took her by both arms and pulled her up gently. “I’ll do it,” I said, regretting this noble offer the moment I said it. I held my breath and flinched when my hand touched Napoleon’s cool wrist. There was no pulse, no movement. I forced myself to look closer. A red stain marred the side of his chef’s coat and something viscous had oozed into a crack in the sidewalk. It wasn’t red chile. Blood. Blood whooshed through my head, and I feared I’d be the next one on the ground. Fainting wouldn’t help Linda or Napoleon. I turned my eyes to his twisted hand and the watch. Beneath shattered glass, the gold hands had stopped at eleven-fifty. Is that when the man stopped too?

  A few feet away, Linda paced. “I woke up early with a terrible feeling. A panic. I thought it was because the tamale warmer in my cart was still left on. Yesterday I called a friend, Don the hotdog vendor, and asked him to shut it off for me, but when I woke up, I thought, ‘What if he didn’t? It could start a fire!’ Or what if he did turn it off, and someone ate a chicken mole tamale that had been sitting out all night? People die from food poisoning . . .”

  People die from murder too. Food poisoning hadn’t caused the blood. It hadn’t rolled a tamale cart over Napoleon’s lifeless body either. “Linda,” I said gently, “I don’t think a bad tamale killed him.”

  “My cart,” Linda said, her voice cracking. “It’s a hazard. I think the tank’s out of fuel, so the warmer’s off and it won’t start a fire. It’s crushing Napoleon, though. How do I get it off him? What do I do, Rita? Can you help me lift it? If we lift it, maybe he’ll be okay . . .”

  There was no way Napoleon could be okay. I led her to the green wrought-iron bench where Cass and I had eaten the day before. The last of Napoleon’s crepes I’d ever have. Sorrow for their maker struck me, followed by dread. Linda’s cart hadn’t moved itself, and Napoleon, I was sure, hadn’t died a natural death. A man whom Linda publicly fought with and threatened lay dead, murdered. I wished I could whisk her cart away and shield it and her from the scene of the crime.

  I couldn’t. I’d been married to a cop, and I’d been involved in murder and crime before. I knew what I had to do. Sitting on the chilly bench next to Linda, I dialed 911 and listened for the wail of sirens.

  Chapter 4

  Yup, he’s dead.” My ex, Detective Manny Martin, stepped back and scowled down at Napoleon.

  I resisted a snarky, No kidding, Sherlock. Antagonizing Manny wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all me. Manny already looked grumpy. He doesn’t do morning well, unless he’s stayed up all night to get there.

  Bunny, Manny’s body-building partner, yawned and rolled her neck and shoulders.

  “One hour,” Manny complained. “We were off call in one lousy hour and then this.” He glared at me as if I’d found a dead guy simply to wreck his day.

  Bunny stretched each elbow across her chest, her eyes scanning the scene.

  I practiced an exercise I’d gotten pretty good at in the last year. Ignoring Manny. His sniping still rankled me, though. I’d like to be back in bed too, and it’s not like I enjoyed finding corpses in the morning, or any other time of day.

  Bunny, limbered up, waved over a waiting crime tech with a camera around his neck. “Shoot it all. Everything,” she instructed. “When the medical examiner gets here, tell her I want temperatures of the body, the scene, and those tamales.”

  The tech, fresh-faced and eager, beamed in anticipation. He looked younger than Celia. I thought about how fast my daughter was growing up. Closing in on seventeen with orange-streaked hair, charcoal eye shadow, and—egad—a driver’s license. Plus a boyfriend? I wondered if Manny knew anything about her love life. Sometimes Celia confided in her dad if she thought I’d get upset, and vice versa. In some ways, she was mastering her divorced-kid status a bit too well.

  Camera flashes lit up Napoleon’s body, and I went to join Linda. She slumped against a tree a few yards away, her fingers rolling across rosary beads and her lips moving in silent prayer. Above, the brilliant rose and lavender hues of sunrise were fading into clear blue skies.

  Bunny fell into step beside me. Her warm-up exercises had apparently been for interrogation drills. She peppered Linda with questions.

  Linda answered in bursts. “Yes, I found him . . . No, I don’t know what happened . . . I didn’t see anyone . . .
I wanted to get my cart and make sure it was okay and get it home before the Plaza got busy. I ran off yesterday and left it here, which was very irresponsible of me. I’m so sorry. Can I take my cart now? It’s in the way of everybody.”

  Bunny wrote as Linda talked. Her questions seemed pretty neutral until she asked, “So, Ms. Santiago, why did you fight with the deceased yesterday?”

  Linda started to answer. I swung my arm over her shoulder. “Not now. My friend is shaken up,” I said to Bunny. “She’s in shock,” I continued. “I’m taking her home.”

  “But my cart . . .” Linda said. “I can’t leave it here any longer.”

  Bunny leaned in so that her face was directly in front of Linda’s. Enunciating each word, she said, “The fight, Ms. Santiago. Why did you fight with Mister . . .” Bunny consulted her notepad and frowned. “. . . Mr. Napoleon?”

  “Napoleon. One name only,” I told her, biting back inappropriate sarcasm regarding the dead.

  Linda shoved her bangs over her left eyebrow. “I didn’t want to fight with anyone. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

  “Shh . . .” I urged, before Linda said something she regretted. To Bunny, I said, “She’ll come in later and give a full statement.” I backed away, tugging Linda with me.

  Linda was hard to budge. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, resisting my tug. “I have to go with Rita. She’s upset. She touched Napoleon.”

  Bunny scowled.

  “Sorry about that touching,” I said, pulling Linda toward my car. We were nearly there when Manny stepped between me and my Subaru.

  “Not so fast,” he said. He raised his chin, an acknowledgment to Bunny.

  “This Napoleon guy appears to have been murdered,” Manny said, presumably speaking over our heads to Bunny. “Looks like someone stabbed him in the back before rolling over him with a tamale cart.”

  Linda gasped.

  “Yep, and here you and your friend are, Rita,” my ex continued testily. “Messing around with another dead guy.” He looped his thumbs over his belt and assumed the stance of a frontier sheriff ready to shoot it out at high noon. Manny works hard on his supercop look and his looks in general. He shaves high to leave a five o’clock shadow, has skin the color of cappuccino, and—according to one of his recent girlfriends—resembles an actor on a popular telenovela. I’d yet to Google the actor, although I didn’t doubt that Manny could be his fill-in. The man can act, especially when it comes to turning on the charm. He charmed me for years, until I discovered that I wasn’t the only one being swept off her feet. An attractive female deputy passed by and Manny’s gaze tracked her. The same old Manny. Good riddance.

  “We’re leaving,” I said with more resolve.

  “You’re more than welcome to leave, Rita,” Manny said, stepping aside so I could get in my car. “Linda’s coming with us. She needs to answer some questions.”

  Linda’s politeness instincts kicked in full force. “Of course,” she said. “I’m happy to help. You go back home and get some sleep, Rita. I’ll go with the police. They’ll sort this out.”

  I looked from Manny to Bunny and feared they were sorting it out. All wrong.

  “If Linda’s going, I’m going too.” I reattached myself to Linda’s elbow. She patted my arm as if I was the one who needed comfort. I left her side only for a minute. She waited in the back of Manny’s car while I dialed Jake Strong. I wasn’t calling to discuss a dinner date menu. I feared that Linda might need the services of Santa Fe’s top criminal defense attorney.

  Standing outside the police station, I watched Jake get out of his silver Audi. He looked good. Who was I kidding? He always looked good. This morning, though, he looked good in a way I hadn’t seen before. Instead of his usual Western lawyer getup of dark, trim blue jeans, cowboy boots and hat, and finely tailored suit coat, he wore running shorts, a blue windbreaker, and a sweaty T-shirt advertising one of my favorite ice cream shops, Taos Cow. I sighed, both at the handsome man and the thought of ice cream. I wished we were meeting for a road trip to the creamery, up the Rio Grande to the cute, artsy village of Arroyo Seco. I knew what I’d order. Cherry ristra, rich cherry ice cream dotted with piñon nuts and dark chocolate chunks. Or maybe the chocolate malt with Oreos. Or anything with salted caramel.

  I shook these fantasies away and greeted Jake and the drooling companion who followed him. Winston the bulldog panted up at me. I patted his wrinkly head, causing his entire behind to wag and his head-heavy front half to wobble off balance.

  “Sorry to call you so early,” I said to Winston’s handsome human, taking a line from Linda’s politeness handbook. I no longer worried that I’d woken Jake up. Judging from his attire, he’d been up for a while, burning calories. I knew Jake belonged to a club basketball team and I assumed he worked out. I hadn’t known he was an early morning runner.

  Frankly, I found this a little intimidating. Don’t get me wrong. I try to be healthy. I eat fruits and vegetables, and I often walk to work, where I spend my days on my feet lifting weighty burritos. I have weaknesses, though, in the form of cheese, French pastries, salty snacks, and, well, food in general. I’m also a reluctant exerciser. When my gym membership expired in January, I told myself I’d save money and jog. I’ve yet to jog more than a handful of times, mainly because I’m too tired after work and too lazy in the morning. I eyed Jake, wondering if sportiness was going to be a relationship problem. Let’s see, so far I didn’t dance, I didn’t run, and I wasn’t a statuesque blonde like his ex-wife and the women he’d dated before me. Hadn’t he noticed by now?

  Winston flopped at my feet, all legs splayed outward, his lips draped over my left sandal. Warm doggy drool reached my foot, and Winston sighed in contentment.

  “I’ll apologize on his behalf,” Jake said, frowning down at man’s drooliest best friend. “I was taking him for his morning walk after my run when you called. We ran back home and jumped in the car. He’s not a runner.”

  A creature after my own heart. “Good boy,” I assured Winston, who groaned as if he understood. I quickly filled Jake in on Napoleon. Once again proving how nice he was, Jake didn’t point out my involvement with yet another dead guy.

  “Where’s Linda, and why are the police so interested in her?” he asked, focusing on the person of immediate concern. He had his serious lawyer face on. As I described Linda’s run-in with Napoleon yesterday, his expression turned hard and I glimpsed what his opponents must face in court.

  His seriousness heightened my anxiety. “Linda’s in a ‘conference room,’ as Bunny calls it, but it’s probably more of an interrogation room. I got Linda to ask for a lawyer, so they shouldn’t question her, right? Or maybe they can still talk at her, but hopefully she’ll stay quiet? Anyway, it looks bad, with her cart rolled over the body and the fight, but Linda’s innocent. Completely innocent.”

  I would have loved a perky, affirmative response like, “Of course she’s innocent! No doubt!”

  Jake’s expression remained hard. “You were right to call me,” he said, his jaw set firm. Then his eyes softened. “Will you do me a favor?”

  My mind said, Of course, anything! My lips, thankfully, formed a less eager, “Sure.”

  In one quick movement Jake kissed my cheek and handed me a leash. “I shouldn’t be long,” he said. “And Winston shouldn’t go in. He gets edgy around uniforms. Would you mind watching him?”

  I was still blushing and smiling inappropriately when a car sped into the parking lot and double-parked behind a police van. A glimpse of the driver’s face wiped away my smile.

  “Oh, Brigitte,” I said to the statuesque blonde who got out and rushed up the steps two at a time. I knew Brigitte Voll casually. A few months ago we shared a table as judges of a green chile cheeseburger contest. She’d been friendly, and we’d chatted about being outsiders in Santa Fe. I learned that she hailed from Alsace, a storybook-pretty region of France on the border of Germany. She spoke French, German, and dashes of Italian and Spanish, and
managed the financial and front-of-house aspects of Napoleon’s restaurants. A big and demanding job, but one she seemed up to. Although a decade younger than me, she’d lived in more countries than I’d ever visited, and since coming to the U.S., she’d worked in New York, San Francisco, and Seattle before landing in Santa Fe. To tell the truth, I was daunted by her experience and cool, confident beauty. That’s partly why I hadn’t called to set up the coffee meeting we said we must do. Everyday routines and work had also gotten the best of my good intentions. Now too much time had passed and we were meeting under awful circumstances.

  I told her how sorry I was for her loss. Trite, inadequate words, yet Brigitte embraced me, squeezing hard.

  “Detective Brown—Bunny—called me,” she said. Her French accent, usually slight, was more pronounced than usual. “Bunny and I are friends from the gym. She knew that Napoleon and I . . .” She swallowed hard before continuing. “She knew how close we are . . . were . . .”

  Close as in romantic? Santa Fe’s cooking community is a stew of gossip. I knew that Napoleon had gotten around, but I hadn’t heard anything about him and Brigitte. On the other hand, I tried not to sniff out gossip that didn’t concern me, unlike Flori and her network of elderly informants. You never know what information you’ll need, she always contended. Now I wished I knew more.

  Winston gazed up at Brigitte through droopy eyelids. She managed a weak smile. “You are a sad-looking creature too.” She bent down to ruffle his wrinkles. When she straightened up, she seemed more in control of her emotions.

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. I must go. I told Bunny that I need to be sure. I need to see . . . to see Napoleon’s . . .”

  The word “body” didn’t come.

  “It’s hard to comprehend,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I took the hug initiative this time. “Call if there’s anything I can do,” I told her, feeling both helpless and two-faced.

  Just yesterday I’d been spying on Napoleon, seeking out his weaknesses. I’d called him a jerk, in my mind and out loud. He had been a jerk, I rationalized. There was no sin in thinking the truth. But Brigitte didn’t need to hear it, and I certainly hadn’t wanted him dead.