by Ann Myers
She thanked me and patted her already perfect hair, cut in a short, angled bob that matched her put-together nature. Her pale blue eyes, though ringed in red, lifted with her attempt at a smile. “You are kind, Rita. I will be fine. There will be some closure soon.”
“Closure?” My head snapped up. Winston stopped drooling long enough to whine plaintively.
Brigitte, already halfway through the door, turned. “Bunny told me as a friend. I suppose I can tell you as a friend too. She says they have a good lead on the killer. They are questioning her, in fact.”
Now I was the one with stuck words. I gawped at Brigitte. “Her?”
Brigitte shook her head sadly. “The tamale lady. Bunny said she’s all but confessing.”
Chapter 5
Jake emerged nearly an hour later. A long hour, during which I called Flori and Celia and risked Winston’s negative feelings toward uniforms. Flori threatened to mobilize an elderly tai-chi army and storm the police station. I’d talked her down, so far. Celia said she’d get a ride to school with a friend, deemed the murder “sick,” and urged me not to worry. “Dad will find who did it,” she said, showing a daughter’s love—and naiveté—of her father. Winston, indeed, had issues with uniforms. He growled in all directions as I hurried us through the police station lobby and down the hall to a coffee vending machine. The brown liquid burned my fingers through the paper cup and tasted bitter and dank. I gulped it anyway, desperate to clear my head of the fuzzy ache signaling a caffeine-addict headache. The caffeine helped, but I didn’t like what I was hearing from Jake.
“There’s some good news, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his temple. “Linda didn’t exactly confess. That’s a start.”
“Didn’t exactly?” So much for headache relief. Tension tapped across my forehead, taking over where the caffeine deficit left off.
Jake shook his head and glanced at Linda, who stood a few yards away staring at a neglected flower bed.
“I’ll tell you,” Jake said. He kept his voice low, which made it deeper and, I hated to think it at such a time, even more alluring. “I rarely have clients who won’t stop talking about how guilty they feel. Mostly, they yell that they’re innocent. All this apologizing makes things, well, let’s say ‘challenging’ for a defense attorney.”
From what I’d heard, many of Jake’s clients should be apologizing. I didn’t go there. Instead, I said, “Linda’s shaken up. Finding Napoleon dead like that, it was a shock. For me too.”
Jake’s smile warmed me. So did his hand on my arm. His next words, however, sent a chill to my core. “Linda has to understand the situation she’s in, Rita. You should as well. As the police say, she has motive, means, and opportunity. She fought with the deceased the day before. Her cart was literally the scene of the crime. She sounds guilty. The police will look at her, hard.”
I already feared that and told Jake what Brigitte had said. “Bunny basically told Brigitte that they had their suspect.”
Jake watched Winston spin in a circle, clumsily chasing a moth. “I got that impression,” he said. “If I could have, I’d have lassoed Linda and dragged her out of there, but she kept saying she wanted to stay and help. She has no alibi other than an early bedtime and being nice. She’s going to help herself right into a murder conviction.”
The coffee roiled through my stomach. Winston lunged at the moth, missing. I handed over his leash to Jake and went to dump the half-full cup of acid brew in the trash. On my way, I collected Linda.
“It’s okay,” I said, when she apologized again for getting me up early. It was okay that she’d gotten me up. Everything else was not.
Jake offered to drive us. “I’ll take you ladies wherever you’d like to go,” he said. “Where to? Home?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Tres Amigas.”
Flori met us at the back door, giving each of us, including Winston, a hug. The warm, inviting kitchen smelled of bacon, roasted chiles, and baked goods. Juan stood at his griddle, overseeing rows of perfectly round pancakes. The cakes were tempting, but I gravitated toward the coffeepot and something else. A buzz, like chattering cicadas, emanated from the dining room. It was nine-fifty on a Tuesday morning, a time when the café was typically pretty empty. People should be at work or school or getting on with their day, not filling up every table.
“What the . . . ?” I blinked, taking in the crowd. “Did a tour bus come by?” That happened sometimes. Juan dreaded tour buses and the crush of urgent and oftentimes menu-modifying orders they involved. Although I loved sharing tourists’ excitement about Santa Fe, I wasn’t in the mood to explain unfamiliar menu items or New Mexico’s official state question, “red, green, or Christmas?” The question refers to chile choice. I used to dither about my answer. Not anymore. Christmas is the way to go. Spicy green chile on one side and smoky, earthy red on the other. Delicious.
“Not a bus, me love. Supporters.” These chipper words, in full-on faux British, came from Addie, our part-time waitress and backup cook, the latter in emergency situations only, as Addie can burn just about any substance except water and maybe even that. The British arises from what Addie considers striking similarities between herself and English pop star Adele. She and the real Adele share the same May birth date, although our Addie’s younger by several years. Both are fabulous singers, with a love of wigs and belting out bluesy soul music. The similarities end at their figures. Addie consumes double helpings of New Mexican classics, trying to achieve Adelelike curves. To her despair and my envy, she remains as thin as a walking-stick cactus. Her accent isn’t exactly going smashingly either, despite studying Downton Abbey and chatting up any customers presumed to be British, including a few Australians, Swedes, South Africans, and Canadians.
“See those in the fancy dress?” she said, pointing to a mostly white-haired contingent on the east side of the room. She clasped her hands together, pleased. “Miss Flori had me send out a text to them and they popped right over.”
The “they” in question wore bands around their foreheads, like sushi chefs wear, except apparently improvised from our stock of chile pepper napkins.
“Flori’s gossip network?” I asked.
Addie giggled. “That’s the right name for ’em, isn’t it? Informants, that’s what she called ’em. Amazing how many of the old dears have smart phones now. The other side, they’re supporters too, only different.”
“Different?” I asked, but Addie was being summoned to the dining room by an elderly man waving a butter knife and his coffee cup our way.
“Oops!” Addie exclaimed. “I promised coffee and muffins and a side of beans and more syrup and Bob’s your uncle! Ta!” She grabbed a coffeepot and was off.
Addie had picked up “Bob’s your uncle” from a British skit show. I wasn’t sure what the odd idiom meant and kept meaning to ask. Now was not the time, though. There were pancakes to serve and coffees to refill. Maybe. I bent to tie my shoe and by the time I looked up, everyone in the dining rooms was on their feet.
Addie bustled back with two empty coffeepots in her hand.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are they all leaving?” I wouldn’t mind if they did. I craved peace and time to think and eat my own breakfast.
Flori’s ninja-attired friends raised their mugs in the air. The other side of the room stood too, clapping loudly.
“No, not leaving,” Addie said, smoothing her ruffled apron, a patchwork of English tea towels. “Jolly rowdy out there, isn’t it? Those in the karate costumes, they’re from Miss Flori’s exercise group and supporting Miss Linda. They mostly think she’s innocent. The blokes on the other side . . . well . . .”
I scanned the other side of the room, recognizing the faces of cooks and waiters, dishwashers and a smattering of food cart owners. Some cheered, others whistled. No one appeared to be mourning. They were all, to use Addie’s term, jolly.
Addie put my fears into words. “Those over there, some of them think Linda’s innocent too. Some other
s, they think she knocked Napoleon off and are right pleased.” She frowned. “Miss Flori didn’t say whether the doubting types get free pancakes or not.”
The rowdy foodie side of the room began to chant Linda’s name. Confusion evident on her face, Linda ventured out among them, lending her shaky hand to high-fives.
“How can anyone think Linda’s guilty?” I asked. I said this indignantly and rhetorically. I didn’t notice that Flori, in her ninja-silent sneakers, had sneaked up behind me.
“I can see how,” she said.
What?” I demanded. I knew I sounded righteous and probably rude, but how could Flori, Linda’s mother, say such a thing? I’d never suspect Celia of a crime. Okay, I had accused Celia of drunk driving once. I was wrong, although Celia did have an open beer can in the vehicle. I’d also believed she was responsible for artistic cactus tagging (she was), rogue wall murals (again true), and sneaking out after her curfew (not that a curfew has ever worked with her anyway). But murder? No way. Never. Certainly not an intentional, brutal murder followed by a crushing with a tamale cart. I’d never say or think such a thing about my daughter. I hoped.
Flori raised one arthritic finger after another, ticking off perfectly valid reasons to suspect her eldest daughter. “Linda fought with Napoleon in public. She refuses to flirt and thus lives alone and has no alibi. She has motive. That horrible man, God rest his soul, was trying to destroy her business. He stole her spot on the Plaza. He planted bugs in her tamales.” She stopped to shake her finger. “Mark my words, Rita, Napoleon was behind that bug in Linda’s tamale. It’s a clear frame-up. In any case, he ended up dead under Linda’s cart. Very rude of him, although I’d expect nothing else. He called tamales peasant food. He insulted New Mexican chiles. Imagine! He compared masa to soggy sawdust and—”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Yes, those are all reasons, but other people had the same or similar motives. What about all of them? The jolly ones?” I pointed to the potential murderers taking cell phone selfies and raising toasts and flashing V for victory signs. The only good thing about their glee was that they were happily throwing down cash, enough to alleviate Addie’s worries about stingy tips for free breakfasts.
“We may as well serve ’em more cakes,” Addie said. She called over her shoulder, “Juan, keep flipping.”
Juan grunted.
A chill ran through me. “Any one of them could be the killer.”
“Then they should tip us extra for Miss Linda’s trouble,” Addie said. She narrowed her long fake eyelashes and pointed to a table doling out a stack of bills. “Like them over there. They seem happy. Wonder who they are?”
Flori squeezed in between us. “I have all their names,” she said, waving a small notepad. She handed me the pad. “I noted which ones seem extra happy and which think my Linda’s guilty. Of course, maybe the killer would say that Linda’s innocent.”
“Ah, as a trick,” Addie said, tapping her forehead and inadvertently dislodging her wig.
Or maybe the killer would stay home and not go out for breakfast, free or otherwise. I took the proffered notepad and studied the names. They were all in different handwriting, some with added smiley faces and inspirational statements, like, “You go, Linda!” and “We stand behind you!” and “We understand!”
You had them sign their own names?” I asked, impressed with my friend’s boldness.
Flori grinned. “I told them I was keeping a memory book, like old people do. Young folks can be so gullible.” She patted my arm. “Not you, of course, dear. You’re a keen sleuth. As soon as we get rid of our freeloading friends out there, we can get to work.”
“Work?” I asked. Feeding people was our work. But I didn’t need keenness to figure out what Flori was about to say.
“Catching the real killer,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Jolly good!” Addie exclaimed, raising her hand for a high five.
I reluctantly raised my hand. Addie slapped it hard as my stomach dropped.
Chapter 6
An hour later most of the pancake eaters had exhausted their rousing speeches and left. Linda had slipped out the back, heading for solace at the Cathedral. Juan was taking a well-deserved break. I would have taken a break too, except Flori was packing me a tote bag I could have done without.
“I really don’t need all this,” I protested. What I needed was a nap, and possibly a few more pancakes, although I’d already had a short stack with an over-easy egg, two strips of bacon, and extra syrup on top.
“Best to be well supplied and strike while the scene’s hot,” Flori said. “That’s what Sun Tzu would say.”
I reminded myself that a year ago Flori had taken up fencing, again at the Senior Center. She’d practiced by striking our flour sacks with a saber until one day she jabbed too hard and we had an industrial-sized cleanup on our hands. Tai chi would pass, and maybe the Senior Center would start offering more age-appropriate workshops like scrapbooking or bird-watching.
“Here, to stuff in your pocket or brassiere. The smallest binoculars I have.” Flori handed me binoculars fit for a doll. “They’re from that New Year’s bird count that my friend Miriam insists on. Why she’s interested in that, I’ll never know. Cold and boring, if you ask me, and we never see more than a few finches and towhees.”
“Towhees are beautiful, and didn’t you see a whole flock of sandhill cranes once?” I said encouragingly. “How amazing was that?”
Flori acknowledged the beauty of cranes. “I didn’t go looking for them, though. I saw them when I was out spying on the postman because Bernard—the old fool—thought he was smuggling counterfeit Hatch chiles.”
I recalled the incident. Bernard, Flori’s husband and love of her life for sixty-some years, detected the scent of freshly roasted chiles on their mail. This would be perfectly normal in late summer and fall, when New Mexico ships out fresh, frozen, jarred, and dried chiles by the ton. In early spring, however, the scent aroused Bernard’s and Flori’s suspicions. Tailing the postman revealed that he was uninvolved, except for delivering South American chiles to a restaurant claiming to serve only New Mexico’s finest. Flori tipped off a newspaper reporter who publicly exposed the lie. No one passes off fake chile around Flori and gets away with it.
Now she stuffed two brown paper sacks into the canvas bag embellished with an image of San Pasqual, the kitchen saint.
“What is all this anyway?” I asked.
My friend and boss pushed back her thick round spectacles. “You’ve had too much sugar, haven’t you? You’re like my great-granddaughter Rosa. Too much sugar makes her cranky and edgy.”
I clamped my mouth shut, realizing that any retort might indeed sound cranky and edgy. Plus, Flori was right. I hadn’t simply added extra syrup, I’d made syrup soup of my pancakes. That, on top of the police station coffee and two too many cups at Tres Amigas and touching a dead body, and I was definitely on edge.
Flori thrust the pretty, overstuffed tote at me. “Sleuthing supplies. If you won’t take them for Sun Tzu, think of the Girl Scouts.”
I recalled my one summer in the Girl Scouts before cookie sales stressed me out. What was the motto? Sell more cookies? No. “Be prepared?”
“Exactly,” Flori said. “Just like Sun Tzu said.” She handed me the tote.
I lifted the bag a few times. If nothing else, it was useful for weight-training exercise. “What did you pack in here? Melons? Lead?”
“My tactical-force binoculars that’ll let you spy on anything, a fresh notepad, bottled water because you should avoid dehydration at high altitudes, a pen, a plastic bag for your cell phone in case it rains, which is unlikely, or if you fall in a hot tub, also unlikely but it does happen, as you know . . .”
I lifted out one of the lunch sacks.
“Be careful with those!” Flori exclaimed.
I dropped the bag as if singed.
“One bag has muffins in it in case you get hungry,” Flori explained. “The other’s pepper spray.
Hot Flash, it’s called. The spray button is sensitive. That’s why I put it in the bag.”
Juan, sitting on a stool by the counter, chuckled. Easy for him to be cheerful. He was tucking into a plate of bacon, eggs, and cheesy chiles rellenos. I wouldn’t have minded some more bacon. I wouldn’t even have minded washing pots, pans, and knives like Addie was doing.
“Jolly fine,” Addie said.
I knew why I felt grumpy, and it wasn’t just the sugar. I dreaded a return to the murder scene. More than that, I didn’t want to get involved in another murder investigation. No! I wanted to yell. Let the police handle it. Let Jake, “the Strong Defender,” prove Linda innocent.
Then I caught Flori’s worried frown and thought of her ticking off the ways in which Linda looked guilty. If Celia were in trouble, I’d want all the help I could get. Besides, Linda was my friend and a good, kind person who had come to my aid in the past.
I took a deep breath and focused on the positive. I was getting another springtime walk to the Plaza. And muffins. I asked Flori about their flavor, mainly to delay some more.
“My health food muffins. To keep up your strength,” she said.
This was good news. Flori’s health food muffins aren’t the no-sugar, all-bran doorstops the name implies. They’re rich chocolate with chocolate chips. The healthy, in Flori’s mind, comes from using olive oil instead of her usual choices, butter and lard.
I stalled a little longer by rearranging the tote. Grabbing what I hoped was the bag of muffins and not the pepper spray, I moved it to the top. I didn’t want smashed muffins. I also didn’t want to accidentally Hot Flash myself. Something fluffy came along with the muffin bag. “What’s this pink, furry—” I started to say. Then I realized.
“Ack!” I let go of the pink fur in horror.