Cinco de Mayhem

by Ann Myers

  Addie looked over my shoulder and tittered.

  “Handcuffs,” Flori said, answering what I’d already figured out. “Cute, aren’t they? I found them at a yard sale a few weeks ago. Now don’t give me that face, Rita, I ran them through the dishwasher. The key’s attached in case you have to use them.”

  I prayed I wouldn’t have to use—or touch—the handcuffs again. And what else had Flori been throwing in the dishwasher? I made a mental note to use the “sterilize” setting from now on.

  “You never know when you’ll find a criminal,” Flori was saying. “Remember, be prepared. Addie, Juan, and I will hold down the café and keep our ears to the gossip front.” She thumped me on the back in an obvious “off you go” gesture. When I didn’t go, she gave me a little shove.

  I reluctantly stepped toward the back door.

  Juan waved a slice of bacon.

  “Ta!” Addie called after me. “Have a jolly good time!”

  I set off, not at all jolly. My Grinch mood, however, didn’t last. The day was too pretty. Birds were singing, tulips were blooming, and the open-air tour buses were rolling by, filled with happy visitors. Once again I thought how lucky I was to live here.

  At the Plaza, I reclaimed the bench where Cass and I had sat just yesterday. I’d planned to indulge in a muffin, but my hunger, even for chocolate, had vanished. I stared toward the bandstand and the spot outlined in caution tape, visions of Napoleon’s body flashing through my head. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to replay the scene. I recalled Napoleon’s open yet unmoving eyes, his puffed cheeks and pursed mouth. Why had he looked like that? Had he been eating? His last meal?

  When people pass away on vacation or pursuing some dangerous passion like jumping out of airplanes or running in front of bulls or golfing in lightning storms, everyone says they died doing what they loved. As if this somehow made their death more palatable. Still, if Napoleon was eating his last bite, I hoped it was something he loved. In his case, that likely meant his food and his food only.

  A few onlookers lingered along the outskirts of the yellow tape bordering the crime scene. Some pointed. Others snapped photos with their phones. The police had left, except for two techs. One, wearing plastic booties, leaned against a white paneled van. The second, bent nose to the ground in ostrich fashion, scoured an area enclosed by a white blobby circle. There was no body outline, but I knew that’s what the chalk blob represented.

  Linda’s cart stood just outside the white line, festooned like a carnival float in yellow tape. I bet the tape was Manny’s work. My ex went overboard with tape in everything from home repair to his police work.

  The ostrich tech craned his head to the ground, tipping his cheek parallel to the pavers and gravel and something else. Tweezers followed, and he meticulously plucked and deposited his find in plastic evidence bags. Remembering Flori’s binoculars, I dug around the tote and extracted them from underneath the questionable cuffs. The binoculars, small and light, mostly fit in my hand. Trying to act like a casual bird-watcher, I leaned an elbow on the bench. So I wouldn’t have to lie, I located a bird, a crow tearing at a paper food wrapper. The crow stepped on the edge of the paper with both feet and ripped the opposite edge with its imposing bill.

  Bird-watching cover accomplished, I zoomed in on the tech and his clear plastic bag. The image jiggled each time I breathed. Giving up on discretion, I put both hands on the binoculars and aimed my magnified stare at the tech.

  His gloved hands grasped something dull yellow. A clump of dirt? No . . . I ticked through more possibilities, from gum to buttons to potato chips until I could deny it no longer.

  Tamale. The tech was bagging fractured chunks of steamed corn-flour dough. Nearby, I spotted the telltale corn husk that’s traditionally wrapped around the masa dough and the savory or sweet fillings inside. I let the binoculars sink to my lap. I didn’t need them to see the tech wave over his van-leaner colleague. Together they wrapped plastic around the wheels of Linda’s cart. I watched as the men lowered a ramp and shoved the yellow cart up and into the van.

  The van doors banged shut and indignation rose like bile in my stomach. Of course, I knew the indignation was misplaced. The techs had to take Linda’s cart. Its wheels had rolled over a murder victim. But the cart hadn’t moved on its own. I recalled helping Linda once. Even loaded with tamales, cooking utensils, hot sauces, warming trays, a cooler, and a chubby propane tank, the cart moved easily with its four thick wheels and lightweight hitch. Linda was no buff, bodybuilder type like Detective Bunny. If she or I could move it, practically anyone could, and the cart hadn’t been secured after Linda abandoned it following her run-in with Napoleon and the food inspector.

  I wondered about the inspector. Had Napoleon called him to the Plaza as soon as he saw Linda return? And what about the lanky redheaded guy who found the buggy tamale? The timing was too convenient for me to believe in coincidence. I dug out the notepad and started a list. I needed to talk to the inspector and the bug finder.

  I looked up and saw someone else I should question. Gathering my tote bag, I headed across the Plaza to interrogate my first potential murderer.

  Chapter 7

  I wasn’t about to whip out the pink handcuffs and pepper spray for my encounter with Don Busco. First, I’d never overpower him, even with Flori’s Taser, which I prayed she hadn’t packed in with the muffins. Don stood well over six feet, with a few inches added by a black felt Stetson topped with a feather. Second, I’d feel too guilty. Don beamed at me, little knowing that I suspected him of violent crime.

  “Rita!” he said jovially, coming out from behind his ketchup-red hot dog cart. When I was within hugging reach, he threw an arm over my shoulder, enveloping me in the scent of campfire smoke. Since Don steamed his hot dogs, I wasn’t sure how he managed the campfire perfume, but it went perfectly with his cowboy-cook look.

  “Great to see you!” he said from high above my shoulders. “What brings you out to the Plaza on such a fine day? Hankering for a hot dog?”

  Suspecting nice people like you of murder. I smiled at Don and assured myself that he had to make the list, if only to be crossed off. Don used to tend bar at Napoleon’s chic bistro, OhLaLa. Cass and I went occasionally to enjoy Don’s innovative cocktails and tales of his time in the local film industry. New Mexican landscapes, Don informed us, have appeared in not only Westerns, but also Middle Eastern action films, vampire flicks, and even Indiana Jones and Independence Day. I’d also learned to keep my eye out for famous part-time New Mexico residents including Robert Redford, Gene Hackman, Julia Roberts, and Shirley MacLaine. Don clearly loved film work, but bartending offered steadier pay and he had a talent for adding southwestern flair to cocktail classics.

  Cass and I later speculated that the flair might have gotten him fired. No matter how tasty and popular the drinks, Napoleon wouldn’t have liked pickled chiles in his French martinis or a kir royale composed of champagne sweetened with pink prickly pear syrup.

  The “official” reason for Don’s firing, however, didn’t involve cocktail innovation or tall tales. Napoleon sent an e-mail to elite restaurant owners warning that Don had palmed tips and whole tabs and bottles. The news swept through the food community. At the time, I wondered why Don didn’t sue Napoleon for libel. Unless the accusation was true, in which case why didn’t Napoleon go to the police? True or not, Napoleon’s bad-mouthing swirled like a desert dust devil, essentially blacklisting Don from restaurant work around town. If I were Don and innocent, I’d be bitter. Bitter enough to kill, though? If so, why wait until now, nearly a year after the fact?

  Don certainly seemed jolly, to use Addie’s term. He gripped my hand and told me how much he missed seeing me and Cass. “You girls should come ’round for hot dogs or frito pie. Best in town, right here!” He patted his cart proudly.

  Under other circumstances, I would have been tempted by his gourmet dogs. I stood back to admire the menu. “Wow, green chile and cheese dog? Frito pie dog? Don, t
hese sound great. If I hadn’t already eaten . . .” And if my stomach wasn’t rolling from the crime scene. Adding Fritos, chile, cheese, onions, lettuce, and tomato to a hot dog would not be a good choice right now. In my peripheral vision, the crime tape fluttered. I wondered about Don’s choice of venue. He often wheeled his cart to the trendy Railyard District or over to the state office buildings to catch the nine-to-five crowd. It seemed rather morbid to sell hot dogs within eyeshot of a murder scene. Was it possible that Don didn’t know what happened?

  Oh, but he did know. “Yep, that’s why I’m here,” Don said, in answer to my tentative question. “I owe a lot to that slandering slimeball, Napoleon. If he hadn’t fired me, I’d never have started this cart. Best thing I ever did. I’m my own boss now.”

  “So you obviously heard from someone . . . ?” I prompted.

  He repositioned his hat, tugging the brim down to shade his eyes. “Pretty much everybody knows. In fact, I heard you and Flori held a pancake celebration this morning. I do love Flori’s pancakes. If I’d known, I’d have hauled myself out of bed early.”

  “We didn’t intend for a celebration,” I hastily clarified. “Flori is so worried about Linda because of the fight she had with Napoleon yesterday. It looks bad to the police. Maybe you heard about that too?”

  Don massaged the thin line of facial hair connecting his flaring, almost-handlebar mustache to his goatee. In his bartending days he’d worn hip black vests and sported an intentional five o’clock shadow like my ex. Now he wore a denim shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie. Maybe his days in film had taught him about costuming.

  He continued to rub, his thumb and index finger meeting at his chin. “I saw that fight. The tail end only, but I could hear it from blocks away. Linda stood her ground. I like that in a woman. The police are fools to think she’s involved, no offense meant to your ex there, Rita. Manny and I are drinking buddies. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him what I think.”

  I told Don that I appreciated his support for Linda. “I already told Manny the same thing,” I grumbled. “He won’t listen to me.”

  “Power in numbers,” Don said, bobbing his head in affirmation of his own platitude. “We’re all gettin’ together to help Linda, you tell her that.”

  “We?” As far as I knew, Don’s hot dog cart was a one-cowboy operation.

  “Us food carters. We’re gonna stick together from now on. No more rogue warriors. All for one and one for all and all that. Ah, here’s another one of us now.”

  A van towing a cart swung in toward the curb.

  “A new food cart era is beginning,” Don said grandly.

  And another suspect is arriving, I thought, recognizing Crystal’s juice cart.

  Don waved in Crystal as she backed up her van and angled her juice cart next to his. Crystal’s dress and sweater matched her juices, bright red and orange. Her long dark hair bounced in loose curls down her back and her makeup was equally bright. She greeted Don with a lipstick-preserving air kiss. I got a wave and a cheerful, “Hola, Rita.”

  Don and I helped her unload her van, lugging out jugs of agua fresca, sweet fruit juice lightened with water. For a woman who’d been shut down yesterday, Crystal had prepared a bounty of juice for today. I read the labels as the jugs emerged. Strawberry with mint. Mango sweetened with honey. Pineapple and lime. And, one of my favorites, tamarind. The tamarind wouldn’t win any beauty contests with its color of wet adobe, yet thinking of its tart tang made my mouth water. So did the last jug that Crystal retrieved from her passenger seat, a milky white horchata made from rice and almonds that had been soaked, blended, and strained. Spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, the beverage reminded me of my grandmother’s rice pudding and could be just the medicine my rolling stomach needed.

  Crystal offered me a beverage, free except for more guilt. Here was another nice person for my suspect list. I considered declining to maintain my investigative integrity. On the other hand, I didn’t want to tip her off with unusual behavior. I ended up sipping soothing horchata and dancing around the question of when Crystal and Don had last seen Napoleon.

  Crystal had last seen the crepe bully when he chased her off the Plaza. Her sunny disposition turned dark, and was I imagining it or were tears welling in her eyes? She ducked behind her cart to retrieve some cups. By the time she straightened again, her expression had turned hard. “He was a bad man, that Napoleon. Cruel. Slippery. Deceitful.”

  Don agreed and said he’d seen Napoleon later on, after the fight with Linda. “Napoleon was strutting around like a rooster,” he said. “I thought about setting my dog stand up on another corner of the Plaza, but decided to go somewhere with less aggravation.”

  Crystal nodded. “He got in everybody’s business. I showed him. He thought he could get rid of me? I got my permit settled and now I’m back.” She held up a wooden spoon in triumph. Don raised some tongs and they knocked the utensils together.

  “So you weren’t that worried when Napoleon questioned your permit?” I asked Crystal.

  Crystal shrugged. “I sorted out that paperwork right away. A lost form, they said. I bet it got lost on purpose. I told the clerk, ‘I have three kids and this cart to run and my husband’s working two jobs. I don’t have time to waste.’”

  Don said, “I hear you.”

  “I won’t say I’m glad a man’s dead,” Crystal continued. “That would be wrong. But am I happy he and his health inspector won’t be bothering me?”

  It was a rhetorical question, one Don answered with a robust grunt. “If that inspector comes around, we’ll show him what for. You run a spotless cart, Crystal, and so does—did—Linda.”

  Crystal thanked Don and praised his hot dog cart. The big man blushed under the slew of compliments from the attractive juice maker.

  “About this health inspector,” I said, interrupting their compliment fest. “Don’t you think it was odd that he was right here when that redheaded guy found the cockroach?”

  Don and Crystal agreed. “Too convenient for my liking,” Don said. “We know Napoleon’s dirty ways, though, don’t we, Crystal?”

  She sniffed. “Yeah, we sure do. Don’s right. Linda ran a clean operation. We know she didn’t have bugs. Not such a big bug anyway. You’d notice that putting together a tamale. Imagine you are folding the fillings into the masa, you’d see a bug like that.” She curled her lip in disgust.

  “You’d notice all right,” Don said. “Rita, you tell Linda I’d be honored to sell her tamales from my cart if she wants.” He grinned, his teeth bright under the shade of his hat. “Tell her I need only tamales as payment. I never did get to try her mole special before she ran off yesterday.”

  I thanked them both and promised I’d tell Linda. “That’ll cheer her up. She needs all the support she can get.”

  Don agreed. “That’s why we made this. Might be premature, but if the police are setting their sights on Linda, she’ll need a lawyer and a whole mess of money.” He reached under his counter and produced a glass jug with a piece of paper taped to it. The paper read, Free Linda. A blurry, ink-jet image showed Linda’s face. She was smiling and standing among a larger group. Someone, presumably Don, had hand-drawn black vertical bars over her face.

  “Aw . . . that’s nice, Don. Really nice,” Crystal said. She turned to me. “We can make some bumper stickers too, if Linda ends up in real trouble. My nephew runs a screen-printing shop. He can do T-shirts, tank tops, caps, stickers . . .”

  I cringed. Linda behind bars was not the image I wanted spread around on bumpers and tank tops. “Linda’s not under arrest,” I clarified, after reiterating how great their support was. “She only went to the police station this morning to help out and give a witness statement. If there is any trouble, she has Santa Fe’s best defense attorney on her side. And, of course, she’s innocent.”

  “Exactly! I believe in her fully,” Don said. “That woman is both my friend and the salt of the earth. As innocent as my own abuela. Isn’t that rig
ht, Crystal?”

  Crystal twisted her cherry-red lips and said nothing. I doubted she was questioning Don’s grandmother.

  “Crystal?” I asked. “You do believe Linda’s innocent, right? She’d never hurt anyone.”

  Crystal concentrated on polishing her already spot-free counter. “Sometimes, people go a little loco. They get mad and then you don’t know what can happen. If that’s what happened with Linda, I don’t blame her one bit. In fact, I want to help her.” She reached over and dropped a dollar in the donation jug.

  “Linda wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I reiterated. I offered up anecdotes about Linda feeding the hungry and rescuing wolves.

  Don agreed enthusiastically. “An absolute saint! I tell you, she’s like my very own grandmother on my mother’s side. My paternal grandmother, well . . .” He shrugged, implying his other granny might be incited to stabbings.

  Crystal frowned. “But, Don, my sister called me when I was driving over here and she said she saw Linda at the Cathedral, weeping and begging the priest to let her into a confessional. And you know what?” Crystal lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulders, gossiper’s code for about to dish up dirt.

  Don leaned in. I gripped my horchata cup so hard the plastic crumpled.

  “It’s not even the regular confessing day,” Crystal whispered. She followed this statement with a knowing bob of her head.

  “Linda’s a pious woman,” Don said after a beat. “My abuela went to confession every week and hadn’t a sin in her life. Not a one.”

  Crystal appeared not to hear him. “My sister said, Father Joseph, after he came out, he looked sad too. Upset and sad both, and he’s a priest!” She shivered.

  I could have hugged Don as he held firm about Linda’s innocence. “Linda’s a kind, God-fearing woman,” he assured a skeptical Crystal. “She’s surely sad about any death and wanted to talk to the priest about it. He’d be sad too. Priests are like that. Caring and whatnot.”