by Ann Myers
Crystal’s doubtful look remained. If I hoped to sway her—not to mention Manny—I needed another suspect. I switched back to the topic of their alibis.
“The police want to know everybody’s alibis,” I said, exaggerating with “everybody.” So far, Manny and Bunny seemed most interested in Linda’s alibi. “I hope you two have people to vouch for you. You do, right?”
“Me?” Crystal punctuated her answer with a scoffing sound. “I was home with my husband and kids, working and making juice.” She listed a litany of household chores that made my to-do lists seem like nothing. She’d made four batches of cookies for a school bake sale and all the juices for today. She helped with homework and read bedtime stories and packed lunches for all family members including herself. “Burritos with avocado, rice, beans, and cheese,” she said. “Really healthy.”
“And your husband was there all night?” I asked.
“What does that mean?” Crystal demanded. “Where else would Chago be?”
One of his two jobs perhaps? I hardly dared ask Crystal, who was getting testier than me on too much maple syrup.
“Chago gets home for the kids’ bedtime and reads them books,” she said. “He’s a good man. We have a good marriage, stronger than ever. I love him.”
I sighed, thinking I could have used a good man around the house when I’d been married. I risked getting Don prickly too and asked about his activities.
Don was less clear than Crystal. Actually, he was downright fuzzy. He was, as he put it, “here or there” and “out and about.” He tipped back his hat and rubbed his forehead, as if this might scour out some more details. “I’ll admit, I rambled around and had a few drinks,” he said. “I feel a mite bad. Turns out that Linda had left me a message ’round dinnertime asking me to turn off her warmer tray in her cart if I was down at the Plaza. I didn’t check my phone till this morning.” He glanced toward the crime scene. “No getting there now. It probably ran out of fuel on its own anyhow.”
“So you were on the Plaza?” I asked.
“I was out selling hot dogs until about eight, I’d guess,” Don said. “After that, I figured I’d done enough business, so I packed the cart up. Had a few beers with the boys afterward. I’m sorry now I didn’t pay attention to my phone. I’m not a phone guy.”
Manny had claimed to not be a phone guy too. Funny how he’d become one when he got a smart phone for texting his girlfriends.
I tried again. “We really need a witness to help out Linda,” I said, giving up the ruse that the police were the only ones asking. “Maybe you walked by the Plaza and saw something or someone or Napoleon? Anything could help.”
Don rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. “Well, can’t say that I recall. I chatted with some folks. Didn’t see Napoleon, not that he went to the bars I go to these days. I saw your ex, though. We had a beer at the Cantina. I suppose he’s my alibi, if that’s what you’re feeling around for. Ha! A policeman. That’s a pretty good alibi, now isn’t it?”
Yeah, good for him. Bad for Linda, and for me, since the Cantina was the site of my Bloody-Mary-throwing incident. I wouldn’t be going in there or questioning Manny. Like that would get me anywhere.
“So who do you think killed Napoleon?” I asked the twosome.
“Lind—” Crystal started to say.
“If it wasn’t Linda,” I said, cutting her off.
She shrugged, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders.
“Could have been anyone,” Don suggested, also unhelpfully. “A random killer like you see on TV. Some dude, a psycho type, comes by with a knife and that’s that.”
Crystal said she didn’t like that idea.
I didn’t either. How could the police locate a random stranger? How could I? But I doubted Don’s theory. What were the chances that an unknown murderer came across Napoleon, worked up the ambition to stab him, and then took the extra step of covering his body with a tamale cart? No, this crime suggested a personal grudge. More than that. Intense hatred or a burst of anger.
“What about the health inspector?” I suggested. “The guy who shut down Linda’s cart? Do you know anything about him? What if he and Napoleon were involved in dirty business together and the deal went bad?”
Crystal clamped her red lips shut and busied herself rearranging the juices.
Don laid his hand on my shoulder. It felt like a steel baseball mitt. “Rita, I know about you and Flori and your sleuthing. You girls have to be careful. Asking questions about killers and food inspectors—especially that one—is dangerous business. Real dangerous. Linda will be fine. She’s innocent.” He squeezed my shoulder and then patted the donation jug. “We’ve got her back.”
“Free Linda!” Crystal yelled, raising a wooden spoon high. Heads turned our way.
I turned to go. As I did, Don’s iron grip latched onto my arm. “I mean it, Rita,” he said in a low voice. His friendly grin was gone and his eyes dark under the brim of his hat. A shiver ran up the side he gripped. “Stay away for your own sake, and for Flori’s and Linda’s too.”
He released me and I hurried off. Free Linda rang through my confused head. Was I imagining it, or had I just been threatened by a nice guy?
Chapter 8
By the time I reached the other side of the Plaza, I’d convinced myself—mostly—that Don had issued a friendly caution. What nice guy doesn’t warn a single woman to take care around a killer? Or warn a fellow food professional about a potentially dirty health inspector? I probably misread the hard edge in his voice. And his eyes, maybe he was squinting against the sun. Except that his hat shaded his eyes. Maybe my initial impression was right and Don was warning me off his murderous business. Don definitely had the strength to overpower Napoleon. He also had a beef.
But why now, when his hot dog cart was thriving and he claimed to be happy? Had Napoleon sicced the health inspector on Don? Restaurants fell afoul of inspectors all the time. Besides, a failing grade wasn’t always bad. Problems could be fixed, and some fanatic foodies even considered infractions a sign of greasy-spoon gems.
Engrossed in these thoughts, I didn’t notice the TV crew until I stepped into their shot.
“Cut!” a man’s voice boomed in my ear.
I jumped backward, apologizing.
“Good one, Rita,” a grouchier male voice said. Manny stood a few feet away getting his nose powdered.
Just what I didn’t need, Manny, and in front of a camera no less. My vain ex would be puffed up like a law-enforcing prairie chicken.
The woman holding a News 6 microphone waved off the disruption. “Doesn’t matter,” she said breezily. “I didn’t like my lead in. Let’s do it over. This time, can we get more of that crime scene van in the background? What if it was open?”
I recognized her from a nightly news program out of Albuquerque. Her name was Milan Lujan, and she was as exquisite as I imagined her namesake city to be. Exactly Manny’s type. Shorter than him, with long black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes hovering far across her cheekbones, like a sexy space alien.
Manny turned on his charm. “I’ll handle that,” he said, waving down the lounging crime tech.
I might hate confrontation, but I couldn’t stop myself. I stepped up to my ex. “Manny, you know Linda’s innocent. Anyone is innocent until proven guilty.”
Milan stepped away to have her makeup adjusted. Manny flashed me his pearly whites. “Spending too much time with that criminal-chaser lawyer, are you Rita? I’m sorry about Linda. I’ll miss her tamales, and she’s a nice lady. But even nice ladies can snap.”
The crime tech moved the van closer. His partner flung open the back door, revealing the imprisoned cart. I could see the red and orange flowers painted along one side and the word TÍA. Anyone local could fill in the rest, if they hadn’t heard already.
Manny was right about one thing. Nice women can snap. I wanted to push him aside and slam the van doors shut. Fortunately, I didn’t have a chance to make a newsworthy scene of myself.<
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The cameraman tugged on my jacket sleeve. “Ready to roll,” he announced.
I stepped back, and Milan took her place beside Manny. He adjusted his black leather jacket, unzipping it to show the viewers of New Mexico and southern Colorado his tight black T-shirt printed with the word POLICE.
Milan arched her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Horror in Santa Fe,” she intoned. “As a renowned figure in the culinary world is brutally murdered on the historic Plaza, behind the bandstand which brings joy to so many. The incident was reported early this morning, leaving a community in shock and diners around the world in mourning.” She swung her microphone to the side and the camera followed. “I’m here with Officer Martin of the Santa Fe police. Officer, do you have a message for our viewers?”
Manny morphed his face into an expression of grave concern. “Thanks for having me on, Milan,” he said. “We’re asking anyone who might have been on or near the Plaza last night, particularly around midnight, to come forward. Anything, even something small, that you witnessed could be a vital clue in our investigations.”
“Indeed,” Milan said, smiling admiringly at Manny. “Are there any leads so far, Officer Martin?”
“We are investigating a person of interest,” Manny said, and I bit my lip hard to keep from snapping.
In front of me, the cameraman appeared to zoom in on the van as Manny said that the crime scene techs had been busy gathering evidence.
“We’re closing in,” Manny said, puffing his chest.
Right, closing in on the wrong person.
Milan stood practically cheek-to-cheek with Manny. “Can you comment on reports of a local food cart war?” she asked.
Manny, his own tone implying great regret, said he could not comment. He did, however, turn to look meaningfully at the van.
Milan filled in the rest. “We at News 6 are working to confirm reports that the victim clashed with another food cart operator on the Plaza yesterday. We’ll stay in close touch with Officer Martin and keep you, our viewers, apprised of new developments in this case.”
She smiled at Manny before giving a serious nod toward the camera. “Todd, back to you in the newsroom.”
“Cut!” the cameraman yelled, and Manny’s sympathetic expression lost out to his pearly whites. Manny could star in toothpaste commercials if he hadn’t found his calling in law enforcement. He turned his smile on Milan, likely asking for and getting her number.
I made a move on the cameraman, but not for the same reasons. He was wrapping up his cables, a toothpick dangling from his lips.
“Hey,” I said, lowering my voice to a husky whisper, like I imagined covert informants used. “Tell Milan the police are mistaken. They’re looking at the wrong person and a killer is getting away.”
The camera guy twizzled his toothpick. “Yeah?” he said, sounding uninterested. “So who did it?” He was young, with tattoos of New Mexican icons running up each arm—a roadrunner, a horned toad, a Zia symbol, a Route 66 sign, and a green splotch half covered by his shirtsleeve, probably a green chile. Clearly, camera guy loved his state. Maybe I could use that to my advantage.
“I can’t say yet,” I said. “But Napoleon trashed New Mexican cuisine.” My informant voice was straining my throat. I switched to normal speaking volume. “Linda Santiago makes some of the best tamales in the state, and she’s being framed.”
He finished wrapping up his cord and eyed me. “Yeah? So? What do you want me to do?”
Good question. I knew what I didn’t want, namely the nightly news flashing shots of Linda’s cart and implying her guilt. “I . . . I want Milan to have the story! Exclusive tips.” Making a split—and possibly terribly wrong—decision, I blurted, “Tell her to look at the dirty food inspector.”
Panic zinged through my body to the tips of my fingers. Why hadn’t I said dirty hot dog man? Because I wasn’t sure, that’s why, and Don, towering above me with that dark look, had shaken me. However, I wasn’t sure about the food inspector either, and the last thing I wanted was to get on an inspector’s bad side. Picturing the man shutting down Tres Amigas with made-up health violations, I backtracked. “Others too. I mean, look at all the people Napoleon fired and businesses he ruined.” I turned and rushed off.
Camera guy called after me. “Hey, what’s your name? Milan might want to interview you.”
“Anonymous!” I yelled, reaching the curb. I jogged across Palace Avenue and ducked into a crowd of art lovers viewing Native American jewelry by the Palace of the Governors. The one-story adobe extends the length of the Plaza and recently celebrated its four hundredth birthday. From what I can tell from old photos, the structure hasn’t changed much in all that time. Today, as in decades past, vendors sat under the covered walkway, cast in sepia shadows, their jewelry laid out on blankets in front of them. Words from the region’s original languages mingled with English, Spanish, and a tour group speaking Mandarin or Cantonese. I fell in behind an English-speaking tour guide who was announcing that the building had four-foot-thick walls and was the oldest continuously occupied public structure in the U.S. The tourists oohed and aahed and patted the smooth adobe surface.
I glanced nervously back toward the Plaza and the modern news crew. The camera guy was talking to Milan. He raised his hands in an I-don’t-know gesture. Milan cocked her head, seemingly intrigued. I could read Manny’s gestures too. His hands went to his hips. He leaned to one side. He’d be frowning and sighing and hopefully not revealing my name.
Later that afternoon, I sat on a stool in the kitchen of Tres Amigas, under orders from Flori to rest. My feet did appreciate the break. My mind, however, was running laps. I had to confess to my possible café-threatening bluff. I did so when Flori’s attention was on a pot of stubborn pinto beans. Three hours, she’d been complaining. The beans had cooked longer than usual and remained mealy rather than creamy. Beans can be fickle, especially at Santa Fe’s seven-thousand-foot altitude. So can cakes and breads and soufflés, as I well knew.
A twinge of nerves struck me. I still hadn’t decided on a dessert for my dinner date or achieved a soufflé with proper puff and flavor. And what about side dishes? I couldn’t feed a man only fluffy soufflé and dessert. I had a recipe for tasty roasted asparagus dressed with French-style mustard vinaigrette. What if I added some Mexican flair with cilantro and lime and topped the dish with spicy, fried tortilla strips and toasted pine nuts? That might work. So could a recipe I’d tried out for Thanksgiving, sweet cherry tomatoes baked with baguette croutons and a sprinkling of Parmesan. If I did that, I’d have the red, white, and green of the Mexican flag. I scribbled down notes, adding to the to-do list that included grocery shopping and interrogations.
Glancing up, I noticed that Flori had stopped stirring. I hurried to apologize. “I’m so sorry! I spoke without thinking to that cameraman. If that food inspector’s dirty and comes after us, it’ll be my fault!”
Flori spooned up a bean, nibbled it, frowned, and punched another forty-five minutes on the timer.
“Sun Tzu couldn’t have done it better, Rita,” she said, nodding deliberately, like the long-ago sage might have. “You’re flushing out an enemy.”
I doubted Mr. Sun ever contemplated the vengeful ways of unethical health inspectors. “I didn’t give my name,” I said, mostly to comfort myself since Flori seemed more concerned about the beans. “But Manny was there. He might have told the reporter. It was Milan Lujan from News 6. You know, the pretty one with the amazing eyes.”
“Ha!” my elderly friend said. “Manny wouldn’t admit to a hot reporter that his ex-wife is a better sleuth than he is.”
Flori was as wise as Sun Tzu, if not more so. Manny wouldn’t say anything about me and my sleuthing, especially if he had any doubt that I might be right. I relaxed a little, yet kept Flori’s Girl Scout/Sun Tzu motto in mind. If the food inspector came, Tres Amigas would be prepared.
I spent the afternoon cleaning all surfaces I could reach. I scrubbed the sinks, dusted the s
helves, checked every use-by date on every food product, and stocked the bathrooms with loads of sanitizing soaps and paper products. I tested the temperature of our walk-in fridge and ordered some extra-large hairnets for Addie’s wig. By the time I was done, the place sparkled, the scent of bleach filled the air, and I was beyond exhausted.
That night, my eyelids drooped long before the ten o’clock news. My head bobbed. Hugo purred on my lap, urging me to sleep.
“Let me sit up. We have to see this,” I told the cat. Hugo gave an exaggerated yawn before loping down the hallway to Celia’s room, where my daughter was likely plugged into her headphones. Turning to Channel 6, I steeled myself. Would Linda be lead news? Would I, the not-so-anonymous informant, be caught on film scuttling away? But no, Santa Fe’s hometown murder didn’t make the first few stories. Albuquerque had its own mayhem. A man had driven off with an ATM, dragging it through Old Town before crashing into a wall. Another hapless robber had stolen a tow truck and somehow rammed it into a nail salon. Then there was potentially violent weather to report. A spring storm was approaching and the weatherman urged viewers to stay clear of arroyos, the usually dry creek beds that could transform to raging torrents. My eyelids began drooping again as the weatherman elaborated on temperatures for each corner of the state and southern Colorado. At the announcement of “shocking” news from Santa Fe, however, I jolted upright.
The male anchor, Todd, the one with a great wave of newscaster hair, shook his head sadly. “I ate at Chez Napoleon just last week. A fabulous meal and a once-in-a-lifetime experience, it seems now.”
Vanessa, his female counterpart, lamented that she’d never gotten a chance to go to either of Napoleon’s restaurants. “A tragedy,” she said. “The sudden death of a revered chef. Let’s turn to our coverage, recorded earlier on the Santa Fe Plaza.”
There was the scene, replayed. Milan Lujan reverently questioning Manny. His concerned face, his blatant nod toward the crime scene van. The cameraman had gotten a great shot, zooming in close to Linda’s festively painted cart, zooming out to Manny adjusting his serious crime-fighter scowl.