Cinco de Mayhem

by Ann Myers

  I didn’t know about the numbers, but I liked where she was headed. “Brigitte, my friend Flori and I have gotten involved in investigations in the past. We’ve helped solve crimes by digging up information. We always say that information is the key.”

  Brigitte raised her eyes and assessed me with a steady gaze. I half expected her to dismiss my amateur sleuthing. Instead, she nodded seriously. “It is like forensic accounting, then,” she said, her eyes returning to the pages of numbers. “Unfortunately, I do not see much hope of finding information the police have not. They were very thorough in their questions.”

  They sure were thorough in questions regarding Linda. I stopped myself mid-snort as Brigitte continued.

  “I only wish I’d been with Napoleon that night,” she said, tearing her eyes from the pages. “To think, I was out having fun.” Her voice caught.

  My stomach tightened. She’d given me the perfect opener, right where I dreaded to start. “Oh? Where were you?” I asked, already feeling deceitful. I knew full well where she was, and I was checking up on her for more reasons than Napoleon’s alibi. Could she see straight through me? Brigitte, however, hovered over her numbers, frowning as she scanned the pages. She took a minute or two to answer, during which time I scanned the white walls of her office. No photos of family. No postcards or paintings from all the places she’d lived before. She was either unsentimental or a strict declutterer or both. I wished I could borrow either of those traits for my depersonalizing task at Victor’s old place.

  When Brigitte did reply, she sounded distracted. “A benefit . . .” she said, eyes still glued to the numbers. “For kid art.” She looked up briefly and sighed. “Napoleon was supposed to go. Actually, he was the invited guest. I was to accompany him to handle the financial donation, ensure that it was deductible from taxes. He shouldn’t have been on the Plaza that night.”

  I got out my notebook for this new information. “Why didn’t he go?”

  Brigitte flipped a page. “Work,” she replied with a shrug. “What else? He said I could handle the event by myself. I wish, now, that I’d insisted he join me. What might have happened if he’d joined me?”

  I knew the torment of “what ifs.” I asked Brigitte what he was working on.

  She didn’t know. “He always had so many business ideas. Maybe it was his food carts.” She smiled briefly. “That was his current obsession. He wanted several carts. A true Crepe Empire.”

  And he’d want his competitors out of the way. Competitors like Linda, but also Don and Crystal, who had their own grudges. I pointed this out to Brigitte. “So other food cart operators could have been upset too. Actually, I heard that he and Don Busco had a beef.”

  “Beef?” she asked, wrinkling her brow. “Le boeuf?”

  I apologized and explained.

  “Ah, I see. The restaurant business is very demanding. Napoleon had to fire people who failed to meet his high standards. It could not be helped. So, oui, Don Busco had the beef, but it was not unusual or important.”

  Not important, except that Don lost his dream job, just like Linda was about to lose hers, as well as her freedom. I followed up with what I thought was a routine question. “When did you last talk to Napoleon?”

  Brigitte’s answer—or rather, its precision—surprised me. “Fifty-eight minutes before his death.” She gave a sad smile. “I know because my phone records the time of calls, and the police tell me that they know the exact time of his demise. Eleven fifty-one. Napoleon’s watch was always exact, like him.”

  “Where was he when he called?” I asked. “What did you talk about?”

  Brigitte exhaled loudly. “He did not say where he was, and we spoke only of business. He had an idea, he said, to put Crepe Empire carts on every corner of the Plaza. I suggested other locations, the courthouse or the Railyard or near the schools, but he was adamant. He wanted me to run numbers of costs. I wish now that we’d spoken of something more meaningful, more personal.”

  I did too, like who was skulking around in the darkness waiting to kill him. And what was Napoleon doing out and calling Brigitte so late at night? Flori often rousted me out of bed early in the morning, but she’d never call past ten.

  When I asked Brigitte, she said that Napoleon called at all times. “He barely slept. He assumed no one else did either, or if they did, that their sleep did not matter. If he got excited about an idea or a deal, he called. That he was out is no surprise either. He had so much energy at night, and he liked to walk when he was planning his big ideas.”

  “You said the other day that you were close?” I asked, and then tentatively added, “Romantically?”

  Now she looked up, her smile wry and a blush on her cheeks. “Me? Non. I am too tall, a French giraffe, Napoleon called me. We were close as business colleagues.” She sniffed, and I quickly changed the subject back to the one I dreaded.

  “After he called, you stayed at the benefit?”

  “I did. There was a band and ballroom dancing. I do love to dance and I had a fabulous dance partner. I stayed until midnight, and then my dancing man drove me home. Little did I know, Napoleon was already gone.”

  Drove her home and then what? I said, “How nice,” all the while thinking how un-nice it was for me. Brigitte was tall and blond, like Jake’s ex-wife. She could also ballroom dance, whereas I stomped on toes in line, swing, ballroom, freeform, and any other type of dancing.

  Brigitte’s phone rang, jolting me out of my haze. “Oh! There’s my dancing alibi now!” she announced. “I should get this and thank him again.”

  I propelled myself out of my modern plastic chair, nearly knocking it over. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  Brigitte was already talking. “Jake, how kind of you to call . . . Yes, I thought I lost an earring in your car . . . No? Okay . . . Oh, yes, I’m doing the best I can.”

  I waved. Brigitte waggled her fingers in response and mouthed Sorry and what I thought was Call me.

  I didn’t know if I’d call. I definitely knew that I didn’t want to listen in on her call. I was gently shutting the door when she called to me. “Rita, you forgot your bag. Oh! Oh la la! What is this? Pink handcuffs? Rita, mon ami, do not forget these!”

  My face blazing, I rushed in, grabbed the tote, and fled. This time I yanked the door shut, but not before I heard Brigitte saying, “Pardon, it was my friend, she forgot her bag of naughty goodies. You are très, très kind, Jake. So kind to follow me home the other night and to ask how I’m doing . . .”

  I hurried through the dining room, past DeeDee and chatting diners, and out through the pretty garden. When I reached the street, I breathed in the cool, head-clearing air. Yes, Brigitte certainly had an alibi. A strong one. Jake Strong.

  Chapter 13

  I speed-walked past the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and shops I usually paused to gaze into. I cut broad diagonals across streets. I ignored traffic lights and specials boards posted outside favorite restaurants, and even a baker friend inviting me in for fresh-from-the-oven chocolate cookies. All I wanted was to get to my car and then home, where I planned to hug my cat and talk myself down from eating too much ice cream. I lost steam as I neared Tres Amigas, wishing I’d snagged some of those cookies and trying to remember if I’d already polished off our ice cream supply. Should I detour to the store? A little ice cream wouldn’t hurt. I had to have something to talk myself out of comfort-bingeing on, and stale crackers and soggy celery wouldn’t cut it.

  I was unlocking my car and thinking I’d dash into Kaune’s Neighborhood Market, a family-owned grocery with indulgent imported wine, cheese, and ice cream offerings, when a horn beeped. I ignored it, still pondering ice cream. Salted caramel or chocolate chunk brownie? Or an exotic flavor like fig or sweet tarragon? No, for comfort I needed swirls of caramel and rich, fudgy brownies and peanut butter cups. Lots of peanut butter cups.

  The horn sounded again, grating at my already touchy nerves. Even more irritating, the flashy sports car making the racket
blocked my way out of the parking lot. I got in my Subaru and maneuvered it to within inches of the high-end jerk. Through a clenched smile, I waved and mimed that I wanted to turn right. Manny would have used other hand gestures. Unlike my ex, however, I had no badge to shield against road rage.

  The sports car didn’t move. Instead, the passenger side window slid down revealing Georgio Andre, Jake’s alleged art thief client, and his reptilian smile.

  Reluctantly, I opened my own window and craned my head out. “Hi, Georgio. Car trouble?”

  My move-out-of-my-way hint had no effect. Georgio leaned across a cream leather seat and said, “Ah, the lovely Ms. Lafitte! I thought that was you. What a lovely coincidence.”

  What a pain. I struggled to maintain my tight smile and perky tone. “Yep, well, nice to see you! I’ve gotta get going . . . I’m on my way home . . . long day . . .”

  Georgio’s jacket matched his car, a dark eggplant purple, bordering on black. The car emitted a throaty rumble. Its driver continued smiling, and I saw Cass’s point. The man radiated creepy vibes.

  “I’ll just scoot past, then,” I said, trying again. If he didn’t move, I was prepared to go overland. I had four-wheel drive, and I could probably weave between the ornamental grasses planted by the sidewalk. I looked both ways, checking for pedestrians and most of all Manny, who’d love to write me a ticket.

  Georgio was talking again. I shook my head, trying to replay his previous words, which I must have misunderstood. Did he just say that he’d see me back at my casita?

  “Sorry, what was that?” I asked.

  “I said, perfecto! You are returning home. Exactly where I hoped to find you. Ciao, bellissima. We will reunite within minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Do not worry. I know the way.”

  The dark tinted window glided up, the engine growled, and the aubergine sports car sped off, leaving me with grit on my windshield and nagging questions. Should I still stop for ice cream? And what would an “alleged” art thief want with me?

  I pulled out, bumping a tire over the curb. The jolt dislodged a more worrisome thought. What if Georgio wasn’t seeking me, but instead some of the artwork still in Victor’s house? I channeled Flori’s driving skills and stomped the gas.

  On the way, I assessed what I knew of Georgio Andre. Not much. He was an infrequent customer at Tres Amigas, where he selected healthy menu items like yogurt and granola. He was Jake’s client, and the two were seemingly friendly enough to attend art benefits together. Either that or Georgio needed a criminal defense lawyer on hand whenever he got near art. He creeped out Cass, and according to her, dabbled in cat burgling and black-market art dealing. And now he was in my driveway, parked in Victor’s old spot.

  Georgio leaned against his vehicle, his hands, in butterscotch leather gloves, folded neatly in front of trim Eurotrendy black pants.

  I pulled in closer to my casita and got out. The logo on the back of his car read MASERATI. Art dealing, legal or otherwise, must pay an awful lot more than cooking.

  “A beautiful afternoon with even more beautiful company,” Georgio said.

  I like compliments as much as the next person. I didn’t believe them, though. Catching my reflection in his darkened windows, I cringed at the glare of my shiny forehead and my hair, lopsided and mostly falling out of its ponytail.

  “Why do you want to see me?” I asked. I would have worried about sounding rude, but the man had kept me from a date with gourmet ice cream.

  He grinned, or rather leered, in the direction of my chest.

  Self-conscious, I followed his gaze. The tote bag that earlier embarrassed me at Brigitte’s was now tugging down my shirt to reveal the top of my bra, the lacy black one I only wore when I’d run out of fresh laundry.

  Georgio’s lips flicked in a crocodile’s grin. As I yanked my shirt into place, he said, “I would enjoy seeing more of you. But first, business. You are the caretaker of Victor Zamora’s estate.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” I said, drawing out the word. Seeing his crocodile gaze turn to Victor’s house, I tried to change the focus. “I’m the caretaker. Mostly I arrange for specialists to come in when needed. Like gardeners. There are some heirloom apple trees on the property. I need a good horticulturalist and landscaper. Do you know anyone?”

  “I have no interest in plants,” Georgio said. “Art, that is my passion.”

  As I’d feared. “Well, I don’t know much about the art. That’s why my landlady hired consultants. Yep, all the good stuff has been inventoried and is safe and sound in museums or specialty storage.”

  Georgio turned back to me and winked, slow and reptilian. “All the good stuff except the piece I desire.”

  I fumbled with the lock to my front door. Recently, the lock had been sticking, particularly in damp weather. Or when I most wanted to get inside, like now. I wasn’t about to waltz into Victor’s house and hand over the painting Georgio claimed to have a hold on. I wanted to call Teresa and confirm that she’d agreed to sell it, and I was going to do that in private. Inside, behind a locked door. If I could get inside.

  “Problem?” Georgio asked as I tugged and twisted.

  “No problem.”

  A gloved hand slid over mine.

  “Let me help,” Georgio said. I had no time to protest. He took the key, wiggled it gently, and the door swung open as if it had never been locked.

  “Oil, that is what you need,” Georgio said, his hand still on the key. “Leave this to me. I shall help. I have a kit in my car. Your lock will be smooth as satin.”

  “That’s okay,” I stammered. “I need to call a locksmith anyway.” I snatched the key, squeezed in, and shut the door—and Georgio’s chuckling—behind me.

  “Geez,” I whispered to Hugo, who wound around my feet. I gave him more than his usual allotment of tuna-flavored treats and let him stand on the forbidden kitchen table while I waited for Teresa’s secretary to get her on the line.

  “Rita!” Teresa exclaimed, interrupting the second repetition of electronic pan flute hold music. “You’re just the woman I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “Me?” Somehow I didn’t like the sound of this. I liked it even less when Teresa continued.

  “I’ve changed my travel dates. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ll be in Santa Fe a week early! Don’t worry about the house. I have a new idea. Forget streamlining. Let’s clear the place out. It’ll be easier! Just leave a bed and a few bits of silverware, and then my decorator can take over. She’s thinking Scandinavian meets Southwest? I don’t care as long as someone else does it.” She laughed.

  I tried to imagine Victor’s historic adobe home, with its eclectic clutter of art and warm colors transformed to Nordic sparseness.

  “Great!” Teresa said. “Glad you agree.”

  Had I said something? I may have groaned, or perhaps she heard Hugo’s low yowl aimed at a squirrel outside the window.

  “Er . . .” I said, still at a loss for words. I found my tongue again when she asked me why I’d called.

  “There’s something I need to ask you.” I told her about Georgio.

  “Ah, I forgot that too!” Teresa said. “Where’s my mind? It’s that time of year.” She went on to regale me with the multitasking required of her job and the complexities of fiscal calendars. As my brain glazed over, I thought about how Brigitte would delight in the talk of finances and balances. All about the numbers, Brigitte had said. If only life could be figured out so easily.

  “So, in short, yes,” Teresa said.

  I blinked and refocused. “Okay,” I said. “Just to be clear . . .”

  “Yes, by all means, have that sexy Italian—or do you think he’s Greek?—whatever he is, have him look at that painting. He told me he wanted it months ago. I’ve never liked it, but if he does, have him send me his offer in writing. We can do the deal when I’m in town. See you soon!” she said cheerily and hung up.

  Steeling myself, I wen
t back outside, ready to relay Teresa’s message to the sexy but slimy Italian. Georgio, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  I followed a scent trail of cigarette smoke and eucalyptus-scented cologne to Victor’s open front door. Who did he think he was? He broke in? The nerve!

  “Ah, Rita, I was becoming bored so I decided to start the search.” Georgio greeted me in Victor’s living room as if he owned the place.

  “How did you get in?” I demanded.

  His shoulders rolled ever so slightly. “Old locks. Your employer should consider having them changed, although all locks have their vulnerabilities.”

  I decided I’d go out later, both to acquire multiple pints of ice cream and to buy a chain lock for my own door.

  Georgio scanned the room. “Folk art,” he said with a sniff. “I suppose it appeals to some.”

  Yeah, some like me and Victor. My landlord had built up a massive collection, and a lot of pieces remained, deemed less important by Teresa’s consultants. I looked around, my irritation turning to packing panic mingled with sorrow. How could I box up all of Victor’s beloved belongings? Removing everything hardly seemed easier. I ran my hand over a green velvet love seat. Surely Teresa’s decorator could work with this and some of the other pretty items.

  “Bellissima,” Georgio said, slinking across the room to me. “Do not look so sad. This art, it is nice. Primitive but fine. Very fine.”

  “It’s not that,” I muttered, feeling a sting of welling tears. I pinched my arm to try to distract my emotions.

  “Tell Georgio,” he said, swinging an arm around my shoulders.