Cinco de Mayhem

by Ann Myers

  The Spanish was a nice touch, I gave him that. It seemed to impress the crowd, including Celia, who gazed at her dad with rapt attention.

  “Hear that, Tía Linda?” Celia said, nudging Linda.

  Linda, who had been staring at her feet, looked up long enough to smile at Celia.

  Manny was going on about processing evidence, about the important role citizens had in reporting any evidence and in letting the police do their work. “Amateurs should not try to gather evidence or jump to faulty conclusions,” he said pointedly.

  “Pah,” Brigitte said. She whispered to me, “You and me, Rita, we discovered the money trail that the police will say they found. The killer will be the food inspector Jenkins, n’est-ce pas?” She pointed to a far corner of the Plaza. Jenkins stood off by himself. Even from this distance, he looked unhealthy. I wished we could yell to Manny, There he is! There’s your man! Manny would love to make a dramatic arrest in front of Milan and her action news camera. He wouldn’t love that it was my idea, though.

  “Patience,” Brigitte said, as if guessing my thoughts. “All in good time.” She wished Linda good luck and hurried back to her crepe cart to get ready for the hungry crowd.

  Manny was fielding questions now and deflecting most of them. He couldn’t comment, he said, on whether the two murders and poisoning were related. He wouldn’t comment on wild theories, including those involving a scary traveling clown and marijuana cookie smugglers from Colorado. I could tell that Manny was getting testy. “I can’t comment anymore,” he said, thrusting the microphone at the lead mariachi singer.

  She launched into “El Rey,” a song so famous that even a non-native southwesterner like me could recognize it. Flori had helped me translate the lyrics once. “El Rey” told of a man who thought himself a king. Rich or poor, he could do what he wanted, his word was law. I listened, trying to pick out phrases I knew. Napoleon definitely had a king complex. Only one line didn’t fit. You’ll weep when I die. Except for Brigitte’s sniffles, I’d seen no weeping. People were scared, though.

  Linda, Celia, and I strolled along the line of food vendors, and I overheard the popcorn and fajita cart owners arguing about who was to blame.

  “A psychopath,” the popcorn lady contended. “I’ve read they’re everywhere. In boardrooms and lurking where you least think they’ll be. He’s probably here right now, watching us from the bushes.”

  “What bushes?” the fajita guy countered. He pushed back the bandanna wound around his forehead and waved across the shrubbery-free Plaza.

  “You know what I mean. Behind a tree, then. Or over in that van. Or just walking around, or anywhere . . .” Popcorn lady shuddered. The fajita guy looked up, saw us, and his eyes widened.

  “Hi, Xavier,” Linda said timidly. The stout man backed away and pretended to attend to an empty cooler. The popcorn lady offered us a bag of caramel corn, whispering to Linda, “Don’t let Xavier upset you. I don’t think you did it. Most of us don’t, and we want you back. Xavier believes all the craziest stories, like UFOs and Bigfoot and chupacabras. Seriously, ask him about Bigfoot. You’ll never hear the end of it.”

  At the end of the row of carts, Celia was holding free popcorn, hand pies, lemonade, and a tamale, all from Linda’s supporters. Others in the food cart line had given us dirty looks or avoided eye contact.

  When we reached Crepe Empire, Brigitte shook her head. “You have your hands full. You must be hungry.”

  “All from Linda’s supporters,” I said, emphasizing the positive.

  “The others think I did it,” Linda added quietly. “They think I killed those men. I can never come back to work. I’m a pariah. A black sheep.” Her voice faltered. “No one will miss my tamales anyhow. Look, there’s already another tamale cart. A modern cart. Napoleon said my cart was old. He was right.”

  “Never!” Brigitte said with French gusto. “Napoleon, he would never tell you, but he declared your mole tamale delectable, Linda. A huge compliment.”

  Celia jumped in. “She’s right, Tía Linda. Your tamales are the best! And this one, it’s no good.” She covered the remains of the free rival tamale with a napkin. A few moments earlier I’d seen her eating it with relish. “It’s, ah . . . it’s too sweet, and who wants chocolate chips and banana in a tamale anyway?”

  Me? Celia? Melted chocolate, banana, and brown sugar in a tender tamale sounded delicious.

  Instead, I said, “They’re right. People miss you. Didn’t you hear the popcorn lady? And Xavier’s own mother begged you to come back in time for Fourth of July and summer picnics.”

  Linda smiled weakly. “I do hope I’ll be back.”

  “You will be!” Celia said. “Fight for yourself, isn’t that what you say, Mom?”

  “Oui, oui,” Brigitte said. “You must fight. Your own self is all that matters.”

  Inspiring words. I wanted to gather us all in for a group hug, although that would have mortified Celia and spilled her popcorn. “Soon it’ll all be over,” I assured Linda. “It’s like Manny said up on the stage. The police are narrowing in.”

  “We sure are.” Manny’s voice made me jump.

  “Dad!” Celia said. “Want some popcorn? It’s chile lime. The lady sells cheese and caramel too, like we used to get back in Chicago.”

  Manny accepted a handful. There was something in his expression I didn’t like. He looked a little too pleased, and not simply because Chicago-style popcorn was one of the few things he loved about the Midwest. Had he just snagged a date with Milan Lujan? She was weaving our way, her cameraman in tow. Bunny and the young, wide-eyed policeman I met at the Cathedral were pushing through the crowd as well.

  Adrenaline surged through me. Manny knew. He figured out that I broke into Don’s, and he was here to arrest me in front of our daughter, News 6, and a mariachi band. No, he couldn’t be that mean. Our divorce had been contentious and we still argued, but he wouldn’t publicly shame me. Would he?

  “Sorry, Rita,” my ex had the decency—or gall—to say. He squeezed Celia’s arm supportively. “Sorry, kid. This has to be done.”

  Bunny stepped up. I took my hands out of my pockets, prepared to hold out my wrists. At least these handcuffs wouldn’t be pink, fluffy embarrassments. Bunny didn’t touch me, but her words nearly bowled me over. “Linda Santiago, I am arresting you for the murder of Don Busco.”

  Chapter 29

  I stood outside the police station experiencing a bitter taste of déjà vu and watching Winston sniff a flagpole. The bulldog circled the pole before moving on to investigate a tree. At the other end of the leash, I followed. What else did I have to do? Jake had said that he’d be a while. He’d warned me of something else too. This time, Linda might not come out with him.

  I’d called Jake from the Plaza, midway through Bunny’s recitation of Miranda warnings, right after the News 6 cameraman shoved by me for an action shot. Jake had been taking Winston for a relaxing stroll.

  “So much for relaxing, eh, buddy?” I said to Winston. The bulky bulldog kept his nose and jowls to the ground. He did look up and wiggle his stubby tail when Flori emerged through the double glass doors of the station. My heart ached to see her looking so small and frail. I’d called her after getting off the phone with Jake and worried how to break the bad news. As it turned out, I didn’t have to. She’d already heard through her high-speed gossip network. At least three people had called her nearly simultaneously, all witnesses to Linda’s arrest.

  “Well?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat.

  She shook her head slightly and bent to pat Winston, who drooled up at her with adoring eyes. “Jake’s not optimistic,” she said. “The head prosecutor’s back, and Jake says he’s a bulldog. Not the nice kind like you, Winston.”

  Winston moaned. I wanted to as well. “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  It meant that Linda was being charged with Don’s murder, in addition to Napoleon’s death and possibly the poisoning of Gerald Jenkins Senior.

  “Ab
surd!” I fumed. “How could they think Linda would hurt Don? She had no reason. No motive. No means—”

  Flori cut in. “Motive and opportunity. That’s what the bulldog prosecutor is saying. The police found paint on the wall by Don’s driveway. White paint, matching Linda’s truck, and a big scratch on its side. Jake said that Linda doesn’t contest she left the paint. She helped Don haul his hot dog cart back home a few weeks ago. She scraped his wall trying to back out of the driveway.”

  I’ve dinged and scraped a few walls in my time in Santa Fe. A wall mishap seemed like a perfectly reasonable explanation. It would to Manny too, although he’d say it happened while a panicked Linda was fleeing the scene of her crime.

  “Jake says he’ll get his own laboratory analysis done,” Flori was saying. “Maybe there’s some fancy scientific way to tell how long the paint’s been on that wall. He says there might also be ways to . . . well . . . match the marks on Mr. Busco’s body.”

  I tried to stay upbeat for both our sakes. “When can we bail Linda out? I’ll go with you to Ida Green’s bail bonds café if we can take Winston along, or we can drop him off at my place. Celia’s there, and he loves playing with her and Hugo.”

  Flori kept petting Winston’s wrinkles. “Ida can’t help, unless her tortillas really can break jail locks. Jake doesn’t think Linda’s getting out, Rita. Not yet, at least.” My elderly friend looked up at me, her expression as mournful as Winston’s. “We have to help her, but how?”

  I’d never heard Flori express such uncertainty.

  “We’ll figure out a way,” I said. “We have to.”

  The next morning, Tres Amigas was open as usual. Our clientele, however, was anything but usual.

  I nibbled nervously at a slice of extra-crispy bacon, scanning the dining room for our Monday regulars. Except for the elderly men who gathered for gossip and the pancake special, most of our usual customers were missing. The ladies who knit while downing burritos as big as their yarn skeins were no-shows. Same with the legal aides from the courthouse and the woman from the baby boutique down the street and the nice florist and the retired professors.

  I reached for another slice of bacon, only to be blocked by Juan, who was hair- and beard-net free. I supposed it didn’t matter. No one was around to see our spotless café.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Today’s Cinco de Mayo, right? Doesn’t anyone want chilaquiles? What about the piñata party Flori had planned for the preschoolers? Are they coming?”

  Juan shook his head. “The preschoolers cancelled,” he said with a shrug.

  I didn’t have to ask why. People were avoiding us and our festive piñatas. Some would believe the news and the stories of poisonings and murder. Others wouldn’t know what to say to Flori. After all, there’s no Hallmark card for “sorry your daughter’s in jail for a double homicide and possible poisoning.”

  Even strangers knew. A few minutes earlier, a group of cheerful tourists had come and ordered bacon, eggs, and blue-corn waffles. Then one picked up the paper and read it, his good mood changing to visible panic. After a hurried consultation, the group slapped down cash for their coffees and left. They’d tried to tell me that they had a train to catch, but I knew the train schedule and a polite fib when I heard it. I only wondered which story had spooked them. The one about the food inspector claiming he’d been poisoned at Tres Amigas, or the one naming the café in connection with two brutal murders?

  Things were bad when people abandoned bacon and piñatas. That didn’t mean the bacon should go to waste. When Juan went to the walk-in fridge to put away the waffle batter, I stole another slice and wandered out to the dining room. What worried me most of all was Flori’s absence. She’d left an hour ago, saying she needed to run to the grocery store for chiles. It was clearly a lie. We had mounds of chiles, fresh, frozen, powdered, and jarred. That was disturbing as well. Flori was usually a much better liar.

  By the time she returned, Juan and I had served a few customers who either didn’t read the paper or liked to dine dangerously.

  Flori assessed the situation. “No outstanding orders to bother with, then,” she said. “Good.”

  Juan confirmed this, not as happily. “No orders of chilaquiles, no tamales, no chiles rellenos.” Seemingly resigned, he handed me the rack of bacon. I snagged several slices in case he changed his mind.

  “No matter,” Flori said. “Juan, as soon as the men’s coffee klatch leaves, you take the rest of the day off, full pay. Go home and put your feet up.”

  Juan stared at Flori. “We’re closing early?”

  “Taking a Cinco de Mayo holiday,” Flori said. “Rita, you too, consider this a holiday. A sleuthing holiday. Now let’s get you out of that hairnet. We’re taking Addie and her beau out to breakfast.”

  Addie and Junior were already seated at my favorite corner booth at Tune-Up. She waved to us. Junior glowered.

  “You’re the lady who bugged me in the library,” he said sulkily.

  Addie patted his arm. “Chin up, love. Rita’s just trying to help Miss Linda, like I told you.” Her chipper tone sounded strained.

  Flori and I took the bench seat across from Addie and Junior, and we all studied the menu in awkward silence.

  “I always get the huevos el Salvadoreños,” Flori said. “There’s something so comforting about scrambled eggs.”

  The Salvadoran version came with scallions and tomatoes alongside pan-fried bananas, refried beans, and a homemade corn tortilla that Flori acknowledged was as good as hers.

  Addie ordered the same thing. She nudged Junior. “Give ’em a try, why don’t you?”

  I’d already had scrambled eggs with Celia. I’d then eaten more than a month’s supply of bacon and other nibbles at the café. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes from my favorite—the yummy steak and eggs with crispy, cheesy hash browns—and ordered yogurt with fruit.

  Flori led the small talk about Junior’s interest in archeology until our plates arrived.

  “So,” she said, “they make lovely tamales here too, wrapped in banana leaves. You know a thing or two about tamales, don’t you, Junior?”

  His face turned as red as his hair.

  “Go on,” urged Addie. “We agreed. It’s important. Important to me.”

  Junior muttered something I didn’t catch. “What did you say?” I demanded.

  He kept his eyes on his plate. “I knew that cockroach was a plant. The one in your friend’s tamale. We got a tamale from the store, and Dad stuffed a bug in it and wrapped it back up. He had a deal going with Napoleon. Napoleon called us when the tamale lady came back to the Plaza that morning and we acted out our parts.”

  Addie prodded him with her elbow. “Go on, tell ’em more. Say why you did it.”

  Junior shoved his eggs around his plate, creating pathways through his beans. “I didn’t want to, but my college tuition’s late.” He reached out and gripped Addie’s hand. “I’m really sorry.”

  Flori, if she hadn’t gone into food, would have made a great interrogator. Presently, she was playing good cop or sweet, grandmotherly cop. “We understand, don’t we, ladies?”

  Addie didn’t look so sure about that. I wasn’t either. I’d seen Junior on the Plaza, holding the tamale high, yelling about filth and bugs and pointing to Linda.

  “That’s what started all of this,” I muttered.

  “I know!” Junior said. His voice rose to a squeaky pitch. “Dad’s ready to leave town. He says there’s a killer out there. Says he might be next. Or me!”

  Addie made comforting sounds, which I didn’t think Junior deserved.

  Flori puffed out her chest and likely the tape recorder attached to it. “Then your father must not think the killer’s Linda, since she’s locked up. I bet he doesn’t truly think we poisoned him either.”

  Junior nodded.

  “What’s that?” Flori said in the direction of her brassiere.

  “No,” Junior admitted. “He doesn’t know who did, except it’s not
you.” He looked up, defiant now. “At least, he thinks it’s probably not you.”

  “Poppycock,” Addie said. “Junior, you know that my friends would never hurt anyone.”

  I decided to be bad cop. It wasn’t hard because I was still mad at both Jenkinses, Junior and Senior. “Someone is hurting people,” I said. “Killing them. Your dad could have died, and it’s true, the killer might go after him again. Tell us who else he messed with.”

  Junior slumped so far his chin was nearly level with his uneaten meal. “Okay, this is between us, right?”

  Us and Flori’s recorder, but I told him to go on.

  “You know that woman who sells juice, Crystal? She and Napoleon had some kind of affair that turned nasty. Napoleon wanted her off the Plaza. He told Dad to mess with her permit paperwork, but she got it fixed too quick. Then there was this restaurant Napoleon wanted to buy. He paid Dad to give it a bunch of bad inspections so the price would go lower.” His voice turned whiny. “But Dad didn’t just play lackey to Napoleon.”

  “Meaning he had his own dirty business enterprises too? Like threatening Tres Amigas with a failed inspection?”

  Addie clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

  “Yeah. Okay,” Junior admitted. “He did that. But sometimes he helped places out by overlooking infractions.” A defiant look crossed his thin face. “He helped people stay in business. That’s good!”

  I hoped Junior had to take ethics as part of his college curriculum. Something still puzzled me too. “I saw you hand an envelope of cash to Don Busco. Why? Was he part of your dad’s scams? Was that Don’s cut you handed over?”

  Junior sniffed and said with misplaced righteousness, “Don? No way. He was shaking down Dad. Don was nothing but a filthy blackmailer and a gambler.”

  “Don knew about your father and Napoleon taking down competitors?” I prompted.

  “Yeah. After Napoleon died, Don told Dad that he’d send the police sniffing around unless Dad paid him. Dad gave him five hundred and told him that was all he was getting.”